Coalesce
There are times when Italy doesn't know what to say. His mind is a mess, his thoughts are pulling at each other, and he doesn't know what to say.
When Italy paints, he feels he has no need to think. The image in front of him has enough thought. Sometimes, he thinks of the weight of the paintbrush in his hand, or how vivid the paint is. Little things, peaceful things, trivial things. Things that he can admire. Things that he tries to admire when he's not alone, just to stay sane.
Ignorance is the best part of life. Trying works sometimes, too.
There are times when Japan doesn't know what to say. His mind is a mess, his thoughts are pulling at each other, and he doesn't know what to say.
Japan hates this feeling. This feeling of confusion, with confusion among this confusion. Uncertainness. What is he supposed to say? What is he supposed to think? What is he supposed to feel?
Sometimes Japan just sits and observes. The world is full of great things, beautiful things, spectacular things. His eyes, dully stoic, lighten. Perhaps this is idiocy, he says. Every single time. He has to think, always, every single second, if he wants to be successful. He needs to be cold, and feelings are a weakness.
Every single time, that thought is interrupted by a minor thought. The sky looks lovely, doesn't it?
These small, simple things, he can admire. These things…he tries to admire when he's not alone, just to stay sane.
Ignorance is hard to feign. He can't afford to try, so every now and then he isolates himself.
Italy dislikes being pitied. He does run away. He does has a white flag strapped to his back, but he believes there is more to his life than proving he's correct.
Italy notices the atmosphere when it becomes heavy and toiled. Japan is troubled. Italy noticed from the start.
Italy also knew 'happiness' was something everyone wanted to achieve, somewhere behind the ambitions and the desires. Japan had many ambitions. Many desires. He was driven by the idea of becoming big and strong.
Even now, Japan fusses over being the best. Italy only watches him from behind, with his eyes open and his mind working innocent ways to cheer him up.
But purity does not exist in his vocabulary. Whenever he tries to have it appear, it resurfaces with the word "sickly" trailing behind, progressing with tainted footprints and a history of blood to mar the cleanliness.
Japan dislikes being misunderstood. Prolonged isolation made it hard to remember how to speak to others, and he is sure it takes no more than common sense for the others to realise this.
Yet he still feels different, even after years from letting go of his solitary state.
His thought says he hides under the reassurance of an organized mind, when his mind is in fact a clutter of things that shouldn't be there.
He does not express himself around company. Be unclear, be concise, never give a straight answer. In all honesty, be fake. Japan would sometimes try to be himself, when it was safe, but it was hardly ever safe.
The meeting room becomes scalding as the rays of the sun filter through the wide windows. Japan is sure he is the only one who feels it. He turns slightly, and catches sight of Italy prancing around, childishly poking nations at random and snickering as though it brought him unimaginable joy.
Japan fondly wonders how silly he would look if he did that.
With a slight smile, he continues watching. The sunlight suits Italy more than it suits him.
There are some things Italy forgets, because his foolish act sometimes fools himself. He forgets that not everyone enjoys what he enjoys. Not everyone likes to stand under the white flag. Sometimes, (and he despises those days), neither does he.
He wonders why Japan holds his breath when he sits alone. He wonders why, whenever Japan leaves a meeting, his eyebrows furrow. Why he always looks to the side. Why his eyes narrow and his lips purse in something Italy cannot help but call frustration.
But he cannot say anything to him, because the answer will always be, "nothing."
A/N: I have nothing to say for this.