WARNING: Whatever you thought this story was going to be, there's a very good chance that you were horribly wrong. Don't blame me if you end up upset, as i know for a fact that there are stories out there with far worse content than this one.

You have been warned.

"The 21st century is when everything changes… and you gotta be ready."- Capt. Jack Harkness

It was half past five in the morning, but Italy Veneziano had yet to sleep.

He curled up and pulled his blanket tight around his body, trying to ignore the duct tape still clinging to his wrists and the aching in his hips. There were still tears pouring relentlessly down his cheeks and cold sweat was dripping off his forehead.

And, perhaps worst of all, his brother was sleeping peacefully right next to him and making the whole room stink of alcohol.

Italy was scared. Terrified. He knew that sooner or later, Romano would wake up, and he was afraid that when that happened, the nightmare would begin all over again. That he would be pressed down upon his bed, unable to move or even breathe properly as his hands were bound above his head and…

He had to get out. There was no doubt about it. He had to leave this house and escape. But what then? What would happen to Romano? There was plenty of alcohol in the house, so what if he drank it all and hurt himself?

His whole body trembling, he sat up and got out of bed. A quick glance at his bedside table reminded him that he'd left his mobile phone downstairs in the kitchen. Damn. He pulled on his boxers – which proved difficult as his hands were still tied with strong silver tape – and left the room and descended the stairs as quietly as he could. He couldn't make any noise. Nothing that could threaten him with the awakening of the slumbering monster.

Before Italy picked up his phone, he pulled a pair of scissors out of a drawer (taking the utmost care to avoid clattering) and, with some difficulty, cut the tape away from his wrists. He sighed with relief as he rubbed the raw skin, wincing a little as it was bitten by the cold air of the early morning.

Then he grabbed his phone and called the first number that came to mind.

'Pick it up,' he prayed, 'please, please, please pick it up…'

He shivered. He should have put on a shirt.

"Ja, what is it, Italy?"

Italy was unable to avoid a sigh of relief, then covered his mouth with a thrill of horror in fear that Romano might have heard him.

"Italy, why are you calling me at half past five in the morning?" asked Germany.

Still afraid, Italy crouched down under the table.

"Germany," he whispered, "Germany, help me, please help me…"

"Why?" asked Germany. "Italy, what is wrong?"

"Ssh! Please be quiet, Germany, you'll wake him up!"

"Who?" He heard the other man sit up. "Italy, who or what are you talking about? What has happened, are you alright?"

He shook his head.

"No," he moaned quietly, "no, I-I'm not alright."

He covered his face, trying and failing to stem the fresh flow of tears as they gushed down like rivers onto the floor.

"Italy, I'm beginning to grow annoyed," said Germany. "Will you please tell me what is going on?!"

His attempts to shush the other man descended into sobs of anguish as the memories of last night began to pour into his mind and flashed in front of his eyes. Images of his brother breaking down the front door, staggering over to him and wrapping his fingers around his neck, dragging him towards the stairs and-

"Italy… Italy, tell me what's wrong."

The smaller man sniffed and wiped his face on his hand.

"It's Romano," he explained, keeping the volume of his voice to a bare minimum. "He went out with Spain last night, but he came back earlier than I thought he would and he was really… h-he could hardly stand up, and when he came in I tried to get him to calm down, but he grabbed me by the neck and… a-and he pulled me upstairs and he… he…"

He couldn't bring himself to say. He didn't want to believe that his brother, his fratello whom he had looked up to for so much of his life had…

"He what?"

No. It wasn't possible. And yet it had happened, and so quickly-

"Italy, what did he do to you?"

He crouched down further and looked around. For a moment he thought he had heard something moving upstairs, and froze in terror. It seemed like forever before he was able to move again.

"I can't tell you," he whispered. "That's what he said, he said I couldn't tell anybody and he'd kill me if I did, but he also said that even if I did tell someone, they wouldn't ever want to be near me again because I'm dirty and disgusting and nobody wants me anymore and-"

"I'm coming over."

He froze again.

"Wha?" he said.

"Italy, stay where you are," Germany commanded. "I'm going to come to get you, alright? Don't try to leave your home in case Romano sees you and tries something else. Trust me when I say you're going to be alright. Do you understand what I am saying to you?"

"S-si, I got it. Thank you, Germany."

"It's nothing. Just wait for me, okay?"

"Okay."

He ended the call and got out from under the table-

"Buongiorno, Veneziano."

No.

Please, no.

As slowly as though his body was turning into stone, Italy lowered the phone and turned to face his elder brother, who was leaning casually against the door frame and glaring at him so dangerously that the younger man feared he would be stabbed by his eyes.

"C-ciao, f-fra-fratello," Italy stammered. "D-did you sleep well?"

Rather than answering, Romano leaned to one side to examine the contents of his little brother's hands.

"What's that?" he asked.

Italy tried to hide his phone behind his back, but Romano was too quick for him and dived across the table, grabbed his arm and wrenched the mobile out of his hand, revealing the offending message:

Call ended with:

GERMANY

"YOU TOLD HIM?!"

"N-No, I-I swear-"

"What the hell is WRONG WITH YOU, Veneziano?" Romano seized his little brother by the hair and held his face inches away from his own. "I told you not to tell anybody. This was supposed to be our secret, it was supposed to stay in the dark! It was never supposed to be spoken of again!"

"P-please-"

"Did he believe you? DID HE BELIEVE YOU?"

Italy didn't know how to reply. From the tone of his voice, it kinda sounded like Germany had believed him, and if he said that he was coming over, that counted for something, right? Right?

"I-I d- I dunno," he stammered, his terror preventing him from forming coherent sentences. "He-He said he was g-gonna come over and-"

"SHUT UP!"

He threw his little brother down and stepped away, biting his nails in nervous thought.

"Please," Italy whimpered. "Please, fratello, I-I don't blame you, you were really drunk, so I-I'm not angry at you, I swear it… please, I- Romano, you're really scaring me, try to calm down-"

"I'm not even gonna tell you to shut up."

Italy fell silent and tried to hide himself, but all there was to hide behind was the table and its legs. He watched as his elder brother paced back and forth, trying and quite clearly struggling to wrap his head around what was happening, breathing heavily and gnawing on his fingernails, occasionally brushing his fingers through his hair. He looked down and examined Italy carefully: the tears pouring down his cheeks, his eyes wide in desperate pleading, his almost naked body trembling in fear, the bruises on his hips where Romano's tight fingers had gripped his slim body…

"We gotta cover this up," he decided. "I-If the potato bastard comes, you just tell him it was a bad dream or something, you have plenty of those. Put some clothes on and cover up those bruises so you-"

"No, no I-I can't," said Italy, trying and failing to sound defiant. "I- Romano, I already told Germany what you did and-"

The death glare thrown his way was the cue for him to be quiet.

"Very well," Romano sighed. "I wish I saw a way other than this."

He grabbed his little brother by the hair and tugged him to his feet, and Italy tried everything he could to avoid crying out in horror as Romano seized a knife from a kitchen drawer and dragged him towards the entrance to the basement.

"Please," Italy moaned wretchedly. "Please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, please. Please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please, Romano, please don't hurt me, I-"

Romano wrenched the door open and pressed Italy's wrists against the top of the empty frame, pinning him with only one hand and tightly gripping the knife in the other. The more the younger man looked at the sharp blade, the more his body stiffened and quivered.

The elder man leaned forward and whispered three short words into his petrified brother's ear:

"Ti voglio bene."

He thrust the knife forward and plunged the length of the blade into the smaller man's unclothed stomach.

Italy's eyes widened in more shock and horror than they had ever borne before, silently screaming for solace. He gasped in a futile attempt to keep breathing, and unable to bear his face any longer, Romano released him and allowed him to crash down the stairs and into the basement.

He didn't move at all once he finally reached the floor.

Romano threw the blood-soaked knife into the sink, snatched the phone from where it had been left on the table and calmly walked down the stairs to where Italy was lying, blood staining his formerly yellow boxers a deep crimson.

"Why couldn't you be this helpless all the time?" he asked. "It would've made our lives so much easier."

He knelt down and placed the phone next to his brother's face, trying to ignore how his eyelids flickered as he tried to remain conscious.

"Mi dispiace," he muttered. "Ti prego di perdonarmi, fratello."

I'm sorry. Please forgive me, brother.

He about turned and disappeared up the stairs and through the door, leaving his only blood relative in near total darkness.

The only light came from the phone. As his strength drained bit-by-bit from his body, Italy reached up, somehow located the contact list and scrolled down. The moment he saw the word Germany, his finger hit the screen and he waited for the person at the other end to pick up.

After what felt like a lifetime, they did.

"Bonjour? Who is calling, please?"

Oh no. He must have hit the wrong one. It wasn't Germany on the other end of the line. But he pulled it over to his ear all the same.

"Hello? Is there anyone there?"

He had to speak. He had to ask for help.

"Big…" Italy gasped. "Big brother… France…"

"Italy? Is that you, mon cher?"

"Please… help me… I… don't want to… die alone…"

"You what? What do you mean by 'die alone', what is the matter? Are you sick or wounded, what is wrong?"

It felt like fire. Like a red hot poker had been thrust into his body and was burning him from the inside out. It made him want to scream and cry his eyes out in sheer agony. At least he probably wouldn't have to experience it for very much longer.

"Tell…" he choked, "please… Francey… tell Germany… I…"

"What? Tell him what? A-are you in your home? Hold on, mon ami, I will be by your side presently."

The call ended.

"No," Italy whispered, unable to bear the horrific thought of being on his own when he was about to die, "please…"

He couldn't hold on any more.

His eyelids slid closed.

"ITALY!"

It was obvious, just by looking at him, that Germany had rushed in his journey to the Italy brothers' house. His shirt was hanging open, he was clutching at his trousers which were in danger of falling down due to lack of belt and his hair was only half groomed and several loose strands dangled over his forehead. His eyes, however, were burning with intense fury.

"Italy?!" he shouted. "Where are you? Italy? Romano, are you here?"

Something caught his eye. Something red.

It was blood. On the floor. Small splatters of it spanning the entire width of the hallway floor.

And sounds of splashing water in the kitchen.

He kicked the door right off its hinges.

Romano was standing at the sink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, wrist deep in soapy water. Soapy water which carried with it a brownish-red tint. He jumped when Germany entered, but his shock quickly became anger.

"Potato bastard?" he snarled. "The hell are you doing here?"

Germany caught his breath.

"I received a rather alarming phone call from Italy earlier," he explained. "He claimed that you returned home drunk last night and… assaulted him. Where is he? What have you done with him?"

"So that idiota had a nightmare," Romano said matter-of-factly. "What's it to you? He's probably still upstairs asleep if he hasn't run off in search of you."

"DO NOT LIE TO ME!" Germany shouted, more enraged than he had ever been in his whole life as he grabbed the smaller man's collar. "I saw the blood spatter on the hallway floor. Where is your little brother? What did you do to him? WHAT DID YOU DO?!"

Romano brought the knife out from where it had been hidden in the bloodied soapy water and tried to slice open the larger man's stomach, but Germany jumped backwards and avoided his swing. So the by-now-terrified Italian lifted the blade and charged forwards, hoping to plunge it deep into his attacker's heart-

-and the blade snapped into two.

Germany barely reacted, but Romano stared in horror at the fractured metal in his hand, then turned his gaze to the larger man's hand – or rather, where his hand should have been. It was…

From the elbow downwards, his arm and the sleeve that clothed it became a weapon.

"You- you're a-" Romano stammered.

"Yes!"

In less than a second, Germany had the smaller man pressed down on the table and was holding the needle-like point of his blade to his throat.

"Where is your little brother?!" he demanded. "Tell me where he is! Tell me what you have done with him! TELL ME!"

Romano spat on his face.

Rage consuming his body and mind, Germany pulled back his arm – the blade transforming back into a hand in a flash of deep orange light – and punched Romano in the face with as much strength as he could muster.

"WHERE IS HE?!" he screamed.

"Vaffanculo, bastard."

Another solid punch, and Romano smiled darkly up at Germany with teeth that were coated in blood.

"Where is he? Where IS he? WHERE IS HE? WHERE IS HE?! WHERE IS HE?!"

No matter how much Germany shouted or slammed his fist into the other man's face, Romano remained silent and smiling. He didn't even care when one of his teeth fell out or when his nose began to pour out blood, and Germany just kept punching and screaming-

"Allemagne, stop!"

-until his hand was pulled away and his body was dragged backwards, but he wasn't broken out of his fury-induced stupor until he heard the clatter of a crutch hitting the floor, which brought his attention to the newcomer who was now sprawled on the floor.

"I would understand perfectly if you were angry with him," he said, "but if you continue beating him like that, you are going to kill him!"

His body still buzzing with adrenaline, Germany looked from the newcomer to Romano, who was now bearing all the classic signs of a human punching bag. Both of his eyes were blackened, his nose was bent out of shape and he was now missing two teeth, and blood was trickling out of both nostrils and the corner of his mouth. Despite this, he still managed to give the Aryan a hate-filled glare which was hotter than a laser. It didn't bother the larger man because it was no different to all of the other hate filled glares he'd been on the receiving end of.

"My apologies," he said, voice still tinted with anger. "I may have gotten carried away." He helped France to his feet, asking "Why are you here?"

"I received a rather unsettling call from Italy not too long ago," the long-haired nation explained as he put his crutch back on. "He sounded as though he was close to expiring and did not say anything other than that he did not want to die alone."

Germany almost leapt back in shock. He glanced at Romano, who was still glaring at him angrily, and for a second he looked as though he was about to start beating him again. Luckily he opted instead to rub his face, breathing heavily as though he were about to start crying, and started to pace back and forth.

It was France's turn to grab the battered Italian by the collar and pull him up until their faces were inches apart.

"Are you going to tell the two of us what you have done to your younger brother?" he snarled. "Or am I going to have to take over where Allemagne has left off?"

Romano spat scarlet saliva in his face.

"Vaffanculo to you as well," he snapped. "You know it's no good. He's probably dead by now."

Germany raised his shaking fist, preparing another punch, but summoned the willpower to repress his rage.

"I left his phone with him so he could call someone," said Romano. "So that he could talk to someone before the end. I'm not a monster: I would never want my little brother to die alone."

"That's no excuse!" cried Germany.

"Where is he, Romano?" France demanded.

Romano looked from one fuming face to another, trying to figure out what he should do. Outnumbered and outgunned, he realised he had no other option.

He sighed.

"Fine," he muttered. "Check the basement."

"I hope you burn in hell," Germany growled.

He stormed out of the room and Romano made as if to follow him, but the vicelike grip of an incensed Frenchman prevented him from moving a single inch. This was annoying: France was impossible to glare at effectively because it seemed as though to him, 'angry' and 'aroused' were one and the same.

Germany wrenched the basement door open.

"Oh… mein Gott…" he whispered, staring at the crumpled body which lay in a pool of blood at the foot of the stairs.

He dived down.

"ITALY!" he screamed, catching the attention of Romano and France.

With his crutch in one hand and the Italian's collar in the other, France staggered back out into the hallway so that he could see into the basement. He saw Germany, facing away and kneeling on the floor, clutching a limp figure which bore a head of reddish-brown hair and was more than half-covered in blood.

"France!" cried Germany. "France, call an ambulance! He's still alive! Call for help! Anything! HURRY!"

France began to obey, but paused and looked Romano dead in the eye, face filling with horror.

"Romano," he choked, "what have you done?!"

Yes. I know Romano would never ever EVER do anything like this, but I hope you realise that's the point. He's not my favourite Hetalia character and I know he doesn't like Veneziano that much, but even he wouldn't go so far as to rape his little brother. OOC is serious business, guys: it should be avoided at all costs unless it is deliberately invoked for purposes of storytelling. Those who have read The Hetalian Job (Chapters 12-16 in particular) will understand.

I don't think I have to state that this is only the beginning. Also, this story is probably going to invoke some of the more recent elements of Soul Eater - from the manga, that is, which I know finished not too long ago (mixed feelings about that ending: I think Okubo just wanted an excuse to shove boobs in our faces) - so be warned. The darkness in this story will probably be far more consistent than it was in Job.

Let's face it, Soul Eater has done far worse than this, even if you have to read between the lines to pick up some of it, but still...

I want you all to know that this was incredibly hard to write.

Am I a monster?

Please review.