Chapter Eight — The Rolling Hills We Saw That Day
...
"Are you sure this is the right place?" Italy asked as he skipped over a stone, his shoes caked with mud.
America took out a crumpled piece of paper and didn't shudder when a passing wind hit them both. Italy shivered, despising the cold winds, as America looked up and down from the paper and to the bold numbers on the red brick in front of them. The sun was out, and America had to squint as he walked closer to the quaint little house with quaint little flowers. A beautiful garden it was, Bachelor Buttons and Lavenders to greet them underneath the graying sky.
"Looks like it. 109, Wallis Street. Should be it. Come on, let's see if she's home."
Italy and America walked up the cobbled path and saw America smile a tad when seeing a small American flag sticking out from the garden right by a lovely Lavender flower. Another wind passed by, and the wind chimes sang throughout the sleepy neighborhood.
America stood by the entrance, and Italy stood by America's right as his large fist pounded on the old, wooden door. It was silent, a car zooming by behind them, when a dog started barking. Italy jumped violently and America put a hand on his shoulder. He pointed to a large, black dog behind a fence to the right of the house. The dog kept barking until someone from the house snapped at it to be quiet.
America knocked again and puffed a breath out. Italy's stomach just dropped further, the brick settling deeper and deeper into the pool of anxiety.
"Maybe she's not home. I didn't see a car in the driveway."
"It could be in the garage," America said unfazed as he knocked louder on the poor, old door.
Finally, the door opened slowly. The old, wooden door opened to reveal a yawning Elliot, hair a mess and attire even messier. She leaned by the door and snapped her eyes open when she saw America's broad stance, eyes of hardened crystal with an air of superiority Italy did not know America could execute. America's demeanor changed just as quickly as those winds—warm and calming only to be fooled by the sharpness as the sun set.
"Ah, hello. What can I do for you?" She said with her accent very noticeable but not fearful.
America grabbed a badge from his pocket and flashed it to the woman's face. "Agent Alfred F. Jones here with partner Feliciano Vargas under the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You are Elliot J. Lechmann, correct?"
Italy could understand why her face contorted into one of skepticism. They did not look like the F.B.I.—America still in his bomber jacket and Italy in a black long sleeve shirt.
And suddenly her blue eyes flickered to Italy. Her chapped lips parted in surprise and Italy could almost feel her heart beat faster with confusion. She clutched onto the door tighter, her manicured nails scraping the cold material. "Yes, I am Elliot Lechmann. What business do I have with the F.B.I.?"
America smiled. "Hopefully, not much. We just need to ask you some questions and then we'll be on our way," America said putting away his badge, Elliot's eyes following his lethargic movements like a hawk.
Elliot stood still by the door, her hands unclenching from her solid grip on the squeaking door. She sighed and opened the way.
"Very well then. Enter, enter," she said with little resistance.
America entered first with ease while Italy hesitated to intrude the woman's clean house. A couch was naturally where they gravitated toward and there Elliot sat with hands in her lap, a face desperately wanting to scream what is going on! But she kept her face as blank as a young adult could and instead tried to sit tall with her loose gray shirt and shorts that revealed too much pale skin. America sat down, and Italy inhaled the warm scent of an apple pie as he sat adjacent to America.
Italy almost threw up.
America cut straight to the chase. "Elliot Lechmann. No known relatives, citizen since 1989, originally from Germany and works for Delta Airlines as a flight attendant. Has no idea why the F.B.I. is after her and is assumed innocent," America said with a smile that did not calm her nerves.
"Now, does the name Ludwig Beilschmidt ring any bells?"
Elliot looked pensive. Her eyes looked away from the two men in an effort to recall such a name. The name was dry on her tongue. Where has she heard a Ludwig before...
"That name...it sounds familiar. I'm trying to think...I've heard it before, yes."
"Where," America demanded.
She jolted slightly and pressed together her lips. "My sister, she has spoken about him. Or is it my cousin? Yes, I think it is my 'cousin.' I've heard his name float around the house sometimes. I don't know who he is. I've always assumed he was someone unimportant, an old family friend, you know?"
"I wish," America muttered as he scanned the kitchen behind the shifting Elliot.
"What do you know about Ludwig?" America asked.
"What do I know about him...not much, really. Are you sure we're talking about the same Ludwig? That name is pretty common. It's like trying to pinpoint a John Smith in this country."
America seemed a little stumped. John Smith was a horrible name to have in his place. "Um. He has blonde hair. Really buff. Is around twenty years old. Blue eyes. Looks like he can snap your neck at any moment and never smiles?"
Elliot sat unamused. "I know some people are unkind to foreigners, but to stereotype like that is rude. Not all Germans are like that."
Italy almost wanted to cry and start laughing. That was what they were! Right on the money!
"But that's how he is! You are the one who conglomerated him in this image of stereotyping," America defended.
Elliot shifted her bare feet a bit. "If you know how he looks like, why are you asking me? Doesn't the F.B.I. have great equipment and what not?"
"Ah, don't worry about that. Just answer the question, Elliot," America said lightly.
Elliot stared. She then sighed. "No. I have never seen him in person." She looked thoughtful for a moment. "I don't think anyone has actually. He's kinda just a story throughout the house. My mom was cleaning out the attic one day when she was younger and found a picture of some guy in a cap and tank top but I don't know if that's this Ludwig fellow you're looking for. It was in black and white and looked as though it had gone through a nasty fire. On the back, it said: To Italy. I guess it never made it to Italy considering it was in France."
Italy's breath hitched. He immediately leaned forward. "Do you still have this photo?" Elliot looked at him surprised as if she had forgotten he had a voice.
"I'm sure my mother still has it. Let's see...what else did it say since you're probably going to ask that next. If I remember right from what my mom told me, it said: To Italy. It's fine. I understand. Or was it he understands? My memory's going bad on me...I'm pretty sure it could have also been I am where he stands...ah, I'm getting the wording confused now. I didn't think it was important."
America was jotting down every word she said. "Which one do you think it was?"
"I'm pretty sure it was the first one. It definitely said it's fine. I'm certain of that. That was the most legible parts of the handwriting."
America snapped his eyes from his notepad sharply. "And how did your mother gain this photo? You have relatives that served?"
Elliot nodded. "Most definitely. If you live in Germany, having a grandparent that didn't serve is just...weird. But my grandparents —from my mom's side of the family —were part Polish and served under the German forces. They were murdered. I never knew them. My parents didn't get too either. They were babies." Elliot suddenly touched her temple. "Hey wait a minute. They served under a commander named Beilschmidt. In one of their letters, they wrote about how great he was at leading his troops and how much of an honor it was to be under his command...is this the same man you speak of? Becuase he is dead."
"He's dead," Elliot breathed out again surprised, her eyes getting wide for a second. Her bright, brown eyes stayed that way until she shook her head. Her chest rose up and down the same by the time her eyes met America's keen ones.
"What year did your grandparents die, Elliot?" America asked.
Elliot furrowed her brows doing the math in her head quickly. "In '42. My mom was only a couple months old when they died."
"Really now. So you did have information about the suspect."
"Yes, I suppose I did," Elliot said not quite sure what she was saying. "Even if this Ludwig guy is the one you're looking for was somehow still alive today, he would be old and rotting away in a cell. He was one of the best and highest ranking officials under the military branch back then. There was no way that he could have come out alive or unscathed."
America wanted to smile and tell her just how wrong she was. "Your memory is pretty great. How did you know all of this?"
Elliot flushed. "Looking through old stuff has always interested me. I guess I just have a good memory. That's how I've always been. Especially in history. I don't know. Dates just stick."
"Well. Aren't we lucky," America said. "Anything else? You said it was in France. Is your mother French?"
Elliot nodded again. "Yes. My mother is French and my father German."
"How about your dad's side of the family. What about them?"
"There's nothing special to say about them. My grandparents served. They died."
"I see...And Holger Amster? Know him?" America asked. Italy looked at America questionably.
"He's my 'cousin' in law's brother."
"What do you mean by 'cousin'," America asked making the same air quotes as Elliot. Elliot pursed her lips trying to think of the right way to explain it.
"Ah, okay. There's my sister, Elena. She's married to Gernot. Then there's Gernot's parents. Gernot's mom has a brother. His name is Ulrich. He has a wife. And they had a child. Two actually. Cornelia and Holger. The Amster family. So I don't really know what to call them," Elliot grew sheepish, "I'm pretty far off the family tree. All the juicy details are probably better found in the Amster side of the family."
"What does Ulrich do?" Italy asked feeling something in the back of his mind stir.
"Um, I'm pretty sure he's a doctor. A very good one too, if I'm not mistaken. I'm not too sure but I do know that they are rich..."
"Do they know more about Ludwig?" America asked sketching the family tree with ovals to keep track who is who. The only reason Elliot is related and relevant it seemed was because she had very loose ties to the actual important people. She was the only one in America, and it would have been nice if her sister was the prime suspect, but America knew that things really didn't really happen like that. It was a miracle they even found her at all.
"Yes. I visited them once. Don't ask why I just did and it was awkward as hell. But anyway, the topic came back to World War Two somehow and I said that name and they all kinda just clammed up and hissed at us. Like actually hissed at us to be quiet or get out." Elliot crossed her legs. "It was quite a reaction."
"So these Amsters hold a lot of hate to him? Why is that?" America asked tilting his head.
She shrugged. "If I knew, I would tell you. I would like to know as well. It would have saved me a lot of glaring."
"Tell us about Cornelia and Holger then."
Her eyes darted to the left and right. "His sister is a little on the other side of the fence if you know what I mean. Gernot, he only works in the pharmacy. Cornelia, his sister, works as the main scientists for the laboratory that makes the said medicines. I met her once, and I don't know. I just heard that name from her spoken with hatred and my parents kept nodding their heads." She leaned back.
"Though, now that I think about it, I think that they were just trying to make it seem like they knew what they were talking about. I doubt that they actually knew, or cared, what was going on."
"Do you perhaps know where we can contact this Cornelia? The company she works for or even Holger?"
Eliot shook her head. "I do not. I should, but I don't."
America hummed unconvinced.
"Agent Jones...may I ask a question?" She asked looking towards Italy.
"Depends what."
"A clarification of sorts. You see, I did not see a badge with 'Agent Vargas'."
Italy froze. He glanced nervously to America. America kept his expression cool, his eyes unwavering and neutral.
"Your eyes must've been mistaken. He showed you his badge," America said. Italy would have believed it; his tone spoke nothing but fact, but now that's troubling isn't it. If America can make such a blatant, false statement sound thorough, just how trustworthy is word alone.
Elliot looked quite unamused. "I do not have bad memory. I would have remembered," she fluttered her eyelashes, "you don't mind showing me, just to be sure, right?"
America clenched his jaw and cursed in his head. Italy wasn't suave enough to pull a fake ID and couldn't lie to save his life. Elliot sat smugly, waiting. Her eyes challenged to defy her, to somehow prove her wrong.
Italy slowly reached into his back pocket and pulled out his driver's license. "See, I am an F.B.I. member." Italy said it with such certainty and thoroughness that Elliot looked conflicted. She squinted and saw yes, it indeed was just a driver's license with Italy's cheery face smiling to the camera. It wasn't even in English! America didn't know whether to cheer or facepalm.
"Isn't that just a driver's license—?" She asked quite sure it was just that.
"It's the updated model of a badge. He's new," America butted in with absolute seriousness, his mouth desperately wanting to twitch into a smile.
Elliot looked ready to protest, but America didn't let her have any time to. "ANYWAY, back to our regularly scheduled program! After that little misunderstanding, are you ready to answer truthfully now?"
"He is not an agent. It clearly says —!" Elliot began.
"Ms. Lechmann, please. Do not make this harder than it needs to be."
America had a way of making people feel bad about themselves that Italy was always appalled at how quick their faces would morph into one of guilt. She crossed her legs and tilted her chin up.
"I have nothing else to tell you."
America leaned forward, his broad shoulders visible even by Italy as he placed his elbows on his knees. The light flickered—a tinkering, dull light—as the annoying water continued to drip from the small kitchen.
"Elliot Lechmann. I know, that you know that we know what you know."
Elliot twitched a smile. "Yeah?"
"Yes. We know exactly what you've been hiding. You think you could have hidden this from the U.S. government? Something this lethal? We can overlook a wrong date, maybe even not mention your parents, but this?"
"America, what are you talking about?" Italy whispered in his ear confused. America didn't respond as he was too busy seeing Elliot pale and freeze. She swallowed and licked her lips.
"I-I don't know what you're talking about."
America chuckled. "Right. Sure you don't. And I'm sure that you conveniently forgot to mention this in your tale."
She bit her tongue. Some part of her hoped that the Italian would drag the American away—his loud, bubbly laughter chasing the evil away to the door and to the bitter air of Rhode Island. She did nothing wrong. They knew nothing—!
"Again. You're talking to a clueless person."
America chuckled again and got up abruptly from his seat, the fluffy couch cushion inflating once again from the loss of weight. He dusted off his pants (there was no dust, silly, silly America) and motioned Italy to do the same. America smiled at Elliot.
"Welp. Let's go," America said sending Italy a strange wave of discomfort once those words left his mouth. The name Vargas—it was just far too odd to hear that from America.
"We're done?" Italy asked trailing after America, glancing back at the perplexed (relieved) Elliot. America shoved his hands in his bomber jacket, his stance more of a bored teenager than the detective role he pretended to be just moments ago.
"Yup. Got all the information I needed. It's clear what happened here."
Italy looked back to the stone-faced blonde and felt his breath shorten again. There she was, sitting on that plain red couch with that annoying faucet in the background with even plainer walls. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders—brown, oh so brown with eyes dull when they should be clear. He felt offaly evil...leaving her there to ring her thumbs and stare at their backs in nervousness.
America tilted his head towards her. "Good day Ms. Lechmann."
America let himself out, and Italy couldn't help but look back again. He had to say something—he had to ask her things! But he didn't—he shuffled out behind America. It wasn't bright outside, the sun still behind those weeping clouds, yet Italy still squinted. It was so bright compared to the dim beige walls, the natural fluorescence flooding the door frame.
And like that, America whistled as he closed the door. The little red house underneath the blue sky with wilting white flowers. Italy breathed in.
That had been the most undramatic interrogation he had ever seen.
"What's up with you?" America asked.
"I thought that. I mean. That was not what I expected."
America tilted his head. "What did you expect? To bust in with guns and put duct tape on her or something?" he said with mirth.
"I thought you would ask her more things."
America whistled as he strolled down the cobbled path, watching another car fly by the road, obviously following the twenty miles per hour speed limit.
"Just because we're out of the house doesn't mean she's out of the game."
"What?"
America grinned. "Two can play it that game, Italy dude. Two can play it that game."
"But I don't get—"
"Oh! Also, good save back there! Had me be worried there. You could have been kicked out."
Italy relished in the praise. "Really? Really? I didn't think it would work, but it did."
America laughed a bit. "Yeah man, I didn't think she would notice but she is a citizen of mine." His eyes looked off into the distance, and Italy felt now was a good time to ask the bothersome question he's had.
"Hey, America. Why did you say she was lying? She looked pretty honest to me."
"Yeah, but did you see how she froze?"
Italy scratched his head. "I guess. I don't get why she lied to you."
"You ask that and then are shocked when you found out why. Everyone has a reason to lie."
"What are you going to do now? What was the bad thing she did?"
"I don't know! I made it up. Neat trick, huh?" America replied back with a chipper smile.
"Wait, you don't know what she did? She could be innocent after all?" Italy asked. America wagged his finger. "It's a cool thing, right? Like I said, everyone's got something to hide. If you make it seem as if you know what it is, that person is suddenly all nerves. I personally don't know what she did, but! Because she reacted that way, I now know there is something!"
Italy really didn't understand America and his backward way of thinking.
"But we're back at square one."
America denied that. "Not really, we're actually farther than I thought we would be. Her opening the door was a good start. We didn't have to bring her to a station and cuff her down to a table. She answered the best she could, and we have more information now. Especially this Cornelia girl. Wonder what's that about."
America kept walking and turned away from the passageway but instead to around the house. Italy followed America, passing the black trash can to a small window.
Italy was following America's lead when America clutched onto Italy's sleeve harshly and dragged him down forcefully to the ground. Italy shrieked—his knees falling to the mud caked patches of sporadic grass. America slapped a hand on Italy's mouth and shushed him. Italy looked at his fearful expression through the window reflection and saw America peer at him pleadingly and hurriedly. America removed his hand and made a finger on his lip gesturing quietness.
America's left hand was still on Italy's small back, the hand that didn't know what gentle is apparently, and suddenly Italy heard voices through the thin window.
"I don't know if...I don't see a car."
It was Elliot. She was talking on the phone with someone.
"They said they were the F.B.I...didn't look like it...I hope...good prank, right?"
"Who do you think she's calling?" Italy whispered.
"I dunno, we're gonna find out," America whispered back excited.
"Of course, of course, quick...Money will still be sent..."
Italy and America whipped their heads and gave each other a look. They inched closer to the wall.
"A miracle you get to talk to me, and so soon!"
America and Italy could hear everything now, even if it did mean breathing right by the plastic wall.
"I really don't know why they came. The government's never really noticed before." Her breath hitched. America looked like he was about to explode.
"N-No. D-Don't say that. Don't you dare say that!" She switched over to German, yelling desperately into the phone. Italy didn't understand much, but he could tell her tone was rather panicked and distraught. America understood every word.
"They're not going to find you, okay? They're...They're not going to...because! You know that he was imm —"
Italy could taste the anxiety, the fear so thick and heavy present while America leaned in closer, not sure if she went quiet or if he missed something.
"You're not going to die, okay! Ludwig—"
Italy lowered his head when he heard Germany's name and clutched his palm down on the ground—feeling the hard dirt go underneath his nails and stain his short white tips brown.
"That was decades ago. A different time, a different era! They're not going to — "
"...I know what they did to him! I know! But listen, listen, they can't prove anything with you. Your record is clean, totally normal. Ludwig was different, and you know it."
America sent Italy a smug look.
Italy didn't feel satisfaction. He didn't need to see what was happening. He could imagine her pacing around in her small kitchen and looking at the same old things that looked suddenly different because life was funny like that. Things that brought her sense were being too familiar and it couldn't be made sense of what exactly she was expecting. With the closeness of a voice that was not physically there, Italy could only send her his deepest sympathies.
"Please...I'm sorry. Please don't cry — I know I mean a lot to you, I know. I know just...Yes, I understand. I had to tell her something urgent..."
"...Yes. Yes...When will I be able to visit her again?"
"... Right. I see," her voice cracked as she breathed out, "Thank you. Please make sure she's okay..." she forced a soft laughter out of her before she hung up.
"AGH!" She screamed and kicked the cabinet. "Scheiße!"
America raised a brow and looked to Italy to make sure he heard the same thing. Italy made the same funny face and looked back to the window.
"This is not good...This is not good...Fuck, what am I going to do?"
"How about telling us," America sang.
It was silent in the house and for a moment Italy thought she went to another room. They waited. Somewhere in the back, someone was mowing a lawn and a bicycle was being ridden. A bell was rung from the bike. It was a normal day, a normal day for the world and little Rhode Island.
"..."
"..."
"Do you think she's gone now?" Italy asked itching to get up.
"Let's wait a bit more," America responded.
"..."
They waited. Italy bounced his leg, counted how many blades of grass there were, held his breath to see how long he can hold it, and stood still by the beige, plastic wall. It was calm, a suspicious calm as some bicycles rang through with honks and childish screams of joy. A bee buzzed by his ear and he jerked away harshly, almost sending America and him down to the ground. The bee kept buzzing its lovely tune, a lone flower by the trash can waiting, withering away under the shade alone.
The blinds then screeched as they harshly scraped against the window. Oh, so she had been listening! The blinds, they were not graceful as they scratched the plastic window.
Italy saw the white blades move up, and America dive to push him on the ground. Italy blinked as he was cradled in America's chest still. His amber eyes took in the blue clear skies and refused the urge to rip the clouds with his hands. Italy could feel America not breath and he, in turn, did not breath. Italy never realized how sturdy America's chest was or exactly how much bigger he was. Because as the alert, darting eyes of Elliot scanned the small passageway of swaying grass, the sound of annoying lawn mowers in the back, Italy realized that he was incredibly lonely.
He missed being hugged. The act of being surrounded by arms as an involuntary act. Because despite how uncomfortable Germany was, he always blushed that weird blush of his and hugged Italy when he was feeling particularly down. Italy lowered his chin and fought off a longing sigh, the arms around him confining and constricting.
Italy wiggled and Elliot backed away from the window suspicious. She looked again and brought the blinds down deciding she was just paranoid.
America let go and took a giant gulp of air. As he took in his precious oxygen, Italy wobbled upright and dusted off his pants. America jumped upright, grinning a million dollar smile, and Italy wondered if this is what they meant as a Hollywood smile.
"Man, good thing that window was high enough from the ground to not see us from down below!" America whispered (but not really).
Italy laughed softly, nervously and still struck with fraying nerves, and America kept grinning. America walked away brusquely from the window and back to the main road. "It was classic, Italy. Almost too easy," America said as he swung his arms.
"How did you know? I would've never known!"
America chuckled liking the chance to gloat. "I just did. I dunno, I just had the feeling. And I was right! She was hiding something. Something major."
"I wonder what it is," Italy said already racking his brain for possibilities. There were simply too many.
"We're gonna find out soon."
"Why's that?"
"Because we're going back in there. But Elliot won't be there, of course. She will be gone tomorrow, by four in the morning. She will be gone almost all day, a particularly long flight tomorrow. It will be the perfect time to scoop."
The plan was wonderful, really, but wasn't that illegal? And so Italy asked.
"Normally, but I mean, the fate of a country is at stake here! It's not just Germany, Italy. It's the German people. Millions. If they don't have Ludwig, humans get...restless to say the least."
It was odd how America, a spoiled little baby compared to Italy in riches and experience, knew more of this matter than he. Germany...if Germany was gone, what was left of its people? A new personification? Anarchy? Italy didn't want another Ludwig. His heart can't handle another blonde, it simply has no more room.
"Oh. You have weird priorities."
"Naw," America began, "If you want to get all legal and technical, what I'm doing is not illegal. I'm with the F.B.I., and I have the authority to record or note anything suspicious in the case of a trial as evidence. It's all just data, I haven't accused her of anything."
"..."
"..."
"Hey, are we going to try and get that picture?" Italy asked after a while of hearing their footsteps hit the gravel. Crunch, crunch, crunch it went.
America scratched his head. "I mean. I don't see a reason too. Do you want to? It would be really easy too. We would just have to ask Prussia where that family is in Germany, ask the mom if she's still alive, but I think she still is, and get it back from her."
Italy wanted to say yes! Yes, of course! It was meant for him, his eyes only. He wanted to tear the doors down and demand how something so precious could have fallen to the hands of such a family. Why Germany tried to burn it and why he had to deliver the words he could not say out loud in a message through a photograph of black and whites. Italy realized that America never asked the date in which the picture had been taken...
America still awaited Italy's answer. "No, it's okay," Italy said.
America didn't look too convinced.
Italy smiled. "It's fine. Really! I have plenty of pictures of Germany!"
Crunch, crunch, crunch the sound of the gravel went. To that beat, America believed Italy. America smiled and looked ahead. "Alright. If you say so."
And so the two walked away from the quaint little house with quaint little flowers.
...
"Lovino Vargas speaking, who the fuck is this."
"Romano, where is Northern Italy?"
Romano groaned. This asshole again.
"I don't know Mr. Amato, probably out inhaling pasta and avoiding your sorry ass."
"Haha, very funny. I would kill you if you weren't immortal," Mr. Amato bit out gruffly.
Romano smiled. "Glad the feeling is mutual, but you're mortal so."
"Is that a threat?" Mr. Amato hissed violently.
"Take it as you will," Romano answered back cooly.
"Look, I don't have time for your sass. Just tell me where your brother is."
"Whatever you need to say to my brother, just say to me," Romano snapped.
"I need to discuss this with the portion that actually matters."
Oh, how Romano bristled. He gritted his teeth and it took all his willpower to not start screaming into the phone.
"What. The fuck. Do you need?" Romano growled.
"I need to talk to Italy — Northern Italy. I know you know where he is," Mr. Amato bit back just as coldly.
"Well guess what short dick, I'm also Italy so start fucking talking."
Mr. Amato flared. "This is only a message to Italy, got that? Tell him this and tell him to immediately call me back."
Romano rolled his eyes. "Whatever. This better be fucking important. And make it snappy, I have things to do."
"Right. You know of the crises with Germany, yes?" Amato spoke to Romano as if he were handicapped.
"Yes. I was there at the last meeting."
"Good. Then you should know Germany's government right now is crazy. In fact, the president has —"
"Hold on, hold on. Crazy as in we're about to take over the world again or crazy as in there was no potatoes?"
"Which one do you think? The government itself is fine, it's the members. They're getting stressed —"
"They're always stressed."
"Yes, well, extra stressed. Stop interrupting," Mr. Amato snapped.
"Fine. Continue then, Mr. Amato."
Mr. Amato ignored the obvious jab. "You know what happens to stressed officials —"
"Whores," Romano answered. He snickered as his boss heaved on the other end.
"NO! LISTEN. Kohl has contacted me with propositions of a new personification," he barked out, patience run dry.
Romano stopped laughing and gripped the phone in shock. He didn't speak for a couple seconds before he found his voice again. "What in the actual fuck?"
Mr. Amato grunted, not pleased either. "If you listened for once, you would know!' Amato said roughly, "But yes, the Chancellor has contacted me in regards to maybe finding a new personification."
"Are you fucking retarded?! That's not how we work!" Romano shouted, not in fear for Germany, but instead for Feliciano. Feliciano...never Feliciano...
"Tell me," Amato began lowly, "What is it that makes a personification a personification?"
"A national identity," Romano responded back.
"Does it matter the size?"
Romano thought back to the little kid in the meeting room always claiming he's a country. Sealand was it? A fort, right?
"No..."
"Exactly. Take some land, get a stupid sap to be President of his whatever, let that idiot get some followers, enough to birth whatever the hell you are, and replace Germany with that new person in government."
Romano clutched onto the phone cord in anger. To talk about a nation like that, with such ignorance and disrespect left Romano boiling with rage. Who were they to play God? Who were they, mere stupid, pathetic little humans who know nothing, to play puppet master?
"That is the most fucking stupidest piece of shit I have ever heard. And I've heard a lot. But this. This is just fucking brilliant. Amazing!" Romano seethed.
"I didn't ask for your opinion, did I?" Mr. Amato paused, "I suppose it's natural. To be jealous. You never were the liked one, always outshined by Northern Italy. No trade, no good art, no good music, no good anything."
"You are dealing with things that are beyond you fuck face, I wouldn't go there," Romano said with a shadow crossing over his face.
"It doesn't matter anyhow. You see, I quite like this plan."
"You're actually going through with it?!"
"Yes, I am. A new Germany. No past omens to weigh it down, no guilt or better yet," Amato made a pleased sound, "feelings. Gay feelings."
"You're just angry because your wife fakes an orgasm and fucks the tennis coach. My brother is a fag, get the fuck over it," Romano hissed viciously.
Mr. Amato spluttered. Romano continued. "You can't just do that, brainwash some run-of-the-mill country. It has feelings, identity, it can't be Germany because it isn't! It will be Potatoland or whatever the fuck a kraut names it."
"An identity within the larger country. Take Seborga. It is at a fundamental level Italy. It has no distinction of its own. You don't hear anyone claiming to be Seborgan because there is no such thing. To be Seborgan is to be Italian, " Mr. Amato rebuttaled.
"No. This is not how — you can't just," Romano exhaled angrily, "this is not how any of this works. Germany is Germany because he has the official title. He has you fuck faces in suits and his shit people, but even with that, he has more than whatever satan country you want to pop out. There is a reason there is only one of us running the country —"
"Yet, you're here."
"Mr. Amato. Have you ever been tortured?" Romano began darkly, "How about devoured by some crows in broad daylight. Hanged, burned? Rats aren't so bad once you get to know them. Tar and feathering was always my favorite. How about living for literally millenniums? Oh, that's right. You haven't because YOU'RE NOT A FUCKING COUNTRY SO SHUT THE FUCK UP."
"You're a useless one," Mr. Amato responded back unfazed.
Romano had to curl his toes to prevent himself from throwing his phone at the wall. "Mr. Amato. I will explain this to you slowly because you seem to be gaining chromosomes. You. Can't. Make. Another. Germany. Not now. Not ever. So just fucking don't!"
He could practically feel Mr. Amato smiling with the reassurance of something Romano does not know.
"Why won't you agree, Romano? You hate Germany, wouldn't this be perfect?"
Romano bit his cheek in irritation. Really, how much of an asshole did people make him out to be? He didn't want Germany to die.
"Then again, you are just the same as your useless brother. If not even more useless. It's clear what the decision will be," Mr. Amato said finally out of patience. Romano slammed his fist on the wall.
"You listen here you fucking piece of shitty lard, I am not going through with this plan. Feliciano sure as hell won't go fucking through with this and if somehow, through some cocksucking, this plan becomes a reality, it will be the worst mistake of your life. Do not go through with this."
"And why's that?" Mr. Amato tested.
"Because Feliciano will be livid. Just try it. I dare you."
...
"This is ridiculous," Austria groaned.
Hungary tapped the black, fluffy microphones in nonchalance. "Italy and Germany's entire future is on the line here. Their love, their passion, gone!"
"Of course you would only care about their love life," Austria grumbled. He felt a light fist on his right shoulder.
"Oh come on, you know I kid," Hungary smiled, "for the most part."
Austria backed away and continued to sit in his chair as he watched Hungary fiddle with her microphones and sound audio.
"Is all this necessary? You are just visiting Prussia."
Hungary looked at him dead in the eye. "Exactly."
Austria rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. "Whatever you are plotting, I want no part in it."
"But you have to come," Hungary whined as she flipped out her pocket knife, with bloodstains Austria noted. "I have an important part for you. No one else can do this job."
She spoke with seriousness so Austria was forced to comply, at least listen to what she says.
"And that is?" he asked.
She smiled and explained. "You are going to knock on Prussia's doorbell, he will open the door and see you. It's a shot in the dark here, but I'm pretty sure he will start teasing you or something," she stopped when she noticed Austria's frown. "Don't look that way, it gets better, okay? You banter a bit, not too much! Not enough to get you kicked out, but enough where he invites you in on relatively good terms and you can plant these."
Hungary held in her palm small, cylindrical mics. Austria stared unamused.
"Why do we need to wire Prussia's house? This is ridiculous. It will get us nowhere!"
"Why's that?"
"Because Prussia is a man of action Hungary, not a man of word. You'll be getting static if you plant those in his house."
Hungary lowered her head and cast her eyes down. "Yeah, you're probably right. It is kinda dumb..."
Austria got up from his seat, gracefully of course, and gently picked the microphone chips out of Hungary's hands. "What is this about?"
She sighed. "I'm really worried about him, Austria."
"Who?"
Hungary spun her head, a blob of brown curls following behind her. "Both! Both Germany and Prussia. You know what I heard? Prussia is actually serious at meetings, he hasn't played a prank or blown something up!"
"It's not that hard to believe that he's serious, right?" Austria asked.
Hungary shook her head. "No, it's not, but still! But still...I worry about him. Germany is everything to him."
Austria sighed again and placed the microphone chips on some nearby table. He walked towards the entrance of his house, Hungary trailing along behind him confused, and put on his coat.
"Where are you going?" She asked, watching him slide into a coat sleeve.
"Where are we going."
Hungary looked at Austria in deeper confusion. Her eyes widened before she twirled, her dress fluttering around her as her face broke into a grin. "What are we waiting for, then!"
...
"You drive like such a girl, I swear Austria. And you got us lost!" Hungary ranted as she closed Austria's car shut. Austria flushed angrily. "Well excuse me for driving like a normal person! And we were not lost, the signs were just repeated."
"This is why I should have driven, Prussia might not even be here anymore," Hungary grumbled as she walked up the paved pathway. She stopped to admire the rolling green and faintly wondered why the dogs weren't barking already.
"It's seven, I believe even a brute like him comes home at a normal hour," Austria said stopping by Hungary's right. He peered at the direction she was gazing at and saw nothing but grass sway.
"Austria, I wish I were better at poetry so I could tell you what I'm seeing right now," Hungary said out loud to the silence, the question unasked answered.
Austria sent her a strange look. Hungary shook her head. "Never mind, let's just go see if he's home."
"Do you even have a plan?" Austria asked as he climbed up a step alongside the brown-haired nation.
"Should I?"
Austria facepalmed. "Oh, this should be lovely."
"Trust me, this will go fine!"
Austria looked unimpressed.
"Don't give me that look, see! I already hear footsteps," Hungary said cheerily. Her hands crossed over her apron.
"Already hear footsteps," Austria muttered. He snapped his eyes open. "Already hearing footsteps!"
"Yes. Play nice," Hungary said looking directly at the anticipated door to open.
And open it did with three over-excited dogs held tight on a black leash, the pale hand firmly grasping the leash.
There Prussia stood with Blackie, Aster, and Berlitz. The dogs wagged their tails in delight, and Prussia sighed.
"Hungary," Prussia acknowledged, "Pansy," to Austria.
Hungary took in his appearance and felt a string of melancholy play within her. He wasn't even out of his dress shirt (cleanly pressed, Hungary noticed) or Oxfords. His belt was still very much intact and buckled, the silk slacks fitting nicely, but no doubt uncomfortably, on his long legs. Hungary resisted the urge to tighten his crooked, black tie and scold him.
But, Hungary realized, there was nothing to scold him for.
One of the dogs started becoming restless, and Prussia told him to stop. Prussia scratched his head, neither Austria or Hungary having explained themselves.
"Can't we do this tomorrow? Haven't you said enough?" Prussia said gruffly.
Austria and Hungary's eyes met before she focused back to Prussia. "Do what?" Hungary asked.
"You know what, that little fuck's plan! That —"
Aster started sniffing Austria's leg and Austria visibly cringed. He tried making it go away, nudging it away with the bent of his knee, but the dog was hundreds of years old—it didn't particularly care that Austria's bony knee was in its face. It started circling around him, panting and looking up at Austria with hopeful, dark charcoals for a chance to play. It was horrifying.
And Prussia was too busy heaving and getting red in the face to do anything about it.
Hungary looked at Austria and shooed the dog away, stopping Prussia. "Braver hund," he cooed.
"We really don't know what you're talking about," Hungary began.
Prussia glared, his disheveled look making him seem more intimidating. "Oh, you know. Your Prime Minister was there, loud and clear, agreeing. Nodding his damn head at every word West's boss said like a tool."
"Hey, watch it," Hungary warned, "I honestly don't know what your deal is, but I have no part in whatever you're raging about."
Hungary and Prussia glared at each other, neither one relenting to back away. Lies could not be detected through the eyes, but it was a nice thought as they both tried to induce the truth.
"What do you guys want?" Prussia asked Hungary trying to be civil.
"We wanted to see if you were okay, but obviously you think I did some kind of felony," Hungary said accusingly.
Prussia gritted his teeth, and Hungary wondered what landmine she stepped on this time. This time, it seemed, the bomb is willing to explode much faster and quicker.
"Really now? You care so much, you have the audacity to come here and lie to me like this? This is rich."
Hungary looked genuinely affronted. "How am I lying? I haven't lied to you — what are you even talking about?"
"Cut the bullshit already. You're no damn victim. Don't fuck with me," Prussia growled dangerously.
"Then tell me. Tell me what I'm doing so wrong oh great Prussia."
Prussia clenched his fist. Prussia shifted his gaze to Austria and was surprised to find him sitting on the ground petting the bored dogs. They were lying on the ground relaxed and waiting with their tongues sticking out with eyes that took in every movement. Austria stroked Aster's thick mane of golden hair, the hair reaching out beyond his scissors fingers, in tranquility. He noticed a lull in the conversation and looked up. He arched his brow, acting superior despite being literally looked down on, and pursed his lips. "Are you done releasing sexual tension now?"
The reaction was immediate, both Hungary and Prussia sputtering. Austria kept petting the dog liking how blonde the fur is. Yes, he decided. Blonde is a nice color for a dog.
"We do not have sexual tension!" Hungary shrieked.
"Not awesome. I would rather fuck a dead fish. It would feel and smell the same."
"Excuse me?" Hungary hissed, her hair no longer the soft, curly brown that Austria loved. Instead, it was beginning to defy gravity.
Prussia looked over Hungary's fuming figure and grinned. "I stand corrected, a solid twenty by —"
"Shut up!" Hungary whacked Prussia hard on the head with her frying pan. Prussia hissed. "God damn it woman, what is that thing made out of?"
She raised it again. "Want to find out?" She threatened.
Austria coughed. They both looked at him.
"Hungary, what are we here for again?" he reminded calmly. Hungary lowered her frying pan unwillingly and glanced at Prussia. He was nursing the sore spot so she put it away, instead opting to take her hand out to help Austria get up. He took it gratefully and stood back up.
Hungary patted down her dress acting as if she had not possibly given Prussia brain damage. "We are not trying to pull your leg here. We really did come here to see how you were holding up. But if you don't want us here, then I can understand."
Prussia didn't say anything for a moment.
"You really don't know? Austria?"
Austria pushed his glasses up. "No. I do not know nor does Hungary."
Prussia nodded and commanded the dogs to get up in his rough tongue. They got up and walked dutifully back to him. Prussia exited the house and locked the door behind him, causing Hungary and Austria to move out of the way.
"It was just a stupid tax, don't worry about it," Prussia said.
Hungary furrowed her brows. "Why would my boss need to talk to you if it was about a tax? That's usually left to me...and it sounded like more than just a stupid tax."
Prussia waved his hand. "Because I'm awesome. Do you need any other explanation? Besides, it's ridiculously high and stupid, your boss thinking it was 'revolutionary' or something like that, but it's more crippling than anything else."
"You sound much calmer now," Hungary noted.
"It won't happen. I won't let it happen."
Hungary didn't believe it. Austria didn't believe it.
"You were about to murder me a second ago, now you're just going for a stroll with your dogs? No, there's something else."
Prussia shrugged. "Believe it if you want. It's the truth."
"The unawesome truth," Hungary tested.
"Awesome truth," Prussia shook his head, "Really, stop your bitching. I just snapped, I had been talking to Romano before walking out the door."
Hungary immediately brightened. "Oh, how is he?"
Prussia groaned. "Still the same as always. I could barely have a sentence in without him cursing me out."
Berlitz whined. Prussia yanked on the leashes and lazily saluted to them. "See ya."
Hungary and Austria watched as Prussia walked down the road with the three dogs in calmness, the dogs trotting happily with an owner of pensive eyes. It felt wrong. To see Prussia so responsible, the silhouette down the mountain morphing into one of more rigidness and broadness—a smaller body skipping by the left. But as Prussia led those dogs to a path Hungary and Austria did not know of, Austria wondered just how cold those leashes felt.
"Do you think he's really fine?"
For the house was empty by the time Prussia came back, the sun still in the sky, just as the figures of the driveway had faded away.
"No. No, but I'm surprised he's lasted this long."
Prussia told himself he wouldn't cry — awesome people don't cry, they don't get teary because of bad company. He felt Blackie lick his cheek, not unaccustomed to sweet salt, and Prussia buried his head into the dog's soft neck, breathing in to stop himself from choking. The sun set and Germany's nagging of Prussia to get curtains echoed through his mind in the silent house. The dog whined sadly and pawed at him desperately, not understanding why his master was sobbing and calling out mein kleiner bruder, mein kleiner bruder over and over and over again.
...
"Oh man, he's lighter than I thought. Where does all that pasta even go?" America asked as he placed the happily snoring Italy on the hotel bed.
Italy had collapsed right after eating at Waffle House, and America could not figure out why for the life of him. Did Italy always just randomly sleep during the day? America could suddenly feel for Germany, having to carry a sleeping nation all the time must have been tiring. Mentally and physically, America thought.
And that thought made him sigh as he walked to the kitchen. He made himself some coffee and the blaring number of 5:15 did not escape him as pushed the start button on the black, coffee machine. The machine was humming a silent tune, and America drummed his fingers on the counter. What to do with such information.
He already made it clear that he was going to go snoop for some more info tomorrow morning, but what exactly of Europe. He wondered what's been going on with them. Hopefully, no war has started. He was still keeping a close eye on Russia despite being "victorious". It's only been a year since Russia's "family" walked away from him, and three since the Berlin Wall was destroyed. And then America paused in drumming.
Three years since the Berlin Wall fell. How odd it was for Germany to walk out of all times. East Germany was nowhere near okay financially or morally — the communistic rule being more devastating than anyone would have been proud of. West Germany, Ludwig, had been doing great with his Democratic, (America grinned, his way of life always seemed to do the best!) system, and Prussia not so much.
No one blamed Prussia (not so much after the sixties at least, the wound open for understanding) but Ludwig's economy sure didn't like it.
And this only gave America more reason to growl at Russia's name. Sure, he had been bitter about the war like the rest, but he eventually did help Germany and see past his faults. Russia, on the other hand, seemed to squeeze any form of life or progress. Just as cold and sharp as his tundras, nothing much ever changes, the brutal way of thinking never leaving Russia's demented head.
And just as the water was boiled, ready to be diluted with the coffee mix, America gained a crushing fist in his stomach—squeezing and unrelenting.
Because just what if Russia took Germany?
Now, as America took the pot of water and poured it into a glass, he decided that the theory was just the jaundice in him talking. It was natural, he thought, to be bitter and wary. Russia was an easy scapegoat, but the idea would not fleet his head despite being rational with himself. It just struck him—why hadn't he thought of it before?
Russia was untrustworthy, spoke with a tongue divided, and generally one that should not be messed with unless necessary. A great ally to the crazies of the world, and an enemy to the rest.
America stopped swirling and looked at the counter. Granite, shiny and new.
Germany would never just go with Russia willingly. It would have blown up, been all over Europe. So maybe, a personal abduction? A personal murmur between the two?
America suddenly thinks back to that one meeting back in '77. Prussia was still behind the wall, and Russia was as strong as ever with his little Soviet Union with China. America had wanted to wear plaid bell-bottom pants to the meeting so badly, but President Ford had stopped him. Looking back, he was glad that he didn't wear the tan blazer either.
Ah, the good old days where Hotel California and Stayin' Alive were the only things that played on the radios...
"Russia? What do you think you're doing?" Germany had asked walking quickly towards the shaking and quivering Italian. Italy was looking up petrified to Germany's form, the gloved hand on his shoulder clutching tightly.
"GERMANY! HELP!" Italy wailed.
"Just asking comrade Italy if he wants to become part of mother Russia. He said no," Russia had said sadly.
Germany sighed. "Let go of Italy, Russia."
"No."
Germany looked sharply to Russia. "Russia, let go."
Russia patted Italy's head. Italy shook even more and cried harder. "But why? I will treat him nice. He just has to join me! I will get him out of your hair."
"You know Italy is a democracy, Russia. He won't join you."
"Won't or can't?" Russia asked tilting his head. Russia looked at Germany long and hard.
"I do not understand you," Russia began confused. "Why do you protect such a useless nation? After all the pain and suffering he's caused you? I would treat him nice. I could give him the punishment he deserves...he would be happy. Really happy!"
"You are not taking Italy," Germany had growled removing Russia's clutch on Italy's shoulder. He moved him closer to his side. "He is not becoming a part of your cheap, dollhouse family."
Russia glared at Germany. "Fine. I hope your cold bath has enough salt in it, Germany." Germany had inhaled sharply and seemed as though he had been shot.
Italy looked up to Germany. "Thank you, Germany! Thank you! I knew you would save me! I knew you wouldn't let me be taken over by Russia!" Itlay hugged Germany tightly.
Germany peeled off Italy's flimsy arms quickly and roughly. He peered down to Italy with cold, apathetic eyes. He then walked away without saying any further words. Italy then went running after Germany. "Wait! Wait! Ahh, Germany!"
Belarus appeared beside Russia, her heels making soft clicks as she stood shorter beside her brother. "That was mean of you, Brother," she said bored.
"How so?" Russia asked interestedly.
"Because you know that if Germany had to choose between death or handing Italy over to you, he would be conflicted. Both seem valid to him."
America reflected at the little scene and wondered what Belarus's bland tone had meant. Just why didn't things add up...!
But maybe he is getting this all wrong. Maybe, maybe it was Germany who went out and attacked Russia.
Yes, America could see it now. Prussia returns, in horrible condition obviously, and Germany feels outraged. Italy doesn't like him the way he likes Italy, East Germany is soul crushing, and Prussia is physically hurt. Russia is vulnerable, emotionally weak from his shattered glass painted family, and Germany decides that right now would be the perfect time to attack.
America sipped his coffee and sat down on the couch absentmindedly.
No one would suspect Germany, America continued to theorize. Germany, the one who was so busy planning the World Summit and genuinely trying to move on from his past, would never go out and start another war. It would be ludicrous of him too. Germany wasn't financially stable enough, or high in moral enough—it would break his word. He signed the papers, America thought to himself, he witnessed how ostracized a nation could truly be despite having the agreement on ink.
Germany would know better.
America turned his head towards the room Italy was resting in.
Love, America thought, could make a man do crazy things — the good and the bad. Crazy things for a feeling that might never be truly returned.
(And maybe, that's the sanest thing Ludwig has.)
...
"I'm coming in."
The door to Russia's bedroom opened. The room was dark. Bottles of empty vodka littered underneath the table. Russia was superstitious about things like that, something about the bottles on top of a table being bad luck.
Russia groaned not wanting to get out of the bed. Sock covered feet floated across the floor to Russia's bedside. "Come on, it's time to go," the voice whispered softly. The figure brushed Russia's platinum colored fringe lightly and looked at the sleeping face in fondness. The figure shook Russia gently. "Go away," Russia mumbled groggily.
The figure laughed. It then ripped the blankets off completely in one swift move and starting nudging Russia with its foot, the body moving back in forth in annoyance. "Go away," Russia said desperately wanting to back to sleep.
Canada smiled and stopped nudging Russia with his foot. He leaned down and hit his forehead against Russia's. Russia fluttered his eyes opened and saw Canada's amethyst ones come into focus quickly. Canada loved seeing Russia's eyes, they were much darker than his own despite what anyone said. Canada grinned and backed away before Russia could try to steal a kiss. Russia whined.
"We'll be late, eh? Come on, come on," Canada urged. Russia muttered profanities under his breath and got up from the barren bed. "Do you we have to go today? I wanted to go to the sauna today..."
Canada sighed exasperatedly. "Yes, we have to go right now. Hungary wanted to talk to us today. We've already postponed this too many times."
"Only twice. That girl was being annoying," Russia defended as he put on his scarf. "Why does she want to talk to us now?"
Canada paused. "I don't know. It's about pressing matters, apparently." Russia walked over to the closet and put on a warm gray sweater. "It's probably about Germany then."
Canada nodded. "Probably. You wouldn't know anything about him, right?" Russia smiled and did not answer. He shimmied into his coat and disappeared into the bathroom to brush his teeth. "Russia, you didn't answer the question," Canada said walking after Russia into the bathroom. Russia looked back at Canada through the reflection and shrugged. He kept brushing. Canada looked uneasy. "Russia..."
Russia spat out the toothpaste and gurgled the water as if it were vodka and spit it out just as violently. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and tilted his head back. "Germany is in a safe place. Matvey made sure of it."
Canada flushed. "D-Don't say that! You're making it sound like I'm the one who made him—"
Russia kissed Canada to make him shut up and smiled when they broke apart. "Matvey shut up now, da?" Canada looked away. "Hoser."
Russia laughed and exited the bedroom to go put on his boots by the main entryway. Canada did not follow immediately, his eyes melancholy and distant. "Germany, wherever you are, I wish you hadn't taken my words to heart..."
...
Scheiße — Shit in German.
Braver Hund — Good dog in German.
Mein Kleiner Bruder — My Little Brother in German.
Bottles On Floor — People in Russia believe that if you leave empty bottles on top of the table it will bring bad luck. Russians have some pretty interesting superstitions.
Girl Hungary —Every female is referred to as girl in Russia. Even grandmas.
...
So not a fan of long, italicized flashbacks so I tried to keep it as short and sweet as possible. Am I the only one? I just see the long italicized pieces of text and think: SKIP. Idk, something about it annoys me. I can't be the only one.
Good old bad guy Russia trope, I know, I know. But since this is America's point of view after a year of the USSR diaspora I felt like this was reasonable enough. I don't think America and Russia are still totally okay to this day now that I think about it.
Also. RusCan. Because there isn't enough of it. It holds a purpose too, though.
Thanks for reading and taking the time to get this far! Until the next one, my dudes.