If there hadn't been any major tragedies (say, no motorway pile-ups or no public shootouts in some city square somewhere) then at some point in the early hours of the morning, the hospital lost its business of the daytime and fell quiet. Anybody who was awake would say that it was eerie or frightening, but for doctors and nurses and patients alike, the peace was well appreciated. It meant that everybody could finally get some much-needed sleep.

However, it could naturally be expected that some of the patients, the ones who had been through horrible and traumatic events to land themselves there in the first place, would have some trouble drifting off to Dreamland. Especially those who had already been through more than any person could bear beforehand.

Italy awoke with a start.

The ward was dark, but far from pitch black: the lights in the corridor were still on and leaked light into the room, casting stretched shadows across the wall and floor. He could make out the hunched shapes of some of the other patients who were in the beds near his, but couldn't make out any specific details on any of them apart from that they were all still asleep and probably would be until the sun poked its head over the horizon.

He was glad his bed was the one nearest the window, even if it meant he had to look out at that freaky sniggering moon with the blood dripping out of its teeth. Had he been able to stand, he would have opened it and leaned out to feel the cool night air on his face.

But as it was, he was stuck with his legs in the air. Nothing to do but sleep and wait until Germany came to visit him in the morning. He didn't want to think very much because he knew that no matter what he did, no matter how much he tried to avoid it, his mind would return to the nightmarish events of a month and a half ago.

At least he was getting out soon.

He closed his eyes and tried to get back to sleep, hoping against hope that he wouldn't have any more dreams tonight.

He had to do this. If he didn't, he would never be forgiven. It was painful – perhaps the most painful thing he had ever done – but the alternative was much worse.

Italy straightened his tie and jacket. Even with what he was about to do, the things he was about to say, Germany would still complain if he allowed himself to be untidy in his presence.

He clenched and unclenched his fists, cursing himself for his persistent lack of courage.

"Italy?"

He was here.

Italy didn't turn to look at him. This was hard enough as it was without having to see the look on his face.

"Italy, I received your message," said Germany, who was probably wondering why his friend was standing so stiffly and refusing to turn to face him. "Now would you mind telling me what this is all about?"

After a small and fearful gulp, he took a deep breath.

"I'm not your friend anymore, Germany," he said.

Without looking, he could tell that the larger man was confused.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded. "Are you not part of the Axis Powers-?"

"No," said Italy. "No, I-I'm not."

Keeping his eyes closed to avoid looking into Germany's, he turned around to face him.

"I don't want to fight with you anymore," he said. "I don't want to be part of the Axis anymore. Tomorrow I'm going to go and join the Allies, and I'm sorry, but there's nothing you can do to talk me out of it, and I don't ever want to see you again."

He felt himself seized by the shoulders as Germany began to shake him furiously.

"What the hell are you talking about?!" he almost yelled. "You are part of the mighty Axis who will dominate the entirety of the world once this war is finished! Do you not want to be one of the most powerful nations on the face of the earth? And you promised that you were my friend and that you were going to stay my friend forever! Have you forgotten about that?!"

"I could-"

"What? You could what? What is the meaning of this, Italy? Tell me!"

Italy sniffed. It was taking all of his self-control to avoid bawling his eyes out.

"I could never be friends with some potato-sucking kraut," he choked.

Germany gasped in shock and horror. Italy wished he had never been born as he shook off the larger man's grip and turned his face away.

"I'm sorry, Germany," he said. "Goodbye."

And with that, he walked away, trying hard and still failing to hide the shaking of his shoulders as he quietly sobbed.

"Fine!" he heard Germany shout. "Leave! Go and join the enemy! I do not care one little bit; I could find a better ally than you any day! Maybe one who isn't a snivelling coward who constantly stinks of garlic and cries like a baby over every tiny little thing! So go! But don't you dare think I'll come looking for you once this war is over!"

Italy didn't look back. Not even once.

"Italy?"

For a moment he feared that he had returned to the moment; the moment he had torn his own heart out of his chest, metaphorically speaking. But as he opened his eyes and blinked in the suddenly bright light, he realised that while it was still daytime, the air smelt of soap and hospital floor disinfectant and he was lying down on clean sheets of purest white.

And somebody was holding his hand. Not tightly, but securely – tenderly, almost as a lover would.

The fingers under his own were familiar, dry yet soft, gentle and yet strong. He rubbed them with his thumb, thankful for the familiar feeling of protection and peace that they brought, and looked up into the bright blue eyes of the man to whom the hands belonged.

"Guten morgen, Italy," said Germany with a faint smile. "Did you sleep well?"

"Ve~ I slept okay, I guess," Italy replied. "I had a really strange dream though."

"A dream?"

"Si."

"What about?"

Italy gulped, suddenly frightened about admitting the truth.

"Do you remember the day, back in the Second World War, when I told you that I was going to leave you and go and join the Allies?" he asked.

"How could I forget?" Germany asked. "How could I forget the day my only friend told me that he never wanted to see me again? You betrayed me. Double crossed me. I still don't know why you would do such a thing."

"Ve~ please don't be too angry at me, Germany!" cried Italy. "Please, try to understand, it was my b- my boss. He got really scared and he wanted me to defect and join the other side, but to tell you the truth I really didn't want to because I didn't like them very much and I really didn't want to leave Germany and-"

He was silenced by a gentle finger resting upon his blubbering lips.

"I would only be a fool if I held a grudge," said Germany. "Especially against such a person as you."

Italy heaved a sigh of relief, and as he gazed into the big man's brilliant blue eyes, he wondered if his heart was going to burst out of his chest.

"Grazie," he said. "You know, for so long I was afraid that you didn't-"

"You were afraid," Germany interrupted as he lowered his finger. "I suppose I should not have been surprised when you chose to leave me, but could you not have found a less painful way to break off our alliance?"

Italy's smile faltered and quickly fell.

"I was told that if I made you hate me, it wouldn't hurt as much to leave you," he explained in a quiet voice which was cracked around the edges. "If I made you angry at me, you wouldn't miss me and I wouldn't miss you as much as I would if I'd tried to be nice. Ve~ you don't still hate me, do you?"

Germany gave his hand a light squeeze.

"I never could," he replied. "I'm not that kind of person. By the way, the doctors tell me that you will be discharged the day after tomorrow."

"Ve~ fantastic!" Italy cried happily. "I just hope they don't notice your-"

"Sir?"

Germany looked back at the doctor who was tapping on his shoulder, clearly already knowing what he was about to say.

"Sir, would you allow us to examine your back?" he asked.