Making It Better I

     The stench of decay clogs the air, a thick layer of dust coating the inside of my nose and mouth. My breath bleeds form my parched throat, creeping past my mud-stained teeth. Silent bodies lay sprawled about the rubble, searching the war-torn sky with their sightless eyes…

     "Germany?" A faint voice breaks my chaotic slumber, making me jolt upright. Heart racing, I take a quick inventory of my surroundings: TV, stereo system, Gilbert's ice cream-logged computer, I let out a relieved sigh. It's the 21st century, the 2000s to be exact. Italy is watching me from his perch on the coffee table, concern etched into his childlike face. Swinging my legs off the couch, I sit up, irritated to find that I'd forgotten to remove my shoes.
     "What is it, Italy?" I ask, putting a hand to my forehead to quell a nonexistent headache. I am surprised to find my cheeks wet, and quickly wipe away the embarrassing evidence.
     "Germany," the young-looking nation plops down next to me, seeming restless and distant. He hasn't touched me since that day, the day that robbed me of my best (and only) friend. Whenever I am reminded of my past stupidity, I find myself wanting to bash my head against a brick wall.
     "Yes?"
     "You were crying." He whispers almost conspiratorially, as if sharing a great secret.
     Hesitantly I rest a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I'm fine," I assure him (and myself), "it was only a dream."
     After a moment, he shrugs away my touch, leaving my arm to swing emptily down by my side. It's been awkward between us for almost seventy years now. Perhaps it's not an impressive span of time for us nations – France and England have been at each others' throats for centuries – but lately my existence has been just as lonely as ever. Italy, no, Feliciano never hugs me anymore, or begs for kisses, or chatters 'til my ears buzz, or mysteriously turns up in my bed. At first I thought that I was relieved, but as the years pass, I find that I have grown to miss his constant affection.
     Even now I ache for the old Italy who would've flung himself into my arms without a second thought. This new Italy is shy and acts uneasy when I'm around. I perfectly remember the day that I lost everything, yet I want so badly to forget.

     Tears spill down his cheeks as his brother drags him away. Italy, my Italy, looks so lost, so utterly barren without his goofy smile. Suddenly I can see the weight of centuries on his heaving shoulders, his true age revealing itself in his tired amber eyes. His waterlogged gaze is full of sorrow and terrible knowledge, yet it remains far more innocent than mine.
     His sobs are silent, devoid of the usual theatrics. Even as I watch the brothers leave, I want to race after them, to gather Feliciano into my arms and comfort him like I'd (reluctantly) done so many times before. I want to be his hero again, the mighty Germany saving useless little Italy once more, but my limbs refuse to work. Instead, I turn my back to him. Perhaps he thinks I'm abandoning him, but in truth, I don't want him to see my tears.
     My heart plummets, slowing ever so slightly before clattering emptily onto the floor. I can hear Mussolini and mein Fuhrer in the other room, their conversation stilted and tense. At that moment it occurs to me that we as nations are nothing more than sick puppets bound to do the bidding of our masters, no matter how deranged.

     "Germany?" Now he sounds worried, eyes open and searching my own, "Germany, are you all right?"
     "Ye… no." I surprise myself by forming a comprehensible response.
     "Ve?"
     "I… I miss you." I fight with myself, shoving my complex thoughts into a simple, disjointed sentence.
     "But I'm right here…" He tilts his head, looking at me like a confused puppy. Taking a deep breath, I struggle for words.
     "I miss being with you, Feliciano… I mean, really being with you." He stiffens at his name, and I can see the gears turning in his head.
     "Y-you mean-?"
     "The hugs, the annoying small talk, those stupid dilemmas you always get yourself into…" I pause to swallow a lump that is making it increasingly hard to speak, "Feliciano, I miss you more than anything I've ever missed before." The words sound dim-witted, leaving my tongue with a sour aftertaste.
     The silence is…
     There are so many ways of describing such a long, awkward pause, but none of them seem to fit these circumstances. The moment if filled with anticipation: a glimmer of hope on my part, and a shadow of doubt on his. There's the humiliation of having finally shared my true feelings, and the small voice in my head telling me to just grab Feliciano and never let go.
     "G-Germany," There they are, those fat, salty tears that cling so delicately to his thick, dark lashes. "Ludwig, I miss you, too."
     I feel my chest swell as I open my arms, initiating an embrace for the first time in our history together. Sobbing, he buries his face into my shirt, seizing my midsection in a kind of desperation. I press a hand to the back of his head as I've seen people do in movies. His familiar warmth makes me feel giddy, as if I could leap off the ground and keep rising.

     I wish I could say that I stood cool and controlled like the proud German soldier that I am, but then I'd be lying. On the other hand, I didn't quite bawl like a baby as depicted in so many novels and TV programs.
The tears leaked past my defenses before they could be stopped, only to be kissed away by Feliciano. He'd then placed his warm, salty lips against mine, sealing our reunion with that sugary sweet contact. At that moment I finally understood: happiness is being in the arms of someone you love.