Am I Not Human?, Rest Calm, Sick, Made of Stone.

I keep editing the AN in chapter 1 as I change my mind about content in this story. It's not a romance so the pairings just aren't showing up the way I thought they would, so sorry for anyone who's been waiting/watching for them!

Actually warning you guys this time: another violent chapter here, more sinister but not as graphic as the last one. If you don't think you're up for it then just read the Romano parts- they're violence-free!

Final Loop

Again and Again with Holy Rome

It didn't feel good. It never felt good.

Those hands wearing his blood grasping his hair, causing pain.

Those eyes and that smile, and a laugh that wasn't right.

"Smile for me, Ita~"

Fuck you.

"Again?"

Veneziano's residence in his city was easy to find. On the fourth level of an old building across from the famous Piazza San Marco, he'd claimed the top floor for himself and had always enjoyed the view of the city from the patio attached to the living room. Romano had keys to his brother's flat and held them out to Vatican for him to use, a look of pure disdain written across the half-nation's face as first the heavy iron gate over the front door was pulled open, then the thick door inside.

They'd argued all the way here.

Vatican's younger son had stopped spending so much time in Venice after reuniting with his brother in Rome, and even before that Veneziano's time had been monopolized by working as a servant in Austria's house. Despite that however, the former Republic of Venice had still found time to come back to the city of his birth from time to time. This was not going to be pleasant.

When Vatican opened the flat there was a clear film of dust across the grey wooden floors. Most of the furniture had been carefully covered with cloth sheets and plastic, a necessary precaution for the antique pieces scattered around the room. Tables, chairs, a few long couches, there was no television in the main room but even the two large mirrors Veneziano kept from his earlier years were bound up in cloth to keep them safe from harm. The main part of the flat felt like a storage room and even the kitchen had been wiped down and packed up before Veneziano had left last time.

"Why the fuck are we here, you bastard?" Romano didn't look any better now than he had on the train and that was beginning to worry the older Nation. He was pale and exhausted, his green eyes holding that unnatural hunger as he stared at the quiet, empty kitchen for several moments after stepping inside. There were a few fingers of pre-dawn light reaching into the room from the patio door- the same door that looked out across the canal onto the Piazza, but neither of them moved towards it. Romano had complained non-stop about the stink of the canal water since they'd stepped off the train, and Vatican was more focused on watching the rest of his son's reactions to the city than airing out the apartment...

"I want you to take a look around."

"At what? His old, dusty-fucking furniture?" That curse didn't make any sense, if Romano was going to hide behind obscenities then at least he could put a bit more thought into them...

"Venice is an Italian city." Unlike Madrid- the subject of their argument.

"It's a North-fucking-Italian city!" Wasn't Romano still Italy? Wasn't his full name Romano Itali-? "I know my own fucking name!"

Vatican closed his eyes as Romano roared at him and dropped onto one plastic-bound couch in a heap, dust flaring up around him as he buried his face in his hands. Romano wasn't reduced to tears this time however, he was huffing angrily against his palms, struggling to keep himself in check after days of over-reactions. Was he settling down at all? Was this a good sign, if he was starting to calm?

It was too soon to be sure, but Vatican took a few steps closer to his son, remaining upright instead of kneeling down to be closer to Romano's level. The question was premature, but he asked:

"Where is your brother?"

The first time, Feliciano woke up back in the music room. His arm was bleeding freely again and that helped tell him when and where he was. His white flag was already in stained tatters, making it easier for him to tear away the fabric and bind his forearm in a messy tourniquet. The key was gone, but he felt that it was a good sign.

But why was he still here? Had he failed to get out? But that meant the others made it then. If he closed his eyes and thought really hard then yes, Feliciano was sure: everyone had escaped but him. He only had himself to worry about now, so that would make things easier.

He had to be sure though, he had to make absolutely certain that no one had been left behind.

Down to the first floor: office, library, bathroom, kitchen, annex. All clear.

Basement: hallway, every hallway, office, meeting room, dungeon, cave, other offices. Clear.

Up to the second floor: bedrooms, every bedroom, including closets and corners and hidden under the beds. He prodded the ashes in the fireplace just to make sure, searching for bones or bits of uniforms. Nothing.

Third floor, fourth floor, fifth floor. Everyone was gone.

The puzzle on the fifth floor was unlocked without him having to try it. The cage of monsters was empty and silent. When he reached the final room there was no monster oozing in the corner, and the white walls were clean and pure: all the numbers erased. There was no front door key, but he knew where it was: sitting in the keyhole in the front door, just waiting to be turned so he could escape.

"I... I did it..." He hadn't wanted to say the words until he was sure, he hadn't wanted to let himself believe until it was true. But it was true: "I saved them, I saved all of them..." Even the ones who hadn't come yet. He'd saved Spain and spared Romano- his brother, he was safe...

"I did it!" He was crying by then, on his knees because the emotions stole the strength out of his legs. He couldn't run anymore, he didn't have to run anymore, he'd done it. "I saved them!" Tears he hadn't felt in such a long time came running warm and sweet down his cheeks. Not scared, not angry, not frustrated or in pain- happy tears, joyful sobs. Because sure, his arm hurt, and yes, he remembered what he'd done to poor England, but it was all okay now. He'd saved them.

There wasn't enough room in his heart for the joy, the tears felt like liquid music- when was the last time he'd heard music? He'd loved music. When was the last time he'd laughed like this? He'd loved laughing. When was the last time he'd painted? He'd loved painting. When was the last time-?

"Ita~"

He was laughing and he was crying, that was why he didn't hear those footsteps coming up behind him. He was too overwhelmed with joy to feel the fear as that hand grabbed him from behind, those fingers digging into his face as that arm jerked him back against that chest. The knife stung as it sliced through the laughter, and the only thing he remembered after that was the voice he'd loved so much whispering the last thing he'd wanted to hear:

"Again?"

"I don't know..." Vatican couldn't say if that was a good sign or a bad one. He just wanted Romano to calm down, and to stay as calm as he could. It wouldn't be easy for him, but Vatican had to push.

"I need you to think back." Slowly sinking onto the couch next to his son, the Micro-nation placed a hand on Romano's shoulder, holding on gently. Maybe it would keep him grounded, keep him here instead of... where Vatican wanted him to be. "Tell me the last thing your brother did."

"The last thing?"

"You mentioned Russia, and how they were running across the grounds to get away." Romano pulled his hands down, palms together and lips pressed over his thumbs as he listened to Vatican speak. He was still flushed and upset, but he was listening, staring at the dusty floor and lost in thought. "Are there any memories after that?" Romano looked confused, his voice was soft:

"Why would there be?"

The second time, Feliciano woke up back in the music room. His arm was bleeding freely again and that helped tell him when and where he was. His white flag was already in stained tatters, making it easier for him to tear away the fabric and bind his forearm in a messy tourniquet. The key was gone, but he didn't know whether that was a good sign or not. He was confused. His throat hurt.

Feliciano didn't know where to go and just sat there for a few moments, slowly taking in his surroundings: the snow white piano, the pale egg-shell walls, the dusty bookshelves, the harsh florescent lighting. The house was so quiet, he felt alone...

Then he remembered how they'd all escaped, and he remembered waking up like this before? Was that right? Something must have happened. If he'd died without the key then that meant it was probably back up on the fifth floor where it belonged, right?

Feliciano climbed through the house, moving quickly and with light steps. He didn't see any of the monsters, and when he reached the moon room he found the puzzle already solved for him. The wine-red carpets of the next chamber reflected the light in a sinister way, but the black iron bars weren't hiding anything anymore: the cell beyond was empty. Was this just what happened when you escaped? Without food, the monsters all vanished? He hoped so, his legs felt so weak and wobbly...

In the final room there was no multi-eyed abomination sitting in the corner, but there was also no key. Did that mean, maybe, that the front door was already open? He hoped so. He hoped so-

Oh. Oh no... What did that mean?

Sitting in the middle of the pristine white floor was a bloody symbol, a number.

1

No, that wasn't right. He had to get out of here before something bad-

"Ita~" No, no, no, not that voice- that voice couldn't be here anymore. It had just been a dream, a nightmare, some trap he'd fallen into and since fought his way out of, there was no wa-

Feliciano turned and saw the glint of the knife just before it reached him- but he didn't have time to move. He screamed. From white to red, everything he saw tumbled into a sudden, debilitating darkness as his soft eyes felt pain and his hands flung up to find wet, mutilated flesh against his palms. He screamed and he stumbled away from the knife and the cape and the hat, his face burning as hot blood spilled over his cheeks, his ears ringing with alarms.

Something stopped him, something caught him, something made him trip and fall back- And then he was on him; a hot, heavy body straddling his torso, the laughing voice, the dream, the nightmare, the-

"Again!"

"Focus, Romano."

"You're scaring me, old man..." He knew he was and, for once, it was unintentional. Romano reached up and pulled Vatican's hand off his shoulder, but instead of tossing it away the younger nation squeezed his hand tightly. Their eyes were locked on one another, Vatican refusing to give in to his son's anxiety as he stared him down, forcing him look inside to get away from the tension between them.

He asked another question:

"What did Veneziano eat in the mansion?"

The third time, he woke up back in the music room. His arm was bleeding freely again and that helped tell him when and where he was. His white flag was already in stained tatters, making it easier for him to tear away the fabric and bind his forearm in a messy tourniquet. The key was gone and that scared him, his vision was blurry and took a minute or two to clear up. He rubbed his eyes several times, struggling to speed up the process and trying very hard not to think.

If the key was not with him and his friends had all escaped, then all Feliciano had to do was reach the front door and get out. That was all he needed to do, he just had to run as fast as he could and escape.

Making sure the knot around his arm was as tight as he could tolerate, Feliciano cautiously opened the music room door and peered out into the hall. The house was completely silent, the pine floors clean and yellow against the white walls, the harsh florescent lighting leaving no shadows up and down the bare corridor.

He'd need his energy for the sprint to the edge of the property, so while he was inside the Italian made himself walk. It was hard, his legs were wobbling and he just wanted to bolt right away, but if he spent his reserves too quickly he'd never make it out.

But they were watching him. He couldn't see them, but he could feel the attention following him through the house. It was so hard not to run, it was so hard to slow down and make himself walk. He just wanted to run, run, run...

"Ita~" That voice... It caught up with him right as Feliciano stepped down onto the first floor. He walked until he saw the long cape and the black hat, unable to see the front door through Holy Rome's back where he was standing in front of it, admiring something. "Were you looking for me, Ita?"

"I'm leaving." He was shocked that his voice still worked.

"Oh, you don't like being part of my house anymore?" The words held a double meaning, Feliciano couldn't remember it completely: the relevance of houses and living together- it wasn't them as people, but something greater than that. But he did remember one thing and said as much:

"I said no." He had, he could remember that day better than most of the others- he held the fragments of sunlight and a warm summer wind in his mind, careful not to cut himself on the sharp, jagged edges of the memory. "I refused to join you."

"And you regretted that decision for centuries after..." Centuries..? "Stay, play with me..." Holy Rome was turning slowly as he spoke, his eyes closed as his voice fluttered softly past smiling lips.

"I don't like your games..." They both started walking at the same time, Feliciano straying to one side to move past the man in the black robe- but Holy Rome headed him off. He had to get to the door-

Pivot left, dash and-

"No."

-tripped by something he didn't see and that vanished as soon as Feliciano tucked his shoulder and performed a desperate roll. Pain spiked through his body from his mangled arm, a crippling burn shooting straight from his wrist up to his heart as the limb was jostled. His mind screamed for his legs to run as soon as his feet found the floor again, but it didn't happen. It didn't work. He couldn't move through the pain-

Or maybe he could, he just wasn't fast enough for the knife...

"Again?"

"Eat?" Yes, eat. Food, sustenance, nutrients, there was a kitchen in the house wasn't there? "There... there was nothing to eat without the safe room. The kitchen was empty."

"What about sleep?" Vatican pushed, hoping to be wrong, hoping he was drawing false connections. "There were beds in almost every room, correct?" Romano was staring at him, disgusted and scared.

"How could he sleep with monsters lurking everywhere...?"

The fourth time, the fifth time, the sixth time...

He always woke up back in the music room. His arm was always bleeding freely again and that helped tell him when and where he was. His white flag was always already in stained tatters, making it easier for him to tear away the fabric and bind his forearm in another messy tourniquet. The key was always gone, meaning it was always resting in the front door lock.

This time he didn't tie the tourniquet though. This time he didn't even sit up, he just laid there and watched the blood spread across the pale wood floor. He didn't look at his arm, he didn't want to see the damage, he just watched the crimson puddle spread further and further out from him.

The floor in the music room wasn't level, that was why his blood- not his, but the man with the white suit and the black hair. That was why his blood had spread towards Feliciano like that, in the memories. The music room floor wasn't level, the boards had warped with age, bulging and creating little dips and valleys. So he watched his blood flow down those little crevasses, forgetting that it was blood, forgetting where it was coming from, forgetting why the distant sound of footsteps suddenly made him so afraid...

"Again."

"Calm down."

"Tell me what that means!"

"Romano, calm down." Vatican could see him beginning to panic and reached out, taking his son's face between his hands. He watched Romano slip off the couch and sink to his knees, hands gripping the edge of the Micro-nation's robe. The fear in his green eyes almost seemed irrational, but Vatican didn't say anything of the sort. "Calm down and think clearly, order your thoughts."

"I... I'm trying." He did look sincere as he said that... "W-why would you ask me that? Those things? What could they-?"

"Are you tired, Romano?" He interrupted, watching the fear spike again and running one hand back through Romano's hair, careful to avoid the curl and the effects such a caress would have on him. "Calm down. You've been sleeping all day, are you still-?"

"Why?" That sounded like a yes. "Why am I like this?"

"Calm down..." A kiss on his son's forehead and he felt a few hot tears slip down Romano's cheeks and reach his hands. He didn't remove his touch, he wouldn't dare do that right now. When Romano buried his face in Vatican's lap he just rubbed his son's shoulders and back calmly, feeling him shake with nerves and fright.

The seventh time, the eighth time, the ninth time...

He woke up in the music room. His arm was bleeding. His flag became a tourniquet. The key was waiting in the lock.

He actually made it outside that time.

But then Holy Rome dragged him back in.

It didn't feel good. It never felt good to have those hands on his body. Whenever the knife cut his clothes it slashed his skin, but that tongue was always there to lap it up. He couldn't stand having that breath on his neck, or feeling those fingers curling around his throat. Holy Rome's touch bruised the skin every time Feliciano was slammed up against the walls- this time it was the second floor.

"Share your dreams with me, Ita, they're so pretty and nice..." The blow knocked the wind out of him, leaving his body pinned and breathless with his tunic and shirt slashed open, his working arm pinned by the wrist over to the side. "They always tell me exactly what you like..." He thrashed against the chest pressing against his, pulled his head away from the lips teasing his ear and attacking his neck.

"Fuck you!" His crippled arm twitched uselessly at his side, one knee up and wedged defensively between their bodies.

"Again? With pleasure..." No!

"Tu non sei lui! Non lo sei!" But his body betrayed him, his injuries stole his strength away and, like a woman, his legs were forced apart as Holy Rome's body slammed him into the wall again. The force bruised his pelvis and lips that bit and tore at his mouth attacked him, laughter filling his ears as the hand at his throat vanished.

But then it was back, bloody fingers tangling in his hair-

"Lasciami andare! LASCIAMI!"Whole locks of hair, not just the sensitive curl. The monster wrapped his fingers round and round and Feliciano screamed for it to stop. He couldn't look, he closed his eyes until the tears came, blood filling his mouth from the sharp, careless bites. Pleasure collided with the pain in his nerves and poisoned his flesh.

"Non mi toccare!" No- no! Stop! Go away!

The sharp knife and cold air both touched his skin before he was dropped to the floor- his legs kicking inside slashed pants, his boots scraping the floor trying to push him back. But the hand in his hair hadn't let go- it twisted violently and tore entire clumps away from his scalp. He felt the bleeding on his head start and screamed again when a knee came down on his groin, white and red exploding behind his shut eyes as the pain crippled his body. The weight of the devil climbed over to crush him, the knife splitting open his side before the real violence-

"Smettila!" He gagged on the stink of dead, rotted flesh that washed over him from the monster. He hated how under it all lingered the soft scent of white daisies and blue cornflowers. He hated how his body wasn't strong enough to escape violation. He hated how the blood seeping into his lungs was too slow to drown him right away. He hated how his useless arm was bent back and used against him as his insiders were torn and bled.

He hated how he was left, exposed and violated, to feel what little warmth remained in his flesh bleed out under those harsh florescent lights...

And he hated... how he'd be... with no choice...

Again...

"You're hungry."

"He can't eat-"

"You're exhausted."

"He can't sleep-"

"Romano..."

"We're brothers..."

He hugged his son, it was the only thing Vatican could do and he kept his own eyes shut, shaking his head slowly, wrestling with what was happening. He didn't want this anymore than Romano did, but he also knew he wasn't hurting as much as South Italy either. If he could have changed it, he would, but he'd separated himself too completely from Italy to get caught up in what was happening.

What about Seborga..?

"Romano..." He could feel it burning a hole in his pocket- the bundle of letters Veneziano had left behind for them. But not yet, he had to be sure before he pulled out something like that! "Romano, where is your brother?"

"No..."

"What is your last memory?" Calm down, he stroked his son's dark hair and lowered his lips down to the back of Romano's head, his voice quiet but strong. "Where is your brother?"

The tenth time, the eleventh time, the twelfth time...

Music room. Bleeding. Flag. Tourniquet. Key.

Feliciano took what little he was worth and ran for all of it. Down the stairs, and armed with an empty gun that deflected the knife before it could cut into him again. A sharp pistol whip across false-eyes forced the germanic ghost to recoil for a moment, just a very short moment, but it was enough for Feliciano to grab the key and throw his weight into the iron pieces: he was just heavy enough to force the locks to disengage.

And then he was out, and running, running as fast as he possibly could. The creature couldn't catch him on a straight-away. Holy Rome couldn't keep up with him in a dead heat. This time nothing would trip him, or grab him, or stop him. No amount of pain or fear was going to make his body fail again, he was not going to submit himself to that again! No more again! No more!

"Fratellino!"

No, no, no! Not that voice-!

"Romano!-?"

"NO! I'd never do that!"

"Romano!"

Vatican almost wound up on the floor with the violence Romano used to pull away from him, South Italy staying on his knees while the Holy See struggled to keep himself upright. Romano's hands were up over his eyes and he was swearing violently, the older nation confused and staring.

"It wasn't me! I wasn't there! I only went once it couldn't be me!"

"LOVINO!" The name and the volume caused Romano's eyes to snap up, his face miserable and tear-stained as Vatican slid down onto his knees and grasped his son's face, forcing him to maintain eye contact. "Your last memory!"

"There isn't one!" He kept staring, he felt Romano pull away and he just held on tighter, not letting the half-nation get away from him. "Every time you ask those stupid questions I see something else! I remember more! I don't know what happened because it's like it just-! like it keeps-!" Gasps broke up Romano's speech, Vatican slowly easing his grip on the younger nation's head, brushing his son's hair back trying to sooth him. "No... No... it's not still..."

Vatican closed his eyes and leaned forward, touching his lips to the middle of Romano's forehead. The gesture seemed to paralyse him for a moment, but when he woke up South Italy's wide green eyes were frantically searching his face, looking for answers.

"What do you know?" Romano's voice was just above a whisper, and instead of answering him Vatican twisted and reached around into the deep pockets of his cassock, pulling out the bundle of letters that made Romano instinctively shy back. "Why are you carrying those around? We already read them!"

"No." Vatican answered, unfolding the bundle and removing the exterior sheets. He'd re-sealed the ones on the inside, Romano knew he'd read them, but this helped keep them separate. "These I read to you in Naples." He cast aside the first letter, not letting Romano touch them as he tentatively reached out with one hand. "These, I read on the train to Rome." The second bundle, the one Romano flinched away from.

"And... And then we came here..?"

"I had to be sure."

"Sure of what?" Vatican simply peeled aside the tape and turned the bundle so it was facing Romano, pulling open the three-part folds and holding the first page up so his son had to read what was written. Two words:

Help me.

"N-No..."

Second page: a prayer Romano could read later, not now.

Third page: a detailed floor plan of a large building labelled Ground Floor. The words Help me repeated on the lower left hand corner.

"No this, he-"

Forth page: Second Floor. Help me.

Fifth page: Third Floor. Help me.

"Stop-!"

Eighth page: Geographic co-ordinates taken from someone's GPS function on their phone during one of the later, more desperate loops. Access codes and permissions for the Italian Military- sensitive information. Help me.

Ninth page: Kill them, kill them all, Fratello. If I haven't escaped then I can't- kill them, help me!

"They wouldn't do that! They wouldn't escape without-!"

Tenth page: For the love of God, Romano, I don't care what you do- GET ME OUT OF HERE!

"VENEZIANO!"

Everything after that was pictures, some drawn with the pen that had bled all over the page, some smeared with hands and fingers. Clocks, dozens of clocks, but there were diagrams and technical information thrown in under the jarring images of bodies flung to the ground or collapsed in corners. Monsters, most of them: creatures with long necks, some with hulking bodies, notes about teeth and beaks and talons, claws and spikes and tails. Details, so many details: the parameters of the cage on the top floor, measurements for hallways, the dimensions of the doors, typical attack patterns for different kinds of monsters, a map of the exterior grounds.

And copious warnings, the constant repetition of the words: do not cross the line. It was painted everywhere, on every page, do not cross the line. Four pages were dedicated to the moss-covered pillars that marked the edge of the haunted property, each one showing a different angle and all of them begging do not cross the line.

Romano snatched the pages away from him long before Vatican was finished flipping through them, but he didn't try to calm Romano down or take them back. The Half-nation was pacing erratically, screaming, shouting, crying.

"They left him! They abandoned him! Those bastards I'll kill them all I fucking swear it!" He swore it and he meant it. Vatican was insulted by his own pathetic reaction to what he was watching, bringing his wrist up and covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve, trying to swallow the sobs backing up painfully in his throat.

"He's alive! He's still alive! They left him!" Was that the worst part? Or was it the fact that Veneziano had expected to be left behind? That he'd planned for it? That he'd-

"Romano-"

"My brother! My frattelino! They-! They- AAAAAGH!-!" Romano was pacing like a caged beast, throwing away the pages and taking handfuls of his hair like he was going to rip it out- and in fact he did, pulling and screaming until Vatican stood up and crossed the floor between them. He slapped Romano as hard as he dared and cut off the screams, refusing to wipe away the hot, uncomfortable tears that slipped down his own cheeks as Romano turned, stunned, to look at him.

"Where is your brother?" He demanded, his voice as black as he could make it with the rough lumps caged in his throat and chest. Romano tried to look away and Vatican raised his arm to slap him again, forcing out the answer.

"Hell!" That's right. That was what Vatican had feared all this time, what he'd been dreading to hear. He wanted Romano to say 'Right here.' or 'With me.' or anything that wasn't that word, but it was true. It was true and Vatican had never wished death on any of his children as much as he did right then. It would have been so much better for Veneziano to be several weeks dead than... than whatever he was now.

"He's in Hell."

"Don't fucking repeat me!"

Vatican slapped him again. Harder.

"Your brother is in Hell." He enunciated each word clearly, he drove them like pieces of glass into Romano's skin and made sure they stayed there, burning, hurting, festering. And he knew it was the right thing to do, because instead of breaking down into starving, exhausted, gutless sobs again, Romano just gave him a look that could have burnt the flesh off his bones. "And you-"

"Don't give me-!"

"And you-!" They were shouting, they were screaming, they were crying but damn them both they were connecting."You are going to bring him back!"

The devil was not going to take his son! The devil was not going to win! The devil was not going to pollute an earnest soul and carry it off to his domain! He was not going to take a descendant of Rome, a son of the Holy Catholic Church, a martyr for his friends, a shining example for the world- the devil would not have his son!

"BRING HIM BACK!"

Woop! Woop! Go Papataly!

Hey, you guys should let me know when there're silly mistakes in these chapters! I had to reupload chapter 9 because England's jacket changed colours three times- so embarrassing!

Italian: "You're not him! YOU'RE NOT!" I'm actually positive that this is wrong since translating it back and forth broke the sentence. "Let go!" "Don't touch me!""Stop it!"

Haha~ Just a few more chapters to go! See you guys on Saturday!