Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. If I did, I would not be cruel enough to make this canon.

Chapter Three: Bargaining

If I can cook dinner in less than half an hour, then this was all a dream.

Damn.

Ok, if I can clean the kitchen in ten minutes, I'll wake up and it'll have all been a dream!

Shit…

Ok, if I can clean the bathroom…

Romano peers round the door, then turns back to Spain. "I'm really fucking worried about him now," he mutters. Spain nods. In all truth, Romano had been worried even before his brother had decided to go OCD, obsessively cleaning and cooking and counting, as if he thought that it could bring Germany back to life if he did it enough. And Romano didn't want to tell his brother that the reality was…Germany was gone.

"We have to do something about this," says Spain, and Romano nods. "Yeah, but what? We can't just say 'you're acting like a crazy person, calm down', can we?" he mutters, running his hands through his hair. Spain sighs, looking away. He felt bad for Italy. "How long has it been now?" he mumbles, knowing that Romano was keeping track of it all. "Since Germany died, four months. Since my brother's been like this? About a month and a half."

Spain nods. That was too long for his liking. He wanted Italy back. The Italy who would wake up at 5 in the morning if it meant he got pasta. The Italy who would throw himself in for a hug when you entered the room. To be honest, it had gotten to the point where Spain was unsure whether he preferred Italy who ran around like a mad thing trying to clean everything in sight, or Italy who would bite your head off if you said the wrong thing.

Italy runs in, and grins at them. "Ciao!" he says happily (breathlessly, Spain notes), "Fratello, you never told me Spain was coming round!" Romano looks uncomfortable. "Um…sorry," he mumbles. "Don't be! Ve, I'll go make some pasta! I'll have it done in twenty eight minutes!" Italy's words tumble out of his mouth, tripping over each other, before he turns and runs into the kitchen. Spain blinks. "Very exact," he says simply.

"Right…" mutters Italy, searching for the ingredients needed, "If this is a dream, then I'll be able to make this in twenty eight minutes, and I'll wake up and Germany will be telling me to wake up because I have training…" His heart falls as he reaches for some tomatoes. Training. He missed training. Oh, yes, he hated the early rises, the endless push ups and having his best friend yell at him for not doing well enough, but he missed it nonetheless.

"Italy, at least try to run, would you? Or jog, even," muttered Germany, jogging about ten metres in front of Italy, who was making a half hearted effort to walk fast. Then an idea came to his head. He speeds up a little. "Good, that's-" Germany didn't get a chance to finish, before Italy threw his hands in the air, and yelled, "AGH! ENGLAND'S COMING!" And with that, he burst into a sprint, running off into the distance, with Germany hot on his trail, yelling at him to run this fast when not in retreat.

He's shaking, clumsily putting the ingredients into the bowl (spilling them everywhere). He hadn't seen England that day, not at all. But he had wanted Germany to chase him for once, because he was always chasing Germany. Germany was faster, Germany was stronger, Germany was a better tactician. And Italy didn't mind that - he liked having Germany protect him and look after him, backing him up in meetings and defending him in battle.

Battle. A single bullet through the chest…Italy shakes his head. No, count to ten! You thought about it, so count to ten! "1…2…3…4…" he mutters, kneading the dough, "5…6…7…8…9…10…" He sighs with relief at having done his ritual. He looks at the clock. He doesn't have much time left to do this. He frowns, panicking slightly. He had to do this! He speeds up desperately, trying to keep Germany out of his mind, even though it wasn't working. At all.

He didn't mind that Germany was stronger than him, but part of him had wanted Germany to chase him, to catch up with him, instead of it always being the other way round. And Italians could be pretty fast if they wanted to be! So he had ran, making up an excuse as to why, because at that point, he didn't know that yes, Germany was gay. When he had found out, it had made him happy, especially since Germany told him first.

"1…2…3…" Italy mutters, not wanting those memories, not again. Those memories could be saved for when he woke up. But it's not a dream…he flinches at his own thoughts. "1…2…" he continues counting, going from 1 to 10 repeatedly, not daring to stop. He starts to cook the pasta, and watches the time. A couple minutes to go - could he do it? He tugs at his sleeves nervously, eyes wide with - fear? - and panic.

What if he did it all on time, and he didn't wake up, and it wasn't a dream? He didn't want to have to admit that all the time he spent making his own little deals - count to one hundred in twenty seconds and it'll be a dream, cook the pasta in half an hour, jog for twenty minutes - were useless, because in the end, Germany was dead. "…1…2…3…" He looks at the time. Too late. He screws his eyes shut, begging himself not to cry.

This was an emotion he recognised; crushing defeat, followed by overwhelming guilt and sadness. When the pasta is done, he returns to Spain and Romano, handing them the dish with dull eyes. He used to have his eyes closed a lot - Japan's theory was that it was due to him smiling and grinning so much. He hadn't smiled since Germany died, though…and whilst his eyes used to be bright and practically sparkling with happiness, they weren't anymore.

How could he be happy, with his best friend dead? His best friend who he loved. The last time he had felt so strongly for another was back with Holy Rome, when Italy had lived in Austria's house. Italy sighs, eyes closed for a brief moment. "…If I can clean this kitchen within ten minutes, this will all have been a dream…" he mutters, and a small voice whispers back, but it isn't. Nonetheless, he finds himself desperately scrubbing away, until it's all clean.

He looks at the time. Eight minutes. He's done it in eight minutes. Why aren't I waking up…? Of course he wasn't waking up. This wasn't a dream. He starts to shake again, biting down on his lip to keep the tears back. He sits down, feeling sick. Usually he didn't manage to complete these bargains, so until now he had always been able to lie to himself about why it didn't work. But what excuse could he give now?

None.

Italy closes his eyes. "…If I wash my hands twenty times, maybe it'll cancel this one out," he mutters, then gets up and heads over to the sink.

Romano and Spain watch from the corner of the room, unsure of what to do or say to stop Italy's obsessive habits before it gets out of hand and out of control.

Ok, um...yeah, this is my least favourite chapter so far, the next two will be better, though. In case you hadn't guessed, this is based on some psychology that says that there are five stages of grief; Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. You probably already worked that much out, but in case you didn't, that is what I'm basing this story on.

By the way, thank you to those who have reviewed, favourited and followed this! ^.^