"read it and weep motherfucker" -emrys, 2015

I never thought that we'd end up here.

My brother said you've already killed me,

But now I don't go down.

To me, he was more than a clown.

Undyne told me how DETERMINED you were.

She tried to fight,

But you were just too strong for her.

Shwing!

You really think that I will go down so easy?

I'd like to see you try and beat me.

You attack with all you have in you.

Your attacks grow ever stronger, yes you're able.

But you know by now that MERCY's off the table.

RELOAD

I get the feeling that you keep on dying,

And then coming right back — Just stop trying.

You know, I used to think we could be friends.

I never thought I'd have to bring your end.

Long ago I had hope that you might be good.

It was a matter of if you would.

Right now you're filled of L O V E.

But I'm stronger than you.

Papyrus no longer believes in you.

I don't believe in you either.

This is where you'll stop.

You're at your journey's end.

You'll never land a hit,

And you'll never be my friend.

Even if part of me just wants to let you go,

I remember what you did, and the answer remains

No.

He dodges every hit. He's even more agile than Sans. But he can't keep it up forever.

Your attacks grow ever stronger, yes you're able.

But you know by now that MERCY's off the table.

RELOAD

I get the feeling that you keep on dying,

And then coming right back — Just stop trying.

You know, I used to think we could be friends.

I never thought I'd have to bring your end.

Long ago I had hope that you might be good.

Now I don't even think that you could.

Right now you're filled of L O V E.

But I'm stronger than-

Finally.

Well. You saw right through me, didn't you, human?

Finally. A hit. That only took fucking forever.

He doesn't turn to dust right away. He's just like his brother. Just like Asgore and Alphys. Just like Queen Toriel, although you haven’t gotten around to her yet. He's just like every other boss monster. He lingers for a moment, and only a moment. He takes this moment slowly. His hand first moves to his chest. He clutches at his stained hoodie. A small part of you wonders where the stain came from, but you ignore it. It's just that pesky little thing that latched on to your SOUL when you first arrived. You can never remember it's name. It can't even remember it's name.

"good swing." His voice is low and quiet. It tugs at you in a way you can't quite describe. He's a monster, why do you feel bad for killing him? It's the only way out.

His hood has fallen down. You can see a soft blue strip of cloth around his neck. A scarf. Sans's scarf.

Now you feel even worse.

"well, you've made your choice. don't say i didn't warn you, kid. after all," he says as he moves his hand up towards the scarf, "you brought this on yourself." He closes his eyes. His grip tightens on the blue fabric as his body begins to disintegrate.

You swear you can hear him ask his brother something, but you don't register it. You don't want to register it. You just want to get out, and this is the only way to do that.

. . . Right?

Toriel wasn't much easier to kill. She was nothing but kind to you before the battle began, and was willing to die so that you could be happy.

But you killed her in cold blood.

Even with the warm light of the setting sun on your face, you feel empty. You should be glad that you're back home on the surface. But you aren't. You feel numb. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that you can't feel anything but a dull pain in your gut and pinpricks in your eyes. Why are you crying?

Last time I saw a sunset like this was under very different circumstances.

Now you feel fear. It's the thing that attached itself to you. And it can speak. It can think. It's smarter than you thought.

Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you.

Why is it here to bother you now?

You felt honest-to-God regret for what you did. It helped me remember who I am. Kinda. My name is-- uh . . . Well, it's not important. But thanks.

You don't feel as though you've done anything right.

H-hey now, it's okay, at least you know that what you did is wrong. That's good, okay? You're not inherently bad.

You don't really believe them.

I can prove it.

You doubt that.

I can! Trust me. You still have that SAVE FILE of yours, right? All you have to do is reset it.

That sounds counterproductive. Maybe if you just try hard enough to right your wrongs now that you're back on the surface, you can move on. You can move past what you did in the Underground. You can forget all about it.

But that won't work. You can't forget. Not something like this.

Well, no, that's not the only thing you have to do.

You knew it wouldn't be that simple.

You have to get through all of this again without killing anyone.

How are you supposed to do that? FIGHTing is the only option that makes sense to you. You're good at fighting. You don't know if you can do anything else.

Don't worry, Frisk. You won't be alone in it. I can help you.

And how are they supposed to do that when they can't even remember their own goddamn name?

They're quiet for a moment.

You sit down. The small part of you that isn't emotionally numb and wants to fix things regrets your harsh words.

I know how to get them to give you MERCY. Every one of them. Well, almost. But the ones that I don't know can’t be all that hard to figure out.  I think. Either way, I can guide you through it.

You don't need or want someone to hold your hand and lead you through it. You had too much of that with Asgore, back in the ruins.

Your heart aches as you remember the look on his face as he turned to dust. He wasn't even angry with you. Just dissapointed and scared. Scared of what you were going to do to the others.

He was right to be scared.

Frisk, please. I know you want to make things right. You aren't a bad person. You don't hate humanity. You acted out of fear. Please, just trust me. Let me try to help you. At least give me the benefit of a doubt.

You can feel tears running down your cheeks. You don't see the point in going home, anyway. You reach out to your SAVE FILE.

The benefit of a doubt. That's all you can bring yourself to give.

"Frisk, don't you get it?"

Their voice is shaking.

"You have to kill them."

It's higher than usual. More desperate.

"Or you'll be . . ."

They can't finish their sentance.

"Don't you understand what they're trying to do by now?! They want to kill you! They want to take your soul and b.reak the barrier. And once they do, they'll kill everyone else, too. They're only pretending to be your friends. They don't care about anyone. They don't even care about each other! All they care about is themselves."

You look down at Flowey. He looks terrified. Then again, he's looked terrified the whole time you've been trapped in this corrupted file.

You refuse to kill anyone.

Chara sighs.

"You know what? Fine. Be that way. But when you die; when they KILL you, promise me that you'll reset."

It sounds reasonable. You agree.

"Frisk, no-"

"Oh, thank God. Maybe you really do stand a chance, kid."

You're not sure what that means.

"I'll be waiting for you back at the beginning."

You stop them before they can leave.

"What?"

They never used to care about you. They only wanted to erase the world before.

"Oh. Yeah. That."

Silence.

"Well? Are you gonna say anything or what?"

Chara smiles slightly. They stroke one of his torn petals. "You always were so vocal. I guess you were lucky enough to escape the file corruption. Unlike me. This . . . whatever this is. It changes your morals around. Turns them topsy-turvy, and your personality with them. I guess for me, it made me regret what I did. That's all I've been able to do since this timeline started. It made me care about you and what happened to you, and not just for my benefit. But I stand by what I always say: You need to kill them before they kill you. Maybe then, with your high LV, and our combined DETERMINATON, we can ERASE everything, then bring it back, and make it go back to normal. Just like it was the first time."

You tell them that you'll keep that in mind.

So you came back.

The voice sends shivers down your spine.

I knew you would, Frisk.

You look around. You can't see them.

So what happened? Did they kill you? Did you have a nightmare and reset out of fear? Or did they turn on one another, leaving you powerless to stop them?

You don't want to talk about it. You say nothing.

Not talking, huh? A sigh. That's fair. They fade into view, sitting beside you in the bed of golden flowers. "I guess it doesn't really matter." They turn to you. "Are you okay?"

You shake your head. You haven't been okay since the file was corrupted.

"Makes sense." They look down at the flowers. Their shoulders slump. "Are you ready to ERASE everything?"

You shake your head again.

They smile a bit. It's forced. "Makes sense. I'm not ready, either. But we have to do it. We have to try."

You begin to wonder if the damage can even be undone. You express this fear to Chara.

"Oh, come on. Don't start thinking like that now. We can do it. We can do anything. I've seen your power, Frisk. I've seen the things you can do." They stand. "I could do them, too." They smile sadly. They extend a hand to you. "We're even more powerful together. So come on, let's just get this over with."

You take their hand, allowing yourself to be a passing witness to the deaths of those you've grown to love.

"hey, back off. leave the poor guy alone, will you?"

His words are still ringing in my ears as he unlocks the door to his house, leading me inside. He announces his arrival to his father, then leads me upstairs.

"bathroom's this way. let's get that blood off your face."

I'm still not entirely sure why I'm letting him take me to his house. We just met, for crying out loud. Sure, I told Napstablook where I was, so there's not really any reason to worry, but why am I doing what I'm doing? Why am I letting him sit me down and clean the gash on my cheek? Normally I would do this myself.

"what's your name again?"

He's already forgotten my name. "mettaton."

"that's an interesting name." Something about the way he says it gets me to smile. "i'm papyrus."

"i know. you told me before."

I'm coming off as a smartass, aren't I?

"i know. just making sure you remembered." He opens a band-aid and sticks it to my face. His tongue sticks out of the courner of his mouth ever so slightly as he does. Honestly, it's kind of adorable.

"thanks."

"no problem, mettaton." He stands up and shoves the first-aid kit back up on the shelf, then walks out. I follow him.

"you said you told your cousin you'd be here?"

He remembers more than he lets on. "yeah. i texted them on the way."

"good." He practically throws himself down on the couch. "you like video games?"

"uh, yeah. why?"

"you were wearing a mario shirt yesterday."

He notices more than he lets on, too.

"but we don't have mario. or legend of zelda. but we do have just dance, guitar hero, and wii sports."

"just dance?"

"you like that game?"

"yeah, but i'm not very good."

"me neither." He opens the box and slides in the game disc, then tosses me a remote. I fumble trying to catch it.

"sorry."

"ah, don't be. i do that all the time." He picks it up and hands it to me.

"thanks."

He picks up another remote for himself and opens the game. I notice that I'm player one. Is this his way of telling me to pick whatever song I want? I decide not to ask and select Burn from the list.

"nice choice." He stands up and positions himself beside me, but not so close that we could hit one another. I try to ignore him as the music starts. My hair falls in my face. I let it.

Four minutes later, he's taking off his orange hoodie to show a plain grey t-shirt. It lands on the couch.

"you look like you were having fun," he comments as he stands next to me again. He's closer this time. He's taller than I am.

"i was." I'm out of breath and uncomfortably warm, so I take off my pink jacket and throw it next to his hoodie.

"wanna play again?"

I shake my head. "i'm good, thanks."

"alright." As if on que, he flops back down on the couch. "you were really good."

"i was?"

"yeah. it might not have showed in your score, but you did way better than i did."

"thanks."

"no problem. it never really shows in the score. it's really screwy."

I laugh at his comment. "it really is."

"you know why i invited you over, mettaton?"

Well, that was an unexpected and completely relevant question. "no."

"because you seemed like a nice guy, but you didn't smile a lot."

I give him a look. His explanation isn't making much sense.

"i didn't want to see you getting picked on. the video game thing was me not knowing what to do."

I laugh again. "so, what?"

"so i wanted to see you smile."

"really?"

He nods. "i dunno, i was acting on impulse, but you're a good dude. i'm glad i got to see you smiling."

"so, you invited me over because-"

"because i wanted you to smile for me, yeah."

I sit down next to him. "you're kinda a dork."

"i know."

"i kinda like that."

"Can we go in now, then?" Her greyish lavender hair bounced as she rocked on the balls of her feet.

"No." Garnet said sternly. "This is a big moment for him. It'd be best that we leave him alone for a little while."

Pearl sighed.

"But why do we have to wait?" Amethyst whined.

"I just told you. They're having a moment, and we're not going to interrupt it."

Amethyst groaned. She turned and sat on the floor, leaning her head against the wall as she folded her arms. "Fine."

Pearl peeked in to see if anything was happening, but all she saw was a large cluster of dark brown curls. Steven wasn't paying any attention to anything but the baby in his arms.

It was a sight to behold, really. A large man compared to such a small child, holding her as gently as he could, holding her in one of his arms and holding a hand that had wriggled out of the blanket with the other. He smiled down at her and held her to his chest. She squirmed and clenched her face, pulling her hands to her face before opening her eyes. Steven had been told that she was still too young for her eyes to focus, but he didn't believe that. Not as she looked up at him with those big dark eyes of hers.

"Did I wake you up?" Steven whispered.

The girl blinked.

Steven smiled. "Sorry, Rosie."

The girl smiled back. Steven chuckled and kissed her forehead. She grabbed a curl that fell over his shoulder with both hands, inspecting it.

Her hands are so tiny. Steven thought to himself. One of them could probably fit in that curl.

Rosie let go of Steven's hair and reached up for his face. He repositioned his arms, holding her more or less upright as Pearl had showed him, and let her touch his face. He laughed as she gently smacked his cheeks.

"Having fun there?" Steven asked. He closed his eyes as Rosie's hands moved up his face.

Rosie giggled.

Steven opened his eyes and pulled Rosie close to his chest again, this time with her head on his shoulder, and put one hand on her back. Both of them relaxed.

"I love you, Rose Lisa Universe." His hand moved up and his fingers stroked her downy hair. "I'm not gonna let anything bad happen to you. I promise." He leaned back and closed his eyes. "And I'm gonna love you no matter who or what you are or choose to be. I've never done anything like this before, but I'll do my best, okay?"

Rosie's small arms wrapped themselves around Steven's neck and shoulder as far as they could go in reply.

Steven felt tears start to roll down his cheeks.

Loss is a weird thing. You never know when it’s going to come for you, and a lot of the time you don’t have any time to prepare. Some losses hit harder than others. A lost love opposed to a lost photo of a sunset you haven’t looked at in years. But it’s hard to measure loss. You can’t just say that your loss is worse than someone else’s, and you can’t say that your loss isn’t as bad as someone else’s. Losses affect people so differently, they don’t have a scale. They can’t have a scale. It wouldn’t be fair for anyone. One of the only things that’s harder than experiencing a loss yourself, though, is seeing someone you love go through that pain. Particularly if it affects you, too.

It was June. School had just gotten out a little more than a week ago when it happened. My best friend was in a car accident. He didn’t die, which was good, but he was hurt really badly. I remember my grandfather getting the call from his dad, sitting me down, and telling me that Ludwig Beilschmidt was in the hospital. We wouldn’t be able to visit him until the next day. I remember worrying about him, drawing things that might help to cheer him up, waiting with anticipation and fear, and the sleepless night that followed. I remember driving to the children’s hospital. I remember my hands sweating as I held the plastic folder with cards and drawings inside. Some were from me, some were from others who had asked for me to deliver them. I remember seeing him walking back from the bathroom to his bed with the help of a nurse, his crutches, the bag of fluid he was hooked up to, and the look on his face when he saw me.

“Hey, Ludwig.” I remember saying. My voice was barely above a whisper.

Ludwig hadn’t said anything in reply. He had just given the nurse beside him this look, as though he was asking her permission for something, and she had nodded. She started to roll the hook with the bag on it towards me, but he lead the way, going as fast as he could with his crutches. My grandpa had taken the folder from me and I had desperately wrapped my arms around Ludwig under his arms and clutched his upper back. He had completely disregarded his crutches and hugged me back. The crutches clattered to the floor, causing Ludwig to slip slightly and start to fall. I had tightened my grip and slowly gone down onto my knees to soften his landing. He had started shaking and crying and he had buried his face in my shoulder. I remember telling him that it would be okay, that I had him, that I wasn’t going to let him fall. I remember thinking how it was usually the other way around. I remember this crushing pain in my chest, knowing that everything was different now, and that this boy who rarely cried was at least partly relying on me, the crybaby, to help him through this, and how scared and desperate he must have been to do that. I remember trying not to cry into him, and ultimately failing. I remember forcing myself to tear my eyes away from his leg, cut off at the thigh. I remember him whispering in my ear.

“Mister Holmes, care to assist me in the first part of this demonstration?”

The boy shook his head. “No. It seems infantile, Professor. But I’m sure John Watson would love to help you out.”

Professor Lupin blinked, seemingly shocked, but he recovered quickly. “Very well then.” He said calmly. He looked up, scanning the crowd. “John? Care to come up?”

Young mister John Watson was much shorter than his companion, mister Holmes, and his hair was far more tame and blond. He had the makings of a mustache on his upper lip, and a small jam stain on the shirt hidden beneath his robes. He wore a small pin on his robes with the likeness of a badger. “Yeah, sure.” He nodded to Professor Lupin as he began to make his way towards the wardrobe. “Of course.”

“Excellent, John. Thank you.”

John nodded in acknowledgement of his Professor’s statement.

“Now, before we begin, who here knows what a boggart is?”

Sherlock raised his hand.

“Mister Holmes?”

“A shapeshifter. It takes on the form of the worst fear of the person before it.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“Therefore,” Sherlock continued, “We don’t know what it truly looks like because nobody has had the bright idea yet to just stick a camera in a wardrobe like this with the timer and flash turned on.”

Professor Lupin smiled. “Well, perhaps when I’m done using this boggart in particular for teaching purposes, and before we dispose of it, you and I could do just that.”

“No thank you, it sounds dull.”

The smile quickly became much less enthusiastic. He turned to the rest of the class. “So, the boggart is sitting alone in a dark wardrobe, and does not yet know what will terrify us most. This means that we have two huge advantages over it. Does anyone know what those advantages might be?”

“Is one of them that we know what will terrify us most, Professor?” John asked.

“Wonderful! That’s one of them, Mister Watson. Anyone else?”

A Ravenclaw girl with her long brown hair tied back in a ponytail named Molly Hooper raised her hand. “There’s so many of us, that it won’t know what to turn into.”

“Precisely. That is exactly why it’s always best to have company when dealing with a boggart. The boggart will become confused, not knowing what to turn into.

“The charm that repels a boggart is simple, you see, but it requires a lot of willpower. What really finishes them off is laughter, so we just have to take our worst fear and find a way to make it laughable.

First, I want for all of us to practice the charm without our wands, so if anyone with their wand out could quickly put it away.” Professor Lupin waited for a moment. “Now, repeat after me . . . riddikulus!”

“Riddikulus!” the class echoed.

“Good. Now that we’re through with the easy part, you need to understand that the incantation alone is not enough. And this, John, is where you come in.”

John, as well as the rest of the class, looked away from Professor Lupin as the wardrobe shook once more.

“Right then, John,” Professor Lupin said, regaining the attention of his class, “What frightens you most in the world?”

It took John a moment to respond. “Well, there was that time Sherlock had the bright idea to stand up to a hippogriff while I was the one standing in front of it, which led to-”

“A fear of hippogriffs.”

“Exactly, yes.”

“I see. And I believe that I saw you pushing Sherlock down the hall in a pair of muggle roller skates?”

“Yes, you did, and he ended up in the hospital wing with a broken leg because he fell down the stairs.”

The class laughed. All except for Sherlock, that is.

“Now, I want you to focus on the memory of Sherlock losing control of his skates. Imagine that happening to a hippogriff, and if all goes well, the boggart will be forced into that form. After that, it will turn it’s attention to each of us in turn, so I want everyone to form a line behind John and think about a way to make your worst fear laughable.”

Sherlock slipped in behind John, practically breathing down his neck. They both noticed, but drew no attention to, when the little hairs on the back of the blond boy’s neck stood on end.

“Everyone ready?” Professor Lupin asked.

Sherlock stared straight ahead for a moment, seeming to look right through the back of John’s head. Whatever it was, he could make it funny by turning it into Philip Anderson falling over repeatedly. He nodded along with everyone else as he rolled up his sleeves and took out his wand.

Professor Lupin stood off to the side of the wardrobe, pointed his wand at the wardrobe doors, and began to count. “One -- two -- three -- now!”

There was a small flash, a jet of sparks, and the doorknob turned itself. The door slammed open. For a moment, all anybody saw were shadows inside the wardrobe, but then something stepped forward. It had surprisingly human legs, and long, lanky ones at that. It stepped out of the wardrobe and onto the floor, where everyone identified it as Sherlock Holmes, covered with his own blood, dying.

“It’s not real, John.” Sherlock whispered in his friend’s ear as he stared at the figure. It collapsed on the ground, coughing and spluttering. “Just say it. It’s a simple spell. Riddikulus.”

John couldn’t speak. He pulled at his collar, moving it away from his neck.

“That’s not me, John. I’m right here. Cast the spell.”

“I-I can’t.” John replied quietly.

“Yes, you can. Just do it before I have to do it for you.”

John’s dark grey eyes spilled over with tears. “Dammit, Sherlock, it just had to be you.”

“The roller skates, John, remember the roller skates.”

“How the bloody hell is that supposed to make this funny?”

“Punch me in the face.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I always hear that when you speak, and that joke’s only funny once.”

“No, not me, the boggart.”

John bit his lower lip and straightened his wand arm. He imagined Sherlock doing the most ridiculous things, closing his eyes and shouting “Riddikulus!”

The boggart on the floor sat up, hitting itself, walking around on wobbly legs, and falling on the floor repeatedly. John forced a laugh, and so did the other students.

“Mister Holmes,” Professor Lupin said so that only the two boys at the front of the line could hear him, “I think you should take Mister Watson to the hospital wing. Somewhere he can calm down, at the least.”

Sherlock nodded. “Understood, Professor. He put one hand on John’s back, between his shoulderblades, and led him away from the boggart and the staffroom.

“Did you know that was going to happen?”

“We’ve been friends for three years, John. Of course I knew it was going to happen.”

“What do you think your boggart would have been?”

Sherlock was silent.

“Thanks for walking me out of there, but I think I’m just gonna go down to the Hufflepuff dorms until next period.”

“Alright.”

John and Sherlock walked downstairs by the kitchens in comfortable silence.

“Are you planning on following me into the Hufflepuff dorms?”

“Yes.”

Alfred glared down at this chest as he tightly wound a bandage around it. He looked up at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His hair came all the way down to his shoulders, his neck was lean and slender, so very unlike his brother’s, and he had big hips, accentuated by a smallish waist. The glare never left his eyes. The longer he stared at his body, the more he hated it. He glared so long and hard that tears sprang to his lapis eyes. He had an urge to throw his fist into the mirror, but instead he gripped the sink countertop.

Francis, who was walking past the bathroom on his way to his and Arthur’s bedroom, stopped when he saw that the light was on. He assumed that someone had left it on on their way to bed. He stepped through the open door to reach the lightswitch.

“Sarah?” He whispered. “What are you doing?”

Alfred’s expression went from one of anger and disgust to fear in an instant. He turned to face Francis, looked down at his chest, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around himself. “Nothing,” he mumbled, letting his voice go higher than he normally would this late at night. He tried to hurry past the taller man.

Francis put his hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “Sarah, s'il vous plaît.” He blocked the doorway. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Alfred stared at the floor.

“Look at me.”

Alfred sighed, reluctantly raising his gaze to meet Francis’s. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, so he was fuzzy, but anyone could plainly see that the older man was worried.

“Please?”

Alfred looked Francis over. His hair was down, hanging in his face, the stubble around his jawline was thicker than usual, and he wore a plain white cotton t-shirt. Alfred took a deep breath before letting the towel fall to the floor, which allowed Francis to see the bandage. The word “boy” was written on it in random places. Alfred looked down again.

Francis let out an exasperated sigh. He put his hands on Alfred’s face, lifting it up, and kissed Alfred’s forehead. “You ought to know that that’s not healthy.” He said softly.

Alfred looked up. He hadn’t even realized he was crying. “What?”

“Using that bandage like that. It’s not good for you, and I will not allow it in this household.”

Alfred’s eyebrows knit together. “What are you saying?”

Francis picked up Alfred’s shirt from where it had been thrown on the floor. “If you’re going to bind your chest, you’re going to use a real binder.” He handed the shirt to Alfred. “Give me your measurements tomorrow. I’ll get you one, like the ones my friend’s little brother, Ludwig, uses, alright?”

Alfred blushed slightly at the mention of Ludwig’s name. “Really?”

“Of course! Why would I lie about something like that?”

Alfred grinned, throwing himself at Francis. “Thank you.”

Francis hugged Alfred back. “De rien . . .”

“Alfred. I already use Alfred with my friends at school.”

Francis smiled. “Alright, Alfred it is.” He let go of Alfred and held him at arm’s length. “Does your dad know?”

“No, not yet.”

“Alright. You tell him when you’re ready. I’ll be right here for you.” He ruffled Alfred’s hair. “Now, get changed, and go to bed.”

“Alright.”

Francis kissed Alfred’s forehead. “I’m very lucky to be able to look forward to having such a handsome stepson.”

Alfred smiled. “Merci.” His French was heavy with his American accent.

"Feliciano, right?"

"Yeah. That's my name." He smiled sadly. "Good job remembering."

Ludwig smiled a little bit, opening his eyes. His smile faded when he saw Feliciano sitting there, looking like he was about to cry. He sat up in bed. "It's alright, Feliciano." He said. "Don't cry."

"I'm not crying." Feliciano lied. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "I'm just tired." That was the truth. He was tired of Ludwig not remembering him. He just wanted things to be normal again. He just wanted his lover, his best friend, back to tell him that it was alright. He didn't want to have to do it all over again every single day. But he did. He couldn't leave.

Ludwig took one of Feliciano's hands in his own. Something in his mind clicked. "Were you going to get married?" He asked, seeing the ring.

Feliciano nodded. "I was."

"What happened to her?"

"He-he hit his head really badly and doesn't remember me anymore." Feliciano bit the inside of his lip to keep himself from sobbing.

Ludwig furrowed his brow. "Was he me?" He looked up at Feliciano. "Is that why you visit me every day?"

Feliciano nodded, slowly at first, then more vigorously as he let himself cry. He put his head down and wiped his cheeks on his sleeve in vain. The tears kept flowing freely down his face, no matter what he did.

"Vargas-Beilschmidt." Ludwig muttered.

Feliciano looked up. "What?"

"Vargas-Beilschmidt. That was going to be your name, wasn't it?"

Feliciano nodded. "How do you know that? Yesterday you couldn't remember your last name, much less pronounce it."

Ludwig shrugged. "I guess I'm getting better."

Feliciano laughed. It was a laugh that came from a sob, happiness bursting in a world of pain and sadness. He smiled. "I guess you are."

"That's good, right?"

"Yeah. That's very good."

Ludwig smiled. He leaned over and hugged Feliciano, who held him tightly, as though his life depended on it.

"And my brother's name is Gilbert Frederick Beilschmidt. He's albino, and he's shorter than me even though he's older, right?"

Feliciano couldn't speak through his sobs of joy, so he nodded.

"And your older brother doesn't like me."

"Not at all."

"But that's okay?"

"That's okay."

Ludwig smiled. He let go of Feliciano, wiping the smaller man's face with his big hands. "Are you alright, Feliciano?"

Feliciano nodded. "Yeah, I'm alright."

"Good."

The two talked for a bit longer, but Feliciano couldn't stay forever. As he walked out to his car, he pulled out his phone and texted Gilbert.

Italy Veneziano’s music and game of Candy Crush were interrupted by a text from Germany. He opened it up instinctively, not processing at first what it said.

“I’m hre?” He breathed. Holy Roman Empire.

The Italian’s breath hitched. He stood abruptly and left the hall, running for the bathroom. He didn’t care which of the three it was, he just locked himself in the first stall he found and stared at the text. Memories flooded in. Memories that had once been happy, but now brought him pain and sadness. Memories of the days when he had worn a dress, of a boy with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a black cloak and hat, of his first kiss, of love, of loss, France telling him that Holy Roman Empire was dead . . .

“He can’t be.” Italy choked. Tears ran down his cheeks. “Holy Rome died.” He told himself. “He’s gone.”

Grandpa Rome came back all the time.

Grandpa Rome could only come back for a minute or two at midnight. That was different.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, arguing with himself alone in a bathroom stall, reduced to a sobbing mess of tears over just two words in a text message.

“Italy Veneziano?” Germany said softly. “Is that you in there?”

Italy tried to regain his composure. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and the back of his hand, stood, and unlocked the door.

“What are you doing?” Germany walked over and put his hands on Italy’s cheeks.

Italy couldn’t find the words. He could only force out four words.

“You can’t be him.”

Germany tilted his head slightly. “What?”

Another man came into the room. “Petit frère?” He pushed Germany out of the way. “What happened?”

Italy wrapped his arms around France. He refused to let go.

“Italy, tell me what’s wrong.” France said softly.

“He-he said that he was H-Holy Roman Empire.” Italy held France tighter.

France wrapped one arm around Italy, and took his phone with the other. “Well, he didn’t capitalize it.”

Germany stared at the two with confusion.

“Italy, he was trying to say that he was here. It was a typo. That’s all.”

“But it makes so much sense!”

“I’ll admit that it explains a few things, but it leaves more questions than it does answers.” France removed Italy from his chest, as he had begun to calm down. He turned to Germany. “Germay, do you know who Holy Rome was?”

Germany shook his head.

“See?”

“That doesn’t mean he’s not Holy Rome.”

France sighed. “Italy, I know it’s painful for you to remember, but you need to let him go. He’s not going to come back.”

Italy nodded slightly. “I know.”

I huffed, trudging the last hundred metres or so to the bleachers where Ludwig was sitting.

“Eight minutes and thirteen seconds.” Ludwig said. “Good job.”

I nodded, out of breath and thirsty.

Ludwig handed me a small water bottle - one of the really tiny ones - and laughed a little. He had a fruity laugh. I already liked him, even though it was only the first day.

“Grazie.” I started taking big gulps of water.

“Nichts zu danken.”

I gave Ludwig a confused look.

“Don’t mention it.”

“Oh.”

“You’re Feliciano, right?”

I nodded. “Si. But most people just call me Feli.”

“They also call you the nicer Vargas.”

I smiled. “Grazie.”

“Nichts zu danken.”

I stepped up onto the bleachers and into the shade of the oak tree right nearby, next to Ludwig.

“Is that the louder Vargas in the grass over there?” Ludwig pointed to Lovino, who was being soaked by the sprinkler.

“Yup, that’s my brother.”

“He seems kinda . . . pathetic.”

“He is.”

Ludwig laughed. I really, really liked his laugh.

“Hey, are you taking any languages this year?” I asked before taking a few more sips of water and resting my hands in my lap.

“French. My brother and his friend talk about me in French, just to bother me.”

I looked down at my hands. “My Grandpa and cousin do the same thing. Except they do it in Spanish.”

“You don’t speak Spanish?”

I shook my head. “I’m from Italy, so I speak Italian.”

“Interesting. I’m from Germany.”

“Oh, cool. So we’re both Europeans who’ve moved to America.”

“Yeah, we are.”

“So when did you move?”

“Just recently, over the summer. Dad got moved for work, so now we’re here.”

“I moved when I was seven. I’ve been in this town ever since.”

“And you’re thirteen?”

“Turning thirteen in March. You?”

“January. So you’ve been here for six years.”

I nodded.

“Do you like it?”

I shrugged. “I kinda miss Italy, but America is way better in some ways.”

“Like what?”

Oh, merda. Did he really just ask that? I had to come out, didn’t I?

“The food is pretty interesting, and it’s fun to have an accent because girls flock to you.”

Smooth, Feliciano. Nice save. I mean, I kinda don’t care about the girls, but the attention can be nice. They’re sweet, and they mean well, and they can be helpful. That’s the only reason I stay true to it, really. I’m an attention whore and I use people sometimes.

“Good to know. I’ll have to practice an American accent.”

“You don’t like that?”

“Not really. It can be a pain. If you have an accent, they’re more likely to like you in a romantic way.”

“And you don’t want that.”

“Nein. I just want to be able to sit in the back of the class and be left alone.”

“Well, luckily for you, this town is weird and everyone likes to sit in the front. The back seats are usually open.”

“That’s good.”

We talked for a while, waiting around for class to end. Finally Coach Oxen (that’s what everyone calls him) blew his whistle and directed us back inside to the gym and locker rooms. I had never been so happy to enter a big, cool room. Lovino met up with Ludwig and I in the locker rooms.

“Who’s this asstown?” He asked.

“Lovi, don’t be rude. This is Ludwig. He’s new here.”

Ludwig held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Lovino pushed Ludwig’s hand away. “Oh, save it. I already don’t like you.” He snapped, giving Ludwig a dirty look and getting his things from his locker.

Ludwig turned to me. “Did I do something wrong?” He asked quietly.

I shook my head. “No, he’s just the kind of guy who doesn’t like anyone when he first meets them.”

“I see.”

I shrugged, unlocking my locker. “He might warm up to you, if you’re lucky. He can be sweet sometimes.”

Ludwig leaned against the lockers, watching me as I pulled out a messy bundle of clothes and pulled off my sweaty white gym shirt.

“What class do you have next?” I asked.

Ludwig thought for a moment as I put on a faded green shirt. “History.”

“Me too! With who?”

“Herr Weiss.”

“What?”

“Oh. That was German. Mr. White.”

I smiled. “It’s fine, sometimes I randomly start speaking Italian and don’t realize it until I’ve been babbling on for ten minutes in a language nobody around me can understand. And it looks like we’ll be in the same class together!” I removed my blue gym shorts and pulled on a pair of cargo pants, not even bothering to take off my shoes.

“Sounds great. Do you know where it is?”

I nodded, taking Ludwig’s hand. “Come on, this way!” I pulled him out of the locker room.

Ludwig stumbled, nearly falling over. “Feliciano, slow down!”

I stopped abruptly just outside of the gym. Ludwig crashed into me.

“Sorry, sorry!” I panicked. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t worry.” Ludwig assured me. He put a hand on my shoulder. “Just don’t do that again.”

“Alright. I won’t.”

Ludwig smiled. “Now, I have to go to my locker, and then you can take me to History class.”

I nodded. Ludwig might look kinda scary, but he was actually pretty nice. He reminded me of Coach Oxen in that way.