Italy, home once again, looked up at his clock.

"Romano will be home soon, I should make us some dinner. Maybe then he'll be a little nicer to me."

Italy got to work in the kitchen, starting making a tomato sauce from scratch while the pasta boiled. He heard his front door slam at the hand of an ornery brother.

"Ve Romano's home!" Italy yelled from the kitchen, running out to greet him, a knife in one hand, tomato in another, "Ciao, fratello! Did you have fun hanging out with big brother Spain, today!"

Romano down looked at his shorter brother, "What did I tell you about running with knives, stupid? And for the millionth time I was not hanging out with Spain, so shut up about it." He was Romano as usual, grumpy.

"Scusa." Italy muttered, making his way back into the kitchen to finish the pasta. Romano followed him in and sat down at the table, quiet for a little bit until Italy spoke, having finished making his sauce.

"Ve...Romano?"

Romano looked over at his brother, who was straining ravioli. "Yeah?"

"Today while I was taking a siesta I had this scary dream, and I know it isn't real, but it feels like...well I can't exactly explain it, I guess."

Romano looked at Italy, a little curious, "Well, what was it about?"

Italy shook his head quickly, "No, no, that doesn't matter. I just need to know what to think about it." He stopped to pour the tomato sauce into the ravioli.

"I can't tell you what to think if you don't tell me about it." Romano replied, slightly agitated, but mainly concerned for his brother.

I can't tell him. No way I'll tell him, Italy thought, he'd probably get mad. Either that or laugh that Germany died. Germany died? He died...died... Italy was caught on that one word in his mind. Died. It was harsh and terrifying, and he didn't like using it in the same sentence as Germany's name. No, it was just a dream. Germany didn't die. But if he did is that what it would look like? He felt the blood drain from his face, and he ceased plating the pasta. The memory was too horrible, No, don't think about it. He didn't die. It was just a bad dream. Germany didn't die and he won't die anytime soon. But I saw it...he was dead. Dead. Germany was-

"Veneziano?" Romano's voice interrupted Italy's thoughts.

Italy softly muttered the only word that came to mind, "Dead."

Romano looked at him worriedly, standing up from his chair, "Who died? Are you okay? You look really pale."

Italy nodded numbly, still trapped in his own horrible thoughts. The wooden spoon he was holding slowly slipped from his grip, making a loud clatter when it hit the floor, jolting him back into awareness.

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" Italy covered in a cheery tone, "Just got a little distracted!"

Romano's eyes were wide with worry, "Just go sit down, I'll put it on the plates."

Italy bent over to pick up the spoon, speaking happily, "No, really, I'm fine! It's okay, I got this!"

"You're not fine, stop lying. Now go sit down!"

Italy reluctantly obeyed his brother, handing him the spoon on his way over to the table, everything was quiet for a while. Romano brought over the food and began eating, the only sound in the room coming from Romano's fork meeting his plate.

It looks like blood...Italy thought looking down at the sauce he'd created, How'd I not notice when I was making it that it looked like blood?

Romano knew something was off. Italy would never let a pasta dish just sit like that. Not to mention the whole silent freak out earlier. He was sure it had to do with the dream.

"So...about your dream."

Italy looked up at him, startled from his thoughts, once again. He shook his head quickly back and forth, communicating that he wasn't going to tell anything.

"It's okay, I'm not going to make you tell me about it!" Romano quickly answered.

Italy sighed in relief.

"But I just want you to know it was just a dream. No matter what, that's all it was. That's probably all it ever will be. You can't let stupid things like that affect your life so much." Romano looked at him comfortingly, but Italy just returned his gaze to his dinner.

He spoke softly, "I know that's true...but something about this feels like it's important. It feels like...like...It has something to do with me. Like I can either stop it or..." His voice trailed off, afraid of his final words on the subject, "...cause...it."

Romano looked at him with an expression both filled with pity and anger, "It was about that potato bastard, wasn't it?"

Italy said nothing, rather began to play with his fork.

Romano put his hand to his face and groaned, then decidedly set down his fork and stood, "I'm going to bed now."

"But it's not even six." Italy said, looking up at him, sadly.

I knew I'd make him mad. All I ever do is make people mad.

"Lo so. Buonanotte." Romano said as he walked out, his tone so cold he made Italy shiver.

"Buonanotte." He whispered into his cold pasta.