A/N: Oh, Arashi91. You make so many requests of me that I feel so inadequate in filling. This is another request from her, the other one being a SuFin fluffy angst one-shot that I'm ALMOST DONE WITH. :D yay! Well, anyways, here you go! Another letter fic.
Much thanks to my beta and real-life friend, jul14 for doing her job!
Disclaimer: There is much angst, along with religious undertones. And a surprise ending. Oh, and Hetalia is not mine...Yet.
Smooth syllables tumbled effortlessly off of a young little Italian's tongue, filling the high spaces around him with pleading whispers. Languid, polished prayers; never slipping and never ceasing, danced around in the air and sent electric sparks up and down the boy's spine. As if the words of a dead language brought life to the open space of the church, his prayers became more frantic and passionate. Now, as if every sound that slipped from his mouth was as vital as the very blood that flowed through his veins, the volume of his prayers lifted like the arms he had thrown above his head.
"And I pray to you, 'O merciful Father, bring him home safely!
Be his guide, give him strength!"
The boy's frantic prayers suddenly dropped, just like the crystalline tears that cascaded down his cheeks fell to the marble floors under his body. When he spoke again, his once-powerful and melodic voice was hoarse and thick with tears.
"Please, God, just bring Germany back to me."
Amen.
As the Italian marched his way back towards the little ranch he shared with his elder brother on the Tuscan countryside, he spotted an envelope tucked neatly into his screen door. The Italian broke into a sprint, nearly tripping over his quick little feet while scooping the letter into his worn painters' palms. He darted towards his bedroom and planted himself on the chair pushed into his sparsely-used desk, grabbing a letter-opener and tearing into the envelope with barely-suppressed glee. His liquid-amber eyes shone with joyful tears as his shaking hands unfolded the crisp paper containing the familiar and neatly scrawled words of Germany's thoughts from afar, and a ring that fit perfectly on the bouncy little Italian's left ring finger fell from the letter's folds. His brain greedily drank in the elegant wording of his best friend's latest correspondence, but his expression immediately dropped once his brain comprehended the words.
My Dear Italien,
I have recently received a very difficult order from my leader. As you know, I am locked in a difficult war right now, and my leader has asked me to accompany a specialised convoy out into enemy territory to gather any intelligence we can. If we are captured, I will not make it back home. They know exactly who I am and will kill me on-sight. However, my leader says I am the only one who is fit to lead this mission.
Italy, I'm probably not going to make it home to you. I'm so sorry.
However, I am not just writing this letter to you to tell you of my mission. I have many things I wish to say to you, as a man who is going to die. Listen to me, Italy. There were so many things I had wanted to do with you, had I never been given this mission and been able to come home.
I wanted to dance with you in your kitchen until the pasta you were cooking was in danger of boiling over. I wanted to surprise you by singing you love songs from under your balcony. I wanted to just hold you and kiss you sweetly in one of those gondolas you love so much, in Venice. I wanted to walk right up to Romano and tell him to his face that I was yours, and you were mine, and that nothing could ever tear us apart. I also wanted to stand my ground when he tried to kill me for it. I wanted to spend lazy summer afternoons with you, just lying in bed and basking in the Italian heat. I wanted to make careful and tender love to you until we both fell asleep with smiles and then wake up more in love than when we fell asleep.
I wanted to propose to you under the starry sky from the Colosseum in Rome. I wanted to do all of the things that I knew would make you happy.
Ti amo, Feliciano. I love you.
But, as I said, I'm probably not coming home to you. I'm sorry I broke my promise.
Please, take the ring I've enclosed into this envelope. You don't have to wear it, or even keep it. I just want to give you something to remember me by. I was going to propose to you with it.
My heart is enclosed in this ring and in this letter. Please, keep them safe.
Ich liebe dich, Italien.
Goodbye.
-Ludwig
A gaggle of Italian limbs fell to the floor under his desk, as Feliciano's whimpering and sobbing body collapsed in grief. His entire body felt like a huge conundrum: his blood was hot like fire, but his body was as cold as ice. Every single one of his nerve endings was alive with pain, but his salty tears were numbing his face. His brain was moving a mile a minute, while his heart felt like it was slowing down. All the while, his entire being; mind, body, and soul, was screaming one thing at him:
You love him, too!
But, a little voice snuck into his conscious being, whispering the counter-argument.
And that's absolutely disgusting.
Italy picked up the golden ring from its abandoned place on his desk, and slipped it into his pocket with wet and shaking fingers.
Italy found himself back inside of the church for the second time that day, but the flow of his prayers weren't nearly as powerful. He spoke in clipped and hoarse Latin, but the air around him was tainted with despair and the stained-glass windows shone on the boy with murky grey light.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
I love another man, and I do not know how to love anyone else.
I have always loved him, and I'm afraid that I will never stop. However, he is going to die soon.
If this is my punishment, Father, then I accept it. But please, Father. Do not make him suffer.
If I am to spend my eternal life in the depths of Hell, then I will gladly take it, if Ludwig is going to be there too.
I will love him for as long as I can, Father. And that will be forever.
Please forgive me, Lord.
But, I cannot deny myself love any longer."
Cosà sia.
Two Months Later
The little Italian boy stood in his kitchen, boiling his favourite pasta and humming a sombre American tune that he had liked during his trips there. As the pasta was nearing perfection, his cute little doorbell rang, signalling a visitor. He turned off the stove and wiped his delicate little hands on his apron before he chirped an overly-happy "Coming!" and running to throw his door open.
Standing there, in all of his strong Aryan glory, was Germany, military bags at his feet and scars all over his smiling face. Tears welled up in Italy's smouldering eyes as he threw his thin arms around Germany's scarred and thick neck, sobbing incoherently into it. Germany embraced his tiny Italian back, and his smile grew ten times when he felt the cold sting of a gold wedding band on Italy's left ring finger against the nape of his neck.
"Ti amo, Italy."
"I-Ich li-liebe d-dich, Ludwig!"
As the two lovers kissed through their tears and forgot about the pasta that was going cold on the stove, Italy sent a prayer up to God; one he would repeat every day for the rest of his life. The life that he'll spend with Germany.
'Please, forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.'
Amen.
A/N: Just a little note, "Cosà sia" is Italian for "So be it", which is the technical translation from Hebrew to English for "Amen". Italy said Amen after all the prayers that he prayed with his faith intact. He said it in Italian when he was doubting his faith. Just a little note, there.