Stay with me?
Small, whispered questions in the middle of the night, eyes half-shut and hand growing lax in his own. He hesitated; he always pondered how to word his answer. What words would convince Feliciano of his sincerity?
I'll be here in the morning, was his answer, which was apparently good enough, for the Italian's hand slipped through his fingers, leaving Ludwig alone in the dark to think. He hardly ever slept these days, images of mutilated corpses flashing behind his closed eyelids. Every morning he pretended to have gained just as much sleep as the hyper nation; an unflawed act he had perfected over the grueling year it had been.
His hardened blue eyes softened slightly as he looked at the lightly tanned skin of the other nation. Like the wood that his soldiers broke as they broke into their homes, German profanities being yelled in the children's faces, harsh and cold night air rushing onto them as they were dragged away to the concentration camp. He told Italy it was a rehabilitation center for people who were addicted to hamburgers, which led to weekly sendings of flowers to the camp; the only sunlight in the prisoner's dreary, cloudy life. Sometimes, though Germany couldn't fathom how, the Italian managed to sneak pasta past the oblivious soldiers to the captives, thinking himself savior of the burger-loving souls he pitied.
The innocent nation believed every lie he told, trusting his word thoughtlessly, thinking it was all the full, golden truth that spewed from his mouth. He didn't need to know about the sins his best friend's people have commited, it would only serve to scare him away. He didn't want Italy to go away; he didn't want to be alone, drowning in his own guilt, being killed by his own regret in the dark and cold place his mind went when he wasn't in control.
Japan was of no use, becoming as crazed as the people who fought for him. On more than one occasion, he'd had to wash the blood, urine and feces out of the clothes he sent to the Axis' home while on the battlefield, desperately doing so before Italy found them. It was hard work, but he managed, making an effort to do whatever his ally said, wishing only for his happiness.
He sat up, grabbing Italy's hand once again, smoothing his thumb over the soft, delicate skin of his companion. His only tether to his sanity. The moonlight streamed through the curtained windows, making him flinch because he'd never feel as innocent as that small speck of light... not even Feliciano could work miracles; bring the impossible to him because he wasn't worth it.
A groan of discomfort brought him back, his hand loosening from its death-grip, squeezing only once before releasing completely, giving in to the call of sleep. Laying down, he closed his eyes, pulling the other body close to his own, focusing only of the sweet smell of auburn hair, the feel of something solid and real, instead of something superficial and false.
