Secret Door, Am I Not Human?, Utopia, Safe and Sound, Paradise, Youth of the Nation, Requiem for a Tower, Stand My Ground, that song that sounds like a mandolin (by Sentive), Empty, Pale, Somewhere.

Special thanks to Musicforeverinmysoul for beta'ing Chapters 1-3, and Lucky-Angel135 for going through Chapter 1 again for me.

Recovery

Adriatic Rain

It was raining. The sound of it kept trying to drown out the voice of the blond woman speaking through the television. It was just politics, a report on a small UN mission that had gone almost unnoticed by the rest of the world up high in the Swiss Alps. The only reason the TV was even on in the apartment was because the mission was meant to rescue an Italian diplomat who had been kidnapped during a World Conference last month. The terrorists who took him were hiding in Switzerland, they had been there for a very long time, so now things were tense between the Alpine Republic and the former Kingdom of Italy.

Popular opinion wasn't always enough to change international politic, but the President and Prime Minister had been on the air all week telling the Italian people, North and South, that the Swiss authorities had done everything in their power to accommodate and help the UN forces. Now they were saying that the mission was a success, so the Italian servicemen who made up a portion of the task-force were on their way home. The Italian diplomat would be coming with them.

The news broadcasters wouldn't say where in the country he'd be staying, and it was probably Rome, but the people hearing the broadcast (specifically those in the province of Veneto), knew that he was a Venetian. The poor boy, they wouldn't show his picture but somehow everyone seemed to already know that he was a young man, one with auburn hair and who always had such a cheerful smile. For some reason they felt involved in this short little news story story. They felt hurt by it.

The family in the apartment wondered if he was going to smile the same way he used to, and they left the nightly news on so they could listen to the broadcast a bit longer. No one in Venice was really sure why they couldn't turn off their radios or change the television channel to catch the end of the football game, but they just couldn't. Even the young people kept checking their phones constantly, waiting for news updates, it was uncanny. There were facebook pages and blog posts and petitions, plans for meet-ups and vigils and awareness campaigns: Italian Nationalism, Northern Separatism, Globalization and dozens of other topics are bouncing around in cyberspace, trying to manifest in the real world.

But more than anything, everyone just wanted to know when the diplomat was coming home to Italy. All of that fascination just boiled down to the fact that they felt like they had to keep track of when he arrived back home, back in Venice.

In this apartment however, a sudden sound broke through the repeating news story. At first it just sounded like someone moving loudly up the building stairs, but there was an angry shout of- what was that? It was Italian but obviously not something you usually heard in Venice. Was that a Neapolitan dialect? This building was in San Marco, a good, respectable part of Venice: San Marco's Basilica was literally two minutes and a small bridge away from their front door. The stones making up this building were so old almost all of the utilities had to be added in at some point, not built with it. This was a good part of Venice: what was a southerner doing in this building?

The family went back to what they were doing, carefully ignoring the commotion in the stairwell as it died down. The broadcast stayed on but it was turned down a little. They weren't trying to snoop, but the flat above theirs was usually locked up for most of the year, and yet just last week it was opened up by two men this family didn't know.

They were very familiar with the happy-go-lucky young man who came to spend his winters in Venice; with his auburn hair and honey-brown eyes he was hard to mistake for anyone else. He worked for the government, he handled foreign trade negotiations and he was a lovely painter. They knew better than to think that the sour-looking man who arrived and left last week with a greying clergyman was the same man, but maybe his brother. The three of them did look quite alike...

Banging. They heard it again and this time the TV was turned off so they could listen properly. The man of the house opened the door leading out into the half-lit stairwell, and he could hear swearing and grumbles from the level above. The flat on the top floor of their building had an iron gate over the front door as an extra bit of protection, not uncommon in a building this old, but someone was obviously fighting with it and, by the sounds of it, losing pretty badly. The man from the third floor flat was just considering going up and asking what was wrong when he noticed a peculiar smell, then he looked down at the stairs next to him.

It was raining outside, storming really, but in the soft amber light coming from the lamp next to his door the man could see that the streak was not just wet, but red. The smell had a metallic tang to it, and the grunts and swears from the level above were frantic. But there had to be a perfectly rational explanation for what was going on: there was no sense in panicking. The voice floating down wasn't angry, at least not until-

Bang!

"Shit!"

Bang!

The man on the third floor immediately slammed his door shut, and then he locked it, bolted it, and told his wife to hurry into the bedroom with their sleeping children. They called the police using their daughter's cell phone and told them to hurry. Guns were not fired in good neighbourhoods like this.

Tonight was a very bad night in Venice. The itself rain was not a danger but it just added to the sinister mood. The problem was the storm blowing in from the Adriatic sea. It wasn't the right season, and with the wind and the currents water levels were rising throughout the floating city.

It wasn't just a bad night in Venice however. No one was really sure why, but there had been calls coming into law enforcement offices all day from all across the region. People were panicking and they didn't know why, there was anxiety filling the air and in cities like Milan and Florence there were riot police patrolling the streets, breaking up gangs of nervous, flighty citizens who kept gathering uncontrollably. Were they flash-mobs? Not according to the internet. But where there were gatherings there was chanting, and where there was chanting, there was violence.

The violence was concentrated in foreign neighbourhoods, it was happening in public places. It wasn't shootings and mobs, but it was random attacks on tourists: American, Japanese, Russian... any kind of tourist, especially the German ones. Sometimes it was as simple as a pick-pocket, not an uncommon complaint in any large tourist-heavy area, but spontaneous beatings were not normal: four people had been attacked in Venice already, and crowds kept clashing with police in Pisa.

So really, tonight was a very bad night across Northern Italy. So far nothing had been heard from the south, or in Ravenna or Genoa, and Rome even had some good news regarding that UN mission in Switzerland, but the northern cities were suffering.

Gunshots were heard in a residential building in the San Marco sestieri at nine-thirty at night. A patrol boat quickly arrived on the scene and the officers had a bad feeling about responding to such a distressing call so close to San Marco's Basilica... but they hurried inside. They knew the call came from the third floor and that the problem was on the fourth, so they climbed straight to the top of the building without knocking on doors. If there was a gunman inside, they had to take care of him first.

The fourth floor apartment had an iron gate over the door, but before they took a look at it both men were held back by the gory sight that filled the landing. Blood was smeared all over the top few steps, not a thick, spilling flow, but scuffs and streaks and prints all over the place. Next to the gate, in the corner, there was even more blood on the wall but it only came up to about the officers' hips: someone was slumped here and made to wait.

The lock on the gate had been shot off, the lock on the door was treated the same way.

"Carabinieri, open up!" The senior officer called, because you didn't just barge in when you didn't know what was going on. There was no response from inside, and the building was quiet except for the storm outside. The two shared a look and one quickly radio'd back to call for a paramedic team and possible support. Venice was not prone to mafia violence, but with changing laws in the south the north had started having trouble with their kind. These two didn't want to have to deal with mafia tonight.

Sidearms out, they stepped inside.

Because the locks were shot, both barriers opened up easily- but loudly in the case of the gate. The blood was a grizzly trail that led over the threshold and across the wood floors. Most of the furniture in the flat was covered up in sheets and plastic to protect it while the owner was away, making it difficult to see around anything. The gunman didn't turn on the light either, so as lightning flashed outside this all felt like a bad action movie.

There was a light on deeper in the flat however, and they could hear running water further inside around a corner. Crossing the dark living room they lowered their weapons but didn't put them away. There was a voice down the hall where the water and light were, a male voice, clearly upset. His southern accent was heavy.

"Carabinieri!" The same officer put a bit more gusto in his voice this time, making sure the man down the hall could hear them and hoping that he wouldn't do anything stupid. The talking immediately stopped but the water was left running.

"What- police?" The same voice with the same accent. They could hear a shower curtain being fought with before a shadow crossed the light spilling into the hall. One of the officers lifted his weapon again but the senior held a hand out, telling him to be careful. "Why the fuck are you-!"

"Someone called to report gunshots and blood. We've already called the paramedics."

"Gunshots? Shit! I don't need a fucking ambulance!" Pacing footsteps and a harsh whisper, then, frantically: "I didn't have the fucking key! I had to get in and that bastard had the damned key!"

"Signore-"

"You want the gun? Take them both! I don't fucking care!" The shadow suddenly shrunk to show that the man was kneeling down, and next came the unmistakable sound of a gun sliding across the dusty floor and lightly knocking against the wall as it stopped. Just a pistol, and neither of them could see for sure but it almost looked like the berettas both officers were holding.

But the problem wasn't the side-arm, it was the assault rifle that came skating by the first gun and and laid motionless on the floor.

"Just get out!"

"Signore that's a military gun!" It- that's not-!

"YES, BECAUSE I'M THE FUCKING MILITARY!" He was a- did that make him a service man? "NO!"

A hand reached out through the doorway. A short rolled-up sleeve patterned with camouflage followed, as did the matching pants and military-issue boots laced up over his ankles. A utility belt was still hanging around his waist but the weapons he'd been carrying were on the floor. The dark green vest and black beret of the army were missing, but his green eyes made up for it as they flashed in the poor light. His dark brown hair was longer than they'd expected from a service man, a peculiar curl flaring off from the right side of his bangs. His hands were up and both officers holstered their guns to encourage him to remain compliant.

Then they notice just how red his hands and arms were, how there was blood streaked on the side of his face and rubbed into the brown pattern over his shoulders. He didn't turn around but... they could already tell that it was a lot of blood... The man just stared at them for a moment like he was scared, and he probably had every reason to be, but then something changed in his posture and he droped his hands to his hips. His brows come down in a scowl and suddenly they were being lectured-?

"I'm not a service man, idiots, I am the service!" That, that didn't make any- "You're looking at the Repubblica Italiana- look at me and tell me I'm lying!" They were looking at him, and that was what made it so incredible. He just said the most ridiculous thing imaginable and yet... they believed him?

"B...but your accent-"

"I'm the fucking south, you idiot!" It felt like they were being shouted at by their own captain. Neither officer knew what to do as they found themselves standing stiffly at attention, listening to this sharp-voiced little man yell at them. "You wanna help? You wanna send an ambulance somewhere? Then you get on that fucking radio and you tell your superiors to send a warning to Siena." Siena? But that was so far from-

"I'll bet you anything there's some upsets going in Torino right now, right?" There was a shooting, a gunman opened fire in a French Restaurant... "And Milano?" The mobs... "You think this storm is gonna do anything good to your precious Ve-" The man stopped and pinched his lips together suddenly, a terrible look in his eyes as he shook his head quickly and then gestured for them to get out.

"Tonight is a bad night for Italy. All of Italy. Now go send a message to the Carabinieri in Siena and get the fuck out of my brother's house." All of Italy... This man in front of them wasn't injured, there were no tears in his clothes and his hands, now that they were really looking, were wet as well as bloody. The shower was still going in the bathroom and he kept glancing back in through the doorway.

South Italy was standing in front of them but all the problems were happening in the northern half of the country.

They were in North Italy's house...

"Yes, Sir." It was surreal, it couldn't be true, but there was simply no denying it and suddenly they both felt... not quite ashamed- they were doing their job, they came here for a reason and that was to protect their fellow citizens. Carabinieri were part of the armed forces, they may not have gone to Switzerland for the latest mission, but they were still... patriots? Was that the word this strange man's presence inspired? It was too much to think about right now. "Please forgive us for the intrusion."

"Just get back to work." And that was the end of it.

After those bastard Carabinieri left Romano slammed the bathroom door this time. He couldn't do anything about the damage he'd done to the front door, so if the stupid neighbours who'd called the stupid police wanted to be stupid fucking snoops and come upstairs then they were welcome to it. He hated pulling rank if he didn't have to, it was awkward, it made people gawk and stare, but he'd damn well do it if it would keep them from seeing Veneziano.

"Wake up, c'mon!" Veneziano had one of those really old-fashioned bathrooms with the big copper tub and the mounted shower-head that you couldn't move. And a bath-curtain, because it matched the style of the tub. Romano tore the curtain aside again so he could see his brother, having pulled the pasta-patterned sheet over Veneziano's slumped body when he heard the officers in the hall. He didn't want to explain, they'd seen the blood that had soaked through Veneziano's uniform outside the front door.

Fuck him for having that stupid iron gate! And fuck Romano for ever suggesting it in the first place!

"Wake up!" The shower was spilling warm water onto Veneziano's torso, although cold might have been better, maybe, Romano wasn't sure. His blue tie was on the floor in a puddle of bloody water, his tunic half open where Romano had been fighting with the soaked garment before the police got there. His face was a deathly pale colour that made the blood and filth on his cheek stand out, his eyes closed and head lolling back against the edge of the tub where Romano had propped him, trying to get some heat into his body after they'd come through that fucking rain.

His auburn hair was wet, his skin cold, but warming up as Romano kept taking up handfuls of water and splashing him, trying to make his brother come back. He'd slapped him a couple times too, but it hadn't done any good.

Romano tried remembering what had happened, tried not to let his temper get away from him as he gave up on manipulating Veneziano's limbs out of the uniform. He found the combat knife at his belt and carefully- carefully grabbed the thick blue tunic and sawed through it. Romano pulled off the sleeves and found the red burns from the grenade that had been too close to him. He swore repeatedly under his breath, deciding that no, he couldn't leave the wound like that, and hurried to tear through the contents of the sink cupboard looking for a first-aid kit.

Found it.

Ointments wouldn't do Veneziano any good, but the bandages were useful and his brother, always a klutz, kept dozens of rolls of fresh gauze. He wrapped the burn and splashed cold water over the wraps so it would help sooth the inflamed skin. When Romano took off the other sleeve he found the gunshot wound below the shoulder that, hopefully, wasn't going to cause their people any more trouble tonight: Veneziano had been human when it happened, right? The shot had blown apart the muscle and probably shattered the bone inside, but was low enough that it had probably left the joint alone.

There was nothing Romano could do about the mangled flesh that made up the lower half of his brother's arm. Switzerland's surgeon had tried what he could with the abused muscle before they reached the border, but Romano had been too impatient trying to get to Venice to let the man keep fussing with it. Either Veneziano's arm would heal or it wouldn't, it depended more on his constitution as a Nation than the laws of biology and medicine: he knew the arm was cleaned up, stitched and wrapped, and that was all he could focus on.

Romano didn't know what to think about what he knew was happening outside these walls. Veneziano had been wounded badly and repeatedly, but he'd been human when it happened, right? But was he a Nation again? But he hadn't spent consecutive years inside the mansion. The time had been broken up by the start of every loop, the hours or days he'd stall the others at the conference before they'd leave for the house. Just like everyone else, he'd been Nation and Human on and off for years... What would that mean?

He stopped thinking. This wasn't helping. He was only freaking himself out and he'd have to make sure he spoke to Seborga as soon as he could. Romano was the Southern half of Italy, but Seborga was one of Veneziano's subordinates: he'd have a better idea of what was going on inside North Italy.

But maybe it- the violence, the tension, the supreme unease. Maybe it proved that Veneziano wasn't going to quit on him and die, maybe it proved that his little brother hadn't been transformed into some mortal weakling. Maybe that would be the case, but as he found the long tweezers in the first-aid kit Romano couldn't stop himself from wincing- from crying just a little, as he plunged the steel instrument into his sibling's flesh to find the remains of the bullet.

South Italy on foot had been faster than the jeep once they crossed the border, that was just the way things worked. Getting his brother back to Venice had been his priority, but he really should have let the surgeon do his job, damn it...

He wrapped the wound and then slashed the shoulders of both the blue and the black Veneziano had on, prying the blood-soaked garments off and letting them just lay in the water at the back of the tub. There would be a scar where two long claws had torn his brother's chest, but with time even that would go away... maybe.

He remembered the blast that had smashed Veneziano's body against a tree and Romano left the bathroom quickly to find his brother's ice trays. They were clean and put away in one of the kitchen cupboards, but in the dark Romano filled them at the sink and stuffed both of them in the empty freezer. He'd have to ice his brother's bruises later, there would be plenty on the side of his face and all across his shoulders. Veneziano'd been limping so one of his ankles would probably need care too...

He rushed back to the bathroom.

"Veneziano?" Good-bye belt. Veneziano kept spare clothes here when he left, right? Romano didn't think to check before he came back and cut through the knee of his brother's pant leg. The gash down his calf was bleeding, but clean. Shutting off the water because this wound would keep bleeding if he left it wet, Romano dried the skin and, steeling himself, found the suture kit. "I'll help you pay for the new roads." Maybe the storm outside would wash out one of the coastal highways, that would translate well- if it translated, Veneziano had been human when this happened...

Four, five, six stitches just to hold the skin together, then padding and gauze all the way up and down the muscle.

"I'm serious, you bastard. You'd better wake up!"

His hair seemed longer than Romano remembered, and when he touched it with one wet hand his fingers came back with streaks of red and brown and something else. The sheer volume of filth had turned his brother's hair almost the same dark shade as his own- but too red. There was blood staining his face from a gash on his forehead; it was too shallow for more stitches but the rain had caused the red to run down over his eye and cheek. When he gently dragged a rag over his face the skin wound up a different colour, Veneziano's sun-kissed skin washed out and pale, so pale, worse than Romano could remember seeing it before.

When he got his boots off Romano found the swelling around one ankle that confirmed why he'd been limping. The older brother was not crying as he did this.

"Just fucking look at me, will you?" He was not crying, he was not crying, he was not...

Getting Veneziano into the tub had been hard enough for the brunet, so pulling his unconscious brother out of it was even more difficult. In the bedroom the sheets on were stale from disuse but Romano didn't care, they were clean. He removed the wet pants and tore through the dresser looking for spare clothes, finding a couple things and pulling the old tee-shirt over his brother's head. He dried Veneziano's hair with the same towel that took the water off his limbs and back, found a pair of shorts and stripped the wet, blood-stained ones off to replace them.

He got his little brother into bed and then Romano didn't know what else he could do.

"Fuck you!" So he shouted, because the bedroom light was burnt out and he was standing in the dark looking at his comatose baby brother. "Just fuck you! Wake up!"

And he wasn't crying.

"Do something!"

And he wasn't thinking about the others.

"Snore! Twitch! Groan! I don't care!"

And he wasn't remembering Veneziano's memories.

"Look at me!"

Romano stumbled forward in the dark, the only light in the apartment was coming from the bathroom glow he'd left on down the hall. He grabbed his brother's hand between both of his and dropped to his knees by the bed, holding Veneziano's wrist to his forehead.

"Wake up...!"

He felt around his brother's palm, pinching the cold flesh and looking for the pulse point. His throat and chest were too far away on the tall bed for Romano to reach out that way. He wanted to feel the fingers twitch when he pinched a nerve, he wanted his brother's body to react to his presence, he wanted to know that his brother's heart was beating, and that his lungs were still breathing.

"Please wake up...!" He hadn't opened his eyes since Romano had caught him. He hadn't moved on his own since he'd stopped running. Not in the woods, tearing away from that mansion. Not in the jeep that carried them out of Switzerland. Not on the road, running, to get to Venice. They couldn't have taken a train in their condition and Romano's radio had been fried so he couldn't contact the army. He'd also put a bullet in his phone when he heard the monster's voice crackling through it, so there had been no calling Seborga or San Marino for help either. The Swiss driver had been adamant about getting Veneziano to a hospital, not understanding why Romano was so frantic to get his brother all the way back to Venice. He'd chosen to leave them behind rather than find them both marooned just north of the border...

He had to be here. It wasn't an option, Rome wasn't a substitute either. His name was Veneziano, Venezia, Venice! This city was his heart and he needed to be here so it could keep beating, he needed to be here so he could keep breathing...

But... but his brother hadn't even reacted when they crossed the border, he probably didn't even know he was in Venice...

"You can't die in Venice." He was not praying... "You were Venezia long before you were Italia, little brother, so you can't die in this city..." Romano set his head down on the bedding, lacing his fingers through Veneziano's and still holding on with both hands. He closed his eyes and listened to the rain pepper the roof and walls of the flat. There was thunder outside, and the wind off the Adriatic was strong tonight. "So please... just... just wake up..."

Romano was not begging...

-AN Removed and chapter reposted, September 18, 2012