I'm not so sure I'm happy how this came out, but I worked on it for a week and I wanted to post something for Spain's birthday. It's quite depressing for a birthday fic, but what can I say? I've never been the happy/fluffy kind of writer. Please read and review. Muchas Gracias.

Rated for Lovi's mouth.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

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Lovino wasn't worried about Antonio. No, not at all. If he was worried, that would mean that he actually care for the bastard.

Which was not true.

Not at all.

The only reason he was in Madrid was to…Check if the civil war would…find out if…

Whatever, it didn't matter that he didn't have a reason to be there. It was Spain! He was going to Antonio's house, where he was always welcome. And Lovino wanted to visit. Simple as that.

He wasn't worried!

Feliciano hadn't liked the idea. Going to Spain in the middle of his civil war, going to Madrid in the middle of its siege. It was stupid, Lovino knew that.

Before, when dropping off supplies and telling Antonio news of what Il Duce was sending him, or half of him, he could just go to his house. Sometimes the Nationalists would protect him on the way there.

But now…Now it was worse.

I'm not worried. I'm not worried. I'm not worried about that bastard. I just have to tell him that I won't be able to visit for awhile now. I'm not worried!

Which was true, Lovino convinced himself. At least, he wasn't worried about Antonio. His own life, though, he had every right to be concerned about that.

Madrid was a battlefield. A living hell of bullets, blood and death. The once ever-blue sky shrouded by an ominous cloud of puffy, black smoke. Tanks, tanks with armor from Lovino's own country, filled the streets, destroying everything in their path. Horrified citizens ran towards their homes, some stared through their windows at the demolition of the city, their home.

Spain's heart.

No, no, no. Don't think. Just run. Run.

Because if he thought, he'd end up losing concentration. He'd get shot, or blown up, or run over. None of those sounded particularly fun, did they?

So Lovino's mind was on autopilot. No thoughts, no musings, no looking around. As long as he avoids the tanks, avoids the soldiers, keeps his medals that show he's an Italian soldier, and as long as he ran.

Because once he attempted to comprehend the damage being done to Madrid, to Spain's capital, to Antonio…

Lovino wouldn't be able to focus. Because he'd be too busy convincing himself that he was not worried, and that Antonio was perfectly fine.

Both of which were complete lies.

And Lovino knew it. He knew it, and it scared him and he was such a coward. Because he couldn't even admit that he was terrified and he had no idea what was waiting for him at Antonio's house and he really didn't want to know.

And the planes that suddenly flew overhead seemed to be the only thing that could cause him to stop. The planes, such a new war-tactic, were German, which meant they were the Nationalist's.

Which was the side his boss was on.

But, that also meant that the citizen's safety was not their top priority. They didn't care who they killed, as long as they reached their goal, as long as they could control Spain.

Bastards.

Lovino could hear the screams of the people as they stared at the sky. The absolute horror that he felt was the same for the hundreds of people around him.

No.

That was a lie.

Because he wasn't worried about his own life. He wasn't worried about his own home.

Bombs, bullets, nothing could kill him. He was a nation. Although he didn't exactly want to get blown up, he wasn't going to let the planes scare him.

Because they could do nothing to him.

This wasn't his land, this wasn't his home. This damage meant nothing to him. Lovino wasn't the one who felt the destruction, who felt the death. Antonio was. Each bomb, each bullet, each death.

Antonio felt every single one.

And no matter which side was getting destroyed, everyone who died was a Spaniard.

Every single death in this goddamn civil war, Antonio would feel.

And that knowledge only caused Lovino to run faster, to find him. Because god knows how much longer he'll last.

By now, Lovino was reading addresses. In order to hide from his leaders, Antonio had bought a small townhouse in the poorer section of Madrid. Lovino could never live in such conditions, but the Spaniard would do anything to hide from his bosses. He didn't blame him, they were such selfish bastards.

Selfish, selfish, disgusting bastards.

Lovino suddenly stopped, the screech of descending bombs bringing him back to reality. He turned, eyes laying upon the address of the house in front of him. It was Antonio's.

Why was it so quiet?

Compared to the rest of the city. This street seemed abandoned. No soldiers, no people. Lovino was alone. The only sound was the emergency siren and the…

The…

No…

His eyes widened.

No, no, no.

Bombs…

Antonio's house.

Antonio's entire street.

Smoke…

Fire…

Screams…

"Ayúdame!"

Help me!

"Por favor!"

Please!

Antonio.

Oh god no.

No, no, no!

Lovino fell to his knees, eyes wide with complete and utter horror. Ash and rubble and smoke filled the air, he coughed violently. But he never broke his stare, he couldn't. It was like he couldn't even move.

Through the smoke, Lovino could see the silhouette of the houses. It was as if the planes had known where Antonio lived, that they shelled his house on purpose. To finally take control. To get rid of…To kill…

Antonio…

He couldn't get that scream out of his head. That one yell, the voice he knew without doubt. That plea for help, the one he could hear over all the others. Although it had fallen silent as soon as it started, Lovino knew he would never forget that scream.

On his hands and knees, he scrambled over. Thick smoke and the stench of destruction nearly choked him; his eyes were filled with tears, and despite all this he crawled towards the house.

What else could he do?

Because he wasn't a coward. He refused to stay on his knees, horrified. Antonio had to still be alive. Dying, maybe, but Spain, this land, was obviously still Spain. Antonio couldn't just die.

But, after that…Maybe he was better off.

No. No. There was no way that Lovino would allow himself to think that the Spaniard would be better off dead. Because, no matter how much pain he was in now, he would heal, right? He had to heal, he was a nation.

Now on his feet, Lovino stared what was once Antonio's home, horror clouding his eyes. It was almost as if the structure had imploded upon itself, leaving only a shell of what used to be a building. In the midst of the debris, Lovino could make out various pieces of furniture, although he recognized none of it.

Antonio had refused to bring any of the furniture from his countryside home here, not wanted any of it to be destroyed. It was as if he knew this would happen.

But, even as oblivious and stupid as the Spaniard was, he wouldn't allow himself to get blown up. Because he wasn't that stupid, right?

Even so, here Lovino was. Standing in front of the remnants of Antonio's temporary home, not knowing if said Spaniard was alive under all that destruction or not.

Fear, raw fear, gripped his heart. All he could do was stand on that doorstep and think. And stare. And cough. And gasp for breath because the smoke and dust was choking him and he felt like he was dying but that could be because of the fact that Antonio, his Antonio, was probably dead under the remnants of his house and even if the world around him was so loud all he could hear was that one damn scream

Over

And

Over

Again.

That was when he saw it. In that one moment, his eyes laid upon it. A thin, bloodied arm, amidst the wreckage.

Antonio's arm.

Lovino's mouth fell agape in a hushed gasp. Eyes widen, then close. Gasping for air like a fish without water,

"Antonio!"

And he ran forward, struggling to keep balance in the mess of destruction, nearly on his hands and knees. "Antonio!" His voice came out weak, broken. But, just this once, he didn't care.

Because who was there to hear? The one person who could was buried under a mess of rubble, either dead or almost. And as much as the thought horrified him, it was true. There was no holding back now. His pride had been shattered, broken beyond repair.

If Antonio was dead, his pride wouldn't be the only thing broken…

His sanity…

His heart…

Pushing the thoughts away, Lovino clawed through the mess of wood with one hand, and the other clutched onto Antonio's.

Why was his hand so cold?

Cold means dead. Cold means dead. No, no, no! I'm not too late. He's not dead! He'd not fucking dead. That bastard can't be dead. Because if he is I'm going to bring him back to life to kill him again.

With his empty hand he continued to dig through the wreck. Lovino could see Antonio now, his body contorted into an awkward position, crushed, battered, broken.

So broken.

Lovino's stomach lurched as he moved the last of pieces of building. All that peaceful sleeping crap. Lies. Antonio didn't look peaceful; he didn't look like he was just goddamn asleep. Not at all. He looked dead. Simply fucking dead.

He cradled his former caretaker's head in his lap, resisting the urge to try to wake him up by slapping him or the like. "Spagna. Hey, Antonio! Get up, you bastard!"

Nothing.

"Get up, open your eyes, twitch, do something!"

Please.

Suddenly, Antonio's hand faintly grasped Lovino's. Just a light squeeze, then it slackened again. But it meant that Antonio was alive, and Lovino could ask for nothing more.

--

The first and only thing Antonio felt as he awoke was pain. So much pain. It was as if his body was being crushed by an invisible weight. So heavy, and yet it wasn't there.

He groaned, rolling slightly in an attempt to get into a more comfortable position. Yeah. That didn't work so well.

With a heavy sigh, one green eye cracked open.

White.

So much white.

Where am I?

Memories flooded his mind, so many horrible painful memories.

Madrid…

What happened to his city?

Bombs. Blood. Death.

So much death.

Is this heaven? Did I die?

A window. He had been standing at a window. There was someone…Someone he knew…Someone he loved standing outside.

Lovino.

His hand on the cold glass. Screaming. His voice. No! You can't be here! You'll get hurt! Banging on the glass. Planes…planes over head.

Lovino!

Then the world fell apart. Exploded. His house fell around him, taking him with it. Screams. More screams. His screams. Ayúdame! Por favor!

Did Lovino get caught in this?

If this is heaven…Is Lovino here too?

No, no, no!

Antonio sat bolt upright, gasping for breath. This wasn't heaven. This was a hospital room. He was alive.

But, what about Lovi? If…If Lovino…died…then he'd have no reason to live on. It would be almost as if Antonio killed him.

And then he felt it. This faint presence in his hand.

Another hand.

Antonio turned, there he was. Lovino's hand grasped Antonio's, his head resting against the rim of the bed. He was asleep.

Gracias a dios.

Leaning back against his bed, Antonio sighed, attempting to calm himself.

"Hey…Bastard…you woke me up…" Lovino started, and then his head shot up, brownish-green eyes wide open, "You…You're awake. Antonio…You're awake…!"

The Spaniard smiled, "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Although the Italian scoffed and frowned, his eyes betrayed him. Lovino looked so…happy. It was such a foreign light in the boy's eyes. Antonio would like to see it more often.

"You've been asleep, or unconscious, or whatever for two weeks. I thought…I thought you were going to die, you bastard. And you were so unhealthy because of the civil war. The doctors told me…they told me not to get my hopes up. I stayed here. Every goddamn day, hoping you would wake up. And now you decide to wake up while I'm asleep. Why couldn't you get up earlier you bastard!"

Anyone else would be insulted by the comment, but Antonio knew Lovino too well. He sat up and, albeit painfully, turned towards the younger nation. Wrapping his arms around him in a hug, Antonio whispered, "Thank you. Thank you for staying here and believing in me. You're not hurt, are you?"

Lovino's face flushed, and he refused to return the hug, "Why the hell are you worrying about me. Didn't I just tell you that you about fucking died? I'm fine."

"Can I have a hug?"

"No."

"Didn't I, and I quote, 'about fucking die'? Don't I deserve a hug for not dying?"

"I'm not hugging you."

"You know you want to. Por favor, Lovi, por favor?"

"I hate you."

But Lovino wrapped his arms around the Spaniard, anyways. Said Spaniard grinned, then placed a chaste kiss on Lovino's forehead, "Te amo, Lovi. Thank you for staying with me."

"I hate you."

And they both knew that Lovino was lying.

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Bad ending is bad? Sorry. I hope you enjoyed the story, nonetheless. Please review. :D