Chapter 3: And Beyond the Curtain…

Everything was grey.

I think I'd forgotten what color looked like after so many months standing in ruined cities. I still remember when I first arrived in Tokyo. I remember how stunned I'd been, seeing the destruction—another great city laid to waste. The scarred wood still radiated the heat of the last bombings, like an infected wound. I'd stood in front of a bombed shrine, my fingers brushing over the burn patterns, looking for the meaning behind it all.

Because there had to be a meaning to all of this loss.

I was so terrified. Because it was exactly the same—I'd seen this all already. I saw it through the eyes of a child as Grampa's empire burned before me. And I saw it again… so recently…

…The memory was never far from my mind in those days… Sitting in that shelter there wasn't much else to do but think, and my mind never could stray far away from my last memory of him… Of my friend, my protector, my Germany being dragged off by a faceless man in a Russian uniform. I'd hid, like the coward I am, clutching the white fabric in my fingers until my nails punched through it. Even in the end, he refused to surrender, batting away flag with a snarl. I could still hear his voice, hoarse and ragged, but still proud.

"I told you to get out of here. Hide in the mountains until this is over. Don't stay here."

He was resting against a chunk of the Reichstag, blood running freely from his temple, from his lip, from his side. His eyes looked up at the sky, perhaps searching for some scrap of blue that had escaped the suffocating veil of smoke. But even that sliver of escape was denied him—he was trapped in the prison of his dying city. I had sat at his side as we listened to the roll of tanks, the earthshaking booms of his artillery, manned by mere children, the last bastion of his mighty army. My hands shook as I tried to stop the bleeding. He, of course, batted away my clumsy attempts away. But he never looked at me. (He hadn't fully looked me in the eye since Dresden.)

"There's no need for you to be here," he repeated sternly and I swallowed heavily.

"Always worrying about me," I had said, trying to smile. Trying to pretend that this wasn't the end of everything. "I'm great at retreating remember? They'll never catch me."

He managed a pained mimicry of a smile. "Then retreat," he said, closing his eyes as leaned back against the battered stone. "That's an order."

"No."

He didn't respond at first, and for the briefest moment, I felt panic shoot through me. He was too still, far too quiet, his hair falling into his eyes… it was wrong. It was all wrong, so very wrong. This wasn't supposed to be like this, we were the Axis, the new point on which the world turned. We weren't supposed to be cowering, covered in blood and dust from pulverized buildings, waiting for the inevitable march of Soviet boots on his once proud capital—this is wrong—

"Italy."

I almost didn't hear his voice, didn't recognize the soft tone as his. I looked up, only then realizing that I was crying. He was looking at me, his eyes standing out like diamonds amidst the dust and smoke and blood around us. He was looking at me.

"Go," he said, pressing the flag into my hand as his other hand reached up to wipe away my tears, leaving a smear of blood in their place. "Please Italy… run."

I nodded and managed to get to my feet. He had never begged before. Another shell crashed through the building next to us, showering us in powdered glass and stone as the earth shook beneath my feet. He never flinched, his fingers tight around mine. "Go," he insisted, eyes pained as leaned forward to kiss my forehead. "I never should have brought you into this," he murmured, breath hot against my skin. He fell back with a wince. "I'm sorry I brought you into this, Italy…."

I'm sorry….

Sorry….

"Italy-kun?"

I looked up to see the concerned look of my remaining ally. Japan was kneeling over me, candle sputtering fitfully in his hand. I was doing it again. Frustrated, I brushed away my tears and managed a smile.

"Sorry, I'm fine now," I replied, propping myself up against the concrete wall of the shelter. Every night lately, we spent huddled under the air raid shelters, listening to the drone of American planes as they dropped American bombs. All night, American fires burned through Japanese cities— we could smell the scent of it wafting into our shelter.

Japan nodded and sat down beside me, his eyes sweeping over his people. When the bombings first began, they'd spent many a sleepless night, huddled together, counting each explosion, marking off the distance like one might mark off lightening during a summer storm. Each one tried to figure out just where the bomb had landed, each one trying to determine if their homes, their schools, their businesses had been spared. But now, they slept, for there was nothing left to save. The people were exhausted, and so they slept, leaving Japan to keep the night vigil alone.

I'd grown so tired of bunkers, of bombs and fires and smoke. I missed the sun. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen it, I couldn't remember what it'd felt like on my skin. All I could remember is fire and grey and Germany being dragged by my hiding spot, defeated and shamed… It's as though there had been nothing else—the grey had obliterated everything that came before it.

Japan was praying. I didn't know the meaning to his words, but I could hear the cadence—I'd know the sounds of prayer anywhere. He did this every night, as his people slept and his cities burned. As his young men threw themselves at an unstoppable enemy, only to be crushed under their war machine. As his war was lost, island by painful island. And there would be no rescue for him.

"Can I join you?" I asked softly, sidling closer to him. He'd gotten a lot more tolerant of physical contact since I'd arrived here. (Every so often, I'd catch something that that looked a lot like sympathy in his gaze…) He looked startled—I'd never expressed an interest in prayer before, but nodded.

"Of course," he said, gesturing to the small altar he'd set up when the raids began. Without another word, he turned back to his own prayers, leaving me to my own.

I crossed myself, the old Latin a comfort to my tongue as I fell into the old prayers. I don't believe in God, not really—not since Holy Rome. But if there was ever a time to pray… I swallowed as another explosion rocked the bunker. Beside me, I felt Japan wince—it must have hit something important.

"Japan?" I asked, my hand resting on his.

"There is no need to worry," he replied, sliding his hand away to wipe away a bit of blood from his lips. His eyes gentled as he looked at me. "You don't have to worry for me."

"Of course I do," I replied, feeling the tears threaten again. "Look at what's happening to you. Look at your home…"

"Worry for those who did not bring this misfortune upon themselves," Japan murmured, settling back stoically, his katana nestled in his lap. "I have accepted my fate."

"You don't have to," I replied, hoping to talk sense into him, to convince him to surrender. I'd failed with Germany; I couldn't fail with him. "You can surrender. You can save your people, your country."

Japan smiled enigmatically. "Surrender or loss… it's all the same…" he admitted softly, as though at confession. "My people, my way of life will be broken down—rebuilt to the whims of my conquerors…" He closed his eyes, as though he could block out reality so easily. "I don't want to see my lands twisted by the West… I'd rather let myself burn."

It was the same. It was exactly the same. Grampa, Holy Rome, Germany… I'd heard those words again and again. When would it end? When would I stop losing those I cared about?

"Please don't," I begged, tears falling freely now. "I don't have anyone else, please don't leave me too. Please. You're my friend, my precious ally; please don't die!"

Japan shushed me then, his eyes flickering back to his people. They slumbered on, heedless of the fate that awaited them. His hand pressed against my mouth.

"I cannot surrender. I cannot willingly hand the fate of my people to the Allies. How can I live with myself if I sat back and just let them squabble over my lands, my people? How can I witness them picking my home apart like vultures upon a carcass?" Japan asked, looking almost wistful. "I cannot…"

xXx

As it turned out, he wouldn't have to watch the surrender.

I listened to the news of it on the radio, sitting in an airy room with the windows open. The wind felt good, caressing my skin as soothingly as a long forgotten lover. My hand covered Japan's, trying to massage some life back into his limp fingers as I listened to the details of the surrender; read by the deadened lips of one of Japan's reporters. Everyone seemed to be in shock, wandering from day to day as if in a dream. Not that I blamed them, suddenly we lived in a world were a single bomb could obliterate entire cities. Where men and women could be reduced to nothing more than shadows on stone in a fraction of a second… it no longer felt like anything I remembered. Part of me was glad that he was comatose—at least then he wouldn't have to see what had was happening around us.

The Americans had already arrived and I could hear them singing, celebrating the end of the war. For them, the bombs had marked the end of a hard fought war, had brought victory to them with a speed they never could have imagined. Soon they could go home, back to their old lives, back to their jobs and sweethearts and friends and families. For them, the destroyed cities would be nothing more than a bad memory, a nightmare that could be pushed aside in the morning light.

I didn't hate them for it. Even as Japan lay before me, broken in ways I never could have imagined five years ago, I couldn't find it in myself to hate them. I couldn't hate them for taking away my friends, the only ones who had willing stood with me, who willingly took me on as an ally, as an equal. They were just children, yearning for the end of battle, doing what ever they could to bring it on a bit quicker.

"How is he?" Came an unexpected voice, really the last voice I expected to hear at Japan's bedside. I turned to see America, standing hesitantly by the door. Unlike his men, America looked tired, older than his years. He wasn't wearing his bomber jacket, but had instead settled for a rather unremarkable button down. Without it,he seemed smaller, more fragile somehow. He watched me warily, clearly waiting for the explosion, for the anger, for the hatred to surface. I suppose I should have; Germany would have certainly given him an earful (the thought brought a brief smile to my face.) But I can't—I was just so tired of hatred…

"Come in… we could use the company," I replied, unsure how to answer his question, unsure of what answer he was even hoping for.

America seemed hesitant, before finally nodding and sat down beside me, a beer dangling carelessly from his hand. He offered it to me with a wry smile. "A peace offering," he explained.

I took it with a nod. "To peace," I agreed, taking a swig and trying not to grimace at the taste. I handed it back to him and he took a hardy swig, the action more like a penance than a pleasure.

"It wasn't my choice," he said, swallowing heavily, voice shaking as he looked down at the results of his victory. "I didn't want to do this to him," he raked a hand through his disheveled hair. "But my boss… and I just wanted it to be over… this war wasn't supposed to be like this, you know?" His voice had lost its swagger, its larger than life quality and I was struck by a startling realization.

How young he was, I thought, still clutching Japan's battered hand. How incredibly naïve. He always seemed so strong, so self-assured, I always forgot how isolated he had been, how protected he'd been from the wars that had plagued Europe for millennia. He'd only recently caught a taste at the turn of the century and nothing, nothing could have prepared him for the scale of carnage that he'd stepped into.

"War is never supposed to be like it is," I replied. How I wish I would have remembered that sooner. Maybe then Germany and Japan wouldn't have suffered, maybe then I wouldn't have had to lose them…

"Ve, Germany!"

By then he was used to my entrances, even my hugs barely registered with him anymore. He and Japan were standing over their maps, voices low as they discussed their next moves, comparing strategies and advice. He patted my head, acknowledging my presence before pulling away.

"You're late," he replied finally, adjusting his hat. As usual, his reprimand lacked heat, more of a habit than anything else by that point.

"Y~es, but, I made lunch!" I sang cheerfully, holding up a basket as proof.

"If only you could be so enthusiastic in other fields…" Germany replied with the air of a martyr.

"Still, we didn't have anything with us to eat," Japan had responded reasonably, sparing me a small smile. "It was very considerate of you, Italy-kun." Japan didn't like to talk much, which made his compliments all the more valuable, and I tucked them away like one might a cherished jewel.

"I suppose now's as good a stopping point as any," Germany agreed, finally abandoning his maps. His frown never changed but I could see the hint of hunger in his gaze as he eyed the basket. "It smells good," he finally admitted grudgingly. A compliment from Germany too!? I beamed, full of my victory.

"We should eat outside!" I sang (I was so happy then.) I gestured to the idyllic scene outside the conference room. Outside the sun shone so brightly, casting a rosy hue on the graceful arches and powerful columns of Berlin's architecture. The air was surprisingly warm for November, likely the last warm day of the year. It seemed blasphemous to waste such a glorious day inside. The other two nodded indulgently, and we quickly found our way to the river Spree. As we sat on her banks, watching the ships steam by, it was hard to believe we were even at war. Lunch was a surprisingly lazy affair; apparently, now that we were outside, no one was eager to go back in.

Germany leaned back against the bank once he'd had his fill, looking more contented than I'd ever seen him as he basked in the glory of his weather, of his empire. The idea of defeat seemed laughable as we sat there, feeling like kings of all we saw. (So naïve, so terribly naïve…)

"We should do this more often," I broke the silence, filling up my bowl for a third helping.

"Agreed," came Japan's soft voice, his eyes never leaving the slow ripples of the river's current. "It would be nice to take in the sights more often."

"After the war, we can go wherever we choose," Germany replied after a contemplative pause. "We'll have freedom then, to see whatever sights we wish." I'd forgotten how little peace time he'd seen throughout his short life; how often he'd been tied up by war, by poverty… vacations had been a luxury he could scarce afford and friends had been a rarer luxury still.

"Then let's go," I suggested chipperly. The other two exchanged blank looks before turning to me.

"Go where?" Japan finally asked, tilting his head slightly. "We never said any destination."

"We can find one," I said, never one to be discouraged by such minor details. "After the war, we can pick a place and just go. The three of us. It'll be our celebration!"

Japan looked surprised, as if he hadn't imagined a world beyond the war. He believed we would win, just as we did in those days, but he never seemed to think about what would occur after that. "I see…" he said, flushing slightly.

Germany was silent, still lying against the banks of his capitol, the piercing sky reflected in his eyes. "I'd like that," he murmured, with only the faintest smile on his lips. We were quiet then, each imagining what we would do with peace, what we would build in the place of bombs and guns and tanks. "After the war, huh?" He repeated, as though trying out the sound of my words. Finally he nodded, getting to his feet with a new sense of determination. "Then I have a lot of work to do…"

I cried then, in that room that still smelled faintly of gunpowder, with only a comatose friend and an enemy country for company. I cried for the once earnest country that lay prostrate before me, body blackened by the ferocity of a weapon that had been unimagined as we made our preposterous plans. I cried for the stern country who had carried me throughout the war, only to be dragged through his own streets in defeat. I cried for the country at my side, for the cherished idealism that seemed to have been blast away by his own bombs. I cried for the others, for all the countries, all their people, who had fallen under our mad quest… This lunacy of a war.

But, because I am, and will always be, a coward… I mostly cried for myself. I cried because, once again, all the promises, all the pacts, all the memories, couldn't change the one unchangeable fact…

I was—am—will always be—alone.

xXx

Author's note: Sorry (again) for the OOC Italy, I just didn't know how else to tell it. Italy has watched a lot of his closest loved ones die, and I feel that certainly had to impact the way he views the war. I hope you like it. On another character related note- Japan is surprisingly hard to write for.

But in any case, one more chapter left. Until then, please read and let me know what you think!

PPS: CONGRATS GERMANY ON BECOMING WORLD CUP CHAMPS! WOOT WOOT!