'ᴛʜᴇ ɢʟᴏʙᴀʟ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴀʟ' || ʜᴇᴛᴀʟɪᴀ

16

"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.