Countryhumans Oneshots :D

Third Reich x Fascist Italy

[A/N: I need a 'am I a sucky human being and slow-*ss writer' theme song, so if you have any in mind just let me know ;-; This was a request by Rwarwarwara in fckING APRIL I AM SO SORRY I LOVE YOU FOR REQUESTING PLEASE DON'T HATE MY GUTS I HOPE IT WAS WORTH THE WAIT BUT PROBABLY NOT. Anyways, I don't have too much to say aside from the warnings below, so I'll let y'all read. Sorry again ;~; 

IMPORTANT: This chapter includes mentions of WWII participants (mentioned in the title). Their characterisations are not befitting of their actions, but I wanted to write someone a nice fic so sue me. I do not, in any way, endorse these country's actions and beliefs: this is a work of fiction not a political statement. Don't like? Don't read. <33] 

~Third Person POV~

Italy perches on the edge of the Eiffel Tower's highest floor, cold metal seeping through his summer uniform slacks. He leans back onto the palms of his hands, kicking his booted feet over the ledge as if the height is nothing. The Paris sky stretches overhead, coloured a cloudless azure perfect for an early-summer day, and a little to the left of Italy's gaze a burnt-gold sun skims over stacked rooftops, preparing to sink beneath the horizon within the hour.

It's peaceful almost to the point of irony ... it's pretty and calm and relaxing, and Paris has always been beautiful but it's as if the city is glowing particularly bright this evening. Italy sighs, content, exhausted, and he rolls his neck as he sits, trying to loosen the tense muscles. He doesn't remember ever being this sore in his life. Then again, he's barely past his first decade, and all the memories he's inherited from his ancestors are blurry somehow — seemingly corrupted for no apparent reason.

But that doesn't matter: he's doing just fine on his own. Well, Italy amends, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully, if 'on my own' includes Reich. The country quirks a small smile, shielding his eyes against the glare of the setting summer sun. He's particularly proud of that alliance, and even after his most recent victory, he can't quite believe the two of them are together. How many people manage to convince such a powerful country, the idol of their (admittedly short) life to combine forces with them? It's unbelievable.

Oh, and the things they can accomplish together! A particularly cool breeze twists its fingers through Italy's copper-brown strands of hair, and he leans into the refreshing caress as he daydreams of their accomplishments. All the peace he and Reich can bring to their people, the continent, the globe. And Reich's plans have already been set into motion, are already on their way to completion. He's helped Italy rescue oppressed Italians from France's grasp and they can do so much more good, they can become the axis upon which the world turns, and they can make things better.

Better than the war-ravaged economies they were born into, the countries torn into shreds by politics and reparations and ... Italy is fixating. Reich warned him against that, said it wasn't good for such a young country to be obsessed with such sad things. No: the two of them have glorious futures to look forward to, and that's what matters.

Italy sighs, suddenly exhausted, and he lowers his weight onto his elbows before laying down on the metal latticework of the Eiffel Tower. He needs to sleep, relax a bit. Reich said that war would be taxing, that it takes lives and resources and people. And even though his ally took the brunt of the damage ... Italy feels burnt out, a bit worn through. It's a foreign feeling, as if he's an old manuscript from his Renaissance period. That time he does remember, if only hazily. All the trade and the knowledge and the art, the colours that swirled around his soul and seeped through the world in a brilliant rebirth. He wants that again, and, God willing, that's what he and Reich will accomplish.

A sort of satisfied glow warms the country's core at the thought, smoothing away the anxious thoughts from before. He relaxes, pulling his legs up from the ledge of the tower and curling on his side as his mind drifts blankly from topic to topic. It's soothing: the view, the breeze, the silence that accompanies being suspended so high over the rest of the world, and Italy slips in and out of micro-naps as he lays there. The sun sinks lower and lower over the Parisian skyline, burnt gold haze deepening to a sienna tint that bathes the apartments and cafes in warm shades. Minutes drip by like espressos being poured in the early hours of the morning, and the metal of the Eiffel tower leeches heat from the young country, his summer uniform doing little against the cold.