When the chess game is over,
the pawns, rooks, knights, bishops, kings, and queens
all go in the same box.
x.
→He hates war.
Yes, he admits he is afraid. He admits it may be a form of cowardice, and he admits that it is shameful for a person of such importance to show such a malformed display of pusillanimity, and he realises that he should be more brave if he is to be the personification and representation of his country.
But he doesn't care.
He doesn't care that he is looked down upon for his faintheartedness, or that he is far more susceptible to violent advances or underhanded tactics because of his naïvité. He doesn't mind overhearing other nations talking about him behind his back and saying cruel, hurtful things, because, really, he can be wise. He isn't as unintelligent as so many people perceive him to be.
He just portrays himself that way.
He doesn't want to be as relentless and unyielding as Germany, or as strong and exuberant as America, and nor does he wish to disguise his true motives behind false words like England. Why? Well, the answer was obvious only to him.
He didn't want to be alone in the end.
He realised you have to be nice to people on your way up because you will face them once more when you fall back down. Many nations were guilty of trampling over others carelessly on their way to the top, and they fell into grief and anguish and psychological torture when they lost it all.
And honestly? He was terrified of that.
He was terrified, petrified, horrified of the prospect. He was not stupid; he knew it was impossible not to be hurt throughout life. And yet, for whatever reason, naïvité or otherwise, he still maintained some form of twisted hope. Whenever he looked up at that blue, blue sky, he felt as if he were flying. Of course he knew flying was impossible unless you had an aircraft, and those were utilised primarily for war. He recalled how pale, shaken and bloodied and... and so disturbingly vulnerable England had looked in the early 1900s, but he didn't want to believe that it could be his Germany who did that.
And yet...
He was not naïve.
Scuffed, dirtied boots entered his line of blurred sight and, painstakingly slowly, he raised his gaze from his bloodied hands and torn up clothes to meet icy cold blue ones.
"I'm sorry," the man's - the country's lips read.
And then there was pain.
But he just smiled as blood slipped out from between his lips and dripped onto the torn apart battleground around him. Because he knew. He knew that this would happen.
But he also knew what would happen in years time.
History doesn't repeat itself, but it does come back to haunt you.
"You know, Germany," he says one day, after the blond nation has given up on trying to reign control of the loud nations, all arguing around the room. Icy blue eyes peered at him, a mixture of irritation and curiosity shining through. He's lost his touch, he thought.
"Italy...?"
A smile.
A laugh.
"I can see red again."
He hates war.
x.Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. D-don't ask. I'm sorry for ruining Italy. My mind is just far too tainted to believe anyone can truly be that innocent. XD; It's okay if you don't understand most of this... I don't quite comprehend anything I write myself. Anyway, this is just a creepy drabble I couldn't resist babbling about. Hope you like it, despite everything~