Unspoken

Prologue - Buon San Valentino

"Italy... Will you marry me?"

That was what I had wanted to tell him.

That was how proposals worked. There were two people, the romantic dinner, the ring, and the question. Then there was the "Yes," and everything went well from there.

I had everything but the question.

Instead of asking Italy to marry me, I muttered something about how I wasn't an expert on proposals, then knelt there.

I don't know what I was waiting for, but I certainly wasn't waiting for Italy to be suddenly scared.

I saw him start crying, but from fear rather than happiness. Panicking, I tried to hug him, but he started crying out and trying to run away.

I didn't understand. Wasn't this what he wanted? Wasn't this why he'd given me those roses? Why he kept hugging me so much?

"Germany! Germany!!"

Italy was trying to get my attention, but I was dazed. As I looked at him, I felt an onslaught of emotions that I thought I didn't recognize. Shame, confusion, embarrassment; I was unable to place them.

But then, there was one sensation I did recognize.

Heartbeat.

I'd felt this one before.

I latched onto it, trying to remember just where I'd felt it. None of my experiences in war made me feel it. Training made my heart pound, but not in this way. I felt my heart race when I was angry, but this was very different. It was an old sensation from far back in my life, when I was younger.

Then, from so far back in my mind that I'd almost forgotten it, an old memory from my childhood resurfaced.

She was beautiful.

She stood there in her little green dress and apron, her cheeks as pink as the flowers which surrounded her. The sun glinted off her auburn hair, with that adorable little curl that bounced around whenever she moved. She looked at me with a loving little smile.

I plucked one of the pink flowers and put it in her hair. She giggled and blushed at me, making my heart beat faster.

She bent down and started gathering as many flowers as her little arms could carry. Before long, she carried a bouquet of pink flowers so large that they covered up her face. She held them out to me, stretching as far as she could to reach me.

I reached out to her, closer, closer, closer-

That was where it had come from.

The feeling of shock was quickly replaced by a realization that slammed into me like a stone wall. Italy kept looking at me, his face now anxious for me.

Releasing him from my grip, I turned and ran out of the restaurant.

Even as Italy shouted for me, I refused to look back.