Bruises
He would leave – every day, right after siesta time – and his brother would always lose him if he tried to follow, lost in the back alleys of an unfamiliar town in a rural part of south Italy. There was questioning when he returned late at night, but he would always receive no answer - only a turn of the head and a slight motioning towards the bed, where he was supposed to be.
He would always return with bruises – more every time, even though they had not always fully healed from the previous day.
Feliciano had learned soon enough that he would get no answer and gave up trying, only tending to the various cuts and gashes littering his brother's body and offering him a plate of leftovers from dinner. Lovino would shake his head, not saying anything – he rarely spoke nowadays, it was a feat in and of itself when Spain came over to get him to say a word to the elder nation – and gently push him away. Everything about him had become gentle, subdued – as if he had no will to fight anymore.
It scared him.
It scared him more than when Lovino had been spitting and cussing and almost strangling him when they had first been reunited.
The worst of the bruises – so far, he had told himself, because whatever his brother was doing, he probably wasn't going to stop anytime soon – had been one stamped across his chest, a boot print. There had probably been a cracked rib to go along with the mark, but it had long since healed, leaving no sign of it ever being there.
Feliciano was worried immensely, especially since Lovino offered no explanation. Even big brother Spain was picking up on the immense tenseness of the house, noticing the way his brother shied away from his hugs and touches and how he disappeared after the siestas they'd take together.
Even the elder nation could not follow him. Lovino knew every street, every town, every run-down back alley there was in southern Italy, and Feliciano did not.
If Lovino didn't want them to, they would never know.
He had been growing more familiar with his brother's route, though, every time he left he could follow further. But he never found out the destination, since Lovino didn't come home one day.
He never returned.
Soon, he became depressed. He slowly stopped talking, something Germany seemed to notice quickly, and he stopped just…being happy. Then, everyone noticed. He refused to speak of it, only big brother Spain knowing what had happened.
And they never noticed how smug Turkey looked at every world meeting.
He was tired – so very tired.
Tired of hiding what was happening from Antonio and Feliciano; tired of knowing what was coming every damned day and still going; tired of being so submissive when he just wanted to lash out – tired of everything.
His brother was not taking his 'disappearance' well, he knew from the smug grin wormed onto Turkey's face every time he returned from those damned meetings, and he felt guilty doing this, but it was for the best.
It had to be.
He didn't want his brother to be taken advantage of like he was now.
Every bruise, every cut, every spasm of pain reminded him that this was for his brother.
How good of an older brother would he be if he didn't care for Feliciano? If it wasn't for him, he would be the one here, covered in bruises and cuts and gashes.
He had to protect him from that.
It all started out with Turkey, the man he'd feared as a child and hated as an adult, and that damnable grin he'd had when he had cornered him after a world meeting and told him how he had decided to invade Italy – starting with the northern half. He had said for Lovino to try to stop him, and he did the only thing he could think of – offer himself in place of his brother.
He wasn't even a real nation, only a former one that had no control over anything in the country but the mafia, but Turkey had accepted gleefully. And so he became his 'pet', a plaything – something to damage that would always heal.
He hated it. Turkey was rough in almost everything he did, whether it was his 'reward' or his 'punishment' – he could not tell the difference between the two.
The first time had been horrible.
"Prendi il vaffanculo me, bastardo!"
"Kapa çeneni, velet." His wrist was bruised from the vice-like grip the man had on his wrist – the first of many to come – and his back ached from being shoved against the wall too roughly. Turkey had insisted they meet at a small, almost rundown, hotel in Taranto. It continued this way for almost a year.
Every afternoon he would leave while his brother was still asleep, and every night he'd return with a few more bruises to add to his collection. He never let Feliciano see the worst of them, the ones just below the belt line, only letting him worry about the ones he could see.
Then he took him with him, back to his house in Ankara, and he'd officially 'disappeared'.
"Sen bana ait, Lovino. Onlar seni asla bulamayacağım." The words – harsh, rough, and uncaringly whispered into his ear – scared him, though he would never show that to the man looming over him. He growled slightly, turning his head away.
"Vaffanculo!" Another bruise, this one dragging down his arm as fingernails tore skin. He refused to show he was in pain, no matter what.
Turkey snarled, murmuring words he could not understand, and his hands slipped lower and lower, leaving teasing cuts and scrapes all the way down.
He still did not cry out.
"Ne oldu, çocuk? Beni çok korkuyor eskiden." He asked, gently wiping away the other's tears and tracing a small bruise forming on his cheek. The younger nation was glaring at him, those bright green of his eyes darkened in suppressed rage and tears.
The other couldn't understand him, he knew, but he still used his own language anyways. It was better than Italian, which he could not understand and did not even try to pronounce correctly, but it sounded so sexy when the boy underneath him spoke it, despite it being mostly curses.
Then again, he could always ask his little Italian handmaiden to translate for him. She would probably blush and stutter, but still repeat what the child had said.
"Lütfen, durdurmak…." He froze, frowning at the child in his grasp, almost unable to comprehend the Turkish coming out of that pretty Italian mouth. His hand, which he hadn't noticed going farther than the small caresses, paused just above his belt line, hovering over the Italian's navel.
Was Romano actually speaking Turkish, or was he just translating it in his head?
Again – he had to hear it again.
His hand moved lower, gently splayed across his skin. There it was – the small 'please'. He watched the syllables roll unfamiliarly over the younger nation's tongue in slight surprise before claiming his lips. The boy winced as hands raked down his sides, a slight whimper escaping as another bruise formed on his hip. That single word was repeated endlessly against his own lips, begging for him to stop.
He could not care less - only that Romano was speaking his language, his tongue.
It turned him on more than it should have.
"Lütfen…." A slight growl tore through his throat and he bit down on the younger nation's neck hard enough to draw blood and elicit another whimper.
"İyi çocuk, velet."
Note: This is the closest you're going to get to smut from me. Another thing, even though Turkey refers to Romano as a child, he is not. The only reason he thinks like this is because the Ottoman Empire was around long before either of the Italians were considered different from Rome. And yes, I'm well aware that Romano is a bit out of character, but as you might have noticed, he's not exactly in a favorable situation, so he kind of has a reason not to be (it's all psychological, lovvies). And I think this is the longest one-shot I've ever wrote – four pages, baby~!
Other Note: Translations!
"Prendi il vaffanculo me, bastardo!" – "Get the fuck off me, you bastard!" (Italian)
"Kapa çeneni, velet." – "Shut up, brat." (Turkish)
"Sen bana ait, Lovino. Onlar seni asla bulamayacağım." – "You belong to me, Lovino. They will never find you." (Turkish)
"Vaffanculo!" – "Fuck you!" or "Fuck off!" (Italian)
"Ne oldu, çocuk? Beni çok korkuyor eskiden." – "What happened, child? You used to be so scared of me." (Turkish)
"Lütfen, durdurmak." – "Please, stop." (Turkish)
"İyi çocuk, velet." – "Good boy, brat." (Turkish)
Please correct me if my grammar, use of Turkish or Italian, translations, or spelling is incorrect. And I will gladly take all the reviews I can get, even if you have nothing good to say about the story (I would love some concrit).
I can handle anything you throw at me, lovvies~!
Ciao~
Pan