A Rainy Day (Hetalia [Spamano])

Chapter 1: Underneath Your Wing

"Okay, I have had enough of this. I'm going home."

The personification of South Italy threw down his pen, gathered his signed papers, and stacked them in the finished pile. He eyed the untouched paperwork sitting at the other end of his desk and briefly considered finishing it, but then the overwhelming fatigue came rushing back and he glanced away with disgust.

"I'm out of here."

He spun out of chair and grabbed his coat hanging on the back. He was almost to the door when he heard his brother calling out to him: "Fratello? Leaving so early? We still have work to do!"

"No, you still have work to do," Romano shot back. "I don't care if I get called out on this by the boss. I'm going home."

"But you'll get in trouble!"

"And you won't. So we're all happy."

Italy looked at his brother worriedly. "Are you feeling okay, Romano?"

Romano slid on his coat, refusing to respond.

"I could finish your paperwork, if you want," Italy offered. "It's the weekend, so I can stay later."

"Don't bother. The Potato Bastard's probably waiting for you."

Italy straightened. "How'd you know?"

"Lucky guess," Romano mumbled flatly.

"At least wait until I finish!" Italy shouted after his brother, who'd started for the door. "I could drive us h—"

The doors to the office slammed shut.

"—ome," Italy finished dejectedly. He turned back to his work, which was, compared to Romano's, a lot less and more closer to completion. "He must be more high-strung today than I thought."

~*~*~

It wasn't that he was particularly angry that day, or that matters annoyed him easier. He was always annoyed with everything, but he usually realized that he could do nothing about it.

No. Today, that office just seemed stuffier and unbearable, more so than usual.

Besides that small irritant, Romano had been busy the last several days and couldn't find the time to take a siesta or have a decent good night's sleep. He was beyond exhausted; he felt dead.

He didn't even have the energy to yell at his brother for being an idiot or insult the macho German that visited practically every other day. Curse Feliciano for his uselessness.

A drink, he decided. A drink would be nice. For a while maybe, to take away all his worries and responsibilities. He wasn't technically violating any protocols, not really.

Romano drove for quite a while through the streets of Rome, mostly navigating the roads in a semi-conscious state, as if he was on auto-pilot. His tired eyes hung half-lidded and his blinks were slow. He decided to stop before he crashed and killed himself.

The Italian parked in front of a pub and killed the engine. After entering through the bar doors, Romano made a beeline for the counter. He ordered a glass of white wine to start, but before he knew it the number of glasses doubled, and then tripled. By that point, he was too intoxicated to deduce he was drunk.

Minutes went by, which turned to hours. The sun had already set when the bartender told the Italian to stop.

"Signor, you should have been out like a light six drinks ago. I think it's time you went home."

"Do you know who I am?" Romano asked calmly, expression serene. "I am not like any other man. I can handle myself."

"Clearly not," said the bartender, eyeing the dozens of empty glasses littered about on the counter. "Is there a reason for this many drinks? Girlfriend broke up with you?"