Maybe it was all Germany's fault.

Romano would certainly blame Ludwig, and Feliciano would be stuck in the middle yet again, explaining to his fratello that no, it wasn't anyone's decision but his own. Italy's legs had been shaking, his heart racing, and the white flags...

Well, they weren't white any more.

Even so, a lighthearted smile crossed his face. This was temporary. Unbearably painful, and scary, but temporary.

Scary, because he remembered seeing a little boy in a dark cape who never returned. Holy Rome had been... so brave. Italy never wanted him to be hurt, but he had, and now Feliciano was as well. Had it been like this for his beloved?

Breathe in. Breathe out. The sparkles in front of his eyes were because of lack of oxygen. Some part of him knew the scientific reason, but all he could focus on was how pretty they were. Would the bebè grow up to be a painter? Feliciano hoped the answer was 'yes'. Italy would always want more artists. Such promise in a young face. Perhaps Grandpa Rome had seen such a promise, when he took little Italy under his wing.

"Fratello!" Romano's voice penetrated the fog that had risen around him. "Fratello, what did that potato bastard do to you?"

"Nothing, Romano." Italy found the words again. When had his brother arrived? Ah, that is right- the beast that was savaging his arm had dropped at a gunshot. "It was all the wolf- is the bambino all right?"

"Tucked in the cave behind you, asleep." There was something grudgingly strange about Romano's voice, and when Felicano found the strength to open his eyes, he thought he saw... tears? "You idiot. Germany didn't teach you to jump on rabid animals, did he? So why-"

"Ah," Italy tried to raise an arm to touch his brother, unafraid of his temper- Fratello might hit him, but his blows were always tempered when Felicano was involved. "He did not. I only learned the look of madness that will make an animal lash out. The wolf was going to eat the baby, and I … couldn't let that happen. He will be an artist, or perhaps the father of an artist."

"Feli-" Ah. A broken note in Romano's voice. Feliciano knew that somewhere deep down Romano loved him. Perhaps they could talk about things later, when Italy was not laying in a clearing and nearly dead from wounds inflicted by a rabid wolf. Perhaps. "You idiot. That's a girl."

"It is?" Felicano almost giggled. Yes, he'd known, but the tears- he wanted to paint his brother with that soft look in his eyes sometimes. But Romano would never stand for it- but then, Italy also wanted to paint the fire. Germany hadn't understood, but he had tolerated. Just like Holy Rome. "But he was wearing light red. Boys wear red."

"Light r- it's called pink now, and it's a colour for girls, you-" Fire- and just as swiftly the pain returning to amber eyes. "Feli, how did you get to be so brave?"

"I am not brave." It took Felicano a moment to gather the words, "I was shaking. I was scared- but the little one needed me. If I let her die, it would be as though I forgot to finish binding my pigments to the oils. I needed her."

"But you faced a wolf without a weapon. You would have picked her up and run away before- and perhaps gained a few miles before it caught you."

"Perhaps I have become a little braver." Italy sighed, the pain fading to numbness, "Perhaps knowing my brave friends has made me a little better."

"You were already better than them." Romano said gruffly. "But I... I don't know."

"Romano..." Feliciano asked with breaths that were increasingly difficult. He was falling into a hole, from which there was escape, but not an immediate one. "Do you think Holy Rome would have been proud of me today?"

The darkness had taken him, but not before he heard the hushed whisper.

"Yes. I think he would be. I know I am."