This is probably going to be terribly historically inaccurate, but I have tried my best to be. There is most likely going to be 6 - 7 chapters in entirety. The first in a series of fics I've been planning for a long while now. Rated M for themes and World War II.

I do not own any of the characters of Hetalia. I'm only playing around with them.

I.

"I took a deep breath…"

Feliciano squirmed in his new, freshly pressed uniform, the young Italian constantly adjusting his sleeves. Glowing honey brown eyes stared into themselves in a mirror, the anxiety and fear almost visible in them. He looked older than he was, the crisp hems and hardy green material outlining his youthful body. If he were honest, he hated it. Hated it all.

He hated the uniform, how unnatural it felt on his frame.

He hated the war, how people were dying for a cause they didn't know the truth of.

He hated that man, Musso-

"Stop fidgeting fratello," grumbled Lovino, Feliciano's older brother, swatting at his brother's arm as he walked into the room. "They don't tolerate fidgeting in the army you bastard."

Feliciano startled at the sound of his brother's voice, half thinking that it was the infamous Blackshirts, come to arrest him for his treacherous thoughts. "Oh, it's just you Lovi," he sighed, letting a shallow chuckle escape him as he plastered a smile on his face. "I thought you were the soldiers coming to take me away, ve."

Lovino narrowed his eyes, leaning on the wall next to the expensive mirror Feliciano was standing in front of. Feliciano felt his brother's glare pierce his soul. "Of course not, stupid. And don't you think that for a second that you're fooling me Feli-I know you like my own mind."

Feliciano turned to face Lovino, forcing his smile to remain. Internally he was screaming. "What do you mean Lovi? You know it's a great honour to be serving."

Lovino scoffed, "Cut the bullshit Feli. I know you want this less than I want our tomato plants to die. You can't kill a fly without crying. How will you kill a man? Plus, I'm worried about you." The last part of Lovino's outburst was mumbled, as if he were reluctant to let his younger brother know he cared. "It should've been me."

Feliciano's eyes widened. 'What? Lovi, no! I've already told you-got conscripted and you didn't and I can't tell you how relieved I was! I can't imagine what I'd do if you were killed-"

"Exactly idiota! I don't want my only brother to die for a fascist country!" Lovino yelled. "Grandpa doesn't want it either! Hell, he tried going in your place! Bastards turned him away! Too old, they said. Let your grandson bring glory to your name. Glory! As if killing has any honour! Those fuckers!"

Feliciano flinched. Lovino heaved. "I'm the older one. I should've been picked."

Feliciano sighed, raising a hand to lay on Lovino's shoulder. "It's your asthma Lovi. You know you wouldn't have made it very far." He smiled weakly, the earlier wide smile long gone. "But luckily I'm all healthy so I can go for you!"

A dry laugh came from Lovino, alongside a shake of the head.

"I'll be okay fratello," Feliciano reassured his brother. "I'll survive and come back to you and Grandpa. I can't leave you both alone! Dio forbid that! You'll drive each other nuts!" Feliciano giggled. "And who will sing to the tomato plants? You sure won't, what with you being too shy."

"I am not too shy! You just enjoy singing to them!" Lovino spluttered. The redness in his cheeks begged otherwise.

Steps rang in the hallway, the simple wooden door opening to reveal a tall, rugged older man. His curly brown hair was streaked with grey, wrinkles lining his warm eyes and olive skin. "What is this I hear about singing?" his voice was deep and booming, full of life and with that tone that everybody listens to.

A genuine smile burst on Feliciano's face. "Grandpa! Lovino's too shy to sing to the tomato plants!"

"Ah , I see! Well that's no good!" Grandpa exclaimed, striding over to this oldest grandson, gesturing to Lovino's throat. "He has the Vargas voice! Armies have stopped for the Vargas voice! Legions of women have swooned for the Vargas voice! Kings have clamored for the Vargas voice! Don't be shy about it m'boy!"

Feliciano laughed as he watched Lovino groan as their grandfather slung a large arm around him.

The Vargas you see, were a very musical family in that several generations had been part of the Eidelstein Opera House in Florence. Romulus Vargas himself was the primo uomo at the establishment for well over twenty years before retiring. He had met his wife there, then having a daughter, who later became the prima donna in her adulthood. She was a beautiful woman, with long brown hair and shining honey eyes. The only thing that could have matched her wit and snark was her singing skills. She met her own husband there, who just happened to be her promo uomo. They'd married young, (her refusing to take his name) and had their first child a year after.

Lovino was two years old when Feliciano was born.

And they were happy.

Until, after one of their parent's performances, their car lost control and crashed, killing both instantly. Feliciano, at a mere six years of age, did not understand.

Devastated, Romulus took in his grandsons as his own, determined to raise them right. Lovino and Feliciano had lived with their grandfather ever since, now flourishing into adulthood at 22 and 19 years of age respectfully.

Lovino was well on his way on becoming a journalist, with Feliciano giving small performances at the Eidelstein Opera House like his mother before him, studying to be a vocal coach. Romulus settled in his retirement, singing occasionally at the street corner when he felt like it.

And they were happy.

Until the war broke out.

Feliciano could still hear the radio announcement in his mind, could still remember the cold, heavy, dread that had settled in his stomach as the announcer gravely said that France and Britain had declared war on Germany after Germany refused to withdraw from Poland. He could still hear Lovino curse, his grandfather's gasp of disbelief, deep voice asking if it was a joke.

It wasn't a cruel joke, they later found out. But surely nothing would happen in Italy-right?

Nothing changed at first, the days going by as usual.

Feliciano would go down to the opera house to meet with Mr Roderich Eidelstein to practice his piece for his first official performance. Mr Eidelstein was still a young man, not too much older than Feliciano, but he carried himself as if he were older than his years. He scared Feliciano if he were being honest. He'd only met him a grand total of three times, and the man had forgotten his name all three.

His maid and assistant, a lovely Hungarian woman named Elizaveta, had to remind Roderich of his name. She was good friends with Feliciano, and his happy go lucky personality worked well with her strong willed wit. She always had a look of mischief on her face, her beautiful features raised in a smirk or all knowing smile. And she was quite beautiful, with long brown hair, dazzling green eyes and a nice figure. It was a small wonder that she hadn't been married yet, and when Feliciano had asked one day out of curiosity, she'd only responded with a sly wink.

"Hey Feli! Want to go into town for some bread?" Elizaveta would ask him every Wednesday, the day the baker would be selling fresh loaves in the city market.

"Of course Miss Elizaveta!" he would then answer, skipping alongside the shorter woman on their way to the market, singing some song he would happen to remember.

"See you next Wednesday Feli," Elizaveta would say once the bread was bought, heading towards Mr Eidelstein's large house in the downtown of the city.

Feliciano would wave her goodbye, shouting, "Bye Miss Elizaveta! Ciao!"

Back at Feliciano's house, in their backyard garden, Lovino's and his tomato plants were still growing strong, although Lovino still refused to sing to them.

"Why don't you sing Lovi?" Feliciano asked one day as he pruned the plants branches. "I've heard you sing. You have a wonderful voice, ve."

His brother grunted, getting up from his crouch and dusting the soil off of his pants. "I'm not going to sing for plants," he said. He walked over to their little water pump, reaching for a bucket to fill.

Feliciano shook his head, rolling his eyes. "I meant why don't you sing at all, ve?"

"Ha! I'll sing when there's something worthy of singing," Lovino scoffed. "I'm not like you, you'd sing for an ant-or for a sunbeam."

Feliciano smiled. "Yes I would," he happily claimed, turning his attention back to the tomato plant he was tending to. He heard Lovino sigh deeply behind him, his smile only widening. "I'd bet you'd sing for Antonio," he teased.

Lovino tensed up, arms locking beside him, fists clenching tightly. He whipped around to his brother, knocking the bucket, half full, onto the ground. Feliciano saw his face burst into a flaming red, his eyes aflame. "What does that mean you bastard?" he growled.

"Nothing. Just that you like him enough to sing is all, ve."

Feliciano laughed, moving to avoid Lovino's raining fists.

Antonio Carriedo was a close family friend from Spain. He was loud, outspoken, cheerful and had a knack for getting under the older Vargas brother's skin. Lovino would call him stupid, but Feliciano knew that Antonio had a good head on his shoulders. He was a salesman, and had a shop in Feliciano's town he checked up on every three months or so. He usually stayed for a month before leaving to Spain again. Antonio was also the only person that had ever gotten Lovino to sing for anybody other than family, and Feliciano never let him forget about it. Lovino claimed to not be able to stand the man, hissing curses when anybody mentioned him.

However, Feliciano had noticed that there was something different about his brother's and Antonio's relationship, something almost tender in the way Lovino looked at the Spaniard, how his brother smiled more around him, how he was kinder, although he probably hadn't realized it. Not to mention the sheer undisguised affection in Antonio's own gaze. The Spanish man had aways been very open in his affections, fawning over the older Vargas brother every time he visited. He never failed to give Lovino a long hug at his departure, though Lovino always grumbled and tried to push him away. Feliciano wasn't fooled though. He had seen their soft touches when they thought no one was watching. He noticed how they both conveniently disappeared for long periods of time. Feliciano was pretty sure of what was happening, but he didn't dare say anything to his brother, lest he ruin something beautiful. He could tell they were happy, in their own strange way.

His grandfather still went into town and flirted with the women and sang there, a common occurrance in their part of town. Even if the ladies no longer took him seriously much, his rich voice filled the streets in a beautiful serenade.

Feliciano still went on long walks through the countryside, taking in the beauty of the Italian landscape. He loved taking a canvas and easel out there and painting for a couple hours, lovingly capturing the curves of the hills and the details on the leaves as they swayed in the wind.

He'd always been told he had a gift for the fine arts, and he really did love drawing and painting, but singing was his first love. Singing was his everything, it was his passion, his joy. He loved to make people happy through song, and he liked it for making him feel connected to his parents. When he sang it was just him and his voice, the wonderful feeling of the notes resonating in his throat pulling his lips into a wide grin. Singing was calming to him, and Feliciano often found humming or softly singing a song to himself when he was scared or nervous helped his nerves.

It seemed to Feliciano that all was still right in his part of the world, the reassurance that nothing would change settling into his bones.

Everything is going to be alright, he had thought.

Then Mussolini made an alliance with the Germans, officially making Italy part of the Axis powers. Which meant that Italy was officially part of the war.

Which meant a draft.

It was a Tuesday when the notice came. It looked as innocent as a it could have, a plain envelope bearing the military crest, addressed to one Feliciano Vargas.

He remembered holding it in his shaking hands, hoping, praying, that it wasn't what he thought it was, what he knew it was. The dread in his stomach became fear when he read the words on the letter, asking him to report to so and so base by this one day during the next few weeks. And he knew the consequences for abandonment. He could not avoid this, no matter how much he wanted to.

He remembered walking through his front door, his grandfather and Lovino greeting him from their kitchen as Grandpa was cooking pasta. Lovino caught sight of the letter in his brother's fist.

"What's that Feliciano?" he'd asked.

Feliciano just looked up at him with sad eyes, the fear threatening to overflow, tears already stinging his eyes. A sob escaped him. "I got drafted," he whispered.

The pan in Grandpa's arms clanged as it hit the floor, sending tomato sauce flying across the tiles. It was unsettling at how quickly his grandfather's face dropped in horror.

"No," Grandpa whispered. "Please no. It must be a mistake, oh please."

"I have to get to the nearest camp by next week," Feliciano whimpered. His grandfather quickly brought him into a hug, Feliciano burying his face into his warm shoulder. "At least it was not any of you," he said softly.

Lovino had been staring at his fork with great concentration while Feliciano spoke, no reaction passing his drawn face. "Are...are you fucking with us?" he slowly asked, face twisting with anger. He stood, aggressively getting into his brother's face, "Are you? I swear to Dios Feli if you are-!" he grabbed the letter from his hand, flattering it. His green hazel eyes scanned the page, looking for something.

"Lovino? What are you doing Lovi? You're kinda scaring me," Feliciano asked, reaching a shaking hand to his elder brother. He lightly touched his shoulder, surprised when the moodier man let him. "Lovino?"

That's when he noticed that his brother was crying.

Something deep in Feliciano broke, not remembering the last time Lovino had cried. Lovino was strong, he was unshakable, he was unbreakable. He was the one who chased away bullies, the one that sang away nightmares, he who was not afraid of anything. Nothing could touch his amazing big brother. And yet here he was, hunched over and crying, defeated by printed lines on a single piece of paper.

"It should've been me," Lovino whispered. "It should've been me."

Elizaveta didn't meet up with him the following Wednesday. So he went to look for her. When he found Elizaveta, she was dull eyed, sitting on the doorsteps of Mr Eidelstein's impressive house.

"Feli," she said softly, so much that he had to strain to hear her. "Sorry I forgot our bread trip."

He shook his head. "No it's okay Miss Elizaveta. Are..." he faltered at her tearstained face. "Are you alright Miss?"

Elizaveta shook no. "I've heard you were drafted."

The fear that had taken root of Feliciano the week before returned. His breathing quickened. "Yes, I was."

"I'm sorry," she answered. Her voice had broken, clearly on the brink of tears. Feliciano sat down next to her, wrapping an arm around her.

"I'll come back," he assured. He smiled. "We have our bread trips to go on. Can't miss those!"

The laugh that escaped her throat was dry and humourless, fitting in the current situation. "When are you leaving?" she asked.

Feliciano swallowed. "Tomorrow morning," he said. Saying it out loud gave it such a finality to it, the reality settling in his heart heavily. He looked back at the expensive home that belonged to Mr Roderich Eidelstein. The flowers on the windowsill were starting to wilt and now that Feliciano really looked, there seemed to be no signs of life inside the house. This, and the fact that Elizaveta was outside pointed to the fact that he was not there at all.

"Where did he go?" he asked. "He's usually here at this time. Is he at the theatre?"

She lifted her tired gaze to him, her hair tumbling across her face. Her mouth pressed into a thin line. "He's gone away."

Feliciano's face scrunched up in confusion. "Where?"

"He couldn't stay here. He is a Jew," Elizaveta whispered. "They are not kind to Jews. He could not stay."

"Oh," was all he could say. He had spouted something about his grandfather needing some help in their garden and got up. He started to walk away, but paused. He turned back at her hunched form. "Goodbye Miss Elizaveta," he said. "I do so hope to see you again one day."

A lone tear fell down her cheek. "Me too Feliciano," she reached into her pocket, pulling out a handkerchief. "Until we meet again Feli." She rose to hand the piece of cloth to the Italian, Feliciano taking it. He folded it and placed it on his heart.

"Thank you," he said, choking up, fat tears starting to stream down his face. He turned away, walking briskly towards his house. Behind him, Elizaveta let her composure go, the sound of her sobbing echoing in Feliciano's ears.

I have to get home, he thought. He broke into a run, running past familiar buildings and streets. The sound of his feet hitting the paved streets seemed louder than it was. He ran wildly, not even noticing that he'd passed his house. He only stopped when his lungs burned and his legs screamed in agony. He doubled over, hands on his knees, panting hard. Sweat lined his forehead, his hair sticking to his skin. He righted himself, looking around to see where he had ended up in. He was dead centre in the city square, in full view of the city hall. There, he could see the Italian flag fly, and alongside it was a new flag, the one which represented the Socialist Nationalist Party. It's jarring red and black engulfed Feliciano's vision, filling it so he could see nothing else. People were milling around him, some sparing judgemental glances at him. They acted like nothing was wrong. As if there was no war. As if Feliciano's world wasn't crumbling into pieces.

They don't care.

That was the moment Feliciano realized that everything in his small world had changed. With a sinking feeling, he knew that nothing would be the same again. Tearing his sight from the flag, he stormed out of the square, heading for his house, towards his family, towards his last night of peace.