Title: Pretend
Author: Hinadori
Fandom: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Rating: T (for safety)
Summary: "Five o'clock is here, you bastards." His words were soft, expectant, and carried none of his usual venom. He knew that no one was coming.

Note: I wrote this one-shot last year, and I posted it under 'Mon Petit Pierrot'. If you're confused, that's me. I just made a new account XD I may or may not write something in North Italy's POV, but we'll see. So far this is the only one. I am looking for constructive criticism so anything would be lovely.

- Pretend -

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Romano sat at the head of his grand table, the room brightly lit and glittering off the crystal plates he had placed perfectly on the pristine white table cloth.

The one object that decorated the table was a simple, one-layered cake – colored the same as his flag, one that he had taken hours to bake – with a single candle burning in the middle.

He stared at it, his face expressionless.

He was very still, slightly uncomfortable in the wooden chair, until the old grandfather clock across the hall and near the door chimed its afternoon song. He tensed and shifted minutely in his seat.

"Five o'clock is here, you bastards." His words were soft, expectant, and carried none of his usual venom.

He knew that no one was coming.

As it had happened every goddamn year.

But even so – he could pretend. He could pretend to hear the echoes of "Happy Birthday!" around the room as his guests laughed genuinely and raised their glasses in a toast.

He could pretend to see a large pile of wrapped presents just for him.

A small smile flickered, and he raised his full glass of wine in the air. "Grazie," he said simply, and tilted his head back to down most of the amber liquid.

He could pretend that the other Nations cared about him enough to remember that he was also an Italy. And he could pretend that they knew that his birthday was on the same fucking day as his stupid brother's.

But who could he fool?

No one, he decided. Barely even himself.

He reached for the wine bottle and poured himself another generous amount of liquor, laughing lightly as he imagined England and France starting yet another argument over something trivial.

But even then – he could tell that their voices were hollow, the emotion superficial. It wasn't real.

He clenched his glass, just short of flinging it at the white-washed walls of his empty house.

Dammit. He had been so close.

Something rose in his throat but he swallowed it angrily with another mouthful of now bittersweet wine.

"Bastards," he whispered, lowering his head. He raised his glass over his head, proposing a half-hearted toast. "To another year…"

And yet another year full of broken promises and a countless birthday spent alone.

He sighed softly, and stood in order to search for the gelato.