So uh, this is a collection of drabbles that I'll be working on sometimes. Whenever I'm feeling ItalyxGermany, I expect, since I'll be cosplaying Italy in a few months, and getting all hyped about that.

Disclaimer: Hetalia isn't mine. Lulz. Would I be writing fanfiction if it was?

One.

It was so quiet.

The battle was over.

And yet… it was one of those thunderous sorts of quiet.

The sort that you feel overwhelm and crush you.

"Ludwig?" he says a little timidly, and in an instant, that quiet is shattered. He tries again. "Ludwig!" he calls, trying to ignore the dying. No, not ignore. He had taken care of his people, yes, and now, he had to find- "Germany!" he calls louder this time.

"Feliciano?"

He hears the response and is flooded with relief.

He starts running. Where is he?

The wound on his shoulder stings, but it isn't too bad. He doesn't think that it will scar. That doesn't matter. Not when crystalline blue eyes that match the somehow cloudless sky above meet his own. He throws himself into the larger man's arms, holding him tightly.

This is why he does not like to fight.

This is why he is weak.

He does not like the carnage, the wreckage he has to walk through afterwards. He does not like the scent or feel of blood on his coat, the stench of burning—he doesn't think about what it is that is burning. Italy never liked to. He would rather avoid everything than have to do this.

"Is Germany alright?" he looks up from where he buried his face in the other's chest.

"Yes. How are you?" Germany's voice is softer than usual, worn and tired.

"Okay." His hands tighten on the fabric of Germany's coat. Germany has a gash across his forehead that doesn't look too bad, and probably looks worse than it really is, and there is a dark stain on his stomach. Italy is careful to avoid this, careful to not cause him pain. Germany runs a hand through his hair and he closes his eyes, for a moment lost far away, where smoke did not rise into the sky. He opens them again, looking up still. "Can—can we just go home?" he asks, his voice breaking a little. He just wants to leave this place of misery and tragedy, this place where Death slowly slinks in the shadows.

-----

Screams and cries of pain rent the air in two. Pleading eyes of the wounded, the dying, as he ran through the scene, gun in his hands. Something burned and then he heard the roar of the planes overhead—

Home. He was home now. Italy pulled his stiff body from his bed, muscles screaming in protest at being forced to move, and rubbed his eyes. Germany sat across the room at his usual desk, a small lamp on the wooden surface casting his shadow onto the wall and ceiling, spreading a warm glow.

"Germany?" Italy said quietly, his voice small. The other turned, eyebrows raised in surprise that he was awake.

"Yes?"

"Do you have nightmares?"

There was a momentary silence, a pause, a caesura, but then they carried on.

"Sometimes," was the reply he got. It was quiet, not revealing in the least.

Italy inspected his neatly bandaged shoulder.

"Thank you," he said suddenly.

"Hm?"

"For taking care of me." Italy smiled- though his eyes were a little dimmer than usual, as they both bore the pain of mourning.

"You know I'll be here," Germany said and graced him with a small smile of his own.

Italy pulled himself all the way out of bed, stretched a little, and moved over to Germany's desk, sitting on it. He leaned down and kissed the top of Germany's head, smiling. The other looked up, cheeks a little pink, startled.

"I know you will be. And that's why I love you."

Italy's smile warmed, the gleam returned to his eyes.

Yes, all would be well.

A/N: Well hi there! ^_^ Pickles here. Hope you liked this- I just sort of came home from school one day and started typing... XD

Love to you all!