Chapter Nine — Gentle Rains Will Come For Those Who Wait
...
"You look stressed."
"Tell me something I don't know, frog."
France chuckled at England's come back. The two of them were accompanying their bosses for some rather urgent meeting regarding Germany's staggering economy. A phenomenon was occurring in Germany that no mathematician or economist could explain. The numbers were dropping by the second, and it was making the rest of the E.U. uneasy. The people...they were becoming nervous.
"I could always make you less stressed," France purred.
"Fuck off," England snapped back with no real bite. France leaned back in his chair, tired of seeing the same dull, office lights above him.
"You don't think Germany is mad at me, right?" France asked still looking up at the ceiling. The lights droned on, their buzzing not enough to block out England's cup from hitting the plastic table.
"Whatever gave you that idea?"
France rolled his head to the side. "Oh I don't know, I just murdered his brother is all."
England shook his head. "It wasn't just you, it was all of the Allies. Prussia's not mad at you, so you shouldn't be mad at yourself. Grief makes you look uglier than normal."
France chuckled. "But has he forgiven me? I'm not so sure."
England looked uncomfortable. France wasn't drunk or in a relationship at the moment, so it was odd for England to see France so sentimental over something with no alcohol in his blood.
"I'm sure...he's over that now," England responded back waiting for his boss to come out already. The air was too casual. Too personal.
"I hope so. I hope so. Germany can be so sensitive," France said with a melancholic look in his eyes.
"Yes, well. A young one he is."
"You don't have to be young to be sentimental," France said, levying his head from the hardback chair rest.
England rolled his eyes disgusted. "Can your mind not be in the gutter for one bleeding moment?"
"But Germany needs to feel l'amore," France said enjoying how disgruntled England was becoming.
"Whatever. As long as you don't fuck up anything, Prussia should stay clear of you," England said taking a sip of his tea.
France raised a brow. "What a dirty mouth you have. I see America has been rubbing off on you in more than one way."
England blushed and almost choked on his tea. "Bugger off!" Despite how much he tried to stay angry at France, the blasted warmth in his cheeks would not leave.
"Ah, but I wish I could. Germany is a taken man. Italy of all people! I should have known," France said shaking his head regretfully.
"It wasn't all that hard to tell."
"Yes, but this is Germany we are talking about. He blushes at about anything," France said with mirth.
"You have a point," England agreed. They didn't say anything for a while. England was about to shut his eyes when France's voice brought him back.
"They say there's going to be another war."
This brought England's eyes to snap open. "What? That is bloody mad! Who is saying this?"
"The media back at my place. My people...they are divided. The younger generation wants to help—they are the ones demanding and criticizing the government about help and change, while the older generation still holds hatred amongst the Germans and don't want to get involved. My people do not deal with poverty well. You know what happens when something is unjust..."
England never did understand as to why France had 1789 tattooed on himself.
England breathed out a sigh of relief. "Don't say such stupid things like that France," England spat. "You made it sound as if alliances were being formed. It's just another one of your strikes, nothing to be concerned with."
France grimaced. "I wouldn't count on that. It's spreading like wildfire—this movement. It could affect the E.U. if strong enough and," France chuckled, "some are even saying God has abandoned the state of Germany."
England furrowed his brows. "God? What a ridiculous thing to say, we are not gods. As for this civil movement," England glared furiously, "keep it in your country France. We do not need another crisis in our hands."
France glared back just as fiercely. "Oh, so now this is my fault?"
"When you are calling for war, yes. Yes, it is your fault," England hissed. "Keep your revolts and movements within your own borders. Europe does not need more confusion than it does right now."
"It's already spreading — do you not pay attention to the news? Or are you too busy being bent over by your American fling?" France spat back.
England growled and clenched his fist. "Do not speak of things you have no part in France. If anything, I would say you are feeling quite incompetent aren't you? We don't have time for your ambivalence of guilt."
France seemed puzzled. "What are you talking about England?"
"You murdered Germany once, I would not be surprised if you did it another time."
France gasped. He gaped and stared at the glaring Englishman in pure offense. He would never —!
"Do not say you would never do that — we both bloody well know you are petty enough to stoop down to such levels. You admitted it yourself, you murdered Prussia. Took away his reason to live, ripped apart millions of families — you were there personally to see Germany cry by the wall that day in fifty-five and didn't do anything but smirk."
"Do not preach to me about brutality and savagery, oh Great British Empire," France mocked with clenched teeth.
"But you are not denying my claims because they are true," England replied cooly.
France looked down. He didn't say anything, the humming suddenly a tad comforting.
"I see. Remember where you stand France. Europe is no longer a continent of one divided by many, it is many divided by one." England did not excuse himself as he stood up from his chair. He grabbed his papers and briefcase, and walked towards the door, closing the heavy door with a loud click.
France ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes for a moment, his head pounding from the cries of anguish and unrest.
Because despite how much France would like to deny England's words, England always had the mouth of snake — poisonous and cold. It was already spreading in his veins, he thinks, the worry he feels right now.
The truth. It was a hard poison to remove.
...
"America! America! She has pasta!" Italy gushed as he invaded Eliot's cabinets. There were of course potatoes and other German reminisces, but she had pasta! (They seemed to be imported from Italy and that made Italy glow with pride.)
America wasn't paying much attention to Italy's rambling. "Ya huh, cool dude. Real coolio."
"What is this! Ragú? What is this?!" Italy shrieked in outrage. "Traditional? There is nothing traditional about this piece of garbage," Italy continued to rant to the half empty bottle of pasta sauce.
America sighed. "I know, I know, my pasta sauce is nothing compared to the godly tomatoes and garlic from your place — I've been chewed out on it from Romano about it enough times, so can we please focus?"
Italy seemed conflicted. He couldn't let such an abomination continue to exist. "But, but, but, but, but —"
"Cheek. Come on Italy, you're supposed to be helping, dude!" America said shutting a cabinet full of sticky notes. None of them helpful.
"Okay," Italy said sadly, shuffling his feet to help. He moved some stuff around, but no put real effort. Italy moved through the living room and checked every cabinet he could in the small room as America searched like a hawk in the dining room and kitchen (that were connected).
"Find anything?" America asked loudly as if they weren't only just one room away.
"No," Italy responded back already bored.
"I'm searchin' her room, wish me luck," America said as he rushed into her room. Italy smiled and floated behind America. "I want to search too."
Italy was behind America as he opened up a drawer. They held their breath and.
It was a bra drawer. How lovely.
America blinked and closed it. "Kinky," America said as he opened up another. Italy nodded, appreciating her choice of black lace. Quite classy, if he did say so himself.
"The underwear drawer. You don't think she has stuff hidden underneath?" America asked as if he was asking Italy to dare to search in the girl's drawer.
"I don't know. Why don't you check?" Italy said back with the same twinkle in his eye.
There was nothing interesting sadly. There were no toys, magazines, dollar bills, or anything remotely suspicious.
"There's always this drawer, Italy," America said cheerfully as he yanked the poor wooden drawer out. The vanity shook and the metal railings were close to snapping from their own weight and force from America.
Italy peered on and saw. Paychecks? America ruffled through the banking booklets with disinterest, the duckie designs on the checks making him smile before moving onto another blank strip of paper. Italy stood by the side confused as America discarded such good evidence—right? It had money symbols, that must mean something.
America was digging at the bottom and still found nothing. He threw a dime behind him and huffed as he slammed the drawer behind him. All the contents were behind him sprawled on the bed.
"This drawer has to have something. She has to have some mode of sending that money," America said determinedly.
Oh, surprise, surprise. Medical bills? America picked one up in interest. Massachusetts. How interesting. What could she want in Massachusetts? Especially a person not in critical condition?
Italy looked down at the same envelope America was looking at his eyes widened. "This is the person she was talking about yesterday, right? This is the one she was sending money, right?" America nodded at Italy's words and removed the contents of the envelope with his gloved hands carefully.
"We're going to find out."
RE-ADMISSION OF PAMELA VOGEL —
"Dude, dude, dude, how great is this! We just found the person she was so scared talking about! She said, Pamela, yesterday—this has to be the same person," America said giddily, reading more medical bills. They weren't high amounts of payments, but they were consistent. There were no signs of cancer or chronic sickness, either. It was just as if this woman lived at the hospital.
"This is great, America. Does that mean we're going to go see her now?" Italy asked eager to go.
America thought about it. They could wait for Elliot to come back and make her explain the situation or they could go directly to Pamela and make her talk. Although seeing how this woman was in the hospital, under the psychiatric care, he didn't know just how reliable (or ethical) that would be.
If he waited for Elliot to come back, though, she might call the hospital and alert it to not let him in. He could bully his way into the hospital of course, but that would leave him feeling horrible. He already witnessed how emotional this woman was. No, no. Waiting is a bad choice as well.
So, going directly?
Yes, that sounds like the best option. His crew can handle the legality issues and arrest Elliot or whatever, he needed to get some answers. She already knows the government is after her, America reasoned, might as well go to not make her stress even more. So, America nodded.
"We're going to go see her," America said after a short period of silence. Italy smiled brilliantly. "But, we aren't going right now," America continued. America can see the question marks around Italy.
"When I was down at the station, the crew told me to not forget about Europe. I told him, duh, how can you forget about Europe, right? It's like a soap opera every second, some kind of drama always happening. And that was what they warned me about. If I'm not careful...things might blow up over there," America said not liking the happiness fading away from Italy.
"So, Europe is in a bad place right now?"
"Yeah, my dude. We gotta be real careful about what we say, especially at a time like this."
Italy nodded vigorously. "Right-o. Got it, America."
America smiled warmly at Italy. Italy, he had to admit, was a really cute nation.
"Right! Off to Europe, we go!"
"Yay!" Italy said as he trailed after America. "Where are we going?" Italy asked.
America froze mid-step, smile still on his face, and turned gray. "I...I don't know. Oh shit, where should we go?" Italy looked just as clueless when America turned to him for some help.
"Maybe...Germany's place? Try to find this Cornelia —"
America snapped his fingers not listening to Italy. "I know! We should go to Iggy's place. He's good at stalking people — he should be able to find this chick in a jiffy!"
Italy wanted to question how England, a nation that didn't even consider itself European, would find a woman in Germany. (And Italy had the suspicion that America just wanted to visit his boyfriend, but he wasn't going to say that.)
But Italy didn't have time to question as America grasped onto his hand and dragged him out of the house. America's hand, it was warm underneath the gloves.
...
"Man, being in England's place always makes me feel a little down, you know?"
Italy was about to respond when he got shoved by a rushing pedestrian in a large, tan overcoat. The man did not bother to say he was sorry or turn around to make sure Italy was okay. He continued on his way, his blonde hair escaping Italy's sight as he stumbled on the slick pavement of London.
"Woah, woah, you okay, little dude?" America asked as he grabbed onto Italy to not make him topple over. Italy nodded but his expression spoke it all for him.
"England's people are rude...and grouchy looking," Italy said. America lets go of Italy once he was on his own two feet and grinned sheepishly.
"Yeah, but you learn to like 'em. They just take a while to warm up."
Italy bobbed his head as he followed America.
London. Italy hasn't visited it in a long time. It was beautiful, in a dark way. It never had the luxurious waters, or breathtaking palaces — the ever-present gray skies and cold winds too harsh to ignore as the dull bricks gleamed oppressively in the daylight, the sun never fully out. It was fast paced — the life in London. It had a hard edge to it, a mighty force that has withstood a lot. Bombings, wars, social injustices—just how many queens have stepped on the pavement as he and proclaimed to be walking the steps of divinity? How many tears—how much blood has been shed on these rugged, gray slabs of concrete to only be washed away with the weeping clouds, the sun never shining for its ungrateful beggars.
So much time has passed, and Italy has to remind himself that England is older than him.
Italy breathed in the air that is London. Yes, London has never fallen. Its people are strong. With its archaic buildings and paradoxical citizens, the city is quite deceiving. And so, maybe Italy shouldn't feel so worried. England, well. He had a good heart (or so America says).
Italy snapped out of his reverie when he focused back on America's soft frown and concerned knit of eyebrows in his face. Italy blinked and tilted his head not squeamish at America's closeness to his own face.
"You okay, Italy? Can ya hear me now? You spaced out for a while, you alright, little dude?"
"I was just thinking about some stuff," Italy replied lazily.
America shoved his hands in his bomber jacket. He stepped back, his mint breath no longer so close. "Yeah? Like what?"
"Oh, nothing," Italy sang.
"I'll never get what's going on in his head," America muttered following Italy's little trots. America took the lead and Italy followed him as they slowly exited the heart of London and into the outskirts through foot and crowded dark subways. America made sure Italy was behind him and in sight once they left the areas of affinity and into the corrupt outskirts of London.
It can be quite rough on any suspecting, or innocent looking victim. America was the hero—he couldn't let Italy be shanked or something! (Or even worse, someone with a sweet smile offering Italy some candy and it turning out to be someone's precious cannabis.)
"I didn't know London was this big," Italy said clutching onto the back of America's jacket.
"London has its good and bad, just don't stray away, 'kay?"
America and Italy passed by some beefy looking construction men in neon. One of them eyed up Italy and smiled a toothy smile. America sped up and Italy waved obliviously when the man smiled at him. He wanted friends, this man in neon was smiling at him, so he didn't understand why America was grabbing onto his hand like he was about to get murdered. They are being rude?
"He's taken. The bloke's with 'em—get your sorry arses back to work," one of them rumbled deeply. That didn't mean he didn't take a glance and appreciate what he saw. And just like that the construction men faded away as they became small little dots of bright yellow in the distance, the sound of their pounding machines and the ghost smell of their cigarettes never leaving.
Italy looked at America clutching his hand and felt confused. It surely didn't look like they were dating, right? America was simply protecting him from who knows what—he is being kind to him because really, America was a nice guy when he wanted to be and was being supportive! Guys can hold hands and hug, right? It was normal in Europe.
But Italy remembered that the English don't think like Europeans, they were English. So surely, that must be it. A culture shock! Yes. Yes. Nothing else... because surely, they must know what they are making Italy feel like. This heavy knot in his stomach is simply a misunderstanding and the squeezing of his lungs was simply a case of homesickness.
Yes. Yes. Nothing else, at all! America didn't look remarkably tall, and blonde, and strong, and determined, and protective, and most certainly did not have the same angular cheekbones as someone he sobs over on his pillowcase —
The bold number of fifty stitched onto America's dull leather makes Italy want to repress the wave of nausea that comes over him. Those hand stitched letters — the carefully stitched letters that evoke the vivid memory of America hugging and spinning around England oh so happily. He remembered how excited America had been when a blushing England had sowed it for him on a fateful fourth of July. The memory had been sweet, the other nations congratulating America for his new state.
The number was special. It was stitched, it is permanent.
"We're almost there, Italy. Don't die on me!" America said cheerily.
Maybe America does recognize that the air is somber between the two of them now, but doesn't let it show. Or maybe, Italy thought, he blamed it on the London air and didn't want to acknowledge what was said.
Either way, they were both liars.
...
"America? Italy? Why didn't you tell me that you were stopping by you idiots! And Italy, you're soaking wet, America's jacket won't protect you from the rain," England fussed as he ushered the two in into his home. He closed the door of the pouring droplets outside and set off to find the both of them some clean, dry clothes.
"S-So c-cold," Italy chattered as America's jacket was peeled off of his dress shirt in a slushy, sticky fashion. He wiggled out of his quickly as if it were poisonous and continued to curl up within himself to preserve heat.
Italy loathed the cold. He could not stand it — would not stand it! Nothing good came out of the cold, nothing. Blood was seen easier in the snow and when you cried, your tears were like stabbing pieces of ice down your hollow, red cheeks frozen in place as well.
America shook his head like a dog and took off his shoes and socks. Italy did the same, and soon enough England came back with some clean clothes.
"Here, put these on," England instructed as he handed them both the dull looking pieces. His glare landed on America. "You! What were you thinking dragging yourself in the rain all the way from London? You could have called — what if I wasn't here you twat? You have to think about these things —"
Italy blocked out England's pecking and America's whining as he started unbuttoning his shirt with tremulous hands. He took off his shirt and was about to shimmer off his pants when he heard a loud strangled noise.
"Dude, not right here! Go change somewhere else!" America said blushing, looking away. England didn't yell but instead ran a hand through his face tiredly. He started pushing Italy's back and he stumbled forward, looking back at England's straight face with some difficulty as he was being forced to move forward.
"When I said change, I meant in the bathroom, not in public. We've been over this," England said calmly as he slightly pushed Italy's warm, bareback into the large bathroom.
Italy still didn't understand but complied anyway. He didn't want to make England mad so he just chirped out, "Oh. Okay!"
England closed the door and the cold, silent bathroom surrounded him. Has he ever been to England's house, he wondered. He realized that no, he has never stepped foot in England's estate. He is not awed but felt rather lonely in the large bathroom. He would much rather be listening to America and England bicker than hear nothing at all.
America slipped on the gray sweatpants and oversized black shirt over his bare chest with mirth. It was cute how England tried to guess his shirt size and got the black shirt to be a size too large. It was a shared shirt, England liking it all too much after America was gone.
But England didn't look at him with predilection today (he never does, but America knows his moods) or tries to be the affectionate type America knows England is prone to be behind closed doors. Instead, he's hearing the rain pound outside in wait for Italy.
"So, what's got you so wound up?"
England looked at America and felt a weight in his chest. His oblivious America.
"I'll tell you once Italy comes out."
America moved closer, like a child wanting its mother's attention, and whined. "Iggyy. Just tell me."
England didn't lean away from the touch but did not advance it. "Patience, America. It won't be long until Italy comes out."
America rested his head on England's soft, hair and inhaled the scent of strawberry. America smiled.
"Get off of me — Italy will come back any second —" England said trying to wiggle out of America's grip.
"Shhh. Just relax," America said softly.
The two stood there, one with a serene look of defeat, the other with a pleasant smile in the dim corridor of a once empty house outside the soft rains. A crack of thunder boomed outside, flashing the two men in a heat of white through the glass pane windows. The two did not move.
It was as if they were in their own little world — a world made out of glass and aqueous truths, but a force strong enough to call it love.
America started humming and swaying, England peering up and smiling gently. America grinned back down at England.
Italy clutched the cold corridor wood. He didn't know why he was eavesdropping, but he felt it was wrong to destroy such a moment. He had never seen this side of America and England. They acted like good friends at the meeting, never really showing anything much more than friendly banter. He always had his suspicions about the two because of the way they acted but seeing them together, content and at peace with one another made him want to turn away and wither alongside the plants outside.
This feeling. It left his heart feeling such a numbing pain. He wanted that, he decided. Whatever it was binding those two nations together, he wanted it. Lust, deceit, confusion, comfort. Whatever it was, it seemed beautiful.
His paintings...they could never truly capture what he felt. His frescoes, his dainty strokes were magnificent, but it was all so stupid now. The master of art, he was called. What good was it? In the end, it held the same validity as a dream.
"I'm no good at this. You're the real artist..."
"No, I like it! Your rabbit is really cute!"
"It's supposed to be a dog."
"Germany tried his best, sí? So, it's Germany's dog. I like it very much."
"You just say that to make me feel better...Thank you."
"Shouldn't Italy be back by now?" America asked looking down at the calm England. England's eyes, in turn, snapped open and he quickly detached himself from the drowsy grip he had succumbed to.
"He better not be snooping around my house," England muttered darkly as he marched towards the bathroom. He jumped in shock when Italy appeared out of the corridor.
"Italy! Oh, there you are. You had us worried," England said a little surprised at the look of melancholy on Italy.
America popped up beside England and blinked. "How long have you been there, dude?"
Italy tilted his head. "Been where?"
America motioned with his hands embarrassed. "You know, there. Creepin'"
England stepped on America's foot harshly without looking away from Italy. America yelped in pain. "Don't mind America, Italy. He doesn't know what he's talking about, right?"
America didn't take the hint. "No, I could have sworn I saw Italy peeking at us through the hallway. I had a feeling or something."
"Was I?" Italy asked with wide eyes. He stepped forward, revealing his whole body. "I was in the bathroom, are you sure you didn't just see something?"
America nodded. "Ya-huh man. I could have sworn —"
Another crack of thunder came tumbling down, the light making Italy's amber eyes almost glow in the pitch darkness behind him.
"N-Never mind, little dude. Never mind," America stuttered. Why did England have to give Italy a black shirt and black pants? That was like asking to be murdered! But Italy wouldn't do that...It was almost a joke to think about sweet Italy like that.
"Are you done interrogating Italy? I have something that I have to tell you both," England said motioning the both of them to his kitchen.
"Oh yeah, we have to ask you something too!" America said as he followed England. Italy stayed behind, choosing to watch the both of them and stay quiet. The knot was tightening, another loop and squeeze—it was all too simple.
"Before you ask, I have to tell you that Russia has issued an emergency meeting tomorrow evening in Moscow. I called you a couple days ago, but you wouldn't pick up and your president didn't know where you were," England said as he sat down at the table.
"Good thing we came back to Europe! Me and Italy didn't even realize almost a week had gone by," America said proudly.
"Yes, congratulations," England deadpanned.
America rolled his eyes. "Supportive as always. What does Russia want, though? Who else is coming?"
England wished he had a cup of tea with him now. "The G8 members, Austria and Hungary if I remember correctly."
America paused. "That's different. Why Hungary and Austria?"
England shrugged. "I'm as sure as you are. I'm sure Hungary forced her way in and Austria is just tagging along."
America made a sound of agreement. "They are always together."
England leaned forward. "There's talk that Prussia will be present."
"Wouldn't he have to be? He's fillin' in for Germany, and Germany is in the G8, so wouldn't he have to come?"
England frowned. "He hasn't come to the previous meetings, I wouldn't suspect that he would attend this one."
"Yeah, but he has to come to this one, right?"
England sighed. "I wouldn't count on it, but I suppose it is not impossible."
"So Prussia's going to be there?" Italy asked hopefully.
"What? No, I did not say that. I said he might be going to the meeting —"
"Yay, he's coming to the meeting!" Italy cheered.
England and America sent each other a look. "Right," America said uneasily.
England bridged his hands together, his bony elbows on the table and cheek on the said bridged hands. "So, what exactly have you been up to?"
...
"That is quite the adventure you and Italy have gone on," England said evenly after hearing the rushed sentences of America and Italy, one interrupting the other—correcting and adding on until England had to snap at them to tell him one at a time.
"Yeah, it was. I can't believe it's almost been a week since the last meeting. Time sure flies by," America said with a yawn.
"Italy, are you feeling alright?" England asked the quiet Italy. It was just like that conference meeting — Italy's gaze somewhere England could never see.
"Just fine," Italy answered eventually, the table top still holding his attention. America poked Italy's cheek.
"Hey, hey, hey. You're acting all deep and stuff again. You sure you 'kay little dude?"
Italy turned to America and America stopped poking his cheek. "Just fine," Italy smiled. His soft stretch from cheek to cheek not entirely reaching his usual glow.
"Are you sure? You seem a little down in the dumps —"
"England I'm feeling kind of tired. I'm gonna go take a nap," Italy said as he scooted his chair — the terrible screeching sound that made England visibly wince as Italy left the kitchen in a slow trot.
"Has he been like this throughout the whole week?" England whispered to America once Italy was out of earshot.
"Naw, he's been his usual self all week. It's really weird, he just got all depressed right now — he wasn't like this even when we landed," America whispered loudly back.
"He hasn't shown any odd tendencies? Moments of sudden silence or looks of pensiveness. You haven't done anything to make him feel bad, right? Italy doesn't get offended easily but if you hit a sore spot —"
"If I what? What were you gonna say?" America asked.
England sighed. "Should've known. Poor lad."
"What, what!" America insisted not liking to be left out.
"Us. We were just rubbing it in his face that we are in a relationship, and he is in fact not. How insensitive can we be? Love is a touchy subject right now," England groaned.
"Actually, it shouldn't have bothered him," America said plainly.
England flashed America a look to explain. So America explained.
"On the plane ride to Rhode Island, me and Italy were talking about Germany. I was tellin' him how I actually kinda missed him, everyone does, and Italy didn't get it. So, I had to explain even further, and I guess it ended up with us talking about his dating status with Germany."
"And," England prompted.
"Italy and Germany were never dating. We got it all wrong. Europe got it all wrong. They were never a thing. Italy didn't even look like he considered it until I mentioned it to him. Talk about harsh," America said sympathetically.
"Wait a moment, they were never dating?" England asked incredulously.
America nodded just as shocked. "Yeah, they were never a thing. Or so Italy says. Now, what is actually happening underneath the sheets, I dunno. But, from the looks of it, I think it's a pretty solid assumption. With what just happened, what is happening, and what Italy told me on the plane, I think Italy is getting really confused."
"This is not good. This is not good. Italy is emotional enough as it is, we can't have him hot and cold about his feelings for Germany. I thought he knew already! This is surprising, to say the least."
America snorted. "Imagine my shock. He said it with such nonchalance too, and that face! He looked so confused and appalled. I'm still trying to wrap my head around this. Whathat in the actual fuck is going on anymore."
"Eloquently put," England deadpanned, "I can't say I'm that surprised. Their behavior in the meetings was a little too distant to be considered privacy or protection. It was odd, the way they acted around each other."
"You think so?" America asked putting his feet on the table. England's eyebrows twitched and America grinned. England despised it when he did this. They quarreled for a bit, the air light. But it didn't last long.
"Hey, wait. Where did Italy go?" America asked as he sat up straighter and removed his feet from the table, the light mood gone.
"He said he was going to go rest, don't you remember?"
"Yeah, but he hasn't been at your house before, right? Does he even know where the bedrooms are?" America asked getting out of his seat and out of the kitchen.
"No...Italy!" England shouted as he moved past America quickly to see if Italy was in the main living room.
America went down the corridor and yelled out Italy's name as well. They searched the whole bottom level, but no sign of Italy.
England and America met back in the kitchen.
"Did you find him?" America asked lifting a plant to check if Italy was hiding underneath.
"He's under a plant, you idiot," England snapped, "And no. I had no such luck either."
"Do you think he snuck upstairs?" America asked already moving up towards the majestic staircase of cold steel.
"He shouldn't be," England said with a frown looking up to America on the cold steps. "You check upstairs, I'll check outside. He couldn't have gotten far."
"But it's pouring outside, he wouldn't be out there!" America exclaimed seeing the rain pound heavily on the glass, window panes.
Drip, drip, drip, the rain continues to fall on those who didn't ask for it.
"I'm checking anyway. Italy isn't exactly rational," England said as he put on his raincoat and grabbed an umbrella, opening his glass door for the worst.
Gray, gray skies. The heavens are crying. That was what was said about rain. God must always be crying over England. Just what luck Italy had to be outside — God likes Italy. It was always sunny, always shining. There is never a cloud in sight, the sun smiling beautifully down on precious, innocent Feliciano.
Yet, the waters submerge Italy, leaving Feliciano gasping and crying into the abyss of water to never be seen again, his tears falling deeper and deeper in the shallow waters once dried, puddles splashing from children once Italy is bent over heaving and gasping onto the dry docks, the heat on his back ever present.
"Italy! Where are you! Italy—!" England's shouts died on his lips when he saw Italy twirling a flower in his hand by the garden. Italy had a black umbrella over his head and was squatting down. He was twirling a wilting tulip, the petals dripping small droplets of water, the water sliding off the stems in a rhythmic motion.
Drip, drip, drip.
England clutched onto the handle of his own umbrella and jogged over to Italy.
Drip, drip, drip. Did Elliot ever turn off that faucet? Italy hoped so.
"Italy! Just what in the bloody hell are you thinking going out in this weather? Are you mad! We need to go back inside —"
Drip. Drip. Drip. The rain continues to fall on those who didn't ask for it.
"— I can show you my garden some other day when it's not raining. Come on—"
"Hey, England. What do tulips mean?" Italy asked continuing to inspect the white tulip. He rubbed his fingers down the stem and felt the small green dip underneath his fingers, his peach skin consuming the stem. To think, he, useless Italy, still had so much power over something so insignificant.
"What do they mean? They can represent many things —"
"But what do they mean. Love? Sadness? I hope love, I like that one better," Italy lamented.
England hesitated, the streams of water from the umbrella falling down in perfect lines of miniature waterfalls in front of him.
"They represent love. Perfect love. As this one is white, it means a pure, perfect love. A yellow one means a hopeless love, but love nonetheless."
Italy smiled. "And Lavenders?"
His ears took in the sound of nothingness. Where did the birds go? Wouldn't it be lovely if they sang instead of the harsh pellets hitting the ground in an annoying staccato.
"Will answering these questions make you go back inside?"
"I guess so."
"Let's see...Lavenders? Lavenders most commonly symbolize love, loyalty, and devotion. But it can also mean distrust."
"And Bachelor Buttons?"
England looked surprised at such a specific request. "The most common is delicacy and purity, but it can also mean anticipation for fulfilling one's dreams. A youthful freedom."
Italy gazed down at the array of flowers in front of him. He wondered for a fleeting moment if he felt envious of England. Even without words, sound, or touch, he could convey a message. Just what could England be telling the world? Just what did England's heart bleed?
England offered his hand down to Italy. Italy peered up and saw the streams of water fall down to the ground, the columns never relenting, and yet there stood England, strong and sturdy. He didn't seem bothered by the rain, the winds did not chill him to the bone. Italy took the hand and he was hoisted up gently.
Italy kept his head down as he was lead back to the house. He unclenched his hold on the dead tulip and let it go.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
...
Being fussed over by America and England wasn't as nice as Italy had imagined it to be. He wanted peace at the moment. He wanted to be left completely alone and away from the two males scolding him from "worry" and for his "recklessness". He dropped his head on the table and felt his cheek hit the cold wood.
England pursed his lips and then sighed. "I think Italy's heard enough. We have a long day tomorrow anyway, we should probably prepare for bed. It's getting late."
America didn't seem to want to let this go but relented anyway. "Yeah, that probably is a good idea. Here, I'll show ya where you're staying little dude."
Italy made his odd little sound and followed America. America opened an ancient looking door, no doubt a sight not seen by many, and let Italy gaze upon the dark room flooded with light in an instant.
"This is it. We'll be leavin' at around five in the morning tomorrow so," America said.
"Thanks, America," Italy said gratefully.
America smiled with a nod and closed the door.
The room was strangely minimal. Minimal in the sense that the antiquities that were held inside were not much. The room held a distinguished air and was probably of great importance once upon a time. Who knew how old the room was itself, and who knew who had slept in it. Maybe no one at all. Because the bed looked quite new, and the vanity was old but not antique, and the curtains were drawn and knotted with a steady crease of years of entanglement.
Italy wondered for a brief moment if England still took in colonies into his house. He wondered if Hong Kong was lonely and alone on the other side of the world and if just maybe this room was for him. A room never used from a traumatic experience that seemed quickly mended from the brief touches and smiles of America and England. Italy wondered if his own colonies ever miss him.
He laughed.
Italy sat on the bed and bounced a bit on the cold comforter. He fell on his side, his left cheek on the nylon material. He could hear his heart beat through his ear and the curtains sway. Did England not have blinds? The breeze was nice.
Italy gazed at the brown vanity with little scratches and little chips. Just who England was preparing that empty vanity for was a question that plagued Italy as the murmurs of England and America rang through the narrow hallways.
Italy was sure they were talking about him. He could feel it, he didn't need to hear it. He just knew, they just had to be! How could they not? Even he did not know what possessed him to go outside in the freezing rain again with clothing that wasn't even his or an umbrella that wasn't his own.
His mind had strayed it seemed. His mind wandered, and it thought thoughts that were too controversial for his own sake, and he felt his heart simply pump for blood. He felt it through his fingers, through his breast and through the curling of his toes. But just what is it that he feels?
Dead? No, he was not that depressed. Sad? Most definitely, but even with all the words in the world, sadness will never just be sadness. Angry? No, he wasn't angry. He can't think of the last time he was angry at anything really. Numb? He felt alive, he wasn't incapable of having genuine emotion.
Italy bit his lips as he wondered why he had to be so bipolar. Smart people are smart and they are this. Happy people are happy and they are like this. Philosophy of the centuries, a happiness of forever, enlightened knowledge, and recent cowardice made for Feliciano's dilemma. It wasn't fair, he thought. He should be like...
"Him loves I. Him loves I. Him loves I."
Why couldn't his eyes shut? He wanted to sleep yet here he was thinking, and thinking, and thinking. Did Japan feel remorse, Italy wondered. He has been so absorbed in his own desperation he had completely forgotten to acknowledge Japan. He was sure Japan was worried in his reserved, polite way. He hadn't asked, or even called! What a friend he was.
And maybe that was why his tears were forming a puddle on England's lovely comforters. Maybe, Italy was crying right now, the clouds gone and the people sad.
What irony it would be if Germany was shining right now, a beautiful sunshine with fluffy clouds.
...
"We should not be doing this," England said.
"Aww, but why not? Italy's asleep and won't know," America said snuggling himself into the bedsheets.
"This doesn't feel right...to be doing this right now," England said unconvinced.
"It's fine. Me and Italy did this on the plane ride here."
England winced. "Love your phrasing."
America looked at him dumbly before widening his eyes. He quickly denied it. "No, no! Not like that! Jeez, dirty mind much?"
"Belt up!" England said with flushed cheeks again.
America scooched closer and bumped England's shoulder playfully.
"Don't be like that. We have every other night to make you scream my name, so —"
"Just read, you bloody oaf!" England said embarrassed.
America laughed. England sat up straighter on the bed and waited for America to grab the thick book by the table with the word: journal.
America suddenly turned serious. "Hey, these are actually pretty deep so don't think this is like that time back in World War Two with the Italy tracker thing."
England blinked. "Oh yes, whatever did happen to that?"
"Beats me. Probably in here somewhere, but you know. It will probably be a couple entries away."
"Maybe it's in a different book altogether," England proposed now interested where the other source is.
"Maybe," America agreed.
America took a deep breath in. "Alright, here we go." America read with a terrible German accent.
"12. May 1933
France, why do you hate me. What have I done to you?
I could not think of anything other than relief in my previous entry, the high of post-war running through me too clearly. I could barely concentrate on signing the treaty, the treaty that took six months to imprison me. Italy, despite being equally as broke as I am, still smiles and laughs. He came by earlier asking for a job but I had to kick him out.
I'm...equally as broke.
I am not the only one it seems. America, how is life faring for you? The soup need more salt?"
"Oh, so not cool man!" America exclaimed.
"It's over now, love. This is a different Germany speaking here," England soothed.
America sent England a grateful look and continued.
"This man named Adolf Hitler seems to be popular as of late. He makes big claims. He says he will make me great again, that it wasn't my fault for what the enemies did. He speaks with such vigor and charisma, I do not see why Brother does not like him. He seems promising—"
"Yikes, Nazi Germany already?" America asked dreading the future entries.
"You do realize that Adolf Hitler started rising in power literally the same year World War One ended?" England deadpanned.
"Yeah, but still!"
"Just continue reading."
"I like him even with his...health issue. Uncontrollable flatulence is very serious of course...and libido medications are very necessary of course..."
America stared and made sure he read that right. America couldn't contain himself as he laughed uncontrollably. He looked over to England's disgusted face and cracked up even more. America could feel the tears escaping his eyes and knew he should probably shut up so Italy can sleep, but it was too funny!
"It's not that funny! I swear you have the mind of a child," England said once he was tired of hearing America wheeze beside him in absolute joy.
America kept laughing lightly as he wiped a tear out of his eye. "Oh come on, you know it was great."
England sighed. "Please just keep reading."
"He has good ideas that seem to be working, so I guess that's all I can ask for. You see...Brother is weary of Adolf. He refuses to be civil with him, and I always have to apologize for his behavior, but Adolf doesn't seem to mind it much.
What a nice guy.
Brother tells me I shouldn't listen to him. But it's hard not to, he's my Chancellor. I don't understand why, and I try to make Brother understand, but he just yells at me for being a dumbass and blind. Brother has been tense with me lately...
On those days, Adolf just pats my shoulder and tells me he's stuck in the past. Brother doesn't see what he sees, and that makes him mad.
I don't think that's it but if he says so...
Even Italy doesn't seem all that thrilled. I wonder what they don't see, things will be great! Things will...change. It wasn't fair what they did—France did. England at least had a look of disgust and didn't seem to absolutely revel in smugness.
Though, I do not agree with everything my new boss says. Some of the things he has been doing...I don't agree with.
Personally, I do not see anything wrong with the Jews. To go as far as boycotting their business seems silly to me. They have wronged us many times, I won't deny that, but they are still Germans, my citizens. I will have to ask him one day why he detests the Jews so much. The burnings and open acts of violence were uncalled for.
Also, as of late, he has been questioning why I never bring home a woman. I told him that was none of his business, but he would not stop pestering (demanding) things out of me. It seemed as if all my answers were a double meaning to him, none holding validity in his eyes.
I suppose he has right to be suspicious...Berlin was, ah, questionable."
America looked to England to explain.
"Let's just say that Las Vegas had nothing on Berlin. Quite a lot of...ah, variety," England said blushing a tad.
America tilted his head. A place crazier than Las Vegas? In the twenties? In Germany? England had to be senile.
"Yeah right. No way Germany was partying it up that hardcore in the twenties. You must be trippin'."
"No, I remember it quite well..." England said with a growing blush and America wondered if he touched England's cheek if would it be burning.
"You know what, I'm just gonna keep reading. You can...do your kinky stuff in your head," America said deciding that maybe he didn't want to know what was going on in Berlin. It's a horror enough to have been to a German Sparkle Party...
"I am not kinky! Stop interrupting and read the bleeding thing," England snapped. America shrugged and did so.
"But even so, not dating a woman does not equate to no feelings of love. If I were to ever fall in love, which I haven't, it would be painfully obvious. I have been told that I am quite easy to read.
I don't think he understands that although I appear to same as him—young—if the experience I have could show through my body as wrinkles and bony fingers, I would be the same as his brittle, great grandfather. Would he question his great-grandfather? I asked him this and he tells me, no. I am different, I am a country.
I don't see how it's different, I am still older than him by all means, but I suppose in the grand scheme of things I am an infant disguised as a man. I have nothing on France, England, Norway, Russia, China, or even India in terms of age.
I remember Brother telling me once to enjoy the first fifty years of my life. I was small back then when he told me this, barely to his knee and I just tugged at his coat urging him to explain. He picked me up and carried me to the kitchen. He set me on the cold counter so we could be at eye level and I swung my legs being careful to not hit the wood. He explained something to me on that day.
'You're a smart kid because I'm your awesome big brother, right? Of course! So listen to the awesome Prussia. How old am I?'
It was a trick question. Technically, he was only around two hundred years old if he wanted to be referred by Brandenburg-Prussia, and even younger if just by Prussia. But I knew what he meant. So I said seven hundred years old.
He smiled proudly and said very good. I felt proud.
'And how long does a human live?' He then asked me. I said forty.
'That's right. They don't last long. So what do they do? They make the most out of whatever God intended them to do. But you and I aren't like them.'
I asked why. I was only ten years old back then.
'Because they aren't awesome nations! They are mortals. I don't look like I'm seven hundred, do I? That's because I'm so awesome of course, but have you ever wondered why I haven't aged like the hags in the market?' I didn't. He was Brother and that was it.
'We can't age physically. The spirit of our nation is forever young. You've read about China, right? How he's thousands of years old? Would you believe me if I told you that he looks exactly like me and not a day older?' I told him of course, he was Brother. He shook his and gained a watery smile.
'What I'm trying to say Luddyis that you will never get these fifty years back. Your body can grow and look older than it is, but this is the closest thing you'll ever get to being human.' And that thought had made me feel sad. I didn't fully understand it back then. What Brother was trying to tell me but Brother had made such a sad face and I slapped both of his cheeks to make him stop being sad. I was hiccupping and crying but Brother shouldn't look sad.
I told him that I'll always be human.
And sometimes I still think maybe I wish I was human. So that the things I know could be considered wise to a kind that doesn't live long instead of naivety to a kind that lives forever. But then I think back to Italy and how he is labeled naive and stupid. He is stupid, but not in the sense that he is not intelligent.
I'm going on a tangent...I originally opened this to say that I feel uneasiness brewing within me. I don't know what it is, I asked Brother about the nasty feeling in my stomach but he told me to go take some medicine. I've had this feeling once before. Before The Great War. I don't want to go to war again...I really, really don't want to go to war again but I will if I must.
Things are going to change soon. I can feel it. For good or for the worse, I do not know. Either way...In the end, it is not my choice is it?"
"That's it," America said.
"That didn't tell us much of anything," England said.
"Yeah I know but this is a journal, you know? There's plenty of articles and books about World War Two so that's not the real issue here," America said as he took off his glasses and wiped them clean.
"Here, let me see it," England said grabbing the boom from America's lap.
"..."
"..."
"..."
"Whatcha looking for?" America asked after a moment of silence.
England's eyes roamed the page once more, flipping and flipping again. "For clues that would explain Germany leaving."
"But like, what if Germany was abducted or something."
England rolled his eyes. "Oh please. Why would anyone abduct Germany?"
America wiggled on the bed. "I dunno, hate crime or something!"
"Well, I suppose forced abduction is not an option we can eliminate...but I find it highly unlikely."
"But there."
"But there. Also, drug rehabilitation is a possibility. Being in a gang is also an option. On a vacation yet another. In outer space, in a coma, in a traveling circus, amnesia, D.I.D.—there are bloody a million explanations!" England huffed out.
America opened his mouth widely. "Wow, how did you come up with all that? What is Germany is an acrobat, oh my god, oh my god! A gang? Really?"
"..."
"Is it bad that I can believe that?" America said.
"Germany is intimidating, I would believe it."
"Oooooor, what if Germany is a bodyguard of a super famous star and I don't know, never returned?"
"Then we would know if this star is super famous," England said getting irritated that nothing was really helping them.
"No need to get snappy dude. Just proposing ideas."
"Yes, but leave that migraine for tomorrow. There will be plenty of time to share. Right now I'm trying to see for any clues but they are bloody useless."
America peered over England's shoulder. "Alright let's see. Hitler, Hitler, yadda yadda. So we know Prussia doesn't like Hitler. That's a thing right?"
"Not really, that wouldn't affect their relationship today."
"Ah, but it could have!" America began, "Prussia is friends with Japan, and Japan was allied with Germany. Prussia from the sounds of it doesn't hate Germany but is disappointed and angry at the big man. So even there could be some tension there. You know, 'why does my brother like Japan but not me even though we're the same', kind of angst. It also says that Italy isn't thrilled about this. Tension is important here. Because things are swept under the rug always come back and haunts you...Also, from what you're telling me, Berlin was a liberal hotspot, right?"
England nodded. "Yes. Very liberal. Queers, trannies..."
"Right, so I'm just going to imagine it being California. That must have driven Hitler crazy. Germany crazy and!" America pointed to the cursive lettering, "Germany admits to himself that he is easy to read. 'If I were in love, which I am not, it would be painfully obvious.' Unquote, boom," America said proudly.
"Is Germany aware of his feelings for Italy by this point then?" England asked taking in the sight of the penmanship. Oh, how he missed the days of calligraphy.
"From the sounds of it, no. But it doesn't sound like he's not open to the idea at least. What I'm more interested in is the compliance of his boss. Germany said that Hitler was trying to get him up with a woman. Big deal, there will always be that one boss. We all know that the Nazis were sexists and we can look at this in two ways," America said in lecture mode. He held up one finger to begin.
"A. Hitler wanted Germany to have a straight relationship because that's what Hitler wanted his country to be like, so duh. Germany, Ludwig, had to have a dolled up chick naturally as well. It was more symbolic than anything. Or B," America held up another finger, "Hitler knew of Germany's super gayness and past rumors of Italy. This is probably the most likely, but we don't know. Can you imagine how he probably reacted when they were together? Hitler's was a manipulative bastard, he could make a lot of things happen behind the scenes."
"Yes...quite negatively, I'm sure. I have no doubt that there must have been a major argument between those two," England said.
"Enough to make him go M.I.A.?" America questioned.
"Yes."
"..."
"..."
"So, when he came back...that was?" America said not wanting to believe it.
England didn't look pleased either. "I can not recall a time I've ever seen Germany so horribly beaten up. Just where in the world could he have been to have a missing ear? He had burn marks on his neck and who knows where else. There were stitches and I'm still not sure if all his fingers were underneath those black gloves."
"Yeah, me neither. Seeing Germany like that just really hit hard, you know? What we had done," America said softly.
England looked down. "Yes...It was a time of great sadness and shock. I think even Russia was appalled, but not by much. I don't wish that for any nation. Ever."
"Yeah. Me neither. Good thing the world isn't like that anymore, huh? Because even back then, Germany was a weird guy. Sure, it was Nazi Germany, but he wasn't all that much different. If that makes sense. It probably doesn't. Germany's always had a good heart. Even if it is misguided and kinda easy to mold."
"What are you trying to get at, America?" England asked already knowing this.
America shifted a bit. "What I'm trying to say is that Germany is predictable, and spontaneous at the same time. You know what he will say, but at the same time, you kinda don't. Remember how shocked we were when we learned that he was M.I.A.? For two years? So many rumors spread. But the only 'reliable' source we had was Italy. And you remember what he told us, right?"
"Yes. But you really think that was the truth?"
"I don't see a reason for Italy to lie. Even back then, Germany wasn't a cold monster. That war was like a civil war to him. Internal strife is his own and you know any way to help the pain is one we're gonna take." America smiled. "Besides, I'm pretty sure we're all weak for children."
England nodded. "I see. So you really think that Germany was helping the jews? Like Italy had told us? Helping this little girl? I don't know, I find this hard to believe. Why would Germany do that?...Are you suggesting that Hitler did something to Germany for getting attached to this little girl? Hiding her or something?"
America shrugged. "At some point, you really learn to stop caring about sides. Germany fell hard for Italy, and if he really were a stickler to everything his boss told him to do, then we would have dealt with a very different person. It's not like Germany has never said fuck you before. What my question is, though, why. Why would he do that?"
Nineteen forty-three. It was a horrible year for both sides. Germany went missing and Italy had told America that Germany really was a good guy.
Safe inside a bomb cellar, sticky moisture clung onto the dim room as rumbles had echoed through their feet and through Italy's beating heart in cold, dreary England. Italy had been toying with a food can and had wondered out loud what it would have been like if he'd gotten to say goodbye to Germany. What it would have been like to say sorry to the man that had given him so much, but apparently not enough. And then Italy had spun around as the lightbulb had swayed and shattered to the ground.
Because Germany was such a nice guy, he had repeated with tears.
"I'm pretty sure you just answered your own question, love. He had an alliance with Russia first, but then that turned out to be quite a failure. He didn't expect for you to join either, but Japan always was a little ambitious. He was already starting to lose in '43 and that is the same year Italy leaves. Another alliance gone. And from this entry, we now know that the pressure from Hitler is as strong as ever even before the war began. Take into consideration all the emotional mess there was within him and think, was it such a surprise that he would just defy the regime?" England answered back.
"No...I guess not. We'll just have to find out later. If Germany really did help this girl and become close to her. She has to have some signifance. I'm thinking a Soviet spy he had to kill or a test subject. Or maybe just a citizen—a neighbor, you know?"
"I'm putting money on that's she's a spy. But not a Soviet spy. A resistance spy. Wouldn't that be something? To go missing to go join the resistance?"
America widened his eyes. "Woah. He wouldn't have! He...But he could have? This makes me want to read even more now!"
England rolled his eyes. "Well isn't that refreshing."
"...You know, maybe Germany went insane. The meds back then weren't all that great, after all," America said seriously.
"If we broke underneath normal human conditions, we would have all committed suicide by the fifth year of being a nation. No, he can't go insane, it is literally impossible to for us. Unless of course, that's the vast majority of the population," England said. "As for medications. We were all under the same things, so I don't think that was it either."
"True, true. We were all kinda the same crazy," America agreed.
"We'll just have to wait and see. There's still more to read for tomorrow. We need to go to bed," England said yawning.
America flicked his wrist and saw the little digital screen telling him it was already eleven thirty. "Wow, it's late."
He took off his watch and gently placed it on the table. He searched the knob for the light bulb a couple times, missing it a couple times before switching it off with a soft click. The room was immersed in black immediately and America snuggled up closer to England.
Soon enough they fell asleep.
...
Italian Colonies — Italy was part of the "Scramble for Africa" frenzy that struck Europe in the nineteenth century. When Italy was going out and gaining Eastern African colonies, he was at this point considered"The Italian Empire". (Very smol empire but an empire.) He wasn't very successful at first, but around World War II, he tried again and was luckier. These countries are now free, of course.
Berlin in post-World War I —Berlin in the 1920's was the place to be if you were gay or transgender. There were many gay nightclubs and some of the first surgeries for transgender people were performed in Berlin. Magazines, strip clubs, bars, drag shows — it was all there in the nightlife of Berlin. It sort of became fashionable to be homosexual.
Burnings and Boycotting — Once Hitler came into office in 1933, he immediately started off his rule with the burnings of books that he deemed unacceptable to the Nazi way of life. This included the magazines and photos of the once liberal Berlin and many other texts that were 'Jewish' and 'Non-Aryan'. Hitler also enforced boycotting of many Jewish businesses in hopes that the German people wouldn't see the Jews as human, but it backfired as many still did business with them.
Soup Need More Salt, America? — In reference to the long soup lines during the Great Depression. Hitler used the Great Depression to his advantage to make the German people distrust the federal government and in turn look to the Nazi party that was actually "progressing" things.
The Jews Have Wronged Us Many Times, But They Are Still Germans —Since Germany is the personification of the German people of the given time era, Germany reflects the ideals of the masses, NOT the government. With Nazi propaganda beginning to circulate and be enforced (book burnings, boycotting, etc.) many Germans felt that Jews did some bad things, but not all were bad. Many didn't hate the Jews, they simply didn't care.
English, Not Europeans — The people of England sometimes feel like they are not European. They are English, very different. Hence, why France calls England Black Sheep. England has always been different. Some will be highly offended if you even misuse the word British.
Brandenburg-Prussia — The first official name for Prussia. Technically, Prussia should be around America's age if one were to base it off of pure historical data, but since Himaruyadrew "Prussia" as part of the Teutonic Knight Order, that means he's been around since the 12th century.