A. p. h. Titanic Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Dreams


"Welcome aboard."

England reached out to shake his hand, looking clean-cut in his captain's regalia

and hat. Messy blonde hair stuck out at punkish angles despite his gentlemanly

appearance.

Japan accepted the hand and climbed onto the deck. Germany followed suit, arms full

of bags and luggage. England narrowed his eyes reproachfully at America.

  "You're quite late."

America boisterously bounced onboard.   

"The hero is always on time!" he exclaimed, and Japan rolled his eyes. England sighed

and tapped his foot. Seagulls continued to cry above them.

"What is your affair with this ship?" he questioned, eyes flickering to Japan. Japan

suddenly wished he could vanish into the hard wooden floor, and he made an effort to

back up a few steps. America had no such plans, however, and he hooked an arm

affectionately around his neck.

"Didn't you hear?" he practically yelled next to Japan's ear, "Japan lost the little

scuffle we had a while back, and now our bosses made up and he's coming with me to

live at my house so we can be united!"

Japan visibly winced. What a mild way of putting it. His fists clenched

unconsciously, and he had a sudden urge to punch America in his smiling face. He had

lost everything he had in that scuffle. His people had died and suffered for standing

up to a tyrant who thought he owned the entire world. And America had simply blown

them away, like annoying flies. Even now, he could feel the pull his land and people

exerted on his being diminish with the deaths that continued in the aftermath. Every

death and cry his people let out, he felt and experienced. And America dismissed it

so easily…he sometimes wondered if he felt any of his people's day-to-day emotions

like everyone else.

Japan pulled away sharply, raising his hands and pushing America away from him.

England gazed at him for a long moment, face unreadable.

"I see…." he said slowly. He helped Japan as he stumbled on the deck. "I hope you

will be happy alliancing, then."

America chattered on and on as he walked along the rails, not taking the hint. Japan

finally dived behind the cabin, and America passed on, leaving him unnoticed.

He buried his face in his hands, allowing the frustration he had been feeling for the

past few days to seep in. If he couldn't survive this any longer, how would it be to

spend the rest of his life, or even immortality, with America?


"That was not appropriate," a deep, slightly disgruntled voice said next to his ear,

and Japan jumped. He composed himself and looked up into Germany's blue eyes.

"Do not make this difficult, your people will suffer for it. Think of them, if

nothing else," whispered Germany.

Japan's eyes flashed in a rare moment of anger.

"All of my life, for thousands of years, I've thought of nothing but my people and my

supervisor," he said back, voice shaking a bit, "And now, at this moment, I know that

what I am doing is not going to affect my people in any way, most do not know I even

exist, and it's only going to affect me to live with America. I maintain the belief

that my human side takes priority over my country side, and for once, I should think

of myself, like I never did."

Germany listened to the outburst calmly, seemingly unaffected. He leaned down to

murmur in his ear.

"But you know what happens to you affects your people," he said.

Japan's face twitched, and he abruptly whipped around and ran to the other side of

the ship.


                                 * * *

"Florence, eh?"

The man rubbed his chin and inexplicably petted his fluffy fishing lure hat.

"Is it okay?" Italy asked nervously. The man laughed gutturally. He pulled a pack of

cards from his pocket.

"It's fine….kesesese…perfect. You know how to play cards, kid?"

Italy scratched his head. "Um, like Go Fish? And Old Maid?"

The man sighed. "Close enough. This is going to be an easy win."

He shuffled the cards and passed five to Italy with a flourish.

"We're playing poker. You know how that works, right? Aces are higher than kings,

king to queens, queens to jacks, and so on. You have to have a higher total than me

to win. You can exchange up to four of your cards twice. And that's it, in a

nutshell. Winner takes all."

Italy nodded, biting his lip nervously. "'Kay."

He accepted the cards the fisher handed him, looking at them fanned out in his palm.

The man across looked at his cards, and snickered audibly.

"Ahahaha…beat this!"

He lay down the cards, revealing two aces, two queens, and a jack.

Italy's stomach twisted itself into knots. "Umm…"

He held up his cards. The onlookers fell silent. His face flushed.

"An ace, king, queen, and jack….and a ten. They're all the same suit, does that

disqualify me?"

Italy could feel his cheeks burn, and he wished he understood the game more. He

watched in surprise as the red-eyed man spat in his direction, throwing the deck down

onto the table with a loud slam.

"That's-that's not fair! You must have rigged the deck! YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO

PLAY!" he shrieked. "You got a royal flush, first off! That's impossible!"

Italy cowered. "Is-is that b-bad?!"

France came up behind him and hugged him tightly. "No, it means you won! Fair and

square!"

He reeled happily around the table.

"I have my pass back! Angleterre has no excuse now. hohoho!"

He did a little dance, and the fisher stood up angrily, tossing a piece of paper at

the over-happy France.

"Yeah, yeah, take it, whatever…"

He stamped out of the inn, deliberately bumping Italy on his way out. Italy thought

he heard the fishing lures on his hat chirp, but thought it must have been only his

imagination.

France kissed the boarding pass lovingly. The Italian turned to him.

"H-how did I win? I don't know how to play…"

France shrugged, a mischievous grin spreading on his face. "I don't know, my dear,

two decks, maybe?"

Italy was taken aback. "You cheated!"

"Well, I would not call it cheating, I'd say it was fate his pocket was so

accessible…"

      "You switched the decks on him! That is cheating! Cheating's wrong, France!"

"Do you want to go onto the ship or not, Italia?"

Italy sighed. "Yes, I do…"

France slapped him on the back. "All right then. It's settled."

                               * * *


He was afraid to sleep.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw things. Strange, foreign, yet unsettlingly

familiar images flashed behind his eyelids, flickering and vanishing as fast as they

had come. They scared him with their unpredictability and familiarity.

Italy looked over at France, fast asleep in the hotel bed next to him. He seemed calm

and younger, his typically immaculate hair mussed all over his face. He snored

lightly, and Italy sighed.

Sooner or later, I'll have to sleep, he thought. Might as well get it over with…

He did not know if they constituted nightmares. He wasn't even sure what they even

were. Were they dreams…? Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to drift off.

He was in a field, a field of burning grass. A small knife fell in front of him,

seemingly from the sky, and he could feel something warm spreading over his chest. He

frantically unbuttoned his shirt, and gasped as his fingers came away red…


He was in a blazing house, and beams crashed in front of him. A figure screamed

and pushed him out of the way, stumbling off to the side coughing before

Italy could react.

His lips were frozen shut as they cracked in the heat, and he yelled.

"Who are you?" he asked, trembling in the fire's heat.

He caught a glimpse of deep brown eyes staring at him, and he felt stuck in place as

the flames licked his pants, curling the fabric as it scorched. The gaze was

piercing, soulless. It hurt to look at, and it suddenly vanished in a flash of

flame….a white ship bizarrely flew by him for no reason at all…

Italy woke up sweating, clutching his tank top as he bolted up in bed. His heart

pounded and he panted. It had happened again. This was definitely the longest one he

had had yet.

He pulled out a little knife from his pocket, holding it in his hand and staring at

it. It was old and worn, a bit rusted. Paint still clung to it from hundreds of years

of use. His palette knife, which he had had for as long as he could remember. He

patted it fondly before replacing it back into his pocket. He lay back down, eyes

staring at the dark, stained ceiling.

What did it all mean?

* * *