Title: Tomate Italiano Poco
Author: Mon Petit Pierrot
Fandom: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Rating: T (for safety)
Summary: South Italy has disappeared. North Italy is devastated. Centuries later, on Liberation Day in Rome, Spain finds a little human boy who is the mirror image of the missing nation.
Note: Please enjoy.
- Tomate Italiano Poco -
Prologue
It had been raining heavily the day Romano disappeared without a trace.
Spain chattered happily to his tomatoes, his clothes completely soaked – for he had forgotten his umbrella; he had no doubt that his Romanito was going to give him an earful when he arrived back at home – and his hair plastered to his forehead. He tried to balance the heavy bag in his arms as he fished out his keys, shouldering open the door once he had unlocked it.
He headed to the kitchen immediately, intent on drying the tomatoes in preparation for dinner that night and ignorant of the fact that his wet shoes leaving marks on the carpet.
"Romanito? I'm home! And I have the tomatoes~!"
No answer.
Spain was puzzled, having not expected to hear absolutely nothing. His charge would have already been complaining that he was too loud and demanding to see them himself and that he make dinner instead of the stupid tomato bastard. "Romano?" he called out tentatively. "Maybe he's sleeping…"
He carefully unloaded the tomatoes into the glass bowl before ascending the stairs towards the darkened hall above. "Romano?" he shouted this time, thinking somewhere along the lines that the older Italian twin was playing a game. "I know you're around here somewhere, my little tomatito~!"
Still no answer.
But as he opened the door leading into Romano's room and realized that it was empty, there was something heavy that settled onto his shoulders and an awareness that surfaced at the back of his mind. And for a moment he didn't recognize what it was.
It wasn't until he saw the battered note attached to the far wall that he could put a name to it.
I'm so sorry. Please forgive me.
Those words etched themselves harshly on his heart and pounded against his head mercilessly. He fell heavily to his knees, only able to stare at the note that shouldn't be there. No. NO!
The room swam before his eyes and a sudden wail tore out of his throat, but he wouldn't accept it. He couldn't. Romano wasn't gone. He couldn't be!
"No…no…Romano…you can't…por favor regrese…come back…please…"
He collapsed onto the worn blue carpet and sobbed pitifully, but he barely noticed. The once great Spanish Empire was grieving over this boy. But now he didn't care. He wasn't so great any longer. He wasn't strong. Not without him.
He just wanted his Romanito back.
Por qué?
"ROMANO! COME BACK!" he screamed towards the ceiling, the sky, whatever the hell was there, and prayed desperately for his safe and swift return.
This was his prayer – constant and almost never ending, muttered under his breath – throughout the long centuries that followed. Tormented by his slowly fading memories of Romano, he faithfully kept vigil at the Italian's empty bed at every moment he could and prayed for hours. He wouldn't give up, no matter how many years passed. He couldn't.