The first thing Italy noticed upon waking was a startlingly strong burning desire for pasta.
It was strange, the little boy mused as he rolled out of bed and began seeking appropriate articles of clothing. Usually, the urge to eat his all-time favorite food wasn't nearly as all-encompassing. Squinting against the sunlight streaming down through his window, Italy hunted down a pair of socks and pulled them onto his feet. The floors were cold this early, after all, and even if they weren't, then he would still wear them. His affinity for socks was only exceeded by his affinity for pasta.
With sleep still fogging up his mind and turning his limbs to lead, Italy trudged into the hallway, where he was greeted with an exuberant Hungary.
"I fixed the bathtub!" she practically sang by way of greeting. "Mister Austria offered to help, but I said no thank you. Otherwise, we might not even have a bathtub anymore, yes?"
Italy answered with a bright smile. It was morning, yes, but with someone as perky as Hungary around, how could he feel lethargic?
"So, I was thinking," Hungary continued, "Since we have the bathtub back, we ought to wash some clothes, yes? To celebrate not having to launder anything in the stream anymore. What do you say, dear? Would you mind fetching me some water from the well?"
Italy nodded twice enthusiastically and skipped off without waiting for any further instructions. If he had turned around, he would see Hungary leaning on the windowsill and gazing out into the sky, appreciating the beautiful day. Of course, he didn't see it, as he was enthusiastically dashing off to perform errands.
Once outside, Italy slowed down a little. It was so lovely out! The whole world was decked out in vibrant, pretty colors—powdery white clouds decorating pastel blue skies over deep green grass dotted with blush-pink flowers.
The flowers were so lovely and bright; looking at them made Italy want to abandon his task and just frolic around in the open field before him.
But he could not, he reminded himself, picking up the pace a little. He was hungry. The delicious dish he craved probably could not be found running around in nature. And even if it could be, did he really want to hunt and kill a wild pasta?
Lost in thought, Italy trotted down the worn path to the well. It wasn't long before he rounded the final bend in the path and perked up at the sight of a nearby diminutive form.
"Good morning, Holy Roman Empire," Italy greeted. "By any chance, do you know if pasta is an animal?"
Holy Rome's eyes went wide and he whirled around. "Italy! I didn't, um, didn't see you there."
Italy made a face at him. "You didn't answer my question."
"Yes, because I have no clue what you're talking about," Holy Rome retorted.
"Well, I was just wondering if pasta could be found in the wild," Italy began, walking over to the well and releasing the bucket. "And I was thinking, wouldn't that be awful? Having to wrestle and kill your own pasta? So I kind of wanted to find some out here but it would probably get chilly before I found anything, because I feel like pastas would be good at being elusive. What do you think?"
Holy Rome didn't really know what to say to that. "Um," he finally managed, "Just… don't worry about it, Italy. If you really want pasta, there's some just inside, no need for—"
Smiling, Italy turned back to the well and began winching up the bucket. "Oh, thank you, that's right, I had nearly forgotten about that! Well, I'm sure Mr. Austria won't mind, right Holy Rome?"
He turned around, but his conversational partner was nowhere to be found. "Holy Rome?" he tried again. There was still no response.
Holy Rome watched from behind a tree— indeed, the only tree for yards— as Italy, laden with a full bucket, shrugged off his disappearance and began tottering back home.
Italy wasn't too sure how his beautiful morning had ended up like this. He rolled over on his bed, pulling a pillow over his eyes. The noontime sun wasn't beautiful, he thought, it was more painfully bright.
The scenery had been so lovely earlier, too. As he slowly, slowly returned home, he couldn't help but notice the way the sun set off the white walls, how the house itself looked when framed with lush grass and bright sky. It was more apparent in hindsight, though, because with each step he took towards the house, his plan for finding pasta developed further. He knew there wasn't any fresh pasta in the house from experience, but there certainly was dried pasta, contrary to what Mr. Austria had explicitly told him.
So from there he wobbled with the heavy bucket down to the kitchen, where he set it down and started scanning the pantry. After a minute or two— and Hungary wouldn't even know, would she? — he discovered his prize, a large bowl of some sort that held a small amount of dry pasta.
Italy's little fingers clenched around the container, and he yanked it out of the food storage area with no small amount of glee.
From there, he wasn't sure how things had gone wrong, but the next thing he noticed was a chilly sensation soaking into his socks, and from there it got worse. How had he managed to spill the water?, he wondered.
His memory began to falter after that— all he could recall was that Mr. Austria had come marching in from his music room, took away his prize, gave him a scolding to remember, and tossed poor little Italy back into his bedroom.
His musings were interrupted by the smallest of knocks on his door— more of a tap, really. Italy hopped down from his bed and went to investigate.
But outside his door, there was no one to be found. The only things that were out of place were an open window and a cheerfully colored bowl full of dried pasta.
His mood immediately brightened. "Thank you!" he called quietly, before retreating back into his room with his long-awaited meal.
"You're welcome," came a soft reply as, smiling, Holy Roman Empire padded away, avoiding the delicate blossoms hidden within the grass, enjoying the beautiful day, and totally forgetting about the open window behind him.