Note: Yes, another note just so I don't feel like the chapter is sad and naked. Also... is it just me, or are these chapters getting slightly longer with each one?
Italy awoke, disconnected and disoriented, just like all the other times. But something was off, something was wrong. He should have been greeted by a constant stream of freezing water, set up to help him get his bearings again faster. Through the haze of his mind, he tried to understand his surroundings. Soft. Warm.
Did it work this time? So many emotions washed over him through the fog. Relief – it was finally, finally over. No more pain. Worry – what did this mean for his people? Did something happen? Or was he replaced? Confusion – how could it have worked this time, when it had always failed?
Italy tried opening his eyes, but immediately closed them against the light. It was far too bright, and too soon. His senses were returning, though. He could hear birdsong. The softness beneath him… some sort of cushion? Italy tried to sit up, but was overcome by dizziness almost instantly.
Whatever hope he'd gathered in those few woozy minutes vanished instantly. If he could get dizzy, then he wasn't dead anymore. If he wasn't permanently dead, he would have to get up and face the pain again. He opened his eyes again, prepared for the sunlight this time.
The sound of footsteps from downstairs reminded Italy of another thing. He wasn't in the shower, as he should have been. That could only mean one thing.
Someone had found him. Someone had seen his worst secret, his greatest weakness. A quick glance at his arms confirmed it – they were completely wrapped in bandages, stained reddish brown with dried blood.
That someone was still here. As the footsteps proceeded up the stairs, Italy laid back and shut his eyes. With any luck, whoever it was would think that he was still dead or in a coma. Italy could hear the door open, and footsteps approach the bed.
They stopped. Italy continued to lie perfectly still. The tension scratched at his nerves. Why couldn't that… whoever it was just leave? It took everything in him to not move, not breathe, not do anything that would give away that he was… better, for lack of a more accurate term.
"Italy, I know you're awake."
Italy flinched. No. No. It couldn't be. It just had to be Germany, didn't it? Of course. The worst possible person to know about it was the one who found out. He wouldn't understand. Nobody would.
And even though Germany was his friend, he was often the one who would tell Italy that he needed to become stronger. That Italy had to know how to fight. He was the one who would sometimes lose his temper, and just yell at him for whatever he may have messed up that time. Those words would hurt wounds in Italy's heart and mind, wounds that would never heal. Sometimes Italy suspected that he only stayed around Germany because the blond reminded him of him, of the one he had loved so many years ago, of the one who had died. And that hurt, too.
"Italy…"
He could hear the tension in the voice. Germany was trying to hide whatever he was feeling. Because showing emotion is yet another sign of weakness, right Germany? That's why you always keep such a neutral expression.
He wouldn't reply. Germany didn't deserve a reply. And what could he say? How could he explain the situation? Italy was almost certain of what had happened. Germany probably came to visit, or discuss politics. Perhaps it had taken a while for him to realize that Italy wasn't there. Eventually he found his way to the bathroom, and assumed that Italy was there from the running water.
And he would have found Italy.
"Feliciano."
It was the use of his name, his human name, that made Italy's eyes snap open. He couldn't remember a time when Germany had ever called him that. It had always been "Italy". Never anything but that.
And what was with that tone of concern in his voice? Italy stared at the ceiling, purposely avoiding eye contact with the nation standing by his bed. Germany couldn't possibly be worried, right? If he was, he wouldn't say such hurtful things all the time… But Italy was a weak nation, he found himself reasoning. Of course, Germany wanted to protect him because he was weak. It was nothing more than that.
"Feliciano, please," The strain in his voice was more than obvious now. "Please say something."
Italy considered his options. If he did speak, Germany would probably make him spill his heart out right then and there. If he remained silent, Germany would stay in his house for however much time it would be until Italy did speak. Until work forced him to leave, of course. Germany was always one to have a hand in his own politics, just so he could know what was going on. Italy, on the other hand, trusted the officials elected by his people to do their jobs properly. He would only get personally involved if there was some major emergency.
Decision made, Italy turned onto his side, facing away from Germany. He could almost see the expression on the blond man's face, the well-hidden surprise and, yes, there would probably be some anger as well. After all, Germany was used to Italy obeying his every order. And Italy knew that Germany hated it when he was wrong about something, even if he never admitted it.
Italy laid on his side, staring blankly at the wall, until he heard the sound of Germany walking away, down the stairs, out of the house.
No, Germany, I won't talk to you. What would you want me to say if I did? That I hate how nobody will ever acknowledge me? That it's obvious how everyone, yes, even you, thinks that I'm a pathetic excuse for a nation? That there's times when I wish I was just a human, so it could all end so much more easily?
Germany, you have no idea what I've been through. Really, you should be more sympathetic, more understanding. You may be young by our standards, even younger than America is, but you know what history does to us. How it is impossible to forget, to ever heal from some things. And you should understand that it's not just you.
You called me weak. Could a weak nation have survived the Black Plague? Could a weak nation have created so many things that are still considered the height of culture? Could a weak nation have been the origin of most of your science?
Oh, I forgot. Military strength is the only thing that's important. So that makes me weak. Useless.
Never mind.
