A/N: Don't tell me that my math was wrong with the travel distance between Rome and Berlin, I know... and I really couldn't care less.

Chapter 2

Feliciano wondered were Ludwig was – he was rarely late, and certainly never by so much as four hours. Besides, he'd promised to come early today so they could plan their next dinner date. The Italian smiled at the thought (and the mental image of Ludwig's pale cheeks flushing a bashful shade of red). He knew that his (boy)friend loved his food and house as the blond loved him. Now Feliciano was thinking that a picnic on the beach would be terribly romantic.

From across the table, Arthur Kirkland coughed impatiently. The other EU members had left some time before, leaving behind only Italy, France, and the United Kingdom. Now, the thick-browed nation was glaring irritably down his nose at the two other Europeans.

"If Germany's not here to deliver his presentation, perhaps it would be best for us to leave."

The host country glanced up from his "notes" (where he was busily doodling Ludwig posing shirtless), then sighed. "Oh, yeah. I guess you're right…"

"We're here!" A familiar, raucous voice shattered the relative quiet, drawing the attentions of the three remaining EU members to the double doors which had been unceremoniously kicked open to reveal a panting, sweating Prussian and a harried-looking German. "Sorry we're late."

"Germany!" Feliciano launched himself from his chair and fairly knocked the taller nation on his ass. "I know you'd come!"

"Italy, are you alright?" he asked sharply, flinty eyes darting about the room, lingering on Francis and Arthur. "They're not hurting you, are they?"

The brunet hesitated. "N-no… why would they be hurting me?"

His partner blinked in surprise. "Because-"

"He's drunk." Gilbert cut in suddenly, shoving his brother away from the Italian nation. "Completely wasted. Sorry 'bout that. He's totally screwed up in the hea- West, what the hell are you doing?"

Ludwig ignored the question, opting instead to fix Francis (who had been hauled up by the open lapels of his dress shirt) with a deadly glower. "You."

Feliciano felt his stomach drop to his feet; he knew that look, that tone. The pure hatred in the other's gaze didn't suit him – it aged him, giving him the appearance of a bloodthirsty nation far older than he. The Italian shivered, shrinking back with tears in his eyes.

Arthur was on his feet in a moment, casting an irritable glance in the direction of the Germanic brothers. "What the bloody hell is going on?"

The ex-nation faltered, desperately clawing for the right words. Unfortunately, they escaped and were replaced with the eloquent response: "West hit his head and now he thinks he's a Nazi."

"A Nazi?" The nation's colossal brows met to form a fuzzy V. "What sort of rubbish is this?"

Feliciano, to his credit, was at least partially composed as he replied. "I-it's true… G-Germany is… he's…"

"H-help…" The red-faced Francis kicked slightly, his lotion-softened hands scrabbling with those of his captor. Ludwig didn't flinch.

"West, c'mon, put Francis down. We know he's a dick, but we've been sorta getting along lately."

He snorted. "With him? Never. It's his fault my children starved!"

"W-we made peace, Allemagne…" Face steadily turning blue, the blond managed a low gasp.

"I refuse to accept that!"

The spectators flinched as Francis's back was thrust against the conference room wall. Releasing his grip, Ludwig let the other slump to the floor before burying his foot in his ribs.

"Stop!" Of the three identical shouts, Feliciano's was the most urgent. He threw himself in front of the raging German, trembling with fear as the razor-sharp gaze raked over him.

"Italy, stand down!" His one-time commander barked, fist raised and brow furrowed. "This is my fight!"

"No, it's not! It's nobody's fight!" Tears slid freely from eyes screwed shut against reality. "The wars are over, we're all friends now. Please Germany, stop it!"

He wanted to scream that he was scared, that he hated seeing his partner acting like this. He wanted to pinch himself and wake up cuddling into the blond's side.

Instead, Ludwig's lip curled in distaste. "You've always been a gutless coward. Sometimes I wonder why I ever became your ally."

Feliciano fought for air, stumbling as though he'd been shot. His Germany would never say those things – his Germany loved him.

"N-no…"

"West!" Gilbert had reentered the fray. He looked every bit as peeved as his brother, all teasing gone from his stern expression and his tone was that of a commanding officer. The Italian recalled vaguely how haughty and impressive the kingdom had once been, all polished boots and spotless uniforms. Now that same mindset had fallen neatly back into place.

"You're a fucking disgrace, you know that?" the albino was saying, drawing himself up to address his taller sibling. "The war you're talking about's been over for sixty-six goddamn years and you've been trying to live it down ever since! Look, you boss was sick, your government party was sick, and your kids got hauled out to fucking death camps in railway cars like cattle! Now if you don't stand down this goddamn instant, I'm gonna set my pistol to your head and pull that fucking trigger until you're confusion's cleared up. Do you understand?"

The conference room rang with an impressed silence as the once-great military power panted for breath. Eventually, a dumbfounded Ludwig regained his speech.

"What are you talking about?" he whispered, face spasming as he met his brother's blazing eyes.

"Look, West, do you or do you not understand?" His reply was cool as he subtly positioned himself between his brother and Feliciano. "I just want you to sit your ass down in that chair right there and shut the hell up until we've got this situation under control. You get me?"

The blond looked away, knowing when he was beaten. "Understood."

Ludwig sat stiffly in the chair, feet planted firmly on the ground and eyes straight ahead. He should have known better than to aggravate a Prussian (while, ex-Prussian now) officer – his brother especially. However, something mentioned in Gilbert's outburst was haunting him… several somethings, actually.

"A-hem." There was a gentle, (obviously) fake cough from behind him, alerting the German of Feliciano's presence. His ally wasn't meeting his eyes, rather he was carefully studying the blank wall of the meeting room. For a moment, he was distracted, murmuring to himself that a nice landscape would certainly lighten the pallid atmosphere of the conference hall. Dark amber eyes twitched back to catch sight of the seated nation, and he seemed to remember himself.

"Ehm… Hi, Germany."

"Italy."

His slender hands began to tremble and he stuffed them into the pockets of his perfectly tailored trousers. Ludwig noted the definite change to the Italian's formal wear: the neat cut of the pale jacket, the snug fit of the almost form-fitting pants, the slim shape of the necktie. While it was true he looked as though he'd recently stepped from an unknown era (though, in reality, it was his currently unsettled counterpart who had stumbled forward through chaotic decades), it could not be denied that he looked very stylish. Suddenly, the comfortably-familiar brown suit the blond was wearing felt tacky and outdated. It was, after all, seventy-two years into the future. Had his future self not once paused to consider the necessity of treating himself to some new dress clothes?

"How're you feeling?" Feliciano motioned to the bandaged lump gracing the other nation's forehead. "Does it still hurt?"

Opting to answer the second question – the first was too difficult to fully explore at the moment – he grunted, "A bit."

Giggles colored with evident admiration bubbled from the brunet's lips. "Germany's always so cool!"

"Am I?"

A flicker of unease crossed his heart-shaped face. "Well, for things like this…"

"Italy, may I ask you something?" Frustration and curiosity pooled until the German was bursting at the seams with both. Hands knotting into fists, he steeled himself for the answer before he'd even opened his mouth to ask. "What happened? During the war, I mean, and everything else. Why won't anyone talk to me about it?"

"Because it was bad." Feliciano murmured lifelessly, gaze restlessly tracing an abstract pattern across the carpeting. "It was really, really bad and Germany did-"

He stopped abruptly, trapping his lower lip between his teeth.

"No, tell him, Italy." Arthur spoke up as the others reentered the meeting space looking grim. "Tell him what he did to his children and everyone else he bloody well wanted gone."

Ludwig's mouth tightened into a sharp line.

"You mean the camps." His response was a quiet statement rather than a tentative question. The other European fumed.

"Yes, the damned camps!" The Briton snapped, eyebrows united into a thunderous expression of rage that seemed to affect his ability to form coherent sentences. "It was bloody… bloody fucking awful."

Ludwig met his eyes unflinchingly. "Tell me."