A/N: Just a little thing I wrote for feels friday when I should have been working on DYSRM. Oops.
Veneziano shut the door behind him, trying to make as little sound as possible. The room was dark as the thick shades had been drawn over the window, blocking out the bright afternoon light. His eyes fell on the cold bowl of pasta that stood on the bedside table, untouched. A flicker of disapproving worry clouded his normally sunny features for a moment, but the Italian forced himself to smile as he walked over to the bed. "You should eat, fratellone. You'll fall sick if you don't."
The man in the bed was the exact spitting image of him, though his hair was a shade darker, and his pallor a shade paler. When he shifted and opened his eyes, he revealed another disparity. Dull olive green eyes stared unseeingly at Veneziano before Romano turned away. "Stupido fratellino," he muttered, his voice quivering with the effort of speaking. "I'm already sick." Veneziano's frowned, but he didn't saying anything about it.
"You'll get better," He assured, trying to keep his voice from shaking too much. "Are you comfortable? Do you want anything?" Veneziano was fussing about, adjusting the sheets and setting things straight, trying to give himself something to do. The feather-light touches and rustling began to annoy Romano, rousing him every time he was about to drift off into sleep. He was feeling dizzy, slightly disoriented, and the elder Italian wanted nothing but to escape into the oblivion of unconsciousness.
Finally he snapped, "Just get in!" Veneziano froze where he was, staring incomprehensively at his brother. Sighing, Romano held up a corner of the blanket and gestured impatiently, "It's almost time for your siesta, right? Get in and sleep." Veneziano grinned and slid quickly onto the mattress, tugging the sheet up so that it reached his chin. "Don't expect me to be this nice all the time, got that? It's just for today!"
"Ve, okay!" Veneziano yawned, "Grazie, fratello." It didn't take long for his eyes to flutter shut, and his breaths to deepen. Romano watched him sleep, fighting the urge to dose off. Even in the darkness, he could see the shadows under his eyes and the crease on his brows. The last few years had been hard on them both, with his struggling economy and the acqua alto over in Venice. Veneziano had done his best, covering up what he couldn't handle and supporting him with his smiles. Back then, Romano hadn't wanted to acknowledge him, but now he couldn't imagine being Italy without his brother.
Oh, Italy.
When he was gone, Veneziano would be fine. Even if he couldn't handle everything at once, there would be that potato loving bastard to help him. Most of them already called him Italy anyway, never just Veneziano. It was always Italy, Italy, Italy. What about him? It seemed that they only knew him as Romano. 'I'm Italy too!' He thought belligerently. As a sudden spasm rocked his body, all the indignance drained out of him. Not anymore, the ache in his chest reminded him, he wouldn't be Italy for much longer. His eyes drifted over to his brother yet again. Veneziano hadn't let it show, but the acqua alto was getting worse every year. He hid it so well that not even those Axis allies of his knew. But Romano could tell, he could feel the echoes of the liquid that pooled in his lungs, of waking up in the middle of the night, gasping for breath but finding none. There would always be that connection between them which Veneziano couldn't hide. He was brave, and also too selfless for his own good. At least their unification would do him some good- the younger Italian's suffering would be alleviated.
Everything was set. All the loose ends had been tied up, and even though he was going to die, Italy would survive. With that thought in mind, Romano reached for his brother's hand and fell asleep.
Hours later, Italy woke up alone, one hand outstretched over an empty space, with his palm still tingling from a lingering warmth.