AN: Yay! New chapter! Anyway, this is, again, two chapters in one. The first part is our dear Lovi speaking, because we need some of his cynical input XD. The second part is Luddy, Prussia's awesome little brother~. Just a quick heads-up to y'all so you don't get confused.

We've been brainstorming for two hours, and no one seems to have any ideas. Or at least any realistic ones. Feliciano smiles at me, then slides me his whiteboard. 'What do you think, Lovi?' I take the marker from him and write, 'I think England has no idea what he's talking about, Vene.' He makes like he's about to laugh, but then he remembers that he can't. I want to cry.

I know that Germany didn't mean to hit my baby brother, yet I still hold him responsible. I watch the blonde's actions from across the table. He's said he's sorry a zillion times, and yet he says it even more. "I'm sorry," he mutters for the tenth time in thirty minutes. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Feliciano scrawling on his board. He slides it across the wooden table, and Germany catches it. "Well, then, call me weak."

I suddenly realize what Feliciano wrote. It's something our grandfather, the Roman Empire, always told us. We really never listened. 'Don't say you're sorry. It's a sign of weakness.'

"Dudes, we really need to think of a plausible idea to get Italy his voice back," America says, interrupting Germany's guilt party. For once, the light-haired nation is making sense. He adjusts his glasses, then wrenches the whiteboard out of my brother's hands. Feliciano makes a feeble attempt at getting it back, but America is as stubborn as me. "Maybe he can give us an idea of what's going on." He is back to making no sense.

Feliciano mouths his words, and the effect is pathetic. He's quivering all over, and he's gone four shades paler. He tries to say, 'I can't speak, and you know it. How do you expect me to tell you anything without that whiteboard?' His head goes on the table, and I hear him sobbing. I try to comfort him, but it's not working. When he lifts his head up, his eyes are full of tears, and the tiny droplets make tracks down his face.

"Don't you see what you're doing?" Antonio asks America, who looks at the whiteboard in his hands. "My youngest brother has lost his voice, and you're trying to make him talk. Es una estupidez!" America doesn't need a translation for that.

"Here," he says, handing my brother back the whiteboard. Feliciano hesitates, but takes it back. "Maybe we shouldn't even be trying tonight. Let's all go to sleep, eat something, and try again with clear heads in the morning."

"America's right," England says, rising from his chair. "We're all exhausted, no doubt, and I highly doubt that any of us have had a decent meal since lunch." He puts his hand on Feliciano's shoulder, which frightens both him and me. For all we know, he could have been the one who disrupted the performance, not Germany! "What say you, Italy?"

Feliciano takes up his marker and writes something in Italian. 'Credo che l'America è giusto, e tu sei raccapriccante.' He adds something. 'I'm not telling you what it means ' England fumes, then leaves. I hug my brother tightly. I'm not letting him go again.

ǂ

I can't sleep at all. The guilt is gnawing at my brain. I've just done one of the most horrible acts of my life and I can't do a thing... Would my grandfather have known what to do? It's possible, but unlikely.

I sit up in bed, and see my brother's sleeping form on the adjacent bunk. Good, he's asleep. I stand up and creep out into the hall.

I remember when I annexed Austria in WWII. He was irritating, and he seemed out of place. Out of place...like I am right now. I'm standing in a strange house, with some rather strange people, and one of them is my only friend...

The hall is deserted, but when I glance at my watch, I realize that it's three o' clock in the morning. Serves me right. At the end of the hall is the large (understatement; humongous) foyer, where a fire crackles in the fireplace. For a moment, I wonder why, but then I remember. Italy and his brothers have situated themselves out here, insisting that the other countries take the beds. Well, Italy insisted on his whiteboard...

When I look in, I see that Romano secured himself the couch (Italy probably told him to), Spain and France sleep on beds made of chairs, and Italy is asleep on the floor by the fireplace. I'm about to yell at him to get off of the floor, but I catch myself. Not only would that wake up everyone, but I would most likely get throttled by his brothers for lurking around him. I settle for sitting in a chair that the older two left alone and watching his breathing. It's usually Romano's job, but since he's sleeping and I can't, I guess it falls to me.

I learned only a year or two after the end of the war that Italy has asthma, and a rather severe case at that. Romano tells me it was because of the prolonged presence in Rome during its burning in 26 A.D., but I think another contributing factor was that he's had the plague. Most of them have, and it's hurt them in more than one way. When I found out about his asthma, I nearly fainted, mostly because he's quite a runner and a climber. He's a funny kid...

I count off numbers in my head, and my eyelids droop. Maybe I'll actually sleep...

AN: Whew! That's out of the way! Anyway, here's the quick little translations for the Spanish and Italian:

Es una estupidez - Spanish for 'It's stupid'

Credo che l'America e giusto, e tu sei raccapriccante - Italian for 'I think America is right, and you're creepy'

Oh, and in this story and all my other stories, Italy has asthma for the reasons given above. And he was born in 20 A.D. and his brothers born three, five, or six years before. There will be more explanation later in the story, and we'll get to see their mama! ...in a flashback, but you get the point. So, I only own the plot and a few OCs who appear much later. I do not own Hetalia~! *spins* bonavitaetgaudium out~! *epic Italy run*