(Skies are funny things when it comes to other Skies.)
Feliciano laughs as he fixes Alfred's tie. "It'll be fine, amante~! No one would dare attack, not with the all of the powerful famiglie attending," he reassures. Alfred shifts nervously, trying to pat down Nantucket, and pushes his glasses up his nose.
"You're absolutely sure?"
"Yup! Remember, many powerful famiglie have been invited; the Vongola, the Cavallone, the Shimon, the Giglio Nero, even the Gesso! If anyone were to attack, they would be dispatched quickly and efficiently, amante."
(They either try and kill each other…)
"Well, if you're sure…"
"I'm sure!"
(…or they take each other under their wing.)
They step out, standing a little behind and to the right of Lovino, who is backed not only by them, but by several others from his (their) famiglia. As Lovino welcomes the visiting famiglie, Feliciano grips Alfred's hand tightly in his, squeezing reassuringly.
It's a bit strange, their famiglia (the Vargas have always been peculiar). For it is Lovi who leads, and not Feli. A strange anomaly in the world of the mafia, where Skies are almost always the leaders, and not Storms, like Lovi is. But they are happy with it. As people begin to mill about, Feliciano leads Alfred into the crowd and very purposefully towards a small, unassuming brunet wearing a cape and formal wear surrounded by fierce looking Guardians wearing colored dress-shirts under their tuxedoes.
Then everything goes to hell.
(Skies attract others. It is simply how they work.)
Alfred is knocked over, banging his head sharply on a table and stars burst in front of his eyes and chaos reigns. Smoke fills the massive room, and there is the sound of weapons being drawn and fired and used as his ears ring from the explosion.
He stumbles to his feet, woozy and uncoordinated from the blow to his head. He looks around, trying to find Feliciano in the discord, but can't see the familiar red hair anywhere. His vision wavers, flickering black around the edges, and he stumbles forward before something hard hits him in the back of the head and everything goes black.
(But what happens when two Skies attract each other?)
:::
It is another World Meeting, and England is bored out of his skull. The usual arguments are taking place, and normally he would take great enjoyment in them, in watching. But for whatever reason, something isn't sitting quite right with him. It takes a moment to realize: neither Italy(s) nor America are there.
He looks around, hoping he is wrong; they might be occasionally late, but never this much. He isn't wrong. He does, however, spot America's brother—it has somehow become easier to tell them apart of late—and quickly makes his way over. The boy looks worried, chewing at his lip while holding that white bear of his (kuma-something-or-other, England thinks). For a moment, he can't remember the boy's name—Candodia? No, no, that didn't sound right; Candadadia? No, not that either; Canadoda? Hm…not it; Canadia? No…oh, that was it!
"Canada!" he calls out, catching the younger nation's attention. He seems surprised.
"Hm? England?" he responds, looking up at him with wide violet eyes.
"Where's that bloody idiot America? He's not here!" Canada's eyes dull, and he bites his lip worriedly.
"I don't know."
England has no more time to ask anything before the doors bang open—where Germany has just been debating going to look for the missing nations with Prussia and Lithuania—and both Italies stride in, in black suits and with dangerous expressions on their faces. Canada immediately takes note, and walks over quickly.
"Where's Al?" he asks in the abrupt quiet of the meeting, his face worried. Italy's face coils in an unfamiliar expression, and he snarls, baring white teeth and spitting vicious insults in Italian with fervor. It is Romano that replies, however.
"Gone," is all he says, face like a brick wall. England doesn't see it, the other nations back being to him, but he can feel the air around the little nation chill as Canada takes the statement in.
"Who?"
A shudder goes down England's spine at the Canadian's tone, like Arctic wind biting into unclad skin. Romano bares pearly white teeth, his face morphing into an expression of hate and insult and rage.
"The Estraneo—or rather, what's left of them."
:::
(Do they enter into Harmony with one another? Does their Harmony extend to the other's Guardians?)
:::
When Alfred wakes, it's to the smell of antiseptic and the harsh, sour smell of dried blood mixed with the sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood. His mouth feels as dry as the deserts in the west of his country, and his eyelids feel as though they are weighed down by fifty pound weights. He struggles to keep his eyes open, to remain aware and not quite so helpless as he would be when unconscious.
Alfred flexes his right hand weakly, feeling the chafing of rough rope bindings around his wrists and ankles. Normally, he could break out of something like this easily, without so much as losing a bit of breath. But whoever has taken him had given him something, for his thoughts feel as slow and sticky as cold honey in winter and his hands tremble whenever he tries to make them do more than flex.
Then someone walks in, wearing a white lab coat and very shiny glasses. The person looks at him for a moment before walking out of Alfred's line of sight and then coming back in with a syringe filled with a strange, violet liquid.
Alfred struggles as much as he can (which isn't much), but there is a prick in his arm and his vision swims with bright colors before going black.
:::
(Skies are the most dangerous of all of the Flames. But the others…they are just as fearsome when their Sky is threatened.)
:::
"Well then," the chillingly calm voice is not Canada. It still sends shivers down the spines of those listening. "We should extract vengeance and recover him, Так?"
England wonders if he only imagined the flare of violet on Belarus's knives.
He decides to simply pray for the fools who aggravated her.
:::
(Yes. Flame users in general are peculiar, and fearsome in their own right. Dangerous.)
:::
No one ever accused the Estraneo of being particularly sensible. Smart, yes. Sensible…? Nope. Never.
Perhaps that was why these demons (in particular one with red hair and blazing hazel eyes) were attacking them, wrecking havoc upon them and utterly destroying their base like one of the test subjects had, so long ago.
The unlucky guard faces two of them, two of the demons who are attacking them. Fierce, steely blue eyes lock onto him, and the she-demon spits at him, drawing knives wreathed in dancing Cloud Flames as she charges forward. The last thing the guard sees is the other demon's face, cold and distant as he crushes his windpipe.
It is terrifying.
:::
When Artemio Acciai took over the Estraneo Famiglia from his (dead) predecessor, he had never expected that something like this would occur. His Famiglia was being systematically decimated by people his guards called 'demons'. He was monitoring the blond that the Vargas Settimo* had seemingly taken an interest in (and wasn't he interesting? The blond's cells were incredible—some of them seemed to be over two hundred years old and weren't dead yet; more research was necessary, along with samples for experimentation—) when the alarms had sounded.
When one of his guards runs in, panting out news of a red haired demon with blazing hazel eyes, he feels his blood run cold as he realizes that the Vargas have come for his new experiment. Quickly, he prepares a syringe, tapping the glass of it lightly. He turns to his new experiment, pressing the syringe into one of the veins with practiced ease and empties the syringe.
That is when the door of the lab is thrown in and the red haired demon walks in, his gun loaded and cocked and pointed at Artemio.
:::
Feliciano is furious. His vision is tinted red with fury as he points the pistol at the scientist's head (because he is accurate—accurate enough to put a bullet in this thing's head and feel the pleasure of seeing it's head blown into little, tiny, bloody pieces all over the walls—).
"Now, I wouldn't do that, if I were you," the thing says, and even its voice sounds slimy, and it makes Feliciano all the angrier.
"Why shouldn't I, fottutto pezzo di dannata cazzo stronzate?" he slips into foul-mouthed Italian in his rage, his aim never wavering.
"Because," the thing says, raising an empty syringe. "I just gave your precious blond a dose of two milliliters of a 10,000 units per millilitre glycosaminoglycan that is highly sulfated.** He'll be dead within the hour." When Feliciano clenches his finger on the trigger, the thing smiles. "Unless you let me live; I can administer the antidote, and your precious blond will live. All you have to do is allow me to begin a drip of the antidote, so you can drop off your friend here at a hospital, and let me go."
Then the doors, which had shut behind Feliciano, bang open, and he whips around on instinct. It is Natalya and Toris, their weapons raised. Their eyes fall immediately to Alfred, who is unconscious upon the table, and then to the thing behind Feliciano. Natalya's eyes narrow even as Toris gasps. "Mister Alfred!"
Then Natalya is moving, like lightning. She throws one of her knives at Feliciano. Only not really, because it sails past Feliciano's ear and he hears a wet sounding squelch behind him. He turns and sees the thing with Natalya's knife protruding from his neck, blood pouring from the wound. A knife lies beside the gurgling man, and Feliciano realizes that the man had intended on stabbing him in the back. Disgust wells up in him.
What utter trash.
Then he is by Alfred's side, removing his bonds and picking him up carefully in his arms. "Natalya," he barks and she straightens. "Call an ambulance; having them waiting outside by the time I'm out there."
She nods and pulls out her cell phone, calling the number of the only hospital in Italy—in the whole world, even—that is designed solely to cater to the mafia, and more particularly its Flame-using inhabitants. Luckily, the Estraneo had decided to set up shop near one of Italy's larger cities which all have an outpost for rapid treatment and transport to the main hospital. Natalya leaves the room as Feliciano cradles Alfred's head close to his chest.
Toris bends down, picking up the empty syringe from where it was placed on the table. "Mister Italy…?" he asks carefully, wary of Feliciano's emotional turmoil. "Did that…thing…give Mister Alfred something?"
Feliciano curls his lip, feeling the fury and the need to hit something, destroy something well up in him. "Sì," he says curtly. "Some kind of poison; he said that Alfred would be dead within the hour."
And isn't that a horrific prospect? Nations were technically considered immortal, true, but they weren't. They were just exceptionally difficult to kill. And hadn't that place taught him to be more cautious? To not trust in their apparent immortality and to expect that every breath could be his last?
Then Toris grips his wrist, and Feliciano looks up at him. "What did he give him?" his voice is urgent. "Did he tell you?"
Feliciano shakes his head, repeating what that thing had told him. "No, just that he had given him two milliliters of a 20,000 units per milliliter glycol—glycosamo—glycasamine—" Feliciano stumbles over the word, and Toris's eyes narrow.
"Glycosaminoglycan?" he asks, and when Feliciano's eyes light up his face darkens. "Then he was right; glycosaminoglycans can be very bad when given in such large concentrations." Feliciano tangles his fingers in Alfred's hair and Toris pulls away and rifles through the desk in the corner, finally coming up with two empty bottles. He turns to Feliciano with a triumphant expression when Natalya reenters.
"The ambulance will be here in five minutes; we should get out of here."
Feliciano lifts his unconscious lover, cradling his limp body in his arms with little visible effort—it isn't effortless though. Alfred is a large nation, and his body mass, while healthy, was still considerable for a nation. He carries him carefully through the bloody carnage that is left of the Estraneo base, and feels a surge of viciously pleasurable satisfaction.
As the ambulance arrives, and he hands over Alfred while watching them carefully, Toris gently pushes him into the black car that pulls up moments later with Antonio exiting the car. "I'll stay in the ambulance; you'll just be dead weight right now. They need to set up an emergency drip of protamine sulfate, and I actually know what the heck they're doing, so I'll go with them. You go with Antonio and the others and I'll see you at the hospital proper."*** Reluctantly, Feliciano lets them go.
He can't help worrying whether Alfred will ever wake up. Because if he didn't…
…there would be hell to pay.
He'd make sure of that.
:::
(Bloodshed often follows Flame users like moths follow a bright light at night.)
:::
It is dark. Everything feels heavy and thick and soft, as though whatever he is lying on is inviting him to lay there forever and drift off into a dark oblivion that he might never wake from. And to be honest, he doesn't really want to wake up.
It is calm and warm here. If he wakes…would it still be warm and safe and peaceful? Somehow, he doubts it. But at the same time…something prevents him from simply letting himself drift into that dark oblivion.
'You're being very troublesome, you know.'
It was a familiar voice, and he feels he should know it.
'Haa…you're worrying everyone, you know. You need to wake up; we're all waiting.'
Doubt. He doesn't really want to leave if that means not being warm and safe.
'Immature as usual,' the voice sounds teasing before sobering as it continued, gently coaxing him. 'But you do need to wake up. It'll be alright.'
He doubts this.
'Come on,' the voice cajoles. 'So what if you won't be safe? Think of all the things you'd be missing out on! All the adventures!'
Adventures…?
'That's right. Adventures. And besides…Feliciano's here, waiting. Do you really want to keep him waiting and worried?'
Feliciano…?
Realization hits him like a freight train. Feliciano is waiting for him?
'Yeah. And if you just stay here, you won't ever see him again.'
If that doesn't decide for him, nothing else ever would. He wouldn't leave Feliciano waiting; that wasn't what heroes did.
With great effort, Alfred F. Jones, anthropomorphic personification of the United States of America, opened his eyes.
:::
(But at the same time, so does great joy.)
:::
It isn't until the next G8 meeting that England sees his wayward ward/foster son/something-no-one-even-wanted-to-touch.
He is in a wheelchair, being pushed by Italy, who is in turn walking with Japan and Cando—Candada-Canadia. That's it. Canadia!—who in turn tease the complaining American.
They baby him outrageously throughout the meeting, and it isn't until Russia makes a nonchalant insult toward the American that they get their first warning.
"Интересно, что жир гамбургер идиот сделал на этот раз? Должно быть, характерно для него…"
He gets a bullet whizzing dangerously close to his ear for his trouble. Italy glowers dangerously at him, pistol still aimed at the Russian. "Be careful what you say, Russia," he says coldly. "I might not miss next time."
/End.\
Yeah. Here it is: the oneshot promised to 91RedRoses so long ago, that I simply couldn't find inspiration for until a few nights ago when I had an idea about a BAMF!Italy in a pseudo-KHR crossover, since BAMF-y-ness is so easy in KHR. Sorry it took so long, it's just that every time I wrote it out before this, it just seemed harsh and contrived and not at all good.
So…yeah.
I hope you like!
Also, translations for the Russian is below. I'm not including the Italian, since it was pretty foul and I don't think any of you want horrible, machine translated Italian cussing.
"Интересно, чтожиргамбургеридиотсделалнаэтотраз? Должнобыть, характернодлянего…"—" I wonder what the fat hamburger idiot did this time? Must have been characteristic of him..." (Russian)
And now onto the endnotes!
*This is because one man can't live forever, so I imagine Lovino has repeatedly faked his death and being his own kid. Hence Vargas Settimo (which translates to Vargas Seventh).
** This is otherwise known as Heparin, an anticoagulant that is injected. I did extensive research into different poisons and chemicals that I could use, until a friend of my mom (who is a nurse, and he friend is also a nurse) suggested an anticoagulant, like Coumadin or Heparin, and I ultimately went with Heparin since it went a little better with the flow of the story. And yes, I did extensive research into Heparin as well, so I'm fairly sure my info is correct on this one. An overdose, such as the one featured here, will, in fact, kill you within an hour as the drug metabolizes, but it can be neutralized with a slow drip of protamine sulfate (1% solution).
*** This scene is because I picture Lithuania being the medic out of all of them. And yes, I do have a headcannon for APH/KHR crossovers where all of the nations have Flame potential. Lithuania is a Sun, obviously.
Also, a great deal of the concepts from within the parentheses are taken from or inspired by Araceil's own ideas upon the concepts, which quite frankly fascinate me. I don't own those. (And if you haven't read her fic Brightly Burning, go do it. Now, I command thee!)
Aside from that…whew. I started writing this at one in the morning a few days ago when I first had inspiration for this, and it kind of ran away on its own, transforming into the monstrosity you see above. In the end it turned out to be more of a BAMF!Italy plus the rest of the gang, but still. I hope I did well.
Also, Artemio Aciai is an OC I came up with to fill a gap in the story. His last name literally means 'axe man' while his first name is derived from the Greek Goddess Artemis, goddess of the Moon, the Hunt, etc. I thought it fit, somewhat.
R&R, please!
~Happy Camper27