Notes:

I have been dwelling on this idea for some time and today managed to start typing it up. I will only post the first chapter for now to 'test the waters' per say. Please review if you want more chapters.

Vatican City is my OC. A clearer description and information will come out in the story, but in case you want a picture in your mind, I'll give you some basic information:

His human name is Varinius (no surname). It means 'uncertain' in Latin.

Vatican has charcoal gray hair and eyes, and is pretty pale. He tends to wear a black suit and dressier clothes, even in the summer. Around his neck is a silver chain, on which holds two keys- one silver, one gold, which refers to his flag. He looks almost nothing like an Italian.

In the past, Vatican City was Papal States, and went through several Crusades. He suffers from mental and emotional trauma because of his battle experiences.

Due to his past, Vatican fears of hurting anyone, even upsetting them. Because of this Vatican is afraid to socialize with others, and therefore does not know the other countries.

At one point in time nearing the end of his reign as Papal States, Vatican snapped, resulting in almost attacking Italy, who was still a child then. This puts some tension between the two- Italy silently fearing Vatican will snap again and Vatican fearing that he will do something to upset Italy and would make him reclaim his home if he stepped out of line, which Italy had done so previously during a fifty-year stretch between the fall of the Papal States and the Lateran Treaty, which made Vatican City an Independent State.

Various tidbits of religious themes and references will appear, just for heads up.

I never quite understood tourists, especially in the modern day. The clicking of the cameras, the rush to the souvenir stands, the constant chatting into their cellular devices. They bumped up against people, snapping rude words at the contact, even if it was their fault. They tried and butchered the language of the country they were visiting, or ignoring it completely and tried to converse in their own native language, leaving the locals baffled. Yet, there was something about tourists that I couldn't help but find endearing. The look on their faces as they gazed at the beautiful architecture, their faces lighting up as a child in a store as they looked at all the swirling colors of the clothing around them. Their eyes flicker with a spark that had long since been hidden under the pressure and stress of life. The expressions they made when they tried a food they never heard or seen before was priceless- no matter if they found the food revolting or not.

However, I only could enjoy the visitors at a distance, mainly from the windows of my small home. The bustle of their busy bodies, the shrill cry of their voices always unnerved me. I was always afraid that I would somehow make one of them upset, or I'd get upset at one of them in return, and something happened where one of us got hurt. I didn't want to regress back to what I was so long ago. Not ever.

I rubbed my wrists, tracing my thin fingers over the circular scars that were present at the connection of my hand to my arm. I had been a broken man once, a troubled, scared, mad man. I had hurt more people than I could count, their blood splattered across the ground, my hands dripping in the crimson liquid of life. I had cut the strings of the living from the one person I had held close to my heart, and I had almost harmed the very country I resided in. Poor Italy was a child then, and yet I could still see the frightened look in his eyes he had given me so long ago whenever I see him. I could not blame him, nor could I blame him of his actions towards me when he had grown and erased my name from the maps. I was surprised he had given me a second chance, but I am still fearful of myself, what I am capable of.

"Don't worry about it!" Miss Hannah told me many times. "You are a changed man! You need to go out and make friends!"

Friends. The very thought made my stomach knot up. Miss Hannah meant the best for me, but sometimes, I wished she could understand what I was. I was Vatican City, an Independent State, a micro-nation, a country that no one seemed to know about, a country that barely knew any other country in person besides Italy and his brother, Romano. As a personified nation, I could not simply go out and make friends with humans. They were frail and blind to what I was. They would notice too easily that I did not age as they grew old and wrinkly. I was too nervous to go and seek out the companionship of the other countries either. I had been in the shadows for so long; I would only cause trouble if I came out of the dark now.

I couldn't even be a friend with Miss Hannah. She was… the lady that checked up on me. Ever since I was deemed capable of functioning without the need of going to therapy on a weekly basis, the Church put it onto themselves to send people to check up on my progress. Every few years the person would change, just so no one would figure out who I really was. Miss Hannah was my seventh overseer, and like all the others previously, thought I was a troubled member of the Church who needed a little taking care of. I did not mind. I appreciated the conservations we had, having contact with a person who was ignorant of my past. It was best kept that way.

Sighing softly, I pulled the sleeves of my black suit down over my wrists, covering the scars there. It was strange wearing such a dark covering in the middle of the summer in Italy, but to the humans that so happened to see me, I would appear as a businessman, a priest sometimes. I shook my head at the thought. I was never up to the standards to be a priest, even a deacon. I was too broken and over my head in sin that eternity wouldn't be enough to wash the darkness that had taken refuge in me. I could only pray and hope that God was as forgiving as they say He was.

Turning my charcoal gray eyes from watching the tourists outside my window, I instead looked around my kitchen. It was small room, the oak cabinets stained a golden brown with marble countertops. There was a small stove in the corner, the metal sink set into the counter under the window that I stood in front of. To the right was more counter and cabinets, leading up to an open sitting area with wide windows that faced a small garden in the side yard. There was no fence, but only a stray lost person ever came stumbling across the grass in front of the windows. A tiny table sat in front of the windows- seating two people would be a tight squeeze- accompanied by a lone wooden chair.

On the table was a small box, tied up with string. That's right, I had put that there. Earlier that morning I had made some biscotti, some meaning way more than I would ever eat. I wasn't much of an eater, or sleeper for that matter, leaving me a rather thin, tired appearance. Yet, even though I knew this, I still end up making too much snacks and treats when I cooked. Sometimes I gave them out to the children I happen to pass when I ventured out of the walled city that was deemed mine and into Rome. Yet, it was the middle of the afternoon, and most of the children would be inside eating lunch or having siestas. Perhaps I should give the extras to Italy. I sometimes did so- putting whatever creation I had at the time into the fridge or freezer, as Italy and Romano were rarely home nowadays. It was easier that way- I didn't have to look at Italy's forced, nervous smile or listen to Romano's yelling of 'old man' and 'incense-sniffer'. No matter how many times I point out that I was younger than both of them, Romano still called me old.

I had to admit- I didn't look anything like the Italian brothers. I didn't even look Italian. My skin was pale from lack of going out into the sun, my hair and eyes a dark gray, my clothing typically consisting of black, white, and gray. My face was thin, my eyes not usually drifting shut or wide, but rather slightly narrowed. I tend to speak Latin where they spoke Italian, and I lacked the winding curl that jutted out both of the brother's heads. Not that I lacked the curl, mind you. I actually had two, although they were well hidden in the longer bits of hair that fell on either side of my face, hiding my ears. The rest of my hair was cut shorter than theirs, though. The only thing that seemed to be related to all three of us was our height.

Running a hand over my hair, I slowly made my way to the small breakfast table, lowering my hands to pick up the box. Although I did not wish to go out into the busy streets of Rome, I wanted to sneak the biscotti to Italy's home without being spotted by him. He would be taking a siesta now if he was at home, and he had a nasty habit of leaving his front door unlocked or halfway open, so it would be easy to slip in and out without being noticed. The hard part would be getting there. I could feel the fluttering butterflies in my gut as I made my way to the front door, the white box clutched to my chest as if it was filled with precious treasure. The movement made the keys on a chain around my neck- one gold, one silver- clink together quietly, reassuringly. It would be alright… right?

I muttered a quick prayer under my breath anyway as I stood there, facing the door. God, give me strength. Swallowing the lump that had formed in my throat, I reached out a shaky hand, clasping the bronze handle and pulled the door open, flooding the room behind me with bright, warm sunlight.

Quickly I shut it behind me as I stepped out, my eyes flickering about at the people who walked passed. They didn't seem to take much notice of me as I shuffled down the steps and onto the cobblestone street. They were too busy looking at the churches and other buildings further down the street to care for me. Yet I couldn't help but tense up, my shoulders hunching almost protectively as I clutched the box of biscotti. A few tourists bumped into me, grumbling in complaint in their own native tongue. I knew several languages apart from Latin and Italian, such as Hebrew, Greek, and English, but some of the words that came from a few of their mouths were lost to me. I muttered my apologies, not wanting to upset them further and hurried my pace.

I was soon out of my home and into the streets of Rome, where even more people invaded the streets, both tourists and Italian citizens. I did my best to keep my distance from the closest person to me as I scurried over the sidewalk. My heart felt like it was going to jump out of my throat at any moment, and I had to keep swallowing to push it down. I would be lying if I said I liked walking the streets when they were like this. Even though it was the typical time for siestas, there were plenty of Italians lingering about the streets. They were mostly nicer than the tourists, always smiling and greeting those who made eye contact. I did my best not to look at them- fear welled up inside me whenever someone tried talking to me. I always felt that they were going to say something crass to me, even though it was almost never true.

I made it to Italy's home without any incident, and I blew out a small sigh of relief. But the battle was only half won. Now I had to see if Italy was home. I walked up the steps to the large wooden door, my footsteps almost silent on the stone stairs. As usual, the door was halfway open, meaning that Italy was most likely home. I shook my head at the sight. Italy should be more careful in shutting it. Even if he didn't keep it locked, leaving it open would only invite trouble. Pushing the door open some more, I paused, a frown forming on my lips.

At the entrance was a pair of familiar brown shoes, but beside those was two extra pairs, pairs that weren't belonging to any set that I knew Italy or Romano owned. One was a pair of black dress shoes, neatly polished and set side by side, unlike Italy's thrown off and tossed to the side ones. Whoever whose those were must take great care in how they look. The other pair weren't even shoes, but rather a pair of boots. Military boots, I presumed. They were well kept as well, neatly set together much like the dress shoes. The presence of the shoes suddenly dawned on me, and a sinking rock fell to the bottom of my stomach and I realized the significance of the new addition to the ranks.

Italy had visitors.