A/N: De-anoning another Hetalia kink meme fill I've been working on for far too long. XD (Since September 2010, eeek!) So I hope you enjoy. I'm doing something a bit different with how I'm posting this on here than I did on the meme (which was mass-post everything as I finished a decent amount), so bear with me. Some chapters will be horribly short (like this one), and others will be longer. That's the point.
All feedback, especially critique, is greatly appreciated. Also, this isn't porn, sorry. And if you couldn't pull it from the summary, here's your warning for character death.
I Dream Of Things That Never Will Be
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The best thing about dreams is that fleeting moment, when you are between asleep and awake, when you don't know the difference between reality and fantasy, when for just that one moment you feel with your entire soul that the dream is reality, and it really happened. -Unknown
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The world outside the window was on fire, red and orange and gold reflecting brightly against the glass. The leaves on the trees, already saturated with color from the chilling wind, were dyed even more magnificently in the sunset—the soft light casting sharp shadows around corners of the room. South Italy sat on the side of the bed Spain should have been occupying, watching the world flare brightly and slowly dim to darkness.
Time passed, and South Italy did not move from his spot where Spain should have been, bare feet curling into the chilled sheets—unnaturally so, it seemed, without Spain to warm them—nearly naked save for a pair of boxers, shivering slightly as the first stars peeked out through the inferno.
The stars grew more numerous and the world bled color until it had dimmed to a dull slate, and South Italy did not move.
If the world was right, Spain would have long ago burst into the room, laughing and bright with life, annoying him for a while before settling down and curling up on the bed, snoring softly, twining his limbs with his own.
But the world was not right, and Spain was not there. And South Italy did not move even as the moon began to dominate the sky, except for the occasional shiver from the growing cold. Bottles littered the floor, some broken, some half empty and slowly dripping into the soft carpet. A lamp was knocked over, and his clothes and belongings were in a crumpled mess scattered around the room.
Spain was never again going to occupy this side of the bed, his breath softly ghosting over Italy's skin, warmth seeping into the sheets and into him.
Spain was dead. He was never coming back. South Italy had seen it with his own eyes, seen his goofy (stupid, dimwitted, beautiful) face slide into nothingness, shining dust in the wind.
He fell asleep restlessly that night, on Spain's side of the bed, clutching to the sheets like a lifeline and shivering in the cold.
The next morning, when the world was once again bathed in gold, North Italy crept into his brother's room.
South Italy would not wake up.
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