A/N: Originally, this was going to be something completely different. But as I was writing, I guess somewhere along the line my hands thought of another idea and didn't let my brain in on it until I was finished. I actually don't think this story is as good as it could be, but in my defense, I wrote this real quick before I rushed out the door for work. But anyway - enjoy. :)
"Germany! Germany!" Italy called as he ran through the German's home. His head turned constantly, searching in empty rooms and down hallways for his tall, blonde friend. The itty-bitty Italian finally found him in the training room, where all the weapons and workout equipment were kept. Or, as Italy liked to call it: Hell.
A shiver of fear passed through Italy's body at the sight of all the machines meant to build muscle and boost cardio on the far left side of the room. On the right side were the weapons - some were fake and meant for practice only, and some were real, sharpened to deadly points.
Germany was on the right side of the room, standing behind a long table covered in real knives and swords of different sizes and shapes. A couple handguns were mixed up with the blades, black and bulky and menacing.
Another shiver passed through Italy, freezing his feet to the floor. Without being able to move, Italy had only one thing to do, and that was to watch. Watch as Germany picked up a double-bladed dagger and ran the length of the blade across his gloved hand. Watch as Germany's eyes shone with love as he turned the dagger over in his palm, expression soft and unguarded.
Germany's defenses were never down in public - only when he was alone with his blades and guns. Italy knew that the multitude of weapons made Germany feel safe and protected, a feeling he had almost forgotten, but the sight of the shining weapons put Italy on edge. Germany was almost too comfortable with them, loved the blades that could slice through bone with barely a catch a little too much.
Whispers filled the air as Italy crept away from the open training room door. A string of soft German words caressed Italy's ears, and he halted in place. He knew those words, even if he didn't know exactly what they meant.
Germany was singing a lullaby as he tended to his weapons.
A surge of irrational fear arose in Italy. Tears sprang to his eyes. That was the same lullaby Germany would sing to him whenever he had nightmares and couldn't get back to sleep. He would always call Germany, whether it was on the phone or in from the other room, and Germany would care for him enough that he would sing him a lullaby to help him get back to sleep. Hearing that same lullaby being whispered to weapons of destruction... Italy didn't know what to think.
He felt the hot tears travel down his cheeks before he even realized he was crying. Italy stifled his sobs with his hand as he crept forward again, poking his head around the door and searching for Germany. He had moved on to the guns, picking up the smallest and running his fingers lovingly over the surface.
The look in Germany's eyes made Italy's stomach turn. Unbidden images surged forward in the Italian's mind. Images from the many wars he'd fought in - from the many wars he'd lost. He felt the phantom pressure of a gun barrel being pressed against his forehead, and Italy jerked backwards, bringing his hands up to shield his face. A cry of fear escaped his lips, the hot tears increasing as his body quaked with fear and the gruesome memories.
Hands on his body. Cool, leather-covered hands gripped his small biceps and shook him gently. The tears increased, the heat from the shameful emotion burning through him.
"Italy," a soft, familiar voice called. "Italy, what is the matter?"
A hiccup escaped through Italy's lips. His cries of surrender and pleas filled the once-empty hall. But then there was a body pressing against him. A body that should have felt so familiar yet felt so foreign. Warm hands held him close, wrapping around his small frame and plastering him helplessly against the other body.
That lullaby. It was being whispered in his ear. Italy wanted to run away and cry, wanted to yell and shout, wanted to demand what those words meant. But that only thing he could do was grip Germany tighter - because he knew it was Germany. It was always Germany who came to his rescue - and cry harder into his chest.
As the lullaby came to a close, Italy's tears dried up, staining the black of Germany's tank top a darker hue. The two nations stood there, Germany waiting patiently for Italy to say something stupid like always, and Italy waiting patiently for Germany to ask what was wrong.
They stood like that for what felt like hours, Italy's fear slowly draining from his body. His grip tightened around Germany, already having forgot why he was holding him.
A/N: Sorry for the abrupt ending, but I actually enjoyed writing this. Italy is so adorable when he's afraid. Thank you for reading, I hope you liked it, and please don't forget to review and favorite. :)