Despite being friends with the overly affectionate Italian for decades, Germany still found himself awkwardly glancing down at the two hand clasped.

One large and callused, nails short and clean with the care of someone with OCD. It's fingers curled so it only barely hung to the other, unsure and clumsy with the gesture.

The other was smaller and thinner. It's only prominent callous was the one at the top of the middle finger, an artist's signature. It was stained red and sore from work it was not yet accustomed to, and a small scratch marked the side of the palm. It's long fingers were clinging to it's friend's hand tightly.

It was remarkable what hands said about their owners. How Germany had never noticed this before the Problem stunned him.

Hands spoke numbers.

And now Northern Italy's was speaking loudly and clearly as his solid grip began to liquefy.

Germany slowly raises his head, knowing exactly what he'd see.

A slack-jawed expression. Blank eyes. A twitching muscle in his lower eyelid.

Resignation fills his chest. Spain had already seen, and strides over from the careful distance he'd maintained. Reluctantly, Germany relinquishes his hold on the Italian's hand and steps back, ignoring the resounding Please. Please just a bit longer. Just this once, echoing in his head. It was useless after all.

He backs away, watching Spain take his place, knowing that if he lingered too long, he'd be noticed by That Person and this whole thing would hurt more.

Italy blinks his honey eyes lethargicly a few times before the warmth evaporates and defensive anger takes over.

"What the heck do ya think you're playing at tomato-weirdo?!" He snaps and jerks his hand out of the Spaniard's.

Spain smiles, apparently unhurt by his reaction and exclaims, "Romano! You're back again!"

Romano glares, not understanding the real meaning his his words, assuming only as he'd been told, and retorts something bratty.

Germany watches, decidedly reminding himself that he was a soldier, and seeing his best friend turn into a stranger didn't affect him. One thought overshadows the insistent You're lying! You care and you heart breaks every time his happens, but you still can't bear to give up on the only person who loves you, and that is the cold, sombering realization.

I bet this hurts Spain worse.

.%.

Spain smiles and plays along, acting as normally as he can with the ripping pains in his sensitive heart. It was agonizing to hear Romano's complaints screeched with Veneziano's voice. Horrible to see that familiar scowl twisted over North Italy's gentle, childish face.

And yet, this was Romano. This was the child-nation he had raised. He couldn't keep from loving every moment his former charge was returned to life, despite missing him bitterly at the same time.

He tries so hard to reassure himself, It's alright! It's all fine! Romano is here, beside you. Enjoy it. Treasure it as you always have.

But the voice of reason always whispers, How much longer can this continue? This isn't Romano. This is fragile Veneziano, coping badly to his brother's death. You're selfish, enjoying pretending while you hurt Germany and all Veneziano's other loved ones. All so you can spend time with a dead hateful child who's only friend was you.

All Spain can do is chirp something cheery and gaze at Germany from the corner of his eyes. He took in the stiffness of his form, the soldiering neutral expression and Spain hurts for the other Nation locked into this bizarre spiral.

I bet this hurts him worse.

.%.

The representative of Southern Italy had died.

It was a curious, depressing thing. Especially since it had not involved his country at all.

His passing had not had the slightest effect on anything. No economic problems, no change in weather, no sudden incident for his people.

It was the most confusing Nation death ever. Especially since, as a nation, it should have been much harder to end his life.

Dozens of theories spawned, but the most sensible was, as only half of Italy, his resistance to demise was less. All he had stood for must have shifted onto the other Italy's shoulders.

Veneziano had been devastated by the loss of his older brother. He had become depressed and withdrawn for a while, acting as only a shadow of himself. Slowly, he deteriorated, his condition becoming more severe. For a while, his loved ones made sure he was always watched just to be sure he wouldn't make an attempt on his own life.

Not eating. Not sleeping. Not moving.

Sometimes he appeared almost catatonic, lost in a trance. Sometimes he'd have a fit, flailing and crying violently until he was restrained and calmed. Sometimes he looked bitter and far older than anyone had seen the naïve Italian.

Over all, it was a horrid state.

As he couldn't take care of himself, his friends and kind volunteers took over.

The entire situation was bleak. His mood and self-neglect caused strain within his country. Everyone was afraid that eventually a mistake would be made and Italy would cease to exist.

Then, he had improved.

And suddenly, he changed.

Nations were resilient to mental pain. It was a part of their lives after all. So perhaps the same theory from earlier applied here, him being only half a nation, so only half as resilient.

Either way, it still startled them when he abruptly became angery and spiteful, pushing away everyone and spitting foul words like a second language. When they tried to understand, he had revealed that he was actually "Romano".

They had been confused and shocked. Every time he was assured that he was not in fact Romano, and that Romano was actually no longer alive, he only became more temperamental.

Then he'd reverted back to normal Italy. When the subject was broached, Italy was only confused. He didn't seem to recall Romano's death at all, nor the months spent grieving. They'd eventually decided that he was suffering from both Dissociative Identity Disorder and possibly slight Dissociative Amnesia.

Since then, Spain and Germany had been switching off in taking care of him. Both personalities believed they suffered blackouts. Both believed their sibling was simply away somewhere.

As depressing as it all was, it was a definite improvement from the severe depression from before.

So they struggled through every day, waiting for cues to play their parts.

Italy, in some vague sense of coherence, somewhere within his contorted mind, wondered who was hurting most in this little game.

He realized it didn't matter.

All of them were suffering together, all for one reason.

If only Italy knew how to fix it.

Non-beta'd or rechecked, so there may be mistakes.