AN: MATURE FOR EXTREME GORE AND SENSITAVE MATERIAL. DLDR. Might be a tad depressing. A thank you to all those who put up with my pointless moaning about my writing style, I hope you can all forgive me. The following events are fictional and not based on any real political situations. Credit and thank yous go to Froggy and Gab for the storyline and to the skype/iscribble role play group for the inspiration and drive to do it all those months ago. For translations see the bottom of the fic, any corrections are welcome as I'm not a speaker of either Latin or Italian.
He had feared this would happen.
They had all feared this would happen.
China was the first major power to go. Whilst the war effort had stopped North Korean advances, it didn't take long for the virus, a biological super weapon the Koreans had developed, to spread through the larger nation. Overpopulation and the heat drove the infection south, causing a sudden burst across the neighboring countries, flooding India and the Asian sibling nations. The virus was spreading faster than nations could shut themselves off from the world, it grew out of control, and it went wild.
America had been there. America had been there from the beginning. His forces had moved on North Korea just as soon as the Chinese. It was a suicide mission, soon the men learnt that when they were infected they'd not be granted leave to home, and as men refused to fight, so the bombs began to fall.
Any hope that the Koreans had an antidote were dashed as soon as the smoke cleared.
Things fell apart even more once the Russians became involved, who had supported North Korea from the sidelines and now, in their frustration of defeat, the nation opened its arms to the virus. Some infected themselves, some gave up. Either way the country had become hell bent on taking down everyone they could. People for years to come would assume this was a mad man's mission, but it wasn't until they discovered the Russian's believed they had the cure, did the poor few countries who remained know why.
Security increased. Airports were closed. Countries isolated themselves for fear of contamination.
However, that only slowed the infection.
Throughout history, Europe had always been the target, always been the continent with the most conflict. So did it really make it any different now? Any different now that the power had been shifted further east and west? No... That just made Europe something different. This made Europe the space in between, this made Europe 'No man's land'.
After the infection had taken out South America, the European nations were essentially surrounded. All imports of food had to be closed off, only some of the luckier nations dared to trade between neighbours. It was only a matter of waiting before one of the countries became diseased.
It started at Turkey, immigrants fleeing from the Middle East came baring the disease. People would pass on the tale of how a couple of cowards had essentially brought upon the downfall of Europe, their plague caught the Turks off guard, who had believed themselves impenetrable. Soon after Turkey, Greece fell, and the Russians got to their neighbouring former soviet states.
Belarus, Latvia, Estonia, Finland, Ukraine... They all fell.
Albania, Macedonia, Bulgaria, Serbia, Romania... They didn't stand a chance.
The panic started.
As soon as Lithuania began to fall, Poland foolishly rushed to aid. Security standards quickly became forgotten as people became crazed. Those who stayed died. Those who fled were either killed or turned away.
In the cold the virus spread slowly.
In the heat the virus thrives.
There was nothing they could do for Italy by the time anyone knew they were infected.
He had seen Mexico, seen him in the American quarantine tents, just before they burnt any remains on the Texan border where the great disaster had struck hardest. They had told him that Mexico had been shot on sight as he fled across the border; they told him that they all had. There was nothing the Americans could do and they had to make sure of their own survival too, especially after Canada's subside. He didn't blame him, but that didn't stop the agony that followed in grief.
The sight of Mexico's body hadn't been pretty. He looked starved, ribs protruding oddly through the bloodstained and tattered remains of his shirt. There were black and blue swells scattered around anywhere that hadn't already been bleeding, and any skin that did show was a grotesque shade of saturated yellow. The former colony's hair was a mess, Spain had to hold back whatever compelled him to comb it back and scold the nation for letting it get that way, it was streaked lightly with grey and a thick crusted layer of dead skin was gathered at the roots. He couldn't look at the younger nation's face. It was almost as if the former nation of Mexico, the former New Spain, had been rotting for weeks before his death.
There was no word from Argentina, nor any of his old American colonies, and no one dared venture beyond the safe zones.
All of the Spaniard's children were gone.
All of them.
He couldn't let South Italy go too.
The other nations had called him stupid. They had yelled at him, pleaded at him to rethink, but his eyes had turned steely and he had not listened. He wasn't like the German, he wasn't going to stand there and watch as Italy fell. After all, wasn't it clear that there was only so much time before they would all be destroyed?
And Spain was only a stone's throw away from Africa.
Antonio wasn't sure when he'd lost hope; when he had seen so many people who still held it close. So many of his people still tried to survive, still tried to help, and still prayed desperately for a miracle. Perhaps it was when he started seeing the effects on his fellow nations, or when he started seeing friends, family, and lovers fight against each other for life; killing one another in the process. Maybe it was once the panic started, once any order which the countries could cling to crumbled beneath their fingertips.
He had heard that Portugal stopped praying the day he heard about Brazil, the same day he started to cough.
Lovino would kill him for this.
The Lovino he knew would yell at him; would tell him he's a bastard, a stupid bastard who seems to think that the other needs his help. He would look at him with a fire in his eyes, a fire that could easily be confused for hate, for anger, for disgust. However, the Spanish nation knew him better than that. He had, after all, spent years, decades, centuries protecting the Italian nation, guiding the smaller country, supporting him and loving him.
This was not the Italy brother he knew, this Italy was dying.
Spain found them together, the grand walls and roof of the Sistine Chapel rising high above them, untouched by the decay of the modern world. For a moment everything was normal as Antonio's eyes swept across the fine artwork that decorated the cold stone. For a moment he was taken back, he could still remember the smell of the paint, see the bubbling excitement that was clear in Romano's young face, and the red that slowly spread across it when he realised what was being painted.
He looked so different now. He hadn't just grown, he had aged, and rapidly too.
It had been easy to tell there was something wrong, and not just by the field of bodies that scattered across the roads outside the Vatican. The fact that the majority appeared to be suicides was what had alarmed him most. The city was like a ghost town, there were no survivors, or at least none visible, he hoped. The Spaniard panicked. Was he too late? Was everyone already dead?
It was so quiet.
The chapel door had been barricaded; a small litter of cardinals lay about it as though they were useless dolls, cold hands still appearing to claw at the door even in death. Antonio did not try the door, instead making his way around the building, searching for a window, a side door, anything that he could break through. By the time he had found his way in he could already feel fatigue approaching, there wasn't long, and everything was silent, too silent.
His footsteps had echoed across the vast open space as he walked towards the aisle. Every time his sole made contact with the marble floor felt like a hard swallow, he felt like something was clenching tighter and tighter to his gut.
He had then noticed the blood.
There was blood on the floor.
And then he heard the chanting.
His heart began racing, pounding, beating against his ribcage. The Spaniard's head snapped up from the floor, trying desperately to locate the faint sound before it disappeared. Where was it? Who was it? Was Lovino here? Was he safe? Was he okay?
Hurrying down the aisle, feet faltering on the horrifying liquid, Spain barely made it to the gateway standing.
"...istam sanctan unctionem..."
The voice sent chills down his spine. It was raw, it was hoarse, it sounded like every sound it uttered was ripping a new hole in the speaker's body.
"...piissimam misericordiam..."
The Spaniard stared, ahead of him was the altar, its regal decorations scattered across the floor and the table cloth tugged away. It looked like there had been a struggle, something had happened, something important. Antonio's heart skipped a beat.
"... Dominus"
Only just in view, poking out from behind the alter, he could just about see a pair of bruised, unclothed feet.
"Per istam sanctan unctionem et suam piissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus"
Someone was moving Antonio's legs.
Some ungodly power had pushed the nation forward, or rather pulled him, down the aisle towards the altar. It must have been some other force, because the Spaniard felt he couldn't move an inch. Yet there he was, marching slowly towards the scene. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't blink, he couldn't even swallow as tonnes upon tonnes of dread fell on his heart.
He had been too late, hadn't he...?
He was now alone, wasn't he...?
The closer he got, the better he could see the damage. The blood from the entrance had intensified to the point he was sure he saw a large puddle of the liquid and, Antonio took a moment to gag, a sickly mess of grey bile and mucus mixed among it. The altar's cloth had smears of blood where it had been tugged at, there was a knife glistening ominously amongst the folds.
"...Requescant in pace..."
Something inside the Spaniards mind brought him back to reality.
Where was the chanting coming from?
"... R.." The brunette tested his voice, barely above a whisper. "...Romano...?"
There was silence.
"...ques... cant in..." There was a heavy cough and perhaps a sob that seemed to reverberate around the walls for an eternity. "-pace..."
Whoever it was who was here, they were alive, if they were a citizen of Italy that meant that Romano could be alive too. And if it weren't a citizen of Italy, then it could only be the one he was here looking for.
With this new affirmation of hope, the Spanish nation took a few hurried steps until he was around the altar and looking directly down at—
It wasn't Romano's feet he had seen, though the poor nation was there, clinging desperately to the clothes of the other behind the altar.
It wasn't South Italy.
"Che cazzo ci fai qui?" The brunette's head snapped around and he leapt back, scrambling somewhat to his feet, cursing as he left the other body exposed and then exploding into a ringing chorus of choking coughs.
It was the other one...
It was Feliciano.
The image of the North Italian's fresh body had barely burnt into his mind before he found himself being shoved back. Slipping on the sea of crimson liquid, Antonio fell back gasping deep gulps of breath, the shock shaking his entire body.
"Prendi il cazzo via da qui! Non avvicinarti! Immondo! Heathen!"
The former Spanish empire's eyes leapt up to the face of his assailant, his dear Romano, and he almost cried out in horror. If the sound of his voice hadn't been enough to let dread creep over him then the gaunt, grey skin and blood smeared face of his former protectorate had been. The poor boy's eyes were darkened, a sickly mix of yellow and crimson red contrasted revoltingly against his once beautiful hazel iris', and they appeared to have sunk into his skull so far that he had permanent rings of black around them. His cheeks were hollowed and ghastly, allowing the cheekbones to protrude out at an ugly angle. And those lips, those lips that the Spaniard had spent his life longing to kiss, were cracked, bloodied and torn at the sides, one of which had become infected and was excreting a puss like substance with every movement of the other's lips.
"Lo non ti lascerò lo porti da me, non voglio! Ha bisogno del vostro aiuto! Ha solo bisogno di me! Ti aiuto io! I'll do it better! Ci arriveremo attraverso questo! Basta guardare, non abbiamo bisogno del vostro aiuto! "
The voice was quiet and hoarse beyond belief, yet its intention was screamed through Antonio's head. Each word was like a last breath, gasping and barely audible. Some words weren't heard at all, Romano's mouth forming the speech yet none would come out of the boy. The very sight, the very sound, made Spain want to cry.
The Italian's eyes had a gaze of crazed fury. It wasn't the kind Antonio was used to, this looked like genuine anger, twisted, unhinged, but genuine anger. As he let the words echo endlessly in his mind the Spaniard forced himself to his feet, aware that Lovino would probably attempt to attack him again if he so much as moved from his spot.
"Sono il fratello più grande, quindi dovrei badare a lui! Se sei cazzo mi ascolta? "
There was a desperation that Spain had never known in the other's voice. The demands seemed to be told as if the other's very existence depended on it.
Antonio's eyes fell back on the other Italy, whose body was soaked in blood, crusted in places. Oh Romano, he thought pitifully, how long have you been over his body repeating his last rites? The wounds on the Italian however, were not generated by the disease, they appeared self inflicted. Spain remembered the knife, and pieces began to fall into place.
He stepped forward.
"Non toccarlo!"The ghostly form of Lovino screamed, voice actually giving his emotion justice for once before breaking in to another tearing rapture of coughing. "Tu ... tu lo... ammazzo!"
Sadness gripped the elder nation's heart, and he felt as though someone had reached inside and torn it away from him. Feliciano had clearly been dead for hours if not a day.
"Roma..." The old nickname sticking even in such circumstances, "He's not... Feliciano he's-"
"Non è morto!" The Italian's sudden scream, stilled the Spaniard's tongue. "Lui non è! Lui non lo è! Stai zitto! Stai zitto! Stai zitto! Stai zitto!"
Romano's hands flew up to his ears, screaming the same words again and again until he made no sound at all. Blood seeped from his abused lips and fell to the floor as he continued to scream in his mind. Then the young nation's body seized up, eyes flinging wide open and he fell to the floor, coughing turned to retching and it wasn't soon before more blood decorated the chapel.
Spain wanted to help but found he couldn't do a thing but watch.
It felt like an eternity before the cries finally ceased.
"Roma... Romano..." Antonio's horrified eyes finally moved from the space they'd unfocused at and glued to the Italian's arched back. His only response was harsh breathing, filling the humid, stale smelling air. The Spaniard moved to him, crouching beside him, more concerned for the victim than the foul hot liquid seeping into the knees of his trousers. "Shh... Romano... I-I'm here... "
The older man reached out apprehensively to touch the boy's shoulder. He wanted to comfort him.
A hand twisted its way up to stop him, bony and dry. Spain noticed the skin had become rough under his fingers, some dead parts flaked away from his touch, but any new flesh that was discovered was just as old as the rest.
The yells started again, even in the nation's present state.
"Scappare. Vattene via! Non ho bisogno di aiuto, non abbiamo bisogno di aiuto. Andate via! Chiudi il becco." His cries were weaker now, hoarser and dryer. Spain wished he'd brought aid, some water, some medicine, something. He wished he'd brought at least something to ease his little boy's pain.
The curses and stream of words continued, like a record on repeat. Somehow Antonio managed to get the boy to lie in his arms, making it a little more comfortable for the aching, rotting body of the great kingdom of two Scillies. The man was finally crying, silent tears falling from his face as he watched Romano stare up at the ceiling, muttering words that should be yells.
"Gli ho detto di non farlo. Gli dissi che avrebbe ottenuto sangue dappertutto, e avrei dovuto pulirlo. Gli ho detto quando è stato fatto sarebbe dispiaciuto, sarebbe stato chiesto il mio aiuto. Ha detto che non gli importava. Ha detto che avrebbe preferito morire, ma ... perché? Non poteva vedere come stavo lavorando duramente per farlo rimanere in vita? Ha cercato di uscire, ha cercato di scappare, eh. Beh, una volta che ha capito che non poteva, si fermò a provare. Afferrò il coltello e ha iniziato a fare una bella immagine per me. Ama la pittura. Ha detto che voleva dipingere la cappella tutta di nuovo. Così ha fatto. Io lo guardavo. Egli non si alzò. E 'ora di riposo, la siesta ... mi ha detto di stare sveglio ... Mi ha detto di fare la guardia. "
The mumbling began to turn delirious; Romano started talking about the oddest of things afterwards. His coughing grew worse and soon his voice was barely audible over a whisper, and he was practically screaming his words.
"Romano, Vuoi... startene... z-zitto per un momento?" The Spaniard tried, hoping the Italian would get through to his Romano, get him to stop the insane chattering.
"Dov'è la Spagna? Egli sarebbe stato qui per me, si sarebbe preso cura di me. Ha mi ha lasciato? Perché mi lasci qui? Non sa che fa male?"
If it was possible for his heart to break more, it did.
Did Lovino not recognise him?
"L... Lovi... I'm here... I-I-I'm right... here..." He clung to the brunette's brittle feeling shoulders, shaking him slightly, trying to wake him from his delirium. "I'm... right... here, Lovino."
But the muttering continued, and Romano's eyes were distant, they were staring straight past Spain.
"Fa male, fa male, Spagna. Per favore, aiutatemi. Vieni e mi aiuta ..."
He wanted to scream at him, bring him back to reality. Don't do this, don't do this Romano, the voice of his thoughts cried in grief, please don't do this Lovino. He pulled the weak, almost lifeless body to his chest, and clung on tight. This was the worst of it yet, seeing his little Lovino perish before his time, and in such a disgusting manor.
The coughing started again, harsh and bone shattering. Warmth spread across Spain's chest, and he realised the other must be retching again.
He let go of Romano, allowing the other to willingly roll off him and onto his stomach, barely keeping himself off the ground with shaking limbs as the blood splattered by Spain's legs. There was a shuddering gasp for air in between coughs, and when Lovino did finally stop coughing and was steady; his breathing had a gargling noise to it.
Spain panicked yet again, pulling Romano to sit up and look him directly in the eyes. The Italian's head looked heavy as his ragged breathing continued his eyes still distant.
"Lovino... Please... listen to me... Listen to me!" The Spaniard shook him, panic overriding any form of gentleness he had in his actions. "Por... favour... escucha..."
For a second, for a moment, Antonio saw hazel eyes meet his own, flicking up to see him. He saw them dilate, saw them swim with emotion that was not hate or anger. He stared, and couldn't find the words to say, falling dead silent.
What do you say to the person you love when they're dying?
It's one of those things, one of those questions you know the answers to, but as soon as you're faced with the situation not a thing springs to mind.
The silence lengthened, broken only by the sickening sound of Romano's breathing, and then –
Romano opened his mouth, the ghastly red covered every surface within it clinging to his beautiful teeth, his beautiful tongue, his—
The mouth was forming a word.
Spain's heart stopped, it didn't matter if he could hear the words or not, he could see them, he knew what they said.
Then the Sicilian choked, once, twice, three times before coughing up another final bout of the murky blood mixture. He fell forwards, limp into Antonio's hands and the breathing became solid gurgles of the liquid, frothing and spilling from his mouth and then—
Romano went completely limp.
Completely dead silence fell on the chapel again.
Translations:
Per istam sanctan unctionem et suam piissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominu – Latin, The spoken acts of the last rites in Catholic Religion.
Requescant in pace – Latin, Rest in peace.
Che cazzo ci fai qui? – What the fuck are you doing here?
Prendi il cazzo via da qui! Non avvicinarti! Immondo! Heathen! – Get the fuck out of here! Don't come! Unclean! Heathen!
Lo non ti lascerò lo porti da me, non voglio! Ha no bisogno del vostro aiuto! Ha solo bisogno di me! Ti aiuto io! I'll do it better! Ci arriveremo attraverso questo! Basta guardare, non abbiamo bisogno del vostro aiuto! -I will not let you take him from me, I will not! He has no need of your help! He just needs me! I'll help him! I'll do it better! We'll get through this! Just look, we do not need your help!
Sono il fratello più grande, quindi dovrei badare a lui! Se sei cazzo mi ascolta? – I'm the older brother so I should look after him! Are you fucking listening to me!
Non toccarlo! – Don't touch him!
Tu ... tu lo... ammazzo! – You… You will… kill him!
Non è morto! – He's not dead!
Lui non è! Lui non lo è! Stai zitto! Stai zitto! Stai zitto! Stai zitto! – He's not! He's not! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!
Scappare. Vattene via! Non ho bisogno di aiuto, non abbiamo bisogno di aiuto. Andate via! Chiudi il becco. - Escape. Get away! I do not need help, we do not need help. Go away! Shut up.
"Gli ho detto di non farlo. Gli dissi che avrebbe ottenuto sangue dappertutto, e avrei dovuto pulirlo. Gli ho detto quando è stato fatto sarebbe dispiaciuto, sarebbe stato chiesto il mio aiuto. Ha detto che non gli importava. Ha detto che avrebbe preferito morire, ma ... perché? Non poteva vedere come stavo lavorando duramente per farlo rimanere in vita? Ha cercato di uscire, ha cercato di scappare, eh. Beh, una volta che ha capito che non poteva, si fermò a provare. Afferrò il coltello e ha iniziato a fare una bella immagine per me. Ama la pittura. Ha detto che voleva dipingere la cappella tutta di nuovo. Così ha fatto. Io lo guardavo. Egli non si alzò. E 'ora di riposo, la siesta ... mi ha detto di stare sveglio ... Mi ha detto di fare la guardia. " - "I told him not to do it. I told him that he would get blood everywhere, and I would have to clean it. I told him when he was done he would be sorry, he would be asking for my help. He said he didn't care. He said he'd rather die, but... why? Couldn't he see how hard I was working to make him stay alive? He tried to get outside, he tried to escape, heh. Well, once he realised he could not, he stopped trying. He grabbed the knife and started making a pretty picture for me. He loves painting. He said he wanted to paint the entire chapel again. So he did. I watched him. He did not get up. He's resting now, taking a siesta... he told me to stay awake... he told me to keep watch."
Vuoi... startene... z-zitto per un momento? – Can …you… be quiet for a minute?
Dov'è la Spagna? Egli sarebbe stato qui per me, si sarebbe preso cura di me. Ha mi ha lasciato? Perché mi lasci qui? Non sa che fa male? – Where is Spain? He would be here for me, he would help me. Has he left me? Has he gone too? Doesn't he know it hurts?
Fa male, fa male, Spagna. Per favore, aiutatemi. Vieni e mi aiuta ... – It hurts, it hurts, Spain. Please help. Come and help me…
Por... favour... escucha... – Please, Listen.