This came to me after watching a documentary on Auschwitz, though I'm not entirely satisfied with it, since the whole story was written in my sketchbook at 3 in the morning. Read and review!

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Germany was strong, healthy, very muscular and macho. He trained (too much) all the time, ate macho foods (ugh, bratwurst) and of course the array of pastas Italy cooked for them. So, naturally, he was very strong due to his diet and lifestyle, though it was very boring at times. Italy had to at some point interject whenever he went to his office to write reports, review assessments or make important phone calls, to suggest that he ought to use this time to put less Boring into his life. He did, afterall, have majestic land (Italy told him so one time, and Germany turned away with a quick grumble, and Italy had the curious experience of watching Germany's ears go pink) so picnics and outings and sightseeing were a must. He also was quite the closet artist, Italy discovered, having wandered into galleries and exhibitions to see things other than propaganda. And even though it was made with funny shapes and clashing colours and all kinds of peculiar and brilliant combinations, Italy figured Germany was a great artist anyway, because he was Germany, though perhaps not as good as him. Then he had the brilliant idea that maybe that was Germany being expressive! In a weird, confusing way, but nonetheless.

But anyway, because of all this, it took Italy by surprise when one afternoon, Germany had been reclined in an armchair enjoying his sparse free time to read, and Italy was gazing out of the window at the landscape, the companionable (and rare) quiet between them had been interrupted by harsh coughing. Italy had looked over, alarmed, when Germany hunched forward and hacked into his fist, great wracking coughs that shook his body and stole his breath, as if the exhaust of one of his autobahns had just exploded into his face (that had happened once when his autobahn didn't start, and something had been stuck in the exhaust. Eventually it dislodged and Germany's face got covered in soot, and Italy fought to quell giggles at the sight in vain. He got told off, then he handed Germany a napkin, and all was well again). Italy thought it'd pass after a moment, but it went on for about a minute, and Italy skittered over as Germany recovered, his face now darker and drawn. It was an expression, Italy realised, had been on Germany's face a lot recently, a stress or pain that not even pasta or Italy's chattering could banish.

"Germany! Germany are you ok?!"
"I'm f—"
"Wait here!"
"Italy, d—"

Too late. Italy returned with a first aid kit dutifully, wondering what he had to bandage. Germany heaved a great, crackly sigh in exasperation.

"Italy—"
"Germany you sound so ill! Did that hurt?"
"No, Italy, I don't need—"
"Have you been smoking?"
"No, Italy, I'm ok." The German managed to fit in before the Italian could respond.
"But Germany, that sounded really bad – look, you're coughing again!"
"It's ok, Italy, my throat is just a little sor—Italy, put that bandage down!"

A small while as Germany and Italy bickered over it, finally Germany getting Italy to put the blasted first aid kit aside. That, however, didn't cease Italy's questions, even though Germany had gotten him to slow down and let him speak. If Germany got ill, then, then, well Italy would look after him of course, but Italy didn't want to do all of his phonecalls, reports and assessments for him! Germany was actually really rather good at those.

Eventually, Germany caved, giving Italy what looked like a tired, apprehensive glance. So Italy asked again. Finally Germany replied.

"Auschwitz." Germany said simply, giving Italy a 'Ok now I've told you, stop being bothersome' look.

Italy looked at the apprehensive look on Germany's face – ohh, Germany didn't know the Italian for it or something. It sounded awfully like an illness or maybe even a swear word (all of Germany's language kinda sounded like illnesses and swearwords), so Italy smiled and left Germany with his funny German word to go make some pasta to sooth his throat, thinking nothing of it.

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His shoulders were straight, arms locked tight against his sides. He was staring hard, brows knitted, at a huge rectangular pit, putrid smoke gushing into the sky along with a light, even more putrid soot that settled all around. The blaze going on deep inside crackled lethargically as it fed, the sound edged with something foul because its fuel was not wood nor coal. The smell was appalling. The earth around the edge was stained a darker, liquid brown. Germany stood, enduring the soot, the particulates, the only remainders of life as the fire ate away like the most merciless, starving and gluttonous of beasts. The sight of watching piles of the sick, the traitorous, the weak, the old and the young burn made his insides cramp violently in the most crippling of nauseas, but he stood tall with fists clenched.

For months he endured the ceremony alone, sometimes not even recalling it clearly afterwards – his people oblivious. He was obligated to watch and carry out this mass grave, that goes without saying. It was in the courtyards not far from the barracks. The previous night the Sonderkommando revolted and set fire to the Crematorium. The escapees who had dashed during the chaos were caught, the fighters caught in the carnage were shot on sight. The survivors, the rest, involved or not, were lined up on the stomachs in the courtyard, and his guards patrolled along, shooting every 3rd man.

The Crematorium now out of use, the mass grave had been ordered to be dug by the surviving Sonderkommando, whose jobs it also was to drag each and every dead body to the edge and swing it in. This, Germany watched alone. He endured. Sometimes he could not attend the daily marching of 10,000 Jews (deported from Hungary mostly now), women and children, into the gas chambers, or the barracks labouring in the courtyards past their last inch of life or the experiments carried out by his doctors – not when there were more important things at hand elsewhere.

The first time Italy had found out, it became twice as worse. Somehow Italy had found out from Hungary and had ran, panic-stricken and crying, to find Germany to kill that cruel lie, perhaps hoping to search for the extermination camp in vain. He found it. Germany heard him coming, turning with a start, his stomach dropping into his gut when he saw the distressed Italian run to him.

The sobbing had gone on for hours. Germany didn't have it in him to tell the young man to stop. He let Italy cry from what sounded like the very depths of his heart for hours on end, the Italian having loyally stood behind Germany as the German waited for the fires to burn low to signal his dismissal. And even though Germany felt every tear, every wracking sob, every scream of the Jews from the Fatherland, every great weeping sob from Italy, somehow he could not shed one of his own. So he let Italy cry for him.

Germany looked over his shoulder when the sobs became muffled – Italy had always been an obvious and loud cryer. His Mediterranean cheeks shone from the endless streaks of salty tears, his chin and lips strained to quiet himself. His eyes were tight shut, blocking out the horror as best he could, shoulders hunched, and his slight body shook. Suddenly Germany felt another upsurge of sorrow – he hadn't meant for Italy to see this. To suffer this. To ever know. Was he weeping for Germany? Was it sympathy or betrayal in his whimpers?

Germany closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, fatigued. ...I'm sorry Italy. It's for the good of the Fatherland.

Once it was over, Germany turned to face Italy, hollow and bitterly in turmoil. Satisfaction of the Wehrmacht, the despair of the Jews, the ignorant bliss of his people. Seeing the otherwise repulsive and naively undignified face with a runny nose and covered in tears reminded Germany of his own, personal suffering. Italy looked at him and Germany gazed back, silent. Emotions flashed freely in Italy's eyes: misery, shock, heartbreak. When he looked up at Germany, impassive, great fear passed over his face. Not awe, said his superiors angrily. Not respect. Not even the characteristic need to invade his personal space. Uncertain, untamed terror.

Germany swallowed, waiting for a barrage. For questions, for nonsense, for more tears. Maybe Italy would beat him uselessly on the chest, or express how his brother Romano had been right all along. He waited. And when Italy stiffened and Germany braced, the Italian ran, sprinted, wild fear and despair, as fast as his legs would carry him. When Italy needed to run, truely wanted to run, he did so, Germany noted grimly. Italy was always good at retreating – Germany glanced over his shoulder at the black, charred bodies and bones still burning – something Germany could never really excel in himself.

Later, on his way home, he found Italy sitting on the curb nor far from his house, hugging himself and crying again, as if he hadn't the strength or the will to keep running and take refuge in Germany's house. Italy had run because he was too fearful, too disgusted, to touch him. Germany didn't blame him. He felt dirty in his own skin.

He stood a few metres away, considering walking straight passed. But the idea of leaving the pitiful, miserable Italian on the roadside, alone and a magnet for accidents, stopped him. Germany walked over and hunkered down, finally sitting beside him, noticing the subtlest little flinch, then a small sound of misery. He suddenly felt a flutter of frantic – why wouldn't Italy touch him? After what felt like an age, Germany bullied himself into gripping gently onto Italy's furthest shoulder. There was a shudder as if it pained him, but Germany bravely managed to maintain contact, and the moment passed.

Finally, Italy turned and leaned deep into his chest, burrowing into his neck and gripping handfuls of his uniform. Germany stoically let Italy wet his coat, noticing distantly this was the closest tears would ever get to his skin. His gloved hand hesitated, before hovering and settling on the crown of Italy's head. Yes, it's ok to be close. All the things he wanted to say streamed heavy and burdening in Germany's head. It's ok to be close. For me, for you. I'll let you cry, I won't tell you to stop. I don't want to, even though it pains me. You feel so much fear, but don't. I wouldn't ever hurt you. You're safe with me. I have a feeling, that even in the end, it will be just us. Of course, he could never say them. He was prohibited against such naive statements, foolishly temperamental and promises that he feared his bosses would work hard for him to break. So, for now, he'll continue to keep them.

Eventually, the crying died away and Italy held on firmly, spent, the both of them exhausted. Germany waited there with him, Italy profoundly warm in the cold breeze that was autumn evening approaching, chilling the salty wet patch on his uniform. Germany gathered him up and carried him the last stretch to his home, assuming Italy would find his way to his bed later anyway. The whole time, Italy kept his arms locked around Germany's neck, breathing softly over his shoulder. A hug for Germany.

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From then on, when he had a coughing fit, Italy would quiet down and there would be silence. Long after the war, Germany had a stern aversion to fires anything but practical. Neither of them said anything. Even when it occurred in world meetings and the other nations did – alarmed by the strange silence that descended upon the mismatched, often arguing (Italy talking nonsense and Germany berating him)pair – oblivious that they already knew, Italy didn't ask questions. There was no need to. There was no need to discuss the horrible, lasting calamity that was of Germany's own making.

Auschwitz.

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Hope you enjoyed, read and review!