A/N: Hello everyone! So yes...I know I shouldn't really be working on another multi-chapter fic right now, but I am xD I've decided to try and branch out by writing different characters in a different style, so I'm not quite sure how this is going to turn out, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!
Disclaimer: Seriously, do I even need to say this? xD I don't own Hetalia.
(For those of you who don't know, Romulus is the human name I've chosen to use for Ancient Rome c: )
Prologue
If he were painting the hospital, Romulus considers, he wouldn't need many colours at all. A dull, eggshell white for the corridors; sterile blue for the doors; perhaps an ugly shade of forest green for the gritty linoleum that makes harsh slapping sounds as the nurses march across it in their flat-soled pumps.
A door opens and closes along the corridor, and for a moment he can hear the faint, plaintive wails of newborns fighting for life. Foolishly, he listens to their overlapping cries, as if he would be able to distinguish his grandsons' tiny shrieks from the hundreds of other children packed into the clear plastic cribs of the Neonatal ICU. Of course, he can't. He doesn't even know, at this point, if his grandsons are alive.
A nurse sidles up to the front desk and begins whispering to the receptionist. Although their speech is inaudible, Romulus can see them shooting furtive glances in his direction, and when he hears his daughter's name muttered a few moments later he becomes certain that they are talking about him.
It is several minutes before the nurse approaches. She crouches in front of his plastic chair so they are at eye level, a gesture that makes him feel more like a young child than a 45-year-old grandfather.
"Mr Vargas…" She begins, then swallows and glances away. Immediately, he knows what she is going to say. "We're very sorry, your daughter…"
"She didn't make it, did she." He is astonished by the dull, flat tone that comes from his mouth. It doesn't sound like his voice at all.
The nurse shakes her head. "There were complications. We did everything we could. I'm sorry."
"I understand."
The conversation is too blunt, too formal, as if it is being recited from a script. It reminds Romulus of the stilted conversations he had had when he first arrived as a young Italian immigrant, bewildered and ignorant in the English language. Right now, he feels as lost as he did back then.
He knew that it was going to happen, of course – he knew from the moment Helena was wheeled away on a gurney, blood splattering the sheets at just twenty-nine weeks of pregnancy – but he had expected the moment to be more emotional. He had expected there to be tears, and shouting, and disbelief. Not this quiet, calm acceptance.
"And my grandsons?"
The nurse hesitates for longer this time, and something flickers in her eyes. Then she stands up, and gestures for him to follow.
"Perhaps it would be best for you to see for yourself."
He follows her down the corridor, a pace behind her fast march, and steps through the heavy double-doors into the ICU. The ward is a cacophony of wailing babies and beeping machinery and sobbing parents, but Romulus manages to block it all out as he squints against the harsh white light in search of his grandsons.
Another nurse appears. "Mr Vargas?" She touches his forearm to get his attention. "In here."
He is instructed to put on a mask and a gown before he enters the room. Seven or eight doctors stand around a clear incubator, gazing at it with a sort of grim fascination. Slowly, Romulus steps closer. He peers inside.
At first, all he sees is two scrawny twin babies. They are close together, their arms wrapped around each other, and he can't understand what the problem is. Although incredibly small, they are both very much alive and well.
Then they shift and turn in the crib, and everything changes.
From the neck upwards they are ordinary, healthy little boys with squinting hazel eyes and a thin chestnut down covering their sticky scalps. But from the breastbone down to the hip, their bodies merge into one, their pruned newborn skin stretched seamlessly across the point where their bones connect.
"Santa Maria…" He whispers, astounded. It takes a moment for his mind to process what he has seen, and when it does, he looks up at the doctors with eyes as round as marbles. "Can I hold them?"
The doctors exchange doubtful glances. Turning away, they mutter amongst themselves.
"Let the granddad have his moment," one of them murmurs. "It's not like they're going to survive anyway."
Romulus pretends not to hear.
Carefully, the twins are extracted from their protective little box and wrapped in a blue hospital-issue blanket, then placed into Romulus' outstretched arms. Although he has not held an infant in over twenty years, his arms curl around them instinctively, cradling them to his chest.
Finally, the tears begin to drip down his face and splash onto their wrinkled skin as he holds them. Feliciano and Lovino. That's what Helena had wanted them to be called, he remembers, and now these names are all he has left of her.
"Your Mama loved you, you know that?" He says softly to the twins, who whimper and mewl in his arms. "She did. She loved you very, very much, and that's why she died so that you could be born. So that means that you two have to survive, okay? Now your Mama is gone, I can't bear to lose you as well."
The smaller one – Feliciano – gives a tiny cough, and instantly they are whipped away from him and tucked back into their incubator. Already, Romulus' arms ache for their warm weight.
Eventually, he forces himself to ask the dreaded question. "What are their chances of survival?"
Once again, the doctors exchange glances. Romulus hates that, like they are all part of some secret conspiracy to protect him against the frightening details of their condition. With his daughter dead and her boyfriend long gone from the scene, he knows that he will be legal guardian over the boys, so he is determined to find out everything.
"Tell me." He instructs, sharper than he intended to. The senior doctor clears his throat and pushes up his glasses. He glances down at his clipboard, although it's obvious to Romulus that he has already memorised all the information on there.
"Your grandsons have a 15% chance of survival at most. Due to their premature birth, both boys are experiencing breathing difficulties, which may or may not correct themselves when – or if – they get older. Also, both of them, especially the smaller one-"
"Feliciano. The bigger one is Lovino."
The doctor looks mildly annoyed at his interruption. "Especially Feliciano, are showing signs of heart problems. These could be treated with surgery to implant a pacemaker, once the surgeons deem them strong enough for the operation. We can also expect them to have a weakened immune system and possible developmental delays. After that, we don't know. This is the first case of conjoined twins we've ever had at this hospital, so this is unchartered territory for all of us. But for now, all we can do is wait, and hope that they survive the night."
Romulus looks down at his grandsons once more. They have fallen asleep, and as they lie there, still and silent, it is disturbingly easy to picture them lifeless.
"Is there any chance that they could be - "
But he cuts himself off, because the doctor is already shaking his head. "No. I'm sorry, Mr Vargas. There is no possibility of separation. Even if they do survive, Feliciano and Lovino will be joined for life."
Thank you for reading!
About this fic: I have done my research for this, but obviously I don't have any firsthand experience, so I've had to use a bit of creative liberty! In this story, Lovino and Feliciano are (if my research is correct) thoracopagus twins, meaning they are joined from the upper chest to the lower stomach area. They have two arms, two legs, and a heart each, but they share several other important internal organs, which makes separation pretty impossible.
Please review and tell me what you thought! I'm trying out a different writing style for this story, so I would really appreciate it if you guys told me what you think of it, and how I can improve. Constructive criticism is always welcome!
Thank you, and goodbye!