(Untitled)

[dienstlich]

It's nearing noon, the sun is brightest then. Germany finds precaution in the cool shade of the trees. Specks of gold sunlight tinted with green filters through but judging from their position, the sun would lightly hit the densest part of the tree in approximately an hour and that should provide all the protection. It's a habit; even though he

Comments

[septentrionic]

He's brought his own companion for the trip as well: a spotted, gray, skinny little thing with his curved tail always tucked between its legs. Italy takes his own sweet time, too easily distracted by the brightness of the day, the stark green of everything around them, such a verdant shade that it couldn't be anything other than simply and vibrantly alive

[dienstlich]

Germany huffs and if Italy knows him well (which he's sure he does), he'll know that that's as much of a laugh as one can get out of the blond man. He's not as aggravated with Italy as before. This is a picnic and he should enjoy it as one, not consider lecturing the Italian for his lack of discipline. He sits down next to Italy and his eyes drift towards the river, a tug on the corner of his lips makes him look like he's almost smiling. His expression of joy have always look more like a neurotic twitch in comparsion to Italy's brazen smiles. "It's fine. You can sit where ever you like, Italy."

He pets the grey hound next to him and ushers it to play with his own dogs. They run off in and chase their tails, bark in a language only they know. Germany watches them and considers for a second to relax, and leans back on the tree behind him to settles to a comfortable state.

Instead, he pushes himself forward to the boxes of food and asks, "Are you hungary yet?"

[septentrionic]

Wherever he so liked? Well then, having been given the permission, Italy seats himself half on, half off of Germany's lap, throwing his arms around the taller nation's neck, holding him close. He enjoyed these times best: these simple and relaxing times not pockmarked by war. Germany smells like the far north, Italy thinks. He'll enter the room, quick, efficient, almost polite, smooth blonde hair brushed back into that perfect slick, and Italy will think of long front porches and snow-covered yards, miles of cobblestone and porcelain that stretch on forever. Germany will enter the room and he will smell like the cold, he will smell like winter. Italy always did find that impossibly refreshing

[dienstlich]

He has learned long ago that Italy's personal space is close to nonexistent. He tolerates all of it because it has become a habit for them, it's comforting to know that Italy will not shy from him. It's a habit that he has grown to like, it breaks away from the cold, stoic attitude that his fellow German speaking countries employ. And if Germany is a familiar to winter, Italy was his summer and spring and all seasons that makes life worth living; he cries like spring with mucky humid rain, he's a coward like the retreating heat and daylight in the fall, but he is best when he is like this: affectionate and shamelessly so, when the summer skies are endlessly inviting and every thing radiates with colour and beauty and warmth