A dull ache was slowly pulling Feliciano Vargas from a deep slumber.
"Hnnn..." he moaned, trying to sit up.
A pair of strong, yet very gentle hands pushed him back onto his pillows.
"No, Italy," a deep familiar voice scolded mildly, "Don't move so suddenly."
"Germany...?" Feliciano asked, feeling his pale cheeks get hot. Why was Germany in his room?
"Yes... I'm here, Italy."
"Where am I?" The bed didn't feel like his or big brother's... or even Germany's. It was hard and uncomfortable... Unfamiliar.
"A hospital in Bologna... Russia wanted you to become one with him."
Italy gasped quietly. "Oh...!" He sat up suddenly and felt a sharp twang of pain in his side. "Ouch!"
He felt Germany's hands at his side at once. He smiled.
The room was noisy. Moans and cries of wounded men, pleas and mutterings in German, Italian and English, even a Russian here and there... The place stank of death. Italy wanted to be rid of this horrible place.
Only then did he realize that he couldn't see. "Uwah!"
"What? What's wrong?" Germany asked, a worried tone in his voice.
"I can't see!"
"Italy, there is a bandage over your eyes," Germany told him. "Russia broke your eye sockets... You were hurt very badly."
Feliciano cried out, "How long was I unconcious?"
Germany hesitated telling him. "A week and a half." he said after a moment of silence. "Your body is covered in lacerations and there was some internal bleeding and severe blood loss, but you're all better now. I promise."
"Don't forget the concussion, Ludwig." a rough, loud voice muttered angrily from across the room.
Italy gasped. "Big Brother!" He wanted to jump up and hug him, but realized that he wasn't quite ready for that yet...
"Yeah, I'm here, you big dope. Now go back to sleep..."
Italy sniffled a bit and shreiked when he felt a needle go into his arm. Soon, he felt very sleepy and wanted to sleep. So he did just that, lying his head on the lumpy hospital pillow and fell asleep.
~~ ~~ ~~ ~~
Germany sighed as he watched Northern Italy sleep peacefully. The doctors told him that Feliciano was very lucky to have survived an attack like that. Russia had come from everywhere, attacking everything in sight.
"Dammit, Feliciano," he whispered, placing his hand on top of the smaller nation's, "Get better soon..."
He remembered the night before the attack, the small Italian had been sitting in Germany's lap, half naked, like always, one of the blonde's huge dogs lying across him, Germany stroking Italy's auburn hair.
It was the night they'd first made love. Germany remembered being so gentle with him. He was small, fragile, breakable.
"Meine klein Italien..." he said quietly, kissing Italy's forehead lightly before grabbing his coat and field cap and taking his leave of the wounded Feliciano Vargas, trying not to break down the whole way home.