Work Text:
June 10th, 1940
Despite what people may think, Italy knows things, important things. He knows all of the secrets of the Renaissance, the mysteries that historians have studied for generations. He remembers watching Leonardo work, all of the great Masters of art and invention.
He knows still the tales that his grandfather told him all those centuries ago and he remembers how to find all those secret places that Rome hid when he knew that he would die.
He knows...
He knows that he didn't leave his front door unlocked this morning.
He has it in his pocket, the key that is, and he hadn't wanted to because he thinks that it ruins the line of his suit but he hadn't had anywhere else to put it and he needed to go out to buy food because he'd run out of pasta and... and...
The door is unlocked.
He can tell because it swings a little in the breeze; it had never fitted the frame properly and he'd never quite got around to having it replaced because there are always too many things to do, things to see and things that change around him until he forgets that it's the 1900s now, he's a country now, not a fractured collection of bickering states. Maybe Romano came to visit? Ah no, Italy would have heard him by now, the blistering curses travelling clearly through the open door, and Germany would never enter without asking, no matter how many times Italy has told him that he is welcome whenever he wants.
He bites his lip and reaches out, pushing the door open a fraction, sliding his hand to the small of his back and the butt of the pistol that he carries there. Things are so confused recently, and people are dangerous so it only makes sense to be safe.
There's no shot, no mechanical click, but that doesn't mean anything. Maybe they're a friend, maybe they're just sneaks. He pushes the door open anyway and steps inside. His kitchen is light and airy, with herbs growing on the windowsill and his kettle still steaming on the hob.
There's a flicker of movement at the corner of his eye, a dark shadow in the sunlight and he moves quickly but it's not quick enough and there's a gun at his head.
“Hello, Italy,” England says. He's smiling, and it isn't a nice expression, not like a proper smile, not like a smile should be.
Italy's eyes flick to the barrel of the gun, lips drawn into an expression of near misery before he gives a nervous little laugh, his own gun clattering from his fingers to the mosaicked floor. “A-ah, England!” he said, holding out his arms a little and really hoping that England would stop pointing the gun at him. “You didn't say that you were coming or I would have made some food for you. You look tired. Maybe you should sit down and I can make us tea?”
The grimace from England is impossible to miss, and Italy winces away from him, uncertain what to say to him when they have never been friends and when England is so difficult to approach, stern and coarse and it reminds him a little of Germany, but he hopes that Germany never ends up seeing enough to make him have such an old look in his eyes.
“No tea, Italy,” he says, “no gifts or food or scintillating chats about the price of Mozzarella or the cut of a new suit.” His voice is steely, makes Italy gulp and wish that he had taken just ten more minutes at the market, or that he had drawn his gun sooner.
“B-but we are civilised!” he blurts out instead, and wishes that a tea kettle of cold water over England's blond head would do anything more than infuriate. “We can talk over tea and... and have you seen the mosaic? Most people think that it is a copy, but I remember when it was made, when grandfather commissioned it. You remember his things too, don't you?” Idle chatter, always idle because if he thinks about things too clearly then they'll bubble up inside him until he breaks and drowns in words of war.
England sighs, a heavy sound. “Yes, Italy,” he says, “I remember.” He doesn't twitch the gun like America's heroes do in his movies, doesn't move the gun at all but beckons with his free hand, fingers crooked beneath black leather. “Come now, since you're so insistent upon being civilised, I think we shall retire to the drawing room.” He says it with a certain grim humour, although Italy cannot imagine what he finds funny.
He ducks his head in a nod, but peers at England through his fringe, never quite letting him slip from his vision. Perhaps he is naïve, perhaps he is stupid, but he is a Nation, and if they know anything, it is how to be mistrustful.
England spreads his arm in a theatrical gesture, smiling like Prospero. “Please, lead the way,” he says, “I am but a guest.”
Italy walks, always conscious of the black barrel of the gun at his back, and England's footsteps across the ruins of Rome. His drawing room is simple and comfortable and Italy pauses in the middle of it as though it is somewhere entirely unfamiliar. “Where should I sit?” he asks, the silly quaver in his voice coming back full force. The seat by the window is more comfortable, but the one by the door gives a better view of the garden and the road and he thinks England must want to see the flowers too, because he nudges Italy to the seat with its back to the window, while he takes the couch with the back to the wall and the better view.
“It is lovely, isn't it?” Italy asks, because silence is dangerous and filling it is easy. “The garden, I mean! I have sunflowers and an olive tree! You... how is your garden, England?” Guileless and innocent, he smiles, beams at England as he sits down.
England regards him coolly, his lips drawn into a tight line that matches the rest of him, taut and angry. “I have had little time for gardening as of late, but I am sure that you know that. Even you cannot be so blind to the world.”
He looks, Italy thinks, as though he wants to slump down into the chair, but Italy has always thought that maintaining such a stiff posture must be bad for his health. Perhaps he needs to start having siestas in the afternoon. He's never understood why these northern nations don't. Why wouldn't you want to sleep through as much of that weather as you can? “People are being very unfriendly,” Italy says quietly. But then, someone in Europe is always being unfriendly in some manner so he is not sure why anyone is surprised when it happens again.
“They are,” England agrees, lips turning up in a way that makes his smile look like an implement of torture. “But not you, Italy,” he croons, leaning forward, thumb caressing the butt of the gun. It is a time when weapons become lovers and it shows. “Oh no, you have so much friendship to show to others.” He spits the word as though it is a filthy thing that fills his mouth and his stomach with bile.
Italy cocks his head to the side, eyes wide. “Of course,” he says, “I like having friends. What about all of your friends in Europe?”
He thinks for a minute that England might actually shoot, the way his knuckles turn white around the gun, but he just laughs instead, a high, bright sound that is almost entirely mad. He wonders when England crossed that line; Poland's fall, France's fumbling attempts against Germany, or was there ever a line to cross at all?
“Europe, hah!” England says, and when he stops laughing, he fixes Italy with a sharp-eyed look and Italy wonders how Germany had ever mistaken him for sane. “I'd be done with the lot of you if it weren't for the unfortunate contrivances of geography, but as it is... ah, we do what we must.” He straightens up, the laughter gone entirely from his face. “It is a matter of friendship that I am here for, you see,” he says.
“Ah, I couldn't possibly, I'm afraid,” Italy says, waving a hand apologetically. “You should send your boss to speak to my boss and then we can have a proper conference with tea and cake and all of those things from your colonies that you like so much.”
“With Germany,” England says bluntly. “Your 'friendship' with Germany.”
Italy sits up when Germany is mentioned, all bright eyes and eagerness. “Maybe I can help! If you want to be friends. I know that Germany would very much like to be friends with you too. He keeps saying how sad he is that you've been dragged into this little matter.” His impression of Germany is wholly terrible; just can't get the timbre of the voice right, or the posture, or the sentiment, but he's sure that England gets the idea.
England looks as though he has a headache. “I have no desire to be friends with that upstart brat,” he sneers, baring his teeth in an expression that is more than half snarl and entirely feral.
“But...”
“You are close to Germany, are you not?” England asks sharply and Italy bobs his head in agreement. Of course he is close to Germany.
England just looks at him for a long moment. “That is all well and good. We all need... friends, in these troubled times.”
It it Italy's turn to stare, baffled entirely by what England is saying and he he is reminded that for all their similarities, England and Germany are very different. He longs for Germany's bluntness.
“I am not telling you to stop being friends, of course,” England says, giving Italy a most charming smile. “I would not presume to limit the bonds of friendship between other sovereign nations. I merely think that you should exercise caution to avoid becoming embroiled in further unpleasantness.”
He really wishes that England had Germany's bluntness.
England leans back in the chair, seeming to relax, but Italy can tell that it is just a deceit; his aim never wavers and there is a curious tautness about him that he cannot quite hide. “I must admit, I do envy you the weather here. Sun in winter is a novel experience for me. It must be that warm Mediterranean breeze.”
“It must,” Italy says doubtfully, twisting his hands nervously in his lap because surely England did not come here with a gun in order to discuss the weather, although he has heard odd things about the British and their obsession with meteorological occurrences. “It is nicer along the coast,” he begins, hopeful of maybe turning this business around, and maybe England will even stop pointing the gun at him. “There are plenty of beaches and palm trees to have a siesta under. You should come to visit some time, maybe.”
“Perhaps I will,” England says warmly, and despite himself, Italy begins to relax, just a little. “You have such history and treasures besides!” England continues with more enthusiasm than he usually shows for anything save attempting to throttle France. “You must be very fond of them, these beaches and these relics of your Grandfather. Your little floor mosaic.”
“I am! I am!” Italy says. “I remember when he built them. He taught me how to make art and how could I not love it?”
“Absolutely!” England says easily. “I feel much the same. I am very fond of Rome's relics in my own country. They certainly had an effect on my history too, after all. I would not be half the Empire I am today, if not for him.”
“He did so much! I am glad that you think so too and-” He has been babbling for several seconds before he recognised the steel in England's voice that does not at all match what he is saying. “-you should... um...”
“I'm quite fond of the Mediterranean too, you know?” England says gently. “I like to summer sometimes with my fleet there, or in Gibraltar.”
“Yes?” Italy says, because England has paused as though he expects an answer to a question that he did not give, and he can think of nothing else but that.
“And of course, the Italian coast with all of your beaches and your relics, is never far away.”
Italy feels a shiver work its way down his spine, despite the warmth of the day and the sun seeping in through the windowpanes.
“It would be a terrible pity, then,” England continues, his voice deep and smooth and Italy is reminded of nothing so much as a snake, “were something to befall your lands. I would be most distressed to hear of bombs being dropped by mistake, or perhaps a cannon being fired out of turn.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Ah, but these are difficult times. It is so very easy to make a mistake and believe that such things are, perhaps, German ships.”
Oh. Oh. Italy feels his stomach sink like a lead weight and he clenches his fingers into his thighs, scrunching the fabric between his fingers. “Yes,” he says quietly, “I think that would be sad.”
England nods with false sympathy. “It would be a tragedy to see such beautiful things destroyed by a mere accident. I would be deeply and personally saddened. Of course, I'm sure that something can be worked out that would clear up any chance of my mistaking your delightful coastline for a U-boat.”
“Of course,” Italy says with a strained smile, giving a high, nervous laugh. “It would be silly mistake to make!”
“Something to bear in mind,” England says. “Well, I believe that I should be going. I have taken up too much of your valuable time already. I'm certain that you have things to do.”
“Yes, lots of things!” Italy says, jumping to his feet, trying to turn nervous energy into his usual enthusiasm and he is sure that he is failing miserably.
England pushes himself to his feet, and in anyone less controlled, the gasp would have gone unnoticed, along with the way his mouth tightens. Italy does not react, but now that he looks, he can see the darker patch on his jacket that spreads and seeps through the cloth. England faces him, knows that he knows, and does not say a word.
“Ah, England, have a safe trip!” Italy says, smiling as brightly as he dares as he guides him to the back door. “You should eat plenty of good food and come to visit my beaches for your health!”
“Hopefully nothing will befall them before then,” England replied, matching Italy grin for grin until they reach the door and he steps outside.
Italy collapses, shaking, against the door once he closes it, leaning his head back against the wood and trying to calm the rapid beating of his heart. He should warn Romano, he should warn his boss, but he cannot make his fingers stop trembling. He manages to stagger across the kitchen to scoop up his discarded gun, and keeps it in his hand instead of putting it back in the holster as he makes his way to the telephone.
He begins to dial his boss's number, having learnt it by heart. He does not know many numbers to dial by heart except for his boss and his brother and Ger-
He puts the receiver back down, but does not move his hand yet. He remembers that dark stain on England's clothing, the wince of pain that he knows he did not imagine. He things of France weakened in his own land while the German wolf snaps at his heels.
He dials the other number that he knows by heart.
It rings three times before it is picked up and a familiar, gruff voice answers him.
“Hello?”
“Germany! Hello! I thought I would call you because it's a lovely day and I have something very important to tell you!”