SOY: I'm sorry if it took so much to get this chapter out. It was ready a bit of time ago, but I was kind of taken by other APH projects and forgot to post it… I hope you like!

I also realise that this is moving slowly, and doesn't have much interaction yet… I swear things will be different in the next few chapters!

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Rating: Rated M.

Chapter Warnings:

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

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Growing to…

Chapter 04 – Inability

When Romano finally returned to the Allies' headquarters, his brother hanging over his shoulder, still dead to the world, the other Nations present at the time had been utterly shocked.

At the time of his return, only England and China were around; America, busy with his superiors, had vacated the building for the last few days, planning the next attacks and wondering how things would go once Germany's boss found out about the armistice with Italy. Russia was fighting on his own, a long battle that was dragging his enemies down through lack of resistance and proper weaponries; France was somewhere, no one knew where exactly.

The moment the southern part of Italy stepped through the door, wobbling through the main hall under the dead weight of his younger brother, both Allies present had realised that things had not exactly been sorted out as easily as they had hoped.

Arthur had been present for the actual armistice, although keeping a low profile, standing next to one of his ministers, Harold; Alfred had been there as well, beaming at his own representative, expectantly following the steps of the signing without truly keeping his attention on it.

Then, of course, there was Lovino and the Italian man that signed it.

The English Nation knew the truth behind the armistice –that it wasn't truly a pact… or a truce. It was mere appearance, an empty shell; the Italians had been given a way out, an escapade of sorts… either accept defeat under the pretence of a truce, of an agreement… or they'd fall under the attack of the Allies, and be dismembered, reduced to nothing, partitioned.

Divided again, probably.

Italy's King had accepted the truce, knowing it would be the best option, especially after imprisoning Mussolini away, the man that alone had brought Italy to war, far too eager to please his German allies that he'd sent so many Italians to war without the proper equipment…

During the signing of the armistice Lovino had remained in the back, hiding behind some of his humans, following the negotiations whilst fidgeting, face scrunched up in a grimace that didn't disappear, not even after they'd shaken hands…

Frustrated. England knew of that feeling. Romano had wanted to be strong and proud, to fight, to prove his usefulness… but once again the Italians had been defeated, and this time their loss had been caused not by their lack of skills, but by someone's hurry.

The Italian Nation was divided internally, split not because of war, but because of something more important and painful.

Each step Lovino took, hesitant and strained, through the corridor, made it easier for Arthur to sympathise with him.

They had been enemies until moments before, but it didn't really matter, or at least it didn't anymore. The wars meant nothing for someone who could basically live forever, grudges never lasted long, no real hatred.

Only a never-ending lesson to be learned, and England had enough time to assimilate his own part of it. Over and over.

In the end, they were naught but a few. They had to go with the flow if human wars demanded it, but it didn't matter much in the end.

And the situation going on for the two Italies… it was all too familiar to Arthur.

It brought back memories. Memories that tasted of soil and blood and sweat, when instead of automatic weapons and planes there had only been muskets. Horses had brought soldiers through empty fields, not tanks. The smell of the gunpowder drenching the air, in clouds of dark dirt that made your throat burn and sting…

Standing proudly on the top of a hill, embracing a rifle, dirty from mud and blood, running down, against the enemies–

And the rain falling down, making you even more pathetic and alone.

Advancing through muddy terrains, facing another Nation on the other end of the field, staring at each other's faces, grim and determinate, then attacking, and the rain didn't stop falling, and…

Oh, England knew what it meant to have a dear one standing on the opposite side.

Trying to make them understand that whatever actions had been made were for the best, trying to let them see that despite everything, he still cared for them. Trying to…

One could sin of an inflated ego, boasting of being the strongest… only to be brought down in a second, tasting dirt and soil. England also knew of that feeling.

Winning was one thing –losing was another. It helped to see things in a different angle… and that was why, as Romano passed through the corridor, he was the first to proudly meet his eyes, and turn his back at him, offering some sort of gruff respect, and his silence, not commenting on the Italian's unsteady steps, on his bleeding legs, his pale skin, or how his younger brother's body looked more like a corpse.

It was private –it was a struggle belonging to those two, and he was just an outsider. Maybe he couldn't offer Romano any pride for the loss, but he could show his respect through other means.

Maybe they were weak now, weighted down by pain, indecisions and wrong choices, but they deserved it as Nations.

China observed the two Italies with eyes lost in the distance, as though relieving his own painful memories, hands twitching and gently coming to rest to his chest. War was far too skilled in making old, painful memories resurface, burning and still so fresh…

England could see that, and maybe the Chinese Nation –so old, older than any of them– was also reminiscing of blood and blades unsheathed to attack; of lost trust and missing nights spent together, watching the sky, the stars and the sunrise.

Maybe Yao was remembering of holding a baby to his arms, giving him care and warmth, only to receive a nasty wound that would never truly heal…

And China, too, slowly and silently, turned his back to the two brothers, face for once not offering a silly, crooked smile.

Lovino's frozen face relaxed at this, grateful he was allowed to step on his own, unsteady legs instead of being mortified by accepting more help that he could afford himself to.

The weight of his fainted brother heavy on his shoulder, Lovino fought against burning tears, gritting his teeth and tightening his hold on the other's frame.

They would come out of it.

They would be ok.

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When Italy woke up, on a smooth, comfortable and impersonal bed, the Allies were all around him. Waiting.

For a moment, a single instant between wake and sleep, Italy hesitated, eyes darkened up, and stared at them. They were not just enemies (former enemies at that), but simply… nations. Maybe even less, or more, than just that.

Not human beings, yet humans all the same.

For that single moment, something had been shared among them –a silence, maybe, an offering of peace… the deep knowledge that they were there to offer him understanding, even comfort…

Understanding.

It didn't last long. As soon as Italy really understood where he was, and what had happened, his brain had been swept away by strong, heavy guilt.

He'd allowed his brother to take him away, and now… and Germany was…

Feliciano cried. Hard. Choking on his breath, lungs constricting in his chest, he'd cried, uncaring if the Allies saw him. Weeping so pitifully, so honestly for the grief that was washing through him that none of the Nations in the room could comment on his actions –they were not tears of childish fear or vain weakness… they were the tears of a Nation coming to terms with the truth.

Once again, Yao looked away, the sight a far too familiar one that he could empathize with.

Yet, the Allies had not backed down –Italy needed to stay put, and they wouldn't free him. Only asking for information, dreading his replies and nodding all the same.

Unable to ignore the pain racking through his body, Italy had caved in, offering all that he could so that the other Nations would leave him alone, knowing that if the war ended soon, he would be able to see Germany again.

Forced to stay in the room, his prisoners knowing he would only run away if he was let out, the Italian spent the whole time curled up on the bed, ignoring the company of the others, even that of his own brother.

Yes, their actions were justified, and the more Italy thought about the war, about Germany's boss, the more he knew they were on the right side, but that didn't make it hurt less.

With a nation so young and bent on obedience as the German was, this betrayal wouldn't sound like a normal switching sides, as it would to any of the older nations. He would be hurt by it. Feel betrayed, alone –and it was all Italy's fault, for not realising sooner, for not offering the only thing he had… his experience.

Three days later, Lovino returned to his boss, preparing to fight off Germany from his territories and unable to look at his brother's face, fearing what he could find in those brown eyes.

Guilt racked his body and yet he didn't feel sorry at all. Maybe Feli would hate him now, but… he'd done it for them. It was his decision.

He'd taken it upon his shoulders, and Feli would understand.

The headquarters were strangely silent after he left. The Nations moved with caution when approaching Feliciano's room, the upsetting, choked noises coming from behind the closed door enough to stop any of them from entering.

It was not a secret Italy was suffering.

He'd betrayed Germany –he'd betrayed Ludwig. Or at least that was what he believed, and the thought of having left him alone was more painful than what his body felt physically for the war. Maybe he was weak and useless in battle, but there was still difference between being alone and being with someone.

And now Germany had been left alone. There was still Japan, of course, but… he wasn't there all the time. He couldn't support him completely, offer him someone to yell at, someone to say a few words to. He…

"Petite Italie…" Francis lingered on the door of the room, watching how Italy helplessly looked out of the window, knowing that no matter what he could say, Feliciano would never stop feeling guilty. "I…"

But what could he say?

France could flirt, and be serious when needed, and conscientious, and loyal… but he didn't know how to console someone like this. What words to say in order to help Italy.

He was helpless in this, just like the others, who didn't really know Italy enough to even try offering some comfort.

Stepping closer to the weeping Feliciano, Francis carefully made him turn around. Puffy, red eyes looked up at him, filled with raw despair. The Frenchman couldn't truly understand why his little brother was acting so depressed –they all had to stand aches, pain and rejection, but it was in the nature of all Nations to turn how their people wanted to…

Feliciano buried his face in Francis' chest when the older man hesitantly hugged him, closing his eyes and trying to convey to his younger brother that everything would be ok in the end.

For sure.

It was painful to know that Italy was suffering –not just because of war, but because he'd fallen in love with the blind German Nation, and he guessed that made it all more serious.

France had been bossy over petite Italie once, growing fonder of the stupid kid proclaiming his hatred for war the more they spent time together.

He'd been there when Italy refused to grow up, to invade other nations and become stronger, because he despised war –drawing and creating instead.

He'd been there when Italy had devoted himself completely to art and sculpture and painting and poetry and everything, carefully choosing to ignore and evade the world around him… not wanting to cause pain, nor feel it.

He'd been there to see Holy Roman Empire. A name that had not been uttered loudly in centuries now. He'd seen Italy's love blossom like a scared bud, and then grow stronger, only to have its stem cut roughly before it could come to its full beauty.

Nations suffered during war, but they fought anyway, whilst Italy had suffered the most because of his hatred for war. Because he evaded it. Because he was afraid and praying for peace.

A nation that hated war… was it even possible for such an oxymoron to exist?

Clinging to life despite all of that.

He had been there to see Italy embark on his first war by himself, to reunite with his brother. A war to bring peace… France had never believed that belief could really work, but with Italy, it clearly could. The one and only battle born from him, and it had been successful.

He had been standing on the sidelines when everything had ended, and thanks to Prussia, of all people. France had tried to keep some of Italy for himself, in a selfish desire to hold control over this younger brother whom he cared for, but the now Italian Nation had politely chased him out, even asking Prussia for help.

And Venezia had joined the rest of Italy, and then Gilbert allowed the Italian to get Rome, too. and Feliciano's dream of having an united family came true. Francis had been there for that as well.

He'd been there to tell Italy the truth afterwards.

Of Holy Roman.

Of how he was the one to blame for his death. Of how he had dealt the last blow on it, helping it crumble.

He'd turned a blind eye as Feliciano cried on a broken heart and an empty chest, for a void that he felt would never be filled ever again, for a love that was gone, so terrifyingly glad that the Italian couldn't hate him for that, wouldn't hate him for that.

Francis had been there for all of this. Watching and suffering for his Petite Italie, watching him retreat and suffer more, and hate war twice as hard. Watching him strive for his peace filled with art that was just not going to exist.

Italy wasn't really stupid or weak, but ever since the very start, he had just never contemplated having an option other than abhor war.

France held Italy close and felt tears sting in his own eyes, because it wasn't the first time. And it might not be the last.

And France had truly believed he could help that day, when Germany had stalked Italy to his house (how could he not feel it, how could he not see the German hiding behind a tree, flushed and confused). He'd casually made Italy talk, to make the other understand.

So that maybe this war could be the start of something good amidst all the pain.

Unfortunately, he'd been too late, Germany would probably be too confused and inwardly split, and with Italy's switching sides, maybe, that was exactly what the Italian feared.

Useless –France had no power to help.

"It will be ok, mon petit, it will be ok…"

Outside of the room, England tightened his hold on the documents he needed France to sign; frozen on the spot and unable to move, else he'd break the frail thread that tied the two nations in the room.

He knew North Italy needed that comfort, and even if it was someone like that lecherous, snail–eater goatee bastard that could offer it, then it was still good.

England took a deep breath and walked away, not looking back.

There would be time for signing papers later.

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Germany didn't go to his boss the day he spoke with Austria.

He returned to his house in a hurry, upset and angered, but all of that steamed off by the time he unlocked his door and stepped inside, shutting the world out again; confusion being the only thing he felt.

Why would Roderich contest the bases of his own beliefs? His inner self protested loudly against the accusation, almost nailing and growing like a violent wave inside him.

Oh, he seriously didn't like it.

When alone with his thoughts, in secret, mostly at night (especially when Italy's presence was not at his side to steer these thoughts away) he'd pondered over his boss' actions. How his superior's ideas were, sometimes… but just sometimes…

Not wrong (the word didn't even leave the confines of his mind. It was shot before being completed even there) but… maybe… questionable.

At times.

Like his strange quirks, or his actions against gypsies, and Hebrews, and…

But that was before. Nowadays, no information was passed along, maybe because his boss didn't believe in him anymore –didn't believe that he could understand his actions, when even before, he had hard time understanding them.

Ludwig, as a solder, did what he did best –obey without complaints. Not even allowing himself the luxury to think.

But it all piled up. With Italy's words, with the confusion growing inside him, also Austria's words were just an added weight. Words that felt true, but that Germany could not accept. He'd been so sure of himself before, before Italy. And after Italy, that resolution had remained, if not concerning the Italian nation.

Why were his grounds, everything he stood for, being shaken, being repeatedly bombarded, and rendered frail?

'Shouldn't they stand despite all of this? Shouldn't I have no problems believing the truth of my own words? I'm an unworthy soldier…'

He couldn't evade either situation, because if he turned his back from one, the other crashed against him. If it wasn't Feliciano, then it was the war. And everything was so confusing.

Wasn't it all Italy's fault, in the end? Messing up with his mind, making him feel things? Making him… question himself, his beliefs and his reasons to exist and serve?

Wasn't a nation's meaning to just work and do what their bosses wanted?

Opening the door of his bedroom, Ludwig allowed his tired body to fall on his bed. Feliciano's smell on the sheets assaulted his senses and he pulled away a bit, but unable to resist, tired as he was, he gave up and closed his eyes.

He shifted around, strangely uncomfortable, but not understanding why, and forced himself to steer his thoughts in a line that he could follow. If only he could resolve both problems… erase them… settle down… it would put everything in place again.

Roderich's face. Why had he been so sure of himself? Stating things with such security. Like he'd lost all hope, and yet… and yet…

"Ludwig… wasn't this what you wanted to talk about with me? The state of the war? Of how it's crumbling around us… what your boss is doing, how he's only ruining what Gilbert helped build, your nation, your people hurting…?"

It couldn't be true. It was hurting only because his boss was making the necessary sacrifices in order to… in order to…

"Check the reports! He's hiding it, but we know better! Check them, Ludwig!"

There would be no reports to check. He had to stay in his place. To see his Führer now… was the wrong course of action.

Strengthening his resolve, breathing deeply, and remembering whom he was serving and who he was in the first place helped him built up his walls again. It was painstakingly slow, but he turned away from all his doubts, just like it had to be.

Finally positive he wasn't crumbling, collecting his thoughts and recounting all his self–imposed laws and regulations, knowing he was a mere soldier even before being anything else, Ludwig felt a strange sort of unsettling peace fall over his shoulders. His headache was growing worse and he was getting weaker, and he had barely any hunger nowadays, but it would come to pass. The war couldn't be going on forever.

And when it finished, he would show them all. How he was right.

'And about Italy… about Italy…' he gritted his teeth.

He had to face Feliciano, look at him in the eyes, and understand. He needed to talk to the Italian and straighten things, otherwise he would never step out of that insecurity.

He would tell him that nothing could ever exist between them. That they were friends, of course, but that meant nothing and…

Nodding to himself, Ludwig forced his weakened body to stand back up, refusing to let go and rest, refusing to let his aching muscles to relax, refusing to allow sleep to get a hold on him.

There would be time to sleep at night.

Sighing, he left the room to search for Italy.

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SOY: I hope you appreciated this new chapter. I made some fixing of mistakes in the previous chapters, too, but nothing big.

Petite Italie (French) – Little Italy

Mon petit (French) – my little (endearing)