I can't believe I let Italy rope me into this. Not only am I standing in the middle of a square in Venice surrounded by a crowd of people dressed like freaks, but I am costumed in the same fashion! And he thinks Carnival is fun... WAIT A SECOND! Where is he?!
"GERMANY!" Italy sings in his high-pitched voice. I turn around to see the young man dragging behind him, of all people, his older brother. The older of the Italy brothers, Romano, rants loudly in Italian, I'm assuming, and becomes enraged when he sees my masked face.
"WHY THE CRAPPOLA IS HE HERE?!" he shouts at his little brother, who scowls behind his glittering green and silver mask.
"I thought it would be a good idea," Italy mumbles, "since we're all in need of a little break." The thin auburn curl sticking out of the left side of his head twitches angrily. I haven't seen Italy angry since...since...well, ever.
It's the middle of spring in 1953, and our countries are still working hard after World War Two. Italy, even with the least participation, has made it his, *ahem*, obsession to repay his brother France and his allies. I don't blame him. As you could imagine (well, maybe not), I am still ticked off at my old boss, who (thankfully) committed suicide. If only our debt would end its own life...
Italy and Romano are bickering again. I can't tell why, because they are shooting their mouths off in Italian. Those two are as different as, well, say Japan and me. Not quite so physically. Romano, who has the benefit of the southern sun, is slightly (but just slightly) darker in skin tone than Italy, but Italy's hair is a lighter, redder shade than his brother's. Yet they have the same amber eyes, a trait shared with their grandfather.
In accordance with Carnival's, *ahem*, (stupid) tradition, we're all dressed in costume. I hate it. I itch in the shimmery (ick!) red and black suit, and I desperately want to throw aside the cap Italy forced on my head. However, the brothers seem perfectly content in their costumes. Italy has attired himself in a silver and emerald suit with a long green robe and a floppy green hat. Meanwhile, Romano stands out in a sapphire and gold suit with a gold top hat that has three blue feathers in the band. They make an interesting pair...
"Signore e signori," an announcer says in Italian, "la vostra attenzione, per favore! For our English speakers, ladies and gentlemen, your attention, please!" Thank you for English speakers. "Per la vostra celebrazione annuale del Carnevale, il nostro giovane Feliciano Vargas! For your annual celebration of Carnival, our own young Feliciano Vargas!" Who the heck is Feliciano Vargas?! That can't be - it is.
Italy slowly climbs the steel steps to the small stage, and everyone freezes, captivated by the young man before them. Even Romano fixates on him, despite his general hatred of Italy. His hand shaking (and, yes, I can see it from here), Italy takes the microphone. "Ciao, everyone," Italy says, his voice wavering. "Well, I'm assuming you've all been here before, so I'll just go ahead and start." He takes a deep breath, and, instead of just exhaling, he sings a clear, four-note melody. If I remember my music correctly, the tones are 'la-do-ti-so.' The crowd weakly mimics, with Romano having the only crystal voice among them.
"I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear everyone," Italy says, hinting at something. He repeats the notes in a choral tone. The people around me sing strongly this time. "Meglio." Now he sings a similar six-note melody, 'la-do-ti-so-la-la.' The crowd now sings as if in a trance. I don't understand what's going on.
I glance around me, and I suddenly see familiar people. Twenty feet to my left is my older brother, Prussia, who looks simply foolish in a Venetian clown costume. Ten feet in front of me is France, who is like a neon sign in his red and blue suit. Not far to my right is Spain, their oldest brother, and forty feet in front of him is my cousin, Austria, with his ex-wife, Hungary. I turn around and see England, America, and America's twin brother Canada standing close together ten feet back. Why is everyone here, and, most of all, why are some of the Allies here?
I turn back to face the stage. Italy seems to be rooted to the spot where he stands. Then he starts spinning on the spot, and his hair and clothes seem to be floating of their own accord. I look down at Romano for an explanation, but he is entranced like the others. My hand waves in front of his face, and he doesn't blink. This is getting all too weird for me!
I start to back away, but I see Italy opening his mouth and freeze. Is he about to rat me out? No, he starts to sing. "Luci risplendere, musica ballare intorno a noi. Le anime si uniscono, diventano uno, vincolati da ere magia 'il nostro tempo." Dang, I hate Italian. Can't understand a word they say. "Stelle ondeggiano, la luna splende, si balla a tempo con cieli. Sonno acque, marea rallenta, cantiamo al ritmo profondo. Musica e magia ci guida, e ci conduca alla felicità questa notte." I watch my friend and realize that he is floating six inches above the stage. No strings attached.
When I see this, I nearly pass out, especially when I see dancing lights?! I hear a ghostly melody accompanied with an eerily singular yet echoing chorus. My friends, family, and old enemies all seem, I suppose, happy. And so do I. The music and lights are surprisingly calming, but, when I realize that everything is actually coming from Italy himself, I lose it.
"What the heck is going on?!" I shout, seemingly breaking everyone out of their trance. Italy's eyes snap back open, and he drops to the stage. I hear a resounding CRACK. I do hope it isn't what I think it is.
Romano looks up at me, scowling. The stage manager, a rotund Venetian, goes up to the stage and converses with Italy for a moment in rapid-fire Italian. I can see tears in Italy's eyes, and he appears to be holding his left leg gingerly. The stage manager takes the microphone in his hand and says, in English, "Ladies and gentlemen, due to, ah," he glances at Italy, whose eyes shimmer sadly behind his mask, "an unfortunate accident, we will not be, ah, continuing tonight. Er, thank you for your cooperation." A few small children sigh, and some even sniffle.
The crowd disperses, but us countries make our way to the stage. Romano runs ahead of me and pushes himself onto the stage next to his brother, to whom he gives a tight hug. France and Spain seem to be distressed, but England is smirking. Was it him that disturbed the performance with his dark magic? I shiver at the thought.
"Feliciano, are you alright?" Romano asks his little brother, his arms still tight around him. He buries his face in Italy's hair, and I see tears glistening on the eyelashes of both.
"Lovino, I think my leg is broken," Italy says tearfully. Whenever the brothers address each other by their human names, it means they are truly upset. "I felt something wrong, but I don't know what it was."
"I felt it as well," France adds, twirling the red rose in his lapel. He turns to the eldest brother. "Antonio, did you feel it?" Spain contemplates the question.
"I don't quite know, Francis," he answers. France cringes at the use of his human name. "I might have felt something, but Lovino was trying to tell me something." My head reels at all of this crazy talk.
"What the heck are you talking about?" I say loudly. Everyone looks at me, and Prussia laughs at me.
"Magic, West. Didn't you get that?" Prussia says, making voodoo fingers at me.
"Magic. This is magic? I don't believe it," I assert, frowning. Italy flicks his wrist and sends a shower of sparkling lights in my direction. They dissipate right in front of my face.
"Believe in something, and it will come true," he says quietly. "What you saw was real, as is what I can do every day."
"What do you mean by that?" America asks loudly, flashing his 'hero' smile. Canada taps his brother's shoulder, but goes unnoticed.
"Watch," Italy implores. Romano helps him stand, and, hand pointed to the ground, pretends to draw a circle in front of him. He raises two inches off the stage, then drifts down to the ground level, landing on both feet. "My leg's all better!" Hungary feels at his leg, and when he doesn't flinch, she gasps in both horror and amazement.
England chuckles in a way that is not pleasing. "You call that magic?" he teases, wagging his finger. "That's nothing. Watch this!" If he turns himself into a human being, that would be fantastic. He chants a few lines of, well, gibberish, and when nothing happens, Romano jumps down from the stage and laughs.
"You make me laugh," Romano snickers. "It's true that everyone has their own magic, but only a select few can actually use it. And even fewer that can use it fully." If someone says 'magic' one more time, I am going to strangle that person.
"Will someone at least translate what Italy said?" Canada says softly. No one notices but me, so I take matters into my own hands. I lift Canada off the ground and set him directly in front of the brothers.
"If you want to ask them something, speak up," I say sternly. Canada seems frightened, squeezing his polar bear. But he turns to Italy anyway. They're relatively good friends, since they are both often dismissed by others.
"What did you say, Italy? In English, please," Canada asks his friend. Italy seems reluctant at first, but quickly consents.
He once again enters a trance-like state and recites the words, "Lights shine forth, music dance around us. Souls unite, become one, bound by magic 'ere our time. Stars sway, moon shines, we dance in time with the heavens. Waters sleep, tide slows, we sing in rhythm with the deep. Music and magic guide us, and lead us to happiness this night." The tension in the air dissolves, and all of our previous disputes and squabbles seem to disappear. The night seems happy.
"It's a song of festival, a song of settling one's problems and coming together as a whole," Romano explains, gesturing the entire time. "Only Italians can use it, because only Italians know the true spirit of Carnevale." I somehow don't find this to be true.
"So, do I have magic?" I ask, drawing a funny look from Italy and his brothers.
"Technically, you do," says Spain, twisting his arm. "But my brothers and I have been harnessing it for centuries. You haven't been around that long."
"I want to use it," I say before I can stop myself. I'm not lying, but it's childish. Italy frowns thoughtfully. He walks up to me and takes my large hands in his small, thin ones.
He looks at me with innocent amber eyes. "I can give you some, but not a lot," he says. "Too much transference could kill either of us." I already know that, despite common knowledge, we can still die, since Italy himself has already given his own life three times for mine.
It feels like he's forcing something into my system, something that doesn't belong. It's not unpleasant, just strange. The magic is warm, like sunshine (geez, I'm sounding like Italy). Italy's eyes are squeezed tightly closed, like he's enduring some sort of horrible torture. Then again, that could very well be the case; I'm taking a part of him, and all he can do is stand there.
When it's over, everyone's staring at the pair of us. Italy falls to his knees, his hands still grasping mine. I feel sorry for him, but I don't know how to give it back. I hear him sobbing, and I drop to his level, putting my hands on his shoulders. I say the only thing that seems appropriate. "Das glück kommt zu lhnen." Happiness will come to you. It isn't much, but I hope it makes him feel better.
My hands suddenly become warm, and I feel something channeling into my little friend. His face becomes rosy and he's surprised. He looks up at me, and he throws his arms around my neck. I see the look of confusion on everyone's faces, but I'm perfectly happy. Italy hangs on my neck, and he's happy. And with his name, he ought to be. Always.
He stands up, and instantly America starts jabbering. I bring Italy's magic up inside me and muster all of it to say one little word: "STILLE!" The magic shoots out of my hand, and, unfortunately, the worst possible thing could happen. Italy runs up to America to clamp a hand over his mouth and the bolt hits him square in between the shoulder blades.
Italy freezes. He turns toward me, silent, and crumples to the ground. His eyes are wide in disbelief.
"FELICIANO!" his brothers shriek, rushing to help him. It's all my fault.
ǂ
Author's Notes: Hey, everyone! First fanfic ever published! Anyway, if anyone's wondering, all the characters are a bit OOC in this because it's me and my friend SpillSomeInk's Hetalia universe. Please bear with us. The first part is entirely done, actually, but I won't be publishing it all at once. Also, the POV jumps around a lot, so I'll add whose POV it is at the beginning of each chapter; this one's Germany's if you didn't catch it. R&R please, and all flames will be played with by Japan, our little pyromancer who comes in later. If anyone knows better translations than these, please tell me. ^^ I do not own Hetalia~! *spins* bonavitaetgaudium out~!
PS: no yaoi in this. If you want lots of GerIta, Spamano, USUK, etc., go somewhere else, I do not support any of those pairings at all. Except for SuFin, because Sweden is actually CONFIRMED to be gay. Again, you want boyxboy or even girlxgirl, leave this page at once! *points at the back button*