Prussia was not good at these things. He was not good with delicate situations, with diplomacy, with "reading the atmosphere" and all that bullshit. He detested intricacies, perfectionism, discretion, subtlety—he just wasn't good at it. What he was good at, however, was war. It was simple, direct, it required no formalities. It was you or them, and the simple fact was that you had to come out on top.
Therefore, he had been relieved when Italy looked up, smile in place and answered "I'm fine." He felt some part of him that had been dreading a—a breakdown or something loosen up as he sighed, even though some part of his mind nagged at him, at the answer that sounded fake like some sort of cover-up. But Feli had said he was fine, and that was that, wasn't it?
Yes, that should have been the end of it, and Prussia's instincts told him to just nod and accept the brunette's answer and get the fuck out of there, 'cause it was going to get way, way worse. He was late, however, and the events set into motion (perhaps even by himself) refused to be stopped as Italy snatched the piece of paper his brother had been holding, and in such a quiet voice that even the albino's unusually sharp ears had to strain to pick it up. "It's... a will. My will."
Prussia got one of those frozen in time moments that he normally associated with the battlefield, when the enemies were closing in, and your people were dropping like flies with the sound of gunshots all around, and it seemed like everything—everything you could ever have worked for—was about to be shattered like some flimsy glass ornament. There had been one such event in particular that he would not care to repeat ever again, but...
A will? Who had ever... heard of a country writing a will? He stood still, red eyes widened in astonishment at the Italian before him as the other curled up and began to cry in sobs he tried desperately to hold back. The albino didn't move from his spot, though the initial surprise had worn off by now (you learned to recover quickly in a battle), but rather because he was no damned good at this.
The nation that he had—er, affections for, to say the least—was crying on the ground, probably over some will he had never heard about a country write before. (Had West, maybe Japan, known about this?) Whatever the reason, it was devastating the Italian and fuck, this is where someone stepped in with comforting words and maybe some wise philosophy to comfort the devast-ee, and God knows he was useless at that.
In desperation, he looked at the nations around him because there had to be someone competent in this area, and the first person his eyes landed on was West. In retrospect, the strict and socially awkward country was probably not the person he should have gone to, but Italy was sobbing on the ground and West was like his best friend or something, so why the fuck not?
He stormed over to his brother (and no, he wasn't feeling panicky at all, he just felt that Feli needed some urgent help, that was it), and explained the situation very clearly by simply demanding, "What the fuck is happening?"
The preserved wood making up the lengthy conference table had started to wear at the immense pressure the relatively subservient blonde had applied to it, trying at best to push back the emotions threatening to be released in the form of tears. Some had left their safe keeping however, strolling down the nation's cheeks to make little droplets on the now worn down cloth of the handkerchief.
Driven deep into a state of cleaning, drenched in his own thoughts, the German hadn't even noticed the younger Italian curled on the ground in gentle sobs, the conversations held, or his elder brother approaching him with concern that the retired nation attempted to conceal with crudity.
"What the fuck is happening?"
The sound of the albino's voice, abrupt and unnerving, yet, having that certain vibrato of panic compelled him out of his situation of self-reflection in a forced manner. Tired eyes reflected his brother's facial reflection, allowing the other to see the true nature of his face and how thin his attempt at blocking his true intentions was.
Tears threatening to spill, he shifted to face his brother, putting calloused hands on those thin shoulders ensuring the other was making eye contact.
"Nothing lasts forever bruder."
The elder of the two Italians blinked, crashing deep into his previous confused state. It was a what...? Surely he must have heard his fratello wrong with all this commotion going around. Or maybe his stupid brother mixed up his words again! O-Of course! Feliciano was so incredibly stupid after all! "...W-Wha- Speak up, you idiot! I didn't hear you right... I-I thought you said something about-" Romano stopped. His initial theories were proven valid at the sight of Feliciano sobbing himself into a tiny ball. Lovino took a minute to realize what the hell was happening... He stared down at his pathetic brother. Usually when Feliciano cried he'd tell him to shut the fuck up. But this time it was different; Romano felt genuine concern.
"A will? L-Like the kind you write when you die? You're so-" Romano paused, holding back his curses. It would only make Feli feel worse. "...stupid!" He let out a nervous laugh in an attempt to lighten the mood. "You really are an idiot! Do you really think we're gonna die soon? Hell, we won't be dead for another millennium..."
Romano's words seem to have no effect. What the hell was his stupid brother thinking?... Unless was he thinking about taking his own life? N-No way! His stupid happy little brother? The one who'd go around smiling like a goddamn bastard and making pasta and singing and dancing and painting and... and... he'd never...
The elder was now in panic. He glanced at the Prussian, seeking help. Romano was never good with these kinds of things... and apparently neither was the albino, seeing that he walked away. Fuck! Lovino stooped down to Feliciano's level, awkwardly putting his hand on his little brother's back. Oh god, what did he do when Italy was upset? He'd cook with him, sing with him, paint with him, dance with him... but the distraught Italian seemed unwilling to do either of those things. "Feliciano..." Romano's voice was shaking.
He studied the room for anything that could help him. Nothing so far- wait! His eyes fixated on the unfinished piece of tiramisu resting on top of the smooth wooden surface. His stupid little brother loved to eat! In half a second, Romano retrieved the delicate piece of cake from the tabletop. No more than a quarter of the slice was left, but Lovino was sure that it would make Feliciano feel a little better. Romano lowered his tone of voice, trying not to sound harsh and uncaring like he usually did. "Hey, Feli." He nudged the rim of the plate at his brother's arm, trying to get his attention. Take the goddamn cake, you bastard! Romano desperately thought to himself.
Feliciano glanced at the cake halfheartedly, heart dropping that very moment. Shaky hands pushed the porcelain away with as much effort as he could display in such disarray, shaking his head in response. He could tell his brother was hurting, however...
It was best if things remained this way.
"Fratello," his voice cracked slightly, leaning on his brother for support, however, refusing another wave of tears to come about.
"We... when we unified... we had become one country, however," he paused, sobbing a bit into the beige fabric.
"You deserve grandfather's inheritance. They were going to kill you fratello. So," he held a shallow smile as if it some cruel joke. "I said I would take your place. You are the oldest and the most mature. I've had my golden age. I've had my fun. I..." a new wave of pain released from his soul, coming out in more sobs now connecting eyes with his brother for the first time that meeting, "I'll say hello to Grandpa Rome for you!"
Romano felt as if any hope of revitalizing his younger brother was shattered into a million more pieces each inch the cake and Feliciano were separated. A shaky voiced peeped out of his younger brother. Romano strained his ears, preparing to listen and analyze everything that Italy would say and then make a plan about kicking the shit out of whoever—demolishing whatever made his stupid brother feel this way.
His brother finished his sentence. Feliciano's tear-stained face and the pain radiating from his glazed eyes punctured the very core of Romano's chest, a pain as if he was being torn in half.
Romano was left dead silent.
Did Feliciano know what he was saying? He was gonna up his own life for... for someone as horrible as himself... "F-Feliciano..." He paused, a new surge anger pulsed through Romano.
"What the hell are you saying? What the fuck are you talking about? There's a reason why I didn't get that fucking inheritance! And who said that I wanted that damn thing anyway?" His voice cracked. Romano was almost at the brink of tears, but he held them back. He let out a small, demented chuckle. "You're a fucking idiot!" He clutched the glass plate that held the remaining tiramisu and violently catapulted the china. He watched as it smashed against the wall, the pieces flying in a hundred different directions. He stood there in awkward silence, facing away from his brother. Scenes of Feliciano's confession and his own petty argument seemed to replay endlessly in Romano's mind. He leaned against a table, biting his lip and bringing his hand to his face every now and again to erase any trace of upcoming tears.