Work Text:
Romano
itched for something to drink. The burn of something wonderful down his throat,
the fuzziness to the edges of the world, the warmth that spread through his
stomach and into his toes. Romano would give just about anything for a drink.
Switzerland was playing with the radio. He was always playing with the radio, and more than once he had broken down and just thrown the object across the room. Sometimes, static flickered through, vague voices.
Romano usually left Switzerland to it, helping the small refugees haul wood to build shelters or help the teenagers start smoky fires. Or he would walk along the perimeter, the miles and miles of it, making sure there weren’t any holes.
When Romano would drag himself back to the small hut that served as their home, Switzerland wouldn’t say anything. Sure, he’d sneer slightly, but Romano would just kick the radio and collapse.
One day, after another month-long trek, Romano was curled into a ball on the mat, watching Switzerland and the fucking radio. Romano watched the curve of his shoulders, the tiny movements as Switzerland’s hands worked the wires.
“How are we alive?”
Switzerland didn’t turn around. “We are; that’s all that matters. Go to bed. You’re going to get sick if you keep running around like a crazy person.”
His feet ached. Romano wanted to get drunk, wanted to forget the world around him, the scratching at the fences, the graves that dotted their small town like freckles. In the dark, even then, Romano could hear the sounds of grief, dull, muted, ever present, like static.
"Your Italian doesn’t sound shitty anymore.”
Switzerland doesn’t turn around.
Romano felt like picking a fight. He needed something to do, but it was too late to build, to immerse himself in something. He itched, like they did before they started eating their own flesh.
“Hey, maybe it will even become the new lingua franca, some dirty, bastard child of German and Italian. Wouldn’t that be something? Then there won’t be any Germans left—“
Switzerland turned around so fast, Romano was worried he was going to get stabbed with a screwdriver. It was dark, but Romano could see the pure anger on Switzerland’s face, the curled lip, the snarl.
“Shut up!”
Romano looked away.
“Sorry. Fuck, sorry.”
When Romano woke up, there was the anxious murmur. He wasn’t used to such a population, and fear cut through him like a knife. Romano jolted up, staggered out of his tent, crashed into some kid who helped him up and apologized in broken Italian.
“What’s happening?”
The look on the kid’s face was enough. Romano pushed through the crowd, running a hand quickly through his hair to make it presentable. He should have changed his shoes, something—
A girl.
Switzerland stood with a gun pressed against her head. She was on her knees, hands clasped in front of her chest, praying. Romano could see the scratches on her arms from where he stood, the long strips peeled away. She hadn’t gone for her eyes yet, but they were red, scratched at.
She looked like Lichtenstein.
“Switzerland, Vash—“
Romano felt the gunshot like it had been him kneeling. He took a step back, sucking in a quick gasp. The population in their tiny town wasn’t enough; deaths so sudden still made Romano want to curl up and sob.
Romano threw himself into the work, cursing and slapping at the cars that were being dismantled, the equipment bent into shape. It reminded him of before, when he would sweat under vast, blue skies, nothing but fieldwork and lazy siestas.
Skies were different in the small patch of the world left.
When Romano collapsed onto his mat, Switzerland was still tinkering with the radio. The buzz filled the air, and Romano was soothed by it. He wondered how Switzerland saw in the dark, the different parts that connected.
And then a song filled the air.
"You’re fucking kidding me.”
Switzerland stood and placed the radio on the only table, backing away like he was afraid it would cut off. Romano stood next to him, and they watched the radio like they could see the notes dancing in the air. Someone was broadcasting that. They weren’t the only ones left.
“She could be out there.”
“No, no fucking sister talk. Don’t get your hopes up.”
Romano looked at Switzerland, and for a crazy moment, he wanted to dance. He wanted to take Switzerland by the hands and twist and laugh to the song that was old and new at once, to forget about the camp and think about World Meetings and the group texts they would used to have.
Of wine and cigarettes and happy, happy people who didn’t eat away at themselves and others.
Switzerland looked back at Romano, and he looked away.
"This sounds like a boy band.”