After Lord only knows how long, I've written something again.

Warning: for some potentially uncomfortable content pertaining to mental and emotional struggle. Romano's mouth, BigBrother!Turkey, trust issues, etc.

Note: This is an AU which means the character dynamics will be slightly different, especially this is a timeline where Turkey actually succeeded in capturing Romano, and where Spain never got to really know Romano. I'll be switching between their nation and human names often; there is an important difference between them. Enjoy and review if you like.

Disclaimer: Hetalia and its characters are not mine and hopefully they never will be.

There was something terribly wrong.

A nagging feeling buzzed in the deepest corner of her mind, eluding her grasp as it roused her conscience back to the world of the living from the deep sleep that only moments ago engulfed her. Her chest felt heavy and something from within just seemed to squeeze. The feeling was uncomfortable and made her legs squirm beneath the duvet of her warm bed. The silky fabric wrapped around her body like a cocoon and at that moment, all she wanted was to get up. Struggling with the many sheets and blankets, the young woman finally stood up on shaky legs and looked across the room where a large mirror covered nearly the entirety of the opposite wall.

What she saw staring back at her was herself: hair all askew and the straps of her night shift sliding down her shoulders.

The light from outside was barely peeking over the edge of the mountains behind her and just skimmed the treetops in a way that made the horizon seem lined with hues of purple and blues.

A frown crossed her face as she realized it was hardly dawn. No one in the Italian countryside would be up at this hour, not even the farmers who tilled her land.

There were certain feelings that after living for centuries, one could not just ignore.

With an anxious expression, Lovina Vargas could only come to one conclusion: something was just wrong.

The notion continued to fray her nerves until the Southern Italian decided to get over herself and call the one person she could reluctantly depend on. The nation that had taken care of her for centuries before she and her sister ha reunited to form the Republic of Italy.

Turkey.

The sound of a kettle going off in the kitchen pulled Lovina out of her thoughts as she looked up at the sound of footsteps and the subtle click of the stove being turned off. The ambrosial scent of coffee permeated the room and the chill of the tiles beneath her toes was countered with the winding tendrils of steam floating from the mug placed in front of her. The large tan hand that previously held said mug withdrew its fingers from the ceramic handle and drifted atop her hand where it gave a friendly pat. Before Lovina could tell the bastard off however, the Turk spoke up in that annoying manner of his.

"It's a little too early for profanity don't you think?"

If looks could kill, and Dio if there was one superpower Lovina wished she could have, it was that. Or pyrokinesis…either one worked really.

"Fuck off, idiota," she muttered as she took a small sip of the bitter drink.

An exasperated eye roll was her only response as Sadiq maneuvered himself back to the stove where the sizzle of eggs and sausage buzzed in the silence.

The silence was companionable and comfortable, a luxury Lovina could only indulge in the presence of very few people.

The click of the gas burner being turned off was her indicator to get up, and set the table as her companion dished out the contents of the pan onto two ceramic plates hand painted by artisans in the countryside of Tuscany. Lovina's mind was pleasantly blank as she went through motions of placing the forks and knives in their respective places.

Glancing over his shoulder, Sadiq couldn't help but reminisce on how much trouble he had to go through to simply teach her how to set up the damn table. Although to be honest, the issue was more of a matter of getting Lovina to actually do it as opposed to learning it. A fond smile stole over his face as he watched his former charge walk around the table with nimble footsteps, her red dressing gown billowing in her wake.

With a huff, the Italian whirled on him, raising an eyebrow as if to say 'what the hell are you waiting for, asshole?' Gently, he picked up both plates and placed them on the table. The omelet was one of her favorites, of this he was certain; the soft cheese melted in with the eggs and the Turkish sausage was simple but delicious and it had been about the only damn thing the little brat would eat after he had taken her from Spain centuries ago. In the back of his mind, he knew it was likely because of the fact that the dish was reminiscent of a tortilla española.

As the two silently ate, Turkey knew something was bothering the woman across from him. If she had called this early to come and visit her, she would have chewed him for being late and proceeded to drown his eardrums with a rant about the idiots currently making her life a mess.

But this was most certainly not the case as he observed the uncharacteristically quiet Italian. Her hair hung around her face and tumbled down near her waist, curling in on itself just the slightest bit. There were slight bags under her eyes and her brow was furrowed in an unusual manner, not in irritation like normally, but in thought. Obviously, whatever she had to say was more troubling than he initially thought.

After the two finished, they took sips of their coffee, and the sun, which had just begun to peek into the kitchen, warmed the crimson tiles beneath the soles of their feet.

"So do you want to talk about it?" He prodded, "You know I'm a shitty mind reader, so unless you want me to assume the worst, you better spit it out soon kid."

A subtle shift was all he got in return.

"Roma…" he murmured.

Whatever had impeded her from telling him just why the hell he was here for seemed to vanish as she inhaled deeply and leaned her elbows on the table and looked him in the eye. Those olive eyes that stood out so contrastingly with the warm tan of her skin seemed conflicted and nervous as she looked evenly into his green eyes, her mouth caught in a small frown.

"If you laugh, you'll find yourself choking on your own balls," she groused.

With a steadying breath she blinked slowly and opened her eyes, only to stare at the faint whorls and ridges of the polished mahogany table in front of her.

"I've had this…feeling-a bad one that is- but it's different. I-it's like there's something tugging deep inside and the more I try to ignore it, the worse it gets."

Sadiq continued to stare at her, waiting for her to gather her thoughts.

Lovina's fingers clenched and unclenched as she tried to convey what was on her mind.

"I think something's happened to Italy. Fuck, I don't even know how to explain it but it must b-"

"How long?"

"What?"

Sadiq rolled his eyes and repeated the question. "How long has…your sister been away from the country? Think, when was the last time you saw her?" He couldn't help but wince internally at the thought that Lovina referred to her sister as 'Italy' like she has all but forfeited that title to the younger Italian. Lovina was the Southern half granted, but she was still Romano, a masculine name for a nation, but then again, the idiot didn't even know she was in fact a she until well into the 17th century.

Giving a slight shake of his head, Sadiq returned his attention to the woman in front of him.

She seemed to be trying to pin him with an annoyed look.

"If you're going to ask a question, then at least pay fucking attention to the answer you bastard."

A low chuckle reverberated in the kitchen, "Pardon me prenses."

"Last December. I haven't seen Italy since last December," Lovina murmured.

Sadiq took a moment to think over what she just said, staring at her in bewilderment when he could finally comprehend what she said.

"It's barely February…you mean to tell me you haven't seen your sister in over a year?" he asked incredulously.

Apparently, the question was an uncomfortable topic.

Lovina's face flushed in sudden anger and her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"You damn well know how our situation is right now! You know that aside from you, Italy takes care of all our international affairs and business! I take care of all the domestic issues while she represents the Italian Republic to the rest of the world! You of all people should know this! This is how it works! One Italy is good enough for the world; no one even cares about Romano."

Suddenly, the room was quiet except for the soft noise of Lovina's breath as she tried to reign in the overwhelming feelings of resentment, hurt, and self-depreciation back behind her usual mask of haughtiness and indifference.

Sadiq sighed through his noise and leaned his elbows against the table.

Absentmindedly, he removed the porcelain white mask perched on the bridge of his nose, and pinched his furrowed brow between his thumb and pointer finger in a gesture halfway between contemplative and exasperated.

"Lovina."

The Italian seemed to focus immediately on the man across from her at the sound of her human name. It was an incredibly intimate gesture for nations to refer to each other by their human names, and not necessarily in the romantic sense either. Still, Lovina knew this man; she knew him not as only Turkey-formerly known as the Ottoman Empire-but as Sadiq Adnan. He was the one who held her hand as a child and protected her from foes of all sorts, whether they invaded her shores in boats laden with stolen precious metals or even to chase away the shadows that terrorized her dreams. He had opened her eyes to the wonders of both Europe and Asia wandering through the Bazaars of the Great City of Istanbul. With a remarkable patience and good nature, he had raised her and provided her with steadfast loyalty, friendship, and support as he helped her find the strength to finally break away from the Spaniards that had controlled her land and people for centuries. The thought of her former master sent a bitter chill through Lovina and even centuries after the events that led her into Turkey's care, she was disgusted to realize the sorrow from Spain's betrayal still lay embedded in her heart like a silent disease that lay dormant, tainting her blood with unpleasant memories.

"…na! Lovina! Oi, pay attention!"

Lovina blinked rapidly at the fingers snapping back and forth in front of face, immediately frowning and swatting them away as if they were nothing more than a persistent fly.

"I'm listening you bastard. Carry on," she muttered.

Seemingly satisfied with her response, the Turk resumed their conversation before Lovina took her impromptu trip down Memory Lane.

"Where did ever go wrong with you?" he sighed.

A small smirk graced her lips.

"Anyway, what I was trying to say before was have you even phoned Venezia lately? Make sure she's in good health. Don't chomp the bit too early kid. Maybe this feeling of yours is all that gross shit Greece fed you last night."

Even if the rest of the world called the younger sister, Italy, Sadiq would continue to call the two sisters by their respective names.

Lovina tried to stifle a laugh at the petulant tone in the Turk's baritone voice. The man absolutely detested his Mediterranean neighbor, but the two nations had such a complicated history with one another that the Italian had never bothered to question it. Growing up in the Ottoman Empire's household had taught her to cherish her strange relationships with the odd Greek and the silent wisdom provided by Egypt. Aside from Turkey and her sister, Greece and Egypt were the only nations she had contact with. Everyone else had been severed from her life the moment Sadiq had dragged her kicking and screaming from the warm southern shores of the coastal city of Reggio back in 1552. Not that she was complaining though. Lovina took care of their home when Feliciana was away at world conferences and UN General Assemblies, allowing for the eldest to interact with her people and serve them in anyway she could. The fact that she couldn't return to her home until the mid-nineteenth century had taken its toll and she had wanted nothing more than to remain with her people, stepping back to let Feliciana assume the role of Italy, the unified nation comprised of two separate entities. Their existence in itself was a bit of an enigma but it seems as time went on, the rest of the world seemed to forget that Romano still indeed existed, if it ever did at all.

She swirled the contents of her mug and downed the last swig of her now cold coffee, staring into the muddy-colored dregs lingering at the bottom.

A calloused hand gently took the mug from her slack grip, while another hand rested on her robe-clad shoulder.

"Why don't you give Venezia a call?" Sadiq suggested with a grin. "I'll clean up here and join you in your study, alright?"

With a small nod, the Italian stood up, ignoring the tightness in her chest, sauntering out of the kitchen to her study where she quickly dialed the numbers into the office phone.

The sea breeze was refreshing beneath the sun, powerful and potent, beating down on the three men seated within the confines of a lovely café patio. The seafront establishment was lively, bustling with bright-eyed tourists and warm smiles as the servers maneuvered in and out around the tables and kitchens. The chatter wasn't too loud but provided a rather nice hum as Spain served himself another glass of sangria from the glass pitcher in front of him. From across the table, France and Prussia seemed to be pointing down at random people on the beach below, most likely comparing how attractive that one blonde was or the man who just got shoved in the water with all his clothes on. A slight chuckle rumbled through his chest. The mellow Spaniard was absolutely content with the beautiful Valencia morning and the company of his two best friends.

The two nations in question looked over at him with eyebrows quirked in a similar fashion.

The Frenchman leered at him in that way of his, "And just what exactly are you laughing about, mon ami?"

Spain leaned back in his seat and couldn't help the smile stretching across his face.

"Nothing, nothing. I was just thinking is all," replied the Spaniard.

"Mein Gott. Don't tell me he's thinking. Don't hurt your brain too much," scoffed Prussia.

Spain pouted and began to protest, "Hey! I ca-"

Prussia quickly interrupted him, "Anyway, are you two already packed for the convention yet? West keeps getting on my ass about packing my shit. The guy is so anal about everything I do. It doesn't take that long to pack for a month!" he complained.

France gave him a dry look, "But of course. I've already laid out all of my suits and other outfits."

Spain looked a little lost.

"The convention?

The convention was a tedious and boring event that occurred each year. Each year a nation was chosen to be the host and the convention would commence, continuing for one dreary month. Why in the world such a thing would take so long? Well, each day a new topic was discussed, certain issues were addressed, and then some days were set aside for certain regions to assemble. It was really boring. The only highlight of the convention that Spain could possibly see was all the sightseeing he could see within the host nation and the fact that he wouldn't be summoned to the meetings everyday. It was the world's largest summit convention, and also the most drawn-out and exhausting aspect of being a nation nowadays he thought with a groan.

Spain couldn't help but grumble a few colorful swears in his native tongue. How could he have forgotten about the stupid convention?

France pinned him with a disbelieving stare, "Mon frère, don't tell me you've forgotten! The convention begins in five days! How in the world are you going to pack all your luggage?" The Frenchman seemed to take some sort of personal offense. For the life of him, Spain couldn't figure out why.

"Well I suppose I'll just start tonight…no big deal I guess," he mumbled.

"Ack! Spain, why the hell would you pack today? I'm just going to do it the night before. Be awesome like me and just do it at the end," the Prussian ended with a throaty laugh.

France look absolutely scandalized, "Mon Dieu! Don't tell me you just thrust your whole wardrobe into a suitcase and claim that you're packed…"

The laughter came to a halt as Prussia stared at France as if he were some sort of strange alien.

"Well of course. How else are you supposed to pack?"

France could only sputter. Spain just laughed. Prussia ordered them a round of drinks.

The curly-haired Spaniard could only smile and think to himself, 'yep, just another good day.'

However, the smile was wiped from his tanned face when France spoke up.

"You do know the conference is being held in Italy? You cannot seriously be thinking to go to somewhere as fashionable as Italy without packing your best clothes!"

His accent only seemed to thicken as his annoyance with the Prussian's lack of fashion common sense.

Across the table, Spain seemed to pause, his drink held in midair while his eyes went wide.

"I-Italy?" croaked the Spaniard.

The other two looked at him quickly, worry flickering in their gazes.

"Antonio," France said slowly, "The convention is in Italy this year mon ami. But do not fret!" The Spaniard was looking more and more pale than ever. "The event will be held in North Italy," he soothed the shaken brunet, reaching out to hold his hand.

After a few moments, Antonio shook his head, smiled pathetically at his friends and shakily down the rest of his drink, pouring himself another.

His two friends looked at one another worriedly.

"Mis amigos, estoy bien. Honestly, it's all right. I can handle this," he stated, his voice calm, the fruity taste of the sangria coating his tongue while he fidgeted in his seat under their watch.

He gave a weak laugh, "It's not as if I'm going to see R-Romano! I mean he wouldn't be there anyways, r-right?"

His friends seemed to exhale in relief, changing the topic to something else, while Antonio simply nodded along.

Things would be fine in the end. This was the mantra that repeated itself over and over in his head. With an ache in his heart, Antonio thought to himself, 'No, Romano wouldn't want to see me. He hates me. I failed him. I promised to protect him and then I let him be taken.'

Suddenly, the fruity taste in his mouth turned bitter and he tried to clear his head and took another swig of his sangria. Glimpses of his little henchman crying out for him as strange men invaded his shores. Regret ravaged his chest like an old wound that never quite healed. Traces of it scarred his heart, filling him with shame.

He looked off into the distance, across the waves of blue, as if he could see the nation across the sea if he looked hard enough.

After a few rings, Lovina was just about ready to hang up, but that nagging feeling only badgered her further.

Finally, at what seemed like the last ring, Feliciana picked up her phone.

A hoarse voice croaked into the speaker.

"Pronto."

A series of harsh coughs soon followed the brief greeting.

A quick glance at the doorway told her it was all clear.

"F-Feli?"

"Ah! Lovi! It's you, how are you sorella? Are you at home? How're the kitties? Oh, they were so fat the last time I saw them, I hope you're not feeding them too much Lovi!" A choked cough tried to pass itself off as a piss poor attempt at a giggle.

"Feli. Stop babbling like an idiot for one second!" She yelled into the phone.

"Eh? What're you talking 'bout Lovi?"

Lovina narrowed her eyes as she detected the slight slur of the younger's words and the nasally quality of her usual musical, pleasant voice.

Another fit of coughs vibrated through the phone, followed by a muffle groan.

"Feli," Lovina gulped, "are you…ill?"

Light footsteps caught her attention and she swiveled around to see Sadiq leaning against the doorframe, staring at her with a solemn expression.

"Ve? O-of course not! Hahaha! I just swallowed a bug! Si! You see I ju-"

"Feliciana Vargas," She hissed into the phone, turning her back on the Turk, and keeping her voice as low as possible. Caretaker or not, she wouldn't yell out her sister's human name in front of him.

She could practically hear her sister fidget on the other line.

"Well, maybe I might have a little, teeny weenie cold…"

Bullshit.

"Don't lie to me dammit!"

"I'm s-sorry Fe-Roma! You know I can't lie you!" Feliciana let loose a tiny whimper of frustration but what caught Lovina's attention was the name change. She had called her 'Roma.' She never did that unless someone else was in the room.

Suspicion was laced in her tone as she cautiously asked, "Where are you?"

A low voice in the background seemed to be conversing with her sister and the faint words of 'oh no! It's just a business call!' tumbled from Feliciana's lips. The idiot probably was covering the wrong end of the phone…again.

"Venezia?" she asked hesitantly. She didn't know if she was on speakerphone or not.

"A-ah! Si! Umm…what was the question again?"

"Where are you, idiot?"

Lovina was starting to get pissed off. That stupid voice in the background was grating on her very frayed nerves and the uncomfortable feeling only seemed to worsen.

"Oh! I'm with Germany!"

The girlish giggle of her voice dissolved into yet another fit of coughs, sounding distorted and disgustingly wet over the static of the phone. Worry and dread started to weigh heavily in her gut as she listened in horror at the sounds wracking her sister's body. Feliciana never got sick. Lovina was the sickly one, the one who suffered the most during the Black Plague, and the one who had Chorea as a child. Her concern completely overrode any sense of indignation at the thought of her baby sister hanging around with that oaf of a potato-fucker. At least, he sounded like a potato-fucker, but then again, the only faint memories that Lovina had of Germans were the Germanic peoples of that pesky Holy Roman Empire and the tourists that were a constant presence in her land.

Suddenly, she heard a series of crackling of noises before a deep voice spoke into the phone.

"Hallo. Who is this?"

The German accent gave it away. So it was the potato-fucker.

"Who the fuck is this?"

A weary sigh resonated through the speaker.

"Italy's sister?"

She suppressed the tiny twinge of hurt at being referred to as Italy's fucking sister. She was used to the feeling by now.

"That's Romano to you, fucker!" She snapped.

Apparently, her insults were like water gliding off the back of a ducks feathers seeing how the German simply carried on.

"Listen er…Romano. You need to come retrieve your sister at once."

Any retort she had died in her throat. She could barely hear Feliciana's protests in the background.

"What do you mean? What happened? Did you let her get hurt you bastard?"

Her cheeks were ablaze in her anger and she shrugged off the hand that perched itself on her shoulder as she turned around to glare at Sadiq. He let her swat his hand and simply stood by her, offering his silent support as she tried to halfheartedly calm herself down and not think of worst-case scenarios.

"Your sister is very ill. I-I am not sure what is wrong exactly but she hardly has been able to retain any food and her condition is quite severe." There was a pregnant pause.

"Romano. I think, and I could be mistaken, but I think it would be best for Italy's health if she were to return to her home and recover. I think she's been away from her country for too long. The strain of staying away for so long may have manifested itself in this…this illness of sorts. Please don't panic, but Italy is too stubborn, I believe if you were to come here, you could take her home."

That weight in her gut turned into a fucking boulder.

Fetch her?

The bastard wanted her to fetch Feliciana and act outside the parameters of her nation's borders?

Lovina looked up at Sadiq and even though he couldn't hear the conversation very well, the look in his eyes was unmistakable.

So with a sigh she mumbled into her phone, "Alright. I'll be there within the day."

After a few more details were exchanged, the Italian hung up and hustled around to her desk, powering on her computer.

A cough drew her attention from the illuminated screen to the warm green eyes of the man seated atop the desk.

The bastard probably wanted to know what was going on. He didn't fly over here on a red eye flight for nothing she supposed with a guilty twinge. The look he gave her after she had explained the situation was a bit unnerving and made her a bit frustrated when he didn't speak up.

"What the fuck is on your mind now, idiota?" she asked.

The expression on his face morphed into something indiscernible and she would be lying if she said the look didn't make her feel like an insect under a microscope.

She gritted her teeth, "What is it?"

The Turk seemed to blink from whatever trance he was in. Slowly, he slid off the desk and walked around it until he stood right in front of her. As if she was a frightened animal, he took her hand gently and crouched down and looked up at her in the same manner he had done when she was a child and he had some bad news. If the jerk was trying to be dramatic well he sure got that down.

"Lovina."

There he goes with the first names again.

"Lovina, if Feli is this ill, then she's in no condition to carry out her duties and tasks as a nation…"

All of a sudden, the weight of his words sunk in and that deeply rooted feeling of anxiety and fear welled up within her. She had never outgrown her extreme trust issues and among the rest of her kind, she was all but forgotten, and in turn, the Southern Italian tried her best to forget about them. The operative word there was tried. Sadiq was no fool. He could saw the old scars: the raw pain and trepidation that lurked behind the surface of those beautiful eyes.

"…Then it's up to me to assume her duties," she finished.

Her voice sounded defeated. Gently, he squeezed her hand and rubbed circles into it with his thumb.

"You do know that it's Italy's turn to host the annual month-long international convention?" he said slowly.

The fierce red that stained her cheeks was all but gone as her face paled. To be honest, her silence was more disconcerting than the tears that he had expected.

A small hand rubbed her jaw as she tried to think how in the world she was going to manage getting over some of her deepest fears and confronting the world (or the rest of the nations at least) after secluding herself for so long. How the fuck could she show the world that she could be just as gracious a host as her idiotic little sister?

She cleared her throat, "When does the convention start?"

Sadiq winced as he let out the breath he was holding in.

He could hardly maintain eye contact with her as he mumbled the answer.

"…Next week."

The world seemed to stop spinning on its axis. Without even thinking, she crushed the hand in her grip, deaf to the painful yelp of the man beside her. Thousands of thoughts and feelings seemed to be firing within her brain. One thought dominated them all however.

Fuck.

When the morning sun began to creep into the hotel room, Antonio couldn't help but groan and cover his eyes with his arm. The sleepy Spaniard felt his eyelashes tickle the skin of his arm as he blinked slowly. The sounds of the city below roused his mind as he quietly acknowledged the blinking red letters of his alarm clock on the nightstand as it mutely told him it was 7 A.M. He had to get showered and dress for the opening conference within the hour.

A deep sigh racked his frame as he dragged himself from the cozy covers and glanced out the window over the city's horizon.

Rome.

A magnificent city as it always had been. He remembered the awe he felt as a child when Grandpa Rome had shown France and him around his extravagant capital. Even thought the city was vastly different from back then, it was still a wonder in his eyes.

The brunet heaved a large sigh and resigned himself to facing the big day ahead, unaware of all the surprises the day had in store for him.

Lovina straightened out her suit, smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt before she leaned down to do the clasp of her black heels.

She pivoted in the mirror, retying the slender red ribbon perched on top of her rich brown locks. Her makeup was light and looked natural, highlighting her cheekbones and the colorful hues of her eyes.

With a quick nod, she walked over to her desk, double-checking that she had all the proper documents and materials before closing her suitcase with a firm click that echoed in the darkened room.

A series of knocks made her jump in surprise.

Anxiety filled her being, and there was a slight tremor in her leg as she walked over to the door, silent as Sadiq strolled in, coat in hand as looked her over.

The Turk knew that she was nervous as hell but deep down inside, he was slightly relieved to see that Lovina would once again interact with the rest of the world after isolating herself for so long. A guilty voice in his head whispered that it was his fault she was this way in the first place. He inhaled deeply, smelled the Versace perfume that Lovina was wearing, and gave her a cheerful grin. Her apprehensive expression relaxed a little as she gazed up at him.

"Don't worry so much, prenses! I'll handle the introduction and then you can take over."

She must have been frowning because the Turk was quick to add on to his previous statement.

"Look, you'll do great. You'll be the best host; it'll just be like every other conference you run with your states and provinces. Just think of it like that, and you'll do wonderfully." He patted her head in a playful gesture as headed over to the door, waiting for her patiently.

The Italian simply rolled her eyes, straightened her shoulders, and held her head high as she met him at the doorway. The anxiety from before was still very much there but there was also a spark of determination to impress the rest of the world gathering below in the hotel's conference hall.

As the two nations strolled down the hallway towards the luxurious doors the conference room, Lovina inhaled and exhaled slowly. Sadiq winked at her and gave her an encouraging grin as he opened the door and slipped in. As the Italian nation waited outside the doors, she heard the loud chatter of foreign voices die down into a hushed murmur. The unmistakable boom of Turkey's voice floated through the door and after a moment of silence, the room became a chorus of whispers, but Lovina pushed aside the fear, anticipation, and nervousness that racked her mind as she distinctly heard her name be announced by her former caretaker.

"…Italia Romano."

It was now or ever she thought as she grasped the chilly door handle and stepped into the darkened room, walking over to ghostly blue light of the projector and the podium, where Turkey stood. She could feel the multitude of eyes focused on her; the questioning gazes, and bemused faces of the nations seated before. She didn't allow herself to look over at them. Not yet anyway. She silently thanked Dio for the small mercy of not tripping flat out on her face in front of them all. Suddenly, she was standing behind the podium when she briefly glanced at Turkey, his green eyes concealed beneath his white mask, but nonetheless, she could detect the comfort and encouragement radiating across his face.

Lovina turned to face the seated crowd and in a voice much more composed than she felt, offered a polite greeting.

"Bon giorno e benvenuti in Italia."

Antonio sat a few rows from the front beside the cheerful Finland and strangely enough, Chile. France and Prussia were seated together in the row in front of head just a few seats to his right.

He sighed into his palm as he leaned his elbow against the armrest beside him.

Normally, the happy-go-lucky Spaniard would engage in lively conversation with the nations he sat next to but the Finn seemed to be talking excitedly with Estonia and he never knew what type of response he would get from his ex-colony. Just as he was about give up and try to ask the South American nation how he was doing, someone cleared his throat over the podium. Everybody looked up and the chatter stopped cold.

Why the hell would Turkey be up at the podium? Where was Italy? The cheerful Northern Italian was the host, not this bastard!

The sight of his old rival made grit his teeth as a swell of old grudges and bitterness swept over him. France and Prussia glanced his way but he ignored them as he listened intently to the colony-thieving puto speaking.

"Good Morning my fellow nations. Today is the start of our annual World Convention, this year hosted so graciously by North Italy, Venezia."

Antonio could see confusion become more and more apparent on the faces of his companions around him.

Turkey was always so insistent on calling Italy, 'Venezia,' a habit that bewildered most nations, but made Antonio feel a tad guilty for not doing the same.

'Where is Italy?'

The Turk seemed to pause and take a moment to straighten his papers before speaking up.

"Some of you may be wondering why I am here instead of our host, but before you ask questions, let me tell you this. Italia Venezia has recently fallen ill. Now, now, don't worry," Turkey cast a huge grin at his audience, "The convention will carry on as planned, rest assured of this."

Whispers started up like a wildfire, captivating the nations as some voiced their concern for their plans, some over the well being of the sweet-natured Italy, while others were anxious to find out what the hell was going on.

A sudden thought crossed through Antonio's mind, nearly sending him into a fantod he heard the next words uttered from Turk.

"I would like to introduce you to your host, South Italy," he heard the sound of the door opening, but he couldn't look up from his clenched fists in his lap.

"Meet Italia Romano."

The Spaniard's heart fluttered frantically like a frightened rabbit's would. He wouldn't put it past the organ if it went into cardiac arrest right now. Romano? His little Romano was here?

Dios…had he grown up from the chubby faced little boy that used to kick his shins and cry 'Espagna!' whenever he was upset?

The sharp click clack of heels on the stage floor echoed in his ears as he heard someone walk to the podium.

A warm musical voice filled the room as a woman greeted them in rich Italian.

Antonio's heart nearly gave out when he finally looked up. There beside Turkey, was a beautiful young woman, with locks that tumbled to her waist, curling in just the slightest. Her clothing was immaculately pressed and fitted as she donned an olive green pencil skirt that hugged her curves just right, the silky off-white blouse contrasted with the tan of her skin, and her dark brown blazer revealed the highlighted the reddish tint of her brown hair. His throat went dry as he stared up at her face; her eyes were a blend of green and hazel, bright enough to see even from this far away. Then there was that unmistakable curl...

A sudden dawning came to his mind and before he could sink further in denial, the woman spoke up again, her voice washing over the crowd of bewildered nations.

"You may call me Romano. I hope you enjoy your stay here in my home as it will be your home too for the next month," she stated firmly into the microphone.

The rest was lost to him as he was quite certain that this time his heart actually did stop.

Romano.

Obvious reasons of privacy and such aside, perhaps this was why his little henchman never revealed to him his…err her human name?

Romano was…a…a woman?