"There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds."
― Laurell K. Hamilton, Mistral's Kiss
Veneziano cries in his sleep sometimes. It's silent and it's painful to look at and, the first time he noticed it, Germany had been shocked. It was early in the morning- It couldn't have been past three. Germany didn't really know what woke him for sure. It could've been his sixth sense for the Italian, or it could have been a sniffle.
Germany frowned as he wearily listened silently for any hint of what had woken him. Was Prussia trying to pull a prank on him again? Germany scowled as his eyes scanned the darkness, only to find nothing. He wearily relaxed and closed his eyes again. He had about two more hours to sleep.
Just as Germany was about to doze off again, he realized something. He couldn't feel the usual warmth of the Italian that was usually beside him. Germany's eyes snapped open. Veneziano was always cuddled up right next to him, try as he might to get rid of him. He turned on his side and frowned at the being curled up against the wall.
Then he heard something. Germany blinked and his brow furrowed, trying to decode exactly what the sound was. Then he heard it again. A sniffle, no doubt. Germany frowned. Was the Italian getting sick? His economy wasn't that bad, he shouldn't be...
Germany sat up and reached for the lamp beside his bed, turning it on and dulling the brightness slightly. Veneziano whimpered and Germany's eyes widened. He was sick, wasn't he? The poor idiot. Germany reached out to him and turned Veneziano to face him.
Germany's breath hitched and his heart stuttered to a stop at the glistening cheeks and red, puffy eyes. He was... crying. Germany blinked and tried to brush it off. He was probably having a dream and had stubbed his toe in it or something...
Still, he felt uneasy, so he woke the Italian. "Italy?" He whispered, frowning. Veneziano's breath stuttered as he groggily opened his eyes. "Germany?" Veneziano sniffed in response. "Um... Did you... have a bad dream?" Germany asked cautiously. "What? I..." Veneziano felt the stickiness on his cheeks and averted his gaze in shame. "It's... It's nothing. I- I just- This happens sometimes, and- I'm sorry, it bothered you, didn't it? I'm sorry, I'll go to my room." Veneziano murmured, sitting up as Germany shook his head in alarm.
"No- You don't have to- It's just- Just- Go back to bed, it's okay." Germany soothed the upset man. "I'm sorry." Veneziano whispered again in response, as he reluctantly laid back down. Germany shook his head in response. "No- I was just- concerned." Germany sighed. "I'm sorry." Veneziano once again whispered. Germany merely shushed him gently before he reached back and turned off the light.
Germany wordlessly guided the Italian's head to rest on his chest as it usually did, and wrapped an arm around him. "Sleep." He murmured. And so Veneziano did. There were no more tears that night.
But they visited once again a few days later.
"Some old wounds never truly heal, and bleed again at the slightest word."
― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones
Spain was, in a way, stupid. Naïve, even. He knew this. But- He really wished he wasn't. Especially when it caused his poor Romano so much pain. It was simple things, things that shouldn't really have been been a problem for a normal person- Oh, gosh, he didn't mean that. Romano was- just special. He needed extra care and nurturing. He wasn't- He wasn't a Goddamn nutcase. Fuck, he didn't mean for it to come out that way.
Anyway. It was the simple things. "Aw, your brother's so cute~!" Was one of his main ticks. Anything complimenting his brother was a tick, actually. He had an inferiority complex towards his younger brother.
If Romano was with another nation or in public when this happened, he'd curse and pitch a fit and run off. But if he was with Spain... He allowed himself to shut down. His facial expression would become blank, not even a frown on his features, and he would become silent. And try as he might, Spain usually couldn't get him back to normal. No amount of apologies or 'fusososo''s would fix it.
And late, late at night, when Romano was supposed to be sleeping, he'd be awake and tearing himself up over it. Spain would listen at the door sometimes, but when it would become too much, he'd go in and try to help the Italian.
Romano would sob and scream quietly and there was this mantra, this chant- "You're good enough, you're good enough, he's not better than you, he's not better than you, you're not trash, you're not, you're not, you just can't be." But after a while it would become darker and he'd give in to what he thought to be the truth.
"You're trash, you're disgusting, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, everyone hates you. Why can't you be more like Veneziano? What's wrong with you, what's wrong with you, what the fuck is wrong with you?" At this point, Spain would rush in.
Romano would usually be sat in a fetal position against the wall. "No, Romano. No, Lovino." Spain would chide gently and take away the Italian hands that were pulling at his hair viciously. And Romano would sob and rock and Spain would rock with him, always rock with him.
"I love you." Spain would mouth against Romano's hair again and again, as if if he did it so many times against his head his brain would get the message and send it down to his fragile little heart and that then Romano would be okay. He'd given up on spoken words long ago; They'd never worked. Romano just didn't get it. He just didn't get how wonderful he really was, and, if they were human, it would be the death of him.
Romano just couldn't comprehend that he was loved, that he wasn't inferior to his brother, that he was fine and beautiful and amazing just the way he was.
After a while, Romano's sobs would calm and he would pass out due to exhaustion. Spain would pick him up and put him in bed and crawl next to him and promise, swear on his soul, that he would never upset Romano again, he wouldn't mess up again.
Spain or someone else would fuck up again, and the cycle would repeat.
"It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone."
― Rose Kennedy
England was sad. Always sad. France knew this, even if no one else seemed to pick up on it. There was just always a hint of something in his eyes, something that never really went away even when he seemed like he was content. Yet- France still made fun of him, and called him the black sheep and made fun of his cooking and eyebrows because- because- Fuck, he didn't want to be mean, but that was what the two were used to.
They were used to- to a kiss with a fist. Yes, that sounded accurate. They were so used to being cruel to each other that it was normal, that they couldn't imagine life without that daily slap and punch and sometimes even that chair over the head.
But England was sad, and France didn't like it and didn't know what to do because England just seemed to not even care anymore. He just took the insults and sent back a half-baked one. It wasn't fair. Why was England suffering?
So France tried something else. He tried being kind to England, didn't insult him or hit him anymore, and even offered to teach him how to cook. For a while, England just seemed surprised. Then he grew angry.
"What the fuck?!" England snapped one morning when France had showed up at his home and made him breakfast. "Wh... What?" France blinked, startled. "Why are you- Why are you treating me like this?!" England snarled, eyes watering with frustration. France replied ever-so-intelligently. "What?" He asked again.
"You- You dick! You're treating me like- like I'm some sort of completely insane, depressed patient in some fucking ward! Stop being so- nice!" England choked on a sob. France swallowed around the ball in his throat. "England, I... I'm just- Fuck." France groaned suddenly, startling England. "I'm just so- worried. You're sad. I can see it. I just- I don't know why." France ran a hand through his hair anxiously.
"I'm not- I'm not sad!" England defied. "I'm not sad! My economy is fine and the Royal Family is doing well and I have a nice home and I shouldn't be upset, I shouldn't be depressed because my life is fine, I should be fine, and feeling anything other than okay is selfish." England hiccuped.
"Depression... It isn't something that... It's okay to be depressed, even if everything around you is fine, because I know you're not fine, you're not okay, you're- God, I'm so sorry. I don't- I don't know what it is that's making you so sad. Memories? The past? But listen to me, I'm here for you. I love you. You're one of my best friends, dammit, let me help you." France let out a sob as he walked forward to envelop the Englishman in a hug. France's words were usually so poetic and smooth- Now they stumbled out of his mouth in a drunken rage.
England grew stiff in his hold. France mentally begged him to not push him away, not this time, to let France help him. "Please leave." England whispered. "No." France whispered back before England dissolved into sobs in his arms.
And France did not leave. Not really. Even when England kicked him out shortly after, he didn't leave- spiritually. France called and texted him and showed up whenever he could to talk to the Englishman and try to bring him out of that deep, dark hole.
He failed.
England attempted to blow his brains out on July 3rd.
He only survived because he was a nation.
England was then given the help he deserved.
But France couldn't help but think that England still wasn't truly happy, not really, and that it was the pills that were.
"The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It's the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared."
― Lois Lowry, The Giver
Late, late at night, when everyone should be sleeping- Germany sometimes hears sobs. Heart wrenching, horrible, painful sobs from deep within the chest. The first night, Germany thought it was the Italian and hurried throughout the house to find the source. He stopped at Prussia's door. His heart clenched and tightened and his stomach churned.
He was hearing things, wasn't he? Sobbing was not coming from his big brother's room. It wasn't. That wasn't possible. Because his brother was big and strong and egotistical and narcissistic and indestructible. Prussia was not sobbing.
Prussia was sobbing. Germany could hear it through the thin door. Germany fidgeted nervously. A quote came to mind; "When someone is crying, of course, the noble thing to do is to comfort them. But if someone is trying to hide their tears, it may also be noble to pretend you do not notice them." -Lemony Snicket.
Should he confront his brother? Or should he just- just pretend he heard nothing and that he was asleep. Germany knew he wouldn't get any sleep if he did the latter, so he opened the door and entered, closing it with a soft click.
There sat his brother on his bed, rocking back and forth and back and forth, tearing at his hair with one hand and scratching at his arm with another. Germany was horrified. He'd thought... Well, he didn't know what he thought he'd see, but this certainly wasn't anything close to it. It was so much worse than anything his imagination could've come up with. His brother was filled with raw, raw pain.
Gilbird chirped anxiously at his arrival as if to both warn his owner and to ask Germany to help Prussia, to save Prussia from himself and his demons. Prussia's red, in more ways than one, eyes darted over to him and there was mortification on the Prussian's part. He grew pale, well, paler, and his scratching and tearing stopped, though the sobs continued.
"Prussia..." Germany breathed raggedly, not realizing he had been holding his breath for so long. "Get out!" Prussia shrieked. Germany's eyes widened. "I- Was? No, I..." "Get out! Get out, get out, get out, get out!" Prussia screamed, not able to bear the thought of his brother witnessing his... whatever this could be called. Breakdown? Attack?
Prussia threw the thing nearest to him- A beer bottle. Germany dodged and his eyes grew wider before he quickly darted out of the room and closed the door. His eyes closed in regret. Prussia didn't want help. He had to fight his own demons.
...
The next morning, Prussia skulked out of his room and to the kitchen where Germany was cooking, the Italian still asleep. Germany turned, about to scold Italy for taking so long, when his breath hitched as he saw his brother. He averted his gaze and the air grew so tense that he would need a sharp blade to slice through it.
"I..." Prussia surprisingly spoke first before clearing his throat. "I'm sorry. About last night." He quietly stated. "It's... okay. Can I ask why, though?" Germany asked just as quietly as he turned back to cooking as a distraction. The sausage sizzling on the pan was the only noise for a while.
"I... I'm really fucking old, you know?" Prussia questioned suddenly, eyes locked on the wall. "I've seen... a lot of fucked up shit. Hell, I've done a lot of fucked up shit, and in turn, fucked up shit has happened to me. I have a lot of memories I'd prefer getting rid of. Not having at all. Not having done or seen or experienced or whatever. And- Fuck, I'm not even a fucking country anymore. I don't have my people and I don't have my land and I don't have the same exact friendships and it- It fucking sucks." Prussia quietly concluded.
Germany swallowed around the knot in his throat. "That's..." Germany searched for a response. "It's okay. I know. You don't have to respond, it's probably hard to, right?" Prussia sighed. Germany nodded slightly in reply. "Ve~ Good morning!" Veneziano chirped happily as he walked into the kitchen.
Both brothers startled slightly. "Good morning, Felikins." Prussia forced himself to grin as Veneziano kissed him on the cheeks and hugged him before doing the same to Germany. "I'm cooking!" Germany scolded but wasn't all that bothered. Having an Italian clinging to your back while you cooked wasn't really all that hard anyway.
He also served as a good distraction- To the both of them.
The day went on as usual and night came and Prussia sobbed himself to sleep again, and Germany tried to help again and was forced out again and then Prussia apologized in the morning again.
Again and again and again the cycle repeated.
"Imagine smiling after a slap in the face. Then think of doing it twenty-four hours a day."
― Markus Zusak, The Book Thief
Canada sadly regarded his brother as he spoke in the meeting. "After all, dudes, who can resist a hero, am I right?" He laughed, but it didn't quite reach his eyes as multiple nations snorted or rolled their eyes. "That's the stupidest idea I've ever heard, and that's remarkable considering most stupid things come from you." Austria sniffed irately.
The light, or lack of, dulled further in his brother's eyes. Canada slumped slightly in his seat. Couldn't they see? Couldn't they see that every insult was a slap to the face, that every time they disregarded him was a punch to the gut, and that that large, idiotic smile was fake? Why was he the only one that saw it?
He'd love to tell them, to get them to shut their bitch mouths, but- They probably wouldn't hear him in the first place, or would just disregard it. Because, after all, America was that happy idiot that never got hurt and just bounced back from everything thrown in his path. Except that he wasn't.
America wasn't, in fact, happy. He got hurt just as everyone else did. He did not bounce back from everything thrown in his way- Not really. He plastered on a fake smile and plowed through it all, only to break down when he was left alone in the darkness of a room only overshadowed by the dark of his demons.
And Canada hated it. It wasn't fair. Why his brother? Why America? Why Alfred F. Jones? And it wasn't fair that Canada had to pick up the pieces every single time. It wasn't that he didn't love his brother or that he didn't want to help him- No, it was that he didn't want that to be necessary at all. Alfred shouldn't have pieces that needed to be picked up and shoved back into him.
It wasn't fair. Canada wished that Alfred could just be happy, completely and truly happy.
But it would probably never happen unless the other nations became self-aware.
And so Alfred would suffer.
Wow. I did this really quickly. I just wanted to get something out to you guys. Damn, this is depressing. Lel. Hope you liked it and maybe cried a little. Review!