Chapter Three — Limerence

...

"What should we do now?" France asked after a much-needed lunch break. With food in the nations' bellies and coffee in their blood, they felt more ready to attack the problem at hand. In reality, they were just as prepared as they had been an hour and a half ago.

America sighed exaggeratedly and sunk himself deeper into the cushioned chair, his bomber jacket making loud noises as it met the plastic.

"I don't know. Which isn't rad because I'm the hero, and I always know what to do!" America pouted and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Get a grip! You know how stupid America is," England said while patting France's quivering back roughly. France was sobbing fake tears into his palms. Belgium overheard the debacle and shot him a look of pity from across the table

America sighed and said, "Listen to him, the tea pervert knows what — hey! I'm not stupid!"

"You're right, you're simply oozing intelligence right now," England said rolling his eyes while giving France a tissue. France kissed his hand in thanks, and England immediately wiped both of his hands on his black slacks a little too furiously and quickly than necessary. It was as if simply being touched him was the equivalent of re-living the bubonic plague.

"Haha! You and your sarcastic ways! Gotta love it. Wouldn't be a meeting without you and your bitchy ways!"

England glared at America. "What is it you are trying to imply?"

America blinked. "You don't understand your own language or — "

"I would love to know how this ends, spoiler alert — it's angry, kinky sex — but we have a meeting to run, so can we get back on topic please?" Mexico once again cut in. America gave an irritated huff out for being interrupted but cleared his throat anyway.

"Alright! Listen, my dudes, this is way wack, and I honestly don't think we're gonna get anything done, so you can leave!"

"WHAT!" Mexico leaped out of her chair to strangle the American with his tie. America spluttered as his glasses slipped down considerably, one more harsh jerk making the glasses almost slip off completely.

"Thank god — "

"What about the closing prayer and moment of silence?"

"I'm not Christian asshole — "

Mexico overheard chairs being scraped and backs being popped as countries all too gladly left the room. Her eyes darted to the various shaped backs leaving the room and felt America trying to inch away from her to push his glasses up. Her brown eyes met his blue ones much too quickly.

"Why wouldn't you let us leave earlier? I had, we had to sit through that useless reading for nothing!"

America frowned. "It wasn't useless," he said tugging her tanned hand away from his tie, "we now know much more!"

Mexico rolled her eyes as she let go of him to cross her arms. "Yeah, well, it didn't even matter. It's not like you would have included me or mis hermanos anyway, so I still call bullshit." America looked offended.

"I would so have! I'm fair. I would have totally...who am I kidding. No, I wouldn't have, but no hard feelings right?" He asked with a bright smile seemingly not caring that he had directly just told her that she was useless. That smile made her even madder. She stomped on his foot with her black stiletto. Her heel dug deep into his thin sneakers, but she found herself not feeling any better.

"Dude! What the hell?!" America cried while wiggling his foot as if that would make the pain stop.

"This dude," Mexico hissed with a perfect impersonation of America's voice, "thinks this is all too fishy and a waste of time. Not just mine, but everyone's." America looked confused.

"Why would you think that? Germany needs to be brought back and since I'm a hero, it is my duty to — "

"That's not what I mean! Yes, I know Germany is very important, he's the major reason this organization exists but think. Why is it only now that our governments are hounding on us to find Germany? Why not the last meeting? Or the last? Or, I don't know, months ago!"

America seemed to pause. It was true, it had only been this meeting that his government had directly stated for him to find Germany (if he was still gone). He had mentioned it here and there. You know, getting the morning paper, in the break room for coffee but it was never explicitly stated. Never stressed, never pushed, never that important. With work and protecting (bullying) the world, that item of worry was pushed away to a bland manilla folder for later. Later, soon, but never now.

But it was now and America didn't know what to do. He had too many questions, too many suspicious people.

Mexico sensed that this was a shock to him as well and sighed. Her previous annoyed expression morphed into one of wariness.

"All I'm saying that this all too fishy. With Prussia, Austria, Hungary, and Italy. They are all suspicious."

"Why would you say that?" America asked fixing his glasses as if the answer would become clearer that way.

"Think about it," she held up her finger, "I'm sure you've seen it. The way Germany and Italy have been dancing around each other for a couple years now. At first, I thought it was a lover's spat, a bad fuck, a heated argument, something. But, Germany purposely went out of his way to avoid Italy. For two years. Isn't that suspicious? How Italy just conveniently ignored that before and is now suddenly crying like a baby from one entry?" she finished lowering her voice a bit.

"When you put it that way, I guess it makes sense," he agreed. "So you think it's actually Italy who's the bad guy here? Come on, this is Italy we're talking 'bout."

Mexico smiled sardonically. "There are no such things as heroes and villains, pendejo. I'm not saying anything, I'm just telling you to look at the bigger picture and clean your glasses once in awhile. You'll be surprised at what you'll find."

America smiled a charming smile to Mexico's neutral expression. "Don't worry your pretty little head, I'm going to bust this case and make everyone happy!" Mexico looked at him in disbelief but did not comment further.

"Whatever you say, gringo." She turned around and started to head towards the other southern countries waiting by the door. She was about to turn the handle to leave when she paused. Her lips parted to say something but she shook her head. She turned the handle and left, her heels making a soft click, click as she started walking away to rapid Spanish from the other side.

"If things weren't so bleak, I would have said that was quite cute. Do you fancy each other?"

England's voice made America jump. He turned around and puffed out his cheeks. "Not funny dude. We aren't like that." But his face betrayed his tongue as his cheeks reddened slightly.

England hummed and looked at Italy. Italy had yet to move, his eyes staring at the book in, what was it? For such expressive eyes, England could not conjure a word to describe it. Italy was ineffable. Italy was not vibrating in place, shouting a random president's name, eating, sleeping, doodling, humming — nothing. Just staring.

Romano had left as well. He had insisted that he should stay with his younger brother, but Italy had given him a wide smile and told him he was fine. Romano argued and shouted, but Italy insisted that he was fine. More arguing ensued, but in the end, Italy had more power and left Romano tight-lipped and fuming. Romano let out a teary "whatever" and left sniffing with Spain out the door shortly after Mexico.

France had also left almost immediately afterward. There was only so much of the Englishman and sexual tension he could stand, so he had left with the nation exodus.

Austria and Hungary had lingered as well. Hungary had moved towards Italy in a motherly fashion while Austria trailed behind her stiffer.

"Oh, my poor Italy. Don't you worry, Germany will come back," Hungary had gained a dark shadow over her eyes, "or else I'll make him. Don't you worry, dear." Austria had sensed that the conversation from then on wouldn't be civil and dragged the shouting woman out the door in the promise of sweet bread and piano music.

Fifteen minutes had passed since America had disbanded the meeting and it wasn't much of a shock to see so many pushed back chairs around the table.

"Back to square one, huh?" America said looking frantically side to side.

"Yes, it seems that there has only —"

"That was my good hat too! Will Smith signed it and everything. This is not cool beans."

England's eyebrow twitched as he stared at the younger nation on his knees below the table. "Why would you want that atrocious thing? It's bleeding pink."

America's head shot out. "Hey! Don't diss the cap just because you're just jealous!"

"Oh bollocks, you've caught me. I'm secretly super jealous of your bright pink, cheaply manufactured in China, hat."

The sarcasm seemed to fly over America's head as he laughed saying, he knew it!

England grudgingly gave him the hat back to shut America up. America cradled it in his chest for a few seconds before shoving it in his pocket. It stuck out awkwardly and it was quite large for the small pocket of the slacks, but England was glad he wasn't wearing it on his head anymore.

"Well, that's out of the way, we need to do the next thing on the list."

"We?"

"Well, duh! You're helping me!"

"With what? I have things to do as well — !"

"Like knitting and doing air guitar to Nirvana songs from the radio alone in your room? Nope, you're helping me and," America leaned down to whisper into England's ear, "we're going to figure out more of this Germany business."

England looked at him unimpressed. "And what do you propose we do? You heard Mexico, this is all too fishy and it was only a couple of weeks ago that we were even notified of this," England whispered back glancing at Italy.

"The answer is in our face! I don't know why we are making this such a big deal, we literally have all the answers!" America whispered back excitedly.

England's eyebrows furrowed deeply. "The journal? It can't be that simple..."

America let out a pfft. "Don't listen to Mexico, she's all weed and tacos. Come on, we're going to go read another entry." America stood up but was harshly jerked back down by England.

"Are you mad? Can't you see how emotionally affected Italy is right now? I mean look at the poor sod, he's devastated," England hissed.

"I can hear you, England," Italy said looking at the pair with expectancy. England flushed a deep red.

"O-Of course, I knew that! I meant for you to overhear. Since you're so nosy and all. Yes, yes, not gossiping at all."

"..."

"How much did you hear?" America said walking over to sit by Italy instead of denying the statement.

Italy shrugged. "Enough."

America raised a brow. For Italy to look this dead, so blase, this...unhappy was quite alarming. England caught on as well and sat by Italy's left, America on Italy's right, effectively trapping the Mediterranean nation in the middle. "Are you sure you're alright, lad?"

Italy looked ready to cry. He looked down at his hands — the one's trembling, clutching onto his pant legs as if it were dear life, some kind of reassurance that he was still there. Italy nodded a mechanical nod but did not voice a response.

America, not one for awkward pauses, immediately filled the room with sound again. "There's no reason to cry Italy, as the hero, I will save Germany!" America's voice softened, "We'll save him, don't worry. Germany has tried to get away from us before, but he's always been dragged back, right? Germany's probably...I don't know, in dog heaven or something."

Italy's head snapped up. His eyes were streaming tears once again. His hands gesticulated wildly as he cried, "What?! Germany's dead! Nooo, I don't want Germany to die! He can't be dead!" America looked at England, but England just gave him a deadpan look.

"Woah, woah, dude! I was just kidding! Germany's not dead, it was just a figure of speech sopleasestopcryingalready!" America frantically said trying to console the crying man. Italy stopped crying, all tears ceasing in a split second, as if they were never there in the first, and gave out a relieved breath. Italy looked at the uncomfortable looking England and let out a small laugh.

"It's so nice for you to help America," Italy said smiling.

America grinned. "Of course! I gotta help a country in need." America flashed him a thumbs up. "But a hero needs a little help, just a little, though! So if you can just..."

"Just what?"

"You know, the first clue. Like a puzzle!" England facepalmed at how bad America was at alluding to things. Especially to a dense nation like Italy.

"There was a puzzle? When? Where?" Italy's head couldn't stop shaking both ways, as if the answer would randomly appear out of thin air.

"No, dude, the puzzle was a figure of speech — "

"Figure of speech? Language is confusing."

"So, yeah it is. But anyway, that's not the point, I just need you to, you know, give the goddamn — "

"What is the point? I don't see the point."

"There is no point, but —"

"Then why are we talking America?" Italy asked innocently.

"Just hand over the journal for fuck's sake!" America finally exclaimed in frustration. Italy's eyebrows furrowed.

"You want the journal? Why?"

America looked ready to shove the small man and steal the book away.

England put a hand on America's shoulder in what he hoped was a placating manner. "Let me handle this," England whispered clearing his throat unnecessarily, a scratchy sound that sounded painful and unpleasant.

"We need the journal, and you are going to give it to us," England ordered in a monotone voice. America squawked, and England gave him a smug smile at Italy's fearful shaking. Italy gulped.

"Y-You never told me why, though," Italy stuttered out still holding his ground.

England looked at America questioningly. "Because," America began exasperated, "this thingy is going to lead us right to Germany, and I dunno about you, but I really want my government to stop buggin' me about this. They need to chill out, sooo, the faster we find Germany, the better for all of us!"

The better for me.

"...So you don't care that Germany is gone? This is just for your government?" Italy asked not changing tone or volume.

America looked at England for support but England kept his mouth shut. "We care that Germany is gone...of course, pizza dude, don't go puttin' words in my mouth."

"We care? Who is we exactly?"

England's eyes widened. "What America means is that Germany has yet to be found and that is very worrisome — for everyone, lad. Our bosses, a bunch of sods really, demand things like this so, not only will we help you find Germany, but we will appease our superiors. You understand what I'm getting at?"

England had jumped up and moved quickly to shut America's mouth tightly with his left hand. America had been squirming and he had licked England's hand multiple times, but England had only gripped tighter and continued talking. America kept a sharp eye on Italy's increasingly depressing atmosphere-an invisible thing it was, yet so tangible for those who looked for it.

"This book doesn't belong to me. You could have taken it anytime," Italy stated matter-of-factly.

"Yes, that is true, but..." England slowly lets go of his grip on America's mouth and sat back down not knowing how to proceed. What America had in mind was a question to him and Italy alike.

"So we can read this right? No hard feelings?"

Oh. Now England understood.

It wasn't that he couldn't read the journal, technically anyone could, but it was more of a personal thing. An ethical matter of prying into someone's property, into someone's beloved treasure. After all, Germany was practically Italy's and by reading Germany's (Italy's?) journal, it would be, in some kind deep, primal and savage way, an intrusion of what was his.

America could be considerate...but also incredibly stupid.

Italy smiled despite it all. That's all he could do, smile, laugh, force his cheeks to turn a different way and hope for the best. "Go ahead."

America cheered with a bright grin. "Sweet! I can take this back to my place right?" He asked fingers twitching to grab the already fragile book in his excited hands.

Italy bit his lip unsure. "Prussia didn't say if any of us could keep it."

America rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but I'm sure he was implying that I could keep it. I mean, why wouldn't he? I'm the her —!"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence," England hissed. He schooled his expression into one of more reservedness and looked to Italy searchingly. "This wasn't something we discussed because someone," England glared to America, "decided to end the meeting early. We need to establish who will keep the book."

Italy looked confused. Typical, really.

"You or America," England clarified.

A moment of silence passed between them. Thirty seconds passed before America shouted, "I won!"

"What? Won what America?" England asked annoyed at America's attention span of a goldfish.

"The staring contest me and Italy were having. Isn't that right, Italy?"

Something about America's blue eyes didn't sit well with Italy. They were just so blue, so clear, so piercing that he felt the same chilliness run through his body at the clarity of the younger but much more powerful nation. Maybe it was the light, maybe the stress, maybe the smile, but Italy felt as if he couldn't escape this one through tears or a white flag.

"R-Right," Italy said squirming. England raised an eyebrow but was easily ignored. Italy handed America the journal with his veined hands, and America took it excitedly, almost ripping it out of his palms to immediately open the soft cover as if the binding wasn't made from old, archaic glues. He thumbed through the old, yellow pages with mild interest, and he licked his thumb every time he turned a page to ensure none of them would stick together. Italy slightly cringed at the sight but didn't say a word as America continued to look through the book.

America hummed as he rapidly flipped through the epistles. England grew curious as well and looked at the tearing, serrated pages in fascination.

"Oh shit."

"What?"

"I don't know how to read this old German!" America cried out in distress. He flung the book carelessly onto the table in agitation. The harsh, jerky movements caused a page to completely rip away. The tawny paper was barely hanging onto the binding, and all it took was just one sudden move, just one pull, just one touch, for it to collapse.

And it did.

Such a fragile thing those pages were, the older pages requiring the utmost care, and America sent the pages flying haphazardly through the air. The pages made ungraceful movements as they descended onto the ground quickly.

"Oh shit! No, no, no!" America exclaimed as he tried to snatch the papers from the ground and sort the scribbled pages in what he hoped was chronological order. The German started to blur in his head, and he was frantically trying to not create any more creases and tears.

He felt as if his heavy hand caused more destruction, his nimble fingers fumbling and failing. Italy and England just watched in morbid fascination. What a show this was. A destructive, humiliating, yet entertaining show of misery.

With the pages back in the book, the pages sticking out at awkward and uneven angles, America offered Italy a weak smile.

"Haha, so I may have messed up a little, but trust me, this book is in good hands!"

Italy just gaped. America had demanded to take the book from him, tried to play the nice guy by tricking him to think that he was considering his feelings (a fake sympathy, he couldn't tell) went and almost destroyed the book — an artifact, (an irreplaceable — !) because of a simple obstacle. He didn't even consider the age, the fragility, the worth, the meaning...he...he didn't care.

None of them did.

Italy swallowed down another set of tears. It was stupid really, why would he cry over something like that? Just a couple pages gone from the glue. A couple words misplaced. An honest mistake from an excited child. Nothing to cry over.

Yet, Italy had never felt like bawling more than now. It just wasn't fair.

If Italy was devastated, England was enraged.

"AMERICA! You just almost destroyed the blasted thing with your whale hands! Don't you understand how severe this is? Is this some kind of fucking joke to you? You could try to control your strength and not manhandle everything!"

"Woah, woah, I'm sorry okay! I didn't think it would just go splat like that, jeez! Besides it was only the papers that came out so it's not like burnt the book or anything, so stop yelling!" America shouted back.

Italy ignored them and took a couple deep breaths to expel the thoughts of cry, cry, cry, cry already, and took the journal in his hands once more. It still felt heavy. It still felt old.

"I'm going to read another entry. Then I'm going to take it back home," Italy said with a sniff. His voice was even enough and it caused the men to stop arguing and stare.

"No way dude, that thing is coming home with me. With the tech I have back at my place, I bet I can find Germany in a jiffy."

"What tech? That slow thing you call the bloody interweb? No, wait, internet. Oh, let me guess, you're going to find Germany with a pager," England derided already wanting to leave and go home to his cat and warm tea.

"I'm taking this to my place because you don't seem to care." Italy wasn't in the mood to be cute at the moment.

"I do so care — "

"This isn't a game!" Italy finally shouted with his eyes open with tears ready to leak out. Italy gently clutched the book his chest. "This, this isn't a joke, o-or a competition, or a game. You can't just laugh it off and think it will be okay. This isn't something to play with!" Italy said softer now, looking down at the table instead of the azure eyes of America that Germany had gifted him with. He smiled bitterly.

"I'm going to take this with me and find him. I may not have...the internet web thingy you have, but I will try my best."

America let out a defeated sigh. "You really love him doncha?"

Italy blinked upwards, his gaze meeting America's curtly.

Love? Did he love Germany? He didn't think it was love. Germany was his best friend, a friend he felt as if he had met before, and he cared a lot for the socially stunted man. He felt as if he had heard that before. That he loved Germany. Was it France? Or was it Austria? He couldn't remember.

Italy didn't answer, and America didn't give him time to as he was already getting up and yawning. England got up as well and grumbled, yet he did not leave either.

"Well, it seems that I can't do anything to pry that book from ya," America said. He grabbed his coffee cup (where had that come from?) and took an obnoxious sip. "Don't think I won't help, though. Because after all — "

"Dear god, don't say it."

" — I'm the hero!"

"Dammit."

England sighed. "I'm going to regret this later, but I'm also willing to help. Germany's not a bad man, a violent, sexually repressed man with too much hair gel, but not a bad man. So." England turned away to hide his blushing face.

Italy smiled genuinely. "Thank you, England. America. This means a lot to me."

"HAHA! Gnarly dude!" America laughed at England's horrified, disgusted face.

"You should see your face!"

"Belt up! I swear you become duller and duller every time I visit you. Pure rubbish I tell you—"

"Is your tampon a little tight Iggy? It's ok, I have some pills to—"

"YOU — !"

Click.

Italy was alone. The once lively room was now vacant. The light bulb Liechtenstein had shot at earlier was flickering on and off. The room was considerably darker on one side, but with so many other industrial-sized lights and bright windows, you could barely tell the difference.

Italy stopped clutching the book on his chest and set it down on the table. He didn't have to read it out loud, hide the quivering in his voice or act like the words on the page weren't affecting him. He hadn't been reading anything gruesome or sickening before, but the sentences still made his stomach queasy. An unshakable breath of fear that followed his neck at all time, making his hair stand up in alarm. This feeling of dread. He didn't like it one bit.

Because every time he felt this way, someone died.

Just as Grandpa had. Just as Holy Rome had.

He kept telling himself if only I had acted on that feeling over and over again in his mind — on those restless nights where the room was too hot, the pillows too stiff, the world too silent. It had always been what if's and if only's and now that there is the what now...

He opened the book and carefully flipped the pages. He was now more cautious after seeing America rudely defiling the innocent journal in his fit of mini rage.

He skimmed the pages and saw that America had surprisingly placed all the pages back in their rightful place. They were put a bit sloppy, that couldn't be helped from the haste, but overall the book wasn't in terrible condition. Maybe he had overreacted a bit. Maybe he should have gone and given the book to America...he was more stable at the moment...had more technology...

Italy shook his head. He flipped and read. He placed his finger on the indented page and was surprised to see long dried tear stains. There weren't many, but the ones on the page were rather large. The page felt crinkly and he quickly looked at the date.

"14. September 1869"

Italy recoiled a bit at the time gap. It was nearly fifty years since the last entry. To think, forty-eight years had gone by and it only took Italy a second to flip through the page.

"I have not written in this journal for a long time, and I apologize. A lot has been on my mind lately."

The writing was neater, much straighter and smaller. The letters were no longer crooked and scribbled, but the scribe was still not as neat as it could have been.

"Brother has been so cold lately. Can I call him that? Lately, all he wants me to do is train. I trained with him before, I'm not lazy, but this is just extreme! I don't know how to word this. I'm just so frustrated!

It's always: one more lap, one more push-up, stop being a baby. Again. Stop being lazy and move. I'm not being lazy, I just can't go on.

We don't stop for anything. We've trained in the pouring rain before, and even though we didn't get sick, it still made my throat hurt the next morning. I bet if a funeral were passing, he would say to just run around it and shout a prayer as I went.

Yesterday, he had called me out to the field to train like always. Training is important, I understand, but every day? Couldn't I just get a break? My legs were still sore from yesterday, twenty-five laps around the whole village weren't enough apparently, and he demands to be met on the field every day at sunrise, or else he will make the training an hour longer."

Italy lowered the book for a moment.

"Can't we just take a nap? It's so nice out today."

"We can if you want to die of heart failure out on the battlefield."

"So mean!"

Why would Germany abide by Prussia's strict rules if he knew all too well how annoying and laborious they are? Germany knew how it felt, how it made him look like, yet —

Germany didn't care if Italy and Japan hated him.

"I took the threat lightly at first. Brother loves me, well, loved, I suppose. He would...embarrassingly coddle me and spoil me before. He disciplined me when needed, but I can't say he liked doing it. But now, I take that all back. He enjoys my suffering!

Yesterday at training (Hell) he demanded thirty-five laps around the village in less than an hour. After that, fifty push-ups with sacks of potatoes on my back and then gun practice for another hour. Repeated three times. With no breaks in between and barely any water. Where did my loving brother go? Is it because I'm taller now? Less 'cute'?

I was wheezing on the ground by the second round. I needed a break but Prussia just yanked me by my hair and demanded why I wasn't running and why I was being a 'little bitch' about things. I couldn't speak out any words as I was breathing too heavily. My throat was dry and the sun was sweltering.

The sunburns still hurt. The nape of my neck is a disgusting red and this stiff collar is no help at all. I can't move my neck much and my face has surprisingly tanned a bit, but some parts of my face have not been spared to the blotchiness. I would ask Brother if there's a remedy for this burn, but he always shoos me away looking more serious than he really is.

He doesn't care about me anymore. He's almost the same as that pervert France. I was so scared back then. It had been my first time away from Brother. France is a slimy man that I do not trust. But at least he didn't make me work like this. Maybe I like him better. Better women..."

Italy read the text with sad eyes. He had seen Prussia in his glory days, an army as a nation as they used to say, and he knew how vicious the man could be.

Italy never knew the hard life. Not like his older brother. His hands were not calloused or overly tanned. He did not need to work very hard, his land being naturally vied for with its natural resources and rich culture. What a shock it had been when he had started training with Germany back during the Second World War.

He suddenly had dirt under his nails. He felt the sticky moisture running down his back, not sweat from the sun, but from physical activity. His body was sore, but it had been sore because he had inflicted the stinging on himself. Not because of his economy or battles, but because he had done it to himself. It had felt...odd. Annoying. But seeing Germany's proud smile behind his cap made it all worth it.

If Germany back then couldn't have even gotten a proud smile out of Prussia, what was the point? Italy had to admire Germany's willingness to follow conduct, even to the hands of the Devil.

Italy continued.

"Yesterday's training seems like a blessing now. Brother wasn't pleased that I wasn't improving on my time on the laps so he made me run through the whole village with a sack of flour in my arms. It was hot, the hottest it has been for a while, and the bag of flour was hard to hold with me running so fast. I had sat the bag of flour down to catch my breath twenty minutes in, but he screamed in my face to get moving again. My legs ached, the sunburn was chafing under my sweaty collar, and I felt weak.

I lasted another ten minutes before I started wheezing heavily. I had to stop. The sun was so hot. It felt like an inferno. I shouldn't have been so warm, but with no water and my lungs heaving heavily, it felt like the closest thing to Hellfire.

I don't remember exactly what Brother said, I just knew I was crying and he was yelling at me to stop crying. I could feel the villagers staring and gossiping behind my back. I must have looked pathetic with me wheezing, crying, gasping, and hunched over like that. I begged him for some water, for a short break, but he kept telling me how on the battlefield there is no break or water or please brother.

I guess I am being a baby. Brother has gone through so much. He has a lot of experience! But, I don't think it was worth the humiliation.

I felt woozy. It was the oddest feeling. I felt so out of touch with the world for a few seconds, I truly thought Brother's eyes were the Devil and that I was finally going to die. My head had that same feeling of being drunk and my eyes were trying to find something to focus on and not look so pathetic for Brother. Everything became blurry and there was a slight ringing in my ears, almost as if grains of sand were being percolated into my eardrums soflty and loudly.

I almost didn't feel my chin hit the ground from the numbness. I think it was a warning from God. I think he was trying to tell me something because before I knew it, all I saw was black.

I had passed out from exhaustion. That's what Brother tells me, but I firmly believe it was God. I had heard a voice calling me. Ludwig, it had said. It was worried and I knew that a kindness like that can only be from God. It just had to be, because I know Brother couldn't have said that. My human name probably means nothing to him anymore."

Italy ran his fingers through the smudged ink. Black ink and tears had blurred the words together making it a bit difficult to make out. He felt the page dip with every cursive letter. A confused and sad teenage Germany fluttered through his mind. He could just imagine him dipping the quill in the black ink and pressing the pen firmly-too firmly-on the page to vent out the anger and hide (unsuccessfully) the tears.

If Germany could make Italy feel this way with only the second entry, he didn't want to know how the entries would become further down the future.

"I remember when he gave me the name Ludwig. I was so happy and touched that he had let me chose it. I wanted him to choose it for me, though. Naming myself isn't special. I could have done that anytime, but if it was a name from Brother, it was more special. It still his...but, I really do wonder where that kind man went.

I'm scared for to-morrow. Brother hasn't said a word to me since I woke up from my little episode. Am I that much of a failure? I just want to be like Brother. But I know deep down I never can be. I could list all of the reasons why, but ink is expensive and it's not like Brother will buy me more.

This experience has taught me something. First, never cry at someone yelling at you. Especially a superior. This will be hard to master, but I loathed that feeling of humiliation and weakness. I can't stand it!

Second, I will never treat anyone like that. Ever. I've been having these weird chest pains lately and more headaches. I've become more irritable, and I've been having this urge to just slap Brother and scream at him, but I feel like it's just the emotions talking. Either way, treating someone like that is just wrong! Brother can fight me, I don't care, this is cruel.

I've read this emotion called revenge in many books. It's a stupid emotion that only seems to cause trouble, but as the days go on, I wonder if that's really the case. I just hate that look. It's the same one France had when he took me for his dumb Confederation. It just makes me so riled up!

I have a massive head pain at the moment and Brother thinks I'm asleep, so I will it end it here."

Italy stared at the final paragraph. France? What did France have to with anything? Italy had to really dig deep into his memory to remember what was going on in Europe in the late nineteenth century.

Ah, so much stuff to remember! Makes my brain hurt, Italy thought running hazy dates through his head quickly.

By the late nineteenth century, he had already known of Holy Rome's death. It was hard not to know when living on such a small, clustered continent. He remembered the murmurs and rumors of a new nation up north from him. A small and probably-is-going-to-die-soon nation. If only he had known back then.

Italy smiled a bit. He by then had already gained his independence and was in the process of (grudgingly) unifying his country into a single kingdom with its southern half. He winced at his younger self's attitude towards his older brother. He may have been a bit of a dick...and a diva and spoiled, but really, no country could just be selfless.

The Kingdom of Italy. What a nice name that had been. So regal, so imposing, so...powerful. A kingdom. A kingdom that barely lasted. A kingdom that had crumbled, had been brutally destroyed.

Italy frowned not liking his line of thinking. Italy tried to remember the epoch that was close to the date on the thin page in front of him.

Italy declared war on Austria in 1866 with the help of Prussia and never saw or heard of Germany. Prussia is not one to keep things to himself, especially promising things such as an uprising, powerful nation. Prussia should have been babbling and boasting about his "awesome" younger brother, an obedient and "cute" thing he called Deutschland, but if Italy remembered right, Prussia didn't make one single comment about Germany.

He had just grinned, uniform ready, and patted his back too hard saying, "His Ita is finally growing some balls."

Could it have been that Prussia didn't want Italy to know? Was it possible that he had kept his lips shut for the sake of Italy because he had known of whose land that used to belong to?

Had Prussia been considering his feelings back then?

That...was nice of him. Nice, but unneeded.

Italy sighed and looked out the window. He stared at the blue water of the East River.

In the pristine, perfectly air-conditioned building, he could not hear a thing expect the machines dull hum in the background. What noises lay outside...New York City wasn't just a city, it was a country of its own. Culture, dialect, influence, heterogeneity, capital, resources, it had it all. It just needed a leader and it could have passed as a nation, it had worked for half of Europe (but many of those countries died within the century).

The calm waters did not calm him. The sight should have been something comforting — being a Mediterranean country after all — but he couldn't help but think it was a fake calmness. The words from the journal ran through his head. Over and over and over and over and over again.

He racked his brain of what use they could have. What their importance could be. A code? He doubted that. A secret longing to be with his brother? Maybe Germany was in love with Prussia. Maybe Prussia was disgusted with that love and shoved the book to the nations in hope to run away from the truth. Out of sight, out of mind after all.

That thought stung. It left a pain in his chest that he couldn't explain why it did. He had to keep thinking-keep thinking to try to forget the feelings he's trying to hide...

Italy looked at the bright window hypnotized. So bright, so warm, so —

...

"I don't know where he is Mr. Amato sir...It's not like Germany confides in me much anymore."

"You're so clingy to him. How do you not know where he is?"

"Well, he hasn't really talked to me since that meeting of nineteen ninety —"

"It must have been your fault then. It's always your fault."

"...Maybe, but Mr. Amato, I don't know what you expect from me, I know as much — "

"You went to that meeting right? Did you do nothing again?" Italy winced at the frustrated, impatient huff.

"I did Mr. Amato, no one knows where Germany is either! Not even Mr. America, Mr. Amato, sir — "

"Will you stop calling me that? It's just Mr. Amato," the older man snapped through the speaker close to Italy's ear. Italy distanced the large phone away from his ear and stuttered.

"A-Ah, I'm sorry — "

"Just find Germany quickly. This is important and you can't be a fuck up like always. Got it?"

"Yessir! I will find Germany and — "

The line went dead and Italy stared at the thick, tan block in his hands. The new and improved phone America liked to brag about. Only the finest he had boasted. It did the same thing and he still heard the same people. What was new...

He sighed as he heard the distinct click of the blocky phone hitting the plastic. He looked at the different numbers for room service and wished there was a number to take away his worry.

"Such a bastard. Corrupting my economy and demanding things. I'm worried too!" Italy told the dim hotel room in anger, all his fear replaced by annoyance. He lied on the cool bed on his side trying to calm down.

"I want him back too..." Italy muttered softly to the warm, white pillow. He clutched the fine fabric in his hand and felt his eyes close halfway. The journal was on the glass table by his bedside. He had a beautiful view of the city life, but having visited New York City so many times, the lights had lost their glamor and have become annoying. The noise pollution was irritating and the luminescence was too bright, too fake. It seemed like a waste to him, but he couldn't deny how captivating the buildings were with their soft glows.

Italy turned around and checked the dull light of the digital clock.

Eleven o'clock.

Early for a city that never slept.

Italy turned around and was supine on the bed. He forced his eyes shut. He squeezed them tight and saw the annoying phosphenes dance around in his vision before returning to a solid black.

One minute. Two minutes. Four minutes. Six minutes. Ten minutes.

His eyes snapped back open, the room just the same as it had been ten minutes ago. He expected it to change as if his internal struggle would distort the world because of his angst. His hand absentmindedly patted the cool bed sheet beside him as if Germany's warm, sturdy body would appear and tell him to go back to sleep in his gruff, mellifluous voice.

He would then whine and snuggle closer to the tense, large back. He would be shooed away verbally but the body wouldn't move. It would be warm and he would sigh in content. He would whisper sweet dreams and the response would be late and soft. The pale body would hitch its breath and not go to sleep until after he was snoring lightly and disgustingly comfortable. He would then...

God, Italy missed Germany. He missed him so much.

It was pathetic. How his heart could clench and twist at the thought of Germany's soft, awkward blush and mutters of an affectionate dummkopf . He felt like a child clinging to the long dress of its mother for protection-needy, clingy and lonely. His lip was aquiver with longing.

Italy decided to turn on the television. The first thing that appeared was Disney Channel. Some reruns of Duck Tales were playing and he smiled slightly at the dull colors from the thick, rounded glass screen. The television filled the room with crashes and high pitched voices, but Italy felt content. If only for now.

During an Easy-Bake Oven commercial, Italy jumped at the shrill sound of the hotel phone. It rang unnecessarily loud and he groaned at the aspect of his boss calling again.

He picked up the phone and held it a good distance away from his ear in case of sudden yelling. "Ciao? Feliciano Vargas speaking."

"Italy! Good thing you're not asleep yet, 'cuz I forgot to tell everybody that there will be no more meetings this week. You can go home," America yelled with loud, honking noises in the background. A street ambiance. He was no doubtingly calling from a local pay phone and was probably out having fun. Although it was a Thursday, it seemed that New Yorkers said fuck you to time and date and partied when they pleased.

"What? I had plane tickets to leave on Monday!" Italy said sitting straight on the bed. He quickly fumbled with the long T.V. remote and muted the television, leaving the smiling girls speechless.

America made an uncaring noise. "Sorry dude, but without Germany here and the book being the only thing we can work with, there's no point in havin' em. 'Sides, I bet you don't wanna read out loud that thing every day 'till Monday right?"

"Right, I guess so..."

"So yep! I bet ya can find a plane back home anyway. Travel safe!"

"Wait — !"

Italy lowered the device and stared at the beeping phone in disbelief. He slammed the phone down harshly to shut the annoying ringing.

He looked at the muted television, the humorous ducks on the screen doing nothing for his foul mood. The small duck with the blue cap had gotten comically punched and the other ducklings were laughing with tears in their eyes soundless. He grabbed the remote and pushed the red off button harshly. The colors slowly faded away as the last frame froze on the glass and melted away soon after as well.

Italy took off his shirt and pants along with his socks. He crawled into bed and struggled to reach the light switch on the wall lamp. He eventually found it and flicked it off. He lied in bed and thought. His eyes refused to shut, his head had a dull throb to sleep, but he kept his heavy eyelids open.

He heard the clock ticking and he didn't know how he could be thinking about nothing, absolutely nothing and be considered alive. It was a fascinating thing. To just stare in the dark alone, to hear your own breath go in and out, to hear the too loud heartbeat through your ear and feel nothing. Some had described as God, others the Devil, others insanity. In the end, they were just different words to describe the same feeling.

Having enough with his fickle feelings, he closed his eyes once more and tried to force the annoying questioning on how his breathing came naturally and how to breathe again normally. He took a deep breath, the exhale leaving a warm trace on his upper lip, and thought about happy things. Like pasta and women.

Just think about happy things.

...

Mis Hermanos — brothers in Spanish

Gringo — Spanish slang for a U.S. citizen

Pendejo — Spanish slang for idiot/dumbass

Azure Eyes of America That Germany Had Gifted Him — There are three main waves of immigration in the U.S. The first being the "Old Immigrants" that were from Western Europe before the 1880's. Many of them were German and Scandinavian, thus America having heavy roots with Germany. Germerica?

Dummkopf — German for idiot

...

I don't remember the early 90's, so it's actually very interesting to do research on the tech and culture back then. Pagers were much more common than cell phones, but I couldn't find if they were international so I made none of the nations have it.

The story is finally going to pick up after this chapter. We're going to finally move away from the cliche "world meeting" intro.