The Decision of Love, Vanity, Going Home and Season's End, Empty, Secret Door.

AN removed.

Recovery

Confluence

In a word, life in the apartment was stifling.

Japan was uncomfortable with being left alone with the Vatican City State, but after being exposed to the man's absolutely terrible culinary skills it was decided that he would be in charge of meals. This seemed alright with Germany and Prussia, who were rather fond of his food already, but Italy's... relative-of-unspecified-degree, was incredibly intimidating to have hanging around the other side of the kitchen watching him.

He enlisted Germany to bake bread, because despite the simplicity of the recipe Japan simply wasn't that fond of it, and without it Vatican might not eat at all. The smell wasn't much of a comfort to him, but the other three nations visibly relaxed with the fresh scent. Now if only their charge could have reacted the same way...

Prussia kept busy cleaning, which seemed odd given his personality but the east German was fidgety and had to do something. Since arriving he'd cleaned his gun twice before Vatican made him put it away, but shortly after that he'd found the rifle and pistol Romano had left behind after the Swiss mission and he'd played with those for a few hours. When Vatican made Prussia put those away too, a massive cleaning effort had been called to order and Prussia had gravitated towards the large collection of silver and glassware Italy kept in the china cabinets in his living room.

Vatican himself, when he wasn't haunting the apartment watching Japan or watching Prussia, was either in the bedroom with Italy or he left to go down to the Cathedral across the canal. It only took a few days before Prussia wandered down to the church as well, and when he returned without the Holy See it was because Vatican was preaching.

"Not like annoying preaching, I mean good, solid, honest stuff." Japan was not a Christian nation. Some of his children subscribed to the western faith, but not enough to sway him spiritually in that direction. Still, there was no reason to be rude and Prussia, who had lost most of his faith after the Cold War, seemed humbled by whatever he'd heard. Vatican's pilgrimages continued, and Prussia took to escorting him across the water.

The apartment really was in such a lovely part of the city. It was right by the grand piazza and impressive sculptures spread out in front of the Cathedral, the entire square was usually visible right from Italy's balcony. Japan had only been here once or twice when touring the nation with his Axis friend, but they were memories he kept close. It saddened him to look out the windows and see nothing but heavy grey rain.

And Germany... Well, with Romano gone south and Vatican out for most of the day, the few weak barriers his friend had been able to prop up had completely dissolved. Germany had kept from shedding any tears or losing control of his voice in front of Romano. He had done absolutely anything to keep from showing just how much North Italy's condition hurt him before South Italy left for Rome. Japan hadn't quiet understood why this was the case, but then Prussia had explained it to him from a worthwhile perspective:

"Romano's a big brother, and I'm a big brother. So I can tell you that if my brother went through the same level of hell as Italy, and then his dopey friend, who I never really liked that much to begin with, came over and started weeping around the house like a little girl, I'd either chase him away or straight up knock the shit out of him." It was worthwhile to hear Prussia out. "West is hurting, but he's got me for that. North is so far gone that South is all alone, so of course he wouldn't want someone else crying 'woe is me, my heart is breaking' around him."

They were insightful, the things Prussia had to say. And more importantly, the way he said them was what encouraged Japan to listen so closely. His own relationship with China was... complicated. As it was with Taiwan, and Hong Kong, and even Vietnam and the other South-east Asian states. Korea was the closest relative Japan could think of with whom he had a stable relationship, but even that was tense and uncomfortable at times. The prefectures did not look at Japan the same way South Italy and East Germany saw their younger brothers.

So listening to Prussia speak in such a low voice, and watching him sit on the floor of a Venetian apartment with mounds of silverware spread around him and a polishing rag in his hands... It was not the image of Germany's brother that Japan had grown accustomed to over the years.

"Please wake up... please wake up... please wake..." And the image of Germany broken and weeping at Italy's bedside was something Japan also found alarming. His memories told him that in the final loop Italy had collapsed twice and left Germany haunted with worry. The first time he had woken up in a fragile state, and the second had heralded catastrophe, so what if the third...?

Japan knew that Vatican didn't understand why every time he left the apartment he came back to find the heavy door locked and bolted. None of them had explained to the Holy See why the front room was never left empty. The four of them together could have, quite easily, just all stayed together in Italy's bedroom even after Spain returned from Madrid, but they knew better. It was an anxiety that had no foundation in this world, but it haunted them all just the same.

If something attacked that door then there had to be someone there to alert the others. They couldn't afford to be caught unawares again. Vatican didn't understand and none of them had explained it, but that was just the way things were going to be. Until Italy woke up for the third time, there was no trusting the fates not to turn against them.

It had happened too many times in the past... too many times in the future...

It was a week after Romano left that Spain finally returned to the flat. He stayed for maybe three hours during which he had a long, sombre discussion with East about something, and then he sat with Germany in Italy's room before he left again for Rome. They didn't begrudge Spain's decision to go: someone had to be with South Italy, especially since there was nothing the rest of them could do for the Northern brother.

Italy's was a deep dreamless sleep. His fever wouldn't go down and his body never moved in the slightest, not even to shiver or pant as the heat in his flesh continued to rise. At least Germany knew from much experience that Italy wasn't prone to moving around very much when he slept anyways, he was sedentary that way, but no one was supposed so soundly when they were sick like this.

At the same time, if Italy had been moving then that would have meant he was only pretending to sleep, because he did that a lot too. Italy would lay down and close his eyes whenever he was bored or didn't want to take part in whatever discussion was going on, but if he was moving then he wasn't really sleeping.

It had taken Germany several years after the Second World War to realize that his stupid friend wasn't quiet as stupid as he'd always thought. If the world thought you weren't listening then they'd say and do all sorts of things right in front of you, and then it was up to you to decide what to do with that information later. Germany never knew what Italy did with what he heard, but if history was anything to go by then he usually just kept what he learned to himself...

"I love you..." but Italy wasn't pretending this time, "so I'm begging you, please wake up..." He wasn't pretending, and there was nothing for him to gain from it even if he was. There was no dazed smile on his face to show he was dreaming, there was no quiet murmur from his throat, and his eyes never moved behind closed lids.

October was half gone, and still nothing changed.

"I love you, I love you, I love you..." No matter how many times Germany said it, he wouldn't wake up. No matter what little kisses he tried using when they were alone, or promises he made, or bargains he tried to strike, nothing would reach him...

China was the one who, after he arrived through the rain, encouraged Germany to speak to him and to keep doing it in whatever language he could. Say some words in Italian, in German, in English, in Italian again. Germany kept promising and pledging even after Russia showed up, the stalwart nation working with the hardware in Italy's office until a properly secured hub was built so each of them could remain in contact with their governments. They weren't on vacation, this leave of absence wasn't meant to relax them, so it was a relief when Japan approved of the network and was able to speak to Tokyo face-to-face for the first time in weeks.

"I love you, I love you so much, so please just let me know you're still there..."

Almost two months after freeing Italy from the mansion, things still weren't getting any better.

Venice was flooding, it was official now: strange tides and weeks of stormy weather brought water up to flood the entrance of the building they were in. France and England showed up together and were wet up to their waists from wading across certain parts of the city, the Brit relying heavily on a cane and France's arm to slowly make it all the way up to the apartment. He was better than he'd been in September, but was still unsteady walking more than a few steps at a time. There was a strange bruise on England's face that Germany had to assume was France's fault, because the pair wouldn't discuss it.

Either way, it was dangerous to go out now, more so than before. If you weren't a local then it was difficult enough to steer a boat through the canals, in a storm it was treacherous, and when the city was filling with debris it was a nightmare.

The news filtering through the radio wasn't very encouraging either. Romano's soldiers were everywhere now, trying to keep the peace, and if they added any more patrols it would take a turn towards complete martial law in the north. For the few hours Germany left Italy's side each day he would come out to the living room and see Japan standing by the closed patio entrance, watching the patrol boats go by in the downpour. The air waves and internet were filled with the President's voice, or the Italian Prime Minister's, or other ministers and clerks and representatives of Italy's government.

Venice was recognized as a state emergency and the shooter in Turin still hadn't been caught. There had been a lot of shootings these past few weeks...

"My god you do look terrible..." England didn't intend for anyone but Italy to hear those words, it was Germany's bad timing that brought him into the bedroom while the Englishman was sitting there keeping watch. He felt bad for intruding and England looked embarrassed for having spoken, but then the stilted moment passed and the former Empire turned back to look at the bed. He was still wearing his jacket, his hat speckled with rain from outside and his cane in one hand. France had pushed the chair all the way up to the edge of the bed before stepping out, so England's free hand was gently holding Italy's left wrist, his fingers grazing the rosary beads that still remained in place around the Italian's healing arm. There was no rule against touching Italy as he slept, and England wasn't stepping on any toes by spending a private moment alone with him.

Italy did look terrible though. His hair was longer now than it had been before they'd entered the mansion for the first time; a slow, progressive change over the course of several loops, but there was no denying that the dark red bangs framing his face now stretched all the way to his chin instead of hanging around his ears. Cutting it was an idea they'd shared as friends, but no one had the courage to act on it; only the Vatican felt comfortable enough bringing a blade to Italy's skin to shave him every morning, and he only did that because he knew Italy absolutely hated having the red hairs scrape and scratch his throat.

There were downsides to keeping him clean-shaven like that though, and that was what England remarked on. Italy's skin was unnaturally pale now, his olive complexion looked more like dusty grey paper and had completely lost the healthy, sun-drenched glow it was supposed to have. And the scars...There were so many tiny scars hiding along the contours of his face, had they always been there?Everyone had scars, but... but those looked like bite marks around his mouth and behind his ear, little white marks forming semi-circles where flesh had crunched and bruised and bled.

The worst of the scars were hidden by the blankets and the clothes Vatican changed him in and out of every day. Germany had only seen some of them, the sealed knife-wound on Italy's thigh, the long gouge that had been cut into and healed along the length of his calf. There were pink slices and gouges and punctures across his chest, and his hands were covered in nicks and scars, but at least they were closed wounds. The minor injuries he'd sustained during the rescue had healed the way a Nation would expect, and it gave them hope.

But...

From shoulder to fingertips they kept Italy's left arm bound up with gauze and medical tape- and by they he meant China, who seemed to take the greatest responsibility for what had happened. The limb had been so abused by the mansion that they weren't sure how long it would be until Italy could use it again. The bullet wound under his shoulder from the rescue was resisting the Nation's ability to heal quickly and efficiently, but it was nothing like the butchery lower down the arm. Like the bullet wound England had dealt with after their rescue, Italy had been human when his forearm was carved open from wrist to elbow, crudely healed with magic, and then ripped open again to retrieve the foreign object he'd buried inside. It was terrifying to see one of their own injured this way, but it had been worse when they'd lived it. It had been unbearable when they'd needed him to go through it all for their sake...

Italy wasn't human anymore. He was covered in scars, but their bodies didn't carry those the same way humans many would remain once Veneziano actually started healing? He... He would heal, of course, he had to. But what were they supposed to do about that gruesome wound?

A few days later England proved to be the one who best kept his head whenever the arm came up in conversation. He was a very blunt man, something that Germany found almost refreshing in the suffocating quiet of the apartment, and he told them flatly to call a human doctor to come in and examine the limb for them. They all knew that it was mending, but once he'd recovered England was certain Italy's natural healing abilities would return, it would just take time.

"Two weeks ago I could barely stand up, but on Monday I somehow trekked across this death-trap of a city with nothing but a cane and a frog for balance." England was also very upfront about his disability, but Germany could remember him behaving the same way about his blindness in the final loop, and all the other loops too. The former British Empire had his faults, but anxiety was not one of them. "My shoulder healed slowly, but a human wouldn't have been able to use it the way I was back in September and now it's fine." Fine was a relative term, but while it was clear that England was still in pain when he tried walking too much around the apartment, his shoulder hadn't required nearly as much care and recovery time as a human's would have.

Contacting Romano brought a state doctor and two Italian guards to the apartment for the day. He had been a nervous, fidgety man however and the officers keeping him safe had been particularly on edge. Only the Vatican was allowed to stay in the bedroom while the doctor was present, and he left a few hours later grumbling about how the Nation should have been in a hospital bed surrounded by nurses and officers, not a grungy apartment filled with foreigners.

It was the first time in almost fifty years that Germany had been targeted as a "foreigner" in Italy's home. That didn't make it any less true, but it felt easier to be upset over him calling the flat 'grungy' than to analyze the hostility they all felt before the humans left. They all suffered with that that negativity in intense silence for the rest of the afternoon.

Meanwhile, France had comfortably taken over cooking for the group, and when Canada arrived things started getting cramped, but they persisted. Now that almost all of the original ten were here no one was willing to consider leaving again. Foreign or not, they wanted to be here.

They all slept in the living room, except for Vatican, who departed every night to stay in the cathedral across the canals (the piazza had sunk in the flood-waters, but he still insisted on going to the church and Prussia continued to help him) and Germany, who stayed in Italy's room.

It was a sad, dreary atmosphere, but that was how they lived...

"Jeeze, you look even worse than I feel..."

"Sh-shut up, damn it..." It was pitch black out and Romano was fucking freezing. It'd been bad enough inside but now that he was standing outside the Italian Parliament in Rome, he could feel the early November air cutting straight through the multiple layers he was wearing. He'd been back in Rome for a month, and he was only feeling worse...

His fever was bad and he'd started aching already. He'd been sitting in his office for hours before now, dressed too warm for the autumn with two shirts, a sweater and his jacket, but he still felt like he was freezing. Walking out with Seborga just sent his teeth chattering while his little brother kept a firm grip on his arm. Romano could walk down stairs just fucking fine on his own, but the adolescent principality wasn't so convinced.

"You want me to bring the car around?" Ass.

"I can fucking walk." But Seborga didn't let go of his arm, and Romano stopped trying to shake him off, it was too much effort. "I thought you sa- chigi!" Oh shit.

Romano put his foot wrong, or his weight just didn't go right, and suddenly he dropped. He didn't go tumbling down the concrete steps to a bruised and bleeding conclusion, but Seborga came down with him as the elder brother slammed his tailbone on the step under them. His legs went funny from the impact and his cough decided to reassert itself at that precise moment, stopping him from swearing or fumbling to get back up as he covered the coughs with one hand and threw down his briefcase next to him, pissed off.

"A-Are you okay!" Ow, fuck, yes. He was fine, and he'd be better if Seborga would let go of his arm. "J-just stay down for a minute, are you sure you're-?"

"Stop worrying so much, damn it! It's a cold not the fucking plague-" oh fuck. "...Why the hell are you crying, you bastard?" This was everything Romano did not need right now.

"I-I'm not crying." Liar. Seborga was crouched on the step next to Romano, his arms still wrapped around the older one's elbow while the lights from the front of the building made the tear-tracks down his cheek light up. He had his light head bowed, but it wasn't doing him any good. "But you're okay? You're not hurt?"

"... Sit down, damn it." The concrete was cold and bumpy but South Italy stretched his legs out a little, tugging his arm free at last as Seborga sat down next to him and dropped his head down on Romano's shoulder. Wrapping his arm around the teen's shoulders, he gave a sigh and let his sibling just stay like that, not saying anything when he heard a few sniffles coming from the Micro-nation.

"Y-Your fever's really bad..."

"Well, it's cold out so be thankful for the heat." Seborga hugged him around the waist and Romano closed his eyes, keeping his arm where it was. It was cold out but this street was quiet, the city lights making it impossible to see the stars despite the clear black sky. It wasn't terrible to spend a moment out here, and there was no one to harass them to get a move n either. Waiting with more patience than he thought he had, Romano finally found the time to ask something he'd been wondering on and off all day: "You aren't feeling sick, are you?"

"No," came the dreary reply. "No I'm alright, I'm too small to catch whatever's wrong."

"I'm not surprised..." Micro-nations. Either they were small enough to avoid economic troubles or not big enough to survive them.

"You can't find the problem either, can you?" It was wise of his little brother to say those words so quietly, or else Romano would have been obligated to shove him down the rest of the steps. Rubbing his face with his free hand, South Italy grumbled to himself before answering.

"It's not imports," he grumbled, and then Romano felt the whole list come tumbling out: "It's not exports. It's not taxes. It's not the budget. It's not mafia. It's not the Euro-crisis. It's not any of the things it should be." It wasn't even foreign investment that was dragging his health down the drain. Yes, people were terrified of investing in Italy right now, and even inside the country Romano didn't blame his people, north or south, for being sketchy about buying anything but the essentials until things calmed the hell down, but those weren't answers. He had the fever from severe inflation and the rattle in his chest that came from devalued currency, his pulse was erratic with export values and if he could stop sweating oil prices for one god-damned minute then maybe he could think straight...

But it wasn't inflation or currency or exports or oil prices making him sick. It felt like economic trouble, but Romano couldn't find the financial problem...

"That's why I called you..." Seborga whispered, and Romano glared down at his brother's pale head in the dark, critical of that quiet little voice he was using. "I... I'm sorry, I know you'd rather be in Venice, but-"

"Just shut up, will you?" Romano grumbled, closing his eyes and letting his hand creep up until he was brushing his fingers through his brother's hair, calming him down as he curled the sun-bleached strands back behind his ear. "I'd rather be anywhere I can make a difference. So stop babbling and just call that Spanish bastard to come pick us up."

He knew. Romano knew before he even committed to the words that Seborga wouldn't let him get away with them. The silence stretched for a moment between them, but he felt the Micro-nation stiffen next to him, the adolescent sitting up a little bit and staring down the stone steps towards the street. South Italy resisted when he pulled away however, and his sibling stopped trying to separate and stand up.

He expected Seborga to do more than just stare at him with those big green eyes of his. They'd driven here this morning in Romano's car, and it was parked in the secure underground lot reserved for government employees. But it was a long walk to get down there, and now that he was sitting and had his weight resting heavily on his brother... well...

"You... you can't walk, can you?" Hmph. Leave it to the brat to make it sound so serious. The pain in Romano's gut was... managable. "You're shaking..." Romano huffed at him, or at least he tried to.

"Call Spain."

"When he wakes up all hell's gonna break loose, isn't it?" When America arrived on his own on November 1st, the temperature in the apartment shot up by at least five degrees. Germany noticed how it stayed there, and coming so close to the Italian memorial day, it was unpleasant. The apartment was too small for this much tension.

America couldn't sit too close to England before the strain of their spoiled relationship drove either Canada or France (or both), to quickly get in the way, and even then they usually removed England from the room and not America. To make matters worse, if Canada sat too close to Russia then both super-powers would begin to glower at one another from across the room, even if Russia's boldest act at any time was simply to strike up a conversation or offer to refill whatever Canada was drinking. It was a miserable situation, and although China seemed apt at getting in-between the former rivals and diffusing the situation, the stress between them all was beginning to poison the air.

For himself, Germany came close to asking America to just leave- but that would have been the wrong thing to do. At least it felt wrong, the first few times he thought of it. When America finally made his comment in the living room two days after he'd arrived, the German found himself listening closely. Why would things get worse when Italy woke up? Wouldn't that be a sign that everything was finally going to begin calming down?

The Vatican state was with Italy now, Germany had only left the room for long enough to shower, change, and eat the fresh bread and soup France had prepared for them. The rain was still pounding, and the radio was still murmuring quietly behind them, but no one was talking anymore. Japan was the only one who looked like he had something to say, the lot of them staring at America where he was leaning against the patio door, hands in his jean pockets and staring out the window into the rain.

"What makes you say that?" Prussia asked the question, and Germany waited to hear the answer, but instead of giving it to them the tall, stern-faced youth at the window just turned his gaze on the quiet nation sitting on one of Italy's decorated couches. Japan looked embarrassed for a moment, lowering his wide eyes down to the floor and stirring the remaining mouthfuls of soup sitting in his bowl. Attention was split between the two, but China was focused on his relative's silence.

It took two false starts, then Japan said:

"Italy will panic." The words were quiet and reserved. The older nation looked like he was in pain trying to bring the explanation to life, his lips hardly moving as he breathed the words out. "When he wakes up, and when the reality of what his people are doing hits him, he will flee to the nearest disaster and not come back." Not come back...? "He will not be himself. He will return, but not before..." Japan ended his explanation by pushing his spoon into his mouth, making himself chew and swallow the hot vegetables and broth very slowly.

A very dark, very heavy silence settled over the nine of them after that. England excused himself to go make a call to his boss in London. Canada wandered into Italy's studio only to be followed a moment later by Russia, and for once America let the two go without glaring any more than he had to. Germany watched Prussia clear away the dishes before France raided the wine-rack for a bottle to sooth his nerves, pulling a beer out of the fridge for Prussia while he worked. China decided he was going to go sit with Italy for a bit, and Germany just looked between America and Japan, wondering why he knew what they were talking about but couldn't name it.

"E-Excuse me..." Japan rose from his seat and quickly vanished to the back of the flat, apparently more willing to seclude himself with China and the Catholic father than remain near the rest of them. With no one else to approach while France and Prussia started chatting in the kitchen, Germany swallowed the reservations he felt and cautiously approached America.

The young super-power was always quick to jump the gun, always a little rowdy, and always a little bit dangerous. That was just what happened when you gained too much power too quickly: it was how America coped with not really knowing what to do with so much wealth and influence. But this wasn't the first time in America's short history that he'd been hostile towards the rest of the world. It was just awkward because world politics were so much different now from what they'd been in the 1920s...

America's posture told Germany that he didn't want to talk. Hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders twisted as he leaned against the door, he had that same perpetual scowl on his face that he'd worn during the readings back in Bern. His breath was misting the glass panes set in the stained wood, America's reflection partially visible as the daylight died outside. The rain wouldn't stop and he was watching it like there was nothing else he'd rather do.

"After the war..." Germany's least favourite memories, the years he wished had just never happened.

"I was with him." At least America knew what Germany was trying to talk to him about. The super-power kept his voice down and his eyes focused outside, refusing to look at him and acknowledge the tender subject they were treading on. "I captured him just after the second strike. He was out for... six days. Stone cold and dead to the world."

"...We'd never seen anything like it." No one had ever been hit by anything like it, let alone twice...

"He woke up when his Emperor surrendered over the radio." America was speaking but he didn't want to talk- this wasn't a conversation. Not yet. Maybe not at all. "I expected him to keep laying there silently, or sit up and say something conceited to me. Instead he just started screaming." Germany could... hardly imagine what that would look or sound like. By the time Japan had fallen to the Allies Germany had had his own problems to deal with, his own torment. But he still knew what had happened.

"The bombs, and half of Tokyo was-"

"So Italy's gonna freak out, alright?" No, this wasn't a conversation. America's firm stare told Germany not to say anything, not to talk, not to make any points or observations. He'd been patronizing before while staring out the window, now he was down right threatening with all of his attention focused on Germany. "Psycho shooters and random bombs all over the fucking place- just be ready for it. He's not gonna wake up laughing and asking about pasta, the little idiot's already gone way off the deep end."

He knew better. Germany really, truly knew better, but not only did America's last comment surprise him, it made him angry. He just stood there as the youngster in front of him, the child in front of him, brushed Germany off and stepped around him, headed for the kitchen. He called for a beer from France and Prussia complied, Germany staring after the blonde upstart with a violent heat in his stomach, a red flush burning his face and neck.

How dare America patronize him like that? Defence mechanism or no, this attitude had to go and Germany found himself struggling not to snap back with something. In Italy's house too, in Veneziano's house, eating his food, and upsetting his closest friends. How dare America say something so careless to him? 'The little idiot's gone way off the deep end,'? Yes, of course he had, because the nine of them had left him behind-!

"You're deluding yourself," Germany barked, and he watched the younger nation freeze up as the words hit him. It was nasty and it would just cause trouble, but Germany couldn't help his sudden temper as America turned sharply on his heel to face him again, glaring with wild blue eyes. Prussia looked surprised and then suddenly clued in, France staring with an unreadable expression as East gestured desperately behind America's back for West to stop talking.

No.

"What the hell're you-?"

"I'm saying that you're being petulant and it's annoying, and I don't know why no one else has set you straight yet." Prussia was pleading with him but Germany stopped paying attention to his older brother, focusing on the arrogant nation in front of him. "You couldn't stop England from almost killing himself to protect you, and you can't stop Canada from doing what he wants, and you're not in control of what's going on anymore. None of us are, now get over it." It took a minute, it took a very long minute, for those words to click in the American's head.

"Who the hell do you think-!"

And it all stormed downhill from there.

AN removed.

-Reposted September 18, 2012.