Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
"Fratello? Romano?" a whisper soft voice crept through the bedroom, rousing the darker haired Italian who slept under the covers.
"Mm, Veneziano?" Romano stirred slightly and scowled at the pillow, answering his brother, but more focused on getting back to sleep.
"Romano, I-I'm scared," his brother's voice wavered as footsteps thudded across the floor.
Romano turned to face the door only to be met with a pair of bright eyes. "Shit fratello; don't do that," Romano cursed at his brother before answering with a harsh, "What?"
"Romano, I saw it, again, the Things and her. All of them, and fratello, she scared me. She said it was my fault that she died. She blamed me, she said that she hated me," Romano could hear the waver grow sharper. Wordlessly, Romano pulled the covers up so that his brother could join him underneath.
The shuffle of sheets reached his ears as his brother climbed in, cool, slender hands latching around his waist in an attempt to reassure himself. Romano normally would have pried him off, with some comment about how he was an idiot, but he found that he couldn't tonight. Not while he was like this. Romano didn't understand the full details, no one did, his brother refused to talk about her, even though he planned to go to her funeral in a few days. Hope, as she was known by, was a complete mystery. It baffled the sharp tonged Italian that one person could hold that much sway over another, especially when they were practically a stranger and dead.
Perhaps, he mused, it was half the reason why. Maybe it was because she had been a stranger and she did die for them that captivated and hurt his brother so much. Because while Veneziano knew her throughout all the loops, she only remembered the one, the same one that she died and remained dead in.
"Tell me about it," Romano whispered, images of the dark haired girl flashing in rapid secession in his mind.
"She was standing there, in the hall where we met the very first time. She looked normal, she looked alive, I was so happy. I ran to hug her, but as I approached her, her form flickered like one of those old projectors. With every flicker her body would change, from a smiling, happy girl to a blood stained ghost. And fratello, her eyes in that form, cold and empty, endless. She spoke to me, but it wasn't her, it was too hard, too cold. She said that if I hadn't been so stupid, so useless that she wouldn't have died. She said that while her death was at the Thing's hands, I had killed her. After all I hadn't gone back, I could have, and I should have really. She said that she hated me, that you all hated me. Romano, the Things, they came to get me, they came and she let them
and fratello, she laughed," Italy was shaking now in his brother's arms, his tears soaking the oversized tee that Romano had happened to slip on earlier.
"It's okay Veneziano, it's okay, I promise," Romano stroked his brother's hair softly, feeling awkward and out of place in this picture, although he was glad that his brother had come to him. "The girl, Hope, she doesn't hate you Italy, she died for you. She said she loved you, and Veneziano, can't you see she did? Maybe not the way modern people look at the word love, but she gave you the most valuable thing she owned. She gave you her life. She was your friend, Veneziano; she did what any of us would do."
"Any of you?" Italy questioned the words, as if he had a hard time accepting this fact.
"Yes, Veneziano, what did the other countries do, every time, no matter what loop you were in, no matter what mistakes you made or how much they didn't believe you, what did they do?"
"They- they told me to run," Italy replied slowly.
"No," Romano lifted his brother's face up so that their noses were inches away and Italy had to look right at his brother. "They protected you; they were offering their lives as a sacrifice. And they did, didn't they? Several times each. Veneziano you can't torture yourself over this, Hope, she made her own choices. She didn't have to take the Thing on by herself, but she did. I didn't know her at all, but something tells me that she wouldn't want this. She wouldn't want you to do this to yourself."
Italy shivered. "That's not even the worst part, you see, Romano, and then everyone else appeared too, in the dream. They were all lying down as if they were asleep. One might almost believe it too, if there hadn't been blood everywhere; on walls, on the floor on the stupid white bed sheets. If it hadn't been smeared across their faces, dripping, curling down their clothes. Ah, Romano, the worst thing, the worst thing is that, that part wasn't just a dream. That part, that was real!" Italy choked on bitter, harsh, crazy laughter as new tears filled his eyes. "That was real fratello, the deaths, the never-ending faceless blackness," Italy's cries grew louder as he shook. "I wish we never had gone there. I wish I could have done more, I should have done more."
"You did everything you could everyone got out," Romano said softly.
"She didn't, it's the truth. I let her down," Italy cried into his brother's shirt, the tee was now soaked through and creamy with the water.
Romano kept rubbing his brother's back in slow lazy circles. "I know," Romano allowed his brother to cry, hugging him to his side, wondering if the darkness would ever fade. He wondered if his brother would ever get over it or if forevermore, his brother would be afraid of the faceless. Romano didn't have an answer, he didn't know, only time would tell. But he would be there for his brother, every step of the way until death separated them.