Somewhere, Safe and Sound, Utopia, Memories, Shattered, Empty.

Canada Day!

Happy Canada Day!

Posting from Vancouver Island because I'm staying with my boyfriend and his family. Also posting a wee bit shy of July 1st because I'm exhausted and have to get up early to cook tomorrow (and do other things 3). I quite like this chapter, although like how the previous set were too short, the length got away from me here.

Anybody mind that?

I thought not.

Have a Happy Canada Day!

Recovery

To Plead Guilty

Of all the really shitty things to feel, America had learned not too long ago that guilt could easily be one of the worst. Feeling guilty about big, bad things was terrible, but what was even worse was feeling at fault for tiny, insignificant things that hurt someone a lot more than you could have expected.

Like having his cell crap out on them because he hadn't thought to plug it in the night before. That kind of harmless, minor inconvenience should have done nothing except hamper America's communications for an afternoon. Instead, it snapped North Italy out the calm, semi-aware daze he'd fallen into while listening to South Italy's voice, and it forced America to take an active role in trying to keep the Italian calm for the next three hours.

It was only supposed to take two hours or so by train to get from Venice to Rome, but there were no direct rail lines left, and all the partial sections either led nowhere or were occupied with live-saving freight and service cars. They could have driven, but that was by far the slowest way to get anywhere right now. Repairs were being carried out on select motor corridors trying to get the EU's road system back up to functioning levels, but Rome and Venice were separated by mountains, or by going around the mountains.

In the end they flew, which America realized was a bad decision the moment Italy noticed that they were at an impromptu air-field outside of Venice, and that America fully expected him to climb inside a pressurized tube and ride it all the way to the Italian capitol. He'd never known Italy to be afraid of flying, or going fast, or of riding or working with big machines in general, but there were a lot of things about this Italy that America wasn't prepared for.

Like no touching, absolutely none. He flinched and squirmed away every time America tried to set a hand on his arm or make sure the fragile state wasn't about to tip over when they had to walk more than a few yards. He got aggressive when America asked to take a look at his left arm and shoulder, baring his teeth and glaring at anyone who came too close. He even rejected food and fresh water when they were offered. Italy never uttered a single word throughout, but it was so painfully obvious that he didn't trust him that America swallowed his temper half a dozen times just trying to get Italy on the god-damned plane.

It was a small thing, a private civilian jet an American philanthropist was using to jettison critical hospital patients back and forth across the country. The crew was only going to perform a few more runs now that things were calming down and reconstruction was heavily underway, but in the meantime...

In the meantime, America was rewarded for his hard-won patience when he left Italy alone for a few minutes to speak to the pilot. When he came back, America not only found half his lunch missing, but also the Italian state curled up in a dead faint in his seat. A little Italian girl whose family was riding with them was standing over him, combing her tiny fingers gently through the nation's tangled, grimy red hair.

No explanation was necessary, because shit. Not even America could stay mad at that.

Italy barely woke up when they landed, dazed and unsteady enough that America almost asked for a wheelchair to carry him in, but he regrouped. Aside from the doctors and paramedics waiting for the family when they arrived, a pair of Italian soldiers were there on the tarmac to escort the two nations properly into Rome. They spoke to Italy but he never said a word back, not even when the same child from before ran up and hugged him around the waist before leaving with the doctors and her sick brother. It wasn't like Italy to ignore children, but he didn't even try to wave after her when the girl left. He didn't smile either.

Rome confused him, at least that was the impression America got watching Italy stare out the car window as they drove. He seemed startled by the other cars on the road and shied away from the window whenever they drove next to the side-walk, like he was afraid of the people on the other side of the tinted glass.

He was shit for conversation, but seemed more willing to listen to America's voice now than he'd been back in Venice or while passed out on the plane. Italy even went so far as to make eye-contact a couple of times, something America slowly realized he'd been avoiding for hours. They were quick glances, but not shy. It was more like he was scared of seeing something when he looked at America, and that cold treatment helped smother the frustration and anger still trying to burn a hole through his gut.

Even Italy expected him to fly off the handle for no reason, and instead of making him mad the thought just made him feel cold and worn out. He wasn't supposed to be the bad-guy...

Italy also kept shaking, trembling from the moment they climbed into the car until now, when they were only a few blocks from the place where he was supposed to live. His eyes were dark, hollow things, black circles around them making him look ten times as exhausted as America felt. He was supposed to be olive-skinned and healthy, but as grey as he'd looked back in that apartment now Italy seemed yellow, almost jaundice.

"Are you cold?" Italy shook his head. He'd only answer yes and no questions, and only sometimes. "You keep rubbing your shoulder, does it hurt?" Like, right now was not a sometime, so Italy didn't respond to him. He did take his hand off his left shoulder though, like he could fool America into thinking nothing was wrong if he just didn't touch it.

"If you don't want to do this..." America wasn't sure what he was going to offer, but Italy took a quick breath like he was going to say something. He waited, but instead of speaking the other nation just balled his right hand up in a fist and pressed it against his lips. It was enough of an interruption to say no, he didn't want America to give him an alternative right now, but not enough to say why. He was still staring out the window, and they were on his street.

There wasn't a whole hell of a lot America could talk about. He'd generalized about the kind of aid and the nations who had entered Italian territory to help with relief and reconstruction, avoiding names when and where he could. The mansion was completely off limits for discussion, and as much as he might have wanted to say that yes, everyone had survived, Italy hadn't given him a look that seemed to ask that kind of question.

Everything else, cars, sports, cooking, movies, it all just felt kinda wrong.

"You ready?" There was the front door to the townhouse, and there were the two nations standing outside waiting for them. America recognized the Vatican City State just from the way the old man was holding himself- shoulders and spine both straight, one hand grasping that silver cross hanging over his chest. He didn't know who the other one was though; a young strawberry blonde who kept fidgeting and looked like he was going to be sick. He'd expected Romano to be here, but...

The car rolled to a stop and Italy set a hand on the door, but he didn't open it. America watched him for a moment longer and then opened his own door, carefully stepping out onto the road and blinking through the cold winter sunshine until everything came into focus again. He turned and saw the Vatican staring at him, obviously asking what was wrong, and America just lifted one hand to tell the other two to keep calm.

He himself was struggling with the same order.

America decided he could be patient right now, he would force himself to mind his temper as he walked around the car to come stand on the sidewalk. Italy'd gone through enough hell to last them all a couple of lifetimes, so America would give him space.

The young guy standing there on the curb must have been another one of Italy's brothers. He had the same kind of curl sticking out the side of his head, and he was worrying his lips like mad just waiting for Italy to find the courage to open the door and step out. He was dressed like a kid though, a green sweatshirt over jeans and sneakers. Just like the Vatican, this other nation was gripping a talisman hanging around his throat but America somehow doubted it was another cross.

America could sympathize with the man in the car even if he really, really didn't want to. It was painful and humiliating to show up like a shadow of yourself, to let the sun settle on all your scars and show the people you cared about how much you'd changed.

'This isn't about me.' This was about the nation hiding behind the tinted glass. Finally, the door popped open but didn't swing out more than a few inches.

"Seborga-!" The kid gave in and quickly walked up to the window before the Vatican called him to a halt. The damage was already done: the car door didn't shut but it did swing in until it touched the frame again. America took one look at the boy- Seborga, and immediately saw all the stress and anxiety he needed to forgive him. The kid was an inch from tears and shaking like mad trying to pretend he was calm.

"Hey..." Placing his elbow on the roof of the car, America bent down so he could speak through the tiny space between the vehicle and the door, only Italy's fingers were visible through the thin gap. He was still holding the handle. "We can take a ride around the block again if you want. These guys can go inside and-"

"But you just got here!" the boy cried, not bothering with English and jumping straight into Italian. America glanced over as a few of those struggling tears were set free. The Vatican swept over and quickly placed a hand on Seborga's elbow, but the boy's green eyes were still fighting to see through the blacked-out window. He had Romano's eyes. "Please, Veneziano, you're home! Home!"

"Dude, calm down."

"Seborga, this isn't helping-"

"I know that!" Man, these guys really were so messed up right now. America had to assume that the kid was a Micro-nation, he'd never seen him before but with his accent and the way Vatican man-handled him to make him turn around, he had to be family.

"Papa, I know." Family... "But you got to see him in Venice, and you-" America was surprised when the smaller nation looked at him directly, after the last few months few nations would meet his eye. The religious enclave kept a hold on Seborga's arm, but that didn't keep the boy from speaking- from pleading? "You were with Romano in Switzerland! You're the ones who got him out of that place to begin with!" America found himself wanting to say something mean, something bitter to put the Micro-nation in his place, but the words escaped him. The desperate sound of that voice and the look in those crying eyes kept him silent. "I haven't even seen him since-"

The car door swung open. America hadn't even expected it and stumbled a bit to get out of the way, hanging out near the tail lights at the end of the vehicle. It took a minute for the nation inside to actually find his feet and stand, but after several long, shaking moments Italy's head appeared over the edge of the door. He was holding on to the car with both hands so he could keep his balance, his dark brown eyes passing by America and looking cautiously over at the other two small countries still standing over on the curb.

The Micro-nations had forgotten that they were supposed to be struggling with each other. The cardinal was worrying his silver cross again, and the boy was standing there with tears still visible on his face. The younger one dared to take another step closer, and this time his brother didn't retreat back into the dark confines of the car.

Italy was thin and yellow now, standing there with a scarred face and dirty clothes. He looked frightened and uncertain, all the pride and life beaten out of his fragile body. America watched Italy's gaze rise up in small jumps, the Italian taking a good minute just to move up the body in front of him until he reached the Micro-nation's face. He looked at his chin and his hair and his ears, but even if America wasn't sure about it then the boy was certain, his brother wouldn't meet his eyes.

America just watched them. He watched them and he tried to understand how Italy could stand there without anger, without rage. He should have been furious, he should have stood up and demanded to know where his little brother got off being all weepy and upset when nothing bad had happened to him, or at least not the same kind or intensity of bad that Italy had survived. Seborga didn't have the burden of failure weighing him down, he hadn't watched his friends and his family members die repeatedly, hadn't flung himself into abyss trying to save the souls of enemies he could have left behind. North Italy's reward for everything he'd done was torment and chaos for his people. In order to help eleven other men, he'd sacrificed the health and safety of the children he existed to protect.

Seborga's tears should have made Italy furious.

"It's me." Simple Italian, America wasn't even angry that he had to translate Seborga's statement. "It's me, brother, it's really me this time." This time? The boy brought his hands up and touched his own chest, fingers curled and grasping for something he couldn't hold. "It's not a dream," he begged, "I had them too and this- this is real..." What was he...?

America could only see Italy's face in profile, but whatever Seborga was trying to say his traumatized brother seemed to click. Italy's mouth was open again like he wanted to say something, his hands beginning to shake where he was clutching the car. All he managed to do was shuffle his feet before he leaned down on the car door, keeping it between the two of them like a shield. He let go with one hand and reached out slowly, but not all the way, toward his brother's face.

For some reason America had expected things to go differently. He'd thought the car door would open and Romano or whoever would throw themselves at Italy in a crushing hug- weren't they big on things like that? They'd just all smother him and drag him inside the house, probably stuff him full of food and give him a bath like a lost puppy. He'd imagined lots of talking, people yelling over one another just to be heard and drown out the stalwart silence of the last four months. In his mind this moment had always been a loud, boisterous celebration.

Instead, he watched Italy almost flinch back when Seborga touched his hand. He saw the grief and the pain, and he understood that they weren't going to be celebrating anything just yet.

Seborga was his own nation, but he was still in some ways a part of North Italy. He was still, in some ways, connected to the trauma.

Veneziano had lived it, and Romano had understood it, but right in the middle of his brothers stood Seborga. He hadn't quite understood what happened and he wasn't carrying the scars from it, but he'd felt it, and he'd watched it. Seborga hadn't dreamed once in months: everything had been nightmares.

They'd become clearer once Veneziano was out of the mansion, but he'd had them in flashes and snatches going as far back as August. The white walls, the wood floors, the florescent lights... He'd had Romano explain it to him, just like he had to Papa and San Marino when they'd asked him. Seborga had screamed during the earthquake but he couldn't really explain why; none of his children had died, and his damage hadn't been so bad- not like Veneziano's cities, not like Venice itself. They'd thought it was all because their brother was dead, that North Italy had died and made room for one nation between the poor south and mangled north.

They'd found out this morning that they were wrong, and Seborga had been happy.

Now he was standing here with his brother, and he realized that his happiness had been selfish.

It took almost twenty minutes to get Veneziano all the way into the house. He could walk but he was scared, taking two steps back when he actually noticed that Papa was with them. The sight of the Holy See terrified him and Seborga didn't know how to console either of them when Veneziano's fear visibly stabbed their father's protected heart. His brother's hands were tangled with his though, the right one noticeably stronger than the left, and when Seborga tried changing the grip so he could try and comfort him, he felt something knock against his fingertips.

He pushed up Veneziano's sleeve a little and found a string of dark resin beads wrapped around his left wrist, hanging over the soiled grey bandages. He was still wearing Papa's rosary...

Another reason why it took so long was America, because as soon as Seborga coaxed his brother up the first step to reach the front door, the American said something to Papa and then started to climb back into his car.

Veneziano froze, spun around and focused his eyes directly on the foreign power. His sudden attention made all three of them stop and even America was confused. Veneziano didn't say anything, but his silence was loud enough to force America to say something.

"I, uh... You probably wanna spend some time with your family, right?"

Veneziano kept staring.

"Alone? I mean-" Seborga flinched but America caught his mistake, tripping over his tongue, "I mean in private, without me around."

Veneziano kept watching him, his stare beginning to fluster the other nation.

"Look, I did my part." America was shuffling his feet on the pavement. He made a nonsense gesture with his hands and then wiped his palms off on the front of his jacket. He looked like he was dressed for construction work, kind of like how Veneziano was muddy and rumpled, but now he was scowling too. "What the hell do you want from me? I-"

"Coffee!" Seborga blurted, breaking Papa's focus but not Veneziano's. America was looking at him now, but his brother was still focused on the blonde. "Well, you know, you came all this way and stuff..." And stuff? He wasn't very good at thinking on his fee- "You should- stay for coffee! Or dinner?"

Papa was looking at him like he was crazy.

America was looking like he wanted to hit him.

Veneziano wanted America to stay, and he wasn't going to go inside until he got what he wanted.

"I don't see why that would be a problem." Papa muttered, still curious and confused, but he looked back at the American and Seborga tried tugging on his brother's fingers, hoping to get his attention. "You took a plane down? Yes, come inside."

America obviously wanted to argue, but then he took another look up at Veneziano and closed his mouth, swallowing his words. He shut the car door without getting in, slapping his hand on the roof as a signal for the driver to pull away. He stuck his hands in his pockets as the engine started and the vehicle began rolling again. America looked up the stairs at Veneziano, and slowly, grudgingly, nodded.

Seborga took his brother inside.

Spain had come home with Romano and then left because he was asked to. Seborga didn't know where he'd gone exactly, but he knew that while San Marino was still trying to work out how to get from his territory all the way to Rome, the last brother was here in the house somewhere.

Veneziano hadn't tried to hug him at all, but Seborga's brother wouldn't let go of his hand as they stepped inside. He had to stop for a few moments right over the thresh-hold, like he'd just stepped in cold water and was trying to adjust, but then he slowly waded further into the familiar hallways and rooms of the first floor.

He started touching things, his fingers wrapped around Seborga's right hand, but he touched the table in the little entry way and the gilded frame of the mirror- but he didn't look in the mirror before moving by. He touched picture frames and key-rings, keeping his boots on as Seborga noticed he was limping slightly, but that could wait. The grip he had with his left hand was surprisingly strong.

Veneziano didn't stride through the sitting room which separated the entrance from the dining room and kitchen, instead he kind of hugged the wall, avoiding the open space. His eyes kept scanning as he went, moving over objects and frequently coming up just to swing around and make sure everything was in its place. It took Seborga a moment to realize that whenever his brother looked back at the rest of them, Veneziano was counting to make sure all four were still together.

He froze again when they heard footsteps run up the stairs, so far the only sign that Romano was even in the house. Seborga didn't understand what his brothers were doing until they reached the kitchen, and Veneziano stopped squeezing his hand so hard.

"Are... are you hungry?" There was a bowl of hot, fresh yellow polenta sitting on the table, bathed in sunlight. A tall glass of milk and a sugar-bowl were both sitting next to it invitingly. It was more of a northern thing for the cornmeal to be kind of runny with sweet cream for breakfast, and even if it was getting on in the afternoon, they hadn't known he was coming until this morning.

There was also a little plate of sliced tomatoes, olives and onions sitting out, in case the polenta would taste better with something savoury. And if he just didn't want polenta then there was a tray of cheese laid out with bread and a little flask of olive oil. There were fresh herbs, mostly mint and parsly, and they'd been left whole and placed in a little glass with some water to keep them from wilting.

Romano had put out three different meals and then run away to hide upstairs. Seborga didn't know if he wanted to stay put with one brother or go and yell at the other one to come down and show himself.

Veneziano made the choice for him by refusing to let go of Seborga's hand. It wasn't until he was able to coax his older brother to sit down at the table that he was able to reclaim his wrist and fingers, lightly setting his other hand on Veneziano's shoulder to keep him seated. He was tempted to turn and question the American, but made himself speak to his brother instead.

"When was the last time you ate?" Veneziano took a breath, but then he just glanced over the various things on the table like he didn't know what do to next. He didn't seem confused by the items, just overwhelmed. "Well, here. We'll get you cleaned up after this." He handed his brother the metal spoon and... and then what? Why wasn't he saying anything?

There was more polenta in a pot Romano had left by the stove, Vatican spooning up a few more portions after America confirmed that they had something similar in the southern region of his home. Veneziano ate slowly without adding anything to the creamy dish, Seborga not taking up a portion as he made sure his brother was okay with having Papa sit next to him at the table.

It was like familiarizing yourself with a skittish animal, say a dog who had been kicked for so long it didn't know how to trust. Papa offered his hand slowly, palm up and fingers empty, and Veneziano immediately began radiating anxiety. His fingers twitched, he stopped eating and set the spoon back down in the bowl. His wide, wild eyes were focused on that hand and didn't move, he wouldn't even blink.

"You're home." Papa spoke softly, but clearly. He didn't like to whisper. "You can come and go as you please from here, you're safe." Seborga held his breath, but in a way he guessed it was the same thing Veneziano had done with him out in front of the car. He didn't know whether to trust or flee, and saw as much of a threat in the Vatican's empty hand as he had with Seborga rushing up to the car window.

Slowly, agonizingly, like he was fighting himself for every inch, Veneziano's hand crept away from the side of his bowl. He was reaching with his left hand, the one Seborga already knew had been hurt and abused, so there was hope in the sight of him using it. His fingers trembled before they stopped just shy of papa's, and Seborga watched the other micro-nation purse his lips tightly, then let out a long, careful breath when Veneziano slipped their fingers together.

He'd done the same thing outside, touched Seborga's face like he was afraid to disturb the image, to see it crumble like sand or fade away like a beautiful mirage. Veneziano closed his eyes and squeezed a few tears out, the clear liquid cutting through the dry dust and grime still clinging to his cheeks. He didn't let go of papa's hand though, the hold changing so their palms were pressed together as the Holy See carefully slid off his chair and down onto one knee. The Vatican never knelt to anyone.

"No more nightmares..." he said softly, and Veneziano covered his mouth with one wrist, shaking with muffled sobs and falling tears as his fingers were wrapped up gently in the other nation's. When he opened his eyes again they were looking right at each other. Seborga was distracted from the sight when America quietly stood up and ghosted by him.

"I'm gonna go find your brother..." His voice was quiet, barely whispering the words before he stepped completely out of Seborga's thoughts, out of the kitchen, and off upstairs to find Romano.

"Dude, what the hell?" Upstairs, America was pissed. Again.

"Is he okay?"

"No he's not okay, why would you even ask that?" Temper, temper, America had to control his god-damned- "What the hell're you doing up here? Go down and frickin' see him already." And he couldn't shout either, so he swallowed the swear while he stared down the panicking Italian Republic.

Because Romano was panicking, that much was obvious just from watching him shoot back and forth down the hall, opening bedroom doors and rifling through closets. Romano- Lovino- whatever the fuck his name was didn't look like he was going to start screaming or burst into tears like a wuss, but he had a familiar glassy-eyed, not-all-there look to him. It was too much like his brother downstairs, the older Italian over-clocking just trying to figure out where they kept the spare towels.

"Not yet."

"What? Whaddya mean not yet?" America shot back, sticking his hands on his hips and glowering after the shorter man as he followed him into the main bath on the second floor. "Look, I didn't drag him all the way down here just so you could-"

"That's the thing, you dragged him." Oh, fuck. Say that again you little- "And thank you," Thanks? "But..."

Romano was standing with his back to America, a large fleecy white towel over his arm as he was searching for a second one in the little linen closet in the bathroom. Once he had them he kinda looked around in a daze, like he'd forgotten what he was doing, then set both items down on a small stool next to the tub.

As he spoke, he turned on the water and let it run over his hands.

"But he's been getting dragged around a lot." Well he'd kinda been AWOL or asleep since everything at the house, but America managed to keep that comment to himself. "He hasn't made one easy choice in god knows how long..." Oh, well, okay that sounded legit. "He can't see me yet."

"Dude, you're the whole reason I even got him on that plane." Folding his arms, America leaned over against the wall and watched the Italian scrounge around for the rubber plug to stop the water from draining away. "You aren't even gonna go down and-?"

"Is he eating?" Fuck, stop interrupting him. "Even like a little bit?"

"Yes. Your dad and the kid- your brother? They were having a moment when I left." He just, no, America couldn't stand around when that was happening, it was uncomfortable on too many levels.

"Good." A spoon full of bath-salts went into the tub as it began to fill, Romano staring at the swirling water for a moment like he was getting lost in the light steam. "He probably hasn't eaten since... unless he found something... doubt it..."

"Dude, speak up."

"He hasn't eaten since the last loop." ...No. "He had, like... a little bit of food from the safe room," No, how could Romano know something like that? "But he ate it after he got the last key. He hasn't had an actual meal since-"

"Since England and I came back from the annex..." Since Japan had risked his life to bail America out of a bad situation, since the two of them had come back to the sanctuary and then-

The argument. Canada had turned on him, refusing to let America take responsibility for his lost glasses.

The intervention. Italy had shut it down, the man sitting mute and broken at the table downstairs had scolded both of them.

The confession. That America and his brother had lost each other before, that America had lost England too many times to-

The yelling. And the one time America had convinced himself not to shout back at England, not to fall into the same trap that always wound up with one of them dead.

The silence. Right before England charged back down into the annex. Right before England answered his question in the smoke-filled dark. Right after they realized Italy was missing...

"He needs to eat something comforting, and take a long, hot bath. And then he needs to sleep in his own bed with his own clean clothes on. And he just- he's had enough." Over the sound of the water it was hard to catch the sharp sniffle in the middle of Romano's explanation, but when he swept his wrist over his eyes not even America could miss it. It was good that he did that, because it made it easier for America to identify the raw burning in his own eyes.

Because the yelling, and the scolding, and the confessing, and the fighting, and the silence...

"I..." America felt dizzy, like Russia had just sucker-punched him in the gut and then boxed both his ears... "I'm heading out." He had to get away from here.

"America?" The Italy from the safe room was the Italy in the dining room, and suddenly America had to get as far away from him as he could. He rushed out into the hallway and Romano didn't follow him down the stairs, but he came up short when-

'No-'

"Look," America made it a mechanical, automatic reaction, speaking without letting his mind get in the way of his mouth. "I gotta go. Right now."

Vatican was there at the base of the stairs, looking up in surprise and backing up the other two who'd been following him. America set his eyes on the elder and tried to awkwardly shuffle down the last few steps and get past them. He couldn't do this, he had to get out.

"I'm sorry, I just-" He had to get away from the one hiding behind the Holy See, the foggy-eyed nation who was clinging to the cardinal's robe like a life-line. "I'm sorry." The person who was so exhausted he was about to fall asleep standing up. This wasn't about America, he couldn't be here. "I can't stay-" he had to get away, "I'm sorry-" away, "I didn't mean to-" run away. "I'm sorry."

"Mister America...?" He heard the kid's voice, but he had Italy's attention.

"Look, I'm sorry." He'd already said that, several times actually, but America couldn't find a way to switch off his tongue. He sounded like a broken record. "In the annex, it-" Shut up! "And the office-" A blur, he couldn't even remember which one- "It wasn't supposed to be that way!"

His throat hurt, it was tight and squeezing his voice. It was hard to breathe in all the way, and the pain only got worse when he realized Italy's eyes weren't clouded anymore. He was leaning on the Vatican like a child, but he was looking straight at America, straight through him.

And it was terrible.

"Say something-"

Just standing there, frozen.

"Anything, I just need-"

Waiting.

"I've never been more sorry for anything in my entire-"

Begging.

And Italy's face, he just- he wasn't scowling, and he didn't start glaring at America as he kept standing there blathering on, the words tripping and stumbling out of his mouth. He wasn't startled or confused, Italy was just listening to him, and under all the humiliation America could feel the cold, sickening grip of shame locking around his throat. The guilt strangled his temper and left him wallowing alone, stranded in isolation.

"Italy please!" Why wasn't he saying anything? Why wouldn't he say something? He should have been angry, he should have been furious- America himself couldn't believe he was falling apart right now, again, in Italy's house. So what if it wasn't with rage this time? He was causing another scene in Italy's house...

Italy had to say something. Say anything. To tell him to get out, tell him he didn't want to see America's face right now, or ever again. To get mad, to shout and get someone else to throw him out and slam the front door.

"I'm sorry..." But through his tears all America saw was Italy slowly turn to look at his younger brother. "I'm so, so, sorry..." And whatever passed between them was non-verbal, "It's all my fault..."

And then he felt Seborga's hand on his arm.

And America was led quietly away with his tears and his shame.

I guess, to answer Musical Hats/Wilsontoyourhouse's question way back in chapter 4: Alfred's major malfunction was guilt. Poor bby~

HAPPY CANADA DAAAAAAAY!