Truth Be Told, Ch. 8

"Waaaah! Niichan, you promised!"

Romano could easily imagine the whiny words that would come from Veneziano's mouth the next time he saw him. His escape plan had been successful when his idiot of a little brother had happily agreed to go ahead and enter France's house before him instead of going in together. Veneziano had been too trusting and naïve to realize that the older Italian had no intention of following him inside after all. Why should I? Romano had thought. It's not like I care about that wine bastard's birthday…

Still, he couldn't deny that part of him felt guilty. It seemed that Veneziano had really been looking forward to Romano coming with him, even though Romano himself knew that his little brother was likely to be hanging off of Germany all night instead of paying much attention to him. I'll just make it up to the dumbass later. No reason to go somewhere Spain's gonna be, dammit.


                                          Earlier That Night


French territory was usually the last place Romano ever wanted to be. Yet, he found himself headed there on the night of France's party. The whole drive he was asking himself why he was going. The whole drive, his brother was babbling more and more about how much fun it was going to be.

"I'm so glad you're going, Niichan! I'm sure France-niichan will love to see you. Spain-niichan too…I know you're still mad at him, but don't you think you can try talking to him there? He really misses you! I think he'd be happy, even if you just said 'hi.'"

Romano gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

"Didn't I tell you I didn't want to talk about that tomato bastard?! That was the condition for me coming, dammit!"

"Wah! I'm sorry, Niichan! But couldn't help it, ve~! He's been sulking and asking-"

"If you mention him one more time, I'll turn this car around, idiot!"

The older Italian didn't need to look at his brother to tell what kind of face he was making. Dammit! Why did Veneziano always do this to him? Romano could be so furious with him, want to smack him upside the head and call him all sorts of names with his colorful vocabulary…but deep down he knew he could never truly hate him. They were two parts of one whole and even if the Southern half was often overlooked in favor of the Northern, together they both were one Italy.

"Quit looking at me that way, dammit! I hate you so much," he muttered, earning a whimper from his passenger.

"Niichan doesn't mean it," Veneziano whined. "I know you don't! This is really bothering you, isn't it? Talk about it, with me, Niichan! Please."

"I told you I don't want to fucking talk about it!" Romano yelled back at him. "Why can't you just drop it?!"

"Because!" his brother shouted back, grabbing onto his arm. "Until it goes away, no one's going to be happy! Not you, not me, and not Spa-"

Romano pulled the car over with a screech and glared at the man next to him, almost too angry to speak.

"I said…I don't fucking. Want to. Talk about it!"

Veneziano cringed and stuttered in response.

"O-okay! Okay! I'm sorry! I, I promise I won't bring it up again! Don't yell, Niichan…"

"I'll yell if I want to, dammit! I…I…" His tone fell flat. This wasn't helping. This really wasn't doing him any good at all. He looked at his brother, with that stupid quivering lip and that stupid hurt expression. It made him feel like a jerk, but he tried to convince himself he didn't care. He grunted and pulled back onto the road. The rest of the trip to France's house was mostly silent until Veneziano started babbling about a new pasta recipe he wanted to try, getting nothing but hums as a response from his older brother.

When they finally arrived, Romano told the younger Italian to go on ahead and that he'd be there later. Veneziano looked at him questioningly at first, but soon smiled - that stupid oblivious smile that almost reminded Romano of someone he was trying so hard not to think about - and left, practically skipping to the door while his older brother sat back in the driver's seat and sighed. Romano watched his brother enter the house and sat in the car for about five more minutes before finally turning the engine back on and pulling back out of the driveway.

                                             The Present

Even though Romano intended to drive straight back home from there afterwards (his brother could find another ride, dammit), he found himself headed to a place he had been longing to visit ever since, well…the incident. He wasn't even sure why he wanted to go there. It wasn't as if the Well of Uncomfortable Truths would explain what it had said to him, and Romano knew it didn't need to. He understood it perfectly well- his truth and Spain's too. He knew he did. He just…needed somewhere to think.

The place wasn't too far from France's house, but by the time he arrived, the sun had already set. He parked in the closest spot he could find and fumbled through the dark, hoping he was headed in the right direction. He looked around the forested area, but there was no sign of the lump of stones that circled around that accursed hole in the ground. Just as he was about to give up, though, he came into the clearing and saw the well bathed in the weak moonlight. He took a step towards it, but stopped suddenly, seeing that someone else had already come before him. Romano hid behind a tree and peeked around the trunk, watching the figure. Whoever it was wore a large cloak that covered his body completely and trailed down to the floor. He stood right near the well's edge and looked up at the moon hidden behind a veil of dark clouds. As he did so, his hood slipped off to reveal a head of light-colored hair. The Italian listened curiously as the mysterious man spoke.

"I call upon the spirit of this well! Speak to me!"

Romano frowned, realizing the voice sounded somewhat familiar. Who was he? And did he really expect the well to answer him, just like that? There was a moment of silence and suddenly, a voice burst out from the depths of the well, echoing up its stony wall and startling both the Italian and the mysterious cloaked man.

"I am the voice of the Well! Who goes there?!" it bellowed so loudly that Romano and the man both jumped. Once the stranger had relaxed a bit, he spoke to the well confidently.

"My name is not important! I came to you earlier last week and had my truth told. Now I wish to discuss the matter with you-"

"All those that wish to speak to my awesome self must first throw in a coin!" the voice interrupted. "Then and only then will I listen to what you have to say! Maybe. Kesesesese!"

The hooded man was quiet for a moment before he finally sighed and dug through his pockets. The voice of the well was still laughing until he threw the bit of metal in and it stopped abruptly, muttering what Romano thought might be a profanity.

"I've given you what you asked for!" the man by the well said. "Now listen to me! I want to know exactly who you were talking about! Who is it that I want to impress? I'm not about to make a fool of myself by courting the wrong person."

"Haha!" the well burst out, amused. "So it's you, Brows! Don't be a liar- you know who it is! Don't try to get out of this now! Backing down is totally unawesome! Go show him what you're made of, you tea-sipping pansy!"

There was a yelp of surprise and the cloaked man staggered back. Romano knew who he was now; there was only one man it could be with a truth like that- England. The Well laughed manically as the Briton stared at it, dumbfounded.  

"I-I…" he stammered.

"Are you a man or what? The guy's never going to respect you if you don't earn it!"

The night was quiet except for the voice laughing while its visitor stared at it for a long moment.

"Yes, you're right," England finally replied, thoughtfully. "I can only give it my best attempt, even if the means are…questionable. I can't run from this anymore. Thank you, Well. Goodbye."

With that, he started walking away while the Well cackled behind him. Romano watched as England passed his hiding place without even noticing the Italian. Laughter echoed through the stony void until it stopped abruptly, as if the Briton's departure had only just been realized.

"H-hey, Brows! Wait! Come back! Aww, FUCK."

Romano poked his head around the tree trunk curiously. There was something very strange about this well tonight. The Italian suddenly became suspicious as he realized that its voice may have also been one he'd heard before. He would have realized it sooner had he not fallen for the illusion. Cautiously, he approached the stony walls and peeked down into its depths. No good- it was pitch black. The moment his silhouette appeared in the circle of moonlight at the top, however, the voice cried out at him, startling Romano enough to go tumbling backwards with a curse.

"SEVEN DAYS!" it wailed.

Romano glared at the well from the ground and got to his feet again. He fought the desire to throw something hard and heavy down into the water. The Italian approached the edge again and threw his invisible frown down at the figure hidden deep within the ground.

"Oy, Potato Bastard's brother! How'd you manage to get yourself stuck down there, dumbass?"

There was silence for a moment before the voice down below replied in a mixture of relief, excitement, and contempt.

"Is that you, Tomato Brat?! Well don't just stand there! Help my Awesome Self out of here! Move it!"

"Don't you want to add a 'please' to that, stupid? I could just leave you down there if I want to."

"Don't be an ass!" Prussia yelled back angrily. "What would Spain say if you left his Awesome friend down here?! Now go grab me some rope or something!"

"I don't give a damn about Spain!" Romano growled. "And I'm not all that fond of you either! If I help you out of there, it's going to be out of the fucking goodness of my heart, so you'd better change your tune, dammit!"

"Kesesese! I know you're still lovesick over that poor fool! You're just too damn stubborn to admit it. He should've given up on you weeks ago! Anyone with sense would after the way you've treated him."

"What the hell would you know?! Shut up and stop talking about things you haven't got a fucking clue about!"

"Ha! I was there when this well spoke to you two! And I've got another truth for you, kid. You're still not over him! "

Moments after the words had left the Prussian's mouth in that dramatic voice, the woods were quiet except for the small thud and splash of a rock falling down into the depths of the well. There was a loud cry of pain that the Italian ignored as he stormed off. The nerve of that idiot. Let him rot down there!   


Meanwhile at France's house, another Italian was frantically searching for his brother. He pushed his way through the crowded house until he finally found the host in the middle of his grand ballroom. The Frenchman was speaking with some of his guests, a glass of wine in his hand. Veneziano suddenly leapt at him, latching onto his arm.

"France-niichan! I can't find Romano-niichan anywhere!"

The host gave out a startled yelp and splashed the contents of his glass onto the guest next to him. He winced and turned his head with a wry smile on his face only to meet the burning glare of a certain Austrian.

"France," the bespectacled man growled in a voice that could only mean death, "you buffoon- you've ruined my cravat!"

"Don't yell at me, mon ami. It was clumsy little Itachan here," the blonde replied, taking out a handkerchief and wiping the wine off Austria's glasses, the better for him to see who was really at fault.

"I'm so sorry!" Veneziano apologized to his former boss. "I'm just so worried. He said he'd follow me in, but I haven't seen him since we got here, and it's been a long time!"

"Calm down, Italie," France told him as Austria muttered something and huffed away to get cleaned up. "I'm sure your brother is just sulking around somewhere trying to avoid…certain people." He grinned to himself and Veneziano cocked his head, confused for a moment before it clicked.

"Ah! You mean Spain-niichan?! Where is he, anyway? I haven't seen him either!"

"Don't you worry about him," the host replied. "He'll be along shortly, hohoho."

"Oh? I wonder if he found Romano-niichan already…"

"Doubtful," France replied. "He should still be getting ready."

"For what?"

"Oh, you'll see, mon petit. You'll see…"


The wind blew lightly at Romano's clothes as the Italian made his way back to the car. He couldn't deny the reluctant guilt he felt at leaving Prussia behind, but he tried to ignore it as best he could. I don't have a way of getting him out of there anyway, he thought. Someone else can help the bastard. But the more he thought about the silver-haired man and how long he had been stuck down there, the worst he felt. No one else knew that he was there. What if the stone had knocked him out? What if the idiot drowned down there and it ended up being Romano's fault? The Italian didn't have long to think further about it, though. He had only made it a short distance down the road when suddenly, a loud squawking startled him and almost made him spin the car out of control.   

"What the FUCK?!"

A yellow blur launched its ambush and immediately attacked Romano's hair. The Italian cried out and swatted at his head frantically, trying to keep one hand on the wheel. The creature pulled and pecked at him relentlessly until Romano was finally able to pull over and stop the car.

When he did, he smoothed a hand over his tussled and abused scalp and looked down at the seat next to him to see an angry-looking bird staring back at him with ruffled feathers.

"Prussia's pet?" he muttered, earning an indignant chirp from his new passenger. "Get out of my car, bird. You're a freakin' driving hazard."

A few more pecks for his trouble, and the Italian was finally willing to negotiate.

"Chigiiii!" he cried as the bird pulled on his hair curl. "ALRIGHT, DAMMIT! You want me to help that obnoxious bastard, right? I'll go to France's and see if he has some fucking rope! Now STOP THAT!"

Satisfied, the chick settled herself on the head of the passenger's seat and chirped for him to get moving. Romano, in return, obliged and showed her a classic example of Italian driving.


England slipped into France's house, trying not to look too obvious. The Briton had convinced himself that he wasn't going to come tonight, yet here he was. It was now or never, and the Well had given him the final push he needed to muster up his courage and go along with France's plan, as inane as it sounded. He knew he'd have to force himself to confront the host, but fortunately or unfortunately, he didn't have to make much of an effort. France found him first.

"Ah! So my friend, Angleterre, decided to show up after all!" he shouted as he came up behind him, causing England to jump a foot in the air before reaching out an arm to anchor him down around the shoulders. "You are horribly late, mon ami."

"S-shut up! I wasn't going to come at all, frog!"

"Getting cold feet are we?" France asked slyly. "Well, you'd best act before you change your mind again, then. Espana's waiting in the kitchen."

England gave him a doubtful look. He still wasn't completely sure that he was prepared to go through with this. It took a few tugs and a light stomp on his dragging feet to get him moving.

"Hurry up, Angleterre! Before Amérique sees you."


Gilbird settled herself comfortably in Romano's hair as he made his way towards France's house. She pecked at his hair curl impatiently, trying to tell him to hurry up and quit taking half-steps.

"H-hey! Leave that alone! I'm going already, dammit!" the Italian protested, quickening his pace at last.

When he was barely inside the door, he was almost immediately jumped by his younger brother. Veneziano threw his arms around Romano's neck and swung, causing the older Italian to stagger forward slightly at the sudden added weight.

"Niichan! You made it! I thought you got lost on your way from the driveway!"

"Shut up, dumbass!" Romano growled, shoving his brother off of him. He'd strangle the idiot if he had startled the bird into crapping in his hair. "I only came to tell France I know where his moron of a friend is. OW!"

He rubbed the spot where Gilbird had pecked him as she hopped to another spot on his head and took his hair curl hostage once again. Throwing her a glare she couldn't see, the older Italian pushed past his brother and walked through the rest of the crowd. Veneziano followed closely.


France glanced at his watch and smiled. It's time, he thought. He was about to call for the guests' attention, when suddenly, Romano burst out of the crowd and marched over to him with an annoyed look on his face.

"Oy! Wine bastard!"

"Well, if it isn't Sud de Italie," the host remarked, looking genuinely surprised to see him. "You're just in time for the show."

Romano raised an eyebrow, forgetting his purpose for a moment.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, but instead of answering him, France raised his voice above the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen! My darling guests. I regret to inform you that our pianist will be delayed a while longer. In the meantime, I have prepared some entertainment for you- in truth, it was chosen for a select few, but is nothing that cannot be enjoyed by all. Let us begin!"

With that, he motioned to the door and a pair of servants came out, each rolling before them an enormous cake. The crowd parted to let them through. France's stereo was blasting music as the confections made their appearance. One, an obnoxiously bright red, white, and blue one with five thick layers went to the right and stopped before a wide-eyed America. The other was a white cake with cocoa powder sprinkled all over it like tiramisu. It was more solid, however, and adorned with small circles of red and green frosting, mimicking tomatoes. It rolled up in front of a startled Romano, but that shock that was nothing compared to what came next.  

The smiles and grins that were spread throughout the room turned into surprised gapes and raised eyebrows as a person burst out from each dessert and started to dance before their receiver. England burst out of the cake before America, and from the cake in front of Romano…came none other than Spain.

"W-WHAT THE FUCK?! Romano shrieked for the second time that night.

Gilbird flapped her wings, startled and pulled on his hair, though he was already taking a few staggering steps back. His look was one of utter horror- not because of what Spain had just done, but because of what he was wearing. Or rather, not wearing.

The Spaniard still had his right arm in a sling colored like his flag and was wearing nothing else except a matching Speedo. England was in a similar state, minus the sling, but in addition to his Union Jack briefs, he wore a very heroic cape. As soon as the two appeared, they started dancing provocatively to the music, Spain thrusting his hips enthusiastically and England making more hesitant movements- the Briton didn't seem to be getting into the spirit of what he was doing. And who could blame him? His former colony was gaping at him as if he had sprouted two heads.

"I-IGGY?" America gasped in utter disbelief.

Romano's mouth was also hanging open, but he seemed unable to form coherent words. Spain winked at him and climbed out of the cake, getting frosting smeared all over his body. Romano stared at him, feeling a mixture of emotions- shock, anger, embarrassment…but mostly confusion and intimidation. Why was Spain doing this?! Didn't he know that everyone could see him? The man was so stupid, so thoughtless. So sexy. That frosting looked fucking good. And now Romano felt extremely awkward.

"W-What the hell, bastard?!" he yelped as the other man approached him.  

"Romano!" Spain cried happily. "Please come home with-"

SMACK. The Italian couldn't take it anymore. This was all too much for him to handle. Feeling a hundred eyes on him, Romano dashed through the crowd, pushing everyone out of his way as he hightailed it for the door.

"Niichaaaan!" Veneziano called after him, but his brother didn't stop.

Spain was already bolting after him, following the path he had cleared through France's guests, but still not fast enough to keep up with the expert retreater.

"Romano! Romano, waaait!"

He was knocked aside by a mostly-nude England as the Briton followed Romano's example and raced for the door.

"Iggy! Iggy, waaait!" America yelled, and Spain was shoved roughly out of the way a second time.   

The Spaniard groaned and held his sling, watching the other two nations disappear in the same direction his ex had. He quickly recovered and continued to give chase, bursting out the doors, down the hallway, and finally into the cool night air. When he reached the front of France's house, however, he found himself completely alone. He could barely see the silhouettes of the other three as they disappeared far off into the distance. Spain panted for breath and called out again desperately.

"ROMANOOOO!"

He took a step forward, about to run again, when suddenly, he was seized from behind. A blindfold was thrown over his face, and he was dragged away as he flailed helplessly with one arm.

"Stop! What are you doing?! Let me go! Don't-! ROMANO! ROMA-!"

Then, he was quickly gagged, and the Spaniard found himself unable to cry out anymore. He struggled in vain as his captor forced him away, blind, mute, and heartbroken, unsure of where his ex-lover was headed or what would become of him now. He was trapped…and at this stranger's mercy.