Can't Take It Back

"So, Ludwig… Do you still think that I'm useless? Do you still think I'm helpless?" The brunette with the strange curlicue punctuated every few words with a stab to the taller man's, a blonde, gut, letting the blood pour from the wound, uncaring that the crimson dyed everything it touched to match itself. The blonde whimpered again, tears pouring down his face. He was gagged and bound to the brunette's bed. The brunette, an Italian, couldn't help but giggle. It was a sick, warped sound, something that once sounded innocent coming from the young man's mouth coming out demented, hysterical. Psychotic.

They all fell for it. Every single one of them. Even his own brother fell for his sweet façade. They fell for it, and he destroyed them for their obliviousness, their doubt, their ridicule. Killed them all. It seemed as if the iron scent and ruby color were permanent fixtures on his hands now. It didn't bother the Italian. He relished it. Just like he relished the pitiful pained dying shrieks from the rest of the world. The world… It would be his. It had been his goal the whole time, after all.

He had started with France first. He gouged out the pervert's eyes. That was a personal grudge. The Frenchman had killed the love of his life, Holy Rome. That's where it all started. Something in his fragile mind had cracked that day when the Frenchman told the young man, then still a boy (not that many people knew of that fact) that he had murdered Holy Roman Empire. The Italian, Feliciano, had never felt a pain so great and breaking. He had wanted revenge, but he knew he had to bide his time and wait for the right moment. Holy Rome had wanted world domination, to become as great and powerful as Feliciano's own grandfather had been. Feliciano had discouraged it, wanted nothing more but for the blonde boy he loved so much to stay safe and well. But now, Feliciano would burn the rest of the world to the ground in Holy Rome's place, accomplish what the unfortunate blue-eyed blonde boy could not.

The blue-eyed blonde man before him whimpered pitifully again, an incomprehensible plea to spare his life. The Italian smirked.

"What's that, dear Lutz? Begging for mercy already? But we just started our game! How could you be ready to give up already? No fun at all…. I expected so much more from you…" Feliciano giggled once more. "But I supposed it would be quite funny to hear you plead your case, so I might as well take off the gag at least." The Italian brought the blood soaked knife up to the German's face and cut the cloth wrapped around his mouth, impeding his speech. He laughed a little when the blonde flinched as the blade cut his cheek.

"Feliciano… Why are you doing this? What happened to you?" Despite the pain he was in, it still seemed as if he was putting the feelings and wellbeing of his so called "friend" before concern for himself and the wounds in his gut. Feliciano didn't understand it.

"What do you mean "Why am I doing this?" I'm doing it because I want to!"

"That… That can't be it… That's not how you are. It's not who you are." The Italian snorted at this. What the fuck did this guy really know about him anyway? The blonde man had never thought him capable of hurting anyone, especially not willingly, and yet the brunette had obliterated every nation in the world except for the German on the bed.

"And just how do you know that? You have no fucking clue who I really am and what I'm capable of!"

"I know you aren't doing this just for the hell of it. Someone had to have hurt you." The blonde man was persistent. The Italian immediately raised his guard and took on a neutral expression by reflex.

"No. Like I said. I did this, am doing this simply because I want to." Liar. Filthy fucking liar. The German could see that.

"Liar. Someone hurt you. What happened?"

"Even if something had happened, why the hell would I tell you and why do you care? Don't you have bigger things to worry about, like bleeding out or convincing me not to kill you? Annoying me doesn't help your case you know." His neutral expression had cracked a bit already, some pain and anger showing through the openings made.

"It's not like I can really do anything about it. I'm tied up." Even while saying this, his face twisted slightly, only slightly, in pain and he gave an almost inaudible grunt. Feliciano smirked, enjoying the German's pain. He was still more than reluctant to reveal want had happened in his past that caused such a horrible, permanent mind-fuck. "Feliciano, tell me." Looking in those blue, blue, blue eyes was testing his resolve. How could they look so much like his? He began to crack a little more.

'No! Not that easily! I won't tell him! He doesn't deserve to know!'

"No." He can't break.

"Please, Feli… Please, tell me what happened to you."

"No!" He won't break.


"NO!" Don't break!


Feliciano, at a speed not humanly possible, knife in hand, swiped the blade at the blonde's neck.

He missed by a hair's breadth.

"Why the hell should I tell you? Why do you deserve to know what I've never told anyone else? Who the fuck do you think you are to ask that of me? I'm in control here!" But he'd had enough. Those goddamned eyes! He sank to the floor, shoulders shaking with dry sobs, no tears falling. It seemed as if all of his tears dried up long ago. "Why do you want to know? Why do you care after all that I've done?" He could no longer look in those crystal orbs looking down upon him with pity and concern. Looking down on him.

Always looking down on him.


No matter what he did.

Nothing was ever good enough for this blue eyed bastard in front of him.



Problem starter.





Yes, he'd heard these words many times, these insults, over the course of his life, but… not once did one insult ever fall from the German's lips that was directed at him. The blonde wasn't always nice to him, especially when the brunette was being annoying, but he never said anything insulting to the smaller man. Not once. But he never gave him any compliments. He never disproved Italy's theory that he indeed thought those insults and merely refrained from saying them. He never made him feel as if he were worth something.

But he didn't insult him either. The only other person who never had was…





"You really want to know what happened? Truly?" The blonde man gave a nod. "He never came back."


"I waited… for so long… for so damn long… And he… He never came back… I loved him… I made him promise to return to me… And he never came back…"

"Who?" Ludwig was ignored as the brunette seemed to sink deeper into his own little world, his own mad mind.

"He promised. He told me loved me. That he had always loved me. Ever since the tenth century, the 900's, he had always loved me. I told him that I loved him too, more than anything. I gave him my broom. He promised he'd come back… He promised… He promised and he lied! He went to war and got himself killed by France. He left me forever, but he said he'd come back. FUCKING LIAR!" The last statement was said in a rage as Feliciano stabbed the knife into the ground, digging it in. The blonde jumped a little, grunting in pain once more, a bit louder this time at the pain that seared through his abdomen at the motion.

"Who, Feliciano? Who did France kill? Who lied?" The German inquired, doing his best to ignore the pain and the dizziness often associated with blood loss. The Italian seemed to finally snap out of it at this question, but the broken look remained on his face.

"Holy Rome. Holy Roman Empire. The boy I loved so much." Feliciano lifted himself to his feet, sorrowful face covered by his bangs. He staggered over to the blonde's side and leaned over him, warm breath caressing the German's face. He had slipped back into the trance once more, so quickly. Ludwig could see it through the haze apparent in the brunette's half-lidded doe eyes. "You look so much like him…" The German's eyes widened. What? He looked like Holy Rome? He looked into the brunette's eyes, uneasy. "Your eyes are the same color his were. Crystal blue. Almost like ice, but somehow warmer at the same time. Beautiful…" The brunette, knife still embedded in the hard wood floor, lifted his hand to the blonde's face and stroked his cheek, surprisingly gentle despite the fact he had been in the process of murdering the same blonde not ten minutes ago.

"Feliciano?" The Italian softly shushed him and continued to caress the man's strong cheek, leaning ever closer.

"Your hair is exactly his too. Same color. When your hair isn't slicked back, you look exactly like him, just older…"

"Older? Was he a child when he died?" Ludwig found this intriguing. He couldn't remember his own childhood, and to think that Holy Rome was a child killed in war… His bruder had always told him that he found him as a cute little kid, looking no older than eight or so, lying on a bloody battlefield (in France), wounded. He told the blonde of how he was so awesome that he just couldn't let an adorable kid die like that, so he rescued him.

"Yes. In appearance, he was no more than seven or eight. He looked a year or two older than me at the time." Despite the fact that he was listening to the German, even answering his questions, he still had that far away look on his face and would not tear his gaze away from the blonde's own.

Could it be?

"Feliciano…" He was feeling dizzier as he attempted to sit up despite the binds on his arms and the wounds on his stomach protesting violently. "Did you ever learn his human name?"

The brunette shook his head.

"No. He never told me. And I never told him mine. I don't think he even realized I was a boy. Then again, not many people did. They put me in a little green dress. Mio fratellone got the pink one." At this memory, the Italian gave a slight broken smile, reminiscing. His brother… He was the only one he truly regretted murdering. He loved his brother, he did, and he always had done whatever he could to make the other Italian happy, make him proud to be his fratellone, his big brother. But nothing ever worked. Just like everyone else, all his fratellone ever did was insult him. He would jerk away from Feli whenever the younger tried to hug him, he rejected his drawings that he made especially for him when they were children, always jealous of him, hating him, when all Feliciano ever tried to do was make him happy.

But Ludwig never did that to him.

Yes, he chastised him often.

Yes, he sometimes forced him to do things he didn't want to (like training).

Yes, sometimes he was a complete hardass who worked him too hard, past his limit, trying to make him stronger (damn training).

But in every hug the Italian gave him, though he didn't always return them, he never pushed him away. Every present given, every piece artwork made for him by the brunette was kept in a safe place, often in plain sight to be admired. The German had even hung his favorite of the paintings given to him by Feliciano above the fire place in his den for the world to see.

The German had always been kind to him, and whenever he slipped up, he apologized immediately once he saw the hurt look on the Italian's face.

"Feliciano… Did you know… That I don't remember my childhood?" The Italian looked up at this.

"Che? You don't? Do you know why?" The Italian's eyes had cleared, and now looked slightly intrigued if not a bit confused.

"Mein Bruder found me on a battlefield in France when I was still a child. I was laying there unconscious in a puddle of blood. When I woke up, I was at his house, bandages wrapped around me everywhere, and I couldn't remember a thing. I looked in the mirror. I haven't changed much from how I looked then. The basic features are the same. And in the past, I've had very brief flashbacks. They were always of one thing: a little girl in a green dress who I loved more than anything." Feliciano's eyes widened.


The German said nothing more; he simply kept his crystal blues locked with amber. The Italian fell to his knees once more, his eyes beginning to sting.

"Then… you… are you really? Are you… … … Holy Rome? Is that you?"

"I believe so, ja." And finally, with those words, tears that the Italian had long thought to be dried for ever, never to fall again, began to cascade down his face.

"You… You did come back… You didn't lie… You just forgot… You came back… You came back!" For the first time in years, the Italian gave a true genuine smile. He didn't force it, didn't fake it. He grinned happily, the joy overwhelming him as he clung to the German's neck, wrapping his arms around it in a hug.

But then he realized that he forgot to ask something very important.

"Wait… Do you… Do you still love me? After all this time, after all that I've done, do you still love me?" The brunette held his breath

It was a moment before the German responded.

"Yes, Feliciano. I still love you. I may not have remembered you, but that didn't matter, because I fell in love with you again when we 'met' back in the Great War. I have loved you since then as Germany. And I loved you since the 900's as the Holy Roman Empire." He said these words with strength, though he actually felt weaker than he ever had (that he could remember). He was losing blood, no matter how much he was trying to staunch the blood flow. The only reason he hadn't died already was because Feliciano never dug the knife in too deep. He wanted to cause pain, to torture. He didn't want his playthings to die so quickly. The blonde pressed his hands harder to the wounds, doing his best to stop his bleeding. It wouldn't be too much longer before he blacked out.

The Italian noticed the action and remembered what he seemed to have forgotten:

He had stabbed the blonde and if he didn't help him now, his love really would leave him forever. He helped the blonde sit up quickly but gently after untying him and rushed out of the room, frantically searching about his home for his first aid kit. The blonde remained where he was, no longer able to move.

Five minutes.

Five fucking minutes.

That's how long it took to find that damn med kit.

Five minutes and Ludwig was losing more of what little blood he had left with each passing second.

Eventually, thankfully, he found it just in time and managed to get back into his bed room where the German had been kept.

"Ludwig? Ludwig! Come on, you have to stay with me! Do NOT close your eyes! Keep them open! Talk to me!" If there was one thing he had ever been useful for on the battlefield above all else, it was being a medic. That was his war talent. He had patched up both Ludwig and Kiku on numerous occasions. He quickly cleaned the wound, all the while telling the German to talk to him, about anything. It didn't matter. So long as the blonde stayed conscious. But he kept trying to doze off. Feliciano ended up stopping mindless chit chat and going for topics much more meaningful.

"Ludwig, what is your favorite memory with your brother?" He could see Ludwig doing his best to fight against the blackness attempting to swallow him into oblivion. He wanted to answer Feli, and he wanted to keep his dear Bruder's memory alive.

"…Not long…after he…rescued me…there was a thunderstorm… I couldn't remember that it wouldn't hurt me… and the loud noise… terrified me… I started crying…and Gilbert… He came into my room… Gilbird was perched on his head like always… He was wearing pink pajamas… because he had accidently… put a pair of red boxers… in with white clothing… eh… Thank goodness that the rest of the white laundry was just towels and socks… but… he sat down on my bed… with me, and he… he pulled me closer to him… He hugged me… He told me…that he would never… let that stupid… unawesome thunderstorm hurt me… never… H-he let me sleep with him i-in his bed… that n-night… because the storm wasn't over… u-until morning… That w-was when… I first s-s-started truly… ack-a-acknowl-l-ledg-ging Gilbert as… mein Bruder… not… just…s-s-someo-one… I owed… m-my life… to…" It was getting harder and harder for Ludwig to speak clearly, but he kept trying. It may have seemed strange, but in the haze of blood loss, he wanted his memory of his bruder to be told, to be remembered… Ludwig owed him that much for everything the man did for him. The Prussian would have given his life for him in a heartbeat and nearly did on multiple occasions.

The Italian was overcome with guilt as he listened to the German's story while patching his wounds with deft hands. He had killed the man who had saved the love of his life, the one who had protected him, the one who had raised him. He could never repair that. He could never take back killing Gilbert, just like he could never take back killing his fratellone. Or Kiku. Or Roderich. Or Elizaveta. Nikola. Dimitri. Tino. Alfred. Yao. Ivan. Toris. Lili. Basche. He could never take back what he had done to everyone else.

But he could fix this.

He could save this German.

He could save his love.

And he would.

"I'm… I'm so sorry Ludwig…" The Italian truly was. If he had known, he never would have… Oh God, What had he done?

Ludwig had stopped responding.

"Ludwig? Ludwig!" His eyes were shut.

"Ludwig!" They weren't opening.

"LUDWIG!" Nothing.

He checked the German's pulse. His heart was still beating, but it was ridiculously weak. He began to gently slap the German's face, hoping for a response. He had already finished stitching up and dressing the wound, so the man was no longer bleeding. Now if he could just wake him up and keep him awake for a few more hours until he was sure the German would be okay…

"Ludwig, amore, per favore, per favore, wake up. Per favore!" The Italian had calmed slightly, only slightly, at the knowledge that the man's heart was still beating, but he was still frantic to get the blonde to open his beautiful eyes. It took a few more moments, but the German's eyes finally fluttered open once more. Feliciano, in his excitement, gave the man a chaste kiss on the lips.

His love had never left him and he would be okay.

Sorry, ending was a little rushed. Well, goodbye for now, my lovelies.

{:~CoMa~DoSe~ :}