Italian Blood
"Doitsu! Doitsu! Will you come to bed now?" shouted Italy from under the covers. "I even have the condoms and Vaseline ready like you said!"
Italy had waited all of WWII for this moment. This epiphany from Germany that Italy was the one for him. But every time he got close, Germany chickened out, using excuses like: "Italy, it won't slide if you don't use Vaseline." Or "We'll get AIDS if we don't use a condom." Who still cared about "AIDS"? Arthur and Alfred never used condoms, and as far as he knew (which wasn't very far) they didn't have AIDS.
"I can't do it Feliciano, I have to plan the invasion of Poland at the moment. Maybe when we win." What nerve. Ludwig had put this off too long. It was time to do something about it. And Italy knew just what to do.
"If you don't get your fucking ass over here, I will cut myself I swear!"
"You say that every time Feliciano. You know you won't really do it!"
"This time I will! You've put it off over 34 times, and we've only done it twice. I know because I tally them up. I actually went to Romano once. And you know what? That felt good. You never let me lick your curl; you don't even have one! Anyways, I'm done with it! Where are the scissors I use for arts and crafts?"
Germany sighed. He knew Italy would never have the guts to actually let his own blood flow out of his veins. He was too soft and wouldn't be able to take it.
"They're in the drawer with the string and glue. Just know that you won't ever really use them!"
"Thank you Doitsu! I love you Doitsu!" responded Italy, thinking this might distract Germany for a while. He walked slowly to the kitchen, hoping Japan was out getting groceries so that he wouldn't see Italy's extremely small package. He peeked around the corner and noticed that Japan was nowhere to be found, and walked with a vacant expression towards the arts and crafts drawer. He opened the drawer with excruciating lethargy, and dragged the scissors upward, examining the dried glue on the side. He silently hoped that the insanitariness might give him an infection. That would teach Germany!
He held the scissors as Germany had taught him, the blade in his hand, pointing down, and dragged his feet to the bedroom. As he sat down on the bed, he thought of how much Germany hated him. He knew that he would never be enough for Germany.
"Whenever, I want pasta, he wants liverwurst instead."
Italy made the first incision in his skin. He opened up the scissors and slid them right across the top of his wrist.
"Whenever he asks me what to do if Alfred captures me, I don't answer correctly."
He made another cut. He felt the warmth flowing down his arm, splattering the bed.
"And worst of all, he won't impale me!"
At these words, he made the deepest cut of all, and felt a little bone beneath the sharp edge of metal. His arm was quickly turning red. It was warm and felt just like the thick white stuff that came out of Romano's penis.
"This isn't so bad Doitsu! You know, once you get past all the pain."
"What the fuck are you talking about Feliciano?" Germany said as if he was talking to a little kid.
"I'm talking about the blood on my arm that's quickly staining your baby blue sheets Doitsu!"
"What? You're lying Feliciano!"
"No I'm not Doitsu! Come and see if you don't believe!"
Germany sighed. This work was tiresome. Maybe he'd see what Italy was up to and possibly pleasure him once he'd calmed Italy down. He walked to the bedroom and saw Italy sitting on the bed, his face twisted in pain, the scissors completely red from the blood on his arm.
"How could you do this Feliciano? You ruined my sheets! That'll cost a fortune to fix! You idiot!"
"I knew you didn't love me Doitsu!" shouted Italy, grabbing the scissors off the bed and slicing open another line on the top of his arm. "I can't do anything right anymore! I'm just not worth it!" The pain was excruciating, but Italy didn't care. He would do anything to punish himself for not being good enough.
"Feliciano stop! You'll die of blood loss if you keep it up!" Germany was actually scared by now, and not bothering with the sheets reached for the scissors, but Italy pulled them away.
"No Doitsu! I'm keeping the scissors, and there's nothing you can do about it!" Italy ran out of the room, leaving a trail of blood spatters in his wake. He ran and ran and ran, hoping that he might find Japan in the market.
On the way, he realized that everyone was laughing at him. The tears began to flow down his cheeks more quickly than the blood on his arm. This was not okay with Italy, and so he drew another line in his arm. It was only then that he realized why they were laughing at him. In his rush to get away from Germany, he'd forgotten to put on clothes. This just added to his fire, and he began carving a shape into his arm.
It was a swastika.