Chapter Eleven — And So They Danced on Frigid Waters
...
Hungary marched towards Prussia and grabbed him by the arm. She did not give him any time to defend himself, she was dragging him by the crook of his elbow out of the hallway, through the stairs, out of the lobby, and out into the cold outdoors. She was not wearing her coat—her gray coat hanging on a lovely wooden hanger inside. The cold seeped into her face quickly, her cheeks reddening and her form shivering. She spun around.
"What the hell was that."
"A G8 meeting."
"Prussia. Were you trying to make me spill? Are you just looking for drama?"
Prussia's breath formed wispy clouds into the air. Hungary's hair was cold to the touch, and her breath too was visible.
"Have you forgotten how meetings work? We share things. We share important things." Prussia spoke as if he was detached from the problem. And maybe he was Hungary thinks for a fleeting moment before realizing and then feeling angry that she had thought such a thing.
"If you wanted to share, then you should have told Italy yourself! Why did you put me on the spot like that?" Hungary demanded taking a step forward, her footprint soon to quickly vanish underneath the frozen rain.
"How else is he going to find out?" Prussia finally snapped. For the first time since he had arrived, he had finally shown an emotion she was familiar to.
"That's the point—he doesn't!" Hungary said.
"Why are you so against Italy knowing? He will eventually read the whole journal and know. You can't smother him or baby him, you're not a mother."
Prussia's words were cutting deep into her skin. She embroiled those words into her heart and she wants to breathe again. She does her anger now not anger but instead hurt.
"I never said I was."
Prussia shoved his hands into his coat jacket. "Then why are you so adamant on babying him? He's going to know whether you like it or not. And if there's one thing Italy hates the most is being excluded. Especially the one ones he considers close."
"I'm not excluding...I'm just pro —"
"And it's not your job to do so," said Prussia.
The snow fell down gently. Hungary couldn't feel her hands and she bet Prussia couldn't either. Prussia blended in so well with the snow, it was as if he were born in the cold.
There was a harsh wind, her fringe swaying violently and her vision a fraction of what I should be. Prussia stood his ground, and Hungary wondered where exactly did the snow land on his head.
It died down, the wind calming but still stinging in smaller attacks. "If you dragged me out for this, this would be unawesome."
"...Yeah, that's it."
Prussia came over to her and Hungary felt his gloved hand pat her shoulder robotically, not sure when to continue and when to stop. She felt the leather through her thin fabric and the warmth he provided was not much. "Don't be down and shit...you're, uh."
"I'm what?" Hungary asked interested after a short pause. Prussia bloomed a rosy color.
"You're super lame and unawesome but there's no need to be sad, woman," Prussia said loudly.
She ducked her head and jabbed her boot into the pile of fresh white cotton. She wiggled her foot slowly at first, feeling the coldness seep through the material of her boot regardless. She burrowed her foot in deeper, her right boot almost completely gone from sight. It wasn't deep—the hole—only three inches or so, but she didn't need to look at Prussia's face to see him doing the same.
...
"Italy. Italy, Italy, come back —!"
Italy walked forward through the bland hallways seemingly not hearing America. The others watched curiously as to why Italy was walking away quickly and why America looked desperate. England had left immediately to go buy something (and left the building just as quickly as Italy was to America right now so he would not be America's said position).
"You gotta let me explain," said America catching up to Italy. The elevator's ding ringed, the chipper sound sending men in business suits out. Italy let them pass and moved to enter the cramped space. America squeezed himself in hurriedly despite the door not closing for another minute or so. Italy shoved his hands into his coat pockets and focused on the dull, glowing buttons with little black numbers on them.
There was no elevator music, no noise to make the situation less than what it was.
America never thought Italy could actually be angry. No, angry wasn't it. Italy doesn't become angry. He gets upset—very, very upset.
"Look, Italy, I'm sorry. I really am."
The doors closed shut and no one rushed to re-open it. Italy jabbed the bottom floor button in response.
"Look, I know you're mad and stuff about what happened before, but you I swear it was only one entry! Only one and no more, I promise."
Italy lowered his head and breathed into his scarf. "Only one...?" He asked eyes cast to the floor.
"Only one," promised America.
"...But why did you read it in the first place? Why did you read it behind my back?" Italy said bitterly. There it was, the feeling he could not contain.
America didn't know how to answer. "Italy, Italy I messed up, I get that now but it wasn't intentional!"
"Then what was it?"
"I was just trying to help...I was just trying —"
"And you thought I wouldn't notice. But you messed up, and I did notice."
The ride down wasn't a very long, only six floors. But now they were at the fifth and people came in a flurry. Shades of gray and blacks came in and settled themselves in the small space. With the addition of people, Italy and America got separated, and Italy looked so small compared to the giant Russians. Italy was around the corner and didn't seem to mind it all that much.
The fourth floor came too quickly and some left there, some others staying clutching onto their briefcases impatient. America moved towards Italy, saying excuse me in horribly butchered Russian.
"So I get your mad, I would be too, so what can I do to make it up to you?" America asked in the universal language. All the countries at this point knew English and it was an unspoken rule to always talk in English with one another. It was "good practice" England had promoted smugly.
"Pasta, a porn magazine, some coffee, a date?" America continued. Italy shook his head more and more as each word tumbled out of America's mouth. "How about fifty bucks and we call it water under the bridge? Ok, maybe not money. Um. Uh. How about some movies, you like those right?"
Ding. The third floor. People leave. People come.
Italy didn't know if his teeth were chattering because he was cold or because he was getting more tired of America's excuses. Pasta, movies, money, none of that mattered to him. Why would it if he had no one to share it with?
Italy almost felt bad for America. It was as if he had lost his will to submit into dependency. And that was just as dangerous as being overly anti-independent, Italy thought.
"I don't want movies, chocolate, or whatever else you can offer me," Italy said.
America seemed lost. How else could he show he was sorry?
"...I already said I'm sorry, and you don't want anything..."
Italy rubbed his lips together and absentmindedly noticed they were chapped. America still didn't get it.
"And I don't want you to be mad at me," America finished.
Ding. The second floor. People come. People leave.
Italy thought back to all the times he's fought with his brother. The number was too high for his liking, but years bound together on the same land did not produce the same mind. Most of the fights were of one concerning his safety, and in the end, Italy did the thing he was told not to do. It was as if trial and error did not sit well with him. From tickling the kitty that didn't like being tickled every day, to agreeing to something that would produce the same results as of those thousands of years ago. Italy didn't know where this dispute landed within his long timeline but he felt as though he's in the wrong again. Somewhere, somehow, Italy bet this was his fault and that he still hasn't learned.
"It wasn't because you read the entry," Italy finally said more defeated than anything.
"Then what was it?"
Funny. Italy had asked that only a minute ago.
Why couldn't America understand that it wasn't that he read the journal, it was the principality behind it. Words, they could be re-read any day at any time. It wasn't that. It was that he read it behind his back.
He did this in secret. He didn't tell Italy. He intended to keep it a secret — Italy doesn't deserve to know. Italy shouldn't know. Let's keep this hush, hush. He will never know — and if he does, oh well! It's only Italy. He wouldn't hurt a soul. Let's keep Italy in the dark, it doesn't matter. It never mattered before. It shouldn't matter now right — give him some pasta and he'll be good as new!
America demanded the book from him. That didn't work out. He destroyed the book but then fixed it. He pretended to lose it as if it were a joke.
He thought he was dating Germany and never told him. (But then again, Europe didn't either.) He told him Prussia was coming to the meeting to make him feel better, at the end saved when Prussia did come. But he didn't need comfort at the moment! Why couldn't they understand that? Why was he always treated like glass, like bubble wrap on the floor? He wasn't strong — he knew this. He knew that he was not the strongest, the most well put together, or the brightest. He knew. He knew. But how dare they for a moment assume he was completely clueless.
It was like they treated him like a human. A human, a human! A human and not as a fellow nation who has seen war, plague, famine, revolution, and destitution all the same. And with that thought, it made Italy hitch his breath. Looking back, it has always been like that. Hungary and Austria didn't tell him the HRE was dead, it had been France. Seborga's existence. No one told him he had another brother, another kin until a body a tad bit taller than him introduced himself as a micronation and a brother.
No one told him this, no one told him that, no one told him this.
"Italy...?" America asked carefully taking the silence as a sign of the disparity in their intentions.
"It wasn't about the journal. It wasn't about the journal," Italy said.
Ding. The bottom floor. People came. All people left.
Italy escaped the confines of that small room quickly and took in the ambiance of the first floor. Voices, with motley accents blending in together, was a great thing to hear. Italy ran, and America chased. But America should have known Italy was great at running away.
Italy didn't like the cold. He never has. But he was out in the snow now, trying to see if a thing such as a snowflake actually existed. The snow looked all the same to him. They were just fat pieces of frozen water falling down from the sky. He walked away to the sound of America coming closer and closer.
"Italy!"
Italy tugged the coat closer to him. Even with his three layers of clothing, the cold seeped too deeply into his bones.
America, it seemed, always caught up to you. Because he was beside Italy again breathing heavily and looking conflicted.
"Why are you really mad?"
Italy saw his breath come out shakily and form into a ghost of what he wanted to say. "You kept it a secret from me. You weren't planning on telling me. I don't care that you read an entry, well I do — that hurt too — but it's like. It's like I'm not allowed to do even this."
"Allowed? What are you talking about?"
"Why did you read ahead when you knew I was going to be behind? Were you trying to help or were just selfish?"
"Well I mean, no. I was planning on telling you, I really was, but."
We judge ourselves by our intentions, but we judge others by their actions. I meant to tell you. I wanted to tell you.
"But you didn't. You didn't just like everyone else."
"No, I guess I didn't..." America looked apologetic, and Italy didn't want to forgive — he didn't want to give in, he didn't want to let this be forgotten but he knew he was going to anyway. Somehow, someway, this will seem minuscule.
Looking back on it Germany, it had been minuscule. So, so minuscule.
"Do you think I can do this?" Italy asked quietly. America still didn't understand. And maybe, he never really will. He knew too much, yet he also knew very little. "Please don't lie for my sake either. Just answer me honestly. Do you think I can do this?"
"I don't think you'll fail," America answered instead.
"But do you think I can do this? Do you actually believe that I, Italy, can bring back Germany and help fix the mess that Europe is in right now."
"Um. Yes?"
Italy felt the shards in his heart breaking, chipping and falling closer and closer to an incomplete fragment.
"You don't. You don't. You don't," Italy cried.
America moved closer to him, his arms in front of him not knowing how to console Italy. "Hey, hey, I do think you can do this Italy, I do!"
Do I. Do I. Do I?
"You're just saying that," Italy murmured.
"No, no I'm not. I really do think you can do it."
Italy thought America was saying it with honesty. Italy felt that his voice was actually truthful. And our thoughts are the only thing we can go off of now, aren't they.
"And I think you will be the hero!" America said with a smile. "Germany will thank you, and you'll be the hero to Germany."
Italy let a smile itch onto his face. A hero. Italy has never been called that before. "You think so?"
"I don't think, I know so!" America cheered relieved that Italy was brightening up.
"Then that means you can never do that again~!"
"Yeah! Wait what can't I do?"
"Lie to me~ Lie to me like you're doing right now."
America seemed genuinely confused. Italy chattered his teeth and curled his toes within his thick socks. He was so cold.
"Why do you keep thinking I'm lying to you?" America asked seemingly not affected by the cold.
"Journal, dating, Prussia —"
America looked away. "Okay, I get it. I haven't been the most considerate, I guess but like. It's not because I don't believe in you, it's because um."
It's because I'm selfish, Italy finished in his mind. Italy was tired of the cold. Tired of his scarf not keeping him warm, tired of seeing the little white dots collect on his shoes, and tired of shivering.
Italy spun around and walked away. Italy's back seemed to know where it was going, it walked only ahead and didn't look back. The little shoulders shook, but surely it must be from the cold. And as America is standing there, seeing Italy walk away, he can't seem to get rid of the words he wanted to say that had been stuck in his throat.
America turned around to walk back into the building and stopped short. Because Hungary stood there oh so still and shocked next to Prussia's neutral stance. Prussia took Hungary's hand and led her back inside in a hurry, Hungary's eyes flickering to America and then to Prussia quickly.
Italy's footprints were gone by the time America looked back.
...
"I think that should be it," China said cutting off a piece of gauze swiftly.
Russia patted his nose and felt the stiff material cover it with little to no emotion. "Thank you China," Russia said in the "infirmary." (It was just a large janitor's closet cleared out with a bench, sink, and a first aid kit for the instances that someone got hurt. Which was every meeting.) The lights flickered and China threw away the soiled tissues of red into the waste can.
"Do you really believe Europe is going to go into chaos?" Russia asked twiddling with his scarf.
"No," China answered.
"Comrade Italy looked upset."
"I would be too if I had to deal with America all day."
Russia chuckled a bit and swung his legs on the bench not saying much more. He liked this feeling. It was good. China wasn't mad at him, and he wasn't mad at China. His chest still hurt, and his heart felt like it was straining itself too hard, but in time the pain will numb and he will have something new to call normality.
There was a knock on the door. China raised an eyebrow but went to open it. He didn't see anyone until he felt something pawing at his leg. It was a polar bear and China scooped it up and cuddled it to his face.
"Aya, so cute!" He said rubbing the fur on his face in delight.
"Kumajirou's going to scratch you if you don't set him down," Canada said worriedly. China blinked and squinted. Slowly, as if a picture coming into focus, Canada was seen. He pulled it away from his face and the polar bear glared at him. He rubbed its nose with his in happiness and set it down. The bear returned to Canada's side, and Canada just stood by the door awkwardly.
"Is that Canada?" Russia asked happily hopping off the bench. He easily saw over China and saw Canada give him a wave.
"Hello, Canada," Russia said with a smile.
"Hello, Russia," Canada responded back not cowering away. "Can I talk to you guys for a sec?"
China narrowed his eyes when Russia said to come in.
"Why?"
"It's about the journal. There's this thing I can't figure out and I was wondering if you could help me," Canada said quietly.
China did not deem Canada as a liar so he let him in. He shut the door and the room was suddenly too small for three people. There wasn't enough sitting space for three.
Canada pulled the book out of his long tan jacket and turned to the page he was looking for.
"Did comrade Canada steal the book?" Russia asked curiously.
"I-I didn't! No one took claim to it and Italy kinda stormed off so I thought I could read it and —"
China waved his nervousness away with his hands.
"It's fine. We don't really care."
Canada relaxed and showed them the thing he was stuck on. To Russia and China, all they saw was a throw up of words called German. The alphabet was hard enough for them, let alone a language with the said alphabet.
The page was heavy with scribble marks and crossed out words that the pen made sure to not reveal. "Look here," Canada said pointing to the blackness.
Russia and China saw. They saw black.
"What are we looking at?" China asked trying to see what it was that Canada wanted.
"Look closer. Do you see it?" Canada insisted.
Russia physically moved closer and was so close to the page, that he could almost smell the paper's material. He became cross-eyed and he backed away. China too seemed to be struggling.
"Canada is stupid, yes?" Russia said after seeing nothing.
Canada flushed angrily. "No, look! There are numbers underneath the scribbles. I am not dumb Russia."
Russia was more amused than threatened by Canada.
"Aya, I see it!" China said pointing a blob of black. "Underneath the words there are numbers."
Canada nodded with a kind smile. "Do you see them Russia?"
"No," Russia said angrily. "This not funny joke," he continued his grammar loosening from the feeling of being left out.
Canada guided his fingers across the page and pointed to the edge of a sentence where the tail of a one was. "Here, on the edge, do you see that one?"
"No."
"Look closer, Russia," Canada encouraged.
Russia stared and the numbers molded into shapes. They were faint but with good enough eyesight, they can be detected from the dip they made into the paper.
"Canada cheats. He has glasses," Russia said childishly.
China rolled his eyes. Canada sighed. He turned to China. "Do you know what those numbers mean?"
China wrinkled his nose. They could mean plenty of things. Dates. Passwords. Coordinates. Just random numbers.
"That is hard to answer. Numbers are vague."
"What does Canada think they are?" Russia asked him.
Canada bit lip. "I think they are something else. A message maybe."
"For the whole page?" China asked in disbelief.
"Not for the whole page. Only this line has numbers," Canada said tapping the paper.
"It looks like..." Russia began but then stopped.
"The language of numbers?" China finished.
"Da."
"What's the language of numbers?" Canada asked.
"With the alphabet, there is a language of numbers. Like a code."
"But what is it?"
"It's a system of writing using the numbers one through nine. Every number standing for a letter or combination of letters." China looked back to Canada. "I could be wrong. I think it just a bunch of numbers."
"Do you perhaps remember the code?" Canada asked hopefully. China frowned. "I could try, but it would be fuzzy."
Canada shook his head. "It doesn't matter, anything at this point is good. Thank you so much, China!"
China radiated from the praise. "It's nothing."
"Do you have some paper? Or a pen?" Canada asked.
Russia handed him a pen. China took out a piece of paper from his pocket, not very large in size and already had some Chinese cursive (rough script, China corrects Russia) scrawled onto it. But there is enough space for what they need.
China shakes the pen and runs it over his skin to get the ink flowing. Seeing the blue pour out, he sets his pen to the paper. "My memory is hazy, so it might not be the most accurate. If I remember right, one is A. Two is B. Three C. Four D. Five E. Six F. Seven G. Eight H. And nine I." China writes down all the numbers neatly and small.
"What are the rest?" Canada asks.
"I'm getting to that. Let's see...ten is J. Eleven K. Twelve L. Thirteen M. Fourteen N. Fifteen O. Sixteen P. Seventeen Q. Eighteen R. Nineteen S..." China took the paper and held up in the light. "I think that's right."
"And I'm guessing twenty is T, and twenty-one is U, and so on?" Canada said pushing up his glasses. Kumajirou tugged at his pant leg and Canada scooped up in his arms, clutching onto him across his chest. Kumajirou made himself comfortable and started to fall asleep.
"Right."
Russia got up from his seat and coughed. "I'm going to the hotel now. Goodbye, comrades."
They said their goodbyes and it was just China and Canada. China handed the piece of paper to Canada. "Here you go, Canada."
"Thank you, China," Canada said again taking the paper with some difficulty. Kumajirou growled at the disturbance and Canada murmured an apology.
"You're welcome. I'm going to the hotel too, westerners make me have a headache."
"I have some Advil if you want," Canada offered.
China denied him but thanked him nonetheless. After some more pleasantries, China left the "infirmary".
Canada looked down at the numbers and hoped that it worked. Because if you can't say it in words, numbers are the next best thing, right?
...
"Italy?"
"Ciao Japan! Can I come in?" Italy asked smiling.
Japan nodded and let Italy come in his small hotel room. The heater was at its maximum but even then, the room still felt like a cool autumn day, the temperature leaving its confines of fifty and sixty degrees. The thermostat said twenty degrees, but Italy was sure that it had to be lying.
"Your room is so clean, Japan. Did you not bring anything with you?" Italy asked taking off his boots. He wiggled his toes through his socks and relished the freedom of his aching feet.
"I did, they are just in the closet," Japan responded moving to sit on one of the tables.
Italy plopped himself down on the table and sprawled his upper torso on the table like some kind of depressed octopus. His head stayed down, his crown of brown hair falling down to his elbows covering his face. He stayed there, sitting in silence and Japan felt extremely uncomfortable.
"Ano...Are you feeling alright?" Japan asked after a minute of this.
Japan saw Italy's shoulder bob up and down. Italy looked up slightly, his eyes red and his nose equally rosy. He wiped his eyes and sniffed. He put his head back down. He took a deep breath in before finally lifting to reveal his whole face.
"Japan, am I bad a person?"
Japan immediately denied it. "Of course not, what gave you such an idea?"
Italy sniffed again and rubbed his nose. "I don't know. Why does everyone always treat me so differently? Like a baby or something?" Italy searched Japan's wise eyes desperately, but Italy knew he would not find the answers in Japan's eyes.
How to break this lightly? Italy was a crybaby and couldn't take bad news well. He would cry and cry, but as Japan tried to compile the reasons as to why Italy was so 'fragile', he realized that Italy is also the quickest to smile after the tears. He cries, yes, but he takes it just as every other nation. Japan wondered if maybe Italy is just the extremified version of what every nation feels, or wants to feel. Italy moved on quickly, and well.
That is more strength than a lot of other nations had.
Japan also knew that he could not tread around the topic this time. As hard as it is for him, he's going to have to be blunt and direct. Not at all tactful or polite, but Japan recognized that this is not Italy what needed at the moment—what Italy wanted.
"It could be that you cry a lot. Perhaps they mistake that for weakness..."
Italy blinked and his gaze shifted to the boring carpet. "So if I stop crying, they will take me seriously?"
"Is that what you want? To be taken seriously?" Japan asked softly.
Italy realized that yes. That is what he wants. He wants to be part of the discussions and have the other nations say, that's not that bad of an idea. America, the one with horrible and expensive ideas, got more credibility than he. He is not ignored (he makes it hard to be) but he is not taken into account most times.
"I would like that, si."
Japan excused himself from his seat and started to prepare some tea. Italy watched Japan with fascination at how carefully and strangely Japan poured his tea into the glass cups. Russia had been considerate and left all kinds of tea brands for the countries, and Italy wondered just why everyone hated Russia so. There was a small packet of Italian coffee there as well.
"Did America say something hurtful to you?" Japan asked neutrally. He did not reveal much, but Italy could tell there was a slight edge to Japan's voice.
"No, no! No, he didn't say anything bad to me...it's more of what he did than what he said." Italy took a sip of the tea when it was placed in front of him, but stopped right before the hot liquid could slide down his throat. He needed it for it to cool down first.
"What did he do?" Japan has not taken a sip either, but his dainty hands covered the glass ready to sip at the time he knows when ready.
"He read entries without me! He said it was only one, but I don't know if he's telling me the truth either...I'm the one who is supposed to have the journal, not America. Why did he go behind my back like that and not tell me, Japan? Did he not think I could handle it?"
Japan sighs. "America...is like an overgrown child in a man's body. I have been around him to know him quite well, and he is not a very complicated man once you know the basics," he picked his teacup and drank, "he is competitive, loud, confident, and most of all eager. Do not take offense to it. He most likely just wanted to read ahead because he was excited. Please do not think ill of him."
"But. But. When I asked him about it, he seemed tongue-tied! That has to count for something," Italy argued.
"What is that he said?"
"It's not what he said, it's how he said it," Italy stressed, "and he told me that he was going to tell me eventually. Eventually. But not now."
Japan hasn't seen Italy this upset in a long time. Not since he had come to his place to mope that Germany would not talk to him or play with him anymore. He would come and wonder out loud why Germany always had an excuse, but sadly Japan had sworn to secrecy to never tell. Germany had stressed to never tell Italy...especially Italy...
"The meeting has ended, so that means you can reclaim your ownership to the book and read the entries that America did," Japan told him calmly.
Italy's eyes widened. He jumped up and slammed his hands down flat on the table shaking the table. Japan recoiled in shock and peered up to Italy.
"The book! The book! It's still back in the meeting room, Japan!"
Japan widened his eyes as well.
"What am I going to do, Japan," Italy wailed, "What if a big, scary Russian picks it up and says, 'Comrades, look. Book. Time to burn it and then put it out with vodka, da, da, da.' Russia told me vodka is Russian water — They better not ruin the book! I swear to God if they ruin that book I will go Albert Anastasia on their —"
"Please calm down!" Japan fretted cutting off Italy's angry Italian cursing.
Italy took a deep breath in and let out slowly. His body slumped. "This is horrible, Japan. What if the book is lost?"
"Please, let's think rationally. Who had the book last?"
"Canada," Italy responded.
"Yes. Did you see him leave the room with it?"
Italy thought back. No, he hadn't seen much of anything. He needed to leave and get far away from America's impending stare of guilt so he had left as fast as he could. Even if he had, he doubted he would have seen Canada anyway.
"No..."
"Do you believe America has it?" Japan asked putting away the cups of tea—one full, the other spotless to the white rim.
"No, he chased after me. Hungary dragged Prussia off somewhere even faster than me...England went off to go buy something and France went with England I think...I don't know where China and Russia went off too. What if America had been right? That it was Russia!"
"You left out China," Japan reminded.
Italy shook his head. "China wouldn't take it. He doesn't really like to get involved with Europe except for the economy."
"That narrows it down to Canada and Russia."
"If they have it."
"If they have it," Japan agreed. "Let's go check if either one has it, then see if it was left in the meeting room."
Italy shoved his boots back on and Japan re-knotted his scarf. Japan took his hotel key card and struggled to keep up with Italy's hurried gait.
They walked through the long hallway, and Italy stopped short causing Japan to abruptly halt as well.
Russia had found it easier to place all the nations in one hallway in the hotel. France and England, of course, were on opposite ends of the hallways, and the North American brothers were right next to each other. Japan walked forward a tad to see what made Italy's hand twitch.
Russia was leaving a room with gestures of speaking with someone else.
"It's no problem, yes?" Russia asked facing the door. Italy couldn't see who was behind, but he clenched his jaw.
"Just make sure to put it back where you found it, Russia. We need it undestroyed for tomorrow," the voice responded with mirth.
Italy turned around and kept walking until the hallway divided into a secluded alleyway for the cleaning ladies' supplies. There, Italy and Japan were out of sight and still close enough to hear the conversation. Italy was silent, barely moving his chest as he clutched the cold edge of the wall tightly alongside Japan's careful ear. Russia didn't notice.
"You're certain this will work?" Russia asked.
"It has to. I don't see another time to do this. I doubt by the next meeting Italy will be ah...innocent? Don't — Don't give me that look, you know what I mean!"
Russia laughed. Italy didn't know Russia had the capability to not make it sound life-threatening.
"Who do you think it is?" Italy whispered to Japan.
"Perhaps France? No...it isn't him..." Japan whispered back.
Italy clutched tighter on the wall.
"You are so fun to tease! Tomorrow, we reveal. Sound like a plan?"
The figure stepped out into the light, smiling. "It's a plan, Russia. Hopefully, Italy won't freak out. He did look really upset earlier."
The figure was tall and blonde, wearing a light brown jacket and handing Germany's diary to Russia's cold, black-gloved hands. Russia took the journal and stored it in his large overcoat and patted it safely on his chest.
But Italy didn't see that the body had a distinctive curl or a taller posture or amethyst eyes. All he saw was that the bridge of the nose held glasses, the hair was blonde, and the body was coming out of the North American section of the hallway.
"Little Italy will be fine. If not, we squish like a bug!"
"No, Russia. We will not squish Italy..."
Russia pouted. He then gained this look and started lean down towards the figure. The man stood still and Italy could just hear him stop breathing in anticipation. The figure with glasses wrapped his arms around Russia's neck as they kissed.
Italy didn't hear the rest as he pulled himself deeper into the alleyway forcing himself to not listen to the voices. So that's how it was...Of course. Of course! Why would he expect any different, hahahaha!
Russia's footsteps faded away, Russia thankfully taking the opposite direction to leave, and the hotel door closed.
"Are you alright?" Japan asked tentatively looking worried and confused as to why Italy was tilting his head up to the blinding light, Italy's Adam's apple prominent and pronounced across his pale skin. He stood there still, and Japan wondered if just maybe this is how he blinded himself. Always looking up but then looking down because it's painful and it's suddenly not as bright.
He eventually lowered his head and wiped his eyes.
"Sorry for worrying you Japan. Isn't it neat? This trick I learned — when you feel like crying, tilt your head up so the tears won't fall down," Italy rasped, "Gravity will make the tears go back into your eyes and, and you won't cry."
Japan felt his own heart squeeze. Something was breaking inside of Italy, an emotion Italy had been trying to keep confined to the warm waters. But the feelings are turning cold and seeping out of the edges.
"What are you going to do now?"
Italy smiled, and Japan was forced to look into Italy's misty eyes. "What am I going to do? I'm going to get the journal back, silly. I don't care that it's Russia or America. I will get it back."
Maybe it was the light — maybe it was the silent drone in the vacant hallway, or it was just the old heaters in the background humming — because, at that moment, Japan believed Italy.
...
"America are you okay?" Canada asked America who sat on the edge of his bed eating ice cream and chomping on the wafer cone in aggressive bites. Canada had bought him the ice cream with his own money and time, thinking that America would need the mood booster. And now the ice cream was gone.
"No! I fucked up big time, dude!" America wailed not bothering to wipe the crumbs off his mouth. Canada went over to the napkins in the bathroom and chucked the plastic box at America.
Canada moved to sit beside America, the bed dipping from his weight. "Why's that, Al?"
America sniffed. "I can't tell you. It's super secret and stuff."
Canada gave him a deadpan look.
"I'm serious. I can't have you hatin' on me too! Because apparently what I did was just so horrible. England did it too, but Italy doesn't seem to want to murder him!" America flopped his back on the bed, his gaze now on the ceiling.
"Maybe because England didn't purposely do it?" Canada had learned a long time ago with his brother that asking direct questions were useless. America's tendency to babble was enough way to get the truth out. And since America wasn't feeling especially defensive, the secret, Canada induced, was not that bad.
"Or maybe it's because he scrammed like a coward. Damn England, he should have taken me with him," America grumbled turning to his side to face Canada.
"I mean, the thing you did was pretty bad...I would be mad too if I were Italy…" Canada said bullshitting America. And America fell right for it.
"It was only one entry, bro! ONE! It wasn't like I set the thing on fire or anything! And so what if I read one entry? He's alive, I'm alive, so."
Canada's eyes widened. "Maple, you read ahead? Without Italy's permission?"
America looked confused under his glasses. "Yeah, that's kinda the reason the mafia is after me right now and planning my death?"
"The mafia? Just what did you do!"
"Yeah," America breathed, "The mafia is totally coming after me. Because Italy will tell Romano, and Romano is going to get pissed and send his pasta-smelling mafia dudes and I'm going to have PTSD of the twenties again. I can't have those flashbacks, bro. I just can't!"
Canada wasn't sure if America was kidding or not. It is true Romano is not threatening himself, but his henchmen were. And Romano is protective of Italy...Canada decided to file that thought for later.
"I don't think the mafia is coming after you, America. Romano doesn't like to get involved with them unless necessary," Canada said trying to console.
America rolled around on the bed. "That's what everyone who is being hunted down by the mafia says before their brains go kaplat! Bro, I had so much to live for. Like. The Nightmare Before Christmas comes out next year. I want to live to see that, dude!"
"We can't die, remember?"
America paused. "Oh yeah."
Canada sighed. America could not have chosen a better time to upset Italy.
"America, did you apologize at least?" Canada asked looking down at his sad brother.
"Of course! I apologized but he didn't accept it. He was all, no. I cannot forgive you."
Somehow Canada had a hard time believing that. Italy not forgiving someone? Especially for something so minor?
"Then you have to think about what's making Italy so upset America. Italy doesn't become mad for no reason."
America groaned. "You're supposed to be on my side. I would have gone to England if I want to be chewed out!"
"Then you should have gone to England."
"I just don't get it," America continued, "Why Italy thinks what I did is that end of the world. It was only one. One! And it's not like he can't go back and read it for himself."
Canada shook his head. "It's not about that Al."
"Then what is it about?"
"Think about it like this...put yourself in Italy's shoes —"
"Alright. Weak and emotional, got it."
"Alfred! Italy is not weak," Canada reprimanded fearful that Italy would overhear somehow.
America laughed. "Good one, bro! Everyone knows Italy is a pipsqueak."
"You shouldn't be saying things like that…" Canada fretted.
"Meh. Whatever. You were saying?"
"Just put yourself in his place. Imagine if it were England that was missing. Completely vanished from the face of the earth, and England was still bitter and cold towards you. His behavior like that after the Revolution for years, even if you both were supposed to be on good terms. You would miss him, eh? You would be sad that he ignored you right and just left without a trace?"
America was going to interject but Canada continued. "And then England stops coming to the meetings entirely. No one cares for months until suddenly everyone's governments kick them in the butt to force to care. But you always did, and you feel mad because everyone is suddenly caring when they didn't before. Let's say Scotland came in, dropped England's diary on the table for everyone to read."
"You take it, naturally, and you are determined to find England. You can't wait, you want to find him as soon as possible. But Scotland talks in evasive sentences not really worried and others are trying to steal the diary away from you because they want to treat it as a prize and not something special. You investigate, but it seems like everyone knows something you don't. They look at each other in glances and speak in whispers."
"They think you can't do it. You're too selfish and stupid."
"And then we have this meeting. And you find out that, I don't know, I read a couple entries ahead behind your back because I could."
America was clutching onto the bed sheet in anger. He had wanted to cut Canada off many times but Canada's violet eyes only grew darker and his tone blander, irritating America even more. America didn't realize how easily Canada has proven his point.
"That would never happen! I wouldn't make it happen!" America said fiercely.
"That's what Italy thought, but look where he is."
"Yeah, but! I wouldn't get mad over something as dumb as that."
"Really Al?" Canada said sarcastically.
"I wouldn't!" America persisted.
"I find that hard to believe."
"Well. I wouldn't. I wouldn't because I would have found England with or without anyone's help. So what if everyone thinks I did it, I didn't. I would be England's hero! Screw Europe!"
Canada smiled. "Then I don't think you and Italy are all that different."
...
Russia opened an eye when he heard the quiet hallway disturbed with sound. Someone was leaving the room, the heavy door opening quiet to those heavy asleep in the hotel. It was midnight now, all the countries fast asleep in their warm beds.
Russia swung his legs over the bed and wrapped his scarf around his scarred neck. He moved through the dark room like a shadow, fastening his large coat with little hurry. He slipped his boots on and patted his jacket to check if he still had his pipe.
He did.
Russia stretched his warm leather gloves over his pale fingers, flexing his hand once after putting them both on. Russia didn't feel tiredness pulse through his eyes, he instead opened the door cursing the lights that blared through his vision. He closed the door quietly and walked through the halls in light steps. He saw his shadow move with him as he descended the stairs, opting out on the elevator. The receptionists were asleep behind the desks, the lobby silent and vacant with lonely lights to illuminate an empty room. (Russia would have to talk to the manager about this later.) The kitchen lights were turned off, the food not ready until another seven hours.
A blond opened her eyes slightly at a disturbance but then shut them again, fatigue overcoming her.
Russia walked through the eerie lobby and pushed the unlocked doors. He was immediately stung by the inhumane temperatures of the outside. His body walked through the barrier of warmth and cold and ventured outside with assured, even steps. His body didn't feel the daggers of the arctic winds, his body not really feeling anything anymore. His breath was visible, but Russia can't think of a life where his breath doesn't follow him.
Russia took in the sound of city life around him. Russia always liked night the best, the lights were so pretty around him. The lights didn't mean much without someone to see them, but Russia liked to pretend. The small tree in front of him meant for aesthetics swayed a bit, and Russia walked on the wide pathway meant for pedestrians.
Russia walked through the snow, his boots making deep imprints. On the same pathway, smaller imprints amused him. The other countries never learn, do they?
Russia hummed to himself as he followed the footsteps, the night no longer snowing just trapping its creations with proud frost. Frozen the scene would have been if not for these foolish steps.
Russia continued, the footprints taking turns, and Russia saw two parallel lines in the concrete. The figure must have fallen on its knees if the handprints were evidence to anything. Russia lowered himself and drew a smiley face on the ground. Bits of white clung to his pointer finger like sticky cotton candy, and he smiled. He gazed at the sky and wondered just where the moon went. Onward he went.
He walked until the trail stopped. The trail stopped at a demolished building. An extension of sorts for the UN building. Russia gazed upon the figure on the ground shaking and breathing heavily. He made his boot crunch on the snow, making the figure's head up like a startled deer. The figure gulped but did not look away.
Russia felt the exhale of his nose upon his lips as he walked forward to the nation on its knees in the snow not moving. The body was on a bench and close to the road. Russia saw balls of snow on the ground and bored his eyes into the amber ones.
"Italy is going to die if he stays outside," Russia warned lightly.
"R-Russia what are you-you doing out... here…?" Italy replied with difficulty. He chattered his words out, his jaw refusing to stay still. He was nervous and freezing.
Russia walked closer to Italy. Italy tensed.
"I should be asking that. Why is comrade outside? Little Italy is going die," Russia continued with growing amusement.
Italy felt that snowball underneath his hand. "I-I wanted to ma-make a snowman…"
"A snowman?" Russia looked down in curiosity. Italy is silly, he thought.
"Y-Yes. Does Ru-Russia want to help me?" Italy asked smiling innocently through cold lips.
Russia blinked in surprise. He ducked his cheeks into the scarf. He shifted.
"Why would I want to build a snowman? It is dumb."
Italy disagreed. "It's not dumb, Russia. C-Come on, it'll be f-fun." He took Russia's hands and tried to guide him over to his pathetic snowballs.
Russia didn't move. He narrowed his eyes not willing to let himself be submerged into false niceness. "Why is Italy out here if he hates cold? Italy seems to be hiding something."
Italy shook his head as if scandalized. "It's usually too warm at m-my place for snow and Germany do-doesn't like the cold either. I-I wanted to make a snowman before it's too-too late."
Russia's gaze of suspicion did not leave and in turn, Italy squirmed even more nervously. Italy was afraid, Russia knew. Italy wasn't crying, that would only hurt him. Italy couldn't cry for help, because whatever Italy was hiding would be questioned. Italy was terrified of Russia, yet here he was lying to him.
Russia didn't like liars.
Russia started to pull out his pipe, and Italy moved back with wide eyes. He looked to his left and right to see if any city goers would come and help him.
"I have relatives in Boston, don-don't kill me!" Italy cried in panic.
Russia tilted his head. "We are in Moscow, little Italy. I do not care about American pigs." The pipe was high in the air, gleaming under the street lights.
Italy shook violently. "Pl-Please spare me…"
Russia lowered his pipe and looked down at the half-finished snowman. He felt a wave of nostalgia hit him. His mind wandered back to the times when Belarus would cling to him because she was cold and starving, and Russia was just the same with a duty. She would smile so happily when building a snowman with him even if her hands were shaking and bare. And then Ukraine would come and smile tiredly, and those hard times filled with plague and famine were the closest things he had ever known as a family.
During his little muse, Italy had stared wide-eyed like a lamb waiting to be eaten. Russia would have loved to see Italy's face smashed into little pieces but he found him lowering his weapon full way. His arm swung limply, his pipe splattered with blood casting a shadow.
Italy waited for his death with shut eyes when Russia moved his hand and opened them when he didn't notice pain. He saw Russia looking confused and angry.
"You're not...gonna k-kill me?" Italy asked in disbelief.
Russia smiled as he gripped his pipe. "I can always choke little Italy to death if he prefers!"
Italy shook his head violently. Russia didn't move, and Italy let out a sigh of relief. He immediately latched himself onto Russia.
"Thank you for not killing me!" Italy said nuzzling his cheek into Russia's coat.
Russia stiffened. He tried to shove Italy off immediately, growling as he jostled the clinging Italian. Italy let go but before he did so, his petite hand dug into Russia's coat.
Russia felt his chest be invaded with a swift hand and swung his pipe out of reflex. Italy dodged the pipe with a shrill scream and jumped back a good distance away from Russia. Italy was breathing heavily, and Russia could hear his heartbeat quake in trepidation from where he stood. He flashed a murderous look.
Italy has stolen something from him.
Italy had stolen something from him.
Russia held important things in his jacket, things from his sisters and monarchies he held dear.
"Italy will scream so prettily. And there will be no Germany to save him," Russia said lowly.
Italy bolted. He ran as fast as his legs could take him, his surroundings becoming gray strips within the giant blur. It's been awhile since Italy had felt the adrenaline of running away from a threat. His throat tightened, and he felt his stomach knot into a tight ball of nerves and the primal need to escape, escape, escape. Italy didn't have his white flag right now, but he doubted at this moment he would actually wave it.
His powerful legs ran through the foreign streets, the muscles stretching and never looking back. Italy whipped his head around to see Russia chasing him with a pipe with a look intended for murder.
He saw the Moscow river frozen in front of him. There was a barrier so the pedestrians wouldn't fall in but still admire the river when it wasn't frozen. The river was a frozen sheet of steely white, and Italy saw Russia gaining on him quickly. He murmured a prayer to himself.
Italy jumped over the barrier.
Russia widened his eyes as he saw Italy force his weight onto the frozen waters. The water was only frozen on the surface level, a crack in the ice a death wish for the victim. Crack the ice and the below-freezing waters will kill you. With no ledge to grab onto, the water will take you away gurgling for help and by the time the sun rose for the third day, the body will be floating peacefully.
Italy wobbled on the water like an infant deer. He was shaking and hoping that Russia wasn't crazy enough to follow him. Russia wasn't sure if he should. Italy was light, it was only a shove down that could he make a slight crack. Russia. He was two hundred pounds of muscle.
But when he saw Italy clutching onto something brown and small close to his chest, he narrowed his eyes making Italy shake. He exhaled like some kind of angry bull, his ribs screaming — pleading — to rest already. He hopped over the same barrier, and Italy looked extremely uneasy. Italy wanted to bolt, run away to who knows where, but it seemed as though a look came over him to remind himself for the reason he was out there in the first place.
Russia walked toward Italy with practice, his foot not sliding on the ice. A car whizzed by and the light from it made Russia's hair practically glow.
Italy gulped, and he screeched when the pipe came whizzing by his ear. He moved, and they danced on the frozen waters. Italy dodged every swing, and he felt his heart beat out of his chest when he slipped and fell to his knees. Russia grinned and swung down heavily, making a crack as Italy rolled away with a scream and tears.
"This is a fun game, Italy!" Russia chirped enjoying the challenge. This reminded him of the game America had shown him once. What was it called? Don't Break the Ice! Ah, he was good at that game. But it seemed as though Italy just had to fall through. Russia needed to win, you see. He just had to hit hard enough and carefully enough, and they would all be happy! He would be the winner. Then they would play again. And then he would win again. And again. And again. And again. And again —
Eventually, Italy was cornered. Italy felt the concrete hit his back, the barrier looking quite appealing to jump over. Russia smiled and raised his arm to Italy's tearful face.
"Please...don't…"
A blood-curdling scream rang throughout the city with a sharp, rigid splash. The ice cracked and a body sunk thrashing desperately towards the night sky.
The lights were always prettier at night, Russia thought again.
...
Rough Script — A form of Chinese calligraphy. It's basically Chinese cursive as it's sloppier and more rushed than normal. It's a little hard to read with the strokes blending into one another loosely. It originates from the Han Dynasty so I would imagine China using it from time to time.
Albert Anastasia — One of the most ruthless and feared Italian-American mobsters in US history. One of the founders of The American Mafia during the pre-war era and during most of the 1950s. He was perhaps the most feared hitman, earning the infamous nicknames "The Mad Hatter" and "Lord High Executioner" because he enjoyed watching his victims die under extremely cruel conditions. Technically you can say this is more Romano's area, but ey. Italians will be Italians.
...
Something about not posting in a while always makes me have cold feet. Agh.
So I think I have finally figured out what has been making me so demotivated dudes. I hold this fic to a very high standard and want it to be absolutely perfect, but I realize that it's not because duh. First long one. So! I decided to stop being so hard on myself and just post. If not many people like, I can at least know that I finished all the way through which is a big accomplishment in my eyes as a fanfic author :) I lose interest fast and usually stick with one-shots.
So I will probably go back to this and edit the chapters and revise it, but yes. I know that it's not the greatest. To the people still reading, wow! Thank you!
Anyway, thank you to all those who have reviewed and who are still interested in this! Honestly seeing that you guys love this so much brings me immense joy. It's incredible how differently the author and reader will see a story. With that being said, leave a review and see you in the next chapter!