SOY: for those who were waiting an actual chapter, I'm sorry, that's another interlude. This one deals with France telling Italy about HRE's death. Beware for angst, of course. Next chapter, more of the actual storyline. ^^ thanks a lot to everybody that is following and reviewing. Love you all!

Edit: My usual break-liners can't be used any more, so now you get this new one.

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Rating: Rated M.

Chapter Warnings:

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

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Growing to…

Interlude – Sound of footsteps

Italy fell on the ground, crying.

Tears were falling from his eyes and he couldn't stop them, but he didn't want to. Those were not tears of pain –he was happy. Happy, deliriously happy.

The feeling bubbled up from deep inside him, growing stronger, fluttering and exploding out of his lips in a strangled, strained laugh that sounded like screeching to his ears, filled with something teetering from pain to insanity.

It had ended.

Finally, after so long, it was the end.

"Feliciano…"

At his side, Romano dropped to his knees next to him, breathing hard and clutching at his bleeding shoulder with an unsteady hand; they were in the middle of the city, with houses turned into crumbled ruins, and if they looked too close, there were also many corpses around them, enemies and allies alike.

Many had lost their lives during that long battle, and the sole thought brought a sheer pain inside Italy's heart. He had been the one to start this war, the first and sole battle he had taken upon himself, and those souls were heavy on his conscience.

And yet… and yet…

"We did it," he rasped out.

He was shaking, the laughter still escaping from his lips, and he tried to hold his arms still by holding onto the ground, and glancing to the left, Italy could see that his brother was also shivering uncontrollably.

They had fought so hard, fighting against all hope, for once in their lives not holding back, and now…

"We did it," Feliciano repeated, as his laughter finally subsided in a choked silence. "We're…"

"Siamo una Nazione, finalmente!" Lovino interrupted him, lips stretching into a satisfied, giddy smirk.

"Yes. We're a Nation now –we're Italy," the younger brother murmured, still in disbelief.

Rome was standing all around them, in its fallen glory, and even though they had conquered it with a huge, painful fight, thrashing and slashing and kicking, with many lives lost, and so much of that city would have to be built again… it had never looked more beautiful to Italy's eyes.

With this fight, they had finally gained back the last of their territory –Rome, once belonging to the Papal States, was now Italian territory, and not just that… it was going to be their Capital.

Even though North and South Italy had been free for at least a decade, they had continued fighting, wanting to gain back all the territories and regions that were theirs by right, to make that dream come true –the same dream that many humans had shared, from their dear Garibaldi, Mazzini and Cavour to King Vittorio Emanuele, fighting to the notes of the poem that Mameli had composed not even thirty years before.

A unified Reign of Italy, free from chains, free to stand up on its own.

It was the end of their long war.

"Feli…" for once without a gruff grimace, South Italy turned to his brother, ignoring the flaring pangs coming from his shoulders, and slowly extended one hand to him, palm open wide.

They might have been apart in the past, and maybe they would keep fighting like siblings did, and maybe Romano was still somewhat envious of his brother's skills that he thought he lacked, but…

But this feeling only belonged to them both. They were not a Nation by themselves… they were one nation, together.

Italy's smile, albeit hesitant and pained, as he grasped his brother's hand in his own, was probably the best thing Romano had seen in a long, long while.

All their sacrifices, the deaths had brought to this –they had been able to stand and not fall back down, succeeding where many others had failed before them; so many non–nations had tried and failed in their quests for independence, but the two brothers, thought weak, had made it through.

Against all odds, they were still standing, and they were finally a Nation.

"Feli, let's go," pride filling his tired voice, Romano stood up, still clutching at his shoulder, but willing to forget about the pain for the moment. He hoisted Italy up with him, noticing how he heavily shifted his weight on one leg. "Can you feel it? Our people are celebrating".

He was right –deep inside them, happiness belonging to their people was humming like a hymn.

Nodding tiredly, Italy stepped forwards, and instantly collapsed against his brother, who hissed in pain, and both had to held tightly on each other so they wouldn't fall down again.

Italy let out a soft chuckle, and Romano grunted. "I want a house of my own, mind you" he muttered, though the harsh tones were not present in his voice. "I'll go crazy if I have to live with you all the time –I want Napoli. You can keep your Venezia".

With a happy nod, the younger of the two snuggled closer, much to Romano's chagrin. "Let's keep this one for us both, Lovi" he made a wide, sweeping motion, indicating Rome.

"It's trash right now," Romano commented, looking around. "It will take a while to fix everything".

"Yeah…"

They remained in silence for a moment more, deep in thought and allowing their people's emotions to wash over them, soothing the pain and tiredness.

"I want wine" Lovino huffed, shaking himself out of his trance. "A bottle. Maybe two, if we can find them… and food. I'm not moving unless I get food".

"Ve~ a plate of pasta~" Feliciano agreed, wiping the tears away from his cheeks with bloody fingers. "It's been a long time since I've had yummy pasta".

"Sure with lots of tomato sauce," the older of the two agreed as they started walking down the street. "But after that, let's chase those frog eaters out. I don't want to see the French bastard anytime soon either… or else he'll try to grope and get the territories again!"

"Brother~ he wouldn't try to hold onto us, not now that we finally gained back Rome… if his people want to try, we can stop them, but he won't touch our territories".

Romano wanted to ask his brother what made him so sure that France wouldn't bitch at them, but at Italy's open, confident gaze he simply shook his head, deciding to trust his instinct. After all, France was Italy's 'big brother' figure, and maybe he was right about it…

"Still, he's a lecherous old man, and even when we asked, he didn't help!" he knew there was something to blame on France, and South Italy wasn't one to spare insults when he didn't have to. "I'll live happily even without seeing him anymore!"

The sudden silence from his brother caught his attention, and when he stared at Italy's face, he didn't even find him looking the slightest bit sheepish.

"… what?"

"Ve~ he is waiting for us at a restaurant close by for a congratulations toast…"

"… damn it".

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"Congratulations are a must, I guess," Austria coughed into his hand, expression carefully neutral.

Smiling at him, grateful for his presence despite the tense relationship the two had during the last decade, Italy lifted the glass full of crimson wine enough that the pale light of the inn could shine on the liquid. "Thank you, Roderich, ve~"

Austria's cheeks tinged red and he looked away; how could he hold a grudge against Italy? After everything the little kid went through, he deserved to be happy, and gaining the status of a Nation was clearly what he had wanted all that time.

What if to become independent he had to take territories away from him? Austria could recognise strength when he had it in front of him, and the Italian brothers had shown an unexpected amount of such.

They deserved this, and Austria would not scorn them for it. He could live without these territories, and if he had to be completely honest with himself…

'I'm proud of you, Feliciano… even though I might never tell you that,' he thought, fingers tracing the contours of his own glass of wine. 'You went a long way and survived, too'.

If anything, Italy looked the happiest he'd ever seen, even if covered with bandages and clearly aching all over, in need of a good night's sleep and a change of clothes (and a bath). He guessed this was enough.

"Congratulations, Feli~" Hungary held one of Italy's hands into her own and tugged him close, leaning forwards to kiss him delicately on his forehead. "You've really grown, and I'm so proud of you~ and Roderich is too, don't mind him too much, ok?"

Austria rolled his eyes, looking to the side where Prussia was sprawled on the seat, dozing off. Wine wasn't really his cup of alcohol, after all.

Italy basked in their compliments, allowing Hungary to dot over him and hold him close every few minutes, yet one of his hands kept returning to that of his brother, almost as if asking for confirmation that he was really here; Romano accepted the gesture without speaking, trying to look superior but inwardly just as needy for the comfort.

They idea of finally living by themselves… he needed some more time for reality to finally reach him –they were standing on their own legs, this time.

"Ve~ let's make a toast, come on!" Italy chirped, almost knocking the bottle down the table with an elbow. "To our independence!"

Spain, who had been cooing at Romano the whole time, cheered and elbowed Prussia to wake him up, holding his wine up high, and France, who had been sitting quietly on the other end of the table nodded and straightened up, mimicking his friend.

The Italian brothers were definitely out of his control now, and he knew that the flicker of disappointment he felt had more to do with the loss of Italy's presence in his house than the territories he'd lost, though he knew the two brothers deserved freedom more than many others.

Glaring a bit at the Prussian Nation, who was grunting and nudging at Italy's side, smiling widely, France let a soft smile appear on his lips.

"To my petites Italies," he murmured, brushing his lips against his glass, tongue flickering out to lick at some droplets rolling down its surface. "Stand tall and proud".

South Italy growled in his direction, but having one arm locked into Spain's hands and his other hand taken by his brother, he could do nothing –besides, alcohol had mellowed down his attitude, so after Italy nudged at him, he nodded in thanks and downed the rest of his wine without further ado.

Italy sipped at his own wine in small, quick gulps, smiling warmly at France as he did so.

Watching Prussia and France start bickering again, with no Spain to stop them (he was too busy trying to hug Romano to care), Italy smiled to himself, feeling satisfied. It felt nice –like an extended, expanded family.

Austria and Hungary were glaring at Prussia, with the female nation ready to use her frying pan against him if he didn't stop picking on France (though the Frenchman was just as guilty, in the end), and using this moment of distraction to his advantage, France sobered up and leaned forwards to look at Italy from above his glass of wine.

"Petite Italie," he stated, suddenly serious. Italy blinked, surprised at the sudden change of tone. "If you don't mind, I would like to have a word with you, now".

As if hit by a lightening, both Austria and Hungary froze, sharing a worried, tense look. Prussia grunted, glad to be safe, but the moment the words caught on with him, he coughed into his hand, calming down.

Spain and Romano, not feeling the sudden change of atmosphere, continued their wrestling, and Italy let Romano's hand slip away from his hold, feeling that something was wrong but not understanding what.

"Uh, certo, Francis…"

"I think I'll retire… it's a long way from here to mu house," Austria stood up, nodding shortly at the others, and dropping some coins on the table. "Elizaveta, dear, will you come with me?"

"Oi, oi, stupid Roddie, I'm coming too. I wouldn't want you to molest poor Eli here!" Prussia hastily stood up as well, moving to the other side of the table.

"If anything, that would be you, idiot" Austria replied, but his words lacked meaning, eyes returning to Italy every few seconds.

"Hey, Spain!" Prussia's tone turned excessively bright "Let's get little Lovi here safely home, you wouldn't want him to get lost, right?"

Romano's yelling about the impossibility for him to get lost in his own city was completely ignored, and seconds later Spain and Prussia were tugging him out of the inn, covering his mouth to stifle his cursing.

Feliciano waved at Roderich and Elizaveta and turned his attention to Francis, feeling vaguely upset; maybe Romano was right and France wanted his territories back…?

"I–if this is about my territories, ve…" Italy tried to frown, but failed spectacularly, as it looked more like a pout than anything else "I am not going to have you get them at all… it's either you move out by the end of this week, or we'll chase you out. No offense, big brother, but that's enough fights for me".

Francis' expression didn't change, and Italy gulped down his uneasiness, not understanding.

"V–ve~" trying to think of a reason why the French Nation would turn from happy to serious like this, and failing. "I did thank you, right? I'm glad you stood by my side, helping me, and it has been a lot since…"

"Feli, are you still waiting?" France interrupted him with a low voice, sending chills through Italy's frame. The older Nation wasn't looking at him, eyes fixed on the glass in his hands, fingers clenched tightly around it. "Because Feliciano, he won't be coming back".

"Ve~? What… what are you saying? Who… who won't be coming back?"

His heart was thumping wildly in his chest, but he refused to think about the implication in France's words. Surely he was misunderstanding.

"Ah… sorry," France pressed one hand on his forehead, eyes avoiding the young Italian, whose eyes were staring at him in confusion. "The Holy Roman Empire is no more" he added.

It was strange, how easily those words finally left his mouth.

Of all the battles he'd fought in his life, only a few of them had been memorable, and only a few of them were worth of being remembered; but out of them all, that single battle, many years before, had been the one to sign the end of a growing Nation.

If France concentrated enough, he could still remember clearly the smell of death and blood surrounding him as he advanced towards the small, frail body, staring down at it with fear and pity.

It was the first time France had seen the death of one of his kind.

Many other Nation–wannabes had failed and fallen, but that one had mattered because it had been against France that he had been defeated, and it had mattered because…

Because of Italy.

It took France, usually courageous and proud, almost a century to find it in himself to face Italy and tell him, watch those brown, innocent eyes and tell him that his love would never come back… and now… and now, his words sounded so weak to his ears.

Pointless, empty and uncaring.

'But Italy is a Nation now…' a part of him cried out, unsettled.

He needed to know. It was his right to. And he needed to let go!

"Eh?"

Italy's heart stopped right then, his face frozen into a blank mask. France's words registered slowly into his brain, leaping forwards, assaulting his mind and covering everything else with a loud roar.

His lips stretched into a vague, empty smile.

France was joking. There was no other possibility.

"You should forget about him," France continued, still looking to the side. His expression was sheepish, hiding his own hesitance behind an exasperated exterior, but Italy didn't see that. He couldn't see anything then. "You've already suffered enough, haven't you?"

"Eh… brother France… it's not… nice to joke about this…" Italy's voice faltered as he spoke, hands coming to grip the table's surface. "I'm finally independent… I've waited so long, but now… he'll be back soon now. He will see this new me. He'll smile and come to live with me. Don't joke around!"

Eyes open wide, with panic slowly bubbling up to his throat, choking and burning its way up–

"Feliciano… that's the truth. Believe me. I've seen him".

With that, France looked up, so busy keeping his emotions hidden behind an apparent calm that he didn't realise how uncaring his words had sounded until he met Italy's eyes.

There was a new, opaque quality in them –blank, glassy, empty; France knew instantly that no matter how many years would pass from then on, something in Italy had died, and would not come back.

Maybe he should have waited. Maybe he should have been merciful, sparing his little, adored brother this pain, maybe–

"Ho… Holy Roman Empire promised me he would come back" Italy's tone had lowered down into an unsteady whisper. "He said I wouldn't need to wait too long. I have, but… but it's ok. Wars can go on, and on… but he can't be… he promised me, I said I would wait with sweets…"

France closed his eyes, unable to look any more.

He'd thought –hoped– that Italy's feelings for the Holy Roman Empire had been a crush, a puppy love. Something easily forgotten, something that he could leave behind. After all, how could someone as innocent and sweet as Italy fall for that person? Impossible. Unconceivable.

Holy Roman was nothing but a brat, possessive, stupid, a scared kid with desires and aims too big for his little body.

Seeking power, seeking lands, wanting to be as big as Rome…

How could someone like Italy fall for him?

"I think it was love at first sight for Holy Roman Empire," Austria's words rushed back to France's mind, words he had not believed to be true before. "It was… embarrassing to look at. Almost far too silly, at least until… at least until Italy started reciprocating it. Someone like Italy can't fake his feelings. He fell in love, and it could only be love, since the very start".

"Feli… it has been over sixty years since his death," France leaned forwards, grabbing one of Italy's hands into his own when he noticed his nails digging into the table's surface. "I couldn't… we couldn't tell you. I thought… that you would forget about him with time, not holding onto that crush…"

'Crush'.

Italy lowered his eyes to the hand holding his own, and suddenly bile was rushing up to his throat.

'No!'

In the blink of an eye, he was standing up from the table, pushing away from France.

His heart was beating fast in his chest, echoing through his mind, washing away any other sound; he wasn't even aware that he had moved until he was up and away, eyes wide yet mostly unseeing, glazed over.

"Not true," he murmured, lips barely moving. "Lying. You're lying. You… Why? I thought… you're lying".

Why was his heart still beating? If HRE was dead, then what about him? had he been left behind again?

"Feli…" Francis stood up as well, moving towards him, hands outstretched. "I'm not… it's not a lie. I was the one who fought against him in the end. My troops met with his last soldiers, they fought, and I was the one to see his body last".

Choking on his own saliva, lungs constricting painfully–

"Italy, please, believe me! It was the only possible solution! He was growing too large, too fast!"

Excuses.

The only possible solution.

Was this how France thought he could explain? Was this why Holy Roman had died? Because that was the only solution possible?

Dead.

He couldn't be–

Dead.

"Remember the story I told you, little Ita? About Icarus and his wings?" forceful and unwanted, the memory of the day Grandpa Rome died resurfaced in his mind.

He'd died away with a soft smile on his lips, with only two souls at his side, the one who killed him and his little Italy, and there had been no hatred no animosity in that goodbye, with Rome's last words directed to his little angel.

"Don't wish for more than you can have. Power can corrupt, and fear is not respect. Never attempt to become as big as I was, because if you get too close to the sun with your beautiful wings…"

Italy had promised him. he would never end like Icarus did –plummeting down to his death because he'd wanted to fly too high.

Rome had done that, and he'd been taken down. And even Germania, the one who had, in the end, been as burning as the sun, was close to dying himself. An era was coming to an end, and even if young, Italy had understood it.

"The only possible solution," he repeated, trying to shake himself out from his sudden lethargy. "He had demanded too much, flying too high, wanting too many territories, taking away freedom from other Nations".

France blinked, his hand stopping suddenly. He had not expected Italy to understand.

Of course he should have known better… Italy wasn't an idiot. He simply looked like one, with an open, bright expression that often was mistaken for stupidity.

"Oui, he was… a threat," the Frenchman continued, his insides twisting painfully. "Italy, you need to know that I've never–"

"No!"

France closed his mouth, taken aback. Italy turned towards him, lips stretched into a smile, automatic and empty.

"I… I understand, of course. He couldn't be allowed to reach the sky".

Gulping down his uneasiness, not really understanding what Italy was talking about, France shook his head and made to grab his arm, still worried. "Feli–"

His hand was slapped away.

"No," the Italian Nation murmured, shaking his head. He was struggling already, trying to keep that smile on his lips. He couldn't face France. He couldn't stare into the eyes that had seen his death. "I can't, Francis. Not now".

As he ran out of the inn, a retreat faster than any other and without looking back, France crumbled down on the chair and hid his face in his hands, shoulders shaking.

Italy ran.

His entire body felt numb, and even the pain of his hurt leg didn't reach his brain as he swayed and stumbled away from the inn, eyes wide in shock.

He couldn't even see where he was going, but a single image kept reappearing in his mind over and over –a pair of impossibly blue eyes looking at him with affection and love, and a warm, reassuring voice telling him that everything would be ok…

"It's not ok".

He ran faster.

"It'll never be ok, Holy Roman…"

His chest was burning –a strong, devastating pain unlike any other was growing inside him, slashing and gnawing at his insides, roaring its ugly head, choking him. He ran and ran, trying to escape but unable to leave it behind.

HRE was dead.

He screamed.

It tore out of his throat and lungs, the sound echoing around him in vain, because the only thing he could hear was his own heart thumping, blood rushing through his ears, and the burning of his chest as he desperately tried to breathe–

HRE was dead

Nails clawing at the grass under him, advancing like an animal, unable to stand back up again, wheezing and sobbing and screaming again–

"You promised you would come back! You promised it would be ok! I've waited so long for you, but you… you…"

He screamed and screamed and cried, choking on his bile and vomiting on the grass, emptying his stomach and gasping out over and over, clutching at the ground in a vain attempt to anchor himself to reality, punching the grass, biting down on his lips so hard they bled–

He would never come back.

Never.

The world was moving still, but HRE wasn't there anymore.

"No matter how many hundreds of years go by, I'll always love you more than anyone in the world!"

Gone. He would never see his face again, that warm, hesitant smile, that adorable flush on his cheeks. His hands caressing his cheek, his blue eyes.

His first love was dead.

Nothing remained but memories. No more promises, no more hopes for a future together, hopes that had allowed Italy to fight and grow strong, keeping his promise to him–

He was gone forever.

That parenthesis of happiness that would never return.

Italy's heart simply broke.

He was alone. The only person he'd loved was gone, the only person that had loved him for who he was, not caring if he was weak and clumsy and useless, offered him flowers and company, making him happy…

Abandoned on the grass, gasping and crying and sobbing his pain out, Italy could feel, deep inside himself, the happiness of his people celebrating their final victory, a capital for their Nation, finally complete.

He cried harder.

It was not ok.

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SOY: that was it. Please do leave a comment if you liked, it would really mean a lot to me…

Siamo una nazione, finalmente! (Italian) – We're finally a nation!

Petites Italies (French) – Little Italies

Petite Italie (French) – Little Italy

Certo (Italian) – of course, sure