One, two, three . .
Italy's eyes flew up then down and then up again for minutes until Japan's intrusion.
"Staring again?" he asked,
Italy seemed to be in his own world, not helped by the islands attempt at contact. He continued to stare at the bold Adonis lifting weights a couple feet away. He stared at the sweat that glistened off the tall, muscular German's body. Italy probably looked like a pervert when he didn't even stop looking when Japan spoke.
"Italy? Italy." He repeated
"Hm?" without moving his line of vision the Italian spoke back, but only a small sound; nothing could get in the way of watching a tall blonde man flex. Honestly, nothing.
"Can you stop gaping at Germany for like, 2 seconds so I don't throw up?"
Italy just brushed off his words like nothing. He rested his chin on his palm and made it his goal to intently look harder, just for Japan. For what seemed like, and what might've been, hours passed by until Germany stopped his long exercise routine. As the German dropped multiple weights and wiped his face with a small cloth, Japan sighed with relief in front of his book.
"Thank god he's done. I swear I couldn't have dealt with your gawking for another minute."
Italy pouted, but quickly stood up to trot over to the kitchen and fill up a cup of cold, ice water. He spun around, his eyes meeting Germany's as he walked out of the room, hands wiping his wet face and neck.
"Here you go!" Italy beamed, eyes closed and mouth open in a smile.
"Thanks," Germany replied, with a slight smirk dancing on the corner of his mouth "you—uh—didn't have to."
"No, I just—uh—wanted to." Italy giggled.
"Oh Shintoism deity, help me with their stupidity." Japan groaned, closing his book as sitting up from his previous station on the couch and walking to the stairs, "I'm leaving."
"Oh—uh—okay. Goodbye Japan-chan!" The ginger yelled, waving his hand.
"Don't use my honorifics you Western piece of shit!" The island nation called from the top of the stairs.
Italy turned to look at Germany, who was sweaty and shirtless and breathtaking. The German's hair was undone from its normal gelled back state, all straggly and messy. He was looking down, eyebrows furrowed, his hand gripping to the back of his neck. A sly grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, a rough chuckle escaping through his lips. Italy couldn't even care if his staring was noticeable, he just stared. He was staring at Germany's shirtless torso, all slick and perfect. Its curves and indents, all the dips and escalations, it was like his body was crafted to be perfect. Germany's lines and crinkles in his face, the dimples when he smiled, everything was just delightful and not something to look away from.
"Italy?"
"Hm?" The realization pulling Italy back into reality was as much painful as it was gratifying, seeing the blonde man's blue eyes filled with question.
"Are you okay?" He looked down at the Italian, slightly lifting an eyebrow
"Yeah—yes—definitely." He smiled, a bit weakly.
"Hey," he asked, running his hand up his partner's arm, "what is it?"
"I—just—I" Italy began, but his line of words cut off by a gaze set in his direction. Italy couldn't help it, he couldn't stop it no matter what. It was as if he had no control over his limbs or what they did. He grabbed Germany's head, tangling his fingers in the blond messy locks, and it wasn't his fault. He pulled the man close until their chests met each other, and it wasn't his fault. He pushed his mouth into the other man's, kissing his pink, thin lips. He bit and nibbled and licked the entire inside of Germany's mouth he could catch. Remember, it wasn't Italy's fault.
A rough, beaten and obviously quite masculine hand tugged at the Italian's sides. A lift and he was off the ground, resting on Germany's waist and wrapping his legs around him. Germany smiled with his lips still against Italy's. The Italian fed back a giggle in return, before leaning deeper into the kiss, sneaking a skim of his tongue across his partner's lips.
Italy continued to run his hands over the German's front repeatedly, and then through his back. And—god—all the bumps and scars and everything just felt like heaven. Was it weird that he had an internal spasm when Germany began unbuttoning his shirt? Because it was like a colossal rush of everything from all over Italy's body flew out of him in a moan. Maybe it was a gift that Germany had been kissing his neck when Italy let out the sound, so he wouldn't find him uncomfortably into this.
Germany kissed and nibbled all over Italy's neck. He kissed over his clavicle, sliding down to his chest and kissing there and everywhere. Germany finished, raising his head to meet Italy's eyes, an Italy didn't know to be happy or disappointed. He leaned forward, kissing the man and parting his lips slightly. Italy maneuvered his way across the German's face, placing kisses on the cheekbones of his lover, and on his nose, and forehead and ears. He kissed all the way down to the top of his chest. He let the smaller man slip out of his arms, letting him reach lower lengths of him, kissing his mid torso and lower area. The Italian was on his knees now; he brushed his hand of the zipper covering Germany's vulnerability. He leaned in, and bit lightly at the zipper, tugging it down gently.
"Italy—oh, just—yes." The Germany moaned.
Italy looked forward at what he was doing. What was he doing? He didn't—he hadn't done this before. It's nothing he had thought to learn, well, I mean, granted he'd thought about doing it with Germany before but not really. He didn't know the steps, what to actually do what Germany would like or dislike. It's not something he would had prepared for his life, it's not like Hungary would've talked to him about how to do it, maybe Austria, but—this is off topic. He had no idea what he was doing and frankly he was internally crying at the fact he'd gotten himself into this position. But looking up at Germany, looking at him with his eyes squeezed shut and forehead creased, his mouth only opened a little with utterly pleasured sounds escaping it. If this meant he could have Germany like this, this, for him, because of him, at least he'd try.
He pulled the zip down further until there wasn't anything left to pull. He parted the flaps of Germany's jeans, and kissed the next fabric in front of him, white underwear. It was plain white—stationary—completely describing Germany. He kissed it, hard and full, pushing so Germany could feel his lips, but not really—he was teasing.
"Italy, god—yes" The blonde soldier gripped the ginger red hair, intertwining his fingers with it.
He kissed a bit more, and then lifted his index finger to the top of Germany's boxers, pulling them down a little. He kissed the little skin revealed, he then pulled them down a little more, just a little, and—
A click and the closest door to them was open, within a second, "Hey Italy I needed to—HOLY TAP-DANCING JESUS" was a yell from a piano playing Austrian who probably just broke a world record for; 'quickest closed door'.
It was a moment of just frozen silence with the two, not a word said or a muscle moved. Just staring, gaping in silence not knowing what next. It's not everyone whose dad walks in on the first time they swallowed their gay pride and gave a blowjob. But again, not everyone's dad is Austria.