here's a short Hetalia sadfic to break me out of my funk and massive writer's block. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Hetalia ain't mine, yo.
Italy has a weird habit. Well, a habit weirder than all his others. A habit which he has performed dutifully for centuries, no matter the terrible situations he so very often found himself in. An obligation he absolutely could not rest if he did not perform.
It was something Germany noticed early on in their relationship, though at first he brushed it off as yet another quirk of the admittedly bizarre nation. Italy did plenty of weird things, after all.
Every night, after dinner was finished and everything was cleaned up and put away, Italy would prepare a plate of the leftovers from whatever they had eaten, with a delicate care as if it was the most important plate of food he would ever make. He would take the plate and set it near the front door (he even did this on the occasions he would up in prison, with whatever awful prison food he refused to eat).
Once the food was set, Italy would sit in front of it, staring at some vague point above-
-Like he was expecting someone to come through the door to eat it.
Italy must be crazy, Germany thought to himself, shaking his head and trying not to let it bother him too much. But as time went on, he became more and more confused. He scolded Italy for wasting food, tried to insist that there were better ways he could be spending his time.
But it was never about that. Germany couldn't care less about the food Italy left out. Rather, it was the hopelessness with which Italy performed this ritual. His eyes, normally alight with happiness, were glazed and unfocused in those moments he spent seated before these solitary plates of food. He would wait for hours on end, with an expression akin to sadness on his face. Once it was evident whoever he was waiting for was not coming, Italy would finally allow himself to go to bed, but he would leave the food where he had set it.
And then came the part Germany hated the most.
When Italy woke in the morning, he would immediately dart from the room. A brief moment of hope would flash in his visage, before being snuffed out when he realized the plate was untouched. He would toss out the uneaten mean and wash the plate silently, and it would take until breakfast for his cheerful demeanor to return.
It took awhile, but on a bitter cold winter night, Germany finally gathers the courage to approach while Italy was in his trance. He places a hand gently on Italy's shoulder and sighs heavily before speaking.
"...Vat are you doing?" he asks tentatively.
Italy glances up at him, forcing himself to smile.
"Oh, nothing, Germany." He says, with none of the usual energy.
"Italy."
The boy glances at the plate of pasta primavera he had so lovingly made for dinner that night. His smile gets wobbly, and tears swell in the corners of his eyes.
"It's really nothing." He insists, his voice quivering, his hands beginning to tremble. "I just-"
He tries to wipe the tears away before they can fall down his cheeks, but fails miserably.
"-I don't want him to be hungry when he comes home."
Germany's brow knits together. He? Who is 'he'?
Italy is crying in earnest now, his skinny shoulders shaking rather violently.
"H-he promised he'd come home, Germany," he whimpers. "And I promised I would have food waiting for him when he got back! I-I don't want him to come home and be hungry a-and not have anything to eat…"
He shakes his head, his single round curl bouncing up and down. Germany still can't find the voice to ask who Italy is waiting for. He just keeps his hand on Italy's shoulder in some vain attempt to comfort him.
"I know it's stupid, so you can call me a dummy if you want to." Italy goes on, rubbing at his eye with the heel of his hand. "It's been so long- I don't know how many years it's been. I know he isn't ever really gonna come back, but...If I don't do this, it's...it's like I'm giving up on him. And I promised him I'd never, ever give up on him. I promised him I would wait no matter how long it took! I promised…!"
"Italy…"
He had mentioned it to Germany once before, hadn't he? That he had once been in love with another boy, a very long time ago. Back when he was living with Austria.
Maybe Germany should ask Austria about that sometime.
For now, he wraps his arms around Italy and pulls him into an awkward hug.
"Dummkopf.
He picks Italy up out of his chair and holds him tighter.
Italy really is hopeless, isn't he? Far too kind for his own good.
"Let's go to bed. It's late."
Italy looks as though he's about to protest, but Germany simply slings his smaller partner over his shoulder and carries him upstairs to their bedroom. Italy whines a bit, but doesn't put up any sort of real fight. He's far too tired for that.
Germany changes into his pajamas and gets into bed. Italy crawls in beside him, nestling against Germany's broad back in a rather kittenish fashion.
"Germany…"
"Ja?"
"...You don't think he'd hate me, do you?"
Germany sighs.
"Nein, Italy. He wouldn't hate you."
He feels Italy perk up behind him.
"You really think so?!"
"Ja. I don't think he would hate you. And if he would, he's a bigger idiot than you."
To Germany's relief, Italy lets out a little laugh and wraps his arms as far around him as they'll go.
"That's good to know. Thank you, Germany!"
"Ja, ja. Now go to sleep, will you?" Germany teases.
"Yeah yeah! Buona notte, Germany!"
"...Gute Nacht, little dummkopf."
Italy falls asleep happily for the first time in centuries.