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Chapter Text

"I get mean when I'm nervous, like a bad dog."

Germany

The sky outside was a warm and picture-perfect colour, as if someone spilled orange juice on a blank canvas. Officers on duty chattered amongst themselves, exchanging small talk usually about what they were planning to have for dinner once they got home. The noisy talk about useless topics tended to infuriate Germany, who was in his personal office with the window open, reading some reports. But he wasn't in the mood to care. He felt like he was forgetting something really important that was going to happen today, but it was probably nothing. His old-fashioned, wooden desk held an abhorrently large amount of papers that looked like they could topple at the slightest gust of wind. The country sat at his desk, somewhat relaxed for once while flipping through and checking the reports for the day. And one caught his eye.

Germany gripped the crumpling piece of paper with his gloved hands. He adjusted his glasses, squinting his working eye and hoping he read that wrong, but no. The country let out a shaky breath, hoping it would soothe his anger, if only a little. He was really annoyed now. This was going to mess with so many plans, it wasn't even funny (not that it was funny in the first place). Germany stood up, his swivel chair rolling back at the sudden movement. With the report firmly in hand, the German left his office with quite a few words to spit, though he was probably only going to say a few with who he was going to talk to. 

Whether this was a good idea or not, Germany was too irritated to care. Perhaps it was the fact that one of his plans got messed up, again, but he was not about to just sit and let it happen. He absolutely hated that he was not informed of this a day or two in advance at the very least. 

Germany paused for a moment, before continuing his speed-walk. It would probably be fine, thought his tired and currently-emotionally-driven brain. A bead of sweat trickled down his spine. It would probably be fine ..

-

A few minutes, a polite knock and a few more seconds later, Germany creaked the door open to find his leader with a crazed smile on his face, as if he was a kid who got what he wanted for Christmas from Santa. The country's eye twitched. Of course he would be absolutely ecstatic now that he finally did the one thing he'd been wanting to do since the start.

The room was bland, like the kind of room one might see being used by your run-of-the-mill office worker. The walls were a boring white that could make any person crazy with enough time, and the only light was from a nearby window, making the room glow a warmer yellow. Portraits of famous old leaders and watercolour landscapes decorated the higher parts of the walls, as if allowing the previous leaders to judge the room's inhabitants, look upon the current Führer, watch the land they used to preside over.

The German chancellor was wearing the same black military garb as Germany, though with more fancy accessories and without the cap that adorned Germany's head. He turned towards the sound of the door opening. 

"<Hello, My Country. What brings you here?>" he asked, his tone showing that he knew full well why the country barged into his office. Germany responded, showing the somewhat crumpled report of what happened on the Eastern front. "<What is this?>" The country walked over, not caring about how rude he was being at the moment, and basically shoved the report in his leader's face. His Führer glanced over the paper before letting out a light chuckle. "<Oh, so this is what it's about, hmm?>" He raised his gaze, meeting the country's mismatched eyes. The country twitched a raised eyebrow, cowering too lightly to notice. "<It's just an invasion. We've already planned it all out, remember?>"

Germany wanted to smack his leader and surrender, but the former would get him in trouble and the latter would damage his pride, so he just furrowed his eyebrows in response. Neatly folding and tucking the report away, he faced the other. "<We planned to invade later. It's too early, and it's not like we managed to take the British Isles yet,>" he pointed out, exasperated. His Führer spread his hands, as if he was going to shrug. "<It's only a matter of time before Britain surrenders. It wouldn't hurt to start a little early,>" the man stated, a confident grin plastered on his face. The country wanted to face-palm at the sheer confidence he held, as if something wasn't going to go terribly wrong like things always did when it came to war. Just like what happened over twenty years ago ..

Germany internally shook his head. That war was over, and this war was now really just beginning. He shouldn't dwell on the past when he had the present and future to worry about. Plus, it wasn't like he could change the outcome of that event, now that it has become a thing of the past. So with a internal smack to reality, Germany went back to focusing on the matter at hand.

The German chancellor's eyes sharpened, making the country in front of him unconsciously straighten up. "<Don't be going around ridiculing me on what I can and can't do. I'm the leader of this country, am I not? So one more word about how supposedly bad my choices were and you'll regret it.>"

Suddenly, Germany's back felt slick with sweat. His body became stiff as he stared at his leader, feigning a lack of interest. He was not, in fact, apathetic towards those words. With the way he was wording things, it almost felt as if he was threatening to .. 

No .. please, not again ..

Germany couldn't move. It felt like the darkness was swallowing him whole. Where had the walls adorned with paintings go? His heartbeat quickened, blood rushing every which way. He never pleaded, even in his head. Yet here he was.

Badump, badump, badump-

It was like all the oxygen in the room had disappeared. His breathing became erratic. His nerves were ice-cold, making him tremble like the string of a guitar after it's been plucked. He absentmindedly balled his fists, nails almost digging through the white gloves. The pain woke him up, if only for a moment.

He was having an episode. In front of his Führer, too. It seemed his previous thoughts were wrong- he was most definitely not fine.

The panicked country reverted his saucer-like eyes to normal, but was still very much shocked. His vision blurred, focused, and spiraled, but the country kept his eyes neutral through sheer willpower. The quick, loud breaths quieted and slowed, even if it felt like he had to hold his breath every time he breathed in so that he would have enough oxygen to survive. His fingers were hidden by the desk, so he could thankfully let them tremble all he wanted. The walls felt suffocating, but he let himself be suffocated for the purpose of appearing perfectly fine. Even if he couldn't see the portraits, it felt like they were judging his stupidly embarrassing reaction, as if they couldn't believe some words so small could trigger a country, of all 'people'. With a wavering breath that Germany forced to sound normal and not like he was having an episode, he said, "<Apologies, Führer. I spoke out of line.>" 

While Germany never liked complying to others, he was not in his right mind to care. Anything else would be a death wish, and personally, he liked living. His episode was by no means over, though he certainly wished it was. It was like nothing else existed at the moment, besides him, the desk and his leader. The man in question gave a smile, nodding. "<Good. Now leave.>" It wasn't the kind of smile one would give to a stranger after helping them, or the polite business smile most officials wore. It was the smile of a predator who had just finished eating their prey. Germany had to avert his gaze to prevent spiraling further. 

The door was .. towards the left, right?

The country turned, keeping every bit of his body from trembling while staring into the dark void of where he assumed was the door. He had learned very early on that if he stared long enough, it would eventually turn back to normal for a bit. And sure enough, he could spot the familiar round doorknob and rectangular frame. With his usual large strides, Germany quickly made it to the door without making it seem like he was in a rush to get out. That would be considered rude, and an offense. With a twist from his hand, the door creaked open and the country left, closing the door quietly behind him. He was not fully out yet, though. He needed to be somewhere secluded, and safe. At least until it was all over. And the best place for that was either the lavatory or his bedroom, both of which were secluded enough with the latter not allowing anyone but himself inside. The nearest restroom was too far, however, and his bedroom was closer. 

All Germany had to do was get to his bedroom and wait it out. But things were easier said than done. Germany's ears buzzed, as if he was listening to TV static, so it wasn't like he could listen for any potential people around him. Meaning he had to keep his relaxed demeanor as he casually freaked out on the inside.

Isn't this just wonderful?, the country thought sarcastically. Sarcastic thoughts were something Germany found himself thinking a lot, whether that just be him or his body trying to lighten the mood. It didn't help, but he was worried about other matters. The country stepped forward until he could just barely see the yellowish-brown colour that was painted on all the walls of the hallways. With a sigh of relief, he dropped his hand but kept a few fingers touching the wall. With a guide to make sure he wouldn't smack into another wall, Germany walked to the right, his left hand running against the wall lightly. 

Stay calm, stay calm. You're almost there. Just two more doors, a left turn, and you're safe. It'll only take a minute or so. 

He had to physically fight his body from curling up right then and there. Adrenaline was doing most of the work at this point, meaning Germany didn't have much time before he would collapse of exhaustion due to having to keep his appearance neutral while spiraling down a rabbit hole of what feels like no return. He could barely take a step, yet he had to if he wanted to retain his pride as a powerful and unwavering country. 

If only he wasn't so dramatic, as the little voice in the back of his head liked to call him. He hated that voice, but it wasn't that he thought otherwise.

His people could have flaws. They could act weak and cry and plead. But he couldn't. He was the confident, powerful country. Confident countries don't cower. Powerful countries don't cry, or surrender. For the sake of the German race getting the power they deserve, he must be a great country without flaws. 

Germany's breathing was (not forcefully) slowly down into a more healthy rate, which usually meant that it would all be over in half an hour, at the latest. That was somewhat reassuring, he supposed. He continued stumbling through the darkness until he heard a voice. 

"[Germany? Is that you?]"

That sweet, silky, Italian voice. There was no mistaking it. Germany knew, despite what sounded like a bee constantly buzzing in his ear, that the owner of the voice was right in front of him. He straightened, blinked a few times, and focused with all his might. His palms were sticky with sweat by the time he could fully make out the figure in front of him. 

I knew it.

Stark white hair befitting of an angel with green and red highlights scattered about. A long face with softened features and an upturned mouth. Round eyes that were red on the left eye and green on the right, both practically sparkling. The grey Italian military uniform, with a few minor adjustments to suit his taste because he was just like that. White gloves, similar to Germany's, was something he hadn't noticed on his person before. But it was definitely still the one and only Italian country, in the flesh, in front of him. He frowned slightly.

So this was the thing he forgot about earlier.

The German really didn't want to deal with the Italian at the moment, but he already acknowledged him, so it wasn't like he could back out. If Italy was here, then his leader was most likely here as well. As if Germany didn't have enough to worry about, with him attempting to hide his still-ongoing panic attack. The sight of Italy was really not making it better. 

Italy's previously excited look withered into one of slight worry. The bright smile twitched, as if it didn't know if it was allowed here anymore. "[Germany? Are you okay?]" he warily asked. He reached his hand out to touch the other's face, pausing when his fingers were an inch away. The other in question eyed Italy's fingers as if they were a bomb that was about to blow. "[Uhm, may I-]"

"[Shut up. Out of my way,]" Germany responded with in a thick German accent, slapping the Italian's hand from his face with much more force than he had originally intended. Italy flinched, stepping towards the wall to the right. His bright eyes averted their gaze downwards, and the Italian hunched forward. Germany was well aware of how he was sounding, but one, he was talking to Italy, who never got angry, and two, he was really not in the mood to care. And maybe he was going a bit too delusional at the moment.

Squinting, Germany managed to make his way to his room, lock the door, close the blinds and collapse on his bed. The emotions and feelings he had desperately kept back to appear normal gushed out like water from a broken dam. 

He trembled, his breath hitched. Everything around him, which he had previously focused hard on so he wouldn't bump into anything, had submitted into the darkness that was slowly enveloping him. His heart felt like it was pumping out of his chest, about to burst at any moment. Germany almost considered letting it burst and letting him pass on in the light comfort of his room. But the chancellor wouldn't be happy if he died. 

And he couldn't upset him again. Not after he recklessly yelled at him like that. 

-

.. Get up ..

The German country rubbed his blurred eyes, and suddenly, it was thirty years ago and he was back in the trenches. His vision was swimming with memories he did not want to remember. It was like he was back in the cramped bedchambers, if one could even call them that, with the unimaginable stench blaring his nostrils. He could almost feel the crusty bedsheets scratching at his palms. Disgusting.

.. The front lines need you ..

Germany was not about to go back out there. His eyes could just barely focus on one of the soldiers already in uniform in front of him. The uniform was dark with blood, the pockets filled to the brim with presumably weapons and first aid supplies. Germany's hand shuffled through the thin excuse of a blanket, checking and feeling for everything he could while his vision was still adjusting at the pace of a snail. He could feel the hard mattress, the flimsy sheets, the stuffy uniform, even. 

.. Are you ditching your own country? ..

Germany's eye could focus, relatively speaking, and he noticed something. It was something that often made him question his own sanity, if he had any after being in war for most of his life. Creases formed on his forehead immediately, as he knew what was going on now. 

The soldier's face was blurred, meaning this wasn't real.

..

.. You should have died like the rest of us. 

-

The country opened his eyes. 

He was in his room. It was the same old room.

The reddish-brown curtains revealed a sliver of darkness, indicating that the sun had fallen already. The walls were still their neutral grey, which Italy constantly pointed out as being 'too plain' and 'dreary', even if the colour was perfectly fine. The doors were still double triple locked, as they always had to be for the sole purpose of repelling assassins. The mattress was still soft, like a cloud of cotton candy or a blanket of snow. The blanket was still warm and comforting, as if sitting next to a fire in the middle of the forest, watching as the glowing flames illuminated the haunting trees around to create a safe haven of light around itself. The pillow was still drenched, which was exactly how he remembered it not long after he collapsed into his bed. 

He forced himself to sit upright, leaning against the wall behind him. Germany was, he quickly realized, no longer trembling. His hands were still gloved, albeit less neatly, and were as still as the hands of a sniper. The German country could feel streaks on his cheeks, but they were no longer wet and salty. And best of all- his heart was beating at an almost scarily normal pace. Meaning ..

Germany breathed a large sigh of relief, now that he could.

It was over.

And he felt disgusting.

The country shuffled out of his bed. His legs were jelly at first, and he almost fell, but his iron grip on the nightstand nearby managed to save him from a painful greeting with the thin, yellow rug beneath him. It was a bright bit of colour that starkly contrasted the grey tones of the rest of his room, but he didn't necessarily mind. He wobbled his way to the washroom, which was connected to his room and his room only. The ordeal took a good five minutes, much to his embarrassment, when it could've taken half a minute under normal circumstances. The door groaned open for him, and he stepped inside. The first thing he saw was the unadorned, square mirror above the porcelain sink.

Yikes. He looked like a young teenager who had just woken up from a 12 hour sleep after being dumped by his first lover at a party the night before. His dark hair was disheveled, sticking up in various different directions. His eyebags were worse than before, which was a bit concerning considering how his eyebags previously looked large enough to carry groceries. His left eye was still as droopy and dull as usual, whereas his right eye ..

..

..

It was the same as well, Germany supposed. 

A splash of cold water and some nitpicky tidying-up later, the German country was back to his usual self, appearance wise. He checked the time, casually calculating the fact that he'd been off-duty for half an hour. Half an hour wasn't nearly as short as he wished, but it was better than usual. And in the time it took for him to get himself dressed acceptable enough to leave his room and not feel disgusted, the German had looked back upon the reason why he was in his situation. 

Ah, the perks of good memory.

Germany wanted to internally slap himself. He was an idiot. He knew that something like this could very well happen, and yet he did it anyways. It always happened like that, and he absolutely despised how he never really learned. It was always those stupid waves of irritation, those stupid bouts of anger, and those stupid floods of emotions that drowned his common sense. He hated how he got angry, but he was never good enough to stop the words, the actions, from spilling. And it never left him, unlike everything he held dear. How lovely.

Just as Germany was about to go back to his office and catch up on the worked he missed due to his tantrum, he remembered something that made him pale. And he rarely got nervous enough for one to physically see it on his face.

He remembered that admittedly attractive face that twisted in emotions on a certain someone he ran into a half hour ago. He remembered how they easily shuffled off to the side when he rudely commanded, and how they shrunk at the slight raise of his voice. 

He remembered, decades ago, the look on their face during a battle. Never did he want to be opposing it, for he feared death as any mortal did, if he could be considered one.

He remembered, a few years ago, the words of, at the time, his country's newest chancellor. The idea he'd concocted. The results if he failed.

His brain reflexively thought of all the 'what-ifs' it could think of. And he concluded that he was, in fact, a really stupid idiot.

I may have doomed the plan with this, he thought, the sweat on his back increasing enough for him to feel like he just ran a marathon. If he didn't apologize or do anything, he may have just shot himself in the foot. And the heart.

And so, Germany carefully concocted a plan in his head while leaving to search for the Italian country. 

Chapter Text

"Playing a fiddle gets easier the more you do it, and yet, you still get nervous performing."

Germany

It was surprisingly more difficult to find Italy than he had thought.

Germany left his room after a frustrating few seconds as he attempted to put back on the lodged lock that was, for whatever reason, never easy to put back on. Maybe, after this little incident of his was resolved and he got some free time, he'd go and get some new locks for once, or at least fix the old ones. But he digressed. The country walked through the halls to his first destination, where the Italian would most likely be- the country guest bedroom. 

The halls gleamed in their usual warm colours, though not as much since the sun had long since set and the skies had faded into a calming blue that wasn't quite black yet. The silk white gloves he never touched anything without had to go through the poor torture of being slid against the wall during his whole .. thing, but since he was wearing it at the moment, he must've cleaned it well enough to wear it. His boots made a thump thump sound that was muffled by the ornate red carpet, and the way he held himself was one that demanded authority- befitting of such a powerful country like him, he hoped. And while Germany wasn't the tallest and didn't walk nearly as fast as some people (cough Japan cough), he quickly made it to the simple wooden doorframe of the current bedroom of Italy.

The room wasn't very different from the regular guest bedrooms, only that they were reserved for countries visiting, usually for political issues. It also had locks lined up neatly between the doorframe and the door, but not today, it seemed. This particular room was built a long time ago. He lightly rapped his knuckles on the door, carefully avoiding the area underneath the peephole, which was a bit darker in colour due to blood from an old incident back in the '20s, or so it was rumoured. Germany never really cared for those things, since he was practically flung straight into conflict the second he was "born". When there was no response after a good whole minute, he announced, "[I'm coming in,]" before turning the doorknob. He pushed open the door, whose hinges groaned in protest, and stepped in.

Germany couldn't help the scowl that flit across his face. When no country was visiting, the room was nice and neat, not a crinkle on the bedsheets nor a particle of dust. Compared to its usual appearance, it was now about as messy as the trenches. Clothes lay astray, causing tripping hazards and most definitely wrinkling said clothes. A door on his right, which led to the bedroom's personal bathroom, was agar. He could vaguely see the horrendously bright purple toothbrush, whether he wanted to or not (he did not). On the German's left stood an open suitcase, and near it on the thin rug was the array of locks that usually served its purpose on the door. That explained where the locks went. The plain desk close by was quivering under a headache-inducing amount of paperwork, which he could pass Italy for being messy on because, well, it was work. Just looking at it made Germany remember his own mountain of unfinished work impatiently waiting in his office. He could feel the weariness creeping up slowly, the way the sun did when it calmly rose from the horizon at dawn. But at least a sunrise was nice to look at.

Germany fought the urge to roll up his sleeves and clean the room right that second. He had to find Italy, apologize, and maybe finish his own paperwork if he had the time. Since Italy had gotten all the keys to the locks, the German clicked them in place and was a tad surprised when they were easily clicking and turning, much to his delight and slight jealousy. Though he'd never admit that out loud. When he confirmed that the doors were indeed closed tight, his brain turned on overdrive.

If Italy wasn't in his room, where might he be? He could be in the library, putting books in the wrong places as usual, or perhaps he was eating a late dinner, which Germany realized that he hadn't even done yet. 

.. Meh, I'll do that later. I'd rather be alive and starving than dead and full, he remarked sarcastically.

A few moments later, he decided to find his fellow country by looking in another, slightly less but still quite probable location within the building- the conference room upstairs, where most of their internal debates were settled. It tended to be more of a place to relax when it wasn't being used, so Italy, as well as both their leaders, enjoyed staying there. Perhaps it was the more comfortable chairs that led to the conference room being used as a "hang-out zone" for them. But besides that, there really wasn't anything all that special about it. 

Germany started climbing the stairs, keeping an ear out for any people in the halls. Even though it was late evening, the building was still lively with employees flitting about the place. Perhaps it was because Germany was extra tired today, but the building seemed quieter than usual. It was almost as if he was the only one in the building. It was almost peaceful, and it almost made him forget about his obligations.

The carpets turned from red to brown as the German got closer to the conference room. He brushed his wavy hair back with his fingers before snugly placing his hat on. After all, their leaders could also be in the conference room, and he mustn't appear incompetent. 

Germany continued his walk, glaring at a nearby worker who looked at him the wrong way. The worker yelped and shuffled in the opposite direction, averting his gaze the second they met Germany's. He grinned as a chain of pride wrapped around the twisted part of his soul that defined his being. The power to make someone cower at the mere sight of him was something the personification relished in. It made him feel like he wasn't a complete waste of space. 

-

Soon, the German made it to the conference room. The door was open, much to his confusion. Germany was about to walk in until the sound of a suspiciously familiar voice that wasn't Italy's but was Italian made his hand pause before he entered. His good eye peeked inside, only to immediately withdraw at the scene he just witnessed. Maybe he should visit later? The German didn't wish to intrude as a fellow country spoke with their leader, who had about as bad of a relationship as Germany had with his own leader. 

At least, that was what Germany was told. But he of all people shouldn't be judging the Italian leader's odd relationship with Italy, especially considering his own relationship with Italy. But that was not the point at the moment. Germany still had to apologize to the representation of Italy before it was too late to do so. He pressed his ear to the wall, though not literally as walls were always filthy and tainted.

"[My leader?]" Italy asked, tilting his head like a broken plastic doll you might find in the dumpster.

"[ ..]" 

"[My leader ..?]"

"[ .. ..]"

"[I .. repelled the rebels' attempts like you asked,]" the country offered, in hopes that his leader might at least look at him.

"[ .. .. ..]"

"[Are you proud? Did I do good?]"

"[ .. .. .. ..]"

"[ ..mm,]" the man finally responded. 

It was pathetic seeing how brightly the Italian personification got at the slightest reaction from his leader. Italy looked like a shriveled-up hydrangea blooming at the slightest drop of water it was given. Germany scowled at the two, though they couldn't see it, before knocking on the door and entering. The German strode in elegantly, instantly gathering the attention of everyone in the room- which wasn't much to say, as there were only two other people inside. His gaze flicked from Italy, whose mouth was slightly parted in shock, to Italy's leader, who held a blank expression. 

The Duce wore the same grey military uniform as his country's representation, though with a bit less dramatic flair and more propriety. A hat similar to the ones captains wore sat atop his balding head, and two pools of dark murkiness that reminded Germany of the cholera-filled rainwater that dripped through the hastily-built roofs of the trenches swirled in his wide eyes. The man's almost oval-shaped head was a bit off-putting, as was most of his personality, but being a charismatic leader that helped citizens walk down the right path required sacrifices.

"[Hello. I wish to speak with Italy,]" Germany announced, causing the country in question to flinch as a flicker of emotions left as quickly as it came before it could be deciphered. Hopefully it was nothing, though you could never be sure with that "man". Italy's leader allowed the German to speak, his stare baring down on his own country's personification with a don't-you-dare-do-anything-funny look. Germany could've sworn he saw the corners of the other country's mouth curl up for a split second- like it always did when his leader finally spared him a glance, no matter the occasion. He decided that he didn't see anything and turned back to the Italian leader.

"[Alone,]" he clarified, giving a fake, half-sheepish smile to the Duce to keep him on his good graces. The man nodded, seeming to buy his little act without taking any offense. Or maybe he chose to ignore it. He left the room with a small bow- one that showed respect to the individual without undermining their own pride and authority. Italy faced his ally with a somewhat grim expression- probably because he remembered what happened earlier that day. Germany had to hide his own expression, which, if not covered by a serene smile, would've been the kind of face he used to make when fed broccoli as a toddler. 

Italy adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, fidgeting with his fingers as he always did- it was never this much unless he was either nervous or excited for something. It would be weird for him to be excited for something like this, so Germany was going to assume he was fidgeting for the former reason rather than the latter. After both countries got enough time to mentally prepare themselves, Italy gazed up.

"<Uh .. why don't we talk outside?>"

-

The terrace was made of rough stone, though the way it was repaired with granite veins that snaked in every which way replicated fancy marble. Tall black railings wrapped around the sides of the platform they stood on, providing a smooth albeit small surface to prop one's elbows on, which Germany instinctively did as he'd done ever since he was tall enough to do so. He perched his chin on his left hand, which had curled into a fist as the warm, summer breeze flowed all around and Italy joined him by the railing on his right.

The wind coiled around the two countries, slipping through the gaps of their hair, going around the soles of their feet, and dancing with their clothes playfully. That breeze had traveled a far distance and would travel farther, its calm whispers promising to allow whatever reluctant mutters spoken on this night to be carried to the furthest corners of the world, stretched so thin it would be incomprehensible for strained ears to form any semblance to words from it. For a few minutes tonight, Germany and Italy were the only two in the world.

The full moon shone like an opal in the sky, the cloudless sky welcoming onlookers with a flurry of stars scattered about. Although the night was young, it was already dark enough so that the two couldn't quite see each others' expressions well. Germany faced the sky, not daring to squint or attempt to make out the other country's emotions as he finally decided the slice the silence the way a concert band does once the audience has quieted down. 

Calm. Stay calm. Keep your tone relaxed. You are worth nothing if this goes wrong.

"[Italy, how has my country been so far? It's been a while since I've seen you around,]" Germany said in a tone that suggested curious indifference. 

Shoot. He was stupid; it technically hadn't been a while since they've seen each other. They just saw each other a few hours ago. And now Germany had just reminded the other country of their previous "conversation", which was the only reason they were now speaking. But he'd also spoken in Italian instead of German- a small sign of respect that would hopefully cancel out his little mistake.

Hopefully. Maybe. Possibly. Hypothetically. Please?

"[It's been nice,]" the Italian noted, cutting off Germany's hurricane of thought and letting his gaze flicker over to the German in a split second of confusion. Yes, it would make sense for Italy to be confused at his rather peculiar actions, though it didn't seem like he very much minded this new type of interaction they were sharing. "[The sky is more visible here than it is down in Rome.]"

..

..

So it is. What an odd thing to point out. But Germany supposed that was the way things were when it came to the ignorantly aware representation that took interest in the most specific things. The German could never understand, nor would he want to. Italy was an oxymoron in every way imaginable, making him the most simple yet confusing "man" he didn't dare decipher beyond surface level curiosities. After confirming it was okay for him to speak, Germany continued. 

"[Yes, the stars here are very bright.]" That was a lie, for the stars never shone brighter than the sun. "[Do you enjoy stargazing?]"

A stupid question, really. Germany would've smacked himself in the head if he had a little less restraint. He didn't know what else to say. What could possibly ease into the careful apology he'd constructed word for word? But it seemed to have done the trick, as Italy's shoulders untensed. Germany had to fully turn to the right, as it was only his left eye that properly worked, to look at the other's relaxed expression. "[I do. It's wonderful watching those celestial bodies in the sky with you,]" Italy commented, turning to meet Germany's stare with a slight smile.

Italy's round eyes- one green, and one red- were bordered by smile lines, despite him not quite curling his lips enough for it to be called a full smile. The green glowed the colour of vomit, which Germany so wanted to do at the moment. The red was dark and deep, like a never-ending pool of blood that spurted out of bodies and showered the world in sticky disgustingness. 

Look away. Look away. Look away. Look away look away look away look away-

Germany looked away, forcing his eyes back to the sky. Why had Italy looked at him like that? Was there a hidden message? Did he want to make him uncomfortable? Because if that was the case, it certainly worked. His voice sounded strained as he prevented any form of non-definitive emotion from leaking through. 

"[Really? That's .. nice ..]"

Italy looked like he wanted to suppress a laugh, to Germany's confusion and annoyance. 

After a few moments of the Italian collecting himself, for whatever stupid reason, Germany decided that his guard was low enough for him to practically accept whatever was thrown at him. Most likely. And while he did wish to lower Italy's guard even more, all the German wanted to do at the moment was crash out, so it was better to do this while he still had the energy to think about his words and actions. 

It took a surprising amount of willpower for the German to merely apologize, but he had to do it or the mission would be undeniably more difficult. Not that it was ever easy in the first place. Why did he sign up to this again? Ah yes, because he had no other choice. And with that last thought, he opened his mouth as an awkward apology flowed out. The only reason it flowed out and didn't, say, tumble out in a stiff mess, was because Germany had planned it out to be the most human, sincere response, even if it was anything but that.

-

A pause. Did Germany guess wrong? Was Italy's guard not lowered enough? Did he screw himself, again? But before the currently sensitive German could spiral even more, Italy let out a hearty laugh that echoed as birds quieted to hear it more clearly. His laugh certainly had a way of doing that. It was so raw, so clear, you'd have thought it was genuine. Sometimes, Germany did think it was genuine, and let his guard down. But it wasn't.

Genuine laughs didn't sound the same every single time, the way Italy's did. But the fact that Italy had laughed his "genuine" laugh was definitely a sign that things weren't totally screwed for Germany. With an insignificant wave of his hand, Italy spoke with an unnaturally wide smile. Though with Italy, unnaturally wide smiles were kind of his thing. 

"[Oh Germany, you truly are adorable. Of course I forgive you, silly!]"

Germany decided to ignore the first sentence and focus on the second. Italy accepted his apology, thank goodness. He was so glad that Italy's naÏvety had come at the right moment. 

"[Haha, thank you. You're the only person I can trust,]" Germany announced in an tone he rarely used, even when faking it. The words made Italy flush in silent embarrassment as he twiddled his thumbs. That phrase worked again, as it always did. It almost seemed too easy.

Now, all that was left to do was to ease out of the conversation and get the hell out of there. It was cold, the railing was for sure dirty, he had work to do, and the country was way too tired.

Perhaps Germany was too glad Italy had accepted the apology and too tired to control his face, because the usually uniform, scripted country had a rare, almost exasperated smile on his face as he stared off into the distance, unknowing of his current expression. The wind blowing his hair made him look almost ethereal, if only for a few moments.

Italy's eyes bore holes through Germany, who only realized his mouth had unconsciously relaxed into a smile after five full seconds of it. The German stiffened, snipping off their interaction at an unpleasant moment, like a sudden retreat when the invasion was going just fine. 

"[Ah, it seems I've forgotten to finish some paperwork today,]" Germany offered, technically not lying. "[I should get going.]"

Italy stared a bit more, making the German feel as if he was being scrutinized for his excuse. It was, after all, a really lame excuse. "[Sure, go ahead. Wouldn't want our leaders getting fussy about it, right?]"

Germany instinctively glanced around, as if his leader could teleport here any moment, announcing that he'd heard everything. Neither of their leaders did spontaneously enter, however.

"[Yeah .. yeah. Well, see you later,]" he finally said, patting the elbows that leaned on the dark railing and scurrying back into the building.

-

The halls seemed more ominous as Germany trudged his way back to his room. He'd berate himself for that stupid exit later, since he got what he wanted, to an extent. And, in all honesty, that was really all that mattered at the moment. 

Hopefully today's conversation with Italy didn't absolutely devastate Germany's mission like the previous conversation almost did.

God, he hated that damn country. 

Chapter Text

"Too bad that you're sweet, like honey; I'm stuck on you"

-

Italy

Italy didn't remember much of what happened right after his talk with Germany. His legs were jelly, his fingers felt numb, and he had to constantly remind himself to blink. The first few minutes were a blur, like he'd gotten blackout drunk or something. 

He didn't, of course. But he was ecstatic enough to be mistaken as blackout drunk.

Even though Germany had already left, Italy didn't so much as move for a good ten minutes. The shivering breeze made his hair dance frivolously as he himself was still frozen by the barrage of fancy and confusing emotions sweeping him off his feet. He couldn't quite place what the feelings were yet, but he knew, without a doubt, it was some form of love, because Italy knew exactly how he felt about his dear Germany.

But at the moment, all he could feel was the vague throbbing of his heart. He was like a ghost, watching his body from afar. It was .. weird, to say the least. A little bit disorienting, even. The country watched as he willed his body to start moving. The refreshing night air was starting to make him chilly, and he despised the coldness that distantly reminded him of Germany's attitude. Hmm, on second thought, the German personification was way icier than the summer night. Maybe, before the war ended, Italy could get him to open up! 

Maybe, just maybe ..

But anyways, Italy was getting distracted. He dragged his body back into the building with the lightning fast speed of a sleepy sloth. Each step made his legs feel as heavy as the lead pipes used during the Roman Empire. Ah, what he would do to have his country in such glory. The amount of influence the Roman Empire had and still has on how the world runs is so interesting!

.. Wow, he sounded like such an old geezer. Italy wasn't even alive during the Roman times, and yet he spoke of it like he personally knew Remus and Romulus. Speaking of Roman mythology, wasn't it basically ripped off from Greek mythology? He'd feel bad if he wasn't still annoyed at Greece for some of her wins against him during their battles. Italy had to ask Germany for help again.

Ah. Right. Germany. He had to sort out his thoughts on the interaction they just had. It was like he'd dangerously shoved everything into a file cabinet and now had to reorganize it. Well, just organize, not reorganize, because Germany would seethe if he'd heard Italy call stuffing things away arbitrarily as "organizing."

"<Organizing my ass,>" the German would probably say. "<You organize like a toddler on drugs.>" 

Italy mentally paused. On second thought, that'd be nice, because it would've meant that Germany actually listened to what he said and took the time to think of a response. What if he tried .. wait a minute. Wasn't he doing something?

While his thoughts strayed from the glory days of his capital back to Germany, as they always did, Italy slipped his way back into the room drenched in yellow. He fell back down to reality, blinking at the bright lights that, to be frank, weren't as blinding as he first made them out to be. The conference room was devoid of people, thank the stars, because god knows what someone would do if they saw Italy step inside with glazed eyes, like he'd been possessed. As if his reputation wasn't already on the floor, run over by his own L6/40 tanks. 

The warmth Italy felt as he stepped away from the playful wind reminded him of the unusual expression Germany had for a split second- a calm smile, vacant of the usual harshness he was used to. He didn't know if that was a good thing yet, because Italy had yet to unravel his thoughts and feelings on the whole ordeal. But he could tell that the lack of bitter cold felt nice.

After closing the balcony door with a little too much strength ("Did anyone hear that?!" he internally panicked), Italy closed the lights. An ominous blanket of silence draped itself over the pitch black room, which only glowed due to the moonlight shining in from the window. It made Italy feel a little bare- the moon always glowed, watching through the sliding glass doors. He didn't even notice how bright the moon could be until everything else was shrouded in darkness. 

"Hmm. Kind of like Germany," the poetic Italian mused. No wonder he enjoyed the night sky so much. Or was it the night sky that made him like Germany so much? Probably the former- he didn't start enjoying the stars until that German wormed his way into his heart. Well, it was more like Italy's heart embraced Germany on sight because he doubted he could get the German personification to so much as glance at him sometimes.

Italy left the room, the door closing behind him with a clack. 

-

The same dandelion yellow lights lit the halls and corridors, outshining the moonlight that was threatening to come in through the gaps between the curtains on the windows. 

Dandelion yellow? Or maybe they were more of a buttercup yellow. Truth be told, Italy hadn't seen that many flowers before, because he only saw flowers back when he went by a different name. Aside from, say, the occasional poppy or dandelion, the Italian didn't know that many flowers. But flowers were pretty, and maybe Germany would like it if he got him some? Red roses, perhaps? Or orange roses? Different colours meant different things, right?

Italy paused for a second, both internally and externally. His legs stopped the autopilot he was on as his face turned thoughtful.

"[Ah, it was sunflower yellow,]" the Italian said out loud, smacking his hand, which had balled into a fist, on the palm of his other hand. "Yes," Italy concluded. The lights reminded him of sunflower petals- or at least what he imaged them to look like: warm, like they'd basked in the sunlight for hours on end. He was satisfied with his comparison, before blanking out because he forgot what he was thinking about just a few moments before. It was something he wanted to do ..?

The personification retraced his brain's thought process, before remembering that he was thinking about getting flowers for his beloved. What flowers does he even know? Italy knew morning glories were for mourning (probably). White flowers did not match Germany, nor did black flowers. Are there even black flowers? Whatever. Pink seems too frilly ("No offense," Italy thought in the back of his mind, though he wasn't quite sure to who) and yellow seemed too .. bright(?).

The Italian snapped out of his flower-induced trance right before he was about to walk into someone. The poor guy looked as ruffled as his suit, which looked like he had to sprint up the stairs four times. Having interacted with a few high-ranking people, Italy guessed that that most likely did happen. It was a good thing Italy managed to instinctively dodge to the right, almost hitting the wall, before the frantic worker could run into him. 

After light apologies were exchanged, Italy completely forgot he was thinking about flowers and let his mind wander about other, equally as random things.

The carpets muffled Italy's footsteps, which he'd been counting since that second left turn. 

"53, 54 .. 60, 61 .. 72! It took 72 steps to get from that end to that end. 72 is a nice number; it can be divided by 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 8, 9, 12, 18, 24, 36, and 72. Did I miss any? Hmm. Hopefully not, or that'd be embarrassing. Wait wait wait, why am I doing math when I don't need to?"

And so, Italy tore his eyes away from whatever it was he was staring at and decided that it would probably be best to think about something actually important, like how he'd gotten news that Operation Barbarossa started. The Italian vaguely remembered the German personification talking about how they would commence the operation once France and Britain were fully taken care of, so it was odd that the country's forces would start invading now. Sure, things were going fine for the Axis members, but who knows what will happen in the future?

.. Maybe he just jinxed himself. Whoops?

Back to the topic. There was no way the meticulous, cunning Germany would just spontaneously decide to start the invasion, meaning it was probably someone else ..? The only other person Italy could think of was the chancellor of Germany, which, knowing him, actually made a lot of sense. And Germany himself couldn't really do much if his ruler started the operation already.

But enough about the German leader. Italy didn't want his mind to wander to how his own leader had ignored him for most of the day, making him feel like he was a dead man that served no purpose. 

Italy was useful. He could prove it-

The Italian's thoughts were cut off by the door smacking him in the face. Or, rather, him smacking the door with his face. He yelped, lightly rubbing his forehead with a gloved finger. A gloved finger?

Right. He wore gloves because Germany wore gloves, and he'd heard that people imitate the people they like. He forgot about that. Did Germany notice? Italy wondered ..

Anyway, it was a good thing the Italian didn't smack his head on that weird stain beneath the peephole. He had no idea what it was, but being a war veteran meant he could tell it reeked of death. Maybe not death, but it certainly wasn't just a bit of paint that left a stain. It was probably better than he didn't know what that mysterious stain was. 

Unlocking all those goddamn locks was a time-consuming nightmare, but Italy managed to push through and make it inside. Clicking all the locks back into place also took a considerable amount of time, though not nearly as much. 

He let his mismatched eyes scan over the guest room he had come to love (mostly because it meant that he was in Berlin, with Germany). Irritation flickered on Italy's face when he saw the pile of paperwork on his desk, but after a brief browse, he sighed in relief at the fact that none of the work was due too soon. He could do his favourite hobby: procrastinate! 

Italy rummaged through his suitcase, before finding a plain white tee and some bright purple shorts. Frayed hems and a hole in the armpit showed that these pajamas were constantly used. That hole in the armpit had such an embarrassing story, and Italy furrowed his eyebrows slightly just remembering it- he'd poked a hole, so he tried sewing it back together, but because of the fact that Italy had never, in his life, done any sort of handiwork, he somehow managed to make the hole bigger. He barely even did anything, and the hole expanded! Thankfully, the Italian stopped attempting any sort of sewing afterwards, allowing his clothes to breath a giant sigh of relief. He also stabbed himself with the needle too many times to count, but that was a secret. 

Throwing the clothes haphazardly onto the bathroom counter, Italy stripped and showered in piping hot water ("The only acceptable temperature!" he shouted to no one) before putting on the worn-out pajamas that really wanted to retire (he would never let them). The personification brushed his teeth with the similarly bright purple toothbrush before glancing up.

In the mirror, facing Italy, was himself, with his wet, messy hair that reached a little farther past his ears ("I really ought to cut my hair," he mused) and heterochromatic eyes. Italy had never even known the word "heterochromatic" existed until Germany said it one day, and anything Germany said was immediately placed in the "you will not forget this" file in his brain. Not a lot of things could make it there- Italy would know, because he could barely remember the date half the time. 

Germany also had mismatched eyes, but not because they were heterochromatic. Ah, maybe he shouldn't think about that ..

Italy shook his head, leaving the bathroom and letting his thoughts stay behind. After a light clean (as long as he could move around the room, it was fine), the personification bounced onto the bed, splaying his arms like a starfish. The soft yet crusty bedsheets were eagerly welcomed around the Italian's long limbs, despite how different the texture was to his blankets back home. He'd never be quite used to the square German pillows, and he constantly wondered how people could go more than a few nights on it because his back could only take so much. Wow, that was the second time Italy sounded like an old man in less than 24 hours. 

The Italian stared at the drab ceiling that could be crashing onto him, and he wouldn't so much as flinch. He was too focused on reliving the memories that just happened earlier that day.

"[How is my country so far?]" Germany had asked. It was an odd question that Italy had rarely been asked, especially by his aloof ally, and he internally hoped that he didn't sound as confused as he was when answering. Wait, what was his answer again? The personification strained to remember.

He glanced over to the adorably nervous German, before talking about how much more visible the sky was. Right ..

Wait, he did what now?! 

Italy buried his face into his square pillow, smacking the blankets with balled fists like he was throwing a tantrum after getting his stuffed animal taken away. Did he really panic and talk about the thing that was actually on his mind, even though he rarely got to talk to Germany in the first place and probably wasted valuable time?? Ugh, he was going to kill himself before the war did!

And Germany, that sweet, charming representation, had went along with it! Italy felt like the world took pity on him and let him get away with his stupidly random antics. Usually, the German would scowl- something he regularly did- but the man seemed to have a heart of gold today (not that he didn't have a heart of gold every other day), because he didn't give Italy the gaze of scorn that steadily whittled at his self-confidence. It was an odd but lovely change that made the easy-to-please Italian blush and hope the change would stay for good. 

At a certain memory ("[I do. It's wonderful watching those celestial bodies in the sky with you,]" Italy commented, turning to meet Germany's stare with a slight smile), Italy giggled like a maniac, or maybe a schoolgirl. A manic schoolgirl? Yeah. He giggled like a manic schoolgirl. It was so stupidly adorable- the way Germany stared, with wide eyes and the confused part of his lips; the way he immediately turned away, straining to hide his emotions. He wondered what it would be like to feel those lips on his-

Italy pulled the covers over his mouth in a feeble attempt to muffle his giddy laughter. The Italian hoped, or perhaps he deluded himself into believing that the emotions that threatened to spill onto Germany's face were feelings of flustered embarrassment. If he pretended that they were, then they were. 

And that apology! That awkward, definitely-scripted apology that Italy barely remembered most of! In all honesty, the Italian completely forgot about their interaction (that was a lie; he'd obsessed over his appearance by convincing himself that that was the reason why Germany acted like that as tears welled in his eyes), but hearing him apologize so sincerely was the best thing he could ever dream of. The fact that the German had probably searched for Italy, planned an apology and hell, even talked to the other in the first place made Italy happier than any ecstasy could dream of making him. 

His hysteric giggles faded, the pink tinge on his face deepened into the colour of poppies as he remembered what happened afterwards. Italy smooshed his face into the pillow harder, as if that would do anything. 

"[You're the only person I can trust,]" the German had said, in that smooth, low voice that sent shivers down his spine and all the way to his core. "You," he had said. "The only person."

A sloppy, lovesick smile appeared on Italy's face, though it was hidden by the blankets and the pillows. "[I'm the only one he can trust,]" the Italian muttered out loud, hugging the bedsheets close. "[I'm,]" he repeated, not bothering to focus on anything other than Germany, Germany, Germany. "[.. the only one ..]" he continued, remembering the German's almost soft features that he was imagining. "[.. he can trust,]" Italy finished, face now beet red. 

He let the words sink into his heart, his soul, his every fiber of being, before squealing like, well, a manic schoolgirl. He thought about the way Germany's face had calmed, and the corners of his lips were tugging upwards as if a smile was inevitable with a few more seconds. A relaxed, almost exasperated look had flashed across Germany's face for barely a few seconds, and yet, something stirred in Italy. 

Maybe it was the fact that Italy had never seen Germany that serene and untense around him. Maybe it was the way that his piercing eyes dulled, if only for a moment, or how his cheek squished as he leaned it onto his fist. Maybe it was the way the cool summer wind wafted through Germany's hair, twisting it here and there, to and fro, like a paid actor made to make him look even more handsome than usual. Maybe it was the way his right eye, the bad one, had reflected the shimmering moon in a way that allowed for Italy to only see the silver ball of not-so-cold light twinkling in his cornea, rather than the other thing in his cornea. Maybe it was the way the world slowed, letting him drink the view hungrily like a starved lamb. Maybe it was the way Italy could feel his breath hitch, or the way Germany's breath slowed to a lull similar to the gentle lapping of waves on the beaches in Sicily. 

Italy couldn't help letting out a breathy sigh. 

Pure, unadulterated adoration swelled like a tumor in his heart, blocking vital bloodstreams and stealing resources greedily. Not that the Italian cared. He would let his dear Germany pick him apart from the inside if he so much as asked, because that kind of expression, the one he'd made today, was enough sustenance to last a lifetime. Oh, how he wanted to see such a face on the stiff man for so long. Italy had dreamed of a day where something like this would happen, and he was absolutely brimming with joy that occasionally spilled out in flustered giggles. 

He wished he could relive that moment again, and again, and again. It was wonderful and beautiful, like the rising sun in a world full of dreary darkness. It burned everything else, leaving nothing but a scorched wasteland, and Italy wanted nothing more than to let himself get roasted alive. Germany had him wrapped around his finger, and he didn't want it in any other way. 

-

Italy's tired eyes glanced out the window, towards the actual rising sun. Crap. He'd replayed the memories over and over, and appeared to have lost track of time. With one final glance at the brightening room, the Italian gripped his blanket tighter and smiled his actual, genuine smile. Thoughts of Germany swarmed his mind as he finally drifted off to sleep. 

"[My sweet Germany,]" he muttered, barely audible as the birds outside started chirping. Germany, Germany, Germany. That was all there really was in life. 

Chapter Text

"Your rule of thumb makes me worrisome .."

-

Canada 

She said it once (ten times, actually) and she would say it again: this meeting was tiring as hell. The grand, historical palace was a fitting place for a meeting of this caliber: gold swirling across the walls in intricate patterns, chandeliers glimmering overhead, royal red carpets padding their footsteps, and the rooms reeking of an air of nobility. The fancy chairs were carved with care- even an amateur with no skill in woodworking could tell- and the table they were currently using had quite the ornate, if not obsolete design of vague, round shapes, similar to the motifs on the walls. In other words, the palace was way too precise and meticulous for a rough, hardened war veteran like Canada. 

She shifted uncomfortably in the chair that was too soft to her liking. The ceiling was too high. The lights were too bright. After all that time in those disgusting trenches, everything felt too clean. Not that she wanted to be back there; no way in hell. It just felt too neat for people like her, who have seen and became (for a bit, if not for a lifetime) the most inhumane thing a "human" could be. The almost pressuring company of thirteen other nations nearby did not make things any better. 

Canada could recognize .. probably all of them. The easiest one to spot was, of course, the United Kingdom: the representative of the land they were standing upon. His cocky smile that always made him appear annoyed (which he most likely was) was plastered on his face, and his green military uniform fit snugly around him. The former empire was the host of this meeting, which, while for a good cause, still made Canada a little irritated since she had to enter a room too grand for her feeble presence. There was also France, or rather, the Free French National Committee, he now called himself. Since they were related, the Canadian could feel a bit more sympathy for the occupied nation, whose blue (blue? Seriously?) military uniform was considerably more worn and dirtied than the one she was wearing at the moment. The twins, Australia and New Zealand, seemed to be doing fine, which was good, because she hadn't seen them since they were still living together under the British Empire's regime. They looked pretty good in their uniforms, which were yellowish-green, though she was anxious about them having to experience the horrors of war again. Her older sister instincts were kicking in. South Africa, the youngest of the siblings, seemed to be doing well too, if not a bit paranoid of the countries around her. It was fair, considering how eccentric personified nations could be.

Across the table, towards the right, were the nations of Luxembourg, Holland, Belgium and Norway. Canada didn't know much about them, besides the fact that they were European countries occupied by the German invaders. Luxembourg, the shortest of the four, seemed to be talking nonsensically towards Holland, the second shortest of the four. The poor guy looked so confused at the small country's ramblings on what sounded like the difference between pink roses and red roses ("You see, red roses symbolize deep, romantic, passionate love, while pink roses embody a more innocent, friendly affection ..," he said, with as much passion as red roses, apparently). Belgium seemed tired, which Canada deeply related too, because the second-tallest-but-actually-still-quite-short country gave the same sigh she did when dealing with, say, her siblings. Norway, the tallest of the four and the only one that could be considered tall, seemed tired as well, but in a bored way, rather than an I'm so done with this way like Belgium. While he, too, was in his military uniform like the rest of the thirteen countries, he wore a comfortable, red toque on his head, which was a bit weird since it was June. But then again, Canada wore shorts in the winter, so she really couldn't be judging other "people's" fashion choices. 

On her left were the personifications of Greece, Yugoslavia, Poland and Czechoslovakia, which she knew even less about. Canada knew about some Greek myths ..?? Yugoslavia was in the Balkans, right? Poland had a lot of Zs in his language, and Czechoslovakia was Czechia and Slovakia, yes? Surely she couldn't be wrong about that last one. Their somewhat aloof expressions didn't make it very easy for Canada to just go up and ask, though she probably wouldn't do so even if they did look more approachable. Greece had long hair that probably got tangled very often, Canada thought through personal experience, and Poland had short hair that was probably easy to maintain, she thought, also through personal experience. Yugoslavia's stormy eyes made Canada regret meeting her gaze, and the Canadian made a mental note to not mess with her in the future, or ever. The tap-tap-tapping coming from Czechoslovakia's fidgety fingers drew Canada's curious eyes, but the second she stared for too long, the rhythmic noise stopped and it was obvious that she'd been spotted. He didn't look mad though, so it was probably fine.

By now, it had been over thirty minutes since the meeting started. Canada took her time analyzing her surroundings for so long, and yet somehow, there was nothing she needed to catch up on because nothing had started. The reason was, of course, because of an argument between France and the UK. Did they ever not fight? She didn't bother tuning into the conversation- to hell with whatever it was they were arguing about this time- but it was evident that the not-so-civil discussion could and would turn into a screaming match. Canada's ears were already bad enough from all the bombing they've endured in the trenches, and the old yet childish countries often held grudges afterwards. She really didn't want to, but it didn't seem like she had much of a choice. A Stormtrooper like her, having to play peacemaker. How ironic indeed. 

Right before the tones of their voices escalated, Canada slammed her hands down on the wooden table ("Sorry," she said internally), immediately cutting off their heated conversation and bringing all the unnerving attention towards her. A lot of countries flinched at the startling noise ("Sorry as well," she said, also internally) as they stared almost eerily. 

"Don't we have more pressing matters to discuss at this meeting, rather than worthless arguments about nothing in particular?" Canada asked the two previously-arguing countries, raising her head and tilting it ever so slightly. She'd tried to keep the passive-aggressiveness to herself, but it slipped out anyways. She was never too good at hiding her true feelings. 

The UK let out a large breath, smoothing his hair before placing his hat back on. His eyes were weary, mostly likely because of the constant bombings in his capital. "Yes, you're quite right, Canada. Apologies for wasting precious time. We should start the meeting now." 

France grumbled a bit, but sat back down, silently agreeing with the UK despite their recent disagreement. He was smart enough to know how important this meeting was in affirming the goals of the Allies and helping liberate his country, which was very close to becoming fully occupied. At least, for now. The future was a funny thing in that nobody knew what it held until it shoved it right in your face, with no way for you to react. Canada could only hope that the French personification could handle the whims of the Fates. They weren't known for being nice. 

-

"We are gathered here today, at St. James's Palace, to discuss and create goals and principles that we all agree on regarding the war. I understand that we all have the common interest of going against the Third Reich, but we must elaborate on what exactly that means," the UK started, leading the bulk of the conversation. "Any ideas?" he tentatively asked, scanning the table for willing volunteers. 

Everyone, Canada included, gazed away awkwardly, scratching the back of their heads. She glanced at her siblings, who had shrunken into their seats and shook their heads at her. Holland was nudging Belgium, but she was shaking her head so much, it might as well have twisted off. France and the UK were having a staring contest, for reasons that probably didn't relate to the meeting. Greece fiddled with her fingers aimlessly. A long silence dragged out, until, thankfully, Belgium raised her hand. "We could .. make resolutions, perhaps? Resolutions that we will all follow throughout and after the war?" she said with reluctance.

Luxembourg piped in, not bothering to raise his hand. It was kind of incredible how laid-back he seemed, despite his country being occupied by a foreign power. "Yeah, like promises we'll all keep or something!" he mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

After a beat, everyone started murmured in hushed agreement. Poland and Czechoslovakia muttered something incomprehensible between each other, probably in one of their languages, while the UK nodded approvingly towards the Belgian personification. "Then, if everyone is in favour, we shall create resolutions that we will all follow, pertaining to the common goal of bringing justice and victory. If I may be inclined to ask, what kind of resolutions did you have in mind, Belgium?"

And just like that, all thirteen other pairs of eyes pierced the relatively small country. Canada looked away, not wanting to pressure her in such a mean way, but the others didn't follow suit. Either they didn't realize how very obviously uncomfortable Belgium was, or they didn't care. Canada mentally scowled. Did they have no social awareness? It seemed like all personified nations, no matter how significant, insignificant, large, small, powerful or weak, were all unnecessarily rude to others. She understood that, after all that time being alive and being a country, it was easy to forget .. everything else. But it was also really easy to not be a jerk. 

Belgium stammered for a bit, and Canada truly considered helping, but she didn't know how. They were countries, for heaven's sake; they wouldn't want to listen to some random "person" talk about how mean it was to peer-pressure someone. The pride they had in themselves was immense, and Canada herself was not exempt from this fact. She wanted to do something, but there wasn't much she could do in her position. Suggest a resolution idea? She didn't have one. Yell at everyone? She represented her country; she couldn't just do that! What to do, what to do ..

"I have an idea," said a voice, strangling the attention away from Belgium. Upon closer inspection, Canada realized that the voice belonged to Holland- the second shortest (on second thought, maybe she should stop referring to them by their relative heights to each other). He impressively stood his ground against the stares of everyone, prompting Canada's eyebrows to raise.

"The first resolution could be the promise that we'll all keep fighting until victory is won, and that we'll all help each other out to the utmost of our respective capacities. That seems like a fair thing to promise, right?"

A pause. Everyone's eyes darted around, each conveying the same message: that could work. Finally, France nodded, leading the conversation. "That sounds like a wonderful idea, Holland. Shall I write it down?" he asked, already starting to write it down. Canada, meanwhile, was not-so-discreetly staring at Holland with interest and curiosity. The nation was now casually talking to Belgium again, softly chuckling at whatever vaguely French comment she'd said. 

Canada .. suddenly had profound respect for the Dutch country. She'd never say that out loud, of course, but in the back of her mind, she was clapping at the calm, collected power he showed when moving the attention away from Belgium. A hint of envy and guilt sprung from the most twisted part of herself, warped by the shell-shocked soldiers she'd seen and the deafening explosions of the grenades she'd thrown. The feelings were instantly pushed away, though they lingered for a second too long to be ignored.

"Oh!" Poland chimed, raising his hand. "The second resolution could be that no one is allowed peace or prosperity until the peoples of our nations are free and not under threat by those damn basta- ahem, those Germans and Italians," he quickly fixed, trying to sound professional. Canada had heard enough stories to know that Poland was rightfully angry at the Axis powers, so she didn't dare say anything about staying polite. Though she really couldn't be talking, because she was not polite during war, either. 

The UK started talking, and even before a single word came out of his mouth, Canada got a bad feeling that he was about to go on another one of his long-winded, surprisingly well thought out rants. She was right, of course. If living with him for most of her childhood and taught her anything, it was that the complaints were long and that there was nothing anyone could do about it. 

"Yes, that's a good idea, Poland! If our people can't have peace, then I don't think those bloody Germans should get the prosperity they don't deserve! The Huns will regret every even thinking about messing with us every again, dammit! The stupid Third Reich, with a knife behind his back and a swastika in his eye, spreading his influence all across Europe!! I'll kill him with my own two hands if I have to!"

Canada tuned out the rest of the rant, instead focusing on the part about a swastika in his eye. The UK did a lot of things, but one thing he didn't do was idioms, which meant that .. it was literally in his eye. She'd never met the Third Reich before (thank goodness, because she didn't think she could keep herself calm and professional), so she didn't know what he looked like, but .. in his eye? Really?! He must've been insanely loyal and dedicated towards his country's fascist cause; those damn Heinies. Her already-sour opinion of the country downgraded even more, if that was possible. 

After France, the only person who could stop the UK and get away relatively unscathed, had managed to convince the British "man" to calm down, he easily grabbed everyone's attention by clapping his hands together harshly. The tall ceilings echoed the noise back as the countries quieted. France had a rare, serious expression on his face. 

"The third resolution," he started, "is this: the enduring peace afterwards will be kept with the willing cooperation of all the free peoples, of us, working together for economic and social security. In other words, in signing this Declaration, you all agree that we will work together to restore a peaceful Europe once the trash is taken out." He said 'trash' with such contempt and scorn that would ordinarily be too uncouth for the representative of a country. Even Canada was a bit shocked at the tone. 

"Understand?" France finished, writing it down and showing everyone. His eyebrows were furrowed in focus, before he placed the paper down in a slam.

"I, of all countries, will not back down in the blatant disrespect of my pride as a representation. The Third Reich and his allies will not go unpunished. We must work together to fight against the oppressor, stand in the face of the enemy, and deliver justice where justice is due." He slid the paper forward, rolling a pen down as well.

"If you feel the same sentiment, which I suspect most, if not all of you do, then sign the Declaration, and let us defeat the demon terrorizing our continent." 

-

"Phew, that was a tiring meeting. I didn't think France could get serious, but here we are," the UK commented snidely. Canada, who was walking on the carpeted floors beside him, suppressed a small chuckle. "Yes, I suppose he doesn't get that serious very often, hmm?" 

Most of the other countries had trickled out of the large yet stuffy meeting room already. The Commonwealth- Canada, New Zealand, Australia, and South Africa- were trailing behind the former empire, discussing lighthearted topics to forget about the sound of bombs they could hear from close by. Outside the window, the sky was littered with planes veering by, dropping explosives and immediately retreating.

Suddenly, the UK stopped right in his tracks. "Ah, of course!" he said, smacking the palm of his hand with a fist. "I should send a note to that guy about today's meeting!" 

Canada eyed the UK with confusion and slight concern. Who was "that guy?" She knew he most likely wouldn't outright tell her, especially if the identity was supposed to be a secret, so she merely shrugged, tapping his shoulder lightly. 

"Is 'that guy' trustworthy enough for you tell him?"

It should've been an easy question to answer. Just "yes, obviously," and Canada would probably believe him. He would wave her off, as if it was stupid to even question the credibility of whoever he was talking about, and they would continue like nothing had happened. But instead, the UK's face contorted into a hesitant grimace of sorts, and his head tilted from one side to the other, as if weighing his opinions and thoughts. It was, in other words, very suspicious. He glanced off to the side, holding his hands up like he was about to shrug as he answered Canada's question with the most unreliable answer she had ever heard.

"Maybe??"