Disclaimer: All and any Hetalia series character names belong to Hidekaz Himaruya, Bob Shirohata (and so on). No OC's are included within this work, indicating that nothing is claimed or owned by the author, Quarter 'till Class. No copyright infringement is intended. Plagiarism is theft so is prohibited. Do not copy or create a reproduction of this work in any language without express written authorization of the author, Quarter 'till Class. Thank you...Please enjoy.
Germany/Ludwig x Italy/Feliciano (Hetalia: Axis Powers – Events of previous episodes mentioned.)
Warnings: Implied sex, cursing, yaoi, some translation necessary (terms at bottom of fic).
Chapter One: Ignorance.
It was almost too often that someone had something horrible to say. That a nation was pissed off enough to open their mouth and allow any rude and bitter opinion to shoot out of it, no matter how low, despicable, or insignificant the comment may be. Threats of war, insults on stature, culture, looks, people, governments, economy...friends.
A seemingly endless argument that they all spit at each other until someone broke, leaving nothing but tension and lingering guilt. The last time it'd been China. The short, proud Asian had slammed his fist into Britain's jaw, countless curses screeching through the meeting hall in two different languages as he aimed his next assault at the startled face of France. The strict constraint he usually exposed had shattered as small beads of angry tears formed at the edges of his eyes, and America and Sweden quickly stood to intervene.
The crude remark of poverty had been the last straw, the constant nitpicking, mocking and turmoil finally pushing him over the edge. Being told what to do, nearly a slave at this point. His ponytail flailed as he was escorted out, the pushing and yelling making everyone cringe...and Britain was left unattended to before standing up on his own. He scoffed, wandering eyes happening to meet the ever curious Italy as the younger nation stared out of concern and trepidhation.
"What‽" Feliciano cowered back at the hostile tone, the beginnings of tears pricking his eyes at the unnecessarily raised voice. Britain only narrowed his eyes, half annoyed half apologetic, the bruised pride causing stiffness and anger.
"Zhat's enough!" And Germany had exhaled with no intention of becoming overly involved. That and Italy had been in peril, an irritated Romano having stood from his seat to attend to the matter himself. "Ve vill continue zhis topic during our next meeting, if China doesn't declare var on you idiots first."
Feliciano could recall that day vividly, the way his ally had verbally rushed to his defense and how cruel they'd all suddenly decided to be. Apparently it was his turn to endure, to put up with the constant reminders of weakness and failure. How he couldn't live up to even the measliest of expectations, how Italy had been born pathetic and senseless. How he couldn't even take care of his own country.
"To be honest you're possibly zhe veakest country, aside from Liechtenstein, ha! Zhere's no vay you could ever match my level of avesomeness!" Cruel laughter, Prussia.
"Chu embarrass my Northern half! Sometimes I wish we weren't connected!" Even his own brother.
"Maybe chu should sit dhis one out Italy...I mean i's not easy." Even Spain.
"You're defenseless, mon petit! Let me take care of jou, no?" France as always.
"I heard Germany's just pretending to be your friend..." And that's when the Italian finally felt concerned, a little closer to anxiously panicked. But how would Britain know that? Germany was so discreet. If he were going to use him he wouldn't tell anyone...right?
Right?
...Right.
There was always a sense of sincere distress during instances such as these, a troubled tension of quick denial that dissipated as swiftly as it'd developed. Where Italy would pout with a quivering lip and draw small specks of liquid in his eyes and Germany would, somehow, mend anything that'd been previously torn.
But it didn't matter now, he supposed. Confronting the German in an ecstatic blur of uncertainty and sadness had indeed wrung out the truth. A good truth, Feli knew. Because he said it flustered, timid and stiff, and Ludwig was just too understanding, passive and patient to be a liar. To be a user.
"Lies. Zhey're not true." And his chest had calmed and his blood had slowed with relief. Because he didn't know what he would do, nor how he would handle it, had Germany really been conspiring against him. Forget the fact that the blond couldn't look him in the eye, he didn't care about that...Germany just wasn't the lying type.
"Actually, ich leibe dich, na." Italy smiled at his sure embarrassment, a laugh escaping his lips with a sigh trailing close behind it, a sigh he joyfully exaggerated as always. Britain could eat those words of gossip with his country's horribly bland food.
"Vaa~ I knew it wasn't true! I'm too pretty!" And as he laughed it off Germany only chuckled, a very solemn expression dulling the exuberant blue of his eyes, Feli completely ignorant of his dismissal to a shaken and now regretted confession.
What did 'itch liba dik' mean anyway?
Germany.
Germany this. Germany that.
Germany, Germany, Ludwig, Germany.
Yes, there was a visible pattern there, an odd sequence that Romano quickly recognized. Talk of the nation was constant, never ending, almost infinite when he was alone with Italy. Germany and I had training this morning. Germany and I had pasta at his house today. Germany and I—me and Germany—Germany and me...
The using, bleating, beer-chugging bastard was all his brother spoke of. That idiot German was anything and everything to Feli and, like most of the weaker's social developments, Lovino couldn't possibly care less. Right? None of his business. At all. Ever. It didn't piss him off...not even a little.
"Aye Romano! How was'a your day?" Cheery as usual, obnoxious sounding in that high-pitched, bleating tone with happy eyes and an over-worn smile.
"Fine. Yours?" He asks, being verbally generous for once. See how easy it is, Feliciano? Not exposing every second of your evening and not chirping out the unimportant events which took place? No one heard Romano lose his tongue over Spain...
"It was good!" He said it so loud and mater-o-factly, a very probably indication that it was spent with that potato-sucking idiot. "Germany and I had lunch together!"
Called it.
"We had'a pasta and wurst but the best part was the pasta~" Sometimes Lovino wondered if he even thought before he spoke. And how quick he talked...he doubted Feliciano left even a moments chance to consider something logical before opening his mouth. But, on occasion, neither did he.
"Didn't I tell you to stop hanging around dhat bastard?" A fine example of thoughtless and inconsiderate speech. Perfect timing to kick yourself while your down, Lovi. "Does everything I tell you go in one ear and out'a de other‽"
"No-"
"Why do you hang around him anyway‽" And he wondered, just how accepting would Lovi be? Just how would the Italian react if he told him, if he allowed the truth to slip past his lips and possibly ruin or seal their relationship?
"He's bad for you! He doesn't care about you anymore, and I'd be'a very surprised if he ever did! When will you see dhat you're nothing more dan an ally he'll probably let go‽" Absolute rage obscured his vision, keeping him visually ignorant to his brother's lack of weeping. How stupid could his little brother be? Had he never noticed how angry Germany seemed when he was around? How red his face got and how tense he appeared? He could barely maintain his visual tolerance for Feli. And he doubted that gun-loving bastard's head was nothing but peace, pasta and liberty. More like training, firearms and war.
He raised his voice another octave at the thought, wails of assumption and overprotectiveness almost suffocating to watch much less hear. He had to make an argument, stand up and tell him the truth. Tell him why he made Germany food, why he spent so much time with Ludwig, why he spent the night...why he hardly left the German's side anymore. Why he always looked forward to world meetings after nearly a week without seeing the blond.
Italy was naive...that much he could admit to himself. Naive about the world, about money, economy, stature, race, math, exercise; the list goes on. He was weak, often sad and meek and..pathetic. And Germany accepted that. Germany would have rather taken a bullet protecting him than tell Italy he was too fragile for the battlefield. He wouldn't use that against him; hell, he'd made an alliance with him. That was enough to tell Feliciano that there was something there, that he had been important...and that Ludwig cared. And coincidentally, he cared about Ludwig.
Romano would understand...right?
"...L-lo amo...Ger-"
"-Lo lo amo? Tu lo ami‽ Stai fottutamente scherzando! He doesn't even love you! When will you'a understand, Feli‽" The deeper tone of Lovino's voice made him cringe, the sharp expression in his eyes was less than kind and all the younger wanted to do was turn his back and cry. Maybe defensively ball up and raise a white flag to his Southern half.
But Italy just sat, quiet, hushed. Considering his point for once since several nations had indirectly implied this 'argument' before, and every time he'd ask Germany the blond would calmly deny such ludicrous rumors...but do nothing special, tireless or eager to prove it. And he always assured him with hesitation...sometimes discomfort. So, as Romano finally stomped off in a fit or rage with red cheeks to seek out Spain, Italy simply stood, idle, as he seriously considered that Germany was only using him, only pretending and simply...a jerk.
Britain's rumor surfaced to the front of his memory, the blond's smug and unusually deviant behavior expressed on his face. Green eyes sparkled with an almost forced mischief as he leaned in to whisper. "...Germany is just pretending to be your friend..."
Just pretending. Those words stuck, holding him down as he lay in his own bed for once...preventing the Italian from getting up and traveling to Germany's and curling up beside his...companion. He wouldn't go, and he could only imagine the blond waking up in the morning with a relieved smile to know that for once...Italy hadn't disturbed him. The useless Italy hadn't cowered behind him, hadn't tackled him or made him disgusting pasta. Had left him with quiet harmony, left him to read and allowed him to relax.
Without Italy there was amity, contentment, and soundless tranquility. It's always been that way with everyone else. So why would it be any different...with Germany?
"Italy." He didn't hear his name, thoughts circulating around Monday's arguments. Romano was only being cruel, exaggerating, and Britain had simply been attempting to cause tension, that was all. If Germany really didn't care...then the same question remained; why did he tolerate him? Why were they allies despite his consistent uselessness? Why would Germany invite him into his home, allow him to stay and even casually share a bed rather than demanding Italy wake up and move or trot off to sleep somewhere else? Why was he currently sitting in the blond's kitchen, sharing lunch with him like a best friend would?
No, Britian's rumor didn't make any sense, Feliciano wouldn't doubt that. Neither did Romano's accusations...but...Italy trusted his brother, looked to him for guidance and never, not once concerning social judgement, had Romano been completely wrong. Completely.
"Italy..." Despite the conclusion it still bothered him. It still made him shift uncomfortably and ball up his tiny, weak hands as though they could do damage. Maybe he should train more, maybe proper training, more or less the lack of avoiding it, would earn Ludwig's praise. Perhaps even his respect...
"Italy!" And if that failed? The Italian drew a blank, his eyes still inspecting the counter as he sat idle with a plate of untouched pasta, mocking his very existence, placed before him. The steam now gone and the sauce looking strangely unappetizing despite its perfect color and consistency. Eating didn't sound good right now.
"Feliciano!" A gruff yell accompanied by a palm slamming onto the counter to gain his attention startled the nation.
Ludwig narrowed his eyes, a confused grimace of concern matching his furrowed brow. He awaited a slow response, a barely audible noise the younger managed making him sit back.
"Hmm?" He was being oddly quiet, so unusually calm and contained despite the outburst. If Italy was anything...it was not quiet nor calm nor contained. Germany frowned a bit, gaze wandering towards the younger's untouched plate of pasta before he smoothed back his hair swiftly. That was his main concern, but not what beckoned it. The lack of physical contact he would usually have to tolerate throughout the day was also strangely lacking, as in Italy had walked into his backside while apparently not paying attention...and that was it. No unnecessary tackles, no arm tugging, shoulder patting, poking, nor any...hugs. And on top of all of this...Feli had barely spoken all day, had barely acknowledged him yet managed to speak without delay to Japan and the bitter Romano (who'd been glaring at him with the promise of death more than usual). Hell, even Prussia had received a more or less cheery greeting.
"Something's vothering you?" Had he done something wrong? There was always that possibility, considering how fragile and sensitive Italy's ego and spirit often was. He could have unintentionally insulted him, Spain, his brother...maybe even pasta.
"Aha~ it's nothing, really!" Carefree, as usual. More of an act considering he'd just been caught moping...all damn day. "I'm just'a bit more tired than usual."
"Right." He pokes at the untouched pasta on his ally's plate with a fork, blue eyes narrowing and glancing between one and the other. It was cold, and, despite his dislike for the dish and its sauce, Germany had long finished his own serving. "Und your food?"
"I-...ah, I ate a ton with'a Romano this morning! I'll save it for later!" An embarrassed blush, an adorable sigh and shaken fingers that could barely hold still when clutched around his plate. His eyes were wide open, also unusual, and he bit his lip at the need to cry. Because now this concern that Germany expressed, this consideration and question for his health and well being could indeed be a lie. It could all be a front, an easy sacrifice for an alliance he planned to cut and hang when the time came. And Feli couldn't stop him, just like the awkward display of tears that were now cascading down his flushed cheeks in pathetic trickles. He couldn't hold them back, and as he usually did, he felt weak again.
The plate was set unceremoniously back onto the counter, seeming to roll with a clatter that surprised the German more than expected. Italy choked on a sob, his arms trembling even as he hastily pushed back the stool and gripped at the counter's ledge, fingertips reddening from the pressure he applied. Italy hid his face beneath his hair, the move of a coward, the move of someone so painfully embarrassed and regretful that they can no longer bare to look into their own companion's face.
"Feli!" And Ludwig is stricken with confusion and panic and misunderstanding, and his eyes widen and his fingers fidget because he doesn't know what to do. It was worse than a woman crying, because when any woman cried it was like turning a corner and running into a brick wall of emotional distress that you couldn't avoid, and when you went to turn back...another wall mysteriously formed and you're stuck until all is settled.
This was entirely different, this was Feliciano in painful distress, this was his Italy sobbing because he'd been hiding something he needed to let out, this is his Feli breaking down, tearing himself apart from the inside because Ludwig had hurt him and he damn well knew it.
"Italy tell me vhat zhe hell ist going on before I beat it out of you!" Another flat palm slamming sternly into the counter, the blond's skin throbbing at the contact and his face etching that mild jolt of pain. He didn't mean it, at all. The mere prospect of hitting Italy made his stomach turn, made him uncomfortable.
The smaller shivered while slowly extending his arms towards his ally, shoulders hunched down as though defeated, before jolting forward into his chest with a full embrace. The sobbing continued, the doubt and the torment and the pain that shouldn't have mattered in the first place collapsed from his swirling mind down onto his shoulders...and for the first time Italy felt like dying. Fingers clenched his uniform firmly, forehead pressing into his abdomen just as a secure arm wrapped itself around his shoulders. A safe place, somewhere he could be honest and just fall apart without hasty assumptions of judgement. Granted Japan would have the same caring, concerned reaction...but Germany was Germany, and no one could replace Germany.
"Ev-everyone...says you hate me." A slew of foreign curses met his ears in a rush of irritation, the German accent so heavy it lacked expression. But Ludwig was relieved, because it wasn't something he himself had done, and it wasn't something he couldn't fix.
"Not zhis again, Italia..."
"Do you?" He seemed so serious, so oddly out of character simply by being in a rumor-wrought depression. His eyes opened wide, pointed and patient while awaiting an answer. The glossiness of his cheeks, the tears caught in his lashes, the red puffiness skewing his physical appearance. Ludwig sighed, heavily with the same blush as always. That idiotic blush he could never explain nor understand. Verdammt.
"No..." A rather confused and thoughtful pause made the moment that much more stressful. He thought back to the day he'd publicly told him he'd loved him...it hadn't ended as desired due to a lack of translation and attention. "...vhy vould I?"
"I-I'm not-"
"-Don't start, Italy. How many times do I have to remind you? I don't hate you, I don't zhink I could even if I tried. Vertrauen sie mir." A small smile, a gentle hand gripping his shoulder firmly and holding him close. How could he not believe him? How, when he could listen to the beat of the German's heart, his controlled breathing and his words of reassurance, could Italy even for a moment consider that Germany hated him? Because Germany didn't hate him, and Romano was being an ass, and Britain had no idea what the hell he was talking about, and France was just jealous...and chiunque altro è un idiota. Simple as that.
"I know, Germany." And he cowered a bit, the uncertainty still visible even with his developing calmness. It was a while of standing, the younger's face buried into the blond's chest and uniform with no plans of release. Small dots of salted water still beckoned to strain away from the edges of his eyes, causing even more guilt than before. Germany huffed in response, embrace tightening around his Italian before, and in his most soothing voice manageable, he spoke.
"Italy...tut mir leid." And the Italian smiled past his tears, because despite his bilingual tongue lacking the German language...he knew that Ludwig had apologized.
Germany hadn't reacted, in fact he doubted he really could. Romano had crossed a line, a very thick, brightly colored line that, had it not been hypothetical, probably would have 'Do Not Cross' printed in bold letters.
He could feel the blood drip, how the brother of Italy maintained that much strength he didn't know. But Albert was the first to intervene, as usual, and Feliciano was at Ludwig's side immediately...not to comfort or apologize...but to hold him back. Because punching another nation for no legitimate reason was usually a declaration of war, and he again doubted that Romano wanted to send troops into his well-armed country.
The meeting was put to an immediate halt, a silent one excluding the rushed footsteps of America and Spain tugging sternly on Lovino's arm while escorting him out, a scoff of disgust being thrown at the German over his shoulder. The taste or iron met his tongue, his own blood dripping from his chin out of the cut on his lip. The damn ring Lovino had been wearing caught him just right, splitting his lower skin gracelessly.
Prussia stood abruptly, red eyes hazed with excitement and mirth at the idea of another battle. He'd been waiting for another war...a glorious form of execution. Where he could rain bullets into men for the sheer purpose of defending himself and his allies, the awesome power he held as a leader capable of crushing what trembled beneath him. Ludwig caught the grin, an unnecessary bloodthirst animated his brother's features so vividly that it'd be obvious in any light. His haughty self-praise somehow managing to maintain itself through the air of violence and expectancy.
"Nein, Prussia." He'd said it crassly, blue eyes challenging the harsh and quick disappointment of crimson ones before sighing almost impatiently and wiping the blood from his chin.
"Vhatever." Instantly defeated by the weakness of his sibling, his smile dulled from his features as he sat back in his assigned chair. Arms crossed, bangs sweeping his face involuntarily an making the older sneer out of endless irritation. He wanted a war, dammit.
And another long wave of silence, filled with lowered heads and shifting gazes. The awkward reactions were expected from most of the countries, considering the usually loud and socially adroit America had assisted Spain, the reposeful saint of forgiveness, in dragging out the raging Italian. Even France held his tongue, glancing at Russia who went almost completely unfazed by the event with his blithe smile and keen eyes.
"G-Germany, let's go." Italy broke the tension, concerned, fingers curled into his companion's jacket as he led Ludwig out of the meeting room, the blond stiff with pent up irritation. It was almost physically painful, being socked in the face and, out of respect for Italy, not cracking open Romano's skull as a reasonable response.
His teeth gritted, nose quirked in a bitter response and teeth dug deeper into the cut, only to elicit a hiss of discomfort at the sting. Italy looked up, expression apologetic and still just as disquieted as it had been when Romano had first approached Ludwig during a world-concerned debate. The shorter's hands circled around his upper arm, grip tight into the fabric of his coat and chest flush against his side as though unwilling to leave him be. Not that Germany minded...not at all.
They tuned the corner, a heavy fisted Romano being verbally pacified by his fellow nations at the end of the hall. America seemed straightforward in his 'dude that wasn't cool' speech, always striving to be the hero, and Spain a visually nervous wreck as he scratched the back of his head and attempted to calm down the boy he'd raised.
"That German bastard is using him! I know it! Amo mio fratello why would I'a embarrass him‽" Nothing short of an argument. Lovino shut his mouth almost instantly as the two made themselves obvious, Italy throwing a worried countenance his way. "Fratello, lets'a go. I already told y-"
"L-Lovi...fatti gli affari tuoi per una volta!" And Spain nearly choked, his eyes wide as he looked to Romano simply because Italy's demand was so...unusually worded. Harsh, threatening, serious. Romano was quiet, hands balled into fists once again and eyes set only on his ignorant child of a sibling. "Solo questa una volta, bene?"
"Fine. Non piangere per me quando è finita..."
And America looked around, confused and oblivious to their foreign conversation. Hand scratching hastily at his neck before straightening his jacket and adjusting his glasses. Albert exchanged a quick glance of shared confusion with Germany, who'd also seemed completely lost at the quarreling brothers. Apparently they were of no help, and Spain just appeared horridly concerned and anxiously disturbed.
"Spain, dude, what the hell just happened?" A comical whisper, America still staring at the awkward situation with an awful rigidness he wasn't used to. In response the older laughed uncomfortably, foot tapping nervously before her turned to answer with an accent thicker than usual.
"Aha...Italy just told Romano to, um, mind his own business."
"Dude, no way!"
It bothered the Spaniard, more than it should have. How protective Lovi was attempting to be and how miserably he seemed to be failing. How Feliciano was just too ignorant to see it and probably assumed it as vindictive hatred or bitterness his older brother couldn't look past. Romano only wanted what was right, though less considerate of Feli's opinion and more convinced that he was correct and Germany was just some using, battle-crazed douche of a nation. Despite the constant insistences of...well, everyone.
"Lo farò..." Italy led his companion quickly out through the main entrance, eyes glassy and grip firm around the other's wrist. He didn't care, let Lovi be pissed off. Let Lovino and Britain and France and everyone else believe what they wanted.
He left Romano angry, fists still balled tight and face flushed red in anger. Spain a tense mess of concern and America just..confused. Italy almost genuinely laughed despite the situation.
It felt good...being strong.
"Ah, don't move." Still quiet. He didn't like Italy quiet. It was unnerving. Even as he smiled a bit while examining the cut on his lip it seemed lacking, as though contained by negativity.
"You stood up to your brother..." More of an observation that'd just clicked rather than a question. More of a proud statement rather than a disappointed scowl. "...Ita-"
"-I talked to'a Romano about this before. He wouldn't listen." He sighs disconcertingly while interrupting, the curl of his hair bouncing in sync with his slumped shoulders and lowered gaze. The brunette stands from his seat on the sofa, eyes a little softer much to the German's relief. But he mentally inquired exactly what they'd 'talked about before'. Italy was being blunt and evasive and he truly had no idea why Romano had walked into the room and instantly given him a glower of disgust, only to throw a fist the minute a disagreement had provided him with a reason to. "He really doesn't like you."
"Apparently." He watched Italy stride to the kitchen and rummage around. He smiled in response and bit the healing cut on his lower lip, finding a scab in its place; the drive home had felt long, maybe giving the cut enough time to heal...but perhaps Feliciano's silence had drawn it out. Upon finding the scab he picked at it, a childhood habit formed from a badly scraped knee that'd taken over a week to heal. And he cursed at the feel of more blood dripping from the wound.
"Germany!" The voice had a bit of neediness to it, an oddly welcoming tone he'd become used to. Italy was at his side instantaneously, expression again concerned and growing dreadfully apparent while seating himself back into the couch.
"Don't vorry about it. Just ein cut."
"...I know." He mumbled it, hesitation expressed in every made movement and even the gentle batting of his lashes. A careful thumb intimately running over the cut, and the German blushed...like he always did around Italy. He became flustered, like he always did when questioned or complimented by Italy, and he stiffened...like he always did when he realized he loved Italy.
It was simple, it was sweet and the moment was fragile. The fear of rejection stifled the air, and he leaned forward to casually close the distance.
Ludwig set a curled finger beneath Feli's chin, the large brown of his eyes brimming with an unattractive glossiness and the need to cry. The utter shock that rippled though his blood making him quiver.
There was a moment of silence, a brief instance of recognition then uncertainty before Germany closed the gap. And it was so brief, so faltered and so gentle as he grazed his lips over the Italian's, a vague pressure confirming that this contact was beyond intentional but also a slow and careful experiment; a test. Germany remained idle, lips hovering over his ally's as he awaited his response, lidded blue eyes scanning the large brown irises he found so enticingly vivid. Italy did not move, the lingering heat still radiating from the German's close proximity...such a moment should never be rushed, and the thin taste of iron and blood was something he'd never thought would be enjoyable. Because despite never once knowing or assuming or even feeling sexually attracted, this is what he'd wanted. This...attachment, this adoration expressed so mildly is what Feliciano had always needed.
Disappointment and scorned embarrassment shown on the blond's face at his lack of response. The creeping heat of his cheeks darkening and the cut on his lip bleeding profusely. Feli was stunned, immobile and gazing so uncertainly with flickering eyes, scanning up and down and left to right. His eyebrows were arched in worry, lips parted softly with a small speck of the German's blood adorning the lower. And Ludwig like it, he liked such an intimate expression, he enjoyed what they had and, never truly considering it until now, he wanted more.
But Italy still did not react, and for a moment Ludwig's chest had a sinking feeling that made him visibly cringe. He quickly averted his gaze, a wrenching pang of self-loathing suddenly tightening in his stomach at the idea that Italy still and might never reciprocate his obvious feelings.
He hated that word; feelings.
Yet the steady feel of hands setting themselves of his shoulders made him eagerly reconsider, and Germany froze as nimble, delicate fingers trailed up his neck and to his jaw. A gentle examination of his partner made the corners of his lips perk, Italy feeling a long awaited relief swiftly fade down into his stomach; not quite fast enough.
"Te amo." Italy expanded his smile in each word before leaning up and forward, mimicking the previous touch of lips, brief and soft and just as kind and carefree as Feliciano himself was. He broke it and smiled while watching his partner, small hands gently holding each side of his face, expression calm and willing and...happy; almost enlightened. Then it seemed much more eager as Feli leaned up a second time, the tips of his toes sore against the wood flooring and the taste of blood bitterly intoxicating as he set a more firm and elongated kiss against his ally's lips.
Ludwig sighed into the contact, distracted mouths preventing any further confessions to escape either's lungs. And it grew deep, not at all bashful nor as shallow as it'd earlier been. It was rough, exciting as the once dormant conflict of emotions took over entirely; actions hasty as buttons were torn restlessly from shirts and tossed to the floor. His lips pressed into the crook of the Italian's neck, a hasty gasp eliciting in delectation at the breath of heated air trailing his skin.
It all grew reckless, gentle, romantic and passionate; Italy loved Germany and Germany loved Italy...and everyone else could screw off. Because Italy would do anything for Germany, only to find that Germany would do whatever it takes to protect Italy, and because somehow they'd known all of this, every last assumption and emotion, since he'd opened that stupid, talking crate of tomatoes.
"Ich liebe dich, Italia."
Ich liebe dich. It was funny...Italy finally knew what that meant.
"Ich liebe dich..."
Italian
Lo lo amo - I love him.
Tu lo ami - You love him.
Stai fottutamente scherzando! - Are you fucking kidding me?
Amo mio fratello - I love my brother.
Fatti gli affari tuoi per una volta - Mind your own business for once.
Solo questa una volta, bene - Just this once, okay?
Non piangere a me quando è finita - Do not cry to me when it's over.
Lo farò - I won't.
Te amo - I love you.
German
Ich liebe dich - I love you.
Vertrauen sie mir - Trust me.
Tut mir leid - I'm sorry.
Yea, I know. You're all probably wondering where the hell this came from considering its my first non-Oc fanfic. To be honest I'm a huge Hetalia fan, and I adore anyone paired with everyone...literally. The show is fucking perfect and I literally have an obsession developing. So of course I had to write for it, and the fandom's most adored pairing. I love these two together. ^^
Anyway, this was actually requested a while back, but I was told to go crazy as long as it featured GerIta and Romano being an asshat. So I'm thinking I did pretty well. Hope it works!
Thank you dolls for reading! Please review! xoxo