This is a one chapter fic, but I have been thinking about turning it into a chapter story. I'm looking for opinions on whoever reads it if I should continue or leave it as is.
I don own Hetalia or it's characters! Italy and Germany would be a couple by now if I did X3
The outburst was so sudden the Italian's breath caught in his throat. His voice and breath were shaken beyond the point of hyperventilation and yet he was somehow still stable, still conscious. His eyes were red, sore, and tearstained. His explanation before the outburst had been so quick none of the others could understand his words. They all blended together in a swell of emotion, jumbled words, and pain.
Only one person understood his irrational speech.
"Silence your insane babbling!" the German huffed, eyes turning red from anger. His fists turned white under the black, leather gloves he was wearing. He had lost all feeling in them since Italy started bawling and senseless speaking. "I've had enough of zis." His voice was low, deep, irritated, and, Italy sensed it strongly, disappointing.
Italy lowered his head. His knees held strong even though they visibly shook, barely able to hold him any longer. Those tears seemed to be never ending rivers of pain, flowing from his soul for everyone to see, but when he glanced at everyone around him, they all wore the same faces. Hurt, distrust, hate. Their glares drilled him to his spot, unable to move and of his body, only able to speak.
The Italian was paralyzed.
"Ger…. Ger-m-man… many…." That was all he managed to say before Germany's glare stiffened even harder, if that was even possible.
"I said enough!" There was a sharp crack that echoed through the air. Italy's head twisted to the side, the right side of his face going numb. His eyes widened, unable to make any sense of what had just happened. Without any force to hold him up his legs gave away, bringing him to his knees, able to catch himself with his hands.
Wetness trickled down his face. Setting the tips of his finger, he pulled them away. For a few seconds, he forgot how to breathe. Blood traced through the canals of his fingerprints, overflowing them like red flood. Italy's brown eyes traveled up to Germany's right hand. Between his fingers clutched a small knife. All too quickly, his face stung. The pain merged with the red print that was just forming, but feeling worse on a straight line that etched right below his cheekbone. His heart suddenly felt like it was made of glass; fine and brittle glass that just cracked.
"There's nothing you'll be able to say to mend what you've done," America hissed.
"You've disgraced us as nations," Japan scowled. He turned his head away. "I cannot even bring myself to rook at you any ronger."
France's accent was heavy in his voice. "You're not one of us anymore."
Italy stopped breathing, feeling his heart, and his sanity, breaking with every insult.
"I zought you were better zan zis," Germany muttered.
"We all did," England scoffed. "We were bloody fools for believing him in the first place."
"I can't be here any longer," China muttered before he stormed off.
Soon, everyone left. Russia… Japan… Austria… Spain… England… America… Canada… France… even Hungary left. The only ones left to stop Italy's breaking heart were Prussia, Germany, and his older brother, Romano.
"I'm too awesome for zis bullshit," Prussia snarled, glaring hell at Italy. "Let's go, West."
Italy's eyes snapped open and looked up to see Germany turning away and going with his older brother. "Ger…" He remembered to breathe. "Germany…. Germany! PLEASE DON'T LEAVE! GERMANY!"
Germany stopped at the door and looked back at Italy. "Stop being such a crybaby." The door closed behind him.
The pain shot through his whole body like fire, ice, and lightning all in one. The one person who was always there for him, always there when he needed help, always protecting him when he was weak, was now gone. Walked away without a second thought or care. Only to tell him he's weak, not even looking him in the eyes. No, Italy knew he deserved this after everything that he did. He didn't deserve their love or friendship anymore. And yet…
"You're…. still….." He couldn't finish.
Romano's arms were crossed, not softening his look in the least at his little brother. He was disappointed more than anyone that previously occupied the room. "Veneziano," he managed to growl. "Look at me, you damn idiot."
Italy followed his brother's words, meeting him in the eyes.
"I've never been so disappointed in you all my life. Even if you somehow manage to redeem yourself as a nation, no one will trust you the same again. I trusted you to make the right decisions. Idiot."
"Ro… Romano…." Italy looked down, sobbing, shoulders heaving heavily in unison with his cries. He was going to be alone now. He could see, no, feel even his grandpa turning his back to Italy. Romano would then walk away like all the others, breaking his heart and sending his sanity into the darkest pits of his mind.
Warmth suddenly embraced him, covering up the cold. Italy's heart skipped beats painfully in his chest. "I'm still your brother, idiot." Before he could bear it any longer, Romano let go of Italy and sprinted out of the room, leaving trails of tears in his wake.
So close to the edge Italy was. So close to losing everything in the world. Yet… someone still cared, still had hope for him. But he still walked… ran away.
Italy shut his eyes tight and fisted the cloth over his heart. It hurt horribly, reaching his breaking point. Somewhere in his mind, a rope seemed to be fraying, slowly but fraying nonetheless. Every piece of rope that frayed brought a new sensation through his body. One that made him fear, frightened over a silly rope. Fighting, he knew, would be useless. He wasn't strong enough.
The rope was near its snapping point when it suddenly stopped. A huff came from Italy's throat. Then something else appeared on his face, something that could make anyone fear in pure shock at the sight. A sick, twisted smile appeared on his lips. Italy's eyes morphed from what once were shining, happy, sparkling orbs to dim, dull, and empty. His heart had not broken nor his mind, but they were close enough to give him a good enough taste of what someone without a sane thought felt like.
Slowly, Italy moved his hand to his face and dug his nails into the slash. The pain riddled across his cheek, but he just smiled more, seemingly satisfied. The pain confirmed it. He was still alive. He chuckled. "What…. a shame…." Italy's normal happy, bright voice was gruesomely molded into emotionless air that seeped from his mouth like noxious gas. This insane new Italy stood and walked to the door. "What fun things shall be from here on—"
The insane one clutched his head, pain sung through like the bells of the great Notre Dame Cathedral in France. It seems he had misjudged the sanity inside him after all. Even though Italy had nothing left, he still fought his insane self for victory. Taking it, Italy fell to the ground as a reward. Fear made its presence known inside him. He then knew what to do.
Gritting his teeth he stood, determined. "You won't win against me that easily," he hissed at himself under his breath. If it wanted war, then a war it will receive.