Well, this is sort of the third chapter to Secrets in the Basement that I promised, except I'm putting it as a oneshot. I hope you enjoy it!
Again, this only has the slightest basis in history. It's more based on the characters.
I don't own Hetalia! end /AN/
The room was quiet as Italy ventured into it. He knew he only had so long, so long before he wouldn't see him again for some time. The air was all too clean, so sanitary it practically burned the nostrils breathing it in. The room was white, and slightly off-color, like the teeth of an elderly coffee drinker.
Why did he have to be here? It was not as though he had seen his friend in recently. He had not, not in years. It was not as though they had been on the same side. They certainly were not. It was not as though this had been an accident. And yet, here he was, with flowers, as though it were a simple injury.
He was here because they had so much in common. They had been so close under Napoleon, hand in hand, fighting for the exact same relief from other countries' rule. He had been sure they might as well have been brothers, they were so much closer than him and his real brother. Nothing had been more precious then, no friendship stronger.
So why had this happened? Who could have deserved it less? These questions plagued his memory, dredging up uncomfortable feelings. You allowed this to happen, his mind whispered darkly, If you had payed attention, looked deeper, you would have noticed. If you had only looked past the mask of the man you loved...
And sometimes, he believed it was true. He believed that he was somehow at fault here, that he could have done something if he had only known, if he had only looked deeper. He knew the entire world was reeling, with the information that the end of the war had brought them.
Nothing would ever be the same again. And nothing of this proportion would ever happen again, if any of the nations could help it. But that didn't change what had happened, and now, he would have to face it for the first time. The ugly truth he had not noticed.
"Poland... How are you feeling?" Italy walked up slowly to the bed, which a frail body, almost lost among the sheets and blankets, inhabited. Poland's eyes were open, staring at him dully, almost as though he did not recognize him. Italy reached forward, wrapping his hand around Poland's thin, boney fingers.
"Like, not so good... Did I die...?" Poland's words were slow, and a little slurred, as though he had forgotten how to speak in the hell he'd endured. Which, it was almost surprising he had not died. Any nation who had not been Poland would have, Italy was sure. Poland was the hardiest nation he had ever met, his tiny exterior masking a steel will to survive.
"No, no... You didn't die. You're alr... You're alive, you're alive." He couldn't say Poland was alright. He couldn't even be sure Poland would ever be alright. Poland smiled weakly, fingers tightening their hold on Italy's hand slightly.
"Oh... That's totally good... Hey, where are we...?" Italy gently stroked the back of Poland's hand with his thumb, continuing to hold it. "You're in a hospital. You were really badly hurt, ve..."
Poland let out a long breath, staring at the ceiling blankly. Then his face contorted in memory. "Oh... Oh, I remember. Italy, where are we? Is the war over? Am I safe?" His voice had quickly risen in panic, as he looked around the room in horror, as though he expected to see Germany at any second, coming to rip him from the soft bed and throw him back into a prison camp.
"You're safe, it's okay..." Italy said comfortingly, leaning forward and wrapping an arm around Poland, drawing him in for a one armed hug. Poland was taking shallow breaths, and he buried his face into Italy's shoulder. "Oh, Italy, if you had been there... If you had seen... No one should ever have to die that way!"
And Italy could feel Poland's shaking body against his, as the nation began to cry. He realised that maybe, this was the first time Poland had really had an opportunity to cry on someone's shoulder, and so he let go of his hand and brought his other arm around him. "Sh... It's okay, you're fine now, it's alright... No one else is going to die," he promised softly, one of his hands stroking the back of Poland's head.
Poland began to sob, a flood of emotions consuming him. Italy could feel a very unusual amount of bitterness within himself as his shirt slowly got wetter. How could Germany have done this to Poland? To his own good friend? Why hadn't he simply kept him prisoner, like normal people were supposed to?
But if this war had proven anything, it was that there was something about Germany that was not normal. It wasn't his fault, Italy was sure. Germany could not have really have done something like this without something strange compelling him to. No one could have done this without a demon-posessed leader.
"Italy... What's going to happen to me?" Poland's voice was small and shaky. He was scared. He was scared to be alone, and he was scared to be with someone like Germany. Italy swallowed the lump in his throat. "Let's not talk about it," he pleaded, stroking Poland's hair faster. He did not want to think about where his friend was going, and he didn't want Poland to have to think about it right now either.
Poland shook his head, spreading the wetness on Italy's shirt. "No, I need to know..." he insisted, hands clutching Italy's lapels. "I need to know what is going to happen to me." His voice was firmer than before, but still held traces of terror and helplessness. Italy sighed, pursing his lips. He really did not want to be the one to tell Poland what had been decided, but it seemed as though now he had no other option.
"You'll be in Russia's care," he said quietly, head bowed slightly. Poland's lower lip trembled, before he out, face pale with a combination of anger and fear. "They can't do that! Russia's one of the ones who attacked me, he hates me! I don't want to be in that fat bastard's care!"
Italy quickly tried to shush him, face a little pained. "Russia's just down the hall, he might hear you!" Poland's eyes were beaded up with angry tears. "I don't care, I'm not going with him! Tell them I won't go with him! You have to tell them!"
Poland was not only angry, Italy could see, but afraid as well. And who wouldn't be? Russia was not known for being gentle, or nice. He was known, instead, for his cruelty, his insanity, and Poland had experienced some of that. He had not been with Russia when the man went insane, but Russia had been cruel before that, brutally suppressing Poland and his culture.
But things had to be this way, which Italy knew he had to impress on Poland. "You have to go, I'm sorry, there's nothing I, or anyone else, can do. He asked for you, and nobody dares to refuse him, not even America."
Poland shook his head violently, wincing at the pain caused by the action. "I won't go!" Italy sighed, wanting to side with his friend more than anything, and keep him out of Russia's grasp, but a painful twinge of the heart reminded him it simply wasn't an option.
"It won't be forever; eventually, you won't even need his help," he said, taking Poland's hands in his. "So, please, you can't fight it. You're too hurt; please don't hurt yourself anymore." His eyes were searching Poland's, pleading with him for a favorable response. Poland bit his lip, causing the dehydrated skin to crack. "But I don't want to go... Italy..."
"It'll only be so long, and then you and I will celebrate together, when you're back on your feet," Italy promised softly, and Poland's eyes were downcast. Italy knew that the blonde was very near giving in, not necessarily because there was so much sense in his words, but because Poland's situation was dawning on him, and he knew that even though he didn't like it, even though he hated it, there was nothing he could do to stop Russia.
"I'll do it, but I won't like it," Poland finally said, shoulders slumping in defeat. And at that moment, Italy felt hate run through his veins at the desolate look on his friend's face. Poland did not deserve to look so unhappy, so despairing, like he'd run out of options. No matter what Germany was, he was wrong.
Italy let go of the hatred when he felt Poland's arms circle around him, hands lightly settling on his back. "And we'll totally go shopping when I feel better, k?" Italy couldn't help but smile, nodding. It was then he knew Poland would be fine.
/AN/ I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did! Review if you liked, because I might attempt more Poland/Italy friendship if enough people like this story!