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A/N: Hi! This is the second instalment of the Dictators series, and focuses on Veneziano, Romano, and Mussolini. Through this series of one-shots, I want to explore the complex relationship nations have had with their dictators. The series will also include Japan, Spain, China, and Russia.
DISCLAIMER: This is averypolitically sensitive series. I have tried my absolute best to avoid any sort of bias. I've done a lot of research, and I've tried to focus on the facts, and only the facts. However, we are also dealing with Hetalia characters. They're human, in a way. So there is a tangible emotional element to this series. Please understand that before you start reading. It's political, it's sensitive, and it touches a lot of controversial topics. I don't mean to offend anyone.
I would like to give a special thank-you to Spinyfruit, who helped me with the research. I have a very credible source, and I quote them, "...when I think of Mussolini and fascism the words that come to mind are: megalomania, autarky, forced "Italianization", expropriations, black shirts, axis with Hitler's Germany, oppression and war. As the Duce, he did many awful deeds as totalitarian rulers do, but also some positive ones, such as modernizing the country's infrastructure, reducing bureaucracy, draining the Pontine marshes (south of Rome), fighting the mafia. However the overall verdict of history is a negative one for sure."
The significance of the usage of human names needs to be noted. When I say Lovino/Feliciano/Antonio/Ludwig and the like, I'm referring specifically to their human aspect and not their nation aspect. However, when I use their country names, I am talking about them as countries. Human names and country names have not been used interchangeably.
To add some context:
Mussolini was born in Emilia-Romagna, which is in Northern Italy. His early political activities began in Milan, also in the North of the country. That's why Veneziano starts out as more sympathetic towards Mussolini in this fic.
Also, I'm jumping through the timeline a lot. Too much is happening at the same time, and I would have to be a little flexible. A linear timeline would make my life too difficult.
Another thing:
Headcanons:
Veneziano's 'heart' is Venice. Romano's 'heart' is Rome.
Romano and the mafia have a complex relationship. The mafia screws with Romano's economy, sure, but it's also a part of him. He can control the mafia, he interacts with them regularly. And because of this relationship with them, he knows how to behave like them.
Historical Notes:
1. Because of the sheer amount of research that has gone into this fic, the historical notes are long and confusing. I'm going to give you a general gist. The minor details are all in the fic.
2. Benito Mussolini was the first Fascist dictator in Europe. He served in World War One, which helped shape his views, and ruled Italy as a dictator from 1922 to 1943. Twenty-one years. He won the Italian people over by saying that he would restore Italy to the glory it had during the Roman Empire.
3. The March on Rome was his attempted coup in 1922. Against popular belief, he actually didn't seize power; it was handed to him. The March on Rome was technically a myth, since it wasn't a march. Mussolini, a former journalist, glorified it, spun it around, twisted his words, and created his own facts.
4. Mussolini was often called Il Duce. He was good at propaganda, and he became a true dictator in 1925 after passing a lot of press restrictions.
5. The bombing of Corfu happened in 1923, when Italian troops bombed Greece. I've not gone into too much detail about it, but basically, Italian representatives were killed, Italy sent an ultimatum, and Greece accepted most of the terms, except for the ones which infringed on its sovereignty. Mussolini was furious, and the bombing began.
6. Interestingly, Mussolini was not religious at all. He'd made very anti-religious remarks on several occasions, publically. However, once in power, he sought to fix that, since the majority of Italy is Catholic. He created the Vatican City, got himself and his family baptised, and passed several laws which we would today consider rather backward, barring on the ridiculous.
7. Mussolini and Hitler were friends. In fact, Hitler was influenced by the March on Rome and tried to seize power in a similar way (The Beer Hall Putsch), although Hitler failed.
8. The economy under Mussolini was bad. Italy was very poor at the end of World War One. Mussolini had promised to fix that. He came up with three 'Battles'. The Battle for Land, the Battle for Lira, and the Battle for Grain. To put it simply: Mussolini wanted more usable land, a stronger currency, and more grain. Out of these three, only the Battle for Land is considered a success. Overall, Mussolini failed to revive the economy.
It was 1922, shortly after the March on Rome. For some strange reason, however, Romano couldn't remember there ever being a march. He couldn't remember there being three-hundred thousand fascists, with Mussolini leading them on horseback. It was like a blank space in his mind. Hadn't they come to Rome by train? From Milan? That was what Veneziano had said, right?
Romano stood quietly next to his leader, all prim and tidy in his Blackshirt uniform, with his brother standing right next to him. Veneziano leaned closer and whispered, "Stop frowning. Benito won't like that."
"I'm confused, dammit," he whispered back feverishly.
"Just listen to Benito. He'll explain everything."
Of course Veneziano would believe that. Mussolini was born and raised right in the heart of Veneziano's territory. It was Veneziano who had discovered him giving political speeches in Milan, and it was Veneziano who introduced Romano to him.
Romano's shoulders slumped. A dull throbbing began at his temples. The Italian sun was getting to him. Beads of sweat rolled down the back of his neck, and the urge to scratch an itch was driving him crazy. But Romano didn't move. He just stared out into the crowd, listening to his leader talk.
He was clearly getting a brain disease or some shit, because of course the March on Rome happened. How could it not have? Without it, Mussolini wouldn't be here.
"There is one thing you have to remember," Romano said with a low snarl, just before Benito came to power. "Veneziano and I are personifications. We are not your bitches. We represent the government, the population, the land, the sky, and the seas of Italia. But most importantly, we are the collective creation of the people. Without them, we wouldn't exist. They have our first loyalty. So as long as they approve of you, we approve of you. And the moment they want you gone, we will want you gone. Am I making myself perfectly fucking clear?"
"Of course," Benito had said, utterly calm in the face of Romano's theatrics. "The people are my first concern too, Romano. That is what Fascism is about. I have taken up the mantle of leading our fellow countrymen towards a better, happier future. It is a burden, but one I will bear gladly."
"See?" Veneziano said happily. "I told you; he's perfect for us!"
Romano looked at his brother, and then at this Benito Mussolini character. The man seemed firm, honest, and trustworthy. There was a kind of unfazed steel in his eyes, and Romano liked that. After the disastrous Treaty of Versailles, both he and Veneziano had been furious. What had happened to their promised territory? They hadn't wasted men, money, and time for those stupid Allied bastards for nothing!
But this Mussolini. He seemed to know what he was doing, and both Romano and Veneziano knew how important that was right now. "Fine," Romano had said quietly. "Let's fucking march on Rome."
In actuality, he wasn't a real dictator until 1925. He was more like a bully, a boss without really being one. Veneziano didn't really mind either way. This was fine. It was a bit confusing when the newspapers began sounding the same, though.
"Ve~" Veneziano mumbled as he leafed through the rag. He was in Rome, staying in Villa Torlonia with his brother, because Benito had asked them too. "I just want to feel closer to the personifications of this great country, you see. I find it very enlightening," he'd said, which made Veneziano very happy. Right now, however, he was a little baffled. "Romano, I think the newspapers are being silly."
"What now, dammit?" Romano muttered. He was lying on a couch on the other side of the room, exhausted. He'd had a long night with the mafia.
Veneziano stared at his brother, and then stared at the newspaper, which sang praises about Benito. "Well, some of them haven't arrived today. That Communist one, and the Socialist one? And a few others, too…"
"Who gives a fuck? Let me sleep, dammit." And Romano turned to his side and passed out.
After the fourth day, Veneziano couldn't help but say something. So he called up one of the newspaper offices, all ready to complain. Why had they stopped delivering to their doorstep? He liked reading the papers!
Veneziano was a bit confused when he realised the offices had shut down.
"Those newspapers lied," Benito said coolly, not even looking up from the documents he was reading. They were in his study, and he was in the middle of a lot of important work. Veneziano didn't really want to bother him, but if there was one person who knew what had happened to the papers, it was Benito.
"But they're newspapers! They're supposed to tell the truth!"
"Exactly," Benito said, looking up now. His eyes pierced into Veneziano's, and the personification felt an involuntary shiver. "They were liars. I used to be a journalist, so I know how the press lies, twists facts, distorts the truth. So I've solved the problem. Every journalist will have to be registered with the Fascist Journalist Association. That way, we can monitor them to make sure they're telling the truth. The newspapers that lie will be shut down."
"Oh!" Veneziano said, his eyes brightening. A smile came onto his lips. Benito thought of everything, didn't he? "I didn't know they lied! But that's a good thing, what you did. Newspapers shouldn't lie. It's wrong."
Benito's lips turned upwards in a small, warm smile. "I know. The newspapers you'll find now will tell you the absolute truth."
Veneziano laughed happily. "Those newspapers adore you! But then, you're so smart. Fascist Journalist Association. An excellent idea!"
"Thank you, Italy Veneziano. I'm honoured that you think so."
"Ve~ You're wonderful, Benito."
"Thank you." He turned back to the documents on the table. "Now why don't you go back to doing whatever you were doing?"
So Veneziano went back to the lounge, picked up the newspaper he'd left half-read, and opened it to a new page. He smiled when he saw pictures of his Benito all over them.
As the years went by, the newspapers began to trickle away. Only the good ones stayed. Only the ones which told the truth. Veneziano was happy. Benito knew journalism, he understood how to punish liars.
It was 1928. The Press Law, and the two Exceptional Decrees had been passed. Those awful, fact-twisting newspapers were all gone.
Benito asked them to call him Il Duce, and Romano and Veneziano were happy to comply.
It was around this time Romano started worrying about his Mafia. They'd always been a pain in the ass, definitely. They sucked out his economy, terrorised his people. They brought all sorts of contraband shit into the country, and their 'paid protection' was not exactly something to look forward to. But still. The Mafia was an integral part of Romano. It was because of them that he even had an independent streak. Lovino didn't like to admit it, but he actually was slightly concerned about them.
On his monthly trip to Sicily, he was all ready to meet the local Mafioso. It was a tricky balance. He had to make sure they were powerful enough to remain happy, but not so powerful that they took total control of Romano's life. This was as much a fight for his independence, as it was a fight against his independence. He'd tried explaining it to Feliciano once. The dumbass didn't quite understand. What the fuck ever.
He was a little surprised to discover that all the big guns of the Mafioso were in hiding, and some twit called Cesare Mori was standing there, looking pretty fucking pleased with himself. "And you say you're a…government official?" Mori asked sceptically as he looked at Romano's id. "Lovino Vargas. Hmm, I see. And what business did you have with the Mafia?"
"It's my job to keep an eye on them," Romano replied with gritted teeth. Who the fuck was this bastard and why the fuck was this happening? This was his territory, this was his Mafia. Why was some dipshit from Veneziano's part of the country trying to interfere?
"Il Duce has appointed me to control them, to eradicate them," Mori said, narrowing his eyes. "Who on earth are you?" He leafed through some more documents Romano had carried with him. "Il Duce seems to hold you in high esteem," he went on, looking at the papers.
"Exactly," Romano growled, coughing just a moment later. Was the economy—no, Il Duce was working on that. Could Romano just shoot this Mori-guy in the head and get away with it? No, Il Duce would be angry…
"The Mafia is not your concern any more, Lovino Vargas," Mori replied with an air of finality, handing the documents back to Romano. "I am the Prefect of Palermo now, and it is my duty to end the lawlessness here."
Romano just stared at him.
"Oh."He could feel a splitting headache coming on, god-fucking-dammit.
But when he thought about it, this was definitely a good thing. Those Mafia bastardi were a pain to have to deal with. The ordinary people always suffered, and he couldn't stand that. And if the Duce had appointed Mori, then it was fine, of course.
Still.
It was a little unnerving for Romano when he later discovered he'd forgotten how to load a gun.
But it was a weight off his mind, really. He wasn't constantly on edge worrying about what those morons were doing now, and if they were having another one of their wars, and who they'd kidnapped this time. Romano felt more relaxed, overall. He didn't even argue when Veneziano was being too annoying. He didn't even argue when Il Duce made him do things he didn't want to do.
With the Mafia gone, his rebellious, independent attitude was gone too. Good. Now he could focus on developing his other skills. Il Duce and the Italian people were happy about it, so Lovino was as well.
Romano sneezed as he took something for his aching throat. That was not the economy. It wasn't. Il Duce was making the economy better, after all. Getting rid of the Mafia was a step in the right direction.
Violence was fine. It got the job done.
It was usually Veneziano in charge of the international stuff, because he was naturally more affable, and anyway, Romano – being, well, Rome-ano – preferred to stay in Italy and manage things there. His heart was the capital, and he simply felt more comfortable in Italy. This arrangement worked out fine for both brothers, and even Il Duce agreed. Romano was too high-strung and mouthy. He cussed too much. He'd cause an international incident in a matter of seconds, for no reason at all. Veneziano, on the other hand, was sweet, cute, happy. He was wily when he had to be, charming when the job required it, and talented enough to be the subject of pleasant conversation. Besides, Feliciano liked talking to the other countries - something Lovino didn't have the patience for.
But in 1923, Feliciano got very, very, very angry.
"What the fuck is up with you?" Lovino snapped, because his brother had been sitting quietly in the corner of the lounge, a cup of coffee held tightly in his hands, completely untouched. His eyes were sharp and humourless, and he was generally giving off an aura of bloodlust. For once, roles had been reversed. Feliciano was the furious one.
"It's Greece. He should know better."
"Ah. Yeah, I read about that."
Negotiations over the disputed territory of Albania went sour because the Italian representatives had been assassinated. Sure, the Greek newspapers were condemning the crime and were in full support of the Italian side, but it wasn't enough. Il Duce had sent them an ultimatum, and the Greeks had the gall to modify it!
"The troops leave in an hour," Feliciano said with a quiet sort of satisfaction. "For Corfu."
Lovino raised an eyebrow. "You're going to bomb that cat-loving bastard?"
"He deserves it. Il Duce says so too."
Romano nodded in agreement. "Yeah, well. Those stupid Greeks shouldn't have tried to act up."
"Exactly!" Veneziano shouted, jumping to his feet. "Who do they think they are? Ten-thousand troops and the air force will teach them their place."
Veneziano wasn't too concerned when he later learnt that no Greek soldiers were killed, and the majority of the victims were children. The Greeks should have known better.
In Ethiopia, Veneziano used his new toy – poison gas. It wasn't meant to kill, of course. Just burn. A combination of mustard gas and tear gas. Non-lethal in most cases. He narrowed his eyes and smirked to himself as he bombed and gassed a Swedish Red Cross hospital. Il Duce would be so proud of him.
Later, Romano patted him on the back in a rare show of affection. "Well-fought, Veneziano. Il Duce can now add Ethiopia to his empire. Very well-fought."
"Grazie," Veneziano chirped happily. And then he coughed. Darn. Hiding this fever was difficult. It wasn't caused by the economy, of course. That would be ridiculous. Il Duce was fixing that.
He was fulfilling his promises. Il Duce was making Italia strong. Romano and Veneziano felt real pride when they walked through the streets in their Blackshirt uniforms. It thrilled them to see their fellow countrymen dressed like that, catching and punishing political vagrants. Il Duce's enemies were being hunted in droves. Jews, too.
Actually, that one caused just the slightest bit of conflict.
"Ve~ They're our people, Lovino," Feliciano whispered furiously. "Even the Pope doesn't want Il Duce to hurt the Jews!"
"Don't question Il Duce," Lovino snapped, a tell-tale thudding in his temples at the very thought of contradicting the man. "Don't you dare do that."
Feliciano swallowed, lowered his eyes, and mumbled, "Sorry. No, you're right. Il Duce must have a reason."
"He's a great man," Romano said. "Of course he has a reason. We don't understand how his mind works, but that's our failing. We're inferior."
Veneziano widened his eyes. "Inferior?"
"To his intelligence," Romano said with an air of finality. "Il Duce knows best. Trust him."
"…Yes," Veneziano replied. "Yes. You're right. I trust him."
"Good."
Il Duce also did something that both the Italy brothers were ecstatic about. He made the Vatican City. An actual Papal state, just like in the old times! And so close to Rome, too! Veneziano and Romano sat for their first mass in Saint Peter's Basilica in the newly created Vatican, and it was fabulous. Il Duce also baptised his family.
He banned divorce, homosexuality, and adultery. (Lovino was really confused, because Il Duce had many mistresses, but Feliciano reminded him that questioning Mussolini was wrong. Lovino quickly shut up.)
But one thing Lovino had serious problems with was the ban on swearing in public.
The two of them had been sitting on a park bench when Lovino read it in the news.
His first reaction was, "Holy fuck, what the hell is this!?"
Feliciano jumped at the sudden outburst and then peered over his brother's shoulder to read the news. "Uh-oh," he commented, giggling.
Lovino shut the newspaper and glared at his brother. "It's not fucking funny! How the fuck am I – how the hell – shit, dammit! ARGH! How…how…"
"How on earth…?" Feliciano prompted, snickering.
The elder brother swallowed nervously. "How…on earth…am I supposed to talk?"
"Aw! You did it! Yay, Lovi!"
"Shut the fuc – hell – shit – dammit, I can't!" he buried his head in his hands. "This is hard."
"You'll get the hang of it." Feliciano patted his shoulder in a supposedly supportive manner before bursting into laughter again. Lovino growled softly and incoherently to himself as he heard his brother's tinkling giggles. It was all very fucking easy for Feliciano, wasn't it? How the hell was he supposed to talk without fucking cussing all the time?
Maybe if I think the words instead…
"I can talk without cussing," Lovino said slowly, watching out for every word that left his lips. "It's really –" fucking "— easy. See?" At Feliciano's encouraging nod, Lovino continued, "And I'm starving –" dammit "—let's get some food."
"Oh, wonderful! Keep going! You're doing great."
Lovino felt his face become very warm. This was fucking ridiculous.
"I was thinking we could have pizza, because I'm – " fucking "—bored of pasta."
"YOU'RE BORED OF PASTA?!"
"Yes," Romano said, coughing and wincing as his throat ached.
"YOU MONSTER!" Feliciano shouted.
"WHAT DID YOU JUST FUCKING CALL ME, YOU STUPID BASTARD?!"
Oh shit.
Feliciano suddenly lunged forward and clamped a hand on his brother's mouth. The outburst had caught the attention of a few passing Blackshirts. Shit, shit, shit. "Be quiet," Feliciano whispered urgently. "I'll go talk to them."
Lovino swallowed, wordless, stunned into silence. He could not cuss anymore. He would not cuss anymore. It was against Il Duce, and it was against god. But more importantly, it was against Il Duce, and really, Il Duce was god. So that was that. Sure, Feliciano was able to get rid of the Blackshirts with his natural charm and whatever, but Lovino spent the rest of the day in total quiet, responding to everything with only a nod or a shake of his head.
He could do this. He would do this. For Il Duce.
The two halves of Italy were always the happiest when they wore their Blackshirt uniforms. For Romano, it was like being a part of the Mafia again. Except, legal and sacred. Veneziano saw himself as god's little soldier. It was very invigorating.
Romano especially loved it when they went after Il Duce's political enemies. He loved thrashing them, hanging them to trees, forcing them to eat toads and frogs and all sorts of disgusting things. He enjoyed it when they screamed. He enjoyed it when the squirmed. Romano loved the power.
Veneziano preferred being more covert. He liked working with the secret police: the OVRA. In fact, it used to genuinely bother him that the OVRA never arrested more than four-thousand people. "There are so many out there who deserve it, ve~" he always complained.
"That's true," Il Duce replied simply.
Wouldn't Grandpa Rome be so proud of them?
And then, Il Duce helped Spain.
It started out rather strangely. Romano could tell that his brother was keeping a secret. Veneziano was never good at lying to his older twin, so he kept nervously laughing, looking at his watch, saying something inane, leaving the room. Romano kept shooting him glances. It just unnerved Veneziano even more.
Finally, one of Veneziano's people entered, whispered discreetly into his ear, and walked out.
It was only then that his brother came clean.
He left his chair and went up to Romano, who'd been sitting on the couch, playing chess with himself.
"Lovi?"
Romano glanced up at the sound of his human name. Feliciano looked slightly ill. His brother sat next to him, and placed his hands on his lap.
"What, dammit?" Lovino could cuss, because they were indoors.
"You know about Big Brother Spain's civil war, of course," Feliciano began slowly.
"Who the fuck doesn't? I don't know how that bastard gets himself into these situations." Despite the cruel language, there was a noticeable frown on Lovino's features. Feliciano chose not to comment. Anyone could tell how much Lovino cared for Antonio. They'd spent centuries under the same roof, and Antonio had raised Lovino. Concern was natural. Which was what made this so difficult.
"Well, Il Duce decided to help him out. With German forces."
Lovino narrowed his eyes. "German forces?" he questioned, sneezing a moment later.
"Yes. Germany's boss sent his Luftwaffe. You know, his air force."
"Wait, Germany sent the Luftwaffe to…Spain?"
"We helped too!" Feliciano said quickly. "See, um, so you know the Basque Country, right?"
"Yes, dammit."
"There was a little town called Guernica…"
"Uh-huh. And?"
"And…well…it's sort of…levelled."
Lovino just stared at his brother. "Levelled."
Feliciano looked away, adjusting his collar. "S-si, levelled. The place was bombed. Civilians died."
As he stared at his brother, Feliciano's words started to dawn on Lovino. His eyes went slowly wide. Basque Country. Guernica. Lufwaffe. Levelled.
Oh fuck.
Spain!
"You bombed Spain!?" Lovino shrieked, jumping to his feet. "Veneziano, you levelled a Spanish town?"
"Basque Country!" Feliciano protested.
"Jesus. Jesus!"
"Stop saying that!"
"YOU FUCKING BOMBED ANTONIO'S LAND!"
"Stop shouting! I'm getting to the good part!"
"Good part?!" Lovino screamed. He knew he shouldn't have been yelling at Veneziano for carrying out an order. It was like yelling at Il Duce himself. But that stupid Spanish bastard's damn civil war had been driving Lovino to the edge of insanity with worry. Spain was too nice for something like this. Sure, Spain used to be an evil fucker back in the day, but still. Antonio did not have the temperament that could enable him to laugh this off. And now Veneziano had bombed a town? Why?
"Il Duce wants to help Francisco Franco," Veneziano said breathlessly. "Franco is like Il Duce and Adolf Hitler. He wants to help Spain. And we – as Italy – are providing support to Franco. You see, if he wins the civil war, he'll make Spain stable and happy again."
Lovino just gaped at Feliciano.
"But Spain is…"
"Hurt, I know," Feliciano said quietly. "But it was unavoidable. He'll recover. He'll be fine, you'll see. He needs Franco. That's why we're doing everything we can to help him." He put a hand on Lovino's shoulder. "Are you all right? You look a little pale."
"This is fucked up," Lovino stammered, sitting down on the nearest chair. "This is so fucked up."
"Spain will be fine. I promise you."
"This is…Il Duce's…idea?"
"Il Duce gives it his full support."
"Oh," Lovino said quietly. "Oh."
"Fratello?"
"That's…that's fine, then," Lovino said slowly, as though the words were foreign to him. "If Il Duce's okay with it…The bombing of Guernica is…fine."
Veneziano smiled, satisfied. "Exactly. That's what I wanted you to understand. It's all perfectly fine."
Lovino smiled too, although the expression was far more uncertain. Something was clawing at him. He was Romano. South Italy. Italy Romano. He should not have been channelling Lovino Vargas this much. Sure, a little bit was fine. He was a person too, after all. But right now, he felt an insanely human urge to run to Antonio, to nurse him back to health.
To…to apologise on behalf of Italy.
The thought was so scandalous that Lovino almost threw up. No, no, no, no, no. He had nothing to apologise for. Italia had done nothing wrong.
The next day, he went to the church and confessed. When that didn't make him feel any better, he went straight to Il Duce.
"You feel that we were wrong to bomb Guernica?" Il Duce asked quietly, getting up from his chair and taking soft, menacing steps towards Romano.
"It was a moment of doubt. I'm so sorry." Lovino bowed his head, trying to bring his heartbeat under control.
It happened so suddenly that Lovino almost didn't believe it.
SLAP.
Sharp, firm, cutting. It hit him in the face, making him stumble backwards and gasp.
Il Duce was standing above him, his eyes alight with fury. "I don't want to hear of this kind of insolence ever again."
"Yes sir," Lovino responded in barely a whisper, still keeping his head down as tears threatened to pour from his eyes. His cheek stung terribly from where he'd been slapped. But the guilt. The guilt was gone. God had not helped him, but Il Duce had. "I apologise once again."
"Get out. Just get out of my sight."
Lovino darted out of the room without another word.
This was all right. He had confessed. His conscience was clear. He was fine. He was absolutely fine.
There was only one small problem.
The two Italy brothers were constantly ill.
They claimed it was just the weather, just the cold, just a bit of rain, some uncooked food, anything, anything, because they could not, would not face the fact. It was the economy, and it wasn't doing well at all. Il Duce was making the Lira stronger. Il Duce had drained the Pontine marshes! The Battle for Land had been a complete success. And the currency was improving. It was. It had to be.
The first time Veneziano openly questioned Il Duce was after he'd vomited his dinner for the fifth night in a row. Romano was sitting next by his bedside (sporting a fever himself), helping his brother drink some cool water. Romano helped him sit up, affectionately flicking some hair out of his eyes (and grimacing when he felt his brother's temperature).
"Here, drink," Romano said gently, making sure not to speak above a whisper. He didn't want to make Veneziano's migraine worse.
"Thank you," Veneziano murmured in response, giving Romano a weak smile as he took the glass. "You should get some sleep yourself. Your face is really red."
"My face is always red," Romano retorted, looking away.
"But now it's red because you're sick." Veneziano smiled a little more, squeezing Romano's hand.
"The weather really does us in, doesn't it?" Romano questioned seriously.
"The weather," Veneziano repeated, lowering his eyes. It had been sunny and fresh and lovely for weeks now. Not a drop of rain. Nothing to make them fall ill. "Yes, the weather's been terrible." Veneziano still didn't look his brother in the eye.
Romano noticed and swallowed, looking away as well.
"Lovino," Feliciano asked, and the elder Vargas glanced up at the sound of his human name.
"What, Feli?"
"Is Benito helping the economy?"
Lovino hissed loudly, clamping a hand over his brother's mouth. "Il Duce is making us strong. How can you even doubt that? I could report you, you fucking traitor!" He was speaking softly, but his words carried desperation, a sense of duty that Lovino didn't entirely feel. It was like he was reading off a script, because dare he did not, he'd be shot.
"Oh come on," Feliciano mumbled, setting the glass of water on the nightstand and staring at his fingernails. "You know it as well as I do. We're sick because of the economy."
"Will you shut up?" Lovino almost yelped. "Feliciano, the walls have ears. Just shut up."
Feliciano actually opened his eyes. "Oh."
"Exactly," Lovino snapped, looking into his brother's rarely-seen golden irises. "Don't question him. Please. It's too dangerous."
Feliciano nodded seriously. "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry for losing my temper. But…dammit. I feel so fucking conflicted."
"Lovino, we're at war. You can't feel conflicted. You're a personification."
"Don't you think I fucking know that?" Lovino stared at his shoes. "You're conflicted too, aren't you? Aren't you?"
"…Lovino, please."
"Tell me the truth. Dio, tell me the truth, or I might just lose my mind." Without warning, tears sprung from Romano's eyes. "Nobody's fucking truthful anymore. You can't fucking trust anybody. We can't even trust each other. Who knows, one of us might just go tell Il Duce about this conversation."
"I would never do that! I'd never tattle on you!"
"So what you're saying is, your first loyalty is to me and not your leader." Lovino wiped his eyes and stared at Feliciano. His brother became very, very quiet. This conversation had become even more heavy, if that was even possible.
"I…" Feliciano started. He stopped, and tried to speak again. For a few seconds, he just opened and closed his mouth like a fish. Finally, he managed, "Do you hate him?"
"What? No. I don't hate Il Duce!" Lovino dropped his voice several octaves. "Don't even think such shit. We'll end up in prison. He can't kill us, but he can sure as fuck jail us."
"But do you hate him?"
"No!"
"Neither do I," Feliciano replied, closing his eyes. "And I'm being honest with you now, fratello: it makes me sad when he lies to us. It makes me wonder exactly what we know about our own country."
But the Second World War had begun. Such doubts were dangerous. Such doubts were completely unnecessary.
However, despite themselves, a Pandora's Box had been opened.
Romano went to visit Spain. Il Duce had asked him to convince Spain to join the war, and while Romano didn't mind the extra hand, he was honestly just excited to see the man again. He hadn't had any contact with Antonio since Guernica.
Spain was absolutely dirt poor now. He lived in a box-like apartment in Madrid. He'd lost weight. His clothes hung off him. His usually tanned skin was sickly and pale, and he seemed constantly tired and in pain. But at least Antonio's eyes remained as electric and green as ever. Romano pretended not to notice any of it. He pretended not to give a shit.
They feasted on only a few small tomatoes – the only food in Spain's apartment. Nobody said anything for a while, until Spain, desperate to end the silence (and perhaps the roar of gunshots inside his head), started to speak.
"You look so handsome in your uniform, Romano~" he cooed, smiling at his former charge.
Romano looked silently down to his Blackshirt uniform. It was starting to suffocate him. "Yeah, we're trendsetters in wartime fashion," he muttered, and rolled his eyes when Spain frowned in confusion. "Veneziano showed off his uniform to Germany, and now those Nazis have something similar. They call themselves the Brownshirts."
"But you and your brother have always been so fashionable," Spain laughed softly. It seemed to physically hurt him. He stopped prematurely, putting a hand over his heart and grimacing. Once again, Romano pretended not to notice. "Hey, I haven't officially thanked you," Spain said suddenly, and Romano's eyes flashed in his direction.
"What the fuck do you mean?"
"For your help in my civil war."
Romano stared at Spain. At his body. The Spain he remembered was strong. The Spain he remembered was an empire. Not this. Not this half-starved, scarred, terrified sack of bones. "We helped destroy Guernica," Romano said slowly, and Spain frowned, tilting his head to the side.
"But it helped, didn't it?"
Romano lowered his eyes. "That's what Il Duce says."
Spain was always a thick, oblivious fucker, but now it took him no time to realise something was wrong. "Lovino?" he asked, standing up and moving closer to him. "What's the matter? Do you not agree with Il Duce?"
Antonio put a hand on his shoulder, and Lovino gasped, jerking away. "Don't. There's an injury there."
"Oh! I'm so sorry." Antonio took a step back. "Did the Allies do that to you?"
Romano knew he was supposed to say, yes, those fucking Allies did it. When are you going to join the war and beat the shit out of them? Don't you want your revenge on England or something? It was what Il Duce would have expected him to say.
But instead, Lovino just shook his head. "Someone…someone else."
Despite the state Spain was in, hold habits didn't just go away. Antonio's voice was cold and fierce. "Who? Lovino, who hurt you?"
"Mussolini." The name slipped out of his mouth before Lovino could even control himself. Antonio gasped, his jaw dropping.
"But he's your leader!"
"And he has the right to punish me if I disobey him," Lovino added, trying to control the damage. Antonio was just gaping at him, his hands shaking.
And slowly, Lovino saw his old boss frown. It was a deep, threatening scowl. Nothing like his glares from the old empire days, but just this was enough to send a sane person running. Lovino had known the man long enough to keep at least some semblance of composure.
He snapped, however, when Antonio spoke.
"I'll kill him."
Romano was out of his chair in an instant, grabbing Antonio by the lapels and forcing him backwards. Rage coursed through him. Just pure, blind, absolute fury. "You say one more fucking word against Il Duce and I'll shoot you in the balls."
The threat, the reaction, the physical assault, all of it coming from Lovino, was able to stun Antonio into normalcy. Lovino felt like he'd broken out of a trance when he saw the man's green eyes widen in surprise and confusion. He let go of the weakened country, still throwing him dirty looks.
"But…" Antonio managed, straightening himself. He looked absolutely bewildered. "But he hurt you. Besides, we're on my territory, Romano. I can say what I like about him here."
"No, you can't. In case you've forgotten, Il Duce helped your Franco. You can't say shit about him or Hitler. And even if you could, you wouldn't dare. Not in front of me, at least." Lovino paused, balling his fists. "Anyway, it was a moment of disobedience. I committed a crime of thought. I went and confessed to Il Duce, and he gave me the required punishment. Then I read a few Bible verses, and felt better. Everything is sorted now."
Antonio was just gaping at him. "Wait…you confessed to your boss?"
"Yes."
"Like…confessed-confessed?"
"What the fuck?"
"As though you were in a…church…" Antonio said, his voice becoming softer and more horrified with every word.
Lovino just stared at him. "Yes. So?"
"Lovino," and Antonio's tone held a certain firm bass. His eyes had become sharper. "Benito Mussolini is not God."
"He's like God."
"Stop it, Lovino. Enough. Stop it. A man will never be comparable to God. What in the world is wrong with you?"
Lovino Vargas just gaped at his former boss, his eyes slowly widening as Antonio's words sunk into his mind. His deeply confused, completely controlled mind. And his jaw dropped at the allegation. "Oh dio santo," he whispered. "I don't know…" he blinked, tears forming in his eyes. "Dammit. Antonio, I don't know."
Antonio's face fell. His eyes softened, and he pulled his old henchman into a hug.
"Il Duce is not god," Lovino said out loud, pulling away from the embrace.
Antonio just smiled.
The war went on and on. Back at home Romano and the civilians were feeling the swift and ferocious pressure of it. Rations, Blackshirts, economics, the constant air of fear. On the frontlines, Veneziano was really, really friendly with Germany and Prussia. At least the Axis were doing well.
Neither of the brothers dared blame their leader.
Not until the bodies started coming back, anyway.
"Ve~" Veneziano said sadly one night, sitting by the fire as Germany cleaned his gun and Japan stared into a military map. "Germany," Veneziano said slowly, "I'm really confused about something."
"What is it now, Italy?" Germany grumbled without looking up. Veneziano never understood why Germany insisted on calling him 'Italy'. He was only one half of the country, after all. Still, Feliciano seldom understood many of the things Germany did.
"It's just…" Veneziano began slowly, for once dropping any interest in his pasta. He pushed his plate away, and this was enough for both Germany and Japan to look up, glance worriedly at each other, and then wait for Veneziano to continue.
"Yes?" Japan prompted, when Veneziano said nothing.
"I don't understand why Russia hates me. Well, us: Romano and I."
"What do you mean?" Germany asked.
"Well," Veneziano said slowly, hesitating as he spoke each word, "Romano and I have never had a problem with Russia. But he keeps taking our soldiers away. He takes them to prison camps…and I don't understand why. We don't have anything against him."
"You're part of the Axis," Germany said, looking at Veneziano blankly. "You're my ally. That's why. You know how Russia and I are at war. And you're on my side. That's why he's going after you."
"Germany's right," Japan added. "The second your boss entered the war, Germany's enemies became your enemies."
War involved losses. Veneziano knew that. But right now, under this cold night, listening to explosions and gunshots in the distance, Feliciano was starting to question the point of it all. The truth was, he just wanted to go home to Romano, sit next to his brother with a glass of wine and some pasta, and relax. He didn't like eating this cold, tasteless army stuff. He didn't like being this frightened all the time. He didn't like it that his and Romano's people were dying for absolutely no reason.
Was…was Benito really to blame?
Was he…was he capable of fault…?
"So this is all because my boss sided with the Führer?" Veneziano confirmed, for once opening his eyes completely and looking at Japan.
The Asian nation nodded.
So it was Benito's fault, then.
The second he thought of it, the second he broke his own mental rules and thought it, Veneziano wanted to cry.
Romano was signing a document. Personifications had to give their signatures of approval for things. Really, it was just a formality. In truth they had no choice. But still, it had to be done, no matter how little Romano wanted to do it. Frankly, he was sick and tired of this. They'd lost in North Africa, hadn't they? And it was Mussolini's fault.
It was BENITO MUSSOLINI'S FAULT.
His pen dug into the paper. Benito Mussolini. Benito Amilcare Andrea Mussolini. Not Il Duce. No.
At this point, Romano was so angry with the man that he didn't give a shit about the draining of the Pontine Marshes, the defeat of the Mafia, or any of that good stuff Mussolini had done. He just didn't care. He wanted it all to end. He wanted Veneziano to come home. He wanted to eat some pizza by the seashore, drinking wine and flirting with every pretty girl that came his way. He was just so past the point of giving a shit about this war. This stupid, pointless war.
Lovino wasn't sure what came first. The bombs, or the invasion? But somehow in those dark days, there was only this: fire. Smoke, sirens, fire. Veneziano and Germany fought for Sicily while Romano recuperated after attacks and attacks and attacks on his Rome, his heart. German panzers were all over the city, staining it.
On the 25th of July, Romano forced himself out of bed, his legs feeling shaky because god dammit, the Southern half of South Italy was a battlefield. He watched them vote to limit Mussolini's power, and Romano smirked to himself.
And then the bastard was dismissed as Prime Minister.
All Veneziano was aware of was chaos. Somewhere in all of this was Germany, betraying him. Taking control of him. Chaining him away. Somewhere in all of this was an armistice – god, that had pissed Germany off so much – somewhere in all of this was an occupation. Violence. Civilian uprisings.
There was just so much pain.
And then Germany came one day with Benito trailing after him. "Mussolini will stay here," Germany said simply. "With you." There was no arguing.
But when Feliciano, his arms cuffed and his foot chained to a wall, stared at Benito, something akin to fury bubbled within him. Mussolini looked ruffled, exhausted. He'd surrendered, escaped. Coward. COWARD.
"It's your fault! It's YOUR FAULT!" Feliciano screamed, tears streaming down his face.
Benito turned his back on Veneziano and ignored him completely.
Lovino found Mussolini and his mistress, Clara, in a German convoy at Dongo. They were escaping to Switzerland, the bastards. Lovino and his men pulled him out. "We're here to rescue you," someone told Mussolini.
And then Lovino threw them into the car and drove. The three of them were alone. Lovino said nothing.
"Are you really rescuing us, Italy Romano?" Benito asked coldly.
"I'm rescuing you the way you 'rescued' this country," Romano replied. The drive was long and endless. Nobody dared say a word. Lovino could here Clara crying to herself softly, but he'd lost all sympathy. He'd lost the ability to care about them. The vehicle stopped abruptly. Villa Belmonte stood before them. The cars following Lovino also stopped, taking their prisoners out.
"Face the wall," Romano ordered.
Someone begged him for mercy.
"Face the wall. Now."
Mussolini turned, as did Clara. The other prisoners were lined up too, their captors waiting for Romano's command to begin.
"Remember what I told you, years ago? If the people turn against you, the personifications do as well." Romano took out his gun. Without any fanfare at all, he fired.
Romano watched, but did not participate in the way the crowds beat the corpses. Murder was morbid enough for him, thank you very much. He would leave the darkest parts of vengeance to his people. They were the ones who'd really suffered. They deserved this. They probably even needed this. So he simply watched from a distance.
The yellow fields of Italia lay open before them. The sky was supposed to be blue, but instead it just looked grey. Maybe from all that ash. Feliciano and Lovino walked quietly, parting the long grass as they did. Their wounds hurt. God, so much.
And then they could walk no more, they sat under a lone tree in the field, hiding from the scorching heat, but unable to hide from reality anymore. There was no Mussolini to lie to them. They'd lost. In this madness, this pointlessness, they'd lost.
"Germany," Veneziano said quietly, plucking out small shards of grass. "Germany promised victory."
"Veneziano, Mussolini promised victory."
"We've let Grandpa Rome down, haven't we?"
Romano didn't reply.
There was so much to talk about and nothing to say.
Italy lay before them. Damaged, weaker, desperately poor.
But alive.
Alive.
A/N: Thank you for reading. I apologise for any historical inaccuracies. Not all the fics in the series will chart the rise and fall of the dictator in question. I focused on Mussolini's entire timeline because I found it interesting how he was supported and then deserted by his own people.
The next installment will probably focus on Spain and Franco, although don't expect to see it any time soon.
I named this fic '21' because of Mussolini's twenty-one years in power.
If you would like to know more about the Dictators series, please check out my profile. I'd also appreciate if you checked out Visitor, the first installment, which focuses on Germany, Prussia, and Hitler.
Thank you for reading. Please review.