4. A Fatal Sort of Tipsiness

Date Written: January 3, 2019

Date Posted: April 6, 2019

Characters: Veneziano, England

Summary: Veneziano, as most Nations are wont to do, dies.

Notes: Headcanons on how Nations die, how they come to terms with dying, etc. References the infamous Medici family.

Nations can't die.

At least, not in the sense that humans are thinking.

And yet, at the same time, it kind of is.

You see, a death of a Nation was a weird topic to even think about, much less research and discuss. It was just one of those things that were quite normal for beings of such unimaginable fortitude and longevity, but far too incomprehensible for normal humans to understand.

To Nations, the idea of death was in and of itself more of a hindrance in day to day life instead of the ultimate end that humans kept waxing poetic about. Death for Nations simply didn't last. Death was something that occurred...and then stopped occurring when Nations felt that they should come back.

However, one must not confuse such ideas with the implication of immortality.

Nations passed with time; how much time that had to pass, even China didn't know.

That being said, when Nations "die", they don't really undergo the process of decomposition and whatnot. The body may appear to have died, but it was more of a matter of stasis so that whatever magic or inherent biology that the Nations had, it would assess and rectify the damage as soon as possible. While stronger and far more durable than humans, by virtue of centuries' worth of war and death, Nations can fall prey to mundane, almost comical "deaths".

Stabs in the right places, car crashes, eating the wrong foods…

In layman's terms, it was basically a period where the body went into "shutdown" mode and thus rebooted itself when it felt ready.

So, it wasn't too much of a surprise for one North Italy when he found himself lying face up, arms at his sides, on a—

Was this a gurney?

No, he could feel the cold metal underneath his long fingers, the flimsy material of a hospital gown adorning his body. But…underneath he was naked? Truthfully, he was quite all right being naked, it was just where he was being naked that raised a few alarm bells. After all, streaking naked in Switzerland's house was different, than, let's say, parading around in all of his bare glory at the Pope's funeral.

One was simply for fun and the other was simply a death wish.

Nevertheless, his body was awake and he was unharmed—so far.

First, he examined his outermost extremities (did he really have that many calluses on his fingers? that was a surprise!) and then he checked his mental capability. One and one made two, Rome was the capital of Italy, and polenta was obviously the better choice for food in his house. Obviously. Once that business was sorted out, the Italian moved into a sitting position.

The symphony of creaking bones and the rush of blood moving and coursing through his head greeted him as he swung his legs over the table. Ah, must've been one hell of a death if he was still feeling disoriented even after whatever magic that resided within all Nations reclaimed his body. Or, perhaps, he might have died senselessly.

However, that still begged another question.

Why had he died?

"Took you long enough!"

Italy paused in the middle of his perusing to look up. Seated a couple meters away from him, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and North Ireland appraised him with a cool stare. Ah, Italy now remembered.

There had been an international meeting held in London—one that was to be held for a week. If he recalled, the British nation had recommended a few nice restaurants and pugs to relax in after they settled their affairs. Some Nations preferred to dine in their hotels while others took to the streets. Italy had been feeling a little ill—there was a bout of Acqua Alta—but had relented to attend a bar along with some of the other Romance Nations.

They had eaten the food (either two bland or too dull) and drank liquor to their heart's' content. And that…that was all he remembered. Had there been an accident? An attack?

Italy rolled his shoulders back and asked, "Nothing had happened, I hope? You don't look too concerned."

Either it was due to the cold temperature within the room or the fact that the northern part of Italy had the audacity to singsong a little in the Brit's presence, but the British Nation looked even more irritated. Figures. Most, if not all, Northern European Nations were known to be a little frosty.

There was one remedy that Italy knew always worked on such Nations: sunlight.

And wine!

And women!

It's too bad that English women were very hard to sway—

"—dead for eight hours because you were too stupid—"

Ah. England was opening and closing his mouth because he was…talking! And if the Mediterranean Nation didn't know any better, he could almost hear concern from the scruffy haired blond! My, perhaps he was still dead?

"—found a frightening cocktail of chemicals laced within the glasses—"

So his glass had been laced with something? That brought back memories of the Medici family…such times of corruption! Of wealth! Of cruel backstabbing and of murder! Those were the days. Pity that England only cared about bureaucracy and making sure that the coroner did his job by not reporting his death—

Ah, yeah. He died.

Honestly, you would think a Nation as old and experienced as he would know that his drink had been poisoned, but well…Italy did want to have a good time. Shame it landed him on a cold table newly naked. The idea wasn't as arousing as it should have been.

"—idiot! You're not even paying attention to me, are you? No wonder Germany—"

And he was still speaking. One could only take the British accent for so long before snapping. Best rectify this problem immediately.

"England! Amico!" With a speed that most humans would have described as super sonic, the Italian ran into the blond's personal space and flung his arms around the taller Nation. "No need for all of this talk, si? If you're worried, then say you're worried about me! No hard feelings about dying on your lands!"

He was speaking the truth. Both Nations had declared war or had been on unfriendly terms with several of their neighbors from time to time. Italy could forgive dying on foreign soil seeing that politically speaking, they were on amicable terms.

Italia Romano was another story.

Almost as if he were turned to stone, the blond stood steadfast underneath the Italian's unwavering grasp. But Italy began to squeeze. Tighter.

Tighter.

Tighter.

Tighter.

Until—

"Bollocks, fine! I may have been a little worried, but that is solely because I don't want to miss any of your exported goods! All right!"

"Ah, Inghilterra! You do care!"

"And I can't believe you came from the dead tipsy!"

Was he tipsy?

Italy thought nothing of it.

Death to Nations had always been a weird topic.