Copper Curl Part X

A/N: Yes. Hitler makes an appearance in this chapter. Remember, this is all taking place during World War II! I also realize that WWII and Hitler are very touchy subjects, so this is just a small warning for mild ideologically sensitive material. And this is the last chapter! Though there is going to be an epilogue! Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed this story. It really means a lot to me.

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Germany was nervous. His palms were sweaty as he stood before the fuehrer. He gulped as he took in his boss's cold expression. Germany knew that he hadn't been keeping up with what has been happening in the war lately, and he felt absolutely ashamed. All because of a certain Italian nation, he had let himself forget that they were in the middle of a war.

Germany always prided himself on choosing duty over want. He had always believed that he was the one to make the most sensible decision. And in the course of about a week, he had completely let it go. So, now facing the fuehrer's emotionless eyes, he knew that he had it coming.

The blonde nation immediately held out his right arm robotically and grounded out, "Heil Mein Fuehrer."

He held his breath. Germany has had very few bosses that have actually frightened him. This man standing before him, with his sullen face, was one of them.

"You do understand vhy I have called you here?" he asked, his voice harsh. The room seemed to drop by about ten degrees. Germany gulped. He didn't want to open his mouth, in fear of stuttering. He didn't want to show the fuehrer how terrified he truly was.

"Fine, I vill remind you," he said, starting to walk around Germany slowly, never moving his eyes from the blonde nation. Germany stood stock still, gritting his teeth.

"You have been neglecting your duties. You haven't been training, nor have you bothered to check upon the status of the war," he said in a dangerously soft voice. The Fuehrer seemed to be getting closer and closer to Germany. The blonde nation felt sick to his stomach.

"Vhat have you got to say for yourself?" The Fuehrer asked, pausing, and staring straight into Germany's face.

Germany opened his mouth and spoke, struggling vigorously to keep himself from stuttering out of sheer fear, "Mein Fuehrer, I'm sorry. It vill not happen again, I assure you. I promise to focus all of my attention to the duties I carry as the country of Germany."

The Fuehrer stared at him for a moment longer, before he broke his gaze and continued to pace. Germany still didn't dare move a muscle, nor did he even attempt to blink.

"Your irresponsibility has had extreme repercussions, I regret to say," the cold leader declared, his voice growing sharper and colder with each word.

"Vhat…" Germany started, a feeling of dread overtaking his chest, and clogging his throat. He closed his mouth before he could choke on his words.

"The Allied forces have invaded Italy. I'm afraid to say that our ally is going to surrender soon. Mussolini is facing heavy resistance movements. Their fascist days are over."

My body felt numb. I-Italy?

His Italy? His Italy was being taken from him?

The thought of Italy being forced to turn his back on him, and surrender to the allies was like a physical stab to the chest. He felt breathless. Helpless. Useless. Used.

"Vhich is vhy I have a task for you," the Fuehrer drawled, now pausing, his cold dark eyes now burning holes into Germany's head.

The blonde nation gritted his teeth, and remained silent, waiting for his boss's instructions.

"I vant you to invade Northern Italy, and do everything in your power to demilitarize it. Destroy their lines of defense. Don't let anyone stand in your vay."

Germany felt like his insides had been replaced with lead. His head throbbed, his chest constricted, and his limbs started to shake. A wave of hysteria and devastation overpowered him.

"Y-You vant me t-to – t-to invade Italy?"

The words sounded so wrong. So twisted. So vile. So sickening.

The thought of imposing war against Italy was…was…unspeakable. It hurt. It burned.

"Ja. That is what I just said," the Fuehrer remarked.

Germany's vision blurred.

"But that's betrayal!" he spat, losing any sort of reserve he had remaining.

The Fuehrer glared at the country coldly. "It doesn't matter. It's only a matter of time before Italy declares war on us. Ve have to strike first, prevent it from happening."

Germany felt as if he were being crushed to tiny bits. He found himself glaring at his boss for the first time, glaring at him with all of the hate and abhorrence that he could muster.

Because he knew that he would have to do it. There was no backing down from this. Whatever the boss says, it's his duty to carry out the deed. Germany knew, that no matter how much he loved Italy, no matter how much he cared for him, that he will have to invade Italy. Possibly oppress his country, murder his people, betray him. Maybe even declare war on him.

Betrayal.

Right after Germany had earned the Italian's trust back, right after he had confessed his true feelings, right after he discovered that there is a potential for the two of them to become something…more…it all comes crashing down again.

Germany wanted to cry. He wanted to weep bitterly, and just fade away.

Because there was no getting around it. He was a country. He had duties to fulfill. He had no choice.

"You will be leaving tomorrow morning. I vill be waiting for you outside the gate at Austria's house at seven o' clock sharp. No acceptions. And I vant you to cut all connections that you have with the Italian man, starting today. You are to inform both he and Japan that training has been canceled," the fuehrer grounded out with a harsh tone.

This man wasn't human. This man doesn't feel. Doesn't think about the consequences and the pain and…and…

Germany clenched his teeth and nodded, before saluting him. Once he was dismissed, Germany went back to his house hurriedly, where he locked himself up in his bedroom and wept.

This wasn't fair.

Germany was sick of all of this. He never liked wars, even if he did come off as war-like. There was too much emotion, unwanted alliances made, heartbreak, and betrayal.

Yet, Germany knew that nothing would compare to what he was about to do.

How can Italy ever forgive him after this?

Germany's mind went blank. He didn't want to think anymore. He lay on his bed and stared up at the ceiling, the tears spilling from his eyes.

Then, slowly, his mind began to work again.

They were nations.

Not humans.

Yes, they had emotions. Feelings. Relationships. Hearts. Eyes. Limbs. Brains.

But in the end, they were nations.

Nations always betray each other. Nations always fight. Nations always form alliances. Nations always break alliances. Nations always find a reason to bring down another.

It's just the way the world works.

And both Germany and Italy are nations.

It was only a matter of time before they would be forced to bring each other down.

And that hurt the most.

XX

Surprisingly, Germany fell into a deep sleep that night. His body was exhausted. When he had called Italy earlier today to inform him that training was cancelled, the blonde nation realized that this may be the last time he hears his voice as a friend. The next time Germany hears Italy speak to him, it'll probably be in pain, in anger, in hatred…

Germany never thought that he could feel so…human.

So emotionally unstable.

He told himself that it's been good. That his short time with Italy had meant a lot to him, and even though he'll most likely be nothing but a hated enemy to him from now on, Germany will always love him. He'll think about him in his dreams, and replay the memories over and over in his head.

Would Germany ever see Italy smile again?

These thoughts exhausted the blonde nation to no end, to the point where he couldn't keep his eyes open as he fell asleep.

And he dreamt.

A very vivid dream.

No…it was a memory.

The sky was bright and blue, the sun beating down on him.

And he was in a field.

A field filled with nothing but bodies and blood.

And then Germany felt it. The pain. He looked at his shoulders and torso to see that there were thick gashes running the length of his skin. His hands were covered in scarlet. He was on his knees.

And his vision was going blurry. Yet, he knew that this was the end. And it horrified him. It crushed him.

But it was not because he was scared of losing his life. No, it was because of Italia.

Germany felt his thoughts being taken over by the thoughts and memories of none other than Holy Roman Empire.

He couldn't die! He had made a promise to her! He told her that he'd come back. Images of the little girl with the copper curl flooded his mind. The little girl clad in the maid's outfit, her smile, her verbal tic, her sincerity, her tears…

Yet, Holy Roman Empire knew that it was over. Finished. This was the end for him. He was fading away. The blood was pouring out, and he was losing consciousness.

I'm sorry, Italy. I'm so sorry.

A shadow loomed over him. He didn't need to look up to know that it was France standing over him, wielding his sword with a twisted and triumphant smile, prepared to bring down the weapon and finish him.

There was nothing he could do anymore.

A single tear spilled down his cheek.

He prayed. And prayed, and prayed.

He prayed for Italy. He prayed that she would see him in her dreams. That she'd never forget him.

He prayed that there would be a way for him to come back.

Our Father, who art in heaven…

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Hallowed be Thy name.

He clenched his bleeding fists, bracing himself.

Thy Kingdom come, Thy Will be done on earth as it is in Heaven.

Maybe, someday, in Heaven, or wherever he ended up, he could see her again. But that was God's call. Not his.

Give us this day, our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses…

He hoped that God would forgive him for the sins he's committed. For all the lives he's taken. For…for the promise he was about to break.

As we forgive those who trespass against us.

How could he ever forgive them all? Those who had hurt him? Those who smiled at his pain? Those who had tried and tried to demean him? To take his land? To kill him?

And lead us not into temptation.

The sun grew hotter. The air grew thicker. His breathing was shallower. His chest was aching. He attempted to let out a sob, but his voice was gone. He could no longer move. No longer make a sound. France brought down the sword.

But deliver us from evil.

I love you, Italy. Always, and forever.

Amen.

Germany shot up from his bed, screaming. He whirled his head around wildly, flailing his arms. He loathed that hot sun, that blue sky, those bloody hands, that field of bodies, that utter sense of failure…

But it was all gone. Germany was alone. In his room.

The moonlight filtered through the window. His legs were tangled in the sheets. He was sweating and panting, and yet, he still felt as if someone really did bring the weapon down on him.

And he cried.

He wailed uncontrollably. He didn't attempt to hold it back. To bite his quivering lip. To tell himself that this was ridiculous, and that he was a nation with duties to fulfill.

No. He curled up in a ball on his bed, and just let himself break.

So that is what happened to him. Those were his last thoughts before he "died" and became Germany.

I love you, Italy. Always, and forever.

His heart seemed to tear in half. And not for himself, as either Germany or Holy Rome. But for Italy.

He would have to break a promise, and Italy will have to suffer…again.

Just like last time.

No. Germany couldn't leave it hanging like this. If he is going to leave Italy again, he has to see him. Just one last time.

So the blonde nation blindly stumbled out of bed, made his way to the front door, pushed it open frantically, and ran. Ran as fast as he could to Italy's house.

He didn't care that he could barely see. He knew where he was going.

He didn't care if his feet were bare. That the tears kept spilling uncontrollably. That he was sobbing uncontrollably. That his chest was hurting. That it was so hard to breathe…

Because under the pale moonlight, Ludwig Beilschmidt, not Germany, ran. He ran as fast as he could for the one he loved. Not as a nation. But as a human.

He hammered away at Italy's front door once he reached the house. He didn't give a damn if the nation didn't want to see him right now. He just didn't care. He just wanted to see the Italian one more time. He wanted to see Italy as his friend, as his ally, as his lover, just once more. Because he knew he wouldn't get it any more. Not after the invasion.

The door opened, and there he was. Italy.

Feliciano Vargas.

He was beautiful. So beautiful.

His brown eyes widened at the sight of Germany standing there, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Ve, Germany!" he exclaimed in shock.

The blonde completely broke. He stumbled forward blindly.

The Italian nation caught him, wrapping his arms around him. Germany could feel the softness and perfection of the smaller nation's body against his.

"G-Germany…what…"

"I-I…I'm so s-sorry, Feliciano…" Germany cried. "I….h-had a b-bad dream… and H-Holy R-Rome…d-died…and…"

But Italy didn't need to hear anymore. The smaller nation's heart snapped in half. Tears filled his eyes, as he tightened his grip around Germany.

"Shhh, shhh, Ludwig. It's alright. I'm h-here."

Italy coaxed Germany into the house, still keeping his arms around him. They managed to get up to Italy's room, where they both collapsed on the bed in each other's arms, their tears mixing together as Germany gripped on to the hem of Italy's shirt, while Italy kept both of his arms around the blonde nation, whispering words of consolation in his native tongue.

They didn't need to say anything. They didn't need to talk about it. Italy already knew that something was going to happen. Something that would break him apart. But that didn't matter.

What mattered was that Germany was here with him, right now, in his arms.

Italy slowly withdrew one of his arms from around Germany, and placed his palm on the blonde's tear-stained cheek. The German shuddered and opened his blue eyes, which seemed to shimmer at the close proximity of Italy's face.

"Ti amo, Ludwig."

The words were barely a whisper. They swirled around the room, and floated through Germany's body like smooth, yet surging white caps.

"Ich liebe dich, Feliciano," he heard himself respond.

And then, Italy's lips were on his. Soft, tender, yet passionate. The Italian's fingernails grazed the German's back, and Ludwig was on fire. He tangled his fingers in Feliciano's hair, his hand gently grazing the long copper curl, causing the Italian to moan into the kiss, and deepen it.

And under the glimmer of the pale moonlight, to the eventual lightening of the sky, to the mists of the pale dawn, Germany wasn't Germany. And Italy wasn't Italy.

No. They were Ludwig Beilschmidt and Feliciano Vargas.

And they were happy to be human…even if it was just for one night.

XX

Germany's eyes flew open. He didn't have time to feel the early morning content of the best night of his life. He didn't have time to lie back down and just gaze at his lover, lying peacefully beside him.

No. He didn't have time at all. The clock on the bedside table read six thirty.

Operation betrayal begins.

Germany had to harden himself. This was it.

He couldn't afford to be human anymore. When he goes to invade Italy, he can't let Ludwig Beilschmidt, OR Holy Roman Empire show their faces.

He was a country. And he had duties.

Germany sat up in Italy's bed, placing both of his feet on the ground. He had to hurry. He had to race back home, grab some clothes, and leave immediately.

He allowed himself to look at the sleeping Italy. Germany's heart melted at the sight of him. He looked so innocent and blissful when he slept. He saw the faint trace of a smile upon the Italian's lips. His brown hair was extremely tousled, making Germany inwardly chuckle. The Italian's lithe naked body lay tangled in a plethora of sheets, and the blonde nation had to resist the urge to lie back down, and take him in his arms…to feel Italy's skin against his again.

No.

He couldn't.

Germany stood up, and found his clothing scattered at the foot of the bed. He slipped them on quietly, and with one last half-second glance at the still sleeping Italy, the blonde nation left the room.

He wouldn't let his heart break. No. He hardened it, so that it was nothing but stone. He overused his tear ducts last night. They were dry. Germany couldn't cry.

His emotional range had peaked and broken. He couldn't feel.

He ran as fast as he could to his house. Once he reached it, he hurriedly freshened up as he usually did. Pushed his hair back, slipped his uniform on, cleaned his face, and he was ready to go.

He didn't dare look at himself in the mirror. He didn't want to see Ludwig Beilschmidt or Holy Roman Empire staring back at him. He didn't dare let himself think about Feliciano. He forced his mind to stay at the task at hand.

This was duty to his country.

This was essential.

So he made his way to Austria's house, and to the old war gate.

And that's when Germany stopped.

It was that old unused gate. The one that the soldiers used to march out of back in the middle ages.

And this was the exact spot where he, as Holy Rome, had said his final goodbye to Italy so many years ago.

Germany's throat clogged and his chest constricted.

The morning chill seemed to alleviate as the bright sun hovered above him, warming his skin, causing him to pause in his footsteps.

The blonde nation stood there, the overwhelming sense of nostalgia and yearning making his eyes sting with…with tears? Could that even be possible?

No! NO! Germany had a duty to fulfill! He had to go! He didn't have time for this.

He marched forward determinedly.

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

"V-Ve, Germany?"

Germany froze. His heart hammered against his chest and his stomach fluttered. He dare himself to turn around, and sure enough, there stood Italy.

The slight breeze in the air blew slightly, causing the tree leaves to rustle. It billowed through Italy's brown hair gently. Germany drank him in. Everything about him.

And his heart broke yet again.

"H-How did you find me?" Germany choked out.

"Ve, I f-followed you…" Italy answered, a light blush dusting his cheeks. The blonde nation had to stifle the urge to run over there and scoop the Italian in his arms.

Germany sighed. "I'm sorry, Italy, but you have to go back home. I…I'm leaving."

Italy's eyes widened in shock. To Germany's horror, the Italian took a few steps forward.

"B-But…why?"

Germany couldn't tell him why. He couldn't tell him that he was leaving him right now to betray him. To make plans to invade his country. To cause bloodshed in his homeland. He couldn't do it.

The blonde nation found it astounding that after last night, he still had the ability to cry.

"I'm sorry, Italy."

The German turned on his heel and started to make his way toward the large opening in the stone gate. One step forward, another step, and another…each step took him closer to betraying the one he loved.

"How long will you be gone?" Italy asked, his voice shaking.

Germany paused, clenching his fists, squinting his eyes to prevent the tears from spilling.

"I don't know."

Silence.

Then a sniffle.

Italy was crying.

"Ve, will I-I e-ever see you again?"

Germany sighed once more, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

"I-I don't know."

With that, the blonde nation forced himself to keep walking forward. No more delays. He had to keep going.

"W-Wait! Please! Germany! I don't want you to go! PLEASE!"

Germany felt like he was being torn in two. The sound of Italy's sobbing, desperate voice twisted every single organ of his body, grated at his ears, and stabbed his skin. Fresh wounds of sorrow. Spilling like blood.

But he didn't turn around.

Then, he felt a soft hand on his. A jolt of electricity shot through him, and he paused. Slowly, he turned around.

Italy stood there, the tears spilling down his cheeks as the gentle breeze blew his hair across his face gently.

Germany was breathless. He didn't know what to do, or what to say anymore. He was frozen on the spot. And he was now forced to endure the torture of convincing Italy to go away.

"Italy…"

"Don't go, Germany."

"I…"

"Please. Don't do this to me again."

"I don't have a choice, Italy."

"Ve, I'm begging you. I think I'll…I think that I'll die if you leave me here."

Germany froze. Italy's devastated tone was too much. Just way too much.

He ripped his hand away from Italy's, and said, "I'm sorry. I really am, but I have to go. This is my farewell."

Italy looked shattered. Absolutely shattered.

"…Fine. B-But…I…I…well…."

Then before Germany could say anything else, Italy was kissing him.

So much was said in that kiss. The pain, the sorrow, the happiness, the joy, the friendship, the memories, the passion…

Germany immediately found his body responding. His hands found their way back to his silky hair again, as he deepened the kiss. Memories of last night flooded his brain. The touches, the tears, the passion…

And the blonde nation knew that he was crying again. His tears mixed with Italy's, as they both said their farewells, under the morning sun, the breeze billowing gently across their bodies.

Finally, they broke apart, but they kept their foreheads pressed together. Germany placed both of his hands on Italy's cheeks.

He spoke, his voice barely above a whisper…

"Ever since the 900's, I've alvays loved you."

Italy squeezed his eyes shut. "Ve, me too."

With that, Germany backed away gently, and turned on his heel, away from the crying Italian, away from the happiness he wanted, but couldn't have, away from it all.

And there he was, walking on forward. Toward war. Toward betrayal. Toward destruction. Toward more tears.

Just before he passed through the stone arch, Germany paused. He didn't know why, but he found himself turning around to face Italy.

"I-I…I promise that once this is all over, I'll come back to you," he said.

Italy stared back at him with wide eyes, but then a faint watery smile broke out on his lips.

"I believe you."

With that, Germany turned back around and passed under the archway.

He knew that this act of treachery he was about to perform would never be forgotten. This would hurt Italy, scar him, almost kill him. And Germany would never forgive himself for it.

Germany wouldn't se see the sun like this for a very long time, shining high in the sky, gentle, subtle.

But maybe…just maybe, one day, he'll see the sun again.
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So this story is finished!!! I know, it's sort of a sad ending. But WAIT! There's an epilogue that should be coming out soon! Thanks so much to all those who've read this and commented. Again, it means alot.