This is pretty angsty, and it features implied AustriaxHungary.

I wrote this while listening to Makka Na Ito by Plastic Tree.

A sudden clap of thunder rattled the windows of the mansion, the glass chattering like hundreds of teeth. At the tremendous noise, the previously dozing boy leapt up, squealing in fear. Rain was flooding down in torrents, gale-force winds tearing at the defenseless walls. The storm threatened to destroy the very building, as if nature itself had been driven mad with bloodlust.

"Italy?" Hungary was crying his name, her kind voice tinged with fear and panic, "Italy, dear, where are you?"

"I-I'm scared…" It came out a whisper, barely audible above the storm's rage, "I'm scared."

"Italy?"

The child hugged his knees to his chest, tears rolling down his cheeks. Not only had he just woken from a nightmare, but the mansion seemed to be under a siege and the faint stench of smoke was creeping into the room. In the distance Hungary continued to call his name, an ominous crackling nipping at the heels of her words.

"Have you found him yet?" Austria's voice broke the chaos. Even as composed as the dark-haired teen generally appeared, he couldn't hide his alarm.

"No," His young lover sobbed, "I can't find him, Roderich."

"Italy!" This call wasn't a question, but a sharp command, "Italy, come out right now!"

"I'm scared… I'm scared…" The mantra continued as the boy's eyes grew wider and wider, adrenaline pumping through his veins, "I'm scared!"

"I hear him!" Running footsteps sounded down a long corridor, "Italy, come out!"

Shaking legs refused to support him, his hands trembled uncontrollably. What was going on? Why was it so loud? Why did his chest hurt so badly?

"Italy!"

"I can't!" Eyes swollen with tears, the young boy screamed, his lungs emptying themselves of the acrid air, "I can't, I'm scared!"

Austria flung open the door of the study, his hair disheveled and clothes covered in soot. Behind him Hungary was clutching her beloved frying pan to her chest, tears standing in her eyes. Without breaking stride, the cold-mannered youth retrieved the petrified boy, tucked him under his arm, and made for the exit.

"Elizaveta, stay behind me!" He ordered, stepping into the smoke filled hall, "We've got to get to the ground level!"

"B-but the stairs are-"

"Elizaveta," Austria's eyes were hard and determined. A strange sort of fierceness was etched across his face, filling the amethyst gaze with resolve. "Do as I say."

The three moved quickly, bent low and almost running. Already the supports were creaking, giving way to the hungry crimson flames. Italy was crying silently, shuddering against the lanky body of the older boy. Behind him, Hungary pressed close, her face red from the heat being radiated from all sides. They were going to die if they didn't find an escape route soon. Surely, the smallest of the trio could feel Death's dry, rattling breath on the back of his neck. Had it always been this hard to breathe?

"Roderich, the window!" Austria had glimpsed the pane of glass that was separating the three of them from survival and narrowed his eyes. Thrusting Italy into the girl's arms, he charged forward, arms coming up to protect his face at the last moment. Everything seemed to slow; the boy's heart was in his mouth as he approached the window. Please work.

The glass shattered, piercing the teenager's unprotected flesh. The momentum of his jump carried him a few meters from the burning building before he began his descent, falling gently to the mud-soaked ground just below. Hungary followed a moment later, her skirt tearing on the ruined window as she escaped with Italy in her grasp.

Upon impact, the boy flew from her arms and rolled across the wet ground, his tears mingling with the rain-choked earth. Something was wrong, very very wrong.

After gaining some distance, the three nations sat in a stunned silence as they watched the fabulous mansion crumble to ash. It was nightmarish: a brilliant fire contrasting sharply with the deep purple-grey of the tempest.

"Roderich, honey," The girl's moist eyes met her lover's, "what does this mean?"

"It means he's gone." Was the stony response, "He has fallen."

"Who's gone?" Italy sniffled, "Who's fallen?"

"No one, dear." Her face was pale beneath the black traces of ash.

"Italy, are you all right?" Austria gave him a quick once over before meeting his eyes.

"Y-yes…"

"And you, Elizaveta?"

"I'm fine," she nodded, "Roderich, you're the one who's bleeding."

"I'll recover." He replied curtly, pretending not to be concerned. Secretly he wanted to cry out in pain.

"What will Holy Roman say when he gets home?" Italy's small face held a look of utter despair. "He'll think I was doing a bad job if he sees it like this…"

The other two exchanged a look.

"He won't mind, sweetie." Hungary assured him, kissing him gently on the forehead, "We'll tell him it was an accident."

"Elizaveta-"

"Besides," she shot a venomous look at her partner that clearly asked Do you want him to be completely traumatized, you dumbass? "He loves you, remember?"

"Oh yeah," he smiled before frowning again, "but how am I supposed to bake him sweets without a kitchen?"

Hungary giggled tiredly, pushing the aching in her chest to the back of her mind. Smiling, she affectionately ruffled the boy's hair. "We'll figure something out."

Italy blinked. France was sitting in front of him looking worried and almost guilty. The rain was gone, and so was the fire, the mansion, everything… everything but the twinge of loss and the bitter of sting tears. He realized that his hand was fisted over his heart, his fingernails biting his palm even through the fabric of his shirt.

"I-I'm sorry, Italy." The blonde murmured, suddenly looking very old and weary, "I didn't mean to… to…"

"No, it's all right."

"You don't have to forgive- what?"

"It's all right, France." Italy smiled, forcing his lips to curve upwards. "I don't even know what you're talking about."

"Italy-"

"I'm hungry, do you want some pasta?"

"Italy, please-"

"Coming right up!"

Upon entering the kitchen, the boy's legs seemed to be cut out from under him. Lying on the cold tiles, he lost all restraint. His shoulders shuddered in time with his throbbing heart, chest contracting sharply as he drew each agonizing breath. He could sense France hesitating outside the kitchen door; the tears that stood on the man's attractive face.

A bitter taste coated the inside of the boy's mouth as he gagged on his own sobs. How could he die? Hadn't he promised to return?

Why? Why does everyone leave me?

On the other side of the door, France trembled. He loved Italy, yet he'd purposefully performed the act that would most successfully destroy him.

"Je suis si desolé, Italie, je suis si desolé." He repeated the words until they felt foreign and strange, losing their meaning all together.

Italy was murmuring something. His voice was like a broken bird, fluttering dully against gravity. Leaning against the worn wooden door, France heard him say, "I never needed this kitchen. I only wanted one… to keep my promise to you."

Je suis si desolé, Italie, je suis si desolé - I'm so sorry, Italy, I'm so sorry (thank you ForTheNineteenthTime)