The Musings of a Non-Romantic

[crazymonkey7137.livejournal.com]

So I am super nervous to do this! I love Hetalia like crazy and I'm such a giant lurker it's sad. But this is my first time actually posting in the community and the first time I've ever shared my writing, which I'm super nervous to share. But yeah, anyways....let me know what you guys think!

Also, this is so fluffy it's almost annoying. Feel free to point out any mistakes!

Title: The Musings of a Non-Romantic
Author/Artist: crazymonkey7137
Characters or Pairings: Germany/Italy
Rating: G? Nothing really bad about it
Warnings: Too much fluff?
Summary: In the morning, Germany muses and attempts to mimic great poets of the past.

Germany is allowed to think this. He is allowed to find Italy beautiful in the mornings, when the first rays of the sun shine on him sleeping. He is allowed to enjoy the constant chatter and the warm food each day and night. He is allowed to be frustrated by Italy’s whining and charmed by Italy’s love for pasta and painting and the simple joys of life. Germany is allowed to feel these things. He just doesn’t know that.

He dreams, sometimes.

 He dreams of a hat too large for him, and flowers, and a scared girl. He dreams of learning how to paint (though he never really learns so much as attempts, the paint stiff and uncooperative) and a gentle teacher.  Germany sometimes dreams of a past that belongs to an unknown entity, that belongs to a boy who loved something or someone fiercely, who longed for that very thing with a passion that confuses the structured country. He does not have these dreams often, these happy dreams of familiar faces not ravaged by recent times (Hungary simple in a dress and apron, and Austria’s face pinched in concentration at the piano). More often, Germany dreams of fighting in a war he cannot recall, too young to properly wield a sword but doing so anyways. Even more often, Germany dreams of tears and an echoing promise and the battlefield and pain and death and being ripped apart and France, standing, not understanding, hands bloodied by the life of someone so young and—

Ever since the 900s, I’ve always loved you.

These dreams bother Germany. They have no context, no place. They seemingly involve him but they are of things he cannot remember, of people he knows but does not know. These things are abstract, like the love Italy so readily professes. Love for pasta, love for his brother, love for warm evenings spent in Venice, spent in Florence, spent in Rome, among the old ruins of his grandfather and the modern growth of his brother. Italy loves, and loves. He thrives off of it, soaks up attention and affection is spades, requires it for his own livelihood.

And Germany—Germany loves as well. His love is harder to understand, not as effusive and bright as Italy’s. But he does love. He loves—Germany loves bratwurst and beer. Except that’s not right. He likes those things. He enjoys them; enjoys settling down for the evening, slipping on glasses he rarely uses, reading a book with a dog or two or three curled around him. But that is not love. Love is beyond mere enjoyment, mere pleasure (his country is not known for its poets, so this may be why he has a hard time understanding a concept which seems so easy to others).

Germany loves his brother, who raised him. Germany loves his people, who are resilient and imperfect and who have done terrible things and great things and great terrible things and terribly great things. Germany loves the sun on Italy and the moon on Italy and the spot in his heart that seemingly thaws around Italy. Maybe Italy is the sun and Germany is the land. He is only capable of living when in its presence. At all other times he is frozen, cold and hard, unable to allow for growth.

But that’s not true, though the words are flowery and reflective of the poets Germany envies for their ease with words.

Because if Italy did not exist, or perhaps did not care for Germany in the way he does, Germany knows he would be able to live. It would not be the loss of a vital limb, nor would it feel like a hand gripping his heart, cutting off his supply of air. Germany would be able to live and he would be able to move on. He would be just as capable of building as he ever was in the past. The pain would not be so noticeable as to completely handicap him.

Rather, the pain would be more reminiscent of a splinter in his finger or of something in his eyes--easy to forget in the rush of the day but always there lingering.

From his side comes the faintest disturbance, a whine as the sun creeps brighter into the room. Ever since the 900s, I’ve always loved you, he thinks and the words feel right. They settle into his heart, warm and familiar, and there they lay in rest.

The day has started and Germany feels like some knot that he has never known about has loosened inside his chest.

There is a time and a place for everything and this is not the time nor is it the place. So for now, Germany simply thinks.

I love you.

And never have the pieces fallen so perfectly in place than with those words.