Germany looks at the list in his hand, then to the bags on Italy's arm.

Nothing. Not one thing from his list is in those bags. But there are tomatoes.

"We're not even making anything with tomatoes, are we?"

"Huh? Oh. No, I'm making something different."

Oh.

"We haven't gotten anything on my list yet." It's been nearly an hour. Shopping. He's loathed to say anything to Italy who seems pleased simply to be out browsing the open stalls and molesting fruit.

Italy hums vacantly "Haven't we?"

"No."

"Hm, strange."

It's at this point that Germany realizes he's being put off. He looks at his list again. They need a store for beer and, seeing as how Italy has already picked a wine, perhaps he should cross that one off. Oh well. One down, at least.

They move up to another vendor. A dozen or more stalls, he hasn't once seen a potato. Perhaps he should cross that off as well.

He turns his face up to the sun. This, he will admit, is his favorite time of day; the sun at its full height, so much yet to be accomplished. The yellow is also his favorite. It's the type of light that brightens everything, warms to the fullest and leaves the haze of sleepiness. He looks over at Italy, who is his own kind of light, and he's put in mind of the warmth they could be sharing, of the naps he is oft reluctant to indulge in. Now he wants very much to sleep.

He fingers his list.

"Italy-"

But Italy is already turning towards him "Ve, Germany. Lets have lunch now and then a siesta!"

He fingers his list. Runs a mental tally of all the things he will put off accomplishing because of the man before him. He takes one of Italy's bags and one of his hands.

The list can wait.