Ignorance Isn't Bliss, Feliciano!

by StrayFedafilAlbern

Summary:

Arthur was relaxing with a warm cup of tea when suddenly he found himself facing his mirror, conversing with a wannabe doppelganger about how the balance of things was being disrupted.

Unexpectedly, it seemed this chaos was somehow linked to Italy, known as Feliciano Vargas.

Concerned about what it could possibly mean, Arthur decides to take matters into his hands. (That was his first mistake.)

Notes:

Hello!! Thank you for whoever is reading this. I wasn't planning on posting this, since this fanfiction had other purpose, but I became too impatient.

First warning; English is not my first language. Sometimes when I write something, and then re-read it, I become confused. So I apologise in advance if something won't make logical sense.

Second of all, this is partly historical Hetalia. I tried my best make it make as much sense as Hetalia could make. Seriously, the age thing with characters in hetalia be confusing as hell sometimes. Shit got me using 40% of my brain power when writing this. I try making characters as canon as possible, but not fully. (This is fanfiction after all)

Chapter 1: Prologue

 

Feliciano opened his eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks like a waterfall.

It was nighttime once again, and he had just woken from another nightmare—one where Ludwig left him behind and never returned.

Turning his head to the side of the bed, he found it empty. A pang of alarm shot through him, but then he remembered he had told Ludwig he would try to sleep without him tonight.

He had hoped for a peaceful night, but that hope was shattered. Now, he wrestled with the thought of going to Ludwig’s room and curling up next to him, just as he often did.

He attempted to wipe away his tears, but they persisted, leaving him with the conclusion that he should stay put. He didn’t want to disturb Ludwig’s well-deserved rest; the man had been overworking himself lately, and Feliciano didn’t want to be a burden.

With a sigh, he sat there, tears falling as he stared at his bedsheets, feeling utterly alone.

Before long, he succumbed to weeping, the need for comfort overwhelming yet paralyzing. What if one day Ludwig grew tired of him? The thought terrified him—Ludwig meant everything, and the mere idea of being left alone again was unbearable.

Feliciano recalled how, ever since he had started keeping his worries to himself, Ludwig seemed more at ease. The last time Ludwig had come home, ready for tears, he had found none. Feliciano had even hidden a burn on his arm from boiling water, feeling a strange sense of pride when Ludwig praised him for not getting hurt.

Who knew that holding back could earn him a reprieve from being a nuisance? He had even started doing the same with Romano, trying to spare everyone from his burdens

But now, all that pent-up emotion spilled over, and his mental state was collapsing under the weight of it all.

He scrubbed at his tears, but it only made his eyes burn and his head ache. He felt worthless—just as everyone had always told him.

Another sob escaped him, and he rose unsteadily from his bed, only to collapse to his knees. He winced as pain shot through his feet, a reminder of the glass he had stepped on that morning, blood oozing from the wounds.

God, he was so tired. He had thought things would change after the mansion incident, that everyone would somehow be different. But everything had returned to the way it was.

Arthur was the only one who remembered what had happened, but like Feliciano, he tried to forget.

In some ways, Feliciano was relieved that things had reverted to normal, yet there were times when he felt lost in that familiarity.

Slowly, he crawled toward the long mirror hidden beneath a sheet. As he pulled it away, he gazed into his reflection, feeling the weight of his sorrow.

And yet, amidst everything, there was one thing that remained unchanged.

Feliciano sniffed, his fingers grazing the cool glass. Suddenly, a hand reached through the mirror, brushing away his tears.

It was the world on the other side.

As he closed his eyes, arms enveloped him from beyond the glass, holding him tightly. 

Before he knew it, everything faded to black.

 

Chapter 2

 

The 2p!World was a twisted reflection of the 1p!World, a realm where despair and agony reigned supreme. There were no bosses here—only nations who ruled with brutal, unchecked authority, shaping the fate of their lands through bloodshed and fear.

In this forsaken world, spite was the most potent weapon. Every day, nations spewed venomous insults, their hatred so palpable that it seemed to choke the very air. The tension between them was constant, boiling over into violence more often than not. Their cities, once grand symbols of culture and civilization, lay in ruins, reduced to nightmarish landscapes. 

The architecture looked like something from a post-apocalyptic wasteland: crumbling buildings, shattered windows, and streets stained with blood. The only places that still held any semblance of order or protection were those belonging to the richest and most powerful countries.

But power was a fickle thing in the 2p!World. Many nations who held dominance in the 1p!World had fallen to the bottom of the hierarchy here, their lands overrun with chaos, their people forgotten or slaughtered. Humanity, for the most part, was either enslaved or entirely obliterated. The weaker nations from the 1p!World had become vicious predators in this reality, their brutality unmatched. The 2p!Baltic states, once docile and oppressed, now hunted their enemies like feral beasts, leaving behind a trail of carnage and destruction.

Survival in this world wasn’t a matter of strategy or diplomacy; it was a ruthless contest of strength. The nations of the 2p!World fought not for the well-being of their people but for their own survival. Empathy was seen as weakness—any sign of care for the citizens was like signing your own death warrant. Take 2p!Prussia, for instance, once proud and powerful in the 1p!World. Here, he was nothing more than a shell of his former self, a pathetic figure scorned even by his own brother, 2p!Germany.

In this universe, there were no deep alliances, no friendships. Every relationship was built on mistrust and the ever-present threat of betrayal. The weak were consumed, and the strong ruled with an iron fist. In the 2p!World, peace was an illusion—nothing mattered but power, and those who lacked it were doomed to suffer.

A world like this shouldn’t have any access to the 1p!World. And yet, it was still possible. Between the two worlds existed a portal that connected them. This portal was sealed, protected, and impenetrable—unless a nation had magical abilities or someone on the other side provided a way in.

If the peace of the portal was disturbed, it could lead to a catastrophic clash between the two worlds. The consequences could be devastating—one world could annihilate the other, or worse, both worlds could destroy each other entirely.

So, when a certain nation from the 2p!World detected that the balance of the portal had been disturbed, it was clear that action needed to be taken. And the person they sought out in the 1p!World was none other than Arthur Kirkland, known also as England.

 

*** * ***

 

Arthur paced around the room, muttering to himself. "How on Earth is this happening? Is something—or someone—disrupting the peace? Because none of this makes any bloody sense!"

“Ding, ding! You’ve hit the nail on the head, love! Someone is disturbing the peace, and that’s why I just had to reach out to you, darling!” A voice echoed from the large mirror. Arthur whipped around, immediately recognizing the source. His reflection? No. His 2p counterpart: Oliver.

He scowled. “Don’t call me that. First of all."

Oliver’s grin widened as he tilted his head like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Oh, but it suits you!”

"Second," Arthur continued, ignoring the smug expression, "we need to find the source of this mess. If this disturbance keeps spreading through the dimensional portal, we could end up with worlds colliding, mass destruction, and—well, quite frankly, I don’t fancy ceasing to exist, do you?”

Oliver let out a sing-songy laugh. “Oh, Arthur, darling, you’re just so clever! You’re right again! And since you’re just the cutest thing, I’ll be honest—it’s probably coming from my world.”

Arthur crossed his arms, his expression unamused. “Obviously. I’ve suspected as much from the start. Frankly, I’m amazed you even contacted me after what happened last time. It wasn’t exactly… pleasant, was it, Oliver?”

Oliver pouted dramatically, and then his eyes sparkled. “Oh, that! Yes, I suppose things got a bit… spicy.” He clapped his hands suddenly, beaming. “But don’t you worry, love, it won’t happen again! Pinky promise! Hehe!” His eyes twinkled with a madness that made Arthur feel slightly uneasy, but it was hardly new.

Unfazed, Arthur sighed. “Right, well, do you have any idea who in your world is causing this disturbance? You know it’s from your side, so you must have some suspicion.”

Oliver’s face scrunched up in exaggerated concentration. “Hmmmm…” He paused dramatically. “At first, I thought it was my dear sweet Allan since he has access to all my magical goodies and my potion room. But my little cupcake has been ever so busy lately—"

Arthur suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Cupcake? Oliver’s America—a man Arthur had the misfortune of meeting—was about as far from “cupcake” as one could get. If Arthur’s Alfred had a hero complex, Oliver’s Allan was more like… a ticking bomb with a villain complex.

Not surprising—being their opposites and all. But the shock Arthur felt the first time he saw Oliver’s preference for aggressive and grumpy people was genuine. He shuddered. Then again, his 2p was a complete nutcase.

But then again, everyone in the 2p world is a nutcase.

“—but from all the nations, I suspect it has something to do with Luciano,” Oliver continued, voice laced with playful nonchalance.

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course. It always had something to do with Luciano—Feliciano’s 2p counterpart. That infuriating man never knew how to calm down. Last time, it was stealing magic energy from their world, leaving Arthur’s poor fairy friends weakened and suffering. Now he’s causing trouble with the dimensional portal. Arthur didn’t know what was worse: the fact that it was that jackass again, or the wishful hope that it might be anyone else.

"Luciano’s been acting really strange lately," Oliver said, grinning as if this were the juiciest gossip, "so strange, in fact, many countries are preparing for World War 3!"

Oliver burst out laughing like it was the funniest thing he’d ever said.

Well, that’s... comforting, Arthur thought dryly.

“But don’t worry, love! Nothing too catastrophic will happen. Luciano’s probably just going through one of his god-complex phases. Temporary!” Oliver added with a wink.

Arthur deadpanned. “I don’t think it’s temporary if it’s messing with our world.” That was a fact. Every time Luciano interfered with the 1p universe, it was never just a phase or something minor. Was Oliver being deliberately dense, or did he genuinely believe that?

Oliver’s face briefly twisted into a frown as he considered Arthur’s comment. “Well, I might have agreed with you—not. Sugar, I know Luciano better than you.” There was an unsettling darkness in Oliver’s eyes as he said this, a hint of familiarity with chaos that made Arthur’s skin crawl.

Arthur blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“Don’t act like you know everything, sugar. I may be your opposite, but I was the one who first figured out how to access your world.” Oliver’s grin was back, but the sting in his words made Arthur wince. It never stopped wounding his pride—his insane counterpart found a magical solution before he did. Ugh. What a nightmare for the ego.

And just like that, Oliver snapped back to his usual manic self, smiling like he hadn’t just dealt a blow to Arthur’s self-esteem. He rocked back and forth gleefully. What a bastard. “This is only temporary, I promise,” he sang. “But it’s not just my problem! I’ve noticed something from your world is disturbing the peace, too.”

Arthur’s focus sharpened instantly. “What?”

Oliver hummed thoughtfully. “Hmm, yeah. It seems your version of North Italy has something to do with it. I’ve been watching little Feliciano for quite a while…”

“You’ve been stalking Feliciano,” Arthur interrupted, his expression flat.

“Well, yes,” Oliver admitted with a sheepish blush, clearly lost in some daydream. “How could I not? He’s such a cutie! I’d love to nibble his adorable little nose!”

Arthur recoiled. “That’s... definitely not creepy at all.”

“If I could, I’d have him stay here with me,” Oliver sighed wistfully. “He’s so sweet! I just want to bake him some treats…”

"Please don't," Arthur said, cringing. "And stop verbally assaulting North Italy, you absolute nutcase." His irritation was palpable, a protective instinct surfacing as he thought about Feliciano’s vulnerability.

From what Arthur had heard(and seen), the 2p world was a literal hell. If their own world dealt with petty political conflicts, the 2p world was like a full-blown zombie apocalypse—filled with personal vendettas and endless chaos. He couldn’t imagine the cowardly nation thriving in that madness.

Oliver giggled, still lost in his fantasy world. Well, better that than his usual brand of chaotic madness, though Arthur couldn't help but feel uneasy about his 2p counterpart's obsession with North Italy. Then again, 2p Japan had some unsettling tendencies toward Italy as well.

Arthur frowned, lost in thought. It was clear that the 2ps all had some kind of relationship with Feliciano, but he wasn’t entirely shocked by that. What bothered him more was how Luciano, Oliver’s Italy, kept trying to breach their world. It was as if the 2p version of Italy was determined to stir things up.

“However,” Arthur cut in, interrupting Oliver’s daydreaming. Oliver blinked, tilting his head in a clueless way, as if asking, What?

“What did you mean by saying Feliciano has something to do with this disturbance?”

Oliver paused, as though trying to remember. “Ah, right. Well, Luciano had a little chat with him.”

Arthur’s blood ran cold. “What?!” he snapped. Luciano made contact with his Italy? That meant whatever was happening had at least a small chance of being related to Feliciano. And if Luciano had gone out of his way to talk to him, it couldn’t be good. “What does that lunatic want with North Italy?”

Oliver sighed, twirling a finger through his hair. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t hear what my two cute boys were talking about. Luciano made sure of that—what a smart cookie he is. But lately, your Italy has been shrouded in dark clouds, and that must’ve caught Luciano’s attention.”

Arthur frowned harder. “Dark clouds?” he repeated. He’d just spoken with Feliciano not too long ago, and the man had seemed his usual cheerful, carefree self. Nothing out of the ordinary. What could possibly be wrong?

…The thought made him anxious; he didn’t want to admit how much he cared.

Oliver tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Oh, it’s probably something to do with his inner self. Poor thing. He’s been going through tough times lately… I just want to give him a big hug! Feliciano’s so insecure, and whatever he and Luciano talked about might’ve had something to do with him visiting the 2p world…”

Arthur froze. Hold on. His eyes snapped toward Oliver like a hawk. “What did you just say?”

Oliver blinked innocently. “Huh?”

Arthur rubbed both hands down his face, breathing in slowly. “Did you just say my Feliciano has been in your world?”

“Oh, sugar, don’t act so surprised! Your Italy has been crossing into our world for quite a while now. Ever since that incident in Ma—”

Arthur let out a loud, muffled scream into his hands, cutting Oliver off mid-sentence. Oliver watched him, fascinated by the dramatic outburst. Arthur knew he looked ridiculous, but at this point, he didn’t care. The sheer absurdity of the situation was driving him mad. If he couldn’t punch that wine-loving, beret-wearing Frenchman for this mess, screaming would have to do.

“That wanker!” Arthur roared, finally lowering his hands. “First he pulls that ridiculous stunt, and now this? That’s it, I’m going to talk to that idiot myself!”

Oliver giggled, apparently finding Arthur’s fury amusing. “You’re so funny when you’re angry!” His grin darkened. “But please, sugar, don’t be too harsh on that cutie. He’s already got a full plate of problems, just like you.”

“I’ll do whatever I think is right, you lunatic!” Arthur snapped. “And this is my Italy we’re talking about. Why don’t you go deal with yours?”

He probably sounded like a child, but could anyone really blame him? Hearing Oliver talk about Feliciano as though he belonged to their world felt far too personal. It was frustrating—not just the obsession, but the way Oliver and his kind seemed to act like Feliciano was a part of their world too. Arthur knew about Feliciano’s history with the 2ps, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. They were crossing a line.

Oliver stuck his tongue out playfully, only making Arthur more irate. But before he could shout something else, Oliver chirped, “Time to close the connection now, sugar! Bye-bye, see you later! And don’t forget—be gentle!”

Arthur watched in disbelief as Oliver maniacally laughed, then disappeared with a flush. He was being flushed into a toilet. literally.

He had been talking to him through a bathroom mirror.

Arthur sighed heavily.

“I absolutely hate his guts.”

 

*** * ***

 

It had been a week since Arthur’s conversation with Oliver. He had written emails, sent letters, and even tried calling Feliciano, only to be met with silence.

If it were any other nation, he might have shrugged it off, assuming they were busy with government duties. But this was North Italy we are talking about. That airhead only bothered with official matters when the tourists flooded into his country, and it was winter now—meaning he was probably cozied up in Germany's house, doing absolutely nothing.

Arthur had confirmed that his emails were received and even read, which meant Feliciano was deliberately ignoring him. In the past, the lazy git would respond within an hour of receiving a message or by the next day. But now, a whole week has passed.

Arthur groaned, realizing he had made a mistake by addressing the main issue directly. He should have masked his emails with requests for help or framed his calls as opportunities to bitch about Francis. 

Feliciano was a coward when it came to heavy topics; he would sidestep anything personal and offer no answers.

The nation loved to chatter about all sorts of things, but he never shared anything meaningful. He’s very insecure and secretive, that Arthur knows. But what the hell does ‘have dark clouds around him’ mean exactly? That could imply many things, especially with the involvement of the 2P world, which suggested something serious was at stake.

In the past, Feliciano had a knack for dodging heavy discussions like a ping-pong ball. Arthur wasn’t surprised; the only difference was that Feliciano had once been more expressive about his reluctance. Back then, he would cross his arms and frown in silence or turn his head away with an arrogant huff, making it clear he didn’t want to talk.

That git used to be quite the expressive boy, always wanting everything his way. And while that remained true, Feliciano had grown more closed off after the First Italian War of Independence in 1848-1849. Arthur couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was off, but he quickly dismissed it. It wasn’t his place to pry into the affairs of that airhead. After all, they weren’t friends; they were just... acquaintances. Still, the thought lingered—was that cloudiness really nothing to worry about?

Ping!

Arthur glanced down at his mobile, holding onto a fleeting hope that Feliciano had finally mustered the courage to respond—just to find a message from America about the upcoming meeting next week. Disappointment churned in his stomach. Hm.

He narrowed his eyes as he reread Alfred’s message: “What’s up, dude? The next meeting is totally at my place. Also, bro,” he heavily sighed. “China asked me to tell you to bring that weird-tasting black tea. Something about it helping him with his health or whatever.”

“God, I wish that imbecile would learn to write more formally,” Arthur groaned, rubbing his temples in frustration.

Well, better than nothing. Italy wouldn’t be able to avoid England forever. It would be ridiculous for that spaghetti loving git to skip a meeting just because England would be there. First of all; Germany wouldn't let him, and second of all; he would be skipping his duties as a nation. Italy’s boss wouldn't be happy for that one.

Arthur huffed and sat on an armchair. That rascal can’t avoid him forever, right?

…

God, he probably can.

 

*** * ***

 

“Feliciano! How many times have I told you not to throw your dirty clothes on the floor!” Ludwig’s voice boomed from another room, making Feliciano jump in surprise.

Feliciano scrunched his nose playfully before replying, “Sorry, Germany!” He wasn’t really sorry, though. He was far too absorbed in his drawing to feel any real guilt.

An exasperated sigh echoed from the other room, followed by the sound of Ludwig picking up clothes and moving around the house. Feliciano hummed to himself, continuing to sketch, completely oblivious to the figure now standing in the doorway. The person stepped closer.

It wasn’t until a hand settled on his shoulder that Feliciano finally looked up. Expecting to see Ludwig, he blinked in surprise when he saw Gilbert instead, grinning down at his work.

“Ah, Prussia!” Feliciano beamed, his voice light.

“Hey there, Feli. What’re you drawing?” Gilbert asked with a curious smile, leaning in to get a better look.

“Oh, just a field of sunflowers,” Feliciano answered cheerfully, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. “Sunflowers, huh? Didn’t know you were into those.”

Feliciano chuckled. “They’re not for me! Ivan asked me to draw them for him.”

The grin on Gilbert’s face wavered. His posture stiffened slightly. “...Ah,” he muttered, his tone less enthusiastic. The mention of Ivan’s name was enough to dampen his mood.

Feliciano, still blissfully unaware, went right back to his drawing as Gilbert awkwardly shifted on his feet, clearly displeased by the thought of Russia hanging around Feliciano, but choosing not to comment any further.

Gilbert sighed, pushing away his dampened mood as he gently ruffled Feliciano's hair. As always, Feliciano barely reacted, remaining absorbed in his drawing.

In fact, Feliciano never really reacted to any of Gilbert’s gestures. It was just the way he was, and Gilbert had grown used to it over the decades. Despite openly declaring his affection for the Italian on multiple occasions—through letters, casual remarks, or even directly to his face—Feliciano always remained oblivious, as if the words never reached him.

Still, Gilbert considered himself lucky. Feliciano wasn’t distant or cold toward him, as he could be with others who confessed their feelings only to be met with that unmistakable, distant glaze.

He knew it was because they'd known each other for so long. They had seen each other through the centuries—Feliciano watching Gilbert grow, and Gilbert witnessing the slow decline of Venice into the Italy Feliciano had become today. While Feliciano didn’t feel obligated to return any feelings, at least he didn’t push Gilbert away. That was enough for now.

Gilbert hummed thoughtfully, watching as Feliciano continued sketching, his focus solely on the page in front of him. That wouldn’t do.

"Feliciano, how about we go out for some..." Gilbert paused for dramatic effect. "Gelato?"

That made Feliciano pause. He turned his head towards Gilbert. “..hm, no.” he muttered, returning to his drawing.

That made Gilbert raise both of his eyebrows. A mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Oh, really now…”

Feliciano once again paused and frowned. He opened his mouth—

—but he was suddenly manhandled by Prussia who started to loudly laugh and go towards the door as he carried the italian man.

“KESEKESESE! I won’t take no for an answer, Feli!” Prussia loudly exclaimed. Feliciano yelped in protest, struggling in Gilbert’s arms. 

He’d been quieter than usual for the past two weeks, and Gilbert was beginning to grow concerned. Something was clearly bothering him, but as always, Feliciano wasn’t saying a word. There were moments Gilbert found himself missing the proud, spoiled Venice—the one who demanded attention, exuded wealth and power, and refused to let anyone forget it.

Something was bothering Venice? He was already screaming through the whole republic about the issue. It was back then that Prussia couldn't help but look at Venice in admiration; he couldn't believe how much expressing power Venice had. He wasn’t shy about anything.

 

*** * ***

 

The Teutonic Knights—later known as Prussia—watched in awe as the Republic of Venice flaunted his wealth. The gold-laden accessories, the fine clothes, even his posture screamed power and affluence. His arrogance was unmatched, and the grandeur of Venice’s presence could make even kings envious.

At that time, the Teutonic Knights were a military order, full of admiration and envy. Venice was sociable but closed off at the same time, sharing his wealth sparingly with only a few. Gilbert—still the Teutonic Knights—was captivated by him, fascinated by how easily Venice could dominate both in trade and in personality.

One day, as Gilbert stood admiring from afar, Venice approached him, a knowing smile on his face. “What are you doing here, Gilbert? Shouldn’t you be with your order?”

Gilbert stammered, caught off guard. “Er… right…” he muttered awkwardly. The military order always felt shy when it came to Venice.

Venice raised an eyebrow, then his expression shifted to excitement. “Oh, by the way! Remember when I said I’d give you a proper name? You’re the Teutonic Knights, but I think Gilbert suits you better.”

Gilbert blinked, blushing furiously. The name sounded so… fitting. “Y-yeah! I like it!” he exclaimed, a wide grin breaking out across his face.

Venice laughed, the sound rich and full, much like the gold that adorned him. He knelt down to pat Gilbert’s head. “I’m glad! If you didn’t like it, I wouldn’t know what to do.” The dark glint in Venice’s eyes didn’t scare him—he has no reason to be scared.

It was, after all, Venice who took it upon himself to act as a guiding figure for Gilbert. Everything involving Gilbert involved Venice.

Without his support, Gilbert would have struggled to find his footing among the larger powers. Most other nations had little interest in a nascent military order that was still defining itself and its ambitions.

Venice saw potential in him and recognized the strategic value of cultivating an ally. For that, Gilbert was grateful.

 

*** * ***

 

As Gilbert neared the door, his path was blocked by a broad chest—Ludwig’s chest. The younger nation stood with his arms crossed, glaring down at his older brother.

“Bruder,” Ludwig sighed, shaking his head. “Stop pestering Feliciano. He’s had his ice cream privileges temporarily revoked.”

Gilbert groaned in frustration. “What are you, his father? He’s been cooped up in your house for two weeks now. He needs some sunlight!” It sometimes struck him how much Venice had changed. In the old days, Venice would have bristled at anyone fussing over him like this, taking it as an insult. Gilbert could still remember when Venice would explode with rage at the mere hint of being seen as vulnerable.

He recalled one vivid night from years back. He’d been readying for bed when he heard a crash, and then Venice’s furious screams. Gilbert had stood there, transfixed, watching as Venice tore through his belongings with the ferocity of a wild animal. It was as though a beast had taken hold of the republic…

 

*** * ***

 

Gilbert’s breath caught as Venice smashed another ornate piece against the floor, shattering it. 

He’d never seen Venice this livid—it was terrifying, almost. Logically, he should have left before the wrath turned his way, but he couldn’t look away. Moments like these, when Venice’s carefully composed mask dropped, fascinated Gilbert. It showed that even a Republic like Venice had an untamed, primal side.

He knew, of course, that if Venice noticed him staring, he wouldn’t hesitate to strike out at him. Rage had a way of blinding people to everything around them, and Gilbert couldn’t hold it against Venice. In his eyes, Venice was too captivating for him to care about any repercussions.

Gilbert flinched again as another item crashed against the wall, shattering beside him. He watched Venice shake with rage, tearing at his hair as his breaths came in harsh gasps.

“That artless Turk peasant… how dare he look down on me?” Venice snarled, tearing more of his hair. “He says, ‘Oh, you may be independent now, but one day you’ll be so weak your bones will turn to dust!’” Venice spat the words with venom, a mocking imitation of the Ottoman Empire. "Oh, how insulting! Shall you burn in hell, Ottoman Empire. How dare that low-born two-faced bastard tell me such things?”

He grabbed another object and shattered it with a furious swing. “Ridiculous! My independence is what makes me so great. What, does he think I’ll lose all this?” Venice raged, kicking one of his recent drawings across the room.

Gilbert’s heart sank—that drawing had been one of his favorites! He had hoped to keep it for himself when he grew in power. But then, everything stilled.

Gilbert held his breath as Venice turned slowly, fixing him with a piercing, ice-cold stare. They stood in silence for a tense moment before Venice motioned for him to come closer. Heart pounding, Gilbert obeyed, walking toward Venice, who knelt down in front of him. Venice placed a hand on Gilbert’s shoulder, his face twisted and distorted, barely recognizable. This shook Gilbert a bit more, but he held his ground.

“Say, Gilbert… do I seem that weak, that anyone would dare insult me?” Venice murmured.

Gilbert shook his head quickly, finding himself unable to speak.

Venice looked down, his gaze fixed on the floor as if it told him all Gilbert's dirty secrets. His grip on Gilbert’s shoulder tightened painfully, but Gilbert stayed quiet.

Venice’s gaze lifted to meet Gilbert’s, a faint, soft smile on his face. “Say, Gilbert… would you be mine forever?” Gilbert flushed. “Or will you leave me to rot alone, like so many other ungrateful brats?”

It was cruel of Venice to ask him this, really. Gilbert knew that if he said no, Venice would look at him with utter contempt. Venice constantly needed to possess something—someone—loyal, something that reassured him of his own worth. If Gilbert were to dismiss everything Venice had given and promised him, it would only make Venice feel he’d wasted his time and care. Venice would shut himself away, pushing everyone out of his world.

But fortunately for Venice, Gilbert liked him. A lot.

Gilbert felt Venice’s nails pressing into his skin, as if he’d taken too long to answer. He looked into Venice’s eyes with determination and nodded.

“Of course.”

Venice tilted his head, face blank.

Gilbert blushed, realizing what Venice wanted to hear. “Err… yes, I’ll be yours forever.”

Had he been older, it might have sounded almost romantic. But he was still a child, and Venice was known for being detached from romance. Venice was twisted like that—beautiful, but you’d have to tear his affection from his cold, dead hands to receive it. His obsession with independence ran so deep that the thought of loving anyone romantically made him frown.

Gilbert watched Venice sigh, smiling softly. “I’m glad. I’d have throttled you if you’d said you’d leave,” Venice laughed, brushing away nonexistent tears.

Gilbert shifted uncomfortably.

“But seriously,” Venice continued, his tone suddenly grave, “if you ever go back on your word, I’ll make sure you regret ever being gifted life. I don’t like it when my possessions lie to me.”

Gilbert could only nod with a steady gaze. “Even if I grow stronger than you, I’ll always be by your side!”

Venice chuckled. “You’re funny. If a time ever comes when you’re stronger than me, you’ll lose interest in someone weaker. Don’t say foolish things.”

Gilbert scowled, then, with no fear or shame, placed his small hands on Venice’s face, surprising the older man.

“No! I promise that the awesome me of the future will take good care of you, just like you’re doing now!”

Venice stared blankly before taking Gilbert’s hands off his face, then picked him up, causing him to squawk in surprise.

“Silly little powerless thing…” Gilbert heard Venice mutter as he carried him to his room to tuck him in for bed. Gilbert could only stare as Venice patted his head before switching off the light and leaving.

 

*** * ***

 

“...Feliciano said he doesn’t want to go outside, so put him down,” Ludwig said sternly.

Gilbert huffed in annoyance. “You’re no fun at all. So unawesome!” he grumbled, but relented, setting Feliciano back down.

As expected, the moment his feet touched the ground, Feliciano ran straight to Ludwig, throwing himself at the taller man. Ludwig caught him effortlessly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Ludwig!”

“Feliciano,” Ludwig replied calmly, clearly used to the Italian’s antics.

Gilbert couldn’t help but watch the scene unfold with a slight pang of jealousy. Feliciano had always been quick to seek out Ludwig’s company, no matter how stiff and formal the younger nation could be. Ludwig, for all his rigidness, had a soft spot for Feliciano that few ever got to see.

“Fine, fine,” Gilbert muttered under his breath, crossing his arms. “But you have to admit, a little gelato would have done him some good.”

Ludwig glanced at his brother, one eyebrow raised. “Feliciano needs rest, not more sugar,” he replied, his voice firm but calm. “The last thing we need is for him to bounce off the walls.”

Gilbert sighed, the hint of irritation bubbling to the surface. “Come on, Ludwig. He’s been cooped up for too long. It’s good for him to enjoy himself. Besides, sugar makes everything better!”

“I’m sure you believe that,” Ludwig replied dryly, though there was a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Gilbert feigned an offended expression but couldn’t hide his smile as he watched Ludwig set Feliciano down. “So, what do you want for dinner?” Ludwig asked, a hint of indulgence in his voice.

“Pasta!” Feliciano chirped, his usual enthusiasm lighting up his face.

Ludwig sighed. “Feliciano, we had pasta for breakfast.”

Feliciano hummed. “Then I don’t know, you pick something!”

Gilbert smirked to himself, watching the familiar dynamic unfold between Feliciano and Ludwig. It was always amusing to see Feliciano, carefree and playful, around people who tried to keep their emotions under control. Ludwig, ever the serious one, merely sighed with a faint smile and retreated to the kitchen.

As Feliciano prepared to return to his drawing, Gilbert called out to him, his tone unusually serious.

“Feliciano,” he called softly.

Feliciano looked at him questioningly.

Gilbert took a quick look toward the kitchen, ensuring his younger brother wouldn’t overhear, before focusing back on the Italian. “Are you alright? You've been acting differently the past couple of weeks, and it's bothering me.” His gaze was met by a carefully blank expression from Feliciano, an expression so foreign on his typically bright face that it made Gilbert flinch. For a moment, it reminded him of a much older, distant time—Venice.

“Ve, Prussia, I’m fine,” Feliciano replied in a distant tone. “I’ve just been feeling..." He paused, thinking. "Lost?"

Gilbert’s frown deepened. “That’s not exactly comforting, Feli. I know you have a habit of keeping things to yourself. Please, just tell me what’s bothering you.”

—Mind you, Prussia was not one to talk about feelings. Emotional talks made him cringe and made him drown himself in ignorance and alcohol.

Nonetheless, even a man like him can crack at times. In order to understand Feliciano's problem, he has to back down from his "men don't talk about stupid feelings!" Mindset.

Oh, the things I do for you Feliciano... Prussia thought. He watched Feliciano’s eyebrows twitched in irritation.

“I’m not hiding anything, Prussia. I just need time alone to think.” 

Gilbert wasn’t buying it. “Feli—”

“Gilbert,” Feliciano interrupted, his tone sharper than usual, “drop it. I want to handle this myself. You should focus on your brother instead.”

Gilbert blinked, momentarily taken aback. Worry about Ludwig instead of Feliciano? He already worried more than enough for his brother—and they both knew it. Irritation flared up as he processed Feliciano’s blunt dismissal. How dare he try to brush him off like that? If anyone had the right to look out for him, it was Gilbert. After all, he knew Feliciano better than almost anyone else. For goodness’ sake, he was raised around Feliciano! And the expressions he was making, those long dark thoughtful looks—it all screamed danger.

Gilbert crossed his arms, puffing up slightly, and gave Feliciano a steely glare. “You think I’m going to stop worrying about you that easily? Feli, I told you once, and I’ll say it again—I’m always here to protect you. Why won’t you let me?”

Feliciano’s surprise flickered before he composed himself, taking on a guarded stance. It was clear he wasn’t used to Gilbert pushing back against his wishes.

“You’re being unusually stubborn, Gilbert.”

“Of course I am! Who wouldn’t be if they cared about you?” Gilbert shot back. “I’m sure Romano doesn’t just let you brush him off like this.”

Gilbert could almost imagine Romano's face if Feliciano told him off like this. He bets Romano would've already flipped the whole house upside down.

He could faintly hear Romano's scream of “Are you hiding something from me, bastard?! How dare you!” 

That seemed to hit Feliciano's nerves as he scowled. The scowling made him seem much older than he physically looked, and it looked wrong on his face.

“What, are you going to try pushing me? I’m stronger than you, you know,” Gilbert teased, trying to keep the mood light. “You could save us both some trouble and just tell me what’s going on.”

That made Feliciano pause. Feliciano seemed to deflate, relaxing his posture with a sigh. He looked exhausted.

“...I know that you're worried, and I won't lie to you; yes, there's something bothering me, but I'm not ready to talk about it. I just,” Feliciano looked at his hands, a thoughtful look on his face. “I don't know. I'm trying to decide on something.”

Gilbert leaned in, eyes narrowed. “And that ‘something’ is?”

Feliciano turned his head, as if dismissing the question. “Something personal, ve.”

Gilbert groaned, muttering, “Yeah, that really clears things up…”

Shaking his head, Feliciano murmured, “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Nope. Anything that affects you affects me, too. You know that,” Gilbert replied, crossing his arms. “And now that Ludwig’s always got you in his life, don’t think for a second that I’m about to just stand aside.” It would be ridiculous for Feliciano to think like this. Gilbert felt almost insulted by how lowly Feliciano seemed to think about him.

Feliciano stared at him for a moment. “Ve, You’re…”

“Strange?”

“No… more overbearing than Ludwig,” Feliciano muttered, his voice faintly annoyed.

Gilbert chuckled. “And you’re the only one who can say that and get away with it.”

“Ve…” Feliciano sighed, seemingly losing interest in the conversation as he headed toward the kitchen. But Gilbert stopped him with one last line, his voice softened.

“Just know this, Feliciano; whatever you're planning on won't end up good. I know you, and I also know how you make choices.” he paused, “Seriously, talk to somebody. It doesn’t have to be the awesome me or Ludwig, but… Please.” 

Feliciano hesitated, then looked back over his shoulder, his voice low. “We’ll see about that.” And with that, he disappeared down the hallway, leaving Gilbert standing alone.

For the first time in a long time, Gilbert felt a pang of helplessness.

 

*** * ***

 

A week later, a meeting was held in the USA.

Arthur had only been there for a few hours, and he could already feel his hair graying. He seemed to lose a few years of his lifespan every time Alfred held a meeting. It was always either about something utterly ridiculous or the worst kind of meeting imaginable—especially when the Frenchman was present.

In most cases, it was both. But today, Arthur needed to find a way to talk to a certain someone.

 

…God, if that frog-faced idiot didn’t shut up, he was going to lose his mind.

Arthur snapped his head toward Francis, glaring. “Shut it, frog-face! Nobody cares. You’re annoying everyone with your incessant chatter!”

Francis gasped in mock offense. “Oh, you’re such an immature man! Not a single meeting goes by without you throwing a tantrum!”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Perhaps if you’d be quiet for once, I might actually be somewhat tame.”

Francis pushed Arthur, who retaliated by shoving him back. They were now practically growling in each other’s faces. Before either of them could say anything further, Alfred clapped his hands to draw all attention to himself.

"Alright, everyone, settle down!” Alfred beamed, his enthusiasm unmistakable. “Thanks for coming! We’ve got a lot to cover today, and I promise it’ll be a blast!” He grinned widely, completely unaware of the tension simmering between Arthur and Francis.

Arthur sighed, crossing his arms in annoyance. "A blast? More like a disaster waiting to happen," he muttered under his breath.

Francis smirked, clearly overhearing him. “Oh, Arthur, always so pessimistic. Why not try to enjoy this delightful gathering? Perhaps it’ll help you loosen up a bit!”

“Enjoy? With you yapping away like a bloody parrot? Not a chance,” Arthur shot back, trying to ignore the way his irritation only fueled Francis’s amusement.

“Gentlemen, please!” Alfred interrupted, waving his hands theatrically. “We have important matters to discuss! First on the agenda is the upcoming trade agreement…”

Alfred launched into his presentation. As the meeting went on, all Arthur did was constantly glaze at Feliciano.

As he did, Arthur’s mind began to wander, tapping his fingers impatiently as he waited for it to end. He kept glancing again at Italy, who’s doodling and fooling around as usual. Arthur narrows his eyes. Of course Italy is doodling and acting like Arthur wasn’t giving him looks the whole meeting. Of course. 

It’s almost ridiculous, especially since even Feliciano’s brother noticed with that annoying glare. And whilst getting glared at by South Italy isn’t pleasant, Arthur is determined to get his attention. That cheerful wanker shouldn’t have ignored him in the first place.

Also, if that frog-faced idiot keeps looking at him suspiciously, he might just lose it.

Seriously, what's up with that imbecile and him getting defensive when it comes to Italy? You'd think the Frenchman is so deep in his pervertism that he wouldn't care for anybody else; yet he somehow proves Arthur wrong each time.

(The fact that the French nation looks almost painfully guilty around Italy doesn't miss England.)

Anyways,

Feliciano is often dismissed as a fool (which he undoubtedly is)—and while he can be quite naive, Arthur knows better. To this day he’s curious why Feliciano Vargas, representing the once-powerful Venetian Republic, became such a soft-hearted soul(and a coward. But was he, really?). Did Hungary spoil him too much? But Arthur isn’t foolish; he knows that wanker is ignoring him on purpose.

Is it because he’s afraid of England? Maybe during World War II, he was shaking in his boots and running like a wild horse at the mention of the British Empire, but nowadays? Not so much. 

First of all, the British Empire’s influence had begun to wane after the war, and while they were allies during World War I, their relationship became much more complex afterward. England knew they were still somewhat connected—just a letter here and there(it was mostly England reaching out though)—but it was more personal than political these days.

How could he not, after learning that the nation of North Italy—specifically Venice—could see magical creatures? It was around the 16th century, a period rife with tensions between Catholicism and Protestantism. One day, while walking back from a Catholic church, Feliciano (or Venice, as he was known) encountered England, who was trying to fend off a troublesome black magical creature. Just as young England—unified kingdom and a rising power—was about to yell for the man to leave, Feliciano reached into his pocket and pulled out a pouch of herbs. He tossed them at the creature, which let out a horrified screech before vanishing.

Back then, England could hardly believe his eyes. Venice was a heavily Catholic city, so witnessing him use what appeared to be witchcraft(?)—often associated with a devil—was shocking. But Feliciano just grinned and insisted it was “special holy herbs.” To this day, England still isn’t convinced.

Anyways, back to the topic; the twit has insulted him in the face many times before. England will never forget Felicano calling him a Royal Footstool Jackass that can’t cook.

Which is quite rude! Arthur has improved at cooking, thank you very much. Well, he may have needed to whip up some kind of treat for a certain someone who’s totally ignoring him right now.

Anyway, Feliciano looked far too calm, doodling whatever he was drawing. Fear was clearly absent from his current vocabulary. Arthur sighed, resting his chin on his hand. This meeting was dragging on, and he needed to come up with a plan to corner that coward. Approaching him directly and pressing him would likely backfire; Feliciano would just think he was out for a fight, which would lead to an ugly scene—and then Germany would inevitably get involved.

Arthur didn’t want anyone else in this matter. Instead, bribing Feliciano might be the best approach. He had a soft spot for those fluffy, cloud-like cookies that tasted like marshmallows, though they were quite expensive. Luckily, Arthur had some money to spare.

And if, by some miracle, bribing that airhead didn’t work? Well, he’d have to go through Spain. Why Spain? Because if Arthur spoke to Antonio, he would spill everything to Romano, and Romano didn’t appreciate it when his brother kept secrets. That would make Feliciano feel cornered, as his brother’s concern would inevitably lead to Ludwig worrying too. Then Feliciano would have no choice but to approach Arthur and talk.

A smug smile crept across Arthur's face as he feigned indifference to the growing number of nations noticing how unusually quiet he was. He couldn’t blame them; normally, when it was America’s turn to present, Arthur always had something to say. But today was different; he had more pressing matters at hand. Not to mention that the hamburger addict seemed far happier not being interrupted, though Russia appeared ready to intervene at any moment.

All he had to do now was wait for the meeting to conclude. Then he could spring into action.

Once the meeting ended, Arthur had been keeping a close eye on Feliciano, determined not to let him slip away. However, when he got distracted by China for just a second, Feliciano vanished from the meeting room.

Internally, Arthur groaned in frustration.

Let me guess, he thought sarcastically. When I see him next, he’ll be next to someone unapproachable. Sure enough, that’s exactly what happened. For some inexplicable reason, Feliciano was deep in conversation with Russia.

Arthur felt as though he had been mentally slapped. What is this, a game of “guess where I’ll be next”? And why on earth was Feliciano talking to—Ivan? No, don’t answer that. This wasn’t the first time Feliciano had approached Ivan. In fact, after every interaction with that towering power-hungry nation, The bigger nation always seemed in a much better mood. The nation didn't look like it was ready to punch Alfred anymore.

As Arthur stood waiting for Feliciano to finish his conversation, his eyes narrowed slightly when he caught sight of Ivan lifting Feliciano off the floor in one of his all-too-familiar bone-crushing hugs. The Italian seemed to be laughing, albeit nervously, as Ivan twirled him around like a rag doll.

Arthur immediately averted his gaze, feeling a twinge of discomfort. He wasn’t a stalker, after all, and whatever was happening between those two wasn’t his business. Not that he wanted it to be.

He rubbed the back of his neck and let out a quiet sigh. Arthur had absolutely no idea what kind of relationship Ivan and Feliciano shared—and for the sake of his own sanity, he was perfectly fine keeping it that way. If it involved Ivan, it was probably something better left untouched.

“Just another one of his strange friendships, no doubt,” Arthur muttered to himself, trying to push down the subtle unease gnawing at him.

When Arthur turned back again, Feliciano was gone. Only Russia remained, staring at Arthur with that unnervingly blank expression. Arthur shuddered and quickly moved away, determined to find Feliciano.

He had almost given up hope—the slippery git clearly knew how to avoid him—when finally, he spotted him. Feliciano was hiding behind Germany. Of course, he was. The little coward had no other options. If Feliciano had chosen to talk with America, China, or even Japan, Arthur would have approached without hesitation, though with some inevitable awkwardness.

Hiding outside would have been a terrible choice. Feliciano would either get lost, or Germany and Japan would search for him. Given that Feliciano had arrived at the meeting with Germany, there was no escaping without Ludwig.

Feliciano might have considered leaving with his older brother, Romano, but Romano was currently locked in conversation with Spain, and Feliciano didn’t particularly enjoy being around Romano after meetings. The younger Italian was always more at ease when his brother wasn’t around, and Romano usually only approached him when they were alone.

But hiding behind Germany? On any other day, Arthur might have hesitated—thought twice about whether it was even worth confronting the Italian in such a situation. But today? Arthur wasn’t in the mood for games. He was going to get that coward, Germany or no Germany.

Forget the careful approach. Arthur had a new plan.

He strode confidently toward Ludwig, who was busy sorting through documents but quickly noticed Arthur approaching.

"Ah, England," Ludwig greeted him, always formal and efficient. Feliciano flinched slightly behind him.

Arthur nodded, pretending not to notice Feliciano’s obvious discomfort. “Germany, lovely weather today, isn’t it?”

Ludwig raised an eyebrow, clearly confused but polite enough to play along. “Yes... I suppose so.”

Arthur smirked, glancing pointedly at the Italian trying to shrink further behind Ludwig. “I’d like a word with Feliciano, if you don’t mind.”

Ludwig paused, turning to look at the visibly distressed Italian behind him. “I don’t see why not,” he said, with a slight frown of concern.

Arthur couldn’t help but feel a small surge of triumph. Germany was so predictable, bless him. He knew Ludwig was protective of Feliciano, but even the stoic German had his limits. Today, luck was on Arthur’s side.

With a defeated sigh, Feliciano finally stepped out from behind Ludwig, though he remained close, clearly unwilling to venture far from his protector. His wide eyes darted nervously between the two, looking as if he might burst into tears at any moment.

Arthur smiled, but there was a steely determination behind it. "Thank you, Germany. This won't take long."

Feliciano still hovered near Ludwig, unwilling to stray too far. Arthur took a step closer, his expression softening just slightly. If Feliciano thought he could hide forever, he was sorely mistaken.

“Well, then, Feliciano,” Arthur said, voice deceptively calm. “Let’s have a little chat, shall we?”

 

*** * ***

 

Feliciano’s heart pounded in his chest as Arthur approached, that determined look in his eyes making him want to disappear entirely behind Ludwig. Why did England have to pick today of all days to corner him? He had been avoiding him for a reason—he wasn’t ready to talk, not about that.

When Arthur started with his polite small talk about the weather, Feliciano knew his time had run out. He could feel Ludwig’s eyes on him, waiting for him to step out from behind his back like a child caught hiding behind a parent. There was no escape now, not with Ludwig there, watching. And Germany... well, he wouldn’t get in the way if Arthur wanted to talk. Ludwig didn’t see what was really happening.

Feliciano’s breath hitched when Arthur’s voice broke the tension. "Well then, Feliciano," he said, his tone deceptively calm, though Feliciano could feel the weight behind it. "Let’s have a little chat, shall we?"

His heart pounded louder in his chest. A chat. Arthur made it sound so simple, like they were going to casually discuss the weather or pasta, but Feliciano knew better. He could feel the pressure, the way Arthur's sharp green eyes locked onto him like a predator eyeing its prey. There was no way to run from this now.

He swallowed, glancing quickly at Ludwig, hoping—wishing—for some kind of lifeline, but Germany just nodded at him with that stern, reassuring expression, clearly thinking this was just another one of those diplomatic talks. Ludwig didn’t know. He didn’t understand how much Feliciano had been avoiding this conversation.

“Ve, s-sure, England..." Feliciano stammered, his voice barely audible as he fidgeted with his sleeves. His mind scrambled for an escape, but his feet wouldn’t move, and he was still standing far too close to Ludwig, as if the proximity alone would protect him.

Arthur’s expression softened just a fraction—so subtle that most people wouldn’t notice it, but Feliciano did. He always noticed the small changes in Arthur’s face, in his mannerisms. That almost made it worse because it meant Arthur wasn’t just annoyed, he was... concerned.

"Well,” Arthur began, his voice low and measured, “I had planned to speak with you about the matter directly now, but…” He glanced briefly at Germany. “I think it’d be better if I invited you instead…”

Feliciano stilled, realizing exactly where this was headed.

“…to a Cafe. Just the two of us.” Arthur paused for effect, then added, with clear intent, “Alone.”

Feliciano stared at him in silence, the weight of Arthur’s insistence sinking in. He stared so long that Ludwig looked ready to intervene, but before he could, Feliciano spoke.

“Ve… What if I refuse?”

Ludwig nearly choked on his own breath, taken aback, but Arthur remained unfazed.

“If you refuse?” Arthur repeated, his tone casual, but his eyes gleaming with sharp intent. “Well…” He leaned in slightly, his piercing gaze locking onto Feliciano. “I don’t think you’d appreciate it if your fratello got involved, would you?”

It was a veiled threat, but the message was clear. Feliciano had only just managed to calm his brother down after their last fight. He really didn’t want to deal with another fight. Arthur’s choice of words was clever—if he’d resorted to a more direct threat, Ludwig would have been on high alert, glaring daggers at him by now. But bringing up Feliciano’s brother, someone Ludwig wouldn’t think much of in this context, was a move that caught Feliciano off guard. A smart play from the other nation. Feliciano suspected Arthur had first planned to try bribery or perhaps go through Spain.

Feliciano crossed his arms, his face carefully neutral. “Fine.”

Arthur smirked, a hint of triumph in his eyes. “Brilliant. I’ll send you the time and place. And make sure you don’t ignore it,” he added in a tone that left no room for debate.

Feliciano watched as Arthur exited the room, the Brit seemed much more happier for having finally spoken to the Italian. He turned to Ludwig and embraced him with a soft sigh.

Ludwig froze, momentarily taken aback by the unexpected contact, but soon relaxed and gently patted Feliciano's shoulder in a comforting manner.

So lame, Feliciano thought to himself. The old man knew his cards all too well; this was completely unavoidable.

…Hm

 

*** * ***

 

Days had passed since Arthur's last conversation with Feliciano, and now it was finally time to meet him at the cozy café he had chosen. The place was warm and inviting, filled with the soft sounds of purring cats lounging around. Arthur knew that to get Feliciano to open up, he needed to create a comfortable atmosphere. After all, Feliciano had a knack for dodging heavy topics, so setting the right mood was essential.

He remembered a Christmas party where Spain had served Feliciano some of his delicious cooking. The warmth of the mansion had enveloped them, and he could practically see Feliciano melting into the coziness of it all. When he felt relaxed, Feliciano was more likely to let his guard down and overshare, spilling out details he usually kept hidden.

As Arthur sank into one of the plush chairs, he glanced at the door, eagerly awaiting Feliciano's arrival. He was confident that after sending that not-so-subtle message—“If you ignore this meeting, I will find you and throttle you, you coward!”—Feliciano wouldn’t dare to disregard him. The threat involving his brother had been more than enough motivation.

Just then, the bell above the door chimed, drawing his attention. Speak of the devil, there was Feliciano, closed-eyed and calm as he spotted Arthur. Arthur couldn’t help but smirk slightly, feeling relief. Feliciano slid into the seat across from him, his unsure demeanor evident even as he settled in.

Instead of jumping into conversation right away, they both ordered their meals and sat in silence. Feliciano maintained a calm demeanor, while Arthur wore a happy smile.

He was relieved that Feliciano had agreed to meet. Even more so, he felt a sense of comfort in Feliciano’s calmness—though deep down, Arthur couldn’t shake the feeling that it was almost too calm. Why was he feeling so paranoid? Strange.

When the server brought their food, Arthur decided it was time to break the ice.

“Well,” he began, catching Feliciano’s attention, “let’s get straight to the point. I don’t think it’ll do either of us any good to delay this matter.”

Feliciano hummed in agreement. “Ve, I agree.”

For some reason, Feliciano’s response didn’t ease Arthur’s unease. There was an odd tension in the way he said it. Perhaps Feliciano was simply nervous; that had to be it.

“Alright,” Arthur continued, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’ve been contacted by Oliver—” Feliciano’s eyebrow twitched at the mention of the name. “—who said the peace of the portal is being disturbed. He mentioned you and… Luciano.” Arthur’s tone grew distant as he recalled the conversation. “Oliver told me you’ve spoken with Luciano, and to get to the root of this, I need to know what’s going on between you two, Feliciano. Is something the matter? Oliver hinted that you were…” He paused, unsure how to phrase it. “Unwell?”

Silence stretched between them for a moment as Arthur observed Feliciano playing with the cake he had ordered.

“Vee… I’ve been a bit stressed lately,” Feliciano replied, offering a sad smile.

That was surprisingly easy for him to say. Had he really opened up that quickly? Arthur found it hard to believe that Feliciano would be so forthcoming. Maybe he was twisting his words, masking something deeper?

“Ah,” Arthur responded awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, err… does it have something to do with Luciano?”

Another twitch from Feliciano. If Arthur didn’t know better, he might’ve thought Feliciano looked almost insulted.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he kept his expression neutral. Feliciano’s reaction to Luciano’s name wasn’t lost on him. The twitch of the eyebrow, the subtle stiffening of his posture—it all pointed to something deeper.

“Feliciano,” Arthur began more firmly, “if something’s going on with Luciano, you can tell me. You’ve been avoiding my calls and messages for a week now. I don’t believe it’s just stress.”

Feliciano set his fork down, his movements careful and deliberate. He let out a soft sigh before meeting Arthur’s gaze, his usual carefree demeanor dimmed. “I didn’t mean to ignore you, ve…” His voice was quieter than before, tinged with something Arthur couldn’t quite place.

“Then why didn’t you answer?” Arthur pressed, his tone sharp. “I was starting to think you’d gotten yourself into some real trouble.”

Feliciano hesitated, his fingers tracing the edge of his plate. “It’s not that I didn’t want to answer,” he said slowly, carefully choosing his words. “It’s just… I didn’t know how to explain everything… it’s complicated.”

Arthur wanted to respond, to push the conversation in the right direction, but a strange feeling crept into him. Something about this didn’t feel right—there was an odd sense of unease, like a quiet alarm going off in the back of his mind. His fairy companions usually gave him a signal when something was off… but they hadn’t. So why was he so unnerved?

Something was wrong.

“Complicated?” Arthur asked, frowning.

Feliciano nodded, but his expression was different—more unsettled than Arthur had ever seen. It wasn’t the usual sadness Arthur was used to; this expression felt unnatural, like a mask that didn’t quite fit.

“It’s just…” Feliciano fidgeted with his hands. “Lately, I’ve been feeling so… useless. Everyone is trying their best, and then there’s me. I’ve been trying to improve, I swear. But,” he paused, glancing away, “it feels like my own brother wants to see me fail—”

What?

“Romano is so useless,” Feliciano continued, scowling deeply, “I’m surprised Spain hasn’t traded him in for a sack of tomatoes by now. Maybe if he spent half the time working instead of whining, he wouldn’t be such a burden!”

Arthur froze.

Feliciano, the same Feliciano who adored his brother, who always made sure Romano was alright, who never, ever spoke ill of him? Feliciano had his issues, sure, but he would never talk about Romano like that—especially not with such venom.

Arthur’s frown deepened, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. Slowly, it dawned on him.

“Who are you?”

Feliciano—no, whoever this was—stilled, the odd expression dropping for a moment. Then, a chilling smile spread across his face. When he opened his eyes again, they were no longer the warm brown of Feliciano’s, but a sinister pinkish-purple. Luciano.

“Well, well,” Luciano purred, his voice taking on a mocking tone. “I suppose I slipped up with that one, didn’t I? Feliciano’s far too fond of his dear brother to say something like that. My bad.”

Arthur’s blood ran cold, but his mind clicked into action. He bolted to his feet, voice sharp with urgency.

“Where is Feliciano?!”

Luciano chuckled darkly, clearly enjoying the panic in Arthur’s voice. “Oh, don’t worry,” he cooed. “Me and Feli just switched.. places for a time being.”

What? Arthur’s eyes flashed with fury, his hands clenching into fists. Before he knew it, he attacked Luciano.

 

*** * ***

 

Arthur’s first encounter with Luciano had been anything but welcoming. When Arthur learned that magic had been stripped away from their world in the 2p world, he took it upon himself to close the portal that connected their realms and allowed magic to leak through.

He had thought, This shouldn’t be difficult. If I don’t get caught, I can end all of this with a snap of my fingers.

How wrong he had been.

The moment Arthur stepped through the mirror portal, he wasn’t met with grass or houses. Instead, he found himself amidst dead bodies, the air thick with the stench of gunpowder, and the earth trembling beneath the roar of tanks. The deafening sounds of war were everywhere.

Startled, he quickly ducked behind the nearest wreckage, heart pounding in his chest. He had walked straight into a war zone, and as he peeked around the rubble, his eyes widened in disbelief. The battle was between 2p!Italy and… 2p!America? What shocked him more was that America—someone Arthur knew for his brashness and raw power—was losing, badly.

"You goddamn Italian bastard!" Allen’s voice rang out, rage barely masking desperation. "You humiliated the Baltics! I'm not letting you win this time!"

Arthur watched as 2p!America—Allen—fired recklessly while attempting to speed away in a damaged truck. Meanwhile, 2p!Italy—Luciano—stood atop a massive tank, issuing commands like a conductor in the middle of a violent symphony.

Luciano smirked at the retreating American. "Then why are you running away, coward?"

The taunt hit its mark, and Allen only slammed his foot harder on the gas, clearly desperate to escape. Luciano let out a sigh, his tone far too casual for the chaos surrounding him. "Lutz, finish him off. He’s not making it far—there’s a German brigade waiting at the front. Unless that weirdo who calls himself America’s 'daddy' swoops in for a rescue, Allen’s going to end up with a bullet in his skull."

From atop the tank, the muzzle swung toward the retreating truck. Arthur watched as the cannon fired, sending a shell crashing toward the vehicle. Allen swerved violently, avoiding a direct hit, but the truck was badly damaged. The sound of Allen’s furious scream echoed over the battlefield as he struggled to regain control.

Luciano stood there, watching Allen’s retreat with a bored huff. His cold, calculating eyes scanned the area, clearly already moving on to the next matter at hand. With a casual jump, he descended from the tank, landing gracefully amidst the destruction. Lutz, the tall and imposing German, dismounted from the tank as well, falling into step beside Luciano.

Luciano sighed. “I still don't understand why Allen tries to dominate this world. This is the 13th time now that he has crossed the territory.” He paused, “Yet, the moment the conference meeting starts he will just sit all tame and act like nothing happened.”

Lutz stood in silence, watching as Luciano patted his clothes to get rid of the dust. If one were blind, they wouldn't have noticed how attentively Lutz watched Luciano. 

“I give you permission to speak Lutz.”

Lutz cleared his throat. “What’s the next order, boss?” he asked, his voice heavy with military discipline. Although it seemed he didn't speak often, his voice seemed almost husky.

Luciano hummed thoughtfully. “Send word to your troops. Have them move south—I have a feeling someone’s planning another pathetic attack that’ll fail all the same.”

Lutz nodded and promptly turned to carry out the orders.

“But before you leave…”

Lutz stopped.

“Tell Kuro to start preparing his troops as well, if I see him playing his porn games instead of preparing, he’s going to be severely punished for not carrying my orders.”

“Understood.”

 Lutz finally left, leaving Luciano surveying the battlefield. Arthur held his breath, feeling a chill run down his spine. Luciano was every bit the ruthless tactician, a reflection of a world where survival meant crushing everyone in your way.

Arthur clenched his fists. If he was going to stop this madness and close the portal, he would need to move fast—and pray Luciano didn't notice him.

Unfortunately, luck wasn't on his side. As he started crawling away, he froze as he felt a gun on the back of his head.

Shit.

Arthur gulped, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

“Well, well, what do we have here…” Luciano hummed, his voice low and taunting.

Arthur slowly turned his head, catching Luciano’s gaze. Their eyes locked.

Luciano’s gaze sharpened. “Oliver’s doppelganger, huh? Odd. Did he finally make a copy of himself just to annoy more people?”

Arthur couldn't hold back. “I’m not that wanker’s copy!” His defiance was cut short as a boot struck him sharply.

“Oh, really? Then what are you?” Luciano’s eyes glinted coldly. “You have sixty seconds to tell me, or I’ll shoot.”

Arthur's eyebrows twitched, but he complied. “I’m Oliver’s 1p.” Better to tell the truth than try lying.

That made Luciano pause, eyes narrowing slightly. “1p, you say…”

Arthur stayed silent, weighing his next move. Perhaps he should use teleportation magic, though he knew the chance of it backfiring was higher than he’d like.

He clenched his hand, beginning to murmur the spell under his breath—but before he could finish, a brutal kick landed in his stomach, knocking the air out of him in a pained gasp.

Luciano huffed, visibly annoyed. “Woah there, were you actually trying to teleport? How rude.”

“H-how did you—?”

“I’ve been around Oliver long enough to know when he’s trying to pull that trick.” Luciano rolled his eyes. “You really think you can just disappear that easily?”

Arthur held his stomach, glaring up at Luciano. 

“What are you doing here, Oliver’s doppelganger?” Luciano pressed.

Arthur gritted his teeth, forcing out the words. “Someone from your world is siphoning magic from mine.”

Luciano’s expression shifted to one of surprise, though somehow, it felt strangely insincere. “Oh, really now?”

"Yes. And I'd like to close the portal, because you lunatics shouldn't even consider taking anything from our world." Arthur scowled. "I’d really appreciate it if you could keep in mind that we’re two separate worlds, and they shouldn’t ever touch. You have no business crossing that line."

A silence fell, then Luciano’s face twisted into a pensive expression.

“Well,” Luciano said with a pause, “the world doesn’t exactly work by rules, you know.”

Arthur frowned, baffled. "What—" He didn’t get to finish. Luciano shot him in the head.

Everything went black.

 

 

Afterward, Arthur doesn’t really know what happened. Well, he knows, but he’s not sure how to feel about it.

All Arthur knows is that he woke up choking on dirt, unable to see a thing, with pressure crushing him from every direction. Instinct took over, and he began thrashing, desperate for any way out. It felt like ages before he finally broke free, gasping for air as he crawled halfway out of the hole he’d dug himself out of.

Luciano had buried him alive.

Arthur pressed his face into his hands, lying there motionless for a while. 

He was… in shock, an overwhelming flood of emotions coursing through him as he tried to process it all.

What the hell?

Why did he—no. Arthur didn't want to think about it. He drew in a long, shaky breath, his whole body trembling.

…Yeah, no. Luciano was nothing like his 1P.

Arthur lay still for a moment longer before he finally dug himself free, feeling unsteady yet clear-minded enough to think. Dirt clung to him like a second skin, covering his clothes, but he didn’t have the luxury to care. He had a mission to complete.

With that resolve, he left the war zone, searching for the place where the magic was stored.

Five grueling days passed in that cursed world, each more punishing than he’d anticipated. What he thought would be a straightforward task turned nightmarishly difficult once he saw the intense security around the realm—layers upon layers of military troops, guarding every inch of territory. And Arthur knew whose forces they were: Luciano’s.

As he moved further, the grim picture of this world began to sharpen in his mind. When he crossed over through the mirror, he’d emerged in Italy’s domain, an area fiercely protected. Everywhere he looked, soldiers patrolled or stood guard, military fencing wrapped around every corner. 

The troops were a mixed force of German, Italian, and Japanese soldiers. Oddly, Arthur noticed the Italian soldiers seemed openly hostile toward the Germans, who never retaliated—just accepted the kicks and insults without question. It was clear there was some hierarchy or power dynamic at play here.

From behind a wall, Arthur observed as an Italian officer berated a German soldier.

"Segui le istruzioni, idiota! Cazzo. Non ho mai visto uomini così patetici come te!” he yelled. The German soldier murmured something in his own language, only to be kicked again before he slunk toward one of the tents, head bowed in shame. Arthur couldn’t help but marvel; it was bizarre seeing such submission in men who, in his world, had a reputation for iron discipline.

Nonetheless, he moved away, knowing he needed to settle this matter quickly. Later, under the cover of night, Arthur slipped through the shadows, careful to avoid any patrolling soldiers. He'd seen the flag, confirming his suspicions—this was the Italian Empire’s territory. To evade capture, and, most importantly, to avoid another encounter with Luciano, he decided teleportation was his best option and disappeared from Italian soil.

The landscape that greeted him was desolate, a wasteland of dead grass and ruined buildings. Arthur sighed. Was there anywhere in this place that didn’t look like a graveyard? Probably not—italy territory probably doesn't count. Through all the military stuff, something caught his eye—a massive fence standing beyond the layers of military barriers. It wasn’t just another security barricade; it was the type of fence you’d see around grand villas. Only, instead of a mansion, it seemed to enclose an entire area of life—a rare “alive” zone, with green grass, sturdy buildings, and even people.

Civilization, it appeared, existed solely within Italian borders. The rest of the world was nothing but death and decay. 

God, it would have been so much easier to hunt down the place holding the magic if there wasn’t a military presence at every turn. Arthur wondered how the conference meetings even functioned in a place like this. 

Luciano had mentioned something about those meetings once. But where were they held? Likely not in Luciano's own territory, he reasoned.

As Arthur looked around, he thought he’d have to wander aimlessly once more. Just then, he spotted a military jeep approaching. Cursing under his breath, Arthur dropped to the ground, hiding behind a crumbling stone.

As the jeep came to a halt, a man with white hair—2P!Prussia, unmistakably—stumbled out. It was obvious who he was, yet this Prussia carried none of the usual confidence, his long, curly hair tied back in a low ponytail. His uniform bore the symbol of the Teutonic Knights.

The man knelt, and then his face cracked, revealing the sorrow beneath. He began to weep. Arthur shifted uncomfortably—this felt too pitiful to watch, but he had no intention of revealing himself. Instead, he listened, hoping to glean information.

The man wept, muttering about his brother. Their relationship seemed strained.

“If only my bruder wasn’t blinded by his love for that tyrant…” he murmured, his voice choked. “What does he even see in him? I should be happy for my bruder; it’s clear he has a new purpose. But Luciano is blinded by power.” He paused, wiped his eyes.

A long, weary sigh escaped him. “I wish… I wish some miracle would bring someone to this world. Someone who could be our hope. Someone who’s everything Luciano isn’t…”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. An unusual wish. The only person he could think of that fit such a description was Luciano’s own 1P counterpart, Feliciano—but the idea of Feliciano crossing over to this twisted world seemed absurd. Besides, Arthur would never allow it if he could help it.

Not that Feliciano, with his gentle disposition, would likely survive here. As Arthur considered this, he felt a strange discomfort settle over him. Feliciano was weak, perhaps, even cowardly—but he was also the only nation who refused to engage in brutality. 

Arthur paused.

Odd for a nation, really, but it was almost admirable how he’d rather take a thousand bullets and never wake up again than fight back. Feliciano despised war and would do anything but kill.

Arthur huffed. Yes, the idea of Feliciano meeting a 2P was best left forbidden.

The thought alone made him uncomfortable, as if there was an underlying threat in that possibility. Strange.

No more time to dwell on it—Arthur had likely found the place storing the magic of his world. Who knew watching a man weep for a miracle would be enough time for his tracking spell to locate the source.

Arthur coughed blood, closed his eyes, and teleported.

Notes:

Thank you for reading!!! >0<
Updates will depend on my motivation.

Chapter 3

England screamed in agony as he was hit in the abdomen. He felt dizzy and there was ringing in his ears.

He was pushed into the ground, losing all his focus. When he looked up, he saw Felciano’s—Lucianos—beat-up face that was scowling at him. Luciano slowly raised his leg to kick once again, making Arthur scream in alarm.

Luciano, however, felt no pity as he brutally kicked Arthur. A crack was heard.

Luciano kneeled. “And this,” he paused as he watched Arthur watch him with horror. “is for burning my hands with concrete, you rat.” He then took a fistful of Arthur’s hair and ran Arthur’s face on the concrete below them.

An agnostic scream was heard throughout the whole street.

*** * ***

Ludwig heard the front door open and close and perked up.

Is Feliciano back already? That meeting with Arthur couldn’t have ended so soon… Ludwig thought, puzzled. Still, he resumed reading the newspaper, expecting any moment to hear the Italian’s usual rush of footsteps, then his lively recount of every detail of the cafe meeting.

But the house stayed silent.

Ludwig frowned. That was unusual. He put down the newspaper and stood up. He glanced toward the hallway, where the quiet felt almost unsettling. 

By the door, Italy’s outdoor shoes were scattered on the floor, confirming he was indeed home. Ludwig heaved a sigh as he fixed them up so they would be neatly set in place. Ludwig’s brow furrowed further. Perhaps Feliciano’s just tired, he reasoned. England can be persistent and quite difficult to deal with…

Nonetheless, he made his way upstairs, listening closely, and paused as he heard a faint noise from the guest room.

As he slowly walked up to the guest room—the one that Feliciano, surprisingly, used to sleep on his own—He noticed the door slightly ajar.

Inside, he glimpses Feliciano’s back. The Italian seemed to be hunched over a small box… pause. Was that a medkit?

Ludwig froze. Why did Feliciano need a medkit?

As Ludwig's thoughts flew through every possibility, they halted when he heard Feliciano hiss in pain. In an instant, Ludwig loudly pushed the door wide open, startling Feliciano.

“Feliciano?” Ludwig called, concern clear in his voice. “Is something wrong? What are you doing with the medkit?”

The silence that followed was thick and heavy. Feeling his patience run out; Ludwig made a step forward but felt his blood froze when Feliciano turned around.

There in all glory, Feliciano sat with his usual closed eyes–but his nose was broken, bleeding, and one of his cheeks was swollen as if somebody had hit him repeatedly. And his hands–god, his hands–were scrapped, raw, and bloodied, as though they'd been dragged across the concrete. His clothes were dirty and bloody as If a group of bandits attacked him.

Ludwig felt his stomach twist in horror, shock, and anger so fierce it made his hands shake. Before he knew it, he was already kneeling beside Feliciano, gathering his injured hand into his own.

“Feliciano,” he breathed, barely holding back the tremor in his voice. “What happened to you? Who did this?” His jaw clenched. Ludwig’s shaking hand made its way towards the Italian man's face. His thump slowly caressed the man's bruised face, his heart racing.

So deep into his concern, Ludwig didn't notice the slight pulling away from the other man–not even the flicker of disgust that flashed on the man's face, as if Ludwig's touch was toxic and unwelcome.

“L-Ludwig!” Feliciano gasped, his voice trembling.

“Feliciano,” Ludwig murmured back, trying to steady himself as he tightened his grip around Feliciano’s hand. But his anger only deepened. Someone did this, and the thought of not knowing who made his blood boil. “You should have come to me. You know that.” 

But instead of an answer, Feliciano began to tremble, tiny tears spilling down his cheeks as he shook with silent sobs. Immediately, Ludwig’s anger softened, and he wrapped his arms around him.

“Shh… it’s alright,” Ludwig said softly, trying to soothe him. “You don’t have to explain anything right now.” Though underneath, the need to find out who had hurt Feliciano—and make them pay—simmered just beneath his calm.

Feliciano–hesitantly–hugged him back and pressed his face into Ludwig's chest.

“Ludwig, it hurts…” Feliciano whimpered.

Ludwig took a steadying breath and placed a hand on Feliciano’s hair, gently petting. He half expected Feliciano to nuzzle his face into Ludiwg’s neck as he usually does, but he remained the way he was. Disappointment flooded his stomach, but it quickly went away.

Once again, he missed the subtle tension that flickered in Feliciano’s posture.

“It’s alright, Feliciano. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.” He promised. Minutes later, Ludwig drew back and guided him to the bathroom. He took the medkit and followed close behind.

Ludwig followed Feliciano into the bathroom, his gaze never leaving the Italian. The silence between them was thick, yet Ludwig felt too many questions swirling in his mind to let it settle. As he opened the medkit, his hands moved mechanically, preparing antiseptic and bandages, but his eyes kept drifting back to Feliciano’s battered face, the bruises on his hands. How did this happen? And why hadn’t he come to Ludwig for help immediately?

After a while, Ludwig spoke again.

“Feliciano,” he murmured, dabbing at an especially raw wound on Feliciano's hand. “Can you… tell me what happened? Who did this to you?”

Feliciano shifted uncomfortably, his gaze sliding away from Ludwig’s as if the question was somehow too much. After a beat, he muttered, “It… it was just an accident. I fell on the concrete.”

Ludwig frowned deeply, his brows knitting together as he processed the excuse. “Feliciano,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “I’m not a fool. The injuries on your hands, your face... they don’t match what you’re saying.”

Feliciano said nothing.

Ludwig exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening on the bandage he held. Logic told him to press harder, to demand answers, but the sight of Feliciano’s lowered head and tense shoulders gave him pause. The Italian’s usual carefree demeanor was gone, replaced by a quiet, guarded air that Ludwig wasn’t used to seeing.

He resumed cleaning the wounds, his movements steady despite the discomfort twisting in his chest. “You’ve always come to me when something was wrong,” Ludwig muttered, almost to himself. His words were quieter now, less commanding. “I don’t understand why you’re lying to me now.”

The words lingered between them, heavy and unanswered.

Ludwig’s thoughts churned as he worked. Feliciano wasn’t just another nation to him. He was… important. A friend. No—more than a friend, though Ludwig hardly let himself dwell on that too often. Feliciano had been by his side through so much, even when Ludwig had pushed him away. He’d been a constant in Ludwig’s life—a source of light when everything else was dark.

That’s why this behavior felt so jarring. It wasn’t like Feliciano to avoid him or shut him out. The Italian’s openness, his tendency to rely on Ludwig for everything, was a part of who he was. The fact that he hadn’t sought Ludwig out for help this time—injured as he was—felt like a punch to the gut.

“Feliciano,” Ludwig said again, his tone softening slightly, though the tension in his voice remained. “You know you can tell me anything.” You always do. “ I want to help.” 

Feliciano’s breath hitched, but he didn’t look up. “It… it doesn’t matter,” he said quietly, his voice trembling. “I can handle it.”

Ludwig stilled, the words striking deeper than he cared to admit. Since when does he say that? Feliciano had never been one to handle anything alone—he always ran to Ludwig, no matter how small or silly the problem. And now, he was deliberately keeping him at arm’s length.

His openness, the trust between them—was it fading? He wasn’t used to Feliciano shutting him out so openly, and the idea of it happening now, after everything, was almost unbearable.

(Ludwig will never admit to how often he lay in bed at midnight, waiting for the Italian to turn the doorknob and slide under the covers with him. Sometimes, when no Italian came, all he can do is stare at the wall, unable to fall asleep.)

His heart pounded as dread began seeping in, a dreadful thought whispering that Feliciano was starting to distance himself, trying to push Ludwig away. And the more he thought about it, the more it terrified him, feeling the roots of paranoia tightening around his heart.

Just the thought of Felciano being ‘out’ of his life instead of ‘in’ made Ludwig feel almost triggered.

…there was no way it was true. They’ve spent too much time together. Ludwig doesn’t think he’ll handle being alone again, with no happy-go-lucky Italian to brighten his day and make the house more alive.

Ludwig finished bandaging the wounds in silence, his hands moving automatically, though his mind was racing. He wanted to press him for answers, but something about Feliciano’s closed-off posture, the way he avoided his gaze, made Ludwig hold back once again. There was an air of finality to it as if any attempt to dig deeper would only push him further away.

After the last bandage was secure, Feliciano stood abruptly. “I’m… going to lie down for a bit,” he said, brushing past Ludwig.

“Feliciano…” Ludwig called softly, reaching out instinctively. Don't go. But Feliciano didn’t turn back. Instead, he slipped out of the bathroom and headed down the hall, his steps quick and deliberate. He entered the guest room and, without a word, closed the door behind him.

Ludwig stood there, staring at the closed door, his mind reeling. The air felt heavy, thick with unanswered questions.

His fists clenched at his sides, frustration and worry warring within him. What is he hiding from me? And why doesn’t he trust me enough to say it?

As the silence deepened around him, Ludwig felt a chill of unease settle heavily over him, sinking deep into his chest. For the first time in a long time, he realized he was afraid—afraid that his paranoia might not be just paranoia.

Ludwig shakily sighed.

 

Behind the closed doors, Luciano scowled in disgust and shivered. He wiped his hands on the bed sheets as if it could get rid of the phantom touches of another person.

Afterward, he threw the–now-stained with ghost touch–bed sheets onto the floor, and jumped on the mattress. 

Luciano huffed, closing his eyes. The darkness welcomed him.

*** * ***

Feliciano lay in a bed that wasn’t his own. The ceiling above him was gilded in gold—a level of luxury he wouldn’t even dream of.

Instead of the familiar, comforting scent of his home, the room smelled rich, almost intoxicatingly so. The soft silk sheets brushed his skin, tempting him to melt into the bed and drift off.

He sighed, enjoying the decadence of the queen-sized bed and the luxurious silk cocooning him.

He and Luciano had switched places once again.

Feliciano looked towards the door—as he was expecting, Lutz was leaning on a wall next to the door with crossed arms, his hat hiding his face.

Felciano looked back at the ceiling, thinking for a bit. He then sighed and took sheets away from him, alarming Lutz. Felciano sat up, and when he looked up again, Lutz was already standing next to the bed.

“Did you sleep well, Boss?” Lutz asked, obviously used to Feliciano’s presence. The way he asked the question implied this wasn’t the first time it happened.

Feliciana sighed in desperation at Lutz’s nickname. He had told him many times before to just call him Feliciano—he and Luciano were very different from each other, but Lutz seemed to think they still were the same person who wanted to scream orders.

Fortunately, it wasn’t true. Feliciano didn’t like to boss other people around, but his counterpart was a whole different story.

“Ve, Lutz, you can call me Feliciano. I’m not your boss.” that made Lutz flinch and turn away in shame.

“I apologize Bo–Feliciano. I hope you can forgive me for my ignorance.” Lutz bowed, head still turned away in shame.

“It’s okay, Lutz! I am, after all, Luciano’s counterpart in a way. No need to apologize!” Feliciano quickly exclaimed, pushing Lutz's shoulders up so the poor man wouldn’t be bowing so deeply.

Lutz’s expression was akin to a wounded puppy—if he was to ignore the emotionless eyes. No amount of visits from Feliciano would make Lutz used to his kindness.

“Is.. is it okay?” Lutz asked, still shamed. “I can take any punishment from you if needed. Henchmen should know their place…”

“Ve, it’s really okay!” Feliciano smiled, trying to assure Lutz. “Mistakes happen. I make mistakes every day! Haha…” The last sentence made him shift uncomfortably. Well, Feliciano hoped Lutz didn’t see that.

“Ah, okay then…” Lutz accepted Feliciano’s answer. He took a few steps back to give Feliciano space to stand up from the bed.

Feliciano jumped slightly in surprise when he felt bandages around his toes. When did they get there?

Lutz saw Feliciano’s surprise and said, “When you were sleeping, I bandaged your wounds by Boss’s request.”

Feliciano beamed. “Ve, thank you! Did Luciano mention something else?”

Lutz paused. He looked away for a second, clearly debating what to answer. Feliciano sweatdropped; did Luciano mention something horrible? Lutz usually didn't hesitate.

“...Boss told me to tell you that, he’ll cut your legs off the next time he sees wounds like that.”

Feliciano stared. “Ah. Thank you for telling me.”

Lutz nodded and was about to say something else but the door slammed open.

“Hey, Mannequin! Did the kid already wake up?” a voice exclaimed. The two nations looked towards the door entrance, there stood Japan’s counterpart—Kuro.

Lutz glared but said nothing. 

The Japanese man walked towards them, smirking at Feliciano's woke form. Kuro crossed his arms as he stood in front of Feliciano. “Well, well, good morning princess. How was sleep? I bet it was wonderful in this big ass chamber and an Alaskan king-sized bed. Luciano only gets the best after all.”

Feliciano yelped as Kuro’s hand grabbed his face, fingers pressing his cheeks, squishing them together. Kuro hummed, tilting his head and looking for any small cuts or injuries—finding none, he let go.

“What happened, doll? You usually don’t switch places with the big boss this often. Is your world treating you that badly?”

Feliciano’s cheeks tinted a bit at the nickname, but he shook his head. “N-no, ve, I just got caught up in something.”

Kuro raised an eyebrow at that, but he shrugged. “Oh well, if it means having you here, who am I to care?” he smirked. He made a move to stand closer to Feliciano but was stopped by a hand holding him by a shoulder in one place.

Kuro turned his head around to glare at Lutz. “What now, you fuck? Tsk.” he scowled, “stupid idiot. You’re getting bolder, hm?”

The hold on Kuro’s shoulder tightened. “Don’t show such disgrace to your Boss’s counterpart. You should be ashamed—had our leader seen that your tongue would’ve got cut.” Lutz stated bluntly.

Kuro spluttered. “The hell?! I was just trying to get a little closer—”

“By closer, you mean, ‘closing distance so you can touch him?” Lutz coldly asked, his eyes looking darker by the time he finished the question.

Kuro growled and with a quick swat slapped Lutz's hand away. He stamped to the door and left.

Lutz shook his head in disappointment. He looked back at Feliciano. “Be careful of him. His acts usually hold no innocence. One of the reasons Boss doesn't like to have Kuro around is because he's incompetent and too bold.”

Feliciano made a face at that, but said nothing to defend Kuro. Instead, he said; “Alright then… Is there any meeting I should attend for Luciano or is his schedule free?”

Lutz thought. “...yes, there is one meeting you must attend for him. Canceling it will only bring problems. The nations here aren't kind when time is wasted.”

Feliciano always found it strange, this habit of the nations of the 2p World. Had it been in his world that a meeting was canceled, everybody would have breathed a sigh of relief—nobody liked to listen to a boring presentation that nobody but Ludwig listened to anyway. But here, they took it as an insult.

“Ve, alright! Can you tell me where Luciano's clothes are?”

Lutz nodded. “They're in the bathroom, you'll notice them right away.”

Feliciano grinned and started walking towards the bathroom. “Okay, thank you, Lutz!”

Lutz smiled a bit. “...no problem. But please be aware of the time. The meeting is in half an hour.”

“Okay!” Feliciano yelled back.

Lutz left Feliciano to his own devices.

*** * ***

Walking down the stairs, Feliciano met with Kuro and Lutz; they both looked just one second from jumping at each other's throats.

Mentally, Feliciano sighed in relief at his timing. Last time a fight like this broke out they were all bloody and it was almost impossible to tear them apart. It took Feliciano breaking down in tears for them to stop, but even then the fire in their eyes didn't disappear.

Kuro whistled. “As always, looking great, Boss.” 

Lutz glared at the Japanese Nation but nodded. “The other nations won’t notice a thing.”

“Ve, I'm glad! The eye contacts are quite uncomfortable but oh well…” Feliciano said, scratching his cheek.

“Don't worry—the meeting won't take long. Just beware of America and Canada. Those two are sharp.”

Kuro butted in, “Yeah, well, are we finally going to go or stand here like freaks? I want to see China's stupid ass all high again.”

Feliciano hid a smile as Lutz ignored Kuro. “I think it would be a good idea to go now. Please follow me,” he said, already walking away. Feliciano followed him.

Kuro made a frustrated noise, muttering under his breath. “Stupid bozo.” but walked after the two.

They walked through long underground tunnels and then a corridor adorned in gold and expensive wood. Feliciano watched in amazement, still not used to the luxurious life his counterpart lived in.

And well, not used to the fact that Luciano had underground tunnels leading to various places; including the meeting room where they were heading.

During the walk, Lutz told Feliciano everything he should mention during the meeting. He knew that even the smallest misstep could cause major problems, and tried to fight his incompetence. Listening to such boring matters was hard for him, but he tried hard to pay attention anyway.

Ludwig has spoiled him too much, Feliciano couldn't help but think with a smile.

As they walked, a large door akin to Castle’s opening gate appeared in front of them. It, too, was dressed in gold attire and had breathtaking art pieces carved into it.

He wonders who made that door; Luciano, unlike Feliciano, had no interest nor talent in art. It made him mad and feel embarrassed as that was the only thing he wasn't skilled in—if not including his cooking skills.

The three of them stopped in front of the door. No sounds were coming from the other side. It was deadly silent. Lutz glanced back at Feliciano.

Feliciano got the message that the German was trying to send him and schooled his conversation to intimate Luciano. He fixed his posture as well, standing straight and radiating confidence.

Kuro watched in amazement at the change. No matter how often he watched, it would never cease to amaze him how good Feliciano was at pretending.

Lutz looked back and slowly pushed the door open.

The first thing that met Feliciano was everybody’s full attention. Everybody sat in silence, nobody moving a muscle as Feliciano went to his seat. It was quite unnerving how attentive they were to his every move and expression. Lutz sat on his right and Kuro on his left.

For a while, Feliciano said nothing. His gaze traveled through the whole room.

Unsurprisingly, despite the chaos raging outside, the suffering and starving of the nations that weren't in Luciano's circle going through, all of them looked clean and neat. Even François, who usually looked dead inside and homeless, was clean.

Though, his dead and bored expression didn't leave at all. 

Sensing that it was time to begin the meeting, Feliciano stood up from his seat and clapped his hands together.

“Gentlemen,” Feliciano started, his sharp gaze watching out for any reaction, “state your business.” he sat back.

The hell broke loose. 

Allen was first to react; he punched the table. “No matter how much you feign ignorance, Luciano, it's time you start treating us all equally. We are all Nations; don't we deserve the same as you?” Under his breath, he added, “ selfish bastard .”

Feliciano quickly threw a dismissive hand—just like Luciano does when he hears nonsense. “In a world like ours, quality has no meaning. Fix your attitude before you start blabbering. Don't think your insubordination wasn't noted.”

Allen opened his mouth in disbelief and anger to retort something but quickly closed it. His twin brother threw him a funny look; it was clear he thought his brother was impractical. 

Viktor was next. Unlike Allen, Viktor was known to be one of those who were on Luciano's good side. Luciano always made an effort to listen to the Russian country. So Feliciano did exactly that.

“Excuse me for bluntness,” Viktor began, glancing at the Baltics. His Russian accent was very evident. “but the Baltic mutts have tried to attack me plenty of times now. I'm very uncomfortable. I ask for help from the Italian empire to put the mutts back in their places.”

Feliciano glanced at the Baltic States. They were shaking in rage and glaring daggers at Viktor, completely ignoring the bigger threat; Feliciano. 

Kuro leaned towards him a bit to whisper, “Say yes—Luciano has been planning to put them back in their place for a long time now. He just waited for a reason.” he sat back.

Ah, so this is why they weren't looking at him. Viktor just gave Luciano a reason to do so.

“...help would be granted. Next.”

Viktor relaxed and leaned to his seat, his business stated and accepted. Nonetheless, in his pettiness, he sent a stink eye to America, as if to indicate; ‘that’s how it's done.’

Allen grit his teeth in anger but said nothing.

The Baltics started protesting.

“That’s not fair you didn't listen to our side!”

“Yeah, what if that emo freak is lying?!”

“Just look at him, all big but weak to the point of asking for help like some weakling! What an embarrassment!” 

Lutz punched the table—that was probably a favorite thing to do here, abusing the table. “You dare to question your Superior? Try protesting more, and you'll be whipped out of the map!”

The Baltics fell silent.

China rolled his eyes as he rolled up a document, pretending it was paper to roll weed with. “If Viktor really was a weakling he wouldn't have been able to ask for help in the first place. That takes some confidence…” he muttered.

Japan narrowed his eyes, scowling in disappointment. This time, China wasn't high out of his mind. But the Nation rolling up the document papers wasn't lost to him; at least seeing the addictive habits was something worthwhile. That only showed what a sorry excuse the Chinese nation was.

François sighed, bored of his mind. “query about future war plans; are we all to expect an unexpected attack?”

Feliciano shook his head. “Unless given a reason, no. But do expect some rank rules to change.” It was a wonder his vocal stims hadn’t slipped out yet. Feliciano counted it as a win.

François raised an eyebrow at the docile answer—Luciano absolutely despised François, as the French nation saw his child form and his downfall—but shrugged, glad for once to not be pulled by the hair. 

Suddenly, a playful voice chimed in, “New rank rules, hmm? I wonder what they will be! It's time for some change, isn't it, darlings?” It was Oliver, who was curiously watching over the interactions. 

Oliver knew that it wasn't really Luciano sitting in the front, but since Oliver liked Feliciano a lot, he never told anybody of the fact.

Next to Feliciano, Kuro groaned.

“Go back to being quiet and stalkerish, you weirdo!” Kuro exclaimed loudly at Oliver, making sure everybody heard that.

Oliver put a hand on his cheek like some kind of concerned mother and closed his eyes in sadness. “Ah, you're so rude. Where are your manners?”

“F–kill yourself!” Kuro glared. “Stupid colorful freak, you're so bright and noticeable it fucking hurts my eyes!”

Oliver sighed, shaking his head. “And now you're using vulgar words, how shameful… not nice at all! If I were your caretaker, I would've punished you for such language.” as he said that, he winked at Feliciano.

Were Feliciano not so concentrated to not act off, he would've giggled. Instead, he just sent Kuro a warning look.

Kuro scowled but said nothing back.

Feliciano put his hands on the table. “V–Yes, new rank rules.” He almost slapped himself as his vocal stim almost escaped him. “Don't try prying into the matter, you'll learn about it soon enough.” to call attention off the little slip, he glared at everybody.

It did its work, nobody dared to question the strange slip-up. 

“Any more questions or requests?” Feliciano asked, glancing at Spain and others who were quiet.

Franciszek as usual tried to hide himself and pretend he wasn't even there. Nevertheless, even for his anxiety when it came to attention, he muttered a quiet ‘nie’. 

Andres on the other hand, put arms behind his head and grunted a loud ‘Nope’. Other quiet nations said nothing.

“Well then, everybody dismissed!”

*** * ***

Feliciano threw himself on the large red couch in the expensive-looking living room, exclaiming a loud “Veeeee!!!” as he did.

He was exhausted. Words couldn't express the amount of relief he felt when he left the meeting room. No more watchful eyes scrutinizing his every move and expression. No more dangerous nations who, if they found out he wasn't Luciano, would shred him to pieces.

Cruel as this world was, nobody dared to challenge Luciano. For this world to be the way it was—destroyed, the still smell of death holding in the air—it had to be done by somebody.

Who else would it be if not the one who bathed in riches while others starved and fought for their right to exist?

Feliciano once asked Luciano about that; the only answer he got was that this all had a reason and there were no other alternatives. 

Feliciano didn't ask any other questions. It was cruel and wrong that there were ‘no alternatives’, but he had no say in all this. He was an outsider, he had no right to tell his counterpart what was right and wrong.

He was the weakest nation back in his world—what would he know? A coward, a weakling, and a crybaby was all Feliciano was for others in his world.

Suddenly, he felt all depressed again.  As Feliciano lay on the couch, he let out a sad sigh.

“Wouldn't you like to change first before taking a nap?” Lutz asked, concerned. Luciano wasn't one for naps, but after Feliciano's appearance Lutz learned about ‘siestas’. Seeing him helplessly confused about what to do when Feliciano suddenly lay on the floor and slept was funny.

Walking through the open door, Kuro sent a very questionable and mocking look towards Lutz. “Woah, no Boss’ and suddenly you're out here telling his other self what to do huh? ‘Cuz you know better, huh?”

Lutz ignored him, but the tightening fists were enough to show his frustration. “Or maybe I should bring you a blanket?”

Feliciano shook his head, sleepy. “Vee, no thank you… the living room is warm enough.” He curled up.

“Ah, alright. If you say so,” Lutz said. 

Feliciano exhaled through the nose. He wondered how Luciano was doing… he hoped he hadn't done something drastic. His other self may show patience when it comes to Feliciano, but the same couldn't be said for everybody else.

Once again, Feliciano wondered why that was. Nevertheless, he didn't have time to dwell on it, as a shadow fell over him and he heard Lutz’s quiet but resentful voice; "What do you think you're doing?”

One of Feliciano's eyes fluttered open, looking up at the smirking Japanese man who stood with arms crossed.

“Already taking a nap, ay? Well, sweet dreams then.” Kuro uncrossed his arms and ruffled Feliciano's hair. He then turned away and muttered to Lutz, “See, motherfucker? I just wanted to wish him sweet dreams. Stop being such a piss baby, bozo!” 

With that, he left, huffing. Lutz tsked.

Feliciano fell asleep with a smile on his face, completely blissfully ignorant of what was happening in his world and the world outside the windows.

*** * ***

Arthur jolted awake with a sharp gasp, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to orient himself. His heart pounded against his ribs. Where was he? His last memory was—Felicia—no, Luciano. Bloody hell. His body ached, and for a brief, disorienting moment, he wondered if he’d been kidnapped.

The door creaked open. Arthur tensed, his fingers gripping the blanket instinctively.

And then—Francis.

Arthur blinked, frowning. “What the bloody hell…?” His voice was hoarse with confusion.

Francis sighed dramatically, stepping into the room with the same effortless arrogance he always carried. “That’s precisely what I thought when I found you half-dead in the middle of god-knows-where,” he drawled, pulling up a chair beside the bed. He crossed one leg over the other and raised a perfectly groomed brow. “Would you care to explain?”

Arthur opened his mouth, then promptly shut it. Explain? What was there to explain? He had gone to meet Feliciano, only to realize—far too late—that he was dealing with someone far more dangerous. Everything had unraveled from there.

Instead of answering, Arthur groaned and collapsed back against the mattress, throwing an arm over his face.

“Hell,” he muttered flatly. “That’s what happened.”

Francis scoffed. “No wonder. Have you seen your face? You look like someone took a cheese grater to it and then ran you over for good measure.”

Arthur winced at the reminder. Because that was essentially what happened.

“Well,” he grumbled, shifting uncomfortably, “you’re not far off the mark.”

Francis let out a low whistle. “Mon dieu…”

Arthur closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose. This was going to be a long night.

 

Notes:

wee woo finished. Didn't expect to finish it tonight but oh well. Yes, the chapter is shorter; that's what it will be like from now on. Thank you for reading.

I'd really appreciate kudos and comments guys, let the Author know you like the work 😿🤞.