This story was made because I found myself questioning the belief that Italy was always happy. So, yeah. Enjoy, Review, etc.
Cotton-Candy Smiles
Everyone loved Italy's smiles. Bright and goofy, soft, sweet, light. His round doe eyes and cotton-candy smile.
What an actor he was. It was in his blood, the ancient fireside myths deep in his history, his veins.
Because he smiled.
Because he was broken.
In reality, Italy was a statue made of powdered sugar. Sweet to look at, but incredibly fragile and achingly hollow.
He smiled for his grandfather, for Rome. Because Rome had always smiled for Italy. During all the pain, the agony Rome had endured near the end, he had kept that pleasant smile. For his grandson, his artistic, sensitive little Italy. He had died with that affectionate grin still on his face.
Then his grandfather's legacy, the lands that had cost him his life, were sucked away slowly as well. Nothing remained of his Grandfather-everything had been taken. And as Italy was still dizzy with grief, Austria took him over and made him a slave.
Every day, Italy worked. The job was thankless and grueling, yet Italy still smiled. His cotton candy, just for his Grandpa-sweet and sugary, but insubstantial.
Until he had met the Holy Roman Empire. He was so strong, but gentle. He didn't smile such a fake grin as Italy's, and when he did smile there was always something worth smiling about. Italy began to treasure their time together, began to relish how difficult breathing was near the other boy, began to love the feeling of drowning in his own, unfamiliar emotions. Until the Holy Roman Empire left.
He promised he would come back. Italy told himself that day after day, as the weeks dragged on. Then, slowly, the happiness and hope began to be replaced again by that fake, cotton-candy feeling. A month had passed. Holy Roman Empire had not come back. Somehow, Italy knew he never would.
He didn't really believe in happiness anymore. He still smiled, for Rome and the Holy Roman Empire. Whenever anyone saw his grin, they smiled back and went on their way. Sometimes, when they were gone, his mask would slip, losing that smile he wore painted on like a clown's. But whenever anybody came around, he would paste the expression back on. Intermission was over, and the play had resumed.
Germany, his new partner, thought he understood Italy. He could tell by the blonde's constant eyerolls in his direction, in the odd looks he was often given. Italy really was a master actor.
After a while, Italy began to feel the same way around Germany as he had around the Holy Roman Empire. Italy hated it. While he had once welcomed the labored breathing, he now despised the choking feeling it gave him. The feeling of drowning in his feelings no longer felt warm and freeing but instead felt like drowning in Molasses- sticky, thick, and suffocating. Italy hated these feelings.
What had they led to for him the last time?
Just a broken spirit and a cotton-candy smile.