Fate Calling [Italia Veneziano/Prussia]

[Holy Roman Empire]

He had never before seen a graveyard that was so expansive, so uniformly intimidating, so he couldn’t help but wonder what business he had going in to it. Augustus had been pacing outside of it for some time after he met up with Italy’s brother in the church. He could still feel it, almost. If he were to step one or two yards backwards he would probably run into it- it was traditional to put the church and graveyard together, after all. However, he felt almost as though he had to go into it. Why, he wasn’t certain of either. Mostly it was just to see it for himself.

Italy’s grave. If it was there.

He felt like laughing (or sobbing) at something when he realized he wasn’t panicking, crying, or reacting to the thought with much more than a deep breath, well, a deep breath and the quiet, constantly running thread of maybe it’s not true… it could be a lie… it could be a hallucination… that sat repeating like a broken tape in the back of his head, skipping and repeating, reminding him that denial might be the easiest way out of emotions that were slowly drowning him, reminding him that he couldn’t simply tread water… Even if he wasn’t reacting as much, he thought, he had yet to build that boat. Did he want to? He didn’t want to forget the water.

He was still pacing in front of the graveyard’s gates, his feet not quite touching the ground. Augustus looked up. He’d go in and look for the grave, he supposed, remember where it was. It was something important, or so he had gathered from various other ghosts. If Italy could find it, then maybe he could be saved. It was worth it, wasn’t it? Even if Italy couldn’t see him ever again? It would be worth it, just to see him smile.

With that thought, Augustus gave in and followed whatever was pulling him towards the massive, oppressive graveyard through the gates. To him, the graveyard sprawled for ages. The headstones were all slightly different, and none of them had a proper date, excepting the first few that belonged to the former owners. He suspected that even the Manor itself couldn’t tell time within its walls, so perhaps that was why the headstones only had a single date. Each of them had one, or some more depending on how long they had been there, flower planted on top of them, a spark of color and soul. A few of them had epithets of some sort, and they were not nice ones. They weren’t necessarily mean or wicked, poor spirited, or intentionally harmful. No, it was simply that the further he traveled, the more he realized that not one of them was triumphant. Not one of them were the sort of thing that belonged to someone who has lived out a full life.They were instead simple last thoughts, thoughts thats meanings would be erased by time and distance.

Despite everything, he couldn’t help feel that if any place in the Manor had a soul (for the rest certainly did not), a true feeling of humanity with all of its hopes, desires, and dreams, it was here. The graveyard lived through those words and names and flowers, each one cut off by the overwhelming vacuum that was this place. Here, souls still echoed. He swallowed back tears again, noting that he needed to stop reading more than the name. His own shattered soul couldn’t keep on looking into these other jagged souls and survive for long, you see. It was too painful, to private, too… He wasn’t certain, but there was great pathos in this place.

He would simply look for the one with the name he was looking for. He would look for that and prove it for himself, pull himself out of denial or confirm that it was all a hallucination, that he had simply been so desperate and worried for him that his brain had put both a sweet dream and a nightmare in front of his eyes for him to see, to touch, to give him a heavy sense of purpose in this place. Or he was dead.

But if he found Italy’s grave? He could still be dead then, though. He might still be dead, because those were only rumors, and rumors could not be trusted. What if he was doing this for no reason at all? So why was he here? What was the thing that kept on drawing him back to this place? Was it simply that he was a ghost? Perhaps not- there were surprisingly few in the place, almost as if even the dead recognized the soul of the place and did not want to disturb its rest. The wind, even it seemed to whisper of a thousand past lives…

That’s when he saw him.

He was looking up towards the roof, or so Augustus thought, and he was surrounded by the moon that hovered, covering him in the dew of the night. There were absolutely no other souls around him, almost as if they were afraid of the reverent beauty. He was there, and right then, even if he could easily see part way through him, his boat was built.

He would FIX THIS. He would. He would do whatever it took, and he would stay with him, and he would see the man smile.

He took a step forward.

{{Note: There’s a chance that very little posting here will happen until Save the Last Dance is complete, since this takes place in the aftermath. It directly follows Smoke and Mirrors, or so I believe? Anyway, I went ahead and started this, but take your time.}}

[Italia Veneziano]

Rage surged through Veneziano in hot waves, a pot of overflowing heat that burned so darkly it almost hurt. Once again, the spirit swung his fist through the air. A growl escaped him as the appendage slammed into something he couldn't see. Something blocked his path, an invisible wall. Every attempt to escape ended the same: a painful collision with a barrier. The ghost hadn't felt pain before this--the kind of ache in his head from overexerting himself, but that was a sense of exhaustion where the world lost its color and he could hardly stand to exist. Instead, this was a physical sensation of hurt, smarting his knuckles. He'd prowled the fringes of the graveyard for what felt like hours; circled three or four times at least. There were no gaps. He was trapped.

Another agitated sound bubbled up in his chest, and this time he kicked the barrier holding him back. How dare that skeletal being interrupt him! Just when he'd started proving to that stupid, pale man that his actions had consequences! He'd planned to right the grievances cast against him--calling him a coward, insulting him, and treating him like some pathetic child. A selfish bastard, that's all that man was. Selfish, rude, and stupid! No matter how his life supposedly 'sucked', at least it was a life, not some shadowy, ridiculous mockery of one! He could touch and be touched without having to fight against the world itself. Memories weren't just misleading, painful premonitions and hazy images spliced and sewn together without a concept of time or context. People didn't go around telling him he was wrong for simply existing! It's not like Veneziano chose to be the way he was; he just didn't want to wallow in false hope and what could be a meaningless search, to try making his inexplicable existence something interesting instead of empty and painful!

That jerk was there for his death, and yet mocked and demeaned him for not vanishing in the process. For all he knew, perhaps the white-haired man was the one who killed him! Who knows? It's not like he could've expected an honest answer out of the other, when all he chose to do was bitch, aggravate, and put him down. If that was the case, wouldn't it only make sense for him to take out the blonde? Revenge would've at least made him feel better.

Instead, he was stuck here, pacing around like a caged animal. Time didn't have any meaning now. It was infinite frustration, curling the edges of his being a sickly red.

It was more of a sense of displacement than actual acknowledgement that alerted Veneziano to the fact he was no longer alone. His initial arrival and later rage had scared most of the other, more timid spirits deep into the graveyard. He certainly hadn't calmed down enough for them to come back. So who was here?

The dead Italian's momentary confusion roiled into something disgusting deep in his stomach at the sight of that little ghost boy. That sick sensation only darkened the red creeping along his skin, eyes narrowing into a vicious glare. His chest hurt--a similar hurt to when he'd run into Lovino what felt like forever ago, if not more potent. Still, though, no images came to his head like they had for his brother. There was something there, in his head, but for the life of him he didn't know what it was. That fact only infuriated him more. "I thought I told you to leave me alone already," he snapped, hands clenching into fists. "Stop following me around!"

[Prussia]

Gilbert was thrown on what to do. His body was already moving ahead of his brain on its way for the graveyard outside, sneaking through corridors and evading any traps that were set to head back out into the misty atmosphere. Moisture was clinging to his clothes already, making them damp. He darted his eyes around the thick fog while trying to orient his sense of direction again from this new location. The Prussian's steps trudged him hurriedly over grass and gravel to the towering gates of the cemetery.

He'd seen Feliciano land somewhere near here. Granted, it wasn't likely that the Italian spirit would care at all that the Prussian came looking for him. His throbbing thumb was proof of that. Gilbert had tried to fashion a splint for it with what limited resources he had, which meant tearing off a chunk of fabric from his already ripped shirt, and using one of the bone fragments from the detritus on the roof for support. Normally he wouldn't have used a piece from a dead person for an injury but hey -- desperate times called for desperate measures.

It was silly of him to worry like this. There was no way for a ghost to get injured from a fall, right? And he didn't owe Feliciano any such courtesy when he was still bristling from their argument on the rooftop. His thumb was throbbing its own grudging protest over the matter. Those heated emotions were already being buried in the Prussian, replaced by his concern for the Italian. Their friendship was too strong for an argument to break (he hoped), and Gilbert did feel a little bad for taking out his issues on the Italian (being cold, starved and scared made his temper harder to control). Having witnessed the skeletal creature fling Feliciano so carelessly off the roof had made Gilbert panic.

The gates of the cemetery audibly creaked when the Prussian forced one open with a shove of his shoulder. His head was turning wildly around, body twisting to give him an unrestricted view of the area. Swirling fog made things surreal. Even the lifeless tombs around here seemed to move as a visual trick of the elements. Gilbert could only hear his own feet on the ground as he went hurrying through the rows of ordered headstones in search of the Italian's presence. "Feliciano? Where are you? Are you okay?"

His chances of getting a response from the specter was slim. That didn't hurt to try. Gilbert let his voice carry ahead of his steps as he went veering around a towering tomb. There was someone standing in the aisle ahead of him but no matter how much he squinted, the Prussian's eyes weren't focusing on it too well. It seemed far too little for the Italian. Another ghost, perhaps? If so, it might have been hostile. Gilbert stopped in his tracks to freeze, and let the fog churn heavier around him. This was one of the occasions where being an albino made life a little safer for the fact that it helped him blend in a little better.

What was going on?

[Holy Roman Empire]

In hindsight, simply running (floating?) up to Italy had been rather idiotic. After all, it was insanity to think that he would get a different result than he had before in the ballroom, though he supposed that, being himself, he would have done it anyway. At this point, it was rather too late for him to turn back at all- he had already started running and his heart rate had already started rising and there was nothing that could take Augustus away from the ghost ahead. Stopping would be just as cruel, he reasoned, as approaching Italy and being rebutted once more.

That didn’t stop Augustus from visibly flinching upon seeing so much venom in his love’s eyes that it almost drowned out the prick of pain that he thought he might see. That sort of glare didn’t belong on Italy’s face. It wasn’t right! That of course, wasn’t the main reason Augustus hurt when he saw Italy’s face, though it was what he tried to convince himself it was. Saying otherwise would be admitting to how incredibly selfish he was being, trying to chase down Italy once more- he wasn’t though, right? He was trying to do the right thing though, right? It wasn’t only because he was hoping to see him laugh and cry and smile and just glow like an extra star that sat upon the Earth, even if that shred of pain still sat in Italy’s eyes when he caught sight of Augustus.

Right?

”I thought I told you to leave me alone already! Stop following me around!” Here was where he should have started crying. He had been so emotional the past… however long it had been (it felt like days and only a few hours all at once)… that even that small of a thing should have set him reeling. Instead, though, it just echoed over an empty chest. He wasn’t crying. Why wasn’t he crying? He wasn’t thinking clearly, he felt sad, but he just wasn’t crying. Maybe he’d simply run out of tears, though every time he’d thought that he would later prove that such a thing was impossible.

However, it was plainly clear that he wasn’t thinking clearly when he spoke. He hadn’t thought about his words before making them. He was just thinking that he should be crying and wasn’t it odd and why didn’t Italy guess that he might come back, he loved him, so obviously he had to. Otherwise, Augustus would probably never have said what he did. ”Well, you are very beautiful, certainly the most beautiful I have seen in my lifetime, so why would I listen? I cannot let such a thing go!”

It only took a few seconds for Augustus to realize what had happened, though, which is when a very different emotional response burnt his face than the tears that had been. He turned a very, very, bright shade of red. Waving his arms around, he made incredulous noises, trying to come up with something to say. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud! That wasn’t something that you just said! He’d sounded like an utter idiot, or perhaps an utter stalker, in front of the person who didn’t remember him! That was going to help nothing! That was just going to convince Italy to keep running! He sounded like he did back when he had been chasing Italy around during their youngest years, back when Italy was still running from him! Finally, he managed to stutter out, ”No, wait, that does not sound right- I love you- I- I am an idiot-“.

Somehow, he doubted it helped. Inside, he started to panic. Italy was going to run away again or use words to stab him again and- he still wasn’t crying- he wasn’t going to help Italy get back to normal at all- not that he really knew how he planned on doing that- and like that Italy would run before Augustus could get him to do what Augustus really had wanted all along, which was remember! Worse yet, Italy might just remember the times he was scared of Augustus, and no, now that they had truly been in love he could never go back to that. He didn’t want to cause Italy to shake in fear. He just wanted Italy to remember! WHY WASN’T HE CRYING? HE SHOULD BE CRYING!

This feeling was only escalated when his ears finally registered an echoing cry in a familiar voice, though who knew how long ago the words had been spoken. They, too, sought out Italy. It wasn’t the words themselves, though, it was simply the voice. It was a brother. It was one of Augustus’s brothers. Perhaps it wasn’t Austria, but it was Prussia. No one had a voice like Prussia’s. How long had it been since Augustus had heard it? He had been focussing with such a laser-focus on Italy that he’d almost forgotten to listen for it, after all of these years, and now it came back to haunt him, because Prussia hadn’t been his when he died.

He’d never said for the last time that he loved him.

That same wound that he’d accidentally brought onto himself with Ludwig suddenly fell back upon him as he faced seeing Gilbert. He’d managed to say it to his other closest brother, but he’d never said it to Gilbert- Gilbert, who he could still remember looking up at him- Gilbert, who he could still remember looking up at- How selfish was he, really, to give up trying to hear family for the sake of Italy? And why wasn’t he crying? He should be letting out choked sobs by now! Why wasn’t he crying? Why did his chest just feel empty if it hurt so much? He felt hollow. He should be crying.

He shook himself off, weakly whispering ”Gilbert?” as he did, praying that it wasn’t another trick. Italy still took up the part of his mind not whispering, and he still stared only at him, but that didn’t stop him from throwing his voice over his shoulder, knowing that he wouldn’t be heard, and hoping he would be anyway.

[Italia Veneziano]

"Well, you are very beautiful, certainly the most beautiful I have seen in my lifetime, so why would I listen? I cannot let such a thing go!"

"..."

...What was that supposed to mean?

The red haze surrounding the dead Italian lessened with that shout--almost as if the other spirit sucked it right out, for the small blonde's face flooded with color a few moments later. As the boy babbled at a rate too quick for proper discernment, Veneziano stared at him in agitated confusion as his heart lurched, sickening flip-flops in his chest (which shouldn't happen because he was dead, he shouldn't have a heart at all). This strange, dangerous little boy had something like that earlier, hadn't he? It wasn't the language he hadn't heard any of the other people speak, but it was something he'd understood. "Italy, my beloved," or some stupid nonsense like that. Those words hurt just as badly then as they do now, a bittersweet ache in his very core.

Why. Why? WHY?!

It was easy to get a quick glance-over of himself once the other spirit fell into a flustered silence. Still see-through. Still clothed in tattered rags. Still so pale he glowed (or perhaps he glowed and it made him seem pale, who knows?). What did this ghost know about him that made him say stupid things like that? Better yet--what was wrong with the other? What broken bit in his brain made him keep saying things like that when Veneziano had already flat-out told him "I don't want to remember you"? What connected him with this small boy, and why did it have to be so strong enough that even in darkness their bond cut him down to the quick?

He couldn't run from the pain this time, either. He was still trapped in the stupid graveyard. There was no escape from the questions tumbling in his mind.

"Gilbert?"

Veneziano's eyes snapped up from his hand to the spirit before him, and then beyond, widened in alarm as he caught sight of a familiar carmine gaze. The glow beneath his skin only darkened to an ugly shade of red at the sight; the spirit completely forgetting about his earlier source of irritation with more anger erupting in his chest. What was he doing here?! He was supposed to be up on the roof, bleeding sweet retribution. Not standing here like a statue befitting the rest of the graveyard. And Gilbert, who was Gilbert--

Gilbert: a bloodstained white flag before the world snapped to black.

Gilbert: a sharp grin and sharper words, calloused hands clapping him on the back and thin lips cajoling him for skipping out on training with soft hair kind eyes Ludwig. Promises of sanctuary, in exchange for pasta and company--lonely red eyes.

Gilbert: Warm arms and a solid body, harsh whispers of lies and deceit, quiet murmurs of hope and perseverance. "A Prussian's promise is iron-clad."

Gilbert: Cruel words, dismissive eyes, judgment and anger raining from a sharp tongue, teetering on the roof and blood and bone bursting from pale skin.

Gilbert: Lanky limbs and white and black uniform washed with care, kneeling down to wrap soft hair kind eyes Ludwig?--not Ludwig, not Ludwig but him (who is him, though?)--in a large hug, raucous laughter filling the air.

Memories slammed into his mind with the force of a sledgehammer to the forehead. Veneziano reeled both physically and mentally, forced to take a half-step back lest he collapse to the ground under the weight of all these disjointed films playing at once. Any attention he'd had for the smaller ghost was lost; replaced with near-obsessive focus on the pale blonde lurking just barely inside the graveyard, still as one of the statues. Gilbert was a friend. Gilbert was a friend and he'd died for Gilbert. Given up his Beretta and fought to his death to try and protect.

Gilbert was Mister Ghost-Man.

There was little give in pale skin as slim fingers wrapped around a pale throat. An unearthly snarl erupted from his chest, that dark red glow, visible fury, clinging to the spirit's form even in corporeality as he slammed the man back into a crumbling tombstone, bearing down on him with eyes brimming with anger too stark for words. How he'd gotten there so fast was a mystery even to the spirit, but he didn't care. "Y-You... You--!!" His tongue couldn't wrap around all the words swarming his mind, buzzing and stinging his thoughts for a chance to be said, no, shouted at the German scrambling beneath him. Too much filled his head at once--betrayal, pain, but the most prominent emotion was rage. An anger so potent, he felt fire beneath his flesh. It burned him through that intangible veil and into the natural plane like a plague, hellbent on seeing Gilbert Beilschmidt pay.

[That's right, show him who's boss! How dare he treat you like that after all you've done for him?! How dare he put you down and demean you and treat you so badly when you gave up your life hoping he'd live to see another day! Teach him a lesson, Veneziano--teach him what it means to spit on you after you gave up everything for him!]

"You bastard!! After all that, a-after all that, you--" Another discernible sound of rage escaped him, cutting off his jumbled words as he pressed the pale blonde further against the statue behind him. "I-I died for you! My last thought was hoping you'd be okay, and you-- and you treat me like garbage?! What, did you think it was funny that I was dead?! That I was floating there and hoping for some g-goddamn answers and you could stand there and tell me all the ways I was wrong?!" Veneziano's eyes narrowed into slits, body vibrating with the urge to just twist and break Gilbert's neck and be done with it. However, he wouldn't; he couldn't. Not until he got answers. "You were my friend! I would've cared if you died! I would've been kind after I ran into you! Where was your kindness, Gilbert?! Where was your consideration for the dead?! Y-You'd think after all that you could've at least offered a "Sorry you're dead"!" There might've been tears making his gaze so fuzzy, but it was hard to tell. Maybe he was just too enraged to see clearly. Who wanted to see the face of a man like Gilbert after everything he'd done? "What kind of friend are you?! Have you been f-faking this entire time?! Is that why you acted the way you did?! T-Tell me!"

Veneziano's chest hurt.

[Prussia]

It was unlikely that Gilbert realized what danger he was in. The Prussian's primary target of focus was not the Italian that he'd just been arguing with. Those red eyes were fixed instead upon the small figure that had just spoken his name. Know that voice. I know that voice!

He didn't want to accept it. There was a fierce denial raging inside of his spirit at the idea that somehow the long-resting spirit of Augustus, the Holy Roman Empire itself, could be found at this location so far away from the roots of their homeland. That child had fallen, faded, and the loss had set Prussia on the path to carrying on that worthy legacy. Gilbert stared down at him from his position, eyes wide and brilliant bright red. Fighting past the silence that had choked his throat he ventured a tentative response of the child's name. "Augustu--gkk!"

Veneziano's attack shattered the moment. Gilbert collapsed from that force, left with the lethal grip of hands wrapped around his throat. Yes, they had argued. Yes, he had said hurtful things. Ones that he regretted once his head had time to wrap around the existence of his dead friend being tormented when the Italian deserved to be at peace. The Prussian would never raise a hand to harm Feli, and now? Not only had the ghostly nation injured him severely -- it was seeking to kill him. Not the first time your mouth has got you into trouble. His mind whispered to him as he struggled for air. Wonder if this is how it feels to a human when they get murdered by a Nation?

His exhausted body, sapped of energy, had little fight left to it. Gilbert winced when his back went slamming into the stone of the tomb. His heart was rushing desperately, throbbing at the point in his throat where the Italian's ghost was choking him, and where his bleeding, broken thumb remained useless in its makeshift splint. That next shove from Veneziano rang his bell enough that the albino's head went spinning. Red eyes fluttered briefly. Ah, schiesse. I think that one might have split my scalp. Can't catch a break.

What did Veneziano want him to say in his defense? The Prussian couldn't breathe when being strangled. Talking was impossible. So all Gilbert could do was try to pry off the strong hands gripping him with his one uninjured one, sounds choking out of him as he desperately fought to remain conscious with all those words being spit at him with such vehemence.

Just so long as West doesn't find out. Man, that'd be the worst for him. Here I've gone and driven his best friend to kill his brother. His eyes fought open to look in Augustus' direction in desperation. Hopefully the little guy would find a way to get him out of this situation or else Prussia was going to soon be joining him in the afterlife.

[Holy Roman Empire]

Augustus watched as Prussia's red eyes caught his own blue, and his breath caught in his throat. At first, he rejoiced in his head, because this was Gilbert and he looked so whole compared to... well, compared to everything else. He tried to breath out his own words, say whatever it was in his head, say what he had been begging Ludwig to say to him, but all that he could choke out was a little cough of desperate success. He took another breath. He was no coward, though maybe he was bad at showing emotions. Here, though, he only needed to run forwards and hug his brother (or maybe just give him a restrained smile) and it would all be okay-

-and then it all went to hell.

The ghost-that-was-Italy and yet acted so differently saw Gilbert and just started yelling and then Augustus was trying to speak but he still didn’t know what or how to say. He hadn’t missed the hurt and angry look in Italy’s gaze. He hadn’t missed that every word he said hurt Italy more and Italy was shouting with such anger that it hardly belonged to his bell-song voice at all, and he couldn’t bear to hurt Italy more now. That, and he was afraid. Italy’s anger was not something that he understood well, and just had never seemed to belong on his angel. Italy shouldn’t have to be angry at anything.

Maybe that would have mattered more, but this was Gilbert, the second-to-last of his brothers. This was Gilbert, the only real family beyond Austria that still existed, and Augustus knew that keeping family together was important (even if he never could and it slowly killed him from the inside, broken heart, broken people, broken body, tearing him apart until he could barely stand, walk, or write the letter that would always sit unfinished on his desk beginning Feli-). This was the little, slightly annoying white knight who loved him to death even as he fought him. This was the little idea of a nation just outside of Augustus’s reach. This was another brother who had grown far beyond what Augustus could ever imagine reaching, the one who had unified the thing Augustus never could.

Yet, even as Italy moved forwards and snapped his hands around Gilbert’s throat and shouted in anger Augustus could barely move because that was Italy, and Italy was his light through the mist, that point he would always strive to reach. He couldn’t breath. He’d- he’d never had to really- no. He’d had to do this before, and he’d chosen to leave, to patch up family, to try to lead family, and all that had given him was painful, painful regret.

So he stood immobile, the tears he cursed before finally coming and making a tiny choked sobbing noise more fitting for a dog watching its pack fight before it. All he could do was stare as Italy attacked Gilbert and Augustus’s world fell apart until Prussia’s face was red, no, blue, and paler than even the albino Gilbert should ever be, but this was Italy…

With a deep breath, suddenly, Augustus knew how to act, though maybe it was too late- he was far to often too late. Maybe it was stupid. Even as a ghost, he hadn’t ever been strong. He’d always been piece by piece, taking too long to do things, or passionate and going about them the wrong way. Then again, never let it be said that he was truly a coward- or worse, that he was a traitor, that he was disloyal.

This was his family. This was Gilbert. This was Italy. But it wasn’t quite Feliciano. It was something that had forgotten too much and would fall apart when he remembered, because his brother and his heart had always been close, both outside and inside, and before he knew what he was doing he pushed into Italy’s side with all his might.

It wasn’t strong enough, of course. He’d probably barely make Italy budge. But he tried, and as he tried to push Italy away, he cried out that ”Stop! Please stop, just stop, you are friends and my heart and my should and my brother and everything else and if you destroy each other it will be- you all cannot live with it- I cannot live with it- I just cannot- stop! Please, please stop, I beg you, just, just…” and he broke into another whimper as he pushed and knew that he just had nothing left, wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer.

(The small bitter part of him said this: but isn’t this just what always happens? You’re never quite strong enough…)

[Italia Veneziano]

An enraged snarl escaped Veneziano once Gilbert failed to answer him, fingers clawing uselessly at the spirit's hands rather than just open his stupid mouth and explain himself. "Why're you just standing there?!" he demanded, eyes narrowed and burning a rusty shade of red, dark with rage. Didn't he deserve an explanation? What made this bastard think he could just...act the way he did after everything the two had been through together in their lives, even worse without any remorse?!

If he didn't feel bad for what he did, why is he here, then..? Use your head! How can he answer with your hands around his throat? If you're angry and upset with how he treated you, isn't he angry and upset with how you're treating him?! Stop this! Listen to him!

[Listen to him?! Are you insane? Give him a chance to talk and he'll just weasel his way out of any blame! He won't have done anything wrong, this'll all be on you! You're too sensitive, Veneziano, you're too sensitive and tired and weak to do anything right--is that the kind of answer you want to hear? Because that's all this will boil down to if you let go. Don't lose this chance! You can prove how strong and capable you are! You can show the world that Veneziano isn't a person to be trifled with! Don't you want that? To be taken seriously? Then just do what needs to be done! Snap his neck and be done with it! Now!]

Grip shifting uncomfortably upon that pale throat, that dark aura around Veneziano flickered, dimming as he warred with himself. He did want to end this--simply be done with all the pain, all the running; couldn't he just rest? Everything hurt too much, now; the betrayal, the lies, the insults, it all had to end. All he wanted were answers, a conclusion; was that too much?

Would he get any of that if he killed this man once called a friend?

A sharp slam into his side shoved the spirit from his thoughts and corporeality both. Clenched fingers wrapped uselessly into fists as they passed through Gilbert's throat. Startled amber eyes turned from the white-haired man down to the small body pressed against him, little fists hitting uselessly against him. The blows hurt, not much but enough to make him frown once again. "Stop! Please stop, just stop, you are friends and my heart and my should and my brother and everything else and if you destroy each other it will be--"

Destroy each other? What does that even mean, destroy one another? This man, his ally and enemy and friend and companion and family and yet none of those things at all, couldn't destroy him. Veneziano was already dead. Nothing could destroy him now.

Right?

"You cannot live with it-- I cannot live with it it-- I cannot--stop! Please, please stop, I beg you, just, just..." The little ghost trailed off there, still pushing and hitting at Veneziano's side but with none of the earlier force, already weakened by emotion choking off his words in a sob and Veneziano froze.

Why are you doing all of this? You wanted to help Lovino, didn't you? You didn't know who he was at first but you wanted to help him! He was cruel and unthinking and tactless, but you forgave that, didn't you?! What is so different about these two that you can't do the same here?! What is wrong with you?! You made him cry!

Who is him?!

A harsh, choked sound escaped the spirit and he yanked away from the pale-haired duo as if he'd been burned. In a way, he had been; his skin felt wrong to him, unfamiliar and too tight at the edges. That carmine halo was around him again, fluxuating sporadically as he tried keeping himself under control. None of this made any sense to him: where these memories came from, why people acted the way they did despite having those memories so easily accessed when he struggled tooth and nail to bring them back (and it didn't help when they came back under no context, nothing making sense to him and only worsening these bouts of agitation and confusion inside him), why was he alive when he was supposed to be dead? What was he supposed to do?!

He stumbled back another few steps, one hand lifting to curl in his hair and pulling harshly at the strands. "S-Shut up, shut UP!" he shouted, though whether it was at himself or the crying little ghost, even he wasn't entirely sure. "Go away! Leave me alone! Just leave me alone!!"

[Prussia]

Gilbert wanted to do lots of things. He wanted to find Ludwig. He wanted to go home. His body, however, had an entirely different agenda on what it wanted to do. For one, it wanted to pass out. For two, it wanted to vomit. Either option would have been uncool and it was vanity more than will that prevented him from doing either. He did give in to the lack of support from his knees that decided for him that upon his release from the ghostly fingers of Feliciano it was time to sit. Or, at least he hoped, to fold down into a respectable heap and not the graceless lump he actually became.

His head was swimming as he tried very hard to follow the conversation that was taking place nearby. Clearly, Feliciano was going through a struggle. Sucked for him. Gilbert was too concerned with his condition to sympathize. His hand was a wreck; probing at the back of his skull since there weren’t any hands striking at him for the time being, the Prussian gingerly nudged his fingers at the sorest spot and found, to his chagrin, that it was wet. Any chance that maybe he’d just smacked it on some particularly wet stone? Bringing those fingers forward into his blurred view, there was no mistaking that red. Not so lucky after all. That was the theme of his time here.

<Just let him do what he wants.> Gilbert slurred out to Augustus, in the Old German that had been a relic in their youth. He couldn’t find his English words; even the modern German was proving difficult to his brain. The fact he still had his faculties for conscious thought was at least reassuring. Likely his brain wasn’t oozing out of his skull like an egg yolk. The visual of that his mind supplied brought up that urge to vomit again. Better not to think of food. Perhaps he’d just split his scalp on the impact. A concussion wasn’t ruled out.

He needed to get back up on his feet. If he passed out then there was no telling if he’d ever wake up again. Either his injuries would finish him off or Feliciano would. Gilbert didn’t want to die here in a cemetery. This was never how he had envisioned his end. His good hand trembled badly as the albino curled it around an edge of the tomb to start levering himself up again. He tried to find his equilibrium somewhere in the chaos and found limited success. Mostly the Prussian just leaned against the tomb for support.

Gilbert’s gaze squinted towards the two ghosts. He never would have expected Augustus to be here. If this were truly going to be a reunion, he wished that it had not been like this. The Prussian would have preferred to be standing tall, intact and fit to be proud of, not this pathetic creature clutching desperately at cold stone just to keep on his feet. ”Let him kill me if that’s what makes him happy.”