Note: This note is only here because I feel like my chapters feel awkward and naked without one. I still don't own Hetalia.
The second Germany walked into Italy's house, he knew something was wrong.
Italy's house was never silent. The small nation was almost always bustling around somewhere, talking or singing to himself. Or a television would be left on somewhere, filling the house with the sounds of a football match. Or his brother would be visiting, adding some very colorful commentary to whatever he may have been doing.
Not this time. Germany strained his ears, desperate to hear something – anything – that would prove that Italy was all right, that everything was normal. Even if it was just a radio left playing static. Even if it was just the sound of snoring coming from Italy's bedroom.
No. The house was dead silent.
Germany instantly pictured the worst possible scenarios. Someone had come and taken Italy away. Italy had gotten in some kind of accident. Italy was horribly ill. Italy-
Wait. There was a sound there, constant and quiet enough that it had escaped his notice. Running water. A shower. But something was still wrong. He could sense it.
Germany rushed up the stairs as quickly as he could and knocked at the bathroom door. "Italy, are you all right?" He asked, loud enough that he could be heard, but not so loud as to be shouting.
No response. Despite not wanting to invade his friend's privacy – although, really, how many times had Italy barged in on his showers? – he tried the doorknob. It was locked.
Italy rarely remembered to lock the outside doors. Germany was surprised that any of the doors within the house had locks at all. "Italien!"
There was still no response. Germany tried to think, tried to rationalize the situation and not let his imagination get carried away. Perhaps Italy had just left the water running and gone out somewhere? It wouldn't have been the first time he did something like that.
But no, the door was locked. From the inside.
There was no rational explanation about that. "Italien!" Germany shouted again, desperate for some sort of response. It couldn't be…
Nothing but the sound of falling water came from the other side of the door. Cursing himself for such rash actions – it was probably nothing, he always overreacted in these situations – Germany did the only thing he could think of. He kicked the door, the cheap lock giving in easily and sending the door slamming back against the wall. The shower curtain was drawn, obscuring anything within from view. Germany ripped it aside, not even caring that he could very well end up seeing far more of the Italian than was really necessary. Reality was worse, anyway.
Italy was slumped against the wall of the shower, shirt and boxer shorts soaked and clinging to his slender form. The water ran red. Blood seeped from the long slashes in each arm, a razorblade clamped in one hand. His eyes were clouded and half-closed. Germany froze, shock and memories stilling action.
"Germany, Germany, what were we doing today? I forgot…" Italy stopped abruptly. "Germany… what…?"
"Get out of here, Italy," Germany said, his voice completely monotone. It wasn't that the other nation had walked in on him showering – again – or that he seemed incapable of remembering any plan that didn't have to do with meals. It was that wide-eyed stare, that total bewilderment that hurt Germany even more than the burns and wounds littering his body. The self-inflicted injuries, how he turned against his own people and killed them so ruthlessly.
"Germany… how could you…"
A hard stare. "It will make me stronger." Repeating again, the same sentence that he had to say every time he did it. Repeated so he would not break.
"….Germany…"
Germany punched the shower wall. A tile cracked. "I cannot disobey!" He roared. He could not disobey his boss; he could not let his boss down after the man saved him from the ashes of the first World War. He could not disobey. Italy fled, terrified.
"It seems the tables are turned this time," Germany muttered, turning off the water. Checking for a pulse confirmed his suspicions – Italy was dead. Acting automatically, without thought and therefore without emotion, Germany carried the body to the bedroom. He didn't care about the blood staining his clothing. Once Italy was properly laid on the bed, Germany went to search for bandages.
They were nations, after all. A nation could not die as long as their people maintained their identity – that was how his brother had survived being dissolved, how he and every other nation had survived injuries that would have been fatal to any human. Germany couldn't be sure how long Italy would remain dead, but he was determined to make sure that Italy would be able to heal properly.
He tried not to think about the scars on Italy's arms, the long scars vertically down each arm. The scars that indicated that this had happened before.
God damn it. How could he have been so blind? How long had this been going on? He thought back on the way Italy acted, but couldn't remember any major change in personality, couldn't remember anything that would make him think something was wrong. How could he have been so blind? Italy was always the happy one, the silly one, the only one who had been able to make Germany smile when the blond was stressed or upset about something. Italy had always been the most obvious about his emotions, laughing whenever he was happy or screaming like a fool whenever he was frightened. How could Germany have been so blind?
How could he have known?
