Hear that?
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, or its characters.
A/N: I had an urge to write, and with time on my hand, I managed to write this…this…whatever this story is. .-. D: As always, I hope this story makes sense. Lately, I've been dizty. Hopefully, this story turned out what I originally wanted it to be.
Enjoy.
It was warm, almost uncomfortably warm, but a nice breeze drifted through the almost empty field. Uncut grass swayed with the wind, and it almost annoyed the figure lying down in the middle of the field. Clouds were gathering overhead, but Romano wasn't paying any attention to them.
Again, he ran off, away from his brother, his former caretaker, from everybody. Only one, stood out from that group of people, and it made Romano grit his teeth, and stare angrily up into the sky that seemed to be soon letting raindrops fall.
Every day, Romano talked to Spain. Spain talked to Romano. At the same time, in those instances, Romano was growing more and more frustrated. Because in those instances, Spain seemed to be hearing Romano's words, but at the same time, he seemed to be not hearing Romano at all! Sentence for sentence, Romano could only have so much of not being heard.
Not only Spain, it was his brother as well. In fact, it was about the whole damn world that seemed to not care for what Romano had to say. Well, Romano had to admit, that most of what Romano's sentences and statements were not as important as he made them out to be in the first place, but still: the mere fact that no one takes what he says seriously is frustrating and saddening.
Especially Spain and he was the one who was able to have at least a decent conversation with Romano.
Probably, to him, Romano was simply still that child whom Spain had to take care of and who head-butted him from time to time, a child who had a cursing problem and didn't trust hardly anybody at all. A child who couldn't take care of himself, and seemed pale in comparison next to his little brother, who was oh so adorable and great.
But even then, Romano couldn't stay mad at Spain, nor his little brother. Even as much as he wanted to blame them for not hearing him, as well as the rest of the world, he couldn't stay mad. Sure, the moments when he was truly angry all he could do was run away and cry, and curse. But isn't that all he did? Cry and curse?
Damn, Romano felt pathetic. But as pathetic and worthless Romano made himself seem, it didn't solve his current conflict.
Was there a solution to his current problem? To Romano, there didn't seem to be. Tears filled his eyes, his eyelashes working hurriedly to blink them back. Swallowing dryly, Romano wondered if he should tell Spain, or his little brother.
Romano felt so frustrated! He wanted to scream, and cry until someone came and asked him what's wrong. Even then, will they understand his conflict? Probably not, seeing as of that Romano felt like no one was hearing him and if they did, did they care?
"…Fine." Romano muttered, tears still threatening to fall. His voice was thick with emotion, his throat hurting as he forced himself to talk. "If they don't care, why should I?" There was a sad note in his tone, his tone itself being almost grated and choking.
But the sad fact was that Romano did care, he cared a whole lot; but what was the point if no one was going to listen to what he had to say? No, no point at all. "Maybe Spain will care" that whispering voice that Romano refused to acknowledge as his own stated.
Not a chance in hell.
If Spain couldn't even tell if Romano was sad or not, then why in hell did Romano ever think that he cared enough to find out if Romano was sad? Tears were now leaving wet streaks on Romano's face, and he wiped them away even though there was no one there to see him.
Lying back in the damp grass, he stared mournfully up into the sky. "Let's see how quiet I can be…" He whispered, seeing a list of flashing faces in his mind's eye. His little brother, that potato bastard Germany, that loud mouth America, everyone…
An image of Spain smiling face lingered in Romano's mind, his laughter filling Romano's ears. Tears stopped flowing, but they still left a stain on Romano's cheeks. Rain began to fall gently, almost like tears.
The rain fell like gray snow, they fell like soft tears.
Romano closed his eyes, exhausted and hungry, letting the warm feelings of cool rain, and the now warm breeze message him to sleep. For some reason, Romano couldn't get that image of the sky crying, crying for him, for his uncared for existence.
Crying for his silent love toward his caretaker who didn't seem to care enough to listen to Romano himself.
Hear that Spain? The sky is crying.
Review, Favorite, or whatever you do on stories that you read.
-BMTM