The door is locked.
Romano checks one last time, jiggling the handle and nodding in satisfaction when it halts before it can complete its rotation. The door is locked.
He paces a small circle, then walks over to the window to make certain that the blinds are shut as tightly as they can go. The only light comes from the bulb in the center of Romano's ceiling, and the
two above his bed.
It's time.
Face burning bright red, Romano slides under his bed, feeling the hardwood floor rub against his knees, and retrieves a shoebox, on which he has scrawled in permanent marker "Belgium's Christmas present".
Romano opens the box. He can hear his heart beating in his ears. With trembling hands, he brushes aside tissue paper and removes a pair of dark red high heels from the box.
He slides them onto his feet and feels a smile come to his face. A real, genuine smile. Standing, Romano struts to the mirror hanging on the back of his door, not stumbling once. He looks himself up and down, taking in his button-up shirt, slacks, and then the heels.
He feels pretty.
Feeling an unfamiliar but welcome glow of happiness in his chest, Romano sits on the edge of his bed and extends his left leg, admiring the way the heel sits on his foot, the dark red complimenting his olive skin.
Just as Romano sighs with contentment, his door bursts open.
It wasn't locked?!
"Hi, Romano!" Italy waves from behind Spain, beaming his usual idiot smile, but Romano is focused on the even bigger idiot smile plastered to Spain's face.
"Oh, Romano, you had such a nice smile a second ago!" he babbles, seemingly oblivious to the look of utter horror Romano has adopted. Carefully, carefully, Romano slides the heels off his feet, pleading with God that this one small action goes right.
It doesn't. The shoes clatter to the hardwood floor.
"Oh, are you wearing heels, Romano?" Spain asks. "How cute! Wait 'til France and Prussia hear!"
"Get out, dumbass!" he manages to squeak, standing up.
"I invited him over, though!" Italy whines, giving Romano his best kicked puppy look.
Romano barks, "You get out, too!"
Italy shrugs. "Come on, Spain! I can show you the garden!"
Spain throws Romano a lingering look. "Come with us!"
"GET OUT!" Romano physically forces the pair from the room, slamming his door harder than he ever has. In a stumbling motion, he kicks the heels half under his bed, and flops down onto the comforter, muffling his sobs in his pillow.
Why can't anything ever go right for him?