Italy thanked the woman who escorted him to his dreary destination, then proceeded to go to the hospital where his friends were. He never realized there was a police officer walking with him to the hospital to ensure that the nation didn't try anything. Italy requested approval to visit Francis Bonnefoy, Arthur Kirkland, Matthew Williams, Alfred Jones, Ivan Braginski, Yao Wang, Kiku Honda, and, although he nearly started bawling when he said it, Ludwig Beilschmidt. He was granted the approval, although they threatened to search the bundle. Italy showed them his identification and they grudgingly allowed him and his bundle into the rooms. Italy managed to walk into the first room without breaking down and running out crying. He saw France and England, the most injured out of everyone, excepting maybe one man, lying asleep on two hospital beds. England's blanket had fallen off, and Italy could see the extent of the damage his 'friend' had done to the older country. He immediately began to feel guilty, but he felt worse when he noticed Canada sitting next to France, holding his hand. He looked at the Italian curiously. America was holding England's hand in his bandaged fingers. Fortunately, most of America's injuries couldn't be seen by the brunette's eyes. He sighed, thanking God for that, before opening the bundle and lifting out an extremely detailed clay hibiscus flower, which he had colored. Italy attached a small note to the hibiscus before proceeding to take out the other clay flowers. A tudor rose for England, a peony for France, and last, but not least, a red poppy with maple leaves coming out of the stem. Canada's was probably the hardest to make, since Italy didn't know the young country very well. He attached notes to them, too. He looked at England, memories clouding his mind.

Italy could hear the sound of huge bombs, screams of pain echoing in his ears. A taller man with blond hair raised the receiver away from Italy's face and lifted it to his own. Italy, glad for the receiver being taken from him, buried his face in his palms.

"Must I ask for this now, or perhaps tomorrow is a better date?"

Italy could still hear the other side of the conversation, and what he heard shook him worse than the screams of pain he could still hear, even though they were long dead.

"No surrender, I can't surrender, no su-" A pained voice replied, hoarse and obviously labored. It was cut off by the sound of a screaming man. Italy's eyes welled with tears and he covered his ears and hummed 'Bella Ciao' to himself.

England, I'm so sorry. Not that it matters now. Italy thought, placing the clay rose on the table closest to the Briton. He looked over at America, who's eyes had cracked open slightly. England's face had gone grey and America's brow was furrowed, even in his sleep.

"This shouldn't have happened! Why are you doing this? It's not your war to partake in!" Italy was almost begging the blond to stop fighting.

Instead, the blond looked at him. His once vibrant, clear blue eyes were dull and hazy behind his glasses. Slowly, carefully, he lifted his hand, allowing a thin trickle of crimson to drip down his arm, then to drip to the floor at his elbow. He stared at Italy, who was unable to say anything.

"This is my fight as much as it is yours. I've lost just as much as you have, and I'm not letting myself leave the battlefield simply because it's 'not my fight'."

America, if only you knew. 'If only' isn't going to fix this. It's your fault, Feli, you didn't try to stop him. You let a murderer run free. Italy pulled his hand up to smack himself upside the head before he felt a hand on his arm. Canada had woken up completely now, and had stopped the Italian from hitting himself. Italy looked into Canada's purple-blue eyes, unable to look away.

A small boat was poised next to a battleship, by no means safe. There could not have been a moment's calm, a moment's prayer, as the hull of the ship was destroyed by a catastrophic explosion. Lights could be seen, crimson red. Sirens could be heard, loud and clear, slicing through the air. Yells erupted as what was hundreds of men worked to stay alive. The small boat revved it's engine and sped off into the distance, a red and white flag fluttering in the breeze. The battleship sunk behind it, forgotten momentarily.

"Ve~, don't be silly." Italy muttered to himself.

"Are you all right?" Canada whispered, as not to wake the others up.

"What? Ve~, I'm perfectly fine!" Italy smiled brightly, his innermost sadness concealed.

"Is it all right if I go back to sleep?"

"Of course! I'm sorry to have woken you up, I'll be quieter. But, do me a favor and don't tell anyone I left these." Italy's smile disappeared as soon as the Canadian's eyes were shut.

He looked at the thin and pale man that was France, one of his best friends. He could see the yellowing bandages which showed his burns, long gashes from the trenches covering his chest, which had yet to heal. He fought off tears, remembering how his friend had been forced to surrender after his country was forced to host some of the bloodiest battles, eventually being torn apart.

Italy looked at the singular man lying on the floor of the 'room'. His wrists were raw and bleeding where the offending metal hung. He was pale, his blond hair lying half-hazardly around his head. He was sprawled out across the filthy surface. A singular word was painted on the wall and in Italy's mind in the only thing France had at his disposal there and then. Italy peered at the word, making it out through the darkness. Even in the blackness, Italy could tell the one word that was written in the lifeblood of the man who had been like his father after Papa Rome left.

"VICHY." He read.

This is my fault… I should've been able to stop that murderer, but when I wanted to, it was far too late to help anyone. Italy picked up the peony up for a moment, making sure that he had put red, white, and green on it so that France would know who it was from.

He left, closing the door silently behind him before heading out into the hallway with his now smaller bundle, making sure nothing had broken off or cracked. He smiled sadly when nothing had, knowing that he couldn't continue to prolong the visit that he was dreading. Deciding to skip that visit for now, Italy went into the next room. He saw Russia lying on his bed, China right next to him. Italy had always been afraid of the Russian, but China had always been nice to him. He opened the bundle again, this time removing two clay flowers. One was a sunflower, for Russia. It was painted yellow, a small bumblebee on the tip of one petal painted there. The second was a plum blossom, for China. Italy had taken great care when painting this the lightest pink he could mix, putting small red dots where they were on the painting he had to purchase so he knew what the flower should look like. Except for one petal, which was painted yellow to show China that he had a piece of Russia. Italy had originally thought he could never forgive the Russian after what he had done to…

"Allow me to light this more, da?" Russia asked, swirling the fluid around in its jar.

"Stop! Stop! You know he can't fight back, why are you doing this?" A silver-haired man had come to defend someone.

"He had his only chance!" The second nation was betrayed by his southern accent.

"He can't even stand!" Prussia flicked his fingers to his holster, angry and hoping to help him… "If-" He jerked backwards, looking shocked that he had a blossoming crimson stain appearing across his chest.

Prussia toppled backwards, one hand over the wound, the other still grasping the gun. It flew out of his suddenly limp fingers, landing several inches away from the body. His eyes were wide, unseeing. The second figure stowed his gun away.

"Let's get back to business, Berlin won't burn itself for us, now will it?"

Italy sighed, flinching when it came out as a hoarse wheeze. He tied the notes onto their respective flowers before leaving. He opened the next door, flinching and almost sobbing when he saw the lone figure.

Japan's lips were cracked and dry as they sucked in air, the thick bandages coating his chest colored light pink as the immense amount of blood was being absorbed. Hang on, Japan, for me Italy thought, desperate. He pulled out two flowers. One was a pink rose, the other a cherry blossom. He placed the rolled up slip of paper into the rose's center before sitting on the floor next to his friend.

Italy was nearly sobbing, wailing into a receiver.

"Japan! Japan, what do I do? He's-He's bleeding and it's-it's all my fault! I should've been able to do something!"

Italy heard a tired sigh from Japan's end of the line. "Itaria, I'm sorry, I can't-"

There was a crackling sound, and Italy almost collapsed to the ground, sobbing. "Japan, are you there? Is everything okay?"

"Itaria, you have to stay on the line! Something is wrong, I don't know whether or not Russia has broken through the lines or-GYAH!"

A nearly-bloodcurdling scream was heard from Japan's end. Italy shuddered, freaking out on the inside. The line was overwhelmed by static before going completely dead.

"Kiku! Kiku, can you hear me?"

No one could, no one did hear Italy.

Italy felt a tear make its way down his face. He stood up a bit too quickly, making the room spin a little. He picked up the last of his bundle, running to find the last didn't expect the wave of emotions he was feeling to consume him all at once when he saw Germany. His 'friend' was covered in yellowing bandages, his eyes flitting around under his eyelids, searching for an unseen ally. Italy remembered his last few minutes with the German all too well.

Green, bloody, stained fabric. That's all Italy could register in his mind. Not the man in front of him as his friend, that would never index.

The ice-blue eyed blond staring at him was nothing but a murderer.

"Italy, listen to me. I won't hurt you, trust-"

"Trust you? You won't hurt me? You mean like you didn't hurt everyone else! You're the reason that everyone is gone or going to die!" Italy was referring to the nations he had found, unconscious and bleeding.

"Italy, please, just-"

"Just what, Germany? Just sit back and take it while you beat the other countries into submission? You're a murderer! I trusted you, and look where that got me! Stay away from me, Germany. Just, stay away." Italy cut him off, his voice sharp.

"Feliciano, please-"

Italy's hand fell to the holster at his side. He didn't want to use the standard-issue military pistol that Benito Mussolini had given him. Italy didn't even notice when the gun was pointed at his breaking 'friend', the tears falling through his eyelashes, blurring his vision, and making him back into a wall. He backed toward the door slowly, making sure he made it through the doorway before turning and bolting. This was nothing but lies. Lies, lies, lies. That's all. Italy thought, flinging his head down towards a bush and throwing up the contents of his stomach. There was not much, but he wished that he could have just shot Germany with the special bullets given to him by France and moved on with his life.

"Why did you do it, Doitsu? I trusted you. I understood you could tell me the truth. But I guess I would feel worse if your demise was weighing on my shoulders." Italy muttered, placing the clay forget-me-not on the bedside table, the note rolled up and tied to it. He returned to Japan's room, remembering the red tulip necklace Italy had bought him. He carefully clicked it around Japan's neck, smiling when it sparkled.