Past-Part Fills Part 7
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Past-Part Fills Part Seven
Fills from past parts can go here!
Fills from the current part (part 22) MUST go in that part's post until it is full.
Link to the original request (and if an ongoing fill, any previous chapters/sections).
Don't forget to link your new fill at the fill ( Read more... )
There had always been a hidden purpose to Romano’s constant glares and sullen attitude, and he prided himself on not having the others find out why. It was his darkest secret he kept hidden with those looks filled with rage and annoyance. His innermost feelings, fears, and thoughts - the things that could destroy his being with the simplest utterance of their existence - were bottled up, forever contained, and Romano was the only one allowed to know of them. His hubris was far too great for him to allow anyone, even his own brother, to know of them; to possibly stab him in the back and tear him apart emotional piece by piece, like frenzied sharks feeding upon a whale carcass.
It wasn’t as if today had been any different. The representation of South Italy had attended the world meeting as usual, his normal, unpleasant scowl in place throughout the whole cumbersome experience. He had watched France and England squabble; had cursed the potato bastard for getting close to his brother; he had sat next to Spain the entire time, which was torture all on its own. However, despite the normalcy of the Italian’s day, Romano had felt that awful feeling of anxiety and cheapness bubble up inside him and sit in his chest like lead, heavy and constantly present. It was usual for the feeling to arise every so often, though it normally occurred in the privacy of Romano’s home where he could fall to his knees and sob and cry out to appease the anxiety and persuade the cheapness to disappear; which could take hours. He could never do such a thing in front of so many people. The proud Italian would never let the world see him break down and cry. Instead, Romano stiffened in his chair, his eyes narrowing into a fierce glare, and clutched his hands into fists, resting them on top of his thighs, and squeezed till his knuckles turned white.
Spain, Romano noticed, looked as if he were about to start asking questions. The auburn headed male didn’t want anyone talking to him. He didn’t want their concern; he didn’t want them attempting to peer into his mind and try to figure him out; he most certainly didn’t want them breaking his wall that he had worked so hard to build up. Romano would have to stop Spain before he had the chance.
“What are you staring at, bastard?” The question was hissed and laced with malice, a thing not uncommon from the Italian. Romano should have known Spain would take some notice. The Spaniard wasn’t as oblivious as most made him out to be.
“I was just wondering if you were alright,” came the hushed response. The Spaniard watched as enraged, olive eyes locked on him in a furious glare.
“I’m fine, dammit. What the hell made you think there was something wrong?”
“Well, I was just con-”
“I don’t need your damned concern,” Romano cut in, his abrasive tone unfamiliar to Spanish ears. Feeling the tiniest bit deflated, Spain attempted once more.
“But Romano, you’re clearly upset about something! You’re acting all stiff and tense. I know you don’t like attending these meetings, but you’re normally never like this.” Romano regarded Spain fiercely as he looked at him with pleading eyes, as if he were silently begging God and His power to get some word out of the stubborn Italian. No response was given. The wavy haired man sat and waited, and waited, and waited, hoping for the smallest indication that Romano would tell him something, anything. And, eventually Romano decided to utter two words that would, hopefully, make himself clear.
“Fuck off.”
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With the meeting concluded and the nations free to converse casually, Romano continued to sit in his seat and pack up his bag. It wasn’t like he wanted to talk to anyone! If there was one thing he hated more than anything, it was having to socialize. Not that he had to worry about talking to people. They often avoided him and spoke to his much nicer, bubblier, cuter, perfect, younger brother instead. He felt his lip twitch in irritation at the thought. He had known he wasn’t the preferred half of Italy to be around. In fact, that had been made clear centuries ago. Romano was just annoyed that everyone had to fawn over his little brother. Yes, he wasn’t jealous or anything, not at all.
“Italy! Hey, Italy!”
Romano looked up from his bag and watched America walk over to Veneziano. The older Italian only gritted his teeth and continued to stow away documents into his bag.
“Italy, stop running through my country in the nude!”
“Oh, Italy, you really should visit big brother more often.”
“Italy…”
The auburn haired Italian shoved another paper into his bag, growing more irritated by the second. If anyone else called out Italy -
“Oh, by the way, Italy…”
The South Italian snapped, shoving whatever papers he had left into his bag and stormed out of the room. Veneziano wasn’t Italy! The two brothers together were Italy, yet everyone insisted on calling the youngest one the entire country. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right! Italy had two halves that were represented by the two brothers. Italy was not a singular entity. Unless the two representations were together no one should have referred to them as “Italy.” It was Veneziano and Romano, not Italy and Romano. There was North Italy and South Italy. Despite this, people just called Veneziano Italy, as if he were the only representation Italy had. It was cruel and maddening. Romano was Italy too; he had every right to be referred to as Italy, yet everyone called him Romano. Not once had he ever been denominated as “Italy.” It was always Veneziano who the others referred to as the entire country. Romano couldn’t remember a time when Veneziano hadn’t been called Italy.
Every time Veneziano was called Italy, every damn time, Romano could feel a lump form in his throat and his worries grow. He had to cover his weakness, show the world he didn’t care. He was Romano, the tough older brother that never cried. The eldest Italian refused to be weak.
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He angrily sent pots and pans clattering to the floor, not caring in the least in regards to the damage done to his cookware. He opened each cabinet door and threw their contents out onto the stone tiled floor, bags splitting open from the impact and making messes on the surface. Romano tore into packages and sent cans and jars flying across the room. The anxiety, the worry, the weakness and anger, all had taken purchase and now that South Italy was in the confines of his home, he could let the feelings rear their monstrous heads. The slim man was done with pretending things were fine. Romano was sick and tired of feeling like the reject, the failure. Like the one people pitied. He was done with it. The Italian just couldn’t take it anymore.
Romano’s chest heaved as he breathed heavily, his olive eyes surveying the catastrophic scene before him. It was a mess. In his fit of rage, the South Italian had managed to destroy jar after jar of tomato sauce, the red substance splattered across his floor and cabinetry, crushed cereal boxes lay dented on the floor, broken jars of olives were strewn about his kitchen, leaving the brine-y fruit in various spots on the counter and floor, pots and pans lay carelessly tossed on the floor (his favorite one had its handle broken off in the sudden tantrum) and at the sight, Romano felt his heart wrench itself in his chest and the man choked on a sob as he fell to his knees.
“Fuck,” he breathed out shakily as his body trembled and he held back the threatening cries. “Goddammit… I’m Italy too!” Romano’s broken sobs filled the room as the tears slipped down his cheeks like a never ending river. “I’m just as important… Just as important as Veneziano,” he wailed helplessly. That was the only way he managed to find solace during his bursts of rising insecurity; he lied to himself. Deep down, Romano knew the world would never see him as Italy. He was simply another face, a lesser of two halves. Romano would always be the blemish on Veneziano’s name.
There, on his kitchen floor, the Italian stayed hunched over and sobbed. The palms of his hands covered his eyes as he shook and trembled, noisily sucking in air to breathe. Since when had he fallen so low?
A!A does not like this word limit... =u=;
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