It's cold. That's the first thing Francis notices when he takes the dreaded walk down to the place of his demise, and possibly his precious brother's as well. Behind him, as usual, are two beloved and famed trouble-makers, taking the same tense walk as him. Though for them, the consequences are much lighter, and don't bring about any sense of foreboding.
Though this is in no way a happy time for them either. They make their way through the cobblestoned streets overlooking the canals of Venice. Francis ponders over the water, ancient and running through the city as blood to the province. He wonders if that is really their function.
He could always just ask.
There are countless joyful street vendors, though they seem to be wrapping up for the day as it's evening and with the sun goes down any hope of seeing in the dark Venetian night.
A silence falls over the trio, though not uncomfortable, it is heavy for the normally light-hearted nations.
The two following the blond share a look and, getting his friend's nod, the pale skinned albino decides to speak up.
"Oi! Angel Hair! Do you even know where we're going? Or have you been blindly strolling around all of Italy?" There's a pause, and the Frenchman doesn't show any sign of answering, so the third fellow answers for him.
"Don't worry Gilbert, Ita's house is right down the street, another block or so. Besides, there's a huge flag in their front yard, no way we'd miss it~." Antonio's optimism and light attitude feel foreign with the heavy atmosphere exuding off the French nation in the front. But, for Gilbert, it's a much-welcomed feeling. Something familiar in this strangely tense feeling they're experiencing.
The silence falls over the trio again, much to the unease of the passengers of the trip. They came along as, as Francis had said, "backup"; more to help him breach the topic of discussion rather than actually reveal anything.
Finally they come to a stop. Before them lies a two-story villa with a large Italian flag waving in the slight breeze of the salty air.
The building looks old, but not as ancient as it should have been, considering the occupants.
Francis takes a deep stuttering breath, and for the first time in their trip, turns to acknowledge the two. He nods at both of them and slowly brings his hand up.
A firm knock rings out in the deserted Mediterranean night.
Footsteps soon follow it, but they seem light and easy compared to the expected dragging footsteps of a nation who has just come out of a harsh war.
But, that's what Feliciano is known best for. His smile during times of trouble and distraught. His beauty during war and devastation. And his inner strength when he sacrifices his pride for the good of his nation.
Francis only hopes he stays like that for as long as possible. Despite the telegram in his coat pocket.
The door suddenly opens and a high-pitched voice calls out for them to wait a moment.
The nations outside blink. Italy's voice is high for a male, but not that high.
Instead of an Italian nation, they're met with woman, dressed in a green dress with a white apron, a pink flower on her well kept brunette hair, and a hatefully suspicious grimace on her lovely face.
"Oh, it's you three. Und just what are you doing here? Ita doesn't normally allow ruffians in his house. You might break it." Hungary scoffs. She's visibly sizing then up, trying to find a cause for their presence through their demeanor. She finds nothing suspicious, though Francis is unusually sullen. That's certainly a cause for worry.
