I should really have proofread this, but it's late, I'm tired, and I wanted to get this posted quickly before I went to bed...

They'd brought their lunch over to the river, spread out a blanket, and eaten on the bank. It had been Italy's idea of course; Germany would never propose such a thing, although he secretly enjoyed those times they got to spend alone. It was now nearing late afternoon, and they were lying back on the picnic blanket, listening to the water rush by, when Italy said something very strange.

Germany coughed, certain that he had misheard. "Ah - could you say that again?"

Italy turned his head and regarded him with a quizzical look. "I said, the sky's so pretty, and one day, we're going to build a balloon and go up in the clouds and live in sky palaces and get married and be kings of the whole wide world!"

Germany let his breath out in a rush. So he hadn't misheard. But... why in the world...

"Get married?" he repeated, trying to keep his voice under control. "What do you mean by that?"

Italy gave a little shrug, the motion of his shoulders causing the blanket to rustle. "What I said. We'll get married in a big church with stained glass windows and echoes in every corner, and afterwards there will be cake and celebration and dancing all night long!"

Germany struggled to come up with something to say. Him - Italy - the two of them and the beautiful wedding Italy had laid out, he couldn't even imagine anything of the sort. Finally he settled on, "Why?"

Italy's face looked honestly puzzled. "Because I really like you, Germany, and if we got married I could sleep in your bed and make you pasta and hug you and kiss you and never leave you, ever. That's what weddings are for, right?"

You already do all those things, Germany wanted to say, but instead he chose to answer Italy's albeit rhetorical question. "Yes, but not like that. Weddings are supposed to be for love -"

"Well then that won't be a problem!" declared Italy, the happy smile plastered over his face. "Because I love you, so we're all set!"

Germany's breath caught in his throat. Did Italy even know what he was saying with those words? It wasn't the first time Germany had heard them, and he was quite sure by now that Italy didn't know the full extent of those three words. Italy, the flirt, the lover, did not know that "I love you" was more than just a declaration of friendship, that it was a pledge and a trust, a bond between two people that went far beyond mere platonic affection.

Since when had he become such a romantic? Probably Italy's influence, really.

But how was he supposed to tell Italy this - the difference between his idea of love and the reality?

"It's just - Italy, people don't get married for... that kind of love."

Italy sat up, plucked a piece of grass, and began twirling it between his fingers. "What do you mean? I love you, right? I think you're so nice even if you don't always show it, and you're so strong and even if your food is terrible, you always let me feed you mine. You're really warm to sleep next to and you're so adorable when your face turns all red and you have really nice muscles, and if I can say all that, I must love you, right?"

Germany's face felt far too warm. What was he supposed to say to this? And if what Italy said - what Italy felt - if that was love, then what of his own feelings? What of the rush of protectiveness and fondness he sometimes felt for him, the way that smile could light up his entire day, the way he felt somehow reassured when Italy snuggled up close to him in his bed - well, Italy would definitely have said that was love. Germany wasn't so sure.

"Right?" Italy was still waiting for an answer.

Germany, who could see no way of this, finally mumbled, "I suppose so... But we're not going to get married."

Italy looked slightly hurt now. "Why ever not?"

Germany sighed. "We're both male."

"So?" Italy shrugged. "I told you, my first love was male."

And Germany had much rather he hadn't mentioned that, because it immediately made him feel all the more awkward. Because if Italy was capable of those feelings, then the feelings he'd mentioned might just be... No, ridiculous. Italy just didn't know the difference between romantic and platonic love, that was all. "All the same, people don't just get married - because they just like each other and think it would be nice -"

Italy nodded. "Of course! They get married because of love!"

"And... do you know what that is?". Germany could not believe he was having this conversation.

"Of course!" Italy grinned widely and looked up at the sky. "Love, you know, flowers and moonlight and fountains and plazas and kisses and knowing you want to be with someone for always and always and ever and ever!"

"Ah, hold on -" Germany began, but Italy couldn't be stopped.

"You know, the power of love, as old as the oldest storytellers. It makes your heart beat faster and your world spin and their eyes and face and voice stay in your head and your entire life revolve around the person you love, like you wouldn't be anything without them, and - Germany, what's wrong? Your face is all red!"

What was Italy saying? Those words coming out of his mouth, the way he described this, this love - Germany found himself comparing them to his own experiences, his own reactions around Italy - and coming up with endless matches. But it couldn't be...

"It's nothing," he managed.

Italy sighed happily and lay back down. "Right, so as I was saying... We're going to get married in a sky palace, up in the clouds, won't we?"

Germany didn't answer.

"Won't we?"

Oh God... Italy was asking him. Asking him. As if -

"Sky palaces don't exist," he replied lamely.

Italy shrugged. "Metaphor and all that. But really, you didn't answer."

"I - I -". God, why was this so hard for him to say? It was just a simple question, one of Italy's strange whims, it wasn't like Italy was actually asking him - "I suppose, yes."

Italy took Germany's hand, gave it a little squeeze, and sighed happily again. "Good. I love you, you know, right?"

"I -" Germany floundered for a moment, entirely too distracted by the feeling of his fingers intertwined with Italy's, and by the casual and offhand way Italy said those three words. Finally he mumbled, "...love you too."

"Yay!" Italy turned and kissed him on the cheek, sending warmth rippling through his body - really, he ought to be used to it by now - and stared up at the sky with yet another contented exhale. "In a beautiful church... cake and celebration all night long..."

And as they lay staring up at the sunset, Germany could picture it too.

Was that a love confession? I'm still not too sure...