'ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ' || ʜᴇᴛᴀʟɪᴀ

11

Lovino paced impatiently back and forth across the tiled porch in front of the entrance door into Antonio's house--the house he'd vanished from almost three hours ago, maybe longer. It was now the fourth day after the outbreak, and when Lovino had woken up that morning, he was only partially surprised to find the bed empty next to him.

Thinking that Antonio had just gone downstairs early so as not to disturb him, the Italian ventured down too to find him. Half an hour later, he was on the phone to his brother and Prussia, screaming bloody murder, and terrified as to where the Spaniard had gone. He wouldn't have just wandered off, would he? He didn't sleep walk, and he wouldn't just leave Romano alone without at least letting him know one way or another.

He didn't know where to look; the house wasn't exactly surrounded by civilisation, it was all plains, trees and fields. Lovino had tried calling him, calling out to him . . . He even threatened the tomatoes, but Antonio still did not come. He just wanted to know that he was OK, not alone, and on his way back at the speed of light so hat he could give him an earful, and then his understanding support . . .

Lovino watched as a large black four-by-four drove into view and sped towards the quaint villa carefully along the dirt path. Dust was flung up into the air behind it, but at least they weren't driving all over the grass. That would've just pissed Lovino off even more.

The vehicle came to halt as it turned parallel to the house, and Lovino could see that three people were inside. The first to emerge was the one who'd been driving--Gilbert. Ludwig came out from the back seats of the car, and Feliciano raced around from the passenger seat to his brother, weakly tackling him in a hug.

"Still no sign of him?" Feliciano asked after letting go before Lovino thwacked him on the head.

"No, he's just . . . Gone . . ." the older Italian replied, annoyed and dismayed at the same time. "I assume you've heard nothing," he said, looking to the Germans.

"Nothing, I'm afraid," Ludwig said as he shook his head. "You're the first and last person we've heard anything from."

"He didn't say anything to you? No note, no message?" Gilbert asked back. He was worried for his best friend, and suddenly wished he'd called the say before to check in on him, and Francis too. Some friend he was . . .

"Nothing," Lovino sighed. "He's been gone for probably more than four hours by now."

"Well, I guess we should start searching wider afield. Forget the house, we need to sweep the fields and around all the trees in the distance," Germany said. "Gilbert and I will head further out and take the car. You two," he said, turning to the Italians, "search closer to the house."

Everyone nodded.

The search began.

<><><>

About five miles away, in the middle of seemingly nowhere, Antonio sat silently by a small river. It was his secret serene spot, where he sometimes went when he needed to clear his head. He'd started his walk to his special place by the river, next to the tall tree, at about 5am. He was there within half an hour, and planned to stay there for no more than an hour so he could return home undetected, his disappearance having gone unnoticed.

However, seven hours later, he was still there. He knew why, and he knew he couldn't go back. Not yet. Antonio dreaded to think what sort of excuse he'd have to pull and how convincing he'd have to sound in order to prove to Lovino it was all just circumstantial, and that it wouldn't happen again. He was sick of it all, the secrecy, the lies, the mistrust . . .

Antonio lay down on the bank, looking up at the sky. Knowing Lovino, he'd probably created some huge fuss over his little disappearing act, and it honestly wouldn't surprise him if he'd dragged his brother into it as well. He sighed, and gently began to hum his unique anthem of himself and the nature around him. And then, amid the climax, an all too familiar voice called out to him.

'They don't miss you.'

"Piss off."

'They're probably not even looking. Why would they?'

"I said go away."

'If you disappeared forever, no one would notice.'

Antonio smiled bittersweetly. "At least it would get rid of you, too."

And then came the coughing for the countless time that day, fierce and relentless, and he had to sit up quickly. He felt something--flegm, perhaps--surge up his throat and out of his mouth, its warm, sour, metallic taste lining everything it touched, staining the earth it landed on an evil colour.

"Shit . . ." he mumbled when he saw what it was, and he wiped his mouth, staring at the blood that coloured his tanned skin. "No no no . . . Not again! Come on, this isn't fair!" he cried.

"Antonio?" a distant voice called out. It was Gilbert.

Antonio didn't reply, he didn't want to be found. Quietly, he moved around to the front of the tree trunk, his feet at least reaching the river, and he prayed he was out of sight and that Gilbert hadn't heard him.

"Where are you?" Gilbert called out, stepping closer and closer to the bank where Antonio had been sitting. "Lovino is out of his mind with worry! We all are!"

'Go away, go away, go away,' he repeated in his head, as if some magical force would grant his wish and permit him two more. 'Go away, go away, go away!'

Antonio could hear the steps getting closer, the sound of small twigs and leaves rustling and tumbling down the bank as Gilbert got closer still. He wanted to speak to him, he wanted to try and explain it all, but he couldn't do it. He just couldn't . . . There was no excuse . . . Coughing up blood didn't count, that was worth nothing to him. He wasn't dying, he was just ill; it wasn't an excuse for his disappearance, and it would never be!

He couldn't even begin to console and reassure himself that everything would be fine when the others found him. Gilbert was getting closer. He would be furious, and that wouldn't even compare to the hatred that Lovino would surely express. Antonio had let them down. He'd been selfish, and as he hugged his legs tightly and pressed his back against the wall, he buried his head in his knees and just let it all out. Tears mixed with the smeared blood. Choked sobs tried to fight away the coughing, but surely enough, another splutter of red mess came from him.

A hand touched his shoulder gently.

"Found you," Gilbert quietly said, crouching down to his friend's level.

Antonio mumbled something Gilbert couldn't hear, but as soon as the Prussian could tell he was crying, coughing and . . . Bleeding . . . He said nothing and just held his friend close, promising that everything was going to be alright. That no one was angry at him (though he couldn't vouch for Lovino at all) and that, no matter what, he wouldn't leave his side.

He carefully withdrew his phone from his pocket and called Ludwig, thanking his brother for putting his number on speed-dial, and held the device to his ear. It was answered almost instantly.

"It's OK, I found him," Gilbert told his brother. He looked down at his friend--a mess, alone and in desperate need of help--and he gave a sad smile. "I found him . . ."