Decision of the Loved, This is Where I Fall, Memories, Letter from Heaven, Angels Pedestal, Hallelujah, Iris.

I am now an ESL teacher. Almost.

And thanks for all the guest reviews last week, guys! I tried to make this one a little bit happier?

Recovery

Seven Holy Days

The work required a map, a globe, and patience, but ultimately the brothers understood each other. With seven days left before Christmas, Romano made the first phone call.

Just to be clear: Poland hated flying.

He hated it.

He didn't just dislike it, he hated it. He didn't like seeing or hearing planes overhead, he didn't like the environment around airports and fields. He didn't like the noise or the pollution or the complaining, he hated airplanes and he hated flying and he hated all of it.

But it was ridiculous to take the trains from Warsaw to Rome, especially when he didn't know why he was being asked to make the trip. He also didn't know why he was being asked, wasn't Italy supposed to be a real hard-ass? A really impolite jerk? A bastard who Poland really resented for being who he was by virtue of not being the person Poland missed a whole lot?

Well whatever. He landed in Rome and he had no idea why he was down here, but the weather was so much warmer that, maybe, he was okay with being here. The clear weather made him feel a bit better for having been on a plane for several hours, but the blonde nation was still sketchy about being in this country right now. He'd been here for the immediate relief efforts, of course, because all the chaos in the northern half of the nation had warranted a full response from Europe, but…

But he was still here…

Where that person was not…

"This really couldn't wait until after Christmas?" Poland complained, surprised and disappointed when he saw Italy there to greet him at the airport and dressed up for work in a suit and tie. Poland had come in jeans and a heavy coat because he hated flying in a suit, and also to show how he did not want to go flying around Europe for work. Oh and by the way it was exactly a week from Christmas, so there was absolutely no excuse for this.

"It really couldn't." Poland took heart in the fact that Italy looked a little awkward standing there, enjoying watching him mumble his words and glance around like he'd rather be anywhere else with anyone else. Poland didn't hate South Italy, at least not when he'd been South Italy, but centuries of friendship with North Italy had told Poland more than a few dirty secrets about the poorer, crime-ridden south.

It was hard with wounds this fresh not to hate Lovino Vargas, the dead man from the cursed journal, for taking his brother's place.

"So what's going on?" Poland snapped, following Italy through the winter sunlight until they reached a heavy black car, something Italian-made no doubt. His host took the small piece of luggage he'd brought with him and tossed it into the vehicle's trunk. They both climbed in and Poland was getting frustrated by the lack of explanation. Italy had been vague over the phone, but whatever it was had been important for the Italian Head of State to call Poland's boss and get him to force Poland on that stupid airplane.

Italy took a deep breath and then sighed as he drove, not meeting his eye.

"Give me your cellphone."

"Excuse me?"

"Look, I don't want to be an ass about it! Just do it!" They were already speeding towards Rome proper, and Poland's hands started itching to take the wheel and spin it so the car would veer off and crash. Or maybe he'd just punch the stupid Italian in the face, maybe that would work. "It's not some spy-game, Poland, I just can't have you telling anybody why you're here."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want them to know."

"Them? Know what?"

"Why you're here."

"Don't talk in circles! Tell me why you brought me here!" Not spy-games? Not espionage? "What kind of state business has me hand you my phone?"

"It's not state business!" Don't shout at him, Italian, don't shout at him or Poland would send him through the god-damned window-!

"Really? Oh really? Your boss calls mine telling me to come here and that's not state-?"

"Fine! If you don't want to see him, then fine." Huh? "I'll take you back and you can get on another damned plane back to Warsaw." The car slowed down dramatically and Italy did a quick shoulder check, spinning the wheel to turn the nose of the car right around, the world tilting on an axis before Poland caught himself speaking again.

"See who?"

"Doesn't fucking matter, if I can't trust you to keep your damn mouth shut then who cares." No, no hang on that wasn't fair. Poland couldn't fight the churning in his gut when he heard that, the stirring of something that wasn't allowed to be hope, because hope had a tendency to hurt way too much and stab you hard in the back when you least expected it.

Reflexively, the pink smart-phone was slipped out of his pocket. Poland's fingers unhatched the glove compartment in front of his seat, the phone went in and the cubby was sealed again with a click. Poland didn't take his eyes off Italy.

The car slowed down and pulled over on the side of the road, Rome-bound traffic speeding by them on the high-way. South Italy turned off the engine and leaned his head back with a sigh, and by the time he found the breath to speak Poland could feel his heart beginning to break all over again.

"There are rules you have to follow with him…"

The first person Veneziano hugged was Poland.

It took everything Romano had not to hate him for having that honour.

Austria was a proper gentleman. Stoic in public and expressive in only very specific, proper ways, he was conditioned to give only the most appropriate response at any given moment.

"Who else knows about this?" And that was why he was struggling so hard with his composure right now, because the only appropriate response was to weep. Here in the corridor Austria was safe, but if he took one step into the dim bedroom before him, he…

"All of us on the peninsula," Vatican answered, his voice low and soft out of respect. "Then there's Spain and Poland, and America was the one who brought him home." Pulling a handkerchief from his coat pocket Austria held the scented cloth up to his lips and nose. There was no offensive odour in the house, he simply wanted what little comfort he could squeeze from the lavender oils. Bless the Vatican City State for not rushing him to act right now.

"Italy and I have fair relations, but-" He had to stop, had to swallow the terrible sounds and painful things choking his throat. "But our better years are behind us. France, or Germa-"

"He is free to request who he wants," the Holy See soothed, the two of them standing in the light spilling across the bedroom floor, the sleeping figure curled up on the bed holding Austria's rapt attention. "And he requested you."

"I… I shouldn't wake him-"

"He won't mind."

"Please, I-"

"Austria." No, please no, don't make him stay here. Austria couldn't feel the joy anymore, the awe and disbelief of Italy- South Italy's explanation was gone. He was left with only this terrible, barely concealed kind of horror. It was the guilt Austria had begun to assess and deal with before deeming it unnecessary and highly irrelevant to the post-November 4th world. But now it was here again, and he couldn't stop it.

"I never died, you know." He said the words breathlessly, because it was that or cry them out. "Do you know how debilitating that is? Knowing that while all of that chaos and all of that horror was going on, I never even suffered for it?" Oh, look who he was speaking to. The ancient micro-nation probably had a better sense of that violation than Austria himself, but the former empire refused to empathize.

"I was there in every loop." Austria persisted, wondering why the other nation wasn't trying to interrupt him. Vatican was even meeting his gaze full-on and yet still allowed him to speak. "If I wasn't in the hotel or going off trying to find them, then I was actually there, outside, watching the chaos from the grounds. I… I went with Hungary, I went with Miss Ukraine, I was even with Turkey a number of times, but…" But no matter what, he had been entirely useless. "I never died, but unlike Italy I never saved anyone either…"

"Then help him now." The words were cruel in their simplicity. How did one help someone who had done and then lost so much? "Come, there's a piano in the study."

"Please don't patronize me." Austria begged, lacking the conviction to scold. "Even I know the limits of art…" And a piano of all things, he would rather cut off his hand than play the instrument in Italy's presence…

"Then remember its ability to heal..."

With Austria in the house Veneziano was finally coaxed to look at the paintings and drawings abandoned in his study. There were only a handful of them compared to the lost workshop in Venice, but one by one he coated each canvas in black paint and refused to touch them again.

By far the strangest request his brother made came after Austria, and Romano didn't actually know how to convince the nations to come. It might have been easier if he'd had Spain to ask, he had more experience with this kind of thing…

"Okay, I'll try, but…" But Veneziano wouldn't take his fingers off that part of the globe, he was determined. "Do you remember the revolution he had last year? The other three might come if I visit them first…" He could see it just in the way his brother's eyes widened: he didn't like the idea of Romano leaving Rome.

"Pick someone else for now and I'll try to work something out- Veneziano I didn't say no, I just said pick someone who can come right now, not in like a month."

Veneziano tilted the world between his hands again, and circled his finger over two names printed so closely together Romano could barely read them both.

With three days left until Christmas, Switzerland hadn't expected to take a trip down to Rome.

"Hey, Zwingli."

But after Italy's phone call, he and Liechtenstein made the journey in only a few hours. Switzerland was angry when he realized that Italy had actually left his capital and his country behind for a trip to east Africa, but the anger died as soon as he realized why, and what his absence meant.

"Romano should be back before the Holiday, but it was still rash of him to leave." Switzerland avoided looking directly at the Vatican for the first hour of their visit, standing awkwardly in the kitchen so his sister could sit upstairs with North Italy in peace. It was hard to forget how their last meeting had ended…

"Have they been apart yet?"

"This is the first time." Which explained the anxiety in the house. Switzerland kept his hands in his pockets, watching the old Micro-nation fuss over a kettle of hot water. "Seborga hasn't left his side. I understand Romano's decision, but… last night…" Romano had left yesterday evening, he'd actually called Switzerland's house from the airport.

"Has Veneziano said anything?" Vatican paused, but he didn't turn around. He lowered his gaze a little, his wrinkled hands wrapped around a teapot.

"…He screamed."

Switzerland felt the sudden, jarring need to leave this place. He was compelled to stop disturbing this household and the fragile person sitting upstairs with his brother and Switzerland's sister. He wanted to go home now, he wanted to forget the reason why he'd wanted to come so quickly to North Italy's side. The weight of carrying it around was slowly killing him, but he could walk with the burden for a little longer if it meant…

"Switzerland? Oh, hello, Vati." Liechtenstein stepped softly into the kitchen and Switzerland hadn't heard her coming, the two men turning a little when she spoke up.

"Are you alright?" Switzerland asked, stepping up and lifting a hand to his sister's pale cheeks and puffy eyes. She'd been crying, not heavily, but more than enough to spark his concern. When she looked up at him her green eyes were glossed with more tears, but she held them back with a smile for him.

"I'm alright," she had such a soft way of speaking naturally that it was almost impossible to hear her now, Switzerland waiting patiently as Liechtenstein pulled a small handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her lips and eyes softly. How could she smile like that? "He's very tired though, Seborga mentioned he might need to lay down for a little bit…" She trailed off like it was a question, her gaze slowly moving towards the other micro-nation standing in the room. Switzerland turned and watched Vatican keep his eyes on the teapot still, peering into it vacantly like he couldn't see the steeping leaves.

It was strange to see Vatican dressed in black but without his silver cross. He didn't have his wooden rosary either…

"He sleeps much of the time," Vatican murmured. "But he's also in a great deal of pain thanks to the reconstruction." Switzerland could sympathize with that. It had been a long time since he'd felt the widespread destruction of a calamity, but like with physical wounds sometimes sleep was the most effective escape from the pain.

"Didn't you have something you wanted to give him, big brother?" Switzerland let his eyes drop to the floor for a moment, aware of the silence that followed Liechtenstein's question. "I know you don't want to talk about it, but…"

"It can wait until after he's rested."

"That may not be wise." Vatican warned, and the larger nation looked up again. The religious state spoke smoothly, but with a kind of reserved sadness in both his grave voice and dark eyes. "He's disoriented whenever he wakes up. He has to be reminded of where he is..." That he was safe…

"I guess…" This was just a bad idea all around, but the burden was starting to pain him again. With both hands shoved in his pockets Switzerland huffed and turned away. "Alright, but if he's asleep when I get up there then it will have to wait."

Switzerland's prayers went unanswered, and Italy was laying pale and exhausted on his bed when the former mercenary reached the room.

It wasn't until after Switzerland and Miss Liechtenstein left that Seborga found the gun. It was an old, worn out, scuffed and dented Swiss SIG P210 handgun; the kind that had been in popular use with the Swiss Military during WWII.

He found it in Veneziano's hands, partially disassembled, and when he was finished cleaning it Veneziano placed the weapon into the drawer next to his bed. Like the blacked-out paintings from the study, Seborga didn't see his brother touch the gun again.

"Just so we are clear…" Oh, Romano did not like that tone of voice. He didn't like it, but he relaxed his grip around the small cup of thick, hot coffee in his hand and made himself sit still at the table. The woman across from him was a great deal older than South Italy, and she was hiding a dangerous temper under those colourful silk scarves and the luscious black of her braided hair. "I am doing this for you, not him."

"I understand." He said quickly, and when the dark man next to him took a breath and sat up straight, South Italy shot him a fierce look. Shut. The fuck. Up.

"Christmas Eve is an important Holy Day to many of my people." Eritea continued, raising two black brows at Ethiopia, who Romano could feel staring at him because they didn't like each other, they had no reason to like each other, and here he was trying to make them work together.

"It's important to mine too." Romano agreed, speaking carefully and setting his cup on the heavy wood table so he wouldn't spill it. "But he requested you four specifically."

"I don't see Libya here." Ethiopia hissed, staring at South Italy as if he'd erected a mental wall between himself and the woman whose home they were sitting in. They really, really, did not fucking like each other.

"Libya can't come." Romano repeated.

"I have already agreed to go." Somalia spoke up softly, almost whispering since that was his way around most issues, but Romano was thankful for it since it took some of the suffocating pressure off of him. "Italy has made himself clear: we are not going to discuss trade or politics, this is a decision we must make as people."

"We are not people-"

"We represent them."

Thank you, Somalia, fucking thank you.

"Please," Romano spoke up, a bit too awkward and off-balance to feel his temper rise up to help him. He'd tried calling Spain before coming here but it hadn't worked out, the former Empire wouldn't talk to him so South Italy had to work his way through the Post-Colonial mire without help. With any other set of nations he wouldn't mind grumbling and spitting his way through a discussion, but with these ones he just, ngh, it wasn't comfortable. "If it's just too short notice then at least consider coming between Christmas and the end of December. I wouldn't be pushing this hard if it wasn't important."

"It's so important that you would invite that one to attend at the same time as me." Eritea emphasized, plucking at the corner of her lavender scarf like it offended her almost as much as Ethiopia's presence. "Exactly how large is your residence in Rome?"

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Not very big?

"There is space." He answered, thinking fast and speaking slowly. "The Vatican City State lives in Rome and can easily house my brother Seborga for a few days and open up the guest room." And Papa better fucking do it. "And the second bedroom can be prepared before we arrive. If neither option is good e-sufficient, then accommodations can be found elsewhere in the city." They shouldn't be there for more than two days, three at most…

Ethiopia opened his mouth, probably to ask Eritea how she felt about kicking her host out of his own bed, and Romano kicked him. Shut the ever-loving-fuck up. Romano did not need a friend to defend him right now: he needed a yes from his three former colonies.

And he needed to smack his brother for sending him on this fucking goose chase.

"Do you remember that lullaby I used to sing you when we all lived together in Austria's house?"

None of them expected Miss Hungary to be the hardest guest to deal with, not even Veneziano. Seborga had noted his brother's fingers skipping back and forth over her name on the globe, but it was the day before Christmas Eve when she finally arrived at the house. Maybe, just maybe, they should have waited for Romano to come home and handle the invitation and explanation instead, but the damage was done.

Seborga was just getting off the phone with Romano, confirming that someone would be there to pick him up from the airport tomorrow, when he heard Hungary break one of Romano's rules.

"I can't believe Germany isn't here with you…" She started… pressing him… "Is this the map you've been using, Italy?"

It was gentle, but it was still pressure. Seborga wasn't sure if he should say anything or not as he stepped back into the bedroom. Veneziano was glancing slowly between him and Miss Hungary as she hurried back over to the bed with the globe they'd been using to choose visitors. Maybe he'd just been around Veneziano long enough now to read him better, but as the sphere was placed between his hands Seborga's brother looked uncomfortable.

"There, South Italy isn't here right now so you can choose whoever you want. Can you see his name?"

"Um, Miss Hungary…" Seborga didn't know how to break in properly, the words felt clumsy as he moved towards the bed. He was about to climb up onto the mattress next to his brother again when Miss Hungary comfortably took his spot instead. It was, uh, okay… "He's made the decision every time, you know. Romano hasn't-"

"Well then why isn't Germany here?" Miss Hungary's voice wasn't mean, but she asked the question in such a way that Seborga felt like he was being shown the obvious. "I'm sure he's a very good person inside, but everyone knows how Romano feels about Germany." But Romano felt that way about a lot of nations, and yet Austria and Switzerland had been called to come as soon as they-

"Go on, choose. It's okay." Miss Hungary was such a nice, warm person to be around, but Veneziano's hands tightened around the globe when she reached up and began to turn it for him. Latin America fell away to Europe, and Seborga wondered if it was a good thing for Veneziano to let her take control like that.

She was making Seborga nervous now.

"He's right there, see? I know you can't say his name right now, Ita, but you can still point to it." Hungary circled her finger over what Seborga assumed was Germany's name on the globe. She reached for Veneziano's hand, probably to make him do the same thing, but when she touched him Veneziano pulled away quickly, raising his hand out to Seborga.

He pinched his thumb and forefinger together and then made a fist, painting a path through the air to mime for what he wanted.

"A pen?" The mime turned into a point, Veneziano indicating the small writing desk by the window. Seborga pulled the first drawer open and found a thick black marker, holding it up to see if it was okay. When Veneziano beckoned him over they both ignored Hungary's curiosity.

"Do you want to write something?" She asked, but Seborga only had an idea, not any real proof as his brother popped the cap off with his teeth, his weaker left hand holding the globe steady in his lap. "Bring him some paper, he-"

Veneziano swept a big, black mark over a point on the globe and Hungary gasped, Seborga quickly shuffling around to see what he'd done.

The marker streaked back and forth over "Germany" several times until almost the entire nation was blacked out. Then, Veneziano struck a solid line down through France and Spain, nearly hitting Portugal before stopping right at the printed line. With only a short pause, he lifted the pen again and adjusted the map, bringing the black point down over London and scoring the British Isles without touching either part of Ireland, or the regions of Scotland or Wales.

He spun the globe with one hand and carefully held the marker in place, crossing out the R-U-S-S-I-A printed across the northern hemisphere and letting it turn into a brisk X over the islands of Japan. Another squiggle cut across China all the way from Mongolia to what used to be Tibet, and with one last turn of the world he sliced off the top half of North America, just barely keeping the felt tip from chewing through Alaska. He even marked up the North Pole just to keep Norway and Greenland safe from the permanent ink.

Seborga knew better than to say anything in the silence that followed. He didn't look at Miss Hungary either, just stood awkwardly by the bed and watched Veneziano pop the cap back onto the black marker. His brother just set the pen down on the night table they both knew was holding that beaten pistol, and then he absently gave the globe a spin with one hand, his fingers keeping it from tipping as it twirled.

To Miss Hungary's credit, after a moment or two of silence to collect herself she seemed to know what to do, what to say, and how to take such a bold declaration in stride.

"Well, enough of that." Her smile was forced, but it was a smile, and Veneziano met her gaze and twitched his lips sort of like he was mimicking her. Was he being ironic? It was like he was still saying something without saying anything. "That old lullaby, do you remember it?"

Seborga took the globe away and set it back on the dresser, and Veneziano sank down into the bed and pillows, folding his arms over his stomach with the right one carefully protecting the left. The judgement and the irony both went away as he looked up at Miss Hungary and shook his head. He couldn't remember it, but that didn't mean Veneziano didn't want to hear the Hungarian tune. He let Miss Hungary stay close to him on the bed- not touching, but close, and she softly began to hum.

Relieved, the Micro-nation bowed out and calmly went downstairs to do a couple chores.

He hadn't had this dream in a long time. Years, maybe even decades had passed since he'd really thought about it.

"It is your responsibility as a nation-"

"How can you even say that and still call yourself a democracy?"

He never really thought about England in waist-coats and britches, or himself in swaddling cotton or little boy suspenders. Dreams of the past weren't something he usually had to endure-

"You're too young! You don't understand that the expertise you will have in two hundred, five hundred years' time will impact everything you do!"

Like the rest of the world was always telling him, America was too young to have dreams like these yet. They'd come with age, they'd come with centuries of power and millennia of success and failure. Not yet. His Colonial days weren't supposed to be traumatic enough for dreams like these, not yet.

"And you're too old if you still believe that kings are kings because God put them there- England all men are equal! All men are free and I won't let you tell me otherwise!

"Don't ever tell me to use a power that contradicts everything that I stand for! Get out, England! GET OUT!"

He was too young to go having dreams like these, but as America opened his eyes in the white winter light streaming through the window of his Maryland home, he felt old.

*flail* See you next week!