I do not own Hetalia.
Warning: Rated M for blood, graphic description of inflicting injuries, implied consensual intercourse, and generally dark and twisted theme. Please read at your own risks.
...
How far can someone go to make their lover stay? This is a question that has been plaguing America's subconscious. There's this fine line between love and insanity and he's willing to explore on it a little bit more.
With the sound of the pounding rain lulling him, he lets his consciousness drift somewhere else—somewhere like a dream, or maybe it's reality, he doesn't know. He makes himself comfortable on their sofa with his back leaning against the velvet cushion and his nape snuggling perfectly on the head rest. On his lap, Romano situates his head as he lies sideways facing their television set. There's a Mexican soap opera playing on the screen but the volume is more of a background noise than anything and while America stares at the movement of the actors' lips, he absentmindedly runs his fingers through the silky strands of Romano's hair.
The air is cold and bleak and everything feels clammy because of the strenuous rainfall but the room is still heavy with the scent of cinnamon from their afternoon snack. Romano's breathing is even and soundless as he occasionally emits a sound akin to a purr when a nail lightly scratches his scalp, the vibration that America feels more than he hears it makes him smile. It's already past his siesta time, but the Italian, though sluggish, is still awake so there's probably something about to come later.
America blinks lazily, his lids leaden with drowsiness yet he chooses to fight it. He tries to concentrate at the drama they're watching and thinks of its numerous plot holes and possible endings. It's a fairly decent show even though the characters are too unwitting for his liking. Eventually, as the long hand of the clock strikes six, a flood of commercials cuts the show.
Romano lets out a sigh, shifts on America's lap so his back is now resting on the sofa and searches for America's eyes. They exchange gazes for a little longer before the Italian reluctantly breaks the silence, "Let's change your bandage."
America blinks again, though he's completely awake now—Romano's words effectively pulling him from his sleepy trance. "Okay, I'll go get your things."
When he comes back, the TV is off, the lights are on and Romano is sitting on their carpeted floor. It may be the trick of the light but both of their skin gives off a sickly hue under the fluorescent even though their complexions are not even remotely similar.
"Here," he says, placing the box in front of them while he sits across the Italian.
From here on, everything is silent not counting the din of the rain that's still pouring outside. Romano stares at him—blank and unseeing, and America has the illusion that the specks of gold from his hazel eyes are getting darker and more prominent as they pierce through his own light ones and he can't seem to look away from them. He's almost enchanted.
A cold hand promptly caresses his cheek and Romano leans forward to claim his lips. He voluntarily accepts the kiss, feeling the tender muscle of tongue meeting his mouth but not scouring it. And then, Romano ends the kiss as abruptly as he starts it. The hand from his cheek travels down to his forearm, gently and mindfully tracing the cloth as another hand meets its pair. Romano fixates his gaze on the bandages and America automatically follows it. He can feel the cold fingertips unhurriedly removing the thin material before they gradually peel the surgical tape surrounding the gauzes. It takes about thirteen minutes of meticulous navigation before everything is entirely uncovered.
Then, Romano opens his box of medical kit. He reaches for a small rectangular case inside of it and America watches as he opens the case. Changing his bandages means new patch and new patch means new cut. The ones just below the inside of his elbows are already old enough that the blood clot is already flaking off and while some are still pretty fresh and far from drying up, there are two pairs right in the middle of his forearms—they're parallel to each other, approximately two and a half inches long with half a centimeter apart. They're recent so they still leak and result a slight swell on his arm.
Romano holds a small sterilized knife customized to his preference. There's an embossed initials decorating the base of the blade and the tip is extra pointed and narrower than a normal boning knife. It's a gift from America, himself, because he knows how much Romano likes to cook and to cut.
Their eyes meet again in a silent agreement and the glint of the blade distracts America for the slightest second, but he relaxes his arm as Romano positions the knife on it. He's breathing normally, no palpitations and no nervous breakdown like the first and second times. He's just relaxed and conceding.
He watches the tip of the blade nudges the bed of his unblemished skin before it sinks of little depth. He sees the blood before he feels it—a tiny blob that in due course forms into a long line of thick red liquid. It doesn't hurt yet, but the sensation of his taut skin tearing apart and the flesh ripping and splitting in half is vivid and clear. He's lucky that it doesn't make him feel light-headed anymore.
The slash isn't too deep that it requires stitches but it's deep enough that the blood will flow down and leave a couple of tiny trickles on the carpet. Most of the blood pools on his skin and the color contrast is both disturbing and fascinating. America swallows his saliva, it's probably not good that he's getting used to this but he is.
Romano stops with the three inches mark, puts the knife down and surveys his work before turning his gaze back to America's eyes.
His hazel eyes are unlit yet they're full of life, or maybe they're lit yet out of life, he can't really tell but what he's sure is that the disparity of all of it completely engulfs him like how a new discovery captivates him. He wishes to comb it, range over it and simply explore all of it. Romano's grip is not tight but it squeezes the newly-inflicted wound and makes the blood ooze continuously out of it. There's no sign of pain from him, no groan and no whine and even though the sting is starting to materialize, he dons a blank expression.
Romano ultimately cleans his arm with a damp towel, putting a little pressure on the wound to finally stop the bleeding. He looks satisfied and somewhat amplified. His orbs are back to their dazzling color and the golds are livelier than America remembers them to be and for some reason, his previously cold hands are now emitting warmness that he takes comfort from. America feels contented that it's another successful session. He releases a short sigh of relief and finally allows his lips to form a genuine smile.
The wound still doesn't hurt the way it should, but there's a sharpness left every time it comes in contact with anything. He turns his attention to the medical kit as Romano takes out the necessary supplies to dress it. There's a bottle of iodopovidone, gauze pads, a roll of bandage and a tape. Romano pours a liberal amount of the antiseptic on a cotton ball and gently nabs the wound. He put the gauze on top of it, secures it with a tape and covers the whole forearm just as meticulously and precisely as he removed the old one. When it's done, he places another kiss on America's lips that lasts for a full minute before he pulls away and cleans his mess.
Later that evening, America lets Romano take him hard and mercilessly. He accepts everything, reeling and melting with pain and pleasure mixed together like oil and water—they're combined but still separated. He stares back at the hungry dark eyes as he moans out his name over and over again until his voice runs out and only gasps can be heard.
Romano restrains his wounded arm with a strong hold and America can't help the hiss of pain from escaping his lips. He feels the slit opening, the blood seeps through the fresh gauze and stains the white bandage. The Italian seizes his mouth next, swallowing the hisses and moans that America can't tell whether from the throbbing of his wound or from the intensive pleasure Romano is giving him.
Not long after, as both of them finishes in great ecstasy, Romano embraces America with all his might as he whispers his apologies, crying and choking with streams of painful and grievous tears. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry..."
America pants, he's having a hard time evening his breathing. He closes his eyes and returns the embrace with weak movements, but he leans closer to Romano and abolishes every minuscule space distancing them. "I love you, Romano."
America accepts everything—every little thing that Romano has been inflicting on him and that's because he loves him, plain and simple. He'd rather find himself bathing in his own pool of blood than watch Romano leaving him. The line that separates love from insanity is thinning out with time, but it's still there, it's still setting them apart and America hasn't let go of his grasp as of yet. Everyone has their own taste, partiality and inclination and this, deranged as it may seem, is perfectly normal. It's only a matter of preference. After all, there are million ways to say I love you and this, however twisted, is only one of them. Romano needs America—he needs this, and America will do anything for his lover to acquire it.
He places a soft kiss on top of Romano's head while he murmurs his mantra of endless 'sorry's. He just silently listens to every word and waits for sleep to claim the Italian. He's gonna have to change his bandages later by himself.
...
"I'm alive, I'm alive, oh yeah,
Between the good and bad's where you'll find me
Reaching for heaven
I will fight and I'll sleep when I die,
I live my life, I'm alive."
— Becca, I'm Alive
I'm accepting all forms of reaction, from calm and normal to bloody and trashy, just send me a review if you have some. Thanks a lot for checking it out!
A/N: So, who is more fucked up; Romano, who takes comfort in slashing/cutting his loved one, or America, who accepts everything and doesn't think of it as abnormal?
(...or me, who thought about all these in the first place?)