Disclaimer: 'Hetalia' is copyright to creator Hidekaz Himaruya and 'Der Erste Stern' is copyright to creator Prinz/Yori. I do not own nor profit from this work of fiction or other.

An adaption of book III.

Chapter Three.

"I want to draw you looking relaxed, don't be so stiff," Italy said happily as he repositioned his drawing pad in front of him. He sat cross-legged on the ground. Looking up, he noticed a still very stiff Germany staring at him from behind his desk. "Can't you focus on your work while I'm looking at you? Just pretend I'm not here."

"You make too much noise to pretend you're not here," Germany said flatly. Italy ignored him so he tried to further his defense. "Won't it be hard for you to draw if I move around?"

"Living things move around whenever they want, right?" Italy asked, "But you and I can communicate so I should be able to stop you moving when I need to. If I can't get my intentions across in words then by capturing you like this in a drawing, I should be able to express my feelings." He sketched out a few more lines and smiled. "I love you."

Germany leaned back and his face heated up with a scarlet flourish. "D-don't say such embarrassing things so lightly!"

"It's not a lie," Italy replied, tilting his head and sketching more. "I want to tell you my real feelings. That's how friends feel right?" With a sigh, the boy leaned back. "There are still a lot of things I don't know about you Germany. I want us to be closer, even by just a little." He looked away, troubled. "Hey, Germany...", the blonde only stared, feeling somewhat dispirited. "We have words, so why can't we get our feelings across in war? Everyone just wants to be happy." Italy put his pencil back into the cup by his side. "I hate fighting," he continued. "I don't really know why. Come to think of it, you fought against me too..."

"What did you do," Spain said rather than asked as he gently wrapped Romano's hand. "I told you not to go that far to see him." Romano watched with careful disregard as Spain took care of him, much like he always had, he took it for granted most of the time.

"He's doing his own thing, I don't know whether you're strict or too easy going on Italy."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Spain asked, a hint of irritation in his voice. Romano looked away, a heavy feeling tightening around his chest.

"I never really know if he's suffering or what's going on. But if it's bad for him it's bad for me too. I wish I could understand him." Spain let his hand linger once he finished, but Romano took it back to survey the work.

"You're no different," Spain said arguably.

"Ours is a relationship built on control," he replied almost coldly. "Countries don't need feelings. It's all a question of what we can gain or lose from a situation." Romano looked past Spain, out through the window where a light breeze was carrying fallen leaves through the air. "The problem was that we have such an uncertain existence, we can't resolve the contradictions between our duties and fate as countries and our thoughts and ideas as individuals, it's a never ending conflict." He sighed and his hand dropped back to his lap. The worst part of saying these kind of things is the feelings it spurned within himself. He knew it was all true but still, he struggled with believing it himself. "We shouldn't want to feel. We shouldn't want to be conscious. Peace is nothing more than a flimsy desire and this unfair world wants to conform each of our ideas of peace."

Romano pictured his brother, so lost and naive. Why wouldn't he listen? He wouldn't ever get better like this...

Three days passed by quickly after the incident in the hospital and Italy found himself staying with his brother. It wasn't bad in speaking, but at that moment, for Italy, everything was bad. "Food's done," Romano said as he walked into Italy's room with a plate. He looked at the bed only to find it empty and his gaze trailed down to the wall next to him. "How long are you going to keep that up? You haven't eaten anything in three days." Italy sat on the ground, his knees pulled up and his head pulled down. "You're going to starve to death." When he got no reply he sighed. "I've brought some food out for you." He put the plate down on the floor next to his brother and turned to leave. Italy made no movement and Romano quietly left.

The door shut and Italy cradled himself closer. I shouldn't need words or feelings or pain. I'm hungry, my five senses are fully alive..but...food that should taste good, eating it feels like choking down flavorless rope. Eating becomes passive, like torture or hallucinations.

He turned towards the plate and his stomach gave a tremendous growl. Slowly he reached over and took the plate. Every bite, he hated. His stomach hurt, aching for more, but he simply didn't want this. It was horrible.

It took a little while but soon Italy found himself feeling more lively. He had someone to care for now, it was only right that he should stop being so selfish. So he woke one day and got dressed and for the first time in what felt like ages, he left the house.

"Excuse me," Italy asked a street vendor. "Could I have a bouquet?"

"Do you have a date?" The man asked curiously, Italy shook his head.

"No, I'm going to visit a friend who got hurt."

The man stepped around his flowers to stand in front of Italy, his face pulled into a sincere look of concern. "That's unfortunate, how are they doing?"

"He's getting better, the doctor said he'll be able to go outside this week. He's like the biggest guy I know but he's still cute!" Italy laughed and as infectious as it usually was, the man across from him did too.

"He seems nice," the vendor said lightly. He reached over and picked a very full bouquet, one full of roses and artfully arranged. "It seems to me that this person is very dear to you." Italy was surprised, but somewhat pleased at the same time that someone else could see it so easily.

"Yes...he is..."

"I put in a little extra, I hope they like them."

"Grazie," Italy paid, leaving a small extra tip before leaving towards his final destination.

The hospital was normally a pleasant place. Trees lined the outside of it and everything was so immaculate and clean, it reminded him of a spa. Although, nothing inside of it reminded him of anything comforting. He walked the halls with his flowers held gingerly in front of him, his nerves were flaring and he struggled to swallow normally. When he arrived at the door he looking in through the glass window, Germany was still sleeping.

Quietly, he pressed in. There was a small stool by the bed where he presumed a nurse had been sitting previously. He took his seat and rested the bouquet in his lap, finally allowing his eyes to completely take in the damage. His head was bandaged, it wrapped around three times before coming down to completely cover his right eye, Italy didn't want to imagine how bad it looked under the wrappings. His face was pale, slightly battered and bruised, but for the most part he looked at peace as he slept. Every now and then he'd frown and moan as if the pain were touching him in his sleep but it wasn't very often. Most of the time he stayed absolutely still.

"Germany..." Italy smiled the best he could. "I'm sorry for leaving without saying anything before." He picked up the flowers as if to show him. "These are from a flower shop at my place. Aren't they pretty?" He opened his eyes and the flowers came to rest on his lap again. He couldn't look any longer. "Germany...I'm so weak, I'm always causing you trouble. I can't do anything right." He liked to imagine what things Germany would have said in return. Something short and to the point but ultimately it would have cheered him up. But there was nothing to be said this time. "All I do is give you bad memories. Get angry at me and tell me to pull myself together, tell me off...'even when you're alone'."

I never realize until after I've lost them or it's come to nothing, but it just keeps on happening. When I feel like I've protected something, it turns out I can't protect anything. Italy dropped the flowers on the floor and fell forward into the sheets, his hand crinkled the bed sheets and he tried his hardest not to cry too loud.

"If you wake I'll give you my best and brightest hello...so please, wake up..."

Hungary smoothed out her dress as Austria approached her. "Have you finished getting ready?" He asked, prim as always.

"Yes," she replied with her usual smile.

"Then, I'll leave the rest to you," Austria glanced down to the young boy near his side. "Be back by evening." He walked away, feeling incredibly awed. How he could not have known that Italy was a boy was beyond him, and now that he had come to realize the truth, Italy had to have a change in wardrobe.

"Excuse me, but where are we going?" Italy asked.

"We're going to buy you new clothes, Italy."

"New clothes for me? But...but can I still wear these clothes?" He picked up the hem of the apron and looked at it sadly. These clothes held a lot of memories for him and still...

"Those clothes are-" Hungary bit her lip and then resumed to beam, she placed a soft hand atop Italy's head. "We'll find you something that will look even better on you. So come on, let's go look for some new outfits together."

Italy always did like Mrs. Hungary. Growing up, she had always been the kind one to him, always watched out and treated him like she genuinely might have loved him. So he went, even though he didn't want to, he went and didn't say a word otherwise.

"That looks great on you," the shopkeeper exclaimed as Italy walked out in a new pair of boy's clothing. He didn't smile or look at himself in the mirror.

"They're not too small?" Hungary asked as she adjusted his collar. He replied unenthusiastically.

"These seem different to the clothes I normally wear," he said as he pulled at the vest uncomfortably. He couldn't breath in these.

"I guess you're right," Hungary laughed. "But these ones really suit you." She stood up and turned to the shopkeep, "he'll wear them home. You can dispose of those other clothes."

"Ah!" Italy jumped forward, his hand outstretched. "Please wait! Can I take them home with me?" Hungary looked troubled but she said nothing as Italy gingerly took the bag with his dress in it back.

The streets were crowded, as they were on most weekends. People were shopping, gossiping, eating or simply enjoying the nice weather. Every one except for Italy. "We're finished shopping," Hungary said, trying to make small conversation with the boy. "It's about time we go home." She looked down at the boy but he wasn't paying attention. Instead, his eyes were focused on the crowd, as if he expected to see someone he knew.

"Mrs. Hungary?" He finally said, pulling on her hand.

"Yes?"

"If Holy Roman Empire comes back, do you think he'll recognize me if I'm wearing these clothes and my voice has changed? Will he be able to recognize me at all?" His words seemed to stop Hungary short and she put her hand up to her mouth. An unwilling 'oh' left her and she knelt down, putting her hands on Italy's shoulder.

"Of course he will! You're you regardless of all the other things!" But these words didn't seem right either for the small boy burst into tears. He rubbed at his eyes and cried out.

"But I'm becoming less and less like me! My feet hurt and I'm hungry. So how much longer do I have to wait? He has to come home soon...I'm quickly becoming a different person to the one I was in those happy days. It feels like another me is taking over and sooner or later my memories will disappear too."

Hungary's hand slipped down his arm until she took his hand and he forced himself to look at her. She was such a pretty woman. Her eyes always did resonate a look that said she cared. She loved him, even though she hardly ever said it, she loved him a lot. "You're not the only one growing up," she reminded him softly. "He'll have changed too, right? I have too, and Mr. Austria. You can't stay the same forever. You lose a lot of things as you grow up, but you gain a lot of things too! It's a big part of living." Italy stopped crying, he certainly hadn't thought about it like that and strangely enough, he felt the fear residing. "I wonder," Hungary mused. "If you'll be able to welcome him back properly. Do you you think you could take one look at grown-up Holy Roman Empire and know it was him?" She laughed and it sent a wave of warmth through the young boy. "It'll be alright, Holy Roman Empire is Holy Roman Empire. Same as you," she lightly poked his stomach, managing to get a small laugh out of him. "Even if time passes."

Italy nodded and Hungary stood, she looked down on him feeling a strong sense of pride flowing through her. He was a strong boy, but sooner or later he would come to understand what it meant to be a country. She only hoped he could stay so beyond understanding for just a little while longer.

"Welcome home," Austria greeted as Hungary strolled into the parlor. "How did it go?"

"Oh! We bought some lovely clothes!"

"Where's Italy?"

"Putting the luggage we bought into the storehouse." Austria nodded and made to turn away but the small touch of Hungary's slender fingers stopped him. "Um, Mr. Austria?" She flushed but continued. "How long did you dream?"

"What's this all of a sudden?" He implored, looking at her worried expression with concern of his own.

"It seems he's pained about growing up," Hungary took a step back, she could feel the pressure rising and it was going to make her cry. "His voice and body have rapidly changed, he's growing further away from what he used to be and he's worrying that the person he loves won't be able to recognize him anymore." She sobbed and covered her mouth, "the poor boy," she muttered deeply, "I can't bear to face him."

Austria understand, but yet he knew nothing he could say could comfort her. So he stepped closer and wrapped a gentle arm around her, offering but a shoulder to cry on instead.

Italy adjusted his tie in the mirror. He put his coat on and stared at the somber reflection looking back at him. There was nothing he had left to do at this point, and he couldn't stand to look at himself any longer. He turned away, placed his cap on and left through the front door. I'm sure Germany will be angry, but I hate fighting and I hate arguments, he thought as he strolled down from the front steps into the street. I want to be a peaceful country that renounces war. I don't want to cause pain and suffering for those around me.

I've always thought it would be wonderful if everyone could be happy and have good fortune. I'm sure that kind of world could exist. He pictured again his Germany. Battered and hurt, almost lifeless as he laid there. He hadn't woken up for Italy and it broke his heart. So he had made a choice.

This time Germany was hurt protecting my house. It was really tough on me but at the same time I felt humiliated. My everyday lazy thoughts avoided it and Germany ended up getting hurt. When I first met Germany, I got a feeling I knew him from somewhere. I remembered a lot of things from the past, the happy memories of being saved and protected by him are so important to me.

I don't want him to forget again.

Once Germany gets better, I'll get my friendship kiss.

Spain walked into the bedroom, spotting Romano, he leaned against the door frame. "Has Italy gone home?"

"No idea," Romano said offhandedly. "Probably gone to be with that potato again." Spain frowned but turned away. Romano was in another one of his moods again, but Spain found it slightly endearing at the same time. As much as Romano spoke coldly about his misplaced feelings, Romano had them worse than anybody. He might not have showed it as much, but Romano worried every day about his brother. Spain liked that most about Romano, and even though he wouldn't try to explain it to him, Spain knew that it was exactly those kinds of emotions that made them who they are. That made them more than just countries, it made them alive and able to love and feel. Spain smiled to himself as he stepped down the hallway.

It was the best part of humanity in his opinion.

Towards the end of the city, Italy turned a corner and walked into a building. The inside was a single room, divided in half only by a large glass panel. On the other side of the glass sat a woman, tall and thin who paid no attention to him. He stepped up and knocked on the pane with a single finger. "Excuse me," he said firmly. "This is Italy Veneciano. I'm placing an immediate request for troops at this moment."

The woman said something and he shook his head.

"No, no back up please. This is a request for a solo mission."

I will strike back, Italy thought to himself, against the English army.