A/N: My sincerest apologies—my laptop broke, so I sent it in to get fixed, and that took nearly forever...I know, I know—I need to invest in a USB device, or something...
In any case, thanks again for all the beautiful reviews! You guys are really great in telling me what works or not. I seriously have to thank you for all your invaluable help. ;)
Title: In the Shadow of Albion
Rating: R
Pairing(s): England/Italy and other multiplepairings (quite literally); e.g., Germany/Italy, US/UK, Spain/South Italy, etc...
Warnings: dark!England, romance, violence, a smidgen of language, innuendos, and smex (though I don't know to what level of detail just yet; possibly a smidgen on the dub-con-ish side of life, though)
Fun Facts: As far as historical facts go, I'll try to explain everything over the course of the chapter, but if I sneak any inside jokes into the mix I'll point them out at the bottom of the page.
Translations: Again, any of the garble I insult your senses with will be translated at the bottom of the page (special to Red Hot Holly Berries for the proper Italian, though, and for also correcting my French).
Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs entirely to Hidekaz Himaruya.
Summary: Meddling with the darker arts, England unwittingly unleashes a side of himself he thought was good and dead. And it's really too bad Italy's the only one that seems to notice anything's wrong with the old Empire...
~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~
Once, when he was younger, he had been good friends with an old priest of the San Giorgio Maggiore. Quite often on those long and sunny Venetian days, they would sit together in the church and talk of life—trivial little things, really, though most often their conversations tended to wander to Romano and Spain. Truth be told, some of his fondest memories were of the old man and his soft, wrinkled face, the way his skin crinkled at the corners of his eyes and lips whenever he smiled down at him. He supposed that that was what having a 'father' felt like, someone who understood his troubles and offered him support when he needed it the most.
Feliciano had enjoyed having a 'father'.
He once asked the man, though, if he thought that 'he', Feliciano, was at all fortunate at having been born as an eternal being. He knew that there were men would simply kill for his gift—to observe time, but never age; to fall at the hand of your enemy, only to rise again, undead—wasn't it a blessing? Wasn't it the greatest thing anyone could ever ask for...?
Wasn't he...lucky?
The man merely turned to him and asked, 'But are you happy?'
...In those days, Feliciano kept his thoughts mostly to himself (—not everyone needed to know the very life and blood of their nation was having a crisis, after all—), but kneeling behind the screen of a confessional, with God overhead and a friend close by, he bared himself to that old man and asked if it was a sin that he wanted to die. He could observe time, but was unable to feel it, being immune to a touch that could allegedly heal all scars; he could fall in battle and tear himself bodily from the clutches of death, but the pain he suffered was no less than that of a mortal man and the wounds afflicted upon him had no guarantee of ever fading... He was connected to all his people, felt their agony as though it was his own—and when the enemy won, he was still there, to see, and hear, and feel the consequences of their defeat, to be conquered, trampled, pillaged, and raped—and he was tired of this life without end, of all the trials and tribulations of his timid, little people, and the swell of adversaries spread along the fine line that was his border...
The priest told him that heaven was waiting for all of God's children, and that Italy, himself, had a place in that Holy Kingdom. Someday, he would see it. Someday, he too would be free...
Someday.
Someday...
Feliciano missed that foolish, old man, but he often wondered if he himself was the imprudent one. He had seen the worst the world had to offer, but he had also seen the best. There had been, after all, times when he experienced what could only be described as unparallel delight.
He had much to be thankful for.
And he always would.
But sitting where he was, pinioned beneath England's gaze, whatever trace of happiness life had afforded him that morning was immediately sapped from his core. He felt useless and weak—miserable—and just as easily disheartened, as though no measure could be taken to protect himself from the impending storm. Here he sat, 'Hetalia', before the man that would be the end of him...
England leaned back in his seat, folding his hands over his lap as he offered Feliciano a small and seemingly simplesmile. The man knew what Feliciano was thinking—knew that he had already won. Whatever it was he wanted he would have it, and there was nothing the Italian could do to stop him.
"—you bastard."
Startled, Feliciano almost missed the fleeting brush of lips against the corner of his mouth, a wisp of affection he knew all too well from the many long and tender nights spent lying in his lover's arms. It was like the spark at the end of a candlestick when the wick first catches the flame, a fierce flicker of light that ignites the senses and chases the chill from the soul. It was potent; almost electric.
And it stilled the frantic flutter of his heart...
It was times like these that he was reminded of how much he loved Ludwig.
"I said it would work," Spain chuckled off to his side. "Love conquers all, eh, my little tomato?"
Refusing to tear his gaze away from the blushing German, almost as though he actually believed the man would wither beneath his scowl, Romano made a vaguely irritated noise before waving his lover off. "I told that potato freak not to touch him if he valued his life, and he didn't listen. What does that tell you, hm?"
"...That he loves Feli more than he fears you?"
"Oh, you stupid, little—"
Feliciano decided to tune out Romano's conversation before his brother got into the thick of his colourful tirade, choosing instead to lean into the warm hand on his shoulder. Ludwig didn't kiss him in public too often. The man could be affectionate, of course, but Germany was reserved at the best of times; completely withdrawn at the worst. To say Feliciano was surprised would've been an understatement.
All the same, he was grateful for it.
"Maybe you should lie down," the man murmured, scanning the room to see if anyone was watching. Oddly enough, no one seemed to be paying any attention to them whatsoever, even England, who had taken a sudden interest in the conversation between the two North American brothers.
"But I'm fine."
"Don't lie to me." He almost sounded harsh, but Feliciano could hear the underlying concern. Their love was such a funny thing. "You can afford to miss a day. I'll take care of business."
"No..." He didn't mean to whine, honestly, but he couldn't stand the thought of being alone. Who was to say England wouldn't hunt him down during the break, maybe chase him all the way back to the hotel? Not that Feliciano knew what the man might do, but he had to make sure all his bases were covered—first and foremost, that Ludwig was never more than an arm's length away. "I don't have to talk today. Let me stay...Please?"
Ludwig frowned.
Feliciano tried very hard to bat his eyelashes without overdoing it...
And then he tried a little harder.
"...The moment I suspect anything out of the ordinary, you will return to the hotel room. Is that understood?"
"Sì"
"And you promise not to fight me on this one?"
"Sì."
If it was at all possible, Ludwig frowned even harder. "This is too easy."
"I don't want to be difficult..." which was the truth; he honestly didn't. "...but if I have to leave, you're coming with me."
"Now, why doesn't that surprise me?"
"Because you know me too well."
"Ja. 'Right'. Not nearly well enough."
"Smile," Italy commanded. Then he reached over and poked Ludwig in the arm good-naturedly. "You're just riled up because you kissed me in public."
"You wouldn't respond to anything else," the man argued (—but he was blushing again, which was always a good sign). "And as far as 'responses' go, you still haven't explained to me why you've been anxious lately."
"Pasta withdrawal."
"...I don't believe you."
"Everything has to do with pasta." ...Mostly. "I'll be happier when I'm home."
"Ja," the man grumbled, this time in assent. "Three more days...and then freedom from this madhouse."
"And pasta," he sighed happily. Crossing his legs, Italy let his foot brush against Ludwig's shin in an attempt to rile him up again.
It worked.
Clearing his throat, Ludwig reached under the table and gave Feliciano's knee a hardy squeeze, one that told him to behave but was no less suggestive than Italy's own behaviour. "I trust we'll head to Rome after the conference. And your brother will be...?"
"In Madrid. With Antonio."
"I see." Just barely, Feliciano could make out a small smile on the corner of the man's lips. "Sehr gut."
"Ja, sehr gut," Italy mimicked, but only because Ludwig couldn't hope to hide his smile when he tried to speak German, and when Ludwig smiled, it eased away a little of Feliciano's fear, leaving, instead, as odd sense of warmth and comfort in its place.
Reaching across Ludwig's lap, Feliciano took hold his lover's hand and eased back into his seat. A sort of hush fell over the room as Austria took the floor, and Italy relaxed as they began the same old song and dance they'd been playing since the beginning of the UN.
He could handle this, he thought.
Even if he could feel England's eyes boring into him again...
~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~
When the time came for lunch, Feliciano was truly indecisive as to what he was supposed to do. He wholly intended to stick by Ludwig's side, but when Yao gave the German a meaningful look (—one that suggested that he wanted to speak with him, now preferably and in private—) he was a little at loss as to who he could cling to next. He was sorely tempted to chase after Romano (—although his brother was glaring daggers at his Spanish lover, and that never boded well for anyone in the immediate vicinity—), but before he could budge from his seat, his small party had already abandoned him. So there he stood...alone.
Again, damnit.
Fidgeting with the cuff of his right sleeve, he scanned the room for Poland, France, Hungary—anyone he could tag along with without rousing suspicion. He was amicable with almost everyone present (though half of room had already flooded out into the hall as the other half continued their respective arguments) and he couldn't see England anywhere... Honestly, though, he didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing, because the last time he lost sight of the man, he—
—very nearly squealed when someone's hand dropped unceremoniously onto his shoulder. Then he spun so sharply on his heel, he almost collided with the table.
Canada blinked at him in surprise.
"M-Matthew?"
"I was going to ask if you wanted to have lunch with us, but I'm starting to wonder if someone should take you to the hospital instead... Are you alright?"
"No—I...I...'us'?" Feliciano glanced over Matthew's shoulder, spotting Alfred as he waltzed around the table to join them. "Oh—sì, sì...Somewhere they serve pasta, perhaps?"
"Certainly... Actually, I'm pretty sure Al knows just the place."
"I know everything," the man in question elaborated, just before he leaned over to drape an arm across Matthew's shoulders. "I found a place last year, and I'm pretty sure the food is genuine, because the head chef is this little old lady that doesn't speak a word of English. Not to mention her cooking is to kill for, man. It's gotta be Italian..."
He felt his spirits rise at the promise of good food, despite the fact that he had absolutely no idea where England had gone. So he nodded politely and followed the brothers out onto the street, glancing over his shoulder every once in a while just to see if they were being followed...
The two westerners bickered good-naturedly the short walk there, arguing over their respective governments and sports. Matthew's demeanour, however, was a complete flip from the last time they'd met—he'd gone from seemingly exhausted by his brother's behaviour to open and relaxed. It was a welcomed sight (there was no denying that) but it tickled something in the back of Feliciano's mind and he couldn't stop himself before he asked—
"I guess England's not going to haunt your Passage now, sì?"
Matthew turned to him, blushing, just as Alfred stopped in front of a small wooden door. Clearing his throat, the Canadian offered Feliciano a weak smile. "I told Arthur he didn't have to worry about me anymore, you know...'cause...I'm older now, but..."
"Arthur doesn't know when to back down," Alfred supplied. Tugging the door of the restaurant open, he stood aside to let the Canadian pass through first, following in after Feliciano. "The idiot is trying to make a fool of me again. Right, Mattie?"
"You are a fool, Al."
"Thank you—but that's not my point. He didn't think my apology to you was sincere."
"That's probably because you still haven't apologized to him over whatever it was you said to him last month."
"Hell if I can even remember what that was about—for three, ma'am." He paused to flash the hostess a warm smile, narrowing his eyes curiously at his brother as soon as she turned her back. "And do you want to know what he did? He—"
"I don't, actually."
"—locked himself up inside his basement for a week. And then, when I dropped by to see if he was still alive, I found out from one of his royal people that he's with Francis."
"He's allowed to do that, Alfred." Matthew held up his hand to stop his brother from continuing their conversation, choosing instead to follow the hostess to the little table she'd picked for them.
As soon as they were seated, though, Alfred picked up right where they'd left off.
"Francis, Mattie—Francis. And he spent a week in Paris."
"He tends to do that from time to time. They have a history, you know."
"Yeah, but holed up in some hotel room? That's just a little too reminiscent of the days before Artie and I were on good speaking terms."
At this point, Matthew looked genuinely confused...then he appeared to have an 'oh' moment. "You're jealous, aren't you?"
"Am not."
"Uh, yeah, you are."
"No, I'm not...'Concerned' and 'jealous' are too entirely different beasts," Alfred grumbled. Then he turned his head to smile down at their seemingly forgotten companion, trying to look innocent in his deposition. "Right, Italy?"
Taking up his glass of water, Feliciano tried to look uninterested in their awkward conversation. He couldn't deny, though, that it was beginning to shed a little light on England's odd behaviour. "Uh...sì?"
"I mean, he's lecherous, right? You've slept with him, haven't you?"
Italy choked on his water.
"Al, don't be rude."
"I'm not. I'm just asking...Besides, who knows? Maybe Francis put a spell on him."
Arching one of his eyebrows in disbelief, Matthew snorted in mild amusement. "I seriously doubt that. I can tell you, from experience, that anyone would choose Francis over you, Al, because he happens to be better in the sack."
Alfred blinked.
And then he just kind of sat there, dumbfounded... It was the same look Kiku had when Feliciano told him he tended to sleep in the nude.
Feliciano smiled behind his glass before talking another sip of water
"Seriously, Matt..." Blushing, Alfred started to fiddle with his fork, gently tapping it against the table top. "...He's better than me?"
"Why are you even asking?"
"Because last night—"
"—So, what's good Feliciano? I've always been kind of partial Fettuccini Alfredo."
"But you—"
"Al." Matthew frowned, and it wasn't a pleasant look at all, Feliciano realized. "We are not having this conversation in front of company. Understood?"
Smiling, Alfred picked up his menu. "You sure? You were pretty vocal about how—"
"Alfred," his brother snapped. "We just made peace. Drop it."
"Fine, fine...but I'd still like to know—" Matthew opened his mouth to protest, but Alfred held up a finger to stop him. "—what's good here, Feli?"
"Anything," Feliciano replied.
"Seriously?"
"Sì." He winked. "It's Italian."
A/N: ...Did this chapter seem to end a little abruptly to you? I had a dickens of a time finishing and editing this it because I've been away from it so long (again, my apologies). Honestly, tell me if I should maybe rewrite it, even if it's simple because the flow feels off or you spotted a few grammar mistakes... Anywho—
Translations: (No new Italian/French today, so my darling translator(s) is off the hook) ;)
"Sehr gut" ~ 'very good' (German)
"Ja" ~ 'yes' (German)
Fun Facts: (which appear to be lacking today...)
1) The Church of San Giorgio Maggiore... ~stands on an island of the same name in Venice, Italy. The first church of the island was actually built in 790, back when North Italy would've been called 'the Papal States', but, thanks to earthquakes and whatnot, the present day church hadn't been 'completed' until roughly 1575. According to what I've heard, it's undergone some changes (i.e. its campanile fell in 1774 but was rebuilt in 1791), but it's just as beautiful now as it was then.
2) The priest... ~I imagine Italy must be at least a little religious. The Hetalia Wikipedia says that the Vatican is an old man that happens to be at odds with Feliciano and Romano, but they get along well enough anyway.
3) Hetalia... ~means 'Hopeless Italy'. Seriously. No joke.