Prussia woke to a very specific kind of chill. It was the kind of chill that came neither from the cold clutches of the night (for the early morning sun was already beginning to cradle the room in its lazy, contended arms), nor from the natural turn of the seasons (for it was late spring now, and the night before had been pleasant and clear). No, this chill was due not to the presence of cold but rather the absence of heat.

The ex-nation groaned, mumbling half-formed obscenities as he fought for control of his sleep-leadened limbs. He needed to get to the other side of the bed. If warmth wasn't here, crammed onto the edge of the mattress and under a pile of linens that had seemingly piled themselves over him in his sleep, then surely it was there, in the form of an irritable, complaining (adorable, cuddly, warm) Italian. Prussia merely had to rouse himself to get that far. He had been through far more strenuous ordeals in the past; simply rolling over should have been easy. Should have.

But Gilbert was tired and cold and running on instinct at best. It was too much to move, too much to drag himself those few formidable feet from one end to the other. The mattress creaked mournfully in agreement as he made it to his side and his body so readily decided it could go no further. Lovino would just have to come to him instead.

"Lovi," he whined, "C'mere. It's cold." There. Now all he had to do was wait for Lovi to curse and kick and complain his way back to Gil's side. He squirmed slightly, repositioning himself just so, so that when his lump of an Italian finally joined him, there would be minimal pain involved for all parties (because Lovi was a brute in his clumsy movements). Breathe in, breathe out, wait for Lovi. Repeat as necessary until that familiar warmth returned to its rightful place.

Except…

Except he kept breathing (For he could handle at least that much on his own). And he kept waiting (waiting so still and so quiet that if he concentrated he could hear his own ever-quickening heartbeat). But the warmth (that complete, that whole feeling he'd grown much too accustomed to) never came.

"Lovino…?" Gilbert frowned and opened his eyes.

But then the answer was obvious, for how could Lovino have answered him if he wasn't there in the first place? He wasn't sure when the Italian had slipped away (nor was he sure where the sudden cold, crushing weight that tightened around his heart and lodged itself in the pit of his stomach came from), but the fact remained that Gilbert was alone.

It made sense, he realized somewhere in the back of his mind. They weren't a couple of giggling high schoolers; they weren't attached at the hip. There were plenty of perfectly reasonable explanations. Perhaps he had been struck by a sudden, unrelenting full bladder—Certainly he couldn't be faulted for that. Or maybe he was taking a shower. Strange for him to be doing so this early, but if Gil had learned anything from the few short years he'd spent with Lovino, it was that the half-nation did things as he wanted, when he wanted, with little rhyme or reason in between. Or a call from his boss that he just couldn't let Feliciano handle this time. And what day was it? If it was Saturday, then he'd be at the Farmer's Market, obviously. Only the best for his kitchen, after all.

But then Prussia could see the bathroom door from where he was, still curled limp and pathetic under every piece of linen from the bedroom besides the fitted sheet itself. It was wide open and showed a room just as cold and uninviting as the one it branched off of. And no matter how long he held his breath and how hard he listened, nothing met his ears but heavy silence. His phone told him it was Wednesday.

And it really wasn't like Prussia to get all out of sorts just because he'd woken up alone, it was just—It was stupid and silly and sissy, but when they'd first gotten together, he had made Lovino a promise. Lovi would never wake up alone. And hadn't that to Gil meant it'd go both ways? Wasn't that promise for the both of them? Or was Gil, as he was wont to do, misunderstanding how relationships worked again. Maybe because Lovino had never said he'd be there for him, it didn't count. Maybe Gil was only there for Lovi's use, and when the other nation finally (certainly, undeniably, without a doubt) grew tired of him, then he'd be right back where he started. Alone. And cold. He always froze to the core when he was alone.

He knew it was nothing more than baseless panic. He knew it was his mind jumping to the worst conclusion from a combination of shock and restlessness and tiredness. He knew all that. But still.

(No, he wasn't upset. He just came down with a sudden headache, is. And stomachache. And he had just rubbed his eyes the wrong way and that's why they were threatening to burn now. Yes. That was it.)

"Gilbert, you idiot. Pull yourself together," he muttered, swiping at a wayward tear before it even had the chance to start its journey down his face. "You're fine. He's probably just—He's just—"

"Y-you're awake?"

He was right there in the doorway, looking for the world like a child whose parent walked in on them with their arm shoved elbow deep in the cookie jar. Gil's sweatshirt hung limply down to his thighs and he was holding a single coffee cup tightly between his hands.

Gilbert shifted as if to sit up but was stopped short by a cry from his lover.

"Don't sit up! You'll knock everything on the floor! Stupid!" Lovino was moving towards him now, berating him with every step. "You weren't supposed to wake up til I got back. Damn bastard, messing up all my plans." A few short moments and a handful of curse words later, the Italian was standing at the foot of the bed, looking down at his lover with a look that to others would have seemed one of contempt. But to Gilbert, who knew his lover so well, it was a look of embarrassment. Embarrassment, and then apology at whatever he saw lingering in those searching red eyes.

Lovi frowned and mumbled into the cup he was holding, "Thought you'd be warm enough, dammit…"

Suddenly the tower of blankets made sense. Sometimes Lovino's logic mirrored that of a child. When he was alone or feeling particularly insecure, he tended to create expansive burrows out of all the bed sheets and soft things he could find (and oh, how many times had Gilbert himself become a part of those burrows?). Apparently he had assumed that what calmed him down would keep Gil calm as well.

Honestly, Gilbert was touched, if not further confused. "But why?"

"B-because I wanted coffee, dammit! It's none of your damn business anyway."

That, Gilbert expected. What he wasn't ready for however, was for the mug to be thrust into his hands, the liquid it contained sloshing dangerously close to its edge. He looked from the coffee to his lover and was taken aback by the look Lovi was giving him. It was the most expectant….

Oh. The coffee was for him. That look meant, "I'm sorry for screaming at you last night. Shit went down yesterday and I had a fight with Feli and I took it out on you and I'm sorry," mixed with a certain amount of "And this was supposed to be a surprise but you ruined it by being a jerk, so you better appreciate it." (And didn't that sound so much more like Lovino anyway?)

Gilbert smiled, amused at his own reflection shining back at him. "I forgive you." He shut his eyes and took a sip, exhaling softly as the warm liquid seeped through him, the cup a pleasant heat against his icy hands. It wasn't the same as actually having Lovino curled up in his lap or pressed to his side, but it was a good start. "Danke schoen." As he drained the cup, the warmth spread further, filling him with a content feeling he couldn't find the words to describe properly and driving away all the bad thoughts and the insecurities and the cold.

"Don't you fucking speak that potato bastard language at me." Gilbert pretended not to notice the steady red overtaking Lovi's face or the absence of a second cup in his hands. "'Specially fucking early in the morning. Now move over already," Lovino snatched the now empty cup from his hands and shoved it aside, and then he was climbing beneath the covers and he fit so perfectly against all smashed up against Prussia's chest that the ex-nation wondered briefly why it had taken them so long to find each other in the first place. "Now shut up, I'm going back to sleep. Got up too fucking early, dammit."

"Shut up, Lovino," Gilbert said, tucking him safely between his arms. "Besides, I just drank a cup of coffee. How the hell do you expect me to sleep now?"

"By shutting your stupid bastard face and letting me sleep."

"But I'm awake now."

"Don't care."

"You should."

"And why the hell is that?"

Gil laughed, poking Lovi in the cheek. Only Lovino could be so adorable while giving someone his best glower. "Because this is your fault. And the way I was raised, when someone is at fault, you make them take responsibility for their actions." He laughed again, bright and sound, before he was swallowing whatever halfhearted protests and insults were spewing their way from his lover's mouth.

What had been started with that unexpected act of kindness was made complete in this kiss. The last of the chill was chased from Prussia's body, replaced by softness and sighs and pleasure and a deep warmth that spread down from his mouth and up from his gut and made his fingers twitch and his toes curl.

"Stupid bastard…" Lovino whined and hid his face against Gilbert's chest, inhaling deep before yawning one last time as his eyes slid shut. "You're warm..."

Prussia agreed.