They love each other, but they don't want to be together.
It was not something to explain in a few words, despite how long the words are, and what language they were in. Typed words bring a taste to them that waters it down from what it actually is, but it's the best Alfred can do, to at least explain this self-torture that wasn't really a torture but it was like a hurting blessing. He loves Lovino, he's Lovino's and Lovino is his, and they both can't deny that, but at the same time they aren't each other's, not because they're in that cliche type of thing where they both like each other but they don't know it and are too scared to tell each other, but because they simply don't want to.
Their governments don't care (well, America's does), and they don't each other, but at the same time they would bomb the whole world- besides each other, of course, but they are each other's world, as sweet as that sounds- if someone else touched their American or Italian. Even Russia, known for being twisted, poetic, like a robot, could not understand their relationship full of frustrations, but easy ways to fix those frustrations.
Why wouldn't they be perfect together? The nations see it as a tsundere, cute tomato-lover and an oblivious, adorable burger-lover, but that's not it. They see it differently. Two broken people, but the puzzle pieces not matching at all, because Lovino's was in the center, and Alfred's was in the corner. Two broken people, but one's green and one's red, and together they make a hideous shade of brown. It's like a bird liking a fish, and a fish liking a bird.
"Don't say I love you." Alfred said, as he rolled around on the bed, blushing and trying to hide his squeals of how much it smelled like his Lovino, sweet, with a hint of salty, but so smooth and perfect, like his skin.
"I won't, bastard. When will you get out of my house?" He responded, but they both knew that he didn't want the other to leave. They wanted to cuddle and hug each other, but at the same time they refused to, not because they couldn't, or was shy, they just simple didn't want to.
Alfred just snorted and got up, changing quickly into his own clothing.
Lovino just watches, not sad, not happy, not... complete, but just satisfied, satisfied in a way where there was nothing to be satisfied of.
Alfred stops typing.
He looks up to see his Italian resting his chin on his head, his larger, but smoother hands on his own, covering them in a warmth gloves couldn't compare to. He doesn't feel panicked, or anything like that, because they share absolutely everything with each other, sometimes sharing without even contacting each other. It's that type of thing where they could hold a weapon to each other's heads and the other will just smile and caress their cheek.
Lovino lifts a hand up, leaving Alfred's right hand cold, as he typed, the keyboard louder than their hearts will ever be.
'i dont love u'
Alfred presses enter, and types in again:
'i hate you'
'same'
'but i dont'
'shut up and lets go to sleep'