I am genuinely shocked that this is over 1000 words. I totally didn't think it'd get past 800.
Anyway, GerIta fluff! Angsty fluff…really angsty fluff…yeah.
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, because if I did, I wouldn't write this, I'd straight up make it into an episode!
He knew, from the moment he turned out his light, that he was not going to sleep a wink.
It was not uncommon for Italy to run screaming into Germany's bedroom after dreaming that Germany no longer wanted to be friends with him. This had happened more times than Germany cared to count, but was usually fixed with a simple, "Italy, I'm not going to stop being your friend," and then a hug if the Italian was particularly upset, and Feliciano would skip happily back off to dreamland, content that his friend would forever be at his side.
Clearly, that was not going to cut it this time.
Germany had just begun to feel sleep's warm embrace when his bedroom was suddenly flooded with light from the hall, blinding him after the darkness of night, and a distraught little figure ran in and threw itself at the foot of the bed.
"Germany! Germany!" Italy wailed, hands over his face and tears streaming from between the closed fingers. "Oh, Germany, I had a horrible nightmare—"
"I know, Italy," Germany interrupted softly, reluctantly pushing back the sheets and getting out of bed. He knelt on the floor and massaged the Italian's back affectionately, while the latter continued to sob hopelessly. "You dreamt that I didn't want to be your friend anymore, but it's okay because I'll always—"
"No!" Italy yelled, lifting his face from his hands and looking at Germany with eyes spilling over. The unprecedented pain and sorrow behind the amber irises startled Germany, and made clear that this hadn't been an ordinary nightmare.
"'No'? What do you mean, 'no'?" Germany asked, somewhat hesitantly: part of him didn't want to know the answer.
Italy looked down at his hands; then, slowly, the sobs became nothing more than sniffles and the odd strangled moan. Italy ran a hand under his nose and went to speak, but when he met Germany's blue-eyed gaze full of concern, it all started over again.
With a terrible, heart-wrenching wail, Italy threw himself at Germany, wrapping his arms tightly and burying his face in the strong neck and shoulder. With his own arms circling awkwardly the Italian's midsection, Germany felt each violent tremor that wracked the small frame while Italy hiccupped and sobbed, soaking the German's pajama shirt. And slowly, the story of the nightmare made itself heard.
"It…it was just like normal…I was eating p-pasta you made and…and someone knocked on the door and I answered it and the people on the other side were so big, Germany, so big and scary…and they said you'd done a bad thing in the war so they were…th-they got past me, a-a-and they took you a-away forever…" Here Italy was quiet, except for his crying, before clutching Germany tighter. "I'm so sorry Germany, I couldn't stop them…I couldn't stop them, it's all my fault…all my fault…I'm not good enough…I'll n-never be…I'm not good enough…"
Germany felt as though he'd been slapped in the face. Every intonation of "I'm not good enough," like a mantra cut deeper and deeper into his heart. How could he ever explain to pathetic, soft-hearted, useless Italy that he will always be good enough—more than good enough—for Germany? Maybe it would be best to just say it.
Standing, Germany dragged Italy up off the floor. He planted a kiss on top of the brunette head that refused to look up from the floor and whispered, "You are good enough, and you will always be good enough."
With a soft, "Mmh," Italy wrapped his arms around Germany, and the pair stood in the embrace for a long time. Then, gently, Germany moved to guide Italy back to his own room. The Italian lifted his head from Germany's shoulder, discovered the taller man's intentions in an instant…
…and everything went wrong.
"NO!" Italy stopped walking and planted his feet; he hung on to Germany more tightly and pushed against him with all his might, in an all-out attempt to do whatever he could to prevent his being alone in his room again. If he were to be alone in the dark, that nightmare was sure to come back in all its frighteningly realistic detail, and shake him to his very core until it became reality and Germany was taken from him forever.
As Germany continued to try to move him out the door, Italy began to yell. "No, Germany! Don't make me go back in my room by myself! I won't! I won't I won't I won't I won't I—Germany!" Germany wasn't listening to him. "Germany! …L…LUDWIG!"
The screaming of his human name finally made Germany stop, just inside his doorframe. Italy, weak in the knees, collapsed on the floor once again, unable to keep the tears under control. Germany looked down at the Italian, and sighed. The dream was still too real; he had been foolish to think that Italy would go willingly back to his own room.
"Oh, mein Gott," he said as he draped one of Italy's arms across his shoulder and hauled him up off the floor, "I knew I wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight."
Germany half-guided, half-carried the limp form back across his room and helped him get into the bed before crawling in on the other side himself. Once in the bed, Italy rolled over and curled up into a ball, forehead against Germany's chest. He felt strong arms caress him, and he sniffled. His tears finally stopped.
Germany held Italy, and listened as his breathing—before rapid and irregular—slowed and became more relaxed. He fingered the curl of hair that he found hard to think of as anything less than endearing, and smiled contentedly. He felt Italy lift up his head and heard a whispered, "Thank you," followed by an unintelligible phrase that Germany didn't even need to hear because he knew the absolute truth of it before Italy had even entered his room that night, or perhaps since even longer ago. Germany swore to himself that, no matter whether Italy could reciprocate, Germany would love and protect him, for as long as he was able to do so; he would hold on to his little Feli with everything he had, and never, ever let go.
Germany noticed now that Italy was watching him, bloodshot eyes wondering why the blond man was staring at him with such conviction. Germany, feeling a little embarrassed, smiled at Italy. Italy smiled back, and felt a warmth flood his body as Germany placed a hand behind his ear and kissed him. And in that moment everything of the nightmare ceased to matter, because regardless of whether he was "good enough," Italy knew in his heart that so long as Germany loved him, nothing could ever tear them apart.
Mein Gott = my God (though you probably already knew that…)
Ayup, I am proud of this. I hope you like it too! Please R&R!