A/N: Again, thank you for all the beautiful reviews! And I apologize for the late update. Life's been a little busy for me lately. ;)
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...
~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~
He was genuinely surprised to find a good, Italian cook in London. It wasn't entirely fair to say that England's people didn't know how to prepare a suitable meal (after all, their breakfasts weren't something he could openly laugh at), but when the heart yearned for home, there was only one place Feliciano could find it and that was in the cozy little kitchen of an Italian woman. So he ordered some fine wine for his guests and made a few inquires about the menu, and in no time soon he found himself seated before a steaming bowl of pasta that was nothing less than a piece of art.
After his third bowl, the kindly old woman that had prepared their meal came to see who it was exactly that was eating her kitchen clean, and, immediately upon seeing him, asked if he was Italian. He nodded and smiled, because he certainly was, though he wasn't about to tell her that she was standing before the very embodiment of her Italian values, no matter how badly he wanted to let her know how pleased he was that she was spreading her delightful cooking across the globe. He didn't want to give her a heart attack, after all.
Not like how England seemed to delight in scaring him senseless...
She eventually confessed that she felt she knew him from somewhere, and, like any good Italian, made sure that both he and his companions had been fed to their fill before leaving the restaurant, completely satiated, with a hearty tip tucked under his napkin on the table. Feliciano blew her a kiss before stepping out the door and quietly blessed the homely restaurant before beginning his long and weary trek up the road to the conference, listening idly as Matthew and Alfred began arguing over what he assumed to be the results of Canada's latest elections.
Arriving back at the centre with maybe fifteen minutes to spare, Feliciano decided to dawdle in lobby in lieu of following the westerner's back upstairs, jumping onto one of the couches by the window instead where he could sit peacefully by himself and watch Poland as he chatted animatedly with one of the receptionists. He would work his back up to the conference room when he was ready—he just needed a little time to collect his thoughts, merely a moment or two, really, to compose himself before diving back into the fray. He wasn't expecting a miracle of course—it wasn't as though he could change England by will alone, but he'd learned how to evade the man during the war, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he was home again, practically a world from his latest enemy. And then all would be well again, because 'Italy' was his turf, and because England really had no excuse to pop up around every corner in Rome like some sort of twisted fantoccini shade.
Rubbing his arms, Feliciano fought the rising urge to shiver. Just thinking of the man gave him the chills. Like calling upon the devil, you never knew when he would accept the invitation.
Not too unlike now, he supposed.
"You'll have to forgive me," the man in question laughed as he slipped onto the couch across from Feliciano. Then he crossed his legs and folded his hands over his lap, as smoothly he was wont to do, and then smiled benignly when he realized Feliciano was a little at loss for words (—not that he should've been too surprised of course, given the man's behaviour thus far—). "I meant to track you down earlier, love, but I was occupied this morning. I trust you enjoyed your lunch though?"
"...Sì."
"Splendid. I had also made plans to invite you to dinner tonight, but Ludwig let it slip that you'd be otherwise engaged...Perhaps tomorrow then?"
"Maybe," he murmured. And then he thought, what the heck, if he was going to make any progress understanding this strange affair, he might as well get to the bottom of it now. "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"
"Ask away, love."
"I want to know the real reason you want to purse this...relationship. I really have nothing to offer."
"Offer?"
"Yes, to you."
"...You shouldn't sell yourself so short." England's smiled faded, though it exposed disappointment rather than the solemnity or concern Feliciano was accustomed to seeing whenever he said such things. "Tell me, Veneziano...are you open to change?"
Choosing his words wisely, Feliciano took a moment to mull over that question before saying, "I am, I think. At least when I need to change."
England laughed. Sharp and brief, like a quick jab to the gut. "Very good, love. I suppose, then, that I can be frank with you?"
"'Frank'?"
"Open—honest. It means I would like to tell you exactly what's on my mind."
"Then, of course," he replied, though he was really dreading the answer.
His hands were shaking now.
He clasped one over the other on his lap and held on tight.
"I find you intoxicating," England declared, though his confession sounded more like a fact of life than a compassionate plea, lacking the general sincerity one would expect to hear given the situation. It put Italy on edge, to say the least. "I've barely even touched you and already I want more."
Feliciano opened his mouth to speak. No words were forthcoming, though. No surprise there, of course—he hadn't heard such a thing from anyone in a long time. Ludwig, of course, never said it quite like that back when they were starting off, but the German man had always been better at expressing himself through actions rather than words. He showed Feliciano that he was desired. England, on the other hand, merely stated it, as though he was a believer of unions born of cold indifference or passion void of soul—of the maybe-love, the true antichrist of romance...
Italy felt as though he didn't belong to this backward world of England's.
It terrified him.
"...Are you frightened, Veneziano?"
Feliciano opened his mouth to reply, but again he was rendered speechless. And all because of the curl of that man's lips, the smug look on his face as Feliciano seemingly accepted defeat. It just...it wasn't fair.
Nervously, he felt his posture slipping as he slumped back into his seat.
"Do I alarm you?" England continued, seeing that he had the Italian right where he wanted him now. "Does it really come to you as such a surprise that I want to sle—"
"Mon cher, we're late."
Feliciano blinked.
England's face turned a little red. "Oh, for the love of God, Francis—"
"Tsk, tsk, mon petit—as the host of this little soiree, I thought you of all people would be punctual."
"I am punctual, you twat. I still have five bloody minutes!"
"Elevator's broken," Francis said by way of fact. "And unless you're diet's improved since the last time I dined here, you will need more than 'five minutes' to scurry up all those stairs. Now, shoo... Feli and I need a moment."
"In case you hadn't noticed, Veneziano and I were in the middle of a discussion."
"Oui, but I have a message for him." Slipping onto the armrest of Feliciano's couch, Francis inclined his head toward the Italian and winked. "And Feli does so love his Big Brother, non?"
"Sì."
"Very good—now, Arthur..." –with the flick of his wrist, Francis waved the man off. England, of course, didn't immediately move, but after a quick flicker of his eyes in Feliciano's direction he relented and rose from his seat. "...Merci."
"Belt up, frog, and get your arse upstairs before we begin, or so help me, God..."
"Very well," Francis muttered, dismissing the man as he wandered off toward the stairwell. England glanced back over his shoulder to throw one last bitter look at his long-time enemy and foe, Francis, before disappearing altogether, and then they were alone...
Feliciano was...in awe.
Why the hell wasn't he able to do something like that?
"Mon chaton, I will be brief."
Feliciano relaxed into his seat as the tension seeped from his body, completely and utterly relieved to be finally liberated of the man's presence. "What can I do for you?"
"Non. It is what I can do for you." And with the gentle roll of his wrist and the relaxing of his fist, Francis produced a cell phone from thin air—Ludwig's cell phone, to be more precise, because Feliciano recognized the complexity of the small device, a complexity that was shared among many of the man's inventions and had successfully prevented Feliciano from fiddling with any of them in the last couple of decades (—barring the one time Feliciano destroyed, but that had been an accident—). "Dear Gilbert visited you this morning, did he not?"
"Oh, yes." He snatched the phone up in delight, but not before wondering why the Prussian had resolved to lift it from their room in the first place. "What did he do with it?
"Nothing. He thought it would be amusing if he sent a few vulgar texts to your lover's superiors, but has not yet had the chance."
Well, that was certainly a relief. There was never really any telling how far Gilbert would go with his antics, but Feliciano had seen the aftermath of his mischief before and knew the backlash that could've been waiting for Ludwig if he had succeeded.
"Ludwig doesn't know yet," Feliciano murmured as he pocketed the phone. His lover had been searching for it that morning, but they'd been running a little late after...well, he didn't exactly need to elaborate on that point, but Ludwig would believe him if Feliciano said he'd grabbed it on the way out. In fact, the little fiasco had just given him an idea... "Can you tell Gilbert that I want to talk to him—and that he owes me one now. Unless he wants me to tell, of course..."
"Very well, mon petit." Elbowing him gently, the way he always did whenever he was proud, Francis graced him with another wink. "He would do well to realize that you are not as helpless as you appear, non?"
No, not really, but he wasn't all that proactive when it came to revenge, whether he was fighting a war or getting even with someone in return for a little spat. That was more of Lovino's way of doing things, actually (not to forget his mafia), and besides, Ludwig usually took care of anyone that was bothering Feliciano, regardless of whether or not the Italian asked for his help or not.
That was just the way Feliciano was, he supposed.
Not today, though.
"Grazie, fratello. That was very kind of you."
"Oh, you know..." Francis waved his hand for emphasis, though Feliciano had no idea what he was referring to. "...and, well...I must be going now."
The man made to leave, but Feliciano rested his hand on Francis's arm before the man could abandon his perch on the armrest. "Are you alright?"
'You haven't even tried to hit on me yet...' Now that he thought about it, though, Francis hadn't been hitting on much of anyone lately, at least during their meetings.
"I am...'under the weather', I suppose...No need to spread my misere."
"England too," Feliciano added. "He hasn't been himself lately."
"Believe me, Feli, that man is absolutely miserable at least twice a day."
"America said they had a fight."
"They always fight." Francis scowled. Then he stood up slowly and glanced at the stairwell. "To be fair, Angleterre is not at fault. He came to me in such a state, Feli, you would hardly believe it was him."
"Really?"
"Oui. So angry and sad... And wild. We spent every day in bed—it was magnifique!—but then he left to prepare for all of this, and now...and now I..."
"Tell me," Feliciano breathed. Just a suggestion, really, nothing more than a hint of a plea, but he needed it. He needed it so badly, because whatever had happened between England, America, and France before the meeting was effecting the Brit's behaviour toward Feliciano today, and he was more than ready to get to the bottom of it.
He just wanted to be at peace again.
Francis took a step toward the stairwell. But then he paused.
He turned to Feliciano, looking a little sad, and tried to force a smile. "It feels as though something is missing, mon cher, though I cannot say what it is. And now, for the first time in a long time, all I want is to be alone." He laughed a little, though it was strained. "How absurd is that? Moi—Les pays de l'amour—alone?"
"I understand." And he did. It would be as though Italy was asked to give up his art, or his cuisine, or his romance. He would be left with nothing, really . He'd be...
Hollow.
Bowing his head, the Frenchman walked briskly toward the stairwell. And then he was gone.
Leaving Feliciano alone with his thoughts.
~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~
Ludwig had asked him several times if he was still up for tonight, to which he had always replied that he was. It took a kiss that turned the very tips of the German's ears pink to drive the message home, but it was totally worth it to see Ludwig worry his way about the hotel room in a fluster before jumping into the shower. Feliciano adored that about him, actually, the way he only seemed to lose control when he was in the Italian's company...
Feeling the heat rise in his cheeks, Feliciano tried to derail that train of thought as he opened one of the suitcases and pulled out a few things. As soon as the water started running, though, he remembered one of the finer details of his plan and whipped out his cell phone, dialling up an old friend.
"...I wonder why you couldn't be this cruel during the war. We might've actually won."
"Hello Gilbert." Cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder, he manoeuvred two suits out onto the bed and then took a step back to compare them. "Francis let it slip about the cell phone."
"Ja, but it was only a joke...You still haven't told him, have you?"
"No."
"Awesome."
"Not really," he corrected. With his free hand, he grabbed the ties he'd picked out for each suit and tossed them aside. Ludwig would have to learn to unbutton his collar for once. "I want you to do something for me."
"Like what?"
Feliciano paused in consideration. Did he really want to do this?
...Yes.
He most certainly did.
"I want you to spy on England for me."
"..."
"...Gilbert?"
"Sorry, that just sounded too awesome to be true. Do you mind if I ask why?"
"I..." Well now, wasn't that a loaded question. "I'm worried about him. He wants to strengthen the relationship between us, but I think he's...unwell."
" 'Unwell' how?"
"Oh, um...'insane'?"
"Ha. That's funny."
"I'm serious...He's kind of scary."
"No kidding. After all, the two of you were enemies less than a century ago. Not to mention, I don't know anyone who his eyebrows haven't freaked out just yet, but whatever—I think it's only natural that it should take a while for the two of you to warm up to each other."
Frustrated, Feliciano began gnawing on the inside of his cheek. "Does this mean you won't do it?"
"Are you kidding me? This is right up my alley, gorgeous!"
Which was the absolute truth, because mischief was Gilbert's forte (—disregarding the fact that Ludwig always found out about his tricks sooner or later, because, well, Ludwig was Ludwig and the man had been subject to Gilbert's pranks for centuries).
All in all, Feliciano trusted him.
"Follow him tonight and call me in the morning."
"Consider it done."
"Grazie."
"Just don't tell Ludwig, because, you know...I'm not supposed to be abroad right now."
"I know." Tilting his head to one side, he decided he liked the Armani better. "You almost blew up a bottle factory."
"Not intentionally...And besides, it was an 'abandoned' bottle factory. Big difference, man."
Feliciano shrugged. Not as though Gilbert could see him, but whatever. "Good luck, Gilbert. And stay safe."
"Will do, beautiful."
"And Gilbert."
"Ja?"
"Whatever happens...don't confront him. Okay?"
"...Odd, but I'm game. Is there any particular reason why I can't?"
'Because he might kill you,' Feliciano thought, though he honestly had no idea where that came from. Despite how far England had already driven himself, it didn't seem as though he was about to suddenly whip out a gun and shoot someone. Nevertheless, there was no telling what it would take to set the man off.
He just wanted Prussia to live to see another day.
"I don't want him to know that I'm spying on him. That's all."
"Fine. No heroics."
"Grazie. And goodnight, Gilbert."
"Goodnight, gorgeous. Have fun."
He waited for Gilbert to hang up first, and then tossed his cell phone onto the bed next to Ludwig's suit. This is was it, now. If England discovered what he was up to, there was no telling what the man would do. Either Feliciano succeeded or perished—there were no other options.
Feeling a little weak in the knees, he sat down on the corner of the bed and stared at the bathroom door. The water was still running for the shower and he could see the steam curling out through the slit at the bottom. A hot shower, then... Huh. Ludwig usually preferred them short and cold.
Then something dawned on him.
Shrugging off his clothes, he slipped into the bathroom without knocking.
He knew an invitation when he saw one.
A/N: Ack! So late! I know...*hangs head in shame* I've been busy lately. I apologize. It won't happen again!
Anyhow, thanks for reading!
Translations:(My darling translator is free of fault this time. I didn't confide in her first before posting (Oops). Feel free to correct me.)
"Mon chaton" ~ 'my kitten' (French)
"Misere" ~ 'misery' (French)
"Les pays de l'amour" ~ 'the country of love' (French)
Fun Facts: (Sorely lacking in this department today. Sorry, my sweets)
1) "...but when the heart yearned for home, there was only one place Feliciano could find it and that was in the cozy little kitchen of an Italian woman..." ~ or Italian 'man'. Either way is fine. It's just a saying that my Italian friends have, so I thought I'd throw it in there today. (Dear Lord, do I ever enjoy Italian food...Makes me hungry just thinking about it...)
2) Gilbert... ~serves his purpose, now. And I imagine he would be pretty talented with his pranks, considering how long he's been annoying Ludwig. And since he still exists without us humans realizing it, he must be damn good at keeping himself under cover. (That's my reasoning, anyhow)