I always wanted to do an alternate, ignorant POV to what was going on with Ludwig in 'Ruler of the House', and Italy fit the bid. Initially I intended for this to be a multi-chaptered, slow build, fleshed out story. I didn't expect it to roll so easily off the keyboard in such a choppy, vague, poetic fashion. But I sort of like it. I do want to do the full fic another time, but that's only if I've completed the rest of my projects. Read 'Ruler of the House' to get a good idea of the goings on behind the scenes and out of Feliciano's eyesight.
Enjoy!

What happened, Germany?

Where did you go?

Why did you get even quieter than usual, always look busy when you weren't even moving?

Why did you start staring off into space, deaf to the world? It's so unlike you.

Why are you getting thinner, Germany? You really ought to eat.

You aren't really listening to me anymore, or looking at me much.

It makes me feel lonely, but you look even worse.

You don't really respond anymore, Germany, if I'm talking to you or touching. You aren't getting all muddled or flustered anymore, not like you used to.

You've got an anxious, burdened look in your eye, worse than before. I know you always worry about things but it seems to be getting worse.

You never used to talk a lot, but now it's even less. And when you do it sounds sort of meek, or very fast.

You never really shout at me either, Germany, even though I kind of don't like it. But I kind of miss it because that's what you used to do when you were ok.

But I don't think you're ok anymore.

We started to see each other less and less, and anything we did do you seemed plagued. Your eyes were dark from lack of sleep and you were looking even thinner.

Why do you limp around the house now, Germany? You always used to stride.

And that time you specially cooked for us, Prussia and Romano and me, it was so special.

But why did you flinch, Germany, when Fratello got angry you served potatoes and smacked it off the table?

Why did you clean up without even a word, even when I was crying and trying to calm down my brother? You never used to ignore us like this.

After that I hardly ever saw you.

I felt so lonely.

Romano said good riddance, but I think he was secretly worried too.

Anytime I ran over to see you, the curtains would move but no one would open the door.

A few times I heard crashes or worrisome noises inside.

I hit the door and yelled, and when you finally answered you told me to go away.

The door was barely open when you told me, and your hand looked like it was shaking.

Why didn't you still not look at me, Germany?

I didn't care that you looked ill, or stressed. I wanted to help.

We're friends, Germany. I've got to help you in a pinch. It's what friends do.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

Sometimes the door was open, and I wandered inside.

I found you sitting on your favourite armchair by the fire with a tankard of beer and some weird looking documents, with your boots on the coffee table.

You scolded Prussia for 20 minutes the last time he did that.

Your face was different. It was relaxed, you were smirking, your eyes half-lidded.

The way you spoke to me was different.

Your eyes were different.

You asked me how I was, and I said I was ok. I asked you the same.

You just stared.

I got uncomfortable but I didn't want to leave you alone.

Eventually you asked me to shut the door and sit down.

I did.

We talked for ages.

It wasn't like before. You kept interrupting me when I spoke, kept looked at me hard.

I stuttered when you were like this.

I heard a small thump upstairs, and felt scared. I asked you what it was.

You said it was 'your bitch'.

I said I thought all your dogs were male.

You just smiled secretively.

I got up to go to the bathroom, you asked where I was going, I told you, then you told me I had to leave.

You stood up and held me by the arms really tightly, it really hurt! I thought I was going to cry!

You just smiled horribly at me! It was like you wanted me to! You even squeezed tighter!

Normally I would have cried if you hurt me.

Normally it would have been an accident.

You'd say sorry and we'd hug and I'd be allowed to make pasta to cheer me up.

But I was just too scared to dare to cry in front of you those times, Germany.

I cried when I got home, I told Fratello all about it.

He listened, but he didn't have an outburst. He looked furious, but he looked scared too, and worried.

I was too scared to come over for a long time, and our bosses kept disagreeing when I should come over.

Finally I was allowed and when I did, you were back to your old different self.

You looked ill and you moved slowly.

But when you saw me you did the strangest thing.

You cried.

You hobbled over and ushered me hurriedly inside, then grabbed me and hugged me tightly and didn't on purpose hurt me this time.

The squeezing hurt my arms, and you looked surprised when I told you, asking what happened to them.

I didn't like that game, so I didn't answer.

We talked, but the conversation was clipped, lost. It was like we didn't know each other.

It was like you didn't even know yourself.

After a while I started to cry and confessed how worried I was, but you just sighed. You clasped my hands and kissed my forehead, and I cried a little more. You glanced at the clock, then back at me, looking like your breathing had gotten a little hard.

But you stayed calm.

A shaky hand came up to wipe sweat on your brow, even though it wasn't hot. You said it was late and I ought to go.

We hugged again, really tightly, and I ignored the pain because my heart was aching. I didn't know what was wrong or how to help you.

You said I had to promise to be brave, that you were going to be fine.

I promised.

That night you turned up at my house in that mysterious black uniform.

You overpowered me easily, roughly, cruelly.

You…

You were laughing, uproariously. Sniggering. Teasing.

Hurting me.

It was awful. It was so painful.

You got really mad, absolutely furious, too. You went wild and hit me, said horrible things.

You brought a duffel bag of vicious instruments and promised you'd use them.

You sat on me and told me no one would hear a thing when I screamed.

But Fratello did. He burst in and punched you in the face, even though he looked terrified. He'd even brought a hammer.

You looked angry and hit him back, then got off of me and snatched up the hammer, stalking over to where Romano was on the floor.

I screamed for you to leave him alone.

You hit him a few times without the hammer, then came back to me and dropped it on the floor.

You broke your promise and didn't use the nasty looking tools in the end. You said I might die if you did.

Eventually you left, you had blood all over you but it wasn't yours.

The next day was the day I was so scared of you I left the Axis Powers.

The Allies pressed in and finally the war was over.

I wondered whether you were relieved, I wondered whether you were upset, or angry.

I didn't know if leaving you was the right thing to do, but I had been so scared.

I didn't know who you were anymore. Or how many strangers you have split into.

It hurt to see you had no money, you had nothing.

You were still starved, weak and distant, and you were alone again.

It broke my heart.

I cried and prayed for you every day, pleaded with any listening power to give you peace, or guidance.

I knew you were mad with me, I knew it before I saw you. I would have been mad too.

And I wanted you to be mad, I deserved it. I was a coward.

I could feel there was a burning urge in your eyes, you wanted to hurt me. I was scared, but I knew that already.

The first time we saw each other after the war had been just as hard.

There was sobbing, fierce hugs, barely believing tender moments I never thought you were capable.

Not in a bad way. Not in a weird way like on Valentines.

You, for the first time, looked fragile to me. It upset me.

But this time you met my gaze evenly, openly. You let me look, and you looked at me.

You reacted to my touch for the first time in years.

It was a reaction of warmth. I touched you face and smiled through my messy tears.

Your eyes slipped shut, creases easing a little between your eyebrows, lips curling up a little.

You face looked the lightest it had in years, and I was so overjoyed I cried more.

But for once, I didn't raise my voice or try to talk about silly things. Our voices remained hushed and soft as we exchanged simply sentences. Prayers. How we had missed each other. Little bits of wit we couldn't help but fall from our weary tongues.

We held each other and we smelt of fresh salt, like the smell just after it had rained.

For the first time in years, it felt like the grime that was building up inside me could be lifted a little. There was nothing but cotton and foam now, not the consistant feeling of my innards going through a grinder.

I savoured your soft breath that tickled at my hair, the warmth in your skin as you were recovering. Skin that portrayed the outlines of scars healing, but always there beneath the surface.

I was happy.

To see you like this.

To see you.

I loved you.

I could see a ghost of the man I used to know starting to reappear.

A man who indulged me in letting me hold his hand, touch his skin, follow him with my eyes.

Italia and Germania were together once more, a light union that I had been missing so very bad.

So when I blinked my eyes and returned to the present, seeing you standing straight and expressionless in front of me in our first meeting since the war, it hurt all the more.

Innards through a grinder.

The fantasy drained away, all the white and light and warmth filtering back into the cold winter bleeding into spring.

It was me and you, not together, but nearby. The distance between us was a few feet, but it felt like miles.

Your eyes were full, so very full.

Of hate, of loneliness, of betrayal. Of sorrow.

But they were also hard, and very empty.

Staring at me like little glaciers, little spheres of impenetrable ice whose consistency was the same all the way through.

The pressure fills up to my throat, and I hate this.

I want to be back in the fantasy again, so I reach out to touch your face.

To tell you I love you, that I was always with you even when we were apart.

To not beg for your forgiveness, even though I am selfishly pining for it.

I want to touch you to be a brief point of contact, to communicate the unsay-able.

My regret. My hurtful, awful regret , and feeling guilty for ever considering it truly bad when next to yours it is minute in comparison.

A gesture a sob or running away or begging could not have communicated.

But you raised you large hand and slapped mine away before I could even make contact.

Your eyes were full of sharp disapproval, of 'no', then you looked away.

What happened to you Germany?

Where have you gone?

My eyes fluttered, then descending to the floor.

There were inescapable series of conversation, then you left.

You turned around, and walked away.

I was alone.

And you were alone again.

At first I was going to leave it as a happy ending, but a fic I read recently had a fresh take on Germany's attitude after Italy surrendered; that of assholishness. It was also more historically correct than a happy, forgiving-ness straight away, so it held more weight with me. I also had never tackled that as an ending to that situation yet, so I gave it a go. If you enjoyed it, review and tell me what you think!