To the reviewer who asked; I hadn't really thought about who killed him...so thanks for making me think about that! Hopefully this answers your question.

Chapter Two: Anger

It had been a while since Germany had died. They had had a simple funeral, with a few people close to him attending. The war had been ended, though not in the way that anyone had expected. Prussia had to take over the remainder of Germany, and neither he, Japan or Italy were talking to France, who insisted he hadn't intended to hit Germany. In all truth, they didn't know if it had been France who gave the fatal shot, but Japan was near certain, and Italy had went along with it.

Italy was lying on his bed now, staring at the ceiling. He hated himself right now. If he had been stronger, better in battle…would he have been able to help Germany? If Germany had been in a different place, would he still be alive? Italy closes his eyes tightly. He hated a lot of people now. It was strange. His older brother was avoiding him. Oh sure, he claimed he wasn't, but he could see that the Italian would peer round doors to see if Italy was in the room before going in.

He also knew that Romano was spending much more time with Spain. Spain…Italy sighs, opening his eyes and sitting up. He didn't mind Spain. He hadn't done much, really. He had more or less sat out from the war. It was the countries who took part in the war that he hated. He hated Japan, even though he knew that Japan had greatly suffered. He hated Prussia, for letting his little brother get involved in a war that would ultimately kill him. He hated the Allies, for their part in Germany's death.

And most of all, he hated France.

He gets up, pulling on some clothes that made him at least look presentable, then heads downstairs. His brother was out. Again. Italy goes into the kitchen, finding some bread and cheese. Usually he'd look for pasta, but right now, he didn't care. He set the loaf of bread down, and searches for a knife. Why did you kill him? He brings the knife down on the bread, using as much force as possible. The knife hits the surface with a dull thud.

Why should he have died? His leader was the one making him do all that stuff… he stabs the bread again, the knife making a dent in the countertop below. Italy tugs at it, forcing it back out. His hands were shaking, he was trembling, and his heart was racing. Every bit of anger he had been holding back…it was coming out, slowly but surely. He grips the knife firmly, then slams it down into the bread again.

It breaks apart, crumbs falling to the floor, scattering around. I hate you, France! He raises the knife, and hits the leftover bread with it. Another bit of bread falls apart, a small piece toppling off the counter. "I hate you!" Italy screams, and he shoves the knife down hard onto the counter, sobbing as he does. "I hate you…you killed him…you killed…" He shakes his head, the shaking now visible as he backs away from the counter.

"Germany…you…you…" he can't say it. Why did you leave me? He closes his eyes, his hands making a fist automatically. "I hate you!" he screams, turning and pounding his fists onto the wall. "Why did you die?! Why did you leave me?! You said you'd be there for me!" he slams his fist into the wall again, hearing a crack and feeling a throb of pain in his hand. "You said you'd protect me! You said you cared!"

Thud. Thud. Italy couldn't hold it in. The wall was becoming an emotional outlet, a make shift punching bag. "Why, why, why? You didn't have to die! You should have stayed!" He hit the wall as hard as he could, feeling his hands bruise, and the skin break. He sobs as he continues to hit and kick the wall, before finally slamming his head onto it, and sinking to the floor, curled up and crying. "I miss you, Germany…" he mutters, "…why did you have to leave me…?"

When Romano came home, he frowns, hearing sobbing. "Damn bastard…" he mutters, mostly out of habit. He knew how his brother had felt about Germany. Even if Romano had hated Germany, part of him had always liked him, because he made Italy happy. And now he had the audacity to leave, to die. Sure, it wasn't his fault, but Romano was never a rational person, especially when angry. "Italy?" he calls, and hears a faint sob from the kitchen.

He walks into the room, spotting tiny drops of blood on the wall, crumbs and pieces of bread on the floor and countertop, a knife lying next to the bread. But most importantly, he could see his little brother, curled up and shaking like mad, crying his eyes out. "…Veneziano…" he whispers, crouching next to him, "…what happened?" It was a stupid question, sure, but Romano didn't know what else to do. What was he meant to say?

Italy doesn't reply, and so Romano hesitates, before pulling him into a close hug. What was he meant to say? He didn't understand what it was like to lose someone that close to you. Damn potato eater…leaving my brother like this…

And yet, if Spain died…

Romano rests his head on his brothers. "Be as angry as you like, fratello," he says softly, "and cry as much as you want. Even if I…don't quite understand your pain…I'll be here." Italy doesn't reply, but Romano feels his brother return the hug slightly, hands going up by Romano's back, and he understood.

Ok, thank you for reading. And for the two who reviewed, thank you, and apologies for the HUGE wait...I forgot that I had posted this here...