HetaOni OST, Paradise
AN removed.
Recovery
Brotherhood
Fear: the distressing, negative sensation induced by a perceived threat.
It's the sensation of waking up in the close dark and distant rain. It's the sense of strong arms and the scent of sweet cornflowers.
It's not knowing where or when or how he is, just knowing that he's there, and how there could be anywhere, and he can't tell the difference.
So, fear.
(Wake up?)
No.
(Why not?)
Fear so strong that he- (he?) -knows he has to do something.
(Why he? Why not she? It?)
He knows because reason without words is instinctive, intuitive, self-evident but still arbitrary.
(Why a he?)
Because he's a he. That's why. Self-evident.
(And arbitrary.)
But intuitive.
(So instinctive.)
And reasonable.
(He is a he.)
And he is reasonable.
Veneziano and Romano kept a flat in Rome. It was a nice place, a two-story townhouse in the city with a small green-space in the back that they shared with their immediate neighbours. A hundred years ago it had been a private city villa, now it was home to a tiny little community.
Seborga was in that twilit garden looking for a moment's peace when he got the call from Venice. He'd tried running away from the tension going on in the kitchen, but it caught up with him through the phone.
"I want you on a train first thing tomorrow morning." Papa's voice was strained and difficult to understand, he sounded almost like he- "And don't you dare breathe a word of this to Romano!"
"Papa..." No. No, no, no, why was this happening? Why more bad news? "Papa, Romano is..." Peering back inside the house when he thought he heard San Marino's voice, or maybe Spain's, Seborga would have choked if either one was there but they weren't. He was alone outside and away from the arguing- for now anyways. He focused on the phone-call instead of worrying about the others: "He's sick, and I mean he's doing really, really badly." Vatican was quiet on the other end of the line, but Seborga could hear him breathing heavily into the receiver.
"...Can you leave?"
"Not without telling him, but otherwise yes, I think so. There's nothing I can do here anymore; our bosses are going crazy but there's nothing on paper that will fix any of it, and even your boss-"
"The Church is trying..." But it wasn't having an impact. People were filling the cathedrals across the nation, collecting money for victims and relief efforts, but none of it was preventative: they couldn't predict where the next incident would occur. "What about San Marino?"
"He keeps coughing, but he denies it." Seborga dropped his voice when he gave his answer, just in case his older brother was within ear-shot.
"And you?"
"A fever," but- "tiny, it's nothing, honest!"
"Either you need to come here or I have to get him out of this city." Seborga swallowed hard at those words, wrapping one arm around his own chest in a hug while the other kept his phone pressed to his ear. It felt cold to be outside without a jacket, but that was more his fever talking than the fresh November air. "I wouldn't move him unless this was serious, Seborga, but perhaps he'd be safer in Rome."
"Papa..." Venice was in trouble, but the Micro-nation couldn't help but lick his lips and shake his head, fully aware that the Vatican couldn't see him gesture like that. "If he's as bad as everyone keeps saying then that could kill him..." Moving him. Moving Veneziano in the storm and the chaos could- "What if you were attacked?" The odds were not in their favour. People like them always tended to be close to disasters when they struck.
"Then I need you to come and be with him." That... that sounded like a final request- no! No they were not at that point yet. Seborga glared at the potted tomato plant sitting next to the bench he was on and blamed it for everything going wrong in their lives right now. He'd rather get angry like Romano than crumble and cry right now, crying wouldn't help them.
"What about his friends?"
"They're leaving, praise the Lord." What? Why was that a good thing? "Seborga please. Go talk to Romano and make preparations immediately, I need you as soon as he can spare you."
Spare him? Seborga shivered from the cold and the idea of leaving Romano alone with San Marino and Spain in the same house. That couldn't happen. Maybe he could take Romano with him back to Venice? Or maybe it really would be best for Veneziano to come to Rome. If the military performed the extraction then he'd be safe- but if he was really weak enough for Vatican to call them...
"Papa, did something happen?"
"Please don't ask questions now." Yes. That meant yes, something had happened. Something really, really bad had happened in Veneziano's house, bad enough that his friends were abandoning him.
"Papa-"
"This is not the time for you to argue with me!" He was shouting- "I know you can't leave there tonight, but you must come! He cannot be left alone, there must be someone with him at all times to make sure it doesn't happen again! Seborga-"
"Calm down! Papa please stop-" He raised his voice too high and quickly checked back over his shoulder again to make sure he still hadn't attracted attention from inside. Through the phone he could hear Vatican still muttering to himself and speaking in short, sharp bursts, but Seborga did not want to give Spain and San Marino anything else to yell about. They couldn't get along, or maybe they just wouldn't... Could he really leave Romano alone with those two?
"Romano's already asleep tonight and I can't wake him up right now." He slept so little it would be a crime for Seborga to disturb him. Romano could barely walk around the house, but when he laid down he just stayed in bed with his glassy eyes staring at the walls or out the window. He probably wouldn't sleep all the way through tonight, but Seborga still wanted him rested before he tried telling him he was leaving for Venice. "Tomorrow I will talk to him- no! Papa listen to me. Tomorrow, as soon as I think he can handle it, I will tell him, and then I will get on the first train up to where you are, I promise."
Seborga was not going to cry, he wasn't going to. He could feel the exhaustion and the fear in Vatican's voice and it hurt to listen to, it sent his hands shaking madly and it was hard to take deep, steady breaths. This was really happening to them, he'd hoped so much that once the dreams of white walls and the nightmares of blood had gone away that things would get better, but they weren't. Nothing was getting better...
He was still having the dreams...
"Your brother needs you..."
"They both do, Papa." And didn't know how make it better...
Pain: physical or bodily suffering; a continuous, strongly unpleasant or agonizing sensation in the body, such as arises from illness, injury, harmful physical contact, etc.
Pain that has no origin, just sensation. Pain that blasts away all sense of self or reason, experience without boundary and boundary without context. Words are text are marks are meaningless and scatter like dust. Names are sounds are noises are arbitrary and without essence. Pain free of emotion and location and relation.
The fear is gone because there is only pain, but nothing is gone because nothing is here, and here is not there because there could be anywhere, and he just doesn't know.
So, pain.
Wake up.
(No.)
Wake up!
(No!)
Why not?
(No.)
Say why!
(Not again!)
Again?
(NO!)
England didn't want to leave and the flooded streets were only part of the reason. Like everyone else it felt wrong to up and leave Italy behind again, but they had no choice in the matter.
China didn't want to leave either, but England could tell that there was no point in arguing with him about the decision. America left the apartment that night but didn't take his things, and England took it as a sign that he was going to mimic Vatican and stay in the Cathedral instead of in the apartment, not that the Catholic father went with him tonight of course.
China had taken control, but then he'd surrendered that power over to the Vatican City State. England was certain that if there was any way for him to do it, the Representative of the Holy Catholic Church would have removed all of them from the apartment in the same hour China suggested it. He agreed to wait until the next day, but the bedroom door opened all of once for him to use the office phone, and after that it had remained locked indefinitely.
France tried to talk to England after America left, and Canada sat with him for a while in the dreary silence that had overtaken them all. He didn't need their sympathy, he didn't want to think about what America had said.
"He didn't seem too excessive..." England murmured quietly, adjusting the pillow on the edge of the couch where he was going to be sleeping again. His lower back couldn't tolerate sleeping on the floor with the others, and France just gave him a terribly sympathetic look from where he was seated on top of his own blankets nearby. The sleeping arrangements tended to remind them all of the safe room back in the mansion, but those were uncomfortable thoughts.
"Liar, England."
"How would you know?" England didn't know if he expected an answer to that question, but France didn't give one anyways. Slowly easing himself down onto his side, England winced a little as he pulled his right leg up onto the couch, one hand tucked under his head while the other just settled on the bit of cushion in front of his chest. He was dressed down but hardly comfortable, the flooding in the city had meant they all had to pack as light as possible, and laundry was hard to manage with the constant rain... "Is your hand alright?"
He didn't know why he felt so compelled to ask the question, but France had begun putting his bedding back in order and the words made him pause. England wanted to smack him for the strange look he had on at that moment, but France shrugged instead of following through with some kind of tease. He lifted his hand up and carefully flexed his fingers just to prove he could do it.
"Perhaps I should not have hit cher Amerique so hard, you know?"
"I didn't expect you to hit him at all."
"Such restraint would blemish my history, what would the historians say if France didn't strike against an outnumbered foe?" France gave him a sunny smile and England just watched him quietly. He wasn't trying to look at him, not that kind of look that was supposed to suddenly make sense of something England had always wondered about the other nation. He just watched how France closed his eyes and grinned, the faded bruise under his chin coming to England's attention.
The broken nose England had suffered at America's hands (or, to be more accurate, his foot), had healed within a day or two of being inflicted, and France's bruised jaw had mended neatly. They hadn't discussed either injury, but now England found himself wondering if the swelling bruise America had left with was supposed to be thanks for France's cracked teeth, or England's crushed nose...
Foolish thought. Where had that come from?
Cornflowers: Centaurea cyanus, a small annual flowering plant native to Europe. National flower of Germany and traditionally worn by young men in love; if the flower fades too quickly, it is taken as a sign that the man's love is not returned.
But the smell...
Tomatos? Smell.
(Smell tomate?)
Sento odore di pomodori.
(Pomodoro. Singular.)
Pomodoro, rossa?
(Oliva, verde?)
Missing one.
(Bianco?)
White.
(White?)
No white.
(No white?)
No flag.
(No white flag?)
Red tomato.
(Green olive)
No white flag.
(No wake up.)
But- Cornflowers. Smell those?
(Corn?)
Flowers.
(Polenta.)
Blue.
(Yellow.)
You mean gold.
(Gold?)
Black, red, gold. You mean gold.
(You?)
Me?
(I?)
Sleep.
The problem was not with having San Marino in the house.
And the problem was not with having Spain in the house.
The problem was having both of them, together, in the house without a host. Putting any two independent nations in a third one's home without a proper hierarchy or balance of power turned everything into a debate, an argument, or a chance to out-muscle or out-influence or generally out-something the other. They were not bad people, but they were still nations...
Seborga didn't count as a host, and he certainly didn't have a place on any hierarchy. He'd been born shortly before Grandpa Rome finally collapsed, so while he had been acknowledged he hadn't really known their grandfather the way his Latin brothers had. He'd been good friends with the Holy Roman Empire and kept close enough to Switzerland and France that he hadn't quite considered himself a part of Italy as the centuries went by. He'd been upset when he was literally sold to Sardinia, but the Pope had never acknowledged it and, well, that was where Seborga's official history and power ended in most cases.
When he'd asked his brothers for independence in the twentieth century it had been a lack-lustre affair. Veneziano had only showed up to make sure Seborga was still going to pay his taxes and follow all Italian laws, and that was literally the end of it. He still relied on his brothers for pretty much everything, just like he had for years, and he was too small to do an awful lot about it. Seborga's sick went to Italian hospitals, his children were taught in Italian schools by Italian teachers, and his people drove down Italian roads to vote in Italian in elections. He was, in a sense, still as Italian as he'd ever been.
But he wasn't.
On paper Seborga's independence didn't mean very much, but in a situation like this it meant everything. Seborga could not control what was going on in the house because it wasn't his house anymore. The most he could claim to be was a subject state, and that really wasn't something that gave you a lot of power against fully established nations. Even San Marino was more powerful than him, making things uncomfortable at best.
"I'm telling you he needs to go out and be seen-"
"No. He has to stay home, and rest, and stay close to the government!"
"The government can't stop what's happening!"
They were at it again. They were at it again those two, and they'd only finished breakfast ten minutes ago! Seborga held his breath as the shouting reached him from upstairs, the sound of booming voices rocking the house. They weren't in Romano's room, Seborga was sure, but if they were shouting then it didn't matter where they were standing.
Frustrated, an idea sparked and Seborga quickly fetched a lighter from the kitchen drawer, not hesitating as he scurried over to his backpack where it was sitting on one of the dining room's large chairs. A few tightly wrapped red bundles came out of a heavy-duty pouch inside the main body of the bag, Mandarin instructions printed in black ink hanging from the end of the string.
The fire-crackers were a gift from Hong Kong the last time Seborga had seen him. He took down one of the small hanging pots holding fresh herbs near the kitchen window and looped the small explosives over the nail in the wall. With a quick flick of the lighter, the fuse took and he shot out of the kitchen to hide around the edge of the stairs.
It was not excessive, but the fireworks were loud. They sounded a bit too much like gun-shots, but they were still quieter than that, very small so they could be set off anywhere without bringing the police running to check out the sound. The noise brought Spain and San Marino stampeding down the steps and Seborga slipped behind them both and back upstairs, ignoring their shouts and stammers and bickering. San Marino looked a lot like Grandpa, which meant he looked a lot like Spain with his dark hair forever trapped in that bed-head style, but his skin was much lighter, fair like Seborga's, and he was the widest of them all in the shoulders. He had his sunglasses up and resting on his dark curls when the youngest brother passed him, but he didn't see him, and that was good.
It was not excessive to set off fireworks as a diversion. Seborga couldn't stand up and shout at them once they got going: either they'd either turn on him (they'd done it before) or ignore him completely, so there was no point. If he wanted the shouting to stop then he couldn't add more screaming to the mix.
"Seborga!" Like that. Oops.
Nope, nope, nope, not going back down there. Landing on the second floor, Seborga quickly twisted the knob to get into Romano's bedroom and shut it behind him, twirling the handle until the mechanism in the door clicked and locked them both in. Safe.
"...You're a little shit." There was something like grudging affection in Romano's sleepy voice, and Seborga spun around before casually leaning on the door. Two heavy bangs from Spain's fist threatened to break it down, but Spanish curses led to heavy-handed Italian as San Marino caught up and barked for Spain not to make so much noise.
Cruel irony.
"How's your headache?" Waiting until the grumbling faded back downstairs before speaking, Seborga carefully moved away from the door and approached his brother.
The carved, heavy oak bed Romano was laying in needed to be re-stained, but he'd also acquired it in en era when hand-made solid wood was the only way to get furniture. The thick blankets spread over the bed and tucked around him were too thick for early November, but his fever was the kind that made him chatter and shake uncontrollably without the added warmth. The pillows propping him up went from Egyptian cotton to rough and wooly throws, and several paper folders from his office were scattered over the quilts and blankets around him.
Gino, his brothers' pudgy brown tabby cat, was doing his part to keep Romano rested. The feline was sprawled over the important paper-work and swished his tail back and forth happily. The familiar was content to purr and snuggle against financial statements and budget reports, eyes closed and duties fulfilled.
"Are they done yelling?" To be fair, Gino was probably the smallest of Romano's distractions, but his brother was laying on his side, arms folded and eyes half-open as Seborga approached him. "It should go away soon." The older brother's fever wasn't any better as Seborga checked it, his own illness making the air feel cold around them. Romano was always a bit better about touch and personal space when he was sick, Seborga wasn't sure why, but he didn't question it when his brother reached out from under the blankets and held his hand.
"Hey, um..." Now was as good a time as any to ask. It was still early, and Seborga needed to head north as soon as he could. He hadn't even bought his ticket yet, but- "Romano, um... I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what?" Romano had closed his eyes while Seborga stood there, their hands loosely clasped. He didn't swear as much when he was sick, not really sick like this anyways. He didn't look up, he just stayed curled up on his side as Seborga brushed his dark hair back behind one ear.
"Romano, I have to leave Rome for a bit, is that okay?"
"Leave...?"
"For the north. It should only take a few days but-" Romano opened his eyes and Seborga stopped talking.
"Why?" He was scared, and seeing his brother like that sparked the same feeling in Seborga. Romano didn't get scared, Romano was never scared, and even when he was terrified he didn't really show it. He'd scream and he'd yell and he'd throw things at something that spooked or freaked him out, he didn't... let it creep into his eyes like that. He didn't go pale like that. He didn't grip whoever was closest to him with thin, feverish fingers that weren't as strong as they should have been. "Y-Your boss? Why are you-?"
"No, no, that's not why." Lowering his voice and dragging up the chair Spain had left in here, the cat woke up at the sound and meowed softly, walking over the bedding before pawing gently at Romano's shoulder. Seborga was coming to hate all the bedside waiting that was expected of them, not because it felt like they weren't doing anything, but because it meant his brothers weren't getting better. "My prince has nothing to do with this, I just-"
"No, no you can't-" Romano was sick, he was nauseous and his fever was making him breathless, quiet words tumbling off his lips as he shook his head. He was staring through Seborga with glassy green eyes, the younger brother resting his elbows on the bed and carefully running a hand over Romano's dark hair. "-can't leave the Republic, no, you-"
"I'm not going home, I'm going to Venice." He whispered the words, having hoped to keep that part out of things, but, what was Romano talking about? Leave the Republic? Seborga had no reason to-
"If the north breaks apart..." Oh, that was why.
"It won't."
"It has before." Romano's green eyes looked hollow, exhausted, and more frightened than he knew his brother would ever acknowledge. His voice was so breathless and quiet... "When Nonno died I kept the south together, but you and Lombardy, and Tuscany, and Genoa, and Sardinia, and Trentino, and Venezi-"
"Stop." There were more names Romano could add to that list, but before he could ramble off the names of every state and commune in North Italy Seborga wrapped his arms around the south and hugged him tight. He was surprised and upset when Romano hugged back, because it showed just how freaked out his brother was. "He's not dying, and I'm not breaking away," he said quietly, resting his forehead against his brother's feverish skin.
It took several quiet, careful minutes before Romano was able to completely calm down again. It was the fear, and the anxiety, and the exhaustion of carrying a nation meant for two all alone on his shoulders. By the time Seborga soothed his brother to the point where Romano was laying down on his side again, Gino dutifully curled up and purring loudly to calm him, it was clear he was just as scared for himself as he was for Veneziano. How was the south supposed to cope with taking care of things that were so far outside his influence? If Seborga did leave then Romano would lose the only sense he really had of any of the Northern provinces, and the Principality himself barely had any control over his own citizens...
"Why Venice?" Romano's voice was still pitifully quiet when he spoke again, fingers curling in Gino's soft fur. His green eyes were hazy with the need for sleep. "That apartment's almost full."
"Papa called..." Seborga admitted softly, finding it hard to meet his brother's gaze, but he'd climbed up onto the bed and was laying in front of him, Romano's free hand clasped between both of his on the thick quilts. If he trusted his fever then Romano was the only warm thing in the room. "The others are leaving."
He expected... something else. Seborga expected another panic attack, or maybe swearing, or tears. He expected something from Romano that his brother didn't deliver, laying there on his side with hot, ragged breaths ripping up his lungs. He almost looked like he was getting ready to fall asleep, his tanned face flushed and full lips slightly pale from sickness. Instead, in a voice Seborga could barely hear, his brother spoke:
"Grandpa fell asleep once." Seborga didn't know if he'd heard this story or not, so he just laid there quietly while his brother told it. "He was sleeping under an olive tree. He just wanted to take a short nap after a fight with Germania. It was warm. It was spring." Romano's eyes slowly drifted shut, not closing all the way but just enough for Seborga to know that he was was someplace far, far away. "Veneziano summoned Papa, and Papa told me to come. He was just sleeping, but it was different." He hadn't heard this story before, but he knew how it ended... "One moment he was there, and the next..."
Seborga didn't know he was crying until he felt Romano's warm hand resting the side of his face, his thumb brushing back and forth to wipe away the scalding water. Romano's eyes were still barely open, and his voice was just a whisper as the younger brother turned his face slowly down into the pillows and blankets, looking for the comfort that being warm and in bed was supposed to bring. Things were supposed to be getting better.
"We waited..."
Better, not worse: better.
"Byzantium said her goodbyes, and Spain left with the other Iberians..."
He was out of the mansion, he was supposed to be getting stronger now, he should be healing, recovering-
"Gaul took France away. Britannia wanted nothing to do with us..."
Veneziano...
"Germania ended it."
He felt like a child. They weren't just tears anymore, his chest hurt so bad Seborga felt himself shaking before the first sob fought its way out, making way for the next one and the one after that. He couldn't stop himself from crying, he tried and instead he just pushed his face as far into the pillows as it would go, Romano's arm slung over his back before he found himself being pulled into a hug.
"No... please no..."
"Go see him..."
"Please..."
This couldn't be real, Seborga didn't understand it. No. How could so much change so fast? It- it just couldn't. Seborga hadn't been in Bern for the World Conference that had destroyed his brother, he hadn't seen Switzerland in years, not even to tour it. The last time he'd seen Veneziano had been in the summer, just a week before he left for that summit on Globalization.
His brother had driven out west to review plans for a new rail corridor in the area, something to improve transit for the major cities and smaller towns and villages in between. He'd come by Seborga's house as a courtesy. They'd spent the afternoon together, had lunch, walked through the town, and talked about business and love and cats. The heat had been intense and his brother had borrowed a pair of shorts so they could go swimming together near Seborga's actual house.
That was the last thing he could remember; the two of them laying on the fresh grass with the hot sun warming their backs and drying the water from their hair. He remembered Veneziano swinging his legs and telling him with a laugh that if Seborga really liked Miss Monaco then he shouldn't give up on her. He'd been smiling, his head resting on his folded arms and that great big grin he was known for competing with the sun's brilliance.
Three months later, he was dying.
Daisies: Leucanthemum vulgare, a widespread flowering plant native to Europe and the temperate regions of Asia. This grassland perennial grows in meadows and fields, under scrub and open-canopy forests, and in disturbed areas. It is a symbol of innocence, gentleness, and purity.
A symbol of guilt, cruelty, and hate.
(Name.)
Name?
(What name?)
Names are sounds are noises are arbitrary and without essence.
(Identity.)
What?
(You forgot identity. Names are identity.)
No they aren't.
(Names are sounds are utilitarian: to serve a purpose.)
Purpose.
(To establish identity.)
The self is not a name.
(No, but the sound identifies meaning.)
Meaning?
(Meaning I speak to you, or you speak to me, or we speak to them.)
Those are pronouns, not names.
(Tell me your name.)
Tell me your name.
Wake up?
(No.)
Stubborn.
(What?)
Stubborn.
(Ve~)
Don't say that.
(Say what?)
Ve~
(Say what?)
Say that!
(What?)
Wake up!
(Their voices.)
I can hear them.
(All together)
Almost together.
(Almost.)
Almost?
(Not all.)
Almost.
(Not all.)
Missing.
(Something's missing.)
Missing again...
(Again?)
Something...
(Not again...)
Again?
(No!)
Again-!
(NOT AGAIN!)
DON'T TOUCH ME AGAIN!
-Reposted September 18, 2012.