Hello people! This is my first story for Hetalia; I've read many, and wanted to write one before but never felt like it. I wrote this one! I actually wrote this a while ago, while I was helping my mom babysit my cousins (who are aged 18 months, 5 years and 7 years). After they went to bed, it was still a while before my aunt and uncle would be back there, so to entertain myself I wrote this! I finished it the day after, though... And have edited (and made longer) it since. Goodness, on paper it seemed like it was a lot longer that it is now! On Word, it it 2, 3 pages long... :( But I am still proud of it. :) So, hopefully you will like it!

Words: 1085

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of its characters, nor will I make any money off of this.

Waiting

Another minute passes by in the house, no sound filling the darkness expect the ticking of an old, handmade clock. But this silence was to be expected, when it was one in the morning. And, because of this, most everyone – not quite everyone, though – in the house was asleep. But the one person who was awake – the one lonely soul – was Italy – the northern half, of course – , and even though it was so late – or was it early? – he wasn't even trying to sleep.

In actuality, he was sitting by a window facing the front, alternating between reading a rather old book – it should be replaced, but it had been a gift centuries-upon-centuries ago by a dear friend so he didn't want to – and staring – no, gazing – outside.

Maybe tonight will be the night.

Now Italy is staring outside again, not even noticing time passing but feeling every second as a knife stabbing at his heart – tearing it into tiny pieces, and then into even smaller pieces, if it was even possible.

When a clock down the hallway struck two – why, time, did you have to move so fast? – it was like a bomb went off in his chest. Why did time have to be so cruel to him?

And will he come back now? Or will he have to wait even longer?

And when the clock struck three, the light he had on – which gave just enough light to see and read, but not much more – seemed to laugh at him and his hope.

He had to come back tonight; any longer and Italy's heart would just shatter. It would shatter into such small pieces that they wouldn't be able to be put back together.

Footsteps in the house almost made Italy panic – had he stayed up all night again? – before the flickering lights of fireflies outside soothed him. Germany must be thirsty, he guessed.

The war was over, but why wasn't he back yet? In fact, it had been over for a while now, so shouldn't he have been back a long time ago?

Italy was expecting Germany to not even pass by the room he was in, but evidently the light was brighter than he had thought, and Germany came closer – which he only knew because of his footsteps – like a moth to a flame.

But he didn't look over, even when Germany asked, "Italy? What are you doing up?"

"I do this every night," Italy admitted, his gaze never leaving the window. His glasses – which he only ever wears when he reads, causing him to usually not have them on in front of anyone – slip down on his nose, now too low to be useful. The world is cast into blurs, but even still he doesn't move to put them back up or even to take them off.

He should stop hoping, but for the boy he had given his first kiss to he would wait forever for.

"You do this every night?" A moment after Germany said this, Italy noted that there was shock in his voice. He just nodded, feeling numb instead of tired. Suddenly he noticed that Germany was right next to him, and wondered when he got there. Was he just that tired where he didn't notice Germany's footsteps getting closer? But before he got to wonder about this, Germany's voice fills the room as he asks, "Why do you do this?"

But he receives no answer, as Italy is gazing out the window again. (Everything is just a blur, so it won't matter how much he looks, he won't see a thing in detail.)

And he thinks that tonight must not be the night, but his hope isn't crushed. Then again, it never is, because at the end of every night his hope is still there.

"So this is why you always sleep so late," Germany wondered aloud, "and why you also take a nap in the afternoon." Italy doesn't comment, doesn't nod to show how correct the guess is but instead just reaches up to take his glasses off, placing them on top of his book. (And yet again he thinks about how he should have replaced it years ago, as you can barely read the cover ink or the side, and the ink inside is starting to fade in places. But that friend, the one who gave it to him, died, so he wanted a little piece of his friend for as long as he could.)

And Italy suddenly notes that the fireflies have stopped dancing, knows that he should go to bed, but he just can't find it in him to get up, to leave this window seat. However, he feels Germany's hand on his arm – and he tells himself to feel amused at the awkwardness in Germany's posture, the stiffness the hand somehow reads, but that he will do the next day, for now he is way too tired to even care – to get his attention. It works, though it isn't so obvious as Italy doesn't move his head or physically acknowledge it. But Italy's mind is tuned in onto Germany and whatever he might say, or as much so as his chaotic, yet numb and calm, mind can do.

"You should get to bed," Germany says, evidently concerned about Italy's health. But he was the only one who did at the moment, as Italy could, presently, care less about such a thing. Tomorrow he will, but not tonight, not under the faint moon light. Right now, the darkness hid it all, including Italy's cares, but not his hope, never his hope.

"Can I sleep in your bed?" He asks, listening as Germany sputters, stuck between his immediate answer – no, he doesn't want to and never does – but he changes his mind – Italy looks dejected, he needs the sleep, which is obvious since he actually asked to sleep in Germany's bed, which he never does – after he sees the look on Italy's face and posture, and just thinks about it.

"Fine," Germany mutters, a blush on his face. (And Italy yet again plans to be amused, but that, too, will be done the next day, which is not as far away as he thinks it is, is in fact right there.)

"Grazi, Germany," Germany says, allowing himself to be guided out of the room, the light having been turned off.

And Italy knows that tomorrow night, he will be here again. Because he will never stop waiting for his lost love.

Okay! I hope you liked it! Please leave me a review, telling me what you think and if I managed to write the characters correctly! Bye for now! :)