The room in which Italy stored his paintings was at the back of the apartment. It was perfectly square, and there was only one window, which most of the time he hid behind a curtain, so as to prevent the sunlight from fading the paint. He kept a multitude of paintings in there – huge canvases that were now finished, and framed, and rough etchings that were only half-covered with colour, but still beautiful, in their own way, and barely-there pencil sketches, tucked away in sketchpads, bound by string and ribbon. Italy felt no guilt about leaving one idea unfinished and moving on to the next. He had eternity to work on his art, after all.
Italy liked to go in there most days to look at his own work. He didn't think of it as arrogance: he simply admired beautiful things, and he always managed to find something beautiful in any piece of art, whether it had been created by himself or somebody else; and besides, he was proud of his work, of his skill, of the time he'd put in to improving his technique. And it made him happy; it pleased him, to look at the paintings, and to know that he had accomplished something, to know that the tiny ideas he had incubated and pruned had flourished, had taken root firmly enough in his hands and pencils that now they were thickly daubed across canvasses before him.
It was a particularly sunny afternoon when it started. Or rather – it didn't start then, no…because he'd already had the cough for a while – but it was sunny, and his cough was especially fierce, and he recalled seeing the little white specks of dust drifting through bars of sunlight all around him.
He closed the door, and began moving slowly, carefully, about the room. Today he wanted to examine the canvasses. The still uncompleted ones stood on their easels, or at the top of a stack of others, or else they leant against the wall close to the door, covered with lightweight sheets for easy access. The older paintings, the ones he had finished long ago and didn't have room to display at present, and the unfinished pieces he knew would remain unfinished for a while, were wrapped in brown paper, hidden away behind their bright brothers and sisters. Italy knelt down, and began sifting through a pile of small, squarish canvasses tucked away in a dark corner and covered in a thick layer of dust. These paintings had not been touched for a longer length of time than he'd first thought, he realised.
Squatting back on his heels, he picked up the first canvas, and blew the dust from it. It plumed like pale smoke in the air before him, and he coughed, loudly. His cold was getting worse, he thought. Never mind. He set to pulling away the hairy strings binding the canvas, and ripping back the ancient paper. It tore apart easily, and sent another white cloud billowing upwards. Italy covered his mouth and nose.
The painting was unfinished – at least, he thought it was. It was very, very old. Perhaps it had simply faded? Perhaps the paint had dried out, and been rubbed and chipped away. He let his fingertips run lightly over the surface. It felt rough, and brittle. It was also upside-down. Cautiously, Italy turned the painting the right way up. He smiled.
It was a portrait. A picture he'd painted a long time ago, of a little boy with pink cheeks and a serious mouth and strict blond hair. He laughed out loud, remembering how he'd told the boy he looked really angry as he'd painted him.
Holy Rome had become flustered. His hands had clenched and unclenched in his long black cloak.
And Italy had laughed, and told him he was just joking. And Holy Rome had settled, somewhat, though in the end he still looked like he was about to headbutt somebody.
Italy smiled again, shaking his head as he put the painting carefully down, and went to the chest of drawers at the back of the room where he kept rolls of brown paper, and scissors, and string. The memories weren't particularly painful. Not anymore. Not after so very long. Sometimes there was a sad ache in the back of his throat, or deep within his chest, and he found it difficult to speak. But most of the time he could think back on those times spent at Austria's house quite happily. And he knew that one day, everything would come full circle. He did not doubt that for a second.
He studied the little boy's face again as he knelt in the dust once more, and prepared to re-wrap the painting. He was, he thought, so very handsome. He always had been. He smiled at those solemn blue eyes, and wondered, not for the first time, if he ought to show one of his paintings of Holy Rome to Germany. For a brief moment, he entertained the notion. He pictured stern gaze meeting stern gaze, and…
But no. No, he thought, he would trust it all to fate, and to God. What would come to pass, would come to pass. Everything would sort itself out in the end.
Italy remembered his renaissance quite well. It had been a marvellous time for him, after all. He had flourished. He remembered earlier times too, but less clearly – and at some point, the smooth , straight road of remembrance began to wind, and became pitted with bumps and potholes. And at some points the road vanished completely. And Italy saw nothing at all, only vague flashes of what he had once been.
He didn't completely remember choosing his human form. He did remember – or at least, he had a vague notion of the idea – that he'd been unable to decide if he wanted to be male or female. In the end, male had won (just) but he'd been able to retain some elements of that beautiful female human form – curves and softness instead of hard muscles, and big eyes that he liked immensely.
His form had altered a little, to keep up with the changing chins and postures and noses of mankind, but for the most part it had remained the same. It still wasn't his though; not entirely. It was pieced together, really, like a collage, Italy's favourite pieces of humanity tacked together: fingers he'd once seen, sweetness he'd long ago sensed. And even though it wasn't truly his (no more than his name was, and that would also have to change again, like his form, at some point) he liked it a great deal. And he was very happy.
He finished wrapping the painting up, and put it back in the corner. It was exceptionally dusty back there. He coughed again, hard. "Ugh," he said, when the scratchy tickling in his throat and the pressure in his chest had subsided. But his voice was thinner than usual, hoarse, the vocal equivalent of aging sandpaper.
It was unpleasant, but it did not matter. He couldn't expect anything else, in truth, what with the financial crisis and so forth. He would go and have a coffee, he decided, and a throat sweet, and see how the afternoon panned out.
Two days later he was in Brussels. Germany had texted him. He was in the bar at Le Meridien, he said. There was an x at the end of the message, which Italy appreciated greatly. It made him smile to think of Germany dithering over whether or not to include the note of affection. Perhaps that was why Germany had included it? It was not so much the thing itself as the saturated meaning of it…his mind wandered, and before long, the cab was drawing up before the hotel. The concierge desk called for a porter, and Italy headed straight for the bar. All rooms were the same, after all.
Germany was sat in a corner at a low table, legs crossed, scowling at a Belgian newspaper. He didn't seem to notice as Italy approached – and he started when Italy placed his hands over his eyes, and kissed him on the top of his neat blond hair.
"Italy?"
"Guten Tag," Italy said, smiling.
Germany twisted from his grip, and stood up. He kissed Italy once on each cheek, as was expected – but he also wrapped his arms around Italy's back, and allowed the other nation to lean all his weight into him.
"What's wrong with your voice?" he murmured.
"Cough," said Italy, distantly. His throat still felt raw, as though it had been filed, and it hurt to speak.
Germany's arms slid away from him, and his hands moved steadily to Italy's shoulders.
"You sound awful," he said. He didn't mean it in a callous way – Italy had long since grown used to Germany's bluntness, his awkward manner of phrasing things – it was just another facet of his being Italy adored. "Would you like to go to the room? You could take a nap until dinner."
A nap sounded wonderful, but what Italy really craved was to stay with Germany – to keep looking at him, listening to his voice, touching him. He shook his head. "Let's stay here," he said. Germany didn't look particularly happy at this idea, but he sat back down, and called for a waiter to bring his companion a glass of white wine.
"You aren't the only one who's ill," Germany said, when the wine had been brought over, and Italy was sipping from the glass, head tilted to the side as he fondly regarded the other. "Austria is very pale. He said that he fainted the other day."
"What else can we expect in this economy?" Italy said, and then he played his own words back to himself, and he opened his mouth wide and laughed.
Germany laughed too, quietly, ducking his head.
"Listen to me!" Italy croaked, and he passed a hand over his eyes. "Ah! Does it turn you on?"
"Oh, shut up," Germany said, poking him in the shin with the toe of his highly polished shoe.
Italy shook his head, still smiling, and his laughter died down, only to be replaced by violent, throaty coughs.
Germany sat forwards, quickly, taking the slopping glass of Chenin Blanc from the other's hand, and laid a hand gently on his back.
"Do you need some water?" he said.
"I'll be fine," Italy said, but his throat was tight, and he could hear his own intakes of breath labouring, rattling on the arduous journey between his mouth and his lungs.
"I really think –" Germany began, but Italy flapped a hand at him, half-turning away, stooping his back and balling a fist before his mouth. His cheeks turned pink as he coughed, hard.
Germany worried about Italy, a lot. He worried about his ditzy mind, his lackadaisical attitude, the way he would become so wrapped up in his paintings, his hobbies, his fantasy world, his friends – he worried that one day Italy would slip down the rabbit hole and never come out. He kept a hand on Italy's back, stroking it ineffectually. Physically, it would do nothing. But it was a way to let the other nation know he was there, a reassurance to both Italy and to himself that he was trying his best, that he was attempting to protect Italy, to keep sickness at bay, to calm him, if nothing else.
Italy choked and coughed and turned purple, and then, finally, eased his way into an upright position.
"I'm fine," he said. His voice was hoarse, and his eyes were bright, and watery. Germany allowed his hand to slide down the other's back. He touched his hand, briefly. Even over the chatter that filled the bar, even over the clinking of glasses and cutlery and the ringing of the cash register and the faint, low hum of the dishwasher, he could hear Italy struggling to breathe. His own lungs clenched tight in sympathy. And his chest hurt.
"Very well," he said.
But all was not well. And through the lush red carpets, and the shimmering wine glasses, and the linen suits, some uneasy smoke permeated their skin. And it was invisible, but Germany could still sense it, could still feel it, could still shudder at its touch. And he knew that something was changing. And in Italy's eyes he could see the same sense of recognition, and the same tense fear. And yet neither of them spoke about it; and neither of them knew it. And so they remained there in the bar, throats and chests tight, struggling to respire, saying nothing.
And the change crept closer, mute.
That night, they were having dinner with Spain and Romano. Germany was not particularly looking forward to spending the evening being verbally abused by the latter; but for Italy's sake, he would tolerate it. By about six thirty, however, he was feeling exhausted. There was a sharp pain directly behind his right eye, and in truth, he wanted nothing more than to curl up behind Italy, who was at present lying on the bed watching TV. But instead he picked up a towel, and sloped into the shower in an attempt to rouse himself somewhat.
It seemed to do the trick, he thought: his headache slowly faded into the steam, and the water hammering down on his shoulders perked him up a little (particularly when he gave himself one final cold blast before stepping onto the bathmat). However when he ventured back out into their room, damp-haired and wrapped in one of the thick, white, hotel towels, he felt that it had been something of an exercise in futility.
Italy was still on the bed – but his entire body had relaxed, and his eyes were closed. His breaths were deep and slow and hypnotic, and just listening to them, and watching the steady swell and droop of his chest made Germany sway with exhaustion on the spot.
He padded silently across the carpet, and leant over Italy's soft, sprawled body.
"Italy," he whispered, barely audibly. The sight of the other, so still, so peaceful, was both calming and beautiful. And, if he was being completely honest, at that moment he would rather have spent a thousand years lying with his eyes shut and listening to the sound of his lover sleeping than gorging himself on an infinite number of delicious and expensive meals with any other company. So he sent a quick, apologetic text message to Spain. And he dropped his towel. And he lowered himself down at Italy's side. And he closed his eyes. And he slept.
When Italy awoke the following day his throat felt like it had been stuffed with metal wool then set alight. He tried to swallow, to wet the back of his tongue and provide some comfort to himself, but his throat simply puffed out in anger, burned hotter. His skin was hot too, and damp; it prickled viciously, and wept, binding the sheets tightly against his body and raising the temperature even further.
He sat up, fighting the blankets. At his side, Germany slept on. He removed himself from the bed, and struggled into the bathroom. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest with acute and unfamiliar pain. It panicked him, and for a brief moment he considered waking his bedmate. But the chill of the air against his arms and back, and the tiles against his feet steadied him, grounded and rooted him, his self, his existence – and, gradually, he felt his heart rate becoming slower and slower until at last it once again reached its regular steady tick. He breathed in deeply, closing his eyes.
In the bedroom, Germany moved – rolled over – but did not wake up. Italy splashed icy water over his face and stared at his image in the mirror. It was rare for Germany to sleep for longer than he did.
Outside, the air was fresh, and the sky was the pale blue of a summer morning. Italy slipped into one of the complementary bath robes, and seated himself on one of the chairs on the balcony, drawing his legs up against his chest, and pressing his cheek to his hard, rounded kneecap.
Somewhere close by a bird sang, loudly and incessantly.
Italy shut his eyes again, and gazed into the endless black. Perhaps it was because he was such a visual person, so appreciative of aesthetics, but it seemed to him that the blackness he saw was not just a vacant blackness, but a blackness populated by tiny pinpricks that were not light, nor miniature pictures, but slight variations in tone: charcoal black against midnight black. The negatives of stars, he thought, and then he remembered his dream.
In his dream, he'd seen a great dark canvas – no, not a canvas, a mouth, a gaping, expanding maw that threatened to consume and destroy and obliterate – and then he'd blinked, and looked again, more closely, and realised that what he was seeing was not hunger after all.
What he could see was a collection of tiny dots, winking in and out of existence, splitting and dividing and clumping together to form bigger dots, but slowly, so, so slowly. And he'd watched this, watched it happen above and beneath and around him, and felt it happen to himself too: he was a single dot, a single wriggling strand, a single thing that had steadily expanded, steadily puffed upwards and outwards, and grown. He'd been warm, too, in the dream – though perhaps that was mainly due to the sheets he'd tangled himself up in – and gradually he'd become aware of his own size, his shape, his mass. He had swelled, and as he swelled, his world too blew outwards.
He saw it all happening again before his eyes – viewed it so vividly, felt it so tangibly – that he had to physically force himself to rip his eyelids apart, to take a deep, deep breath of cold morning air in order to drag himself from the memory.
It was, he thought, a strange dream to have. He'd always liked the idea that dreams were not just chemical reactions, but real stories, real lessons, real fables with real meaning behind them. What, he wondered, was his strange dark dream trying to teach him?
A large, warm hand landed suddenly on his shoulder, and he flinched, almost falling from his chair.
"Good morning," said Germany, and Italy instantly relaxed.
"Morning," said Italy, and it hurt, a lot more than it had done the previous day: it really, truly hurt.
Germany winced in sympathy at the dragging croak of his vocal chords. "Ow," he said, and his hand began moving gentle, soothingly, across the skin bared just above the hotel dressing gown. "That's not good. Why are you awake so early?"
Italy glanced past Germany at the clock standing on the bedside table. It was half past six in the morning. He hadn't even noticed.
"Couldn't sleep," he said, and then he put his hand to his throat.
"I have some throat lozenges somewhere," Germany said, and turned away from the balcony to begin rummaging through his suitcase. Italy drew his legs even closer to his chest miserably, wanting to tell Germany that he didn't want any throat lozenges; all he wanted was for him to come back, to place his hand on his neck again, to stroke his skin and murmur quietly to him in that sleep-slowed and roughened voice he so adored. He said nothing though. It hurt too much. He closed his eyes and watched the dots form strings and chains and bigger dots.
He jumped again when Germany returned with the lozenge, and touched him on the shoulder blade.
"Sorry," said Germany.
Italy took the lozenge from him gratefully, though he wasn't entirely convinced it would stand up to the agony currently sawing its way through his throat. "Thank you," he whispered, and Germany's fingers curled gently in the ends of his hair.
"Why don't we go back to bed for a bit?" he suggested.
Germany hardly ever suggested returning to bed once they had already risen. It was a special occasion, Italy thought, nodding and standing up, one that ought to be taken advantage of.
They lay down on top of the sheets, side-by-side, and Italy put the lozenge in his mouth, and stared at Germany. Germany looked back at him, but after a few moments, turned his face towards the ceiling, cheeks red. Italy didn't mind. Germany was easily embarrassed. It was endearing, really – though, to be fair, Italy found most things about Germany endearing. Romano rolled his eyes whenever his younger brother started waxing lyrical about Germany's odd habits and frustrations, but Italy didn't mind. Romano just didn't see Germany in the way that he did.
Italy looked at him; ran his eyes up his long legs, and his strong stomach and torso, and up and over his neck and head to his blond hair. It was warm, and it was early, and Italy's eyes fell half-shut. He could no longer see the bed, or the walls, or the balcony, or any of the room. All he could see was Germany, suspended in the early morning light, and the dots that swam across the lenses of his eyes and blurred every line in his lover's body. He imagined that Germany was constructed from the dots, the pinpricks, the strings he'd seen in his dream and behind his eyelids: he imagined the dots splitting and gathering and growing until they constructed a whole patch of skin, a finger, a hand, an arm.
He reached out, and pressed his palm to Germany's bicep. It was warm, and the muscle was strong. He ran the very tips of his fingers over it, over every curve, feeling for bones and veins and tiny pale hairs and bumps in the skin. Nations didn't often discuss their human forms. There was no point. You got used to them , Italy supposed. They became normal, a part of you, sort of.
"Germany," he whispered, and Germany grunted, and muttered, "Rest your voice, Italy."
"Germany," he said again, "do you remember choosing your body?"
Germany breathed in slowly, rolling his head to the side. "No," he said. "That was a long time ago…I can hardly remember a few hundred years back."
Italy giggled. It hurt, so he stopped. "You have a bad memory," he said.
Germany smiled. "Do you remember?" he asked, then he turned pink again. It was, Italy thought, with affection, probably a very intimate question for Germany to ask.
"A bit," Italy said. He pulled a face. "I think I do. I remember little snatches…like pictures."
Germany raised one muscular arm, slowly, and reached over, brushing strands of red-brown hair from Italy's eyes. "What's your earliest memory?"
Italy sighed, closing his eyes. He wasn't sure which was the earliest. After a point the images overlapped and jostled with one another, all attached to the same background, like a collage. On the back of his eyelids the dots swarmed again.
"I had a dream last night," he said, lowering his voice as it began to crack and vanish. "I think that might have been it." He paused. "I saw tiny round things, little lights and little strings. They split apart and they grew bigger and bigger. I think I was one of them, looking at my family."
Germany's lips quirked upwards, and Italy knew he was probably internally laughing at his choice of words. "Was I there?" he said, and it seemed that he was only half-teasing.
Italy thought. He wondered. He didn't know. "I'm not sure," he said, and he pictured the tiny dots, the tiny wriggling strings, the minute beginnings of the universe and the building blocks of life. "You probably were," he said, "but neither of us were us yet."