Chapter Text
"If you don't face your fears, they will haunt you forever."
« Sì nu figghie de puttane, Amedeo. Mammete jè mmuorte pe ccolpa tóe!*¹»
That cursed shadow and those blurry images danced before his eyes, but those damn eyes, filled with rage, disgust, and disappointment, he remembered perfectly: they were crystal clear. He wanted to run away, to hide somewhere.
«Papà, te prighe, bbàste!*²»
The slap was violent; he didn't even feel the pain in his cheek and fell to the ground like a dead weight. Along with him, those cursed eyes loomed over the child's body.
«T'accìde, t'accìde!!*³» Those were the words that creature hurled at him every single time, and right on cue, those rough, calloused hands would tighten around the little boy's neck. He was done for, his time had come, and he didn't even try to fight back anymore: he could only hear the voice of the man he was supposed to call father, and feel his hands crushing his throat.
«Pa... pa'... non... rre-spìre...*⁴», he whispered with the last bit of breath left in his body. His vision grew more and more blurred, and his father's voice faded away. Slowly, he felt the pressure on his neck vanish too. He thought he was dying, but no: the images began to clear. In front of him, he saw two green eyes, clear and intense, beneath thick black eyebrows that gave him an almost funny look; framing his face was a sweet, caring, and reassuring smile. The child couldn't help but notice the bloodstains on the pale face of the man who held him up, clutching him tightly to his chest.
He wanted to speak, but the man with messy blond hair and green eyes wouldn't let him: «Shhh, don't strain yourself. It's alright, you're safe now.» He had such a warm, comforting voice. Those welcoming arms held him tightly, using his own body as a shield; all the little boy could do was close his eyes and sigh, surrendering himself to that warmth. The last thing he felt was his savior's caress and his words: «Ti prometto che non ti lascerò mai più, Amedeo.*⁵»
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The loud bang of a door swinging wide open forced her to open her eyes. Her vision was hazy, and she couldn't even remember how long she had been asleep; she caught a booming, infectious, self-assured laugh, accompanied by an irritated grumble. She knew exactly who those voices belonged to.
She blinked to bring the scene into focus, and that was how she saw who had just walked into the lounge reserved for the nations. In theory, she shouldn't have been there, but she had been granted permission by the one she had been serving for a long time now.
«America, you bloody idiot! What on earth is wrong with your brain?! Have all those hamburgers completely rotted it?!» England was completely beside himself after yet another meeting with the American, during which it had been categorically impossible to reason with him.
With a brisk pace, the Englishman walked over to the window and looked out, watching the sun set. He had entered the building at six that morning, nervous and in a terrible mood, and had come out even more pissed off, with the sole desire to dissolve that knot of stress by completely drowning it in alcohol.
«C’mon, dude!» America exclaimed in his usual playful tone. He stepped closer to England, observing his tense face through the reflection in the glass, not letting his ally's irritated expression intimidate him in the slightest.
«Come on, you just need to provide a little signature! What's the big deal? You just have to... I mean, do it for the Hero!» He cut himself off as England whipped around, pointing an accusing finger at him.
«Ah, just a signature? JUST A SIGNATURE, you git?!» He raised his voice, feeling his anger surge even more. He desperately wanted to smash his face in just to wipe that smile off, because there was absolutely nothing to laugh about. «Do you know that everyone hates you? Nobody wants anything to do with you!»
For a brief moment, he saw the American's smile waver at those harsh words. England lifted his chin, placed his hands on his hips, and took a proud stance, standing chest-to-chest with the nation he had once considered a younger brother — a nation that had now become the exact opposite of what he had raised him to be.
«Wherever you stick your nose, you only cause damage. You lose everywhere, and by now, no citizen of the world considers you the land of the free and new opportunities anymore, America...» He stifled a bitter chuckle, seeing America's face darken at the statement; the other's smile had vanished, replaced by a tight grimace, and England took pleasure in seeing him like that. «What's the matter, Yankee? Has Israel shoved his tongue down your throat? You know, ever since you intensified your ties with him, you've looked like a mere shadow of your former self. Tsk. Even the Italy brothers are more intimidating than you right now. You're bloody embarrassing.»
America’s eyes immediately went wide. With a threatening demeanor, he raised his arm, his fingers curling into a tight fist ready to slam right into England's face. In that split second, England thought that maybe he had gone too far by touching such a sore spot for the American, but he deserved it: he desperately needed to stop acting so overbearing and selfish.
He was ready to dodge it, or at least he thought he could. In hand-to-hand combat, America had a definitive advantage, both due to his youth and his athletic build. England knew all too well that he had lost physical strength and speed over the centuries, but all things considered, he could still hold his own. He saw the fist drawing perilously close to his face and prepared to slip the punch to strike back at the American.
«Neh? Neh, neh! Signor America, Signor Inghilterra!*⁶»
That cheerful little voice stopped them both dead in their tracks. America froze his punch a mere centimeter from England’s face; the latter's eyes widened, not out of terror, but out of sheer surprise at hearing a voice he knew perfectly well. America knew it well too: he had established a unique relationship with the owner of that sweet, naive tone, and England was well aware of it.
America pulled his hand back, flashing the blond Englishman a darkly shadowed smile. He straightened up, glaring at him with a well-hidden, menacing scowl; his eyes spoke clearly, saying: «Be glad she was here, or you’d be dead.» Not literally, of course — after all, they were immortal nations. A broken nose or a few missing teeth were no big deal; they would grow back and the bones would mend themselves within a few hours.
America took a deep breath to regain a shred of control, attempting — with little success — to shift back into his usual self. He turned around and saw the petite girl standing before him: she was watching him with two large, dark hazel eyes, her lips parted in a curious expression, trying to figure out what the two nations were up to.
«HAHAHAHA! Whoa! Hey, babe, da dove sbuchi fuori?!*⁷» Startled, America put on an incredibly clumsy Italian accent, waving his hand in greeting and laughing a bit hysterically. She was suddenly way too close, and he caught that scent of strawberries she always radiated whenever he got near her. He was genuinely surprised to see her pop up out of nowhere; usually, he only ever saw her with England, and he was amazed he hadn't considered her presence until now, as it would have saved him the whole dramatic scene from earlier. Now, though, he wondered just how long she had been in the room and what she had witnessed. He shot a quick glance at the Englishman: he too looked dumbfounded to see her there, given that this area was strictly restricted to nations.
«Bloody hell, Amelia! Good heavens, where were you?!» The blond man seemed shaken, betraying an almost irrational agitation, as if fearing the girl had witnessed the terrible display from just moments ago.
«Neh, neh! Sono stata qui mentre eravate in riunione. È stato Lei a dirmi che potevo restare, Signor Inghilterra*⁸», she replied, pointing to the black leather sofa where the faint indentation of her body could still be seen; next to the elegant brown sofa stood a small side table where her large, round glasses rested.
«Oh, sì... Me n’ero dimenticato*⁹, bloody hell!» the Englishman muttered, also speaking in Italian with a thick British accent and biting the inside of his cheek.
He took a step forward, approached the American, standing shoulder to shoulder with America, and England ran a hand through his blonde hair, messing it up even more than it already was, sighing. Amelia smiled and observed them both, noticing how tense they were, especially the American.
«Is something wrong, Signor America?»
America jumped at the question. He blinked repeatedly as he watched her tilt her head to the side: her extremely long, perfectly straight, and well-groomed hair — styled with a small black-and-white crown that matched the uniform she wore — cascaded over her shoulders, framing her face beautifully.
America couldn't deny that Amelia was a wonderful girl; he had to admit to himself that he felt a strong attraction toward her. Every time they met, he found himself observing every single detail: her large, dark hazel eyes, two pools that were easy to get lost in; her incredibly long, straight hair, kept impeccably neat with a few playful strands framing her forehead; her full, rosy lips, and that tiny dimple that appeared on her cheek whenever she smiled, standing out against the olive complexion typical of Mediterranean people, where she came from.
What he found absolutely irresistible was her physique: she was short, far too short for her eighteen years, so much so that she could easily be mistaken for a fifteen-year-old girl. She was slender, with delicate curves and small breasts. America felt incredibly ashamed of letting his gaze linger on certain parts of her body, especially her backside, which was undeniably inviting despite its petite size.
He often felt the urge to grab her, to touch her, to feel how soft and fragrant she was; he wished he could ask the Englishman if he could borrow Amelia for some housework, but he couldn't: he had to maintain his composure. He was the hero, the one who had to set a good example, and he certainly couldn't turn into a creep like that idiot France, who frequently made overly explicit comments about the girl, both to her face and behind her back. Amelia was incredibly naive, far too much so; luckily, England was always there to spread a protective wing over her, inevitably ending up in fights with the Frenchman because of it.
America shook his head hurriedly, waving his hands in front of him: «HAHAHAHA! Everything's fine, Amy! Don't worry! The meeting was just really... difficult!» he cut himself short, drawing out the last word while clenching his jaw.
He shot a glare at the Englishman. The latter had walked over to the table, but having sensed the gaze, he completely ignored it, acting as if nothing were amiss despite the tense aura radiating from the American. He picked up Amelia's large, round, black glasses, walked back to her, slipped them onto her nose, and scolded her:
«I’ve told you a million times that you need to put them on the moment you open your eyes, you bloody brat! I have absolutely no intention of listening to you complain about your stupid headache... foolish, stubborn girl!»
Amelia looked apologetic, nodding and smiling timidly at him as she properly adjusted the glasses on her nose. Then, out of curiosity, she posed a question to the Englishman: «Why did Signor America have his hand in front of your face earlier, Signor Inghilterra?»
At that question, both of them turned pale, especially the Englishman. England knew Amelia perfectly well: if she had asked such a question right in front of the American, it meant she was genuinely worried. It was unusual for Amelia to ask things like that in front of other nations; usually, she would only bring them up when they were alone, and often, when she realized something was wrong, she would whimper like a child out of fear that he might get hurt. She absolutely hated seeing him suffer, and no matter how much England scolded her, telling her that those were the normal risks of being a nation, his reprimands were completely futile; Amelia could not tolerate anyone laying a hand on her "master", let alone near his face.
England reached out a hand to the dark-haired girl's head, affectionately ruffling her neat hair. He smiled at her with trembling lips and an awkward tone: «Bloody hell, Amelia, what on earth are you talking about?! Me, a former pirate and former empire, letting myself get handled by this brat?! What poppycock! Absolute nonsense!»
She didn't look entirely convinced by those words, but she could do nothing but nod and smile at him. Then she turned to the American, bowing, mortified by her own accusation: «Forgive me, Signor America, I thought you wanted to harm my Lord.»
America felt his heart wrench for a moment at the sight of such loyalty and almost morbid attachment toward that cynical, arrogant, haughty, repressed, and grumpy old man. It drove him absolutely wild that a girl like her — so sweet, patient, compliant, loyal, and caring — served a problematic nation like England.
America let out an affectionate huff, giving her a few energetic pats on the shoulder and watching a small, relieved smile play on her lips; however, he felt her stiffen slightly, as she didn't appreciate physical contact unless it was with England. «HAHAHAHA! Come on, don't worry about it! You don't see very well without your glasses, do you, Amy?» America played along with that silly excuse, even though she herself admitted her vision wasn't great.
In response, the girl giggled and nodded: «Yes, neh, neh! It's true!»
England looked at the American with an expression that clearly said: "Well played", and the other responded by flashing a massive grin and offering a wink.
Amelia continued to laugh in a composed manner, but stopped abruptly when she remembered that shortly, she and England had to attend a meeting with the Italy brothers. The Englishman had completely forgotten about it, so preoccupied had he been with arguing.
«Tch... blast it!» Arthur huffed, running a hand through his hair once more. He directed his gaze toward the American while Amelia took her leave of the latter with a deep bow; Alfred returned the gesture, waving energetically at the dark-haired girl, who walked with a light step toward the door until she exited.
Before heading out himself, England sized up the American with a disgusted look: «You absolute savage... I didn't think you'd become so heavy-handed, America. If you hadn't stopped, and if Amelia had seen what you were about to do, she probably would have never spoken to you again.»
The Englishman knew perfectly well the soft spot Alfred had for the brunette and played that card to his own advantage.
America, for his part, was well aware of just how protective England was of the Italian girl. Amelia was fragile, carrying deep internal scars from an unhappy childhood, a past that had left her with severe, often unmanageable trauma that even England likely struggled to handle.
Yet, despite it all, Amelia led a peaceful life; England made sure she never went without. The two of them got along remarkably well. Though England rarely let it show, he cared for her deeply, and Amelia was probably the only person who could truly bring out his human side.
«Anyway, our conversation ends here, Yankee.» England chuckled, taking his leave and exiting the room, leaving America alone. As soon as the door closed, America stood still, turning toward the window that reflected the light onto his glasses, softly illuminating them without bothering him.
England was undeniably skilled at irritating him and putting a spoke in his wheels, contradicting him on every single thing since he was little; on one point, however, he was absolutely right: he had become far too tense, and that strain was pushing him to act this way.
He hated what he was going through, hated what he was becoming. Slowly, he was wasting away, turning into something he had never been: a nobody. And all because of his boss and those threatening his leadership, forcing him to commit atrocities that he himself would never want to perpetrate; he had to do it, otherwise his citizens and he himself would suffer heavily, and perhaps with them, the entire world. Who knows.
He walked over to the windowsill and slammed his fist against it; he took a deep breath and let the air out in a sigh, clenching his fingers until his knuckles turned white. In that moment, the only thing he wanted was to disappear. «Ugh... damn it! Fuck!»
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«Ve~, Veeee! Ameliaaa~!»
Northern Italy, Italy Veneziano, greeted Amelia in his usual manner: rushing toward her the moment the girl stepped through the door alongside England, while the two were mid-conversation. Veneziano grabbed her hands, shaking them frantically, and began showering her with a myriad of compliments on her hair, her eyes, and every single detail of the beautiful maid uniform she was wearing.
Amelia was always left utterly confused whenever Northern Italy acted this way. For her, it was impossible to tell him not to touch her or to explain that physical contact caused her anxiety and nervousness. As a rule, she tolerated physical proximity solely and exclusively with a few specific men: England, his older brothers — Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland — and little Sealand. The latter was a tiny micronation, the younger brother of the members of the United Kingdom, who tried in every possible way to be recognized as a large and powerful state, both by other nations and by his own brothers. He often went around saying that one day he would rule over all of them, especially England; every time he did, the Briton would scold him and punish him, since, after all, he was the one taking care of the boy.
The other brothers seemed uninterested in Sealand and far more inclined to spoil Amelia, which England, deep down, didn't mind. Ever since the girl had started living at his house, she spent a lot of time with Sealand. Over the years, she had grown up a lot, while the little one remained with the appearance of a child of about ten. Sealand hadn't taken Amelia's growth well, fearing she would never play with him again; the girl, on the contrary, never missed an opportunity to do so.
Despite her discomfort, Amelia didn't want to see Veneziano downcast; she preferred to humor him and endure it in silence, knowing the boy meant no harm. Signor Northern Italy, after all, was a wonderful person and, along with his brother, Southern Italy, always gave her beautiful gifts. Even though she often insisted it was too much, the Italy brothers treated her with immense affection, especially the southern one.
England, for his part, often appeared annoyed by all that attention. He told her flat out that those were just excuses to court her, even though Amelia — perhaps out of naivety — didn't notice the courtship at all.
Whenever the two brothers managed to truly irritate him, the Englishman would raise his voice, trying by all means to intimidate them. He would act menacing to deter them from their intent to seduce her—though often with little success:
«Listen here! Amelia isn't going anywhere! She is strictly under my protection, and I will impose severe sanctions on any bloody git who tries to persuade her to leave me!»
Those were England's words. Whenever anyone had designs on seducing her, he would get extremely irritated by the situation, deeming Amelia decidedly too young for those kinds of advances.
Standing by the girl's side, England watched the entire scene visibly annoyed. Ever since the day Amelia had entered his life years ago, he had categorically forbidden any nation from touching her without asking her permission first, except in cases of extreme necessity. And this was definitely not one of those cases. It was frustrating for him to see her endure it in silence every time, or to have to remind another nation not to make things difficult for her.
Veneziano continued to wave his arms frantically until his beloved brother, Romano, approached the three with his hands in his pockets and a thoroughly annoyed expression. Romano whipped a hand out of his pocket and smacked it onto his younger brother's head, yanking his hair to abruptly tear him away from Amelia. He turned him around, glaring at him fiercely. Veneziano, as usual, burst into desperate tears:
«Vee~! Basta tirarmi i capelli, Romano!*¹⁰ Ve, ve, veeee~!» he shrieked with all the breath left in his body, thrashing around. Romano loosened his grip until he let go completely, leaving the younger brother to massage his throbbing, aching head. Southern Italy shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest, shooting another glare at his brother. «Chigi! How many times do I have to tell you not to greet Amelia like that?! Eh?! Sî nu disgraziato*¹¹, tsk!»
His eyes, which a moment before had been blazing with anger, landed on the dark-haired girl in front of him and seemed to soften slightly upon seeing her smile, grateful for the intervention of the southerner — the one who, after all, represented her native land.
«I'm sorry, Piccerè. Chistu screanzato 'e frate mio s'ha dda piglià na bella lezione!*¹²»
He turned his gaze once more toward Veneziano, who let out a squeak, trembling like a leaf. Amelia, witnessing the scene, shook her head and waved her hands, smiling at them both:
«Neh, neh! Please, Signor Romano, Signor Veneziano didn't bother me. Please, don't be angry with him.»
Amelia absolutely did not want the two brothers to fight over such a silly thing; she knew well that Veneziano was a friendly and overly expressive nation, and it was decidedly difficult to force him to change his behavior.
Veneziano looked at Amelia, opening a single tear-filled eye, revealing his light hazel iris. On his lips, which moments ago had been contorted with fear and pain, a radiant smile suddenly appeared. Just as if nothing had happened, he straightened up and went right back to complimenting the girl.
Amelia blushed slightly, giggling softly. England, by now thoroughly fed up, sighed, stepping forward and placing himself in front of the brunette.
«Bloody hell, you two! We are ten minutes late because of this stupid charade!»
England pointed a finger at the watch on his wrist, tapping it impatiently. Veneziano calmed down, pointing toward a round table with three chairs. Romano shot a sidelong glance at the Englishman, biting his lip to keep from snapping back: partly because it wasn't gallant at all to do so in front of a lady, and partly because he found himself in a rather awkward position with the Briton due to a situation that hit very close to home for both of them, especially the latter.
The nation of Southern Italy huffed and turned his back on the Englishman.
«Va bene, va bene, basta che non rompi, sopracciglione!*¹³ You're damn irritating, tsk!»
England eyed him with a raised eyebrow, adopting a haughty expression, before walking over to the round table and sitting down with the Italy brothers. Amelia, on the other hand, made herself comfortable on a small sofa off to the side, sitting primly. From there, she watched the three nations discuss trade relations, diplomacy, and plenty of other matters she didn't understand much of, already imagining that this was going to drag on for a long time.