Chapter Six — Abacus
...
Once Italy was done with the pasta he washed the dishes (grudgingly) and cleaned up his mess lethargically. Deeming the kitchen presentable, he left and floated amongst the rooms, his mind never on one thing, but focused on another thing intently.
The house was full of things (useless, mundane things) that seemed fascinating to Italy. The little machines filled with German gibberish, the forgotten paintings they shared...
He even stumbled upon Germany's gym!
Italy immediately left.
He found a developing room for pictures. It was a small room, but it certainly brought back memories of having to wait for the pictures to develop under that red water. He fiddled with some fans then left getting bored.
He found other uninteresting rooms. Rooms that were filled with dusty beds or were locked when he jiggled the handle.
Italy wondered around the house and paused after closing a door that led to an old ballroom.
Silence.
Italy listened some more and heard nothing.
"Berlitz? Blackie? Aster? Where are you guys!"
He started running around the house and busting doors open. He jerked his head to the left then right, then left, then right in a repeated motion. Germany's dogs were missing. How could he have not noticed sooner!
Italy closed a door he had opened in a frenzy and wandered back to the living room in confusion. Where could they have gone? Did Prussia take them to some kind of dog daycare?
"Now that I think about it, Germany's cat isn't here either. The little guy is usually sleeping by the window. Where did they all go?" Italy thought with brows slightly furrowed.
He chewed his lip and walked towards the back door leading to the large field of grass called the backyard.
He slid the door open and shivered a bit as the morning was still chilly despite the sun being out and shining.
He looked around and tried to do the same thing Germany did with his lips and fingers. He forgot how Germany had told him to do it, his memory being very fuzzy in the proper shape and where to place your tongue on the finger—him only succeeding in making spit fly everywhere. He sounded like a turbulent kazoo. He pinched his lip and he let out a tear of pain.
Italy frowned slightly. He slid the door back open and stepped inside.
He's sure the dogs were fine. They knew what to do. Those dogs were better prepared than Italy so he let that trouble come for another time. Italy was going to ask Prussia when he came back.
Italy wondered what he should do. He floated back to the couch tired from running around. He sunk into the cushions and let out a pleased sigh. He sat there and went over the things he wanted to do that day.
His boss has probably sent him ten e-mails already demanding why he hasn't been picking up or responding to the chain messages.
His cat knew where the food was (that gluttonous cute hellspawn) so there was no real worry there.
Italy laughed. His tabby was probably already out in the town chatting with some cute female kitties.
Maybe Germany cat went with Italy cat? They did always leave and come back at prolonged hours in the day, his kitty always happier after a day out with the German feline.
He could still call America. Ask him for help. It was very tempting now.
Italy sighed and leaned his head backward to look at the ceiling. He turned on the fan and the rhythmic shaking was making his eyes lose focus to the monotone white.
"Read another log? It seems a bit early for that. Eat again? I ate all my noodles, and I'm too lazy to go to the store. Call Romano? See what he's up too? ...He's probably with Spain or that one guy. What's his name, it's on the tip of my tongue, oh what is it—Kennedy! No, Canada." Italy mused.
"Try to find Germany's dogs?"
"..."
"I feel like I'm forgetting something. Something really important..."
Italy felt his eyes starting to close. The house was silent, the fridge humming nearby, the dangling beaded strings of the fan were hitting each other melodically...
Click, click, click, click, click, click —
What was he supposed to be focusing on?
Click, click click, click, click, brrr, brrr, brrr, brrr, brrr—
Why is Germany's house so quiet? It's relaxing but it needs noise...
Italy's eyes snapped open.
"The number! I need to call the number in the phonebook!" Italy thought as he positioned his head back to normal, him no longer seeing the ceiling but the T.V. to jam his hand in his pocket.
"Where is it? I just had it yesterday!" Italy scavenged his pocket pants and felt every inch of the fabric in an attempt to find some small piece of paper appear—knowing it was impossible by the time his hand searched for the third time.
He jumped out of his seat and jogged to the kitchen. He searched the whole kitchen, even going as far to check places he never opened. No luck.
He debated retracing his steps but decided that would take too much effort. Could it have slipped out? In some precarious room when he was distracted?
Italy decided to go check his room on the way to Germany's room. He opened the door and cheered when he saw the innocent yellow paper on the desk. Worry flushed out of his system and he moved to grab the sticky note happily.
He grabbed it and nodded to himself. He was not going through that scare again. He needed to call this person and see what was up.
Italy moved to the kitchen and spotted the thick, black wall phone by the light switch. He grabbed the phone—the cold phone giving out its pulsating bzz bzz bzz bzz immediately through its small plastic holes.
He put the phone to rest between his ear and right shoulder to bring the note in sight. He moved the phone back to his hand and jabbed the numbers. He had to repeat the process as the beeping noises confused him the first time and made him lose track.
The German voice spoke to him before a ringing was heard to signify the call was going through.
Italy curled the coiled spring nervously around his finger as he waited for a voice nonmechanical to answer him back.
"Hermes Apotheke, Schwartz. How may I help you?"
Italy's stomach felt butterflies and he didn't know why. Was he actually nervous?
"Hello? Ah, um, is this Lydia Schwartz I am speaking with, with?" Italy said struggling to communicate the German fluently.
"No, this is not Lydia. I speak English by the way," the obviously male voice responded back.
"Oh, thank goodness! Do you knew where I can reach Lydia then?" Italy said bubbly.
"Are you Italian?" the voice asked amused. There were more voices in the background and the general sound of activity.
"Yes! I am, I'm Feliciano Vargas! Who are you?" Italy said, stopping his nervous twisting and shifting.
"Gernot Schwartz."
"Oh, are you her husband?"
"Son."
"Oh, well nice to meet you! Is she there? I need to ask her some things, if that isn't too much trouble."
"...I'm sorry but she is no longer available..."
"When will she back?"
"No, sir, you misunderstand. She's not coming back," Gernot said with a strained voice.
"Is she on break? Is there any way I can contact her? I have these really important questions to ask her so if I could just talk to her —"
"She's dead. She's been dead since nineteen seventy-five," he responded back somewhat hollow.
"...Oh," Italy said dumbfounded and blank.
"...I'm sorry about that, but I'm sure your questions can be answered by one of our staff or by me," he said coughing to keep the pain out of his voice.
Italy felt sympathy. "It must have been horrible...losing your mother like that...I'm so sorry," Italy whispered through the line.
The other one was audibly shocked at the tenderness. "Yes, well, it was long ago, so it's nothing to concern yourself over," the voice responded back uncomfortable. "Is there something I can help you with in place of my mother? I know you requested her but she is not here so..."
"I don't think so. Unless somehow—Have you by any chance ever heard you mother mention Ludwig? Ludwig Beilschmidt?"
"How are you connect with that man?" A seeping coldness in his voice. This made Italy on edge.
"He's my best friend, but he's missing right now, and I saw this number and decided to call it."
"Where did you find it?"
"I-In a contact book?"
"What contact book? Where? Is this published?" Gernot barked over the phone.
"No, no! Ludwig's —"
"Do not speak of that name."
"Why not?" Italy asked fearfully, growing even more confused and anxious.
"Just don't. In whose what?"
"In his contact book. It's not published anywhere, I swear!"
A sigh. "Thank goodness. I'm sorry about that, family protocol," he said with an apologetic voice.
Italy breathed out a nervous laugh. "It's okay, you just sounded really scary there..."
"Again, I apologize for that but now that I know what you're looking for, let me ask you one question."
"Okay."
"What is your relationship to him?"
Italy paused. "I am his best friend."
The voice choked for a second. "Best friend?"
"Yep! I've known Luddy for years!"
"I see...and you say that he is missing?"
Italy's voice became less happy. "Yes, he's been missing for a while now, and I'm trying to find him. It's been hard, it's like he just disappeared off of the earth!"
"Interesting. Well, I can give you this much advice for helping you try to find this Luddy of yours. He is not the man you think he is—all the things you probably know about him are lies. Take what you know and destroy it."
"Wait, what? Ludwig is a very good guy, why would you say that? He can be mean and really scary at first, but he's got a good heart! I know him and he wouldn't lie to me!" Italy responded back fiercely.
"That's fine, believe what you want, I am simply telling you what you need to do in order to find him. If that's how you want to think, then you will never find him."
"But, but how do you know that? You don't even know Ludwig."
"I know enough."
"You know of Ludwig? Why didn't you say so earlier?"
"Because I do not care to share information about him. Just remember what I said to you. I wish luck in your search. Good day."
"Wait, don't hang up on me!" Italy cried.
Italy hung his head down in defeat and placed the phone back in its place dejectedly.
He waited a couple minutes and redialed.
"Hermes Apotheke, Schwartz. How may I help you?"
"You just hung up on me! That was so rude of you," Italy said sniffing.
"Why are you calling back?" Gernot said annoyed.
"Okay, okay, I know you hate Ludwig for some reason, but can you at least tell me someone who doesn't so I can call them instead?"
The other stayed in a pensive silence for a short second. "Will giving you this number stop making you call me?"
"Yes, yes! I will be out of your hair before you know it! Just please, I need to get as information as I can. I really miss him," Italy said with his voice breaking.
Gernot sighed. "Hold on a minute, I'll be back."
"Bene! Thank you!" The line was already silent by the time he said that. He tapped his fingers on the wall waiting in anxiousness not knowing if the man was coming back or not.
"Sorry about that, I'm back now."
"You came back! I thought you hung up for a second."
"I said I would be back in a moment?" Gernot asked confused at the emotional relief from Feliciano.
"A lot of people hang up and keep me waiting...anyway! You have a person?"
"Yes. I tried to find their number, but somehow the number was illegible, and I couldn't make out the numbers. I can give you a name if that helps any."
"He's lying," Italy thought.
"Anything helps," he said gratefully.
"Look for someone named Holger Amster."
"Wait one second, I need to find a pen, don't hang up, I'll be right back so don't hang up!" Italy left the phone dangling by the wall and rushed to find a pen. He came back and quickly put the phone by his ear again.
"I'm back. Can you repeat that?"
"Holger Amster. H-o-l-g-e-r. Holger. Amster...A-m-s-t-e-r. Holger Amster."
"E-r. Thank you so much, Gernot!"
"You're welcome. Have a good day and good luck. Don't call again."
Italy hung up the phone and looked at the name in wonder. Holger Amster.
Now who could that be?
...
Five hours have passed since he has called. Italy tried his best to entertain himself. He watched some T.V. but his mind couldn't translate the German fast enough to enjoy anything and the subtitles were just as equally useless.
He caught up on some sleep as well. He woke up groggy eyed and not that much better than before. Strange it was since he always felt lighter after a nap.
He considered reading another entry but he was trying to put that off for the end of the day.
Italy didn't know where to start. Holger Amster? There could be thousands of Holger Amsters! In Germany alone! And who even said he was in Germany? What if he was in Netherlands or some other obscure and shady nation?
In the two hours spent searching through the dusty drawers full of lighters and chapsticks, Italy couldn't find a phone book. The phone books weren't updated, (to a reasonable year, at least. Why do they only have up to 1964?) and the internet was a big waste of time with its insistence to be a laggard with intolerable shrieking.
Italy was really looking forward to meeting this mystery man but it seemed like all he can do is wait until Prussia returns.
So wait he did.
...
So maybe Italy couldn't just sit still and do nothing, (the heaviness in his chest that he hasn't felt in such a long time from "peace" coming and thickening as the clock ticks onward) and maybe Italy got a little bored.
Italy had to wonder as he lied on Germany's bed (the scent of Germany all gone and replaced with the cool sheets of lavender laundry detergent and dust) of just how much Germany is willing to allow himself to be vulnerable. He was bound to realize that someday, somehow, someone would read his private thoughts. An over curious human, maybe, but surely Germany will come to the conclusion that his thoughts are never his.
Italy flipped the rusting, old pages and read.
26. March 1917
"I thought I understood war and now I'm not so sure anymore. The more I fight the more I forget, and the more I forget, the more I try to remember only to start all over again.
I do not believe we are going to win this war. I have asked Brother how to get rid of the ringing sound in my ear but he doesn't know either. I don't think he could hear me all that well, both his ears were bandaged and bloodied.
I hate allergies as well. I can't stop sneezing and that gave me away to the enemy. My right shoulder survived from the bullet wound but it was still painful.
Times are unfavorable, and I can't help but sometimes feel it's all my fault. There is just so much death and the smog is starting to taint my lungs. My people can't stop being anxious and pessimistic and that, in turn, is making me jittery. I don't fault them.
As horrible as life is right now, I cannot say that my current days have been completely intolerable.
I met this strange man named Italy today. Called himself the Tomato Box Fairy but herr schtick and I were not fooled by those lies."
Italy squealed.
"He is nothing like how he was back in 886. He did not insult me, glare at me, or do anything remotely hostile. He's petrified of me. He doesn't seem to remember me at all.
He is lazy, a complete idiot, has no sense of privacy or space, a hopeless flirt around women, and is completely useless in every way possible. I cannot believe such a weak country can be related to the Roman Empire."
Italy's smiled immediately vanished.
"He made me this ridiculous song for me. It didn't even rhyme.
He complains all day about the food being horrible, sleeps more than any animal I've ever seen, and can somehow see without opening his eyeballs. (I should ask him about that, it seems helpful for when in the trenches.) He always has something to say and doesn't know what it means to shut up.
Italy is the most annoying prisoner I've ever had. I should kill him."
Italy gasped.
"But I won't. He's strange but...not in a bad way."
He let out a sigh of relief.
"Italy is the first person to say he/she wants to stay with me. Italy insists that we do things together and he always wants to have useless chit chat about everything. I've told him to shut up many times but then he cries and I get this strange feeling of guilt.
He keeps telling me confusing things. He looks too happy and is too trusting. He actually likes staying in captivity.
I've never had this happen before, so I will admit that I am greatly confused right now. Why would he want to stay with me? It makes no logical sense."
"Oh, Germany. Why can't you understand that I just wanted to be your friend?" Italy asked softly to the small text on the crisp page.
"He shouldn't want to stay with me. He should be trying to find a way to escape and glaring (being like he was all those years ago). He should NOT be so easily accepting of my daily visits. Why does he smile when I come down there? He seems to actually want me to be there. (I may be losing it, but the war hasn't made me that crazy.) There is nothing to be happy about.
Yet, I find myself not minding. I don't—I just. Why? I've never felt this way for any other person (human) so maybe it is because he is a country? A country that doesn't hate me for once? A country that smiles in that dingy cellar and sleeps with a look of a child...
I've tried letting him go many times. He became too annoying and clingy. It wasn't worth the effort, I could barely sleep with his moans of "agony" (he was just hungry—as if I wasn't) and the constant need to go to the bathroom. I don't have him tied up in the cellar anymore; the door isn't even locked. He can leave anytime he wants, but, but he just won't! It's driving me mad! Why doesn't he leave already? Like everyone else?
I asked him why he doesn't escape and he said that staying with me was much better and fun than out fighting. He doesn't like to fight, he told me. He waves that white flag around like a lifeline (and maybe it is) so should I be surprised.
I am conflicted, journal. I like his company, but is it right to? I want to believe that he's not out to maim me like the others, but what lies behind that sweet smile I do not know. Surely, he cannot be joyful at a time like this. Yes, he is a liar. I just know it. He cannot enjoy being around me of all people. It must be a ploy, a hoax from England and France. They must be laughing right now.
That is it. I have decided that I will not succumb to Italy's charm."
Italy had little question marks floating over his head. Was there a plan? England and France had chewed him out like crazy when he returned to them. They had won, but Italy's betrayal reflected what he received as a spoil of war. It seemed France wasn't such a nice big brother after all.
"I think about what an ideal world would be like without war or hate when the grenades have stopped exploding, and the nurses attend to the sobbing soldiers quietly. I would want to be in a summer meadow. Blackie would be there, and I could just be Ludwig for a day. Not Germany, West, Mister, or Commander. The sky would be always painted with vibrant hues of oranges and soft pinks, a large tree with sour apples towering into the sky as well; and the tree would be sturdy from the cool breeze. There would be a small river by the never ending green. Beer would be plentiful and Brother would be cackling annoyingly from the background with Hungary. She would sweep with that old and odd broom of hers, and the sky wouldn't look so close...
I'm becoming delusional. I am sorry Brother. I truly am. I got too ahead of myself. I thought I could handle it and,"
The writing is shaky and odd from the orderly letters, but there are no splotches of wetness on the page. The bristle paper was dry and crisp with its archaic smell of cigars and dirt.
"I couldn't. Why did I think you were going to laugh and pat my head despite me being taller than you now? This war is making me turn into a fool...A fool indeed."
Italy flipped the page and saw a new date. Italy let out a sigh and placed a thumb over the bottom corner of the page, fiddling with the hardness of the other sealed pages. His eyes felt moisture—the mirror in front of his huddled body reflecting the damp and dark eyelashes that blinked away the accumulating water furiously—but not once did a tear roll down his tight cheeks.
Italy closed the book and set it on the desk while turning off the dull light by the creaking table.
...
"Germany won't mind if I look through his chest again, right? Prussia's not here and I think Germany would be okay with it..." Italy mumbled entering Germany's room again after making himself dinner. Prussia still wasn't home.
Italy's bare feet immediately went to the unmoved bookshelf, the door behind still present. Italy tugged at the cold and rigid handle, the metallic stabbing at his palm from the pressure. The door opened and the chest was still there. Italy squatted down and opened the lid.
"I wonder what I'll find," Italy thought gripping the edges. He grabbed a random piece of paper and opened it.
05. July 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—"
Italy shook his head and smiled a little. "I must have grabbed the same one," Italy thought while grabbing another paper, putting the one he just grabbed beside him on the floor.
05. July 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 —"
Italy furrowed his brow. He looked at the paper and back at the black inked words beside his thigh.
He grabbed the page beside him and held them together side by side.
They were exactly the same.
What in the.
Italy grabbed another page, one from the dark crevices of the bottom.
It was blank.
It was just a sheet of blank paper. Folded, curled, and old looking but most definitely empty.
Italy threw the paper behind him and heard the paper crinkle in the air sharply behind him. He dug into the chest and grabbed another paper.
As he opened the page, the sight of black ink wasn't very reassuring but it was something.
09. December 1952
"Dear Brother,
I hope that you are doing well. I miss you, Brother. I really wish this wall had never been built, but my opinion doesn't matter right now. Please take care of—"
Italy felt saliva go up against his throat.
"This sure is weird," he said as he placed that piece of white paper beside him gently.
05. July 1967
"West,
how's it been? It's been awhile since I've last written to you—"
Italy flung the letter behind him. His hand shot in and grabbed a sheet of paper, not caring that the page crumbled and folded jaggedly underneath his hand.
09. December 1952
"Dear Brother,
I hope that you are doing well. I miss you, Brother."
"This is just a really weird coincidence!"
1967
"West,
how's it been? It's been awhile —"
1967
"West,
how's it been?"
1952
"Dear Brother,
I hope that you are doing well."
"They can't all be the same...!"
"I really wish this wall had never been built —"
"— but West. You gotta stay strong. You gotta forget about Italy. You gotta remember that you weren't the one at fault —"
"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 —"
A blank page again. Multiple blank pages he had come across and thrown away regarding it as useless.
He was sitting in a nest of folded truths and he didn't know why he thought Prussia wouldn't lie.
...
"So what did you do all day?" Prussia asked rotating his shoulder in what Italy assumed to get the knots out.
"I cooked and ate some pasta. Then I slept. Oh, and then I went exploring a bit. I didn't know you guys had a ballroom," Italy said with less happiness than usual. His eyes glanced to the left and immediately returned to Prussia's chuckling form.
"That old thing? That thing's been here before West was born," Prussia said fondly.
Italy tilted his head. "How old is this house then?"
"Hmm let's see, maybe since the eleventh century? It used to belong to the Marquartstein family but West bought this from them back in the 50's."
"Wow! It's old then. It still looks so new too."
"Good old West for ya. An awesome house for my awesome little brother, kesesese!"
"Hey, can I ask you something?" Italy asked after a shared smile.
"Sure, the awesome me has an answer."
"Do you know Lydia Schwartz?"
Prussia's eyes widened but then he coughed, the look of surprise going away just as fast as it had appeared.
"Yeah?"
"I called her but she didn't answer...her son answered. It's sad that she died."
Prussia shot Italy a sympathetic glance, to him or for Lydia he did not know.
"Did you know she died from liver cancer? How sad..."
Prussia muttered under his breath, an angry kind of muttering of disbelief and genuine disgust.
"Very sad I bet. Not awesome, I bet."
Italy looked at him strangely for his curt answer. "I'm kinda stuck right now, though. I can't find this Holger Amster anywhere! He's not in your phone books or online," Italy paused as an afterthought, "I wasn't expecting to find him on the internet, though."
"Holger Amster? Who's that?" Prussia asked interestedly. Italy shrugged.
"I don't know. Gernot told me to find to talk to him if I want answers and—"
"Wait, wait. Who's Gernot?"
"Lydia's son. He was kinda rude and he lied to me about the —"
"Do you know his age?" Prussia was now at the kitchen table taking slow swigs of his beer, the taste not settling on his tongue entirely but the acidic flavor running down his throat out of a familiar burning.
"Nope!" Italy said sipping his Fanta watching the sun still blaze outside despite the clock reading eight.
Prussia didn't comment but instead just drank again.
"Anyways, I was told to find Gernot. They're so many Asters! It's kinda hard to find him. Maybe it's 'cuz the book is outdated? You should replace the phone book, by the way, it's really old. And now I don't know what to do Prussia! The whole family hates Luddy!" Italy whined lowering to rest his head on his arms.
"Gernot or the whole family? That's weird, we didn't do anything to them," Prussia said thinking of any conflict with a Schwartz family.
"I think the whole family? I dunno, it's making my brain go all gooey."
"You could always ask America you know, I bet this Gernot has some relatives over there," Prussia said.
Italy laughed a little at the comment. "True! He did offer to help but..."
"You want to do this on your own."
Italy nodded not trusting his voice. Italy heard Prussia get up and open the fridge, the light flickering a bit before it was closed just as quickly with a new beer in Prussia's pale hands.
The obnoxious sound of cracking the fizzing tab open and a helpful tone—these were the things Italy heard as he breathed out. "Take my awesome advice. Go ask America for help. He's got those weird computer thingies and could probably find some kind of connection back to the Schwartz."
"Aren't you supposed to know everyone?" Italy whined.
Prussia burst out cackling. "Hell no! Do you know every damn Marco or Luigi in your country? The awesome me doesn't have time for that!"
Italy pouted but saw the truth in Prussia's words.
"But the phone is so far away!"
Prussia rolled his eyes and took a swig out of the glinting can. "Just do it. Besides, it's not like you have any pride left," Prussia said bluntly.
Italy would have been offended but, again, Prussia was right. He had no pride left, not any real pride forsay, so Italy didn't know what held him back from grabbing the phone in his twitchy hands and begging America for help.
America, with all his acquittances and debaucheries, was still a helpful nation and a good person by heart. Italy really liked America — for what he represented, the idea of a true republic — but still couldn't bring himself to trust the smiling nation. It has never really worked well in the past.
Prussia heard Italy sigh and shook his head. "You're being totally unawesome right now. Go grow some balls, well actually, lose your balls and go call America!"
Italy glanced up. "I thought this would be easier, though! And, and what if America doesn't want to help! He's scary!"
"Pffft. Sure, okay, the kid is pretty tough but he's a goddamn boy scout through and through. He has that unawesome hero complex so I don't know what the issue is. He needs to find Germany, you want to find Ludwig so it's a win-win for everyone."
"Really?" Italy asked sitting up straighter, hopeful.
Prussia took a swig. "Duh."
Italy nodded rapidly and quickly stood up to go to the small wall phone by the wall. He felt the cold receiver hit against his ear and he hovered over the rigid numbers with a goal in his veins. It was only once he almost pressed a number that he realized that he doesn't know how to make international calls from Germany.
"Prussia, I don't know how to make international calls! How do you call to America?" Italy said twisting back to face Prussia.
Prussia told him the code and got up to go feed Gilbird.
Italy waited and soon heard the familiar loudness of America.
"Yellow, America speaking."
"America! It's Italy here — Northern Italy, not Romano like the last time you got confused. I really need your help, and I didn't want to call you at first but then Prussia told me to call you because you said you could help me, but I also remember you said that you could help me in any way possible so here I am!"
The line was static, little buzzes and scratches heard through an attentive ear. "Do you ever breath? Wowza, but of course I'll help you, dude! It's my duty to be the hero right? Waddya need help with?"
Italy smiled in glee. "I need help in finding, someone. I've already tried here in Germany, and Prussia is no help so he told me to ask you since a relative might live at your place. I thought it was genius and decided to call you. You can do that, right? Find someone?"
"That's it? Of course, I can do that!"
"Oh good! I knew I made a right choice calling you."
"Yeah, dude. So who are ya looking for?"
"A person named Holger Amster. I don't know anything other than that."
America paused, the line quiet for a second. "That's going to be kinda hard. Are you sure there's nothing else you can offer me? It's better to just narrow it down right now if we can." Italy heard wheels roll over a hard floor and he felt a little guilty for disturbing America while he was working.
"Let's see. I got this name from someone named Gernot Schwartz. I don't know his personal number but he answered the call when I tried calling Lydia Schwartz."
"And who are these people? Kinda talkin' in circles," America said over the line grabbing some keys from his desk.
"Okay so from what I know so far, Lydia was Lu-Germany's pharmacist? I don't know, some kind of medical person thingy. She died," Italy said with deep sadness back to normality in a second, the death not taking a toll too deeply, "so when I tried calling her son picked up instead—Gernot."
"Alright, so this Lydia knew of nation status, right?"
"I don't know, probably?"
America sighed, sounding pained for a second before having clarity again. "Okay, let's assume she does. She's dead, right? Do you know when she died?"
"No. How does this help in finding Holger, America?" Italy asked confused (and feeling incompetent because he's supposed to know the answers, he's supposed to know the questions).
"It's all important in an investigation. You should know this — motives, alibis, age, ethnicity, socioeconomics, family history, relationships, they all count," America said while jotting down some notes.
"Not really...? I'm usually not the one doing that kind of stuff. It sounds hard," Italy said leaning on the wall and wondering for a moment when Prussia disappeared.
"Okay, can you at least give me the number to...Gernot? Let's just call it Gernot's number for now since Lydia is dead."
Italy had no problem regurgitating the number back to America. The number was now engraved in his memory unintentionally.
"Nice. Finally, some progress, my dude. Anything else? The sooner we start the better."
"Hmmm, oh. They really hate Ludwig! They want to murder him!" Italy said cheerfully.
"That would have been helpful from the beginning! But damn, can't say I'm surprised," America said snickering. Italy frowned knitting his eyebrows together for a second before giggling a bit as well, the lighthearted air being rather poisonous and infectious.
"Yeah, he told me that if I wanted to find Ludwig I had to take everything I know and destroy it because he's not who I think he is. That's crazy, though! Right?"
"Wait, can you say that one more time?"
Italy repeated what he said.
"Weird, weird. This is all so fucked up but we're getting somewhere. Don't worry Italy, with me and my trusty F.B.I. and Tony, we will find this person in a jiffy! Well, in the U.S. at least."
"How cool," Italy said in admiration.
"Oh, that reminds me, what are you doing at Germany's house? Is Prussia there?" America asked curiously.
"I wanted to come and find some clues, they're so many holy moly, and now I'm here. I'm only four entries in the journal so far and Prussia is here too! He's been really nice! I think he's been taking over for Germany since he's gone but he's still the same."
"Huh. That's good to know. Well, I'll call you if I know anything. See ya!"
Italy didn't have time to say goodbye as the phone was beeping and the call ending. Italy hung up and felt rather pleased.
Prussia walked in with a chirping, happy Gilbird on his shoulder and he coddled and cooed at for a moment before smiling to Italy. "How'd it go?"
Italy had a feeling he knew regardless of his high-pitched answer.
"It went good. He is going to help me and is working on finding some people related to Holger! How exciting!"
"While you'll be...?" Prussia asked watching the little bird peck at his palm calmly.
"I'll be...I'll be...um. I'll be reading some more journal entries?" Italy said confused. He didn't think he would get this far.
Prussia rolled his eyes. "No, you'll be going back to your place, packing up and getting your ass to America's house." Italy looked alarmed.
"Why do I need to go to his house? He just told me he'll call if anything happens," Italy asked with his brown eyes following Prussia's moving back.
"Yeah, but don't you want to go there for yourself?"
Italy looked down at the tiled floor. So white and clean they are, so orderly. "I do, but —"
Prussia shook his frantically as if anticipating the rejection. "Nope, nope, nope. We are not going through this. The awesome me is giving you awesome life advice, again, so just listen to it. You are going to America and you're going to do some digging to drag my sorry brother's ass home."
"But wouldn't it make more sense to look in Germany?" Italy asked confused as his back was pushed out the kitchen door by Prussia's larger ones.
"Not everything can be found in black and white. Remember that."
...
"I really wish Romano wouldn't be so grouchy all the time, you know? He looks better when he smiles," Italy said watching Prussia clean in wonderment at how much energy Prussia could have after a day chalked full of business.
Prussia didn't look up from wiping the table but did visibly agree. "But then he wouldn't be the asshole Romano we all know. It would be awesome, but it wouldn't be him." Prussia spoke not as loudly as he usually would as he was tired, but he still held the same vigor in his speech.
"True, but he can be so mean sometimes. Especially to poor Big Brother Spain. Spain doesn't mind, though. I wonder why," Italy said looking to Prussia expectantly.
Prussia sprayed and answered. "You do know they are totally fucking each other right? Toni won't be quiet about his precious tomato. I love the guy, but damn him and his clichés."
Italy did not know this. "WHAT? When did this happen? Oh, how exciting! I always knew Romano liked Spain even though he burned Spain's favorite tomato sweater that one year, and Spain got all sad and started crying and then Romano yelled at him and then they both went to the bedroom and starting screaming some more!"
Prussia stopped cleaning and looked up at Italy's radiating smile. "Right...an adorable couple," Prussia said lightly.
Italy looked down for a bit, his eyes looking relieved. "I'm honestly really happy for them...Romano finally got together with Spain and Spain with Romano...they both got what they wanted. I was always worried that Spain—'m glad he chose Romano."
"Are you jealous?"
Italy snapped his head up towards Prussia appalled. "What! No? No, no I'm not jealous, really! I'm just glad that...that Romano can finally be happy after all this time," Italy said with honesty.
"If you say so. I don't think it could have gone any other way with those two. Practically eye fucked from a mile away."
"Yeah..."
"Besides, how can you love someone that you're not close with? Someone you've never bothered to check up on? Nope, doesn't make sense!" Prussia said squeezing the trigger to the spray bottle harder than needed.
Italy peered on confused. Prussia just continued to wipe with his rhythmic circular motions, the glass already clean and spotless.
"I don't know what you mean..."
"Of course you don't. Anyway, what are you gonna do now? I'm going to be cleaning so I'm gonna have to tell you to shoo for a bit," Prussia said dismissively then added, "This would be a good time to pack too."
"H-How much have you cleaned already?" Italy asked fearfully, his heart beginning to beat faster with bated nervousness. Prussia looked up, his eyes lighting up with thought and a hidden mist of something else.
"Everything behind me, if you get that. All the bathrooms and bedrooms, clean and spiffy. By yours truly, of course!"
"S-So that means that you've cleaned Germany's room?"
"Yep. Messes are unawesome. It would be wrong to leave a mess."
Italy's heart plummeted to his stomach, the weight setting like a deep brick—heavy, dry, and solid with no way back up his constricting throat. The squeaking of the towel meeting glass flashed through his ears and Italy had to bite his tongue to not panic and start waving his flag in surrender.
"Woah, you're as pale as a ghost! You okay?" Prussia asked setting the towel down to move towards Italy, his stride long and quick.
"Just great!" The response was too sharp to be casual.
Prussia stood in front of him now. His tall and imposing figure making Italy step back. His stomach suddenly felt as light as a feather, all jittery and swayed.
"Really? Because it looks like you just saw a buffet of English food. You can talk to me, you trust me right?"
"Hey man, you okay?" Prussia asked concerned at Italy's dilating eyes.
"..."
It was settling. A dull ache into heavy and sharp breaths.
"Italy...?"
"Haha!" He finally burst out, jumping up. "I'm perfectly fine! I just zoned out, I guess!"
Prussia squinted at him. "What are you talking about? You're acting crazy. Are you on something?"
Italy stared at Prussia. Really stared at him to see the eyes of a liar, but he couldn't see anything past his dull red eyes and glossy concern.
"You mean...you didn't see what I did to Germany's room? You're...you're not mad?" Italy asked slowly.
"I don't even know what you're talking about," Prussia groaned setting the towel down.
"You don't?"
Prussia looked at him skeptically. "Did you do something?"
"No, no! I-I just found...some books. Yeah! Some books. I didn't know Germany liked fairy tales, did you?"
Prussia cackled. "Oh does he ever! He used to beg me every night to read it to him. Every night he would go, 'oh amazing, wonderful big brother Prussia, read me a story.' So, of course, I read him one because I'm awesome, but yeah. He doesn't seem like the kind of guy to enjoy that kind of stuff, does he?"
"I think it's very endearing," he replied trying to smile, but it came out horribly forced and painful.
Prussia shrugged and continued to clean. Italy scurried out not looking back.
...
Italy left Germany's house (mansion) with a wave and a heavy heart. When Italy had returned to Germany's room, the floor had been spotless without a paper in sight. The bookshelf had been moved to the exact same position as it had been prior to Italy's stubborn curiosity, and the books were neat and proper, one never leaning or squashed. The room smelled of no distinction, the only scent being one of pungent cleaner and a strange crispness that came with cleanliness.
That had been a day ago. Now Italy was sitting in a silent taxi cab to arrive in America's house in Georgia. The drive was fascinating to Italy; he had never visited any other city other than New York, and even Italy knew that America was much more than the looming skyscrapers. He knew of America's vastness—knew the size of the land from the solid color that stated THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA on every map, but it wasn't until Italy flew over large squares of green, rolling mountains, and felt the change did he become truly amazed at how big America is. Surely, there couldn't be more to the west!
He told the taxi driver his amazement. The awkward man did not share the same enthusiasm as him, instead opting to keep his tired eyes on the road. Italy was fine with that, though. Georgia's heat reminded him a lot of home with its sticky temperature, and Italy felt excited when the taxi finally pulled up to a large, gated house. A real Southern mansion! Italy was so excited he almost forgot to pay the man or take off his seatbelt.
The car backed away and drove off leaving Italy standing under the hot sun with a smile. The gates slowly opened and Italy watched awed as the luscious, verdant garden and court was presented to him. Did every nation live like this? First Germany, now America? America never was humble, though.
"Italy! I'm glad ya could make it! I reckon you're real tired from the trip. I was just fixin' to look up the files too," America said with a warm smile.
"Why are you talking funny like that?" Italy asked not quite being able to put his finger on what made America sound different.
"Funny? How am I talkin' funny?" America looked confused before his eyes lit up in an embarrassed recognition. He laughed a bit. "We're in Georgia, my accent is gonna change a bit too."
Italy nodded and accepted this wondering how many dialects America had. "Anyway, come right on in! I was jus' fixin' up some lemonade," America said gesturing to follow him. The gate closed behind them, the creaking slow and sharp.
"Thank you!" Italy walked towards the front door and wasn't surprised at the odd things inside the house. Italy will never understand America.
America's lemonade tasted too sweet and sugary, but Italy liked drinking something cold nonetheless in the quaint kitchen.
America took a large sip and sat the glass of condensed lemonade down, the chock like ice cubes clinking together. "So, Gernot, huh? This is the fella ya wanted ta find?"
Italy nodded rapidly. "Yes...Oh. Here, I have a picture to show you." Italy quickly dug into his pocket and took out the black and white picture. "Look at this."
America took the picture from the table and examined it. He turned it over and rose a brow at the wording. "Irene?"
"I know as much as you do. She's a complete mystery to me. Prussia wasn't much help other than that he said that Germany said she was a mistake. She must have done something really bad then. But I don't know where to start! I don't even know if that's Irene." Italy said.
"A mistake? That's a real ugly word to use for a girl, doncha think? You sure Prussia ain't just rough talkin'?"
Italy nodded despite not knowing what America meant at the end. "I know what I heard. That's what he said. I kinda thought it was weird too...I thought it was," Italy tried to think of the correct word in English, "I don't know, just weird?"
"I getcha, I getcha." America scanned the photo in his hand, and Italy just sipped the sugary drink. "Hey Italy, do ya know when this was taken?"
"Not the exact date, but Prussia told me that Germany told him that it was sent to Germany sometime in the sixties, but I don't know when it was taken. Probably around the forties or something." Italy replied hating that he still didn't know practically anything.
"Hmmm. Do ya mind if I keep this then? I'll give it right back when done," America said flipping the photograph again, his blue eyes analyzing every detail behind the sharp, clean glasses.
"Go ahead and take it. I was hoping you would use your fancy schmancy gadget thingies and find out who she is."
America looked like he was about to say something but then looked at Italy's face and shut his mouth. He glided his thumb over the name Irene then slid it over to his side of the table. He couldn't tell Italy what was painfully obvious. "Thank ya! The hero always prevails!" Italy giggled a bit and finished the last of his lemonade.
"So what should we do now?"
America leaned back in his chair. "Well, I'm gonna go get this here photograph checked for fingerprints an' of that sort. I reckon this will take my gov at least a solid three days or so. After that, hmm let's see. Oh, probably get in contact with this Gernot fellow. I probably should've told my workers to do that yesterday...gosh darn it."
Italy made a sound in amazement. "Oooh, fingerprints? You're so smart, America! I didn't think of that! Does it really take that long?"
"The process don't take too long, it's jus' lookin' through the system that just drives me mad. There is jus' so many. But it don't take that long so don't worry about it."
Italy smiled.
America smiled as well and leaned over the table with his elbows. "So...what's up."
...
America sat pensively for a bit digesting everything Italy had breathed out in his rushed, run-on sentences.
From what he had gathered, Prussia was definitely a shady character at the moment. He didn't doubt Italy's re-telling of Prussia being nice or the same, but it was those small little hiccups that made America wonder. Some of Prussia's wording seemed odd to him, even the fact that Prussia had toned down on his use of awesome as an adjective. He shared this with Italy, and Italy didn't seem to find it weird or even have noticed.
That was concerning to America as details were what made an investigation not an investigation but a conclusion. Italy's voice brought him back from his daze.
"So, what do we do now?"
America sighed and leaned back in his chair, his feet almost touching Italy's from underneath the small table. "First thing's first, I guess. I gotta get the fingerprints, then I gotta go see about this Holger fellow. That should take around two days or so. I guess I could call 'im right now, but it's probably late over there in Germany. Actually." America got up from his seat and disappeared out of the kitchen. Italy soon got up and followed.
"America?"
America was on his computer and smashing the keyboard in frustration. "LOAD YOU DAMN PIECE OF SHIT." Italy winced as he heard the intolerable screeching sounds and peeked over to see the computer with a bright, blue screen. America groaned. "Jus' when I needed to send a gosh darn e-mail..."
"You can always call!" Italy said trying to cheer America up. America looked over to the happy Italian and smiled a bit. "I guess so." America got up from his seat and unplugged the computer from the wall for the sake of their eardrums and the blocky computer. "Well, time to hit up the good ole' F.B.I. I'll be right back."
Italy nodded and floated along to admire America's decorations and baubles. America came back after fifteen minutes with documents and the photograph.
"Alrighty, I jus' called the F.B.I. and told them what's up. Come on we're leavin'."
Italy followed America's quick stride out the door. "Wait, what? Where are we going?"
America looked to Italy as if he were dumb. "To the F.B.I., of course."
"But I thought the F.B.I. came to you," Italy responded with furrowed brows. That was how it was in the movies at least. The F.B.I. came busting in with guns and with those scary black uniforms and plastic shields. America sighed.
"It don't really work like that. The F.B.I. ain't some kind of police force. It has offices aroun' my place called divisions because it's the Federal Bureau of Investigation, which means that it works in assessin' crimes and it investigates —" America saw Italy's extremely confused face and decided to stop trying to explain.
"We got to go to them."
"But the F.B.I. always comes to you."
"That ain't always the case, it's actually ain't the case most of the time—"
"Then why is it like that in the movies? That's lying."
"It ain't lyin', it's just ain't the truth. Just don't question it 'kay?"
"Okay!"
America shook his head and continued on towards leaving the house. He opened up his car once he locked his front door and jogged down the creaky, wooden steps leading to the driveway.
He went over to the passenger's side of the car and twisted the key sharply to see the stubborn little knob through the window pop up to let Italy in. Once they were both buckled in the sweltering hot car, America backed away and drove out, turning up the song No Rain as he drove onto the smooth road. The melancholic tune played through as the fields blurred past their light-hearted conversation.
I just want someone to say to me, oh,
I'll always be there when you wake, yeah
Ya know I'd like to keep my cheeks dry today...
...
F.B.I. Bursting In — A common misconception about the F.B.I. is that they come busting down your windows and start shooting you. The classic thing of, "The F.B.I. is after me!" The F.B.I .is not a police force; it is an investigation unit that deals with national and international security. They can come after you, but they may not prosecute you (if that makes sense). The headquarters are located in Washington D.C. but there are 56 offices across the United States and Puerto Rico. This is what makes it very easy to confuse with the police.
...
This chapter was actually pretty hard to write as this is the point in which the plot is actually going to be delved into and, uh, the plot I had planned before wasn't exactly the greatest. I spent A LOT of time revising and planning, and even now I'm kinda hesitant to continue because I feel like people won't like this story since there are OCs...
Anyway, thank you for reading and supporting!