Ghosts
Italy stepped off the platform and collected his thoughts. Even now, he still felt like he was moving through water. It was hard getting his step back, moving with the natural grace that true Italians were blessed with. His body always felt weighed down by everything. He was weighed down by time, by the little thoughts that crept around inside of his head like rats and chewed holes in the corners. It was hard to think straight about anything anymore, so a lot of the time he tried to think about nothing at all.
Trains still left him rattled. He liked riding in them but riding them for too long made him sick, and then not riding them made him feel sick again. It was hopeless. Romano would scold him if he knew. Italy stumbled through the slow moving crowd dragging his bag behind him. He whimpered a little and carried on. Since the Risorgimento his bosses found it very convenient to have two Italies to use, especially now that they were together in the same house again. One could stay at home and do all the work and one could travel abroad and do all the work.
He found an empty bench outside the station and sat down. He rubbed his gloved hands together, stimulating the blood a little. The time for a siesta had come and gone, an opportunity missed and flown past. The roaring and rumbling of a metal box on wheels and the rattling of the short links between cars made it impossible to sleep.
Italy grabbed his bag and began walking to the hotel as fast as his legs would carry him. He used to be so good at running, but now his legs felt like cold rubber.
Outside the hotel he stopped to catch his breath, and ended up watching the little white puffs of air freeze in front of his face. He sniffed and looked over his shoulder.
A figure in a long, dark coat stood on the other side of the street.
Italy's vision blurred, and he rubbed the stinging tears from his eyes. He wasn't sure if he wanted to open them, in case he had dreamed it. Grandpa once told him that a Nation could see ghosts if he wanted to. England saw them all the time, but Italy had never seen one so he assumed he wouldn't ever.
He cracked his eyes open. The figure was still there, as if ripped from a still moment in Italy's memory. Tears pooled again and he smiled.
"Ciao."
"Um, hello." The figure crossed the street tentatively. He looked so handsome in his dark coat, just like Italy remembered. He held out a white handkerchief and Italy used it to clean his face. It couldn't be a ghost. Why would a ghost have a handkerchief?
"I never thought I'd see you ever again."
"Please don't cry. I didn't mean to upset you by coming here."
"No! I mean, it's just been so long. Forever. And now I'm so happy I don't know what to do!"
"You're not mad."
Italy laughed and threw his arms around him. "Why would I be mad? I was just thinking," he said, pulling away to wipe his face again. "Maybe it'd be nice to go somewhere for a snack. I feel like coffee. And… a slice of cake. You still like cake, right?"
"Yes, I do."
"I thought you would. Oh, but I have to put this in my room first." Italy nodded at his travelling bag. "I'll be back in a minute. I really missed you, Germany."