Maybe I should mention now: Italy knew Holy Rome was just covering for France. He was angry because he's always been taught "Empires are supposed to be strong, fearless. They aren't supposed to take the fall for anyone else, nor are they supposed to run from their enemies." After all, that's how Roman Empire was in battle.

And yes, in the original webcomic, Italy was hiding in a box of Italian Oranges, not Tomatoes.

Anyway, now reviews!

-Reviews from Archive of our Own-

Fan_Fan_Fan_to_Pan_Pan_Pan: This seems really cool! I'm interested in this, keep it up!

Me: Thank you so much!

Sometime during WWI

Looking back at it now, Germany didn't know what he was thinking. It was just a box. Sure, his rations were bland, and he always craved something fresher than bread, water, and canned meat, but why would anyone leave a crate of oranges out in a forest? Maybe his stomach got the better of him because soon he was yanking at the lid of the crate, but it was sealed tight. Suddenly, the box yelped. He jumped away, releasing a cry of surprise.

The box went silent again as Germany stared at it with wide eyes. Had that box just... moved? There was somebody inside?! He grabbed the top of the box, feeling adrenaline flooding strength through his arms. "Hey, is there anyone in there?!"

The box jerked again, a voice emanating from within. "Back off you bastard! The Box-of-Oranges Fairy is busy!"

Germany paused for a second, his eyes glued to the crate. It was definitely talking... but "Box-of-Oranges Fairy"? He pressed a hand to his head, muttering quietly, "I must be hallucinating. Did I get British rations by mistake?"

The box jerked again, shouting in a thick Italian accent. "Ve, I told you to go away!"

Okay, he was definitely not hallucinating. He dug his fingers into the wooden grooves of the crate, yanking upwards with all he had. Whoever was in there must have been delirious from starvation to be spouting such nonsense! All the while, the box continued to shake and swear at him.

"This is your last warning-!"

The lid suddenly came off, throwing Germany back a few feet. He threw the lid aside, then leaned over to look into the crate. Down at the bottom was a small boy, or at least he looked that way from how he was curled up, his hands over his head as if to protect him. He was maybe seventeen or eighteen, with tan skin and auburn hair, a strange curl of hair jutting out from the left side of his head. He was wearing some kind of brown uniform, but Germany couldn't see it in full detail at the moment. Suddenly, the teen's head snapped up, and Germany almost stepped back at the intensity of those crimson eyes. The boy's face twisted into a dark parody of a smile, his thin lips curling without mirth.

"Now you've made the Box-of-Oranges Fairy angry."

Before he could react, the teen jumped up at him swinging a knife. Germany gasped out loud, barely moving fast enough to dodge the first strike. He felt a flash of pain in his left cheek as the Italian's knife grazed it with a shallow cut.

The little devil moved like the wind, slashing, jabbing, even biting whenever possible. Germany knew he couldn't dodge the Italian's overwhelming offense, so he took the easy way out: he rammed the blunt end of his riffle into the teen's face. Instantly, he dropped to the ground, going motionless.

Germany breathed heavily, looking over his fallen enemy, his hand still clutched around the knife, even in unconsciousness. Germany hastily pried it from his grasp, looking it over quickly before stashing it in his pack. The blade had been dripping blood; his blood. His fingers strayed towards the cut on his cheek, he winced slightly at the touch. He shook his head; that could have gone a lot worse. He made quick work of searching the Italian over before slinging him over his shoulder and heading back towards his base. If this really was the descendant of the Great Rome, he had a lot more trouble on his hands than he thought.

Sometime during the Eleventh Century

Italy peeked carefully around the corner to where Holy Rome was helping chop some firewood for Mr. Austria. The small Italian took in his every movement, devouring the sight eagerly. Holy Rome had shed his cloak and hat, revealing the clothes always hidden underneath: a simple loose white shirt beneath a black vest, an ascot tied elegantly around his neck. The classy attire did him much good when it came to the girls around the village.

It frustrated him sometimes. Holy Rome was never awkward around women. He was openly a flirt and many swooned over him. Every time Italy saw Holy Rome with a girl, he'd get this strange burning feeling in his chest. Sometimes he wondered if Holy Rome even liked boys. Well, it wasn't like Italy looked much like a boy anyway. He just... he just wanted Holy Rome to notice him!

"What are you doing, Italy?"

Italy whipped around, a scowl already etched into his face. He'd recognize that snobby French accent anywhere. "What do you want, France?"

France didn't seem put off by Italy's aggression. Instead, his normally sullen purple eyes moved from Italy to Holy Rome with a new spark of life. "Are you spying on Holy Rome?"

Italy gaped, crossing his arms and sputtering a long string of insults. "Of course not, you stupid frog!"

France gasped. "Oh my gosh, you are! How scandalous!" He singsonged cheerfully, relishing in the discomfort it caused Italy. "Little Chibitalia has a boyfriend!"

"Don't call me that," Italy growled, but France wasn't listening. Suddenly, Italy lashed out at him, grabbing the Frenchman by the throat and slamming him against the wall. "You just don't know when to quit, do you, France?"

France coughed, wheezing pathetically. "Please, Italy... I-I'll give you some of my land, j-just let me g-go!"

Italy smirked, holding up a small blade he kept hidden in his apron. "Little late, France."

Holy Rome looked up from his work when a terror-filled scream suddenly rang across the courtyard. Through one of the archways, he could see Italy and someone else, someone clearly struggling. A flash of light caught something metallic. Holy Rome gaped, taking a step forward before Spain was suddenly there, shoving a cinnamon-covered pastry into his hands and guiding him away speaking quickly under his breath, "Just take the churro and don't ask questions."

After Rome died, Italy became an assembly of small countries. Back then, Italy had everything he could ever want: fertile land, mild weather, and a rich history of art and religion. It was a very attractive country, so naturally, the other countries became jealous.

However, Italy was not weak. Well, not inherently. He'd gained a warrior spirit from Rome, one his enemies feared. Although, not everyone feared Italy at first. France was the first country to go charging into Italy with the goals of claiming land. But the only thing France got was his ass kicked. After that, no one else was stupid enough to oppose Italy again.

Sometime during WWI

Dear diary,

So, I dragged that Italy I captured back to base. To be honest, I just want to hand him over to someone else, but my bosses said no. No rest for the weary, I suppose.

I've tied him up and taken all the weapons I could find on him. Then I can hand him off to someone else.

Italy woke to a bright light in his face. He blinked a few times, trying to lift a hand to shield his eyes, only to fins he couldn't move.

"What the hell, you bastard?!" He shouted, releasing a string of Italian swear words as he struggled against the ropes.

"I have some questions for you, Italian," Germany said, trying to sound authoritative. Honestly, the Italian frightened him, even tied to a chair. He'd patched up the cut on his cheek; luckily it didn't require stitches.

"Like hell I'm gonna tell you anything." The teen spat, kicking out at Germany's shins. Germany sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He didn't have the patience for this.

"You are Italy, correct?" He asked, ignoring the smaller man's cursing.

"I'm not answering any of your damn questions!" That was the only response he got. "Vaffanculo, you German bastard!"

Germany scowled, opening his mouth to return a sharp retort, but he was suddenly cut off by a loud growling sound. The Italian groaned quietly, leaning forward and awkwardly pulling his knees up to his chest. It took Germany a moment to realize the teen was hungry.

"You must be starving." He muttered, moving back to grab something from the cupboard: his lunch for the afternoon, a small container of sliced and salted potatoes. "So here's the deal." He stabbed a piece of the potato onto a fork. "You answer my questions, I give you food."

"I don't want any of your disgusting-" Another growl emitted from his stomach. Germany almost smiled; he could see the other's resolve fading.

"Fine."

Germany nodded. "First question: who are you?"

The Italian scowled at him before answering quickly. "Italy," He said, opening his mouth to accept the food. Germany put the forkful into his mouth, letting him bite it off before continuing.

"What were you doing hiding in a crate?"

"Hiding from jerk bastards like you!"

Another bite.

"Finally: Are you related to the Great Rome?"

Italy stared at him for a moment, his crimson eyes wide with surprise. "You know Grandpa Rome?"

"Answer the question."

Italy sighed. "Yes, you idiot. Of course I am." He straightened up slightly. "Now, do you think I can eat my reward with my own hands?"

Germany thought for a second, looking over the Italian. He had no weapons. What could he do? "I suppose." Germany muttered, putting down the potatoes before he began working to undo the ropes. Once they were off, Italy spent a moment rubbing his wrists as Germany straightened up. "There."

But the smile Italy flashed him wasn't grateful. It was predatory. Suddenly, the small soldier launched himself at Germany, knocking him to the ground. Germany gasped, struggling against the attacking arms, the Italian snarling at him viciously all the while. Suddenly, a burst of pain flared in his right forearm, making him cry out. The Italian had dragged his claw-like nails right through Germany's skin, leaving three long soon-to-be-scars behind that bled onto the floor.

Germany felt adrenaline pump through his system. He shoved the Italian off of him, straddling the soldier with his knees, his hands suddenly closing around the teen's neck, squeezing until his struggles ceased. Germany breathed heavily, staring down at the unconscious Italy. He brushed a gentle hand over the purple bruises forming, his lips turning down.

"What have I gotten myself into?"

Oh my god, Chibitalia is Yandere-chan: "Senpai will be mine; he doesn't have a choice."

I did warn that this would have a little violence. I don't even want to know what happened there between Italy and France.

Vocab

Vaffanculo - (Italian) F*** you!