Hetalia X Reader One Shots Requests Open

A Small Bowl of Pasta (Italy x Germany)

The German stared out into the cold night from his little corner of the world. He was cold and hungry, just like everyone else in his country, but he gave his home to a mother of four who had lost her husband in the war. He didn't think they meant to push him out, he just went.
  And now winter had sunk it's feral teeth into the heartless land, ripping away any hope and joy of a new day from the young and old. 
  His country was starving.
  His country was freezing.
  His country was dying.
  He pulled his torn coat over his frail body. His brother had died in that bitter war. Of the hard, cold nights and little food. Of the vicious enemies.
  Maybe he would see his brother again. His dull eyes slipped closed as his shivers continued, his small puffs of air that was tainted with ash visible long into the night and earlier the next day.
  None one cared much for his country, thinking him a tyrant after that one foreign man rose to power, swaying so many with those snake-like words of his.
  The sun shone weakly through the billows of smoke hiding the sky. Fires left over from the war continued to spread across the country, everyone one too weak to put a stop to them, all hoping for a miracle. 
  A stranger, Italian by the looks of him, walked down these abandoned streets, a frown on his face when young children with dirty faces peered at him through broken windows, around ally walls, from wrecked cars. Each of them received a couple slices of bread, a small bottle of water, and a piece of paper with an address upon it, a place of safety.
  The stranger continued, finding every man, woman, and child he could. Soon, the darkness began to creep in again, the wind howling, blowing the fires in their direction. One more round a of this block, then I'll go a home. The stranger thought, eyes wary of the rising fire line.
  The German hadn't left to find food and water, hadn't moved much at all. He was just to weak... too tired.
  Footsteps sounded. 
  Dull blue eyes looked up to see a face he recognized from many years ago, a man who had a passion for pasta and art.
  "Feliciano? Is that you, old friend?"
  "Ludwig!" The Italian cried, throwing his arms around the thin German. "Are you a alright?"
  A small smile was cradled on the German's lips. "I vill be fine."
  "Come to my a house, away from the fires."
  "Are you sure?"
  "Very. Come now." Feliciano helped Ludwig to his feet and half carried him away from that desolate corner of the world.
  He brought him to a room with just a bed and dresser in the Italian's house, giving him new clothes and helping him in bed. All the while, Feliciano smiled brightly.
  "Vhy do you smile, Feli?" He asked as the Italian in question handed him a small bowl of pasta. 
  "Because I care for you."
  Ludwig furrowed his brow slightly confused. "Vhat do you mean?"
  The smile widened slightly. Then Germany was caught off guard by those soft lips of his catching his own. A moment later and he returned it. He felt his heart that had been dormant so long flutter softly as that kiss became more passionate, the German gently tugging Feliciano closer to him.
  He didn't want to pull away, but the need for air was so demanding he had no choice. Italy smiled softly. "Now eat, Germany."