Under normal circumstances, the notion of somebody missing a World Meeting was abominable to Germany. But this time things were different, though he couldn't have said how. He simply felt – odd. And he knew it was the same for those around him. The air felt heavy, too heavy, and every nation walked as though a giant anchor dragged beneath them, ripping up the carpet and biting at their ankles. Germany's headache was returning too, though he did his best to grit his teeth and ignore it.

Across their hotel room, Italy dressed, eyes half-shut, brow creased. His hair was tangled; it hung across his face, and it didn't seem likely that he would be brushing and styling it as he usually did any time soon. Anxiety flared deep in Germany's stomach, coldly, like a blizzard. Nations rarely, if ever, became unwell; and when they did, it was always a cause for concern. In Germany's experience, severe losses during wartime, an economic crises, or occasionally a large-scale natural disaster could provoke flu-like symptoms. What Italy was suffering from, however, was not quite the same as normal. Something was wrong – he could feel it, almost taste it – but he said nothing to Italy, other than, "Why don't you give this a miss? You need to rest. I'm sure Romano can handle business at the meeting." Italy looked briefly guilty – then immediately rolled back into bed, and fell asleep at once.

Germany headed to the World Meeting alone.

He was accosted by the older, angrier Italy brother the moment he stepped into the room.

"Where's my idiot brother?" Romano demanded. Germany's headache intensified somewhat.

"He's sick," he said.

Romano snorted derisively. "We're all sick," he said, and gestured to the room at large.

"No," said Germany, "I –" And then he decided it was better not to worry Romano, so he said nothing, and turned away to slide into his seat beside Austria with a mumbled "Good morning."

"Is it?" said Austria. "I think it's perfectly beastly." He looked terribly pale, and his eyes were worryingly cloudy and vacant.

Germany fervently hoped tha the other nation wouldn't pass out at the table. "Still feeling unwell?" he asked.

"Ghastly," said Austria. "I've been sitting with my head between my knees all morning. I almost didn't come to this damned meeting."

Germany hesitated a moment, then leant in close to Austria, and said quietly, "Are you worried? About your – being ill?"

Austria started a little, apparently unprepared for the other's sudden close proximity. He did not answer straight away – and when he did, he looked down and away, and said, "I'm sure everything will be alright," to himself more than to his neighbour.

Germany said nothing else. He sat back in his seat, and watched the others steadily filing in. They all looked rather worse for wear, truth be told. Everybody looked either pallid, or flushed, and exhausted. Across the table, he saw that the end of England's nose was bright red, while the skin around India's eyes was inflamed and puffy. It was just the familiar flu symptoms, he told himself. It was just a signifier for the societal problems that could not otherwise be expressed by their human bodies, and everything would be alright soon, just as Austria had said it would.

The anxiety he felt must have been obvious on his face, for all of a sudden France was lowering himself into the seat beside him, and leaning over, and saying, "What is wrong, my friend?"

Germany flinched, just as Austria had done. France examined his face calmly, saying nothing.

"I," said Germany, and he considered telling France about Italy's throat, and his own headache, and the illness that seemed to have touched every nation at exactly the same time yet wasn't quite right, somehow, wasn't quite normal – but he couldn't summon up the words from his difficult, fleshly throat. And so he shook his head, and said nothing at all.

France didn't look away, but instead continued to scrutinise his face, as one would scrutinise a dense passage in a book. His eyes were tired, like everybody else's – ringed with solemn brown and bloodless purple, only halfway open – but somehow, the way France wore his exhaustion was different. He looked almost fashionable, Germany thought, though when did he not? Veins stood out on his hands, and his lips looked thinner than usual, and were dry and cracked, and there were creases between his nose and his mouth, and suddenly it hit Germany, as though his anchor had snagged on something, then come free at last, only to knock his feet from beneath him: France looked old.

Age, for them, was a funny thing, Germany knew. They were old, all of them – older than he could say, with any accuracy, older than he could even guess – but their physical appearances gave not one hint at their true age. Nations, he supposed, could look old – France had always appeared older than he and Italy had, he thought – but it was never a physical thing; not really. Hair never turned grey; skin never wrinkled; backs never stooped. It had always been in the way a nation looked at you. There was something there, he realised, something half-concealed behind the eyes. Something about the way they carried themselves – as though the years had made them wise and sad in equal measure – and the way they slowed their movements, not because they were physically tired, but in a desperate bid to feel what it was like to age, to emulate the humans they had spent thousands upon thousands of years watching over.

His brain suddenly felt as though it had been driven through with a stake – and he must have grimaced, because France suddenly looked sympathetic, and said something presumably meant to soothe – but then Belgium stood, and began to speak. And Germany could do nothing but sit back in his seat and breathe deeply as wave after wave of unfamiliar pain washed over his body.


Back in the hotel room, Italy's sleep was fretful and disrupted. He felt physically uncomfortable; more so than he had ever felt in his life. He felt heavy, for want of a better word: heavy all over, inside and out, as though some great force was pushing him in on himself, as though some great magnet from the earth's core was pulling him down, down, down, drowning him. He coughed and gasped for breath, tossing and turning in sticky sheets, flitting in and out of consciousness, never entirely sure whether he was asleep or awake.

He saw the dots again, saw them rushing, raining down on him, around him, and he was a dot too, forming a string, clumping together – and he was pressed hard alongside a million other tiny things – but what was it dragging them together?

He awoke with a start, and saw the room spinning around him. On the bedside table stood an indifferent glass of water. It looked tremendously far away, suspended in its transparent column. Italy remembered, suddenly, in a wave of heat, Germany placing it there, touching his forehead, bending to kiss his hair before leaving the room. Another terrible, invisible weight attached itself to his body, fastened as if by padlock to his wrists and ankles and waist, and dragged him downwards, down, down, until he felt the universe rush like swirling water above his head. His stomach turned, and his throat burned, and he desperately wanted Germany. He wanted Germany to touch his face with his cool fingers; to rest his hand on the places where his throat hurt the most; to mumble awkward endearments and nervous promises that he'd be okay, everything would be fine, he was going to get better, in that deep, stern voice of his.

Only very vaguely did he have any notion of where Germany was – something to do with a meeting? – but still, he forced himself from his bed, and embarked upon the unsteady journey across the carpet to the door that led to the hallway. He managed about two steps before it felt as though the ground had been ripped from beneath his bare feet, and was sent crashing to the floor.

The unseen, leaden weight was even more palpable, even more insistently present. It seemed to sit at his very core, in the pit of his stomach, dragging him down, down, down through the carpet and the floorboards and through the other storeys and the foundations of the hotel, and though the ground, the dark, old earth, and through layers and layers of rock, steadily growing hotter and hotter until his skin began to burn and his blood and organs began to boil –

Italy choked on the feel of his own throat. It felt like it no longer fitted him: as though it was too large or too small, or simply shaped in a way that didn't quite mesh with the form of his neck. And all the while he could not breathe properly, and sweat plastered his hair to his forehead and his underwear to his hips and buttocks. And even keeping his eyes open was a struggle.

The weight, the tug, the pull down into the earth's core intensified – and briefly, Italy was certain his eyelashes would be pulled from his skin – and then, unable to stand the pressure any longer, his eyes closed, and he saw nothing but the pale dots and strings catching fire, and rushing through darkness.

Germany, he thought, wishing he could summon up the strength to part his lips and call the other nation's name; Germany. And then, suddenly, it seemed that he was no longer being dragged downwards – but perhaps the pressure was on his side? He wasn't sure. Which way, he wondered, was up? What was up, exactly? And then he heard the door opening, and suddenly cool air assaulted his parched throat.

And then he didn't see anything anymore.


They headed back to Germany's house, mainly because it was nearer to the hotel where the meeting had taken place than Italy's was, but also because there was always a chance Italy's brother would be at Italy's house. Germany was in no doubt that Romano would not take kindly to his presence while Italy recovered, and so they departed Belgium with a sheepish wave while Romano scowled as they vanished over the horizon in a taxi.

Germany wasn't entirely sure of what was wrong with Italy – only that it was something unfamiliar and familiar, seemingly innocent, and yet horribly threatening. It was eerie, frankly, the quiet that had descended. Usually it was a struggle to shut Italy up; now, it was tricky to convince him to speak. He repeatedly complained of the pain in his throat, if not with words, with whiny noises, plaintive looks, and anxious gestures, and several times he froze in the middle of whatever he was doing, and scrabbled, terrified, for whatever was nearest to him (often Germany, sometimes things that weren't quite as solid). When this happened, it seemed to Germany that the other nation was collapsing in on himself, perhaps doubling over due to pain in his stomach, except that, no, it was something else. Something more…

And Germany frequently felt very out of his depth, and utterly unable to help. All he could do was stand close to the other, and move his hand slowly across Italy's trembling shoulders, and attempt to say comforting things, like, "There, there." Personally, Germany didn't think "there, there," was a particularly helpful thing for him to say – what did it mean, anyway? – but Italy seemed to appreciate it, given that he always leant in closer, and sighed as though in relief, and thanked him when the pain abated somewhat. But it was doubtless that the illness, whatever it was, was not passing. In fact, Italy seemed to be exhibiting the symptoms rather more frequently with every passing day.

Germany loved Italy a great deal, and would happily have borne the sickness for him – only it seemed that the headaches he had experienced at the World Meeting were making a return, with a vengeance. He worried about the fact that they had both fallen ill at the same time, along with the rest of the world, apparently. He worried about the fact that neither of them seemed to be getting better; and, most of all, he worried about the fact that he didn't understand a single thing about what had befallen them, nor the solution to the problem.

He avoided voicing these anxieties to Italy. He worried about frightening him, and making his condition worse. But Italy was far cleverer than Germany often gave him credit for; and about six days after the World Meeting, Italy came to him in his study, and sat down at his side.

Germany had been trying to empty his inbox, only to be besieged by another, particularly violent headache. It felt as though a thousand asteroids were raining down on the top of his skull. He rested an elbow on his desk, and his forehead on his palm.

"Germany," Italy said softly, his voice grating and creaking like gravel beneath the wheels of a heavy car, and despite the pain and the fear, Germany felt instantly better. "Germany, my love…"

"I'm alright," Germany said, and he forced himself to look up, and open his eyes. It seemed to him that the sun had relocated to right outside his study window.

"No, you're not," said Italy, smiling sadly, "and neither am I. Germany, please tell me what you're thinking."

"I'm not thinking…" said Germany, but Italy shook his head.

"I know you're thinking something," he said, gently, "because you're always thinking something." He paused, wincing a little, and Germany, feeling awfully guilty, attempted to quiet him. But Italy just frowned, and shook his head. "And you've stopped talking to me. Please, Germany, don't ever do that, especially not now."

Germany looked up. Italy's eyes were wide, and warm, and lovely, and to him, they seemed to reflect the entire world. He breathed in, carefully, so as not to aggravate the pain in his head. "I'm worried," he said, "I'm worried because – no, no, I'm not worried, I'm…I'm scared, Italy, I'm scared because I don't know what's happening to us, why we're all getting sick at the same time, and I don't know what it means, and I don't know how to make it all better. You know I can't bear to see you in pain, but you are, and I'd do anything to make it stop –"

He pulled himself up short, breathless, pink. It was hard to talk about his true thoughts and feelings when the notion was entirely foreign to him, when he'd been brought up to press his lips together and insist that everything was "awesome". He often struggled, now, when he did speak his mind, to stop himself, and he always ended a conversation feeling that he'd said far too much.

He looked away from Italy, embarrassed.

"Hey," said Italy, and he leaned forwards, attempting to catch the other nation's eye. "Hey, Germany. It's okay. It's okay we don't understand what's happening. It's okay to be scared. And I know that you're worried about me and that you probably wish you could deal with this all by yourself, because you're big and brave and strong like that, and lovely and kind and –"

"Alright," said Germany, gruffly.

Italy grinned. "I know you're trying your best. Because you always do. And remember –" He picked up Germany's hand in his own, and kissed it. "We've got each other. We're together, yes? And that's all that matters to me." He smiled, and Germany suddenly felt oddly comforted. Logically, it didn't make much sense that the fact that they were suffering together was reassuring: if anything, Italy being there simply meant he had more to worry about. But it seemed important, tremendously important, more so than usual, anyhow, that they were there together. And just this thought alone seemed to ever so slightly ease the aching in Germany's head that had become something of a constant over the past couple of days.

They remained there, side-by-side, holding hands in Germany's study, staring at the wooden surface of the computer desk, and slowly, like the movement of clouds across the sky, turned their attention to the window, and the hot, bright sun outside.

It could have been a minute, or it could have been an hour before Italy suddenly murmured, his voice by now almost entirely gone, nothing more than a whisper, "I had another dream."

It took Germany a moment to realise what the other nation was referring to. "Oh," he said, at last. "Oh. What was it about?"

Italy's forehead creased, just a little. At length, he said, "I think it was the same as before. Only…more, somehow."

Germany remained silent, allowing Italy to think.

"More dots. But this time they were bigger, much bigger. It felt like I was looking at them from a long way off, but…I understood they weren't just single dots this time. They were…" he trailed off, wrinkling his nose and flapping a hand in an effort to explain, "lots," he said, shrugging. "Millions and millions of tiny…dots, all pressed together into bigger dots. They were glowing." He paused again, and his voice rasped away into almost nothing as he said, "They were like balls of fire."

"Like stars?" Germany said.

Italy nodded, still staring out of the window and into the far distance.

Germany nodded, slowly, pressing his lips together and looking down at his own lap. His headache was intensifying yet again. He needed to sleep. God, he needed to sleep.

"What did you mean," he said, forcing the words out despite the pain, "when you said – last time – when you said you thought we were…there, in your dream. What did you mean?"

Italy turned to look at him, slowly, as though confused by Germany's words. Perhaps he'd forgotten he'd said that. He had been tired, and unwell, after all. But then he winced a little, and Germany realised, with a terrible pang, that actually he was probably in a lot of pain. Distracting pain.

"Sorry," he said quickly. "Come on. Maybe you should rest."

"I don't know," said Italy, slowly. He was no longer whispering, but breathing out the words, slurring them, blurring them together. It was a near miracle Germany could understand him.

"Don't say anything," said Germany. "I know it hurts."

Italy looked apologetic. He reached out, and touched Germany's arm briefly, gratefully – and then he turned back to the desk, and took a pen from the jar beside the keyboard, and a pad of paper Germany left beside the phone to take messages on. He scribbled something on the pad, then put the pen down, and handed the notepad to Germany.

I think we were there. But not as we are now. We were beginning. We were like infants. But we were there.

"How," Germany hesitated, licked his lips. "That can't…why do you think that?"

Italy picked up the paper and the pen again, and wrote something else.

It felt familiar. I felt like I recognised it.

Germany fought the urge to write out a response, like a child passing notes in class. "You can't have, though," he said. "It was just a dream. You had a similar one at least once before. Maybe it was just déjà vu."

But Italy frowned, and shook his head, and his expression was one of such stern resolution, Germany couldn't even begin to think of a way to argue.

"Hmm," he said, lamely, and looked away. His head was hurting even more than he could have imagined was possible. It hurt so much he could hardly see. He breathed in, deeply and slowly, and bunched his hands into fists. It was not a normal headache; more comparable to that of a sinus infection more than anything else, he thought. It felt like pressure, pure pressure, absolute gravity, as though his head was being squeezed and squeezed and squeezed –

But no. Not that, not quite. It was almost as if a black hole lurked in the centre of his skull, and it was growing larger and hungrier, and slowly, slowly but surely, sucking his brains and bones and tendons inwards, until his head and his body collapsed in on themselves.

It was agonising.

His vision was suddenly blurry, and he couldn't breathe – and so he reached out, anxious to hold Italy, to touch him, to know that someone solid and loving and dependable was there –

And then he suddenly became aware that Italy was whispering to him again.

He blinked, and tried to focus, and the pain in his head lessened. He breathed. He could see again.

"S-sorry?" he said.

Italy's lips moved – but then he seemed to think better of it, and reached again for the pen and the paper.

You know what it reminded me of? he wrote.

Germany struggled to focus his mind on their previous conversation. "Oh," he said, "oh…your dream?"

Italy nodded, and looked down at the paper once again. Those TV documentaries about the beginning of the universe, the Big Bang. The way they show it on TV.

Germany read what the other nation had written, and then he looked back up at Italy.

Italy watched him, eyebrows raised, as if to say, Well, what do you make of that?

But it frightened Germany, somehow, for some reason – so many things were frightening to him these days – and so he shook his head, and turned the paper over, and gestured for Italy to follow him into the kitchen. And they spoke no more about it.


The next day was nothing short of hellish. The tearing collapse of the inside of Germany's head wore on from the moment he awoke, to the moment he finally, exhausted and near-delirious, fell asleep. Italy couldn't speak; he couldn't even whisper. They drifted like debris between the bedroom and the bathroom and the kitchen, curling inwards on themselves. Germany desperately wished his brother was there. Prussia could be thoroughly irritating at times, but he was also attentive, and very good at caring for people. But as far as Germany's knew, Prussia was staying with Austria – or perhaps with France. Germany couldn't be sure. It was hard to think at all, given the extreme pain he was in.

And worse, he was in so much pain he could no longer care for Italy as diligently as he would have liked to. Instead, their roles had switched; Italy sat beside him in bed all day, stroking his hair and massaging his temples gently, hardly even wincing at the tearing sting in his own throat and the collapse of his own body. It seemed inevitable, somehow, by now, that it was going to happen; that they would implode, that they would suck themselves apart; consume their own atoms.

In short, Germany felt wretched.

The phone rang sometime mid-afternoon, but neither of them moved to answer it. Later, they would wish that they had. It would have been less frightening that way.

Although – it was not that the event itself was frightening. The actual moment was utterly devoid of drama. It was quite similar to a car, running only on fumes, and then, finally, breathing its last and rolling to a gentle halt. It was like a candle burning down to the wick – glowing faintly – fading. It was quiet.

Together, Germany and Italy went without a struggle.

It was like falling asleep.


Thanks for reading! Two more chapters to go!

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The inspiration tag for this fic is on my fandom Tumblr, here: tagged/our-bodies-fractured-and-bleeding-with-ligh t