Hey all. Author here. I've been reading Hetalia fanfiction for a while now, and I really wanted to write something. Thing is, it's really really hard to come up with something that hasn't already been done. I've got a couple ideas, but they're not ready for print for a long time now.

These here are drabbles. I'm going to write them whenever I can. I'm hoping that they'll somehow magically give me inspiration for the perfect plot. They're already giving me insight into the characters... Which is awesome.

Anyways. Here it is. In lieu of a better idea, I started my drabble with the word... drabble.

Oh, and warning: I tend to use names EXTREMELY RANDOMLY. Human, country, nickname, other? Yeah. Sorry about that.

There he was, drabbling on and on and on. Did he ever say anything of substance? Were any of the words that came out of his mouth meaningful at all? Or did he just drone on with whatever thoughts popped into his head, as if he were unabashedly performing some kind of stream of consciousness exercise?

That thought begged another question: Did Italy have any secrets at all? Suddenly Germany had a strange urge to peer inside his friend's ear, as if by doing so he could see all his thoughts splayed out across his brain, intended for just one person's eyes.

Ludwig sighed. If only it were that easy. He'd never been very empathetic, compartmentalizing any emotions he might feel himself into the small corners of his mind, trying to stow them some place where they wouldn't interfere with the demands of war or daily life. Feliciano, on the other hand, was governed by emotions nearly as strong as hurricane winds, swirling around inside him and leaking out whenever they could. You could always tell when Italy was happy by the way his eyes would light up and his hair would bounce and his feet seemed to be made of springs as he walked. When he was sad, his smile would become hollow or drop from his face altogether; his shoulders would sag, and even the strange little curl on the side of his head would seem to droop with unhappiness. Reading Italy was as easy as reading a book.

At least, it should have been. Germany reasoned that thoughts ran independent of emotions, that even if somebody was clearly having a good day there could be no guessing of the reason. Which made it all the more difficult to understand why the little nation insisted on sharing Ludwig's bed, on warm hugs given at random points throughout the day, on feeding him and forcing him to take a break from work and making sure he had an umbrella on rainy days...

Did any of it mean anything?

But now his thoughts were going in circles, as they had on many occasions before. For some reason, Ludwig's thoughts always managed to eventually circuit around a certain pair of bright brown eyes with the scent of tomato sauce. If he didn't manage to pull himself together soon he might sit there for hours. Frustrated, Germany grunted and shook his head in disgust.

"I know, that's what I said! How could a whole supermarket run out of pasta? That's got to violate some law of nature, there's always enough pasta, enough pasta to build a house or something! I have, you know. I made it with spaghetti. Romano dared me to do it, he didn't think I could, but I built a big house with a living room and a dining room and a kitchen, which was awesome because when I wanted to make pasta I could just cook the pan and-"

Germany tuned his Feli out once again, fervently thankful that he, unlike Italy, was capable of filtering his thoughts.

You can expect the next update early next week because... it's already written. :)