Title: Promise Me

Fandom: Axis Powers: Hetalia

Rating: T

Genre: Friendship/Angst

Pairing: Germany x Italy friendship or other, you decide.

Summary: "Hey… Can I be Italy and you be Germany for just one minute?" "Huh? S-sure…"

A/N: Sad stuff? That's all I can really say. It's a Hetalia version of Italy's switch to the Allies, and now that you are as such informed, read on.

Promise Me

An Axis Powers: Hetalia fanfiction by Triangular Prism

He almost gives up packing all together, when his hands began to shake so badly he can barely fold clothes. But in the end, he manages. A solitary suitcase packed with all the necessities he can think of plus some, even though he has so much more to bring. But he has to travel light—Though it is hard, he forces himself to only pack clothes, toiletries, and –most difficult of all– no pasta.

Finally Italy collapses to the floor, leaning heavily against the frame of his bed (the one he hardly uses) and allows a few hot tears to leak from the corners of his eyes. The suitcase sits silently next to him, awaiting the trip to come, and in the silence of the room there is only Italy, sniffling back heavily suppressed hysterics. After all, for this, he has to be strong.

This was it.

He was really leaving.

And he finds it ironic that the one time he forces himself to be strong is in the act of his greatest cowardice.

"Germany…" Italy whispers, the name slipping out of his mouth before he can stop it. He has to scrunch his eyes up tight and seal his mouth shut with his hands to stop the dam from bursting after that one word, and very quickly his entire body is quaking from his fear, anxiety…

Romano is waiting. He needs to leave. Italy steels himself, trying to calm his breathing, but his rapidly beating heart is hardly helping in the matter. Finally he simply seizes the suitcase and hurries out of the small room he has called his own the past few years in Germany's house. There are many things he leaves behind; an unmade bed, a shelf full of pasta that will never be cooked, and on the top of his dresser… a black and white photograph of the Axis Powers. Himself, cheerfully saluting the camera, Japan bowing with a small smile, and Germany, standing stiffly behind them all with no smile on his rigid face.

Italy couldn't bring himself to pack it.

Germany! I had a scary dream that I betrayed you and you hated me…

The house is silent as he slips through the dark hallways. It's the dead of night, the perfect time to make a getaway without drawing attention. Like the coward he is, he is running before Germany has the chance to learn of his betrayal. He would probably be angry… no, scratch that, if he knew, he'd definitely be angry. Italy whimpers at the thought, and tightens his grip on the handle of his luggage.

In only a few feet he'll be out of the house, to where Romano is waiting with the car to take them both away. To where America and England and France are waiting in turn to spirit them out of the country. Already Italy is sneaking through the living room, and he can see the front door, his gateway to (freedom? Italy can't see it that way) or at least, the gateway outside. He's reaching for the doorknob, a bundled mess of nerves, trembling so badly he can hardly grip it enough—

"So you're really leaving tonight."

Italy's mind screams.

His body screams.

Every cell of his being screams in terror as the quiet voice comes out of the dark, and Italy is whirling around, his back thudding against the door as his eyes go wide with shock, since sitting calmly in the dark of the room, is Germany. Italy hadn't even noticed him in his rush to (escape?) leave before it was too late.

Now it seems he was too late all along. Already the words spill out of his mouth in a stream of steady babbling. He panics.

"G-Germany! You're awake I didn't even see you there wow you're really quiet, you know? But what are you doing up so late or would it be early? Gosh I don't even know what time it is, I was just going to take a little walk! A-and this suitcase, w-well you never know when you might need a suitcase in handy! O-oh p-please don't be angry! Don't hit me, don't be angry! This isn't what it… looks…"

Italy trails off. He is bewildered. There are no harsh words, no guttural curses or screams of rage. Throughout his entire rush of poorly disguised excuses, Germany only sat, staring blankly at his cowardly self, with his hands folded neatly in his lap. Then the silence settles as Italy remains crumpled by the door, panting heavily and feeling the sweat run down his neck, while still…

Germany doesn't say a word.

It suddenly strikes Italy that the other nation doesn't look like he has just risen from bed. His hair is neatly slicked back, for one, just like it always is during the day. He doesn't wear pajamas, but instead sits in full uniform, the Iron Cross at his throat glinting out at him from some hidden source of light. Almost as if he knew Italy would come.

He had been waiting for him.

This knowledge raises a million questions in his mind, prompting Italy to lick his dry lips and ask softly to the darkness, "…Germany?"

Germany jumps, as if he has forgotten Italy was there. Then with a small movement, switches on a lamp, bathing the two of them in a warm yellow glow. The light hurts Italy's eyes, and he instinctively blocks it out with a hand, just as Germany rubs his eyes with a glove-encased hand.

"It's alright Italy," Germany speaks. Almost whispers. He looks tired. "I know."

"Y-you do?"

"Yes. For awhile now."

"Y-you have?"

The man lowers his head, resting it on his clenched hands. The quaking nation that is Italy feels his trembles subsiding, which is strange, since who knew… maybe this was a trap? Germany was actually very angry, and trying to make him admit his plan? He was so confused…

"Romano is waiting a few blocks away. Both of you are fleeing the country to join the Allies." Italy flinches violently, but the other hasn't finished speaking… "And… I…"

"…Think that it's probably a good idea."

"W-What?" The squeak pierces the air as Italy bolts upright, staring in utter confusion at the man who is staring at him again with a tiny, rueful smile. He shrugs, rolling his shoulders.

"You aren't cut out for war like this," Germany sighs, "You never were. You aren't that great at fighting, and this war has hurt you. We're… I'm… on the losing side. It's probably best that you get out while you… still can." The words grow quieter and quieter until they cease, and at last, Germany looks away. A silent acceptance, with no trace of bitterness, he is calmly waiting for Italy to leave.

In the long few seconds that follow, Italy can't think of a single thing to say. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, and Germany still won't look at him. He knows that he could leave now. He could force his legs to support him, pick the fallen suitcase from the floor and flee, and Germany wouldn't move a single muscle to stop him.

He could.

Italy finds the strength in his legs again to stand.

He could leave without another word.

He rises, braces himself against the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Germany slumps, all the energy draining from his body.

This was it.

It is hard to tell who is more surprised when Italy plops down on the couch next to the stern man, Germany, or Italy himself. His eyes are tearing up with fear again, and his hands are very visibly shaking, but he is there. And the two nations are sitting side by side.

"What are you doing? I said you could leave!" Germany asks, astonished, and Italy, still quaking in his boots, asks a single question;

"U-um, how did you know?"

The larger nation blinks, but he's relaxing slightly whether he notices or not.

"Italy, if there's one thing I've learned all these years, it's that you're absolutely terrible at hiding secrets," he says with a short laugh, and Italy looks up at him, bewildered.

"The first clue? You stopped sneaking into my bed two weeks ago." The German's voice is suddenly bitter. Still, Italy can't help but kick himself mentally, as the first coil of guilt bunches in his stomach. He had been caught through something so simple as that?

"Anyway, it was sort of easy to figure it out from there," Germany chuckles nervously. "I found out you and your brother had a secret meeting with America and all them. I was… a little angry, I guess, but after awhile, it… made sense. You were always best at running."

Those words sting far more than intended, for all they are delivered with the utmost neutrality. But Italy squirms, his guilt increasing, and the smaller nation can't help but burst out.

"I-it's not all just me!" the Italian cries, "It's just… my people, they don't like this war anymore. My boss, he was forced out, and then he was k-ki… and, it… it's starting to hurt. The s-scars… F-for Romano too, it was his idea first…" He can't speak anymore and hunches over trying to hide the rapidly gathering tears in his eyes.

Can't cry. Can'tcrycan'tcrycan'tcry…

"It's not you, Germany. It was never you…" Italy chokes, and that is all.

More silence. An awkward one. Italy contemplates leaving now, to save himself the shame of breaking down and crying in front of Germany (again) and making a burden out of himself. (Again). Just like he always has. He is useless Italy, after all.

Germany himself has hidden his face in his hands, the leather blocking out whatever he might be feeling. But the nation has always been good at hiding his feelings. Ashamed of his own weakness, Italy knows that he isn't the only one to suffer from this war.

Germany!~ How are you doing? Hug!

AH-! ITALY, S-STOP…

G-Germany? What's wrong? (Blood is seeping through his uniform. Lots of it.)

"Italy?"

"…Yes, Germany?"

"You know I'll have to fight against you. My boss won't like it."

Italy had thought about that.

"I know."

"You'll most likely have to attack me or Japan."

…Italy hadn't thought of that. His lip trembles. No, he'd already decided he wouldn't cry.

"…I kn-know."

Another large pause. This was getting to be rather depressing, and Italy isn't sure why he hasn't left yet. But… some instinct is telling him to stay. They aren't finished. Not yet.

"Hey… Can I be Italy and you be Germany, for just one minute?" the question is posed out of nowhere, and startled, Italy turns to look at his ally, blinking, trying to remember why those words sound familiar.

"Huh? S-sure…" he says, timidly nodding his head. A low sigh escapes, and Germany's shoulders slump, released from their former rigid tension.

A few seconds later they start to shake. Italy doesn't notice until the first, low sob, that Germany has started to cry.

The nation's eyes widen. Suddenly his own tears are banished as the first rivulets roll down from under Germany's clenched fingers, dripping to his lap, and Italy lunges forward to fumble the man's hands away from his face. There is no resistance, leaving the smaller man to stare into a pair of miserable blue eyes. They avoid his gaze.

"Germany? Germany! What are you doing? Don't cry! You never cry!" Italy pleads, shocked and confused, and feeling more useless than ever before, since he has never, ever seen Germany cry. This strong nation doesn't cry. But here, in front of him, the world has apparently decided to shatter everything, everything he knew to pieces in a few, deft strokes. (Now that he thinks about it, this night was doomed to go wrong from the very start...)

"Sometimes I was envious… how easily y-you could run away." Germany chokes out, the tears rolling faster as he tries to breath steadily, but fails. "I-I sometimes wished… I could just leave everything behind. Like you could. L-like you are… n-now…"

Italy finds himself rocking the other man gently, since Germany is now sobbing heavily into his shoulder. (When did that happen?)

"I-Italy…"

Hey, let me be Germany and you be Italy for five seconds!

"To tell the truth, I-I had a dream that you were afraid of me and left me all alone."

G-Germany, I had a dream I betrayed you, and you hated me.

"And it's… coming true now… isn't it? It… hurt when I found out…"

It won't come true, will it?

"…A-and I realized… you weren't going to say good-bye."

Italy, I promise that will never happen. It was only a dream.

"Oh, Germany…" Italy whispers, closing his eyes in anguish, and the two of them sit there, the bigger man sobbing his heart out to the smaller one next to him. (All the roles have been reversed. Wasn't it him crying on his shoulder in the beginning?)

The thought comes. Maybe he should… stay. With Germany. (He can feel his heart tearing. He never meant for things to be this way.)

But he can't. The simple truth brings him back to reality, and Italy feels his breath catch, since he knows.

"Germany?" Italy murmurs, tentatively. (With a clear voice, too. And his eyes are dry.) "I-I'm sorry, Germany, but… I can't stay. I'm sorry, I can't…" He tightens his arm around the other's shoulders, a tight hug that can't possibly convey all his feelings. Germany knows, though, too, and his quakes subside, just a little.

"I know." He whispers. He holds on to Italy as if afraid to let go.

"B-but, I promise…" the smaller nation swallows, wetting his dry throat to force the words out, "I'm not leaving you. When this war is over… I'll come back. Prometto che tornerò." (I promise I'll come back.)

Germany's eyes go wide, as if he hadn't expected to hear those words. His hand grips at Italy's arm tightly, alerting the other to the tremors running through his body.

"Y-you promise? You'll come back? Promise me?" he asks desperately, raising his head to meet Italy's calm eyes. His own are bloodshot from crying, searching his ally's face for any hint of a lie. (But it isn't a lie.)

"Look. See?" Italy pries his hand away, holds it up.

He extends one solitary little finger.

"Pinky promise," he says, with a wavering smile, and the memory if the first promise comes to him, on a day so long ago.

If you're in trouble, I'll come help you out. And if I'm in trouble, you'll come help me. Pinky promise, all right?

Germany remembers it too, for a tiny grin pulls at the corners of his mouth, and Italy doesn't have to wait long for his ally's own finger to wrap firmly around his.

"There! See? When the war is over, I'll definitely come back, Germany! You'll just have to wait for me!" He announces, beaming, "Because I'll always be your friend!"

His words are exactly what Germany needs to hear, for directly after Italy finds himself seized in a massive hug, and he shouts in surprise. Still, the grip is strong… and warm, and he relaxes, nestling against his friend's broad shoulders.

Gradually Germany releases him. He wipes away his tears, smoothes back a few solitary strands of hair pulled free. Germany is Germany again… and Italy is Italy.

Italy needs to leave.

This time, he doesn't walk to the door alone. Germany helps him, picking up the forgotten suitcase for the other to take. A rush of cool air fills the room as the door is finally opened. Italy stands at the threshold, staring out to the shadow-filled streets beyond. Romano is waiting somewhere out there, most likely impatiently, but one step out and he hesitates. Looks back over his shoulder where Germany stands rigidly again, staring straight ahead into the night. He gives a tiny nod.

"Go. Be… safe."

With a deep breath, Italy takes his first steps outward, away from the small haven he has lived in since the beginning of this long war.

(Or has it been long? He honestly can't tell. Hopefully this one will end soon...)

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Thank you for reading. This one was a little tough. Haven't read many stories that focus on Italy's betrayal, but... here's one I'm adding to the archive.

-Triangular Prism-