Disclaimer: This chapter has been updated since the completion of this fan fiction.
This was my first try writing something angsty like this and I think it turned out pretty well. I am currently in the process of rewriting all of the earlier chapters as my writing has improved since I started this so if you see a chapter without the disclaimer, bear with me.
This story follows Feliciano mainly and deals with GerIta, PruLiech with subtle mentions of other ships like FrUk and Spamano.
Feliciano wasn't sure when he'd stopped crying –or if he really had- nor could he tell you how long he'd been crouched behind that desk. He'd been frozen there since it all happened. And it all happened so quickly that he couldn't be sure what exactly had happened. He was in Berne for the conference, just a week early so he could explore the city. Angelus had been with him, Angelus was a government official that always travelled with him; more accurately his bodyguard, more accurately his friend. Before they could even check in, panic had broken out in the lobby and he'd been rushed upstairs. They hid in the first unlocked room they could find but they were found several minutes later when there was loud, aggressive knocking on the door. That's when Angelus moved him behind the desk and gone to confront them. That was the last he'd seen of him. The door had clicked open; there had been shouting and gunshots and…silence.
He was disgusted with himself. Angelus was his friend and he hadn't done anything to help. He'd just…let him die. He didn't want to move, he didn't deserve to move but as much as that was true, he was even more terrified. Without his bags there weren't many options for weapons, a pot plant, a pillow, a TV and some coat hangers. The pot plant was his best chance. He pushed the door open slowly, cringing because it creaked as he did. Soon enough he'd edged his way into the hall. Blood. That was what he first saw, a large splash over the doorway and the beds. Second, Angelus, his face was a pulp, and his body was mangled. Third, the intruder murderer, he was standing in the middle of the room, facing out and dripping with –presumably- angelus' blood. Fourth, his bag with his gun, was sitting between him and the man.
It went easier then he thought. His movements didn't attract the man's attention until he foolishly and quickly yanked the bags zipper. Shit. He tightened his grip on the pot and turned to the man. He had blood dripping from his mouth and smeared around his neck, it made Feliciano want to vomit
"Stay Away!" he shouted, holding the pot above him. No response, the man continued towards him. "I don't want to hurt you!"
Bullet holes. There were bullet holes all over this man's body; 5 in the stomach, 3 in the chest and one right through the heart. That's impossible, how is he still moving!? Feliciano's stomach flipped as it took another step and he realised there was only one choice. It wasn't his fault, it was him or this man and –WHACK.
Outside of the hotel wasn't any better. Those 'people' were there two, lumbering around the street. Moaning and lost. He didn't smile and greet them like usual but instead gripped his gun and moved quietly through the shadows. They didn't look like people anymore, they weren't smiling or crying or laughing like they should have been. They weren't alive. Empty described the best, described the
whole world in fact. The streets were cold and still, no conversations jumped along the sidewalks and no love exchanged between lovers. Empty.
It was worse than that though. The world wasn't just empty, the world was empty and he was alone. Miles away from his family, his friends, his country and he'd been thrown into hostile streets. Streets he didn't know, that didn't know him. Anything could be around the next corner and no one would be there to face it with him and what of his friends? Was this happening to them? Was his brother clasping a gun in their favourite restaurant? Was Ludwig also being overwhelmed by how alone he was? Was Antonio still smiling in his garden, or huddled behind a car? What about Francis? Kiku? Elizabeta? Roderich? Where any of them even alive?
"No." he whispered to himself, they were all fine. This had to be a local issue…something in the air maybe. He continued moving down the streets, trying to figure out what he should do. He was alive, but how long could that last. It was silent but still screaming and fighting swam through his ears and he was surrounded by people. Each of them were as scared, as confused, as he was and they were all hiding, fighting, dying but he knew none of the would help him. None would care for a little foreign boy when their lives were on the line. He had to get out of the city and he'd have to do it by himself.
[Exit 221 – Out of Berne] The sign above him blinked and buzzed, surged with inconsistent electricity. Across the road another sign flickered, smaller and tucked away [Welcome to Berne]. He decided on the entry highway, no one would be coming into the city; it would be deserted unlike the exit.
Bang. The shot echoed around Feliciano as his attacker fell to the ground. Groaning, he pulled himself off the ground and examined the corpse. The man looked about Feliciano's age, just add on a few weeks of decomposition- must have gotten bitten at the start, wouldn't have anything useful on him. He kicked the body lazily. He knew the gunshot would attract them in droves but was reluctant to leave because he'd not yet collected more food. Sighing he left the road and fled back on the exit ramp to the highway. Once he was certain he was at a safe distance he slowed his pace to a walk. He'd made his house at a small camp tucked between a rusted truck and an overturned tree. He almost smiled as he spotted the tip of the tent through the trees, it was flimsy and makeshift but it was just as Germany had taught him and he was sure it could stay.
Swinging over the trucks hood and into the camp he felt immediately safer and holstered his gun. Apart from the tent and a small pile of ashes it was empty but it was safe, and it was his and it was home. Rubbing his forehead he picked up a can of spaghetti from the ground. It was one of his last and he had no idea how he'd get more soon. He pictured his kitchen at home full of sauces and cheeses and meats and he could only wish someone found it, that it hadn't all gone to waste.
It'd taken about a week for him to realise it was international. He'd kept hope alive as long as he could but the silence became deafening. He reasoned, sadly that the rest of the world must have been dead or in the same situation as him. Surprisingly though, it became a lot easier after that. He had, for the first time in a long time, been thrust into responsibility and had no way out.
He devoured the gooey pasta in under a minute. It wasn't particularly appetising, but it was food, more so it was pasta and it managed to warm his heart. Even with its chewy, tough texture and ashy taste it reminded him of better times. Of all the times he'd shared pasta with Germany, or cooked it with his brother and even the rare moments as a child when Austria had let him have it. Scraping the last spoonful into his mouth his mind drifted back to his friends. He knew that it was likely that they were lumbering around a street somewhere, soulless and empty. But if he of all people was still alive, he knew they would be; and that hope was all that really kept him going on cold lonely evenings like this. The rest of the night Feliciano somehow managed to relax: He finished the pasta, washed the clothes he was wearing and even managed to bathe himself properly. Not what he would normally call fun but it definitely beat fighting off the Undead. It was almost midnight when he finally curled up inside his tent and dozed off, without waking up once that night.
Feliciano groaned as the sunlight streamed onto his face and pulled him into consciousness. Rolling over he expected to feel the soft pillows from his (or Germanys) bed but was instead met with dirt and rocks. His eyes popped open and he was faced with the ugly reality. He was slower to sit up and even slower to face the world but he did, eventually, manage. He checked the perimeter first and concluded there was no immediate danger. The sun suggested it was eight or nine o'clock which was too early to be up, even nowadays.
Once fully awake he focused his energy on finding more supplies. He'd studied his map scrutinously each day but now only had one more lead circled. A petrol station further down the highway, that he'd avoided thus far because he was afraid he'd be lost; as if Berne was the last stead hold and he'd fall off the edge of the world if he ventured from it. He mulled over the idea but decided it was better than just waiting to starve.
The station was an unnerving site, it was still, quiet and dead. If not for the smell of decay that lingered, he might have forgotten he existed. The road beside the station was even worse. Littered with cars and corpses bodies so mangled he couldn't imagine the horror they had died in. The worst site though was two bodies discarded against the diesel fuel pump. They had gun wounds in there head that seemed…fresh. Trying to ignore his fear he reminded himself that people couldn't kill him but the idea of confrontation was almost as bad as the undead. His grumbling stomach won the argument and he continued to the store.
He was glad he had, the store wasn't empty. Sure, things had been taken but there was enough to feed him for weeks. He stepped through the door frame, cringing as glass cracked under his boots, and sorted through the supplies. He couldn't carry it all now and just had to take what he could carry. Spaghetti, cereal, batteries and- "Rwarargh" a moan, a groan, a hiss and a scream came in quick succession from around him. He heard a gunshot, a click, a click, a click and a string of curses from, what he located as the room behind the counter. His blood froze and his mind raced while weighing up the options. Someone was being attacked, they were defenseless but they could be a threat to him and the thing attacking them was definitely a threat.
He wasn't going to abandon someone who needed help though; it wasn't in him to do it so he pulled out his gun and swung the door open. 6.7.8. He couldn't count how many there were but he took
them down with surprising calmness and accuracy. His eyes then fell to the figure quivering in the corner. She was small, young and by the looks of things alone. Her hair was matted and she was coated in blood and dirt. He leant down to hair and held out his hand "Hi, are you okay there? I'm Feliciano and-"
She froze up and turned her head around. Her eyes darted over his face "V…Venenciano?"
