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Chapter Text

Romano had no idea how much time had passed since he’d curled up on the floor at the foot of the bed. However long it had been, his aching back made it clear that it had been too long. His body felt heavy and his limbs stiff from lying in the same position for what might have been hours.

He had cried harder than he ever had in his life—so much that, eventually, the tears just stopped coming, as if he had drained himself completely. Now, his eyes were dry and aching.

At least his breathing had steadied. He could inhale properly again, though there was still a faint sting in his chest. Whether it was real or just in his head, he didn’t know. He didn’t care. He was just grateful to be breathing like a normal person again... well, as grateful as he could be, given the circumstances.

But... after what he had done that was to be expected.

Romano let out a shaky sigh, fingers curling weakly against the fabric of his pants. He shifted slightly, wincing as a dull pain rippled through his muscles.

The room was silent. Too silent. So quiet that he could hear the cold wind outside, the faint creak of the walls, and the deafening roar of his own thoughts.

At some point—he wasn’t sure when—his brother had come to his room. He had knocked, rattled the door handle, his voice thick with worry as he pleaded to be let in. Veneziano begged him to talk, but Romano hadn’t answered. He hadn’t even tried.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because he didn’t deserve Veneziano’s comfort. Not after hurting him like an idiot.

So he had stayed silent. Waited. Let Veneziano’s desperate words fall on deaf ears. And eventually, his brother had worn himself out and left.

South Italy exhaled, the sound almost echoing in the small room. He felt... awful. But honestly, it would be more concerning if he didn’t. Still, this was worse than anything he had ever felt before. He had thought he had reached his limit, that he had already experienced the worst of it. But he had been so, so wrong. Nothing compared to the ache consuming him now.

It was a tangled mess of guilt, sadness, regret, and even anger, though this time, it was aimed at himself rather than someone else. A terrible mix of emotions, all blending into one overwhelming mass of misery that gnawed at him from the inside like a disease, leaving him feeling weaker and weaker, like a man on his deathbed.

Romano wanted nothing more than to tear his heart out and stomp on it until it stopped beating, until he stopped feeling altogether. But that was impossible. So, instead, he had to endure the pain, just as he always had, ever since the moment he first opened his eyes in this ruthless world.

He still couldn’t believe the mess he had made, the cruelty he had shown to those who had done nothing but try to be kind to him. He had no idea how he would ever face them again. His brother probably wouldn’t be a problem, after all, it was his brother, and he was too forgiving for his own good. But Prussia and Germany? God, Romano would never be able to look them in the eyes again, let alone be in the same room with them. He’d never be able to visit Germany again, and he’d have to stop attending meetings altogether to avoid any conflict, especially since Germany was always there.

Veneziano could probably handle going to the meetings alone... After all, he was the better Italy, and everyone preferred him. By staying away, Romano would be doing everyone a favor. Yeah... his brother could manage their country, and Romano could just disappear somewhere in the South, far away, where his stupid mouth and terrible personality couldn’t hurt anyone anymore.

The thought made his chest tighten, but he didn’t try to push the pain away. He simply let it consume him and allowed himself to wallow in the bitterness because, frankly, that’s what he deserved.

Right now, Romano just wanted to go home. To buy a plane ticket to Rome, slip away in the dead of night without a word, and return to the one place that still felt safe. He had no idea how he was supposed to survive the rest of this stupid vacation, trapped under the same roof as the Germans. He was fairly certain he wouldn’t make it. It would kill him.

Romano pulled his knees closer to his chest and let out another sigh. What was he supposed to do? What could he do? He couldn’t stay locked in this stupid room forever—it wasn’t even his, it was Germany’s—but he also couldn’t face the others. And leaving wasn’t an option either, not when he knew he’d probably collapse before he made it anywhere. But staying? That felt impossible.

It was all just too much.

He let out a bitter scoff and shook his head at his own misfortune. Slowly, he lifted his head, grimacing at the dull ache in his stiff neck. He rubbed his swollen eyes with trembling fingers before rolling his head from side to side in a weak attempt to ease the tension

With a tired sigh, he leaned back, letting his head rest against the wooden bed frame to shift positions and stave off the growing soreness in his body. But the sharp jolt of pain that followed made him hiss and immediately lift his head again.

His jaw clenched, breath shaky as he curled in on himself, wrapping his arms around his knees and burying his face against them. Fine. What was a little more pain to him? It wasn’t like he wasn’t used to it by now.

For a while, he just sat there, listening to the wind outside as it rattled his window, more aggressive than before. He swallowed dryly, then pressed his cheek against his knee as if it were a pillow. His eyes burned, exhaustion dragging at his limbs, but even as he closed them, sleep refused to come.

Romano wanted to sleep so badly, not just to feel like a human again, or whatever the expression was, but to want to live again—if only for a moment. He wanted to forget his problems and dream away like he used to when he was younger, when Spain would pile a million chores on him that he’d never do because he’d always end up sleeping instead.

Ah, those were the days.

But now, sleep wasn’t something that came easily. Not unless he took something strong—something that could shut his system down completely, like those damn unprescribed insomnia meds he had been taking, the ones with more side effects than he cared to acknowledge.

Except... he couldn’t take them. Because, of course, he didn’t have any damn water.

How ironic.

Curse himself and his inability to swallow pills like a normal person.

Romano turned his head and opened his eyes, staring sadly at the desk in the corner of the room where his only hope of sleep rested. His bloodshot eyes fell on the small container, unsure whether to hate it or feel grateful for it. He was pretty sure he hated it, though, as it seemed to bring him nothing but misery.

"Ugh..."

Romano let his head loll to the side, eyes drifting to the half-open window. The sky was dark. It must’ve been late. He glanced around, searching for his phone. Not seeing it, he patted the space beside him. Nothing.

He adjusted his position and glanced to the right of the bed, spotting his phone on the floor. Too tired to get up, he grabbed the edge of the rug and dragged it, rumpling the fabric until the device was finally within reach. He picked it up, and the screen flickered to life.

4:46 AM.

Romano hissed at the brightness, squinting. Damn. It was late... or early. Either way, it was the kind of hour when most normal people were asleep—and that was the important part. Something he, as a normal human—well, nation—should have been doing too.

Romano stifled a groan, placing the phone back on the floor before burying his head in his hands, feeling utterly defeated. Another sleepless night. Fuck. How long had it been since he’d actually slept? A few days, at least. Maybe more. He wasn’t sure. His memory was hazy. Probably from the exhaustion. No—definitely from the exhaustion. He wondered how much longer he could keep this up, how many more days he could go without rest before it finally broke him. Would it kill him? Immortality could only do so much to keep him alive… God, he needed sleep.

The hazel-eyed man remained motionless for what seemed like an eternity, his fingers twitching slightly as they combed through his tangled hair. His eyes drifted back to the container on the desk, and he bit his lip, carefully considering his options.

Should he try...? Should he not?

Fuck it.

Taking a sharp breath, Romano gathered what little strength he had left and pressed his palms against the floor, attempting to push himself up. The instant he did, a sudden wave of dizziness washed over him, throwing the Southern nation off balance.

Before Romano could catch himself, he toppled backward, barely registering the brief fall before landing against the bed with a clumsy, unceremonious thud.

"Merda…" he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper, hoarse with exhaustion. His fists tightened around the fabric beneath him in frustration before he exhaled, trying to steady his nerves.

Gritting his teeth, Romano pushed himself up again, gripping the edge of the desk for support. He snatched the small container and flicked it open with a sharp motion of his thumb. Tilting it over in his hand, he let a couple of pills spill into his palm. For a brief moment, he simply stared at them. But then, with a sharp inhale, he tilted his head back and tossed them into his mouth, swallowing them dry.

Or, at least, he tried to.

The bitter chalkiness caught in his throat almost instantly, and before he could even process what was happening, he was choking. A sharp gag tore from his throat as his body rejected the pills, forcing them back out. They tumbled from his mouth, scattering uselessly across the floor.

Romano coughed harshly, leaning back against the desk as he pounded a fist against his chest, trying to steady his breath. When the choking finally subsided, frustration surged through him. Before he could stop himself, his hands flew to his face, nails digging into his skin as he dragged them down his face.

Why did he have to be so damn pathetic?

Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!

All he had to do was one simple thing—to swallow. It was something so basic, so instinctive, yet he couldn’t even manage that. Fuck!

Drawing in a shaky breath, the Italian forced himself upright, his fingers drumming anxiously against his pants.

Romano knew he shouldn’t push his luck any further, that he should just accept he wasn’t going to sleep and deal with it like a man. But he was just so exhausted—so unbearably exhausted—that he was desperate. He just wanted to shut down, to escape this damn reality he no longer wished to be a part of, even if only for a few hours. He wasn’t asking for much.

His gaze flickered to the pill bottle still within reach. Jaw tightening, he grabbed it and willed his unsteady legs to move, shuffling hesitantly toward the door.

His heart pounded against his ribs as he slowly unlocked it, cracking it open just enough to peer out. The house was dark and silent, stirring a faint sense of deja vu in him—as if he had done this before. And, in truth, he had.

Moving carefully, he leaned against the wall for support, dragging himself forward. Every step felt like walking on shattered glass, but he pushed through, biting the inside of his cheek to keep going.

When he reached the staircase, he gripped the railing tightly, using it to steady himself as he made his way down. His movements were slow, almost agonizing, but eventually, he reached the kitchen.

The kitchen was exactly as he had left it during his 'escape'. The table was slightly askew, and the chairs were out of place, far from the usual order that was always present in Germany's house.

The space brought back memories of what had happened, and Romano had to force himself to stay composed, resisting the urge to break down again.

Navigating the dimly lit space, he reached the counter and flicked on the light. The sudden brightness burned his tired eyes, making him squint, but he didn’t give himself time to adjust. Instead, he turned toward the cupboards, his sluggish mind struggling to recall where the glasses were stored.

With stiff movements, he opened one cabinet, then another, until he finally found them. He reached out, but his fingers trembled violently. He tried to steady his hand, willing it to cooperate, but his body refused to listen to him. Before he could secure a proper grip, his fingers spasmed, and the glass wobbled dangerously before slipping from his grasp.

A surge of panic shot through him. He lunged forward, desperate to catch it before it fell, but in his frantic attempt, his hand struck the others beside it. The entire row of glasses toppled forward. He scrambled to catch them—he really did—but he was so tired that his reflexes simply weren’t fast enough.

All he could do was watch helplessly as the glasses plummeted toward the floor.

The sharp, piercing sound of glass shattering against the tiles ripped through the kitchen, echoing in the silence. The shards scattered in every direction, some skidding across the floor, others glinting under the light before settling in a jagged mess at his feet.

Romano flinched at the sound, his body tensing so abruptly that the pill bottle slipped from his grasp.

Time seemed to slow as he watched it tumble to the floor, hitting the ground with a soft, hollow sound, sending the pills spilling out, white tablets mixing with the shards of broken glass.

For a moment, he just stood there, staring.

Seconds passed. Then more.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His mind blank, as if it simply couldn’t process what had just happened.

Then, all at once, something inside him cracked.

Fucking of course something as unfortunate as this would happen to him. Why the hell not? Why would things go right for him when they could just go south? He was South fucking Italy after all, it was in his fucking name, so of course everything would go south for him. Why should he be allowed a moment of peace when he could just suffer?

Romano dropped to his knees, frantically sifting through the shattered glass in a desperate attempt to retrieve his pills. But the moment his fingers brushed against the sharp fragments, a sharp sting shot through his hand. He hissed, jerking it back instinctively.

A deep red streak marred his palm. The cut wasn’t deep, but blood was already welling up, trailing down his skin in thin crimson trails. A single bead dripped from his hand, landing on a shard of glass and staining it red.

His jaw clenched as he pressed his lips into a tight line, eyes squeezing shut. He held his breath, trying to swallow down the frustration burning in his chest. When he finally exhaled, it was shaky and resigned.

Romano leaned his head back, eyes drifting to the ceiling as if searching for some unseen force to give him an answer—some explanation for why he had to endure this. But the silence offered nothing. No response. No relief.

With a heavy sigh, he dropped his head, his gaze settling once more on the mess before him.

Stupid. He was so damn stupid!

He couldn't do one thing right! God!

His vision blurred for what felt like the hundredth time that day. He wanted to scream, to curse the universe, to destroy something, anything. But what was the point? The universe never listened. Nothing ever changed.

How could he have been so naive to think he'd actually sleep? That he might’ve managed to take his damn pills and rest his eyes, even for an hour? No, he should’ve known better. He should’ve just stayed in that dumb room and accepted his fate.

With a sharp inhale, he slammed his fist against the ground, uncaring of the glass beneath him. A fresh jolt of pain shot through his hand, but he barely flinched.

"Kill me..." The Southern nation mumbled in a strained voice, to no one in particular but himself. "Per favore, uccidimi e basta... (Please, just fucking kill me...)" he uttered again, his fingers curling into the glass-littered floor, more blood spilling between them.

Romano couldn't give a single damn tho.

Let it fucking bleed.

What did it matter anymore? Nothing mattered. Nothing had ever mattered. He wanted the world to end him already, to put him out of his misery.

His body trembled as fresh tears burned their way down his cheeks. It hurt—to cry, to breathe, to exist. Every part of him ached, as if he were using the last of his strength just to shed those tears, as if his body were forcing him to release the agony caged inside.

But he deserved this.

This was his punishment for being a selfish, cruel, ungrateful bastard. For treating everyone like they were against him.

This was karma—punishment for his failures, both as a person and as a nation. And there was nothing he could do but endure it until there was nothing left of him, until he was broken beyond repair... not that he wasn't already broken. Because whole people didn’t do the things he did. They didn’t act the way he acted. They did better. They didn’t make everyone loathe them. Unlike Romano.

The Italian brought his uninjured hand to his face, covering his eyes as he let himself cry. What was the point in holding it in anymore?

He was so lost in his misery that he didn’t hear the footsteps approaching. Didn’t register the presence of someone else in the room. Not until—

Clatter.

The sudden sharp sound jarred Romano from his quiet sobbing, his head snapping violently to the side. His tear-blurred eyes widened in shock as they locked onto the last person he expected to see.

Prussia.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

The albino stood rigid near the wall, a painting knocked askew at his feet. But he paid it no mind. His crimson eyes were locked on Romano, wide with shock.

But the initial shock didn’t last long. His expression shifted, his brows furrowing, his fists clenching at his sides. A flicker of anger crossed his face. And yet—just as quickly as it came—it faltered.

His gaze dropped, taking in the shattered glass strewn across the floor, the scattered pills, and the fresh streaks of blood staining Romano’s hand. The sharp edges of his expression softened, shifting into something else.

Concern.

Romano blinked once. Then twice. His chest tightened, his heart slamming so violently against his ribs that, for a moment, he swore it would tear right through his chest.

AHHH!

Wait. That was not enough.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Yeah. That was better.

Ok. What the hell?

Why was... what was he even... when had he...

Ugh!

Why was Prussia here?! At five in the morning, standing in the same room as Romano—right when he was at his absolute lowest, when he could barely hold himself together, and when facing the former nation was the last thing he wanted to do.

Romano's mouth went dry, his throat tightening as he stared at Prussia in pure shock, unable to tear his eyes away from him. For a painfully long moment, neither of them moved, simply staring at each other. Then, finally, the ex-nation shifted.

With a hesitant glance, he crouched down, picked up the fallen painting, and carefully placed it back on the wall, adjusting it until it hung perfectly straight (like the neat freak that he was). Only then did he turn back to Romano, who could do nothing but blink at him in stunned silence.

The former nation’s eyes shifted back to the broken glass on the floor, then to Romano. He looked like he was considering something, hesitating for a brief moment before finally seeming to decide. With caution, he started making his way toward Romano.

South Italy felt his soul leave his body.

Fuck.

He was not ready for confrontation.

He didn't want confrontation.

All he wanted was to disappear—to never have to face the former nation again and be reminded of just how cruel he had been.

Why was this happening to him?

Fuuuck.

Romano knew exactly what was coming. Prussia would lash out, throw every cruel word back at him—maybe even worse. He’d yell, call him pathetic, worthless. Maybe that wouldn’t be enough. Maybe he’d get physical, just like Germany had… and if he did, Romano wouldn’t fight it.

Whatever Prussia wanted to do, he’d take it. He deserved it. If Prussia wanted him dead, he wouldn’t stop him. It would be easier. Easier than this—easier than existing like this.

Romano squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away as his body sagged like a puppet with its strings cut. He didn’t even bother wiping the fresh tears slipping down his face, dripping silently onto the shattered glass below.

He braced himself for the worst.

He sucked in a shaky breath, waiting, expecting pain, or shouting, or something—

But nothing came.

...

No yelling, no lashing out, no nothing. Actually... it was quieter than before.

Huh...?

Romano's heart pounded so loudly in his chest that he could barely hear anything else. He kept his eyes shut, too afraid to face whatever awaited him, but the silence—the sheer, suffocating silence—was unbearable.

Swallowing hard, he forced himself to crack one eye open. To his surprise, Prussia was crouching next to him, far closer than Romano was comfortable with. The sudden proximity nearly stole the breath from his lungs, sending a fresh wave of unease through him. He had to bite down on his tongue to keep himself from outright yelping.

Whatever Prussia was doing didn’t align with the script in Romano’s head, and it was stressing him the fuck out.

The former nation appeared fixated on the clutter strewn across the floor, his brows knitting together and his eyes narrowing as he took it all in. After a brief pause, he reached out and picked up the empty container that had once held Romano’s sleeping pills. As the albino inspected it, a sinking feeling settled in Romano’s chest, making him want to jump off a cliff.

So much for keeping his insomnia a secret. Now it was out in the open, and he felt like nothing more than a complete fool.

Before his thoughts could spiral any further, Prussia turned toward him, making Romano's stomach twist. He quickly looked away.

This was excruciating—more so than if Prussia would've punched him or yelled at him. Why wasn’t the former nation angry? Where was the fury he was supposed to feel? Why the hell was he so composed?

Suddenly, the albino shifted beside him, and Romano shut his eyes once more, gritting his teeth and tensing up like a brick wall, bracing for the ex-nation to lash out. But instead, he felt a hand gently take his bloodstained one, the touch so light it almost felt phantom-like.

The air was thick with tension for a moment, as the Southern nation felt his hand tremble in the other's surprisingly soft grip, before a sigh escaped the German.

"You're injured." Prussia muttered, his voice hoarse like he had just woken up... or perhaps hadn’t slept at all.

South Italy tensed even more.

No shit, Sherlock. Of course he was injured—his hand was literally covered in blood. But that wasn’t the issue.

What was important—or rather, worrying? Distressing? Nerve-wracking? Hell, all of them!—was why Prussia was even acknowledging this in the first place.

Agh! How could the former nation be so... so damn nice to him after everything? After all the things Romano had said, after he had made the Great Kingdom of fucking Prussia cry? How? Why?

The Italian didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure if he could speak without stumbling over his words or saying something stupid. Instead, he stayed quiet, focusing on keeping his heart from hammering out of his chest.

Then—before he could fully process what was happening—Prussia moved. His grip on Romano’s hand loosened, only for him to shift closer. And before the brunette had a chance to react, the German grabbed him by the forearms and, in an instant, yanked him to his feet, forcing a sharp breath from his lungs, nearly making him choke on it.

The Southern nation was just so shocked that the moment Prussia let go, he nearly stumbled back to the ground, forcing the albino to grab him again and keep him on his feet.

"Woah... uh." the former-nation stammered, a bit taken aback, before glancing around and clearing his throat. "You should sit down, er... not on the floor..."

Romano barely registered what was happening as Prussia led him to the couch in the living room and eased him down onto it. The moment he was seated, he averted his gaze, focusing on anything but the albino. His arms folded tightly across his chest in a rigid, defensive stance, though his injured hand remained awkwardly positioned, hovering slightly above his lap.

Prussia shifted uncomfortably in front of him, seeming unsure of what to do next. But Romano didn’t acknowledge him—he didn’t dare to do so. His eyes stayed fixed on the bland carpet beneath his feet, too afraid to lift his head and meet the other’s gaze.

A beat of silence passed before the former nation finally muttered, "Stay here," his voice oddly subdued. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away.

Romano didn’t move. He wanted to, he really did, but his body refused to cooperate. So he sat there, counting the patterns in the carpet, trying to distract his mind from the mess of emotions choking him.

In the background, he could hear Prussia rummaging through drawers and cabinets, the occasional clinking of glass and plastic breaking the silence. He flinched at the sound of a door creaking open, followed by more shuffling, but still, he didn’t look up.

Instead, he curled his uninjured hand into a tight fist against his arm, fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt, desperate for something to keep him grounded.

Why wasn’t Prussia yelling at him already? Getting angry? Doing something that actually made sense?

This... this wasn't right.

Several minutes slipped by before the former nation finally returned. Romano barely registered his presence until the soft clink of something being set on the coffee table caught his attention.

Slowly, he lifted his head, peering out from behind his bangs. His stomach dropped. His empty bottle of pills.

Prussia nudged it slightly toward him, the gesture feeling almost mocking. Romano’s gaze snapped away. He didn’t want to look at that damned bottle.

More objects were placed on the table, this time further away, but he kept his eyes stubbornly downcast. Then, without a word, Prussia sat down beside him.

Romano tensed on instinct, his body screaming at him to either run or brace for impact. But, just like before, the ex-nation did nothing… bad.

Instead, he reached for something on the table, then gently took hold of Romano’s injured hand. The Italian winced. The touch was as careful as before—maybe even more so. It made his brain stutter. He felt Prussia tilt his hand slightly before the sharp sting of liquid met his skin—liquid that felt like disinfectant and likely was disinfectant.

South Italy sucked in a breath but didn’t pull away, staying as still as a statue while Prussia cleaned the wound and wrapped it in bandages. Once finished, the German let go, carefully placing his hand on the couch cushion.

Without hesitation, Romano pulled his hand close, tucking it against his chest alongside the other.

"That... uh, that better?" Prussia suddenly asked.

Upon hearing that, Romano furrowed his brows. Why the hell was Prussia asking him that? Why did it even matter to him whether Romano was feeling better or not? He shouldn't care. He really shouldn't... Why the hell was he even doing anything for him in the first place? None of it made any sense! Prussia wasn’t supposed to care. He should be mocking him him, making some dumb joke about how weak and pathetic he was. He should be angry with him. He should be furious.

But he wasn’t.

And Romano hated it. He hated it with every inch of his being.

Romano kept his eyes fixed on the floor, as if staring hard enough would somehow give him the answers he needed. He tried to hold himself together—tried so damn hard—but it was useless. He didn’t want to cry anymore. He was sick of crying. But that question—so simple, so stupid—ripped something open inside him, and before he could stop it, the tears returned.

They spilled down his face, his exhausted eyes burning, but the pain in his chest swallowed the ache in his eyes.

A sharp sob tore from his throat before he could bite it back, his whole body trembling. He clung to himself even tighter, as if that alone could keep him from falling apart. But it couldn’t.

Beside him, Prussia tensed, his red eyes widening. "H-Hey—" he started to reach out but hesitated, his fingers hovering uncertainly in the air. For a moment, he scrambled for something to say before finally giving Romano’s shoulder a light, awkward pat. "Uh... not better?"

Romano shook his head violently, every movement screaming 'no' as he fought to get his breathing under control—but it was useless. With a strangled breath, he buried his face in his hands, muffling his cries for a moment before suddenly whipping around to face the white-haired German, knocking his hand away in the process.

"What—" his voice broke as he lowered his hands, struggling to find his words before finally forcing them out. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

At that, the former nation looked utterly baffled, blinking before tilting his head in clear confusion, though there was an unmistakable hint of unease in his expression. "Was... ? (What... ?)"

"Why are you doing this?!” Romano shouted, struggling to force a glare onto his face but barely succeeding.

The man in front of him parted his lips to speak, only to snap them shut again, his red eyes flickering to the side for the briefest moment before they shifted back to meet Romano’s hazel ones. "Doing what...?" he asked, sounding as though he had no idea what the Italian was referring to, which, in hindsight, was accurate—Prussia truly had no clue what Romano was talking about in that moment.

At those words, the Southern nation’s scowl deepened, the corners of his mouth pulling downward as his hands clenched into fists, his whole body tense with frustration.

"You—You—" he hissed, his voice shaking with anger. "How can you—" but the words caught in his throat, his thoughts too tangled to form a coherent sentence.

"Why are you—" Romano tried again, but, once more, the words refused to come.

"Ugh!" he groaned, lifting his leg and kicking the coffee table in front of him. The wooden structure wobbled slightly, its legs scraping against the floor.

Without another word, he dropped backward onto the couch, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. For a long moment, he sat there in silence, struggling to gather his thoughts. Then, as if suddenly struck by an idea, he snapped back up.

"THIS!" Romano all but shouted, shoving his bandaged hand toward the albino’s face, causing him to instinctively lean back in surprise.

"Uhhh..." the ex-nation mumbled, his expression growing even more confused and uneasy. "I..." he started, scrambling for a response that might ease Romano’s distress, but his mind remained completely blank. In the end, all he could manage was a baffled, "Huh?"

The former nation's lack of a real response only seemed to frustrate Romano further, prompting him to curse in Italian as he yanked his hand back and pressed it against his face, covering his mouth. "Mio Dio, you're so stupid!" he hissed, his voice muffled and raspy.

At that, the albino blinked in even more confusion before the insult finally sank in, causing him to furrow his brows in slight offense. He thought for a moment, tempted to say something back, but before he could, the Italian sniffled, making him hesitate and reconsider speaking.

Romano wiped furiously at his face, his sleeve dragging harshly over his already reddened eyes, before crossing his arms tightly. He cast a distressed glance at Prussia. "Why are you being... nice to me?"

The former nation stared at him for a long moment before the realization seemed to dawn on him. "Oh," he muttered, the word tinged with understanding. He ran a hand through his silver hair, then let it drop to the back of his neck in an awkward gesture. "Because..." Prussia drew out the word, shifting his weight slightly. "...You're hurt."

For a moment, Romano felt his heart stop. His frustration faded, replaced by surprise. He hadn’t expected that—not that he even knew what he had been expecting. He looked away, swallowed dryly, then shook his head, his brows knitting together.

"Are you insane?!" Romano snapped, slamming his hand against the couch. "Are you actually out of your damn mind?!"

A flicker of surprise crossed Prussia's face, his eyes widening slightly before his expression shifted to uncertainty. "What...?" he murmured. "I don't... I don't understand."

"What's there not to understand?!" South Italy exclaimed. "This—" he gestured sharply between them. "—isn't right!"

"Um..." was all Prussia managed to say, prompting another frustrated groan from Romano.

"You—" the dark-haired brunette jabbed a finger in the other's face. "—should be angry!" he all but shouted. "You should be furious!" his hand moved to his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt tightly. "At me!" he snapped. "After everything I’ve said to you, after the way I’ve treated you, after I basically told you to fucking die—" his breath hitched, the last word nearly choking him. "How can you just sit here and act all nice with me?" his hazel eyes burned as he stared up Prussia, desperate, almost pleading. "You should hate me, damn it!"

Prussia’s eyebrows shot up, his red eyes widening in disbelief as his mouth fell slightly open. To say he was shocked would be an understatement—he was beyond shocked. He was completely perplexed. He stared at Romano like the guy had spoken in some foreign language and he hadn’t understood a single word. And honestly? That wasn’t far from the truth, because he genuinely couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that Romano actually believed that he, Prussia, could hate him.

Yeah, the truth was, Prussia had been angry. Romano had hurt him in a way no one had in centuries. It had stung, bruised his ego, messed up his confidence a little. He’d even spent the last few hours brooding in his room like some depressed old man, rereading his country’s history—not that he’d ever admit to that, because that would be incredibly un-awesome. And yeah, maybe he still felt a bit—okay, more than a bit—hurt. But angry?

Hell no.

How could he possibly be angry when Romano was sitting here, crying, looking so broken that it hurt to watch? Only someone heartless would hold onto their anger now.

Besides, Prussia had pushed too hard back then, even when it was clear Romano was struggling. In a way, he could admit he probably deserved some of the things the Italian had said.

Prussia snapped out of his thoughts as Romano muttered another curse under his breath, his irritation seeming to grow more and more intense.

"Well?!" South Italy demanded, his expression twisted in disbelief. "Say something, you bastard!"

At that, the albino gave a small shake of his head, trying to snap himself out of the lingering shock. He cleared his throat awkwardly, fumbling for words, but nothing came to mind. The last thing he wanted was to upset Romano even more or, worse, make him cry again.

In the end, Prussia settled for a simple, "Sorry," hoping it would calm Romano down. But the way the Italian’s expression twisted with anger made it clear—it had the exact opposite effect.

Shit.

The Southern nation buried his face in his hands, as if he had just received the worst news of his life. His fingers curled into fists against his skin, nails dragging harshly across his face as he clawed at his tanned complexion.

"No, you're not fucking sorry!" the dark-haired brunette hissed through clenched teeth. "You shouldn’t be sorry! You shouldn’t be apologizing to me!"

"Ah..." Prussia muttered, wincing at the distress of the other man. "I—well I'm sorry for, uh, saying sorry—"

"Fermare! (Stop!)" the Southern nation interrupted sharply. "You have nothing to be sorry for, you idiot!" he snapped, lifting his head just enough to meet the German's gaze with pained eyes. "I’m the one who should be sorry! I’m the one who—" he suddenly cut himself off, biting down hard on his lip as if trying to force the words back, like saying them out loud was too painful.

The Italian’s hazel eyes fell to the floor, and his anger faded, replaced by regret. With a heavy sigh, he buried his face in his hands again, his shoulders slumping as if all the energy had drained out of him, leaving him completely deflated.

A heavy silence hung between them until Romano sniffled again, causing the ex-nation to flinch in surprise.

"Why..." South Italy choked out, his voice trembling. "Why are you doing this to me?" his words cracked as fresh sobs shook his body. "You... doing this... It’s tormenting me! Can’t you see that? Can't you see you're torturing me right now?!" he exclaimed.

Romano's voice broke on the last word, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. He stopped, his shoulders trembling as he struggled to find his next words. When he finally spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper, raw with desperation.

"You should hate me... please, just hate me... I'm begging you."

Romano raised his hands to his head, gripping his hair in pure distress. His fingers dug into his scalp, pulling harshly, almost desperately. His unusual curl strained under the pressure, twitching from the force. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if trying to block everything out.

He felt like he was about to fall apart. Nothing about this was right—Prussia wasn’t right. He was meant to be hated. That’s how things were supposed to be. Prussia wasn’t supposed to be kind to him. He was supposed to despise him, to never want to see him again—just like everyone else did.

This was too much… South Italy couldn’t handle it. It was tearing him apart from the inside out. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be anywhere. He just didn’t want to be.

Romano felt himself slipping, about to break down all over again, but before he could, warm hands suddenly wrapped around his cold ones. Gentle yet firm, carefully prying his fingers away from his hair. The unexpected touch made him freeze, his heart skipping a beat. His grip loosened, his hands no longer pulling, no longer hurting himself.

His head snapped up, red-rimmed hazel eyes locking onto Prussia. The albino watched him with a slight frown, his crimson gaze scanning Romano’s face—searching, studying, as if trying to piece something together. There was an intensity to it, sharp yet unreadable, but beneath it was something almost... grounding. Romano couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Even breathing felt impossible.

Prussia’s hands were warm—far warmer than his own freezing ones. The heat sent a strange feeling twisting inside him, uneasy and unfamiliar, making his stomach churn.

Slowly, the former nation lowered Romano’s hands, but he didn’t let go, as if afraid the Italian might claw at his hair again. His red eyes lingered on Romano for a moment before flickering to the side. Instinctively, the Italian followed his gaze.

The moment Romano realized what Prussia was looking at, his throat tightened, going unbearably dry. His eyes landed on the stupid, empty container of sleeping pills, and he swallowed hard. A cold wave of dread washed over him, making his skin prickle.

Their eyes met again, but this time, something in Prussia's expression had changed. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but Romano saw it. A flicker of understanding, of realization, and something else he couldn't quite put his finger on.

The air was heavy with tension, so thick it felt almost suffocating. Before it could become any worse, the albino finally opened his mouth to speak.

"Romano..." Prussia's voice was careful, almost hesitant. "I don’t hate you." his tone was softer than usual, missing its usual rough edge, quieter than the loud, cocky ex-nation Romano was used to. "And I'm not gonna hate you. Not now, not ever."

At his words, the Italian’s expression crumbled—not in relief, but in sorrow. His hands trembled even more.

"Why?" the brunette murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "You... you should..."

"Yeah. Maybe. Would be easier, huh?" the ex-nation attempted a weak joke, but it fell flat. Romano's eyes only darkened with regret, and seeing that, the German quickly continued, not wanting to make things worse.

"Look," he sighed, keeping his voice as steady and gentle as he could. "I don’t know exactly what’s going on with you, but whatever it is… it’s tearing you apart. It’s making you hurt, making you act impulsively." he paused for a moment, eyes flickering over Romano’s face. "You lashed out. You said some things. And yeah… it hurt. I won’t lie about that. But I don’t think, at least not anymore, that you really meant it."

The Southern nation's eyes widened slightly, and Prussia gave his hands a small squeeze. "And even if you did, I still wouldn’t hate you." he admitted. "It’d be impossible for me to do something that un-awesome."

Romano just stared at him in disbelief, the words echoing in his head. He hated this—hated everything about it. He hated how pathetic he must’ve looked, breaking down in front of Prussia, someone he wasn’t even sure he could call a friend. He hated that things had reached this point, that he had let them spiral so far out of control. But more than anything, he hated himself for allowing it to happen.

He wanted to fight back, to argue, to scream at Prussia to stop being so damn stupid. To wake up and realize that he should despise him already.

But he couldn’t.... He just couldn't.

Because despite everything—despite convincing himself that he needed to be hated, that he deserved it—deep down, buried beneath all of that, he didn’t actually want to be. He wanted to be wanted. To be loved the way his brother was, to have people look at him the way they looked at Veneziano.

So, no matter how much he told himself he should, Romano couldn’t bring himself to fight back against Prussia’s words. He had spent so long calling himself terrible, drowning in his own self-loathing, that hearing Prussia say he didn’t hate him—couldn’t hate him—made something inside him crumble. Not from pain, but from relief.

The former nation was looking at him with a calm expression, free of anger, contempt, or even the slightest hint of cruelty. There wasn’t a trace of resentment... only something soft, something unfamiliar yet unbearably kind. And Romano—Romano couldn’t handle it.

The frustration, the anger, the fear—it all cracked under the weight of that look.

Before he knew it, a breath escaped him—one he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding, maybe since the start of this damn trip, maybe even longer. He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that his head dipped, trembling slightly as quiet apologies began to fall from his lips.

"I'm sorry... I'm so, so sorry," the Southern nation murmured. "I didn’t mean any of it. Dio... I don’t even know why I said all that crap, I just—I was just so—" he sucked in a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging. "I'm just so tired..." he admitted, voice hollow. "I'm tired."

Prussia didn’t say a word. Instead, he slowly released Romano’s hands and inched a little closer. There was a moment of hesitation, uncertainty flickering in his red eyes, before he finally lifted a hand and pulled Romano into what was, admittedly, a pretty awkward hug. It wasn’t graceful, nor was it the best hug Romano had ever received, but somehow, despite the stiffness, it was warm and comforting. And before he knew it, he was leaning into the embrace, gripping onto Prussia’s shirt as he fought to keep himself from crying for what felt like the millionth time that day.

"I didn't mean it." South Italy confessed, his voice muffled. "I'm sorry."

Prussia gave a slight nod, exhaling softly. "Yeah, I know."

The two remained like that for a while—how long, Romano couldn't say. But as faint rays of the morning sun filtered in through the terrace, gradually illuminating the living room, he knew it had been quite some time. Once he had calmed down and seemed to be in slightly better spirits—at least as much as the situation allowed—they finally parted. Romano sank back into the couch, exhausted, while Prussia stayed close, occasionally stealing glances at him.

The former nation leaned forward, drumming his fingers against the coffee table. His eyes flickered to the disinfectant and bandages he had used to treat Romano's injured hand before eventually settling on the empty bottle of sleeping pills.

Prussia mulled over his thoughts for a moment before straightening up and leaning back into the couch, mirroring the other man's posture.

"So..." he began, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. "You can't sleep, huh?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Romano hesitated, fidgeting with his hands in his lap. He still felt the urge to keep his guard up, but in the end, he figured there was no point in hiding it anymore.

"Yeah..." he admitted softly. "I haven't been able to sleep for a while now..."

The Italian blew at his bangs as they fell into his eyes before brushing them aside with his hand, only for them to slip right back into place.

"A few months... almost half a year."

"Wow." Prussia muttered, mildly surprised, not expecting that long of a time as an answer.

At that, the Southern nation sent him a small glare, causing the albino to quickly backtrack on his surprise.

"I mean... how unfortunate." the ex-nation quickly corrected himself.

Romano simply rolled his eyes before continuing.
"That's why mio fratello brought us here in the first place. He wanted to help me with my... insomnia." The word felt bitter on his tongue, making him grimace, but he pushed through.

"He thought a vacation might help and all, but this has been..." he trailed off, pressing his lips into a tight line. His expression flickered with discomfort before settling into something more somber. "Great. What can I say," he muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm, completely contradicting his words. "It fucked me over more than I already was."

Hearing his words, Prussia let out a small, "Ohh," as if he'd just pieced together a complicated puzzle.

"So that's why you guys came here so randomly!" he said, turning to Romano, who gave a slight nod. "And here I thought you just wanted to hang out with the awesome me and my kid brother."

The Italian huffed, crossing his arms and sinking deeper into the couch. "You're only half wrong," he muttered under his breath. "Besides trying to help me or whatever, Veneziano just wanted an excuse to cozy up to your stupid brother. I, on the other hand, wanted to go home... still do... and probably will."

"Oh," the ex-nation murmured, falling silent for a moment before speaking again. "That's..." he stretched out the word, searching for something to say to express his remorse but coming up empty. "Yeah." That was what he settled on, though it didn’t make much sense.

The Southern nation remained silent, his fingers absentmindedly tapping against the fabric of his shirt as he gazed off to the side, his expression almost distant.

The albino mentally cursed himself for his inability to say anything comforting before turning to face the brunette. "You don't have to leave... I mean..."

Romano turned his head to face him, his expression a mix of confusion and lingering sadness.

"I have nothing to stay here for," he admitted. "And nothing to come back to." his voice was so quiet that it tugged painfully at the German’s heartstrings. "I've been a shitty person... I hurt you—and your brother, for that matter. And he’s the damn personification of this country," he said bitterly. "So... mi dispiace (I'm sorry), but I can't stay here."

"My brother?" Prussia echoed, raising a brow in confusion.

At that, Romano grimaced but gave a small nod.
"Yeah," he muttered with a sigh. "He got pissed at me for what I—" he gestured to himself, "—said to you." then, he motioned toward the former nation. "And he got all physical and shit... which, I get. Yeah, you're his brother—"

"Whoa, hold on a second!" Prussia suddenly interrupted, his face creasing into a slight frown. "Physical?" he repeated, disbelief lacing his voice. "West got physical with you?"

South Italy blinked in surprise at the other's reaction, caught off guard for a moment before simply shrugging. "Uh, sì... but it's whatever. I deserved it."

The albino's frown deepened, clearly not brushing it off as easily as Romano would have preferred. "How physical?" he pressed.

At the red-eyed man's question, the Italian hesitated. He didn’t particularly want to answer, but when he glanced at Prussia and noticed the tension in his expression, he exhaled sharply and relented.

"Just—" Romano began, shifting uncomfortably. "—just a bit. It wasn’t anything, uh, too bad." he answered, though Prussia didn’t look convinced. Honestly, neither was Romano, because if he was being truthful, getting mauled by Germany had been pretty terrifying.

The Southern half of Italy shifted his gaze elsewhere, hoping the German would let the subject go. But after a few minutes passed and the albino was still staring at him like he was trying to bore a hole through him, Romano sighed and continued.

"He just—" the Italian gestured with his hands as if grabbing something, then attempted to mimic slamming it into a wall. The motion was a bit clumsy, but judging by the way Prussia's frown deepened even further, he got the idea. "You know?"

The former nation's eyes flickered between Romano's hands and his face, his expression growing more disbelieving with each passing second.

Damn. He knew his kid brother had that fight in him—after all, Prussia himself had taught him to stand his ground when necessary. But he never expected Germany, who was usually too rational for his own good, to actually lose his cool on Prussia’s behalf and go off on Romano like that.

On one hand, it was nice to know Germany valued him so much—hah, how sweet. Prussia was definitely proud.

But on the other hand, it was pretty damn bad that Germany had snapped at Romano, who was barely even half his size. There was a line or something when it came to things like this.

"Damn it, West." the German muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair before shifting his focus back to Romano. "Scheiße, I'm sorry for that," he apologized, resisting the urge to facepalm. "That's not—My brother, he—I will—" he stumbled over his words, everything spilling out at once as he struggled to figure out what to say first, earning a confused look from the Italian. "Uh, okay, fuck—forget that!" he said, shaking his head before gesturing toward Romano. "Are you... okay?"

The Southern nation stared at him for a moment, as if caught off guard by the question, before giving a slow, hesitant nod. However, after a brief pause, he shrugged, only to then shake his head in a dismissive gesture. Finally, he met the German’s gaze with a weary expression.

"What do you think?"

"Shoot." Prussia murmured, his voice quieter this time. "I'm sorry." he apologized again, but Romano simply lifted a hand and waved it off dismissively.

"It’s whatever," the brunette muttered, dropping his hand and idly picking at the loose threads of the couch. "It doesn’t matter."

Prussia wanted to argue—because, of course, it mattered—but before he could get a word in, Romano spoke again.

"Anyway, now you see why there’s no point in me staying here," he stated, turning his head toward the terrace’s glass door. His gaze settled on the sky, now painted in hues of bright orange. "I’m on bad terms with everyone here… even my own brother." he added in a quiet whisper, as if saying it out loud hurt.

As the sun crept over the horizon, its light spilled onto his face, making him squint and close one eye against the bright glare.

"You're not on bad terms with me..." Prussia suddenly said, his voice softer than before.

Romano blinked at the words, his fingers stilling mid-motion against the frayed threads of the couch. Slowly, he turned his head toward Prussia, hazel eyes widening just slightly. The light of the setting sun streamed in from behind him, outlining his figure in a warm glow that almost gave him a slight aura. The sight made the German’s heart do a little flip.

His gaze met Prussia’s, and for a moment, he just stared, his expression unreadable, yet strangely unguarded. There was something almost dazed in his eyes. He blinked a few more times before the trance seemed to break, and his expression softened into a downcast one.

"Can you really call these good terms?" he asked softly, tilting his head slightly.

Prussia opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything, Romano let out a quiet yawn and raised a hand to rub at his tired eyes.

The former nation shut his mouth, his gaze lingering on him instead. His red eyes traced the dark circles smudged beneath the Italian’s eyes and the way his shoulders sagged, as if weighed down by a burden far too heavy to carry. And only now did it seem to truly register for Prussia just how exhausted Romano looked.

Prussia had no idea how he hadn't noticed it before.

"When was the last time you actually got some sleep?" the albino asked, ignoring the other's question in favor of his own.

Romano let his hand fall from his face before offering a simple shrug.

"Dunno," he muttered, voice slightly hoarse. "A couple of days ago."

"A couple of days ago?” Prussia repeated in disbelief. “You mean to tell me you haven’t slept at all since?"

The Italian let out a quiet huff. "It’s not like I haven’t tried." he muttered. "It just... doesn’t work."

"Why?" the albino pressed, causing Romano to tense for the briefest moment before he eased back into the couch.

"I don't know..." he confessed, though his words were hollow. "I just can't..."

Prussia had a feeling that wasn’t the truth—that Romano knew exactly what kept him up at night. This didn’t seem like just simple insomnia... it ran deeper than that. Given the way he almost seemed to seek out hatred, it was likely connected to that. But Prussia chose not to push. The last thing he wanted was for the Italian to sink back into that sadness or distress again.

"I see." Prussia responded, letting his gaze rest on the brunette for a moment longer before shifting it to the coffee table. His red eyes landed on the empty pill bottle, and he leaned forward, picking it up. "And these—" he said, tossing the container up and catching it effortlessly. "—do these help?"

The Southern nation sighed, rubbing his temples. "Yeah." he responded, his voice quiet. "They do. But ever since I got here, I haven’t been able to take any due to certain… circumstances." he muttered the last part, not bothering to elaborate. "And now I don’t have any left."

Prussia hummed in response, turning the bottle over in his fingers as he studied it. "Damn, these are pretty strong." he remarked, his brows drawing together.

The Italian scoffed at his words, rolling his eyes. "Duh. That's the point, dumbass."

"Right." Prussia muttered, his tone flat as he kept flipping the bottle in his hands. His eyes eventually landed on the fine print near the bottom, right beside a bright yellow warning label that read 'Take one per day' in bold, capitalized letters. His lips pressed into a thin line before he shifted his gaze back to Romano. "How many were you taking?"

The dark-haired brunette hesitated for a brief moment before shrugging. "As many as I could to make sure I slept."

The former nation grimaced. "Uh-huh."

His fingers curled tighter around the bottle as he flipped it over once more, scanning the long list of side effects printed in tiny letters—drowsiness, anxiety, depression, restlessness, nausea, dizziness, and more than he cared to count.

His frown deepened. No wonder Romano was so on edge. Whatever was eating him up inside, combined with this, was probably driving him nuts.

"You don’t need these." Prussia suddenly said.

Before Romano could react, the albino reeled his arm back and chucked the bottle across the room. It sailed through the air and landed with a clean clink into the trash can.

"Hey!" the Southern nation called out, pushing himself to the edge of the couch and reaching out as if he intended to grab the bottle back. "What the hell?!" he demanded, shooting a frown at the German.

"What?" the red-eyed man replied with a shrug. "It was empty."

At that, the Italian's frown eased slightly, though he still looked fairly annoyed. "Yeah, but I need the brand, you idiot!" he snapped, lowering his bandaged hand and clenching it into a fist.

"What for?"

"To buy more, of course!" Romano exclaimed, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, gesturing with that exaggerated Italian hand motion all Italians seemed to do. Under different circumstances, Prussia would have definitely made a comment about it. "I can't sleep without those pills."

"You don’t need them." the former nation repeated again, his resolve unwavering.

Romano gave him a look as if he'd just said something completely absurd. "What? Of course I do."

"No, you don’t."

The Italian kept staring at him, his expression wavering between disbelief and irritation. "The hell's your problem?" he snapped, his voice edged with annoyance as he curled his lips into one of his signature scowls.

"Nothing!" the albino said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I'm just saying you'd be better off without drugging yourself with crap like that."

Romano's scowl darkened at his words, his expression tightening as if he were mere seconds away from driving a fist into Prussia’s stomach. "Mi scusi? (Excuse me?)" he drawled, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

Prussia didn’t understand the words, but he didn’t need to—the sharp glare Romano was shooting him was translation enough. It was clear he wasn’t pleased with what had just been said, but the German stood by his point. Sometimes, medication wasn’t the answer, especially when it did more harm than good.

The ex-nation didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he fell silent, seemingly lost in thought as he completely ignored Romano’s murderous glare. He wanted to help. He’d wanted to before, but back then, it had been more about getting Romano to admit how awesome he was. Now, though, it was different. This time, he just wanted to do something—anything—to make the Italian feel even a little better, expecting nothing in return. The problem was, he had no idea how.

Think, Prussia, think.

What was something that could make anyone fall asleep, no matter what? He racked his brain, sifting through over a century of memories, searching for an answer. Then, all at once, it hit him.

"Ah-ha!" he exclaimed, snapping his fingers as a triumphant grin spread across his face. "I got it!"

South Italy’s expression shifted from irritation to sheer confusion. "Huh?" he muttered, eyeing Prussia as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard him correctly. "Got what?"

At that, the albino's grin widened even further, as if he had just won the Nobel Prize. "Fear not, older Italy! For I, the awesome Prussia, shall help you sleep!" he declared proudly, gesturing toward Romano with exaggerated enthusiasm.

The Southern nation looked utterly stunned by his declaration, barely even registering that the German had just called him Italy. His face twisted in sheer disbelief, his focus locked on the albino’s last words. "HUH?!"

Prussia chose to ignore the stunned look on the other man's face, instead jabbing a finger at himself with unwavering determination. "I know the best method to make someone fall asleep!" he proclaimed with absolute confidence. "No medication required!"

The Southern nation just stared at him as if Prussia had suddenly sprouted a second head. He seemed to process the words slowly, his expression shifting from conflicted to slightly puzzled, his frown deepening. Then, as realization struck, a faint blush crept onto his face. His eyes widened briefly before, without warning, he shoved Prussia away with both hands.

The albino had to catch himself at the last second to avoid tumbling off the couch and onto the floor, his grin vanishing. "What the hell was that for?" he demanded, genuinely baffled by the other man's reaction.

Romano scooted further away on the couch, shaking his head furiously. "No way!"

Prussia blinked, confused. He moved slightly closer, but before he could get within reach, Romano grabbed a pillow and chucked it straight at his face.

"Hey! What gives?!" the albino sputtered, catching the pillow before it could send him flying backwards.

The brunette jabbed a finger in his direction, his blush darkening. "I am not that desperate!" he snapped before quickly grabbing another pillow and flinging it at the ex-nation. This time, Prussia managed to dodge, letting the pillow drop uselessly to the floor.

Prussia had no clue what about his words had flustered the Southern nation so much. All he had done was offer to help and confidently claim he knew the best way to do it—what was so bad about that? Romano’s reaction made no sense.

But then, as he replayed his own words in his head, it finally clicked.

Oh.

Ohhh.

Wait, fuck.

His eyes widened slightly before he quickly shook his head, blurting out in a rush. "No, wait! No, no, no, it’s not what you think!" The ex-nation frantically waved his hands in a way that all but screamed, 'You’ve got it all wrong!' "It’s a military method!" he blurted out hastily. "Military!" he repeated for emphasis, just in case Romano hadn’t caught it the first time. "Whatever you think I meant, I definitely didn’t mean that!"

Romano froze mid-motion, arms raised as he was about to grab yet another pillow to launch at Prussia. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Military method?" he repeated slowly, as if testing the words on his tongue, still clearly not convinced.

"Yeah!" Prussia nodded furiously, eager to clear up the misunderstanding before another pillow came flying at his face. "Something my soldiers used back in the day to fall asleep fast—even in the trenches!" he explained quickly, hoping to convince Romano before he got smacked again.

"Oh." The Italian muttered, his grip loosening on the pillow he had been ready to launch at Prussia. His face, still tinged with pink, scrunched up slightly in embarrassment, but he quickly cleared his throat and straightened up, regaining his composure.

"That’s… that’s…" he hesitated, seeming like he wanted to say something but ultimately deciding against it. "Whatever." he mumbled instead, pulling the pillow against his chest rather than using it as a projectile.

For a moment, the dark-haired man remained silent, then let out a quiet sigh. Bringing the pillow closer, he lowered his head into it. "It won’t work anyway." he muttered, his voice muffled by the fabric but still clear enough for the German to hear.

Prussia’s shoulders sagged slightly at that, but he refused to let it discourage him. Steeling himself, he said. "You didn’t even hear me out."

The Italian lifted his head slightly, his tired eyes meeting the former nation's. "I don’t have to," he muttered. "All those military sleeping methods are a waste of time." he shook his head, sighing. "I’ve been on the battlefield too, and not once has one of those things actually worked. So I doubt it’ll work now either."

"Well… maybe those methods didn't work," Prussia admitted, earning a frown from Romano. "But what I’ve got isn’t just any military method—it’s THE military method! One that works one hundred percent!" he declared, enthusiastically forming a one and a zero with his fingers before adding another zero to emphasize his point. "It worked on stressed-out, overworked soldiers with bombs going off around them. So it’ll definitely work on you!"

The Italian didn’t look entirely convinced, but there was a hint of interest in his expression, which was a good sign.

"And this… method you’re talking about is…?" Romano asked, raising a curious eyebrow.

"An awesome one!" Prussia declared proudly, completely dodging the actual question.

Romano's brow twitched. “That answers nothing, bastard." he deadpanned, giving the ex-nation an unimpressed stare.

The albino simply laughed, completely unfazed. Clearing his throat, he gestured between them and asked. "Mind if I come closer?"

Romano narrowed his eyes slightly, but after a moment of hesitation, he sighed and muttered, “Fine."

Grinning at his victory, the white-haired man scooted closer, his shoulder nearly brushing against the Southern nation's. The Italian tensed for a moment before shifting slightly, clutching the pillow tighter against his chest. His gaze flickered to the German, skepticism clear in his eyes. "So? What's this method of yours?"

Prussia looked ready to launch into his grand explanation, but just as he was about to speak, he suddenly halted. His expression shifted to exaggerated surprise as he turned to the Southern nation. "Wait, wait—do you even know which war my people invented this in?"

South Italy blinked. “What does that have to do with anything?”

The ex-nation gaped theatrically, as if Romano had just insulted his very existence. "You have to know the history behind it!" he insisted, as if it were an absolute necessity. "It's important!"

At that, the hazel-eyed man let out a groan, running a hand down his face as he shifted in place. "I don’t care—just tell me the damn thing already! I’m tired!"

"I know, I know!" the white-haired man said in a reassuring tone, trying not to push the Italian’s patience too far. "But come on, you have to hear this!" He gave Romano a slight nudge with his elbow, only to receive a light shove in return. "It'll take, like, ten minutes—then I’ll tell you the method!"

Romano looked as though he was about to refuse, but in the end, he gave in with a sigh. "Make it quick."

Prussia grinned triumphantly, raising a fist in victory, while Romano muttered a string of curses under his breath. "Alright! So, it was the winter of 1870—" And with that, he dove into a long-winded tale about whatever war he was rambling on about.

At first, Romano listened, if only because he wanted to get to the actual point of this whole thing. But as Prussia kept rambling, it became harder and harder to keep up.

Prussia droned on and on, going into excruciating detail about strategies, formations, and completely unnecessary side tangents. His monotonous tone made the already dull subject even worse, and Romano quickly found himself struggling to stay engaged. His eyelids grew heavier with each passing second, his head starting to feel like it weighed a ton.

He stifled a quiet yawn, his grip on the pillow loosening slightly. Still, he didn’t interrupt—no matter how stupid he thought this was, he was determined to hear what the so-called method actually was. After all, how had he gone hundreds of years without ever hearing about it?

Unfortunately, Prussia seemed in no rush to get to the point. He just kept talking.

Romano’s head dipped slightly before he jerked it back up. His eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment. Then again. Until finally, he just let them stay closed—it was much easier that way.

It was strange. Romano wasn’t sure if it was the result of his many sleepless nights or if his body was simply giving up, but he found himself slowly drifting in and out of consciousness.

What was even stranger, though, was how quiet his mind was. For once, there were no intrusive thoughts, no endless overthinking—just silence. Not because the thoughts weren’t there—no, they still existed—but he simply couldn’t focus on them. They were drowned out and pushed aside by the steady hum of Prussia’s voice.

He wasn’t even paying attention to the words—just the sound of Prussia’s voice. It was strange, really. But… at the same time, it was oddly nice. Almost relaxing in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

For a brief moment, the Italian wondered when the German would finally reveal the so-called 'awesome sleeping method'. But before he could finish the thought, his mind drifted, his thoughts fading into nothing. Slowly, everything went quiet, and before he even realized it, he had fallen asleep.

Prussia, completely unaware, kept talking. It wasn’t until he happened to glance over—mid-sentence—that he finally noticed. Romano’s head had tilted forward slightly, his eyes shut, his grip on the pillow loosened, allowing it to slip from his grasp.

Prussia blinked in surprise before a small smile slowly spread across his face. He let out a quiet exhale, then murmured with a hint of amusement. "Heh… guess the method worked."

Being careful not to wake him, Prussia reached over and gently tilted Romano’s head back, trying to ease him into a more comfortable position. But the slightest movement caused Romano to stir, shifting in his sleep. Without thinking, he unconsciously leaned toward Prussia, his head lolling to the side until it came to rest against his shoulder before the German could even react.

Prussia tensed up, caught off guard. His lips parted slightly in surprise, his body momentarily stiff.

But then, after a beat, he relaxed.

His smile shifted into a fond one as he glanced down at the sleeping brunette—the soft rise and fall of his breathing, the way the usual tension on his face had finally melted away, and how, for once, he looked peaceful instead of distressed.

It was a good look on him.

“Looks like I’m sleeping with you, South.” the Prussian murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, more to himself than anything. His gaze softened as he carefully brushed a few stray strands of hair from the Italian’s face, his touch light enough not to wake him.

Settling back against the couch, he let Romano rest against him. Prussia stayed awake for a while longer before he closed his eyes and soon fell asleep.