Sleeping naked was something Italy always did, always had done, and would probably do for the rest of his life. He didn't know why this was so: maybe it was an Italian thing, since his brother did it too. It was always the case – well, except for when Germany yelled at him to put some clothes on. And he was always blushing like an angry tomato when he did that, which was kinda weird.

Maybe this was why he was woken up: the added warmth from the extra layers of fabric was making him too hot to stay asleep. Maybe it was the sudden lack of the light which had been there when he had first drifted off. That was strange. He'd always taken siestas in the afternoon, but they only ever lasted an hour. What could have happened to make him so tired that he would sleep right into the night? Oh no, Germany was going to be soooo mad at him…

And then he remembered. Germany wasn't there. Italy wasn't even in Europe anymore. Just earlier that day he had flown all the way across the ocean, so now he was somewhere in America's place. He hoped the 'heroic' nation wouldn't mind too much for the intrusion.

He curiously felt the surface he was lying on. It was suede: that soft fabric used for couches which always made his hands feel dry, which was annoying. And now that he thought of it, whatever this was did feel very couch shaped-

-and there was a cartoonish skull about a foot from his face.

It cocked to one side with an unnerving boing.

"Wow," it said in a squeaky voice. "You know, you're way younger than I thought you'd be."

To say Italy screamed would quite possibly have been the understatement of the century. To say that his shrieks could probably have been heard on the moon may also be a slight miscalculation. No matter: he screamed. That would have been all there was to it if he didn't also scramble backwards, fall off the couch and curl up as tightly as he could in the nearest corner, there being no tomato crates readily available at the moment.

"What's going on?" he yelled, producing one of the many white flags he kept hidden within his clothing. "Who are you? What are you? Please don't hurt me, I was already badly hurt and I don't remember how! And I don't know why I don't remember how, just please don't hurt me I don't want to die!"

"Hey, hey, calm down!" The black figure raised a white, blocky foam-like hand defensively. "I'm not going to hurt you; I just wanted a little chat! You don't have to be afraid of me."

The blocky hand reached forward and picked up Italy by the back of his shirt with only a thumb and forefinger. This was a scene he was all too familiar with: the major difference was that rather than an incensed German soldier holding him with his feet several inches off the ground, it was now a tall spiky black… thing with a skull mask where the face was probably supposed to be and big blocky hands which seemed to sprout out of nowhere.

"Seriously though," it said, (presumably) examining him critically, "how old are you supposed to be? Twenty? Nineteen? Heck, you look young enough to be a student at the Academy!" It started to swing Italy back and forth, and the young man started to whimper in fear.

"Hey now, stop crying," the figure continued in its squeaky voice. "Didn't I already say I don't want to hurt you?"

"Father, what's going on?"

Italy looked around as Kid walked into the room with a face of concern. His eyes widened slightly as he surveyed the slightly awkward scene before he tutted in annoyance.

"Italy, are you ever going to stop whimpering?" he asked. "It's really beginning to get on my nerves."

"Oh come on, now, Kiddo!" the black squeaky thing said to the teenager. "Couldn't you be a bit more tactful? I would think it obvious that the poor little guy's scared out of his mind!"

"He's scared of you," Kid pointed out. "I think it would be best if you could put him down."

Italy nodded.

"Alright then," the black figure replied, and Italy was set on the ground where he froze, too terrified to move.

"Sorry if I scared you, little fella!" it continued, raising its blocky hand in a peace symbol. "I didn't want to wake you up because you just looked so precious when you were sound asleep! You remind me so much of Kid when he was only a little boy. He used to make the most adorable noises, just like you!"

The now confused Italy looked over at Kid, and started to laugh.

"What?" asked Kid. "What's so funny?"

"Your face!" cried Italy. "You're glowing just like a ripe tomato, you're so red and funny looking!"

"You'd be embarrassed too if your father was talking about your childhood," said Kid objectively.

Italy stopped laughing abruptly. His baffled eyes flew from the well-dressed boy to the eerie black figure, from the eerie black figure to the well-dressed boy, and over and over again until he was shaking his head as though someone had just told him there were spiders in his hair.

"…" he squeaked.

"Is something wrong?" asked the black figure, cocking its head – no, its entire upper half – to one side. "You look like you've just seen a ghost!"

"Dad," said Kid in a rather deadpan tone, "I should think it infinitely more likely that he's just seen a grim reaper."

"…" Italy repeated.

He started to slowly back away.

"Where are you going?" the black figure asked, and bounced over to him with disturbing boing noises. "Don't worry! There's nothing for you to be afraid of, Italy – is it okay if I call you Italy?"

There wasn't going to be any escape, was there? His fingers sought solace by curling automatically around the white flag once more. Giving up: that seemed like the best option right now. Yeah, surrendering always worked wonders. He often wondered why none of the other countries seemed to realise that.

"Uh," he said, unsure what to say, "si. That is, um, yes. Sir. Please don't hurt me!"

"Oh, you don't have to go through the formalities," the black thing said (perhaps reassuringly, but Italy couldn't tell because he was too scared). "You can just call me Lord Death. Or Death, if you prefer. I take it you're already rather well acquainted with my son?"

"Ve~ I guess," said Italy. "Does pulling my hair count?"

Lord Death gasped in shock.

"Kid, I'm surprised at you!" he chided the younger reaper. "I would have thought that you, of all people, should know better!"

"But… but…" Kid stammered. "But his hair! That curl, it's asymmetrical! Father, I had to try to do something about it, but no matter how hard I tugged, it wouldn't come out! It was as though it wasn't so much hair as a permanent part of his body!"

If the black spectre had a chin, he would probably be cupping it right now, considering how his squared fingers were arranged.

"Kid," he said slowly, "how much do you know about Italy's kind, exactly?"

"Apart from that rather annoyingly brief explanation you gave me?" Kid said bluntly. "Next to nothing."

Lord Death beckoned his son closer and whispered something in his ear. Italy couldn't hear what it was, but it caused Kid's face to once again flash bright red, as though he were turning into a scarlet strobe light. He cleared his throat awkwardly and stepped forward, standing in the nation's shadow.

"In light of what my father has just explained to me," he said, keeping his eyes firmly fixed anywhere except Italy's face, "it seems only right for me to apologise for attempting to, shall we say, even you up. I have been told, mostly by my partners, that I let my… personal issues affect my judgement, and I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable in any way."

Italy wasn't quite sure how to respond. Kid definitely sounded sincere, but it wasn't easy to tell. He waited for the teenager to continue, but apparently there was nothing more to be said.

His curl had been pulled on before, but that was an accident. Germany hadn't known what they did when he first did it, so it was excusable, and he preferred not to think about what had happened with Romano. It had taken almost an hour for them to get untangled. Romano had spat out a brief, sarcastic thank-you in Germany's direction, called him a potato bastard and tried to deliver a vicious uppercut, but Germany had dodged and gone home with nary another word.

However, this boy was neither Romano nor Germany, even though he was showing similarities to both. He seemed as though he'd be nice once Italy got to know him better. And anyway, he was so small and adorable with that little suit of his! How harmful could he possibly be?

And he had tended to Italy's wounds. He was worth a shot at least.

"Ve~ that's okay!" he said, putting his uninjured hand on Kid's shoulder. "I'm sure that if we tried, we could be really good friends!"

"Maybe," said Kid as he removed the hand, "but I wouldn't bet your life on it."

"Excellent!" Lord Death cried, clapping his hands (?) together in joy. "Isn't everything so much better when we're all getting along? Speaking of which, I hope those two young ladies of yours are behaving themselves, Kid."

"We're doing well enough," said Kid. "There are a few minor hiccups here and there-"

"You mean like how the older one keeps calling you an OCD nutcase?" asked Italy innocently.

The silence was so thick that you couldn't even cut it with a razor.

"Yes," Kid said eventually. "Something like that."

He covered his mouth and yawned.

"Aw, is my little Kiddo sleepy?" asked Lord Death in an adoring voice.

"Please don't, Dad," the boy groaned. "I'm not a little boy anymore, so you don't have to be like that."

He yawned again.

"But I guess I am rather tired," he said. "I should probably go to bed."

"Before you do, Kid," said Lord Death, "can I speak to you in private for a moment? I'm afraid our European friend here has brought up a rather crucial matter I've been meaning to discuss with you."

Kid looked at Italy, who cocked his head to one side in curious confusion, and then back to his father.

"Alright then," he said. His father opened the room's door and allowed him out before turning back to Italy.

"Great to meet you, Italy!" he said cheerfully. "See you later, alligator!"

And with that, the two reapers were gone, and Italy was left alone with his thoughts. He sat back down on the couch, cupped his jaw in his right hand and rested his elbow on his knee.

'Ve~ everything's just getting weirder and weirder by the minute,' he thought. 'I thought that Kid was maybe mean and a little misguided, but now he's a grim reaper? And not just that, but his father is Death! Kid is Death Junior! He's Death the… ve~ I would say Kid, but that's already his name!'

He looked down again at his bandaged arm, only to see that it was now covered up by what was left of blue and black sleeves.

'It's so torn up,' he thought. 'Ve~ Germany is going to be so mad at me when he sees what a mess I've made of my uniform.'

Germany…

It felt like forever since he had seen the tall Aryan man, with his stern eyes and his hair which was always slicked back off his face. Even though it had only been a day or so, Italy was already missing him like crazy. He rubbed his forehead, wondering if he could work his memories back into his mind. They had been in the woods and they were doing… something.

What was it? Training? No, probably not: if they had been training, Italy would have been wearing that sailor uniform. Maybe they had just been talking, like friends always did. But if so, why were they in the woods? Privacy, perhaps?

Maybe – and Italy allowed himself a mischievous little smile for this – maybe they were… kissing. It was certainly possible: after all, it wasn't too long ago that they actually went on a date together (although it was a bit of a disaster) and-

"WHAT?!"

Oh yeah. Kid and Lord Death were talking. What about, though? Italy walked over to the door and pressed his ear against the woodwork.

"…for all four of you."

"It's not a matter of space, Father, it's a matter of why the hell do you think this would be a good idea?! I'm grateful for you explaining what I asked about, but surely he'd feel more at home back in Europe? You know, back where he belongs?"

Italy quickly realised they were talking about him. He tried to look through the keyhole, but discovered that it would be rather difficult considering that there wasn't one. So instead he listened at the crack between the door and its frame, wondering if he was going to get into trouble for eavesdropping.

He only heard silence. Then mumbling. Had they caught on? Did they know he was listening in?

Something else caught his attention: something which was… off. He walked over to the window, looked out, and had to shove his fist into his mouth to keep himself from screaming the place down.

This was not the night he remembered. His whole life the sky had been deep blue, verging on black, but somehow it had become a darkish shade of purple which was only slightly deeper than the strangely stringy clouds which drifted across and hid some of the stars, which Italy noticed had become dimmer and less visible than he recalled.

But then there was the moon. The magnificent, bulbous, silvery-white-and-grey orb which had hung in the sky for his entire life was gone, and what hovered in its place was like something out of a bad dream you might get after eating a grilled cheese sandwich before bed. It was a massive yellow crescent with a big, spike-like nose, huge round eyes and a tremendous, nightmarish grin that shivered in a never ending snigger. And if he looked closely, Italy could have sworn that there was blood leaking from between its teeth, which were gigantic like shining white tombstones in the sky.

He felt a scream coming on. It was growing and expanding and burning like a hot coal in the centre of his chest. He pressed his hand hard over his mouth, keeping it shut as tight as possible so that all that came out was a small, strangled-sounding squeal like a dying cat.

With the pressure more or less released, Italy sat down heavily on the floor and tried to shake some sense back into his head.

'What's going on?' he asked himself desperately as though expecting an answer. 'Where am I? What is this place? I mean, I know it's called Death City, but why is it called that? Why is everything here Death? Lord Death, Death the Kid, Death City, why? Is everybody in this place a goth or an emo or related to Russia in some way? Or are they just lame people who want to be goths but actually just wear weird clothes and listen to weird music and generally annoy people? I don't like this, I want to go home! I WANT TO GO HOME!'

He looked up, worried that someone may have heard that last part. Satisfied that all was still (almost) quiet, he curled up into a ball and started rocking back and forth.

'But what if the thing that hurt me is still there?' his thoughts informed him not-so-helpfully. 'What if… What if it got Germany? Or Romano or Spain or France? They could all be dying over there and I wouldn't know or be able to do anything about it! What if it singles them out and hunts them down one by one while I'm stuck over here?'

Images began to race wildly through the forefront of his mind – horrifying visions of everyone he knew at the mercy of an unseen, terrifying monster which struck them down one at a time and violently ripped their souls from their lifeless bodies – and tears gathered at the corners of his eyes.

He was so preoccupied with his imagination going into paranoia overdrive that he barely even noticed the door opening behind him or the young man now standing right behind him.

He said something, but Italy didn't register it properly. It wasn't what he wanted to hear. What he wanted to hear was Germany, telling him to calm down and stop being such a wuss, and then telling him that there wasn't anything to be afraid of and that he should stop crying...

"Italy?"

But it didn't come. Only the harsh, unfeeling voice of the young grim reaper was what he heard. He looked up into the cold, two-toned eyes of the boy young enough to be his little brother.

"Ve~ what did you say?" he asked.

Kid rubbed his eyes in exasperation.

"I swear you're going to give me grey hair," he said. "I'll repeat what I just said: Father and I were talking just now and he thinks it may be for the best if you stay in Death City while we wait for your arm to heal, because people are sure to ask questions if you go back home wrapped in bandages and barely able to use your own hand. You can even stay in Gallows Manor with me if you like, but it's up to you. What do you say?"

Considering the point which had just been brought up, it wasn't very easy to say no.

"Okay."

Italy spoke so quietly that it was almost a whisper.

"You can sleep in this room tonight," said Kid. "I'll bring you a blanket."

He left again.

'He's so cold,' thought Italy. 'I mean, his hands are like ice, but not just that: he's so mean and frosty and… what's a word Mr Austria would use? A fancy word, like insensitive or abrasive. And his partners seem like they hate him, so why do they stay with him? Why does he put up with them? Why is he so annoyed by my curl?'

In any case, he was too tired to start bombarding questions around like hand grenades. And he didn't want to sleep in his clothes either, so he started to take off his uniform.

'Ve~ I don't think it can be fixed,' he thought. 'It's covered in blood as well as torn up. And that's my blood. If I wasn't a country… I would definitely be dead from losing too much blood. But blood's red and my uniform is- used to be blue. Shouldn't it be purple now? It's this weird dirty brown colour instead. Ve~ never mind.'

By this point he was left with only his yellow boxers and the metal cross around his neck. He curled his fingers around it (more gently this time) and rubbed the cold iron with his thumb.

'It's okay,' he thought with a smile. 'I'm sure Germany's alright. He's one of the toughest countries in the world, after all! I just have to wait a little longer and he'll definitely come for me. He's always come for me in the past: what's one more little rescue when you think about it?'

Reassurance guaranteed, he tugged off his boxers just as the door opened, heralding Kid's return.

"Nights in the desert can get as low as 5° Celsius, so in case you get cold I brought you two blankets instead of one oh fucking hell."

When Italy looked around it was to see Kid holding out a couple of blankets at arms' length, keeping his face fixed firmly on what was over his shoulder. This could easily be explained by the fact that the young man was now standing in the middle of the room dressed only in a metal cross pendant and his birthday suit.

"Italy," Kid said slowly, still facing in the opposite direction, "would you mind telling me why. The hell. You're naked?"

"Ve~ I always sleep naked!" Italy explained briefly. He took the blankets, wrapped them around his body and laid back down on the couch saying, "It's safe to look now!"

Kid looked around and saw him lying down comfortably with only his head showing. His eyes were closed – why were his eyes always closed? – and he was giggling happily. Then he yawned, but quickly resumed laughing.

"It's strange," he said, "I didn't know how cold it was until I was wrapped up! Ve~ why is it cold? I thought deserts were super-hot!"

"It's not very important right now," said Kid, making a note to burn those blankets and sanitise the couch at the first opportunity. "Try to get some sleep. I know I'm going to bed, and you'll take some time to get over jet lag."

"Ve~ how come you don't have it?"

"I'm a Grim Reaper," Kid replied. "Normal rules tend to be put on hold for the likes of my father and I. In any case, good night."

"Buon notte."

With one last look at the nation as he settled down to sleep, Kid proceeded upstairs to his (perfectly symmetrical) bedroom.

He stopped off in the kitchen and grabbed a small bottle on the way.

It was the light of the sun streaming through the uncovered window which roused Kid from his slumber the next morning. He pulled out his pillow and slapped it over his face, but all that did was let in a little less light. He could tell there wasn't any way he would get to sleep until the end of the day.

This was disappointing, to say the least. He had hoped to not be waking up at all, and yet the clock above his door was helpfully reminding him that it was 8:03 in the morning.

He fished around in one of his two identical bedside cabinets until he found his notebook. Then he began to write.

After double strength sleeping pills failed to have any kind of effect on my body, soul or brain, I decided to experiment with triple strength instead, once again consuming as much of the bottle as I could within the short amount of time allowed by the pill's effects. Unfortunately, I have awoken at exactly the same point in time as I do on every other day where I do not consume sleeping pills. In other words, even triple strength does not have any effect on my body. I am beginning to wonder if drugs of any kind are resisted, taking into account the repeated (and again, futile) attempts at dying the stripes in my hair, and whether further attempts would prove to be fruitless endeavours. Perhaps I should discontinue this – as with heat-related damage – and move on to experiments with negative temperatures instead.

He put the notebook and pen away, gathered up the pills still strewn on his duvet into the bottle, screwed on the lid and threw the bottle into one of the two identical bins which stood next to the door to his room.

Wait.

What was that smell? Was someone cooking?

Kid's curiosity temporarily overrode his OCD (temporarily) and he left his room without changing out of his pyjamas for the first time in at least ten years. He sniffed the air: there was steam, the aroma of cooking wheat, and the sound of bubbling water was on the very edge of hearing.

Also, was that singing? It sounded like the kind of song a child might sing while dancing and running through a field of flowers.

Yes, that was definitely the smell of cooking.

As Kid drew closer to the kitchen, he was able to make out the lyrics of the song more clearly.

"…a circle, that's the Earth. Draw a circle, that's the Earth…"

'Is that Italy?' thought Kid. 'Why is- what's he cooking?'

"…draw a circle, that's the Earth, I am Hetalia!"

Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Kid pushed the already-ajar door open and surveyed the scene.

Italy, oblivious to the teenaged reaper's entrance, was dancing around a bubbling pot, stirring expertly (with his right hand, Kid noted – his left hung almost uselessly at his side) while dancing on the balls of his feet and providing the source of the joyful tune.

What surrounded him was like something out of a nightmare. There were dirty bowls and kitchen utensils stacked untidily next to the sink and the work bench was nothing short of filthy. A big bag of flour and an open carton of eggs sat like tall islands in a sea of the aforementioned white powder, which was also clinging to a used rolling pin which was half hanging off the counter. It was all Kid could do not to throw up violently right then and there in the doorway.

'Well,' Kid thought, noting the young man's ragged and bloodstained uniform which he was still wearing, 'at least he's not dancing around naked. For now.'

"Ah, the world us," Italy crooned, "can be seen with the stroke of a single brus- oh hi Kid!"

His high-pitched voice snapped Kid out of his stunned stupor in an instant. Trying to remain as calm as humanly (grim reaper-ly?) possible, Kid tried to look him in the eye, but couldn't because they were closed.

'They look like little equals symbols,' he thought. 'How does he even know where he's going?'

"Italy," he said, taking care to shield his frustration, "what the hell are you doing in my kitchen?"

"Ve~ I looked everywhere, but you didn't have any pasta," Italy explained, "so I thought if I couldn't find any I would just make some! Would you like to try it?"

Kid took several deep breaths and clenched and unclenched his fists.

"But what could compel you to get up, get dressed in your-" what was a word that could be used here without sounding impolite? "-damaged uniform for the soul purpose of cooking pasta? Not to mention the fact that it's just past eight o'clock in the morning and you've quite clearly been up for some time already!"

"Well," said Italy calmly, "you see, Germany was always getting up super-early so that we could do training together, and I guess it kinda got stuck in my head. I'm just making pasta 'coz I like pasta, ve~ I hope you don't mind."

But what did Germany (whoever it was) getting up have to do with anything?

"Also, I'm wearing my uniform 'coz they're really the only clothes I have."

That was justifiable: there hadn't exactly been time to pack after all. But there were still innumerable questions just waiting to spew forth from Kid's mouth.

"What does Germany getting up early have to do with you getting up early?" he inquired.

"Isn't it obvious?" asked Italy. "We sleep together!"

Kid paused. He had been formulating his next question, but this alarmingly nonchalant declaration had him stumped somewhat.

Italy looked at his face and giggled.

"Ve~ not in that way, of course," he explained. "I just like to get into his bed when I have nightmares. And when my bed feels too cold. And when I get lonely. I get lonely a lot."

'I imagine you do,' said the sarcastic portion of Kid's mind.

He turned the tap on and started to wash all of the used bowls and things.

"If this is ever going to be a peaceful relationship," he said as he grabbed a washcloth or two, "I'll need you to know what it means to be clean and tidy. It's perfectly alright for you to cook, but you have to clean up after yourself. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

"Ve~ you sound just like Germany," Italy commented. "You look like him too, except you're not tall and blonde and stuff. Pasta's done!"

Later on, Kid had to admit: the pasta was rather delicious.

And thus, the plot is established. I should probably say that this is not going to be a Kid/Italy fic. Italy is a grown man (as unlikely as it may seem) and Kid is... well, a kid. Also, I dislike crossover fics where the characters from the separate franchises are best buddies from the very second they meet. They have differences! Differences that will cause conflict! It's very likely that said conflict will be resolved, but still, I prefer it when people take the completely different personalities into consideration.

I had one hell of a lot of fun writing Lord Death. Can you believe he shares an English VA with Hohenheim from FMA:B? Look it up if you don't believe me! Freaky as hell, right? And yes, I know what Kid's doing to himself. Don't sweat it, it's part of the story and will be resolved.

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