The streets were calm in Berlin, and Germany liked that. He stepped along the worn sidewalks in a long, confident stride, nodding to passersby as his boss had told him to, especially when he was in uniform. The air was cool and crisp; the sky grey, and the sun soft. He paused and stared up at the shifting clouds, hoping they would clear in time for the next parade, and folded his hands behind his back.

"...Germany?"

He blinked and cocked his head, disbelieving for a moment.

"Germany!"

As he began to turn, a pair of tanned arms wrapped around him, catching him from the side. A tirade of Italian assaulted him as the arms tightened, only interrupted by him shouldering his way out of the embrace. Germany straightened his jacket and came face to face with a wide-eyed Italy.

"Germany," Italy sighed. His voice hitched in between syllables. "They told me...they told me you'd be here. They said that you'd be walking this way but I almost didn't believe them but you're here and I -"

"What are you doing here, Italy?" His response was in curt, harsh German, certainly harsher than the language he used to use with the man.

Italy's eyes grew wider. "I just..." He spoke in German now, his voice feeble. "I wanted to see you again." His hands were at his waist, nervously picking at the hem of his sweater.

Civilian clothes, Germany noted.

"I didn't really get to say goodbye. They got me here...and they gave me thirty minutes." Italy glanced backwards. "France is in there." Germany followed the young man's gaze to a slim, nondescript car sitting on the street corner. Instinctively, his hand jerked for his pistol, but Italy caught his wrist.

"Wait, Germany -" He met his former ally's eyes. "Please...France is just looking out for me. In case...something happens." Germany raised an eyebrow. Italy's grip tightened slightly. "They think...because of everything that's happened...you'll hurt me." Italy gave Germany a too-wide smile and his eyes crinkled up. "Isn't that funny Germany? They actually think..." He let out a strained laugh that died away once he saw Germany's expression.

"There's a parade coming. You should go." Germany stepped back. "Be grateful I didn't ask you for your papers -"

"It wasn't my choice!" Italy cried. "I know...you didn't care about my brother, but...I wanted to be with you Germany. Friends." His mouth twitched. "You're fighting really hard, Germany, and doing your best." He swallowed hard. "But my people were tried of war...I don't want to fight anymore."

Germany have Italy a long, hard stare. There were a few pulsing moments of silence before Italy took a step forward. His fingers traced over Germany's lapels, down the rows of stitches on either of his chest, shivering nervously over the fabric. His lips trembled, parted, tightened to a slim white line. Germany didn't move. Hand still on his pistol and breath caught somewhere in his throat, he stood and waited...

Say something.

For once, he wanted Italy to rattle off inaudible streams of words, to shape the air with his frenzied hands.

"I'm sorry." His fingers closed on Germany's jacket and his forehead pressed to Germany's sternum. Warmth seeped through his tie and dress shirt to bloom across his chest. "I...thought...I could...just step back...but I had to declare war on you." His hands tightened, and Germany couldn't help but notice how slender he seemed. His clothes hung off him, bulging and limp. His fingers had been worried raw, and the tips of his nails were a gnawed, frayed mess. "I didn't want to, really...So please?" Italy looked up. His thin lips tried to smile...tried so hard to curl up, hard enough to make the tears he had forced back breach his eyelids. "Please don't just stand there."

The car purred to life. Germany imagined he could see France sitting in the driver's seat, drumming his fingers on the wheel and muttering under his breath. A light flared vaguely from the shadows of the car, a cigarette.

"Germany!" Italy pulled his gaze from the car with a gentle shake. "I..." He reached up, folded his hands across the back of Germany's neck. The touch was cold, too cold for Italy, for any Mediterranean nation.

Italy stretched up, craning his neck and with the cool guidance of those thin fingers, Germany found himself kissing Italy. There was a stab of panic in his stomach -

But Italy sighed against the man, curled against his chest and ran his fingertips along Germany's collar.

On the street corner, the car's lights flashed twice, but Italy didn't draw away. There was a beat of calm before the door to the car clicked and someone stepped out to bark something in French. Italy finally pulled away and Germany could almost see the reluctance rolling off him. Even so, when he looked up and smiled, his face had its familiar excited flush.

"Goodbye, Germany." He raised his hand to wave. "I want to...I will see you again, si?"

Germany shifted. "...Of course." He managed.

Italy turned and jogged back to the corner, bantering to his brother in the language Germany used to know so well. France looked up at Germany from behind large dark glasses for a few moments before slipping into the car. It rumbled and jerked before pulling away smoothly.

The far-off sounds of the band smothered their departure in fanfare.

Author's Note:

This takes place towards the end of the Italian Campaign during WWII. The Allies advanced through Sicily into continental Italy and were able to prompt a surrender with Italy, who was eager to withdraw from the war. Though Italy's soldiers stopped fighting, he declared war on Germany and Japan to show his support for the Allies. German forces made a fighting retreat through Italy and surrendered after Hitler's death.

I don't know how Italians felt about the surrender or declaring war on the Axis, but there was a German "puppet state" inside Italy that was still loyal to fascism and Germany even after the surrender. So...I guess that counts.

Battito del cuore - beat of the heart (Italian)