Italy looking at him with that squinty-eyed smile. The nation hugging him uncomfortably close- well, it's strangely comfortable and uncomfortable. Maybe the hanging on him was what Germany wasn't quiet comfortable with, it was like Italy made him carry him without carrying him. Well, that's not really it either, he does pretend that's bothersome, but it feels nice to-
Germany sighed and opens his eyes again into the dark, staring out toward the wall. Chewing his inner lip, he shifted to stare up at the ceiling. Honestly, he needs to stop going to bed every night thinking about him. Germany groaned and closed his eyes again. Attempting to think of something else- anything else.
Fluttering eyelashes against his cheek, and
a promise of a kiss.
The sky grows dark and blood orange-red.
Falling.
Collapsing painfully onto a stone floor;
men, women, children,
screaming out.
Germany wakes up before the rest of the nightmare-ish dream can play out, but he doesn't need it to. That fear echoing through his mind and body. His voice is lost and his breathing's harder than it should be. Sitting up, he catches his breath. Germany's strong. That was the kind of thing they say. We are strong, we are the solution. This war is necessary, for the greater good of our nation. But it still hurts.
The nation sits there for a moment, taking in the searing pain running through his body. Physical pain is easy to withstand. At this point, it's obvious some of this pain is going to stay there for a while. The first great war was nothing to sneeze at, and neither was this one. There are marks that still hurt from the attacks- doesn't feel the same as a sword or fire. Bombs and trench warfare isn't really something most nations are used to. Not yet.
But the German's problem isn't the pain coming from the battles with Britain, or America, or Russia. He can power through that easier. But that pain in his gut- the ones that give him burning marks on a daily basis- that's harder to swallow sometimes.
The problem is, Germany's not just a nation of Germans. And it hurts. Because they're trying so hard to make the minority 'disappear'. Those people- as much as he tries to ignore it, no matter how often he looks away, or how quickly he'll turn them in, because, they say so often that it must be done- those people are still a part of Germany. So sometimes, in the morning, when he's not quite able to completely ignore it, he just wants to scream. Because it hurts. They're burning him. A part of him is burning him. They're killing these people, and, they're killing him.
But the nation gets out of bed, just the same. He gets his uniform on, just the same. He ignores the pain, he ignores them- just the same.
"Ludwig," Italy called, singsong tone making the German smile softly. The smile proved short-lived, and in moments, Italy leaned up into his space, face getting extremely closed to his. Germany leaned away as Italy frowned at him, scrutinizing him a moment. He tilted his head, "You alright?"
Germany stared at him a moment, "Uh- yeah, yeah, fine-" he began. Italy must not have believed him because he became crushed in a hug, making him stumble back to brace himself with the weight. Germany paused a moment, slightly unsure of what to do with himself. His heart's pounding so fast. Which is made worse by the fact that Italy's head is pressed right against his chest. After a few moments of indecision and internal screaming, he let out a breath, and wrapped his arms around the other nation.
"I understand," Italy muttered, "It hurts me too sometimes."
Germany looked down at him with a tilt of his head, unsure of what he was trying to say exactly. Italy backed away slowly and softly. Straightening his posture, Italy smiled at him. "We could go get something to eat. Like pasta," the Italian suggested with a wide grin. Germany rolled his eyes, shaking his head softly.
Italy sighed exaggeratedly and pouted, "But passtaaaa~"
Although the corners of his lips twitched up ever so slightly with amusement, Germany sighed. His Italian was an enigma.