*Please note that I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia*
Everyone in attendance watched the Italian rush out the door with incredulous expressions. His brother, Romano, stood suddenly and ran past the rows of solemn out the doors his brother had left by. Japan, breaking the deadly silence, took initiative.
"I believe that, in light of recent events, the funeral will be postponed until further notice," he said quietly into the microphone. "I apologize for any inconvenience."
Meanwhile, Romano was racing after his brother under an austere gray sky that threatened rain. Lovino, being unable too keep up with Feliciano, slowed to a halt and rested with his hands on his knees, panting, as he watched his brother disappear around the corner. Romano decided, as the rain began to fall, the would delay the search for Italy until the following morning when, hopefully, the weather had eased up. The chestnut haired man then turned and began walking home, cursing himself for not taking America up on his offer of pilates classes. When Romano returned to his home, he stumbled into his darkened bedroom and, without bothering to remove his suit, lay his head on the pillow and fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
The day that followed was cold, the sky and angry colour closer to black than gray with more evil-looking clouds rolling in by the second. It had been raining since early evening yesterday, and the rain pelted the streets relentlessly. It was now late morning, and Romano was just waking up. Yawning and stretching, cat-like, he slid out of bed and planted his feet on the floor. He rubbed his brown eyes, then smoothed back his tangled hair, forgetting for a moment of the events that occurred the night before. But something flashed behind his eyes, and he began racing about the house. In two minutes flat, Romano was wearing clean clothes and out the door with an umbrella, his cell, and a flashlight. The storm raged on outside, the wind blowing the sheets of rain so it fell nearly sideways. In less than a minute, Lovino was soaked through. And yet, he persevered. He made his way, slowed by the unforgiving buckets of rain that fell like needles against his sopping frame, to each of Italy's regular haunts; his favourite restaurant, the Pasta Bowl, the animal shelter, Japan's house, Austria's house, even France's house. No one had seen him anywhere. As a last-ditch effort, Romano took off to the place he knew he should have looked first- the apartment in Berlin Italy had shared with Germany on holidays and weekends.
The rain fell harder now as Romano trudged endless miles in soggy boots and dripping clothes. It pounded his back like an angry masseuse, ignorant of his now useless umbrella. Finally, Romano arrived at the apartment complex and walked inside, shaking out his umbrella.
"Excuse me," the dripping Italian said to the manager in broken German," Where is the apartment that Feliciano Vargas shared with Ludwig?" he asked, glancing at the clock on the wall that told him it was already close to dinner. The man at the counter said nothing. He simply reached under the desk and pulled out a key that had a tag that read '6-D' in faded blue ink.
"Be careful, there was an awful ruckus from upstairs earlier, and I'm sure it was from that room," the manager said, handing the key over to Romano. Lovino thanked him profusely, then raced up the stairs to the sixth floor. He scanned the plates in from of the doors, stopping at 6-D. He shoved the key in the lock and turned. The door opened soundlessly, and he walked in. The apartment looked clean but lived in, obviously the work of the late Germany. Nothing had been touched, apparently, since his death. Lovino took a few tentative steps forward and began toward the master bedroom door at the end of a short corridor where he was sure his brother would be hiding. He reached the end of the hall and, knocking hesitantly on the door, Romano called,
"Italy, are you in there?" but the only reply he received was silence. "Italy?" he asked again before placing his hand on the knob and entering uneasily. The scene he entered to was shocking. His brother was slumped on the floor facing the wall. The room was a wreck; clothes were strewn everywhere, broken glass was scattered across the rug, torn photos of him and Germany covered the disheveled bed sheets. Italy turned to face his brother, his appearance appalling. Italy's hair was tangled and filthy. It hung in his empty, lifeless eyes like a ragged russet curtain, dripping with cold sweat. His fingernails had been gnawed away, leaving the tips of his fingers oozing a deep scarlet. Feliciano swiped the matted hair out of his face, leaving a crimson streak across his forehead, which stood out against his ashen skin.
"Oh, hey Romano," he said with a distorted smile, "how's it going?"