Author's Note: I'm planning on updating sooner than I was/am with Toxic Toast, since this is the idea in my head right now- I guess this is my way of dealing/avoiding shit I should be doing right now, but call it self medication. Depression sucks- I'll be frank. Anyhoo- APH is not mine, etc.
The Chronicles of the Aftermath
Chapter 2: Regrets
"Let me guess," England sighed heavily as he collapsed with just as much weight into a free chair, cradling a mug of black coffee in his hands. "America's being the hero again, isn't he?" The three Allies had set up base in a couple of relatively in tact rooms of a half-bombed boarding school. America's voice trailed to where the others sat ("Crap, Germany, what'd you do to your wrist?")
"Oui. He may be obnoxious, but when it comes down to it," France's voice was just as worn as his long-time rival, "he always has it in himself to care." He, too, was sipping a 'cup o' Joe' as America would call it, holding it low on the mug and swirling the drink around as though it were a dry red. Perhaps it was a comfort thing, because the coffee was old and of a vile roast. But out here, it was the best they had.
England broke the silence that followed. "Hey, France-"
"Hm-?"
"Don't tell America I said this- because it's not like his ego needs to any bigger- but I think his boss back then-"
"Wilson?"
"Yes, him- was right after all."
"Oui." France stared into his reflection in his cup.
"Shit-" England pressed his hand down his dirt-stained face, only succeeding in smearing the grime with his sweat. "If only we had have listened, then Hitler would have been just some loony, locked up somewhere with a view of some nice trees where he could claim to have some special connection with God."* He spat out the end of his regret, disgusted with himself.
France said nothing. In the other room, they could hear America muttering to himself as he busied himself with Germany's wounds. "…I know Russia's crazy, but dude, what was he thinking? ..."
"…Russia…" France said after a pause.
"Hm? What about him?"
"Well, he contacted me, non? He said that Prussia took his brother's place as his captive."
"Brave man," England said. France only nodded. A chair scraped across the floor in the other room, and the two Nations turned to see their ally come in stretching, working the kinks out of his frame.
"He's sleeping pretty soundly," America said, voice tired but still the most chipper of them all. "I got as far as I could with what we got. So who's going to take him?"
"On that matter, we have to find out how we'll deal with Japan and the Vargas brothers," England said.
"A hon hon~ if you don't mind me taking Romano, non?"
"We need to build their trust with us before we can do things right this time," England scolded. "I don't want to deal with the brat." He turned his gaze to America. "Well, Spunky, do you think you have the wherewithal to handle Romano?"
"What? Him? No problem! I am the hero, after all!"
"And Venezaino?"
"A hon hon-"
"NO," England cut off.
"Dude, England, you could due for some decent cooking, man. And I think Canada might like Japan's company. They can be wallflowers together. You know what? I bet Austria wouldn't mind hanging with China for a while." America laughed.
France turned into a sad-puppy-face. "Excusez-moi, but look at where that leaves me~" England was not moved, and America just gave his "tough luck" laugh.
"Well, you are neighbors, after all. Besides, when Germany's able, he really should be the one responsible for his own mess. Is it settled then?"
"Yep," America chimed, "all settled."
"Too cruel," France whined to himself.
Venezaino lay curled up by Romano's feet, his hogtied hands pillowing his head. He whimpered as his stomach churned again. Romano glanced down at his younger brother and sighed. He leaned against the cell wall with his knees drawn up close and his own bound hands draped over his knees. Slowly, Romano reached out to pat his Fratello on the back in comfort. He was doing this a lot recently, trying to soothe the easily frightened Venezaino before his outbursts earned him a tirade from the guard, which would only upset him further. And the fact that the already frail Nation was beginning to starve hadn't gone unnoticed by Romano.
It wasn't that they weren't getting fed, or that Italy was rejecting the meals out of the poor quality (he had for the first day, but couldn't stave off the hunger for very long). No, it was because he had no contact with his precious Germany that it was making him so stressed and sick that he couldn't keep the food down. Romano crinkled his nose at the acrid stench that still lingered in the damp air. Dammit, if it were those Bastards that ordered any news be cut off from them, then he'd…
But would have they have gone so far as deny the mess from being cleaned up? Or it probably the guards they stationed who were the assholes. But the end result was that his little Fratello became so miserable throwing up all the time that he began to turn the meals down again.
At least Romano had no reason to be jealous of his younger brother right now. And he cursed himself for thinking that way. "Chigii-"
The guard spat at them. "Shut up. Guard change," he announced. And, like an instinct, Italy stirred from his place on the floor, wobbling as he got up.
"Ger- Germany…" his sing-song voice now croaked, "has there been…"
"HAH-" the guard sneered. "He's DEAD and good riddance. Saw them bring his sorry-ass corpse in on a stretcher myself."
"No… Germany- he- he couldn't be… YOU'RE WRONG! THAT HAS TO BE A LIE!" Italy's quivering frame snapped to the front of the cell, he reached trough and grabbed the man by the shirt. Even in his pathetic state, even if he is weak for a Nation, Italy was still a Nation and he drew a little bit of strength from each of his people, and he brought the guard slamming into the bars. "Tell me… tell me you lie- that it's a joke…" his eyes were heavy and overflowing in tears, and he choked back sobs with each breath.
"Don't know why they didn't impale his head on a stake," the man replied, and Italy let go in shock. There was a blur, and the distinct sound of bone striking bone and teeth crushing teeth, and the guard almost flew backwards as Romano came out of a vicious double-fisted upper-cut.
The elder Vargas was seething as his younger brother began to wail. "Bastard, if you're going to say things to hurt mia Famiglia solo,** then don't be surprised if you go home to find the favor returned, capire?"***
"What the bloody Hell is going on in here?" England's voice carried as his shoes clacked on the floor. He stopped halfway to the cell and screwed up his face. "Good God- what has been happening? I haven't smelled so much sick since the nineteen-eighteen epidemic."
"Hey Tea Bastard- don't blame us! It's your damn guards who've been the lazy asses," Romano spat, his arms looped around the shoulders of the weeping Italy. He pulled his brother in close, as if to protect and console his Fratello.
England stared at the bitter scowl on the young Italian's face and his little brother sobbing uncontrollably into the other's battered uniform. "Then what is…" England's question faded on his lips when he saw Romano's glare shift to the guard and an incensed snarl escape from the Nation's throat. The guard, who had begun to right himself and nurse his face, cowered under Romano's presence. It had to be the first time since… ever, Romano realized, that he was given that sort of respect or fear. Even though there were cell bars separating the two, and Romano was bound with his brother held close, the weak Nation emanated a ferocity that harkened back to the she-wolf that nursed the founder of his grandfather. Forgotten, yes, but not lost… Romano kept the smile of pride to himself.
"We've decided who will be keeping an eye on you two. Come on, it's time to go." England unlocked the door and stepped into release the brothers' bonds. Romano took his brother's hand and guided him out to England, which earned no protest from Italy. England and Romano both took Italy by the hand and led him out.
"Germany… Germany," Italy chocked out, "I-I-I want to see him…" He was shaking, from weakness, from exhaustion, but mostly from despair, and as he held his bony hands up to his face, they quivered under dull eyes.
"Germany?" America repeated, looking down over his glasses at the smaller Nation. "Sure, man, but he's pretty beat up." He nodded towards the room where the defeated man rested. Italy drew his hands away, revealing more of the sallow, dirty, tear-stained face that peered warily up at America. Then, quietly and alone, he made his way into the other room. He didn't realize how small and frightened, yet somehow brave he looked to the others at that moment.
Slowly, he came up to the unconscious man's bedside. "Germany, Germany, I'm so, so sorry I failed you like this. I'm so…" he choked up again, and collapsed onto the other's chest. He lost his friend: his friend because he knew what Germany's boss would have done if he had ever found out. His Germany would have been taken from him forever, but now- Italy only cried weakly since all his strength left him- but now it didn't matter! He laid there for how long, he didn't know, or care, Italy just wanted to soak up the last warmth in his love's body, and inhale what remained of his musky scent.
Wait- warmth?
Italy's eyes snapped open, and he stared up at Germany, hoping to see some sign of… and he could hear it, right? It wasn't just his imagination, right? And you looked for the pulse up along the jaw, was that it? Italy was afraid that he wouldn't find any, but-
Perhaps God had forgiven them after all. Italy took Germany's hand and caressed it with his cheek, uttering his praises and deep thanks to the Mother Mary. After a while, he stood up, and leaned over, pressing his lips against Germany's, and said, "Bye, for now, when this is all over, I'll come back, I always do."
* A quote-ish thing from Marcus Brigstocke, an up-and-coming British comedian and actor whose opened my heart to corduroy.
** That translates into "my only family," and "If you mess with the family,"...
*** And this means "understand." I wonder if that's where the term 'Kapeesh' came from.
[And as for the she-wolf story, look it up- they were a symbol for the Roman Empire, so this isn't just some "wolves are so cool I'm going to make them symbolize this character," sort of thing. BTW, it's always wolves, isn't it? Don't get me wrong, I like 'em too, I'm just sayin'...]
