"Are you sure that reading one of your brother's entries is really a good idea?" Francis queried, daring a glance at Antonio, who looked as though he hadn't even registered who they were talking about. It was almost upsetting. "I mean, he said himself that—"

"I appreciate your concern, France, but as one of two representations of Italy, I think I have the right to agree to secrets being spilled when it's my country involved," Feliciano replied.

'Well, I guess that's that argument over,' the Frenchman sighed quietly to himself. It didn't feel right, but Feliciano seemed so unconcerned about it so there was little anyone could do to object. "So long as the angry Italian doesn't come back, guns blazing, I suppose."

Feliciano skimmed the page as he spake: "You'll be fine. I can handle him if anything goes badly," he smiled. "Besides, Romano does his best to avoid guns if he c—"

A frown marred his features. And then it became a sadder smile. And then a bittersweet one. Of course, all attention was on him and the constant change of expression was making everyone else more confused and interested in what was being read. It took Ludwig trying to talk to him that eventually made Feliciano realise he hadn't said anything, and with a 'mi dispiace!' he began to share what was written.

"Romano. June 18th, 2016. Fucking bastards!— Oh, uh, fratello seems to swear a lot in this one," Italy sheepishly warned. "If you want me to censor it then I don't mind."

"I'm sure it's fine," Germany responded.

It was extremely unusual to hear Feliciano swearing, given how he often tried to get his older brother to cut and calm down, but how would he censor it anyway? If Feliciano started to say 'bleep' in favour of swearing, then it was probably better for everyone that he just read the entry as it was . . . Feliciano smiled and nodded.

"Fucking bastards! I don't know how many times I have to fucking tell them to back off! I can't control them! . . . It's like they control me . . . And now because of the stupid idiotas, Antonio got fucking hurt!"

Antonio ignored the glances from around the room, and even when he made eye contact with a concerned-looking young Italian, he just quietly waited for him to continue. What was the point in saying anything if it was all written out for him? It's not like he was entirely listening, anyway.

"Honestly, it's the fucking sixteenth century all over again! Spain does something stupid and I have to pick up the shitty little pieces! È un idiota fottuta che merita di essere— OK I am not reading that bit out," Feliciano said with a little grimace, but he quickly continued. "I just wished he was a little less impulsive, you know? . . . Let me explain, you dumbass book."

'Why, he can't even be nice to a book,' Francis mused. 'Sometimes, I honestly do wonder what Toni sees in him . . . But that is love, I guess. It works in more mysterious ways than God ever could.'

"We were in Naples. The tomato bastard had pestered me about a visit for a while, I had to shut him up! . . . È giunto il momento che ha preso un certo interesse. Ed è stato un buon giorno fino a quando . . . Well, they showed up out of nowhere attacked us! They wanted to 'talk' to me but as soon as Antonio saw the guns he did his fucking stupid over-protective mother thing and of course, the Mafia don't like that . . ."

'Mother Toni,' Gilbert smiled to himself, suppressing a laugh. To be fair, Spain had always been the one to make sure he and Francis never did anything stupid while drunk, and he always checked in on them to make sure they were alright, and he had always, always acted so altruistically, it was incredible how he had so much to give.

"I managed to get rid of them, but only after Spain was shot a couple of times. And because he didn't die, they now know that he isn't a normal human either . . . Fucking idiot, causing more trouble than he's worth. Why do I even bother with him? I mean, it's not like I like the company or anything. He's too happy. Like he's living a dream! . . . It's too fanciful . . . But maybe now he understands more why I am the way I am."

'But there's so much more to it than the Mafia, isn't there. I know that,' Spain thought to himself assertively, the tiniest frown on his face. 'I've known that for a long while . . .'

"I don't talk to people, I don't trust them, I don't indulge in their company . . . But then, it's so different with him . . . Eww. Sentiment. I'd better go before I pour out all my emotions and secrets. Antonio è un idiota ma non mi importa. Si preoccupa più di chiunque altro abbia mai fatto . . . Ciao."

"Someone mind translating what half of that said?" China deadpanned, his inability to understand Italian and many other Western languages coming back to mock him.

"Uh, well, it's not mine to translate," Feliciano replied, gently turning the page, trying to avoid looking at anyone else in the room. At least two other people present could translate (another was currently in the kitchen), he knew that, but he hoped that they wouldn't for his sake; Lovino would never forgive him, or at least, he wouldn't live to see the day.

"You had no problem reading the rest of it . . ."

"You know, for someone who has become so against sharing secrets like this, you are certainly taking an interest in learning things about other people," Antonio remarked, glancing only at Italy, who received a small smile when he, too, smiled in thanks.

Yao scoffed quietly. "I just don't see the point in reading it at all if you're not going to do it properly."

"Then perhaps you want to read next, hm?" the Spaniard suggesting, turning more to look at China directly, the smile – warmer now – still plastering his face. "Show the class how it's done, if you get what I mean."

"Or m-maybe we should leave it and move on, sì?" Feliciano interrupted. He hadn't really expected anymore fallout over the morality of the journal, especially after Lovino's departure . . . "See how much more we can get done before we have to call it a night! Like, uh, this next one is a little observation! Short, quick and simple!~"

Italy's whole-hearted attempts to get the subject to change was successful, on face value. It was unanimously but silently agreed that moving on was good. Spain seemed a little happier (he was one of the four people in the general area who could translate the entry in full) thought still not entirely to his usual demeanour, and China just wanted to get on with it at this point. Germany took the time to remind everyone that if they didn't want to stay, they could leave too, but Yao was more against the idea of his secrets being shared without him present than that of not translating someone else's entries.

"So, an observation, you said?" Francis said, pressing for continuation before the Sino-Spanish War was given another chance to break out. "Whose is it, mon ami?"

"Uh . . ." Feliciano read over the name at the top. "Oh . . . It's for Lithuania. I guess it's not that one I'm reading. Hold on," and he searched for the next thing he could actually read which ended up being two pages over, and another entry. "Alright, got it! This one belongs to Luddy~"

"Don't call me that, for the love of dogs . . ." Germany sighed quietly. "And shouldn't someone else read now? I thought we were going in threes—"

"Yes, but I want to read this one, so," Feliciano said with an innocent smile and an innocent shrug, and he began. "Germany. January 28th, 1923. I knew this would happen. I tried to warn Cuno and the rest of the government about the reparation payments, but they wouldn't listen. And now French and Belgian troops have invaded the Ruhr to take what they are owed by force. The impact this is going to have on the economy will be greater than that of paying the reparations in the original agreed instalments . . . Idiots . . ."

"I mean, we were struggling as it was to get enough money, hence the delays we asked for, but I think the leaders made it worse in the end . . . 1923 was a horrendous year," Ludwig remarked. "Passive resistance was a waste of time, and hyperinflation just got worse and worse . . . And let's not even mention Munich . . ."

"You managed to turn it around pretty well in the last century though, hey?" Alfred offered, quietly smiling. "And you were on the way to recovery quickly after that year. It was just kinda our fault over here that shit went down in 1929 . . . I mean, you could even blame us for Hitler's rise—"

"Nein. It was the Republic's fault, not yours. Neither of us saw it coming, after all," Ludwig stated. He would always blame the Weimar Republic for Him . . .

"This year couldn't be much more disastrous if it tried— Well I think that jinxed it, Luddy—"

"Feliciano, please, use my full name . . ."

"—but hey, the past is the past and there's no use hanging onto it," Feliciano remarked, oblivious to the eye-rolling and heavy sighing from next to him. "The last thing I want is for my people to suffer any more. We have been humiliated enough as it is after the war, and now we run the risk of it getting exponentially worse. What I'd give for a world free of this . . . The nuisances of money and war and politics . . . It's suffocating. If our problems aren't fixed soon . . . Well, you can say goodbye to me and my country. Auf wiedersehen, if you will. And when that day comes . . . For once, I may not put up a fight."

Gilbert knew that given current circumstances, that last sentence would not stand true should his brother suddenly be faced with the prospect of dissolution. Ludwig would fight until he could no longer, for himself and for those he cared about, because that's just who he was. He was strong. And the Prussian couldn't have been more proud.

"OK, who wants to read next?" Feliciano beamed.

"I will, if no one else wants to," replied Antonio, checking the reactions of my there around the room to see if there were any objections or other offers. But, since all he received was amiable nods, he was passed the book and took straight to the next piece of writing. "Oh, vale. This is an observation about Italy, actually."

"Really? How exciting!" the Italian remarked bouncing forward in his seat with the energy of a child. "What does it say?"

"Italy. He has always wished that people didn't view him so much as a coward. He likes to use the Italian Wars of Independence as an example of the opposite – namely the third war – as it makes himself feel at least more confident and sure of his ability. Feliciano just wants someone to realise that he is not a waste of space, really."

"Oh . . ." Italy responded, his excitement definitely dying down.

He has never confronted anyone regarding his value or tenacity before, it almost felt weird for it to be read aloud. And when he thought about it, it was never something he had come to write down as a means of clearing his own thoughts; he had always been much more of a talker, and he was sure there wasn't anyone he had spoken to about himself like that, especially about the wars, but then . . . As he thought harder, he came to realise that there was actually someone he had spoken to. Someone who he had told during World War Two. And that person was not present to be spoken to in private.

'Perhaps I should keep this information to myself . . . I don't want to get anyone in trouble, especially not . . .' and he stopped and meekly smiled at everyone. They were saying things to him – nice things, he was sure, based on the other smiles in the room – but he wasn't truly listening because there was only thing on his mind: how come he got to remember what happened while he was drunk? That wasn't fair at all!