From Within, Vengeance, Soulseeker, Q Factory, Epica, Skyfall, World So Cold, Vengeance, Not Nice, Inception OST, Safe and Sound, Fighter, Sin and Restitution, Higurashi theme.

Ooooh my god this took forever. Why did you guys want the GerIta reunion? Why was this a thing that everyone really wanted to see? That whole thing took way, way way way too long to put together but it's in here, it's finally here.

Go read, I'm just gonna… sit… and breathe…

Wow…

And Congratulations to Anon!Reviewer Click Clock for graduating yesterday! I'm so sorry this didn't get posted in time, but it was gross and typo-y and you would have hated it. It's still raw actually, but it really is a lot better than it was last night.

If you're an American who has reached the age of voter consent and hasn't submitted their ballot yet, I'm judging you hard-core if you're sitting around reading fanfiction.

Recovery

Cat and Mouse

"Romano doesn't know that you're here." If Spain had been told to guess which part of Italy had tracked his identity and ordered his arrest, he would have said South. Spain would not, for a moment, doubt Romano's ability to treat him like a threat after their last series of meetings.

"What do you mean?" He hadn't been treated badly at the airport, or shoved roughly into the car that had brought him here into the city. The men who'd escorted him through the government building and into this room had not been rude or unkind: they'd even brought him coffee and asked if he would like anything to eat after his flight. Spain had barely nibbled on the sandwich they brought him before the reality had actually set in for him, and he understood what it meant to say he'd been arrested by North Italy.

It changed things. If Romano had arrested and brought him here then Spain would never have been able to pick out how much of this was their damaged relationship versus Romano's overprotective nature. He'd have been stuck in a tangle of motivations and controls with no way of cutting himself free. It could have meant Romano wanted to talk to him, or work things out, or ask him what he thought was going on. It could have led to something painful and difficult, but if Romano had walked through that door and spoken to him then Spain would have known that they were taking steps towards getting them back on speaking terms with one another.

But it wasn't Romano who'd ordered him brought here.

And it wasn't Romano who opened that door and strode inside.

"I mean I'm not going to tell him that you're here in Rome, or that you even tried coming." It was uncomfortable to look up from his seat at nation who both was and wasn't North Italy. His face was still scarred, his hair was tied back and too red under his officer's cap, he held himself like a militant nation and there was something completely foreign burning under the surface. But North Italy had the same voice, even if he'd hammered every musical note or carefree laugh out of it, and despite the permanent scowl darkening his eyes, it was the same face.

"Why?" Spain was still sitting at the table where he'd been left. It was a small meeting room with no windows, a water-cooler and a few chairs, but when North Italy strode inside something about him kept Spain seated. "I came here to help. I know Prussia and Japan arrived before me and today's critical to you two: I have to tell Romano that-"

"I won't let you," Italy hissed, and when Spain straightened up from surprise he realized why he felt uncomfortable: Italy's temper was at its limit. "I won't let you near him after what he's been through already: I forbid it." Spain couldn't remember the last time he'd heard Italy use the word 'forbid'.

"What happened?" The younger nation had his hands clenched in tight fists, his jaws locked and his stance shifting until his feet were spread far enough apart to brace him in front of the door. He wasn't hunched over or growling, but he was furious.

"Shut up." There was also something hanging from Italy's shirt collar. It had taken Spain this long to notice it but now he could see it clearly: a clear plastic coil was hanging against the dark blue lapels of his uniform, the wire feeding inside the tunic between the thick wool and his black shirt. He'd been wearing the ear-piece earlier, but now it was just hanging there doing nothing.

"Italy-"

"You don't even respect him enough to call him by the name he's earned!" Italy snarled, his voice hostile and eyes flashing with the rage he was barely keeping inside. "Don't act like you've changed: the last time I saw you in Rome you disrespected and assaulted him right in our own house!"

"You were still sick, Ita, you misunderstood-"

"I saw you!" Spain wasn't going to be able to say anything without risking an absolute explosion from him, "Don't try to tell me what I do and don't know, because Romano told me how you treated him in Hong Kong, and others have confirmed it!"

"Others?"

"Hong Kong himself, for one." How on Earth had Hong Kong come to know about-? "So I know how you were cold to him again in London, and how you tried to drive a wedge between us!"

"But that's a lie!" It was a biased story from Romano and it just wasn't true! "Italy I was trying to help you, I-"

"Your help almost killed my brother yesterday!" Killed-? "Whatever you've been saying to people, whatever you told Japan when you went behind Romano's back, it just proves that he never should have trusted you! I won't let you hurt him again!"

"No! What are you talking about?"

"What did you tell them!?" Spain was speechless, he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Veneziano this angry. His teeth were bared and his dark eyes open wide enough to show off the whites. It blew his reaction last December out of the water because this time it was obvious that he was strong enough to attack on his own without his family there to protect him. "How dare you accuse my brother of keeping me against my will: of chaining me up like a dog in our house! Just because he didn't do things your way, you started doing everything in your power to ruin him!"

"No, I-!" Spain tried to stand up but was forced to sit again when North Italy stormed around the table at him, slamming one hand down on the hard wood and bending forward so Spain could see every furious line cutting into his scarred face.

"What do you think I am to him? Blackmail? Because that's what Japan's convinced of! Prussia almost landed himself in prison because he thinks my brother wants to start a war in Europe!" That's not what Spain had meant- "My brother and I don't have to explain anything to any nation outside our borders, but let me spell it out for you anyways: Germany didn't know about me because I didn't want him to!"

"But why-?"

"Because I hate them!" He thought North Italy was going to hit him and flinched before he could stop himself, but all the other nation did was stand up straight with one arm held tight against his gut, his other hand still touching the table next to him. "They've turned their backs on the only other nation who's had the decency to hurt like I have, and with you to lie to them they've done the same thing to Romano! Men I could never trust to begin with, nations I can never trust again: you think I want them anywhere near me? Selfish brats who couldn't honour their own god-damned word to help or obey me every time I came to them pleading for their help! I died a thousand times watching them revert to back to their petty feuds, and yet people like you think that now that my world's collapsed, and my children are starving, and my monuments are gone, and the corruption is killing me, that I want to kneel down and kiss the proud feet of bastard nations who won't even honour me in death but gladly insult my brother to his face!"

The whole room felt like it shook as he bellowed the last word, and Spain found his ears listening for the sound of a lion's roar or an eagle's scream mingled with the declaration: it wasn't unheard of for their kind to call on something greater than themselves, to pull down an image greater than a man with a flag to represent the people. But that was all assuming Feliciano was speaking exclusively as North Italy, and if he was doing that then…

"If you won't kneel, how do the others know you won't fight?" He wanted to bite his tongue for asking the question, for acknowledging the violent fog descending over Italy and the rhetoric of discontent slowly roiling under the surface. But Spain said it and Italy's dark eyes flashed with a powerful warning as he brought one gloved hand up and pointed at him, his back straightening up and shoulders square.

"If I find out that you had anything to do with what was said in that meeting today, Spain, then you don't know anything." What the hell had Germany and the others said to him? Where was Romano? He watched North Italy peel his thin lips back over clenched teeth, and when he spoke again Spain couldn't control the cold dart of fear that stuck his gut. "Except this: if you've made an enemy out of me then I will personally take what precious little space my brother has reserved for you in his heart, and I will poison it until he can't think of you without feeling sick to his core!" Spain couldn't control it when that dart turned into a seed that sprouted, wrapping its cold fingers around his spine and creeping up through his chest.

"Why?" He choked. "Who does that benefit? Why would you-?"

"To keep him safe!" Because if one half of Italy didn't trust him, then that meant the other half couldn't even decide on his own? "And to keep you away from him when I'm not there watching!" Spain closed his eyes when he felt the cold reaching into his skull and start squeezing tightly, pain blooming when he realized what North Italy was going to say before the words even left his mouth: "If he has me then he doesn't need someone untrustworthy like you! It's not even a choice: he threw his life away trying to find me! He invaded Switzerland for me! And he's worked himself to the marrow every day trying to stop what's been happening, so if disrespectful nations like you can't see that, then you can't see him either!"

"Italy please-"

"No!" The pain he was already feeling and the way Italy shot him down worked together to produce the same effect: Spain could feel tears prickling his eyes and clinging to his lashes, a sore ache building in his throat before he tried to swallow it. He didn't want to see that outraged face, and as much as his gut was twisting in on itself and screaming that this was wrong and he wasn't to blame, Spain took it.

It didn't matter who was to blame: state relations didn't depend on facts when there were more than enough emotions to cloud the issue. In purely political terms, their relations were irrelevant: Spain had hitched himself to Germany's economic wagon, and Italy wasn't allowed to do the same thing. They were two weak nations who couldn't affect one another on the world stage anymore, so it didn't really matter what happened between them on a human level.

But just because Spain understood all of this didn't make it any easier to give in and say what North Italy wanted to hear:

"I concede." There had been points in history that mirrored this moment, and the longer Spain kept his eyes closed the closer he felt his mind drifting towards those old, hatful memories. "I'll go home, I won't-" memories of trampled fields and spent gunpowder, the sight of his flag stomped into the muddy ground with the fledgling tricolour waving from poles over his head. "I agree to break off all non-diplomatic ties with South Italy." That time under the fading sun he'd surrendered territorial claims and legal guardianship over the adolescent nation holding a rifle at his head. This time Spain knew he was giving up far less, but his heart told him it was worth more. "And to request permission before entering Italian territory in the future."

"From me."

"From you." Stricter rules had been placed on their kind before, harsher demands had been fulfilled, but that didn't make this moment any easier. "May I go now?"

"You will be escorted to where Prussia and Japan are waiting." Spain didn't open his eyes willingly, but he had the strength not to reach up and wipe away the tears clinging to his lashes and blurring his vision. He didn't want to know if North Italy looked satisfied or smug, he just heard that tight, sharp voice dismiss him: "I've already spoken to them, and the three of you will be escorted out of Rome later this afternoon."

"Why the delay?" It wasn't Spain's place to question, but he looked up and he did it anyways. Italy only regarded him coldly for a moment, arms folded stiffly in front of him, and then with a brief glance sideways he answered with a huff:

"Because Germany's going with you."

How was he supposed to feel? That was the impossible question Germany found himself being asked after the nation he had been struggling with how to deal with stormed out of their meeting room.

And then France's words had begun to bite and tear into him. His entire world had been cracked down the middle when Italy repeated several times in his own cryptic way what kind of awful truth he had been hiding from them.

Germany's will to rage, or at least take insult, had dried up as soon as Romano told him what his brother Prussia apparently already knew. Whatever blessing or dreamlike quality the news should or could have brought him by now had been dashed by the delivery: Romano was preparing for a revolution. South Italy was getting ready for it to happen and North Italy was… what exactly? A pawn being controlled by the south? An unwitting villain? The mastermind behind everything, perhaps?

How about alive?

Yes.

That was the place to begin. North Italy was alive, now how did Germany feel about that?

He felt relief. It was a kind of potent, too-sweet relief that numbed everything else when he realized it. Germany's first and closest friend was alive, meaning that regardless of everything that had happened and been done to him, Italy had survived.

His first love had survived.

So the first response was relief, with joy taking second and love arriving third.

The high ended after that however, because after love came dread. What had Italy survived? What had he endured and now what had all of that done to him? What was the result?

And how long had he been hiding? Germany wanted to ask himself if there was any way he could suspect the brothers of feuding maybe, some kind of power struggle in Rome that might have been the reason the rest of the world had been kept out of the capital for so long. But that theory was difficult to make stand on its own: all of Romano's statements and actions today had obviously been planned and prescribed. The transmission itself, if it was real, was proof: it had only been one way. Romano hadn't been wearing anything in his ears, and Germany was certain of it because he'd been seated close enough and so carefully focused on him that even a clear piece would have caught his attention at some point.

So they were working together. They had to be.

And somehow, he knew it had to have started within the last six months. There was no reason for Romano to tell them how long this new, volatile legislation had been in the works if not for that. Something had happened half a year ago to trigger this move and get the ball rolling. Six months put them back in February, and the only thing Germany could think of…

Hong Kong?

Spain.

'There is something very important that Italy needs to tell you. Please go talk to him.' That was what Spain had said to him on the first day of that conference in China's domain. It hadn't been until much later that Germany had finally run into Italy nearly alone with Canada before the younger nation had retreated. Italy had seemed hesitant at the time, but could Germany honestly say he'd devoted much time or effort into reading him?

Of course not. He'd been too busy battling with China for that entire summit: watching the nation who'd replaced someone so important to him and was otherwise incompetent hadn't earned a spot on his agenda in Hong Kong. It had still been too painful to expect that kind of behaviour from him, and Italy- Romano had been at Spain's throat during and ever since that conference anyways.

Was this why they'd been fighting? Did that make Spain Germany's friend? He barely got all the way through the thought before he came up with a better question to ask: could Spain afford not to take Germany's side?

He didn't like the picture his own mind was drawing for him as he walked: he didn't like these stops and divisions painting themselves with bold black lines across the globe. He didn't like reminding himself of the sore welt bleeding between Canada and his brother because it was a sign of the times. America's disappearing act had set off conflicts in every political theatre, and China had made no secret of the fact that he was keen and quick to fill the void.

They hadn't faced each other directly yet, but if the United States weren't going to defend a threat against Western Hegemony then the European Union with Germany to strengthen and power them would. This economic crisis would pass, this recession would end and Germany would be the one to lead the sustainable charge into the future. He would fight tooth and nail to keep China out of Europe, and before this stunt today by Italy Germany's focus had been on keeping Russia at home.

A stunt. That was what he was going to call this as he slowed his pace and nearly stopped in the marble hall. Bleeding and broken hearts could not distract political minds: it would bring down everything he'd spent the last nine months fighting to establish and protect if he let himself get carried away now.

Stunt. A small minded act by a nation who was as inept as he was old, someone who'd spent centuries with his eyes closed pretending he wasn't absolutely infested with corruption. Stunt. A low, lazy move taken by a chronic bluffer: revolution? He didn't have the guts! Romano was floundering in shallow water because he was so used to screaming at someone else to do his job for him. He was too self-entitled to pick himself up and do the hard work on his own, and he was willing to drag his brother down into the mire with him now that the north was too weak to do the job for the both of them!

This was nothing more than emotional blackmail! It was petty and reprehensible for Romano to use his brother this way, and the anger that thought stirred in Germany was what propelled him down the hall again, head high and prepared now for what was about to happen. South Italy was too immature and unskilled to know what was going on abroad, so self-entitled that he probably had no idea what was happening in Eastern Europe. With human and national pressures urging Russia to choose a side, the stakes had been rising for months. Russia had to make a choice: Berlin where he made his money, or Beijing where decades of foreign policy had made him a close friend and ally. Europe didn't have time for hackneyed plots and in-fighting from one spiteful little state when the security of their inner circle and economic recovery was under threat from the east!

Germany didn't even have to wonder where North Italy stood in all of this: after nearly a century of close love and something else, he could practically hear his something-more-than-a-friend's voice wailing at him for peace! Friendship! 'Can't we all just get along and go get ice-scream together?'

That was North Italy. The only time Germany had seen anything to the contrary had been the definite and complete end of WWII, but that again had had as much to do with South Italy's betrayal as it had with the violence and bloodshed of the war. That much senseless death could push any nation to their limit, especially if their older brother and other half was there to stab them in the back!

How dare South Italy hold Prussia like this? Where was he? Why hadn't Germany seen him yet if he was here in Rome? If Romano had so much as raised his voice at him then Germany would give that spineless, lowbrow Italian bookie something to scream about!

So Germany told himself he knew exactly what to expect when a simple human was waiting for him at the south entrance of the building. He wasn't confused when the young woman in uniform confirmed who he was with a brief and friendly question before leading the nation back inside and down a small corridor. She brought him to a secure room much like the one he'd just left, and then took up position next to the door after inviting him to go inside.

He told himself he knew this meeting would begin with timidity and pain, but that the relief and joy would come after.

His Italy had been shell-shocked and terrified in Venice, but Germany refused to allow his brother to control and take advantage of him like this. Germany would not let it happen.

"…Ludwig." But unfortunately,

"Italy…?" The man in that uniform-

"Stay where you are." -had other ideas.

How was he supposed to feel? North Italy couldn't even remember all the times he'd acknowledged what his mind and body were telling him over the months- the years really. Pain from recycled injuries, fear from repeated dreams, anger over his complete inability to make it stop.

Pain that had really been agony.

Fear that had really been terror.

Anger that had transformed into outrage.

He had been abandoned, hunted, victimized and targeted, so now how was he supposed to feel? Martyred?

If that was the case then the others had forgotten what martyrdom meant. A martyr didn't give everything just so people could feel bad and then carry on as if nothing had happened. If that was what the other nine wanted to do then they needed to pick a different word for him and find a different way to disrespect him. A real martyr died for what they believed in, sacrificing themselves as an example for others to follow and honour by trying to live up to those higher expectations. What had North Italy died for? Why had he told himself at the end of every loop, no matter how close to perfection he had come, that he had to try one more time to get everyone else out? He hadn't done it out of guilt, not by the end anyways.

He'd done it because he was in agony from all the losses, and because he'd been terrified of the outcomes, and because he'd been outraged by how futile the whole situation was.

Maybe they really hadn't known that he was still trapped in that haunted place with the white walls and bloody dreams. He'd taken that into account, hadn't he? Romano had showed him the letters he'd written and the words he couldn't remember scrawling on the torn-out pages of the journal. It must have been him even if he couldn't remember it anymore, he must have understood and forgiven them for what he'd known would happen. Maybe the others really were blameless for his torture.

But did that mean they were allowed to just walk away from what had happened, lives in tact, and pretend that being innocent meant they weren't affected? Because that was what this felt like: abandonment. Abandonment again because for the third time now he was dead to them and they wouldn't hold themselves accountable. They didn't feel like they owed something of themselves to the memory of the person that had died in his place.

So they were alright with leaving his people to suffer.

And they were alright with blaming his brother for the mess they claimed Veneziano had created just trying to save them.

He wondered if they ever even thought about or dreamt of those other loops, those past realities, the ones where it was them who'd died for real and their civilizations had collapsed- not his. The worlds where England had thrown himself between crushing jaws and the British Isles had erupted into feuding and bloodshed all over again. The time loops where France had dissolved or Russia's cultural identity was purged by some violent, consuming revolution that butchered the people in their homes.

He wondered about things like that. Why else would he have hidden for so long? He wasn't ignorant about what words and ideas like that could do to nations, even arrogant, disrespectful ones like the realms bordering on and around him. If he'd let himself face them too soon then he knew he would have said something like that: told Canada that he was a federation bound by spider-silk and disconnection, or called Japan anachronistic.

Comments like those could do more damage between nations than anything their leaders wanted to say. To question their very foundation and presence, to ask by what right any of them stood up and said "I am who I am" in the presence of their peers, was an insult. Invasions had been handled with more grace and less resentment than questions like those.

You didn't just look at someone like Prussia and say "fade away".

You didn't just pull England aside and say "there is no such thing as Britain".

You didn't do it. You just did not do it. And if North Italy was going to be honest with himself then he had to be frank now the way he'd been with Romano last night: he still didn't know if he could handle standing on the civil side of that line without storming across it. He didn't want to do this and his brother didn't want him to do it either, but at this point neither of them had any options left.

If he walked away from this meeting with Germany then that would make Romano a liar. It would take today from a botched reunion into the realm blatant emotional manipulation if he wasn't waiting behind the door where he was supposed to be when the last person he wanted to see again was brought to it.

The rules were arbitrary and unfair, but he had to be here whether he wanted to or not. So now instead of letting himself continue to sink and dwell on everything that had been wrong for a long time, North Italy had to fight with and drag his mind into the present. Today, just today, that was all he had to make Germany answer for and then he could just leave: just go home or to wherever Romano was waiting so that when the next act started and swept them away, at least they'd still have each other to hold onto and support.

So he just had to focus on today. Money: that was all they had to talk about. Money.

Money and all of those awful, sickening things Germany had- no.

Just money. Just finance and trade and all the reasons why Germany and the rest of their so-called friends were turning their backs on Italy. Money ruled the world. It had rules, weight and restrictions: the whole package. You couldn't give away something you didn't have, or owe, or could budget for the next quarter. But they hadn't asked Europe to do the impossible either: if they couldn't then they couldn't and the brothers would sit down and read that report cover-to-cover figuring out exactly what had gone wrong so their next attempt could, if not fix, then at least acknowledge the issues. He meant what he'd said to Spain: he just wanted the truth. He wanted to know why.

And if it was just business, then fine.

"Italy…?"

And if it was personal,

"Stay where you are."

Then he would make it personal.

Because how was he supposed to feel when his first time hearing that voice outside of a dream had been through a microphone? That voice had crackled and hissed via secret transmission because he hadn't known if he could actually bring himself to stand in the same room as the speaker. How was he supposed to feel when his world started to shake again? Or when he listened to what was said to and about the first person North Italy had brought himself to try and trust again after his ordeal? How was he supposed to take that?

Lazy.

Incompetent.

Corrupt.

Criminal.

North Italy knew he'd almost punched Spain because of the rage he still felt towards Germany was overwhelming. That kind of fury was what kept pushing his mind back through all the memories and piecing together every painful little fact about this world and the nations who made it so hard to live in. He couldn't disassociate himself from the mansion when his world was undercut like that, he couldn't forget about the eyes or the knives or the blood when the voice was saying such unbearably cruel things. Such false things.

Lies and anger were all it had already taken to scatter the fragile shreds of a nigh-forgotten fantasy. And in its place they'd brought back the dream master's lies and joined them with his new reality. He'd punished Spain with harsh words for letting his loose lips and petty feelings hurt Romano the way they had, but he couldn't really convince himself that Spain would do something to actually hurt or bring down Romano from the shadows. It wasn't Spain's way: even as an Empire his greatest vision of triumph had always been one-on-one, no weapons and no audience on some deserted island or lost in a meadow where two nations could fight and let God decide a winner.

Spain didn't count his allies or consider alliances, he'd marry if he wanted to but he wouldn't let that get in the way of his ambitions if he had them. Spain was reckless and predictable.

But Germany was not. They'd fought two world wars together- once as enemies and then again as allies, and North Italy knew that Germany never walked the same road twice. He didn't want to think about it but he had to, because he knew that if given half a chance now the larger, stronger nation would hurt his brother first in a conflict. Any conflict: political, financial, or combative, would see Germany taking shots at South Italy before turning around to deal with the North.

He didn't know if it even had anything to do with the last year of their lives anymore. Maybe the monster had nothing to do with what Germany had said and done today, maybe he'd just never quite forgiven Italy for the war.

Or maybe one of them just needed to break the silence. Stop thinking: start speaking.

"Did you mean what you said about him?" Germany wasn't taking the initiative so North Italy did it instead, keeping his back to the door and the person who let the latch click shut behind him, leaving them both in silence for too long. Not turning around was his very last way of delaying this moment, so he kept his hands behind his back and didn't let himself squeeze his wrist too hard trying to escape his thoughts and plunge into the moment.

"…Is that really the first thing you want to talk about?"

"Yes." He'd been over this in his mind already and North Italy did not want to delay: no whispering around the issue, just get straight to the point.

"Please look at me." He heard a small jump in that voice and knew he had to do it. He made himself turn around slowly and unclasped his hands, setting his fingertips down on the table next to him but keeping his head bent. North Italy wanted the black brim of his hat to hide the other nation from him, he'd rather look at the table than look up. "Please, I-"

"No." He interrupted, because Germany didn't seem to get it. "Answer me." If the silence that followed hurt either of them, North Italy wasn't going to let it be him.

He heard the sound Germany made when he pulled in a lung full of air, and behind the brim of his hat North Italy felt himself holding his breath.

"Yes." And he kept holding it, just like he forced his head to stay down instead of snapping up when he heard that hard word hit the wall between them. "And you know I was right to do it."

"You're wrong." He didn't want to let himself spring up like he'd been kicked, he wanted to be able to lift his eyes slowly now that he knew how this exchange was going to go. North Italy had to look up now because he had to let go of the final guilty shreds of fear that still haunted him from hour to hour. He and Romano both knew that this was the last step he would have to take in this direction, and if it worked and he looked up into blue eyes instead of mirror-ball black, then he'd finally have the truth. He hated himself for still doubting, but in just under twenty-four hours Romano had woken him up and now he was standing in front of this face with that voice speaking to him. He just couldn't let himself keep running scared from the idea that he might just wake up back where he'd started.

So he looked up.

"Am I?" And the fact that Germany felt he could challenge him that boldly made him forget why he was supposed to be scared. "And is this honestly the only thing you're worried about right now? After everything we've been through all you're concerned with is Romano?"

"Yes," he snapped back, "because I know he'll handle everything else and it's you I don't trust." North Italy didn't even know if the word would have an impact. He didn't know if saying 'I don't trust you' in straight and simple language would actually make the nation across from him stop and think for a moment, but if it didn't then he wasn't going to stand here and deal with him.

Did he want to talk about the mansion? No.

Did he want to talk about the others? No.

Did he want to talk about the earthquake, or the corruption, or the coming changes? Only if it would keep Germany out of their business.

"You aren't serious." Why wouldn't he be? "How the hell am I the villain here?" Don't raise your voice like- "I've had to deal with your death three times while your brother's dug a hole so deep for himself that he can't climb back out!" His eyes- "And the whole time I've been busy not letting this continent go to shit like Asia and the Americas, I not only find out that your brother has been lying and coercing my friends to keep secrets from me, but those criminals he keeps hidden and protected are trying to bleed every scrap of self-worth out of-!"

"Don't you dare talk about blood and sacrifice to me!" He launched the words and didn't want them back, watching them strike Germany in the forehead like cold snow before his eyes narrowed and that heavy voice tried to fight back:

"And that's the card you want to play after waiting all this time!"

"Card? You think this is some kind of game?"

"With the way you two have been scurrying around like rats I-" No-

"I said stay where you are!" It changed things when Germany took that step towards him, it wasn't right and it made the walls contract around them. He felt that cold chill down his spine and he told himself no: he was just panicking.

He hadn't just seen that. He was awake, damn it- awake!

"What's wrong?" It was different seeing the way his outburst made the fury on the blonde's face fade. Germany wasn't calm, but he dropped his shoulders where he'd been hitching them up higher and higher to make himself look bigger, his hands still clenched but not as tightly as before. Germany didn't move back and he didn't advance again either, but the breath between them lasted for a moment before Germany broke it with a scoff. "What the hell has he been doing to you?"

"Stop blaming him-"

"I will make him take responsibility for what he's done- look at you! You're shaking!" No.

No he wasn't.

He clenched his hands and dropped his head, eyes closed for a moment.

He wasn't shaking.

He forced his shoulders to loosen and he shifted his feet on the polished floor, willing first one deep breath and then another into his lungs. He felt pain nagging his sides from the yelling and the ache travelling down his arm from the elbow to try prying his fingers out of their fist. He hated and rejected the pain though, he wouldn't tolerate it right now. This wasn't the time and he wouldn't let himself buckle because someone had planted another car-bomb or dragged another business from the public sector into the private backwaters. North Italy wasn't shaking.

But when he opened his eyes again, Germany was closer.

Don't think- react.

Don't hesitate- just move.

"Let me help-"

Knees bent, weight back, jump.

His whole body screamed with pain when he made it move the way it hadn't since the poison had set in, demanding speed he hadn't used since that knife had last cut into his skin and left him blind or mute or whatever those eyes and that voice and that smile had wanted. He heard the air blow by him and felt the whole room tilt before even questioning if he'd be able to keep his balance, but he didn't care: he moved.

His feet caught the floor and pushed again, going and going until he hit the wall and felt his head crack against the plastered stone. He choked on air and caught himself with stars in his eyes, both hands touching the wall as he kept his feet and left his weight on his toes. He felt his bones beginning to throb and the way the Cancer had eaten through what muscle mass he'd gained back since the catastrophe. He wasn't fit enough to run anymore and when he swore to God he saw that heavy body wrapped in darkness coming closer he-

"I said stay away!" Not again, not again, not again, he couldn't do this again he'd die: he could not go through this even one more time he would die. "For once in your life just listen to me!" If he fell down he'd die, if he ran he'd die, if he stood here he'd die, if he kept screaming he'd die all over again.

"Please stop, what's wrong?" Now North Italy was shaking, but his whole body hurt too much to make it stop. He could see clearly again but had to pull his weight back off his toes and press against the wall trying to stay upright. It meant he wouldn't be able to move as fast if he had to dart away again, and he didn't know what his fingers were wrapped around until he recognized the weight of his phone: Romano still hadn't given him his gun back.

He should have just taken the Captain's gun. He should have but he hadn't and now he was weaponless and cornered with nothing but a useless device to try and call out with.

"Italy, sit down."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to." He didn't trust him, he couldn't trust him even when Germany's blue eyes put on that hurt look and swept around the room- probably checking for exits. "I want my brother."

He shouldn't have said that.

The way Germany's face darkened- shouldn't have said that.

"When I get my hands on Romano again I-"

"Finish that threat and I'll do double on Prussia." Again: Germany had said when he got his hands on Romano again. Why had he said that? What did that mean?

The thought killed the trembling in his body because the pain gave way, as it always did, to that terrifying kind of outrage, that burning, boiling brand of hatred that didn't care how tired or sick or weak he was anymore. It just cared that Germany was threatening his family, and he was sick of people attacking his brothers behind their backs.

Somehow that fury just dug in deeper when he realized the shocked look Germany was giving him had already starting to melt into his own brand of outrage.

"You wouldn't dare hurt him."

"Leave my brother alone and I won't have to."

Stalemate? Not quite.

"When did you let him turn you against the rest of us?" It was a filthy question to ask and maybe if his body had had the strength for it, North Italy would have lashed out for it. Instead he had to do what Romano and everyone else had been encouraging for months, and he said it:

"When he brought me back to life after the rest of you left me for dead," he hissed, and before Germany could open his mouth he kept going: "Or maybe it was after your Italy, the one from this loop, screamed at you for all he was worth to turn around and not enter the mansion. When he begged and swore that someone would die and how much he didn't want to go through that torment again." He hadn't… said this before.

"So maybe it was when he died on the second floor."

He hadn't… mentioned him.

"And the only way to snap you out of your guilt was for me to slap you across the face."

Germany was staring, but Feliciano kept talking.

"And that taught me something." Something very, very important. "So that after the rest of my friends were dead, and I had to cradle Lovino in my arms because that Thing with your face had slashed his throat, I knew what I had to do."

And they really did have the same face now. Ludwig hadn't looked quite like this: not this hard, not this thick and heavy. His jaw had been wide like that but much softer, his cheeks had been fuller and he hadn't held himself so stubbornly on the floor. This one was rooted to the tile like he thought he could carry himself like a master through a palace, not a guest in another's home. This nation was closer to the power-hungry Empire that had almost destroyed them both completely, not the sometimes-skittish young man whose integrity had pulled his people from the depths again and again to success.

This wasn't his Ludwig.

This was the second Germany.

"I knew that the only way to get any of you out with your lives was to wait for you to watch your Italy die: just so you would finally understand how serious the situation was, because God forbid any of you would actually believe me just for showing up." Guilt. Guilt. Feel it, suffer with it, let it sink into your soul: Feliciano had sat and he'd waited and he'd listened to it happen. It was a shade of a memory from inside another dream but he knew that that was what how he'd brought the cycle to an end. Feliciano had waited for Italy to die because the other nine were too self-entitled to take another incarnation's word. "And for good measure I brought a gun and shot the first son of a bitch who stood up to me."

"You don't mean that…" Germany whispered, his blue eyes wide and white skin pale as he finally took a step back. "You don't mean any of it: it's just the corruption talking."

"Go away and take everyone else with you."

"Italy-"

"Go away," he repeated. "And don't you dare interfere with us or try to hurt my brother: he does speak for all of Italy and that's no one's business but mine."

"And how do you know he isn't just using you?" How dare he- "Italy please just stop and think for a moment!"

"You said it yourself! There's nothing in me worth investing! What is there to use? What's worth lying over?" Nothing. Germany had said it without being asked and he'd dashed their hopes of staying on the side of Europe. Feliciano was broken and toxic with nothing in him his bosses could even think of sprucing up and presenting in a new package to the financial powers-that-be. "Get out, Germany- get out!"

"Italy-"

"Out!" Get out of this room get out of his building and his city and his territory. Go away and don't come back, don't ever come back, just leave and- "Don't-!"

"If I'm leaving then you're coming with me-" NO! "If you think I'm going to let him corrupt and tear you apart again then-"

"Says the ghost that butchered my friends!" Germany stopped dead in his tracks again and this time North Italy wasn't going to let him recover: he was already moving, sliding down the length of the wall before pushing away from it and side-stepping around the table. He knew not to take his eyes off of him and didn't care that he was scuttling away in his own territory when he was supposed to have the home advantage. None of that mattered right now, space mattered: getting away mattered. "Stay away from me!"

"Where's Prussia?"

"Someplace where I can have him shot before you can come within arm's reach of my brother." Not exactly true, in fact probably not true at all. Prussia wasn't alone: Japan and Spain would jump to help him immediately, and the only personnel around him weren't trained for those kinds of cruel orders. But Germany didn't know that and Feliciano jumped on the lie as his hand found the doorknob and twisted.

"Collect him and get out of Rome: don't let me catch either of you invading my territory again."

"Italy…"

"Germany."

With the whole room and a table between them, Feliciano slid through the half-open door and let it snap shut. Without even a nod to the woman in uniform standing guard he took off running.

No more thinking.

Just run.

"Hey, it's me." It was a call Romano hadn't wanted to make, but they'd discussed it last night and the brothers trusted each other. They would get through this: they would go to the last person, the one they knew they couldn't trust, for help and they would get through it.

"I'm sick of waiting for Euros and Dollars to get their shit together, China." But just because they'd talked and agreed to it didn't make the moment any easier now that it was here. Eleventh hours really sucked that way. "If you meant what you said back in February then make good on it now: be a friend to Rome."

China hadn't answered his phone when Romano called. Maybe it was a tactic to make him record his voice like a trophy, maybe it was just or too early in East Asia for the old empire to answer a call. Romano didn't really care what the reason was: he just threaded his fingers together, elbows on the arm rests of his chair, and let the quiet sink into him.

His files and paperwork had all been cleared away, report after frustrating report signed and stacked or ignored and pushed away for later. His curtains were open to let the sun in across the marble floor, and the scent of bleach was still hanging in the air where it had been used to sterilize the floor after the bloodshed yesterday. With the doors closed he couldn't really hear anything: no voices or telephone trills, the stuff of office ambiance. His laptop was powered down and closed on its cradle, only the soft tick of his wall clock and the distant drone of traffic keeping him company. No one was to disturb him for the rest of the day.

South Italy was waiting, because although he doubted China would get back to him in a t imely manner- or maybe he would, who knew? Romano still needed to be here.

When the door rattled and begun to swing open without a pause or knock, Romano pushed his chair back and stood up, stepping out from behind the big desk as North Italy slipped inside, eyes on the floor, and quietly latched the door behind him.

"How did it go?" Romano asked, pulling a handkerchief from his suit pocket when Veneziano touched the backs of his fingers to his nose. He didn't look up even when Romano stood in front of him and let him take the soft white cotton. He didn't shake his head or make a sound for a long moment. "Veneziano?"

"I hate them." Harsh words, but the way he mumbled them from behind the handkerchief softened the meaning. The way he finally looked up with wet, red-rimmed eyes hurt them both enough that Romano didn't feel sympathy for whoever was outside this room. "I really do: I don't understand how all of them can be so-"

"Shh, hey- look at me?" Setting his hands gently on his brother's shoulders, Veneziano's eyes dropped a few of their tears before he tried hiding them with the brim of his hat. When Romano coaxed him to look up again he watched his little brother hold his breath and start to shake. It broke his heart. "It's gonna be okay, remember?"

"But that was awful-"

"I know." He did. "I know and I'm sorry, Veneziano." Would he let Romano hug him? He had to actually try and hook his arms around his brother's shoulders before he understood the gesture and stepped closer. He felt Veneziano's arms creep up and fold around him, petting the back of the shorter one's head as Veneziano pushed his face down into Romano's shoulders. "I'm sorry I lost my temper," he admitted, acknowledging his own guilt. "I should have handled Germany better."

"He meant what he said-!" Shh, calm down… "He tried defending himself and when I confronted him he said more awful things!" Fucking kraut- "He's going to tell everyone all these lies and Romano I won't let him!"

"Calm down- calm! It's okay…" Squeezing his brother a bit tighter, he felt Veneziano surrendering to painful, frustrated tears, and Romano just clenched his teeth telling himself he wasn't going to let Germany anywhere near his brother again. "We're gonna be alright, Veneziano." Romano dragged his hand up and down his brother's back, rubbing his shoulders firmly so he knew he was safe with him again. "I already called China, and once we make contact with him then everything will be okay."

"But you said we can't trust China." It hurt so much to see him this upset about everything, but Romano just kept holding him and clung to the fact that he was being more like his old self now than he'd been in months. North Italy was supposed to cry when he was scared…

"And we can't, but do you trust me?" It was an honest question, and asking it at what felt like the end of one journey and the beginning of another, Romano didn't p put the words to him to make a point.

He felt his other half take a long, deep breath trying to pull himself together, tightening his arms behind Romano's back before he sniffed once and tried to lift his head up. Romano didn't expect the kiss on his cheek, but he couldn't lie and say he didn't like the very brief, very soft feeling of warmth that came from it.

"I trust you more than I trust myself sometimes."

"That's a very dangerous habit to get into, little brother," Romano warned, but he finally returned that kiss on the cheek, adjusting his arms without pulling away from his other half just yet. He tried to make Veneziano look at him, and when he saw those bloodshot eyes he scraped away a few of the tears before saying something they both needed to hear and remember:

"Never trust a word China says, Feliciano." He whispered, both because of the secret name and the weight these words carried. "As long as you and I stick together we'll be able to make it through this in the end. But we can't let anyone get between us: not China, not Germany, not even Spain or America. Do you understand?"

"Of course I do." Good then, and Romano didn't feel bad about placing another kiss on his brother's forehead this time. "But…" A pause and a swallow, and he listened as his brother put the question together:

"But how do we know how long it'll last?" It was Veneziano's turn to whisper this time, and he had every right to sound so scared. "Watching the government fall, what if it leads to civil war?" What if no one filled the power vacuum, that empty space at the top of the pyramid where their flawed, paralyzed leaders were supposed to stand? What then?

"I have good news, actually." Good news he didn't mind sharing because he knew his brother could handle it, this had been his idea in the first place. "It's about that person we talked about."

He watched Veneziano perk up a little bit at the change in topic, like he was confused by the idea that something might have been going their way for once in a very long time. But that vacant look slowly sharpened into something with more focus: he was listening closely and Romano tried to make himself smile at least a little bit as they slowly pulled away from one another to stand comfortably.

"I think we've got a good chance now." But it was only a chance: humans could die and movements could fail. Once the laws started unravelling there was no guarantee they would be drawn back up the same way: the two of them could ignite a patriotic fever to keep their boarders together, but that would be the extent of the Vargas Family's interference…

"As long as China helps us." His brother murmured, and Romano placed a hand on his shoulder so he could walk his sibling around and make him sit in the chair behind the desk. For himself, he hopped up on the corner with his hands in his lap, watching the way Veneziano was spinning his hat between his hands. He recognized the anxiety at once.

"Whatever you're thinking, just say it." Otherwise he'd just sit on his words for weeks, a bad habit all this shit had forced him to develop. He still didn't chatter enough for Romano's liking…

"It's just…" Spit it out. "You can't let Germany interfere." Veneziano looked up at him and it stopped Romano from responding right away. He didn't want to say it was fear in his brother's dark eyes right now, so it was better to just call it conflict.

"Do you think he would?"

"He said as much." And that was a good reason to feel conflicted. Romano could feel the anxiety scratching at his insides and placed one hand over his mouth slowly, just to show he was thinking so Veneziano didn't demand an immediate answer. "I don't want him to cross our border."

"He wouldn't dare."

"If he said it was a relief effort?" No, no, no, all of this was making his head hurt. The day had lasted too long and now too much of everything was out of Romano's hands. They needed China.

"We can't trust China but we need to tell him everything." Secret-keeping would hurt them, and from this point on it would be impossible anyways. "We know what we need to survive, so I'll double that and then at least we'll have some room to barter with him."

"Do you think he knows about me?" They were just repeating the same conversation they'd had last night, but maybe they were both too tired and anxious to care.

"If not, he will soon."

"How long do we have?"

"Not long." He wanted China on a plane by the end of the week at the latest, he wanted him in contact by the end of tonight and he wanted his proposal revamped and ready come-what-may so they could get through this quickly. Their government wasn't going to fall tomorrow, but there were only so many 'tomorrow's left before it would.

"Are we…" Veneziano trailed off and Romano knew what he was trying to ask, the two making eye-contact while the younger one's composure began to crumble. It started in his eyes like it always had: first with red staining the rims, then the shine of tears before they started collecting on his eyelashes. By the time the water was beading his lips had peeled back and he was trying to swallow the sounds kicking around in his chest. His whole face began to crumple and Romano reached out across the gap between them to cup Veneziano's head gently in his palm, watching him close his eyes before doing the same thing and bringing their foreheads back together.

"Yes." He said quietly, sliding off the desk and staying bent over so Romano wasn't towering over him. Veneziano's hat hit the floor when he reached up and grabbed his wrist, but it was a needy hold and one he encouraged by letting his other hand join the first one. "Yes, we're going to be alright. We're going to get through this: I just need you to trust me."

"I trust you." He kissed his brother's thick red hair and heard him choke on a desperate sob. "Please don't let him start a war- not another war, please!"

"Shh…" He'd feel better once Romano got him home, but for a few more moments he let his brother press his face up against his shoulder. He'd feel better once he was out of that uniform and eating dinner, and they weren't going to talk about this again until tomorrow.

If only tomorrow wasn't going to come at them so soon…

"It's been long enough: arrest me or release me."

They kept him in the cell for over sixteen hours.

"What are the charges?"

They fed him, but took away his wallet, phone, and the rest of his belongings.

"Where are my rights?"

Someone said the words "Patriot Act" and Alfred F. Jones almost put his fist through the steel door locking his cell.

"I am an American Citizen! Give me my rights!"

There was no camera inside but he refused to sleep anyways. He also didn't waste his time or energy raging around the tiny dimensions of his prison though: just sat down on the thin foam mattress on a metal shelf and watched the door.

There was one tiny window showing day and then starlight, but it was eight feet off the floor and too narrow for an adult human body to climb through. He leaned back against the grey concrete wall behind him and waited.

A nation without distractions was one quickly overcome by their greater self. You couldn't really fool someone like him with trick meal times or disturbed sleep schedules: not unless he was injured or in dire straits from some kind of calamity. But even with his health that wasn't nearly as strong as it had once been, and his strength that just kept sliding downhill as policies were reversed and laws forced to change, time was easy to track. Boring, but easy.

He wasn't in New York State anymore, they'd driven him to Pennsylvania He could feel anxiety and discontent beyond stone walls, patriotism mingling with worry and maybe even a little bit of fear. It was upsetting for him to be able to feel it when he was actually isolated from his people, but that just proved how strong it really was.

"You said my boss wanted to talk to me, so what's taking so long?" He asked when someone who wasn't a security guard came to stand outside the steel door. America's breakfast dishes were empty on the floor by the slot where the tray was pulled in and out, the eyes of one of his senior intelligence agents peering at him through the green grooves.

"The President is giving a speech in Colorado this afternoon," fucking figured. "He should be telephoning in by the end of the evening." He'd just finished his breakfast. America could feel his people getting up again for the daily grind and knew how much bullshit was being spoon-fed to him through that door, so he did something he hated.

He dug down deep- eyes closed and breaths relaxed. He had Texas held gingerly between his fingers where he'd taken the glasses off to rest his eyes and spare them the sight of so much boring grey. He looked for the deep seated anger and resentment, felt the questions and anxiety, dove further and felt himself losing touch with the young man in a cell in a Pennsylvania State prison complex. He went as far into himself as he could with only a few moments to spare, and when he came back up for air Alfred F. Jones gave his government a reason to keep him locked away:

"Tell the President he either speaks to me, or he's a dead man walking."

That is NOT where I wanted to end Alfred's part, and I had another section for China that I bumped to 36 for the sake of pacing. Alfred was even harder than Feli to make co-operate though, so I know this little piece here does frankly nothing that the scene two chapters ago didn't do better, but… He's the first part of chapter 36 though, I promise.

See you in two weeks' time!