AN. Hetalia does not belong to me. Enjoy.
Six years. Seventy two months. Seventy two loops.
North Italy remembered every single one of them in shockingly vivid detail. He remembered the Mansion: cold white walls splashed with blood, the barest hints of bright blue sky peeping in through barred windows. He remembered the annexe; the thick layer of mist that seemed to seep into your very skin, sending pure dread coursing through your veins. He remembered the monsters. Thump. Thump. Thump. The creaking of a door.
You will not escape.
Italy remembered how, back in loop Twenty-three, Prussia had dived in front of an oncoming Grey to save his brother. It had grabbed him, crumbling the Nation like dirt in its mottled fists.
Oh. It had started to rain.
The previously clear sky stretching above him like a gigantic canvas had dulled, storm-clouds rolling in swiftly from the west.
"West! Oh, God… NO!"
Italy stared up into the rain, amber eyes blank, uncomprehending. The tiny droplets of water were soaked with crimson, staining his clothes and coating his hair.
The muscles in his thin shoulders relaxed, and he breathed out a sigh of shamed relief. This was familiar. Right. He did not know any better. Every day, there had been blood. This was who he was.
Who was he? Who was he?
"Italy?" a soft voice spoke.
Oh. He was Italy. Italy Veneziano. His brother was Italy Romano, his best friend was Germany, his physical age was twenty two. So many numbers, completely covering the White Room. Loop Twenty-two. Five. America, England Germany, Russia, Canada…
"Italy? Are you alright?"
He turned, mind snapping back into focus. The blood-rain had disappeared. He managed a weak smile, attempting, for whatever reason, to reassure Canada the he was alright. Italy couldn't appear sad. He had to be strong, or else they wouldn't make it out alive.
Canada frowned slightly, and Italy suddenly realised that he was expecting an answer. "I'm fine. What's wrong?"
"Nothing," the other Nation replied, his violet eyes dimming. "Romano wants you to come back inside now."
"Alright," Italy said, but he did not move.
Canada's eyes grew sadder, and he bent down to take his friend by the hand, and pull him up from his seat on the grassy field bordering Germany's house.
An outstretched hand. A kind smile, one which Italy had not seen in centuries. A faint word of farewell.
"Holy Roman Empire…" Italy whispered, lips curving upward.
"I- I'm Canada," Canada stuttered. A pang of sudden fear, the like of which he hadn't felt since their escape, shot through his heart. This might have been ordinary once upon a time, but everyone remembered him now. They had been through too much to forget any of their companions.
"Right," said Italy. "I knew that."
Canada tugged more insistently at his hand, and Italy got slowly to his feet.
"Why do you look so sad, Canada?" he asked. He hadn't worked to get them out of hell, only for them to feel depressed.
The blonde shook his head, curls flailing in the wind. His glasses were beginning to steam up, and he absent-mindedly wondered why, until he felt a tear slip down his cheek.
"Canada? Italy? Where are you?"
Canada turned, praying that the water would be mistaken as rain. America was striding towards them, grinning, as usual. The grin almost hadn't left his face since they had gotten to Germany's house, but it was no more insincere now than it had been to start with.
"What're you doing out here? Romano's pissed off, and Germany's… Well, you know Germany."
Canada nodded, and began to make his way back through the storm, back to the house of their new-found ally.
"How's Italy doing?" America sighed, the smile sliding a little. He glanced over at the smaller Nation, who was walking steadily along beside them, scuffing the grass with his worn brown boots.
"How's England doing?" Canada countered.
"Right," he said, shaking his head. "Stupid question."
It was impossible to say how anyone was doing, anymore. Pain was easily hidden behind a façade, injuries easily covered by bandages. Most injuries, anyway. America fought back the inevitable flashback, thinking of anything, anything, so that he wouldn't think of…
"Are you okay?" Italy said, lilting voice filled with concern. America's huge heart instantly went out to him, and he wrapped a protective arm around the smaller Nation, wrapping the other around his brother.
"Fine!" he said cheerily. But his tone clashed ominously with the gloomy sky, and his words did nothing to alleviate Canada's fast-growing anxiety.
They could see the house through the pounding rain: the warm glow of the windows, and the open door, through which the trio could make out a lithe figure which appeared to be bouncing up and down impatiently.
"Nii-chan!" Italy called, waving excitedly. He slipped out from under America's arm, and raced at top-speed towards the front porch.
"Damn, he's fast," he commented, raising his eyebrows in amused disbelief.
Canada smiled wryly. "Practice makes perfect."
The grin dropped from America's face.
Canada heaved a sigh of relief as he and America stepped onto the soft blue carpet. He tugged off his boots and entered the living room, where the others – the Axis, Allies, Prussia, Romano and Spain – were already seated around a large coffee table. Their various conversations were soft; the crackling of the fire in the corner the dominant sound.
Romano was curled at Spain's side, the two taking up an entire sofa by themselves. His face was unusually contorted, his lips pressed tightly together, as though he was fighting back a smile. When the older nation pulled him closer, he cringed, but didn't attempt to pull away.
China and Russia were discussing the financial benefits of Communism, accompanied by exuberant hand gestures and multiple tics on the part of the former.
France was helping England to drink a cup of lukewarm tea. Every few moments, England would shake him off, insisting that he could do it himself. But then the cup would tilt dangerously to one side, and France would right it with a slender hand.
America had already rushed over to join them: seating himself beside his former mentor and gently tapping him on the shoulder. It was amazing how the Nation, usually so loud and boisterous, could be so caring towards someone so cynical and defiant.
"England?" he said.
England turned his head in the vague direction of America, sightless green eyes wandering. "What is it, America?"
America beamed, his whole face lighting up like the morning sun. "You know who I am!"
"Of course I do, you git," hissed England, irritably. "You would think that I'd know the sound of your voice after four-hundred years."
"Oh…"
France took pity on him, and frowned disapprovingly at England, even though the action was futile. "Angleterre-"
"I don't want any more tea," England interrupted. "The bloody thing's gone cold, anyway."
"I'll help!" America said, face almost pathetically eager. He reached for the cup, but England wrenched it away from him. Tea slopped over the sides, staining the floor brown.
No one spoke. Even Russia had turned away from China to stare at the group.
"Well," said France, after several moments of unusually tense silence, "I'll clean this up. The cloths are in the kitchen, oui?" Slowly, very precisely, he stepped over the mess to retrieve towels and carpet sanitizer.
"That was weird," remarked Prussia. "Two hours, and not a single sexual innuendo."
England's shoulders had risen to his ears, and his face was flushed with embarrassment. America took the cup from his unresisting hands, and set it on the table.
"England…" he began tentatively, "It's okay…"
"No," said England. His voice was choked and small and sad, and made Canada's stomach writhe with nerves. "I…" He cleared his throat and stood up, fumbling for his walking stick. "I'm going to go to bed as well."
"I'll help you!"
"That isn't necessary, America. I don't need help!" The last words had broken into a yell, and England turned, practically fleeing from the room.
America straightened up, glaring stonily after him. Everyone's eyes were frozen on the doorway, everyone's but Italy's, who was now rocking back and forth, fists clenched, mumbling softly.
"No...no...please don't fight... please..."
"It's okay, Italy," Germany murmured, lifting a large hand to softly stroke auburn hair. When this garnered no positive reaction, he bent closer, and whispered, "Feliciano. It's alright. We're all safe."
Then Germany glanced stonily up at America. "I think it would be best if you left. Italy's getting nervous."
"Y-yeah," the American said, aiming for nonchalance, but falling short, for his azure eyes remained locked in place. "I... feel like a drink. Anyone up for the pub?"
"Hell yeah!" Prussia cried, pumping a fist into the air. "That's the most awesome thing anyone's said all night. Spain? France?"
"Sorry!" said Spain, apologetically. He motioned to Romano, as if this explained everything.
France, recently returned, nodded. "Of course I will come. Someone needs to make sure that you two do not get into any... trouble."
The trio left, and now, the conversation was not just muted, it was nonexistent. Feliciano had collapsed into Germany's chest, clutching his shirt in his fist, as if he were a small child.
Romano glanced up at Spain, his usual scowl softening slightly. "T-thanks... bastard."
"For what, Lovi?"
"Staying..."
Spain smiled, green eyes glowing with warmth. "It's fine. I'm pretty comfortable here, anyway."
"What's wrong, Canada?" asked Russia, glancing over at the blonde. "You look stressed."
Canada started, surprised that anyone had even noticed him, let alone remember his name. Then he chuckled half-heartedly. "Just a little... nervous, still."
"Don't be," said Romano, a little too sharply to be considered kind. "We're out of that place. They were wrong."
No one had to ask who they were. You will not escape...
"I'm being stupid," Canada murmured to himself. "It's over. We escaped. They were wrong."
"Were they really?" said Russia cheerfully, sending a nervous chill racing along Canada's spine.
"What do you mean by that, Red?" Romano snapped.
But Russia just smiled, and did not reply.
The pub was crowded and noisy, as was usual on Friday nights. Prussia leapt inside, running to catch the best three seats at the bar before they were taken by any of Germany's citizens.
France followed at a more sedate pace, for once, not even bothering to look around for cute boys or girls.
America, still wallowing in self-pity, didn't notice the phenomenon that was taking place. He collapsed onto a chair and rested his head on the cool counter, his glasses pressing into the bridge of his nose.
As Gilbert called the bartender over to order their drinks, France placed a hand on the younger Nation's shoulder. "Amerique..." He paused, not really knowing what to say. "It's only been two weeks. You need to give Angleterre time to adjust, at his own pace."
"Yeah, yeah," America mumbled.
"Prusse," said France, leaning closer to his friend. "Order our dear friend... The Special."
Prussia, grinning evilly, nodded.
Three drinks were shoved across to them, and America's head finally lifted from the bench. His hand moved to grasp the cool glass, and he tipped it back, all at once, gulping down the alcohol as if it was water.
"Feeling better?" asked Prussia.
Alfred's head fell back into his arms. France and Prussia stared down at him, the latter attempting to prod a response from him.
"Why," he groaned, suddenly. "Why won't he just accept my goddamn help?"
"I know, Amerique. Just let it all out."
"He just had to keep on saving me! Why can't he just let me... save him?"
France smirked. "That is indeed Angleterre's style..."
"Well it shouldn't be!" America's eyes focused on France, and he pointed accusingly at him.
"You were helping him! Why did he let you – hic - help him?"
"He didn't," France soothed, slowly rubbing Alfred's back. "It's okay."
"No!" America yelled suddenly, pushing Francis off. "Isn'okay!" Prussia started to laugh, so hard that the stool he was sitting on tilted sideways.
But his bravado was gone as quickly has it had come and he slumped again, hiccoughing every few seconds.
The other patrons of the bar were, by now, looking at the trio with badly disguised annoyance. France flashed several of them a charming smile, triggering more than a few embarrassed blushes and averted gazes.
"Honestly," Francis sighed, seizing the opportunity. "Why do you care so much anyway? He is only your friend, non?"
"No!" cried Alfred, getting his languages all mixed up. "I mean, ci! I mean..."
"Ah, so he is not just your friend." France silenced the maniacally laughing Prussia with one delicately raised eyebrow.
"Yeah... Just friends..."
But the bad friends noticed that, at this statement, America had looked more depressed than ever.
France contemplated the matter for a moment, winding a strand of golden hair around a finger. "Would you like Angleterre and yourself to be more then friends?"
"I dunno... Like that's gonna happen anyways," he grumbled, drumming his fingers erratically on the table top.
Francis' eyes lit with excitement, and in one swift motion, he had cupped Alfred's face in his hand and leaned in closer. "So you wouldn't mind if I cared for Angleterre instead?"
America, aghast, shoved France's hand away and straightened up. "Back off, ya... ya..." he struggled momentarily for a word. "you pervert! Stay away from England!"
"Why on earth should I do that?" Francis asked, eyes widening innocently.
"'cause I... he..."
"Because you what, Amerique?"
"'cause he's mine!"
America clapped a hand over his mouth, as though he was a five year old who had just been caught swearing.
Prussia exploded into giggles, clapping a shell-shocked America on the back. The bartender rolled his eyes and addressed France, who was looking all-too-pleased with himself, in disjointed English.
"Sorry, but you're going to have to leave. You are disturbing my other customers."
"That's fine," Francis replied, stepping lightly off his stool. "We are finished here, anyway. Come on, Gilbert. Alfred."
Arthur lay in his bed, hands tangled in the crisp sheets. His eyes were open, and he could feel droplets of boiling water slipping down his cheeks.
He had no idea what time it was: the world was always dark. For England, night was eternal. Even his memory of colour was slowly slipping away.
But he could never forget America's face. Ghastly white, shocked, his lips open in a wordless scream. His warning - to stop fighting the grey, to close his eyes - had come too late. England wouldn't have heeded it anyway.
He knew that he would do anything to save the idiotic American, even if it meant dying. Even if it meant losing his sight.
And this is how I am repaid...
Arthur's mirthless laugh morphed into a sob, and he rolled onto his stomach, muffling the sound. He didn't want anyone to hear him, to run to him with offers of help.
England didn't need help. He had looked after himself just fine, getting out of the Mansion. But Alfred had fallen to pieces, even though no harm had come to him.
The shock must have gotten to him, thought England, slightly bitterly. How weak.
He quickly silenced the soft voice in the back of his mind, the one that had dared to suggest that America may have been grieving for him.
The concept was completely irrational, of course. America didn't care about anyone but himself. He had shown that all too clearly during that godforsaken War for Independence.
No. He didn't care. He was just trying to 'be the Hero' as usual: flying in and saving the day, helping poor blind Nations cross roads safely.
England didn't need help.
Especially not when it came from Heroes.
They were out, all of them, at last.
After so many tries and so many failures, Italy had finally succeeded in his task.
The sunlight hit his face, and he basked in the glow, closing his eyes and tilting his head back, the better to catch the golden rays.
Cheering rang through his ears: the sounds of a hundred nations applauding him, the useless one, the one who used to always run away. He opened his eyes, and in the garden bordering the mansion, he could see the faces of his friends. America, a grin stretched across his face, supporting an equally cheerful England. China and Japan. France . Canada, finally noticed. Russia, face soft and kind, glowing with the joy of acceptance. Prussia, his arm looped around...
Germany. His blue eyes were warm, and filled with the love he reserved, just for Italy. His large hand was outstretched, beckoning.
Join my Empire...
Italy reached out his own to take it.
Abruptly, he awoke, staring up at the wood-panelled ceiling of their darkened safe-room.
A choked sob burst through Italy's lips as he realised that the dream had portrayed a lie. He now knew, through heartbreaking experience, that mere wishes were never fulfilled. That dreams never came true.
On the bed beside him, Germany shifted in his sleep, his arm draping off the edge of the too-small mattress.
Italy reached out and took his hand, a steely determination settling within his heart.
I will get you out, he promised. No matter how many tries it takes... We will escape.
"We don't need to escape!" Germany said urgently, softly shaking Italy's thin shoulders. "We have escaped! You got us out!"
Amber eyes snapped into focus, staring into Germany's own. "What are you talking about, Germany? Are you still dreaming?"
"No! Wake up, Italy. Please wake up... I..." his voice caught, and he couldn't bring himself to continue talking. Instead, he climbed out of his large bed, and flicked on the light, illuminating the room.
He didn't know what time it was; sometime early morning, he assumed. Italy had cracked all of his watches and clocks: smashed at them with his bare fists until he'd bled.
Italy sat upright, hair messy, cheeks hollow. He looked a wreck and, not for the first time, Germany found himself experiencing the odd emotion of guilt. Maybe, if he'd taken care of him better, before they'd ever entered that cursed mansion...
"Ve~! Germany? What are you doing up?" he wondered, brows furrowed in confusion. "It's not safe to go out by yourself."
"Italy! Feliciano. We aren't in the mansion. We escaped."
Italy's frown deepened and his eyes began to smart. "Stop teasing me. Stop treating me like I need to be protected from the truth. I can handle it."
"I know you can, Feli, I just-"
"No, you DON'T!" Italy screamed. "You're the one who couldn't handle it. Every single time, you ran away, like a little baby. You left me alone."
The tears began to slip quietly down his heart-shaped face, and Germany couldn't help but think that he was still beautiful, even when he was crying.
Then Italy was enclosed in a hug, and he let his eyes slip shut and clung on, sobbing into Germany's muscular arms. "I don't want to be brave anymore."
"You don't have to. It's okay. I... I'm so sorry."
"I can't..."
"I'll be brave for you, now. Let me protect you."
A few silent moments passed, punctuated by dry, racking sobs which may have belonged to either Nation.
Italy shifted, turning around to face Germany. Very slowly, he nodded, and cleared his throat.
"One time... Around three years ago... I made a promise to Prussia. We were the only two left, standing in that room with the grandfather clock." He paused, and coughed again. "He said that... if he ever died again... in another loop, that is... to leave without him. As long as you were alive, he said..."
Italy smiled, and his eyes lit with a fresh wave of tears. "He said that he was living for you. He knew that... you'd be broken... if he'd gone... He's not a country anymore... And he said... And we..." He broke, crumpling into Germany's arms.
Germany just held him close, whispering soft reassurances in mingled English and German, as the Sun slowly rose over the distant horizon.
"We have gathered here today to discuss the relationship between Amerique and Angleterre-"
"-or lack thereof," interrupted Prussia, rolling his crimson eyes.
"You make everything sound like a wedding ceremony," Spain chuckled, shifting in his chair so the mid-morning sun warmed his face.
France quickly glanced around, scanning Germany's lounge room for any unwanted eavesdroppers. "Our dearest Arthur is not going to be very cooperative, especially when it comes to returning Alfred's affections."
"America isn't exactly the master of romance," agreed Spain.
"So we teach him," said Prussia. "That's gonna be one helluva hard job."
"I think that, with you teaching him, Angleterre would be even further out of reach," France sighed. "Forever lost to a sea of sorrow."
"That's a little dramatic, Francis. And England doesn't like dramatic people." Spain's friendly mouth twisted downwards slightly, betraying, for only a moment, the true extent of the old wounds between the two Nations.
"I reckon you should teach him, Antonio," Prussia commented, yawning slightly, and glancing longingly towards the staircase leading to the bedrooms.
"Oh? Are you too lazy to do it yourself?"
Prussia flipped off the Frenchman, and shook his head. "Nah. But do you seriously think that America's gonna like you or me teaching him how to romance England?" He shook his head. "Why anyone would want to date that stuffy old douche is beyond me."
"Ah, to each their own... but you are probably right."
"The Awesome Me is always right!"
Antonio laughed and rose to his feet. "Okay. But you've still got to talk to England."
"Oui, oui," Francis said noncommittally, waving his hand. "But we shall wait until after the World Meeting this afternoon."
"The one that no one's ready for," muttered Gilbert, fiddling with the frayed hem of his shirt.
The meeting room was, for once, completely silent. No one seemed willing to speak up and begin the conference on future economic policy. Every so often, someone's eyes would flicker over to Romano, who sat, arms folded tightly across his chest, beside Germany's conspicuously empty chair. His face was glowing red, lips were pressed tightly together, barely suppressing the inevitable scream.
His clenched fists hit the table, and he shoved his chair out of the way, roughly kicking the side of the door as he stormed from the room.
"I do not see the point of this conference," said Russia, glancing up at the angry Italian, "if all we are going to do is stare at others. We shall try again next month."
Russia rose, and left.
'"How was the meeting?"' was the first question that Germany had asked when the others arrived home.
"Quiet," replied Gilbert, lips twisting wryly. "I honestly thought my first World Conference would be more awesome. How's Feli?"
Ludwig sighed, grabbing two bottles of beer from the fridge, and sliding one of them across the counter to his brother. "What happened?"
"Don't dodge the question," said Gilbert, crimson eyes narrowed. "How's Italy?"
"Still sleeping," said Ludwig, shortly.
"So what've you been doing?"
"Watching him sleep."
Gilbert sniggered lightly, running a long finger slowly around the rim of the bottle. "You two are awesome, you know that? So dedicated to each other."
"Knowing that you may die at any moment tends to do that to you. And I haven't been watching him out of dedication."
"Ah. He's still having the nightmares."
Ludwig nodded. The lines around his eyes abruptly tightened, and he looked away, resting his palms face down on the table. "They're getting worse. After..." The words seemed to snag in his throat, and he coughed. "After he wakes up, it takes him a while to realise that he's not dreaming anymore."
"Does he realise?" asked Gilbert. "That he does it, I mean. Or does it all just..." He linked his fingers together tightly, snowballing his fists together.
"Yeah. So I have to be there when he wakes up, or..."
"Or what?" Gilbert's eyes had finally left his beer, and he stared up at his western brother intently, hanging on to his every word.
"Or else he starts breaking things."
"What things?"
A shrill scream rang out from somewhere above their heads, and Ludwig ran immediately for the kitchen door. A moment later, Gilbert heard heavy footfalls, followed by an ear-splitting crash. He racked his brains, wondering why the sound was so familiar.
Slowly, Prussia stepped out into the hallway, and tiptoed up the stairs towards the second floor landing. The door to the master bedroom was closed. Ludwig's large analogue clock, an old gift from Roderich and Elizaveta, hung on the opposite wall.
The screen protecting the battery was smashed in; cracks spun out from the centre-point like a huge, distorted spider-web.
Had Italy done that?
Prussia tentatively approached it. He could see his own twisted reflection mirrored in the glass. The Alternate Gilbert was smiling eerily, and he felt a chill flow quickly along his spine, as if someone had poured a cup of water down the back of his shirt.
Before he could rationally think to stop himself, he had reached up, and prodded the clock. Glass rained down, the pieces lodging themselves in the pristine white carpet.
Thick, red blood began to ooze from the tears, staining the floor, creeping up his boots, up his legs, up his jacket, dripping from the fabric. The shards were mocking him, mocking him from every angle, as he shouted in horror, and yanked his jacket off, but it had seeped through to his shirt, which he tore at, but the skin underneath was coated with blood, and he had to get it off get it off get it off get it –
"Gilbert!"
... and he came back to himself in one quick flash of rationality.
Ludwig had slapped him, hard, across the face, and he had fallen onto spotless ground.
"What the fuck was that?" Germany yelled, towering over him, blue eyes wide with fear.
"W- what?" Gilbert coughed, getting slowly to his feet. His fingers were still closed around a long strip of blue fabric. He looked down at himself, and recoiled in horror. Fresh, painful wounds were opening, lining his arms and stomach.
"Yeah! That!"
"I..."
Gilbert was, for once, lost for words.
"Are you trying to fucking kill yourself!"
"I'm... I didn't..."
"Germany?" said a new voice. "What's-"
"Go back inside, Feli," Ludwig ground out. "I'll be back in a moment."
"Okay!"
For a moment, silence reigned. Ludwig's eyes had briefly closed, and when they opened again, Gilbert noticed that they were shockingly cold. Unfeeling, and closeted. They reminded him uncomfortably of the Second World War.
"Has anything else like this happened to you before?"
Gilbert hastily shook his head, and then winced as the line of blotchy slices on his neck began to throb anew.
"Go," said Ludwig, tonelessly. "Leave."
"But-"
"GET THE FUCK OUT."
Gilbert slid under his brother's outstretched arm, and strode back down the corridor. A few seconds later, Ludwig heard the front door slam shut.
His hand clenched into a fist, which hit the nearest wall with the force of a bullet. A large section of pale plaster broke away from the backing brick.
"Ludwig! Are you alright? I heard a noise and I was frightened and then I saw Prussia driving away and I... mmph!"
Germany tugged Feliciano in close to his chest, cradling the smaller boy's shoulders like he was made of porcelain. He was like a clock, Ludwig thought, for all his fragility. It would almost be too easy to shatter him into a thousand, irreparable pieces.
Ludwig, said Feliciano, clinging eagerly back, I'm sorry for breaking your clocks. I'm sorry that I keep having nightmares. I'm sorry that you had to miss the world meeting to look after me. I'm sorry for... for not making you pasta, and for not singing, and for not cleaning... I'm sorry for not smiling anymore...
Then he realised that he wasn't speaking, he was only thinking all those wonderful things, but when he opened his mouth to say them, he couldn't seem to find the words.
"What do you want, Canada?"
Canada shifted in his chair, violet eyes darting nervously around Germany's study. A bookcase, a large oak desk scattered with papers, a heavy green coat hanging on a hook.
"I wanted to know."
Russia blinked in confusion, frowning down at the blonde. "Wanted to know what?"
Canada's eyes latched onto the broken clock, still hanging on the opposite wall. Spots of blood still edged the crack. "Everyone else is... isn't the same as they used to be... before. But you weren't affected at all. Why is that?"
Ivan appeared to ponder the question, his fingers linking together and a tiny crease appearing between his eyebrows. In truth, he knew exactly why he was not broken like the rest of the Nations trapped within the mansion. It was because...
Because...
No one in that house... cared whether he lived or died. And in return, he did not care for them.
The painful truth suddenly smarted within him, and his throat was suddenly clogged with tears. He swallowed them away, and looked back up at Canada.
"You know," he commented, making the other Nation jump. "Everyone else has cried. Everyone else has mourned. But I have not cried once. Do you know why that is?"
"I don't understand you," said Canada simply. Although, he thought, in a way, he did. Nowadays, everyone could be understood, for their facades displayed the exact opposite of what they were truly feeling.
Another pause.
Then Russia smiled. "Don't worry about me. I am managing, just as everyone else is managing."
Canada stood up, and for one moment, Russia could very clearly distinguish between him and his brother. He appeared to be so much more mature then America; wiser, and more serious. Those eyes seemed to see right into his very soul. It made him uncomfortable.
"If you need someone to talk to... I'm here. Don't forget that."
Russia nodded. "I won't."
Canada pushed his chair back under the desk, and started for the door.
Thank you.
"America."
"What is it, England?"
"Is it true?"
"What?"
"That you love me?"
"I..."
"They are all attempting to get us together, aren't they?"
"I... I don't know, Arthur. Are they?"
"I'm not even going to dignify that idiotic statement with a response."
"So... How about it?"
"I... I don't know. You..."
You were always there for me. Whenever I died, whenever I tripped, whenever I attempted to protect someone else... I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP. NO, NO, NO...
"Why, Alfred? Why were you there?"
"Because... Because you needed me, I guess. You're important to me."
"How important? On a scale of one to ten?"
"Uh... A hundred, I suppose. Your scale just ain't big enough."
What's in the box, Italy?
You really should've learned to smile a little more naturally, you know… How many fingers am I holding up? You will not esca-
"Shut up!"
"Calm down! Italy, calm down! Potato Bastard! Spain! Spain, where are you?"
"No," whimpers Italy, pointing a trembling finger accusingly toward his brother. Crouched, cowering by the bare, whitewashed wall, he appears to be merely a small child, frightened by terrors of the night.
"Italy, what-"
"YOU'RE DEAD! YOU'RE DEAD, DEAD, DEAD, DEAD…"
"No!" snaps Romano. "I'm not dead, Veneziano, I'm right here!"
"You're not dead," says Italy, dazedly. "Not dead… But you will be… In fifteen seconds, you will be dead, because…"
"Feli."
"Thank fuck, Potato Bastard. It took you long enough."
Italy screams with laughter, tears running down his flushed, aching cheeks. "You'll be dead!" he cried. "Because… Because I'll kill you!"
"Italy!"
He lunges for Romano's throat.
Germany catches him, mid-dive, around the waist.
Romano, shaking, white-faced, led gently from the room by a distraught Spain.
"It was my watch," whispers South Italy, once they had cleared the corridor. "It must have been. He doesn't like clocks anymore."
Spain, looking down at Romano's wrist, sees no watch, and wonders if he isn't half-mad as well.
That night, Japan dreamed.
It was not a lucid dream, like those he had experienced in the Mansion. It wasn't a clear picture.
A mere jumble of thoughts, faces, sounds and emotions.
"What's in the box?"
"…Hope…"
So fragile, tentative. Like the blossoms of a particularly beautiful flower he had once nurtured.
The tree had lain barren for years. It had appeared, for all intents and purposes, to be a cluster of twigs, glued together at its trunk.
One freezing winters day, it had bloomed, bearing incredible pink and gold flowers the colour of rich, cherry-infused syrup.
The scent had wafted in through the open screens, infusing the room with an amazing smell that had lingered for days and days.
The flowers didn't last. Not a week had gone past before they had fallen. Broken petals, scattered in the dirt.
"By the way," said Italy, "there's nothing in that box."
Nothing, save for a piece of metal.
Metal that slotted into a catch in the attic wall, which led to a room cloaked in moons, coated in bloody numbers, and in the corner, there was a key…
"No…" Italy had whispered, sounding for all the world like Atlas, bearing a thousand tonnes on his shoulders. "It was always there…"
"Italy… The box is empty…"
The night was dark, yet cloudless. A thousand tiny stars pierced the sky, with no moon to overlook them.
In the Mansion, there had been no stars. Italy had looked for them, every night, through bars in an upstairs window.
He glanced backward toward sleeping Germany. He looked so peaceful. He could almost be dead, but for his chest, which rose and fell in time with his shallow breathing.
"I… I love you, Germany... I... Sorry."
Then he crept from the house.
The earth was damp. The air smelt of strange spices, and blooming flowers. Spring was coming. The rain was almost here.
"Italy! Italy, come back inside!"
Italy's amber eyes widened in fright, searching the strong figure standing in the window for any signs of anger, of frustration. He clutched his hand to his chest, as though holding a book, though he grasped at thin air. The Diary had been left behind. He wouldn't need it again.
The World Summit Place was not too far away.
The crowded streets were empty.
The lit windows had been darkened.
Italy wandered the streets. He knew where to go. He just wished to say goodbye to the beautiful world beyond the door.
"Germany will be sad," he whispered to himself. "I made Germany sad. I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I've made Germany sad, and Romano sad, and Japan, and England, and Spain, and France… They won't come in after me, will they? They won't come in after me, and ruin all my plans? That is what they did last time, and it didn't work… Still, everyone died… This time, it has to only be me, and then I can make sure, that none of them, will, ever die, again."
His phone rang.
Germany is stronger, but he isn't faster… He won't make it here in time…
He ignored the call, and carried on, towards the slowly rising sun, towards that place.
The gate was cold to the touch. The front door was open. The windows were shuttered.
"Goodbye… I'm so sorry… This was all my fault…"
"VENEZIANO!"
"Fratello..."
Hazel into amber.
Brother to brother.
"Fratello," he whispered. His voice was carried far on the silent wind. The whole Universe could hear them. "Fratello… Will you fill in for me at work tomorrow?"
Lovino's lips trembled.
"Tomorrow," murmured Feliciano, "and the next day, and the one after that, and… and… forever and ever…"
"No! FUCKING HELL, FELI, NO, I CAN'T!"
And the stoic Nation had finally broken, and the world was tumbling to pieces, and the stars were falling, and the Universe was crumbling around the brown haired man, child, on his knees, face turned towards the sky.
"GET BACK HERE, FELI! I… I can't…"
Feliciano smiled. "Lovino… I can't hear you. The call… it got cut off…"
The gate opened.
Clammy, rotten hands reached out to grab him by the throat, around the mouth, dragging him backwards into the Mansion, downward, downward, down to hell, where he surely would go for all his sins.
Holy Rome. His white cloak fluttered in the wind.
He smiled.
I knew you'd be back.
A tiny boy ran through a field, dress streaming out behind him, the colour of the endless field around him.
Another ran to meet him. His cap flew off his head, betraying his pale blonde hair, flying higher and higher, up to the galaxies above.
"Build a nation with me, Italia… Stay with me…"
So Italy stayed.
AN. Please review. It takes, what, two seconds? (Sorry...Rude author is rude...)
Um... Yes. Well. Italy. Hmmm. Take this story as you will: negative or otherwise.