WARNING for the frank discussion of childhood sexual abuse. If you think this might trigger you, please do not read the story.

Intimacy Part IV

Germany, too, had come to the conclusion that the simplest way to begin the conversation was to ask about Italy's behavior immediately following their most "sexual" activity—that is, after a painplay session. Having put away his riding crop, he sat down on the bed before his lover and introduced the topic rather straightforwardly.

"Why do you let me hurt you?"

"Because you like it, don't you?" Italy offered with a soft smile, "I thought you liked it!" He seemed surprisingly cheerful, considering the true subject at hand.

Germany shook his head sternly. "That's not what this is about. You know what I am asking you. Why do you let me hurt you, when you won't let me pleasure you?"

Italy's eyes went blank for several long seconds, but he soon blinked and responded, again with that small smile. "Why do you ask such silly questions, Germany? We both like it. Isn't that pleasuring me?" The entire time he was speaking, Italy failed to truly meet Germany's eyes, instead staring off into the space just beside his head.

Germany gave a disappointed sigh, as if he had somehow expected this to be easier. "Sometimes I get the impression you don't really like it."

Still smiling, Italy returned, "That's silly, too. Why would I willingly do something I don't like?" Italy's voice was tense this time, fraught with something, though Germany couldn't tell exactly what.

"That's exactly what I'm asking you."

This statement was followed by another blank pause, this one lasting even longer than before. Instead of being broken with a smile, this time Italy's lower lip began to quiver, and when he responded his voice was shaking just as much. "I… Germany, it wasn't my fault!" He drew in a quick breath. "I didn't want to! It wasn't my fault at all." When he looked up at Germany, his usually bright eyes shone with a wetness instead of a joy. A frown marred his features, and he buried his face into Germany's chest, wrapping his arms around him tightly. "It wasn't my fault…" Italy could be heard sniffling into the shirt now, a fact which normally would have bothered the conscientious Germany; yet, at this moment, his dirty shirt suddenly felt so irrelevant. "Don't be mad at me, please don't be mad at me…" he whimpered, before his voice finally cracked piteously and he began to cry.

Germany wrapped one arm around Italy comfortingly, using his free hand to stroke his fingers through his soft, light brown hair. "There, there," he tried to soothe, but he only managed to feel useless and incompetent. As he listened to that final plea that Italy had spoken, his heart ached as if it were literally breaking. The Italian didn't deserve this. "How—" Germany's voice cracked, "how could I possibly be angry with you for something that isn't your fault? How could I be angry with you because someone else hurt you?" His throat was so constricted by now that it physically hurt to speak.

Italy sniffled against Germany's chest again. "B-but… you said…"

Germany sighed, continuing to run his fingers through Italy's hair. "I didn't mean it like that. I certainly didn't mean to make you cry. I'm the one who is sorry, Italy." He gave the Italian a gentle squeeze. "I'm sorry about whatever must have happened to you. I'm sorry I didn't admit it to myself sooner. And I'm truly sorry you don't seem to think I can help you." The German's voice sounded uncharacteristically strained.

Italy gulped, then lifted his head from Germany's chest to take in a deep breath of air. His face when he looked up was reddened and tear-stained. "Germany…"

Germany's voice was gently insistent now. "I don't know exactly what happened to you, and I do not expect you to tell me if you aren't comfortable doing so. However, I do insist that, whatever it was, you did not deserve it."

Italy's eyes drifted downward, as if he didn't really believe what he'd just been told. Germany attempted to lift his chin, but the touch only caused Italy to struggle against the arm holding him close until Germany let go. "Don't—!" he almost shouted. When he finally met Germany's eyes again, he was panting from the exertion of breaking away from him, his shoulders rising and falling in an unsteady rhythm.

Germany's eyes were wide, startled, but soon softened sadly. "Warum muss das so unmöglich sein?" he muttered to himself under his breath. Why must it be so impossible? Why was there nothing he could do for Italy—why did he have to feel so helpless? Endless unanswered questions flitted through Germany's head, each of them more impossible to answer than the last.

Then he spoke to Italy, reaching out a hand slowly, gingerly, half expecting him to shrink back in fear again. "I'm sorry to have brought it up. I won't ask any more of you."

Italy nodded and took a few cautious steps forward. "Just hold me?" he asked in the smallest of voices.

"Yes," Germany nodded in return, "I can do that." And he wrapped his arms tightly around Italy, for the sake of he knew not whom.