Pairing: It's meant to be Itacest, but, frankly, except for two or three sentences, you can easily pass through it (I think?) Barely noticeable FrUK in chapter two.
Summary: They refused to say "death" They would not allow it. It would be admitting that they were gone forever and they were not ready to accept it. They would never be.
Warning. Characters' death. Hurt/comfort, but without comfort.
Disclaimer. I do not own Hetalia.
1 days. 13 hours. 24 minutes. 35 seconds.
1 days, 13 hours, 24 minutes and 35 seconds since the disappearance of Italy Romano and the Kingdom of Prussia. Veneziano would never allow himself to say "death" It would be admitting that they were gone forever. He was not ready for that. The truth was still too painful for him to accept. Was it going to be any other way one day, he wondered.
It had all happened without a warning. One day, they were here: Prussia laughing, Romano cursing, both of them talking, walking, simply being and, the next, they were gone. It had all happened in one night, without anyone witnessing it, without anyone being aware of what was happening in the next country, in the next house, on the next side of their bed.
Veneziano had woken up one morning in the bed he shared with his brother, but when he had turned around to look at the usual figure presumably sleeping next to him, there was no emerald eyes and tender smile for him to meet. At first he had thought that, maybe, Romano had simply woken up earlier to prepare breakfast like he would do sometimes when he was in a particularly good mood. There was no smell of coffee or fresh bread rolls. And no one in the kitchen.
And this desperate emptiness in his stomach. Something he had never felt before.
It's okay, Feliciano had tried to comfort himself, to stop the budding worries from growing any bigger. He is probably gone to Spain. Without telling me. Nothing to worry about. And, just to be sure, Veneziano had called Spain.
He didn't know where he was either.
It was okay. He was somewhere. He got to be somewhere. Probably going shopping. Anytime soon, the older Italian would walk through the door and Feliciano would feel incredibly stupid for worrying over nothing. It was how it was meant to happen. So, the younger Italian had sat at the table overlooking the kitchen, waiting for his beloved fratello to come back home. He waited for hours and hours, not daring to move from an inch in fear of what would happen if he did so. He waited for hours, until it was late at night and he received a called from Germany. And then he knew. And then Germany knew. And the silence that followed was horrible to bear. Prussia had gone missing.
9 o'clock in the evening, day zero. That's when Veneziano started counting.
If only he could have said goodbye, if only he had had one more day to go.
Strangely, Feliciano did not cry when the realization first struck him. He had to wait for the emergency meeting that took place the day after. He had to wait for England to announce "the death of Italy Romano and the Kingdom of Prussia" The death... of Italy Romano. It felt like he had been stab in the chest from the front. Veneziano circled the table. Everyone was morning, morning the death of one, the other or both nations, silence hanging in the air. Spain wasn't even here, he realized. And that's when he really understood. Romano was dead, he would never come back home. The pain, the realization, the emptiness. It was just to much for him to handle. A first tear escaped his eyes. And a second, and a third, and, now that it had begun, it seemed like nothing would be able to make it stop.
The room had grown silent. All eyes were on him. He didn't care. Because Romano was dead. Lovino was dead. His brother, his lover, his other half had disappeared. Forever. He was all alone now. He felt so alone. He didn't care for anything else than the unbearable pain in his chest. Yet, he didn't want for it to stop. He wanted to feel it, he wanted for everyone else to feel it, he wanted to cry, forever if he had too, until someone brings him back. Please, someone brings him back.
Somewhere through his tears, he felt a comforting hand taking his. No one had dared doing that move. Germany did. Veneziano. No, Italy, he really was Italy from now on – oh, how he had hoped he would not – didn't even find the strength to squeeze it.
1 days. 13 hours. 26 minutes. 47 seconds.
He knew he would never stop counting.
It had woken him up during the middle of the night. This feeling in his chest. Romano's eyes had snapped open, so abruptly he had thought it would have woken up the whole neighbourhood. A feeling that was not painful, not pleasant, that was just here. He knew something was happening because he could feel it, right in his chest and, for a brief moment, he thought it had to do with Feliciano. He took a look at his brother sleeping peacefully next to him.
Right. It was him, then.
Perhaps, he had known from the beginning. He wanted to make sure, anyway. Make sure that his little brother was alright. He was. Thankfully, he was.
Romano didn't even had to look at his slowly disappearing body to know he was dying. He knew it, he could feel it: the strength escaping his body, his mind growing slower and slower by every second. It was the day, he guessed. The older Italian knew it was going to happen eventually one day or another. The world didn't need two Italies for only one land. He was surprised he had gotten to survive for so long.
He was not scared, he would meet Nonno Roma where he was going, he told himself. He was not scared. Not for himself. A single tear ran down his cheek as he gently raised his hand to come caressing his little brother's face. He looked at him lenghtily, taking in every single detail like it was the last time he would see him. It probably was. Maybe he should wake him up. No. No, he didn't want to see him cry. He didn't want to see him crying and suffering and shouting like he knew he would if he was to witness all of this. He was sleeping peacefully, safe in his dreamland and it was perfect like this.
A second tear was not long to follow. Tears after tears, slowly humidifying the duvet. And Romano cried silently, not because he was dying, but because of this face he would never get to see again, because of those lips he would never kiss again, because of the pain he knew he would inflict on his beloved brother. He didn't want to hurt him, didn't want for him to cry, to be sad. He would, he knew he would.
"Ti amo tanto." he whispered in the dark.
And just like that, he was gone. Italy Romano was gone. No corpse, nothing. As if he had never existed.
Since it's meant to be an Itacest oneshot, it's mainly focusing on North and South Italy. BUT, I'll do a chapter two (which means it will not be a oneshot anymore, I know) about Prussia and Germany too. Not Germancest, just plain Germanic brotherly love.
I hate myself for killing poor Romano and Prussia. I'm dying inside, I swear. I must be a masochist.
~Asctera