Hi! This will be my first completed Hetalia fic ever, so please don't destroy me. Also, I know a bunch of people who hate mpreg, so I'm sorry if I just made you RAEG. This was a prompt on the Hetalia LJ Kink Meme, but I wanted to try it out myself haha.
I'm sorry if you dont like it. Especially to all my Katekyo Hitman Reborn! watchers haha. I'm double sorry. ;A;
Italy was never one to be sick for long.
Sure, he'd constantly fake illness to get out of early morning training, and yes, even to escape Germany's wursts (Though Germany never really forced the Italian to do much of anything, much less eat his beer-basted brats).
But Germany believed he had never actually seen Italy sick. Ever.
So suddenly when, in the middle of heated copulation of the two nations, the young Italian threw aside his lover in favor of the porcelain basin in the washroom, Germany became worried. Just a little, at least.
"Did you overeat again?" the German asked, partially annoyed at the lack of service his erection was obtaining. He had been so close!
The only thing that answered him was the heavy heaving of a sick man and the pitiful whine of a sad little boy. He sighed and willed his arousal away, as if the sound of throwing up didn't already do that.
"Remind me to regulate your diet," he told his little lover, who was still hugging the toilet like a lifeline. Germany had the decency to wait until he was relieved, and to soon after comfort his sore throat and aching stomach with all the love a hearty German general could muster. It was the best he could do, after all.
"Ve~," Italy whispered, his head dipped to the bowl still, just in case, "Germannyyyy"
Like a pathetic cry for help, Germany noted, very much like the Italian. At least it meant he was still relatively fine.
"Just don't overdo it on the pasta, and you won't have to go through this again," he promised. The little Italian gathered a tiny smile to his yet-to-be-distraught face.
Crashes could be heard through the stony kitchen, iron pots clashing with their brothers hanging from hooks, the telltale pierce of crisp air from the sound of shattered china.
"Por favor, mi querido! Stop!"
The rash Italian boy merely picked up another fine porcelain plate, and with a sharp-as-glass glare, smashed it on the sanded pueblo tile. The sound echoed off mud-colored walls, and left fine white dust in the midst of cracked and broken pieces.
"Don't you dare!" the little brunette pointed an audacious finger at his father figure, his eyes ablaze in fury. "Don't you dare call me that!"
Spain was at a loss: of both words, and priceless dinnerware.
"...Si," he finally murmured in surrender as his lover took hold of another plate. "What is the matter, Lovino? Please tell me."
When the angry boy didn't answer right away, Spain assumed it wasn't anything of importance. Again. But what reason did he have to break his dishes?
That's when he used his plate-free hand to lift up his shirt, showing his mentor his light tan courtesy of the Spanish sun, and taut abs that were perfect and smooth.
"Lovino," he purred, "That belongs in the recámara, si?"
And then the plate in Romano's other hand went crashing to the floor, sounding like a morose scream in the ears of the heartbroken Spaniard.
"L-Lovino, por favor! Please stop breaking my dishes! They were expensive!"
"Don't you see?" The furious Italian cried, not dropping his shirt just yet, "Don't you fucking see?"
"Miho, all I see is mi bonito Italia," he answered exhaustedly as he stared down at his destroyed dishes. How sad.
The Italian strode over to the Spaniard in a heartbeat, forcing said man to look closer.
The beginning of a belly, Spain mused. If Italy hadn't grabbed his hand and pressed it to his relatively flat stomach, he wouldn't have even noticed at all. He hadn't been able to see it anyway.
"Sweet Lovino," he sighed, "What are you trying to say?"
"You stupid bastard! I'm getting fat!"
Spain said nothing to that for a moment. Lovino couldn't possibly be worrying about a few pounds. Lovino couldn't possibly have broken his dishes over a tiny unobservable lump.
"Mi Lovino," he whispered, his hands tight against his flat stomach, standing tall to loom over the smaller man, "Please just calm down."
"How the fuck can I calm down, stupid Spain? I exercise and eat healthy and am fucking perfect! How could this have happened?"
Spain felt tired all of a sudden. Maybe it was too early in the morning for- wait no; it was 3 in the afternoon. He'd call it a day, for the love of Italia.
"Lovino, what you need is a nap."
Romano, as flustered and fuming as he was, could not resist the soft caressing from soft dark hands and the thought of a warm afternoon siesta with his dumb ass Spain.
"You lied to me."
Germany blinked awake slowly, his brain taking a minute to reboot. His eyes focused on the naked Italian straddling him, his eyes and mouth sad, like a child who dropped his ice cream.
"W...What?" Germany grumbled, rubbing his cheek roughly and sitting up a bit. Not that he didn't appreciate the feeling of the lithe brunette encasing his hips.
"You lied to me," he repeated, his mouth twitching in a pout. "I only ate pasta for breakfast and lunch, and I still got sick!"
Germany had to think of a time when Italy hadn't had pasta 5 times a day. There was no such time. Germany also had to relish in the fact that Italy had listened to what he said for the first time in the history of ever.
"...There must be something else wrong with you."
At that, the little brunette cried out in terror, and Germany stared up into dark tearful eyes.
"Veeeeee! G-Germanyyyyy! What if I've got something real bad? What if I'm going to die? What if I can never eat pasta again?"
The Italian brought his cupped hands to his pale white face and cried into them, big fat tears rolling off his cheek into the human goblet below his chin. He hiccupped and sobbed and whined, all the while seated erotically above his masculine lover.
Germany was always at a loss, it seemed.
Ignoring the stirring in his groin, forcing thoughts of dead puppies and naked old women into his head, he sat up all the way, knocking Italy back over his thighs. The Italian only continued to bawl.
The German had quickly grown accustomed to the boy's crying over the years. He doubted he had ever taken it seriously. But there was a time and place for everything, he assumed. And that time was then, and that place was there, too early in the dark morning of his apartment's bedroom. Italy cried.
"I-Italy," he stammered, when the boy would not cease. The heartbroken noises and the never-ending salty tears were pinching at his strong German heart. "Calm down, Italy. I'm sure it will get better."
"But you liiiiiiiied!"
Fighting the urge to roll his eyes and fall back into his comforting bed to sleep, he brushed his hand over the boys spread thighs, resting soothingly at his knees. The bathroom light Italy had left on in his hurry for salvation bled into the dark that had once surrounded the room, and Germany could see the glow of Italy's pale naked skin, and the suddenly noticeable projection on his stomach.
Maybe he really did just eat a lot, he thought. What else could explain the belly? Maybe he's just gotten fat and it's stressing him out. He can't really handle stress well anyway. I should train him more.
The German leaned over and kissed the inside of one of those pretty little thighs, causing Italy to hitch in his broken incoherent sobbing and look up from his veil of fingers. Germany never really could take Italy seriously for long, especially with that teary-eyed puppy face.
"Calm down," he whispered against pale shaking skin, "It's probably just a stomachache. Don't worry about it."
"W...Will Germany...Will Germany take care of m-m-me?" the small man cried out, shifting his legs even closer to the other's mouth, as if asking for more attention. Germany gladly obliged, albeit sleepily. The Italian drained him like a vampire.
"Of course," he kissed out against taut skin, leaning back onto the pillows and dragging the spread legs with him. All there was after that was the delightedly tickled squeal from a relieved Italian and the gruff hum of chuckling from a content German.
Days were only days, going through the same routines: Romano yells at Spain, Spain tries to figure out what's wrong, Romano would then yell at Spain again, Romano gets tired from being so angry and goes to sleep early. The end. Then the next day...
Spain could have sworn he'd seen a gray strand amidst his perfect brown hair after a few days. He'd rather not think about that.
Not that Romano being angry with him was any different from all the other times. But all of it happening so often, more often than usual, and so abruptly and without reason, Spain was sure he'd aged faster in those few weeks than he had in his 600+ years of life. He felt tired and annoyed all the time, like an old man yelling at kids to get off his lawn.
He'd given up on wondering why his Lovino was so angry with him these days. He'd ask him after a furious bout of cursing his very existence, but Romano would simply zip his mouth shut with a flustered red face and stomp off to his bedroom, which he promptly locked right behind him every time.
"Antonio." His name was whimpered from the hallway.
Spain knew he was in deep shit when his name escaped the livid lips of his Lovino. He'd only ever said it once, and he had been so furious, he refused to speak to Spain for weeks.
Spain nearly toppled out of his chair at the sound, rushing to his ward's side faster than he thought he ever could with his tired old legs. The boy's room was dark as night, even in the late morning sun that invaded his handmade stained glass windows. Romano had the blinds shut tight. Spain could barely make out the outline of a person, hiding in the tomato red sheets of his bed.
"W-What is it, mi querido?" he asked quietly, afraid of the furious protest he was sure he'd be given. When he wasn't given an answer or a sharp snarl, he took only one step into the deathly room.
"Lovino," he whispered into the blackness. The pile of sheets wiggled, and Spain lost half the will to be worried. "Lovino, what's the matter?"
Even in the dark, Spain could see the big mud brown eyes staring up at him from beneath a cottony cave, curious like a kitten, bright as headlights.
"...My back hurts," the pile of linens whimpered in defeat, squirming about sadly.
Who was Spain to leave his sweet little babe in distress?
Spain tested the waters by pressing a hand to the center of the lump and taking hold of the sheets. He pulled them back slowly, as to not frighten his ward, to reveal a lanky trembling body covered in only shorts and an unbuttoned dress shirt. Spain sighed quietly.
"...Turn around, cariño."
Romano did, slowly, taking care to keep his stomach out of view, and not to put too much pressure on it. His position on his belly was awkward, and made him hiss in pain.
"Does your stomach hurt too, precioso?" Spain asked, kneeling on the plush bed and leaning over the Italian. He pressed a soothing hand to his spine, right over the small of his back, and rubbed in circles. Romano voiced his appreciation, but didn't answer the Spaniard's question. He melted like chocolate to the passionate man's touch.
But the mood was broken rather quickly at the feel of the other hand on his prominent belly, only trying to smooth away the pain. Romano cried out as if he'd been bitten and reeled back, kicking Spain in the thigh. Spain jumped away from the alarmed boy, standing to his feet and looming over the curled up Italian unintentionally.
His stomach was so round.
"Shut up, stupid Spain!" the boy screeched, and Spain knew his calm had been killed, "Don't laugh! I-I haven't eaten anything in days, but I just keep getting bigger! Don't fucking laugh!"
Spain either hadn't taken good long looks at Romano in a while, or Romano had been clever in hiding with his oversized shirts. His worry flew back to him tenfold. What if it was a tumor?
"...Lovino, you're sick. I'm taking you to see a doc-"
"No!" was the near immediate response, muffled by the sudden envelopment of sheets again. "Y-You can't get me to leave looking like this! Shit! I'm never leaving my room ever again!"
Spain felt the fatigue return to him like a rainy cloud over his head. But with nothing else to comfort the stubborn boy, he dashed to the phone, dialing the numbers he knew by heart and waiting for the dial tone to click off.
"Hola, mi amigo!" he greeted as cheerily as he could, "Could you give the phone to mi querido? It's an emergencia, por favor."
Germany hummed in agreement, and with a scuffling noise, had Italy on the receiver.
"Veee~! Spain ni-chan! How are you?"
Terrible. "Bueno, little one, bueno! But sweet Lovino is not so bueno!"
Spain could imagine the cute little tilt the other's head would have made."...Ni-chan?"
"He's very sick, but he won't see the doctor!"
Another short pause, but Spain could hear the grumbling of an annoyed German in the background, probably at giving Italy the responsibility of handling a telephone.
"...Ni-chan's sick? W-What's wrong with him, Spain ni-chan?"
Spain wished he knew, or could make it less of a burden for the other Italian boy he loved.
"Well, he's been in a lot of pain these past weeks, and isn't eating or sleeping properly. He's gained some weight and-"
"Veeee~?" the Italian on the other end interrupted, and Spain could practically see the cuteness sparkling off the child. "Has his belly gotten bigger~?"
Spain quirked an eyebrow and looked to his kitchen down the hall in confusion. "...Yes, it has. How did you know, Feliciano?"
"Because! I have that sick too!"
Another scuffle was heard over the phone and a more irate Germany correcting his lover, ending in a happy laughing Italy. The sound of his laughter made Spain's heart beat faster. He wished his Lovino laughed for him like that.
"Ah~! Germany says I shouldn't call it a sickness. It's called 'pregnancy' or something? Whatever that is, I'm still sick and Germany should be nice to me~! ...Spain ni-chan, you still there? Spain ni-chan?"
Spain could feel several hundred more hairs on his head turn gray.
Germany had practically bought out the bookstore's entire stock of pregnancy guides.
And he'd stay up hours on end, even when his lover would cry out for him to go to sleep, memorizing and sucking in any piece of information he could. Italy would try to read with Germany, but he had the attention span of a goldfish, so every time would result in whining boredom and a constant distraction.
But Germany was focused.
With his non-existent experience with children and the not so reliable tips from Prussia, he promised himself he'd do this right. He'd know what to do when parenthood was thrust in his face.
"West, I never had to deal with a baby. You were a toddler," his brother admitted, cocky grin always in place. "And really, that baby is going to have the most awesome uncle in the whole universe, so what's there to worry about?"
If that wasn't something to worry about, he didn't know what was.
It took him days to finish every book he had, and when that did not satisfy him, he took to the Internet as well. He was cooped up in his office for weeks, with a total of 10 hours of sleep and 18 meals. He was run ragged and dry.
"Why don't you spend time with me, Germany?" Italy finally asked him, walking into his dim lonely office with his hands resting over his growing stomach. Germany was surrounded with papers and documents, and his reading glasses fell askew on his nose.
"...Italy, I'm busy," he answered, not looking up from his research.
"Veeee~," the Italian whined. And there was something there, in that stupid annoying sound, that made Germany's heart skip a beat. So he paid his bride some attention.
Tears fell from big brown eyes to stain the blue uniform stretched over his bulging belly. He made an effort to sniff them away, running a course coat sleeve across his face to rid it of liquid.
Germany had to stop what he was doing for the first time in weeks, standing from his worn-down leather chair and letting the stacks of paper topple all around him to the floor.
"I-Italy, what..." he offered quietly, taking small subdued steps toward him. Italy sobbed into his arm.
"G-G-Germany doesn't w-w-want to be with me anym-more! All he d-does is r-read and ig-g-gnore meeee!"
Germany did not have the strength to do much at this point in time except surrender. He took Italy's soft hand into his large calloused one and dropped to his knee. For God's sake, he had barely stood at all in days! He sighed against the pale white skin cupped in his grasp, waiting for the Italian to stop bawling and pay attention to his tired acceptance.
"...I'm trying...Very hard to understand everything there is to know about what's happening to you, Italy." His voice was gruff and quiet against the boy's hand. "All the books say something different, and I don't know which way is right and wrong...And I want to make sure...Make sure that I'll do this right...That I'll be the perfect father...I'm sorry, Italy."
Italy's sniveling had dulled to soft hiccups, snot oozing onto his sleeve as he rubbed it across his face one last time.
"...B-But," Italy mumbled, "G-Germany is good at everything. Even making p-pasta! Though I'm way better! Germany can do all the stuff I can't, like write letters and do push-ups and hold liquor and do taxes and remember birthdays and..."
Germany stared up at his little lover and waited for him to stop listing all his faults, but it never came. So he stood back onto his wobbly legs and watched Italy continue vehemently.
"...And sign signatures and play American football and speak strongly and eat sour things and count to really high numbers and-"
"...And read big words and carve pumpkins and ride horses and see far away and tie knots and organize-mppfh!"
Italy gave in as easily as if he'd had a big white flag in each hand, with Germany kissing away his list and crushing their bodies together (Yet remaining careful of the roundness between them), his big strong hands curling around his tiny waist and pressing to his somewhat sore back, knowing just where to touch to make his lover squeal.
So the German put his research on hiatus in favor of a long-lost romp with his plump little Italian.
And even weeks later, the office was graced with a thin layer of dust.
Spain might have been the country of passion, might have had the biggest and fiercest heart of them all, but said heart couldn't possibly tell his Lovino his own unexpected fate.
Then again, he was sure that the 'passion' he prided himself on was the cause of all of this.
After the news, and the wondering of why he hadn't known sooner, Spain sat in his lonely pueblo kitchen and reflected. Why was this time so different from any other time? For goodness sake, they'd done it infinity and 3 times already, so why is he pregnant now? All thoughts reverted back to his also pregnant twin. Supposedly, they got pregnant together at the same exact time.
Maybe they were linked in ways no one could ever think to understand.
Spain found it adorable, but not at the expense of his own little ward.
So the Spaniard continued to ponder what this would all result in. He'd have to tell Lovino eventually, he couldn't let him go on thinking he'd gotten fat. Or wait until he goes into labor and gets scared because he doesn't know what's going on.
But there was always that terrible idea: What if Lovino didn't want it at all?
The thought made Spain so very sad, he was afraid he'd tear up right then and there. But if his little cariño didn't want to be a madre, then he couldn't possibly force him to. He'd have to tell him quickly, if that were the case, so he'd still have the choice. Spain hated abortions as much as the next Catholic, but if it was necessary, let it be of a smaller child than a larger one.
He found himself outside of Romano's room once again, looking into sad darkness and waiting for the outline of his sweet babe to appear in his shifting eyes. Lo and behold, there he was, curled on his side just the way Spain had left him. He was as still as death, and Spain would have been overcome with even more worry, had words not fluttered from his lips.
"What do you want, stupid Spain?" it whimpered, and Spain could hear the tears. "Come to laugh at me some more?"
Spain didn't answer. He pressed his hands to both sides of the lighted doorway, much like a barrier in case his Lovino wanted to run away. No more time to beat around the bush, and with a hard gaze, he said it.
But Lovino didn't say anything. Spain could only wonder what was going through his fiery little head. He probably doesn't believe me, Spain thought.
The room was as silent as it was black, and Lovino didn't even squirm in his sheets, let alone breathe.
"...Stupid Spain," he finally whispered, after the longest pause Spain had ever heard. What did that mean, exactly? Was he calling him stupid because he thought it was a joke, or that it was all Spain's fault, which it completely was?
From the tone of the voice, Spain could decipher nothing but a miserable little boy.
"...I can't be pregnant," he whispered even softer, just a swish of air from his lips, "I just can't."
Spain felt the dread welling up in the pit of his stomach like the premonition of a storm.
"...If you don't want it, I can..." kill an innocent unborn baby "...I can take you to a clinic and-"
A black leather shoe flew across the room to hit Spain straight in the chest, but the attack was weak and the strength nearly nonexistent. But it made Spain watch his ward closely, watch the tears glisten in the hallway's artificial light.
"Miracolo!" he muttered heatedly.
Spain was taken aback quickly. Not only had he believed him, but he wanted to keep it? Maybe the world was upside down today, and whales flew in the sky.
"...L-Lovino," he whispered into the dark, "Lovino, are you sure?"
He watched his ward lose his tense stiffness of limbs, and fall back onto his messy bed with a soft huff. His hands rested on the still so slight bump.
"Miracolo," he repeated, almost like he was unsure of himself. Maybe that this was a dream, or a nightmare? Who knew? All Spain knew was that his Lovino was going to be a madre.
"Lovino, Lovino, Lovino," he cried over and over again, striding into the room and gathering Lovino up, bedding and all, into his arms just like he would the baby they would soon be caring for. Romano, for once, did not make a single noise of protest: Not when Spain rained kisses over sweet browning skin. Not when Spain rubbed his little stomach so carefully, as if it were a thin sheet of ice. And especially not when Spain laid him softly under his taller leaner stronger body, and proceeded to snuggle and cuddle him like never before. It could have been worse, he would remind himself, stifling a moan when hands roved over sensitive bits of him.
It could have been worse.
The Spanish and Italian is pretty obvious, so I don't think they need translations.
And no, I am not going to give a lick of scientific theories haha. Use your imagination. TBC.