Empty, Heart of Fire, Starvation.

AN moved.

Recovery

Seven Point Eight

Germany woke up because he could hear something, as in, something aside from the rain still pelting the building from all sides. It sounded like wheezing, rather like a saw through dry wood. But that didn't make any sense: Italy had a workshop but he rarely used anything that could be classified as lumber, and no one would be stupid enough to toy with his works while he was still recovering. And why would there be anyone else here to begin with? The others had all left hours ago...

Tightening his arm around the Italian he'd climbed into bed with, the cathedral had practically wept for Vatican to go down again tonight despite the Holy See's complete lack of confidence in Germany. But in the end he'd gone, because although Seborga couldn't leave Rome until tomorrow, the people of Venice still needed to hear the voice of their church tonight. They needed anything that would help them keep calm and not fall into the chaos sweeping the northern half of the nation. The most important thing was that Italy not be left alone, and despite whatever misgivings the holy father might have had, Germany hadn't left the bedroom since he'd shut the front door.

But that sound... Restless now, he fully expected the strange noise to go away so he could go back to sleep: if the sound wasn't going to wake Italy up then he simply did not want to put up with it. To his half-awake and only semi-aware shock, the sound not only grew louder when he tried to settle down, it became animate as well. It was in front of him too.

Italy was... panting-?

'His fever!' First his fever, then the blood, then that fit he'd had this morning- no, please no more of that-!

Snapping out of his doze Germany quickly moved his hand so it was resting flat against Italy's back, confirming for sure that it was the other man's breaths he was hearing, his chest expanding and contacting sharply. His eyes weren't adjusting in the dark but Germany could slowly make out the fact that Italy was shaking too, rattling head-to-toe with whatever was afflicting him now. Damn it, Romano! Did he still have no idea what was wrong back in Rome!-?

Lurching upright, Germany's hand quickly fumbled for the lamp sitting next to the bed, a sharp click washing half the room with amber light before he turned back around and- and... and...

Don't touch me. Those eyes said. Don't touch me. Stay away!

"Italy-" No! That just made it worse!

He didn't understand what he was seeing. After weeks of waiting Germany just didn't understand it. Italy's eyes were open, their colour hidden in the dim light but still open despite that. He was looking at him, almost right through him, but the tears- no, why were there so many?

"Italy..." He tried again, slowly reaching out with one hand, making no sudden movements towards the body lying contorted on the bed. Contorted was the only word for it: he'd moved a bit before Germany woke up, his position only noticeable now that the German was above him and looking down. Italy's hips were twisted down against the mattress, his legs like scissors and, he imagined, his knees braced to suddenly force his body up if he felt threatened. His hands were knotted in the bedsheets, the fingers of one hand shaking much more than the other: that probably meant they were the left.

"Stop, please stop it, you're going to hurt yourself." Lowering his voice even more as he spoke, Germany listened as the harsh breaths that had woken him up suddenly stopped; a terribly fierce look entering the Italian's eyes through the tears as he clenched his jaw, silently baring his teeth in the German's direction like an animal. This... this wasn't like him. Even with the gun in the music room, even when he'd shot England from less than ten feet, he hadn't looked anything like this...

'What did I expect...?' Not hostility. Not the ferocity that not only made Germany pull back his hand, but for good measure almost chased him right off the bed.

If not for the tears, he'd have been on his feet and headed for the other room. If there hadn't been so much pain wrapped up behind the aggression then he'd have fled to call someone else for help. Vatican was just across the canal, Germany's phone was in the living room-

But he wasn't going anywhere. He refused to do it, he would not leave Italy alone when he was like this. Instead he slowly, carefully, laid back down on the bed like before, except maybe not as close. The mattress groaned slightly as he came to rest on his back, his arms down by his sides and head tilted to stare eye-to-eye at the Italian next to him.

Veneziano choked on a breath, sobbing through a gasp as a wordless cry needled the air. It was a sharp ribbon of sound that hurt almost as much to hear as it must have to produce. Italy's face changed just enough in that moment to hint at the fear, to give him an unintentional glimpse of the trauma, before his body fidgeted weakly. If he tried getting up with that, it failed, and Germany almost begged him again to take it easy. Almost, because instead:

"I'm sorry." Instead he said what he had to, instead of what he wanted to. The Italian's tears kept falling, his face a terrible mess of anger and terror, but he stopped struggling so hard to get up. "I promised you a safe place, a sanctuary with a big table and enough beds for everyone. And I built those things for you: but it wasn't safe."

Italy stopped struggling now, but his face, the tension, his hostility was still-

"I promised I don't know how many times that we would escape together, but in the end I left you behind..." Technicalities about who and why didn't matter. They didn't change the truth. Italy closed his eyes so tightly at the words that Germany almost tired reaching out for him again- but he knew Italy would feel the shift in the bed if he tried that. The anger didn't go away, but it was quieted.

"But-" he watched Italy tense up at the word, concerned with how much he resembled a spring wound up as tight as it would go. Any more tension and he would snap, so Germany took a deep, careful breath before he spoke again, minding his words closely as his voice fell down to a hoarse whisper:

"But I promised I would come back. And I know I took too long, Feliciano, and I know a should have realized it sooner..."

Please, please, please, don't let him regret this. Please, please, please...

"But I've loved you for as long as I can remember, and I just want your pain to stop now. It's over, and I just want to see you free of it at last. I love you..."

It wasn't fair to try and describe it; to rationalize the effect his words had on too much trauma. The best Germany would say, later, was that with eyes still shut and body still tortured, Feliciano's face was overcome by a flood of something carrying both shock and disbelief. The emotions emerged from the centre of his narrow brow and broke through the hysteria and rage, but that was all he really saw. Germany would never know for sure what the real effect of his words was, because as soon as the reaction started it was usurped by something else.

The something else was painful and it was jarring, it strangled the sobs and dried up the tears so Feliciano's eyes could blink twice and then stare blindly at nothing. Germany barely even had a chance to take it in, to recognize that he'd even been heard with his whisper before the something happened and changed everything. In that moment Italy's eyes opened and his pupils shrank down to invisible points, the amber light reflecting off the whites as his irises vanished back into his head and his lips parted soundlessly.

Veneziano's body found its way to its back, convulsing violently as if he was experiencing a seizure, and after that Germany wouldn't know what else he could say.

He didn't know what broke the bedroom window, and even several frantic minutes later, with Spain bellowing at him through the phone for more details and the house in Rome thrown into chaos from his call, Germany wouldn't be able to explain.

Because the window shattered, the storm came in, and Italy was gone.

Ever since he'd been small, Romano had had health problems. He'd been born with them. Mostly they were just flukes, events he couldn't control and that made people try and worry about him- or totally put distance between them so they wouldn't have to worry. He'd inherited the problems from Grandpa Rome, but Nonno hadn't really understood what caused it or why he would sometimes, for no reason, become suddenly sick or hurt.

Grandpa had blamed it on his gods. Vatican had blamed it on one God. But Romano and Veneziano were the ones to figure out that it had nothing to do with divinity at all. It was some weird thing known as plate tectonics, and it was the reason why the volcanoes that peppered South Italy's body- the big one Vesuvius on his back, the smaller one Etna on his ankle, would suddenly wake up and cause him excruciating pain without warning. Or with some warning: he'd learned to feel for the little trembles and soreness that came from the minor earthquakes or gas build-ups under the surface. It wasn't foolproof yet, but he was getting better...

Earthquakes hurt, but Romano knew better than to complain about them around Japan- not that he sometimes didn't, but he was careful about it. He generally tried to avoid the South Pacific Rim whenever the shakes and pains bothered him. America was a lot easier to talk to about stuff like that, or that Canada guy.

A big earthquake could make you really sick, especially if it set off a volcano while it was going. That hadn't happened in a very long time though, something he was grateful for. The quakes in '02 an '09 had both been painful for him, but nothing compared to the havoc Japan and Haiti had been forced to put up with.

Regardless, he'd had Veneziano with him every time it happened since the eighteen-sixties. He didn't have to worry so much about it anymore. Earthquakes were earthquakes, they hurt but you couldn't stop them, and they happened all the time in small bursts so there was no point in worrying about them. He didn't even know why he was thinking about them right now, it seemed stupid. He should have been asleep right now, damn it, not worrying about...

"R... Rom... Roma-!" Worrying about...? "R-Romano!" What the he-?

Seborga's voice broke into screaming, and Romano was only half-awake in the dark before the earth moved and the pain washed him away.

At 11:11 PM Central European Time on November 4th, a seven-point-eight magnitude earthquake struck the Republic of Italy in the heart of the Veneto Region, half way between the cities of Venice and Verona.

The tremor released shock-waves across the northern half of the nation before triggering a second quake down the eastern back of the Apennine mountains. It was all over in three and a half minutes.

Or rather, it was just beginning.

America didn't feel it, but with his global surveillance he was the one to get the word out. The second nation was Slovenia, because she couldn't remember the last time an earthquake had shaken her out of her bed, let alone come out of the west from Italy. The Balkans and Greece were all up within the hour.

Canada's boss wouldn't let him leave the country again, but relief efforts were mustered before they even knew where exactly the blow had landed. China was calm and direct in his commands to push into the west and deposit whatever aid he could, even when Japan urged him to be more careful about stepping into the EU's territory.

France was staying on Corsica- so he did feel it, and that alone terrified him even without the call from Spain. England and Prussia were already with him, and while the German tried to get himself back to Venice the other two concentrated on waking up their governments.

Russia and Switzerland discussed, very quietly, and rather civilly, how best to approach the situation.

Spain didn't know what to do with himself. Romano woke up and went straight into the worst convulsions he'd seen in centuries before laying dazed and confused on the bed. Seborga's body was so brittle it bruised just from the Spaniard trying to help him sit up, and San Marino had vomited blood just before collapsing in a dead faint.

The military responded promptly and San Marino's boss called within the hour, demanding the Micro-nation's return as soon as possible. Italy's boss ordered it done without hesitation, because there was already a cry for aid coming from the east coast. The military stationed two armed guards outside the house to protect the remaining personae, and Spain was only allowed to stay because Romano was lucid enough to ask for him by his human name.

Italian officials reached the house in Rome before anyone could make contact with Germany- and he called an hour later from Berlin. Germany had been talking to Spain just before it happened, but nobody could deal with what he told them. They couldn't comprehend how he'd returned to his capitol when he should have been at Italy's side.

Even after word of Veneziano's disappearance got out, no one knew what to do about it. They had everything else to worry about first.

"Heaven above, what happened?"

It took several long, terrible minutes after he woke up before the Vatican City State realized that he wasn't in Venice anymore. He was in Rome. He was in the sanctuary of Saint Peter's Basilica and he was laying in a pool of ice-cold water, his clothing drenched and his body inexplicably sore. It hurt to breathe.

One of his people was there with him, a relatively young member of the Curia. He was someone who actually had citizenship in the Vatican's domain, a human who qualified as one of his 'children'.

"Sir, please. Can you hear me?" He was in the sanctuary, the holy heart of his enclave. He was not in Venice. He was not standing in front of several hundred of Veneziano's people. He was not preaching to the masses or listening to the rain outside. He was in Rome.

"It... It collapsed..." The noise. He could remember the noise now, the grinding churn of the stones as the earth buckled and screamed. "The water..." It had surged up over the thresh-hold of the cathedral, but then it had climbed higher- or maybe they'd just sunk lower. Water had come in through the shattered windows and the electric lights and wavering candles had been snuffed out all at once. "The people..." Four, five, six hundred people. He couldn't remember how many had come to that Mass, he couldn't remember the sermon, he just remembered the people.

"S-Should you really be standing already?" And now he was being asked a foolish and overly sentimental question.

"Is His Holiness aware of the situation?" Vatican remembered the people of Venice. The ones who had been crushed and drowned when their most precious sanctum collapsed and sank into the flood-waters. He didn't care if it was too soon for him to be walking around.

"Situation?"

"...I must speak with my master. Lead me and do not speak." No speaking, not after all of those screams...

"What... what happened?" Earthquakes didn't strike the north, they were a southern problem. Romano couldn't wrap his foggy head around it. "He can't... he doesn't know..." Building codes were building codes, you didn't build skyscrapers one way in the south and a different way in the north- did you? Romano couldn't even remember, he just had them turn on the news and show him the destruction in Pisa and the chaos in Florence. Romano stared at the flashing images and let the reality sink in.

He was dead.

Veneziano had to be dead.

He couldn't survive something like this.

"He can't be dead..."

They'd expected something bad, but this... this was worse. Roads torn up and tunnels collapsed, rail-lines twisted and tied in broken knots. Apartment buildings had pancaked and old office towers crumbled. It rained glass in the streets of Milan and all the vandals and chaos of the previous months were forgotten in the wake of the fires in Bologna.

"There're no faults in North Italy..." He was flat for God's sake. "There're no fault lines... How did this...? Why is this..?" Why like this? Of all the ways for his brother to go, why like this?

The geologists were arguing and the architects were taking the blame. The government was sent scrambling and Romano didn't have any answers for the officials who stood in his bedroom and tried to make him talk. He let them stick a thermometer in his mouth and check his blood-pressure with a medical cuff, answering when he could about soreness or stiffness or anything else that might indicate another quake. Rome was fine, but everything to the north...

Oh god, Romano felt fine...

"I... I know you're not really human," said the geologist who had arrived some time after three in the morning. Romano hadn't changed out of his night clothes but at least he could sit up on the bed now. Seborga was asleep in front of him, his head resting in Romano's lap and arms around his waist. There were too many people around the bed, he had to get to his office but instead he was surrounded by Spain, a state doctor, a guard, two economists and the geologist. "But you sort of are human, so..."

So what? Get to the point...

"Mr. South Italy, sir... is your fever doing any better?"

"My what?" He hadn't even thought of it yet, but he looked over at the physician who was standing there still holding the thermometer from before. The man wasn't supposed to diagnose Romano or prescribe anything, but just keep a close eye on his symptoms in case anything changed. The doctor looked uncomfortable, but he answered.

"...It's almost gone." That didn't make any sense...

"Maybe it was stress related?" Stress... Why did the geologist look so relieved? "You say you've been worrying about something terrible in the north and now tonight is happening. I know that's not how it works for humans, but, geologically speaking..." An earthquake in the north relieved pressure on the south...

Oh.

The aches, the soreness, the shivering, the blindness...

Tectonic pressure, fault line fractures, shifts in water-tables, noxious gasses...

Not an economic crisis: geologic symptoms.

"...I did this."

"Romano." Spain piped up, moving from his spot at the wall and quickly sitting down on the edge of the bed, taking Romano's hand despite the tension that shot through the assembled humans. They didn't like that another nation was here, seeing their country like this, but Romano could barely hear or see any of them over the loud ringing that started up in his head. "That's not what he's saying, this isn't your fault."

"I've been worrying about him," he whispered. "And only him. I wasn't considering anything else, and now-" Romano stopped talking, not because Spain was there with a hand on his shoulder, but because the arms wrapped around his waist tightened slowly and he looked down at Seborga nuzzling against his hip.

Romano couldn't breathe.

He'd scream if he breathed.

"He knows you tried..." The Micro-nation murmured, taking a deep breath before Romano felt him start to slowly sit up. He had one shaking hand on his little brother's head, letting it slip down to his shoulder and squeeze tightly as Seborga pulled the blankets away trying to get up. "And you're still trying, right?"

"Of course, idiot." Romano scolded, his voice so much weaker than it should have been, he could barely hear himself. Seborga's green eyes were so cloudy and his body kept trembling when he spoke too, but for different reasons. What kind of power was necessary to shake a nation from one edge to the other? Not letting go of his little brother, Romano pulled on the blankets until there was room for Seborga to sink back down onto the mattress next to him, the younger one's eyes closed as a weak groan crept out of his throat.

"Don't move so much- what's your hurry?"

"I feel better..." Liar. "No, really... There's... aid. I can feel it..."

"Fucking Micro-nations..." Romano swore, but he rubbed one hand back and forth over Seborga's back, as much for his own benefit as for his brother's. Looking up trying to find the financial agents; one of them had his eyes closed and was pressing his bluetooth into his ear like he was hearing God's murmurs. "What's he talking about?"

"International aid already?" The other economist whispered, waiting for his friend with the earpiece to say something. Finally, the first one nodded.

"Yes, the French Armed Forces are already moving, and the Red Cross in Switzerland is getting ready to-"

"Shit, I have to get back to the office." Romano interrupted, reaching around and gesturing for Spain to get off the bed so he could stand up. The Spaniard just frowned.

"Romano, that's not a good-"

"Think carefully before you speak again, Spain." Romano's words were a warning, not viscous, but still clear. They'd been living like people for too long over the last few weeks, and Romano wasn't mad about that, but he wanted to snap Spain back to reality. Romano was a nation, a nation that had just been hit with a catastrophic event. His body was still in pain, but most of that was being carried by his brothers: Seborga and Veneziano in the north, and San Marino in the east. Rome itself had barely felt anything, and the fire that had raced down Romano's spine hadn't been as bad as the nausea and rampant emotion that had torn through his body like a cold wind.

He was a nation, and now other nations were rushing in to help him. He couldn't just sit at home in his bed while French and Swiss and Austrian and Slovenian forces moved in on him. And more nations would follow, dozens more were already on their way with doctors and supplies and economic relief. Italy didn't have to rush out guns-blazing to meet them, but he had to pull himself together so they knew where to go, god damn it. He had to be ready in Rome and watch and make sure nothing went awry with his people. He had a fucking obligation- this was the whole reasons he even existed!

One quick, sharp, simple verbal warning was all Spain needed to recognize all of this, otherwise he never would have stood up so easily and let Italy get up out of bed. He couldn't move too quickly or else his head would start spinning, but he was up, and Seborga was saying something to the humans still scattered around the room watching.

Pants and a clean shirt and a comb through his hair, hands shaking all the while. He didn't need a tie and he dressed himself simply- a jacket he could move in, trousers that would let him run and that he wouldn't care if they became stained or ruined, and boots to protect his feet. No tie, no cufflinks, no nothing that he didn't need. He pushed all of the guilty, useless things out of his cloudy mind as he dressed, swallowing the painful lumps in his throat because crying wasn't going to fix anything.

"How can I help?" Spain obviously gave it some thought before he spoke again, just like Italy had said. "What can the Kingdom of Spain do to help the Republic of Italy?" He paused to consider the question, swallowing nausea again and making himself think instead of just shutting down the bad thoughts.

Finally, he answered:

"Keep your phone on, contact Madrid, and send aid."

The earthquake that struck North Italy on May 20th was only a 6.4, not the 7.8 featured here. At least 7 people died within the first 24 hours, and there was far-reaching damage across the eastern region in roughly the same place as this mega-quake's epicentre. The actual event occurred on May 20th, but I planned this arc in February and wrote it in April.

People reading this story now for the first time obviously know that I continued, but for three weeks leading up to this chapter's publication I nearly took Recovery down and discontinued it over this issue. I love fanfiction, and I love Hetalia, and I love my readers and my writing: but fictionalizing an event that actually happened still makes me uneasy sometimes when I think about it. Vancouver eats 6.5 earthquakes like popcorn, the last earthquake we had in April 2012 made the fifth slot on the news right before the weather lady showed a cute picture of her dog. Having people in a developed nation lose their lives in a similar event in Italy was eye-opening for me.

When I wrote this chapter I based the strength of the quake on the 1909 Great San Francisco Earthquake which levelled the city and has been a benchmark for West-Coast quakes in America and Canada for over a hundred years. I thought I took into account that North Italy, unlike the South, does not build and prepare for earthquakes because all the research I pulled up only showed, as Romano said, several decades of little-to-no serious earthquake activity even in the more volatile southern region.

I was wrong.

So, just keep it in mind, if you can, that as fun as Hetalia is, sometimes fact and fiction can come a little too close for comfort.

Thank you, now hopefully you will still be able to read on and continue enjoying my story.

-Reposted October 19th, 2012.