Shattered, Empty, I'm Wide Awake, Lullaby, Uninstall English Version, 1stp klosr, KRWLING

If I've done my job properly then the next few chapters should be really, really fun for you guys. I think that's why I'm so damned impatient about posting them.

Mushy chapter, enjoy!

Recovery

Graceless

Spain knew he hadn't been taking things well. He knew he'd overreacted at some point and had made a mess of things, but he also knew, deep-down, that he wasn't completely wrong. In fact, if he had it his way then Spain concluded that he wasn't wrong at all.

Not that this meant Romano wasn't right, it just meant Spain wasn't completely wrong.

Not that he thought Romano was in the right, mind you. He just knew South Italy wouldn't listen at all if Spain tried pointing out just how wrong he was.

So it was a mess, because when it came down to it Spain couldn't play this game with Romano, he'd simply exhausted his patience. If he spoke to South Italy in public then everything would come out in a rush, absolutely every little thing, and that, in the end, would be a disaster.

Spain owed it to North Italy to mind his temper around South Italy. At least in Public.

They weren't in public now.

"How long are you gonna be like this?" Ouch, Romano, that was harsh… But fine. Okay, if that was how he wanted to start this then Spain was fine with that.

"Like what?" He asked, and he knew he sounded tired, and he knew that after another six hours of dreary meetings and reports neither one of them wanted to talk about this. But here they were, in Spain's hotel room, getting into something dangerous instead of something relaxing or fun. Spain had invited him up, it was probably the only thing he'd said to Romano over the entire four days in Hong Kong, but South Italy had accepted just the same.

They were leaving tomorrow morning, but South Italy had accepted a very, very belated olive branch.

"Mad at me." Was Spain mad at him? Silly question: of course he was. He couldn't talk himself out of it either. Every single time Spain thought about it he wound up back in the very same place: he wasn't wrong, Romano wasn't right, and Spain would rather just not put up with him than try to work through it peaceably.

The alternative, of course, was to just not be peaceful, but that thought hurt almost as much as the reality. Spain had spent his rage, he'd lived off of it for centuries and he'd conquered huge tracts of land with it. But after all the wars and the killing he'd always come home to sweet, spoiled, unbearably cute South Italy, and yelling at him had never seemed right. Even after Romano grew up, even after he left the Empire with his brother, after the civil strife and world wars and economic trials, yelling at Romano had never felt natural.

If Spain could say for sure what he hated most about everything that had happened to them half a year ago, it had to be this. This stress. This moment where he looked at his Romano and saw what had really happened to him; all those little lines pulling at his eyes and lips, the coarseness of his hair and the rough, dry skin that had turned his strong hands into abused leather and corded muscle. He'd lost weight and his skin had dulled and darkened dramatically as his health deteriorated, too many refugees bringing too many problems from North Italy down deep into the South.

If Spain had to choose one thing about the last six months that he hated and resented the most, the one thing he would take back if he could, it would be this: it was how instead of wanting to rush up and take Romano into his arms, Spain just wanted to storm up and slap him.

"Have you told Germany yet?" Spain didn't clarify what he meant, he didn't have to. He'd give Romano the benefit of the doubt here, and the way the Italian took a breath and averted his green eyes let him know he was right.

"Not yet, no."

"Why not?"

"Veneziano hasn't asked for him, I'm not going to force it." There was comfort in how quickly Romano came up with that answer, like he'd actually thought about this already, but Spain wasn't entirely convinced. He couldn't be, not after the last few months. "Wait, is this why you've been so-?"

"You still have to tell him."

"Did you not just hear me?"

"Veneziano can't decide what's best for Germany right now, but you and I can both see what's happening to him." The grief was killing him, which meant it was destroying Prussia, and Spain couldn't tell him the short, simple truth that would make everything okay again. Germany's spirit was eroding the same way Romano's youth was, and Spain couldn't stand it. "Romano, he has to know." He couldn't keep this secret.

"Is this why you're angry?" Don't change the subject, Roma. Spain folded his arms slowly and he watched Romano's fingers twitch at the edge of his jacket, annoyed. "Germany. You're mad about Germany. Three months you haven't said a word to me and it's all because of that damned-"

"Your brother loves him."

"Loved! He loved him!" Romano didn't shout, but he raised his voice to make his point, pointing at Spain with one hand and shaking his head. "I don't know what he feels anymore, but I'm not jumping to conclusions just because you think it'll bring a happy ending!"

"That's not what I'm saying."

"Then what are you saying? That I should tell Germany and then say he can't come to Rome to see him?" Something like that. "Then you're fucking heartless."

"I'm not the one keeping secrets!"

"For a damned good reason!"

"No! You think letting him grieve and finally get over everything is going to make things any easier when he learns the truth?" It would take Germany years to get that far, how long was Romano going to sit on the issue without doing anything? Until 2020? 2050? Nations could live for a long, long time without contacting one another. "Tell him now, let him adjust, and when Feliciano wants to see him again then he can go without having to sort everything out in his head first."

"Adjust. Adjust to the idea that the person he misses can't stand him." Just the way Romano could hiss the words without whining or screaming showed how much he'd had to change over the last few months. The words sounded backed up and thick in his throat, the conflict painting deep lines around his eyes and down his cheeks. He was aging before Spain's very eyes. "I won't do that to them, Spain."

"It's what your brother needs."

"No! Europe needs Germany to keep doing what he's doing, not for me to knock him to his knees and break his heart again, I won't do it-" No!

"Don't bring politics into this, Romano!" God, don't do that in front of him. Romano couldn't conflate the issues like that; he'd make more mistakes trying to follow the logic than actually putting anything into action. "Don't try and hide behind things you don't understand."

"What politics, it's common sense!" That didn't ma- "Who just bailed out your industries, Spain? Who just propped up Greece's economy? It sure as hell wasn't me, or England, or Poland; it was Germany with France's help and I'm not going to ruin all of that!"

"Germany won't collapse if you give him back his reason for being so-"

"You don't know that!" Romano had a way of yelling when he was afraid that was different from when he was angry. It wasn't nearly as shrill, in fact it was almost as low as his normal voice, maybe even deeper, and it shook the smaller nation to his core when he used it. Romano snapped his exhausted eyes shut and Spain watched him bow his head under the stress, hands up trying to cover the tears. The dwindling light caught the two silver hairs threaded across his scalp, and the greys made him look so old and small in the glow. "I know I'm no good with trade or economics, Spain. But I know I need Germany's help still. I know that if his industries crumble like ours did then the Euro will shatter, and then... I just…"

Spain was no good at staying angry. He was still right and Romano was still wrong, but he couldn't stay mad at him. It was wrong and it hurt them both to try, especially when they were both standing all alone in a place where they needed each other. Romano wouldn't open his eyes and Spain didn't try to make him, he just did what felt right and what always made them feel better. He wrapped one arm around his former dependant's stiff shoulders, used his other hand to pull Romano's chin up, and then he kissed him.

It wasn't a deep or controlling kiss, and Romano sucked in a breath just before their lips touched and Spain slipped his comfortably over the warm pair in front of him. Romano's lips had grown chapped since they'd last kissed, and he made a quiet sound in his throat before Spain felt one rough hand brush against his cheek and hold his face. He still smelled like fragrant grape vines and freshly turned earth, heavy with clay, oregano spicing his cheeks as Spain tilted his head and felt Romano press back gently. He was warm enough to suggest a fever when he wrapped one arm around Spain's chest, shuffling closer to him before the Kingdom threaded his long fingers back through the Republic's coarse hair.

All the other problems seemed to shrink and go away once he had Romano properly wrapped up in his arms again. Just like that his anchor was restored and ready to hold him down in this calm moment. Nothing could creep up on him and hurt what was most important if he was standing here holding onto it, no one could take Romano away if Spain wouldn't let go of him.

The kiss was barely over before Romano pulled him back for another, and a series of short, chaste kisses soothed the bruises and fears until Spain just pressed his face down against Romano's neck. And he held him, and he breathed him in, and he felt Romano bury his face against his shoulder with his arms wrapped around his chest, just trying to keep them together.

"I love you." Spain whispered, because Romano wasn't saying anything and, as nice as the silence was, they still had more to say. "You know that I love you, Lovino." He used that name, because right now he had to. It was the perfect name for this, right here. His eyes were open and looking at nothing across the room, but he closed them again when he felt Lovino swallow hard and take a breath.

"You have a hell of a way of showing it, sometimes…"

"It's the passion, I guess." It went both ways, the burning love that made him want to cook for and sing to and hold and kiss the nation he shared a special bond with. But it was the same as the frigid, painful, stinging resentment that ate away at him. Torturous magic, power plays, social upheaval, natural disasters, financial collapse, emotional blackmail… those things could get at you no matter who you were, and the country of passion wasn't wrong for acting out. He wasn't wrong at all. "But I love you. And I know I only told you after what that monster did to us, but you know I've loved you for much, much longer than that."

"You talk too much." He felt Lovino's hands gripping his back and pull a little tighter, so he turned his face against his lover's throat to leave a kiss on the side of his neck. "Stop saying it and just-"

"I'm not done." He felt tension bolt down Lovino's spine and brushed his hand down his back a few times, cradling his head closer to sooth him. "Please listen."

Lovino stopped and tried to obey him. Antonio knew it just by the way he felt the Italian swallow again and follow that guiding hand behind his head, nuzzling down close to his neck. He was so warm from his depleted resources, and the stress was making him tremble in Antonio's arms.

"I love you…" Antonio whispered, "so you have to understand that I don't know what I'd do if it was you instead of him." Lovino didn't respond, so maybe he didn't understand what Antonio meant, and that was okay. So long as he had Lovino held close like this, he could stay calm and explain. "If everything that happened… happened to you. If you were the one hurting and hiding, and it was Feliciano refusing to tell me whether or not you were even alive… If he could look me in the eye and give a straight-faced lie about you, to protect you I know but- but I don't know what I would do."

God, it was just too painful to think about, but it was all he could think about. Every time he saw Prussia looking sleepless and sick with worry, or Germany standing tall through sheer will power and no real strength or support. Every time he heard Portugal mention England and France's hopes to stimulate the Italian economy, or how Switzerland was trying to find a contract to send Italy's way for work…

"I don't know what I'd do when I found out the truth, Lovino. And the longer it's kept a secret the less I can keep in touch with that idea of me. What would I do to him when he finally told me? What would I do to him if I found out some other way? Through a friend? Or an accident maybe? What if you came to me and your brother didn't even know, and without warning the person I'd loved and mourned for years was right in front of me?"

"Veneziano can't-"

"What if, Lovino? What if? Eventually there will be a conference in Rome. Eventually you will have to host your investors and friends, so what if?" Antonio didn't know when his words had dropped to a hushed whisper, but he couldn't pick them back up again. He wanted the sounds he was making to fade away until neither of them could hear them anymore, because he could feel Lovino starting to shake a little harder, and holding him a little tighter didn't fix it. "To tell you the honest truth, my love, I don't think I could keep myself from hating him…"

"That's not the same thing-"

"Yes it is."

"No: I've never been Germany's friend, it's doesn't matter-"

"Feliciano threw me out just for yelling at you, Lovi. He won't choose Ludwig over you." See reason, Lovino. Please see it… "He'll choose you, he won't have to think about it. And if Ludwig is anything like me, then he'll hate you too much to come near either of you. The sight of you will fill him with all kinds of rage and the things you won't let anyone bring near Feliciano right now. The two of you will force him out of your lives to keep each other safe." Because even if it was just with words or gestures, Ludwig would find a way to attack Lovino, and Feliciano wouldn't let him, and Lovino would do anything to keep Feliciano calm and peaceful. The Italian brothers would stand back-to-back to defend one another, it was what being part of the same country did to people like them. They wouldn't have survived two world wars together if they couldn't be counted on to sacrifice for each other.

It just hurt to think of being the target of that combined hostility. Antonio didn't know how he'd be able to handle it if he were Ludwig, so he owed it to his friends to try and stop it before things could get that far out of control. He wished it were only sympathy he was feeling, not empathy, but a hundred and fifty years ago Antonio had tested that fledgling bond, and the Spanish Empire had lost…

"He'll choose me." Romano whispered the words softly against Spain's shoulder, and he turned his face close against the Italian's head so he could smell those grape vines and dried spices again. He only loosened his arms slowly after he felt Romano's arms slowly slip down away from his back. Spain didn't really want to let go yet, but they pulled apart until Romano was right in front of him, head down and hands gently gripping the front of Spain's suit jacket. He wouldn't look up, not right away at least, but Spain was just slowly leaning in to kiss his forehead when Romano found his words:

"Why wouldn't he?"

"Oh… that's not what I meant, Roma."

"I know." They were both speaking softly, but Romano still wouldn't lift his eyes. He took a breath and licked his chapped lips, and this time he let Spain kiss his brow gently before he spoke. "But why wouldn't he choose me? Why did you have to say it like that?"

"Because… if you make North Italy choose only one of you, he won't think of taking Germany?" Spain didn't feel like he really answered the question with that, and gently placed his hands on Romano's shoulders. "So, you have to tell Germany sooner, rather than later, so he has time to adjust and you can both be there for your brother."

"But the way you say it, it's like it's wrong for him to choose only me."

"No, I-"

"He doesn't need Germany if he has me. Even if he loves him, he doesn't need him. He doesn't want to see him at all: why can't you understand that?" He was defensive. He was too defensive right now.

"Why can't you see that keeping it a secret is just as wrong?"

"Because telling Germany now will hurt him at his weakest, and that will hurt Europe, and it will hurt Veneziano if Germany decides he hates me enough to force a meeting."

"You're fear mongering, Germany wouldn't-"

"And he lives in fear." The hardness of Romano's voice cut him off, and Spain could feel the way his hands tightened on his jacket so the fabric began to wrinkle. When South Italy dropped his hands the Spanish Kingdom couldn't decide what to do with himself. The urge to hold Romano again couldn't compete with the need to shake sense into him, so he did neither. Were they already this far gone? "Don't tell me about fear, Spain, don't act like I don't know how crippling it is."

"Then don't doubt me when I tell you how much anger and pain you're bringing down on yourself."

"I can handle it." Such a stern voice, and the compulsion to help him was fading so fast Spain couldn't bring it back. He was losing him.

"Can Veneziano?"

"I'll handle it for him." Losing him… He was walking away-!

"Romano wait." He couldn't leave, Spain couldn't lose him like this again!

"If it were me instead of him, do you know what I would do, Spain?" Romano stopped walking and turned with his hand on the door, he'd gotten over there so fast Spain's head was still spinning. No, this couldn't be happening again. Spain could barely speak the words, they came out like a whisper:

"What would you do, Romano?" What would he want if the trauma were his instead? The way Romano clenched his teeth and pulled back his lips was animalistic and cruel.

"I'd never want to see you again." Wha- "Or feel your hands, or sense you near me, Spain. If it was your voice I'd heard all those times then I'd never want the real you to speak to me again." His face was suddenly different again, not older or aging under the weight of his words, but drawn and serious, like a mask. What was he hiding behind it? "And if my brother had to choose between doing what Germany wanted for your peace of mind, or protecting me from all of my stupid, irrational, crippling fears, then I'd rather die than lose the ability to trust him again." Again…?

No, that was impossible. Romano and Veneziano have never not trusted one another, not since they became one nation together. That was the whole point of Spain trying to intercede like this: he had to bring sense to South Italy before the two of them closed ranks around one another in an unbreakable front. The only time that shield had ever come close to breaking was when they'd turned on each other at the end of the Second World War, but in a global war that had remained a private fight between brothers. The one time North Italy had caught the South he'd let him go before he could be taken into German custody, and when the war was over Romano had called in every single favour the Allies owed him to keep his brother safe…

Even when they were enemies, North and South Italy had always trusted each other with their safety.

"Romano… Romano what happened to him?" In that house, locked up all alone with that monster in the quiet. What in God's name had happened to break a hundred and fifty years of unshaken trust? "Please, just stop it with these secrets."

"I love you. That's not a secret, Spain." It wasn't, but he had to just stop- "But I will never love anyone half as much as I need him." Romano, wait- "And I will never, for a moment, even consider putting your feelings before my family's needs."

"Don't do this…"

"It's done."

Done. Finished. Over. Just like that everything was done, and there was nothing more. Romano was looking at him with those masked green eyes and Spain was struggling to breathe through the tight heat in his chest. His words had been twisted against him by the paranoia staring him in the face, and Spain knew without speaking that he couldn't say anything to change his mind or bring him back to reason. There was no rationalizing with someone like this. If ever Spain could have helped him, that time had passed.

"Then leave."

"What do you mean, multilingual?"

The American President, as he was getting used to calling himself, wasn't exactly sure what the man to his right was talking about. They'd been in Hong Kong for four days, one for rest and three of work, and now they were finishing off the formalities with a state dinner. The two of them were precisely on time for the cocktail hour, but were lingering in the hall just outside the fancy hotel parlour where the party was being held.

"I mean the conversation never stays in English for more than five words, even the British diplomat-"

"He has a name, Phil."

"Well he won't tell me what it is." That was preposterous, no decent politician ever hesitated to give his name. "Well then they're not decent. I'm telling you, Mister President, I've been given the cold shoulder all week. And before you ask, no, there are no translation services available in Building E. The only guy I think's had a harder week than me is the Italian, but at least he speaks whatever that mumbled stuff is."

"Mumbled stuff?" The younger man looked stressed just thinking about it, pinching his lips so they went white and tugging heartlessly on his tie and lapels to make sure his clothes were straight.

"I've no idea what language it is, it's like their own secret code or something." Maybe this job was a bit too much for Phil to handle… "They just sit around this big table and yell at each other from across the room. Hell, just this afternoon two of them started fighting each other!" Fighting each other… "The Frenchman and the Spanish fellow, and I've no idea what it was about either so don't ask."

This was all ridiculous and insulting, the President wasn't exactly sure what the meetings in Building E were about, but this was too much. Was everyone on the world stage a complete idiot? The heads of state he'd already spoken to had seemed competent enough, smart individuals, charismatic for the most part and intelligent even if he didn't necessarily agree with some of them. Why were there even two conferences going on in the first place?

"Well just try and relax for tonight, and we'll talk about it again in the morning." They'd been talking about it all week in short bursts, but it would be a long flight back to Washington tomorrow and they'd have more than enough time to discuss it then.

The parlour was exactly what you would expect from a nation trying too hard to impress foreigners. He understood that red was a celebratory colour in Chinese culture, but the crimson drapes and gold detailing felt too harsh. The white stone floors reflected the light back so the place was allowed to feel airy and open, so at least he didn't feel like he was walking into a den of Chinese vampires.

Despite the horror stories his staff member had been relating to him all week, the President had had no trouble speaking in English and wearing his earpiece when it came to dignitaries who weren't fluent enough to give a speech. On a night like this, where everyone was meant to relax and mingle with far fewer political strings tying them up, he slipped easily past other dignitaries and soon found himself with a glass of wine in one hand and a tight circle of State Heads to listen to.

He was immediately confused by the content.

"I'm not ashamed to say it, Deutschland hasn't been himself in months." It was the strangest error the American President had heard his German counterpart make since their arrival in Hong Kong, but if he thought about it then it made sense. Germany was still known as the "fatherland".

"That doesn't surprise me," but there was no excuse for the Russian: "I've been Rossiya's boss before and unless we're discussing Canada he simply doesn't want to talk." The American President frowned slightly and tried to hide it behind a sip of his wine, watching the Canadian Prime Minister hold his breath for a moment and shift his weight while trying to think.

"He's always quiet about international affairs." Who were they talking about exactly? "But the strangest thing happened when I let him visit Italy for a few days, or at least that was what he said he was doing. He got some kind of scare that's just put him off travelling: I barely got him on the plane out here."

"Speaking of travel," he hadn't seen the British Prime Minister wander up, but the circle expanded to let him in and the President was floundering a bit too deep in the conversation to understand why he was being watched. "I was told the American party was short-staffed again and you-" he was looking at the President "-sent a replacement? Is that quite right? Britain was absolutely choked."

And the Brit was speaking nonsense. There was no reason for the Russian to smile like that either, this wasn't a highschool dance!

"I've no idea what you're talking about." Because he really didn't, and he'd sent his people where they were supposed to go. Why was the Canadian Prime Minister looking at him like that?

"We're all in the same position here, there's no reason to talk around the issue." What? "I'd like to have something encouraging to tell Canada when we fly home, he's worried you know." Who?

"What are you talking about?" This was only wine, right? No one had slipped some kind of hallucinogenic in their drinks, had they? Just to be safe, and to show how irritating he found all of this, when a server with a silver platter came striding by the President placed his half-empty glass on the tray and let it be whisked off across the floor. "We've just had three days of meetings, what do you expect me to tell you now?"

"Why his brother has been hidding in Memphis for six weeks?" The look he was being given sincerely asked the President whether he was an idiot: lips parted, eyebrows up, a dull look that seemed hardly impressed with anything that had been said so far. The Canadian was down-right condescending as he dropped the question.

"What brother? Whose brother?" This was ridiculous. This was absolutely- oh… And just like that the heat under the President's collar disappeared and he felt himself calming down. In fact, he found himself break into a smile and laugh a little as he pushed a hand back through his short hair just to show how silly he felt.

"I get it, I get it, wow. You certainly know how to target the greenhorn." It took a special kind of patience and character to tolerate this kind of humility, but he was the junior on the world stage and the President was an excellent sport. "I think I'll go track down my glass. Nice one though, I'll see you at dinner."

He wandered off with a laugh and didn't hear the Canadian whisper "Did I not sound serious?" to the rest of the circle.

Where did the Spamano come from? The time-skips, mostly. Spain was with him from pretty much chapter 3 until 16, I just didn't show it because this story is plenty long enough and it wouldn't have been anything but fanservice before the fall. After chapter 17 though I did think they needed another scene though, because it was kind of ambiguous.

Did the argument work? The last few arguments in Recovery have felt very straw-man-ish, and I hate straw-man fights. They're boring and undercut both characters. Leave a comment below?

See you guys soon! I might still update again on Sunday? I'm not sure? I just started chapter 27 today so we'll see.