SOY: there you go, another chapter. I want to warn you readers that there will be no sequel to this fic. It had been pre-planned, but I have had a few changes of mind about the actual plot of it, so I'll call it off. Please still enjoy this fic to the end, though, I assure you, a sequel won't be missed.

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Rating: K+

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

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Eggshells

Chapter 10

Italy hummed happily as he approached the giant building hall where the art exhibition was held.

He had seen advertising around for it, feeling the intense need to go at least one time, to see all those old paintings he missed from his earlier days as a nation, and he was glad he was finally going to do just that.

America looked less than enthused, but he was still at his side, curiously looking over at the long line of people waiting to buy their own tickets, probably wondering what was so good that so many people wanted in. It was nice of him to agree to accompany Italy, so he bought America's ticket for him as a thank you, though they had to wait a bit before they got to the ticket booth (Italy did not want to move to the start of the queue and use his privilege, it wasn't fair for all those people who loved art as much as he did).

America protested at Italy paying for him, but he swatted him away gently. Really, America was a really nice person, but he had to cut it a bit with his heroic disposition, at least when it was about being the only one who ever paid. Italy wanted to do that too.

As they moved through the first hall, where the expositive display for books and souvenirs was (there was a nice poster Italy eyed with want), he had to think back at the past few weeks in wonder, seeing as so many things were changing so quickly.

Until a month ago, he would have been clinging to Germany's arm, asking him for attention, bouncing around him for a chance at seeing Germany's softer face, and a smile… and now, well, he was spending time with someone else, someone who was growing to matter a lot to Italy.

In a way, he felt uneasy about it. He had spent so much time with Germany during the past decades, that it was hard sometimes to remember he was not there. Italy sometimes still turned around, Germany's name on his lips, only to find out America was there instead, not Germany. Not that America and Germany were anything similar to each other, it was just ingrained into Italy that Germany had to be there.

America was… certainly different, yes. He was funny, and Italy didn't have to beg for him to want to do funny things, unlike with Germany. It seemed like Germany wasn't quite as open and outright jolly, and Italy had grown used to that, but with this change of pace Italy had realised that it felt good when someone went along with his desires willingly, as a shared pleasure, not because they wanted to grudgingly make Italy happy.

Italy loved Germany, but America was different and he was glad of it.

Unfortunately, Italy also missed Germany's presence in his life, even if he admitted that it felt good to spend time with other people. And because of that, Italy realised that running away and avoiding Germany would not fix the real issue. He had to sort out the relationship he shared with Germany, or things would just turn even worse, and he could not keep hiding behind his time with America, no matter how much he had fun with him.

He wanted to be close to Germany again.

'Yet I still feel like it's not exactly what I want,' Italy had to admit to himself, shaking his head slightly to clear his mind.

Thinking about how he felt for Germany hurt Italy, and he had always been good at running away from pain… but he couldn't run forever, he wasn't that good. He would have to stop and turn around at one point, and involving America into this whole mess with Germany did not feel right, either.

He valued his time with America a lot, and he was sure the other liked to spend time with him too, but… wasn't he also allowing America to do the same thing with England? They had started spending time together because they both were avoiding someone, and that was twice as bad, and if Italy found it hard to stop running to face his own issues, it was easier to think he would help his friend do the same.

He did not want to be the one who made America's relationship with England go worse.

Strengthening his resolve, Italy nodded to himself. He would have to face Germany soon, and allow America some time to do the same with England, but…

Well, not now. now there was a gorgeous exposition he wanted to enjoy.

"So! You said you've met this artist?" America's voice bounced through the silent halls before he slapped both hands on his mouth, slightly flustered. Thankfully they were in a relatively quiet corridor, and the people behind them were still at the booth buying tickets for a group.

Italy chuckled. "Yeah. Brother and I followed him around for years without him noticing, because we were fascinated. His style was… unique for the time. He used a lot of dark, but the realism of his paintings was what attracted me".

Talking about art with Germany would have been hard. Germany wasn't new to art, though it did hold less importance to him than other matters, but he had never managed to go through a full exposition with Italy before. He had no patience for Italy lingering for a long time in front of certain paintings, or to listen to him rambling about nuances in the painting styles. He was a man of brusque, violent strokes of the brush onto the canvas, darker shades and sharp structures, and most of Italy's favourite styles were volatile, fluttery brushes of paint on the canvas, colours blending and then clashing together into action.

They did go to museums together, but they didn't quite seem to enjoy the same things, and afterwards Italy felt almost always a bittersweet aftertaste, like he wished he'd seen Germany's sight together with his own, to understand why they were so different. Why they wanted different things.

America was observing a close painting, wanting to impress Italy and ask something intelligent but also interested, seeing as Italy's eyes were bright with passion and love for this long-dead painter.

England had tried to bring America to one of his art expositions in the past more than once. The first time, America had been a young nation still under England's control, and England had brought him around to see the residence he'd set up on America's territory, but the paintings had been weird, and England had tried too much to make America understand why they were so good. The second time had happened more recently, after his independence. England had pompously showed his art to America, ranting about why it was the best sort of art one could see, and America had only seen England's pride there, but nothing interesting once again.

He couldn't understand his old art. America understood pop art. He understood the kind of art that used modern medias to exist, a man making a statement, colourful things and stuff that was born of bright, questioning minds, Marilyn Monroe printed in sets of four, and blond women in a comic-like fashion, fluttering flags and compositions made of steel and clay. England never had the patience to share his view with America, and refused to listen when America tried to show him his own art, so America had stopped caring.

Italy wasn't trying to shove his own style down America's throat, but was simply willing to share his view with someone else, offer a different art style to America's eyes, and that was something he could appreciate.

"Eh… Feli… isn't this a bit… cruel?" America tugged Italy closer to the painting he was observing. It showed a woman in the act of decapitating a man, blood sprinkling from his throat and from the knife while an older woman watched from the back, serious and intent.

Despite himself, America leaned forwards to observe the details, from the realistic strokes that could have made the painting seem like a photography to the definitely dark background, which cast shadows on most of the bodies except the faces, and the parts of the body that needed focus.

The expressions, as Italy had said, were not incredibly realistic –the woman looked almost distressed, but had a tone of distance to her eyes, and the man's expression, while showing pain, was also somewhat unfocused– but the pose, the dynamism and the colours made it far too realistic.

"Yeah!" Italy nodded eagerly, apparently unbothered. "During that period other artists preferred to depict saints or classical scenes, though one of the main subjects was war, or the death of martyrs. So you'd see blood or death quite often. Others preferred scenes with more light, but Caravaggio used his shadows to add depth, and it shows. He was a master of it, and many afterwards attempted to copy him".

He tugged America forwards, and he had to reluctantly move away from the distressing yet strangely intriguing painting to another one in the corner, which showed three men lifting a fourth older one into the air. The fourth man was mostly naked, and held upside-down on a wooden board.

America looked closer, noticing the blood and the details about the skin and the clothes, and shivered slightly.

Italy continued to speak animatedly, though in hushed tones as they had reached a section hall filled with people, and America found himself actually listening. Italy's way to explain the creation of the paintings and their meaning was easier to follow than England, though the subject wasn't entirely of America's liking, but that didn't matter much, in the end.

America had noticed Italy looking somewhat sobered up just a few seconds before, and he was glad that moment was gone. Looking sad didn't suit Italy in the least. America really wanted to see Italy happy, and art seemed to do the trick just fine.

It was obvious the artistic soul hidden inside Italy didn't take much to come out, and America allowed himself to be pulled along, amusement filling him at Italy's heartfelt excitement.

As Italy continued leading him through the art exposition, stopping almost every single painting in order to tell him about it, America realised with a start that he could actually follow Italy's explanations. Usually art-related things would fly past his head, but Italy's words were simple, mindful of talking with someone not at the same artistic level, and it made America feel appreciated, not looked down upon, which was always a relief. Italy spoke a language he could understand; historically speaking, they came from two different world views, and as for the feelings behind the art, that was something America could understand.

"It surprises me you know so little about European artists," Italy admitted as the one-sided conversation, only broken by some questions from America, shifted from purely Italian artists to the European renaissance period in general.

America shrugged, looking away from Italy to focus on a particular painting made on what seemed to be a green wooden shield. "Eh, Arthur… he tried to tell me about it but he kept trying to show me how pop art isn't good and that I should focus on European art instead and it was just so boring and it irked me, so–"

As he explained things he had only touched upon within his own mind, unable to voice them to anybody, even his brother Canada, America felt like he was getting something out of his chest that had lodged there for years. He wished he could talk to England face-to-face, tell him the same things without the other Nation looking at him with anger and betrayal, trying to make him understand, but the wall between him and England was only growing, and America had accepted years before that it would be impossible for the two of them to be really honest without sitting down and keeping their judgement of each other aside.

America knew he was no saint. England had his faults, but America admitted he wasn't always right. He liked to prod and goad England just as much as England liked to sneer and prod back, and that was how it had always been. It was fun. It was also tiring, and as of late, not really all that fun anymore.

When he finally stopped talking, realising he had poured out his feelings of regret and anger to a quiet, pensive Italy, America shut his mouth an exhaled loudly, feeling somewhat better. When Italy noticed he had nothing else to add, he simply grabbed America's hand in his own, squeezing it, and then let it go. This sort of quiet show of understanding made the knot in America's chest melt entirely.

If only Italy could know just how much this meant to him… but no, America had decided to keep this crush to himself. There was no need to act on it. Italy belonged to Germany, even if they weren't exactly on the best of terms, and he… he was still sort of bound to England, in a way, even though this possibility was losing its appeal the more his crush on Italy grew.

Even then, he wanted nothing more than relish in his crush for a bit longer. He knew it was destined to end, and that Italy would not end up with him, but the selfishness of stealing Italy's attention away, keeping him at his side for as long as he could was strong inside him, and America held no illusion that this was all it would ever be. And that was why he wanted to enjoy this a little longer. It was new, and refreshing, and America hadn't felt this happy about a person he liked for a long time.

"Ah! This one is my favourite~!"

America paused in his train of thoughts to stare at the green shield again, unable to stop a grimace from forming on his lips. The painting on the shield was sort of… weird, and if he had to choose between all the bloody paintings he'd seen before this one, he would have gone for the other one, with the guy on the floor getting his head cut off. This Caravaggio guy surely liked his deaths, even though he always made them seem like they were… regal, in a way. Not violent or harsh.

The shield's painting was smaller in size, and it showed just a head. It was a woman with her neck cut, blood dripping down to the edge of the shield, looking far too realistic for America's liking; the woman had snakes instead of hair, and her expression was a congealed scream of anger, resentment and pain.

"Why is this one your favourite?" he asked, backing away from the shield.

Italy looked at the shield, then at America, and gently nudged him close again. The contact made America's heart flutter, and he tried hard not to flush. "That's the Gorgon Medusa," Italy told him, then seemed to notice how this didn't clear anything up because he added, "Uhm… could turn people into stone with her eyes?"

America's expression brightened up instantly. "Oh! Oh! Like in Percy Jackson!"

Italy licked his lips, then nodded. "Yes~ she could turn people into statues, but then Perseus came and used his shield, which had a mirror on it, to defeat her~"

America nodded again, reminded of the plot of the movie, though he knew the myth was probably slightly different and quite older than that.

"There is a legend that says how the shield retained Medusa's impression on it, rather than him bringing back her decapitated head, and that he used that to turn into stone the court of the King that had sent him to kill her, as a revenge for the way the King had abandoned him and his mother years before".

Italy smiled brightly, apparently perfectly at ease with such a dark story, and America had to wonder how to reconcile this side of him with the cheerful, scared Italy he knew.

"Grandpa used to tell me stories like that when I was little," Italy confided. "He said Ancient Greece would tell them to him sometimes, so he would use them as bedtime stories for me when we were alone. I wish I could have shared that with my brother, but at the time it wasn't possible. I tried to do that when we were together but Lovi didn't quite like them~" Italy chuckled at that, and it made America snicker too. "Still… this looks so realistic it feels like she's about to jump out of the painting to scream, and that's really why I like it! I don't think I could ever replicate this sort of realism, no matter how long I live~"

Italy's eyes returned to the painting, a mix of respect, love and longing, and America wondered whether Italy's love for these paintings, for these stories, came from having had his grandfather telling them to him, as a connection between them, even if the older nation was no longer alive.

America took a deep breath, and looked away. The deep, desperate longing in his own chest was aching, and in its depth he could see his crush morphing into something else, and that was scary.

Italy was passionate, and cheerful, and there was a side of him that he didn't quite show to everybody, and America felt an intense need to just hold the other nation to his chest and brush his fingers against his lips, and that desire was so strong he had to clench his hands into fists to prevent himself from doing just that.

The intensity of his feelings scared him.

And Italy's art… the art he liked… it spread across Europe, it tied up his world to the past, showed it to modern eyes in a way America had never truly appreciated before. There were roots so different from his own, from Native America, that it was almost too much.

He had never been interested, not with England, but now… he wanted to know more. More about Italy and his art, about the things he liked, about the roots that tied him to being a Nation.

"If… if there's another exhibit you wanna go to," he muttered, scratching the bridge of his nose in embarrassment. "I hope you'll want to drag me there too". Then he paused. "Though I wouldn't mind seeing your art either," he added.

When he dared to glance over at Italy, the other nation's smile could have rivalled the sun.

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Glossary:

The artist Italy went to see is Michelangelo Merisi, also known as Caravaggio. His use of shadows in his paintings gave them depth, and his art was detailed in a way that still surprises me. But I'm terribly partial, as he's one of my favourite painters.

The paintings here described are: (please remove the spaces from the links in order to see the pictures)

'Medusa'

( www. mlahanas. de/ Greeks/ Mythology/ RM/ MedusaCaravaggio . jpg)

'Decollazione del Battista'

( www. windoweb. it/ guida/ arte/ arte_foto/ caravaggio_7 . jpg)

'Giuditta e Oloferne'

( www. adonaj old/images/ CaravaggioGiudittaeOloferne . jpg).