Work Text
“Get some rest, Romy. And please eat.” Vatican City kissed his temple tenderly, patting his oldest son’s messy hair down as smooth as it could go.
Romano watched the older man leave in silence.
Seborga left earlier after supper. So did San Marino. Germany and Hungary and Austria too. Spain left the earliest, looking tired and distraught. Vatican City stayed the longest, even though he hated driving so late at night, he stayed. Showing a rare gentle hand toward his children. He refused the room Romano offered. He had to work very early in the morning.
His day started with a shining sun. Cloudless sky. Big and blue and blindingly bright. He skipped breakfast. He wasn’t very hungry. Hadn’t been for weeks. He lost some weight over the past eight weeks. But it didn’t bother him. The regret did though.
Sitting there next to his bed, thinking about how his last words to his little brother being hateful ones made him feel uncomfortable. Which made him feel uncharacteristic. Out of place. He always called Veneziano stupid. Called him names out of his own insecurity. Jealousy defined his whole relationship with his brother.
How was he supposed to do this? Be Italy on his own. He was no good at political work. Veneziano was. Romano did better at the economics part. It’s why they could get work done so efficiently.
There was still a cultural divide in the country. It’s why they could both exist together. So why doesn’t he anymore?
Brain dead.
No hope.
He’s not coming back.
Romano dropped the plate he was washing. It shattered to the tile into pieces big and small. His hands shook. He turned the faucet off and left the mess for tomorrow. He’ll get it tomorrow. He definitely will.
He sat on the sofa. But he felt sick sitting next to the jacket Veneziano left there weeks prior. So he moved to the floor, not caring how the hardwood hurt his tailbone.
He stared at a photo sitting on the second shelf of mantle in front of him. It was an old photo. Taken back in the late eighties. Which wasn’t that long ago, even for humans. Veneziano was smiling with his teeth, his arm around Seborga, who was a little shorter and younger looking back then. Romano was the one who took the photo, testing out the new camera the Northern Italian had bought.
Romano slunk further into the cold floor.
Why the hell did he feel like this? Why the fuck did he feel so sad yet numb at the same time?
Yeah, his brother died. Pretty fucking suddenly. He was T-boned by a drunk asshole, so the fuck what!
…
…he didn’t wake up, that’s so the fuck what.
Why didn’t he wake up? Why…
The phone rang. He rose up to grab at the handset to pick up. He put it to his ear, “
Pronto
.” His voice cracked.
“Hey,” Spain. “I’m sorry I left without saying anything. Funerals….. Funerals aren’t my thing.” He gave a weak laugh, trying to appear normal.
Romano didn’t know what to say. His mind felt empty. “Hey,
Spagna
.”
“I’m still here in Rome. I’ll be over tomorrow if that’s okay.”
“Don’t bother. I’m heading back to Naples.” He quickly lied. Today was enough social interaction for a lifetime. “Was just packing my dirty laundry up now to wash when I got home.”
“Oh,” He could hear Austria’s voice in the background. Probably asking who he was talking to. Spain responded a little way away from the speaker. “Well. Uh. Have a safe trip, yeah? Maybe we can get together for a drink sometime.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“
Buenas noches, Mano
.”
“
Buonanotte, Spagna
.” He hung up.
He laid back on the cold hard ground. Wrapping himself into a ball as he cried himself to sleep.