Chapter Four — The Stepping Stone of the Bluebird

...

Italy returned from the airport dead tired (eight hours of his life he never wants to relive — the shifting, odors, proximity, earliness, restlessness being something he should be used to but never quite will). Italy crawled to his kitchen, walking taking too much effort, for some real food and immediately went to bed straight afterward.

Eating had been lonely. Italy just eating his salad because of necessity and not out of any real enjoyment. (Anything was better than airport food he reasoned when he tasted the cold ranch at his large table.)

He hadn't brushed his teeth in the morning before leaving, him being too busy zipping up his pants in record time, hailing too expensive taxis, flirting with ladies, and the general lethargicness and panic that came with traveling.

"Ciao! You look lonely, and I can't let a beautiful woman such as yourself be lonely. I'm Feliciano Vargas. And you are~?"

"Ellie Lechmann. You're quite the charmer, aren't you."

Talking to that flight attendant had been fun for Italy. She was easy on the eyes and didn't seem to mind that he talked a lot or didn't make much sense. His passenger buddy did not want to talk, the balding old man (whose face resembled a pug, but not quite as cute Italy decided when looking at the saggy skin) being more interested in scowling and staring at the Sky High magazine than talking to him.

The flight attendant had been nice and many people from the back of the plane joined in on the conversation despite the roaring engines and unfamiliarity.

In all, the trip hadn't been too bad. There was some drama at the security line, but Italy appeased the raging woman with some flirting and playfulness with her baby. (The baby was the highlight of his trip, it was just so cute!)

After the long airport trip, his chauffeur drove him to his house (it was always a shock getting used to America's smooth roads then coming back) and here he is now.

Back to his home. Back to his aging house by the small river. Back to...what did he have to return to?

Italy sighed into his cool bedsheets. He needed to take a shower.

The sound of constant streams of water was something Italy has only gotten used to this century, before the sound of water filling his ears being one to fear for heavily-the sound being the last before everything went dark and you were left soundlessly gasping to an uncaring force.

In his small, white bathtub, he could see the water pool around his feet and quickly drain away. Nothing to fear, yet sometimes he would curl his toes and expect warm sand to seep in between his toes. Only when his toes scraped against the slippery, ridged porcelain would he snap out of it and twist the knob to stop the water immediately with his pruned fingers.

Italy had to remind himself that he was thinking far too deep into things. But, Italy had always had a love/hate relationship with water. He needed it and had thrived from it for centuries, him even being on top of the economy once in the grand storybook of European History.

Yet, the water would always come back to mock him and put him back in his place. Just when he thought he was above nature, finally accomplishing something, the water came back and washed away the memories. It was nice. (In a way.)

He could bury his heart in the water and never look back at it, the floodings being the key he didn't want.

So, as he had stared at the running faucet, his hands cupped still under the gushing water, he had laughed in marvel at the water being so controlled. All it took was just a turn of the shiny, metal knob and it would cease to pour. That easy.

It shouldn't be that easy. Water was too free. Too spirited and wild.

"I must be reaaally tired to be thinking like Greece. Is it normal to always think like this? I need to go get out more. Sleep. Oh, glorious sleep..." Italy thought while messily rubbing his damp hair with a white towel. The towel was thrown on the floor soon after and the body towel hanging on his pelvis was discarded as well right after. Italy felt a rush of familiar coolness envelop his body. The chilly night doing nothing to make his skin not stand up in goosebumps.

With clean teeth and a clean body, Italy crash-landed on the soft mattress. His foot hung off the bed and the edge of the bed was poking his bony knees, but he felt his eyes droop heavier and heavier. His body felt clean, yet his mind burned with compulsive, dirty thoughts. Muddy, hazy thoughts that even the water couldn't wash away. Italy just was one big oxymoron...

And so, Italy slept. He didn't bother with a blanket, his breathing heavy and rhythmic by the time coldness seeped through his skin.

...

Italy woke up again to the bright sun of late afternoon. Traveling always took a lot out of him, but he was glad to at least wake up groggy-eyed to his own ceiling rather than a nice hotel in New York, New York.

He did mundane things that day. Watered his plants, chucked envelopes into the trash bin, practiced his guitar, cleaned up a bit, cooked, drew, went to town for groceries while petting cute cats on the way, and called back a couple girls to cancel "dates."

He wasn't avoiding the journal on his kitchen table. Of course not. He was simply a busy man. The garage is looking a bit cramped after all and he simply must wash his antique car.

There were things to do, places to be, people to talk to, journals to not read.

But even then, when the sun had set once more-when he waved goodbye to the happy families closing shops, he still felt a heavy knot in his throat.

Things were changing and he was refusing to concede.

He wasn't stubborn, it was just wrong. He couldn't fight back his personality or change it (even if it had been different centuries ago), it was just who he was. What he had been molded to. His fears, his loves, they weren't his.

But Italy knew that he couldn't avoid the journal forever. The journal wasn't going to go away just because he shut his eyes and couldn't see it anymore. If he could do it in a U.N. building, then he should be able to do it in his home. Right? Surely, his people could at least grant him the strength to not just stare at the chronicle in the vain hope that it would solve itself.

He was mocking himself. Placing the journal in such a blatant and open position. He knew that he passed the book almost every hour (he saw it in his peripheral vision when leaving to the sunny outside) and he simply knew that he was indirectly running away again.

It was a gnawing feeling, feeling that self-inflicted guilt worsens with every outing and bite, so he decided to at least try and paint a brave face on the cowardice canvas he called himself.

So, the second day back from America, (right after Mass of course) he had manned up and actually acknowledged the book's existence. All that staring must have done him some good as the book looked normal to him now. Not frightening and, well, boring.

It was after lunch, his belly feeling gross and slushy, despite having such delicious self-made food, when he decided to read another entry. It was never specified if he could read ahead but he was going to anyway. His country, his rules.

He bit his tongue as he settled into his chair and sipped some juice from a straw. He would drink wine, but getting intoxicated was not his priority. Though, it didn't sound like a bad idea now...

"This is just like a storybook. These words aren't scary. These words are entertaining, like a mystery show. I'll be the cool detective! Just don't look too deep into things and don't feel so much and I should be fine. Yeah!" Italy puffed out his cheeks at this thought process and felt himself become a bit soothed.

He flipped through the book slowly, like the laggard he was, and stopped when he saw the correct entry.

"18. January 1871

Even though I knew this day would come, I cannot believe it. I am no longer writing as a fragile, unsure being, but a certified nation. I am now part of The Germanic Empire, and I marvel at how powerful it sounds. It shouldn't feel this right to say it, but I feel my people's content. Their cries to become something were finally answered and manifested in me."

1871. The same year Italy had unified with his lazy older brother.

"Reading back on my last entry, I feel shame. I was acting like a baby, and I look at it now with regret. Things could have been worse. Brother could have literally killed me to keep his land thriving and prospering. It isn't uncommon, Brother made sure of telling me that, and it would have been so easy.

But he didn't. He kept me alive for some reason I still can't fathom and raised me. Brother can be a complete, total bastard, but it is not to say that he does not have a heart.

(Sometimes.)

Fighting off the other countries had been intimidating.

I was not strong. Or big. Or had any experience other than basic defense. Denmark, I already hate him, came by and thought he could push me around. I may be smaller than him, but I wasn't going to simply let him walk all over me just because he had a large weapon and a cocky smirk.

Honestly, is a giant ax practical in any way other than striving for attention?

...Although he did not hurt me too badly, (I won the battle) that did not mean his words did not leave an impact on me. What he had said was true.

I was a nobody. I was just a lonely, useless boy clinging onto something powerful and hoping that it would rub off on him. I was a weak nation too confused and brainwashed to know what it really wanted.

I was made to be taken over and destroyed. Over and over again until someone finally — "

Italy had to shove the book away for a couple seconds. He took a sip of his juice, the brightly colored straw making slurping noises already, and returned back to the brick of text.

" — takes pity and tries to make the desperate nation into something it is not. Which is supposedly me.

'How do you know that Prussia isn't just using you? How can you be so easily trusting of him?' Denmark had asked while twirling his ax absentmindedly behind his back like the show off he was.

I at the time tried to tell myself that wasn't the case, but with the sudden neglect and harsh training, the words had seemed plausible. He had seen this pause in doubt and jumped on it like a leech.

'You can't possibly believe that Prussia is doing this on his own free will. That he cares about you? You're nothing to him. Just another piece of land for his empire. Once he sees how weak and useless you are, I guarantee that he won't think twice about leaving you.'"

Italy flipped the second page carefully, the page being a victim of America's little tantrum. It was flimsy and fully torn out but Italy was too invested in the words to fully pay attention.

"Brother wasn't like that. I had known it back then, but with so much pent-up confusion and pride, it was difficult to not be swayed by an older and wiser nation.

'I don't believe you. You're lying. Brother isn't like that.'

Denmark had thrown his head back and laughed. It only fueled my rage, so I suppose it was a joke on him.

'This is rich! He even makes you think he is your brother. Let me guess, he also told you that he will always protect you. Well, where is he now? The all mighty Big Brother Prussia?' That smirk looked much better with blood. I would know.

'Doing better things than having to deal with someone who smells like shit and expired milk.' I will admit. I was a bit sassy."

Italy threw his head back and laughed. The wonderful sound absorbed into the thick, brick wall.

He laughed until tears came out of his eyes and he wished he had been there to see this go down.

If it was hilarious on paper, he couldn't imagine how funny it would have been in person! He knew the face Denmark made when offended. It was hilarious, no doubt his face being funnier since it was a small, pubescent Germany he was going up against.

"His joking mood had vanished and he growled at me like some kind of wild dog. I knew that he couldn't be fully human. Dogs are nice but to want to be them was a bit much...

'So easily manipulated. Take it from an actual nation, kid. I know your so-called brother means the world to you now, but just wait until his true colors show. Because you want to know something?'

I was curious. I didn't have much choice either since he continued running his fat mouth anyway.

'You aren't special. You aren't the only person to call Prussia, Big Brother. The person before you is long dead. But you know what's funny?'

No one had been laughing.

'He didn't even cry at their death. Didn't even blink an eye as their body was brutally murdered at the hands of his so-called friend. Blood was everywhere, his real flesh and blood were being killed in front of his eyes and he just walked away. Just like that. Didn't give a single fuck that he had lost his precious brother.'

'W-Why are you telling me this? What do you have to gain from this?'

'Don't you get it? You're not special. Not unique! Prussia will leave you just as he did before. He won't cry at your death and you will mean nothing to him. He will probably smile when he — '

I couldn't stand hearing what he had to say. It was too much. We fought, and I did not come out unscathed. I was pleased that Denmark had taken a good blow as well. I need to work on my right hook.

I was too fueled by hate and jealousy to think clearly.

I could have walked away. Told him to leave and try to negotiate something, but I don't really know how to negotiate. It all seems useless to me.

Why bother with flowery words when you can literally show them your power? Actions speak louder than words. At least, that's what Brother had told me.

Although this event happened quite some time ago, back in 1864 if I recall correctly, his words are still engraved in my head. This occurred before my last entry, and I think that little war I had Denmark might have been a reason Brother pushed me so hard. He didn't want, couldn't have a weak nation as an ally. If it was ordered from his boss, or from his own will, I don't know

I suppose I took it too personally. I took his words to heart and now they are stuck there. I wish they could just leave.

I am still having a difficult time adjusting to so much royalty. The concept of having an official boss is frightening. Sure, I was under Brother's care before, but it was a mutual understanding of boundaries and growth.

With all these duchesses and royal families, I am sure I am going to offend them in some way. I do not want to, but I can come across as...blunt or unapproachable. I can't be that bad right?"

Italy looked at the page sympathetically. He knew the pain of royalty and pompous humans all too well — don't get him started on Vatican City.

Italy has offended his superiors so many times that it was really a game to him now. They were going to either die, get removed, or commit suicide in the end, so it didn't matter what fat, frowning person sat on the throne. (Though, he did have many superiors that he genuinely liked and cried when they passed away, their children being unfair victims of longing gazes.)

Plus, Italy didn't think Germany was a bad person. Even England didn't think so, and he hated everyone!

Germany was just so young...and it was times like this that Italy has to remember that Germany was barely two centuries old. Germany...with his gelled back hair and bulging muscles, was really still just a brat.

A brat that had caused more blood, more suffering, and agony than any other nation in the world.

That brat had succeeded in making all of Europe dead broke — inside and out — and was still able to transform from the most hated nation in the world to the most dependable and trusted within the same century.

Italy couldn't do that, not in a million years. Italy took another sip of his drink, there was nothing left to sip really, and continued reading before he could go philosophical and be "a depressing piece of shit." Romano's words, not his.

"That is not my main concern for now, though.

What I'm more concerned about is how I'm going to make this empire not fall apart. With so many people (41 million to be exact) and such rapid advancements, I wonder if I will be able to keep up. I'm just so inexperienced.

From what Brother says, I might just be able to beat Britain in terms of industry in a couple more years. More railroads are being added and things are changing rapidly.

I feel myself getting more intelligent as well. Those humans. No. My people are starting to build more universities and I have to admire how cunning they are.

I'm full of life and hope. It's an odd feeling. I've never felt this liberated and, well, eager.

I think Brother knew this. He sensed I would not want to be under his control for much longer and foresaw that I would start to become more hostile towards him.

I did, for a time, become more hostile towards him. I was angry at him for not caring, angry at myself for caring, and angry because my people were making me angry. I was not a pleasant person to be around at that time.

Now, I can only say that I am most grateful. For everything. The training, the lessons- academic and morally. All of it. Even if I haven't seen him in months.

Although things are great right now, I can't help but feel like something bad is going to occur soon. Something foreboding and large. I don't want to put a damper on the cheery feelings, but I sense an unrest within the continent. The thirst for power is not rare, but I cannot help but worry. I can't pinpoint it exactly, but I feel like I mustn't let myself become accustomed to my growing riches.

Because although I say that I wasn't affected by Denmark's words, his voice still echoes through my mind. Taunts me when I close my eyes and makes me feel small and insecure-as if I were just a small child again hiding under Brother's blankets again.

If that foreboding time comes, if that dark and malicious presence makes itself known to be true, will Brother care? Will he cry?

The sad thing is, I still don't know."

...

Italy flipped the sixth page and saw a new date. He had reached the end of the entry. Germany had somehow been able to fit all those words perfectly into five pages. The last word ending exactly where the thin, faded line did as well.

"That was different," Italy said to himself, the book on his lap now. He was distracted by a blackbird outside of his large window for a moment. He blinked back to focus and got up from his seat. He stretched, taking his glass and walking towards his kitchen.

He set the book on the wooden table beside his chair and grabbed the thin glass now empty. He placed the glass in the empty sink and looked out his window in thought.

What should he do now? He could read the entire journal if he wanted to, but he didn't feel like crying himself to sleep.

He could ignore it and wait until another world meeting and just shove the responsibility to another nation, like say America. But that didn't leave a good taste in his mouth either. He had already tried and failed as well.

"What a lovely tree," Italy thought. He would have to cut that tree soon. It was getting too large.

Italy looked away and walked back to his large living room. He sat back down and contemplated on what to do next.

Another entry has been read. He wasn't any closer than before. Him being just as clueless as before.

Did he really think that just by reading a couple entries the answer would appear right in front of him? As if Germany would immediately tell him where he is, why he left, and why he barely smiles at him anymore. Just because he was the one feeling bad?

This wasn't a fairy tale, he desperately wished it was, but the shooting stars seem to always lie and fade before he could grasp, and it was time to face the reality.

He was going to have to work for this. With no Germany to hold his hand and tell him that, he did his best.

Because his best wasn't good enough anymore.

It wasn't enough and that left Italy having to swallow deeply.

"I'm not good enough right now. This, right now, what is happening, is accomplishing nothing. Me crying and frowning and ignoring isn't doing anything. I need to do something!"

Italy felt a surge of eagerness run through him. Just as Germany had felt one hundred and twenty-one years ago. He rarely ever felt like doing anything these days, handling country affairs was bothersome enough, but he felt like he had something to strive for. Something that mattered in his personal life.

He knew this before, a half-awake realization, but it wasn't until now, that he fully understood.

It was...exciting. It made Italy feel a pleasant buzz, one that years of various alcohols could never recreate.

"If I were Germany, where would I go? What would I do? What is the first thing I would worry about and get taken care of?" Italy thought, scrunching up his face in deep concentration.

"..."

"..."

"...This is hard," Italy thought while relaxing his face.

"Okay. Think! Germany probably told Prussia that he was going to leave. Probably, maybe, there's a good chance. Germany itself seems to be doing fine, so obviously Ludwig is still alive."

This brought a smile to Italy's face.

"Germany likes dogs. Like, really likes dogs. So maybe he went to a dog park...?" Italy shook his head immediately at that thought.

"No, that's not it. Okay, what would he do if he were trying to escape? He would...cover up his tracks...and, and not tell anyone! He would do shady business and probably wear a disguise."

Italy stopped for a second. A disguise! He totally forgot to consider that! How are they supposed to find him amongst the million of other blonds?!

WAS HE EVEN BLONDE ANYMORE?!

Italy took a deep breath to calm himself. He gave a shaky smile and tried to look on the positives. Panicking now would do him no good, so he just continued to hypothesize.

"Don't panic, don't panic. He's probably still blonde and mean looking, and really into baking and singing like a girl. He's still Germany, and I bet I can still sense his awkwardness. Yeah! Yeah...so let me think."

"Germany would probably worry about his country first. Make sure that someone is running it and taking care of things." Italy paused.

"Wait, his government is also clueless about where he is. If that's true, then that means there isn't someone 'running' the show. WAIT."

"From what Mexico said, that the other countries' governments have only been pressuring them to start looking for Germany a couple weeks ago instead of months ago. Then that must mean that Germany's bosses already knew of his absence and had someone doing the official stuff!"

Italy felt proud. He was doing this all by himself and getting somewhere!

"Now who would Germany trust enough to run his government...Prussia. It has to be Prussia. No doubt. Germany trusts him a lot and it was at this meeting that he showed himself."

Italy got up and quickly shuffled into his personal office.

It was a mess with thick paper toppling over each other, the mahogany desk barely being able to be seen with the myriad of books and confidential folders. The blinds were closed, the orange sun barely being able to shine through the thick pieces of plastic, and the leather seat was turned away from the large desk.

He turned on a lamp and quickly scattered through his horrid mess of papers to find his personal calendar. After shuffling a bit, he pulled out the paper calendar and skimmed quickly through his scratchy writing.

He flipped back a couple months. He ignored the bold circles and doodles of May and April until he found a chicken-scratched March.

There it was. March twenty-first. The last time he had seen Germany. In blotchy red ink, with a dried up pen he had thrown out days later, was scrawled the date he was supposed to "discuss" the plans of the Earth Summit.

He had seen Germany, he was snappy that day from what Italy had remembered, and they talked about the preparations. Well, Germany did. Italy had kept trying to go out and do anything other than sit down and talk stuffily.

Italy tried to remember any key things Germany had said that day.

All he could remember was: pay attention, we can't eat right now, I don't know if seals have penises, I don't know if ladybugs pee either, you just went to the bathroom, this is important, this is important, this is important — not important enough for Italy to remember.

Italy let out a sad sigh. He wished he would have listened to Germany and paid attention. Because now he's looking at his calendar for answers that won't appear.

Italy did the math in his head. It was now the nineteenth, meaning, that it has been almost exactly four months since Italy had last seen Germany. According to the other nations, this was around the same time slot.

Germany disappeared around late March, early April. What could have been done in that time? He has to be living somewhere. But where is the question. Specifically, what country.

Maybe an island? A small, uninhabited island? Italy doubted Germany could muster the grime and primal ways of living. He liked silence, not solitude.

Italy flipped to April. A meeting had been scheduled on the eleventh, but a flash flood had prevented him from going. He had then rescheduled for the twentieth but Germany wouldn't pick up on the fifteenth, the brazen beeping telling him coldly that the number was unavailable.

Germany had been gone by then so, Italy knew that the time slot of disappearance was between March twenty-second and April fifteenth. Italy's boss had started bothering him on July second, exactly two weeks before the world meeting with Prussia, so that meant it had been almost five weeks since the Rio Summit. That taking place from the third to the fourteenth.

All the dates were starting to confuse Italy so he shut his calendar and shoved it back in his drawer not caring that it crumbled and twisted in sharp angles-creasing in a way that would never go away.

Italy paced back in forth in his living room once he had strode quickly out of his office. The sun was setting once again, the blackbird gone and away, and the room was becoming darker.

"This would be so much easier if I knew what Germany was thinking. What he was feeling..."

Italy looked at the journal and thought about what he should do with it.

A dark thought ran through Italy.

Why was he bothering with all these minuscule and unimportant entries? They weren't bringing him closer to finding the truth.

The truth would lie in the very last entry...he could just check the last entry date, read that, then do some more math with the dates and find him! He could read what he was feeling, resolve that internal issue when he finds him and carry on with life happily. With Germany.

It would be faster, easier, and as America would say, "Work smarter, not harder."

There was nothing stopping him from doing so...There was no yelling England, or grinning America, or red-faced boss, or frowning Romano, or anyone in the beige colored room to tell him otherwise. It was just him, a lonely man, and the thoughts of an even lonelier man.

He picked up the journal in his pale hands and debated.

What if the very last entry was written almost one-hundred years ago? What if every entry after the one he had just read were just angsty retellings of everyday life? Complaining about things that would hold no real value in the greater scheme of things?

What if it was all just a waste of time.

Italy had to cancel that thought process. Germany wasn't like that.

Germany didn't have the time for that kind of thing, and it just wasn't how he resolved things. He would much rather break his punching bag and go for a run with his dogs than sit down and write down his woes like an old maid. In Italy's mind, all he could picture was Germany doing a comical amount of pushups then baking a bright, pink cake before bed. Nowhere in that vision did he see Germany writing. Well, writing something personal.

"What about that little thingy Germany used to carry around during World War II? That book he carried religiously for a solid five months around me? What happened to that? Could that have been this? No...it's too small to be this one, but looking back at it, Germany was really into writing in that. He was always writing something. He would never let me see, but he suddenly stopped bringing it with him. Weird since he would write in it every day..." Italy thought only remembering Germany's concentrated face and a blurry image of another small book.

What had it been called? An observation journal? That was what Germany had said right?

Italy perked up. If Germany could write something for months, never missing a day, then this journal had to be consistently updated! Sure, fifty years was a big jump, but the logs were not abandoned.

The possibility of the last entry not being recent still ran high, though. Germany was a busy man and if not deemed important enough by him, he will completely forget and ignore something he doesn't want to face or does not care to. A personal journal was something Italy deemed important but for Germany to just disappear...

It seemed Italy didn't really know Germany either.

This made Italy pause and look at the journal more intensely. He flipped it over, the book still just as tightly clasped in his clammy hands and looked at the pages. Italy could see that there were still a good amount of new pages, the paper not yet being ruined by the weight of the ink or the dirt of the side of a hand. They weren't pristine white, that being just from age, but they were sharp and stiff.

Could it be possible that Germany has another journal? Could it be possible that he threw this one out and wrote in a new one?

Did Prussia give him this old, faulty book on purpose? It is not something Prussia is above of, he is at core a military strategist.

No. No. Italy didn't want to believe that. Prussia cares, and, and, he seemed just as heartbroken as any older brother would be. He looked just like someone needing help and asking for genuine aid.

Did he, though? He had a smile on his face. No, he was frowning. No, he wasn't making an expression at all. Or was he just not paying attention? Prussia was wide-eyed, yes, very expressive and — no, that isn't right either!

Prussia was blank-faced and his tone was...hopeful? Most definitely not. He was just as blank as his voice. Right? He can't remember...

Italy gulped down to calm down his shaking hands.

He had to have faith that this journal was the one — the one that would lead him to Ludwig. He had to have faith — the cold cross in his fingers was not soothing his warm-blooded fear, sadly — and hope that it was the right one, the right thing to do.

He should take a peek, though...just to make sure that the journal does end on a semi-recent date...

He flipped it heavily to one side and skimmed through the black inked words. He stopped when he saw a peek of the last entry date.

"28. December 198 —"

He didn't dare to read any further.

...

Italy sat in his living room. The old clock already ringing that another hour has passed.

He had signed papers, called back his boss, organized folders in alphabetical order, watered his wilting plants, and had dipped his feet in the water to admire the darkening sky.

He had done everything he was supposed to. (He wanted his schedule to be clear for the next couple days, so he put extra effort to ignore the hand cramps and aching lower back to get the miscellaneous and tedious tasks of being a country done.)

His right leg couldn't stop shaking and vibrating, him being in dire need to do something, anything, and his pudgy cat had stopped nudging him for food when he had mechanically filled its bowl with food (his mind solely focused on one task, but being focused on nothing at the same time) about half an hour ago.

Now he was just looking at his ornate rug and dusty coffee table in thought. The house was silent, the washing machine in the background humming hypnotically, the small fan in the kitchen spinning to nothingness, and the sound of his foot tapping on the wooden floor to occupy the still house.

"...What were you thinking Germany? What is he thinking, does he feel like this too, just as — that's it...what he's thinking — I need to go to Germany's house! I'm sure to find something there!" Italy suddenly thought, breaking his usual deadline of thinking. He felt his brain reel with activity once again, thoughts coming in and out faster than he could acknowledge. He felt his eyes start to focus on the detail in the room, and he blinked. He shook his head in excitement, his mouth stretching into a large smile.

"Why didn't I think of it before!" Italy said while jumping out of his chair. He rushed to the kitchen and grabbed his car keys out of an old ceramic bowl-the bowl shaking unevenly and making pitched clicks against the granite from the sudden force.

He shoved his arms through a random jacket by the door and shut the lights off habitually. He slammed the door behind him and fast-walked to his car muttering to himself.

"Prussia will be there, but he never said I couldn't visit. I could question him — he likes me, so it shouldn't be that hard. I could look and see if there's anything useful, like, like, I don't know. How exciting!"

Italy jammed the key into the lock on his car door and got in. He didn't check his mirrors, barely noticed himself clicking his seatbelt, and didn't wait for the car to warm up. He twisted the car keys harshly into the ignition and smiled giddily at the sudden roar of the engine.

He clutched the stick shift and jerked it to make the car go into reverse. The small car's tires screeched as he pulled out of his driveway and drove away, his yellow headlights being the only light to contrast the pitch-black night.

It was time to visit Germany's house.

...

Lazy Romano — Northern Italians see the Southern Italians as dumb and lazy farmers that are too religious to know anything more. They see the southerners as somewhat lower than them, the divide being much like in the US's North and South. It's more of a cultural prejudice than actual hate.

...

Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed! I wish I could thank the guest readers personally, but I can't. So, thank you so much for reviewing and taking your time to write such lovely comments! It inspired me to write this chapter :)

I wrote this before the recent scanlation of HRE and Prussia. (Spoiler I guess?) It was a mistake from the editor, but this was a headcanon of mine, to begin with, so having that little strip official is kinda nice.

Thank you for reading and any feedback is welcomed~!