A Broken Heart And An Equally Guilty Soul

Summary: France remembered the day he had told Italy that the Holy Roman Empire was dead. He had expected sorrowful tears. He had expected hate to rack through the small italian's body and mind and his whole damn soul. Hate for France. After all, hadn't his precious "big brother" killed his one and only love? The betrayal the small Italian felt should have caused him to hate France. Should have caused him to scream and yell and shout and cry at France. To shout that it was all his fault, for it was. He should have implored for Napoléon to let Holy Rome live or at least be able to say goodbye to his loved ones (Italy, his sweet little Italy, his love that's heart was soon-to-be broken.) He had expected this and so, so much more. He hadn't expected what really happened, however.

Disclaimer: yeah, so, like, I totally own Hetalia. And, like, France, and, like, Italy. And I totally own the, like, awesome, cute, beautiful, amazing, spectacular Poland...*Kicks Poland out of the way* He lies, I don't own Hetalia...I'll go sob in my little emo corner now. *Sob, sob, sob*

France remembered the day he had told Italy that the Holy Roman Empire was dead. He had expected sorrowful tears. He had expected hate to rack through the small italian's body and mind and his whole damn soul. Hate for France. After all, hadn't his precious "big brother" killed his one and only love? The betrayal the small Italian felt should have caused him to hate France. Should have caused him to scream and yell and shout and cry at France. To shout that it was all his fault, for it was. He should have implored for Napoléon to let Holy Rome live or at least be able to say goodbye to his loved ones (Italy, his sweet little Italy, his love that's heart was soon-to-be broken.) He had expected this and so, so much more. He hadn't expected what really happened, however.

~Flashback~

France was nervous, frightened, distraught, and more. He knocked on the door timidly, then knocked again, louder this time so as to be heard. After a short while of knocking, the door was opened by a lovely girl with beautiful, brown, wavy hair and green eyes; Hungary. Yet he could not bring himself to flirt with her at the moment (perhaps never again.) She glared hateful daggers at him as she realized who was there. (And who could blame her? Certainly not France, because it was his fault. All his fault.) "What do you want?" She spat "you" as if he were a disease (and he might as well have been one.)

"Hungary, who is it?" He heard Austria question before making it to the door and standing behind Hungary. "Oh, it's you. What could you possibly want now?" He hissed as well, "you" was once again a diseased word. "I-" he cleared his throat, "I am here to see Italy. Have you told Italy yet?" He asked, sincerely hoping that the answer was yes because at least then he wouldn't have to explain how Italy's precious "Big Brother France" killed his love.

"No, we haven't. We figured that we would let you break Italy's heart" Hungary glared, rubbing salt into the now festering wound. His heart dropped, "Oh, well, can I come in and tell him now?" He asked, voice uncharacteristically soft. They hesitated for a moment before deciding that now would never be a better time than ever to let France break the poor, small nation's heart.

"Italy is in his (Ha! The poor fool finally found out! What a riot. If only he could bring himself to laugh) room. Painting most likely" Austria answered, giving him a disdainful look. "We will wait around the corner, should you decide to break more than his heart" Austria scowled, for even if he did not seem to care for Italy much, he still did like the small, great-hearted nation.

France's eyes merely dulled with sadness. He would never hurt Italy! Never! (Oh, but he already had. Emotional hurt was much, much worse than physical.) "Okay" he muttered, eyes downcast as he made his way towards Italy's room, knowing the way by heart because of his old visits to the child. First, they had been in hope that Ancient Rome's descendant would choose to join him, unlike his slightly older brother, Romano. Then, when he actually got to know Italy, not Ancient Rome's descendent, he came because he enjoyed the young, sweet, innocent, naive nation's company.

He paused at the door, hearing merry humming coming from inside. His eyes watered and glistened with tears for a moment before he knocked on the door lightly. "Come in!" Italy's cheerful voice was not impaired by the door. (No, it would only be impaired by him.) "Hello, Italie" for once, he did not call him "My little Italie". He smiled softly at the little nation (oh, not so little nation anymore. He looked to be about 16 in human years) as he walked in, shutting the door softly behind him. The smile slid off his face, however, at what the Italian was painting.

He was painting Holy Rome. He quickly averted his eyes to look around him. He hadn't been here in a while because of the Napoleonic Wars, so he could see a few changes here and there. He blinked at two paintings of a rabbit. One of the paintings with one foot slightly too large and other faults here and there. This was not one of Italy's own works. "Whose painting is that?" He dared to ask. "Ve, the bunny rabbit with the weird foot, you mean?" Italy asked, smiling at him as he moved the painting off of his bed and onto the night stand, along with all the materials. Italy got into a sitting position and patted the spot on the bed beside him.

France accepted (How dare he! To sit down on Italy's bed beside him as if he wasn't going to break his heart.) "Holy Rome painted that one, and I painted the other. It's not perfect, but he made it with me, and that's all that matters" Italy smiled and France blinked away the watering of his eyes. "By the way, why are you here? No offense, of course. I missed you! Does this mean the war ended and that Holy Rome will come home?" he beamed up at France who gulped slightly, staring at the happy (Ha! Not for much longer, but enough of the cynical thoughts for the moment) face.

He couldn't help but wonder why his eyes were always, always closed. In fact, he can't remember ever seeing his eyes. Were they brown, like Romano's? Perhaps they were green, like Spain's? Or maybe they were more of an auburn color. Perhaps, they were even a golden hazel color. "What color are your eyes, Italie?" he found himself dodging Italy's previous question with one of his own. "V-ve, well, Grandpa Rome always said that they were almost golden, but I think they're hazel. Why?" Italy asked, head tilting to the side slightly in confusion, eyes still closed.

"May I see them?" He found himself asking. Italy looked startled and hesitated. "W-well, the only people who have ever seen my eyes are Grandpa Rome and Holy Roman Empire, but... I guess you can" Italy smiled sweetly before his eyes opened (How dare he look at his eyes who only two people have seen before! As if he had the right! As if he weren't about to do what he never thought he would do; break Italy's heart.) Jesus, and France thought that his blue eyes were beautiful. Beautiful was an understatement for Italy's eyes. They were an exquisite hazel color, almost golden. So both he and his grandfather were correct.

"They are beautiful, Italie. Why...do you hide them?" France asked as Italy blushed slightly. "I-I don't really know, it's always been this way. It's just a natural reaction, I guess" he smiled sheepishly, eyes closed once again. And that was the end of that conversation, and France loathed it because he knew that he would have to tell Italy the real reason he came now. "Ve, Big Brother France. I asked you earlier if the war was over, is it? Will Holy Rome finally come home?" He smiled up at France, so full of hope and trust in his big brother.

"Italie...Holy Rome is no more" France's eyes closed in regret (Not only that, of course. He didn't want to see the reaction. The sad, heartbroken expression on the cute, happy [As if he could be, now, after what France had just told him] nation's face.) There was a large pause between the two and the tension grew quickly. "...What?" Asked Italy, as if France were just telling a joke. (A horrible, horrible joke...And France wished he was.)

"Italie...the Holy Roman Empire is dead. Please forget about the boy, you have suffered enough in the war. You don't deserve to suffer over his death, too" France sighed, willing himself to not open his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the heartbroken expression on his face. "B-but...he promised he would come back. He can't be d-de...he can't be gone" Italy choked out. "I'm sorry, Italie. I am so, so sorry" France muttered sadly, full of so much regret and-and downright guilt that Italy had to ask. "H-how did he..." Italy trailed off and France risked a glance.

He immediately wished he hadn't. Tears had streaked down the brunette's (Was it brunette? He could never tell if it was that or a reddish color. No, from this close he could see it was a light brunette color, almost red, yet not quite) cheeks. His eyes were still frustratingly closed, yet, somehow, the clear signs of sadness and pain managed to find their way out.

"N-Napoléon...he ordered for Holy Rome's dissolution. I-I'm so sorry, la ma petite Italie. I-I should have done something. And for not doing anything, I am deeply sorry. Eventually I hope you can forgive me" he breathed, eyes closing to hide and keep the tears inside as he stood up from the bed and walked towards the door, leaving Italy to sob. (After all, who would want to be around the man [Ha! Man?! Think more along the lines of beast!] who allowed their beloved to be killed.)

He stiffened in shock and his eyes widened when he felt slender arms wrap around his torso from behind. "D-don't feel b-bad-" "But I should feel bad! This is all my fault! I should have done something! He didn't deserve to die! Your heart didn't deserve to be broken!" France shouted, aware that his tears were falling freely now. (And he could feel the tears that were leaking through his shirt from behind.) Why wouldn't Italy blame him?! Why, when it was clearly his fault? "It wasn't your fault. I-it wasn't France's fault. It wasn't Francis' fault" Italy-Feliciano-choked out and France's-Francis'- eyes widened further as he heard his human name being used. They were no longer just countries. No, they were people now.

"B-but...how can you not blame me? I blame me! If it isn't my fault, then whose is it?" He turned around and embraced the lithe body in his arms, crying freely now into the shorter nation's hair. (And who would blame him is he said that the Italian's hair was soft and silky against his skin?)

"I can't blame you because it isn't your fault. You shouldn't blame yourself. And maybe it was Napoléon's fault, maybe it was war's fault. Because, in the end, war only brings pain and suffering, like now. To both of us, and to our people, too" Feliciano was still sobbing into Francis' chest, but somehow managed to keep his voice clear. Where was the ditzy Italy of the past? Where did the foolish, lighthearted, deep as a kiddy pool words and actions go?

And, suddenly, Francis realized that his self-proclaimed (by both, really) brother was beautiful. Both inside and out. (Perhaps, that was when he stopped viewing Feliciano as just his little brother. And, perhaps, that was where and when his [one-sided, he knew] love for the Italian bloomed.)

So there they were, sobbing together. For together, they were A Broken Heart And An Equally Guilty Soul.

~End of Flashback~

And so, because he knew that he would forever he "Big Brother France" to Feliciano, he kept silent about his love for the Italian, he instead took to messing around and feigning lust (well, not completely feigning the lust part, but lust wasn't love) for a certain Brit. (Thankfully, said Brit had no feelings for him either. If he did, that would lead to an awkward explanation.)

So he would continue to pick up the pieces for Feliciano, and the Italian would pick up most of his. He would make no move on his feelings, and would only fancy himself with the thought that perhaps someday he would find true love. (Love that he knew could not come from Feliciano.)

What do you think? Should I continue one more chapter and make it a two-shot and give France a happy ending, or should I leave it there? I doubt I can make a continuation of a happy ending with the same (crappy, good, great?) quality, however. Review please! I need to know how I did so I can better my writing and get confident in it. Thanks!