(Warning: Contains mature content)

"Nevertheless, he must be cautious in believing and acting, and must not inspire fear of his own accord, and must proceed in a temperate manner with prudence and humanity, so that too much confidence does not render him incautious, and too much diffidence does not render him intolerant. From this arises the question whether it is better to be loved more than feared, or feared more than loved."

- Niccolò Machiavelli, 1513

A seemingly young man with Venetian red hair as sunny as his personality hummed and strolled the streets of Florence with a huge smile cast upon his face. There was a particular skip in his step today, as the scent of pasta and other many delicious foods drifted from traditional Italian homes that almost seemed to stretch and touch the soft blues and white of the sky.

The streets were as busy as always with tourists and locals alike out to flourish in the wonder of the Italian culture. The sounds of excited voices and clicks of pictures being taken were nothing new to the young man, and in fact made him smile even more to see so much people happy. He and big brother Francis both shared a common philosophy that sharing beauty and love to everyone could work miracles, even beyond what either of them could comprehend.

He whistled and put his hands in his fine, Gucci dress pants as he strolled along with a breeze settling through the city. As he walked, he took a moment to pause as he spotted a daughter (that couldn't be more than five) and a mother walking around hand in hand with each other. The girl smiled and waved at the young man enthusiastically as her simple, white frock blew like a gentle flower in the breeze.

"Ciao, signore!" she called cheerfully.

The redheaded Italian smiled at her obvious enthusiasm and walked over to pat her little head. "Ciao, signora!" he responded with just as much eagerness as the youthful girl. "I love your dress by the way! Molto bella, si?"

"Si!" the young girl replied with a bright expression lit in her cheeks. However, her mother only frowned while staring at the stranger chatting up her child.

"What's your name, signore? Mine's Elene!" she continued to ask. Even though she didn't know anything about the man she was talking to, Elene was absolutely enthralled by his cute personality, so much like her own. However, she felt her mother hold her hand firmer and try to inch away from him. She stared at in confusion, but quickly went back to smiling at the charming young man.

"You can just call me a friend." Italy smiled as he reached into his pocket and withdrew some Euros, enough for three people. "But you have a very pretty name, Elene! Would you two like to eat some pasta with me? It's almost lunchtime!"

"Actually, we were just about the go home." The woman replied coldly as she lifted her saddened daughter into her arms. The mother's gaze was wrought with disgust and unexplainable resent as she just briefly looked at the nation, not even for more than a second. "Let's go, Elene . . ."

Italy blinked and smiled cheerily as the curl on the side of his head bounced playfully. "Are you sure that you and Elene don't want to have a little pasta with me, signora?" he chirped with genuine hopefulness. "If not, how about some gelato? Or cannoli! I promised I'm not armed or anything, see?"

To demonstrate, he emptied his pockets and smiled sweetly. "And I don't like hurting people anyway. From my country, or otherwise!"

The mother stopped dead in her tracks as she set her daughter onto the pavement, then spun back around and slapped him across the face. "Idiot!" she growled. "Did you not think that I didn't recognize you?! This is why I left this stupid country in the first place!"

Italy held his cheek and felt his tears sliding down his cheeks as it throbbed. "Wh-What do you mean you left?" he whispered. "Y-You left m-me?"

"You're a joke!" she snapped with her fists clenched and teeth gritted. "If my father weren't so sick, I wouldn't have come back ever again! My homeland is nothing but a pathetic ball of surrendering and letting others do his work, giving those like me who come from it, nothing to be proud of! Whenever I see you on the news, I feel sick! You're weak on the battlefield, and mean nothing to any of the rest of the world! And for you to be sweet talking my daughter . . ."

She scowled as she glowered while towering over his horrified figure. "Stay away from her, from us!"

Elene stepped forward hesitantly in the middle of the fight, with her eyes wide with shock, and lined with betrayal. "M-Mama?" she asked, staring down at the injured nation lying down on the ground like the coward her mother had told her so many, bitter stories about. She shakily wrapped her arms around her leg, and hid her face as she cried quietly. "L-Let's go home. I-I don't like it h-here . . ."

"Alright, dear . . ." the disgusted mother sighed sadly as she brought her back into her arms and glared at Italy for one last time, before finally departing.

The beaten country looked up desperately to try and rapidly apologize, but by the time he did, all there was left was himself, and his own loneliness. He sobbed and gripped the dusty pavement as heated emotions filled his throat.

Had he really . . . hurt someone that badly? From something he had done? Or . . . rather, something he hadn't done?

Italy squeezed his eyes shut as he could already hear echoes of past battles ringing in his ears. Agonizing memories that refused to let themselves go unforgotten. The gunshots, the pounding of boots against the ground, the cries of the fallen…

No, not again! Stop!

Blood. He could taste it running down his nose and down the side of his lip like an alien, metallic tasting wine . . .

Pain . . . so much pain . . .

Wait, no . . . that was real. This was real. He was hurting. That was blood.

Italy opened his eyes to see two thugs dressed down in street clothes pressing a cold blade against his throat as they searched him for any valuables. The country froze in terror as he realized the situation, but managed to scream out for help as he thrashed in complete fear as the brutish men held it closer to him while seething through their teeth for the seemingly average man to shut up, not recognizing him as a personified nation.

Although he was a country—which granted him the inability, to die—he (like the rest of the countries) was limited by that rule as well. No one, or thing, in the world was invincible. That was impossible.

While regular people couldn't conquer, or injure him severely, (though they could still very much hurt him) other nations had the power to do so, or even kill if they so chose. Though no one truly knew what happened to nations when they die, the events that had brought Grandpa Rome and the beloved Holy Roman Empire down was enough to make him not want to ever find out.

Then there was the matter of their human names . . .

None of the nations could remember how they came to receive their names—as it was unsure how they were even born—but they knew for certain that they could remember them quite clearly, and that they held enormous power. Whether it was some kind of ancient magic, or a cross over to some pre-existing mortality, a country's human name was their greatest weakness.

Somehow, it was able to completely weaken and subdue any country by simple usage of it, to them. It was unknown for how long, or even how it worked because they were all too afraid to let it be known by anyone, and especially each other. Even normally intimidating countries like Russia were terrified of their human names being exposed, because it could be exploited by anyone if they found them out, even regular humans.

"Germany!" Italy cried almost instinctively as he pulled away from the two muggers, and sprinted off in a burst of speed. One of them cussed and managed to make a slit in the runaway's throat before he had been able to completely escape, which created a trail of crimson to pool behind the Italian as he staggered. However, he simply held the wound despite its searing agony, and continued to dash off in gripping fear of getting even more harmed as the two men stared at him in utter astonishment.

Italy panted and gulped with difficulty as he kept clutching his neck to prevent too much more bleeding. He normally would have stayed there crying for help and surrendering, but the moment had proven to be too frightful for him to even think of remaining there, and retreating had been the next best option.

He ran past the market, and a few shops with warm blood still gushing through his fingertips until he finally arrived to a canal glistening with beautiful water from the Mediterranean Sea, and Arno River. He quickly scrambled onto his stomach and he cupped some of the slightly salty water into his palm to splash onto his wound, which was already starting to naturally heal on its own.

When he was done cleaning it out the best he could, Italy rested his head against the warm stone and closed his eyes as the cool waves lapped against his hand pleasantly. The sun blazed overhead, but he didn't mind. All that he did mind was the weight of that woman's words, which seemed to compress and squeeze down onto his chest.

She was right, he was infamous by most for not doing much on the battlefield. Sure, maybe not as much as big brother France, though they had both won a fair amount of wars. (One including when he had brought down Turkey during his reign as the Ottoman Empire) But he was also seen as more of a cute country with delicious food, fancy cars, and pretty ladies then a great power of the world. He would never be taken seriously again, especially after the countless times he had needed Germany to save him from the Allies during World War II . . .

"Starting to realize how useless you are?" spoke a strict, and deeply irritated voice from out of nowhere.

Italy squeaked and jumped up in surprise at the sudden voice, and bent his head down more over the edge of the canal to where he had heard the person speak. However, when he looked down, it wasn't his reflection staring back at him with a usual, friendly smile . . .

Neon, almost luminescent pink eyes gazed at Italy sharply from dark maroon strands of hair around them as the rippling figure played with a flick blade to entertain himself. Italy gulped nervously and instantly recognized who it was as he took a step back.

2P-Italy rolled his eyes as his much more innocent counterpart cowered as far away from the water's surface as possible, waving a white flag in a reactive response to his arrival. "And you call yourself a nation!" he spat. "Do you have any self-respect for yourself? Man up!"

"B-But h-how are y-you here, il mio altro auto io? A-And wh-why?" Italy asked fearfully. He was more than familiar with his second player equivalent; a dangerous country that preferred the conquest of his fellow nations than being their ally.

Unlike the sociable country in the 1P world, 2P-Italy was harsh, authoritarian, and refused to have anything any less than what he wanted by doing anything and everything to get it. He was much stronger than Italy both militaristically and physically, and was the one that had led the Axis into victory against the Allies in both World Wars.

2P-Italy gave him a nonchalant look as he sliced his favored knife through the air effortlessly. "Just watching you get beat up like a useless idiota." He said simply. "They're right, you're pathetic. Even your own citizens hate and leave you. And why shouldn't they when all you have ever done for anyone is crying like a stupido bambino?"

"B-But I make beautiful art and food!" Italy tried with an uneasy, but cute smile. "Why would I want to fight when I can make people happy with those wonderful things? I want to be loved, not feared."

2P-Italy scowled at the naïveté country as he splashed him in the face. "Idiota! No one is ever going to be able to take you seriously if you keep running away like a fucking pussy!" he shot back furiously. "Fear isn't going to get you anywhere but ridicule and rejection! You'll be the country that disappears in history as a complete joke! Do you want that?! You're not being loved, you're being fucking laughed at!"

"That's not true, I have lots of friends." Italy said reassuringly as he smiled softly at the infuriated reflection. "Germany, Japan, Romano, America, big brother France . . . "

"Si, and so you remember what your beloved, 'big brother France' did to the Holy Roman Empire?" 2P-Italy growled with a venomous stare. "Do you? He murdered him, and that's the end of that! That's what happens in war! Especially when you're not strong enough to be able to rely on yourself! You can't tell me you don't want a taste of revenge for what he did! Hurt him as much as he hurt you! Make him feel your pain and more!"

Italy lowered his head as the entire city seemed to darken around him, with the clouds overhead obscuring the bright, hope filled rays of sunshine the sun had to offer. Previous events that had led up to the Battle of Austerlitz had ultimately brought both France's army to deliver the defeat of the Holy Roman Empire's boss, and finally, the end of the Holy Roman Empire.

2P-Italy went on to push even further with a fierce look of the dire need for bloodshed and retribution blazing in his eyes. "Do you want to die by the hands of your so-called 'friends' as they continue to backstab and take away everything from you?!" he demanded. "You can't count on anyone but yourself, or you'll come to nothing but ruin!"

"No! Big brother France said that he hadn't had a choice! He was forced to!" Italy cried as he shot up to his feet with a renewed look of fortitude crossed onto his face as he gave his 2P self a firm look. "Just because I've been hurt by other people and countries doesn't mean that I should do the same thing, just for the sake of getting back at them! If I'm called into battle, then I'll do it because it's for a good cause, not for selfish gain! And unlike you, I'll have lots of friends to help me when I need help!"

"So what you're saying is, you'll continue being a leech and coward forever." 2P-Italy scowled in utter repulse. He held out his hand with a stern look. "Make an alliance with me, and we can become the most powerful country in both worlds. I'll show you what being truly happy is."

"I don't want power, and I don't want fear!" Italy refused as he shook his head sadly at the almost mirror-like image of himself, rippling in the water. "I only want to be loved!"

"How are you going to expect to be respected by anyone with love?" 2P-Italy shot back as he clenched his flick blade increasingly tighter in his hand.

"Because that's the kind of respect I want! As an individual, not a power!"

"You're the most fucking pathetic excuse for a country I've ever seen!" he seethed.

"Well I'm sorry that's what you think, il mio altro auto io, but that's where we're different." Italy took one last disappointed look at his furious counterpart as he slashed his hand through the reflection, cutting off the image with only the cold water of the canal left to keep him company. "I wish that you could only see that yourself . . . "

The young man dried himself off with the sleeve of his suit as he grinned up at the sky. The sun was beginning to peek out again like a comforting companion, and bathed him in a warm embrace. Italy took in a deep breath of the still gorgeous day, and then withdrew his ringing cell phone from his pocket with a bright, cheerful expression lighting up his cheeks.

"Ciao, Germany~" he chirped. "Oh no, I'm great! My day couldn't be better, grazie for calling me! So, do you want to come and have some pasta with me at my house?"

It was as if nothing had happened. However, a dark cloud in the sky still remained over the bustling Italian city like a foreboding omen whispering its return. He would take over that weak 1P in good time, he couldn't remain stubborn for long in his own morals. He would break eventually.

And then once the land would become divided, it would also become easily conquered . . .

Vee~

Well, it's great to be back with a new story! Any reviews are warmly welcome, and I hope to see all of you in the next meeting between 1P and 2P, sanity and madness!