Feliciano Vargas. Fe-li-ci-ano Vaaarrgas. His name dragged out slowly, each syllable a thousand hours to say. It rolled off his tongue smoothly, and using his teeth to guide it along the curves of his mouth, he let it fall softly to the cold floor of the nearly empty jail cell.
Feliciano Vargas. There was so much more to him than a blubbering, cowardly Italian. For example, there was still a man. A true man trapped inside of a hurt nation who knew what it was like to have everything, and everyone, you know ripped away from you. And didn't a man need relief from a world like that?
The sun changed position, letting only a sliver of warm light wiggle itself into the dark, barren room. It had been Italy who had to carry the burden of the Renaissance. It was always, Italy paint this or Italy make that. And the pain that came with losing his first love-a boy- festered deep within him, consuming him with loneliness. He missed being able to laugh without restriction or falseness, but he just couldn't, not after realizing Holy Rome would never be back. It seemed as if all he could manage anymore was a clenched simper. He has know gut-wrenching terror. He has known hurt and the true feeling of loneliness that never really goes away. He has seen more wars and death and desctruction than so many of the others could even imagine.
But no one noticed.
Because no one cared.
Veneciano didn't expect anyone to, mainly because he tried to act as though he had nothing that was worth caring for. Always a smile for those who needed comfort and a laugh for those who needed relief. Keep it up, don't let them see, be strong, be there for others, don't be selfish. The list went on and on.
But who was there to talk to freely about his worries? Who was there to understand what he had seen and felt? Was there anyone who could put up with his energy and not get tired of hearing the same things over and over again?
And captured by England again, it seems as though Germany would have to come and rescue him once more. But it would always be only Germany, never Ludwig, that came to his aid. It would never be a true friendship. Why would such a strong, powerful nation like Germany ever want to be with such a weak one like him? There would be no logic to that, and logic matters to Germany. But, so what if Italy never had a sturdy shoulder to cry on? So what if even his brother, though caring, thought he was an idiot? Japan, he had been a good friend, if only a person to speak to temporarily.
Italy snapped back to his senses. A pair of large echoing footsteps was coming closer down the dark hallway with every minute. I could escape. Of course he could. He had the experience and the strength. But did he have the guts?
He lowered himself slowly to the cold concrete beneath him.
Do I have the guts?
A simple question perhaps. But it also made him think about what could happen if he did. Pithy. Yes, that was the word. The question was pithy: concise, yet saturated with meaning. Isn't that really how all life works? The life span of a human is so amazingly short, yet they put so much effort into trying to be recognized, loved, known. And what for? So they could be remembered? The nation chuckled to himself. Humans were strange creatures.
But at least they cared.
The heavy thumping of military boots approached him as the metal cage swung open. The figure stepped into the dark room. "Italy, I'm ever so glad you could join me today," a pause, "again." The Englishman cackled. "Germany is on his way here as we speak. Of course, I hoped he would be joining us for 'tea time'. Wait, but why should I be telling you? I doubt you'd truly understand what we're going to do with the both of you. That's right, just a few questions-" abruptly, he came to a stop. England could practically feel a glare boring into him from somewhere in the dark room.
Surely it couldn't be coming from the pathetic nation sitting in the corner of the rectangular room? No, it couldn't be. A shrug. "Well, anyways, I brought your lunch here." They really needed those light bulbs soon. Where was he? And why wasn't the Italian responding like usual with a cry or a "pasta"? And suddenly, in a blur of motion, the barrel of his own gun was shoved roughly against his back. The tray of tasteless food crashed to the floor and its contents spilled everywhere.
"Ciao, England," a cheery voice rang out from behind him. "Grazie per il cibo! Now, you're going to lead the way and I'll follow, si? Don't make any wrong turns or else-" England winced as the metal buried itself a tiny bit deeper into his spine. "- or else, I doubt you'll truly understand what I'm going to do with you."
I suppose I do have the guts then.
Ok, author's note time I guess. Well, thank you for reading! This is actually my first fanfiction so sorry for any mistakes I may have made.
Review? Please? Ideas? Suggestions?
Edit: I'm SO SORRY. I realized I never put up the translation, but here it is (feel free to correct me as online translators are not always the best):
Grazie per il cibo- thank you for the food