This is an alternate universe (AU) Hetalia fanfiction co-written by two authors. It will be updated weekly, so please bear with us. We own nothing but the lint in our pockets.


Feliciano hated the bitter temperature of the stone walls surrounding him, caving him inside what was already a tiny cage. He was never meant to be in a place like this where men in uniform glared at him whenever they passed by his cell. Their cold eyes were icy and hateful, but then again, everyone in this place had the same eyes. None of them understood.

He shouldn't be here. He couldn't be here. It was all for self-defense, so why did they see him as a cold-blooded killer with no soul, no heart, and no understanding of the precious nature of human life?

Three men killed because of him—yet the lawyers said that he butchered and absolutely slaughtered those three men. No, that wasn't true at all. Feliciano was a better person than that.

If he had stabbed them each once—just in the arm or maybe the leg—then that would get them to stop beating him, punching his amber eyes until the light in them was broken, and robbed him of the only valuables he owned at the time.

Now he had nothing and no one.

But maybe death row would be more accommodating to him than how the courtroom was. The story he told was true, but after seeing the forensic photos of the blood splatter on his hands, clothes, the kitchen counter, practically his entire kitchen coated in crimson streaks, even Feliciano had begun to believe that he truly was guilty, no matter how many times he told himself that it was self-defense.

Grabbing the kitchen knife was self-defense. Stabbing one man in the stomach several times was self-defense.

It was all self-defense and he remembered most of it pretty clearly...

He had just come home from work and his apartment door was ajar. He looked around the general area to see who was around before slowly and cautiously stepping into his apartment.

He had no true valuables, really, so why would anyone want to break in and steal anything from him? Maybe they had realized there was nothing worth stealing and went on their way—so he hoped.

Slowly he put down his messenger bag near the door and crept into his kitchen. He had to arm himself somehow in case there were any intruders still and they came at him.

As he finally pulled a steak knife out of the cutlery drawer, Feliciano heard a couple of thumps and murmuring coming from where his bedroom was located. His heart started to race. So they were still here. But how many were there? Judging from the sounds, he knew there had to be two but he really did not want to misjudge. This was pretty much a life or death situation.

He had to call the police. He left his cell phone and wallet in his bag—after all, pickpockets could easily pick his pockets and he didn't have much money so he had to keep his valuables somewhere safe and close to his body (and, mind you, he kept his bag on one shoulder slung to the opposite hip so it would be hard to take the bag from his person). He didn't want to go back to get it, however, considering he'd be in the open and if the intruders happened to come out while he was getting it out... Luckily, his house phone was close—right on the other side of the kitchen.

He managed to make it to the phone but really soon a problem arose... he was only getting the dial tone on his landline. These thieves were hardcore.

The next thing he remembered was a crash—himself being thrown down onto his kitchen table because the intruders had caught him and didn't want to leave any witnesses. And then blood—his own blood getting into his eyes from a cut to the temple and the taste of blood in his mouth from biting his lip during a punch to the face... and someone else's blood. All over, mostly his hands and clothes.

The adrenaline rush from the shock had caused him to black out through most of the struggle. However, when he came to, he was propped against the cabinet with three dead men strewn across his blood-stained kitchen floors.

Apparently one of his neighbors had called the police and that's how he ended up where he was now—in prison, charged with first-degree murder of three men.

Being in a cell was entirely different than being in a warm bed with blankets and pillows scattered across the top of the mattress… thinking about it had Feliciano frowning, saddened by the fact that a month ago, after the long days in court for his supposed crime, he was in that same bed, sleeping peacefully.

Those nights of sleeping in warmth and security were over.

He huddled into what was going to be his new bed for the rest of his life—and according to the court, his life was going to be short-lived.

So this is what it was like to know when and where you were going to die…

Suddenly two guards were outside of his cell and opened the bar doors for him to exit. Did the court see that he was innocent? Had they changed their minds about his sentence? Feliciano glanced at either guard with hope-filled amber eyes, waiting for them to say something before he pushed them aside and ran free to the life he was supposed to be living.

That hope was crushed when the taller of the two guards said, "Welcome your new cell buddy, Vargas. We got a pretty boy for you." They each stepped aside and revealed a black figure was standing behind them. That black figure stepped into the light with a small box held in its hands.

Though that it was actually a he, and he was handsome, that was for sure. There was no denying that. But maybe that meant he was a snooty asshole who would end up starving to death because he refused to eat the food they gave out here. Hopefully he wasn't anything like that.

The bars closed again and the two were left to stare at each other until Feliciano spoke first.

"Ciao…?" He waved his hand shyly, unsure of whether or not he should really be doing that in a place like this. Every action was watched and judged, and if one is seen as weak, then they were dead within seconds. No mercy or special privileges at all.

"Oh, so you're a guy," the other responded, setting his little box on the bottom bunk where it seemed that he was going to be sleeping from now on. "Standing up, it seemed like you were a girl. No offense, but I was starting to worry that they had put me in the women's wing instead of the men's. Those fuckers would've too, just to piss me off."

Feliciano only hummed and went back to huddling in himself against the floor, his way of escaping the prison walls so he may enter his previous life where all was well, nothing could hurt him.

"By the way, I'm Lovino," the man supposedly named Lovino said, interrupting Feliciano's train of thought.

"Feliciano," he replied.

"How old are you? You can't be any older than nineteen, I'm guessing."

"Actually, I'm twenty-three, but people tell me I look young for my age, though I think twenty-three is still young."

Lovino sat down in his bunk to get comfortable and once relaxed enough, looked back at Feliciano with a weird sort of glint in his emerald eyes, as though he was fascinated with whatever Feliciano had to say.

"I'm going to hate to see you die, kid."