Snow Angels

~Step 4~

Italy dreams. He dreams and he loses himself.

He is a child again, at Austria's house. It looks the same as it does now, but bigger. The whole world is bigger and he finds himself wandering down a hallway, brushing hands across each door as he passes. Most of them remain closed, but a few nudge open at his touch. He tries not to look in them. It's not polite, as Austria would scold him.

Italy doesn't look, but he does see. A boy with dark hair, sitting alone at the center of the floor, a sword draped across his knees. He thinks he knows this boy, part of him aches to enter and tug at one hand, to hug him until that stark, serious expression melts into a smile. But his feet carry him on before he can call out in welcome. A door further down opens to two children: a blonde and a brunette. They are rumpled and scuffed and the blonde bandages his companion's head tenderly despite his grumbling. Again, he finds he cannot stop, though he still wants to fix hurts with sweets and embraces.

The hallway goes on forever, it seems, and he thinks that perhaps he knows all the faces from somewhere, but he's already lost himself to the place. The reality of his now has become a fuzzy fantasy, like the adult Italy is still all a dream. He's Chibitalia.

He steps into grass, looking down and seeing the fluttering green and white of his dress and apron. Shifting to one foot, he nudges off his shoe, rubbing his foot against his other calf until the sock comes off. The grass is soft against his bare toes. Italy sheds the other shoe, padding through the rolling green, feeling it ripple around him like an ocean. He laughs, a noise of unadulterated delight, and he hears an echoing laugh.

His heart stops in his chest and he turns. He knows that voice, and yes... it is. "Holy Roman." He squeaks in his high voice, a smile curling at his lips. Holy Roman Empire is running toward him, that familiar brightness in his eyes, and Italy laughs and runs, inviting his beloved to give chase.

Their laughter rings in the air and though he flees, he's not running too quickly. Italy isn't afraid. He wants to be caught. Holy Roman's arms catch him around the middle and he turns, stumbling for a moment. The two of them fall together in a heap, Italy lying half on his side and half on his back, framed by the rustling blades, and Holy Roman on top of him, already stuttering and apologizing.

"Italia..." He says, and Italy needs to stop him from embarrassing himself even more. He wraps his arms around Holy Roman's neck and pulls him down to give him a quick kiss on the cheek that makes the blonde nation turn a deep red.

Then Italy is up again, glancing over his shoulder at Holy Roman, his white apron stained green across the knees, but he barely notices. The other boy struggles to his feet, still flushing, but smiling too - that foolish, endearing smile that echoes through Italy with a sort of deep pang in his belly. It feels like being hungry, but at the same time, nothing like that at all. He ignores it and runs again, calling out to Holy Roman to follow.

A moment later he knows something is wrong. The world is changing all around him, retreating, becoming smaller. And he stands on legs that seem impossibly long, stumbling, drawing to a halt and turning. And Holy Roman is still there, where he left him, looking small and dark and tattered. Italy feels the beginnings of tears pricking at his eyes and he doesn't know why. He steps toward Holy Roman, calling to him, hand outstretched.

The sound of his own name startles him and he jerks his head in the direction he'd been running a moment ago. He sees them standing there and he remembers. Hungary and Austria are carrying flowers, she with a smile and he with a blush. Japan has blooms gathered in the drape of his jacket. Germany holds a single white blossom, his eyes as blue as the winter sky. Yes, he knows them...

He can feel the warmth radiating from them, and he knows he loves them. He needs them - to feel wrapped up in their warmth. As he looks back toward Holy Roman, the grass has given way to snow and the bitter cold of winter. Holy Roman is a small, broken figure, shivering. Italy wants to draw him in to the circle of their warmth, to soothe the hurts he can see turning the white ground to red. He wants to save him.

The snow is cool against his bare toes, he doesn't feel the chilly bite of it as he approaches his once-and-still-love. He drops to his knees in the snow, reaching out a hand and freezing as he hears Holy Roman's desperate "No!"

"Holy Roman...?"

"You don't belong here Italia..." He has to strain to hear the words - they come up, stained with red. "If you touch me, you'll stay forever. You still have a future... " A rattling cough that makes Italy ache in sympathetic pain, "So live it." Italy's hand hovers so close to Holy Roman's shoulder that he can feel the quiver in the air as the injured nation trembles.

Close, so close, and the desperate voices of his lovers calling to him, sounding as torn and broken as Holy Roman...

~ * ~

Italy wakes, trembling. Past the partially drawn curtain, he can see the white puffs of snow on the air outside. He slides from beneath the covers, grabbing a shirt and tugging it on without even registering what he was doing. It wasn't his own - it goes down almost to his knees, which is just as well, since he doesn't bother trying to grab pants.

He wanders down the hallway, knowing that if he opens this door, he will find Japan - this door: Germany. Someone to gather him up and kiss away the lingering night terrors. But the doors remain closed, his footsteps carrying him further into the dark corridor.

Music drifts to him from down the hall... Austria is still awake, though it must be very early in the morning. The strains of the piano soothe his trembling, but do nothing to wipe away the images in his brain. On he goes, and he finds himself at the front door - so familiar. He knows it is real life, but it feels less solid than his dream, a swirling sense of deja vu moving through him. When he opens it, he expects to find the warm summer grass and instead sees only an expanse of white.

His feet sink into the snow and he doesn't feel the cold as he wanders away from the warmth and the band of light that beckons behind him. The door thumps as a gust of wind catches it, the noise distant and muffled by the snow. Italy is shivering and he doesn't even notice it, scanning the snow desperately, looking for... something. The sound of the piano drifts around him, like something out of a memory, and the freezing air steals the breath from his lungs, seeping into his veins. When he calls out, his voice sounds like it belongs to someone else - somewhere else.

You can't be gone... I feel you here.

Another step, and he is trembling, his path no longer straight as he wades through the knee-high drift. The world has gone silent, save for the distant thump of the door banging somewhere far away.

The sound of his name on the air and he turns, calling out for Holy Roman; expecting Holy Roman so much that he can almost see his dark-clad form, the shy smile that is reserved for Italy alone. He sees with the eyes of his dream, but the form of the person coming toward him from the open house is not Holy Roman. Even back lit and surrounded by a bright halo from the light coming out of the open door, Italy recognizes who it is immediately and he feels a stutter of terror in his chest.

Holy Roman may be an angel now, but here is one who should not be.

And he calls out to them - lost and desperate - Don't be gone too. Don't leave me. I need you.

He barely makes any sense of the words himself as he's swept off his feet, gathered up against Austria's chest. His face is buried in the crook of the dark-haired nation's neck and he's not sure how a ghost can feel so warm and solid... so much like a living person. Then Italy thinks that maybe he's got it wrong. Maybe he's dead too. Somehow that makes sense in the fog of his thoughts.

He's aware of being surrounded by warmth - and if he's dead, then the only thing that makes him sad is not being with Germany and Hungary and Japan. He curls against Austria's chest as they lie down, feels hands petting delicately at his hair, and he wonders if this means he will see his grandfather Rome... and what Holy Roman will think of him when they meet each other again.

It's his last thought before he drifts off into the dark.

~ * ~

He wakes to the sound of the door opening, raising his head with a soft "Ve~?" and seeing Hungary peering into the room. Her green eyes flit over him, to his still-sleeping companion and a little smile of pure delight curls at her lips. Italy wriggles carefully from Austria's arms, sliding out from under the blankets and approaching Hungary who seems on the verge of giggling. She wraps him up in her embrace, ruffling his hair playfully. It feels a little odd. He feels a little odd... like he's lingering just a bit out of step with his own body.

Behind them, Austria is stirring, sitting up. His glasses sit askew on his face and Italy sees this and remembers flashes of his dream - the details of it meshing confusingly with actual memories. He is beside Austria, not in his usual bound, but with a speed that barely registers to either of them. Hands stroke along Austria's cheeks, running through the dark strands of his hair... reassuring himself that this is real - that Austria is alive. That both of them are alive.

As soon as he is done patting and stroking Austria, causing the aristocrat to sputter and flush in embarrassment and indignation, Italy moves to Hungary. He curls strands of her hair around his fingers, nuzzles his cheek across her shoulder, resting his head against curve of her breast and listening to the steady patter of her heartbeat. There's nothing sexual about it, neither of the other two are fazed by this - though he thinks if he looks up, he may still see Austria looking very red-faced. Hungary strokes her fingers against the back of his neck, and he makes a soft, content noise before he jolts away, on his feet and out the door before either of his companions can call out to halt him.

Italy hears their footsteps behind him as he dashes down the hall, catches hold of the doorknob of Japan's room - knowing it will not be locked - and darts inside. He slides under the blankets, snuggling up close against Japan, who awakens with a surprised gasp. Even caught off-guard - and Italy knows already, he knows how quick Japan is to be readied for self-defense... he knows that Japan could have already have grabbed him and thrown him, or broken any number of bones, because Japan is an excellent fighter - even despite this, his first reaction to Italy in his bed is to slide an arm around him and draw him close. His other hand is already on his blade, eyes toward the door as Italy nuzzles at his shoulder, burying his face against Japan's neck and breathing in the other nation's scent - salt and storm and ocean, laced with the faint, sweet trace of cherry blossoms.

The confusion is palpable as the only ones to come into the doorway are Austria and Hungary - both far from the bad guys that Japan must be imagining at finding Italy running to him so suddenly. Japan lowers the katana, looking at them, then turns his questioning gaze back to Italy, who is already wriggling free from his hold. Back to the door, slipping past Austria and Hungary - the former making a weak attempt to snag hold of his arm. Up the hall this time, hesitating outside the door before pushing it open and tip-toeing inside.

Germany is sleeping...

With his hair loose around his face, expression unguarded, Italy sometimes imagines he can see another face. He always feels sad afterward, but a sweet kind of sad. He knows that Germany is Germany - he would never want Germany to be anyone else, but sometimes he can't keep the thought from surfacing. Climbing up onto the bed, he stretches out atop the larger nation, watching him sleep with a sweet smile curving his lips. The world is silent around them.

Germany stirs after a moment, blue eyes opening to look up at him, widening in surprise. "Italy?" He mumbles, and his voice is still rough with sleep. Italy leans down and catches his lips and feels him shift in surprise. Then strong arms come up around him, hands resting between his shoulder blades and at the small of his back, and when he pulls away, he can see a mix of wonder and faint alarm in his lover's eyes. "What was that for?"

"Ve~" He murmurs, wondering why there must be a reason, always a reason. "I love Germany." To Italy, this is reason enough for anything.

The other nation's cheeks color at this, and Italy beams as he kisses each of them before snuggling against Germany's chest. Behind him, the door creaks open, three bewildered nations peering into the room. Italy turns to look at them, smiling, and they migrate in. He feels hands stroking his hair, his back, running along one arm and he lounges in the warmth of their presence.

"Is everything okay?" Hungary asks him, and he nuzzles up under her hand with a soft coo.

"Everything is fine now!" And it is - the last remnants of his dream are melting away in their warmth. He can sense their puzzlement, the questions that linger beneath the surface, but they are distant compared to the relief he sees. This is just another of Italy's oddities, they must be thinking, and they indulge him. Italy loves them for this, for their need to have him be just as he is. He feels the same - for they would not be the nations he loves if they were other than they were.

They relax against each other, eased onto Germany's bed, and Germany holds him, pets him. He is engulfed in their heat, the scent of them, the gentle lapping of their affection, and he closes his eyes. Loses himself.

Italy dreams of spring. Of long, endless summers. He dreams of the crisp leaves of autumn and the cold kiss of winter on his skin. He dreams of lifetimes. And Italy may be selfish, but he knows this is no more or less than what he wants.

He dreams of forever. And forever, together.

And he feels in his heart that he will never be lonely again.

-

The world outside is white, a blanket of snow. Italy loves the warmth best, he is a creature of beaches and siestas and lazy summers in the sun, but the snow has its moments. He bounces through the drifts like an eager puppy, wrapped up in layers of clothing as Austria has insisted. Germany is there too, watching him, idling after him.

Germany says nothing at this romping, though Italy can feel that he must be both amused and faintly irritated at the silliness - the frivolity. Italy pauses midway through a forward lunge, held in place as he looks up to the sky, so high he feels dizzy. And he gives a soft bark of laughter, breathless, spreading his arms and falling back into the cushioning snow.

A sharp yell, then Germany is beside him, looking down at him with worry in his eyes. Italy smiles, seeing it. "Are you okay?" Germany's voice is rough, shaky with worry and Italy beams.

"Ve~! I'm fi-ine!" Italy laughs, sweeping his arms through the snow while Germany stares down at him, a puzzled twist to his lips.

"What are you doing?" His head tilts to regard the smaller nation.

"Look, Germany!" Italy smiles, feeling the snow cradling his limbs. "I'm an angel!" From Germany's vantage point, he must be able to see it, how the motions of his limbs in the snow have created 'wings' that frame Italy's body. Germany sees this and he gives his head a shake, but he cannot hide the quirk of his lips - an almost smile. Italy gestures, makes a soft noise, and the expression changes to concern.

Germany leans over. "What is it now-" he begins, but finds his words cut off as Italy's arms wrap around his neck and pull him down until he flops across the smaller nation. The blonde flounders for a moment before settling in place - Italy can practically feel the heat from his cheeks as he blushes, and he makes a content noise as he nuzzles against Germany's neck. "Italy?"

"Hm..." He murmurs - the cold, a faraway sensation, "Just stay here for a little while." His eyes fix on the wispy clouds overhead, they look like feathers. He wonders if Germany is cold, but if he is, he says nothing, arms sliding around Italy. Maybe they are both angels, he thinks, tilting his head to kiss Germany on the chin. Or maybe neither of them are.

He thinks it doesn't matter. The past is past, the future is beyond his sight, and right now there is this odd warm/cold lethargy settling over him. "We should get married," He mumbles, sleepily, and feels Germany startle.

"You and I?" He asks, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

Italy kisses him until his lips are warm and that frown goes away. "Of course. And Austria, and Hungary, and Japan..."

"You can't marry four people, Italy." Germany begins, sounding reasonable. He may have more to say, but Italy will not let him finish.

The snow melts under them, a slushy puddle that soaks into their clothes and though Austria frowns as they come dripping into the house, he says nothing. Hungary smiles at them, draping towels across Germany's shoulders, across Italy's head to cover his eyes. She does not say that all of them marrying is ridiculous.

And after Italy makes it clear that yes, yes this is what he wants, the others agree. He feels light, giddy, drawing them all to him and hugging them. They are going to be together forever. Italy can ask for no more than this.

-