Edited: 21/03/2016

SOY: there was this awesome prompt in the kink meme, Nations adopting a human child. I just had to tackle this. It's going to be a long fic, and mostly gen (no pairings). Just be warned there might be hints of pairings, so please keep an open mind. Either way nothing will be major.

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Rating: K+

Warnings: historical setting, humans, mentions of past war, angst.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. But I love working through fanfics of it.

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Heart

Chapter 01: that kid

1888 – February

He was standing on the side of the road, face set into a frown that didn't look right on him, mistrustful eyes focused in front of him, watching people pass by without interest.

Italy had already seen him a few times before, a little kid no older than five, standing still like a little man, face dirty, messy black hair, ripped pants and shirt and without shoes; he was easy to ignore, so small and weak-looking, but Italy's eyes had travelled straight to his figure, as if attracted by… something.

This time, unlike before, he had stopped, groceries in a paper bag in his arms, to stare. He was surprised a kid so young would be left all alone like this without an adult present. Kids were loved and cared for, and this one was far too little to be on his own. Italy looked around, eyes checking quickly in the nearby shops, then across the street, but nothing. Was the kid waiting for his mother, or maybe friends…?

The kid seemed to notice that someone was staring, and turned to look at him but it was just a fleeting glance –his chubby face scrunched up in displeasure, and then he looked away, little shoulders tense.

For a few long seconds, Italy hesitated, something building up in his chest, but then he did not allow himself to think about it, and forced his feet to move. He hurried down the street without looking back, as he was late already and his brother was waiting for him at home… he wouldn't want him to be late, that would just make him angry.

Things were not going too well for the two of them. Even after finalizing their unification, they had barely any time to take care of themselves, but at least the worst was in the past, and living in the same place, getting to really know each other, had allowed them to grow closer, as they should have been since the start. Nowadays Italy Romano was not as easily angered as before, and even his mood had improved greatly.

With his mind full of politics, depressed because he had no time to spend painting and creating poems with the aftermaths of their independence wars and the brigantaggio (which had been almost like a civil war, even if he tried to deny it), Italy's thoughts left the kid behind and forgot all about him, since he had more important matters to think about, and a single human kid just couldn't compare.

A few days later Italy found himself walking down the main street once again, a huge bag of fruits and vegetables in his arms; the sky was dark above his head, and he kept looking up as he hurried on, worried that it would start to rain before he got home. When he looked back in front of him, his eyes fell on the familiar, tiny figure standing in the same spot as before, almost as if he had not moved at all since Italy had seen him last.

He was still shoeless and Italy was quite sure the clothes were the same too, dirty and ragged, and the expression on the kid's face tugged at Italy's heartstrings and he faltered, slowing down until he came to a stop.

People walked past him, heads down and uncaring, hurrying up because of the approaching rain, but Italy did not move.

Why was the kid still here, looking so serious, still like a statue?

This time, Italy did not walk away. He acquiesced his feelings, and walked to the kid.

"Ehi, bimbo," Italy crouched in front of him. "Is everything ok?"

A pair of wide green eyes turned to look at him, and then narrowed in childish suspicion.

"Che vuoi?" the kid's voice was gruff and grouchy in an attempt to sound older and imposing.

"Ve, is everything ok? It's going to rain soon, shouldn't you go back home?" Italy hadn't meant to sound doting, but the kid looked so lost…

"I'm a big boy and I can stay out!" he pressed one thumb to his chest, trying to look like he knew what he was doing, then ruined the image by rubbing his dirty cheek with the back of his hand, equally dirty. "You go back 'ome!"

Italy felt a wave of concern fill him and he frowned; nowadays he found it hard to smile, but he still tried to hide his own problems and worries away. A happy face could cheer up anyone, and Italy knew the power a smile could have when there was nothing to smile about. Still, he could do nothing for this kid, not if he did not want any help.

"Just go back when it starts to rain, ok?" he told the kid, frown melting into what he hoped was a gentle smile.

The kid jutted out his chin and said nothing, resolutely looking away from him.

Italy walked away, his pace slow. He hesitated, and for a few minutes he kept looking back, hoping to see the kid move away from his spot.

Not even a few minutes later, rain started to fall, quickly turning into a downpour, and Italy hurried down the street, clutching the bag against his chest and trying not to bump into anyone.

The kid's closed off expression, bordering on distrust, was carved into his mind and he lingered on it until late that night.

…–…–…–…

"Buongiorno, Mrs Ferri, how is your husband today?"

The heavyset woman blinked and turned around, absently massaging her lower back with one hand, and her wrinkled face melted in a fond smile as she recognised the one who had called out her name –it was the youngest of the Vargas boys, the sweet young man who always had a smile and a greeting for everybody.

They had moved in the house at the end of the street a few years back, him and his older brother –that guy seemed to be grouchy all the time, but he was quiet and had a good heart too– and they had quickly made friends with the rest of the neighbourhood.

"Oh, Buongiorno Feliciano caro," she greeted back, wiping her hands on her apron. "Renzo is feeling better, thank you… his back is slowly healing, God bless," she sighed, gathering up the wet sheets she was cleaning and checking them with expert eye. She quickly squeezed the excess water out of them. "And didn't I tell you to call me Amelia?"

"Ve, I'm sorry signora Amelia," Italy replied with a small, hesitant smile. "But I'm glad to know he's doing better! If you need anything, please just ask!"

His heartfelt care made Amelia Ferri feel a wave of warmth akin to that she reserved to both of her children, now adults and about to start a family of their own. It was hard not to want to take the Vargas brothers under her wing, as it was.

"Well, young man, you can start by giving this old woman a hand bringing these home," she ordered, offering the edge of her sheet to him so he would help her fold them. "There is some cake waiting for you".

With a bright smile, Italy grabbed the edges of the sheet and they both folded them with practiced moves, then he insisted on carrying the wooden bucket with the sheet for her.

She would have been able to do it herself, of course, but dear Feliciano always offered, and this way she could get him to eat a piece of her cake without feeling bad about it –he was thin, and sometimes Amelia worried about his health. She could not give him much more than this, but what she could spare for him, she would.

Besides, she had seen the way he looked sometimes, when he did not think anyone was looking at him –his smile would drop, and a frown would make its way on his face. He looked sad, and older, and it made Amelia feel sad and powerless.

It was not a look she wanted to see on him.

The weather was perfect for washing, and there was a gentle breeze blowing while Italy and Amelia Ferri walked through the town's square and away from the fountain, idly gossiping with one another about this and that.

Her son had proposed to his sweetheart, and her family had accepted the proposal, so they would marry later during the year, and he needed to build their house. They spoke a bit about that, and then about Italy's own brother, and about food and the weather. Italy felt better when he could forget about the problems of being a nation and just interact with his people and their lives –he could become smaller, fit better in the name of Feliciano Vargas without anything else attached to it.

When they arrived to the main street, though, Italy's thoughts ran to a halt and he found himself looking up.

The kid was still there, ignoring the crowd around him just as much as the crowd ignored him.

"Signora Amelia…"

His voice stopped her chatter and she followed his gaze; Italy turned in time to see her face twist in a mix of pity and sadness.

"Oh, so you've noticed poor Enrico, hmm? Dear, dear…" she shook her head, voice dropping an octave lower. "He's the son of Luciano Foretti, che Dio abbia pietà della sua anima," she shared a knowing look with Italy, but his confused face stopped her. "You don't know? His father was reported missing in action. His mother, Anna, has…" with an eloquent motion of her index near her temple, Amelia peered at the kid, lips forming a thin grimace. "Our Parish Priest has tried twice already to offer some words of comfort to her, but she refuses to listen… she doesn't even come to mass anymore, and the kid is left to his own devices most of the time".

She looked terribly upset at her own words –there was no way a good soul could refuse the help of a saint man, and the way she saw it, Church could help with grief, especially when that poor woman's husband had died for the greater good. This meant she did not want salvation –Amelia believed God could reach into anyone's heart, as long as they were willing, and Anna Foretti… oh, she had no willing heart.

Enrico's mother refused help, and the kid was already a lost cause; he did not listen to his elders, he did not offer them respect, and he ran away from home all the time.

Italy's eyes widened at her words, then returned to the kid once again, reassessing the sight to include the new information. "Why is he standing there all the time?"

"He's probably waiting for his father to come back," Amelia admitted, hurrying her pace. "Let's go, Feliciano".

Even though she tried to fill the awkward silence with chatter, Italy did not hear a word she said from then on. He followed her, but as he left with her he felt on his skin, like a prickle, little Enrico's eyes staring at him from the other end of the street.

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"Enrico?"

The small body jumped a little in surprise, then he glared up at whoever had called his name, but his eyes widened in shock when he found himself staring at a piece of cake inches away from his face; Italy was looking down at him with a smile, knowing that no kid would say no to the allure of sweets.

"You 'gain?" despite his pout, Enrico's eyes were focused on the cake, and his little hands clenched into tight fists. "Wha' ya want? Wha's your name anyway?"

Italy had the decency to look sheepish. "My name is Feliciano," his smile softened a bit and he shuffled around. "I thought I could share, you know… signora Amelia gave me far too much cake and not even my brother will finish it all!"

To show he meant no harm, Italy sat down on the side of the road at Enrico's side, and showed him he had a few more slices wrapped up in a white cloth. He picked one of them with slow, deliberate movements, brought it to his lips and took a bite, chewing on it.

The kid's eyes narrowed in suspicion, but Italy did not move, still munching, relishing in the taste –that woman's cake was really good, after all– and after a few long, stretched out seconds, one of Enrico's little hands inched forwards, wrapping around one corner of the cake Italy was offering him and bringing it close to his chest, almost protectively.

"Aren't you going to eat that, ve?" Italy peered at him, taking another bite of his own. "Now that I think about it, it's too nice I might want to eat some more…"

His words got the reaction he wanted –Enrico shoved as much of the cake as he could into his mouth, cheeks puffing out in his attempt to chew through it, crumbs falling from his mouth, and Italy tried not to show his distaste at the state of the kid's hands. They were dirty and scraped, and he did not want to know how much of that dirt was now on the cake and in Enrico's mouth.

Still, the kid was eating, and Italy's smile grew wide as he looked away.

He had to admit that Enrico had picked a good spot. From there he could see down the main street up until the corner before the church, and on the other side, he had a good view of the road until the bakery, where it abruptly turned to the left.

The perfect place if you were waiting for someone.

"Ve~ isn't your mom worried that you stay all day here? Shouldn't you go to school?"

"I'm a big boy and school is not important," the kid replied around another mouthful of cake. "And mom doesn't care," he added, looking down to the ground.

"I am sure she does, Enrico!"

"No, she doesn't. She cries and cries for dad to come back," he replied sullenly. "And nobody cares at all. They all tell her she should forget about him, but she knows he will come. I know it too, that's why I'm here. So go back to not caring, he'll be back and that'll show you!" he wanted to sound sure of himself, but his words came out whiny and petulant, and full of pain.

Italy felt a wave of pain, and he had to close his eyes. The town should have reached out in a better way, because this woman –and Enrico too– was suffering, and she reacted to her pain by pushing everybody away, pushing God away. And if not even the local priest could find a way to reach her, the rest of the town would pull away too.

What would become of this boy then? All Italy could see was a kid desperately missing his dad, and a woman so grieved for her loss that she had lost sight of what she still had.

With gentle but firm hands, he took hold of Enrico's face and cleaned his mouth. "Here…"

Enrico tried to push him away, but Italy held him still until he was finished. By then, his white handkerchief was filled with black and brown spots, but Enrico's face was not much cleaner.

"You dirtied it," the kid pouted, but could say nothing more because then Italy moved to clean his cheeks as well. "Hey! Let go! 'm not that dirty!"

"Ve~ look, you're much cuter now that there is nothing on your face!" Italy smiled a bit, patting Enrico on the head and shoving the dirty handkerchief back into his pocket.

At the small blush he received from the kid, his smile softened a bit, tinged with sadness.

"Come on, let me walk you home, little boy," Italy stood up, offering the kid his hand to hold.

Enrico shook his head wildly, taking a step back. "No! Io aspetto il mio babbo!"

Wincing slightly at his words, Italy sighed. "I…"

"He's not dead!" he spoke so vehemently, eyes wide and filled with certainty, that Italy couldn't say anything. "He's going to come back, and mom will smile again!"

"Why… why are you waiting for him here?"

Enrico sniffled, clearly fighting off tears, and pointed at a building across the street. "Dad worked there before. It was lotsa time ago. And the church is there too. He will come here, and I'll take him back home to mom… and…" the tears welled up in his eyes, much to Italy's horror. "I'm a good boy. He will come back. I wait all the time. He will come back!"

He started crying, sobs too big for his little body, and Italy panicked, not knowing what to do. He could feel the waves of pain coming from the kid at this distance, he could not close himself off when the pain was so raw and so strong, when the one suffering was a little kid, and he was sharply reminded of losing his own grandpa, so many centuries in the past and yet still so fresh.

Italy reached out slowly, brushing his fingers through Enrico's dirty hair, remembering Hungary doing the same to him when they had been both at Austria's house. He held the little boy against his chest and murmured reassuring words until he could feel him calm down enough that he could speak again, voice shaking.

"W–What if dad comes and he doesn't see me here?" he wailed, snuggling more into Italy's embrace.

"Ve… don't worry, don't worry. You're a strong little boy, Enrico… your dad would be proud of you…" little fists clenched his shirt, and Italy held him tighter. "But your dad is not here, and your dad would want you to be strong for your mom too, and your mom is here…"

"M-mom doesn't want me around… she cries a-all day and yells at me, a…"

"Your mom loves you, but she… is very alone, too… she only has you now, Enrico, and I know it's not fair and she shouldn't yell, but don't hold it against her. She hurts too," Italy knew his words did not make sense for a kid, but this was all he could offer. "You can both wait together, and be each other's strength when your dad is not here".

Enrico blinked through his tears, and looked up, face smeared with tears and dirt. "B-but…"

"You're alone here, and she's alone at home," Italy continued. "And if everybody else in town aren't getting through her, maybe you can. You can be strong, and remind her that she has you, and she can be strong for you too… and you two can be strong together".

Slowly, hesitantly, Enrico pulled away from the comforting hug, little face scrunching up in thought.

"M–mom needs me," he finally said, nodding to himself and looking up at Italy.

His face was back to that serious, focused expression from before, but there was something else in his eyes too –a new determination.

Italy nodded at him, and then wiped away his tears with his already dirty handkerchief. "I'll walk you home now," he told the kid. "And if you want I'll stay with you and try to talk with your mother, is that ok?"

Enrico nodded, then for the first time since Italy had seen him, his lips pulled up in a small, shy smile. It changed his face so much, making him look like the little kid he was, not the young man he had to be. He was missing a tooth right in the front row.

"Grazie," he murmured.

With Enrico's tiny hand wrapped in his own, Italy pulled him away from that corner of the street, not caring one bit about the eyes of any onlooker focused on the two of them, and let Enrico tug him towards his house.

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"M–mom! I'm back!"

Enrico pushed open the door of his small house and ran inside, barely stopping to motion for Italy to follow him in.

Italy took a moment before entering, and he automatically looked around, assessing the situation.

At a first sight, he could see the household was quite poor, and in a state of disarray that spoke loudly of lack of care. The floors were dirty, and there were cracks running across the bare walls, but overall Italy had seen worse –he had lived in worse.

Enrico froze a few steps in the room, realising the state of his house and his cheeks dusted red in embarrassment for the obvious poverty, but Italy smiled at him and shook his head. To him it did not matter, as money was hard to make and there was no man to provide for them, and his mother was obviously not in the right state to take care of bringing bread to the table either.

"Mom will offer you her best coffee," Enrico told him, looking more alive than before and in control of the situation. "You can sit here," he motioned for the old couch, and Italy nodded and did as he was told, since he was a guest. "Mom? Mom, we have un ospite!"

Sitting there, Italy had nothing else to do but observe the room. The house had probably only two rooms, three if there was a small closet in the bedroom, nothing else. The furniture in the room that was both a sitting room and a kitchen was old but sturdy, and made of wood. No paintings on the wall except a single one, depicting a vase of flowers, hanging on the wall in front of him, on top of a small stove.

The room was cold, and Italy shivered. Was this where Enrico lived?

From the other room, Enrico's calls were suddenly replaced with a loud wail, and Italy sprung to his feet in a moment, running to him without taking time to think.

The bedroom was large. There was a double bed in the middle, a small cradle in a corner, placed against the wall, and another, smaller, bed on the other side of the room. It made a bit hard to move around, especially with the big cupboard shoved near the door.

Enrico was standing near the cradle, and he was holding a bundle of clothes in his arms, that at a closer look was actually a baby, no older than two, who was crying. He looked confused and lost.

Italy blinked in surprise. La Signora Amelia hadn't mentioned the presence of another kid at all. "Who is this… Ve~ Enrico?" the room was empty other than the two… three of them. "Where is your mom?"

"Mom wouldn't let Maria all alone at home… she's too little," Enrico looked up at Italy, the baby awkwardly cradled in his arms. He looked even smaller like this. "Where is my mom?"

His little sister bawled her eyes out, and the noise had Italy wince. He moved quickly towards Enrico, and wordlessly motioned for him to give her to him. Enrico did so without thinking, and once little Maria was in Italy's arms, she stopped crying abruptly and her eyes snapped open.

Little babies who could not talk had higher sensitivity about these things, and Italy knew that at some level, Maria recognised him for who he was –as a Nation, as something bigger and older than her.

He started to hum softly –music without words, his tone as soft as he could make it, the oldest melody he knew, from back when he had lived with his grandpa.

The bed's springs gave in when Italy sat down on the bed, holding a calmer Maria in his arms, and he stared down at the baby in wonder. He had seen tiny humans before, but the times he had held one in his arms were few and far in-between and it always filled him with love for his people.

The room fell into silence, and Enrico snapped out of his shock.

"Mom!" he ran out of the bedroom, close to crying again, and Italy could hear him open the front door again. "Mom! Where are you!"

From where he was sitting, Italy reached out with a foot and pushed the door of the cupboard open with a creaking sound. Maria was still snug against his chest, quiet and slumbering, and did not react when he stiffened.

The cupboard had two male outfits, a pile of white cloths that were probably diapers, and a small outfit that was Enrico's. there were no women clothes anywhere in there.

On the floor, there were no shoes –not even a smaller pair that could belong to Enrico.

Looking into the cradle, Italy noticed there was nothing in there either except a baby bottle and a small blue rattle carved out from wood.

The room was bare, and Italy shivered, feeling cold and not because of the temperature in the house.

No clothes. No shoes. No sign that a woman even lived there. There were only her two children.

The mental image of Amelia, the way she had shaken her head when talking about Enrico's mom… Italy gritted his teeth, breathing deeply to calm down, aware that Maria was stirring, feeling his discontent.

With a grimace, Italy spread his senses out as far as he could. He tried to feel the missing woman's presence for as much as he could, locate that single soul he had never even seen, but that belonged to him, that belonged with her children.

He could not feel her.

"Enrico! Come back here, please".

The kid, who had been running around the house in a growing state of panic, stopped at his quiet voice and walked back to him, eyes wide.

Italy had a choice to make, and brother would not be happy.

"Enrico, I don't know where your mom is, but…" he wondered whether to tell the truth to the kid or not, and decided to let the matter rest for a bit. "Maybe she got called away for a bit…" he tried to keep his voice light, so not to make Enrico feel that something was wrong.

"M-mom wouldn't leave Maria here! She's too little!" he whined, holding one hand up to caress his sister's bare leg.

"Why… don't you two come over to my house?" Italy offered tentatively. "I'm sure your mom wouldn't want you to stay home alone, right?" he held on Maria's body, the little girl snuggling closer with a soft gurgle. "She needs to be changed and cleaned up, and maybe she's hungry, right? You're her older brother, and if your mom is not here you have to think about yourself and her".

Enrico hesitated, but he had no reason to doubt Italy –he was still young, young enough that he could feel a tug of familiarity and trust for him even if he could not understand why– so it was easy for him to nod. He grabbed the baby bottle and the rattle from the cradle, then looked around.

"Will mom know where to find us when she's back?" he asked, looking up as Italy stoop up from the bed.

"I'll come back here later and I will leave her a message," Italy reassured him, shuffling the sleeping baby enough that he could offer Enrico his hand again. "Now let's go, if we get to my house you can also take a bath…"

"Wha? Nuu-uuh! Bath is icky!"

As they left the house, closing the door tightly behind their backs –there wasn't even a key, the woman had left behind nothing worth taking after all– Italy did not look back, but his hand tightened around Enrico's.

In the end, he had known from the start what to do.

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SOY: first chapter is done. What do you think? Please drop me a review!

Brigantaggio – It was basically a sort of civil war, a social and political insurrection developed during the Italian Unification and in the first decade afterwards (1861–1869), repressed in painfully cruel ways, which was a pathetic attempt to hide the frail situation of the newly unified Kingdom of Italy to the rest of Europe. The problems caused by this continued for a few more decades, though, up to when Rome was annexed and became the new Capital (1870/1871).

Ehi bimbo – hey, kid

Che vuoi – what do you want?

Buongiorno – good morning

Signora – miss/lady

Cara – dear

Che Dio abbia pietà della sua anima – may God have mercy of his soul

Io aspetto il mio babbo – I'm waiting for my dad

Un ospite – a guest.