Leaving Hogwarts, Decision of the Loved.

Updating sporadically again because, uh, I hit 50 favourites on Final Loop? (That's completely unrelated.)

Canada Day! Yeah, I- Canada Day is on Sunday... (And he's not even in this chapter.)

I'm just really, really, really bored tonight? So have a chapter and have another chapter on Sunday, because I finished 17 at last and am working on 19 and 20. As long as I maintain a threshold of 4 chapters I'm pretty much safe.

So have a happy Friday, everyone!

Recovery

Two Italies

No voice.

No sound.

No sight.

No comprehension or deliberation. No investment or significant interest.

Just pain.

Just normal, safe, familiar pain.

France was the first one to claim to see him, but it was a fluke. Someone with red hair, about Veneziano's height, walked through a refugee camp in Pisa before vanishing into the crowd. France didn't get to see whoever it was again, and his limited knowledge of Italian failed him at precisely the wrong moment to ask anyone for help.

Japan was next, a few days later. An aftershock from the main quake caused a fragile wall to collapse in one of the buildings they were using as a field hospital. He thought he heard a familiar voice shouting for support to prop up the heavy concrete, but by the time he arrived through the mess of people there was nothing waiting for him except a crushed filing cabinet.

Russia would have been upset after following someone he thought looked familiar down a broken street, but when it brought him face-to-face with a troupe of art-thieves smashing the windows of a museum, all was forgiven. Oh, except the thieves of course, Russia couldn't just let that slide.

In all there were many, many reports as one week turned into two, and two became four. December was when many of the nations began going home again, because the initial crisis was over now and there was little the armies and task-forces could do. No one told Italy that the longer they stayed the less they happened to see, or thought they saw, his missing brother. But no one had to tell him, he just knew.

No one had to tell Germany either, because he was the first nation to give up and go home.

It was a new kind of pain.

And it brought a new kind of fear.

And a new something else too.

At first the new something didn't have a name, he didn't give it one.

Couldn't think of one.

Then he heard one: need.

Need for... a doctor. Need for clean water. Need for medicine. Need for food, for protection, for safety.

Then the need changed.

Need for... work. Need for money. Need for knowledge (education)- schools! Need for roads (infrastructure) and telephones (communications). And buildings (housing), and food (agriculture), and many, many different kinds of needs.

It carried on until more than pain and more than fear, he felt need.

"Production is down, sales are down, imports and exports are both-"

He knew this. Italy knew all of this.

"Can we approach the EU for a Bail-out?"

"Two months ago, maybe."

He was sitting at the table surrounded by investment and financial agents, but he couldn't look at any of them.

"The manufacturing sector was all but wiped out."

"Are people getting back to work in Turin yet?"

"Foreign investors are bailing left and right..." That meant no, no people were not getting back to work. There was nowhere for them to work. The service industry was in pieces, people were applying to leave Italy and emigrate to elsewhere in Europe. Others were trying to pick up and leave the shattered north for the safer, calmer south.

Fuck, since when was the south supposed to be calm?

"Then there has to be money in the nation that we can use." None that they could keep their hands on, but Italy didn't say that.

"There arejobs, reconstruction is well underway in several communes."

"Yes but where's the relief money to pay them? I saw a report for almost two million Euros from a Spanish charity, but now..." Now it was missing, like the funding for school reconstruction that the Vatican had offered up. "It doesn't make sense, we have paperwork from up until last week and then-"

"Renege on NATO." Italy said, the first words he'd managed in over an hour of talks. The room went quiet and he didn't look up from where he was staring at the paper work in front of him. His fingers were woven together under his forehead, they were the only thing keeping him from just toppling over.

"What?" He didn't want to say it twice...

"The security budget." But he did. "Pull back our forces in Afghanistan, Kosovo, and anywhere else." The other nations would be furious, but Italy didn't have a choice.

"Didn't we make a commitment to support-?"

"That's why I said renege."

To renege. To break a deal, to go back on one's word, to fail to hold to a commitment. He didn't say retreat or cheat or anything like that, he said renege, he said get the fuck out while they still could.

"Keep the administrative framework in place, but get the men and equipment off the ground. We can't afford to keep them there anymore." They couldn't keep pouring millions of Euros into conflicts elsewhere: they had to keep the focus here, at home, where the crisis was. He didn't look up at the men and women seated around him, but Italy did dig deep to find the power to compel them.

"Open the books and cut anything you can. Government benefits, salaries, allowances, grants everything. If the masses won't work for cheap then exploit the prisons, but you won't have to." No. Immigrant populations, the ones afraid that they'd be kicked out if they didn't keep working, they'd break their backs to stay in the country. "Attack the universities for more funding, put a freeze on anyone trying to move their assets out of Italy." Start calling in debts and seizing property from those who should have been able to pay, but now couldn't.

"Sir, that's a bit extreme, isn't it?"

Italy managed to lift his head this time, looking up at the speaker with what he knew were exhausted green eyes. He'd already spent his morning running away from and dodging Spain, but he couldn't change the facts. He couldn't pretend he didn't know where two-million Euros in relief money had gone in the space of seventy-two hours.

"If we don't use the law, the Mafia will use force." Because that was what this was. He couldn't tell himself the money wasn't being reinvested by mysterious patrons buying up apartment blocks and factory buildings. It was an infestation, a killer that had found a chink in North Italy's industrial armor. Why suffer with the dry south when the rich north had been literally split open like over-ripe fruit? The factories would be rebuilt and the industries would revive, but where would all the money go?

The rich north had always supported the poor south, it was a simple fact. The south relied on subsidies from Rome to survive, and Rome taxed the north to fund those benefits. If the money stopped flowing from one into the other, if the only way the south could honour that relationship was to spread the cancer from one region to the next...

"I lost my little brother because I wasn't paying attention. I'm not giving up my people without a fight."

Extreme measures and extreme times and all of that. Spain would understand…

He just needed... something...

And he had to... something...

Just had to do... something...

"Bring the next load in!" America shouted, waving his hand to get the attention of the man running the small floating platform on the canal, one boat puttering away before the new one slid up with stacks of bricks and bags of cement mix. Relief money wasn't pouring into Italy like before, but America himself hadn't left the nation yet. His boss was getting pretty pissed with him, and Italy kept asking why the heck America was still hanging around in the disaster zones, but he hadn't been able to give a concise reason for it.

Didn't mean he didn't know why, America just had a hard time saying it. He had a hard time saying a lot of things now, and time wasn't making it any easier.

A lot of people had died in Venice. Like, a whole lot. A really, really big number. Italy hadn't been rocked by a tsunami and nuclear crisis like Japan a few years before, but they'd been hit heavily in other ways: industrial fires, chemical spills, etc. And Venice was also a city built on a lagoon on the Adriatic coast, so what hadn't just sunk into the sea had simply crumbled from the violent shaking.

The entire neighbourhood where the twelve of them had stayed was completely gone. Reconnaissance dives had been happening all around the city looking for statues, or relics, or anything of 'value' that had sunk beneath the waves. Water-logged canvases weren't on that list though, nor were 19th century rifles and 15th century rapiers, or any of the other artifacts that had been tucked away in that sunken apartment. The building had collapsed, the other occupants had most likely drowned, and Venice was the worst of the worst hit areas.

So that was why America- that was why Alfred focused his attention here. He knew that his favourite time of year, the Christmas season, was well under-way back home, but as much as he really, really needed to go and be a part of that... he couldn't. He couldn't leave yet, or really he just wouldn't. Instead he was in Venice working through the ruins of what had once been another nation's heart.

There were no politics here, not like back home with the upcoming election. There were no trade talks to attend, or Wall Street squabbles to deal with, no policy debates, no heavy-handed questions to answer. No Canadian diplomatic crisis, no Arthur Kirkland...

Instead there was concrete and brick-laying, and water-purifying and electrical rewiring. Building codes, short breaks, cold rain and a lot of determined, sombre Italian citizens. Alfred didn't even have to worry about running into other nations, because aside from Lovino who was back in Rome, he hadn't seen anyone since-

"Alright, who took my shovel?" It wasn't raining today, but it was still cold and damp from the storm the night before. It was winter and not the right time of year to go building things, but under the tented blue tarp over their job site, Alfred and the half-dozen Italian citizens he was working with were kept kinda-sorta dry. His Italian was still clumsy around them- New York Italian wasn't the same as Venetian Italian, but a couple of them understood and shrugged in his direction, cracking a smile or two as the eight of them-

Wait, eight? No, six of them plus one of him meant- who was that guy? With his shovel!

"Hey, dude." Walking up, the mystery man had a denim cap on over his head, wet from the rain. He was bundled up all weird too; no helmet or orange vest, and the worn-out boots on his feet probably weren't steel-toe either. Dirty hands, he was favouring one shoulder as he worked, manipulating the shovel to mix a fresh batch of cement without stressing his left arm too bad, like he had practice with working around it. But if he wasn't dressed properly then that meant he'd probably just wandered on to their work site without permission. Why had no one told him off yet? Alfred wasn't gonna be mean but- "Dude, you got permission to be...?"

His face was dirty to match his hands, and the stained denim cover-alls he was wearing looked too big under a thin wind-breaker. The American felt his words dry up in his throat as dull, out-of-focus brown eyes looked at him, then slid away without recognition and got back to work.

"It's you..." The scrape and rattle of the shovel didn't stop. The bandages around his left hand were soiled and frayed across his palm, the whole arm hanging without helping the work. "It's really... oh my god..." It was hard to breathe, and without wondering why Alfred knew not to take his eyes off the, uh... nation?

"Italy?" The shovel stopped, but there was nothing on that dirty face to tell him what was going on. His lips were slightly parted but his features were completely relaxed, the Italian blinking slowly at nothing, like he was lost in deep, contemplative thought.

The humans around them had noticed what was going on, but weren't getting involved, they didn't even seem curious. Was he the one doing that? Nations could affect the humans around them, but only in certain ways, was he keeping them away from him? No one was lingering nearby or coming any closer...

Alfre- Ameri- Oh whatever! He held his breath for a moment, but when it became clear that he wasn't going to get much more of a response, he tried again.

"Dude can you... can you hear me?" Reaching out, the nation carefully set one hand down on the older one's shoulder.

Italy's reaction was fast and defensive, escaping the hand and turning so they were facing each other properly. He slid back with two long strides, visibly favouring one leg and tucking his left arm close against his ribs. His eyes were wide open but America could immediately tell that he wasn't seeing any better than before, his gaze off-centre and staring in the right direction without focusing on a target. He was still holding the shovel, but its head was down on the ground, not raised like a weapon.

'It's only been a month...' Since the earthquake, not since everything else... 'If he's still one of us, his entire body must be-' Still one of them? Still? America hadn't even noticed when he'd started calling the older brother 'Italy', it had just happened. But now Italy was right in front of him, and Italy was in Rome where he'd been all week since he'd last come around to check how reconstruction efforts were going in Verona. Italy hadn't set foot in Venice since-

But Italy was right here.

"H-hang on," Lifting his hands slowly, America didn't know what he'd do if Italy bolted, or vanished, or if he just- "I'm not gonna hurt you," not again, god no, not again, "I just need to..."

Moving slowly, America reached down into his pocket and found his phone. Italy wasn't watching him any clearer than he had before, wavering slightly from side to side with his spine still twisted to protect his injured arm. Was that blood on his clothes? America found himself biting his lips trying not to say anything, not trusting himself to keep his cool as he felt the anxiety and the frustration creeping up on him. Fuck, couldn't Italy just do them all a favour and fucking heal already? He was a nation, a knife wound should have been easy-

'No. Stop it.' Magic. Torture. Earthquake. Italy had enough on his plate, both Italies did. America swallowed the anger bubbling up in the back of his throat. He wouldn't let China have the satisfaction of knowing he'd blown his top again. He wouldn't let France talk down to him like a child, or Russia strut around like a fucking cock in a hen house, and England could just-

'This isn't about me!' Thumb speeding through his contacts, America was finding it harder and harder to breathe evenly, forcing his eyes to jump between the phone and the wavering nation teetering in front of him. This wasn't about America, this wasn't about Alfred's problems; he just had to do the right thing.

He hit 'dial' and then 'speaker' on the sensitive display, the trill of a phone ringing through the device as the call was placed and tried to connect. America held the electronic in the palm of his hand, shyly offering it to the man standing in front of him.

"Hello?" A low voice exhaled, obviously tired and over-worked. "America? What do you want?" Italy rolled the words around his accent, speaking in short bursts of English. America just watched the phone and watched the Italy in front of him: his brown eyes had moved a little, staring at America instead of just facing his direction.

"You need to say something." He said clearly, and Italy tsk'd sharply through the phone.

"What? Look, asshole I'm busy right now so what the hell-" Italy dropped the shovel, "-do you want?"

His face was the same but Italy just stood there, arms hanging limp at his side as he stopped holding his body so stiffly.

"It's him, I promise." America soothed, trying to muster up the patience to keep going before he looked down at the black face of the phone again. "Dude, try Italian."

"What?"

"Say something in Italian! Don't hang up on me, this is important!"

It took a moment and then the other language came ripping out of the speakers, flippant words and turn-of-phrases America didn't know lashing out at him. Cussing was a universal language, so while America couldn't translate them exactly he still understood that Italy was finding the most creative ways to tell him to fuck off and stop wasting his time.

But that was okay, because Italy came stumbling up until he was right in front of America. His eyes were locked on the spluttering device and his mouth hung open, jaw stiff around the silence he was choking on. America offered him the phone, ignoring the insults and black-hearted remarks still coming through over the line.

"Here, take it." Italy shook his head, the first sign that he'd understood anything America was trying to say. "Yes." Italy flinched. "Do you want me to bring you to him?" He was shaking, panting too if America paid close enough attention. "You wanna see him again?"

Italy closed his eyes and gasped harshly, like he was trying to clear his lungs. The full, painful cry interrupted the voice swearing at them from Rome, but Italy clamped a hand over his mouth before the other Italy completely understood what he'd just heard. For a tense moment the only sound was the first Italy wheezing behind his palm, tears cutting through the grime as he cried against his dirty fingers.

"Are you crying, you bastard?" America didn't answer, he just convinced Italy to take the phone and hold it tight in his hand. The free-flying insults had died and Italy's voice was low and reserved on the other side. "America, who's there?"

"Do you want to go to Rome?" Italy looked up at him, then back down at the display. America hadn't been very creative when he'd programmed the number in so the only thing on the screen was the Italian tricolour. "He's safe, nothing bad happened to the capitol."

"America?"

"I'll take you." He'd said he'd ask for Italy's permission before doing anything, or Germany's, but this was pretty much the same thing. He couldn't just turn around and leave. "If you want me to then I'll take you right to see him. You can hear his voice, can't you?"

Italy nodded.

"America!"

"Do you want me to take you out of here, Italy?" He looked so confused by the question, but at the same time the voice in the phone went quiet. "Do you want to see your brother again?"

In sync, both Italies broke down crying.

"Veneziano!" Spain was staring at him but Italy did not care. He couldn't get away with breaking another phone after he'd destroyed his previous one, but he just waved one hand at the aid who came walking up to him with something for him to look at, too scared to try saying anything to her. "Veneziano? Is that you? I can hear somebody right there, damn it!"

They were in a tiny, colourless office in Rome, not the place where Italy usually worked, but similar. Spain had pulled him in here for a fast, hard talk, but as soon as everything clicked over the phone the tomato-bastard was up and quickly shut the office door. He drew the blinds just as fast and Italy found himself spinning, trying to walk but having no space to move in between the desk and the chairs and the other nation.

"Say something, say anything. Are you there?" He was dead, he was dead, he was dead. How many times was his little brother going to die and do this to him? "Veneziano please! I'm begging you! Are you okay? Where are you? Please just say something-"

Words started falling and Italy couldn't even follow what he was saying, he just spoke, feeding comments and questions into the phone without waiting for the silence to swallow him up again. He couldn't let the quiet win, pausing only for a few brief moments when he heard America's voice again. He kept repeating the same questions over and over again, slowly, like he was speaking to a small, frightened child.

"Do you want to go back to Rome?"

"Your brother's waiting, do you want me to take you?"

"We can leave right now, are you ready?"

"Just nod your head, it's okay. We can stay here if you want- no? Okay."

Where the fuck had America found patience? Italy didn't know but as he listened to the American's voice he was praying to high heaven for anything to thank him with. He didn't know he was crying until he looked at Spain and his face was a green-eyed blur, Italy blinking the hot, stinging tears away and still struggling to walk around. And he kept talking, because he couldn't stand to stop.

On the other end of the line his brother must have been nodding, because America whittled his questions down until he wasn't even asking anymore, just making statements. "Watch your step", "take my hand", "sit right here", they were on a boat moving through the city, he'd reappeared in the same place he'd vanished. Venice.

"H-How are you getting here? I'll send something, a plane or-"

"I've got a crew on standby, don't worry." Oh god America was the one telling him not to worry, something had to be wrong with this but Italy couldn't sort it out. "Be ready to receive him, I'm bringing him straight to your house, okay?" Right home, his brother was coming home.

Straight home.

Right now.

And he was safe. Safe, and alive, and on his way home.

"I'm gonna switch you off speaker phone now, okay?" Italy- Romano couldn't even remember what that comment meant right now, but he just ignored it and kept trying to reach out through the device for his brother. "Give you guys a bit more privacy. Keep talking and don't hang up, alright? He's calmer now." No. Hell no. Fuck no. Let the devil take him this time he wouldn't abandon his brother again.

Romano didn't even notice that Spain was holding him until the taller nation tried to make him sit down. He hadn't known he was so cold, but the idea of being let go was as terrifying as letting the phone call drop for no reason. The Italian resisted sitting so he could rest his head on Spain's shoulder, seeking warm and shameless comfort while Spain stroked his back and didn't judge. Italy groped around desperately in his mind for the distinction that kept him joined and separated from the silent person on the other side of the phone. He couldn't be South Italy without a North Italy, there couldn't be two Italies if there was only one...

"First thing I'm gonna do... when you get here, you bastard..." He was still crying. South Italy was still standing there weeping like a little girl into a cell-phone, but for the first time in over four months he was okay with it. He was okay with crying. "The first thing I'm gonna do is kick the shit out of you...!"

If North Italy couldn't say a word, then South Italy would cry enough for both of them.

I need to stop using the "H" word for this story.

And LOOK LOOK NEW REVIEW FORMAT THING ISN'T IT NEAT?

I'll see everyone on Canada Day, which I will be spending with my boyfriend and his family because yay, long weekend!