He would never admit this aloud, not even if you held him at gunpoint and demanded he do so. But among the many things he missed dearly about living with Spain, the one Romano Vargas longed for the most would be the quiet of the Spanish countryside. Now more than ever, not for the first time, with the drum of machine gun rounds and the moan of fighter planes overhead filling his ears—as well as his trauma-laced nightmares—he wished he could return to the days of his childhood and continue to live in total, uninterrupted silence. Things were simpler then: wake up to the sun warming his chubby face, eat chocolate con churros for breakfast, work in the tomato fields, and so on. (And, when Spain taught him about siestas, a few of those were thrown into the mix, as well.) He learned to value the easy-going lifestyle of the Spanish and doing things at one's own pace.

Thus, the ringing of his alarm on this, or any, morning was entirely unwelcome.

Romano groaned, clearly annoyed by the unwanted sound invading an otherwise peaceful slumber. For a moment, confusion reigned as the temptation to slip back into sleep gently coaxed him along. His bleary vision faded in and out of darkness, yet the incessant ringing danced at the edge of his subconscious, only just keeping him away from tantalizing sleep. In a feeble attempt to ignore such noisy intrusion-and so early in the morning! -he pulled the covers over his head. It didn't take long, however, for him to realize this was one war he would not win (and he knew quite a bit about those sorts of losses). Ever reluctantly, Romano Vargas rolled out of bed and began the dreaded quest for silence, dutifully uttering curses along the way. Oh, how sleep loved to tease him, and oh how the caller would pay dearly for interrupting their ritual time alone.

The source of the sound—a clearly aging rotary phone whose darkened hues of gold still reflected every bit of the shine and brilliance of the man who gifted it to him—sat seemingly innocent atop his deep mahogany desk. Strewn about it were various war-laden documents, stressfully scribbled notes, and of course: his beloved photo of a family from long ago. A family that would never again be. He gave pause, regarding the tattered still of memory as he did many a time before, before shaking himself. Clearly, someone needed his attention; these days no one bothered to call unless someone wanted something from him, anyway.

For a moment, Romano considered the other body he shared the meager bedroom with: Feliciano. A glance backward, and he fondly noted his younger brother's sleeping form curled up and burrowed in an impressive mountain of covers. The sound of soft snoring and steady breathing made its way into his ears; all was still calm. He debated taking the call here, as sudden conversation posed a risk to waking the resting man. Although, he knew with absolute certainty that the harsh ringing would eventually wake even Feliciano Vargas, a god among even the heaviest of sleepers. On a whim, Romano's fingers wrapped around the device's familiar neck, and with the choice made he allowed his own croaky voice to join the morning's sounds. "Pronto," he muttered, warily eyeing any sign of stirring from his brother. "What do you want so early in the goddamn morning?"

"That's certainly no way to greet your commanding officer, Herr Vargas," came the sharp reply, coated with an unmistakable, gruff German accent. "Especially after trying my patience and making me wait so long. You would do well to remember holding your tongue, lest you find yourself losing it—do I make myself clear?"

Despite contrary belief, Romano was no fool. He knew full well what Ludwig and his superiors were capable of should he mouth off a step too far from usual. Such came the horrors of war and being forced to align with such monstrosity. Unfortunately for his German associate, who he knew for a fact was chasing after Feliciano, Romano also was no coward. "My apologies, commandante," he allowed, sarcasm lazily dripping from his tongue, though with notably less malice than before. "To what, then, do I owe the pleasure of this phone at such a delightful time of day?" It wasn't lost on the Southern Italian just how important this conversation was. Communication between national bodies during times of war was exceedingly rare, especially unencrypted. There simply was no need; anything of importance that needed to be said could be passed along via their respective leaders.

Unless, of course, it was an emergency. So, if Ludwig was calling him now…

"Forget it; it doesn't matter. Time is of the essence."

"Well then, with all due respect, just spit it out already—"

"British forces have begun invading Sicily, you fool!" There was a beat of stunned silence—then two, then three—and the snapped response all but hung densely in the air, threatening to suffocate them both. Before a word of apology could even begin to form on Romano's tongue, however, Ludwig continued. "Italy informed me some time ago that his Southern half would be staying with him for a few weeks—are you still there?"

Despite the dire situation at hand, Romano couldn't help but bristle at being referred to as a southern half, effectively demonstrating the lack of autonomy he seemed to have over his own person. I'm a personification, he thought bitterly, a pawn in a game. The least you could do it acknowledge the one moving the piece, potato bastard. "Yes," he murmured nonetheless, barely able to register the question with all the deafening thoughts racing through his mind. "Yes, I'm still in Florence, with Feliciano. What do you want me to do, commandante?"

"Protect Feliciano with your life. Flee Italy as soon as possible."

"Scusa?"

"Do not argue with me, Vargas," came the sharp reply. "There is no time for it."

Any ounce of subordinate fear Romano had abandoned him in favour of protective instinct. "Make time, then! I can't just tell my brother we're leaving without a good explanation, testa di cazzo!"

"Du hältst jetzt die Klappe! You are a macroregion: a subdivision defined only by traditional politics, globalization, and leading a legacy only comprised of tasteless Americanized film caricatures. Whether or not you are taken by the Allies holds little bearing, save wartime formality, as you hold virtually no worth in terms of political bargaining."

"But Feli does."

"Exactly. Mussolini will be forced to bend at Allied will, as he would need to quickly regain Italy by any means possible—including surrender."

Romano sighed, casting an accusatory glare toward the heavens. For all our country's legacy of dutiful worship, he thought, you really enjoy shitting in my dinner, eh? His earlier fatigue returned to his bones tenfold, this time joined by a faint migraine and an ache marching down his spine. "Message received, commandante. I mean nothing; Italy means everything."

"Indeed. I'm glad you finally seem to understand the severity of the situation." Upon only receiving a half-hearted hum in affirmative, Ludwig continued. "Even if it costs you your life, you must not allow Italy to fall into enemy hands. He is far too valuable to our cause, to his country…" To the heart of Germany himself, although both men knew better than to voice it. "Once Southern Italy has fallen, it will only be a matter of time before they begin heading North. Fortunately, you will have a four-day head start to find somewhere safe for him until the Allied forces are driven out."

If they can be driven out, with the way this hopeless war is going. "Capisco, commandante. We'll leave tonight at dusk. Was there anything else…?"

A pause. "Would it be possible—I only wish to speak privately with Feliciano. It may be some time before I can talk to him again. If this is to be the end of our communication, I want it to be on good terms."

It took everything Romano had not to scoff at that. Even in the depths of cruelty and madness, it seemed only his dear young brother could surface any microscopic amount of humanity Ludwig had left. And, of course, his gut instinct was to end the call right then and there. But he knew how it would break Feliciano if something were to happen and he couldn't properly say goodbye. With Nonnuccio and Holy Rome gone—well, the younger man wouldn't be able to handle the heartbreak a third time. "Let me go wake him," he ceded, feeling every bit like some faceless courier sent between Romeo and Julian. Then again, what else was new? Setting the phone to the side, without bothering to wait for a response from the German, Romano stilled, trying to relish the few seconds of quiet he had left before the weeks of uncertainty ahead.

"Lovi?"

Startled, Romano whirled around; it seemed despite his best efforts, his little brother finally awoke. "Damn it, Veneziano, don't you know not to scare me like that? We're at fucking war, for Christ's sake."

Feliciano, in his infinite sainthood and for all the hostility thrown toward him, only smiled. "Well, good morning to you to! I'm glad to see you up so early with so much energy, fratellone!"

Ignoring the playful ribbing, Romano handed his younger brother the telephone's neck. "Make it quick. We've got somewhere to be soon, so come find me whenever you lovebirds are done." He didn't wait around for a response, hastily moving to dress himself and begin packing. On his way out of the small bedroom, he could hear Feliciano's soft murmuring, no doubt using what little time the duo had left together to tell the German everything and anything. They both knew that this war was coming to an end—a bad one. The Allies made very clear that they were not interested anymore in negotiations or mercy of any kind, especially now that American was eagerly joining in. For all the two of them knew, this could be the last time they ever spoke to each other.

As he closed the door, there was a twisted part of Romano that rejoiced at the thought of his Northern half finally getting to experience a taste of his entire lost childhood. You can't have everything, Vene, he thought. The journey ahead would prove to be tense, indeed.