Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, Germany, or Italy. It would be nice to, though.

Notes: Just made a few edits. Mostly grammatical.

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Most of the time, Germany thinks Italy is an idiot and a huge waste of space.

He sleeps all the time and he does it naked, which would have been fine if he was in his own house, but he does it in Germany's so often that it's become a common occurrence to find a naked Italian sprawled on the sofa, or snuggling in his bed, or curled up on the floor somewhere. He's loud and annoying and noisy and whiny and clingy. He runs away from the slightest of noises, and he can never exercise for an appropriate length of time but somehow manages to run five times faster than normal when he wants to escape training.

Germany pauses mid-rant in his head, then contemplates ranting to Japan. He decides against it.

He sighs.

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The first time they meet, Italy is hiding in a tomato crate. After Germany pries it open, the first thing he sees are his eyes.

Italy remembers thinking he has the most beautiful eyes. It is such a clear shade of blue, so much so that it reminds him of lazy mornings and the smell of freshly-brewed coffee.

He wonders how Germany stole the sky.

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The war takes its toll on everyone.

It isn't in any way nearing the end, but this does not stop Italy from wishing it is.

Beside him, Germany is looking up at the night sky. From his expression, Italy can tell that he is not thinking of anything war related. Italy can't remember the last time Germany has had that expression.

Italy watches him, trying to etch the image into memory, then Germany raises his hand, his (beautiful, beautiful) eyes still trained on the sky.

"I want to touch the sky," he says. "I want to take the stars and hold them on my palms." He sounds so sad and tired and resigned to the certainty that he will never be able to.

This confuses Italy greatly, because out of everyone he knew, Germany is the one who is most likely to be able to do so. He is sure that Germany can do anything he put his mind to. He is about to say so, when he sees the fragile smile that's soft around the edges on Germany's face.

He thinks of the war, of Germany's people— of their people they couldn't save, of the soldiers they took away from their families, and he understands.

"Ve," he replies. "You're really weird, Germany."

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Germany is cooking dinner with Italy when he gets that look.

Italy can always be counted on for being an air-headed idiot, who mostly thinks of pasta and siestas and cats. But there are moments when his expression turns hard and he says insightful things, and Germany is faced with the reality that Italy sees and knows more than he lets on.

"Ve, Germany," Italy calls, and Germany pauses from seasoning the steak to turn towards him. Italy is peeling potatoes detachedly. His eyes are pointed towards what he's doing, but he seems to be looking at something else entirely. It is both very interesting to see and very disconcerting.

"Ja?"

"Remember during the war, and you said you wanted to touch the sky and hold the stars?"

Germany remembers. He thinks it had been a moment of weakness, brought about by exhaustion. But that had been a long time ago, and Germany tries to discern why Italy is bringing it up now. "Ja," he replies. "What about it?"

Italy gently drops the potatoes and the knife on the counter and looks at Germany dead in the eye. His expression is a mix of determination and a certain extent of seriousness. Under different circumstances, Germany would have asked why he never wore this expression in battle, but all Germany could think now is how Italy seems to see right through to his very core.

He wonders if Italy's always been able to see him that way.

"I think," he starts, "that you don't really need to. You don't have to touch the sky and the stars, Germany."

Germany stares, and stares some more, in an attempt to comprehend what Italy is implying. Then Italy smiles that happy, loving smile that never fails to curl his toes and twist his heart a little bit, and he understands.

Germany abandons the steak entirely. In a few large, quick strides, he is right in front of Italy. He puts a large hand on the back of Italy's neck, then he presses their foreheads together. "You're right," he says. He smiles, and Italy is happy to note that it is full and happy and not at all fragile or threatening to fall apart. "I am content with this."

More than content, he adds in his head, as he brings his head down to give Italy a kiss.

A moment later, a red-faced Italy pulls away to bury his head on Germany's chest. "Veee~ Germany, I love you, I love you!"

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Most of the time, Germany thinks Italy is an idiot and a huge waste of space.

He sleeps all the time and he does it naked, which would have been fine if he was in his own house, but he does it in Germany's so often that it's become a common occurrence to find a naked Italian sprawled on the sofa, or snuggling in his bed, or curled up on the floor somewhere. He's loud and annoying and noisy and whiny and clingy. He runs away from the slightest of noises, and he can never exercise for an appropriate length of time but somehow manages to run five times faster than normal when he wants to escape training.

But he is also very loving and warm and selfless and giving. He gives hugs like they are second nature. Germany will never admit it, but Italy's cuddles keep the nightmares away. He smells familiar and his presence is comforting and with him in his house, it feels more like a home. Germany wouldn't have him any other way.

Germany thinks he is very lucky.

Out of all the stars in the universe, Italy shines the brightest, after all.

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End

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Notes: Hola! I am sorry in advance for any grammatical errors, or bad characterization.

I hope this doesn't seem too vague. It makes sense in my head though. That aside, I really hope you enjoyed this! Any feedback or criticism is appreciated.

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