Italy was tired.

It wasn't just Feliciano, no, it was Romano too. North and South. They were exhausted. They were bleeding. They were scarred. The aches, the pains... It was simply unbearable any longer. But it was Romano, ever the pessimist, who finally looked into his brother's eyes and said the words they both knew. The words they both felt.

"Fratello," South Italy said. His voice was strong, but his eyes, his face, betrayed him. He was weary. But more than that, he was weak. And he couldn't fight anymore. "Brother, we can't do this any longer."

Feliciano hadn't understood what his big brother meant. He had thought Romano was exaggerating, as always. He didn't think Romano was being serious. And he certainly didn't think that Romano would act on his words. Sure, they were tired. But that was no reason to give up. They were winning, as he was constantly reassured. The war was theirs. It would only be a matter of time.

The armistice was arranged without the knowledge of North Italy. It had happened one day, while he was laying in bed, looking out the window at the sunlight and thinking about Germany. His chest was bare, skin being kissed by the sun, fingering the cross around his neck. It was cold on his skin. He was smiling, in spite of the pain deep within his body. He was smiling because there was so much to be smiling for. He smiled for sunlight. He smiled for pasta. He smiled for the people walking by. He smiled for the soldiers, though they looked nearly as worn as he was. He smiled for this great cause they were fighting for. He smiled for Germany. He always smiled for Germany.

Feliciano rose from bed, taking in his reflection in a mirror on the opposite wall. Though his skin was tan, the pinkness was gone from his cheeks. His face looked pallid, sickly. His eyes, when he opened them, were more sunken into his face than usual. He ran his tongue over chapped lips and sniffed at his runny nose.

Italy wondered. Why was he so sick? Perhaps it was the tax of war... Italy had not been in many wars. He didn't know how to fight. He was an artist, a dancer, a lover, not a soldier. But it wasn't unusual for countries to become less than healthy during times of war. Ludwig had certainly been looking a bit sicker these days. So had Kiku. He would have a bit of Japan's herbal tea with breakfast then, to give him strength. Today he had training with Germany, and it wouldn't do him well to slack off again-

The door to his bedroom flew open. Romano stood in the doorway, a stony look on his face. "Fratello?" Italy stuttered, surprised by the sudden intrusion. "Ve, is something wrong?"

Romano said nothing, just walked further into the room. He was trying very hard to compose his face, but Feliciano didn't need his body language. The bond he shared with Romano- they weren't just brothers, they were a nation- told him something was wrong. His eyes gave it all away. They were determined. They were scared. For a few moments they stood staring into one another's faces, desperately trying to communicate without words. "Get dressed," Romano commanded, finally looking away from Feliciano.

North Italy rattled off panicked questions that went unanswered, so finally he simply reached into the top drawer of his dresser. With trembling fingers, he began to pull on his uniform, but Romano stopped him. "No," he ordered, his voice choked. "Don't wear that."

"But Brother, why not? I have to wear it, I have training today, and Germany told me to wear it, and if I don't then he'll be angry with me and he won't let me eat pasta-" Feliciano's rant was cut short by the sudden look of pain in Romano's eyes. "Brother, what's wrong?" He asked again, heart racing. It wasn't like Romano to act like this. It wasn't like him at all. And somewhere in his gut Italy felt a strange, nauseous feeling, something that told him things were very wrong, and it made his heart start to race. Romano busied himself retrieving different clothes from the dresser. Feliciano didn't even look to see what they were, he just wordlessly put them on, which if he had been thinking straight he never would have done because he didn't like Romano's fashion sense very much, but his heart was pounding and his thoughts were reeling and his headache was hurting so much more intensely now-

He closed his eyes, and time ticked by. When he opened them again he was somewhere else. A warm, dimly lit room with a heavy wooden desk and chairs filled with people. Some of them, he recognized as nations but some of them were humans. But not just any humans, they were leaders, and with fear in his heart he looked around for Romano. The floor beneath him was churning, and he could hear muffled talk in English, but it was like his ears were stuffed with cotton. Romano was sitting next to him, no longer a stony look on his face, but now a look of defeat. There were papers on the table, and one of them was pushed toward South Italy.

Feliciano watched his brother's fingers tremble as he picked up a pen by his hand. It was much to warm in this room, and a few droplets of sweat ran down his older brother's face. "Fratello, per favore, tell me what's going on," North Italy begged in a whisper.

Romano looked at him, the pen hovering over the paper. "It's over," he said, voice barely audible. He set the pen against the document, hands shaking as he signed the bottom. With a sigh, he closed his eyes- in defeat? in victory? or in something else entirely?- and slid the paper to his younger brother.

Feliciano's curious eyes fell on the document. Armistizio di Cassibile. Cassibile Armistice. His heart pounded with a renewed horror. Armistice. Armistice. "No," he breathed, eyes wide, fingers not willing to touch the paper, eyes not willing to read the words. "No," he repeated, turning to look at his brother so fast he got whiplash. "This- this isn't... no. No!" Anger fueled his voice. "What about the war, brother? What about the cause? What about," his voice cracked and became a near whisper on the word, the single word that made his heart clench up, his eyes water. "What about Germany?"

Oh God. God. Dio. What about Ludwig? What would he do when he found out? What would he think? That Feliciano had betrayed him. Completely and utterly betrayed him. After everything... After everything they had gone through. Hot, salty tears nearly blinded his vision. He felt Romano grab his hand. Hard.

"Sei un idiota!" he hissed through clenched teeth. "Stupido! This is the only way out! Don't you understand?" A sob wracked Feliciano's body. Romano never yelled at him like this. "Brother, we are losing! Do you get it? We are losing the war! Our homes, our cities, our villages, they're destroyed! Our people are starving!"

Feliciano looked up at Romano, shocked, as a few tears rolled down his face. "H-how can you say that?" he asked, voice quivering. "Germany told me that we're advancing, that everything is going well-"

"He is lying to you!" Romano screamed, squeezing his hand harder. "I am your brother, listen to me! Believe me! I'm trying to protect you! I'm trying to help you!" It took Feliciano a few moments to realize it, but soon he saw that Romano was also crying. His cheeks were red with anger, and his eyes were red with tears. "There is no other way out," he said. "I am not going to watch you die in front of me."

Italy's frantic eyes scanned the document. He saw his brother's signature at the bottom. Lovino Romano Vargas. He couldn't do it. He couldn't make himself sign the paper. He couldn't make himself pick up the pen. He just sat there and stared, thinking about Germany, and his promises, their promises to each other. Germany had promised to always protect him. To never leave him behind. Feliciano reached up towards his throat, feeling the cold iron cross around his neck.

'I'll help you whenever you're in trouble. So stop worrying, okay?'

Italy closed his eyes. With shaking, uncertain fingers, he reached back behind his neck and unclasped the necklace, letting it fall into his other hand. He felt sick. He had never betrayed anyone like this before. He ran his thumb over the dark, glossy stone in an attempt to clean the smudges. His tears had subsided from heavy sobs into quiet, lonely tears that escaped his eyes unwillingly. He brushed them off his cheeks and pushed the necklace into his pocket.

His people needed him. And as a nation, his duty was to his people first. He couldn't allow his people to suffer. Couldn't let them die just because of a promise. Feliciano reached for the pen. He glanced over at his brother's face quickly, but Romano wasn't looking at him. He was staring down at his hands, his jaw clenched tightly in what Feliciano assumed was an attempt to stop himself from crying any more. Feliciano returned his attention to the document, taking a deep breath to try and calm himself down before placing the pen against the paper. Slowly, he carved out his name. F-e-l-i-c-i-a-n-o...

Oh, what would Germany do when he found out? Would he be upset? Would he cry? Or would he just be angry? Would he try to hurt Italy in return? Would he try to punish him? Or perhaps he might never want to speak to Italy again? Feliciano's hands hesitated for a moment, but soon picked up where he had left off. ... V-e-n-e-z-i-a-n-o...

North Italy wasn't sure if he could live if Germany was angry at him. He might never forgive himself. Now Germany had an even higher chance of losing the war, if it was really as bad as his brother made it seem. And if his people were starving, what about the German people? What was happening to them? Shouldn't they still be trying to help Germany, if it was really all that bad? ... V-a-r-g-a-s.

There. He set the pen down on the table, letting out the breath he had been holding in a long sigh. The document was taken away from him by unfamiliar hands. It was over.

Italy reached into his pocket and held onto the cross as tightly as he could. Mi dispiace, Germania, he thought, swallowing thickly to fight back the tears.

I'm sorry, Germany.

Unbeta-ed. Written two years ago. I stumbled across this last night while cleaning out my old documents and decided it needed uploading.