lemonsandmelonsandpearsohmy:

 Smoke and ash filled the sky, blocking most light save a ray of sunshine here and there. A heavy dust caked the newly formed ruins. Fallen pillars lay snapped in half and charred, embers still chewing away at any place not smothered by ash and smoke. Glass was scattered and lay shattered in beams of frail light and under dust. Burned walls with their smoldering bits stood on their own against the cold wind and heavy silence. Wind carried embers across the ruins in a fast, silent dance.

            The silence was broken with a lonely whistle from the wind breathing through an orange ring of the weakening walls. The sudden noise caused a low groan to be issued from under a pile of broken glass and a snapped window sill. Long, bruised fingers twitched as an ember gently fell onto his index fingertip. The fingers curled into a limp fist before roughly shoving away the window sill. Body free, the figure groaned again. He opened one eye to the dark grey of the sky and then the other as he lifted his hands to his face, pain shooting to his right temple. With a hiss, he gently touched the spot to find it sticky with a thick but drying liquid. A sick feeling bubbled in his stomach, but he choked it down and continued his inspection to find a piece of glass jutting from his forehead. Gingerly removing it, he sat up.

            He was hit with the sudden urge to vomit, vision going dizzy and head swimming. Taking deep breaths of the chalky air, he slowly maintained control of his nausea. Eyes half lidded, he noticed how bloody his arms were and could feel the puffy tenderness of his left cheek. Continuing his slowly breathing, he massaged his sore legs, pushing away more of the window. Sensing no immediate threat from his surroundings of nothingness, he began to slowly pick the shards of glass from his arms. He must have tried to shield his face with his arms.

            What was going on? Where was he? He couldn’t be alone, could he?

            The silence was back, now eerie and chilling. The man coughed, choking on the thick air. Shifting uncomfortably, he tried to see any signs of life. Someone had to be here. He was rarely ever alone. Finding no one, he stretched his legs straight and bending at the waist, he reached for his toes. He cried out in pain as cuts and scratches stretched and opened wide.

            “Help… Please…”

            The man instantly stopped his whimpering and cocked his head, sitting up straighter. Straining his ears, he received no other sounds. Slowly relaxing his body again, he decided it was only the wind. The quiet returned before a weak moan floated to his ears.

            “Please, someone… Help me….” The voice was coming from the right of him and not too far away. Quickly standing to wobbly legs and ignoring his need to vomit, he rushed to where the voice was coming from. He could see the twitching fingers of a person under a pile of drywall, glass, and heavy wood that seemed to be the remains of a table. Wincing considerable, he pushed the table away. Two figures lay huddled together. The one under was the one crying for help.

            “Help, help, help…” he moaned, looking up with pathetic brown eyes. “…V-ve… Sp-Spain…?” The man fell to his knees and pulled the small figures into his arms.

            “Italy! Italy! You’re okay! You’re okay!” Spain cried, studying the shaking figure. He was badly bruised and tears were falling heavily, but otherwise he seemed fine. Spain quickly looked at the other figure in his arms and his breath hitched. Romano was still in his arms, making absolutely no movement. His head was a bloody mess and his arms were incredibly bruised and swollen.

            Spain couldn’t move, couldn’t react. Slowly tears clouded his vision and Italy crawled from his arms, trying to find Germany. Hugging Romano with two arms now, Spain began to rock, tears falling. This couldn’t be happening. No, no, no. This wasn’t fair. Spain was supposed to always be there. Always be there to protect his Romano. His little, fragile tomato. No, no, no. He couldn’t even remember what had happened. But here he sat, in a pile of rumble, cradling his loved one as Italy slowly helped revive others from their previous state of unconsciousness. No, no, no. Why him? Spain started screaming. No one paid any attention as Italy and Germany and Prussia and France and Hong Kong and Korea and America and England and everyone else on the goddamn planet rose from the ashes. Why did Romano have to be the only casualty? Why did he deserve to die and not Holland or Russia or some other damned country with a bloody past? Even Spain deserved to die more than Romano. Fuck. Shit. Dammit. Spain couldn’t even think of any words to describe his anger and pain and sorrow and goddammit.

            Italy placed a hand on Spain’s shoulder and France put a hand on his other shoulder and Prussia floated just behind. Spain looked up, eyes swollen and red from his sobs. 

(Source: jadeharleyquinn)