|Seven Little Killers
Author: Lucky-Angel135 PM
This story will not have a happy ending, love. I just can't see it on the horizon, and anything that I can't see isn't there. Yellow's Arc.Rated: Fiction M - English - Mystery/Horror - N. Italy - Chapters: 44 - Words: 361,090 - Reviews: 2,606 - Favs: 1,021 - Follows: 850 - Updated: 07-04-12 - Published: 05-19-09 - id: 5073300
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Hello, this is a conjoint fanfiction written by me, AngelWhoIsNotASerialKiller and luckystars135 which contributes to our awesome combined screen name,
This story is a complete history AU that takes place modern day. Bosses will be fictional characters, and although there will be true historical events mentioned, most of it is rather inaccurate, but that's where the fun comes from! :D
Threat in this fic is the Austro-Hungarian Empire rebuilding in attempts to regain power and help Germany with the unfair reparations. Hope you like! let us know what you think. Anything constructive would work even if it's just lol update11!!
Pairings (Because we know that's what you came for XD)
RussiaxChina, JapanxAmerica, JapanxGreece (This is still a maybe, but it's looking pretty juicy for the plot), EnglandxFrance, GermanyxNorth Italy (Figured this was kind of a given, but might as well put it here anyway), RomanoxSpain, HungaryxAustria, and that's it so far!
Some are still up for debate, so just leave your two cents and we'll be sure to consider it.
Disclaimer: If only we had the balls and the creativity to come up with Hetalia, but we don't so we don't own.
Switzerland gave a growl before letting his forehead slam onto his desk with a loud thump. The horrid paperwork he had been neglecting towered around his exhausted form, mocking him the way most unwanted inanimate objects do; silently and patiently awaiting Switzerland's inevitable attention.
As usual, the drained nation was agitated, but today's agitation was for once not caused by creepy Italians running through his yard without pants, or the genuine stupidity of everyone he was forced into contact with, but with his own bosses. Switzerland hadn't been in a war since 1815, and though for the most part he enjoyed his neutrality, this issue was different.
The phone rang shrilly, causing Switzerland's already pounding head to throb even more cruelly. He had the sudden urge to pull out his gun and shoot the damn thing. Sadly, he doubted his boss would appreciate having yet another piece of equipment replaced, and without lifting his head, reached for the receiver.
His hand fell on top of the phone limply, knocking it off the hook and sending it clattering across his desk. Switzerland groaned in irritation, before his wandering fingers found the receiver and regrettably brought it to his ear.
"Hello," he mumbled darkly into the wood of his desk. If only there were some half-naked Italians for him to play target practice with, then maybe he could alleviate some of this unbearable stress.
"Brother, it's me."
"Liechtenstein." He sat up abruptly at the sound of his sister's soft voice. "What's wrong?" he demanded. "Have Austria and Hungary been bullying you?"
"Well," she began, her gentle voice laced with worry. "They've been really busy trying to reconstruct their conjoint governments, but they have sent some people…to…uh…"
"Liechtenstein," he murmured with unusual gentleness. She was the only other nation he was able to stand for long periods of time and he never ceased to worry about her, especially now when he was absolutely useless in protecting her.
For awhile, Austria and Hungary had been trying to reconstruct the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and though at first it had been no concern of Switzerland's, recently they two nations had taken interest in his younger sister.
He was uncomfortably aware of how close Austria and Liechtenstein were economically, and through the various treaties she informed him of, also knew that if Austria and Hungary started claiming lands again, she'd be one of the first. Despite how small she was, Liechtenstein was one of Austria's largest exporters, and everyday over 7,000 of Austria's people came to her for work.
"Have they threatened you?" he asked lowly, terrified to know the answer. He opened the drawer to his desk and picked up a bullet, rolling it in-between his fingers in an effort to occupy his hands.
"Not exactly," Liechtenstein assured quietly. She sounded so tired and Switzerland wanted nothing more than to go and do his best to comfort her. He was her big brother after all, it was his job as a sibling to keep Liechtenstein safe, but as a nation, he had an obligation to his people. They wanted him neutral, just as they always did. He had to obey.
"What's been happening?"
"They've made offers."
"What kind of offers?"
"Okay…not exactly offers." He heard her gulp from the other end. His hand tightened on the receiver and his ever-present frown deepened. "That's actually why I'm calling."
"So they have threatened you," he stated quietly, clenching the hand toying with the bullet into a fist.
"Brother-" she began.
"They did, didn't they?" he heard his voice get louder.
Liechtenstein didn't respond for a moment, but Switzerland knew with bitter self-loathing that he had upset her. Her breathing had turned labored and shaky, as if she was trying not to cry.
"Austria threatened to place an embargo on me if I didn't join!" she interrupted, her silence shattered by her sudden outburst.
"Dammit!" Switzerland swore, slamming his fist into his desk, before letting a frustrated hand run through his blond hair. "He's supposed to be your ally! All three of us signed treaties to help each other! He can't just place an embargo on you because you won't join something that didn't work. I thought World War I would be enough to convince them!"
"Switzerland," Liechtenstein began. "I…if Austria places an embargo on my exports…"
"You'll lose about 479.3 million francs," he sighed, his frown fading into a look of pure worry. "And about 36.9 percent of your imports come from Austria."
"I…I don't know what to do, Brother," she said, her voice quivering. "Austria is important to me. He's my friend, but I don't want to be part of his empire with Hungary."
"He doesn't sound like much of a friend to me," Switzerland snarled, his previous look of worry returning to its usual frown. He heard his sister sniff from the other end and felt his heart break. She was the most important thing to him besides his people. He hated that Austria had taken advantage of their good relations by threatening to practically bankrupt her economy.
If he had his way, he'd march down to the prissy little snot's house and blow his brains out. Unfortunately, neutral was neutral and he prayed that the rebirth of the Austro-Hungarian Empire would not mean yet another Europe-wide war. It had been exhausting to stay neutral through that little disagreement.
"I don't know what to do," she repeated hopelessly, the static hissing as she released a breath.
"Me neither," Switzerland admitted, closing his eyes and roughly rubbing his temples. "My bosses are keeping me neutral."
"So you can't help me," she murmured.
"I'm so sorry," he apologized quietly. It was the worst feeling in the world, not being able to help his own sister.
"No, Brother, don't be. I understand," she assured quickly. "Actually, it's you I'm worried about."
"Me?" He felt his chest grow tight. She was always worried about him, just as he was always worried about her. Even when she was the one in danger, he was one of her top concerns, second only to her people. Switzerland would have fought all of Europe to protect her if it was his choice, but the curse of a nation was the curse of servitude.
"Yes you, silly."
"But why? You're the one in trouble." He raised an eyebrow in confusion.
"You have treaties with Austria too."
A sudden crashing noise made him jump slightly in his chair, causing him to nearly drop the receiver. He clawed at it in midair for a few brief seconds before clumsily bringing it back to his ear.
"Hello? Liechtenstein, are you still there?" he asked, fearing he had accidentally hung up on her.
"Yeah, but what was that?"
"I think someone's in my house," he replied, opening yet another drawer to his desk and withdrawing his gun. The noise had obviously come from the kitchen, the unmistakable clanging of pots and pans hitting hard tile confirming his suspicions.
"Oh, please be careful!" Liechtenstein warned, her voice laced with concern.
"Don't worry," Switzerland said, readying his gun. "It's probably just France again."
"Okay, but still."
"I'll be careful, alright?" He felt a fond smile tugging at the corner of his lips at his sister's needless worry. If anything, he needed something to shoot at, and chasing France off his property might prove nothing less than therapeutic. He wasn't as good as a half-naked Italian, but he'd have to do. "I'll call you later, okay?"
"Um, Vash?" Liechtenstein questioned timidly, her breathing still rather harsh. Switzerland paused at his real name.
"Huh? What is it?"
"I," he heard her swallow again as he pressed a few bullets into the gun's chamber. "No matter what happens…I…I love you. I love you so much." Switzerland felt his usual harsh look change into an involuntary smile. An infinite amount of care surged through him, entwined with pangs of inescapable guilt. His eyes shadowed and his affectionate smile turned to one of sorrow. Why did he have to be so useless?
"I love you too," he replied warmly, doing his best to keep his own voice from shaking. He was the strong one, he had to be for both of them. "I'll talk to you later." He grabbed his hat from the corner of his chair and placed it on top of his head.
"Goodbye, Brother," she whispered before hanging up. Placing the phone back on the hook, he caulked his weapon and stormed out of his office towards the kitchen. His boots pounded on the floor as he went, thoughts of Liechtenstein shoved to the back of his head. Right now, a certain Frenchman was going to die and take a week's worth of stress with him.
"France!" Switzerland hollered, his piercing green eyes swiveling around his home as he entered the kitchen.
The bastard got the fine china, he thought angrily, spotting shattered ceramics across the floor. Those had been a gift from England, and Switzerland knew he'd never hear the end of the other nation's whining if he found out his gift had been destroyed. The thought of it made Switzerland groan out loud. It was completely childish. Just the fact the china once belonged to England was motive enough for France to break it.
"France, you have five seconds to find a window to crawl out of or I'm coming after you!" he warned. "Remember the last time?" Looking around the kitchen, he spotted the sink and was annoyed to find it running. Pots and pans also littered his once spotless kitchen, mingling with the shattered remains of England's plates and saucers.
Hurrying over to the sink, Switzerland turned it off and stalked around for a moment, opening cabinets and drawers. Checking the higher pantries to make sure nothing else was out of place or that the exceedingly promiscuous nation hadn't left him any 'pleasurable gifts', Switzerland flinched as he heard even more commotion coming from his sitting room. Snarling angrily, he shut the pantry harder than necessary and brought his gun to his chest.
"You have until the count of five to leave, or I'm going to tear this place apart!" As if directly challenging his threat, there was even more crashing, and Switzerland heard the unmistakable shatter of glass. Well, there went Austria's pretty little music box. Oh well, France could break anything that belonged to Austria, or Hungary for that matter.
"One," he began.
There was a fury of footsteps heading up the stairs.
Directly over his head there was an quick pounding, followed by a louder thud. It almost seemed as if the intruder was looking for something.
More thuds, but at least there was no loud squeal alerting him to someone entering his room. Switzerland always kept the hinges on his bedroom door loud. That way if he was asleep, he could hear an approaching attack. He nearly shuddered as he recalled the last time he woke up with France standing over him. As soon as he thought it, there was the unmistakable screech of his door hinges. That was the final straw.
"Five!" he yelled, skipping right past four and hurrying towards the stairs. Nobody went into his room, not if they didn't like dodging bullets. "France, you've crossed the line!" Pressing his hat more securely on top of his head, Switzerland raced up the stairs and turned down the hall until he was standing outside his bedroom.
Sure enough, his door was wide open, revealing the mess that lay inside. All his items had been knocked to the floor, while his dresser and nightstand lay overturned, the drawers ripped from the frame with clothes piled against the walls. His bed was in even worse shape, the mattress overturned and his sheets spread out around the floor.
"Dammit!" he swore, heading inside to inspect the damage. Keeping his gun ready, he was relieved that nothing was really broken. It was just going to be a bitch to clean up. The intruder was nowhere in sight, but that didn't mean they were gone. A slight breeze ruffled his hair, and he looked towards his large bedroom window, surprised to find it open.
The soft drapes were fluttering gently against the opening like twin ghosts. The outward swinging panes moved from side to side, indicating that the intruder had taken his advice and escaped to whatever hole they originally crawled out of. Switzerland wasn't able to hold down a bought of disappointment at the lack of shooting involved, and stepped over various items to look outside.
Everything seemed peaceful enough as he gazed out into the midst of Bern. Night was just beginning to settle over his capital and he let out a sigh. Liechtenstein came back to mind, and he hoped there was some way she could solve her issues with Austria. Switzerland wondered if she was staring out into her own capital city of Vaduz, worried and exhausted. If only he was able to help her. If only he was allowed to tell Austria to back off, but as much as he loved his sister, he loved his people as well. A nation's life was a life of servitude, but also a life of responsibility.
Realizing he had been distracted, Switzerland was about to turn around and attempt to tidy up, when he spotted something glowing in the distance. It was coming from the Zytglogge clock tower, although it was still too far away to be identifiable.
"What the…?" He narrowed his eyes and leaned against the windowsill. Then, with dawning horror, realized what it was. His eyes grew wide as a wave of pain crashed down on him. He dropped his gun with a clatter as he fell to his knees, clutching his chest in agony.
Switzerland hadn't been in this kind of pain since France invaded with Napoleon all those many years ago. His chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself, while nausea forced him to cover his mouth with a trembling hand. It did little good, and his body rebelled, forcing him to forfeit his dinner. Tears were streaming down his face as he forced himself to his feet, knees quivering uncontrollably.
Switzerland stumbled away from the window, gasping for air and clutching his aching sides. The bitter taste of bile was in his mouth as he leaned against the wall opposite to the window. The glowing in the distance was a fire. He was being invaded. Already he heard the screams of his people, and in his mind he saw his flag burning. The red banner with the white cross was licked viciously by the orange flames, becoming nothing more than ashes.
He was being invaded, but by who? Austria and Hungary were rebuilding their empire, but they were interested in Liechtenstein, not him. Besides, he knew Austria would never attack someone who didn't expect it. Tears continued to trickle down his cheeks as he threw his head back and screamed, tortuous spasms wracking his body. Who ordered this? No one had declared war on him and he was completely neutral.
Forcing his feet forward, he attempted to get back to his gun, but froze as he heard his closet door open painstakingly slow. The loud hinges creaked and Switzerland groaned as his stomach did an impossible flip before tying itself in a knot. Weakly turning his head and breathing deeply, the intruder was revealed.
It was definitely not France, but a masked figure dressed all in black. Switzerland wasn't able to see them clearly due to his vision blurring, but his paranoid nature screamed that whoever this was, they meant danger. The problem was that as the person advanced, Switzerland was only able to barely push himself off the wall, before stumbling backwards a few steps.
His head was swimming, and he felt his stomach contort to the point he was trying not to vomit again. Forcing his legs to cease their trembling, he glared defiantly into the holes of the other nation's pearly white masquerade mask. If they wanted to invade him, he wasn't about to go down without a fight. His people had been ambushed and his beautiful capital was on fire. No nation took that lying down. If only he hadn't dropped his gun.
"What do you want?" he demanded, still clutching his right side with his left hand. Another searing pain tore up his sides and centered in his chest, where it stabbed his rapidly beating heart. He let out another scream as his hands moved to his ears. It felt as if two knives had just been stabbed into his skull. The stinging intensified along with the awful cries of his civilians. He closed his eyes against the onslaught of fresh tears.
It angered and annoyed him that the intruder was witnessing him cry, but there was nothing he could do stop the tears. They were attacking Bern, his heart. Switzerland cracked his eyes open and noticed the intruder was holding something, but only had sights for his endangered city. From outside his window, Bern was glowing orange, and the agonized screams of his people drifted through the air.
With wet gasping breaths, Switzerland forced himself to look away from his burning capital and focus entirely on the slightly blurred intruder. From the glowing out the window, he discovered that the item the masked nation carried was long, metal, and poised ready.
"No," he whispered, shaking his head, and attempting to back away. The intruder readied himself, bringing the knife forward and rushing towards Switzerland with impressive speed.
"No!" Switzerland shouted, backing away only to have his boots tangle in a pair of discarded pants. He fell backwards and the intruder came after, landing on top of him and plunging the knife deep into his stomach. Switzerland felt the metallic, salty taste of blood accumulate in his mouth, and he turned his head to the side in order to cough it up. The pain was unbearable, and it took all he had not to pass out.
The intruder raised the knife again, the blade dyed a deep crimson. Switzerland looked around frantically, then spotted a heavy pair of binoculars. They had been a gift from America during the other nation's 'imperial period', and as fast as he could, he wrapped his fingers around the long neck strap and swung the binoculars upwards, slamming them into the side of the intruder's head. The nation gave a yelp and tumbled to the side, while Switzerland rolled over on his bleeding stomach and weakly struggled to his feet.
Hands clutching his gaping wound, Switzerland stumbled out into the hall, coughing up more blood as he went. He had to get to the phone and call someone, anyone for help. France, Poland, America, England, hell, even Austria flashed through his mind. As much as he denied it, the two had been close at one point. Oh, why had he dropped his gun?
Once he came to the stairs he attempted to descend. However, Switzerland's knees buckled, and he ended up tumbling down them. His hat flew off, and he felt his sides and back bruise as his body slammed into the edge of every step. When he reached the bottom, he rolled a few times until he was on his side, facing the rise of the stairway.
The intruder stood on the very top, the bloody knife still in hand. Switzerland kept his usual trademark frown and spat up another stream of blood. He feebly tried to push himself up again, but his arms collapsed beneath him and he groaned in utter agony, defeated.
Focusing his attention towards the top of the stairs, Switzerland was only able to glare up at the attacker, hands still pressed to his punctured abdomen and blood still trickling from between his clenched teeth. The black clad figure began to very slowly walk down the steps, knife held calmly to the side as scarlet drops trickled down to the floor.
Liechtenstein was all he thought about as his killer came closer. He loved her more than anything in the world, and now he was going to hurt her more than Austria or Hungary ever could. Switzerland remembered the day he found her, scared and alone. He remembered the way she cut her hair so that she'd look more like him. In her military uniform, many of the other nations often confused her for him. He remembered buying her that little blue ribbon she always wore. Somehow, that made him happy. His face relaxed into a nostalgic smile as his eyes dulled. If only he was able to see her one last time.
The killer finally reached him, and turned Switzerland over on his back with his foot. The injured nation grunted with pain as his wound was jostled. Once the murderer was standing over him, he kneeled down and straddled Switzerland's stomach. Switzerland didn't try to fight due to the fatigue of blood loss. It was useless to resist anyway. His people had stopped screaming and his flag was gone, leaving him empty. The invasion was a success.
The killer lifted the knife above his head and plunged it into Switzerland's chest. Pain erupted from the wound and his body forced him to cough up the tide of blood blocking his windpipe.
Switzerland refused to scream, but stared directly into his killer's eyes with his usual defiance, showing him that he wasn't afraid. He was a strong nation and he'd die strong. The knife came down again, puncturing one of his lungs and once again through the chest. After a brief moment, the killer dropped the knife to the side, the metal clattering against the wood. The masked nation looked down on him, body language completely impassive.
So you want to watch me die, huh? Switzerland thought.
Barely alive, the dying nation used the last of his strength to lift his hand. His fingers trembled as they touched the smooth white of the killer's lavishly decorated mask. Surprisingly the murderer didn't flinch or slap his hand away, but merely sat on top of him, completely rigid and motionless. For a moment Switzerland was reminded of Turkey, but quickly replaced him with thoughts of his precious little sister in order to comfort himself and keep his defiance.
Liechtenstein's face was still fresh in his mind as his fingers curled around the edge of the cold, cruel mask, staining the white with red. Switzerland was determined to see his killer's face. He wanted to see which nation dared attack him without warning. He'd hate that nation to his grave and curse them from his coffin. He quickly removed the mask and his eyes widened with shock.
"Y…You?" he breathed, before his hand fell limp to his side, covered in his own blood. The mask skittered away, leaving thin trails of crimson on the wooden floor. Switzerland's eyes lost their light, and he continued to stare at the face of his killer until he could see no more.
Italy ran as fast as his bare legs were able to carry him, his breath coming in gasps as he sped through his yard in the direction of Germany's house. He just had the most awful dream involving Japan, guns, and a pancake. Only a few short moments ago, he had awoken to his own screaming, grabbed a shirt, and began his wild race. Germany was probably asleep by now, in which case, he was going to get a rude awakening.
Then again, there was also a chance he was still getting ready for bed and was in the midst of taking a nice warm shower. Italy preferred the shower scenario, simply because Germany would be awake, giving him the perfect opportunity to cling to the larger nation and retell his awful tale. Besides, Germany only got angry if Italy woke him up, whereas in the shower he'd simply stare and go awfully quiet.
Italy remembered last time he burst into Germany's bathroom in a panic. Italy had clung to him desperately, terrified that the other nation's new found friendship with Russia was going to affect their own. He liked that Germany hadn't yelled… for the first ten minutes as least. Japan had walked in after Italy managed to sneak a in hug while the two were still 'lacking in the clothes department', and the comforting silence basically flew out the window. As to why it had, Italy had no idea.
After what seemed like hours, Italy's fear-induced adrenaline wore off and he stopped, panting roughly. Maybe it was time to cut back on all the pasta. Italy gasped and straightened up, surprised and horrified at the thought. Cut back? On pasta? What was wrong with him? That dream must have really messed with his noggin.
"Oh, if only I brought some leftovers from last night's dinner with France nii-chan," Italy worried aloud, bringing up one finger to tease his lower lip. "I could have used it as a peace offering for Germany and maybe he wouldn't yell at me!"
In the middle of the Italian's inner turmoil, a breeze picked up blowing the hem of his shirt up to his chest. Yelping as the chill hit his vital regions, Italy quickly pushed the shirt back down over his thighs, the entire scene eerily familiar to a rather famous picture of Marilyn Monroe.
"And I'm not wearing pants again!" Italy cried, looking up to the moon. "Germany will definitely yell at me now! He's been so stern and angry lately, it's like living with Mussolini all over again!"
Italy hopped from one foot to the other, his hands still on the hem of his shirt. Upon discovering such a spectacle, one might come to the false conclusion that the distressed nation was on the verge of urinating. After a brief inner monologue of how cold Germany had been as of late and the effects it had on the Italian's 'fragile artist's soul', Italy finally calmed himself enough to gather his surroundings.
He was standing before someone's house, right below a balcony that was strangely familiar. Italy thought for sure he'd been here before, possibly on another one of his rampages to get to Germany's house. He had to think though, for his mind was drawing blanks.
So he thought.
Failed to notice the damaged, but large sign behind him that proclaimed, "Welcome to Bern" in four different languages including his own.
"I got it!" Italy proclaimed, raising a finger into the air in triumph. "I'm at Switzerland's house! I figured it out using my natural sense of location all Italians are blessed with!" Basking in the glow of his triumph, it was only seconds later that the Italian's proud smile vanished and he wheezed in horror. "Oh, I'm at Switzerland's house," he stated breathlessly before screaming in fear.
Clamping his hands over his mouth to stop the incredibly high-pitched sound, he dropped to his knees and pressed his hands together, almost as if praying.
"Please don't shoot me, I have family in Geneva!" Italy cried, his entire frame trembling. He stared at the balcony fearfully, remembering how the horribly aggressive nation stood up there and shot at him for merely passing through.
Italy continued his fearful gaze, waiting for Switzerland to rush out with his gun, but it remained empty. I guess he's asleep, Italy concluded, though he was sure his scream had been relatively loud. He was about to slip away and continue his quest for Germany, when another breeze reminded him of his lack of pants.
"Ah, why does this always happen to me?" Italy whined. "My butt cheeks feel like they're about to fall off! Why is it so cold at night?" Germany usually let Italy borrow his pants when nights like tonight occurred, often removing the pair he was wearing for the sake of concealing the smaller nation's lower regions, but the way Germany had been acting lately made Italy second guess this usual train of behavior. It seemed like everything bothered Germany nowadays. Habits that he never used to mind were now crimes against all society. Not even Japan was immune.
As much as Italy loved to see Germany remove his pants, he admitted he probably shouldn't take any chances if he really wanted comfort. Looking down at his bare legs, he knew that if he showed up in his current pant-less state, Germany would most likely throw him out and lock the door.
Italy sighed, knowing it wasn't Germany's fault. Ever since the allies landed him with paying impossibly high reparations, Germany had been stressed and over-worked with the added weight of cleaning up the mess his boss left. America had been helping him with the reparation part, but there was no way anyone could help him fix what Hitler had done to his people. He didn't need Italy making it worse for him. Suddenly, Italy's mission changed. He no longer wanted Germany to reassure him, but to be there for his best friend and let him know that everything was going to work out.
Germany also needed to know that it wasn't his fault for what happened, that he only did what he thought was right. What those poor people went through in those awful camps had not been his fault. There was nothing a nation could say or do against his boss or his people. Italy wanted to tell him this more than anything.
He needed pants.
To his horror, he found himself walking towards Switzerland's front door. Was he seriously going into Switzerland's house? Italy couldn't really believe it, but swallowed roughly and reached for the doorknob. He really wanted to see Germany. Maybe not because of the dream, which he now admitted was more disturbing than actually scary, but because he was genuinely worried about the other nation's sudden detachment and the bitter self-resentment now present in Germany's sorrowful blue eyes.
"Don't open, don't open, don't open," he chanted under his breath. "Don't-" the knob twisted and the door swung inwards, the creaking of the hinges ringing loudly in Italy's ears. "Crap."
Well, too late to turn back now. He just wanted to borrow a pair of pants. It wasn't like he was going to steal anything. Italy cautiously crept into the house and was amazed at how clean everything was. Either Switzerland had really talented maids or, like Austria, he was perfectionist. Every item was in proper alignment and the wooden floor before the stairs looked like it had been recently waxed. Italy had the sudden urge to rub it and see if it squeaked, but suppressed the thought, fearing the noise would attract a certain blond with unhealthy anger issues.
Italy cautiously tiptoed through Switzerland's house, heart pounding and half-expecting the terrifying nation to jump out and put a bullet through his head. France told him about the one time he broke into Switzerland's house and ended up with a good chunk of his beautiful hair missing from one of the stray bullets. Italy wondered briefly how Switzerland came to be so trigger-happy. The only other nation he knew that came remotely close to Switzerland's love of all things lead was America.
Realizing he had explored most of the downstairs of the other nation's meticulously clean house, Italy knew with a sense of overwhelming dread that if he was going to find pants, he was going to have to go upstairs, to Switzerland's room.
"If only Germany were here," Italy whispered. "He'd shield me from the bullets, and then I could get pants, and then he wouldn't yell at me, and then we could go back to the way it was. Me, Germany, and Japan as allies."
Italy made his way up the stairs, flinching as the boards creaked below each footstep. Once he reached the top of the stairs, he wandered down the hall for a moment until he came to a door that was open ajar. Italy took a deep breath and entered the room, the hinges squealing in alarm, as if calling for Switzerland. Italy clenched his teeth and swallowed roughly.
Like the rest of the house, the room was spotlessly clean, almost disturbingly so. The lights were still on and Italy felt his heart drop to his stomach as his eyes rested on the bed stationed on the other side of the room. Just above the blanket, there was the top of a blond head. Italy remained awkwardly frozen, remembering how France told him Switzerland slept with a gun under his pillow. This idea about pants probably wasn't the best now that he thought about it. Maybe he should just leave and wait until morning to see Germany.
Backing away slowly, Italy gave a yelp as he walked into a dresser, knocking over a few items. They rolled along the top of the dresser and crashed on to the floor. Italy attempted to hurriedly pick everything up, but only succeeded in knocking it over again. In a panic, he reeled away from the dresser and tripped over his own feet.
With yet another scream, Italy waved his arms wildly, his hand grasping the closest thing, which happened to be the blanket covering Switzerland's body. The Italian hit the floor with a grunt, the comforter falling on top of his face. He froze in terror, waiting for the inevitable click followed with the equally inevitable bang.
It never came.
Ever so cautiously, Italy lowered the blanket from his eyes and sat up carefully. Switzerland must be a very heavy sleeper. The frightened nation turned to catch a glimpse of the other, but gasped when instead of the angelic sleeping face France described, he was met with two green eyes staring blankly at him.
"Oh God, please don't shoot me!" Italy begged. "I'm sorry, it's just that I had a nightmare and I wanted to see Germany, but Germany has been really angry lately and I forgot my pants and he always gets mad when I do that so I hoped you would let me borrow some of yours, I'm sorry!" He ceased his babbling when Switzerland didn't respond. He didn't even make a move for the gun under his pillow, just stared at Italy, his eyes slightly glassy. "Um, you're not mad are you?"
Again there was no reply, and Italy's brow furrowed in concern.
"Switzerland?" Italy gulped. The other nation didn't so much as blink. "Hey, are you okay?" Tentatively, Italy reached a hand out and touched the other nation's shoulder. He gave a gentle shake, ready to hit the deck if Switzerland happened to pull a gun seemingly out of an alternate dimension as he was well known to do. Italy felt a few beads of sweat trickle down his brow, noticing a knife grasped loosely in the other nation's hand.
"You're really cold," Italy remarked, laughing nervously, eyes flickering to the blade every few seconds. "Wow, you're unhealthily cold." It was true, for even beneath the fabric of his uniform, Switzerland's skin was terribly icy. Almost like a…no, don't think like that, Italy! That's a Russia thought! he warned himself. After gulping, he questioned aloud with a slightly squeaky voice, "Are you sick or something? Why do you have a knife?"
Those green eyes were still staring at him blankly, unblinking and misty. Italy let his hand wander to the nation's side, where he gave another quick shake. Italy was starting to become frantic as Switzerland remained unresponsive.
"Okay, this isn't funny now!" Italy laughed, his voice on the verge of hysteria. "You really should say something! Come on now, I-" Italy stopped speaking as his hand hit something wet. Pulling it back, he stared down at his quivering palm, now smeared with blood. "Oh my…"
Italy's eyes then rolled back in their sockets and his mouth gaped open as he promptly fainted.
Poor poor Italy. Okay, so what do you think? Everyone who reviews will get a shout out the next chapter! I have to say, writing Switzerland like that really killed me. I love him to death, but he's still a very important character throughout the story so don't count him out yet.
Anyway, historical references and sources:
- Liechtenstein and Austria really do have very good relations, but for the sake of this story Austria takes advantage of that as he and Hungary attempt to rebuild the empire they lost. Liechtenstein is actually the 30th largest exporter to Austria the statistics Switzerland mentioned are found here: http : / / www . liechtenstein . li .li / en / bilateral-oesterreich-praesentation_ en . pdf Just get rid of the spaces
- In 1798 the armies of the French Revolution conquered Switzerland and imposed a new unified constitution. Directly from Wikipedia.
- Marilyn Monroe was a very popular American actress/singer. Her most famous picture is when she stands above a rush of air and holds he skirt down
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