Chapter Five — A Black and White Memento Mori
...
Driving at night always helped Italy calm down. With the wind in his hair and lack of cars, it was simply just fun to drive.
The initial eagerness was still present, but it had simmered down to a waiting excitement. It took a good twelve to thirteen hours to drive to Germany's house, even with the little, red needle shaking and looking as if were about to break. Somehow time seemed to pass faster for nations, those twelve hours feeling like three.
The radio was staticky, the poor antenna not knowing where to focus, and the night felt too quiet for Italy's taste. Where the radio failed to produce music and a provide a filler to the mellow night, Italy replaced with happy whistling and humming.
Italy took a right turn sharply and thanked the heavens that Switzerland was already asleep. Liechtenstein was usually the sweetest, little girl, but if you woke her, she can be quite grouchy. And if Liechtenstein is grouchy and disturbed, then Big Brother Switzerland has to intervene and it's already game over by then.
So, really, today was going great!
He had already passed the customary Welcome to Germany sign a couple hours ago and felt giddiness when progressively the signs became more familiar. He knew Germany's house location by heart, but Italy is prone to get lost very easily.
He was getting close to Frankfurt, where Germany's current house is, and he almost crashed into another car because he was humming and tapping his steering wheel in happiness. Italy puffed out his cheeks as he heard a car horn being blasted at him as he perfectly veered from an upcoming car in front of him. He heard tires skid and multiple cars break to not crash and Italy just shook his head.
Germans were just so uptight about everything!
Italy took a left turn and whistled at the red light he just ran over. He took more turns, drove down more dark roads and soon enough the street lights and the cars became a rarity.
Italy shivered. He had forgotten that to get to Germany's house he needed to go through a dark and ominous row of trees. It was a single road, the concrete needing some work, and the trees engulfed you as you drove by. If it weren't for his headlights, he would be consumed by the darkness, never to found again.
It had been terrifying the first time — Italy being a clingy, sobbing mess by the time Germany had opened the door and side hugged him in confusion.
He remembered asking why Germany didn't live in his capital and why he had chosen such a remote and scary place to live, but Germany responded that his car had already been keyed too many times. He liked quietness, he had said.
Italy drove some more and saw a long and pebbled driveway up ahead. An extravagant thing to pull up to—Germany in all of his simplicity living in a house of royalty and irony.
He saw that a couple lights were still on and cheered. Prussia was still awake.
He swiftly parked on the donut-shaped driveway and twisted the keys sharply out. Everything of the car stopped and Italy climbed out slamming the plastic door shut. His keys clinked together as he shoved them in his pocket.
He strode up the long pathway to the door and rung the doorbell.
A minute. That's how long Italy waited before he jabbed the doorbell again, his pointer finger becoming a bit red from the pressure he was exerting on the poor button.
Thirty seconds.
He jabbed it again and waited. He shifted a bit and looked behind before turning back to the still closed door. The light was on, there were a couple rooms with lights still on from the outside, so there had to be someone home.
Ten seconds. He smashed it again. Pressing it three times for good measure.
A deep breath later, and he was pressing the plastic button madly. He kept clicking it, hearing the annoying, sharp sound resonate throughout the front door. His eyes flickered from the small button to the front door, fully expecting the door to widely open and accept him. He panted a bit as he kept pressing the smooth button—the sound becoming pitchy and annoying, not at all pleasant and homely as it was in the movies.
Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, ding, dong —
"MEIN GOTT, STOP WITH THE DOORBELL ALREADY!" Prussia shouted as he opened the door to finally see who the hell was being so annoying at this hour.
"..."
"Hello, Prussia!" Italy greeted with a cute smile, his hand back to his side.
Prussia relaxed. "What are you doing here, Italy?"
"That's the thing, I'm on a mission right now! A very important mission. You see, when you left the conference, everyone was like, oooo, look at the book. No one wanted to read it, I didn't want to either, so they gave it to me! Crazy right? So there I was, reading the journal that you gave us, and I felt so scared. The other countries said, 'it had to be me,' but I don't really know why. Do you? Anyways —"
"Italy —"
"I read another entry, and I got really sad and scared. So, I tried giving it to America, but I didn't want him to have it! It was weird, I wanted to be the one to try and solve this mystery, so when I got back home — the meeting was canceled, America said so — I read another entry and that made me think." Italy paused to catch his long-winded breath. "I thought, why not go to Germany's house! You can help me! So here I am."
Prussia laughed that obnoxious laugh of his.
"Well, come on in. The awesome me can't have you freezing out here!"
Italy entered gratefully and looked around. His eyes softened.
It was the same. The couch was still white. The kitchen still to his left. The shoes were still placed neatly by the entrance—the clean scent he didn't know what of lingering. Nothing had changed. Italy breathed in happily, soaking in the scenery.
Italy followed Prussia to the living room. He sat down on the couch across from Prussia and placed his hands on his lap.
Prussia leaned back. "So, why did you decided to visit the awesome me? Not that you need a reason, but you haven't come to his house in months. Why now?"
"As I was saying before, I am currently the one with the journal. I read an entry and —"
Prussia placed his elbows on his knees. He wasn't leaning back on the couch anymore, his back being straight now, but his posture was still somewhat lax. What hid beneath those searching eyes was something not relaxed. "How far are you?"
Italy looked away from Prussia's piercing red eyes.
"Only three entries in," Italy responded back.
"Not very far then."
Italy shook his head, his fingers clenching his pant leg for a second before loosening.
"You still haven't answered my question. Why did you come here of all places? Especially at such a late hour? I could have been sleeping, you know. You're cute, but disturbing my sleep is not awesome," Prussia said confused.
Italy laughed nervously. How should he say it?
"Well, you see Prussia, when I was reading the third entry, I had a lot of questions. One of them being what Germany was feeling. I then realized I didn't know! I was reading his journal, sure, but I didn't know how he was feeling now. I could have skipped to the last entry and done it that way, but I didn't think that would be a good idea."
"I then thought, why not go to Germany's house? I could see more things and get more clues. So," Italy gestured with his hands, "boom! Here I am. I knew you would be here, but..."
"But what?" Prussia asked looking at the shifting Italy, his eyes never once leaving the others.
"I didn't think you would let me in," Italy continued softly, looking down.
"Why wouldn't I?" Prussia slouched back on the couch, his arms crossing over his chest instinctively.
"I don't know." Italy smiled. "It was silly of me! I got scared that you hated me or something. I thought you wouldn't want me to be looking through Germany's things since you know, you're his older brother and all." Italy perked up. "But I'm glad it was for nothing! You are such a nice person, Prussia."
Prussia smirked. "Of course, I am. I am the most awesome nation there is." He sighed softly getting up from the couch, Italy's eyes following his back interested.
"It's just weird how you were the one to break his heart and expect to find the pieces."
"W-What?"
Prussia turned back around. "Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself. Kesesese!"
"If you say so," he said uncertainly.
Prussia yawned. "I was about to go to bed, but then you started ringing the doorbell like a goddamn madman, so I'm going to sleep now. I don't want to be a rude host, but you know where the spare bedroom is, right?"
Italy nodded. "I'm sorry to keep you up so late, but I got so excited that I just had to come immediately! I can find the spare room."
"Good, because I am tired as shit. Goodnight, Italy."
"Goodnight, Prussia!" Italy went up to Prussia and gave him a goodnight hug giggling a bit when he felt him stiffen and blush. So different, yet so alike they are.
Prussia pulled away after fifteen seconds. "You're such a cutie Italy, but geez. You'll see me tomorrow...," he said with cheeks heated. Italy didn't understand what was so embarrassing but has learned to ignore it with the German brothers.
They were kind of weird.
Prussia turned around, embarrassment forgotten and swept under the rug, and starting walking towards the hallway, rubbing his head and yawning. Prussia's soft patters on the pristine tile faded away until there was stillness.
Well, things turned out much better than he had planned! Sure, Prussia had been surprisingly cold only a few seconds ago, but it seems that Prussia had no grudge against him. Prussia seemed to be doing fine as well. If you ignored the darker undertones below his eyes and flatter hair.
Italy soaked in the living room. His memories sprang back to life. So many things happening in that monochromatic living room. He walked over to the couch and ran his fingers lightly on it.
It felt cold, just as all leather does. He looked at the detailing of the armrest before flickering his eyes to the glass coffee table.
Still as blank as before. It needed something. Maybe some flowers?
Italy smiled and shook his head. He could see the ghost of Japan — him and his pristine white uniform, blending in with the living room and looking much more like he belonged— sharpening his sword and Germany reading a manual in the shared comfortable silence. One that seemed only they could share.
He turned to the kitchen and thought about the words Prussia had just said. Those words flew out of his head for immediate concern as he peered through an open cabinet he so abruptly opened.
His basil leaves were still there. In a small jar, there they sat. He blinked.
He opened another cabinet.
His pasta noodles were neatly lined up as well. The ones he would use when he wanted a quick snack and didn't feel like going through the rigorous process of hand making the noodles.
Italy rushed to open the large, bottom cabinet where the spare pots and pans were stored and saw his large noodle pot. The one he had always used to make dishes at Germany's house. He didn't throw it away...
He took it out, being mindful to not make a lot of loud noises, the loud clinking of metal hitting one another not helping much, and checked it.
It was clean, pristinely so.
The burn marks were still there — the brown, ugly rust stains still ringing around the bottom from years of use. The metal looked scraped and damaged, no doubt from dropping it so many times. The handles were weak and the plastic around the handles was cut into two—the user having to be careful where they placed their palms.
He touched the spot in affection and melancholy.
"You said you hated this pot. You said it was old and that you were going to throw it out as soon as I was out your hair. It is old, but..." Italy whispered. He saw his distorted reflection through the muddy steel.
"But you didn't throw it out. You kept it."
...
Italy turned off the living room lights and kitchen lights before going to Germany's room. It was the last stop before heading to bed.
He didn't like the dark. He felt like something was watching him. Something that would look at him but then leave. He blamed it on the nostalgia.
Italy opened Germany's door lightly — the scene playing out the same way it had almost seventy years ago — but this time there is no sleeping Germany on the bed. The bed is made and there is not a single thing out of place in the room. He closed the door behind him and flickered on the light.
He stood there for a second, truly admiring Germany's room before letting his feet drag him to memory lane. He felt out of place and sneaky. He had to remember that Germany wasn't here, but he still felt that deep warning of a scolding coming soon. He just had to turn his head around and there Germany would be with a look of annoyance.
He looked at the old dresser, the clean mirror reflecting almost the whole room, the lonely little lamp, and the German titled books on the bookshelf.
Every shelf was filled with books, not one gap in sight. He hummed as he fingered through the binds absentmindedly. His eyes stopped at one thick book.
Brothers Grimm.
Italy didn't think Germany would enjoy fairy tales, but Germany had been a child once. It was hard to imagine—even with the words and dates as proof—Germany as anything but a man. He had always been muscular and tall. His chin defined and sharp, the high cheekbones helping achieve the look of too much maturity.
Italy went back to the dresser and hesitantly opened a cabinet partially.
Nothing happened. A couple seconds later Italy yanked the cabinet open.
His eyes scanned the contents greedily.
A lighter. A pack of cigarettes not at all current. It was old and the edges around the box looked beaten up. The corners were rounded and the font on the box screamed the sixties. Italy saw a black comb next. A gun and some mints were next to the comb.
Italy picked up the gun and tossed it between his hands. It felt heavy—much heavier than anything he could buy in a store currently. He checked to see if there were any bullets and to his surprise there were only two left. He popped the cartridge back and placed the gun back—the gun making a loud thumping noise against the thin wood.
He saw a badge (for what, he didn't know) and some pens scattered around. He was about to close the drawer and move on, but he saw a curled up piece of paper hiding underneath a thick bible. Curious, he pushed the bible upward to retrieve the piece of paper.
Except, it wasn't a piece of paper. It was a photo.
The photograph was old and very fragile. The edges were burnt and it looked as if it had been through a flood — if the blue, blotchy stains and crinkling were anything to go by. He held it with both hands and made sure not to touch the picture with his fingers—his fingers containing too much oil and clumsiness to be trusted.
He held it from the back, the picture curving upwards a bit, and the little girl's smiling face glared a bit in the light.
The little girl in the photo was smiling a melancholic smile. Not a happy smile, but not a sad one either.
Judging from the hue of the black, her hair must have been a light pigment. Probably a dark blonde. She wore a short colored dress (a short dress at the time) that rose a little bit above her bony knees. She adorned an old jacket around her thin frame and Italy could see the blood gashes dipping into her frilly, white socks.
Her left cheek had a deep cut. A glass wound from the looks of it. Despite having band-aids on her knees, chopped short hair, and an unattractive cut on her plump cheek, she still stood firmly and tried to smile for the camera.
The girl couldn't be any older than seven. The buildings were destroyed behind her, the once proud brick structures reduced to mere ashes and pebbles. Other men in overalls walked behind her distracted, but with her sad gaze and soft dimples, she was easily the center of attention to the horror behind her.
The dark, clashing blacks and grays didn't matter, the city being utterly destroyed didn't matter because Italy needed to know who this girl was and why she was hidden underneath a bible.
Italy flipped the picture over and read Germany's shaky handwriting.
"I'm sorry, Irene. Please forgive me."
Italy's heart stopped for a moment.
Who is Irene? Was that the little girl in the photo? Or is Germany talking to someone else?
Italy flipped the picture back over and perused the photograph.
The picture was obviously from World War II, the only glaring evidence being the style in dress and hair.
So many places had been bombed during World War II, it was a headache to even try to remember every bombing at what time and year of every city. He could barely remember the bombings in his country — the smoke, the sirens, the screaming, the explosions, him doing everything to just forget — let alone Germany's.
He studied the girl closer and tried to maybe pinpoint the city. There was no date anywhere, and the smiling girl was starting to make his nerves fray. He gave up and decided that it had to be late into the war. Maybe 1944.
"Who said it even had to be during the war?" Italy thought while looking at the picture closely.
Italy had just assumed that it was during the war because of the injuries, but reconstruction took years, so really, it could be anywhere from 1939 to late fifties.
Italy lowered the picture. He took one last long look before carefully sliding it into his coat pocket. He was going to ask Prussia about it tomorrow morning.
It opened another drawer and saw that it was empty. He felt disappointment but closed it and moved onto another one.
He opened two more empty drawers.
The third one he opened contained a small, thick contact book.
Italy's eyes widened with glee. He grabbed the book and flipped through. Names littered the alphabetical tabs and numbers were scrawled out as expected. Some names were heavily crossed out and many had a little side note of dead.
He flipped through, him not knowing any of the names of course, and just looked in awe at the different variations of numbers and letters. He flipped another clump of pages, never really only flipping one, and scanned the contents quickly.
"Lydia Schwartz — pharmacist: only call in dire need."
This contact stuck out. It was the only one written in English.
Italy rummaged around, opening drawers quickly in and out, the sound of wood scraping metal prominent with his rash movements. He grabbed the nearest pen and looked for some paper. He saw a pack of sticky notes earlier and he grabbed one from another opened drawer.
He jotted the number down and placed it in his other coat pocket—him not wanting to ruin the picture any more than it already was from the adhesion.
He flipped some more, the English words becoming more common now, and stopped when he got to the end. He closed the book and placed it back in its place in the drawer. He shut tight all the drawers and looked around the room for anything else useful.
He moved to the closet and it not expecting to find anything useful. He opened the creaky doors—those old and wise doors—and found something shocking, something like—
Nothing. As expected.
Italy let out a disappointed whine. He really thought there would some kind of hidden door or secret latch to find, or something. Or maybe better yet, the chest Prussia warned him against.
The house was old, there had to be some kind of safety room or dark, secret hallway somewhere.
But if Italy was up to go through that cold and eerie hallway (if found) was the real question.
Italy gravitated back to the bookshelf and pulled out a random book and started reading.
He wasn't reading it—his eyes just moved back and forth as if he knew what he was being told through those no doubt powerful, black inked words.
He noticed something about the gap he just created after skimming five pages. The slanting book on the bookshelf falling from the lack of support tried to conceal something. He tossed the book onto the bed (the floor from the ungracious sound) and moved closer to inspect.
He moved the leaning book. He then moved some more. And more and more and more until almost the entire shelf had been wiped clean. He saw black.
The walls were white.
This made Italy excited. "What if there is something after all!" Italy thought while rushing to the end of the bookshelf and craning his head back and forth frantically. He didn't see some kind of opening or edge to move the heavy structure.
Italy moved back to face the bookshelf directly. His long-sleeved arm reached through the gap in the bookshelf, peeking Italy's interest as why there was not a back to support the books from falling behind, even with the wall there. He placed his palm flat on the cool wall.
It wasn't a wall, it was something cold and metallic.
Italy almost literally exploded with excitement.
"Holy sweet President Roosevelt — there is something there!" Italy made a quick finger gun, "Vargas. Feliciano Vargas. Best detective of all time. Pow!" Italy laughed in a good mood before nodding to himself to get back on task.
He giggled sliding some more books over. It was so exciting!
He concluded that whatever the bookshelf was concealing was quite large—larger than one row's worth of books at least.
He cleared out another row of books carefully and unveiled another row of black. The bookshelf now only having two rows of books, the decor now a little easier to move.
Italy rolled up his sleeves and eyed the bookshelf up and down. He got to the side of one of the bookshelf and pushed.
His feet slid on the slippery floor, his shoes making squeaks and being totally useless for anything other than aesthetic appeal, and his face turned red from all the force he was giving to the unmoving wood.
He pushed again and had the same results, him almost falling and hitting his nose on the ground because he had tried pushing so hard.
He placed his hand on the side of the shelf and heaved.
"So...heavy...no wonder Germany has those rippling muscles...this is like trying to move two Russias!" Italy thought looking up through his long bangs.
He slid down the side of the bookshelf and felt his bottom hit the hard tile painfully. He whimpered a bit, he was very lean after all, and rested his head back on the wood gently, making sure to not hurt his head.
He caught his breath and sat there for a good five minutes extra than needed then lethargically stood back up again.
He looked at the offending piece of wood determinedly and began to push the bookshelf with all his might. He gripped his feet onto the ground and ducked his head down as felt the bookshelf move slowly, ever so slowly at the awkward angle he was pushing it.
Eventually, a miniature door appeared.
Italy stopped pushing and wiped some sweat off of his brow. He smiled proudly and looked at how small the entrance really was. It could fit a human if you tried hard enough — angled him or her just right — but it was by no means practical.
He tugged at the little dip that was the handle and felt his arms burn as they went through more work to open the slightly heavy door.
Italy's eyes lit up with curiosity, glee, proudness, eagerness, excitement, trepidation—
"This has to be some kind of joke."
Italy bit his lip. He wanted to open it (it took all his willpower to not rip it open) and look deep inside.
Italy opened the chest. He couldn't contain his curiosity.
He crouched down on the ground, eye level of the large box. His fingers felt the cool metal sink into his soft, fleshy fingers as he unlocked the rectangular chest. His lanky arms pushed the heavy, thick lid upwards, this action sending dust into his throat. He coughed but did not let go of the top.
The hinges creaked and Italy sneezed twice. He rubbed his nose and looked at the content inside.
Letters.
Lots, and lots, and lots of letters. Letters that looked old and new. The paper size varying and the inks differing with age. It was daunting—all those pages stacked upon each other, crossing over and making the box heavy with burden.
Italy picked up a letter from the very top in fascination. The papers only reached up to mid chest, but for such a large crate to be filled to such an extent was just ludicrous. Was Germany some kind of hoarder?
Italy looked to his right, feeling that he was being watched again. When he turned his head, it was gone. He shook his head and tried to not to whimper. Germany's house is just...
Italy saw that there were fold marks, the paper being folded into a precise set of three.
1967
"West,
how's it been? It's been awhile since I've last written to you. That asshole Russia has been trying to stop me from sending you letters. Surprisingly, Belarus helped me mail this to you. I never know what that girl is thinking...
You don't have to worry about me. That crazy bastard can beat me up, but he can't break my awesome spirit and will! I'm goddamn Prussia!
...I feel kinda bad for the guy. Even his own family hates him. Good thing you're not like that. You are so cute~
But seriously Luddy, you don't have to worry about me. I will pull through and damn it, I am going to destroy that wall that separates us one day. I still need to have a good talk with Italy for ya.
You know, I think Russia and America have steamy hate sex. They glare at each other, fight, but then the next thing you know, they are laughing at some kind of twisted, dark inside joke only they have. On those days, Russia is extra cruel.
But that's enough about me. How are you holding up? I know those assholes of the Allies did some pretty horrible stuff. The last thing you needed was a famine. Your body is thin enough—I just hope you're eating okay now. If not, I swear to God West...
I asked Russia if he had anything to relieve burn marks and scars for you, but he just smiled and said why would anyone want to get rid of that. That crazy bastard—he thinks those scars and lacerations you got are okay—that they are some kind of art.
You told me they are fading away, but I can't help but worry. It wasn't long ago that you could start walking without a crutch.
So, I guess I don't have anything for that.
What else to tell you? I don't have much exciting news to tell you. It's pretty boring here. All I do is work and that's not awesome.
I don't know what else to say, so I guess I'll just say this. I know you are tired of me saying this, but West. You gotta stay strong. You gotta forget about Italy. You gotta remember that you weren't the one at fault, okay?
So please, stop beating yourself up. I don't blame him and I know you don't either. It was just your luck things had to turn out that way, huh?
From The Awesome Prussia."
Burn marks? Scars? What?
Italy lowered the paper, the page wilting a bit downward. He ignored the part of Germany ignoring him and reread the paragraph about the burn wounds.
Italy really did think Germany was treated far too harshly by the Allied Powers. No matter what America said, that was no act of heroism.
It had been just cruel.
He hadn't been there to see Germany personally, but he knew that Germany was not in its best shape after the war.
Like the things mentioned in the letter, many Germans suffered more from the aftereffects than the war itself. Fertile farmland being sold to Russia and Poland, emigration being closed off, America and Canada purposely not sending food supplies—even when it was obvious that other countries were.
It must have driven Germany mad. The Allied Powers controlling him so much. His precious industry had been stripped away from him and his name soiled by print.
Poor Germany. His need for creating—destroying and rebuilding—had been taken away from him.
Italy let out a sad sigh. It had just been so awful. It was all just a big blur of dark grays and light blacks. The victors writing the history books and the loser wallowing in debt and shame. Both sides tasting a bitterness that a title could not seem to make better.
Italy sat the paper to his right. He looked back inside and chose another random letter.
09. December 1952
"Dear Prussia,
I hope that you are doing well. I miss you. I really wish this wall had never been built, but my opinion doesn't matter right now. Please take care of yourself, you do tend to speak before you think.
I wish I could do something about Russia forcing my people into those camps of his. The war is over, so why is he still dragging this on?
I am just so tired of this. I don't want to be hungry anymore, or choose a side, or go to these World Meetings.
I do not speak in the meetings. The glaring is getting to me. Luckily, Italy hasn't been latching onto me in these meetings. I think he's scared of what I look like now. I wouldn't blame him. Even I can't recognize who I am when I look in the mirror.
I want something good to happen for once. The war is over, yes, but it still feels like I'm being punished. As if I'm still back in 1943.
You tell me not to be so hard on myself, but it's hard not to when I am constantly reminded of it. I feel like I shouldn't forget. I do deserve this after all.
My legs have been hurting as well. I have these sporadic periods of times where my legs start to feel numb then burst into pain. They go away eventually. I have spoken with Ulrich about this, but he tells me that these are just side effects and will go away within the next twenty years—the remediation really depending on the state of the country.
So, really, even he doesn't know.
He thinks that it may be linked to you somehow. I don't how or why, but he theorizes that your people are slowing down my recovery. I do not believe this. I do not believe that is the full explanation because it makes no logical sense.
I will do my best to be positive.
From Germany."
What in the —?
What was going on here? Italy didn't have that dramatic of side effects. He had been struck with a nasty fever for a couple years, his shaky democracy not doing so well from America's insistence, but nothing like a crippled leg!
This made Italy feel even worse. He really wanted to cry now.
If anything, Italy benefited from the war. He received aid. Jobs were being created, infrastructure was being built rapidly, and interregional migration was buzzing around the whole country like a busy bee.
The mass production of cars and televisions were making his people content. (And somewhat superficial.)
Italy had his fair share of problems of course, as any nation does, but it was never to the extent as Germany. He thought the Allies tried helping Germany...he thought America, and England, and France, and China (maybe not Russia) would give sympathy to Germany — they were friends, right? They wouldn't be that mean, right?
Italy's stomach twisted into a sick knot.
A white eyepatch — gauzes underneath to conceal the bloodied, blue eye. A red-stained medical tape over your loose hair—the bangs looking jagged and much too long. A neutral expression you wore—your posture one of a relieved (wanting) defeat. Your jacket—your much too large jacket for the bony figure you cannot hide. Silent words from your stitched lips.
Germany didn't stand with dignity that day. He looked exhausted, detached. His visible eye dead. He couldn't stand up properly, his tired arms numbing from having to rely on the badly cushioned crutches.
Italy can't recall ever meeting Germany's eyes that day. His own eyesight to blurred by tears and crushing guilt. He didn't hear Germany speak, him only nodding and wincing to pick up the pen to sign on the dark, bold line.
What a cruel day that had been. Germany sobbing, crumbling to the ground trying to reach out to his equally teary-eyed brother. Their eyes were frantic and wild. A bond shared that Italy could never hope to understand.
There was screaming, mainly from Prussia as Germany's voice seemed dried and hoarse, and a lot of turning heads.
What a shame it had been, Prussia's hand on Germany's back to ease his movements in the beginning only for Germany to fall with wide eyes and parted lips in the end.
Italy felt tears running down his cheeks and he quickly wiped them off with his sleeve. He put the paper down and clutched his cheeks trying to stop the bitter tears.
He wiped his eyes once more and moved to place the letters back in their place. He didn't want to read anymore.
He placed the papers gently on top of the pile and closed the lid. He heard the familiar locking sound and put his hands on his knees to help himself get up.
His eyes were dried now and he closed the door sharply. He didn't bother with trying to conceal the room again by moving the shelf and instead just put the book back silently, his back straining a bit from the crouching.
He walked out of the room and headed back to the guest room. The one he rarely ever used when in the house.
His soft footsteps echoed through the lit hallway, the minimalist paintings on the wall casting dark shadows from the artificial lighting — a bright, white glowing light that did not illuminate as much as one would expect.
He finally found the room and turned the handle. The door didn't squeak, not at all like his old doors, and opened quite smoothly.
He went over to the stiff bed and sat on the edge. He wasn't tired and didn't feel like going to bed just yet.
He pulled out the photo again and examined the black and white image in front of him.
He tilted his head to the side and wondered how he didn't notice the little girl wearing a thick cross before.
It wasn't ornate or luxurious but it was proudly displayed. Brought to full attention, even if it was small and easy to ignore.
He scanned the photograph again searching for anything that he missed before.
He didn't find anything relatively noteworthy other than she had an oddly symmetrical face, thus making her very pretty. She had high cheekbones and no doubt grew to be a real beauty.
He put the photograph on the table beside the bed and dug out the number written on the sticky note with curly letters.
He clutched the paper. Tomorrow morning. He was going to call this number.
...
"Good morning, Ita. Did you sleep okay?" Prussia asked behind the stove, moving some sausage on the hot pan.
Italy yawned lazily and put his head down on his folded arms. "I slept okay. I wish I could sleep in more."
Prussia laughed. "Don't I know that feeling! I have to go to this unawesome meeting soon and have to leave in a few."
Italy opened one eye and looked at the stove clock.
Seven ten. Surely a meeting wouldn't be held so early in the morning. But then again, this was a German meeting.
"Here ya go."
Italy's face felt a sudden warmness radiate and his nose becomes invaded with a strong smell of meat. He opened his eyes and saw a shiny, white plate sit in front of him.
He sat up and eyed the wurst and bread rolls warily. His stomach squelched in disagreement.
He pushed the plate away whining. His curl dropped a bit and his stomach growled.
"German breakfast makes my stomach feel all funny. I don't want this crappy food."
"Hey! Wurst is good for the soul." Prussia then stabbed one, some grease leaking out (making Italy almost throw up in his mouth) and waved it dangerously close to Italy's face.
"Nooo, I don't want to die from food poisoning!" Italy wailed.
Prussia rolled his eyes and shoved the wurst in his mouth. He chewed it quietly watching Italy calm down and at least reach out for the coffee in front of him.
He sipped it and let out a happy hum, little floating flowers starting to surround him.
He put the coffee mug down and looked pensive for a minute. Prussia didn't say much already knowing that Italy was going to ask him something.
Italy dug around in his pants and pulled out the photograph from the night before.
"Hey, do you know who this is?" Italy asked sliding the photo closer to Prussia.
Prussia took the photo in his left hand, the other drinking the coffee. His eyes softened.
"I don't."
Italy looked down at his mug in disappointment.
"Well, not fully at least. I'm not one hundred percent sure what she means to West but I have a pretty good idea."
"Really! Who is she? Who is Irene? Why was she hidden underneath a bible? Why has Germany never talked about her? Is she still alive? Did you know her? Do you know when this was taken?"
Prussia sat his mug down, the mug making a loud clink noise. He held the photograph with both hands now and looked at the picture while speaking to Italy.
"I'm not too sure who Irene is, but my hunch is that it's the girl shown here. I don't know how you were able to find this so easily, I've only seen this twice. But then again, I know better than to go snooping in West's room. I've found some kinky shit in there that I don't want to see again..."
Italy nodded in understanding. He knew all too well of the man's...more freaky side.
"I don't think West wants to talk about this. Ever. He can barely tell me," Prussia shook his head setting the photo down. He took another bite of his breakfast, the butter on the hot bread dripping a bit.
"As for when this was taken, I would say...around 1945? Somewhere in that range."
Just as Italy had thought.
"Why does Germany not want to talk about it?" Italy asked swirling his coffee with the spoon he had been given.
"Beats me. I didn't see what was so special about this girl. He had met and seen many others just like her die or suddenly disappear. It didn't make one damn sense," Prussia paused, "I shouldn't have called him a crybaby. I shouldn't have teased him for crying so much when he found the picture."
"Found? How did he get this?"
"The picture is from the mid 40's, but it wasn't until 1962 that he actually knew of it. It had been mailed to him with a note saying, 'Rosemarie would have wanted you to see her.' Those cowards. If there had been a return address, they wouldn't have been spared from my awesome paintball gun for making West cry like that!"
"Wait, wait. Germany cried when he saw this?" Italy said stopping his rhythmic motions of swirling the coffee.
"I honestly can't say since I wasn't there, but knowing West, yes. Most definitely. I know my little bro. He saw a random letter in his mailbox, grew suspicious, came back inside and opened it anyway, looked at the picture in shock and probably shook his head and covered his mouth."
"Sounds really sad. This is like some T.V. soap opera..."
"Yeah, well, I never said West was a happy person to begin with. You being the only one who could really bring a smile out of him. I can, since I'm awesome, but I think it's more special when it comes to you." Prussia said getting up from the small table. He put his plate in the sink and looked back to Italy.
"Are you going to eat that?"
"Huh? Oh, no."
"Suit yourself. More for me!"
Prussia sat back down and quickly snatched the plate from Italy.
"Why did you say it was more special from me? Japan can make Germany smile! And —"
Wow. Germany didn't have a lot of friends, did he.
Prussia laughed loudly startling Italy. "Are you kidding me? Italy you can't be this dense, can you? Please tell me you're joking!" Prussia said wiping a tear out of his eye.
"..."
Prussia slouched a bit. "Oh my God, you're not joking."
"What? What!"
Prussia pointed at Italy with his fork. "How can you not know? It's so damn obvious."
"I'm obvious? Obvious about what?" Italy asked hurriedly, leaning forward from his chair.
"Yep."
"What, what, what!" Italy leaned closer.
"That West loves you Italy," Prussia said taking another sip of the lukewarm coffee.
Italy sat back down in his seat and let out a relieved sound. "Oh, that. I thought it was something important. Don't worry, I love Germany too!"
"What do you mean that wasn't something important?" Prussia asked coldly, all smiles vanishing.
Italy shook a bit. Italy gave out a panicked smile and placed his rapidly waving hands in front of him in hopes that he could wave off the tense air.
"W-Well, I just thought th-that was a normal thing, you know? It's not a big-big deal. I love Germany too—as a friend! A very good friend, so really. No need to look so scary! No need to hurt me!"
"As a friend you say?" Prussia said the chilly voice thawing.
"Yes! Yes! Only as a friend," Italy said quickly.
"What a shame," Prussia said stabbing his fork back down.
"What?"
Prussia sighed. "Forget about it."
"If you say so," Italy replied back confused.
There was no talking for a couple minutes. The only sound echoing through the kitchen being the soft chirps of bird and sipping from the oblivious Italy.
"So about the picture..." Italy said after sipping his drink.
"What about it?"
"Do you know anything more?"
Prussia paused.
"I know that West hates talking about. He will get all stiff and completely ignore you when you try to interrogate him. He gets really snappy and irritated if you bug him a lot about it, I would know. I've tried a lot of times. Not awesome."
"That just sounds like Germany being Germany."
Prussia shook his head and pushed away his plate, the plate being clean from food.
"Naw, believe me, this was a different kind of snappy and irritated. Something really personal, as if he's trying to protect something really valuable to him. All I've gotten out of him is that whoever this girl—whatever this girl means to West—was a mistake."
Italy gasped.
"Did Germany really say that?" Italy asked shocked, eyes wide.
"Yep. He sure did," Prussia glanced back down at the picture, "I was just as surprised as you are. I mean, I thought, shit. This can't be West we're talking about here. Right?"
Prussia looked at Italy's vulnerable face. "But I swear to you Italy, on my awesome code of honor, that he said that. He said that this girl was a mistake and I'm still trying to piece the pieces together too."
Italy soaked this in.
"I guess I shouldn't be too shocked. He has threatened to gas me before. And he does choke me. But those were just playful. He didn't mean them! So, maybe he didn't mean that? From Prussia's serious face, I'm guessing that he did mean them. That's just so un-Germany like. Why would he say such a cruel thing!"
"Hey, Prussia you've read the entire journal, right?" Italy asked slowly, his mind elsewhere.
"Yeah?" Prussia replied back trying to see where Italy was going with this.
"Then...what do you mean you're still trying to fill the pieces back together? Doesn't Germany tell you in the little book thingy? That would seem important to me to write down."
Prussia looked away from Italy's stare. "I think that's something you'll have to read for yourself Italy. I can't answer that."
Italy threw his hands up in the air frustrated. This action startled Prussia, making him direct his gaze back to Italy.
"What! You have to be kidding me! Can you pleeease just tell me? The suspense is killing me and you knowhowIgetwithsuspense!" Italy pleaded.
Prussia shook his head. "No can do Italy. How I read the book is very different than how you read the book. Plus with those letters you read last night, I bet you have a different opinion than me."
Prussia got up and flicked his watch. He cursed and grabbed his suit jacket hanging from the back of his chair in a hurry. He put his plate and mug in the sink and moved quickly out of the kitchen.
"Shit, I gotta go Italy. Do whatever you want, just don't burn the house down or create a mess."
Italy scrambled out of his chair, the chair making a deep scratchy sound as it was pushed, and quickly trotted after Prussia trying to catch up to Prussia's long strides and distracted fiddling with the cuffs.
He paced behind Prussia, getting in front of him to ask him a desperate question.
"But — But Prussia! I still have more questions! You never told me who you thought she was—you said you had a pretty good idea of who she was!"
Prussia sidestepped Italy and grabbed the umbrella leaning on the corner of the wall by the door. He smiled.
"I think you can figure it out." He opened the door—the bright sun making him look unnaturally pale instead of golden. "You're a smart kid." He winked and shut the door behind him, the quick action rattling the glass on the thick, wooden door violently. Italy saw Prussia walking to his car and getting in through the tall side glass by the door.
Italy deflated and dragged his feet back to the kitchen. He put his mug in the sink as well and moved to get some pots and ready for some pasta. The cheap kind will have to do for now, but his mind wasn't on the habitual turning of the knob on the stove.
Italy now knew these things: Irene was the girl in the photo, Irene was a Christian, the photograph was sent to Germany by an anonymous person in 1962—Prussia not being present when Germany first go this, the picture had been somewhere of easy access—meaning that Germany must have looked at this particular photo a lot, it was taken in 1945 and that Germany considered her a mistake.
A mistake.
Mistake /məˈstāk/
N. 1. An error or fault resulting from defective judgment, deficient knowledge, or carelessness. 2. A misconception or misunderstanding
A mistake.
That was what the dictionary said, but looking at the yellow, old paper didn't make Germany's meaning any clearer.
A mistake as in meeting her? Or as in a mistake as in caring for her? Did she harm Germany? Did she kill somebody important? Or did she die and Ludwig felt grievance for never getting to know her better? A spy maybe?
It was all so confusing and Italy was beginning to feel like maybe coming to Germany's house had been a bad idea. He was getting more questions than answers.
"And I thought the journal was bad. This is so much worse!" Italy thought walking back to Germany's room.
He quickly opened the room and noticed how different it looks in the daytime. It looks like some average bedroom. A bedroom that didn't hold tears or fears or compiled sadness. It looked quaint with the sun beaming through, Italy being able to see the dust floating around the curtains.
He gravitated to sit on Germany's bed.
It dipped a bit as he sat on the edge and Italy looked at the bookshelf again. Should he read some more letters?
Italy kept looking at the spines in internal conflict until he realized that he hadn't read an entry today.
Italy leaped up from his place, the blanket now having a slight crevice with wrinkles fanning. An imperfection to the picturesque room.
He raced to his room and brought the journal back to Germany's room.
Italy sat giddily down at the at the edge of the bed again, the bed creaking a bit from Italy's excited jumping.
"It's like I'm actually Germany. I'm reading his journal as if I were actually him—as if I were Ludwig from all those years ago. Cool~!"
Italy made himself comfortable and opened to the most current entry.
" 1915,"
Italy felt his stomach drop. World War One already?
"I knew it. I just knew it. One shot and the whole continent is in an uproar. Why do Austria and Hungary and Serbia have to be so difficult?
I cannot believe it. There's that traitor Italy for one thing. I met him back in 1882 when our Alliance was formed. He had seemed a lot angrier and moodier than I expected—glaring at me and insulting me despite being on the same side.
That had been nothing of what I had assumed he would be like, but then again, Italy had a look on his face that seemed as if he couldn't look at me straight in the eye either. From fear, shyness—I do not know nor care."
Italy had to pause and wrack his memory of meeting Germany back in 1882. He didn't meet Germany in 1882. He would have definitely remembered something like that. He would have remembered his slicked-back hair and too serious blue eyes.
From what Italy can pick up, it was Romano who went in his place instead. Why Austria and Hungary didn't call him out on it, he doesn't know either. Maybe Austria had a heart underneath that shrill voice and ironed clothing?
Italy hadn't been prepared to see what the country above him looked liked, acted like, talked liked. France, with his frizzled hair and bandaged cheek, had told him the terrible news, ending the rumors and becoming a bitter fact. He didn't want to go so he had pleaded Romano to go in his place.
Romano agreed. "Those bastards better not make me regret this—be glad I like you this damn much Feliciano."
"At first, I was very happy about this war. My spirits were high and my training was finally being put to good use. I felt good. I am thankful for what Brother taught me, but it seemed as if it wasn't enough.
My government is a mess. I do not like to admit this, but I shouldn't have joined this war. It stings, the comments the other nations say—the words of truth they speak with their vile, sharp tongues.
I am not prepared for this war. Joining was such a mistake. I should have opted out when I could have.
But I simply couldn't refuse an alliance. I simply cannot ignore the bond I signed over to Italy and Austria-Hungary. It was our pact.
Had been.
Italy declared war on me on the twenty-sixth of April, choosing to betray us to join the Triple Entente — France, England, and Russia."
Italy's lips quivered. He put the book down and walked towards the dresser, knowing there would be plenty of black pens there. He opened one and grabbed the first ink pen he could find.
He walked back to the book on the bed and wrote a little note, having to be careful as the bed wasn't an ideal flat surface.
"I'm sorry Germany! Please don't be mad, England lied to me! That jerk promised me things I wanted, but everything turned out okay in the end, right? Please, don't be mad ):" — Feliciano
Italy backed away and smiled at the little heart he put by his name. He was able to fit his message neatly and small enough to not disturb the original text, but still be legible. It was hard work! He smiled and put the cap on the pen back, placing the thin pen almost out of ink on the table in front of him absentmindedly.
"I cannot say I am surprised. Italy didn't seem to fond me and seemed as if the type to retreat and betray others in the pursuit of an easier route. The lesser men who do not like work or failure. Making them failures.
And weaklings."
Ouch.
"Though, looking at it now, I cannot blame him all that much. I am constantly hungry, my food supplies being cut off by those bastards France and Britain.
Then there is my genius bureaucracy. In my desperate attempt for food, for anything to fill my aching stomach—a shared hunger I know—they decided to slaughter five million of my pigs.
I saw their blood spray everywhere. Their heads being chopped off, gutted, the rotten odor of death in the air and the all too familiar atmosphere of despair and raw human savagery to scavenge a way to survive. It sent me back to the time when I had just written my first entry.
Back when I didn't know that the men were killing each other for past grudges. I've grown soft, the scent used to not bother me—it bothering me more when it wasn't in the air.
It sent back painful memories, but the experience I have now is nothing compared to that.
While the massacre was brutal, I cannot say I have not seen worse.
I am starving. My stomach just growled right now and my fingers are getting bonier and thinner. I need new boots and I can't seem to get rid of the taste of mud in my mouth or the ringing in my ears.
Schweinemord. The pig massacre. That was what they had called it and it had been useless in the end. No supplies had been preserved and it did nothing to increase my grain.
I told my officials that manure was needed for fertilizer, but their bellies were not full and that was all that mattered to them. Now my people have to suffer even more.
Being a nation is not what I expected. I thought perhaps the officials would at least consider my ideas, I was older than everyone in the damn room, yet they still treat my advice as child's play just because I do not have facial hair or crow's feet to show 'wisdom.'
It is sickening. I know more than they do, I am the voice of the people, yet they deny me from that voice being heard. Only congratulating me when it is beneficial."
"Oh, Germany. Being a nation is no fun, is it? It's sad and scary, and mostly annoying. I really wished you had stayed small and cute," Italy said hovering his fingers over the page.
Italy felt sad for Germany and for the poor pigs. Hunger was a scary thing. It makes you think thoughts that aren't your own and while a nation can continue on without food or water unlike a normal human, they still felt hunger. They were not immune to the feeling of acidity in their empty stomachs or stretched skin over their ribs.
Italy did a quick thank you prayer to God for pasta and the blessing of having good food on the table every day and quickly resumed.
"I truly wish I hadn't joined this war.
I'm a mess. My government is a mess, people tell me straight to my face that I won't last more than a couple months, and my people are losing hope. Those people are right, it is a miracle I am still here.
I can't give up now, though. I cannot lose hope, as crushed as it is right now, that we can still win and finally end this. I cannot allow myself to slack off. Not for my people, my superiors, for Brother, or for myself.
I have had many losses. Brutal losses. (Not as bad as Italy. Serves that bastard right.)
I have had my victories as well. If you want to call them that, but victories.
I do not think they were worth it. Those victories. They did not make me feel any happier.
Brother lied to me on this. He said there was nothing better than a man going out to battle and winning for his home. He preached to me about nothing being able to replicate the feeling of blood pumping through your veins and seeing the person collapse under your flag.
I did not think it was rewarding. I felt my blood pump, my hands itch to pick up a gun and to throw a bomb, but I did not grin when the Frenchman had crumbled to my feet like Brother does next to me on my left. I did not feel glory.
I felt a sickening, bittersweet gratification. You kill the enemy. Those are the rules of war.
I've become less attached, human lives seeming to matter to me less and less now. Yet, I grow to learn more compassion and empathy. Is that possible? Or am I just going delirious from inhaling so much gas and smoke?
It's strange how once you are the one suffering you suddenly see everyone for what they are: greedy, compelling, gluttonous and flawed."
Italy whistled seeing that was the end of that. Wow, who knew Germany could get so deep?
Italy stuck his thumb to hold his place inside the book and closed it to keep his place.
Italy wished he hadn't betrayed Germany either. He wished England had gone through with his treaty and given him the things he had been promised. He should have known the deal was too good—he should have known that it was too suspicious to finally be getting something he wanted.
It had been simple really, all he had wanted was the region by the Adriatic Sea—Tyrol, Dalmatia, and Istria. Those three pieces of land and he would have been set, content as can be.
But no. He had to betray the Alliance and make a fool out of himself.
Italy flushed, ducking his head in shame at what Germany commented about Italy's weak military losses.
England and France should have known better than to set him up with an important military task. It had been daunting. Scary!
Italy looked at the clock and saw that it was nine thirty. He put the book on the table and went to go check on his pasta noodles. They were doing just fine, but Italy couldn't help but think back to the words. The smells of the kitchen felt familiar yet cold.
He forgot about the journal and tried to pour all of his energy into making the pasta delicious. He tried making the pasta as delectable and flavorful as he could with the limited ingredients in the dark cabinets.
He used his old pot and hummed softly, feeling oddly guilty (and deep down happy) wearing Germany's pink apron while pouring the thick and chunky tomato sauce over the steaming noodles. He sat back down and let his mind solely focused on savoring the food.
It was a luxury after all.
...
Dear,
blank blank. Blank blank
— the official way to write a formal letter in German. The first letter after the greeting is not capitalized.
Blank blank blank.
From _
— unlike in English, the closing does not need to be two lines or have a comma.
...
Major thanks to ravengal and maryanstadler1 for being so supportive! This chapter goes out to you guys!