Starvation, Dreaming of Bag End, Half A Week Before the Winter, Skyfall, Utopia, 24, 21 Guns, Earth, Soldiers (Piano version), Dr. Crab's Prize, Rest Calm, Utopia, Sin & Restitution, Higurashi, Ascension.

Ret-conned a detail back in chapter 34: Romano said the legislation had been in the works for six months (since December), when actually it had been four (since February).

Minor edit to the section labelled "September 2013" to clarify who the two speakers are.

Recovery

Cloudy Skies with a Chance of Showers

Studio lights and make up teams, brief rehearsals and rough outlines.

Highlighter marks on key features, teleprompters buffed and the evening stories loaded.

"And we're live in five, four,"

3…

2…

…

Late May, 2013.

"To put it simply, Peter, relations between Italy and the EU right now have more to do with public outcry than economics. Germany is under fierce scrutiny by the Italian people for the comments and direct insults used in that leaked document released several weeks ago. Having high officials in Berlin address the Italian people as "lazy", "shameless", and "complicit with corruption", among literally dozens of other accusations, has completely destroyed any hopes these two nations have of communicating peaceably."

"As we understand it here at home: the initial reaction from the German public was deeply embarrassed and apologetic, but the anger from the Italians is turning that remorse into resentment. They're becoming more and more defensive… Is it true that, in North Italy especially, tempers are beginning to run high?"

"That is absolutely the case, both the German resentment and the Italian anger. I'm standing here in Florence and, as you and viewers at home can clearly see behind me: the Piazza della Signoria is hosting yet another protest today, another rally against the government and the EU. And yes, before you ask: that is definitely an effigy of the German Chancellor, and if last night's protest is any indication then they're going to burn her the way they did the sorry Italian President."

Major Lorenzo Rossi was not, and had never been considered, a handsome man. He wasn't very tall, and although he could speak to women he simply had never been the type to go around and try too hard to get attention he rarely ever needed. But if there was a girl, or if there was a situation where he just had to impress, if he had to stand up and make sure a quashed nose and small eyes didn't get in the way of what needed to be said and actions that needed carrying out, then that was what the uniform was for.

The uniform didn't care if his head was a bit square with a thick neck connecting it to shoulders that looked rigid and stiff even when he wasn't at attention. His hat didn't rest awkwardly over ears that failed to politely hide under black hair that he didn't let grow out anymore. He preferred a close-cropped military buzz anyways, it was just cleaner, and in his field it was simply more professional: anything to help the uniform do its job.

That was why, two weeks into his 'vacation', Major Rossi was more than done with civilian clothes and civilian rhythms and civilian everything else. He was a pilot by nature and he hated being on the ground or staying cooped up in one place for too long.

What felt like a very long time ago he'd been considering leaving the Military, but that had been before a strange phone-call to the office in the middle of the night. That had been before he'd met a General with a scarred face who aged and grew in a way that was almost frightening, because his kind had a terrifying but inherently captivating way about them.

He'd known his life had taken a strange turn when someone first whispered to him that the man with the scared face was somehow the Nation of North Italy. But truth be told his life had never felt more frustratingly simple since the day that man's brother, South Italy, had told Rossi to go home.

He was a military man who'd been dismissed by his nation. And yes, he understood why, but that didn't change anything. He was a military man, a service man, an officer, a pilot, a patriot, and he'd been told to go home by the embodiment of his own country.

He hated every minute he wasn't in Rome, doing his job, helping two brothers who walked circles around each other all day whispering the same name: Italy.

He hated it when he realized that after handing over copies of that impossible brick of paperwork from South Italy to the media, he had no way of being there to make sure some other representation, any other Nation didn't try to come after his country. The leak embarrassed diplomats and humiliated politicians across Europe, and it brought out teeth.

And he hated how the Italian government took it. The way they apologized like it was somehow something they should have been sorry for! Their nation was slandered and he heard the President say 'we're sorry the Chancellor is embarrassed', or 'improving security in Rome is our top priority!'

Bullshit, all of it. What kind of government had all the different problems Rossi knew their nation was suffering with and wasted its time trying to span burnt bridges back into Europe? He couldn't stand equating those bashful faces with the leaders who were supposed to be standing over two broken men, pushing, neglecting and blaming them until one vomited blood from the pain and the other was crushed from exhaustion.

He wouldn't let it happen.

He would not let Italy die.

Early June, 2013.

"We bring you a special live broadcast tonight from Washington D.C. where thousands of mourners have gathered to honour the loss of the late President of the United States. James, can you tell us more about what's happening both in Washington and across the country?"

"That's a very hard question to answer, in short: people are scared. You have proud marches moving through the city declaring the late President a hero and espousing the virtues of America, but then two streets over you have protests moving the other way declaring that the nation is dead and the free world is falling. It's very, very hard to get a handle on what's actually happening because no one seems to have any answers. It's like everyone's waiting for someone to stand up and just tell them what to do or what to think, but as well as the Vice President tried with his speech this afternoon when he addressed the people, it just didn't work."

"So the American public is waiting for the first and final word from someone who is not about to be sworn in as the new president."

"I'm afraid so."

The American President hadn't just been shot, he'd been assassinated.

Killed.

Murdered.

The leader of the so-called Free World had been disposed of by a gunman in his own nation, ultimately left suffering and weak in a hospital bed before finally giving up his life. The event demanded an international response: a gesture on behalf of nations friendly and not-so to show their solidarity with the American people and the idea, power, and authority of state-hood. They all agreed, unspoken and unannounced, that this was what they had to do, that arriving early in America's territory and travelling to his capital was more important than spending an extra three days at home before flying to New York for a UN meeting.

That was what everyone, except America, agreed to. When Japan felt that realization sink in, when it became so painfully clear that America was not going to show up and greet them, he started to hurt.

Japan was not a nation prone to hurting. His people were made to endure, to move on, to persevere and dismiss until the hurting went away, or it was simply too small to notice in the wake of all the schedules and plans and duties. They wouldn't stand there, shell-shocked and wounded in the blood-splatter and emotional grime, or with the tearstains like dust marring precious faces. Japan was a nation who hurt himself and then washed it away, scrubbed it away, bleached and burnt and threw it all away. He would paint and buff and polish himself to an industrial shine and a cultural glow, because there was no room for hurting or gasping when there were places to be and forms to fill out.

But he'd arrived three days ahead of schedule in America.

And he was standing in the pouring rain within sight of the Washington Monument, the white obelisk obscured by the grey and the far away lament of the mourning drums.

And he'd come all this way with nations around him- with Germany holding his black umbrella and scrolling with one thumb over the contents of his phone, the blue glow shining up against the hard lines that had aged him too quickly. And there was England who just kept walking, kept marching back and forth under the weeping clouds with the ebony crook of his umbrella closed in his hand. As he marched the blooming folds rocked back and forth, sloshing rain water off the fabric so they splattered against the concrete ground. France was just watching England in the murk, or at least he was until enough time seemed to pass: then the Frenchman simply lowered his umbrella down and looked up at the sky, closing his eyes and letting the warm May shower cleanse him.

And there were others, so many others. And they were all here, and they were all waiting, and they just wanted to say 'We understand'. They wanted to give their condolences, they wanted to offer their support, they wanted to be here.

They wanted to be here, where America refused to be.

And when Japan couldn't take it anymore from the hurt and the rain, when he knew he couldn't look up into the sky and let it wash away the stains or sooth the stinging cuts, he let his head fall just a little and closed his eyes just enough. He felt the weight of too much pressing down him as another ally left him stranded, and he whispered the only words worth wondering:

"Where are you?"

Canada should have been surprised. Canada truly, honestly, should have been shocked by how things played out, stumped by the results, and more importantly: he should have given a damn more than he did.

Because he really didn't. Or at least that was what he kept telling himself: he just didn't care anymore. He didn't want to care anymore.

Six hours spent standing in the rain under the Washington monument, and Canada actually had to tell Russia "We're leaving now" because he didn't want to be there anymore. He had tried playing his brother's game one more time by his mysterious rules, and all he had to show for it was wet shoes and a sore umbrella-arm.

America didn't want to be there to receive everyone's sympathies.

Canada had run out of sympathies to give him.

"Matvey?"

"I don't want to talk about it." The taxi ride back to the small hotel in Washington wasn't very long, but Canada didn't want to say anything. Silence had been wrapped around them in the rain, but a few more minutes of it wouldn't hurt them now. He did manage to finally untangle his arms from where he'd crossed them tightly over his own wet chest, and he squeezed Russia's wrist tightly before rubbing his partner's arm for a moment, finally settling for letting Russia weave their fingers together in a warm hold. "If you wanted to stay then I shouldn't have made you leave, I'm sorry."

"We left China behind, but that's alright." Agh, Canada should have thought of that: it was rude to leave without at least offering a ride. "Are you okay?"

No.

"I'm fine, just fed up." More than fed up, more than wounded and betrayed. Canada looked past Russia and the rain-beaded window of the taxi, watching American shops and American people and American everything go by. "I was talking to Mexico again and he says America hasn't been treating him any better."

"I heard there was a border shooting." There had been a lot of violence along the border between Mexico and America, but Canada didn't share that information, nor did he mention the illegal arrest of one of his own at a border-crossing in the Prairies. He just looked down at their hands and repeated himself once more:

"I don't want to talk about it."

And Russia seemed to understand that, because all he gave Canada was a light touch on his face and the silence he'd asked for. The quiet made everything easier to process, because he was fed up with trying to understand a game that hadn't changed in some time. To start with: he had to stop calling this situation with America a game.

They hadn't been there for each other. Not for one, single, solitary moment from the time America told him about the haunted house until now had they as brothers been there for one another. In other loops, maybe, but what were those loops? What were those times Canada had watched his brother die and screamed with an unholy rage against the creature that had hurt him? What were those times Canada had felt himself coming apart, skin splitting open and bones fragmented in blood, and he'd felt America's hand in his hair or heard his voice pleading for life? What were those loops?

Memories, but less than memories.

Dreams really, some kind of nightmare that felt like it was slipping further and further away as time marched on.

The Canada and America of the Second Loop hadn't arrived at the mansion together. They hadn't spoken or seen each other until moments before a hideous sound on the second floor had dragged Italy to his violent death. Canada had dreamt and re-lived and experienced the other loops, but he had only lived for one of them, he only knew one of them, and in this world America had not been there for him, and he had not been there for America.

Even if every loop had happened and everything that happened was really real, that didn't change the fact that two brothers had been little more than strangers throughout an ordeal that had altered their world. And when Bern had ended they'd gone their separate ways, and when they were called back they'd barely communicated save for a handful of stressful radio calls. One hospital visit and a frigid walk along the Saint Lawrence, and that was it: no more brotherhood.

So if America didn't want Canada's sympathies over his murdered leader, then Canada would just take his well-wishes back home.

Those were the bitter thoughts that carried him from the taxi into the squat little hotel where he had to stay. He couldn't get away from the anger nipping at him and cussing loudly that he should just grab his bags and drive back home for three days before flying back down to New York. In fact, he was just about to say exactly that to Russia when he heard something else instead:

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I…"

And when he looked at Russia where he noticed the taller nation had stopped all at once, Canada saw the quiet shock on his tall companion's wide face. Russia had such a smooth face, very thick and pale like the rest of him: an exaggerated nose with pale hair that teased the word white before betraying a hint of brown and blond under the frost. When he was surprised his whole body mellowed into a tall square, arms hanging limp from shoulders that sloped down from his thick neck, his pale violet eyes staring while the line of his mouth slowly sagged and the tension went out of his round jaw.

"Someone get my brother a chair."

"No, I'm-"

But then the voices Canada had already heard finally registered, and he dropped his question when he saw the duo standing at the concierge's desk.

Canada knew about North Italy: England had told him. Canada and Russia had discussed it, worked through it. They had been approached by China and informed, politically, of how they were going to handle it, and they'd been waiting for China's signal to know when they were finally going to meet with it, meet with him. They were willing to walk the fragile line between knowing about North Italy, and actually seeing him again.

But just knowing that North Italy was alive and understanding why he'd been hidden didn't make it any less of a shock when Canada laid eyes on him for the first time in so long. Canada had always been taller than either half of Italy, but now he already felt like a giant as South encouraged North to sit down on the chair that was brought out for him.

The physical differences between North and South probably hadn't existed before the mansion. Now South Italy's aged and toughened looks had a mirror in the pale, paper thin complexion stretched across his brother' boney face. Italy had always possessed a proud Roman profile, a kind of elegance to both of them that evoked the romance of the renaissance they'd inspired. Now where South was tough and leathery, North was skeletal and small.

He was actually small. His hands didn't look strong enough to hold the briefcase South Italy made him put down, and there were precious inches missing from the breadth of his shoulders that made him look withered and old between the arms of his chair. South Italy had every reason to fret and worry before he noticed them standing in the doorway and straightened up.

Canada choked, Russia spoke first.

"Is everything alright, Italy?" Canada didn't know which brother Russia was speaking to, it was a valid question for both of them and it made North Italy look up from his seat.

The red tint to his eyes felt foreign and threatening, which made it all the worse when they were housed in that haunted face. The ill feeling only grew stronger when South Italy moved slowly, maybe even subconsciously, to stand between his brother and the door.

"We're fine." Canada wanted to be more upset than he already was with the firm tone South Italy used, but China had warned them. Don't try to separate them when you meet, the Italy Brothers trust no one but themselves now. "Was the meeting a success?" Oh-

And don't be surprised if South Italy speaks for both of them: China had warned them about that too.

"Everyone was there except for whom we came to see." Russia explained things in that relaxed tone of his that always put Canada a little more at ease. They were allowed to cross the pale floor and come closer now, stopping again with what felt like the right amount of space between the two pairs.

Instead of letting the discussion break the way it should have and let Russia and Canada properly address North Italy, the nation they owed more than they'd ever know to, South Italy kept hold of the uncomfortable topic. He almost acted like he didn't know his own brother was there behind him.

"That's not like him, not even for a sombre occasion." Canada didn't want to talk about his own brother, he wanted to talk to Italy's brother instead. "When was the last time you spoke to him?" Eh?

"I'm sorry?" Canada hadn't expected a question, let alone that one, and he felt about as articulate as a frog trying to wrap his head around both a possible answer, and a reason for why both Italies looked so keen to hear one.

"Please excuse me." Russia broke in gently, sparing him the moment of anxiety and turning the topic around by force. "I know you just arrived and you must be exhausted after travelling so far to be here, but it's impossible for me to focus with the elephant in the room."

The way Russia said it with such a bashful smile and a shy tilt back and forth of his head made the suggestion seem harmless or silly. It was a disarming tactic, and Canada wasn't sure if it worked on Italy or just raised his awareness levels: they didn't want him to go on the defensive, but feigning ignorance was hurtful in its own way. Russia didn't need to make a half-gesture towards where North Italy was still resting and silently watching the exchange, but he did it, and it left no room for error or misdirection on Italy's part.

But it did leave him in a difficult position of the stress on his dry face meant anything. When Italy chanced a look back at his brother, something must have passed between them because the elder half let out a slow breath. He didn't seem defeated, but when he finally looked at the two of them again, South Italy backed up slowly and moved around to the far side of his brother's chair. He nodded at them, but the allowance seemed conditional.

Perhaps it would have been kinder on their part to go through this in the privacy of a hotel room, but ultimately it didn't make a difference. Italy stood close by his brother's side, one hand resting on the back of his chair, and Canada and Russia were permitted to approach North Italy slowly. When he tried to stand up, all three of them stopped him.

"No, please, it's alright." Canada hushed, looking down at the nation who had honestly saved his life. It was eerie and painful to accept that everything Canada's people had been spared by having him survive had been dealt back double on the Italian nation responsible for his safety.

North Italy just looked up briefly, wrapped in absolute silence, and after quickly making eye-contact for a moment his gaze fell again to where his hands were neatly folded over his stomach. His small body seemed lost in the volume of his jacket and the black suit he was wearing underneath, but maybe he would improve after the jet-lag wore off. It was a meager hope, but it was something.

"I…" His voice had changed as much as his form however, and it hurt so much to hear that painful rasp. "I haven't left home since that day." The day he'd been rescued… North Italy's head swung around looking for his brother, and South Italy stepped up a little so his other half could see him without straining. "Crossing borders is… difficult."

"The impact is not lost on us." Russia murmured, his voice softening in a tender way that Canada didn't hear very often, but he understood the kind of remorse that it was meant to carry. Watching his large body bow and stoop with the weight of what needed to be said made it hard for Canada to resist reaching out to take his partner's hand. "Thank you…"

Canada tried to say it too, he honestly did. But words were small things that couldn't take away pain or sooth rightful anger. Whatever North Italy felt or believed at this point wouldn't be fixed by two quiet whispers.

But silence and sorry looks wouldn't get the point across either, so when North Italy looked for his brother again and braced himself to stand, probably to leave this time, Canada took a risky leap.

"I'm sorry." He let the words go without whispering or pleading because putting on the garb of emotion wouldn't work here. If they wanted to move past this then Canada had to mean it through action, not sorrow. "I'm sorry and I'm thankful."

Speaking up made both Italy Brothers freeze, and when Canada paused to get his breath back he watched North Italy hesitantly sink back down. At the very least it wasn't a demand to stop, and it earned him a longer moment of sustained eye-contact this time from the wounded nation.

"I'm thankful every day," and he meant it, "every day, that you had the strength to keep going and ultimately protect us like you did. And I'm sorry, I'm truly sorry, that nothing has turned out the way it should have since then, but please-"

He didn't know what to do. Canada knew what he wanted- what the part of him that still resonated with the name Matthew Williams wanted, but as a nation it was impossibly hard to agree with it. Pride was inherent in all of them, and wrestling with his was a battle that brought Canada down to one knee in a clumsy, jerking motion. Bowing to another nation was never meant to be easy.

But kneeling like this meant more than sorry words or guilty looks could cover, and Canada had just enough more to say that he was able to fill the awkward silence with a promise he'd already made to himself before now. It was one that China's announcement had made him put together, and take to his boss, and work and fight to make it a reality.

"China's told us what the reality of your situation is." That the Italian Government was going to collapse, that the line between culture and chaos in their territory was going to blur. "If you need them, my first wave of peace-keepers can be on the move within ten hours, less if you give me a day or two of notice." Canada knew that Italy had no real friends left in Europe, so even if he was coming from half the world away: he'd be there. "I've already begun organizing and stockpiling emergency resources, when you need me, Feliciano, this time I won't fail you."

And he meant it, Canada meant it for pride and he meant it out of respect for the nation whose cold, skeletal hand he made himself kiss. It was so hard as a nation, economically sound and political stable, to gesture to another country like this, but Canada owed it to both halves of the Republic of Italy and all of its people to be there for them. He had to do this, and he had to accept what North Italy gave back: a kind hand on his head and a hoarse "thank you" past scarred lips.

But most importantly, he had to accept the way North Italy took a short breath, whispered "but", and asked:

"Why couldn't you have said this to your brother?"

Late June, 2013.

"Can you outline the benefits for the Russian people where Italy is concerned? Why get involved with their politics now, what does the government expect to see in the future when Rome has made a point of doing nothing about anything?"

"First you have to understand that the current talks between the Italian Armed Forces and the Russian Military have very little directly to do with the President's administration in Rome. Support in Italy is crumbling for their government, and numerous high officers and commanders in across several branches of the Armed Forces have expressed concern over public safety. This is not a Military Alliance meant to trade arms or fight wars: this is mutual training exercises and administrative work-shops. Russia is not throwing itself into Italian politics: we're answering honest requests for guidance and aid."

"Honest requests that aren't coming from the elected government?"

"No one in Italy believes in elections anymore: not even the politicians who are paid to run in them."

Romano had decided a long time ago that he did not like being owned. To him it didn't particularly matter who was holding the leash: the collar was always chafing and uncomfortable.

"Why don't we take a short break?" But the details did matter to Veneziano, and that was making the whole experience with their new allies almost too much to handle.

"A break would be good." Because with China sitting at the other end of the table next to Romano and Veneziano on his other side, the meeting room in Moscow was much too small and way too tense for South Italy's peace of mind.

Russia had asked the question because as their host Russia had done most of the talking, and China agreed to the suggestion because China was their boss. The taller nation was just smiling in his sad way as Romano felt his pale eyes shifting back and forth across both halves of Italy, waiting for one of them to agree. Veneziano had been far from talkative during this meeting, but he'd been paying attention and had murmured points and questions to Romano several times already. When Romano turned a little to look at his brother where Veneziano had his gloved fingers woven around the yellow length of his pencil, he caught North Italy's angry gaze drifting across the plastic table top towards China.

Romano kicked him: stop it.

"Yes, a break please." Romano filled in the silence, watching Veneziano fidget and adjust in his seat before giving him that sour glare instead.

"Do you mind if I smoke in here, Russia?" China didn't have to ask for permission, he just wasn't an awful kind of guest when he didn't want to be. Russia and China were actually friends, and that made their interactions a little more harmonious.

"Not at all. I have to go fax a few things to Syria anyways."

"Cut it out." Romano murmured the words under his breath, ignoring the other two as they traded pleasantries and he watched Veneziano's profile closely. He was still focused on the yellow pencil in his hand, twisting it around and curling his gloved fingers repeatedly over each side. He was using his left hand at least, but Romano was more concerned with his attitude than his dexterity.

"No." Veneziano met him with a harsh look as Russia left the room whistling. His brother didn't say anything else, but they had a moment to just glare at each other.

"Is there something you'd like to say, North Italy?" China's voice made Veneziano bristle dangerously, and Romano placed a heavy hand over his brother's wrist and squeezed.

"Stop it." He didn't let him break eye contact either, watching Veneziano's lips curl back a little as he struggled with his stupid temper. "How many times do I have to tell you it's fine?"

"It's not fine."

"Italy."

They both looked up when China called their name, but the eastern power seemed more focused on the paper roll he was busy lighting. His hands were curled around the black body of custom stone lighter, only the light from the flame and the eventual wisps of sweet smoke giving away what he was doing with his eyes closed. As soon as the lighter went away he pulled the cigarette off his lips and breathed smoke and soft words.

"I asked you a question." The smoke curled back around his sloped nose and narrow mouth, trailing behind China's ears as he opened his black eyes through the veil of grey. Romano still wasn't sure how that calm but almost bored look on China's face was supposed to make him feel, but having it directed at Veneziano put him on edge. "Tell me what you two keep muttering about."

Romano got there first:

"It's nothing."

"Be quiet." But when China shot him down he couldn't stop Veneziano from opening his stupid mouth.

"Don't speak to him like that." Fuck.

"Oh?" China's dark eyes brightened for a moment, lit by a curiosity that Romano would have rather seen snuffed out. When he started to smile, South Italy found his teeth clenching and his eyes boring into the dull plastic surface in front of him. "Why not? I could always be much harsher."

Don't say it, don't say it, don't-

"You've already been harsh."

"Please elaborate."

"Can we talk about something else?" Romano tried to jump back into the conversation, but Veneziano didn't even acknowledge him and China was resting his head on one hand, his other flicking ash off his cigarette into the glass tray next to him. He looked like they were having a casual chat and South Italy just wanted to crawl under the table. "Anything else."

"You've already had your fun," Romano wanted to be happy that his brother was willing to stand up and speak, especially to China of all people, but he felt more inclined to kick him again under the table or maybe flip his chair over. "What's the point of helping us if you're just going to keep taking advantage of it?" Shut up.

"If you're both going to sit here and ignore me then it's a moot point-!" Romano gave himself points for trying, but he folded his arms and put his head down on the table to avoid having to look at the grin that was creeping across China's face. It sent an unwanted shiver down his spine when he chanced a quick look and knew that that smile was for him, not his brother.

"Would you rather I call you Veneziano or North Italy?" China's question wasn't what Romano expected.

"What?" The same thing went for Veneziano.

"I haven't asked before so I might as well now. We always referred to your brother as 'Romano' when you were the one attending all of the meetings and making the speeches, but now he's 'Italy' instead. So, which name do you prefer?" It took Romano a moment to hear the intent behind the question, but then he bristled with his forehead still connected to his arms on the table: the bastard was trying to piss Veneziano off even more by making trivial conversation.

"I…" Romano didn't have to look up, he knew that confused tone of voice was the one he only fell into from habit and not because he was actually confounded. "North. I prefer North Italy."

"Then think about it like this, North…" Romano picked his head up slowly, suspicions rising when he saw how China's grin had evened out back into a long smile. "If I'm just going to take advantage of what's offered to me, why does the offer still exist?"

"Excuse me?"

"China stop it." He didn't want to go through with this right now. He didn't want his brother and his new master to get into these kinds of sticky politics with each other, least of all when Romano was sitting right in the same room listening to them. "Veneziano I've told you a hundred times that everything's fine, now let it go."

"Don't act like you have something to hide, Italy." China's smiling voice purred through the cloud of smoke feathering off his lips. Now both of them were paying attention to him again, but it didn't make anything better. "It looks suspicious."

"Fuck you, I'm not. You're the one making it sound like-"

"Like you've been backed into a corner and that now you'll do anything I want or say if it will mean keeping your brother out of harm's way?"

Very quickly both halves of Italy were on their feet, and Romano had both hands on his brother's arms trying to block him from getting at China.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean!?"

"Veneziano sit down- I said sit!"

Romano'd gotten used to it by now, he wasn't surprised when Veneziano had to sit because he was physically stronger than him. In their history Romano had moved back and forth between equal and lesser, but being the stronger half was something he still adjusted to every time except right now. He didn't shove Veneziano back in his seat, but he pushed him and he made his brother sit.

And when he heard China's soft voice chuckling behind him, Romano just wanted to turn around and carry on where Veneziano'd left off.

"How differently would everything have turned out if Germany had decided to forgive instead of forget you, Italy?" He was just standing there making sure Veneziano didn't try and jump up again, but Romano didn't know if that made it easier or harder to bear China's taunting question. "I'm not sure what he was hoping for, maybe that if the Republic separated into little pieces a new North Italy would appear?"

"Shut up, China." Romano didn't put his heart into the insult, he was too busy watching just how fast the other nation's words had made his brother calm down. He could actually see the anger draining out of Veneziano's face, ebbing from his thin lips and slowly relaxing his red eyes. He was still upset, but the fight was slowly dripping out of him.

"In every loop, we always wound up fighting each other first before getting along." Romano turned so he could see China's face, watching him tap out his cigarette with his eyes glancing across the table top at nothing, his chin sitting on one wrist casually as his voice slowly dropped. "But because we wasted all of that time someone always wound up dying before we could escape. Is that why you hid from us, Feliciano?"

"You don't have to listen to him, you're not in that place anymore." He hated having this even mentioned around his brother, but Romano had to address that strange look on Veneziano's face before he could turn around and tell China to shut the fuck up and never bring the mansion or what had happened up ever again. "Veneziano look at me." He was staring past him at the wall, and China just ignored him and kept talking:

"That contract you brought from the final loop could have been the single-greatest step towards world peace in all of modern history." China's voice was low and grim. The sound of it prompted Romano to set a hand firmly on his brother's shoulder and wait for the words and the confusion to pass. "I think you remained hidden for so long because you were waiting to see who would break it first."

China was wrong: Veneziano had already agreed to come out and see the others before the rejection. They'd both known there was a chance that the EU would say no, but the only surprise had been the way that-

"And as soon as Germany spat in your brother's face and told him to suffer, he came crawling to me for help instead. Germany has turned your entire continent against-"

"You've made your point, China now one more word and we'll leave."

"Where would you go?" Romano moved so he was standing next to his brother's chair, a hand still resting on Veneziano's shoulder as he looked over at the serious expression on China's round face. His fingers were woven together in front of him, elbows resting neatly on the table next to the files he'd been using during the meeting and the empty tea cup Russia's staff hadn't refilled for him.

There were only whimpering florescent lights over them to see by, no windows looking out at the grey Moscow sky. China's eyes were as black as his suit.

"Back alone to a house on the brink of revolution? Russia and I have promised to help you, but we easily could have been like Germany and refused because of something like wounded pride." Something like pride.

"You just like hearing the sound of your own voice."

"I do, but that doesn't change the fact that you both answer to me now." Romano stayed up while China slowly rose to his feet, but he very quickly felt the weight of the other nation's attention bearing down on him. He sat down to keep from breaking in half from the force of China's grim frown and the way he slowly stepped around the corner of the table, black eyes watching. "This relationship can go one of two ways: either we all do what's expected so the two of you can put your house back together while I cultivate the influences I want in Europe, or you bite the hand trying to feed you and I let you starve for it, do you understand?"

"Yes…"

"I…" Romano understood the threat and he was about to say it when China sped up a little towards them. He walked smoothly and with long steps, fingertips grazing the table's plastic surface before he was standing right in front of Romano's chair. Just like one that night in the hotel room South Italy felt targeted.

"Stand up." He felt the anxiety wake up in Veneziano, but it could have just as easily been his own nervous feelings spilling over. He didn't want to obey.

But he did it, and the moment his knees straightened he realized just how close China was to him: too close.

"This is what bothers you." Too close, because even without the hand that grabbed the front of his shirt right under the collar again, China's lips practically brushed over his as he spoke. His breath tasted like that floral cigarette he'd just smoked, sweet with some kind of spice mixed in with the tabacco. Romano felt his spine bending awkwardly trying to keep away, knees bent and hands confused between holding onto the other man for balance or shoving him away. "North Italy?"

"… Let him go." China turned his head to look at where Romano's brother had choked on the words, and Romano himself had to cope with the scent of smooth aftershave and foreign cologne clinging to the cheek and throat in front of him.

"Say it nicely." It was just a fucking tactic and he was only being used again, but he just held his breath and waited for China to release him.

"Please let him go." Veneziano's voice fell further and further until Romano could barely hear him make the request, but then the tension went away and China took a step back. The change was clean and fast and Romano couldn't stop himself from just falling back into his chair. He didn't know why his heart was beating quite so fast, but he could feel it burning in his chest as Veneziano betrayed his worry by reaching out and holding his wrist. It was hard to listen and hear anything except China's shoes drumming slowly against the floor to carry him back around to his chair.

"You're out of time and your brother has run out of powerful friends." China was still speaking to Veneziano, Romano felt like a prop or a symbol being left aside to be observed. "He cannot take you to anyone else for the help you need, North, and if he tries at this late stage then both of you will collapse with no guarantee that you, the younger, weaker, devastated brother will survive. I want to help you, but he needs me to help you." The way China slid down into his seat again was smooth and it seemed like he was landing on a patterned throne, not a cheap padded chair with metal legs. Neither of them saw where he pulled the second cigarette from, but this one smelled more like industrial fumes and poisonous exhaust than of flowers or incense.

Romano hated being read so easily, and he hated wearing the collar so tightly, but he could feel Veneziano still staring at him and was even more afraid to meet that look. He could feel the anxiety and the fear, the no-that's-not-true in the nervous rubbing and squeezing on his wrist and arm, but he refused to acknowledge it.

"If everyone does what's expected of them, then everyone will benefit: we could become good friends." China's eyes almost looked like they glowed when he opened them again and looked at Romano. His industrial prowess had increased so much that his body was physically taking on the characteristics and strength of his factories. He inhaled resources and breathed economic domination, and he was looking at the spoils of his empire when he eyed Romano like that. It didn't mean anything else when he handed his next words to Veneziano with a shadow of smoke teasing his lips.

"If not," if they argued with him, or they challenged him; if they did anything at all to upset or anger him… "Then I'll take exactly what I want from you, and leave the rest for the orphans and the rebels."

September, 2013

"You need to speak up: we can't hear you."

"Rome xxxxxx- people are -xxxx rio-xxxx-ing xxx streets where- xxxxxxx fighting xxx xxxxx xxxx xxxxx…"

Somewhere in the background, under the static, a deep, muffled boom knocks out the flickering images with a flare of yellow. The screen goes black.

"To our viewers at home: we apologize, but we seem to have lost the signal with our European correspondent stationed in Rome. We will keep you updated on the situation in Italy as it becomes available."

"It's been a year." Quiet words spoken over a simple meal of bread and a thousand-year-old barley soup. "It ended a year ago…"

"No it hasn't." A rebuttal given quietly because the crowds on the street were chanting loudly. The conversation was something to think about, the chant was just part of the night. "And it didn't."

"It's August." Almost a question, really just a shy statement.

"I don't count from August, or September." Now that was just confusing, less-so than the blaring siren peeling through the chanting night, answering some emergency the crowds had caused in Rome. "I don't care when my brother went missing."

"You don't?" The quiet rip of dry bread pulling itself apart. They should have been drinking wine with this meal, not because it suited the soup, but because soon wine production would fall like every other industry. Instead Veneziano just watched his brother, his hands sopping up peppery broth and waiting quietly for the answer South Italy was mulling over.

"No." And Romano bought time for his reply by doing the same thing, giving a one-word answer before tasting and chewing and swallowing slowly. They were watching each other over their meal, but when the elder brother dropped his eyes over his bowl he made it look natural by reaching for more bread. "I only care about when you came back."

"So, December?" Or thereabouts, when someone had found him, when someone had brought him back home.

"No." He used such a shy, quiet voice now, letting the word fall beneath the marching footsteps pounding out in the night. Just when Veneziano thought, "maybe he won't answer me", Romano took a breath and made a simple statement.

"November fourth." Now why would he…? "The day my brother came back to his people."

November 4th, 2013.

"The wide-spread violent protests across Italy over the last two months have finally managed to drive the Italian government into exile in Germany, now tell us what's happening tonight on the ground."

"Tonight the situation in Rome is extremely dire. These protests have been marked by torched cars, damage to public property, even several small-scale bombings and bomb-threats along the railway lines coast to coast, but tonight the crowds have lost control and people are terrified."

"What do you mean, lost control?"

"This is a grass-roots movement sponsored by the youth, but there's no one at the centre of it- no one is controlling it. The closest the public has to a figurehead is a man they're calling Il Capo, whose real name is Major Lorenzo Rossi. Major Rossi is the Military officer co-ordinating security protocols and shutting down riots in the most violent areas across the country."

"He's a member of the government then, a supporter?"

"Absolutely not: the military is the only stable governing body left at this point in Italy, and with the President's flight and the dissolution of the parliament, their chain of command is the only one still functioning. The public supports the military and Major Rossi is a big part of the reason why. This man is a-political, he does not sleep and he's declined to give an interview, but two days ago he was present with a small battalion in Naples which shut down a violent clash between pro- and anti-government supporters. Tonight I've been told he's here in Rome and has been on the scene of two devastating fires in the commercial district, providing security and support for the municipal fire fighters so they can do their jobs without influences from the crowd."

"Why hasn't he spoken publicly if he's such a powerful force?"

"Oh, he's given several impacting speeches to the crowds, and those have been broadcast within the country, he just won't speak to us. The quote I have here reads: 'I have no interest in the world at large, I fight for Italy, north and south, together.'"

They left their house running, because that was the only way to escape the fire that caught both the building and the rioting crowd in its grasp. Romano held his brother's hand as tight as he could and ran with food, clothes, and that Swiss pistol in a bag until they reached the first major road and a nervous taxi driver watching the red glare painted over the city.

"Go!" He shouted, ignoring the way Veneziano tried to fight off the bag as Romano forced him into the car. "Get to the airport, fly to Geneva as fast as you can!"

"No- what about you?"

"I'm going to find Rossi-"

"Romano don't separate us! Not now!" Not now when they could hear screams, not now when the chanting was so angry and the human waiting by the side of the car was fidgeting and nervously running his hands through his hair, desperate to drive away in the night. "We don't need the UN, we'll find Rossi together and work with him-"

"If you don't go and tell the world not to come near us, Veneziano, it will start a war!" Because China would want to step in like they'd planned, but then Germany and England and France would move to stop him, and Russia would throw his weight against the western powers and without a clear declaration from Italy before all of that happened, the world would tumble into chaos. "You have to talk to them, and yes: it has to be you!"

They couldn't leave any room for Germany to cry corruption, there couldn't be any possibility left that someone would think South was controlling North and holding him like a puppet on a string. They had to see him, alone, standing up in front of the world and telling them in his own words to leave them and their allies on their own.

"Romano please…!" Which meant that when Veneziano clawed through the taxi window and grabbed his arm like that, when the fear started bleeding through his eyes and the hysteria tried to make a return, Romano chanced a look back over his shoulder and knew, all at once, that he had to push his brother now or they'd both fall without getting up.

"I said go!" The driver was already in the car, he'd seen the same thing as Romano and the engine rumbled loudly with the keys still chiming from where they'd been shoved in the ignition. The tires shrieked over the asphalt before they gripped it and the taxi lurched away, Veneziano shouting one more time before his face changed and the sudden distance showed him what was lurking in the chaos.

Romano took two deep breaths as the car sped away, listening to the chanting in the cold November night and the footsteps that touched the pavement behind him. He made himself stand there and wait until the taxi had sped away out of sight, and resisted the urge to pat himself down looking for anything in his pockets he could use as a weapon.

"South Italy…" He should have kept the gun. "Not a good night for people like you to go refusing a safe ride…" The voice hurt him in a way he wished it wouldn't. A voice with a rhythm like his, coming from a strong man's body born and bred to be like this, or maybe it was the other way around: maybe Italy Romano was meant to be like his people. Maybe that would explain why they seemed to hate him so much when it came to conflicts like this.

He could feel something in the air, something besides the noise and the fall of ash from the burning fires. Rome itself wasn't burning, but there was a car across the lane dripping gasoline over shattered glass. The crowds had come through this way already, the fires were coming from the post office they'd set fire to, the statue that had once stood on this street-corner toppled and defaced.

But Romano could feel something else in the almost-winter air, something above the revolution and the anger. He could feel it brush against his face and tremble in his lungs, so he breathed deeply because it was as eternal as his fighting spirit, the one he was going to clutch and hold on to until he withered away and died like empires before.

Rain…

"You should consider coming with us instead, it would be much safer." Their influences hurt and they burned and they made the old weight on his bones come to mind: the corruption made him feel slow and heavy just trying to get his bearings. An abandoned piece of pipe on the ground found its way under his foot, but he knew they'd shoot him before he could kick it up into his hands.

"I've spent so long chained to a desk now, I don't think I want to play safe tonight." Oh well.

A pipe was a shitty weapon, but it would serve him well enough tonight. He'd been shot before and survived just fine.

BANG! BANG!

"Fuck…" Even if it still hurt a lot more than he remembered. "Who's first, bastards?"

There were certain rules regarding the United Nations that applied only to their kind, not their human leaders. The first rule was attendance: if an emergency meeting was called and it was at all possible for you to arrive, you had to come. Even if your leader couldn't make it or refused to make the journey, the nation had to be present if possible.

The second rule was uniforms: no nation was permitted to wear military colours, medals, symbols, or patches on their clothing. They could not come in uniform and speak before the United Nations, and if they did so, it was to be taken as an act of aggression against the body as a whole.

"That said," that said, Germany could barely contain the anger roaring away in his ears as he was forced to sit there and listen to weak and withered North Italy make an affront to their council in full military dress. And yes, he was being aggressive: "Anyone who violates my borders without my express written permission will be treated as an insurgent and dealt with as such. This is my warning to the international community: you have been told, there will be no excuses."

United Nations Assemblies were not conducted at a round table in a meeting hall, they were hosted in one of three cities: New York, The Hague, and here in Geneva. They used the same halls as their leaders, just at different times of day or night, and again: their rules were slightly different.

"Then I formally request permission to begin sending aid residential areas affected by the fighting. I would like to focus on public safety and resource management." Of course Canada would jump up first, but Germany just needed a few more minutes to gather his rage and find the words hiding underneath it all.

"Permission granted." North Italy was standing on his own, and speaking on his own, and Germany just sat there struggling, fuming, trying to make his world make sense again. He understood everything that had happened and why things were turning out this way with gunfire and bloodshed, but he couldn't find the will to stand up and offer to help.

England did instead:

"And I request permission to begin landing ground troops immediately in conflict zones across the region: specifically to protect government officials and-"

"Denied: I have no interest in preserving the former order." The shocked silence across the hall from England said as much as the expression on his pale face. Germany felt himself stand up as Russia spoke from his seat opposite England on the security council.

"Then allow my friendly troops already stationed within your borders to offer their help and support to their military hosts." As soon as Italy agreed to the offer and accepted it, Germany's words came to him:

"You are not granting more power to your military without an elected government to control them!" And he knew they were the wrong words to say, because the anger that came forth in those red eyes when Italy looked across the hall at him said more than the rage he spent to hiss back.

"That's exactly what I'm doing, meddler." His sore pride over the issue made the words bite more than they should have, but the foreign experience of locking political blades with Italy made Germany lose his footing and slip back. "You walked away from my economy now stay out of my politics!"

"Your government is in Berlin where I've given them-"

"I've heard that line before, Germany!" It took him half a second too long to remember that that was true, and then grit his teeth for the blow that landed on him afterwards. "I didn't believe you then and I won't listen to you now! Throw them on the street for all I care: I have more important things to worry about than your worthless opinion!"

"Exactly." China cut in, still seated comfortably in his place beside Russia at the council table. Sometime over the last few months, China had moved himself into the chair in the middle of the table, the one America had always claimed but had left vacant for much too long. Only four of the five major nations were there at that table, causing a stalemate between east and west that had not existed since this hall's foundation. "Italy should be more concerned with allowing my people to help buy security for what remains of his markets so that once the dust settles there will be something to build from in the future. Is that acceptable?"

"That…"

"You're selling yourself to him!" Germany shouted, furious and overwhelmed enough that he shook off the hand Austria set on his arm. "Are you insane!? You're letting yourself fall to a dictatorship, and you're selling what's left of your independence if you-"

"Germany, we walked away!" He did not expect France's voice to jolt through him like that, but the blond nation seated at the far edge of the security panel had his eyes closed and his hands folded tightly together in front of him. When he spoke, despite his bowed head and struggling features, his voice was loud and cut through the murmur and discussion.

"We walked away, we surrendered our responsibilities: that is done and now this is just beginning." It felt so much like a betrayal that Germany had to control himself again, because logically he knew and he understood that France was taking the path of reason. It just hurt. "Which is why by the end of this week my government will renounce its support for the so-called President in Exile living in Berlin: the former government was expelled by public revolt and renounced by their nation here before a council of peers, the issue is settled." Which meant that if Germany took the path of least resistance: he would have to explain the prickly issue to his boss tomorrow, and then try to disenfranchise the Italian party he'd offered sanctuary to.

He did not like losing. He did not like going back on his word.

He did not like losing to China of all nations, because that was who everyone could see smiling at the head of the assembly.

"A question for North Italy," He was smiling and he was far too smug. For all the problems between them now and the anger that bordered on hate, Germany could still watch and see the way North Italy stiffened up so rigidly when China addressed him. "While you're here settling these issues with us, what is South Italy doing in the meantime?"

"My brother is continuing efforts to sustain and direct the revolution, and I wish to join him again as soon as possible." There was something he didn't say in that admission, something that Italy, no matter who he was becoming or what he'd endured, would always do when he hid something and didn't want to say what it was. He would always flex his tongue behind his teeth like he was going to swallow or speak, but end up doing neither, and it always meant that there was something else he wouldn't admit to.

Something was happening beyond those borders and he wouldn't say what it was. Something that changed China's smile and caused the eastern nation to tilt his head just-so, a display of power that should not have worked so well in front of this many other nations, but it did.

Italy sat down instead of offering more information or taking further questions. Instead of standing there and delivering a final speech or doing something to show that his power or stature might have been returning, North Italy's swan song as a free nation was to buckle in front of China, and cough revolutionary blood behind his hand as the meeting wound down to a close.

It felt like the way the free world should end: not with a bang but a whimper.

That… felt both like a little and a lot at the same time. There's a headcanon here I might need to explain? I'm pretty convinced in-universe that any time in history, specifically in the modern era and on, whenever countries made weird decisions about getting/not getting involved in conflicts around them was because the nation-tans made a decision like this. It's a little dehumanizing, but I like it? Expanding the headcanon properly just ran out of space, because I'm literally exhausted just from proof-reading all 21 pages of this.

Next chapter: FINAL CHAPTER.

Please leave a comment below! Favourite segment? Hope for next chapter? Anything at all, I'd love to hear it!