Chapter Text
"The wounds of the past never fully heal; they reopen and burn. It is impossible to ignore them."
The meeting was dragging on. Romano and Veneziano were arguing with England in an unusually peaceful manner; Amelia was rather amazed by the serene atmosphere among the three of them and, deep down, she felt happy about it.
Seated on the small sofa, she lightly swung her legs while shifting her gaze to every corner of the room, observing how decidedly elegant and luxurious it was. She had noticed that the walls around her were of an amber gold and that the warm light conveyed a great sense of calm—exactly the effect the designer intended to achieve through their choice of colors and lighting.
In addition to these details, numerous paintings hung from the walls, and a few large floor vases held lavender flowers whose fragrance filled the air. Amelia inhaled the sweet scent and exhaled with a soft sigh. If it were up to her, she would have stayed there much longer to take a nap on that sofa; after all, she absolutely loved sleeping.
«Ve, v-ve... England, England! So we agree on that pasta treaty? We'll lower the tariffs for you, so you'll be able to eat tons of it!»
Veneziano gloated in his chair, waving his arms energetically with a radiant smile plastered across his lips. Romano, sitting beside him, wore an annoyed expression; he didn't agree with lowering the tariffs at all, but his brother and their boss had forced his hand. Left with no choice, he had been compelled to consent—it was two against one.
«Oh, yes, very well... I am truly thrilled, splendid...» replied England in his usual composed, vaguely sarcastic tone.
In reality, he didn't care in the slightest about Italian food; he wasn't there to talk about cuisine, but about far more serious matters. Since he had finally re-entered the European Union after years of exhausting political battles, he believed the others could grant him a few extra favors. Especially Romano.
England turned toward the elder of the Italy brothers, crossing his legs and folding his arms across his chest.
«Romano, I greatly appreciate this generosity of yours, but I have other requests to make, you see.»
South Italy raised an eyebrow, studying the Englishman's sly expression. He understood perfectly where this was going: England wanted to play on the guilt that still tormented him. Furthermore, Romano was still deeply in his debt.
«What the fuck do you want from me, you English bastard?!» Romano snapped. «You've just re-entered the European Union, so you don't have the right to demand whatever you please!»
Although England hadn't explicitly said or done anything yet, his tone and gaze spoke volumes.
«Watch your mouth, Romano. Or I'll be forced to cut all the funding I've poured into your country, is that clear?»
The blond smirked smugly, letting out a soft chuckle. Romano was ready to lash back, but a sudden glimmer of lucidity made him come to his senses, forcing him to curb his pride and comply with the Englishman's demand. He sighed, furrowing his brow and clenching his jaw as he glared at him, trying to release the tension by rhythmically bouncing his leg.
«Alright then, let's hear what kind of bullshit you want, you damn bastard!» he spat acidly.
Veneziano was worried; his older brother was furious, and he knew the reason for that foul mood all too well. Perhaps he should intervene, but Romano was fiercely proud; he loathed accepting help and preferred to handle his personal issues alone.
«V-ve... Inghilterra, why are you bringing that up?»
Romano suddenly snapped his head toward his younger brother, pointing a threatening index finger at him.
«Fatti i cazzi tuoi*¹, Veneziano!»
He enunciated the words with such harshness that North Italy instantly went pale, shaking his head and gulping loudly.
Amelia, meanwhile, leaned against the armrest of the sofa, observing the scene in silence. She could see both Mr. South Italy and Mr. North Italy growing visibly agitated, while Mr. England remained perfectly calm; sitting upright with his chest puffed out, he maintained a thoroughly self-assured expression.
England subtly shifted his gaze toward Amelia, offering her a small smile before pointing toward the door.
«Amelia, please, could you step out for a moment? We need to discuss private matters, if you don't mind...»
The young maid blinked several times, then glanced at the two Italy brothers. Romano immediately looked away, while Veneziano gave her a somewhat strained smile that still held a hint of sweetness despite the tension. Looking back at the Englishman, the girl nodded, stood up, offered a slight bow to the three of them, and left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.
She stood still for a moment, then turned right and walked down the hallway with no particular destination in mind. She would have liked to go out into the garden for a breath of fresh air, but it was far too hot in Madrid that day; because of this, she ultimately opted to head toward England's temporary office. Lately, the British nation had been spending hours in there, signing documents until late at night or treating himself to brief naps on the couch.
Amelia hurried down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time and lifting her cumbersome skirt to avoid tripping. Upon reaching the ground floor, where members of the household staff occasionally passed by, she hopped down the last step and turned into the main corridor, greeting a few familiar faces and others purely out of courtesy. She walked a bit further until she reached the end of the hall. The office was right there—the final door just before a bend where other offices branched off on the opposite side.
Approaching the entrance, she lifted her head to look at the golden plaque that read "England". She rummaged through the large pocket of her uniform, pulled out a yellow magnetic keycard, and swiped it over the wall sensor. After a brief moment, the device beeped, a small pink light flashed, the lock clicked open, and the door swung inward. Amelia slipped the card back into her pocket and stepped inside, leaving the door closed but unlocked, knowing England would likely arrive shortly.
The moment she closed the door behind her, a pleasant wave of coolness enveloped her, drawing a sigh of pure pleasure from her lips. Looking around, she noted that England had already restored the room to perfect order. She observed the large bookshelf, where volumes were meticulously arranged by the shade of their covers, gradient from lightest to darkest. Her gaze then drifted to the walls; here, too, hung paintings of majestic vessels in the middle of vast expanses of sea, interspersed with small decorative wall vases holding bunches of lavender.
She kept scanning the room persistently, as if searching for something specific. Growing visibly anxious, she walked around the desk and dropped to her knees to check underneath it, but found nothing. The young woman pouted, her brow furrowing.
«Ugh... Where has Mr. Cookie gone and hidden himself?»
Standing back up and composing herself, she suddenly remembered England's terrible habit of tidying away objects into completely different places from where she left them. It was one of the few quirks of his that truly annoyed her; she had repeatedly told him to leave things where they were, especially if she had only set them down for a brief moment before he swept in to clean.
There were three built-in wardrobes in the room. She opened the first one near the door, but it held only more books and spare cushions for the sofa. She then opened the wardrobe facing the bookcase—nothing there either. Snorting loudly, she slammed the door shut with a hint of irritation before heading toward the wardrobe behind the desk. She swung it open and finally discovered the object of her search: her small suitcase had been placed in the highest compartment, right on top of England's own.
«Uhm... Why does he always have to put it so high up?» she grumbled.
Standing on her tiptoes, she hopped in an attempt to reach the handle and, after three failed tries, finally managed to snag it. She hugged it tightly to her chest with both arms, using the toe of her low-heeled black shoe to click the wardrobe door shut.
She approached England's desk and settled into his black leather swivel chair. It was far too large for her; she was so petite that she practically disappeared into its depths. Placing the suitcase in front of her, she ran her palm over it, caressing the smooth, taut surface of the leather. When her fingers glided over the two engraved initials, "A. K.", a tender smile touched her lips, and memories began to surface vividly in her mind.
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«Hey! Where do you think you're you brat?!Bloody hell, get back here right now!»
England grabbed him firmly, hoisting him off the ground by his armpits.
«Nooooo! Let me go, let me gooo!» the little boy shrieked, kicking and whimpering. He flailed his small legs in agitation, yet clutched the suitcase to his chest with all his might.
«Give me back that suitcase right now and I'll put you down, is that clear?»
The Englishman turned him around to look him straight in the face. The child was on the verge of tears; England tried to maintain a stern, unyielding expression, but deep down, an immense pity welled up inside him. It was obvious the boy was just a scrawny little street urchin looking for money. He looked about five years old, give or take, but judging by his rough, neglected condition, he seemed even younger.
Amelia always felt a subtle sense of melancholy whenever these memories resurfaced, especially when she was alone and her mind was free to wander.
«My name is... Amedeo! And you? What's your name? You're a funny guy, you know? And you have really weird eyebrows too!»
The little boy began running frantically around the Englishman, examining him with big, curious eyes. Then, he stopped abruptly and clung to England's leg, hugging it tightly before lifting his head to look up at the nation staring down at him.
«How dare you insult me, you insolent fool?! Detach yourself from my leg this instant, you little parasite!»
The Englishman tried everything to shake him off, but with very little success.
«No! Tell me your name first, funny man!» the child said with a cheerful giggle, amused by the rhythmic up-and-down motion of the leg trying to free itself.
England let out a deep, irritated but utterly resigned sigh.
«My name is England, you little thief!»
He decided to gloss over the "funny man" nickname, despite being thoroughly annoyed by the child's impertinence and forced proximity. The boy, for his part, showed absolutely no sign of letting go; he remained anchored to the nation's leg, staring up with his little mouth wide open, completely fascinated.
«...Ooh,» he murmured in amazement before flashing a wide smile. «What a weird name!»
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She gave her head a slight shake to chase away the vivid memories, as though thirteen years hadn't passed; they were melancholy recollections, yes, but deeply painful ones too.
«Neh, neh...»
Unlatching the snap closures of her suitcase, she slowly lifted the lid to examine its contents. Inside lay a large sketchbook, and next to it, a spacious pencil case packed with numerous drawing pencils and a myriad of colored leads.
Amelia had been remarkably skilled ever since she was a child. England had discovered her talent after catching her drawing on the walls of her hospital room, and he had stayed by her side to take full charge of her care. After an initial scolding, the Nation himself had returned a few days later with everything necessary to give free rein to her artistic talents during her long stay in the clinic.
She remembered those days perfectly—how she had enjoyed sketching whatever caught her eye, with no one to stop her. Just like her... father used to do.
She shuddered at the sudden thought of that man. A wave of anxiety surged within her, bile rising bitterly in her throat, while her heart began to hammer frantically against her ribs as if it might burst from her chest.
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«That's faggot, Amedè. You absolutely disgust me.»
The first slap had come when one of his little friends from the neighborhood had given him a blue piece of chalk. His father had caught him drawing on a white sheet of paper, sitting on his battered bed.
«No! Please, Dad, let me draw!»
He had gotten up from the floor, running towards the locked door, hearing his father break that piece of chalk and tear up the white sheet of paper, now gone to a thousand pieces.
«Si vìve sckètt pe m'fà fà nu picche de sùlde. T'avèss già accìse*²»
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That voice, that laugh, were still trapped inside her mind.
Shaken, Amelia shifted her gaze to the object resting beside the large sketchbook: a brown, handmade teddy bear. It had two black buttons for eyes, and the uneven stitches along its seams and limbs were clearly visible, but she didn't care in the slightest.
She lifted it out of the suitcase with both hands. The case's interior was lined with elegant black velvet, and the little bear sported a beautifully tied bow around its neck. Amelia couldn't help but smile; Mr. England must have changed the ribbon while she was away that morning. He knew how much she had loved bows ever since she was a little girl.
The bear's previous bow had been dark blue and had grown frayed and worn from years of affection. That morning, she had left the room to help a colleague prepare one of the large conference halls; England had seized the opportunity to replace it, styling a perfect new bow out of a premium green velvet ribbon. Green was her absolute favorite color.
That feeling had taken root the very first time her eyes met her lord's. She had seen people with light eyes before in her small hometown, but no one possessed eyes of such a luminous, vibrant green. To her, his gaze instilled a profound sense of security and peace. Whenever she caught sight of them during her childhood hospital stay, she would imagine herself running through the vast meadows surrounding her old village, playing with her friends while the wind caressed her skin and ruffled her hair.
She missed her homeland terribly; she missed playing with her childhood friends. It ached so deeply that she could no longer even recall their faces or names. She felt a crushing guilt for leaving them behind, and a terrible guilt for so many other things. She had promised them she would never leave, despite her fractured family situation, but Mr. England had been her saving light. She owed him everything, and she would dedicate her entire life to him.
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«Neh....but is it for me, Artù?» asked little Amedeo from his hospital bed.
The room smelled of disinfectant—a pungent odor that stung his nose. The pale white walls made him anxious, while the constant hum of the medical equipment connected to him droned in the background. The boy's arms, neck, and half of his face were covered in bandages. He had undergone very delicate surgeries that left only one little eye uncovered, with which he now gazed, enchanted, at the teddy bear the Englishman had hand-sewn for him.
England was sitting at his bedside, wearing a surgical mask and a sterile gown. He nodded and pointed to the plush toy. «Well, yes... I mean, a while ago you told me that you liked stuffed animals, and bows.»
The little one kept staring at the gift. The bear wore a black waistcoat and sported a large pink bow; it had an adorable little face, and its paws rested softly against its stuffed torso. England, meanwhile, watched him anxiously.
The little one pressed his lips together, his cheeks slightly swollen and flushed, while his only visible eye slowly filled with tears. England's expression grew worried, fearing the gift wasn't to his liking. «W-what's wrong? Don't you like it... Amelia?»
Hearing that name—her true name—the little girl startled. It felt so strange to her; yet, in part, hearing it spoken after such a long time made her immensely happy. The last person to have called her that had been her mother.
The little girl bit her lip, feeling her eyes sting painfully. She squeezed the gift tightly to her chest, a token she would treasure from that moment on as the most important thing in her life. She shook her head and sobbed, sniffling, «No... it's beautiful! It's so beautiful, Artù ... I really love the little bow... Neh, Neh.»
She burst into a cathartic cry. England looked at her tenderly; he leaned over and hugged her, holding her with extreme gentleness so as not to hurt her, fully aware of how fragile her little body was at that moment. Stroking her short hair, he whispered to soothe her, rocking her in his arms, «Shh, it's alright... everything is okay, Amelia, everything is fine. Don't cry, I'll be here for you now.»
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«N-neh... stop...»
She stood up from the office chair, clutching her teddy bear tightly. Bringing it to her nose, she deeply inhaled the scent lingering on the plush toy she could no longer bear to part with. It exuded a rich, comforting aroma of tea paired with a sharp undertone of tobacco—a combination that never failed to soothe her. It was the unmistakable scent of Mr. England. When she was small, he would rub the bear against his own clothes or hold it to his chest while lying beside her small bed, doing everything he could to help her fall asleep and chase the nightmares away.
Those nightmares stemmed from a severe trauma that, even though it belonged to the past, still frequently resurfaced to overwhelm her. Vivid memories or faded fragments would haunt her dreams or ambush her during idle moments, just like this one. Yet, despite England's constant, reassuring presence, the recollections remained deeply agonizing. When she had first moved to London to live with him, Amelia had been placed under the care of a child neuropsychiatrist. She perfectly recalled the countless sessions she had endured—sometimes alone, sometimes with the Englishman—as well as the medication she had to take just to sleep through the night or keep her panic attacks at bay.
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«So, Amelia, do you like living with Mr.England»
The little girl was wearing a light blue dress, long white socks, and matching shoes. Small scars marred her little olive-skinned arms and her neck, and her right arm was completely bandaged. She wore large red glasses.
She sat on a brown leather sofa, clutching her teddy bear tightly. Curled up in a corner, she wore a terrified expression, staring at the doctor with wide eyes. England sat beside her, his arms crossed over his chest and his legs crossed, leaning slightly forward toward the child.
«Come on, answer the doctor, little one. She is here to help you,» England murmured, trying to soften his tone.
In truth, he was panicking too; he was terrified they would take her away from him. He feared the child might say she was being mistreated—after all, he often spoke to her rather abruptly. It was a habit he absolutely had to break, especially with her.
«Whatever the answer is, it's fine by me. I certainly won't be offended, I assure you.»
Little Amelia gave the Englishman a weak nod, then turned her large, terror-filled eyes back to the doctor. Summoning every ounce of courage she had, she answered in a whisper, «Yes... I really like being with Artù.... so, so much...»
She took the teddy bear and held it out toward the woman with her little arms, turning its plush snout to face her.
«Mr. Cookie...Artù... gave him to me. .Artù always plays with me and Mr. Cookie, and he lets me draw lots of pictures... and he... he lets me sleep with him... in the big bed... when Da... Da-Daddy...»
Her voice broke, and the little girl began to tremble violently. The doctor immediately began jotting something down in a notebook. England remained in strict silence but clenched his jaw, feeling utterly helpless seeing her reduced to such a state.
«D-Doctor... n-neh...» Amelia called out to her, her voice reduced to little more than a broken whisper.
The woman looked up from her notebook, observing her over the thin rims of her glasses. «Tell me, Amelia.»
The little girl's lower lip began to tremble uncontrollably. Without another word, she buried herself in the Englishman's arms, bursting into tears. She wept with absolute desperation and terror, catching England off guard; the man, however, quickly recovered and began gently stroking her hair, which was only slightly longer than when she was in the hospital.
«I want to stay with Artù! I-I want to stay with him... n-neh!» she sobbed, her small fists tightly gripping the man's jacket.
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The memory faded, pulling her back to the present. Amelia clutched the teddy bear to her chest once more, feeling an overwhelming urge to get some fresh air. She decided to take a walk in the garden; a little bit of the sun's warmth, right then, was exactly what she needed.
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«It’s always a genuine pleasure doing business with you, Italy brothers...» England said, his tone characteristically formal with a hint of smugness, as he opened the door to let the two Italians out.
«Ve... Inghilterra*³...» Veneziano was not at all pleased with how things had gone. Their boss would undoubtedly be furious, especially upon discovering they had agreed to give their full, unquestioning backing to England's crucial votes and EU bills. These were laws that could easily backfire on them, and all in exchange for investments destined solely for his brother’s territory! As if that weren't enough, England would now be able to secretly sail his ships near their coastlines and fly his aircraft through their airspace without permission, particularly over Southern Italy. They had even signed an agreement to deliberately undermine France and Germany—a clause insisted upon by Romano himself. Veneziano was deeply worried.
He could understand perfectly why England was doing all this, but time had passed, and his brother had been punished quite enough. England needed to stop preying upon the guilt that still lingered within Romano. Perhaps it was time to clear the air, yet Veneziano was terrified at the prospect of arguing with Romano and, most of all, of crossing the Englishman.
Meanwhile, Romano and England shook hands. As soon as they parted, England extended his hand to the Northerner. Veneziano was reluctant to take it, but he knew he had to do it for his brother's sake; he loved him dearly, even if Romano was constantly stepping on his toes. He extended a slightly trembling hand, looking England in the eye with a forced, polite smile, when they were suddenly interrupted by a cheerful voice calling out from the end of the corridor. It was Spain.
As always, a carefree aura and a playful smile followed him wherever he went. At the top of his lungs, he shouted the name of the one person he wanted to see most in that moment:
«¡Lovinito~! ¡Mi corazón!» He darted over to the Southerner like a bolt of lightning, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug and rubbing his cheek against Romano's. «Ahahaha! I was looking for you everywhere, and here you are with England and your little brother!» Spain squeezed him even tighter, almost jealous to see him in the Englishman's company; after all, it had been quite a while since they had last spent time together.
Romano, utterly embarrassed and irritated by this proximity and Spain’s overbearing habits, struck out with surprising agility. He planted a punch square under Spain's chin, violently shoving him away.
«Brutto bastardo, what the hell is wrong with you?! Tsk, this heat has completely fried your brain!» The poor Spaniard was knocked out cold by the Southerner, landing face-first against the polished floor.
«¡Yo también te amo, Lovinito~!» chirped Spain, springing back to his feet and proudly displaying the vivid red mark from the blow he had just taken. England observed the scene, deeply perplexed, wondering how on earth Spain could still chase after him despite all the slaps and punches Romano doled out.
«Oh, Spain, I thought it odd not to see... HEY! What are you doing?! NOT IN FRONT OF ME, you bloody idiot!» Spain had latched himself onto Romano once again, peppering his neck with little kisses. The Italian, his face now a furious shade of red, tried to shove the Spaniard away by pressing his hands flat against his face. Veneziano, on the other hand, seemed to have finally recovered his good mood.
«Ve~, Ve~! Spain always gets on so well with my big brother!»
Romano brutally shoved Spain away. South Italy, absolutely livid with a burning red face, delivered a resounding punch to Spain's head, accompanied by a rapid-fire barrage of insults in a heavy southern dialect.
«Nun me tuccà, bastardo*⁵!» he growled, shooting him a lethal glare and rudely flipping him the bird. For his part, Spain didn’t seem the least bit intimidated or annoyed by South Italy's difficult temper; on the contrary, he absolutely adored being treated this way by his Romano.
Spain practically swooned on the spot, gazing at his Italian with dreamy eyes. Shifting his focus to England, he suddenly remembered something.
«Oh, England, por cierto, I saw Amelia earlier. Before I found you all, I crossed paths with her on the stairs and she completely ignored me,» he said, his expression turning worried as he tapped a thoughtful finger against his lips. «She was talking to herself and carrying a teddy bear with a bow around its neck.»
«Mister Cookie! Signor Biscotto!»
England and Romano blurted out the name of Amelia's plushie in unison. The Englishman whipped around to glare at the Italian. Romano raised an eyebrow, wearing a deeply annoyed expression.
«What the fuck do you want now, bastardo?!»
The Englishman took on an even more menacing air, visibly irritated. «His name is Mister Cookie, you idiot, not 'Signor Biscotto'!» He pronounced the translation with pure disgust.
Romano gave a small, cheeky smirk, fully intending to get under England's skin. «Does it really bother you that much if I call him that? What, are you jealous, you damn Englishman?» He chuckled smugly.
England's eyes widened at the South Italian's words, and then he went on the counterattack, his face turning completely red. «Shut up, bloody idiot! It’s already a miracle that I let her speak Italian in my own house! That brat! I have to speak Italian because of her!»
It was something the Englishman just couldn't stomach. Even though Amelia had been living with him for years now, the young brunette didn't speak fluent English at all; she only knew how to say two or three phrases and count from one to ten. When she was very small, England had tried to teach her alongside his brothers—even Sealand had given it a shot—but Amelia found the language incredibly difficult. The ironic part was that English was arguably far simpler than Italian!
«Neh, neh! I like Italian, so let's speak Italian, Artù!» she would exclaim every time they tried to teach her through games or songs.
Hearing those words broke England's heart. What could he do about it? It seemed unbelievable to him that he—the nation whose language was the global standard—had to scrape by using another tongue nearly every single day. By now, even his own brothers, as well as everyone else who interacted with her, spoke Italian with the girl, and nobody seemed to mind.
«Vamos, vamos, Inglaterra! Italian, just like my own tongue, is the most beautiful language in the world,» Spain chimed in, looking at him with a serene, playful air, even though underneath it all he was taking a subtle jab. «And little Amelia is so bonita that she absolutely must speak a language that suits her!»
The Englishman shifted his gaze from Romano to the Spaniard. He wanted to give them both a piece of his mind, but he had better things to do: he needed to find Amelia and leave immediately. He was completely fed up.
«Tsk!» He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, lifting his chin and quickening his pace to distance himself from the group.
«Ve~? England? Where are you off to?» Veneziano asked, worried the Englishman had taken offense at Spain's words.
«As far away from the three of you as possible, gits!» England snapped without throwing them a second glance, heading toward the stairs and leaving them behind.
Silence fell over the three of them, broken only by a deep sigh from Romano. The elder of the Italy brothers approached the window, casting his gaze out at the vast garden flooded by blinding sunlight.
«He's probably just worried about Amelia, that damn bastardo...»
His green eyes quickly landed on a bench where the girl sat sheltered beneath the thick canopy of a large shade tree. From there, Amelia watched the fountain in front of her, where a few ducklings paddled peacefully to cool off from the summer heat.
Spain and Veneziano exchanged a brief glance, then the Spaniard threw his arms around Romano's neck from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder and winking at him. Romano maintained a dejected expression, a prominent pout on his lips, his dull eyes fixed entirely on the young girl.
Spain's heart clenched at the sight of him like that. He knew everything about Amelia, England, and Romano, and what had transpired years ago; he knew Romano felt terribly guilty for having done nothing, even though it wasn't his fault at all. Still, there was no use crying over spilled milk—the girl was doing fine now and England was taking care of her, even if Amelia still showed obvious psychological scars.
The Spaniard squeezed him tighter, offering one of his warmest smiles in an attempt to cheer him up. «Hola, Romano! Why don't you come over to my place with Veneziano? I'll whip up a nice, flavorful paella for you guys!»
As he spoke, he reached up to pinch the South Italian's cheek gently. Romano could do nothing but huff and grunt, a faint blush dusting his face, while Veneziano nodded happily. A moment later, Romano delivered a resounding punch to the Spaniard's head, who nevertheless kept laughing as if nothing had happened.
England had by now scoured the entire building from top to bottom, desperately searching for that brat. He had tried calling her phone repeatedly, but to no avail. His first stop had been his own office, hoping to find her there, but the room welcomed him with an eerie silence. The only sign of her presence was her briefcase, left abandoned on the desk. Looking inside, England discovered the reason for her silence: her phone was right there, its screen lighting up the dim room to display a solid eight missed calls from him. That was why she hadn't answered.
Growing increasingly tense, he hurried toward the staff room where a few of Amelia's colleagues were gathered. With steam practically coming out of his ears, he asked bluntly if they had seen the brunette, but they merely shook their heads vaguely. England was rapidly losing his patience. He cursed himself for an idiot, furious that he hadn't asked Spain exactly where he had spotted her and, above all, which direction she was heading.
He decided to return to the spot where he had been earlier with the Italy brothers and the Spaniard, hoping they might still be around. As ill luck would have it, however, no trace remained of the three of them; the long corridor stretched out before him, empty and silent.
«Bloody hell!» England snapped, clenching his fists at his sides. «Damn me for not asking him sooner! And damn that brat for constantly wandering off without ever telling me where she's going!»
He began to stride down the hallway, his nervous footsteps echoing sharply on the polished floor. He peeked inside every single room, paying special attention to those plunged in darkness; after all, he knew all too well that the young woman liked to retreat to quiet corners for a nap while he was busy working. He checked the very last remaining room, but finding it empty, he let out a deep, weary sigh, running a hand through his messy blonde hair.
«Bloody hell... She wasn't even this unmanageable when she was a child!» he muttered, utterly exasperated.
Closing the door slowly, he set off down the corridor once more. As he walked, the Spaniard's words began to echo insistently in his mind: Spain had mentioned that she had completely ignored him. This was entirely unusual behavior for Amelia, who was normally far too polite to snub anyone. Furthermore, Spain had added that the girl was talking to herself—or rather, to Mister Cookie. While that last detail didn't surprise England, knowing she often did so when nervous or distressed, the combination of these factors set off alarm bells in his head. He had to find her immediately; he knew exactly what she was going through. Leaving her alone for too long always brought on this kind of distress, and he felt thoroughly guilty.
He knew that as soon as he found her, she would talk to him and he would listen. They always told each other everything, and she had made him a solemn promise: whatever was troubling her, she had to confess it to him, and he would do the same for her. The girl herself had established that golden rule between them, and she never went back on her word.
He marched quickly down the corridor, intending to head back downstairs to check the areas he had skipped, when a reflection caught his attention. He snapped his head toward the large window looking out onto the courtyard. Blinded for a split second by a sharp ray of sunlight, his eyes suddenly widened. There she was. He had finally found her.
Through the glass, England saw her sitting on a courtyard bench. Right next to her, perched upright, sat Mister Cookie. Amelia wore an unusually vacant expression, her gaze lost in space as her fingers fidgeted nervously.
England let out a massive sigh of relief, feeling a heavy weight lift from his chest, though worry quickly rushed back in at her downcast appearance. In truth, he already had a good idea of what had happened. Without wasting a single second, he headed for the stairs. Along the way, he forced himself to make a quick stop at a vending machine to buy two bottles of cold water—one for himself and one for his brat. Sitting out under the scorching sun in this blistering heat wouldn't do her any good, especially without hydrating.
«Tsk, idiot...» he muttered in his usual annoyed tone, which barely masked his anxiety. He peeked out the window one last time to ensure she was still there, motionless on the bench, before rushing down the stairs at full speed.
He hurried down the two flights of stairs, occasionally bumping into staff members working along the way. He muttered hasty apologies, earning sharp glares in return, but he couldn't care less. Reaching the lobby, he loosened his red tie slightly; he could already feel the heat radiating from outside and wondered how on earth anyone could stand being outdoors in such a high temperature. He made his way to the exit and stepped out, the sudden thermal shock hitting him like a physical blow.
«Ah, bloody hell, I'm sweating already!» He could feel the sweat on his skin, especially under his arms. He wasn't used to such extreme heat at all; at that moment, he longed for a sudden downpour and a cold wind. The sound of rain and the petrichor it left behind always relaxed him completely.
Quickening his pace, he looked around as he entered the vast garden, searching for the spot where he had glimpsed the girl. It was a park filled with trees and tall, well-manicured bushes, the latter sculpted into the shapes of horses and lined up side by side along the edge of the path. England walked along the interlocking cobblestone road, squinting heavily against the glare with one hand shielding his forehead while the other held the bottles. He scanned the area in every direction without success until he reached one of the many circular flowerbeds, bursting with red carnations and a few daisies, where butterflies and bees buzzed all around.
«Mmh, this should be the right way...»
He looked back toward the window where he had been standing just moments prior, circled the flowerbed, and finally spotted her. He approached from behind, unable to see her face, while she remained entirely unaware of his presence. She was sitting exactly where he had scried her from the window, but the shade had shifted, leaving her fully exposed to the baking sun.
«She's so reckless... What an idiot...»
He crept around the flowerbed until he was positioned directly behind her. Moving with a light step, almost as if he intended to startle her, he pressed one of the chilled bottles against her shoulder the moment he reached her, making her jump at the sudden, icy contact. The girl whipped her head around with a look of pure terror, her eyes wide and trembling, her mouth slightly open as if ready to scream. But as soon as she realized who it was, her expression softened.
«Artù?» she murmured.
He persisted, pressing the chilled bottle against her cheek, which was already flushed from the heat. She took it with both hands as the Englishman sat down next to Mister Cookie.
«You should drink something, especially if you're going to sit out in the sun...» He gestured for her to drink; she nodded silently, opened the bottle, and took small sips under his watchful gaze. «Your face is completely red! Do you think it's a good idea to be sitting out in the sun?! Besides, I've been looking everywhere for you—you need to keep your phone on you!» he scolded her, though his tone was layered with a protective warmth that barely concealed his deep worry. The brunette noticed it instantly.
He saw her nod with a deeply apologetic expression; guilt was written all over her face, knowing how much she had caused him to worry.
«I-I'm sorry, Artù...» she said, looking up at him with her large hazel eyes. She tightly gripped the bottle in her hands and then looked away, almost intimidated by him. «Umm, Artù...» she murmured his name.
The Englishman raised one of his thick eyebrows, watching her with perplexity.
«What? What is it now?» he asked impatiently, though his tone betrayed a hint of anxiety over what she was about to say.
She raised a hand and pointed at him, lightly moving her index finger up and down near his face.
«Your face is completely red...»
In truth, England could feel his face burning. He wasn't accustomed to the sun at all; his fair skin would turn bright red and start to sting, unlike Amelia, whose olive skin tolerated the sun much better. Granted, she flushed a little too, but the redness didn't cause her any discomfort; in fact, it beautifully complemented her complexion, quite unlike what happened to him.
«Mmh, yes, yes... never mind that...» He waved his hand dismissively, letting her know he didn't care about that right now; his attention was focused entirely on her. «Anyway, why are you out here? Spain told me you didn't even say hello to him.»
She blinked, perplexed by his words. «Umm? Mr. Spain...Neh?»
England nodded, watching the girl lower her gaze in confusion.
«Yes, he told me he greeted you, but you didn't reply. You were talking to yourself... to Mister Cookie...» He moved a little closer to her, shifting the teddy bear slightly to trap it gently between their bodies. «What's gotten into you today? Your head is completely in the clouds...»
England saw her crinkle her nose; she always did that when something was wrong and a thought was troubling her deeply. Amelia placed the tightly capped bottle on her lap, interlacing her fingers and squeezing them together. She took a deep breath, casting her gaze downward once more, her eyes fixing on her slightly trembling hands.
«Today, I don't know why...» she spoke in a barely audible whisper, the words almost dying in her throat. It was always like this: whenever those memories resurfaced out of nowhere, it felt as though an old wound was reopening—or perhaps it had never fully healed in the first place. «Today... I started thinking about my d-d... dad... So many memories are coming back today... memories that maybe I shouldn't remember anymore... neh?»
Her full lips contorted into a painful grimace, and a sharp pang shot through her chest, stealing her breath away.
«I-I... have to apologize to Mr. Spain, don't I?» She felt so ashamed; she had been disrespectful to someone like him, a man known for his carefree, kind, and patient nature.
England remained silent for a moment, staring at her, then moved his hand to place it over hers. His hand was significantly larger than those of the girl, who possessed a remarkably petite frame.
«There's no need for that... he was just really worried. I mean, so am I, alright...» He blushed slightly, but fortunately, his sun-flushed skin masked his natural embarrassment. «In a few days, it will be the anniversary of the day I brought you home with me. Did you forget, you silly little brat?»
England's voice had grown soft and warm, albeit slightly teasing, laying bare his deeply caring side. It was an aspect of him that always emerged whenever Amelia went through difficult moments like this, meant to make her feel safe, just as he had done since she was little, sometimes even involving her in his quiet rituals.
Amelia remained still for a few moments, keeping her eyes fixed on the hand of the man to whom she owed everything. Then, she turned her palms up and intertwined her fingers with his. The blond was not used to this kind of tender affection at all; she was always the one to take the romantic or emotional initiative.
«Mmh... yes, I remember. Do you think that's why, Artù ?» She squeezed his hand; their palms were slick with sweat from the scorching heat, but the Englishman's was even more so, both from the temperature and a touch of absolute bashfulness. Yet, he firmly returned the squeeze.
«Yes, Amelia, that could very well be it...» he replied calmly, watching her nod and then turn her head toward him to offer a small, tender smile; a glimmer of relief finally sparked in her eyes.
« Artù, would you... would you keep protecting me from my... dad? If... if he ever gets out of there, neh?» Her voice had grown shaky and anxious.
He couldn't blame her. Even though she and her father were far apart now and the man was safely behind bars, unable to hurt her, and despite the fact that she accompanied him on his travels across various nations, Amelia still feared running into him at any moment. Even if it was an impossible scenario born purely of trauma-induced paranoia, telling her she was overreacting felt far too cruel.
«Come on, brat, has your father ever shown his face all these years?»
Amelia shook her head. Arthur closed his eyes and let out a small, satisfied sigh, accompanied by a faint smile.
«Good, so he will stay away from you for a long time!»
He was utterly hopeless at openly telling her that yes, if anything happened, he would protect her at all costs, using all his power just to keep her safe with him. Yet, at those clumsy words—which nonetheless managed to instill a deep sense of security in her—Amelia instantly found her smile again, completely illuminating her face.
England opened his eyes, and as soon as he saw that radiant smile, accompanied by her bright gaze and her charming dimple, he felt his heart melt. He was happy—truly happy that his little brat was back in a good mood.
«I see you've got your smile back... W-WHAT THE... AMELIA?!»
The young girl had suddenly lunged at him, throwing her arms around his neck and sitting astride his lap. The teddy bear tumbled to the ground, landing on the soft grass. She kept her face buried in the crook of his neck, and Arthur could perfectly feel the warmth of her breath tickling his skin, while sensing her slender body pressing against his own.
«W-What is wrong with you, bloody hell...» He mumbled the end of the sentence as she planted a feather-light kiss on his flushed cheek, whispering a faint, «Grazie*⁶, Artù, Grazie for Mister Cookie's ribbon... it's beautiful,» before burying her face in his neck once more.
England froze, his eyes wide and his face turning completely crimson—and this time, it certainly wasn't from the heat. He still needed to get used to the uninhibited affection she showed him when they were alone.
He limited himself to gently stroking her back, muttering a simple, «You're incorrigible, you silly girl... a-and don't go thinking I bought it just for that stuffed animal! That ribbon was a leftover scrap!» He averted his gaze, biting his lip.
He felt her slowly inhale and exhale, catching sight of her from the corner of his eye as she nuzzled her nose against his skin.
«You smell nice, Artù..neh..neh.»
England gave her a playful, affectionate little rap on the head, making sure not to hurt her.
«Shut up, damn it! And get off my lap!»
He was utterly mortified. Amelia burst into a soft, sweet laugh as she finally felt his arms wrap around her, pulling her into a tight embrace. Strained between his arms, it was the only thing that made her feel completely at peace, enveloped in his warmth and his sweet, intense scent.