Save the Last Dance for Me [Holy Roman Empire] Complete

[Italia Veneziano]

Out of all the rooms in the Manor, Veneziano had to say that the ballroom was his absolute favorite.

The living room could have been contested that decision, had it not been for the grime, yellowing sheets hiding away lovely furniture, and the bothersome people who would skitter through like cornered mice. No, the spirit didn't dislike the people, really; the lack of acknowledgment to his presence rankled him and that resentment soured his mood, is all. It was a rather rude awakening--he hadn't realized that most humans couldn't see him. Ludwig had seen him well enough, seemed happy to see him, even. Yet no other person in this place spared a single glance in his direction. Either they were all blind and deaf, or he was more than just intangible.

This world wasn't meant for him, after all.

Because of that sobering, harsh reality, he avoided that "gathering space" as much as possible; bypassing it by crossing walls. There wasn't much to say about the rest of the floor: all the various bedrooms differed in terms of decor and lavishness, but all were equally unused and uninteresting. He didn't spend much time in any of them, only enough to peek in and see what was there before the brunette went on his way. Just thinking of the kitchen, however, set his skin alight in a way that he couldn't quite comprehend. It wasn't particularly dirty, the food was normal enough, but something about the room caused a painful roiling in his nonexistant stomach. If he avoided the living room, then the kitchen was the source of some deadly plague, not even to be thought of, dare he catch something. Unfortunately--or fortunately, depending on one's view--Ludwig was in none of the rooms he'd searched, nor had he answered any calls of his name. It seems he'd simply vanished, just as easily as he'd first appeared. Perhaps the blonde had been summoned by Veneziano's need for peace of mind, and once fulfilling that duty, had left as mysteriously as he'd come. Considering the fact he himself was dead, such a strange thing could be possible, he supposed.

Oh well, it doesn't really matter either way. If he managed to find Ludwig, then he found Ludwig. If he couldn't find him,  then did that really change things? 

No, it wouldn't.

So Veneziano enjoyed the splendor of the ballroom. One hand was lifted in the air, fingers swaying and tapping out a melody as he swept around in a dance for one. The beats of a waltz were unmistakable in his step, moving with ethereal grace, as if the moves were embedded deep in his bones. The heralding trumpets rang true in the snap and sashay of slim fingers. Flutes and chimes tapped out in feather-light steps upon ornate tile. Each grandiose sweep of tattered fabric matched the flair of soft violins as the waltz overtook the Italian's senses. He felt at home with this music, as if he'd spent a lifetime listening to it echo in halls much larger and resplendent than this. His problems lurked in dark halls and dirty lands illuminated by sickly moonlight; here, he was safe for a moment, able to hide in glittering lamplight and lovely music. Ghosts, vanishing men, death stayed away. He could sink beneath the music and dance as long as he wished--nothing dared interrupt him.

[Holy Roman Empire]

He was growing desperate.

Augustus had managed to lose everyone quite some time ago. The living nations might have found the Manor hard to navigate, but as a ghost he was forced to see everything and run into everything, even the things that were intangible. He had found someone earlier, that person being Ludwig Beilschmidt. Germany had seen Augustus, which was why he was now so panicked in trying to find the others. If Germany could see him when he never could before, did that mean that others could? Did that mean that he could help them?

Unfortunately, the Manor was all too easy to get lost in, so he had wound up basically alone again. The Manor's own ghosts didn't tend to talk much. They just tended to stare at him wickedly, as if just asking him to give in to what the Manor wanted him to. It wasn't working. Maybe it was because he had a purpose, even if it was one that was grasping at straws, so he wasn't going to let anything happen to him until everyone he loved was out safe and he had seen the one that he loved the most at least one last time. He was going to stubbornly resist whatever was happening until then.

Now, where was he? He was fairly certain that he was on the first story of the house. He had gone down some stairs at some point, so that made sense. He wasn't in the basement because the basement didn't have lights that worked this well. Plus, he doubted Italia would be in the basement. It would probably scare him, to be honest, but that just meant that Augustus had to protect him. He hoped he wasn't hurt or anything! He walked down the hallways, refusing to float like the other ghosts still. Finally, he came across two huge double doors, tall enough that he had to stand on his toes to reach the handle and wasn't quite strong enough to actually make them move anywhere. Finally, he gave in and floated intangibly through the doors.

Everything seemed to freeze as the room flooded with movement and his heart stopped beating and he couldn't breathe (though he hadn't really for a long time) and there was a radiant light and song and he rubbed his eyes because he couldn't believe it and he opened them once more and he could believe it again and every part of him filled with light, light, light and his eyes glowed and the broom he clutched to seemed a lifeline and everything whispered bravo, bravo, bravissimo, you have found him, Italia, Italia, Italia, I have found you. The Italian twirled across a radiant ballroom, but the ballroom was no art and no beauty compared to Italia, Italia, Italia, and even Helen of Troy would never compare to Italia, Italia, Italia, and if his love was a monster the monsters would be most beautiful and if his love was nothing then no other nothing could compare because it was Italia, Italia, Italia and his heart was bursting. 

And with every sweeping step by him (and he remained radiant as he danced, a painting, no, but a real one, a painting one could touch), a song played out, and even as it wasn't there Augustus's hand reached out to touch it, to taste it, and to feel it. There were powerful violins telling of a time when they were children and the world was theirs, all theirs, and when they were those who mattered, even if only to each other, of a crystalline shining sky and promises made and a tree and a painting. There were sweeping cadences of the harps that whispered of love and love and a kiss and a promise, and with them the trumpets crying out victory and the piano crying out the sounds of their voices. And then, below that, within it, only left was the flute, and the flute created a song of fate. Fate, which stole away it all. It was a grand, moving dance and a grand, moving song, every ritardando and forte and crescendo and diminuendo in the right place until the final steps faded it to pianissimo before fading to nothing, leaving both the ballroom and the heart reeling with both beauty and emotion and emptiness.

In the corner stood a small ghost that could not speak and could not move under the weight of something so ethereal and divine as this. It was this that he felt every day, accented by that flute of emptiness, but now he felt it tenfold because he had been lost and then he had been found. He could not speak as he gripped onto a push broom so as not to be swept away. What could he say? All of his plans fell to dust; his heart flew high and low in spirals of aerial tricks that the greatest air force would be envious of.

Finally, all he could speak in was his native, first language, and even that was both in high hopes and dashed ones. "Italia, amate, pulcherrimus es." Italy, my beloved, you are most beautiful.

[Italia Veneziano]

"Italia, amate, pulcherrimus es."

Veneziano recoiled from that voice, sharp surprise upon his face as he whirled around. The peaceful atmosphere of the room almost audibly shattered, the music screeching to a halt. Tangibility slid from his fingers, feet rising an inch or so above the ground. The phrase 'you make a better door than a window' no longer applied to him. How had he not heard somebody come in? Those doors were too large and this house too old to open so silently, even moreso to fall shut without even the 'fwoosh' of displaced air. His eyes searched for the source of that voice, too frantic to explain the sudden influx of pressure in his chest, the trembling of his hands that had nothing to do with fear. Or maybe it was fear, who knew?

There was no explanation for his action and reaction once he finally spotted the small boy clothed in black. That pressure compounded like a crushing fist. Color and strength seeped from the spirit until he fell unceremoniously to his knees, a mere shade of himself now. The boy couldn't have been older than ten, swathed in dark colors which only made the bright colors of him stand out even from the far side of the room; golden hair glowed under the light, flickering fire adding color to pale cheeks rather than washing them out, and the blue of his eyes... The flood of emotion in that gaze did nothing to ease or answer his silent questions--in fact, they added more. Who is this child? Why is he staring at me like that? Why did he call me beautiful?

Why do I feel like crying?

Some of these questions were normal. Veneziano had seen dozens of people throughout his exploration of the Manor, several of which inspired inexplicable emotional responses within him. Comfort, sadness, worry, anger, each one tinged with a dull ache that never truly went away.

Seeing this boy, this nondescript child clutching at a small push broom, shouldn't have affected him like this. This pain in his chest shouldn't exist, shouldn't freeze his insides and crush them to little pieces just to put them back together in order to destroy him again and again and again. His eyes shouldn't burn with tears, they shouldn't drip down his cheeks and draw forth a muffled sob from his throat because this child was a spirit like himself and one he'd never seen before and a stranger in every sense of the word. Everything in his mind screamed lies and deception and everything in his heart cried pain and heartbreak because this child was important, he wasn't a stranger and the emptiness where his memories should lie never felt so large and empty and lonely He lifted a hand to try and brush those tears aside even as another sob tore its way free, choking his words.

"Who are you?"

[Holy Roman Empire]

The moment he spoke, he should have known things would shatter. It was like ice, perhaps, in that it is beautiful when in crawls across your glass windows, but it only takes a touch to melt away. Maybe it was more like ice in that it was a thin sheet above an icy depth, a thin sheet that shattered with a step too loud. Whatever the reason, this illusion of grandeur shattered seconds after Augustus spoke, and be suddenly found himself gasping for air as he lifted his head above the wave that he had before been immersed in. It didn't take long, though, before his basic instincts asked him to suck in a breath that he wasn't able to breath.

The wall behind Italy; it was visible.

Perhaps sucking in air was not what he was doing. Perhaps instead his own intangibility and qualities of being lighter-than-air where the only things preventing him from collapsing to the floor in a heap. Because this wasn't real, the song had to be real instead. This couldn't be real, because it would mean that- it would mean that- his lips formed the word as he thought it, but no sound came out. It would mean that- he couldn't even bring himself to really think it, though in the back of his mind it was still there. This couldn't be real, it couldn't, because that meant Augustus would be too late.

He shook his head, but even then he paused as he saw Italy's own vacant expression of anguish, an expression if endless emotion behind eyes that seemed so many times more broken than when Augustus had last seen them. When had Italy gotten so broken? He might have been able to deny that Italy was.... Italy was... Well, he might have been able to deny that, but nothing in him could face those eyes, those broken, beautiful, stained-glass eyes, and not see what they meant and not admit it. His own emotions spun in turmoil as the room suddenly seemed frosted, frozen, tense, beautiful spirals betraying something else that couldn't quite be touched. A tension filled the air, a tension made of emotion. Neither could speak for fear of the water the ice held back. Perhaps Augustus could speak least, because it would mean admitting what Italy seemed to be, that Italy was...

His love spoke first, and as he did, well- did you know the greatest murder weapon is an icicle, as it can be sharp and deadly but leaves no physical evidence begin? That doesn't mean that there isn't ice in the victim's blood, cold water that creeps up the veins and both cauterizes and inflames the wound with ice. Did you know? The icicle in his heart seemed to make every part of him freeze as well.

"Who are you?"

He felt like choking, he felt like screaming, he felt like laughing in sheer despair, because words like that made it impossible to hide. Everything Augustus had seen showed that Italy felt how Augustus did. Never, so long as they may live, would they forget that time. Never. Augustus still remembered through death, even. Italy, though, would not forget him. He couldn't! So if Italy would not forget him, and if this was in fact Italy (and it was- no trick of the manor could re-create those beautiful, deadly hazel eyes), then Italy could not be alive and well.

That meant that Italy was....

...dead.

It wasn't as though Augustus didn't know this, of course, but it suddenly felt as though he was being torn apart as he realized the truth, or, more properly, recognized it. He was too late. Italy's death, Italy's eyes- this accursed building was laughing at the small black-clad ghost. He felt it, how small h really was. He was a small ghost, and now he felt tiny and frail and weak and horrid and like the world was caving in, but he had to be stronger than that, for him!

For Italy.

That didn't mean that his voice didn't echo with choking sobs as he responded, sobs that were barely held back but still projected desperately upon Augustus's voice.

"Who am I? I am the Holy Roman Empire. You should remember! You cannot forget- I cannot forget!" Memories. Painful memories, but cherished ones, flashed in Augustus's mind. They were the things he loved the most. "You have to remember! You and I lived in my house, which admittedly was more of Austria's house, and there was a grand tree that we sat under, and we were both scared but I loved you. We kissed- you suggested it." But then the less welcome memories. Of a proposal. Of a denial. Of the very last days. Why is it that you run away when I chase you but chase me when I run away? Even as he contemplated what to say, he could not say out loud to Italy that he was dead or to himself that he was dead. He was afraid, afraid that everything would shatter.

Suddenly, the words that would make anyone remember came to Augustus's head, and he said them- his mantra, his lifeblood, and the honest truth that had never stopped being true since he first uttered them. Quietly he said them, reverently, but also desperately. He said them with such heavy emotion that even if he knew nothing else he would know they were important. The broom in his hands became tighter.

"I- I've loved you ever since the 900s, you know."

[Italia Veneziano]

Useless. All these facts, they were useless.

His chest clenched up in pain at the words, and Veneziano couldn't understand why. This small ghost, the 'Holy Roman Empire' he called himself (what kind of name was that? That was even stranger than "Italia Veneziano"), stayed hidden in the far corner of the ballroom. As if he wanted to hide from the warm lamps lighting the ballroom and bringing him into focus. That slight frame trembled, suppressed sobs that colored desperation into the blonde's words, and they meant nothing to the Italian. Absolutely nothing. He apparently lived with the boy when they were alive, but why did that leave the other as a child while he himself was an adult. Why would he have suggested a kiss from the other? Were they strange, childhood sweethearts? Was he some kinda freak?

"I-I've loved you ever since the 900s, you know."

That pain clenched harder upon his heart, and the spirit couldn't help but clench at his shirt in an attempt to alleviate the sharp ache. Why? Why did these words affect him like this? There was nothing for him to recall: no phantom words from the back of his mind, no choppy images, no memories, nothing. Just a crying child and pain.

It infuriated him.

How was he supposed to react to this? This...this child had such a strong influence over him, and Veneziano didn't even know why. This was so different from the confusing rush of familiarity he'd felt when seeing Ludwig for the first time after he'd awoken--he'd felt comfortable, safe with that man. So comfortable and safe, in fact, that he'd been wary of the emotion once the ghost had gotten his bearings. Put off by it, scared of it. These emotions without any understandable stimuli; how could he trust them? It was why he'd taken the first opportunity possible to fade out of sight and go take a proper look of the place he was trapped in. Sure, Ludwig had just wanted to help, but he'd taken the whole situation far too easily for the Italian to feel at ease. It was the same in the case--the same, and yet so much worse because he couldn't stop crying.

Veneziano forced his legs beneath him, struggling back to his feet. He was still incorporeal, but it felt like he were solid and with the weight of the world crushing down on him. Anger colored his face even beneath silvery tears, glimmering beneath the light of the lamps. "I have to remember, eh?" The spirit repeated, staring hard at the boy so content to lurk in the shadows. "Well I d-don't! I don't remember you, or your silly tree, or your house-that's-really-not-yours!" Spite colored his words even as he reached up to brush those tears away, inhaling too sharply to be anything but suppressing a sob. Something in his heart cried no, don't talk to this boy like this, he doesn't deserve it, but Veneziano told it kindly to shut up and go away. Anyone who could break through his defenses like this was a threat--at least until he remembered why they created such intense emotions in himself.

One step back, then another; the ghost shook his head. "I don't remember a kiss, I don't remember you," Veneziano reiterated. It hurt too much to try to remember, anyway. If he could react so badly from simply seeing the other, how on earth could he handle remembering the events that make him so upset? Even with the anger on his face, hurt like he couldn't understand stayed in his chest as fear sunk deep in his gut. "...A-And I don't want to."

Before the Holy Roman Empire could respond, the spirit twisted around and bolted for the other side of the ballroom. If he could pass through that wall, it'll lead down into the main foyer, and from there he has infinite directions he can escape to. Anywhere to get away from this small boy and the pain he caused.

[Holy Roman Empire]

Of all of the reactions to his words that he could have seen, the reaction of pain might have been expected (Augustus knew that all too well), the the reaction of anger was not. That was frightening, because while he could remember some anger at each other, he could never remember being truly angry at Italy. Maybe that was his mistake, assuming that Italy felt the same way for Augustus as Augustus felt for him, except no! They had always felt powerful affection for one and other, hadn't they? Hadn't they both always been together? Hadn't Italy been the one to tell him that they should kiss? Hadn't she-

And then Italy was crying, and Augustus felt guilty because he had caused Italy to cry for far too long as it was already, and he didn't deserve to ever cry, ever, if he could help it. It took fighting against everything his heart was telling him to do not to go up to Italy and simply grab his hand and try to make everything better. He couldn't do that though, because every time he moved to try to prove who he was to Italy he got more and more agitated and scared and upset and it was awful, just downright awful to watch. He couldn't stand it- he couldn't stand it! He was caught, unsure of what to do with himself but knowing he was just causing more pain for both of them, but if he just tried he had to remember! He had to remember, right, because they couldn't forget!

"I have to remember, eh?" And then Italy spoke, and each word was like a broken string or a knife or something, because he had never once heard Italy say something about him with such hate, or about anyone, really, though maybe he had just willfully ignored it when he saw Italy act in such a way, not wanting to see or hear a word about it if he could help it, not wanting to break the picture that had been painted. He tried to speak, but his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth and all he could do was sink further and further into himself, clinging onto the broom he carried like it was the only anchor he had to the world, like without it he would blow away and shatter into dust because he would without it, he really would.

Finally he managed to pull words out of his mouth, though they were quiet, too quiet to be heard over his own rushing emotions, let alone Italy’s. ”Please… I do not want to hurt you, but you are not being yourself! We can fix this, I promise, we can find a way to fix this. You are not being yourself, please stop, please stop, please stop…” His whispered plea meant nothing. It was too quiet for any soul to hear properly at all, except for perhaps his own, and even as his own soul heard it, it tore even more instead of having the words help one bit.

”…and I don’t want to.” And with that, Augustus recoiled as though he had been physically struck- which, all things considered, might have been closer to the truth than would be plainly noted, as most ghosts have some sort of physical tie to the world and Italy was pulling at, destroying bit by bit Augustus's own. Because for Augustus, it had always been Italy. Everything had always been Italy. For him, it always had been him. And so, it wounded him to hear Italy deny something that Augustus had always relied on. It only took that for his guilt to take over. It had to be his fault, his fault for never managing to return when he should have, his fault for never affirming it again, for freezing every time he picked up a sheet of paper to write her with, his fault for letting illness get to him, his fault for letting his family and almost-empire fall apart around him, his fault for not finding Italy in time, his fault Italy was dead, his fault he couldn't warn him, his fault Italy hated him, his fault Italy kept on hurting, his fault Italy didn't want to remember...

It was all his fault.

And then Italy bolted before Augustus could pull himself together, before Augustus could make his body move again without collapsing again, and Augustus knew it was all his fault somehow and he was crying, he hadn't even noticed that before. But no, he couldn't just let Italy run away, he had just found him-

(But what if it's for the better? You can't seem to hold this together safely yourself.)

No. He had to chase Italy again, didn't he? That's what he'd always do- chase him until he could be chased no further and just prove that they should stay together where they stood, prove that they should manage it all somehow, prove that even if it was his fault, he could fix it. Even if he never could before. Even if fixing it was impossible, they had to try. They had to! And with that, he gained the strength to chase after the ghost in front of him as fast as he could, shouting loudly "Italy! Wait!" but it was already far too late. Italy had gone, and Augustus had LOST HIM. He had lost him, and he was- he was- well, he was, and they were broken, and he had lost Italy.

How many more times would he drive his family and his love away? He just always drove them away...

"H- hey Italy. Italy. Will you become the Roman Empire with me? Let us create the strongest country in the world together, just you and me. ... W- what!? You do not want to waste your life away in a place like this, right? You must have wanted to go back to the powerful Roman Empire too!"

Always...

As water began to cover his cheeks, he didn't move again for some time except to quietly sob.