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hetalia2009-08-01 01:34 am
masterfranny.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2009-08-01 01:34 am
[Fanfic] And then, he dances
I worked on this for a long while, then the plot did an America on me ("t's ok, am going this way now bye") and it developed into this thing here. I finished it because I wanted to post something on my birthday. Yet I didn't manage, as my birthday ended here two hours ago. :/ oh, well, I tried.
Author: me, myself and I.
Pairings/Characters: Germany/Italy, HRE/Chibitalia - mentions of Austria and Hungary.
Rating: R-ish.
Warnings: HRE is Germany theory, kinda-ish. War mentions. Dream sequence in present-time speech, rest of the fic in normal tense.
Genre: Angst/Romance.
And then, he dances
Feliciano knows he’s dreaming the exact moment he recognises where he’s standing.
It’s a beautiful sight, one that he has almost forgotten, and yet one that has never really left his mind and memory. It’s one of Austria’s halls, the biggest one, the one with golden–tinged tiles and carpets and tapestries, with chandeliers filled with hundred lights and giant windows.
It’s the hall where Austria plays his piano for others, the one where the balls take place, where other Nations and humans alike come to be received.
The hall is immense.
Feliciano stares in awe, each detail striking something inside him –it’s even more beautiful than what he remembers, and the lights are all lit, and the golden hue shimmers, and the glass of the windows reflects the lights, whereas outside, everything is dark and black–
He knows this. He remembers this.
He’s lived there for so long, once, that he came to call it home.
And as he thinks of the past, music starts playing softly. It’s the kind Austria loved so much, the kind Italy also loved to listen, lulling him and cheering him up, and now the hall fills with people.
It’s another detail that shows how this is just a dream, because figures appear from nowhere, stepping into the room with elegant, fancy dresses, the kinds that were so glamour at the time, males in beautiful, dark clothes and females in vaporous, fluffy bright vests.
They’re dancing, filling the room, moving with the music, twirling around, smiling and shifting with grace and skill, and Italy lets his eyes follow the wave, unable to look away.
He stands still against the wall, his heart growing warmer, a part of him, deep down, aches, because this is the past, and sometimes he misses all of this, and wants to dance as well… but can’t.
He knows he has never been one of them. All his stay at Austria’s house, he’s been a servant, even though during such parties, even Rodereich allowed him off his work. Italy misses it anyway, though.
Feliciano looks on, and finally locates Austria.
He’s dancing as well, and looks younger than last time Italy has seen him, just like he had looked back then. Shorter. In his arms, dancing with him, there is Hungary, blushing a bit, and she’s so beautiful in her country’s clothes instead of the green servant ones, that Feliciano feels his heart ache for her.
They are laughing and twirling, and they are so beautiful together, so synchronized, that he feels his heart soar up to them.
It’s then that he notices he’s changed as well. Shorter, chubbier.
“Ah,” he murmurs, and even his voice has changed.
He turns to a wall mirror, and the truth is there, in front of him –his reflection shows a child, so terribly feminine, weak and small, in his old dress.
Italy doesn’t know the meaning of this dream –he barely dreams of the past, most of the time, so why now, why so detailed and so strong?– but his heart clenches just a bit, because he’s so lucid in this dream, and the memories rush to him so strongly now, they make him feel funny.
Weak.
The green skirt rustles as he shifts. He can even see the details on the embroidery, to his surprise –he doesn’t know where this dress is now. Probably Austria threw it away… too much time has passed. He’s not even sure he misses it, because it was a girl’s one, and yet…
Slowly, he forces his body to move. Everything feels so real, and Italy has a hard time not letting himself go, but is still determined in living the dream out. He makes his way through the room, one hand on the wall, feeling the tapestry soft under his chubby hand.
Yes, he thinks admiring the dance. I do miss all of this…
“Italia…”
He freezes.
That voice.
It resurfaces from the sea of his memories like a tsunami, knocking the air out of him, softly ringing into his ears.
Of course. If he’s in the past, he must also see… see…
But it has been centuries since he allowed himself to dream of…
“Italia… will you… ah, look at me?”
And he does.
He turns around knowing already who he’s going to see, and he dreads the sight with all of his heart, all of his aching heart. He knows it’ll hurt more.
It does.
He’s standing there, identical to how he was back then, but there again, a part of Feliciano’s mind adds, he had no time to change because he has di–
“You’re beautiful” he states. His voice is low, but there’s a blush on his cheeks and he looks so flustered that it’s a miracle he’s still standing…
Feliciano feels his lips twitch upwards, but he’s not smiling. It’s more of a grimace, because his chest is hurting so much that it feels like claws are squeezing his heart dry. He feels like he wants to cry, but no tears come out.
The pain is terrible.
“Sa–Sacro… Romano Impero” he whispers.
He falls on the ground, the carpet under his fingers rough to the touch.
“Ah!” Holy Roman Empire rushes at his side, and small chubby hands touch him, his cheek –and it feels so real Feliciano whimpers, relishing the contact. It feels too real to be fake, but this is a dream, and he knows it, and knowing it hurts even more.
How he has missed him.
Years could have passed ever since then, and Italy has grown, if not stronger, at least older. He has a territory now, he has friends, he’s not lonely or alone anymore, but the memories of this person, the first one who considered him as something more than a servant or a brother, the memories of his first love…
Oh, he’s never been able to forget. When France finally tells him Holy Roman is dead creates a black hole in his chest that doesn’t allow Italy any hope.
Why is it? Why is this memory so important and painful? He’s had centuries to forget (or fake to), he’s had centuries to pull himself together and make his smiles a bit more real and full and open.
Why, then? Why does this dream, this… something and nothing, hurt still so much?
“Are… are you ok?” Holy Roman murmurs, so close, holding him tightly, helping him stand up, worry in his blue eyes.
Italy is afraid of looking at him, because this is a dream. Knowing he has to wake up, that he’ll wake up at any moment, and Holy Roman will disappear…
“Sacro Romano Impero!” he yells, and clutches at his first love, uncaring of anything that is not him –his arms, his black silky clothes, the fresh smell of cologne that he wears, a smell he has almost forgot…
Holy Roman flails his arms around, his blush growing to take control of his whole face, but not relinquishes the hold. Feliciano snuggles closer, feeling tears well up but not fall.
He knows he should not feel this way –he’s come to love someone else during the last few centuries, so why is he feeling so much pain?
It hurts –it hurts so much!
“Ah, Italia… why are you crying…?” those hesitant words makes Italy stop.
This is a dream. There will be tears once he wakes up, but he can’t allow himself to waste time now.
“Holy Roman” he whines, in his old voice “can we dance? Together?”
They never really had the opportunity to do things together –Holy Roman has always been busy, or following him around, and Italy has always been scared of him, then fond, even though nothing much changed.
Then there had been the flowers, a single, cherished memory of his…
And then, Holy Roman Empire had disappeared forever, not to come back ever again.
Holy Roman, whose blush makes him resemble a tomato, nods frantically, holding up his hand at Feliciano, who grasps it tightly into his own, small, chubby hand.
And then, they are dancing.
In the midst of all the other people, dancing with the beautiful music, twirling, and it doesn’t matter if Feliciano is the ‘girl’, because he has his Holy Roman back, and he finally loses himself to the dream.
Everything spins around him, but Italy feels light, weightless, as he dances, his old, green servant dress twirling around him, and he smiles, unable to take his eyes away from his ‘prince’, who is also smiling–
And the world around them is no more, the light flashing brightly, and it is only the two of them, dancing–
Italy closes his eyes, breathing deeply…
The arms around him tighten and are suddenly longer, stronger. He feels dizzy, and opens his eyes again, and is shocked to see he is older again.
His servant clothes are bigger, too, aging with his body, still fitting his frame, but the surprise is that Holy Roman Empire has aged with him.
He is wearing a white mask on his face, that hides most of his features, but the clothing is the same, the grip around Italy’s shoulders is strong and protective, and he is smiling.
Feliciano can see the love in those deep eyes, and smiles too, albeit sadly.
Had things gone differently…
Had Holy Roman Empire survived…
“Holy Roman…” he breathes out, in his normal voice.
For a moment he feels fear –what if now he’s going to be rejected because he isn’t a girl? What if Holy Roman doesn’t want him anymore?
It doesn’t matter if it’s a dream, he thinks, I can’t even stand the thought that–
Lips meet with his.
Italy gasps at the feeling.
It feels so real, so powerful –the closeness, the sweetness of lips against his own.
Feliciano feels the world spin around him. The touch, the taste, the feeling… everything is so real, so beautiful, and he thinks of nothing but this, and is thirsty for more of this, starving for more…
It’s naught but a dream he thinks, feeling tears pool in his eyes again. Solo un sogno…
And yet, he allows the dream to move on, not wanting to let go.
Adult Holy Roman Empire holds him closer, deepening the kiss, shyly touching Feliciano’s lips with his tongue, then slipping inside, to taste him. Italy moans quietly, tears falling freely down his cheeks and onto the floor as the two keep dancing, faster and faster–
Feliciano feels his own hands lifting to the mask that covers his beloved’s face, touching its contours almost reverently. He wants to see underneath.
He has never seen him adult, will never see him, Holy Roman is dead and will never reach this age, this magnificence, this majesty… but his heart aches for this, even if it’s all his mind can conjure.
Even if it is false…
Holy Roman Empire smiles but doesn’t speak, simply leaning forwards for another kiss…
And starts to disappear.
Feliciano’s heart stops. Is he waking up?
Slowly, Holy Roman Empire becomes transparent, see–through, and Italy can see behind him, through him, the dancers keeping up, uncaring, not noticing–
“No! don’t leave me! Please! Don’t! Not again! Not so soon!” frantic to keep him there, to keep the dream going, Feliciano holds Holy Roman Empire’s mask with his fingers, but… they’re slipping and…
The mask–
…………
“Italy!”
Feliciano’s eyes snapped open. Wide, pupils dilated, his whole body heavily pressing on cool sheets, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. For what felt like eternity, his eyes remained unfocused, unable to look at the figure so close above his own.
Then, slowly, everything turned clearer –blond hair, a bit mussed, and blue eyes, so deep and blue and familiar and–
“Sa–Sacro Romano…” the words chocked in his mouth. No. not him. “Germany…”
But the two images, that of his dream and now Germany above him, watching him with worried, narrow eyes… they were complimentary. One and the same. The face under the mask that he’s never seen.
“Italy, calm down, were you having a nightmare?” Germany asked, his voice underlined with worry… and the tone, that warm tone…
Feliciano suddenly felt sick. Bile raised from his stomach into his mouth, burning its way up and he launched out of bed and ran into the bathroom, dry–heaving until he coughed up nothing, throat raw and hurting, and yet he couldn’t stop.
‘Ohgodohgodohgod’
Hands gripping at the sides of his head, Feliciano allowed his body to fall on the floor, trembling so hard he couldn’t even stay still.
It wasn’t possible.
It couldn’t be.
His heart had been aching so much for his dream, but then, waking up and finding Germany right there, in front of him. With the same eyes and hair and expression and the same jaw line and the body and–
No.
How could that be? How could it be, why didn’t he notice it before? Why…
“Italy…?” Germany appeared in front of the bathroom door, frowning.
His worried tone… those eyes–
Feliciano scrambled on his feet, feeling panic mount inside him. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t! he had to get away. Away!
Anywhere, but away!
He couldn’t listen to that voice anymore. Couldn’t stare at that face. Not now that he knew, not now that–
Arms around his shoulders, Italy found himself pressed against a warm chest. Unable to breathe, he gasped and wheezed, lashing out with his hands, desperately trying to get away, but Germany wasn’t giving in.
Those arms circling him were warm and comforting and protective and Italy faltered, sobbing his heart out.
“Sacro Romano Impero…”
Over and over, these words left Italy’s mouth, spilling like pearls falling on concrete, unable to stop.
How… how? How couldn’t he notice that the person he loved was the person he’d once loved? And then, if it was true, then…
“Italy, please… what happened?”
Germany couldn’t understand, but this crying Italy, this sobbing, was different, completely different than his usual crying. This was pained, this was from deep inside, this wrenched through his body, clawing outside.
Something inside him twisted and shifted and Germany stifled his own gasp. His brain was yelling at him –he didn’t like to see Italy like this.
“Don’t you remember? Didn’t you…” choking on a sob, Italy stared up, into surprised, wide blue eyes, and fell silent.
Were there words to explain his pain? Were there words that could be enough for this situation?
How? Why? When?
Didn’t Ludwig remember?
Did he even care?
Was Italy’s love for Germany a simple reflection of his love for Holy Roman Empire, just because the two looked so identical… were they one and the same?
But they were not, Italy realised, at the same time as his heart gave another painful twist in his chest; they could have been, but Germany was simply what was left of a past Italy had buried, cried over, tried to forget. Germany was Germany, and Holy Roman had been Holy Roman.
Germany looked down, unsure on what to do, what to say, and those wide, brown eyes were staring into his own, demanding something he didn’t know, and…
And…
“Italy…” he breathed out, brushing his fingers against the soft, wet cheek of the Italian, desperately wanting to end his sufferance but not knowing how to.
“Sacro Romano…”
Why did he keep saying these words? Italian words that to Ludwig had no meaning, and yet words that recalled something old, something bitter and filled with dirt, something ancient that tasted like steel…?
Where had he heard those words before?
“I thought…” Italy was sobbing again, apparently having regained the ability to speak, albeit shaking and with broken voice. “I thought I had lost you… him… and then… when I was finally ready to let go, and you came around, and I fell again, and all this time I never saw the similarities, I deluded myself I was falling for Germany, whilst I wasn’t, and still I was, and…”
So different, and yet the same. So similar, and yet one was not the other. Holy Roman had long since died, in a war Italy had not partaken into. And this was Germany. They were one, and they were not.
Did he love Germany because he’d loved Holy Roman?
‘I loved him. I love him. I love both. Is this betrayal? Am I betraying his memory by loving a Nation that was born from his remains?’
Didn’t this happen once already…? Ludwig blinked. Another time, maybe…? Where Italy had been crying like this, with the same pain?
Because he was going away, maybe. Was it? Or was it not…?
Germany’s eyes glossed over. What did he do, last time? To make sure Italy would not cry? To make sure he would not… hurt?
He leaned forwards, almost transfixed, eyes narrowed, lips twitching, flickering images of light and fluffy dresses and fresh, morning hair hitting his face… “W, what do your people give to their loved ones?”
“No…” Italy gasped out, watching those lips coming closer, and pushed them away with one hand.
He wanted this. And yet he didn’t.
“Stop, Ludwig” he murmured, shaking his head. He didn’t remove himself from the other’s embrace yet, but he could not allow this.
Why had Germany tried to…
“Ludwig?”
“Uh…” Germany was the one to push him away, coming back to his senses and realising his actions. He’d been about to…
“A… a kiss, I guess?”
“Why were you going to kiss me?”
“I d–don’t…”
“You’re not him” Italy shook his head, fresh tears falling down his cheeks again, but this time he could control himself, and did not break down. “Ludwig, do you love me?”
Germany recoiled backwards, flushing hard and looking to the side. It was different. All the other times Italy had asked this, his face had been whiny, demanding, pouting like a child who wanted a candy.
This Italy… his question was quiet, and his eyes still betrayed his pain.
“I…”
This question needed a real answer. A thought–out one. Unable to hide himself away, unable to deny this Italy a proper answer, a serious one, Germany looked away.
Did he like Italy?
Did he like this Nation, who was useless, stupid, silly, weak… who never left him alone, who couldn’t fight to save his life, who wasted water in the desert to cook pasta, who fabricated defected grenades, who ran away at the tiniest noise… who always listened to him, who dedicated all of his life to him. Who cooked for him, smiled for him, brightened his days, warmed his heart and whose loyalty was to him and him alone…?
If he said no, he would break his heart. Italy would probably hide his pain and fake it out, and things would go back to how they were the day before. They would never talk about it again, but something would be broken between them.
Like after the war. They had been separated, and had managed to get close only after fifty years of struggling and pain.
Would he be able to stand it?
Would he, Germany, who had once prided himself as a strong, reliable, self sufficient Nation, be able to stand being separated from this useless silly idiot who had complicated his life ever since their first meeting?
…
No.
So, Germany had his answer.
He looked back up, fingers holding his chin still. “I do love you, Italy”.
Italy’s body trembled, because they were looking into each other’s eyes, and Italy could see the honesty in Germany’s, and it was even more painful. “Why?”
“… because you’re sunshine. Because you are silly and you smile. Because before this, before you… I didn’t know this warmth” Germany fumbled with his words, trying to make sense, pressing one hand over his chest. “Because you’ve always been there. you never gave up. All of you, was always for me…”
Feliciano felt his tears burn in his eyes.
It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.
“What if… what if I told you I loved you because you reminded me of someone else?” his voice rasped and fell. “What if I told you I am afraid I love you because you are like my lost love?”
Germany felt at loss. Italy’s words felt definitive, lapidary, but his eyes were darkened, inquisitive, so despite his sudden twisting in his chest, he closed his eyes and thought back. If there was something he was good at, it was controlling his emotions, analyzing and thinking.
“Sac…ro Romano Im… pero?” he spelled, slowly, frowning. “You mean him? Was he your first love?”
A pause. “Sì”.
“Tell me everything… please?”
And Italy did. Of his past, of the time he lived with Austria –he told Germany about Holy Roman Empire, of the chasing, the yells, the fear… he told him about how it changed, how those blue eyes had warmed up, how small, kind gestures changed it all.
He told Germany of their kiss, and last of all, he told Germany about his dream.
When he finished, Ludwig was silent, looking down at his hands, unmoving. Feliciano was still crying, silently, unable to meet his eyes.
“You think he was me?”
A nod.
“And yet, you think he was not”.
Another nod, with hesitation.
Ludwig remained silent, sorting his thoughts out. It made his head throb, picturing a young, defenceless Italy standing against the rising sun, watching his first love leave, with bells chiming in the distance and the lingering taste of a lost love on his lips…
“Did Sacro Romano Impero ever protect you?”
Feliciano blinked, hands fisting in his lap.
“Uh…”
“Did he come to save you every time you called?”
“Ah… he–”
“Did he ever hold you at night, when you had a nightmare, spending the night making sure you’d be able to sleep?”
Feliciano flushed. “N–”
“Did he cook for you? Did he talk to you for hours? Did he walk with you through war fields, covering your eyes so you wouldn’t see the dead bodies of your soldiers laying there? Did he ever cry in front of you, opening his heart about ruthless leaderships and too many deaths?”
“Ludwig, this–”
Germany lifted his hand, pressing it against Italy’s lips. “Did you spend day and night with him, chatting of nothing and everything? Did you cook for him, too? Did you hug him randomly, demanding kisses and care and attention? Did you trust him with your paintings, with your life, with yourself?”
Italy shook his head, not understanding.
“Feliciano… I do not remember anything before somewhere in the late 1860… after my brother found me wandering through the lands, brought me in, promising to make me into a great, proud Nation”.
Italy lifted his eyes, meeting once again Germany’s serious ones.
“Maybe before then, part of me had belonged to this… Sacro Romano Impero. I do not know. But my feelings for you are sincere. They don’t come from a past I cannot remember. And if I could, would my feelings change? I love you, Italy, for what you are. For what you are now. For the loyal, kind heart you have. For everything you did since I’ve known you… For this you in front of me”.
The words ripped away Italy’s mind, raw and burning and painful.
Germany might have just realised his feelings for Italy, feelings that had been there, dormant, during long years, denying their existence, denying the truth, but once out, he felt he couldn’t let this slide.
The fear in Italy’s eyes was familiar –it was the same fear he’d seen in his own eyes during the war’s last years. The same fear, the same despair he’d seen in his own during the years when Italy had been away.
How come he had never noticed? Had Italy really not known before the dream, or had he tried to live in a lulled limbo, just like he himself had?
“You don’t have to be afraid anymore…”
There was no need for that limbo anymore. They had to come back out.
Germany leaned forwards, hugging Italy again –and again, Italy crumbled down, his brain’s walls destroyed by the tidal wave of Germany’s words.
Yes, he had been afraid. Deep down, he had noticed the similarities. Getting closer to Ludwig, hugging, kissing him, just to make sure they were not the same. Holy Roman Empire was dead, and he would never come back, and it was stupid to be tied down to a childish promise, because he wasn’t cheating on his first love.
Hugs and kisses on the cheek, and casual contacts, everything was good –but not real kisses. Lips meeting was a taboo. Feliciano had known it, deep down… when Ludwig had appeared, getting closer was a way to keep him away.
This was why he had backed away at Valentine’s day, refusing to accept Germany’s fumbled attempts at romance and propositions. Because they had felt false.
He couldn’t allow himself to truly get close.
Yet he had. He loved Germany, in a way he had never loved Holy Roman Empire.
He loved Germany more. A more mature, deeper love. But he was afraid of giving up something that had been his for so long. The only secure, unchanging thing.
“I…”
“Shhh… it’s ok… it’s ok…” strong arms around his shoulders, whispered words in his ear, calming and soothing the tears and the pain. Germany kept still, unsure if he was doing the right thing, but also knowing he was. “Italy…”
And then, Italy snapped his head up, and kissed him.
Their lips joined together, and the world did not end –there were no sparkles, no dying sensation, no angels chorusing. Just a kiss. Shy lips meeting, parting and meeting again, soft and smooth and tasty–
And yet, and yet…
Italy’s world exploded, and was reformed.
“I love you Ludwig… I love you I love you I love you…”
Clutching at Germany’s larger frame, Italy cried, lips stretching to form a shuddery, unsure smile. He cried for his first love, he cried for this new, painful one, which was stronger and would survive, and would be nurtured instead of suppressed. He cried for Germany, because he had doubted of him, and cried because he was happy. Because he could accept this happiness and finally be freed.
And Germany closed his eyes and smiled, and ignored the smell of flowers and teary smiles of young, childish maidens, because he didn’t dwell on a past that could be his but could also be not, since he had his present in his arms, and his future might as well be just there, too.
And that was it.
“One and the same, or not. It’s just as well. As long as this love is strong enough to last through”.
---
HRE calls Italy 'Italia' because it runs smoother, and I don't know, it feels like it gives an old feeling, whilst Germany calls him 'Italy' which feels newer, or something. I don't really know myself, but I kind of liked the idea. Sue me.
Glossary:
Sacro Romano Impero - Holy Roman Empire.
Solo un sogno... - Just a dream...
Sì - yes.
Author: me, myself and I.
Pairings/Characters: Germany/Italy, HRE/Chibitalia - mentions of Austria and Hungary.
Rating: R-ish.
Warnings: HRE is Germany theory, kinda-ish. War mentions. Dream sequence in present-time speech, rest of the fic in normal tense.
Genre: Angst/Romance.
And then, he dances
Feliciano knows he’s dreaming the exact moment he recognises where he’s standing.
It’s a beautiful sight, one that he has almost forgotten, and yet one that has never really left his mind and memory. It’s one of Austria’s halls, the biggest one, the one with golden–tinged tiles and carpets and tapestries, with chandeliers filled with hundred lights and giant windows.
It’s the hall where Austria plays his piano for others, the one where the balls take place, where other Nations and humans alike come to be received.
The hall is immense.
Feliciano stares in awe, each detail striking something inside him –it’s even more beautiful than what he remembers, and the lights are all lit, and the golden hue shimmers, and the glass of the windows reflects the lights, whereas outside, everything is dark and black–
He knows this. He remembers this.
He’s lived there for so long, once, that he came to call it home.
And as he thinks of the past, music starts playing softly. It’s the kind Austria loved so much, the kind Italy also loved to listen, lulling him and cheering him up, and now the hall fills with people.
It’s another detail that shows how this is just a dream, because figures appear from nowhere, stepping into the room with elegant, fancy dresses, the kinds that were so glamour at the time, males in beautiful, dark clothes and females in vaporous, fluffy bright vests.
They’re dancing, filling the room, moving with the music, twirling around, smiling and shifting with grace and skill, and Italy lets his eyes follow the wave, unable to look away.
He stands still against the wall, his heart growing warmer, a part of him, deep down, aches, because this is the past, and sometimes he misses all of this, and wants to dance as well… but can’t.
He knows he has never been one of them. All his stay at Austria’s house, he’s been a servant, even though during such parties, even Rodereich allowed him off his work. Italy misses it anyway, though.
Feliciano looks on, and finally locates Austria.
He’s dancing as well, and looks younger than last time Italy has seen him, just like he had looked back then. Shorter. In his arms, dancing with him, there is Hungary, blushing a bit, and she’s so beautiful in her country’s clothes instead of the green servant ones, that Feliciano feels his heart ache for her.
They are laughing and twirling, and they are so beautiful together, so synchronized, that he feels his heart soar up to them.
It’s then that he notices he’s changed as well. Shorter, chubbier.
“Ah,” he murmurs, and even his voice has changed.
He turns to a wall mirror, and the truth is there, in front of him –his reflection shows a child, so terribly feminine, weak and small, in his old dress.
Italy doesn’t know the meaning of this dream –he barely dreams of the past, most of the time, so why now, why so detailed and so strong?– but his heart clenches just a bit, because he’s so lucid in this dream, and the memories rush to him so strongly now, they make him feel funny.
Weak.
The green skirt rustles as he shifts. He can even see the details on the embroidery, to his surprise –he doesn’t know where this dress is now. Probably Austria threw it away… too much time has passed. He’s not even sure he misses it, because it was a girl’s one, and yet…
Slowly, he forces his body to move. Everything feels so real, and Italy has a hard time not letting himself go, but is still determined in living the dream out. He makes his way through the room, one hand on the wall, feeling the tapestry soft under his chubby hand.
Yes, he thinks admiring the dance. I do miss all of this…
“Italia…”
He freezes.
That voice.
It resurfaces from the sea of his memories like a tsunami, knocking the air out of him, softly ringing into his ears.
Of course. If he’s in the past, he must also see… see…
But it has been centuries since he allowed himself to dream of…
“Italia… will you… ah, look at me?”
And he does.
He turns around knowing already who he’s going to see, and he dreads the sight with all of his heart, all of his aching heart. He knows it’ll hurt more.
It does.
He’s standing there, identical to how he was back then, but there again, a part of Feliciano’s mind adds, he had no time to change because he has di–
“You’re beautiful” he states. His voice is low, but there’s a blush on his cheeks and he looks so flustered that it’s a miracle he’s still standing…
Feliciano feels his lips twitch upwards, but he’s not smiling. It’s more of a grimace, because his chest is hurting so much that it feels like claws are squeezing his heart dry. He feels like he wants to cry, but no tears come out.
The pain is terrible.
“Sa–Sacro… Romano Impero” he whispers.
He falls on the ground, the carpet under his fingers rough to the touch.
“Ah!” Holy Roman Empire rushes at his side, and small chubby hands touch him, his cheek –and it feels so real Feliciano whimpers, relishing the contact. It feels too real to be fake, but this is a dream, and he knows it, and knowing it hurts even more.
How he has missed him.
Years could have passed ever since then, and Italy has grown, if not stronger, at least older. He has a territory now, he has friends, he’s not lonely or alone anymore, but the memories of this person, the first one who considered him as something more than a servant or a brother, the memories of his first love…
Oh, he’s never been able to forget. When France finally tells him Holy Roman is dead creates a black hole in his chest that doesn’t allow Italy any hope.
Why is it? Why is this memory so important and painful? He’s had centuries to forget (or fake to), he’s had centuries to pull himself together and make his smiles a bit more real and full and open.
Why, then? Why does this dream, this… something and nothing, hurt still so much?
“Are… are you ok?” Holy Roman murmurs, so close, holding him tightly, helping him stand up, worry in his blue eyes.
Italy is afraid of looking at him, because this is a dream. Knowing he has to wake up, that he’ll wake up at any moment, and Holy Roman will disappear…
“Sacro Romano Impero!” he yells, and clutches at his first love, uncaring of anything that is not him –his arms, his black silky clothes, the fresh smell of cologne that he wears, a smell he has almost forgot…
Holy Roman flails his arms around, his blush growing to take control of his whole face, but not relinquishes the hold. Feliciano snuggles closer, feeling tears well up but not fall.
He knows he should not feel this way –he’s come to love someone else during the last few centuries, so why is he feeling so much pain?
It hurts –it hurts so much!
“Ah, Italia… why are you crying…?” those hesitant words makes Italy stop.
This is a dream. There will be tears once he wakes up, but he can’t allow himself to waste time now.
“Holy Roman” he whines, in his old voice “can we dance? Together?”
They never really had the opportunity to do things together –Holy Roman has always been busy, or following him around, and Italy has always been scared of him, then fond, even though nothing much changed.
Then there had been the flowers, a single, cherished memory of his…
And then, Holy Roman Empire had disappeared forever, not to come back ever again.
Holy Roman, whose blush makes him resemble a tomato, nods frantically, holding up his hand at Feliciano, who grasps it tightly into his own, small, chubby hand.
And then, they are dancing.
In the midst of all the other people, dancing with the beautiful music, twirling, and it doesn’t matter if Feliciano is the ‘girl’, because he has his Holy Roman back, and he finally loses himself to the dream.
Everything spins around him, but Italy feels light, weightless, as he dances, his old, green servant dress twirling around him, and he smiles, unable to take his eyes away from his ‘prince’, who is also smiling–
And the world around them is no more, the light flashing brightly, and it is only the two of them, dancing–
Italy closes his eyes, breathing deeply…
The arms around him tighten and are suddenly longer, stronger. He feels dizzy, and opens his eyes again, and is shocked to see he is older again.
His servant clothes are bigger, too, aging with his body, still fitting his frame, but the surprise is that Holy Roman Empire has aged with him.
He is wearing a white mask on his face, that hides most of his features, but the clothing is the same, the grip around Italy’s shoulders is strong and protective, and he is smiling.
Feliciano can see the love in those deep eyes, and smiles too, albeit sadly.
Had things gone differently…
Had Holy Roman Empire survived…
“Holy Roman…” he breathes out, in his normal voice.
For a moment he feels fear –what if now he’s going to be rejected because he isn’t a girl? What if Holy Roman doesn’t want him anymore?
It doesn’t matter if it’s a dream, he thinks, I can’t even stand the thought that–
Lips meet with his.
Italy gasps at the feeling.
It feels so real, so powerful –the closeness, the sweetness of lips against his own.
Feliciano feels the world spin around him. The touch, the taste, the feeling… everything is so real, so beautiful, and he thinks of nothing but this, and is thirsty for more of this, starving for more…
It’s naught but a dream he thinks, feeling tears pool in his eyes again. Solo un sogno…
And yet, he allows the dream to move on, not wanting to let go.
Adult Holy Roman Empire holds him closer, deepening the kiss, shyly touching Feliciano’s lips with his tongue, then slipping inside, to taste him. Italy moans quietly, tears falling freely down his cheeks and onto the floor as the two keep dancing, faster and faster–
Feliciano feels his own hands lifting to the mask that covers his beloved’s face, touching its contours almost reverently. He wants to see underneath.
He has never seen him adult, will never see him, Holy Roman is dead and will never reach this age, this magnificence, this majesty… but his heart aches for this, even if it’s all his mind can conjure.
Even if it is false…
Holy Roman Empire smiles but doesn’t speak, simply leaning forwards for another kiss…
And starts to disappear.
Feliciano’s heart stops. Is he waking up?
Slowly, Holy Roman Empire becomes transparent, see–through, and Italy can see behind him, through him, the dancers keeping up, uncaring, not noticing–
“No! don’t leave me! Please! Don’t! Not again! Not so soon!” frantic to keep him there, to keep the dream going, Feliciano holds Holy Roman Empire’s mask with his fingers, but… they’re slipping and…
The mask–
…………
“Italy!”
Feliciano’s eyes snapped open. Wide, pupils dilated, his whole body heavily pressing on cool sheets, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. For what felt like eternity, his eyes remained unfocused, unable to look at the figure so close above his own.
Then, slowly, everything turned clearer –blond hair, a bit mussed, and blue eyes, so deep and blue and familiar and–
“Sa–Sacro Romano…” the words chocked in his mouth. No. not him. “Germany…”
But the two images, that of his dream and now Germany above him, watching him with worried, narrow eyes… they were complimentary. One and the same. The face under the mask that he’s never seen.
“Italy, calm down, were you having a nightmare?” Germany asked, his voice underlined with worry… and the tone, that warm tone…
Feliciano suddenly felt sick. Bile raised from his stomach into his mouth, burning its way up and he launched out of bed and ran into the bathroom, dry–heaving until he coughed up nothing, throat raw and hurting, and yet he couldn’t stop.
‘Ohgodohgodohgod’
Hands gripping at the sides of his head, Feliciano allowed his body to fall on the floor, trembling so hard he couldn’t even stay still.
It wasn’t possible.
It couldn’t be.
His heart had been aching so much for his dream, but then, waking up and finding Germany right there, in front of him. With the same eyes and hair and expression and the same jaw line and the body and–
No.
How could that be? How could it be, why didn’t he notice it before? Why…
“Italy…?” Germany appeared in front of the bathroom door, frowning.
His worried tone… those eyes–
Feliciano scrambled on his feet, feeling panic mount inside him. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t! he had to get away. Away!
Anywhere, but away!
He couldn’t listen to that voice anymore. Couldn’t stare at that face. Not now that he knew, not now that–
Arms around his shoulders, Italy found himself pressed against a warm chest. Unable to breathe, he gasped and wheezed, lashing out with his hands, desperately trying to get away, but Germany wasn’t giving in.
Those arms circling him were warm and comforting and protective and Italy faltered, sobbing his heart out.
“Sacro Romano Impero…”
Over and over, these words left Italy’s mouth, spilling like pearls falling on concrete, unable to stop.
How… how? How couldn’t he notice that the person he loved was the person he’d once loved? And then, if it was true, then…
“Italy, please… what happened?”
Germany couldn’t understand, but this crying Italy, this sobbing, was different, completely different than his usual crying. This was pained, this was from deep inside, this wrenched through his body, clawing outside.
Something inside him twisted and shifted and Germany stifled his own gasp. His brain was yelling at him –he didn’t like to see Italy like this.
“Don’t you remember? Didn’t you…” choking on a sob, Italy stared up, into surprised, wide blue eyes, and fell silent.
Were there words to explain his pain? Were there words that could be enough for this situation?
How? Why? When?
Didn’t Ludwig remember?
Did he even care?
Was Italy’s love for Germany a simple reflection of his love for Holy Roman Empire, just because the two looked so identical… were they one and the same?
But they were not, Italy realised, at the same time as his heart gave another painful twist in his chest; they could have been, but Germany was simply what was left of a past Italy had buried, cried over, tried to forget. Germany was Germany, and Holy Roman had been Holy Roman.
Germany looked down, unsure on what to do, what to say, and those wide, brown eyes were staring into his own, demanding something he didn’t know, and…
And…
“Italy…” he breathed out, brushing his fingers against the soft, wet cheek of the Italian, desperately wanting to end his sufferance but not knowing how to.
“Sacro Romano…”
Why did he keep saying these words? Italian words that to Ludwig had no meaning, and yet words that recalled something old, something bitter and filled with dirt, something ancient that tasted like steel…?
Where had he heard those words before?
“I thought…” Italy was sobbing again, apparently having regained the ability to speak, albeit shaking and with broken voice. “I thought I had lost you… him… and then… when I was finally ready to let go, and you came around, and I fell again, and all this time I never saw the similarities, I deluded myself I was falling for Germany, whilst I wasn’t, and still I was, and…”
So different, and yet the same. So similar, and yet one was not the other. Holy Roman had long since died, in a war Italy had not partaken into. And this was Germany. They were one, and they were not.
Did he love Germany because he’d loved Holy Roman?
‘I loved him. I love him. I love both. Is this betrayal? Am I betraying his memory by loving a Nation that was born from his remains?’
Didn’t this happen once already…? Ludwig blinked. Another time, maybe…? Where Italy had been crying like this, with the same pain?
Because he was going away, maybe. Was it? Or was it not…?
Germany’s eyes glossed over. What did he do, last time? To make sure Italy would not cry? To make sure he would not… hurt?
He leaned forwards, almost transfixed, eyes narrowed, lips twitching, flickering images of light and fluffy dresses and fresh, morning hair hitting his face… “W, what do your people give to their loved ones?”
“No…” Italy gasped out, watching those lips coming closer, and pushed them away with one hand.
He wanted this. And yet he didn’t.
“Stop, Ludwig” he murmured, shaking his head. He didn’t remove himself from the other’s embrace yet, but he could not allow this.
Why had Germany tried to…
“Ludwig?”
“Uh…” Germany was the one to push him away, coming back to his senses and realising his actions. He’d been about to…
“A… a kiss, I guess?”
“Why were you going to kiss me?”
“I d–don’t…”
“You’re not him” Italy shook his head, fresh tears falling down his cheeks again, but this time he could control himself, and did not break down. “Ludwig, do you love me?”
Germany recoiled backwards, flushing hard and looking to the side. It was different. All the other times Italy had asked this, his face had been whiny, demanding, pouting like a child who wanted a candy.
This Italy… his question was quiet, and his eyes still betrayed his pain.
“I…”
This question needed a real answer. A thought–out one. Unable to hide himself away, unable to deny this Italy a proper answer, a serious one, Germany looked away.
Did he like Italy?
Did he like this Nation, who was useless, stupid, silly, weak… who never left him alone, who couldn’t fight to save his life, who wasted water in the desert to cook pasta, who fabricated defected grenades, who ran away at the tiniest noise… who always listened to him, who dedicated all of his life to him. Who cooked for him, smiled for him, brightened his days, warmed his heart and whose loyalty was to him and him alone…?
If he said no, he would break his heart. Italy would probably hide his pain and fake it out, and things would go back to how they were the day before. They would never talk about it again, but something would be broken between them.
Like after the war. They had been separated, and had managed to get close only after fifty years of struggling and pain.
Would he be able to stand it?
Would he, Germany, who had once prided himself as a strong, reliable, self sufficient Nation, be able to stand being separated from this useless silly idiot who had complicated his life ever since their first meeting?
…
No.
So, Germany had his answer.
He looked back up, fingers holding his chin still. “I do love you, Italy”.
Italy’s body trembled, because they were looking into each other’s eyes, and Italy could see the honesty in Germany’s, and it was even more painful. “Why?”
“… because you’re sunshine. Because you are silly and you smile. Because before this, before you… I didn’t know this warmth” Germany fumbled with his words, trying to make sense, pressing one hand over his chest. “Because you’ve always been there. you never gave up. All of you, was always for me…”
Feliciano felt his tears burn in his eyes.
It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.
“What if… what if I told you I loved you because you reminded me of someone else?” his voice rasped and fell. “What if I told you I am afraid I love you because you are like my lost love?”
Germany felt at loss. Italy’s words felt definitive, lapidary, but his eyes were darkened, inquisitive, so despite his sudden twisting in his chest, he closed his eyes and thought back. If there was something he was good at, it was controlling his emotions, analyzing and thinking.
“Sac…ro Romano Im… pero?” he spelled, slowly, frowning. “You mean him? Was he your first love?”
A pause. “Sì”.
“Tell me everything… please?”
And Italy did. Of his past, of the time he lived with Austria –he told Germany about Holy Roman Empire, of the chasing, the yells, the fear… he told him about how it changed, how those blue eyes had warmed up, how small, kind gestures changed it all.
He told Germany of their kiss, and last of all, he told Germany about his dream.
When he finished, Ludwig was silent, looking down at his hands, unmoving. Feliciano was still crying, silently, unable to meet his eyes.
“You think he was me?”
A nod.
“And yet, you think he was not”.
Another nod, with hesitation.
Ludwig remained silent, sorting his thoughts out. It made his head throb, picturing a young, defenceless Italy standing against the rising sun, watching his first love leave, with bells chiming in the distance and the lingering taste of a lost love on his lips…
“Did Sacro Romano Impero ever protect you?”
Feliciano blinked, hands fisting in his lap.
“Uh…”
“Did he come to save you every time you called?”
“Ah… he–”
“Did he ever hold you at night, when you had a nightmare, spending the night making sure you’d be able to sleep?”
Feliciano flushed. “N–”
“Did he cook for you? Did he talk to you for hours? Did he walk with you through war fields, covering your eyes so you wouldn’t see the dead bodies of your soldiers laying there? Did he ever cry in front of you, opening his heart about ruthless leaderships and too many deaths?”
“Ludwig, this–”
Germany lifted his hand, pressing it against Italy’s lips. “Did you spend day and night with him, chatting of nothing and everything? Did you cook for him, too? Did you hug him randomly, demanding kisses and care and attention? Did you trust him with your paintings, with your life, with yourself?”
Italy shook his head, not understanding.
“Feliciano… I do not remember anything before somewhere in the late 1860… after my brother found me wandering through the lands, brought me in, promising to make me into a great, proud Nation”.
Italy lifted his eyes, meeting once again Germany’s serious ones.
“Maybe before then, part of me had belonged to this… Sacro Romano Impero. I do not know. But my feelings for you are sincere. They don’t come from a past I cannot remember. And if I could, would my feelings change? I love you, Italy, for what you are. For what you are now. For the loyal, kind heart you have. For everything you did since I’ve known you… For this you in front of me”.
The words ripped away Italy’s mind, raw and burning and painful.
Germany might have just realised his feelings for Italy, feelings that had been there, dormant, during long years, denying their existence, denying the truth, but once out, he felt he couldn’t let this slide.
The fear in Italy’s eyes was familiar –it was the same fear he’d seen in his own eyes during the war’s last years. The same fear, the same despair he’d seen in his own during the years when Italy had been away.
How come he had never noticed? Had Italy really not known before the dream, or had he tried to live in a lulled limbo, just like he himself had?
“You don’t have to be afraid anymore…”
There was no need for that limbo anymore. They had to come back out.
Germany leaned forwards, hugging Italy again –and again, Italy crumbled down, his brain’s walls destroyed by the tidal wave of Germany’s words.
Yes, he had been afraid. Deep down, he had noticed the similarities. Getting closer to Ludwig, hugging, kissing him, just to make sure they were not the same. Holy Roman Empire was dead, and he would never come back, and it was stupid to be tied down to a childish promise, because he wasn’t cheating on his first love.
Hugs and kisses on the cheek, and casual contacts, everything was good –but not real kisses. Lips meeting was a taboo. Feliciano had known it, deep down… when Ludwig had appeared, getting closer was a way to keep him away.
This was why he had backed away at Valentine’s day, refusing to accept Germany’s fumbled attempts at romance and propositions. Because they had felt false.
He couldn’t allow himself to truly get close.
Yet he had. He loved Germany, in a way he had never loved Holy Roman Empire.
He loved Germany more. A more mature, deeper love. But he was afraid of giving up something that had been his for so long. The only secure, unchanging thing.
“I…”
“Shhh… it’s ok… it’s ok…” strong arms around his shoulders, whispered words in his ear, calming and soothing the tears and the pain. Germany kept still, unsure if he was doing the right thing, but also knowing he was. “Italy…”
And then, Italy snapped his head up, and kissed him.
Their lips joined together, and the world did not end –there were no sparkles, no dying sensation, no angels chorusing. Just a kiss. Shy lips meeting, parting and meeting again, soft and smooth and tasty–
And yet, and yet…
Italy’s world exploded, and was reformed.
“I love you Ludwig… I love you I love you I love you…”
Clutching at Germany’s larger frame, Italy cried, lips stretching to form a shuddery, unsure smile. He cried for his first love, he cried for this new, painful one, which was stronger and would survive, and would be nurtured instead of suppressed. He cried for Germany, because he had doubted of him, and cried because he was happy. Because he could accept this happiness and finally be freed.
And Germany closed his eyes and smiled, and ignored the smell of flowers and teary smiles of young, childish maidens, because he didn’t dwell on a past that could be his but could also be not, since he had his present in his arms, and his future might as well be just there, too.
And that was it.
“One and the same, or not. It’s just as well. As long as this love is strong enough to last through”.
---
HRE calls Italy 'Italia' because it runs smoother, and I don't know, it feels like it gives an old feeling, whilst Germany calls him 'Italy' which feels newer, or something. I don't really know myself, but I kind of liked the idea. Sue me.
Glossary:
Sacro Romano Impero - Holy Roman Empire.
Solo un sogno... - Just a dream...
Sì - yes.
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