Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, HetaOni or Ao Oni. Thank you.
How she came here, to the mansion was still a mystery to him. She wasn't a nation and he had never seen her before in his life. She hadn't been in the first or second or even the third time loop. No it was somewhere around the eighteenth loop when she first appeared. Although that must have been have been forty loops or so ago.
Italy could only remember faintly his life before the mansion. He remembered that he had had a huge fight with America, England, France and China, although he no longer remembered exactly why. He couldn't quite remember the country that liked to play the piano, although he felt that he should have. Italy did remember the happier days, when he smiled so much and had so much joy and an innocence that didn't seem right, given the fact that he was a Nation and his hands were stained red.
She had appeared, randomly standing in the front hall, eyes bright with a young sort of blood lust, and Italy, who had gone through the deaths several times, hoped that this would be the time he succeeded, for her sake at least. Petite, small, dark hair pulled back from a slender face, eyes a beautiful brown, sword strapped to her hip. She wore a black turtle-neck sweater and pale stone-washed jeans. And then she had looked at him, her eyes scanned his face and in those few moments she seemed to have looked deeper than his friends had ever managed. She seemed to understand his pain, his repeating loss, and then she had spoken. "Hope," she said, stepping forward and presenting her hand.
Italy had taken it, grasped in lightly and answered. "Feliciano Vargas."
Those two sentences had changed it all.
Feliciano had been forced to watch her death more times than he wanted to admit. She was strong and fast, but a mortal. She did not have the Nations' years of military strategies stashed away in her mind, she was only quick, fast and very aware of the fragile human life she had been given. And so Feliciano turned back time, each time, having somewhere in the depths of his mind decided she counted. He would not only get all the Nations out, but, he concluded, he would also help the girl.
Pretty soon, she was a friend, a friend, bound together as she put it, "Friends by trauma."
It was always hard, going back, knowing things about her, her death often still ringing in his ears, the way the light would leave them, the way her head would loll. He would stand there, shaking her hand, the same way he had countless loops ago and fight back the tears the prickled at the corners of his eyes. Because in this time, he had just met her, in this time he could not be her caring friend, not yet.
Things were going well this time; a small part of his mind knew it was going too well. While they were all battered and tired the Thing hadn't killed anyone yet. They were living.
"Hope," Italy forced his eyes to meet hers, knowing what he would see even before he turned. He would see the choppy cut strands of her hair, the black blood that stained her face, the undersides of her nails and the stone-wash of her jeans. But more than that, the thing he loved most about her, the part that reminded him of happier days; her eyes. A deep dark brown, they had always seemed innocent, filled with joy and pointless optimism.
There had been many times Italy had wished he hadn't been so happy. It was hard; leading them to what could be their deaths. It was so hard to watch and keep smiling, because every time they yelled for him to run, every time they tried to help protect the helpless Italy they knew, Italy found every time it was harder. It was harder to keep the smile from slipping; it was harder for him not to yell. To snap to break, but she gave him hope.
Her eyes had always held a cheerful light to them, but as the hours stretched and the stains on her clothes grew it had faded. The more times the Thing had disappeared, the more it had dulled. And now so close to the end, Italy knew it would not be there. The mansion, the Thing, he had killed it, leaving something dull, lifeless and desperate in its place.
"Yeah Feli?" Hope asked. She was very tired; Italy realized with a bit of a start, there was a heavy strain in her voice that he hadn't noticed before.
"Hope, I-" Italy searched for the right words.
He was caught off guard as she frowned deeply and hissed one word, it sounded hoarse. "Steve."
The expressions of their friends instantly changed. Their eyes went wide, the little color in their faces left.
"Germany!" Italy ordered, "Take the rest and run. I'll hold him off!"
Germany nodded, no longer finding it odd to taking orders from the once cowardly white flag waving country.
Italy took off, running down the hall from which they had come. He heard footsteps and quickly turned, seeing Hope coming after him.
"You won't be alone," she said, speeding up as she read his expression and pushing past him roughly.
Italy stumbled and slowed to regain his balance. "Wait Hope!" he took off after her, silently praying that she'd be alright.
He heard cries from the hallway and turned to see Hope stumble, clutching at her shoulder. The wound ran the length of her arm and stretched to the right side of her neck just about parallel to her collarbone. Some of her older wounds had been reopened and were now dripping onto her muddied black sweater. The bright, fresh blood was in complete contrast with her quickly paling skin.
She stumbled, feet tangling, tripping her. Hope crumpled to the ground, head lolling to rest on the hardwood floor, blood pooling from a head wound.
Italy felt blood rise to his face, flushing it a hot red. The edges of his vision turned blurry and red. He had been so close, so close and then this.
He sped up, bringing the pole that his white flag had once flown from to bash into the Thing's head.
"You ruined it, I hope you rot in hell," Italy informed the Thing as he dealt it a hard blow to the head. The Thing gave him a rough look before disappearing. The only trace left was the black blood covering the lower half of his body and the stilling form of his friend.
"Hope," Italy felt his heart sink. He was so close. "I'll get you out of this, I promise. . ." he doesn't say that it'll have to be the next time, the next time loop, but for some reason, Hope smiled.
"No Italy," Hope said, her voice rasping. She gripped his hand with surprising strength. "Not this time, nor the next. You must get out, all of you. It's best this way. Get out while you can."
Italy frowned. In all the loops he had known her, even though sooner or later she was told, Hope had never used his country name, opting to call him Feliciano or Feli instead. She claimed it made everything more normal and addressed all the countries by their human names, she said that calling them their country names would feel plain odd.
"Italy listen," her voice was pained and rushed. "Italy this is the end, someone has to die and I won't let it be you. Besides, you can get everyone out, I'm afraid it's just too late for me."
Italy clutched her hand, feeling it grow ice cold. He not care that his pants were now drenched in her blood. He did not notice the tears that dripped down his face, his eyes and attention were focused entirely on her.
"It-ta-ly," Hope spoke slowly, harsh gasps between each syllable. "I lied . . . my name is not Hope."
Italy cut her off softly. "It doesn't matter; you'll always be my Hope."
Italy meant this in many ways. Sure, when he pictured her, Hope would be the name that would forever be associated with her face, but she had also given him so much hope too. Even when even when she fell, even when the time looped, ever since the eighteenth loop she had been there.
Hope smiled. "Thank you, I wish you the very best of luck, in everything. And Feliciano?"
"Yeah Hope?" Italy felt his voice catch, knowing that those few sentences would be her last.
"Have fun at that party, okay?"
"I will Hope, I will," Italy promised. "Ti amo Hope, ti amo," Italy whispered brushing blood away from the corners of her mouth.
"Love you too Feli. I will always be with you, no matter what," Hope smiled once more. The light faded from her brown eyes, making the once lively color distant and glassy. Her head lolled as he shifted her slightly in his arms and stood.
Italy found that he could carry her easily, despite his former dislike of training and anything manual. This realization brought tears to his eyes as he knew Hope would have fought him quite fiercely if he had tried to carry her. But she stayed still and unmoving in his arms.
A mind-numbing rage filled his mind. She was dead, Steve had killed her. As much as he wanted to try again, turn it back, he knew somewhere in his heart that it wouldn't work. Someone had to die for the others to live and that was just the beginning.
He reached the room, it was white. Not red, not like all the other times. But then he had to meet their eyes, the other countries; they would be saddened of course, but to them, she had just been a girl they only knew for a few hours. To him, he had known her much longer, throughout the loops, time after time. He knew her favorite color, her dream job, her family. Italy had known her, but she was gone.
As he entered he watched their faces fall, but it was not enough. They did not realize that she had given everything. She had given everything to achieve something that he could not.
He met his brother's eyes. Romano out of all of them understood the most; he felt the memories of his brother. He understood.
And then from the corner of his eyes, he saw her, ghostly, mostly translucent, but smiling, the bright light in her eyes.
"Go now Feli," her voice wreathed around him, echoing in his ears accompanied by a warm breeze.
Italy nodded slightly, still carrying her. He reached out and picked up the key.
"I'm leaving now," he announced to his friends, the ghostly Hope and the empty mansion. Italy saw a smile flash across her face; she knew he would never return to the clock. With that smile on her face, she dissolved, but Italy knew she was leaving the mansion too, after all, she promised to never leave him.
But really, it didn't matter; she'd always be his Hope.