Fanfictions: Why? And How? (Hetalia)
Ok, these are two of my oldest fanfictions. I honest to God hate 'How'. I seriously despise it with every fiber of by being. I like, "Why?" though. I feel it's acutally pretty good. These things have been up on FF.net for ages, but I'm just getting around to posting them on here.
The story behind these is that I was trying to write a fluff story (Which shall never be posted...because it's possibily the worst thing I've ever wrote sence my Twilight-Dark ages. ) And when I re-read the story...it wasn't my fluffy happy land...it was 'Why?". Then when I posted it anyway, everyone asked for a part two...which I gave them. It sucks. And even thought it sucked...everyone asked for a Part three. I refuse to write part three.
So, onto the stories:
Title: Why?
Rating: PG
Characters/Parrings: Romano, mentions of Spain. Rome, and Italy. Romano--->Spain.
Warnings: Angst, sucide, blood. (Um...on FF.net, this acutally made people cry...so, ya.)
Word Count: 675
Summary: Romano gets tired of asking why...so he stops.
Why?
Why?
Why didn't anyone love him as a child?
Why?
Why was it that his brother was loved so much more?
Why?
Why did he have to get into trouble to get attention?
Why?
Why didn't the man that took care of him love him?
Why?
Why did everyone like his brother more?
With every question a new slash appeared on Romano's wrist. Pasta sauce colored blood staining his pasta colored skin. Feliciano. His younger brother. Exactly a year younger. Born on the exact same day just one year after him. Two children, no parents. Feliciano was raised by Austria and he by Spain. Spain always begged for his brother. So Romano acted up, he threw fits. But still all attention was on Feliciano.
As he thought this a new slash appeared. Blood flowed from his torn up arm. Why? He looked to the door. No one came. No one cared. Not about him. Only his brother. His brother who he hated to see happy. Did that make him a bad person? Was it wrong that he couldn't love his brother? Was it his brother's fault? No. It was the world's fault. The world hated him. No one in the world loved him. They all loved his brother. Every single person. He glanced toward the door again. Still shut. He couldn't really expect anyone to come. He was Romano, not Feliciano. Who would come to save him? Spain? Spain liked him enough, but his brother was still number one. That was the same with everyone.
Romano took out the only other thing he brought with him. A revolver with one bullet. He'd only need one. Put it in. Spin it. To his head. Click, not that one. This was like a game developed by Russia. How lucky was he today? Click, two down. He was unlucky today. Each time the gun didn't go off he would look to the door, hoping for someone to save him. To yell at him. To care for him. To say they would miss him if they died. No such luck. This gun was against him too. It wanted him to be miserable. To have to look at the door and think what the world would be like with out him. Click. Still blank. Only three left.
Without him the world would go on. His brother would watch over all of Italy, he wasn't needed for the South. Spain would be happy that Romano was gone. He wouldn't have to worry about what he felt anymore. He could go after Feliciano all he wanted. Feliciano would be fine. He was to stupid to understand anyway, and he had so many others that he would forget he even had a brother. Click. Still didn't hit it. Only two shots left. Almost out of time. No one would come to save him. No one at all. As long as they had Feliciano they didn't need him. No one needed him. Grandpa Rome didn't want him. When he left and took only Feliciano he must have forgotten to take Romano too. He must not have known how much it hurt to be forgotten. Where? Where was his grandfather when he needed a hug when he scraped his knee? Why wasn't he there? He was with Feliciano. Everyone always was.
Stinging tears left his eyes, mixing with the blood on the floor. Click. Only one more shot now. He was so unlucky. Romano rubbed his wrist with his free hand. Blood got on his fingers. He put them to the wall. His fingers seemed to move on their own as letters appeared in his blood. He needed more. He made another slice. His fingers curved and twisted on the surface. Tears made his eyes blurry. He couldn't read what he had written. Did it matter? Would anyone miss him when he pulled the trigger again? He closed his eyes one final time, felt the tears roll down his cheeks mixing with the blood on his arms, and pulled. Click.
Spain found the body. Romano had been dead for two miunets when he found it.
Fin.
Title: How?
Rating: PG
Characters/Parrings: Spain, mentions of Romano, Germany, Italy, Prussia, France. Spain---->Romano
Warnings: Angst, sucide, blood.
Word Count: 738
Summary: Second part to Why? Spain's reaction. (Once again, this is NOT GOOD. I'd avoid it)
How?
How?
How could he?
How?
How could this happen?
How?
How could Romano do this to himself?
How?
How could Romano take himself away from him?
How?
How could he live without Romano in his life?
Spain had been tomato picking. He wanted to give them to Romano while he told him how he felt. It had taken him years to realize that he liked the little Italian as more than a kid he raised. When raising the boy he would beg to take the younger brother…now he'd never dream of it. He wanted Romano and he didn't want to share. He had decided that he would tell the boy that very day. He looked at a tomato. Perfect. Everything would go perfectly. He walked to Romano's room. Knock. No answer. He looked for the young boy. Finally someone had told him that Romano was in his own room. Spain smiled. Romano wanted to see him!
Spain made his way to his room. On the way he got into a three minute conversation with Italy. After he had said good-bye to the younger Italian he made his way to his door. He opened it yelling a greeting to Romano, who was said to be in the room. He looked when Romano didn't answer. Blood. On the walls, on the floor, on the bed…everywhere. He searched for the source. He found it. On the floor. Romano. Lying dead, on his floor. Spain fell to his knees, dropping the tomatoes everywhere. Some broke open, the juice mixing with the blood on the floor. He crawled over and gathered Romano in his arms. His Romano couldn't be dead…he couldn't.
He screamed over and over. Romano, Romano, Romano! The boy didn't respond. Romano! Spain moved a shaking hand up to the curl…that stupid curl. His love had always yelled at him for touching it. He yanked it. Nothing. Tears started welling up in his eyes. He screamed the boy's name. Why wasn't he responding? Romano…Romano. Lovito! He used the boy's real name. The one he barely ever used. The name that he got yelled at for calling the boy, Romano. How could he? He knew he must be screaming, but he didn't care. His Romano, his life was gone. He looked to the wall and gasped. Romano had written in…blood. His own blood. This was all his fault! He didn't pay attention to the boy. He was always going on about…and now Romano was gone. Dead. He couldn't even cry. Tears just wouldn't come. He was yelling though, yelling at the body…body…Spain hated that word with a passion. He heard steps behind him, but they didn't matter, all that did was Romano. But Romano was gone. He clung to the body. Someone was trying to pull him off. No! He wasn't leaving Romano! He was shaking, but no…he couldn't leave. He felt arms trying to get him away.
Eventually the arms (belonging to France and Prussia, who were coming to see what was wrong) pulled him away and took him away. They sat him down on a couch in a different room. No…Romano…he needed him! He heard a wail from the next room. Italy. W-what was Romano thinking? How could he do this to the two of them? France brought a sobbing Italy in. He ran and clung to Spain, who sat there. Neither of them could believe it. Spain slowly hugged the younger Italy brother…the only one now. He had no one left anymore. The two sat in silence, the only sound was random sobs from Italy. Spain didn't know where his tears were. Why wasn't he crying? Romano was his life…and he was gone now! Why weren't there tears? He didn't know what to do anymore. People came in, trying to comfort them. Eventually Germany took Italy away, and he sat all alone. There was no one else in his world anymore anyway. Romano was dead. ROMANO was dead. Romano was DEAD. He couldn't wrap his head around it. He should always be around Romano. He needed to be.
He ended up in the bathroom. He glanced at the mirror…he saw a lonely man. He found a razor. He raised it, about to slash…about to join Romano. The door was thrown open and the blade was taken from him. He wasn't allowed to be alone until he was better. But he'd never be better. How could he get better?
And there you go. Two of my first ever Hetalia Fanficitons. Hope you enjoy.