The Decision of Love, Lost in Paradise.

Again, Pochi, thank you, thank you, thank you, for taking the time to speak with me, and for ultimately agreeing to proof the next three chapters of Recovery.

Now enough author-babble: go read!

Recovery

Open Your Eyes

Fear.

Fear of everything. Fear of everything. Fear of anything. Fear of everything. Fear of everything. Fear of anything. Anything at all. Fear. Fear of everything. Fear of everything. Fear of nameless things and fear of named things, fear of fear of fear. Fear of everything. Fear of anything.

And everything...

"Go to him." Germany gave a start and looked at Japan. He wasn't feeling like himself. His palms were sweating, his throat was tight, and he kept taking deep breaths but his lungs always felt half-empty...

Everything about what was happening just made him feel jittery and uneasy. Everything about right now made him want to burst into tears. It was pathetic, but the feelings of shame just made it even harder to keep the tears away. He would not sob pathetically no matter how much he was hurting inside. It was unbecoming of him as a nation to behave as such, he'd done it more than enough times over the last several weeks and nothing had come of it. Italy was still asleep, Feliciano still hadn't come back to them.

Crying solved nothing.

But fear.

(And pain.)

And cornflowers.

(But fear.)

And pain.

(To wake up.)

Black, red, gold.

(Verde, bianco, rosso.)

Wake up?

(Want to wake up.)

Next to Cornflowers.

(And daisies?)

Want to wake up...

(Want to see him...)

Lots of daisies...

"America is saying his goodbyes." Germany stated, his voice stiff and brittle as the words were pulled out of his throat. Japan just kept watching him however, a very sad and very small smile painted on his smooth face. It had taken many years to learn how to read this curious little nation properly, so Germany still felt some small sense of pride whenever he managed to decode his friend's mild expressions. He just wished that this time Japan would give him a more dignified look, not such a sad and piteous one.

"It's not a secret, Ludwig. Go to him." The six of them were the last ones left: America was behind the door where Germany was standing, saying goodbye at Italy's bedside before he would have to leave through the storm. China was wiping down the kitchen one last time and giving Vatican very clear, incredibly simple instructions on how to heat up the meals they had left in the fridge for him to eat over the next few days. Prussia was in the office for one last phone call before they left, and Japan was here with him. "No one is judging you."

"I am judging me."

Japan smiled again, or he smiled differently. His face changed in a way that Germany wasn't used to seeing and he didn't know how to decode that expression. He seemed so sad, but also almost happy at the same time. Everything about his friend seemed to shift for that one moment, the shyest little laugh passing his lips before Japan put words to his bizarre elation.

"I said the same thing to Her- ah, to Greece, when we came back." To Greece? "It was how I convinced myself to carry on until Romano contacted us. So I understand, but..." But Japan looked away as the bedroom door swung open, the hard-eyed American stepping into the short hall and stopping abruptly when his path was blocked by the two of them already standing there. Japan meekly stepped aside to make room for him, but Mr. Jones didn't storm through once the path was opened. He looked at Germany instead, an uncharacteristically sad look hovering in his blue eyes just over the terrible welt France had left on his cheek. Germany was responsible for the bruises on the back of America's hand, the cut on his lip having already mended from last night.

America had waited until England and the others had already left before coming back. He hadn't had the gall to meet China's gaze, and this was the first time he'd willingly looked at Germany since the catastrophe.

"I'm sorry." What was this? An apology? "I made you mad, so this is my fault." America never apologized for anything. If he did he might have convinced Canada to wait and leave with him instead of taking off with Russia. Germany didn't know what to do with the apology now that he had it, the silence stretching awkwardly between them.

"I..." What? America had more to say? "I promise not to interfere with anything unless you ask me to, Germany. You or him." Another very, very rare thing for Alfred to say: a pledge to stand by instead of rushing headlong in to things. As much as Germany had been hoping for some sort of humility since the American's arrival, this felt like too little too late.

"It was good that everyone came to see him." Germany allowed, glancing past America's shoulder where he'd left the door open, Italy's sleeping form still visible on the bed. "But it wasn't just your fault. I..."

Wait...

"...Ludwig?"

"Germany-san?"

"Did..." He couldn't speak, it shouldn't have been so hard and yet he couldn't get the words out. "Did you move him?" It was a simple question, he shouldn't have been so worked up about asking it: there was no rule against touching Italy as he slept, in fact it was practically encouraged by the group. Not even France would try something lewd on Italy when he was like this and ever since Romano had left even the Vatican had been alright with having someone, usually Germany, share the bed with the afflicted nation. He'd been tormented and alone for too long, none of them could stand to leave him like that...

So it was a simple question, and one that America answered with confusion.

"No?" The American turned, the German stepped around him, and the Japanese one quickly rushed to find his phone and place a call to Rome.

Their voices.

(I can't hear them.)

Cornflowers-

(-and tomatoes.)

I can't hear them.

(They're not here?)

B-But I...

(I need...)

Amo?

(Fratello?)

Roma-

(Germa-)

Lu-

(Lo-!)

Italy's head had been propped up on pillows when America went in to say goodbye, and his head was still there, but now it was turned away from the door and facing the window. His left arm was down near his hip instead of up over his stomach where France had placed it after kissing his hand. When Germany approached him, he saw tension stressing the Italian's thin face.

"It-" The first thing he did was brush his hand over Feliciano's face, his skin still too warm and dry from his fever, but there was a tremor shaking him from inside. He could feel how much force was being used to keep Italy's head down, his eyes squeezed shut instead of resting like before. The Italian was going to puncture holes in the blanket if he gripped it any tighter in his hand, Germany carefully trying to loosen the frantic hold as Vatican swept into the room. Ludwig didn't get in the Micro-nation's way as he freed Feliciano's hand from the blanket, threading his fingers through the shaking set and feeling that tight, desperate grip dig into him. It didn't hurt, it was reassuring.

Germany bundled up and held onto all the feelings that made him want to shove Vatican aside as the Micro-nation leaned over Italy's head and shoulders. He made himself look away from how the Holy See's hands were on Feliciano's body and stroking back his auburn hair. Italian poured like clear water over the stricken nation's head, the language meant to sooth and coax him back to life. Vatican wasn't praying, he was speaking the normal everyday vernacular of Rome- but it wasn't meant for Germany to listen to. Germany could hold Italy's hand, but he was more or less banished to the foot of the bed.

'But I just want you to wake up. Please, I'm begging you, just open your eyes again...' Kissing the hand that wouldn't stop clawing his, Germany wrapped his other hand around Feliciiano's wrist, careful of the bandages and the bruises they hid as he closed his eyes. 'I love you, and I won't forgive myself if the last time you saw my face was because of that... that Thing... So please, just wake up...' Just wake up and look at him, please...

Please...

Fear of everything.

Everything is pain.

Fear of pain.

No more pain...!

"Did he do anything else?" Romano could barely keep himself upright, one hand pressing down on the dresser in front of him, the other clutching the phone tight and holding it against his ear.

"Germany and Vatican rolled him onto his side, but no, I'm afraid that was everything..." If Romano'd been there, would there have been more?

Veneziano hadn't woken up, but he moved. He held the Potato-bastard's hand and he shed a few tears behind closed eyes. He'd gasped for breath and laid on the mattress with his entire body rigid and shaking. He'd come so close-

But then he'd just fallen back to sleep...

"I..."

"The two of them are going to stay: Vatican has given Germany permission, but America has already left and China and I are about to go now. We can't leave him alone, Romano, but I don't think listening to the rest of us shout and argue will do him any good." No, no that was smart of them to think like that. Romano just couldn't help wondering if waking up with only the Potato-bastard and Vatican with him wouldn't push his brother into some kind of fit. What if he thought Germany was Holy Rome again? Did the others even know to watch out for that? What if Vatican couldn't convince Veneziano that his friends had just gone home, that they weren't dead?

What if that was his last gasp?

"He..."

"Please get some rest, Romano-san." Japan's voice was polite and soft-spoken through the line, Romano giving up the fight with words he couldn't say. "It would break Feliciano's heart to hear how you sound right now, so please... There are too many things wrong right now, you have to focus on your health and hope that it supports his again like before. Please, if there is anything you need then don't hesitate to call one of us."

He-

It just-

But-

"...Thanks." Romano set the phone back down in the cradle, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to fight off the burn before it got any worse. At least he was at home, not stuck in his office again waiting for more bad news.

All of this just...

It was exactly what he'd told Seborga, that's what it was; one last gasp, a swan-song that meant surrender into an infinite black. Maybe he was wrong but Romano didn't think so, not anymore, the sicker he got the less he could manage the hope that meant his brother was going to recover. Japan had called him like Romano'd demanded, but he already knew the other nation hadn't told him everything. Something had happened that was forcing the others out of the house, and nobody was going to tell him about it. He'd have to wait for Seborga to go and then report back once he knew.

But part of him felt like he already knew. That part of him that had watched the mighty Roman Empire wither away and die...

"Romano?" Seborga was still red-eyed and washed out from crying, but Romano turned when he heard his name and let his little brother cross the room and take his arm. He hated being helped back to the bed but didn't complain about it, making eye-contact with Spain and San Marino as the two hovered in the doorway before stepping inside. He'd sent Seborga to summon them both back up here, and as the quilts and pillows were re-adjusted around him Romano took a deep breath and held it, trying not to cough.

He was exhausted and his body was one great big ache. His back was pulsing and his arms were impossibly heavy, his hands cold without the blankets covering them. He held his breath just to keep his chest from rattling, and he knew his eyes were filmy because he kept blinking but Spain's face wasn't clearing up for him. He was tired but he couldn't sleep, and every time he stayed in one position for too long something would begin to hurt or burn or shake, forcing him to move again.

"Come here." He was miserable, but there was no one else he could rely on to do this for him. He was not going to die, and so he refused to give up everything he and his stupid brother had worked so damn hard for.

"You shouldn't keep trying to walk around like that." San Marino scolded, and Romano called up the fiercest glare he could and pegged his little brother with it. It was an ages-old battle between the two of them to figure out who was older, but South Italy tried to reign in his temper before it could distract and exhaust him.

"You..." he said sternly, focusing on his brother, "are going to remember who's house you're in." For a moment San Marino's wide face didn't change, like he wasn't even sure Romano had spoken simple Italian to him. After a second the Micro-nation seemed to clue in though, his stance shifting as he brought his hands up onto his hips, pushing back the edges of his blazer as he did so. There was a challenging look in his brown eyes and Romano met it without question: "And I expect some fucking respect while you're at it. And you."

Spain had been standing there there, grinning while Romano opened his mouth and gave the firm, concise order to the other nation. He had his lanky arms folded over his chest, leaning over just enough like he was going to start nudging San Marino with his elbow and be a jerk. When South Italy pegged the Spaniard with a glare, the idiot's grin just got worse until Romano shocked him by opening his mouth with painstakingly prepared Spanish:

"This is my house, and these are my brothers." Spain almost choked at the sound of his language hitting him, but Romano did not care. "I don't need you. I want you here, but I do not need you. If you fight with him one more time, I'll throw you out myself. I don't care who starts it, Antonio: get along, or get out."

His heart was beating a lot faster than it should have, pain spearing Romano in the chest as he found it difficult to breathe after saying so much. He'd wanted to tag a curse on the end of that ultimatum, 'get along or get the fuck out', but the muscles in his chest wouldn't work in sync so he had to cut it short. Seborga's hand was on his shoulder and Romano found his eyes drifting further out of focus than before, but he pushed through it. He was not dying, and his tongue fumbled for the words in his mother-tongue to make himself clear.

"Seborga is leaving tomorrow morning." It should have been today, but his brother had already said that, thanks to another accident on the rail lines, there were no trains moving past Bologna today, or at least none he could get a ticket on. "And if you... two you..." God it was so hard to breathe... "If I won't... trust..."

"Romano?" San Marino rushed up and took his hand, or at least Romano thought it was his, it looked right but he couldn't see his brother's face? "Romano look at me..." Look at what?

"Lovino?" How did everyone... know that name? Spain's voice sounded far away, or maybe his ears were just plugged with something. Romano couldn't tell the difference, he just knew he felt an arm wrap around his shoulders before Seborga's muffled voice tried to poke through the thickening fog.

"Roma?" The lights in this room were so bright, the lamp in the corner just kept growing and-

"Romano wake up!" It was hard to breathe...

"Lovino!"

Sleep...

He could hear the rain... It didn't hurt.

But the sound of it... it frightened him.

He could feel... his shoulder, it was underneath him on his side. As soon as he felt his shoulder, he felt the numb weight of his left arm. That didn't hurt either.

But his arm should hurt, and the fact that it didn't- that scared him. Did he just not have an arm anymore? An arm, an arm, what did it mean to lose an arm? What was an arm to begin with? Names were just sounds were just noises were all arbitrary and without essence-

'Stop that...' Stop that, stop it, no more of that... 'I want... to wake up... please... let me just...' But if he woke up then what would happen? Wouldn't it all start over? 'If I'm thinking it... then I've already...'

He could hear the rain. He could hear it peppering the roof and tapping on the windows behind him. He could smell the dusty pillow under his face and feel his curled fingers where his hands were bent in front of him, his body twisted on its side. Nothing moved, not even his eyes: he refused to move. He could hear the rain and smell the dust and pieces of his body felt like they were missing, but he wasn't going to move. And even if he was awake, he wasn't going to open his eyes.

He wasn't going to see those white walls again...

Those bright florescent lights...

All that slowly spilling blood...

'I can smell...'

Not again. Never again...

'...Cornflowers?'

No, that wasn't right. He breathed in again, deeper this time, looking for death.

Cornflowers, sweet, earthy, semi-cool across the palette- how else could you describe a smell except like a taste? Alcohol; spiced, sharp, not for drinking- after-shave? Mint, but not peppermint, spearmint.

He tried again.

Cornflowers, aftershave, spearmint. And dog- that scent of an animal that buried itself in clothes and products, becoming inseparable. And leather, supple and well aged. And something else, like bread freshly baked, the scent lingering on the bed above the scent of dust. All those scents, all those little triggers, broken memories with sharp, jagged little edges...

Warm. It wasn't something he'd noticed, but he was warm. Not all warm, but enough warm. His legs were cold under the weight of several thin blankets, his face and throat were cold where the air touched them. But his shoulder was warm, his back, down his side. Something heavy, something warm had been pulled around him, something outside the blankets? Something inside the blankets?

'Why are there blankets?' Why was there a bed? Why was there rain? The windows were too high to see out of, the walls were too thick to hear anything. Why was there the sound of rain and the sensations of a bed and the feeling of something warm? Why did he smell cornflowers inside and how could he smell dust when everything was always perfectly perfectly clean?

What would happen if he... opened his eyes?

His first reaction, instinctive, visceral, was to shut them even tighter at the thought, to forget that he could even imagine such a thing. No. Don't look. Don't open. Don't see the white walls and the white piano and the tattered flag and the blood slipping out of his skin. He could hear rain, not footsteps, but if he opened his eyes then he'd realize his mistake and he'd be straight back where he'd started. So don't open them. Don't look.

'...Who am I?' It wasn't a kind thought, it wasn't a question he wanted to think about, to hear the answer to. 'Who was I?' He'd been someone, hadn't he? He'd stood for something? Something important, something about houses and families and loyalty and honour and idealism- and utopia. Something to do with utopia, not that he'd been one, but he'd aspired, hadn't he? They all did- or they all had, or they all should. They? How did one embody utopia?

'The same way I embody a nation...' Nation. Country. Bonds and oaths and swears and laws, symbols and triumphs and heroes, defeats and proverbs and lessons, examples: he was an example? Example of what? 'An Italian.'

Example. Example was not the same as a definition, an example was just a sample, it was something like what could be, it was a possibility. He represented an ideal but that did not make him the reality, he was a representation of... of an abstract? Or a concrete? Or a dream? Was he a fact? A myth? A stereotype? Stereotype of what?

'An Italian.' An Italian, someone from- 'From Italy.' Someone from... 'I... am Italy...' North Italy- the technicality caught up with him immediately, and he remembered: 'I am the San Marco quarter of the City of Venice of the Region of Veneto of the Northern Half of the Republic of Italy, I am General Feliciano Vargas of the San Marco quarter of the City of Venice of the Region of-' He had a very long name...

'And I can smell cornflowers...' North Italy opened his eyes. He opened them to the dark and the rain and the still, chilly air of a room he couldn't see, laying on a bed he could only feel with someone he could only smell while his eyes refused to adjust in the poor light. But he'd opened his eyes.

'...No.' And then he wished he were dead.

AN Removed

-Reposted October 19th, 2012