.~.~.~.~.
The beating of wings. The crunch of leaves underfoot. A blanket, flecked with mud, folded up and set off to the side. A piece of slate buried halfway into the ground, unmarked and shining, the only indicator that something important had happened there…
South Italy's hands ached so much he could hardly move them, his palms and fingertips dotted with blisters and smeared with dirt from digging—
"Ah! Romano! Watch what you're doing!" South Italy jumped slightly, jolting again when Spain grabbed him by the hand, pulling it and him along with it to the sink. The knife he had been holding clattered to the countertop, and oh, that was why.
Red blood was gushing down his finger, and he stared at it dumbly even as Spain grabbed a towel and pressed it hard into the long gash. He'd sliced his finger clean open in his daydreams.
Why didn't it hurt?
He inhaled sharply, wincing and closing his eyes when his head started to spin, a shrill, tinny whine racing through his ears and hammering into his skull, and before he could say a word it all washed away into unforgiving white.
.~.~.~.~.