So simply... I want to create feels with this piece. Everyone loves the cute moments between Chibitalia and HRE right? Well here's an alternate version with the 2ps! Enjoy! And please take the complimentary tissue box that you received when clicked the button to read this!


Harsh bristles tore at the ground, piercing red eyes glaring at the dirt that dared to avoid the broom. A cold breeze rustled the black head scarf weaved through his hair, almost ripping it from the child in a greedy attempt. Mumbles were heard underneath breaths, struggling to carry the oversized broom. Honestly, why did the damn music lover force him to do this 'punishment' with another broom instead of the one he always used? Growling, he pushed back a few stray bangs of dark auburn hair that tried to escape, wanting to just finish the job so he could go back inside and make pasta without the owner of the house finding out. Seriously, the guy was a lousy cook; his own food was much better. Pride filled him at that thought as he puffed out his chest while he worked; however, it quickly faded, emotions coming and going like the ever-changing tide. His irritation started to grow again, glaring at the big window where the source of it could be seen.

A beautiful black piano with ivory keys that seemed to shine due to the pristine condition they were kept in was showcased as if it was the most precious item in the world. But no, as soon as Chibitalia had cleaned that 'delicate piece of musical art', he'd put down the cleaning supplies and made sure that no one was in listening range. A smirk appeared on his pale lips as he lifted the cover so that his nimble fingers could dance along the well used piano, drawing musical notes from it that sounded like tinkling bells in the distance. It was the beginning of a symphony that he could pour his heart into, enjoying the soft sounds. Unplayed musical notes were held delicately in his heart – such a strange thing to feel – just waiting to escape through the piano keys into music. Fingers were poised to try and continue when the cover nearly slammed into them.

Quick reflexes were all that prevented the pain that could have resulted from broken fingers.

"How dare you touch my piano after I told you not to; you miserable little girl." A proud voice snarled, blood red eyes glaring down at him, a protective undertone making itself known. It was well known that the piano was his pride and joy. Chibitalia hesitated only briefly, not wanting to show even the slightest uneasiness of being on the wrong side of the Austrian's temper. The butcher knife that he had placed on top of the piano clattered onto the ground, a harsh metal sound tearing into their eardrums.

Neither one reacted to the sound, bearing through it. The Austrian advanced towards the younger nation, mute anger boiling in those eyes. His possessions were something he held dear to him, and this arrogant little brat dared to try and disobey him? It didn't matter that the girl seemed to possibly possess the gift of music, something he coveted and held so dear. She needed to be taught a lesson. Brushing his white streaked black hair back into place, he smirked, getting an idea.

And that was what led up to him having to sweep the courtyard of this damned house. It was taking forever and his stomach was rumbling in protest to the meager food rations he was given. Pursing his lips, Chibitalia paused in his sweeping, leaning on the broom so that he could take out his knife from its hidden pocket. Screw this work. One more glance at the window showed that the Austrian was still fuming inside, stroking the piano and cleaning it; as if he had germs he could infect the piano with. Rolling his eyes, he saw the red-haired Hungarian maid watch the man in amusement, giggling every so often just to spite him. The amethyst flower in her hair still looked as fresh as it did when it was first picked, forever seeming young.

However, this wasn't fair.

While his brother, clad in a beautiful brand new outfit almost every day, got away with even murder because of his stoic but somewhat lenient tomato-obsessed caretaker, he was stuck here doing maid work for this self-centered inner musical nerd of an aristocrat. That kind of work was meant for a damn girl! At least let him wear the clothes of a servant boy; that is, if he couldn't at least escape. This was the misfortune of being ruled over, it was something he hated. He could feel his people, his children, tired of being ruled, murmuring their discontent. But no, Austria kept lying to himself and protested that 'girls should not do such boyish things'. It was as if he wanted him to be the girl everyone thought he was. That bitch Hungary didn't help by wanting to dress him up in girl clothing. His eyes softened briefly and he sighed, wiping sweat off of his brow. Alright, she wasn't that bad actually, even if she did wear rather revealing clothes all the time.

The sound of heavy footsteps being driven into soft dirt caught Chibitalia's attention, pausing his punishment as his muscles tensed and eyes narrowed, a slight confusion hinted in their depths. What was going on? He didn't get word that there was going to be a battle. The servants, or at least what was left of them in the house, never gossiped anymore, not wanting to get involved with a nation's affair. And they were humans anyways, so they weren't important enough to entrust any news to. Soldiers were beginning to get closer, lines of them pouring into the huge courtyard and heading to the stone vault gate to leave the estate. Movement was seen within the house and Austria burst from the doorway, livid, while Hungary simply followed him with a small frown.

"What's going on? Holy Rome, tell me what is the meaning of this?…" The Austrian looked around a bit before continuing, "Where are you?" From behind a few soldiers, the small embodiment of the Holy Roman Empire stepped forth. Italy's gaze jerked over to him, only now realizing that he had indeed been scanning the ever-growing crowd of soldiers for a glimpse of him. Instantly his mind squashed the realization in denial.

"I'm leaving for war. This is my fight, my empire. You barely care enough to rally your troops to help." Holy Rome said. The boy and the older nation stared at each other, Austria tense with rage while Holy Rome remained calm under the building tension. Lasting for only a minute, the older nation finally sighed, and stepped aside, Hungary stepping up with an outstretched arm to stop him. The black haired nation prevented her with a shake of his head. The female nation brought her hand to her chest, worry embedded into her eyes.

The empire was about to leave, but he managed to catch a glance at the Italian nation's face, his violet eyes silent and calm. On the other end, those eyes were met with burning contempt, outrage at what had been done. A soldier came up to the other boy in order to tell him they needed to leave but he waved him off with a glare, warning him not to talk to him as of yet. To interrupt him now would mean a loss of a limb. Silently, he walked over to the maid, moving with dignity and reason. Coming to a halt in front of him, the warriors in the background quieted down and watched what was unfolding before them curiously. Why did the empire want to talk to the servant girl? Narrowing his eyes, Chibitalia almost scoffed at their faces. How dare they… Did they keep forgetting that he was the nation of Italy? If only he could carve that into their memories with the sharp blade of a knife…

Hands tightened on the grip of his broom, an action that went well unnoticed.

"Join the Holy Roman Empire, Italia. Only then can we become the strongest nation in the world. They would fear and respect us." Holy Rome lifted his hand, palm facing upwards in an indication to take his hand. Dark blonde hair reflected the dim sunlight, the white tunic flaring out in the wind, almost covered by the crimson cape tied onto his shoulders. It was a picturesque view, but the Italian in front of him snapped, the broom falling to the ground with a soft thud.

Wrong thing to say.

Gripping the butcher knife in his hands until his knuckles turned white, those bloody red eyes narrowed at the boy before him. A slap resonated throughout the area around them, Holy Rome's hand now falling to his side with rejection, slightly red from the harsh skin contact. A snarl slipped through gritted teeth, the wind rustling the blood stained dress. The tattered black overlay barely prevented the cold from penetrating through the dress. There was silence, the warriors with Holy Rome staring in shock at the disrespect, while Austria and Hungary looked on in a calm manner, as if knowing the rejection would have happened anyways. The small nation was too spirited, too full of vigor, to accept help from outside sources. Didn't he realize that?

"I can be strong on my own! I don't need you and your damn strength. I would rather kill you myself than rely on others! My people will rise up and become a great nation all on their own!"

No tears, no regret. Just simple and overwhelming rage of having been called weak.

"I don't need you."

Holy Rome simply frowned, a speck of emotion coming to light in his eyes. Instead of replying, the boy stepped forward, kneeling down to kiss Chibitalia's free hand, lips brushing against smooth porcelain skin. It was the briefest touch, lasting only a split second. Time froze, eyes locking, searching, before he finally stood back up. Italy's heart fluttered despite his mind trying to refuse the fact that a part of him cared for the boy. His teeth gritted and his eyes showed a brief hesitation, unknown to himself. All eyes were on them, tension rising to what would result of such an act. Standing up, Holy Rome continued to stare at him, seeing the emotions run ragged in those eyes. He had nothing left to lose, and so he made a decision right then and there.

"D-drop dead, you bastard of a-"

Cupping the childlike round chin, his lips descended onto his in a chaste kiss. The unfinished insult had faded away, barely even remembered, the anger that had wormed its way through the words dissipating. The world seemed to stand still as his breath caught in his chest; Holy Rome stared into those shocked eyes once more, for the last time. Pulling away as the wind blew his cape away from his body, he headed towards the gate, never once looking back with his head held high. The dazed Italian barely heard the words above the wind.

"I don't doubt that you'll become strong, Italia…I look forward to it."

It was more accurate to say that the Italian didn't react, simply staring at the soldiers as they soon blocked Holy Rome from view. The seconds ticked on, until they were all gone, the only evidence that they were there was the slight bent of the grass and the metal grating in the distance. The tingling on his hand and lips where the kisses were placed were the only things that he could remember, vision blurring while his body felt weak and out of place. Falling to his knees with his knife bouncing off to the side, his heart pounded in his chest, wanting to break free.

His eyes felt strangely wet and he tried to blink the wetness away, only to feel something start to trail down his cheeks. He couldn't be…. crying? Wiping at his eyes, he couldn't keep the teardrops from stopping. Closing his eyes provided only a slight comforting relief, covering them to ward away curious eyes. Tensing when he felt warm arms wrap around him, his eyes shot open again, staring up into the sad eyes of Hungary.

"Shh…" she whispered, pulling him closer. A sob burst forth from his mouth unexpectedly and he clamped his hands over it to not make another sound. Why was he acting like this? He didn't care about that damn empire… He hated him! So why was he crying? Another cry escapes his lips and the Italian began to break down, his childish mind finally letting reality crumble to dust around him.

That was the last time he ever saw the Holy Roman Empire…

With a ragged gasp, the Italian jerked awake, shooting up in his bed. Gripping his chest and unsteadily trying to calm his racing heart, the Italian was panting. Why? Why that memory? Why did he have to dream about that? He hated delving back into his memories of when he was a child! Gritting his teeth so hard that his jaw was starting to hurt, the nation leaped out of bed, stumbling slightly. His eyes were burning with so many emotions, grating down on his mental state. As he tried to forget the memory he had just dreamed all over again, he found tears already streaming down his cheeks.

Staring into the mirror, Italy was shocked to see himself crying. It was so rare, and he hated it. He couldn't forget that boy's face… No… Holy Rome was the only person he could admit, to himself at least, that he loved. No one could replace him; he wasn't coming back.

He was gone… Gone...

Gone… gone... gone, gone, GONE!

"Damn you Holy Rome! You said you were going to be strong… LIAR! I hate you!" The outburst was met with a loud crash of a dresser being thrown across the room, the wood splintering from the force of the impact. Chest heaving, the italian glared at the now broken mirror and dresser, not wanting to see the reflection. All of those emotions from that time pummeled into him at once, making him nearly collapse against the bed. Normally his façade of a smirk and playful eyes would have been plastered onto his face but a pained expression now lived there. He hissed, and then yelled out in rage, the sound tearing through his throat, tears running down his cheeks and dripping onto the wooden floor. Downstairs, the racket reached the ears of three individuals.

"I'll go get him, he's still sleep-" The blue-green eyed Italian paused in wrapping a nice designer jacket around his body, his gaze darting over to where the stairs were, ignoring the two guests in the room. Their answer would have to wait. Quickly, the unusual emotion of brotherly concern washing over his body, he ran up the stairs, heart pounding. Not now… Not this again! His heart clenched at knowing what would have caused this outburst, leaving eyes of red and amethyst staring after him. Biting his lower lip, the dark blue haired man threw open the door to his brother's room, only letting a small amount of surprise working through his system. Italy's door was hardly ever unlocked when he slept…

He locked the door behind him and turned to stare at his brother, who was shaking on the bed, legs curled up beneath him and holding his head tightly as if he could pull the memories from the depths of his mind like weeds from his brother's garden. He let out a harsh sob, chest heaving in an attempt to make no sound. It was still such a shocking sight to see, even after all these years.

"Fratellino, shhh… I'm here." Romano whispered as he quickly walked over to sit next to his brother. He was expecting to be shoved away; that's what usually happened every time this incident occurred, three times now actually. He reached out to stroke Italy's bangs away from his closed eyes and wipe away his tears. His brother was not meant to cry… Seeing those crimson eyes snap open to stare at him, turmoil boiling over in them. Romano winced slightly as Italy gripped his hand tightly, but only offered him a hesitant smile to his brother's uneasy glance at him.

Tears were still streaming down his cheeks as he pulled him closer in a sudden childlike need for comfort. Surprised at first – this was the first time Italy ever tried to look for comfort in him – Romano sighed lightly and wrapped his arms around him, his small purple hat nearly falling off of his head. Romano leaned his cheek against the top of his brother's head as he ran his fingers through their soft auburn hair.

"Shhh, Italy, don't cry." He whispered, drawing back to softly place his lips against his sweaty forehead to soothe him, feeling tight sobs rack his brother's body as he attempted to keep quiet. It was so strange to see his strong brother be reduced….to this. Fingers tightened on his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric. Closing his eyes to shake his head, he hugged him closer in his arms, feeling that the embrace was actually being returned. His heart fluttered and tears nearly tried to escape his own eyes. Their relationship wasn't close, they were brothers, but that was all. He was so consumed with his love for clothes, and their personalities were so different, that he barely acknowledged his knife-wielding, sadistic younger brother.

If only their grandfather had not stolen his brother away when he was little. Maybe… Maybe things would have been different then? Perhaps they could have been closer and have something in common instead of just their heritage. He felt a tear make its lonely way down his own cheek and he caught his breath before a sniffle could be made known.

"I'm sorry. I know you cared for him…but he's gone; you need to let go." Immediately he got a reaction, but not the one that he was expecting. Italy reacted violently and shoved him away from him, protesting.

"I hated that bastard! Why would I love an arrogant guy like him?" His tone was laced with liquid venom and malice. How dare his brother say such blasphemy! Growling lightly, he wiped at his eyes to clear his vision. There was an almost pout on those lips, which caused Romano to smirk.

"Well… he was kinda cut-"

"Finish that sentence and I will cut your tongue off." Blinking, Romano stared at his brother, who somehow got his favorite knife into his hands. Frowning only slightly with surprise in his eyes, he shrugged; for once this felt like a small brotherly spat. It felt…nice…something he longed to have for so long. Seeing how those eyes clouded over, he took the knife away from him and then drew him back into a hug, nuzzling his cheek in affection.

"There there, fratellino~ I'll tell them to go away for today. Please… Don't cry." He drew back once to kiss his cheeks, tasting salty remnants of the trails of tears. He knew more tears would come; these incidents lasted sometimes for a few hours. No matter how he tried to help make him feel better, the emotions always overwhelmed him. Wiping Italy's eyes, the Italian stood up with a soft smile, leaving the room. As soon as the door closed behind him, the smile quickly faded, weary. Why couldn't he become a better brother? Why couldn't he make him feel better? Frowning, he walked downstairs as he heard a lamp shatter in the room above. Spying Japan and Germany still waiting where they last were, he sighed, running a hand through his dark hair.

"If you value your lives, again, I'd suggest that you leave training for another day. There's no way he'll be coming down today." Ignoring the annoyed look on that bastard of a German's face, and smiling rather sweetly at the Japanese nation's understanding expression, he shooed them out, threatening to poison them if they didn't comply. The door slid shut as soon as their bodies crossed the threshold and he locked it, the click of the mechanism slightly comforting. He leaned heavily against the door, sliding down and unusually ignoring the specks of dirt that were now clinging to his clothes from the ground. Dainty hands wrapped around his knees, pulling them closer, a sad look overtaking his face. Silence, an eerie absence of all sound, spread through the house; not even a bird dared to chirp outside. If he listened hard enough, he could hear the hysterical sobs that now were starting to pour out from his younger brother. Eyes turned downcast. There was nothing he could do. Such a horrible brother he was.

"If you could turn back time, would you? Would you be willing to risk the history that is now, warp it until you don't recognize anything around you?"

He remembered asking his brother those words so many years ago, as well as the answer that he received. He would never forget what he got in response.

"If I could, I would take the chance to take his life myself, so that I would be the one to see the life drain from his eyes… So that I was the last thing he saw before he…"