Hello all! Some of you will probably be dissappointed by this chapter. :D Germany and Italy are a little absent... hehe. The truth of the matter is that this was supposed to be the last chapter, but I couldn't tie it all off at once. So.... the secondary characters all hijacked the chapter... er... hopefully it won't be too boring!
anyway, please review! I've been getting awesomely wonderful reviews from you guys so far, which is probably the only reason I've been able to update this quickly! XD I thought it wasn't going to be until next Tuesday at the earliest! haha.
I don't own Hetalia, nor do I profit from this chapter. Enjoy!
(12/11/09) *edit* Err… Scratch that. I had to add a scene on to the end, so now it's neither short nor without Germany. Haha. Still no Italy though. Hope you like the new scene, and sorry to all the people who already read this chapter! It's at the end, if you want to skim over what you already read.
Also made a correction on Elizaveta's hair color. How the heck did I think that it was Lavender?!
Spain couldn't help but admire the way Romano commanded himself—shoving his way ruthlessly through the bustling crowds and demanding tickets home on "the next plane, thank you" without pause. If he thought about it, Lovino had always been a bit like that. He could still picture the tiny boy, clutching at his pant leg centuries and centuries ago, demanding one concession or another. When had it stopped being adorable and started being effective? He couldn't recall. Perhaps it had been in those strange years when he'd suddenly woken up and seen Lovino the man, and not the child.
"Come on!" Romano shouted at him, waving the tickets he'd procured and reaching out for his sleeve. Spain let himself be dragged through the terminal at a run; couldn't take his eyes off the brunette in front of him. He'd raised Lovino—had done the best he could though sometimes he felt guilty about the way things turned out. If he had a choice, he would have done more to keep the mafia away. His charge had grown up far too quickly, made bitter and hard by inner wars and death. Still, Lovino was his, understood him in a way that no one else could. It was just… somewhere along the way, their roles had been switched. Now Antonio was the one who felt like a child. When had Romano gotten so strong? "Idiot behind the counter wanted me to wait for the next flight, but it's four hours from now! We'll be getting in late as it is. I'm not waiting four flipping hours!" The angry front was in full swing, but Spain could still see the anxiety bubbling just beneath. He hated that. He didn't want Romano to ever have to worry.
"Aw, you didn't want to spend more time with me?" The Italian nearly tripped at the sentence, looked back briefly to send him a half-hearted glare before he continued his mad dash. Antonio could only laugh. Romano was full of masks and deceptions, but for all that, it was remarkably easy to make him blush.
Security was a nightmare, as it always was, but seeing Romano tear into the poor attendants was amusing if nothing else. It was a little disconcerting that his boyfriend had managed to shout the security staff into submission, but at least they avoided getting patted down and puffed with air. They slipped their shoes back on with record speed, grabbed what little baggage they brought with them from the conveyer belt and were soon running breakneck, side by side to the gate. When Romano had said the next plane out, he meant it. So they currently had about five minutes to reach their flight before it took off.
"Hurry up, or I'll tell them to leave without you!" Romano called as he sped up, a ghost of a smile present on his face. They were both panting—Paris's airport was not small by any means, and they were running faster then they'd had cause to in quite some time—but Spain didn't mind. He loved to see Lovino like this, giddy with physical exertion, all his walls down. It was the kind of joy he only saw when they were playing football together.
They reached the gate with seconds to spare, flashed their boarding passes and passports and rushed in to the cabin. They'd been lucky enough to get first class seats. Romano sat down, shoved his bag under the seat in front of him, and collapsed into a boneless mass in his chair. Spain laughed before doing the same.
"Ok, maybe next time, I'll wait for four hours." He whined, but his eyes told a different story. He looked happy—truly distracted from everything that had been bothering him for the first time in quite a while.
"Mm... Can't say I would've minded having you all to myself for another four hours." Spain whispered, out of breath, just loud enough that Romano could hear it. He turned a most delicious shade of tomato red, and Spain couldn't help himself. He wiped a drop of sweat from his love's brow, leaned closer to those sweet lips...
"Sirs, can I check your seat belts please?" Romano jolted away at the stewardess's voice, almost hitting his head on the window in the process. Spain resisted the urge to growl and turned to face the interruption. ¡Joder! First France, now this! He was never going to be able to kiss his own boyfriend at this rate.
"Of course." He managed to keep his tone civil, but his smile was nothing less than lethal. The woman quailed under his gaze, made a show of checking both their belts, and marched off to bother the pair in front of them. He sighed and glanced at Romano. Sure enough, the Italian was staring resolutely out the window, back to his usual angry self. "Lovino…" Spain tried, reaching out for that tense shoulder.
"They better get this plane going soon, or I'm putting a hit on someone." Romano flinched away from his grasp, voice fraught with embarrassment and nervousness and too many other things to identify at the moment. He knew he shouldn't feel hurt by that tiny rejection; this was just the way Romano was, the way he'd always been. He had been embarrassed and so now he was going to pull away and act distant and… but it hurt nonetheless.
"Oh." Spain tried to come up with some witty retort to distract Romano with, but "oh" was the only thing that he could think to say. He stared at the back of the seat in front of him and tried to gather his composure again. Why was it that Lovino's every gesture affected him so deeply? It was a part of love that frightened him almost as much as it thrilled him. He heard Romano shift in his chair, nearly jumped out of his skin when that slender hand suddenly found his own.
"Don't get used to it." The brunette was still turned away, staring resolutely at everything but Spain. His ears were bright red. Antonio smiled. Even if he knew it to be true, it still surprised him when he realized just how well Lovino knew him. He leaned back against the cushy first-class leather seat and closed his eyes. They were going to be on this plane for a while. He might as well make the most of it.
The meeting room was silent for a long while after Germany left. Hungary looked at the place he'd been sitting not moments before and sighed. She wondered if telling him the truth had been the right thing to do—the hurt and confusion had been plain as day on his face, and she didn't like to see him that way. He was still an important part of her crazy little family, whether he remembered himself or not.
"I suppose I should put dinner on." Austria looked distracted as he pulled away from the table. He was probably just as worried about Ludwig and Feliciano as she was. He tried to hide it, but he was really just a big sweetheart on the inside. He secretly thought of the two younger nations as family, even if he admonished her for saying the same.
"I'll help." Hungary chimed, trailing after her ex-husband. After all these years it was still strange to think of him that way; as an ex. She felt closer to him than that. Their relationship was too complicated to be described by such a simple and unfeeling prefix. They weren't completely separated; never had been. Even when she hated him, his pain was her own. He was inescapable. A large part of her quietly hoped that he felt the same way.
"You don't have to do that," Austria stated half-heartedly as he held the door open for her. He obviously didn't want to be alone right now. Doubtless the ghosts of his past were haunting him, probably because of that painting. Even Hungary had to admit that seeing Germany hold it and look at it like he'd never seen it before in his life was a little… it stung. But Austria was ever the gentleman. Even when he lost Holy Roman Empire the first time, he hadn't shown a single "improper" emotion. He'd simply locked himself in the music hall for days and filled the house with melancholic melodies.
"Are you kidding? Of course I do! I know my way around that kitchen better than you do," she teased, knowing it was worth it to see the tiniest glimmer of a smile on his lips. "Besides, I want Gundel Palatschinken and you don't make it right."
"Hungary, that's a dessert. It hardly counts as a meal." Austria was giving her that disapproving look—the one that had always made her either want to smack it away or kiss him senseless.
"What are you talking about? It's a perfectly good meal." She settled on being equally irritating, lending her voice the sing-song tone that he knew would drive him crazy.
"We are not having pancakes and chocolate syrup for dinner," he deadpanned as though the conversation were already over. Hungary sputtered. She'd never heard her favorite national food described in such a plebian way.
"Who says?" She could see the tension bleeding away from Austria's stiff shoulders. They hadn't bantered playfully like this in a long while, and she was glad to see she could distract him from the pain they were both feeling.
"Says the man who will be cooking a very sensible Austrian dinner, that's who." Hungary laughed.
"You won't be cooking anything if I get there first!" It was the only warning she gave him before tearing down the hallway. She could hear him not far behind, shouting all manner of reprimands and disapprovals. The fact that he was running after her at all said more than words could; he wouldn't usually trouble himself with something so undignified.
"Stopp, Hungary, I mean it!" Anyone else probably would have quailed at the tone in his voice, but she could hear the laughter hidden behind those words.
"Gundel Palatschinken, Gundel Palatschinken!" She made up a song to the words as she ran on, effectively drowning out Austria's protests. They flew down staircases, knocking over priceless items in their mad dash and not caring one whit. Hungary felt freer than she had in a long time—her prolonged illness little more than a pinprick of discomfort in the back of her mind. Who could think about a stupid cold at a time like this, when she'd actually gotten Roderich to play along?
"God help me, Hungary I'm going to strangle you!" He was getting closer, but the kitchen was right there and she couldn't deny the exhilaration she felt at the thought of beating him at something.
"You're too slow!" She cackled just as she was about to reach the doorknob, "I'm afraid it's gundel pala—" Austria managed to catch hold of her skirt as she pushed the door open, sending them both tripping into the room. They landed in a mass of struggling limbs on the floor, neither one ready to give up just yet. Hair was pulled on both ends, and Austria would probably have a very interesting looking bruise on his left arm in the morning, but neither one really cared about that. Somehow in the midst of all of it, laughing like a loon, Hungary managed to escape—most likely because she'd knocked Roderich's glasses off. The moment she was free she was staggering away, climbing up on the cabinets and reaching for the flour.
"Oh, no you don't!" The brown-haired girl had only just managed to get a hand on the bag of white powder before Austria was pulling her down. She shrieked and tumbled into his arms, bringing the flour down with her. Fine white dust exploded everywhere, coating the entire kitchen in a layer of the best flour money could buy.
There was silence for a few moments, no one moved. Hungary coughed out a puff of white. And then Roderich lost it.
"You—Elizaveta you should see your face!" The normally composed nation was laughing so hard he was crying, he had to lower them both to the floor because his knees were too weak to stay standing. She had missed that sound so much. He hadn't called her by her human name in far too long a time. It was his way of distancing himself from her—of dulling the pain she knew he had felt when she left. Back then she had wanted him to hurt, even though it had cut out her own heart to see him that way. Something had gone wrong between them. He had stopped listening to her, hadn't respected her people or even seemed to care about them, and for that she had hated him. But now… Roderich gasped for breath and used one hand to try and dust the flour from her face. "Are you alright?" He asked, voice still thick with laughter and his eyes dancing in mirth for the first time in what seemed like forever. He was smiling at her just so—just the way he always had centuries upon centuries ago—and she forgot that she'd ever hated him at all.
"Fine," she murmured, not really sure if she could bear to look into his flour-covered face without jumping him right then and there. She maneuvered herself so that she could stand without stepping on him and waltzed to the pantry to pull out the broom. Austria coughed a bit, slid his glasses back on, and brushed himself off.
"Don't worry about cleaning up." His voice was back to its austere tone, but now Hungary could hear the potential for that unrestrained joy in each word. How had she missed it before? "I'll have to vacuum later." She had to suppress a snort at the thought of Austria trying to vacuum up all this mess, but left the broom alone. It wasn't likely to help much, anyway.
"Oh look," she mused, "there's another bag of flour in here. I can still have my Gundel Palatschinken!" Hungary moved to swipe the bag, but found her hand stopped by a larger one. She blushed.
"I don't think you'll have much luck with that." He was right next to her ear, his breath warm against her neck. Was he doing this on purpose?! He didn't sound any different from usual. His tone lacked the deep, rich ring it always had when he was trying to get her all worked up.
"Wh—why not?" The words were coming more out of habit than anything else. If anyone had asked her what she'd just said, Elizaveta wouldn't have had a clue. She was too busy watching the way Roderich's hand covered her own.
"Because I am out of chocolate." He ducked when she play-hit him, and took the flour from right in front of her for her distraction. Hungary put her hands on her hips and did her best pouting expression.
"Aw… but I wanted sugar for dinner." There was a decidedly sexual tone to that sentence that they both decided to ignore.
"I might be persuaded to make Kaiserschmarrn…" She could see his mouth twitching at the corners, but knew he wouldn't be losing control of himself again so soon. Still, the fact that he wanted to laugh was a good thing.
"I thought you weren't going to let me have dessert yet?"
"Well, it is getting awfully late to eat dinner."
"Right. And Franz Joseph liked it, which means that it is the perfect food for every occasion, no?" They teased each other back and forth as they moved to gather ingredients and cooking items. Strange how easy it was to return to the way they'd always been, moving like a single unit around the room. He didn't have to tell her to step out of the way or to hand him anything, she just did it. She knew him. Maybe it was unusual, but Hungary couldn't help the relief she felt at the thought. Without the politics and the nationhood and the mess of economy, they were just people, just Roderich and Elizaveta. Why had she ever forgotten that?
"Roderich," she had just handed him the sugar. He almost dropped it at the use of his human name, but recovered amazingly well. "If you and I had never been nations at all, do you think—do you think we could have…" Hungary trailed off, biting her bottom lip and searching his face for the answers. She wasn't really quite sure what the question was in the first place, but she needed to hear him say something. They'd been dancing around their relationship for years and years and years, neither one willing to talk about it. The man in question went completely still for a few moments before sighing and returning to the task at hand. He didn't glance her way.
"It's pointless to think about things like that." She wanted to get angry at him for such an unfeeling, typical Austria answer, but hearing the pain in his voice made that impossible. She could see it now, in his posture, in his eyes. Did he too still think of their messy past, and wonder where it had all gone wrong?
"Please, just humor me," she pleaded, desperately praying that she was right. Nothing was ever straightforward with that man, she had to be always guessing and seeing and determining what he really meant. Just for once, just once, she wanted to hear the truth from his lips. He didn't say anything for a long while, and when he did it was almost so quiet that she couldn't hear it at first.
"Perhaps…I think…I—" His wandering eyes found her own, and suddenly it was all she could do to keep breathing. "If I had met you back then, and we didn't have to worry about the fates of millions of people with every action we took, then I… yes. We would have been happy." Hungary could see that it had taken a lot out of him to admit such a thing. Her heart beat painfully in her chest, bitterness and love and regret rising up until she thought for sure it would consume her.
"Yeah," she choked out, trying to ignore the tears ruining her flimsy smile. "I kind of thought that too." He didn't attempt to comfort her and she didn't want him to. She just let herself cry until the emotions were spent, breathed in the quiet for a few seconds, and went back to what she was doing. Maybe she wished they'd had some kind of choice about all this, about how they were forced to exist and the unreal amount of responsibility placed upon their shoulders. But the truth of it was that they had never had any say—they were simply along for the ride. Best to realize that now and live with it instead of moping about for an eternity.
"How does apple sound?" Austria's voice sounded nearly as strained as hers did. He had his back turned to her, working diligently to separate some eggs. It was a mundane question, but the fact that he was trying to distract her made her feel a bit warmer inside.
"That sounds wonderful." Hungary smiled, and moved back to the pantry to retrieve the apples she'd seen there. He was almost always over-stocked with the finest food. It was the one area of life he hadn't tried to save money on. Well… except for his music. She grabbed a bag of bright red apples from the second shelf, was just about to turn and close the pantry door when she saw what had been sitting behind them: a rather sizeable stack of pasta. Austria didn't really like pasta. It must have been a gift from Italy or perhaps leftover from the last time her little brother had been here. How long ago had that been, she wondered. Hungary tried to think of the last time she'd seen Feliciano and realized that she couldn't remember. They must have met at a world meeting at some point, but she just… had it been that long?
"Is something wrong, Hungary?" She must have taken too much time to bring the apples back because suddenly Austria was standing in the doorway, staring at her in concern. He looked at her like that a lot lately, ever since she'd fallen into tough times. Every time she so much as coughed he was there watching as if to make sure she wouldn't fall apart. It was comforting in a way, but sometimes she wished he would look out for her because he wanted to and not because he thought she was dying slowly.
"No," though she didn't sound so sure of it herself as she handed him the fruit, "I was just thinking about Italy is all." He seemed to visibly tense at the reminder, his eyes staring off into nothing.
"Ah," He murmured before taking his ingredients and waltzing back to the counter. Obviously the younger nation's mysterious illness was bothering him just as much as it was her. She followed him back into the room and set herself to helping him peel. They worked together quietly, nothing breaking the silence between them but the sounds of the knife moving across ripe fruit. It was comforting, but lonely. She couldn't help but feel that part of their broken family was missing.
"Do you think…they'll both be alright, won't they?" Austria winced before schooling his features into a blank look.
"I don't know. It has nothing to do with me." He said the words a little too quickly, and she could see that he was hurting himself with them. Maybe it was true that Ludwig and Feliciano's lives were none of their business, but Austria obviously wished somewhere deep down that he could help. It was his hubris that limited him from doing what he wanted. Germany and Italy had left him here alone. He couldn't allow himself to care for them after that kind of slight. Hungary had always hated how prideful he was before, but she'd learned to accept it as a part of him—her kind-hearted, arrogant, idiot Roderich.
"You know," she mused as she picked up another apple, the wheels in her head turning. "We really didn't get much done at that meeting today."
"Yes," He glanced at her, eyes full of suspicion. She grinned.
"Maybe we should try again tomorrow."
"Hungary, what are you—"
"And since Germany was so inconsiderate today, I say it's his turn to host, don't you?" His face slowly smoothed out as her meaning registered, relief flooding his posture. He'd never say it, but he wanted to be there for them as much as she did. Lucky for him she'd learned how to get around his pride.
"I suppose that's not an unreasonable idea." Austria tried to make himself sound as aloof and aristocratic as possible, but it was kind of hard to see him that way when he still had flour on his nose. Hungary laughed, leaned closer and brushed the white dust away. Maybe it was unreasonable but she… looking into his eyes, it was easy to believe they might not be as finished as everyone thought.
"…Feliciano-san did what?" Greece woke slowly at the sound, blinked a few times and tried to remember where he was. The first thing that he noticed was that he was face down on a table of some sort, and that he was very warm. "That's awful!…do you know what's wrong?" Hmm… that sounded like Kiku's voice. But why would the raven-haired nation be in Europe? There weren't any meetings coming up were there? "No he… he hasn't said anything to me for a while, actually." Oh no wait, he vaguely remembered deciding to go to Japan yesterday because he'd heard that Kiku was hurt. He'd set out to take care of his friend and help him recover as quickly as possible. "Is he ok?" But then, if that was true, why was he the one sleeping? "Right…no, I understand." Greece sat up with a start, tried to ignore the crick in his neck that came from sleeping face first on the kotatsu. Japan sat across from him looking no better than he had when Greece fell asleep. "I—would it be weird if—do you care if I come to visit?" He didn't know what was going on right now, but the last thing Japan needed to do was travel. "Of course. I will see you soon." Japan hung up the cell phone with a final sounding clack, rested his head against the table and sighed. He really did look exhausted.
"What happened?" Greece's voice was still thick with sleep as he asked. He didn't like to see his friend look so out of sorts. He'd come here to help out but… it seemed like all he could do was watch Kiku drive himself further into the ground. His command to rest had not been very effective; Kiku had slept for all of twenty minutes when his phone rang, and that was that. He'd been working ever since with no regard for his own health, drafting emergency legislation and making phone calls left and right. Greece tried to help but… language barrier aside, he'd never been what anyone would call a productive worker. He got in the way more than anything else.
"I finally got a hold of Ludwig-san." Ah, good. Japan had been trying to reach his friends nearly all day. That call from Romano this afternoon had truly worried him. "Feliciano-san is really sick." The statement was scarcely audible, muffled by the kotatsu. Japan sounded truly upset. Greece frowned. It didn't quite make sense.
"But Italy's comparatively stable at the moment. He shouldn't be—"
"I know." Japan inhaled sharply as he pushed himself back up onto his feet. Greece wondered if his head was hurting him again. Was it time for another dose of medicine already? It seemed like he'd just taken one a few minutes ago… of course, Heracles had fallen asleep, so maybe it had been longer than he thought. He had no idea what time it was, except that it was dark outside. "That's what has everyone so worried. If it were because of his economy, that would be one thing, but because he's like this now there has to be something else going on..." He could only watch as Kiku moved stiffly around the room, gathering a small bag, a change of clothes, his passport.
"You're not going to Rome now are you?" Greece stood slowly, trying to regain the feeling in his legs. He paid no mind to the cat that fell out of his lap and yowled in annoyance. There were other things more important at the moment.
"No, I'm going to Berlin. The only reason anyone knows that there is something wrong is because Feliciano-san collapsed outside Ludwig-san's house." Japan looked guilty as he spoke, and Greece knew he must be blaming himself for not knowing something sooner.
"That's not really any better. You're leaving right now?" Japan froze at the question, eyes going wide with realization.
"Ah, Heracles-san! I had not thought about what you would do should I leave. ほんとにごめんなさい! Please feel free to stay here until a more convenient time, there is food in the refrigerator and I can leave you some yen if you wish to go—"
"Kiku." Greece interrupted, striding over to his friend. He took the bag away, sat it on the ground and caught Japan by the shoulder. He could feel the unnatural heat of fever through the fabric of Kiku's shirt. "I'm not worried about that. What I meant, was that you are sick too. I don't know if it's a good idea for you to go gallivanting off to Europe at… what time is it again?" Japan had the good grace to look sheepish.
"Around two." He muttered, swaying a little beneath the taller nation's hand. Greece blanched.
"What? No wonder you look so exhausted!" He swept Japan into his arms with one smooth movement, carried him over to the futon which still sat unrolled on the floor. That Japan hadn't bothered to roll it up earlier was a testament to how frazzled he really was. He was usually so meticulous about everything. Kiku yelped in protest at being man-handled in such a way, his face bright red, and Greece suppressed the urge to laugh. Maybe Kiku was completely oblivious to the world, but Heracles wasn't. He saw the way the dark-haired beauty reacted to his advances, knew that he had a special place in the nation's heart even if Japan didn't know it himself yet. "Sleep!" He commanded once he'd gotten the blankets all properly organized. Japan opened his mouth to argue. "You can worry about Italy in the morning." Greece cut him off, leaning in to give him a kiss on the cheek just to make sure he would be too shocked to move for a while. Maybe if he got Japan to sit still long enough, he would just pass out.
He mentally congratulated himself on figuring out a way to keep Japan out of trouble, and tried to walk away. It was a dirty trick, but hey, it was for Japan's own good, right? He only got half-way to the guestroom door before Kiku snapped out of it. The sick nation stood up too quickly and nearly fell over. He would have if Greece hadn't rushed back to catch him.
"Kiku, please listen to me. You can't—"Japan pushed his hands away at the words, his weak form made strong by some inner force.
"My friend is sicker than I, he might have been for some time, and I would never have known it!" And here was the root of the problem. Kiku's guilt wouldn't leave him alone. He felt that he'd wronged his friend somehow and he had to fix it immediately or die trying. "You understand, don't you? That I want to be there for him? After all, you—that's why you came to visit me, right?" The dark-haired nation's face was flushed with passion, all traces of exhaustion completely gone. Greece didn't often get to see him like this—full of righteous fury and ready to fight for what he wanted. But those rare occasions only made him want to pin the man to the nearest flat surface and show him what passion really meant.
"No." Greece smiled dangerously, took a step closer to the one he'd wanted for what seemed like forever. "That was different." At least, he hoped it was. He'd seen the way Kiku acted around Italy, and he didn't think their relationship had tipped its way into love. Besides, Italy was head over heels for Germany. Everyone knew it but them.
"D—different?" Θεός, how could anyone be this naïve? Kiku was so adorably innocent that sometimes Greece felt like a dirty old man for longing after him this way, let alone the fact that Japan was technically older.
"Nαι," he purred, just beside Kiku's ear. "Quite different, I should hope." He had to fight not to tackle Japan right here and now. It was hardly the time for this sort of thing. Japan's face was positively radiating heat. He was upset, and worried, and he really didn't need Greece making things more difficult by throwing confessions of undying love at his feet. Still, Heracles couldn't stop hoping that maybe he'd been just obvious enough that the object of his affection would finally, finally get it.
"Why's… why's that?" Kiku was looking at him with wide eyes, and Greece thought he might see hope and doubt warring within those depths. He sighed, placed a gentle, perfectly chaste kiss on his friend's cheek and took a step back. Let Japan draw his own conclusions. He would figure it out eventually, and when he did, Greece would still be there.
"It doesn't matter," He whispered, even though it hurt his heart to say it. "Now, what else do you need to pack?"
"What?" Japan was a darker shade of red than Greece had ever seen him. He forced himself not to laugh and wondered if he'd broken the poor Asian's brain.
"To go to Berlin. What else do you need?"
"I—my wallet I suppose, just…what are you—why are you—" Greece couldn't help it any longer. He laughed long and hard at the expression on Kiku's face as he found the object in quesion and tossed it into the small bag. If being forward like he had made Kiku this flustered, he would have to do it more often. The nation was entirely too cute.
"I know you. If you really want something, you don't stop until you get it." He handed Japan the bag, watched as he twisted the strap nervously. "So if you want to go to see your friend? We'll go." Japan blinked.
"We?"
"You didn't think I was going to let you fly off to Europe in the middle of the night, sick, all by yourself?" Japan started to complain, but Greece stopped him with a finger to his lips. "Besides, I came to see you, not your house. If you're leaving, I don't have any more reason to stay." Greece had to scramble to catch his friend before he fell over once more. He fervently hoped it was his words and not the illness that had Kiku swooning like this. He picked the nation back up again, bag and all, and started marching toward the door. "You're out of that medicine, by the way. We'll have to pick up some more on our way to the airport." Japan clutched on to his kidnapper's shirt, knuckles white with tension.
"You're not going to carry me the whole way, are you?!" He sounded positively mortified, but that didn't really bother Greece much. Japan was usually embarrassed if Greece was involved. It was simply a part of their relationship.
"Don't think I've forgotten that you are supposed to be sleeping right now." He mock glared at Japan, allowing himself to get a little closer to that blushing face than he probably should. "So I'm going to get us to Berlin, and you are going to rest like I've been telling you to all day!" Kiku blinked up at him, almost as though seeing him for the first time. For once, he didn't get nervous and freak out because of their close proximity. In fact, he did something quite the opposite. He leaned up and placed a ghost-like, butterfly's breath of a kiss on Greece's cheek.
"Thank you, Heracles-san." He spoke softly, his breath tracing too warm patterns against the Hellenic nation's bare neck. And then, before Greece could even remember how to breathe again, he passed out.
Greece shifted his friend's weight until he could free one arm, pinched himself, hard, and wondered whether Japan's unemployment rate was catching. If this turned out to be nothing more than a fever dream tomorrow, he was going to be crushed. But for now… for now… He held Kiku a little tighter, a little closer to his heart, and set out on the short trek to the train station. Maybe Japan wasn't quite as naïve as he gave him credit for.
He surveyed the battleground, trying not to look into the glassy eyes of his soldiers as he counted the dead. There were far too many, as there always were. Enemy and ally alike lie slain in a mess of blood, tears and earth. They almost looked peaceful, in a macabre way. Their blank faces were a strange juxtaposition to the contorted bodies, did not portray the violent ways in which they had died. He was beginning to wish he could join them. France's latest push for glory was simply the longest in the list of wars he'd had to fight, just the latest megalomaniac's quest to rule over them all. He supposed he couldn't judge his brother's actions harshly, even if it would make it easier to have someone to blame. Hadn't he too once wanted to rule the world?
He wondered why he'd ever set out on that fools quest, to unite them as Rome once had. He had wanted to make another golden age, a bright future where they could all live in peace, as one… but with the smell of gunpowder and blood still lingering in the air he realized how just how idiotic that dream was. True peace couldn't be created with an iron fist, and even if it could, what kind of peace would that be? Would all that death, all the orphans and ruined land and mourning widows justify the few decades of prosperity that they bought? He knew now that the answer was no. Why hadn't he been able to see that when he was younger?
Italy had known it, he thought bitterly. Italy had known from the start, had tried to warn him against such ill-boding dreams, but he hadn't listened. He wondered how the pasta-loving nation was faring—they hadn't seen each other since that last time. At first he'd been too busy taking over the world to see his friend, but now… Even if he hadn't been frantically holding France off, he was too ashamed to face Italy again. His hands were too drenched with blood to reach out for that kind of innocence. He hoped the brunette was ok. Last he'd heard, France had imposed himself there too, and more than anything he wanted to right that wrong but he just wasn't good enough. He didn't have that kind of power in the world any longer.
He gave up on trying to count the bodies on the battlefield and made himself sit down before his legs gave out. It wasn't that he hadn't seen worse battles than this, but his vision was starting to swim, his whole body aching. He'd lost too much, too quickly. Two entire armies decimated, most of his territory now the property of upstart France… Every soldier's death was a mere pinprick of pain against his skin but there were too many and he didn't know how much longer he could bear the agony of it. He grew weaker with each mile lost, body covered in wounds from the constant military strife and the hardships of his people. Death was coming for him. He could feel it in his bones.
"There you are!" He glanced up with hazy eyes to see Prussia walking towards him. He hated to admit it, but he'd grown close to the idiot nation over the years. Prussia was one of the few who'd stood by him; even if he was controlling and far too enthusiastic about war.
"How many?" Prussia didn't have to ask what he meant after so long fighting.
"Between us and Russia both, about 30,000." More than a third of their forces, then. He laughed. It rang hollow and eerie against the background symphony of carrion birds.
"And I'd be willing to bet that most of them were mine." The silver-haired man said nothing, and he knew he was right. Well, of course he was. The sharp, throbbing pain in his chest could have told him as much.
"I don't know kid," Prussia sighed after they'd been there some time basking in the silence. "I don't think we can take too much more. First Ulm, now this…" He trailed off, staring into the mess of bodies. The blond glanced at him and wondered what would happen to his older brother figure when everything was said and done. Would he keep fighting, or would he decide to settle down and abide by France's rules? He wasn't quite sure which option was worse, but looking at Prussia's face… even though he couldn't see straight any more, he could tell that there was no less passion there. The idiot would probably keep battling until his dying breath. "The emperor is talking about asking for a truce. He sent Austria over to negotiate." He sounded absolutely livid at the thought, and the younger nation couldn't help but smile. No, Prussia would never stop fighting. He was far too "awesome" for that.
"Well," He murmured once his lungs stopped burning enough that he could talk, words filled with a bitter sort of joy. "At least it will finally end."Prussia's red eyes flashed with anger. He lifted the smaller nation by his coat lapel, snarled, but the blonde's twisted smile did not fall.
"It will not 'end', idiot. Far from it. If France wins, this will only be the beginning of the torture your people will have to face, do you understand that? You can't give up yet."He could feel Prussia's hands shaking against the fabric, knew that the one who'd become like a brother to him was worried about him, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He was so tired of all this mess. He might have the appearance of a child, but he'd been around for nearly nine hundred years now, and lived through that many centuries of famines and wars and death. He just wanted… peace. Real peace.
"Maybe." His voice was hardly a whisper on the frigid air. "But I don't think I will be there to see it."Prussia must have seen the resignation in his face because he suddenly found himself dropped on failing feet. He wobbled over, fell gracelessly to the bloody ground. His legs were too weak to support his own weight; he'd lost the last of his strength and he knew it. There was nothing left. "This was my last battle. After tomorrow, the Holy Roman Empire will cease to exist."
"Don't say that!" Prussia sounded positively terrified, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He could feel death on the horizon, and he would welcome it with open arms. "Damn it, I will not let you die!"He stared up at the sun from his place on the frozen ground, surprised that it still shone joyous yellow despite the gore and tragedy all around them. It reminded him of Italy, as almost everything did these days. He had always been like that—ready with a smile no matter the situation, warm and gentle and kind. In this messed up, war-torn life, Italy was truly the only light he'd ever had.
He tried not to choke on the regret that flooded him at the thought of his childhood love, wondered masochistically if maybe Italy was thinking of him too. Would the nation be saddened by news of his death? It had been so long ago since they'd seen each other last… would Italy even remember him at all? Just because he was completely hung up on the memory of his best friend didn't mean that Italy would be too. The brunette would move on, he was sure, probably had already. He ignored Prussia's worried shouts, closed his eyes against the frightening scenes all around him and thought of his love's beautiful face.
"We'll see each other again, we will! We really will!" The words echoed out to him from a dream, adding a warmth to his smile that had not been there in years. It would have been nice to see Italy one last time, but he knew he didn't deserve that. He only wished… If Italy just thought of him every once in a while, it would be enough. He prayed that his friend would remember him fondly, even if he knew it was little more than a dream. The dying nation curled into himself against the frozen earth, body seeking some kind of warmth as he shivered with exhaustion. He couldn't feel Prussia's hands on him, didn't hear his frantic commands to stay awake.
It was stupid to wish that things had gone differently, he wasn't so naïve as to believe in second chances, but… He couldn't help but imagine a world where he'd never left Italy's side—where he was protected and peaceful and safe, he could paint as much as he liked, and he ate pasta every day with the boy he loved… Sunshine and laughter chased him into oblivion.
Germany blinked slowly back into awareness, unsure of what the hell he'd just seen and debating whether he even wanted to know. He put his head in his hands, closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a few seconds. It was… that dream was so real. He'd felt the pain running through his body, had understood every thought, known every emotion running through the dying nation's head. If he were crazy, he might say it was more like a memory than anything else… but that just wasn't possible. It must have been a dream, brought on by Austria and Hungary's crazy theories, and the sight of that portrait. The power of suggestion was great; he'd probably just taken what Austria said and crafted a picture from it. It was a convincing delusion, but that was all it was. He fervently denied the tiny voice of reason in the back of his mind that said there was more to it than that.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, we are about to touch down in Berlin. Please make sure your seatbelts are fastened, your chairs are in the upright position, and all electronic devices are turned off." Germany rubbed his eyes and sat up straighter in his seat. It didn't matter. Worrying about memories and not-memories wouldn't get him anywhere. What was important was getting to Italy's side as soon as possible. He didn't have time to be dithering about, wondering who he really was. Italy needed him, and that was that.