"In all my dreams, before my helpless sigh, he plunges at me;
guttering, choking, drowning."
– Wilfred Owen
If only you knew what you brother was doing to me, he thought as he chewed at his fingernail. The split ran a tiny drop of blood down his thumb and to his wrist. Italy licked it off and tried to make reasons in his head.
Yes, it hurt. It hurt when he woke up in the morning and could not feel himself. Like his insides had been vacuumed out and he was just a slick wad of skin and bones. Sometimes he felt like everything was wrong – it did not happen very often, but when it did happen all he could think of was the deep-rooted pain that seemed to haunt his joints for days after.
But even worse, he could remember the pleasure.
And that was a whole new thing he did not want to experience. Because it did feel good – so good, in fact – but it made him feel disgusting. And Italy was not someone who was offended, hurt, or minded getting dirty. It was a whole new dirty, a kind of dirty that made him want to lather himself in Clorox. Italy hated having those kinds of thoughts; dark thoughts, scary thoughts. He was not the type to lie.
Prussia knew that, too, and fed off of it. Asking him why he said no when his body didn't lie, when he was just swallowing him up, when he was moving like that against the bedsheets. And through the slick haze and through the bloody sheets come morning, Italy could remember that it felt so good. Like nothing his body – once untouched – had ever felt before.
What was worse was that Italy had ways of coping. To close his eyes tight enough and trying to remember the smell … of Germany. The taste of Germany's fingers in Italy's mouth when he licked the sauce off of them. The rough voice of Germany when Italy woke him up too early, his scolding. He couldn't bring himself to pretend that it was Germany doing those things to him, but it did … it came to him, at times. Times where he felt especially sick with himself, it came.
"What is it, Italy-kun," Japan snapped him back into his own world, as if in a daze. "You've got some gelatto on your arm."
Italy looked down and saw the sweeet white dripping against his skin. He licked the trail of sweet, leaving a faint trail of sticky sugar on his skin. "Sorry, I was thinking of having a siesta," he said, licking the half-melted parts of his treat away.
"Well, aren't you seeing Germany-san later?" Japan asked, neatly tucking his napkin into his pocket. "He always sees you at this time."
"Ve, I know that, but I feel like I'm getting in his way," Italy blushed a little bit as he spoke. Actually, Italy felt a little bit too dirty to be next to Germany, but he didn't want to say that, either. Because it hurt to think those things. Even if Germany had been with other people … it didn't compare to the betrayal that Italy had committed with his brother. Forced or not, Italy knew he was in the wrong.
"You know," Japan started, then stopped himself. He was pausing to think of the right words, which Italy always appreciated. "You know, Germany-san may act annoyed with Italy's actions, but I do not know where he'd be without them," Japan said softly, with the ghost of a smile. "He is a man of routine, you know."
Something about that made Italy's heart twitch, and he pushed Japan into a hug, hearing his surprised gasp and then a relaxation. Japan was usually somewhat prepared for Italy's shows of affections, and although it got in the way of his own customs, Italy was mostly the only excuse.
"I guess I should get going then," Italy reasoned, stuffing the rest of the ice cream in his mouth. Japan nodded and gave a slight bow to his friend, who waved loudly and they both separated.
The air was cool and calm against his flushed cheeks, and Italy wrapped Germany's thick grey scarf around himself. It smelled warm and soft, like Germany, and it made something in Italy's heart prick up. He really did like Germany, a lot. Talking to him, cooking for him … it had been hard, to get over the wounds of war, but together they were able to stitch themselves back together.
Italy wondered if he could be stitched yet again, and if Germany could even be the one to do it.
"Germany! It's me!" Italy flung his jacket over the couch and chucked off his worn little boots, tossing them onto the mat. Immediately, his dogs came forward, all looking up and hopping excitedly to see their favorite mother. "Ugh, dogs, come on," Italy giggled and patted their massive backs before making his way inside.
"I'm in here, Italy," Germany said roughly, voice coming from his office. His fingers were by his temples and the calculator was neatly placed next to the stack of paper, and Italy wanted nothing more than to distract his special friend.
"Are you almost done?" Italy asked, sitting on the floor next to Germany's seat. The mutt licked his face with content, knowing that Italy did like to stay by his side as Germany worked.
"Just … one more application, here," Germany said, signing off another paper before leaning back in his chair. "There," he said, satisfied. "How was Japan?"
Italy shrugged and smiled up at him. "Doing well, he says konichiwa – or however they say it," Italy stroked at the shaggy fur of the pup.
"Your accent is atrocious," Germany said, almost serious. Italy stood up and pushed the dog away from him, then stuck his tongue out.
"Silly Germany – listen to me, I have a question, and it's serious" Italy tried to sit on Germany's lap, but Germany blushed and held him off.
"Shoot," Germany said, wary. Serious could be anything from death to the next meal of pasta for Italy.
"O-kay," Italy started, opting a seat for the desk. "Does it still … hurt, when you think about the war? Like, physical pain."
Germany faltered for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Sometimes, yes," he nearly mumbled, staring at his hands. "I think what hurt worse was watching you and Japan suffer so badly."
Italy winced as he thought of Japan's burns, deep red against the white of his skin. "Sometimes I feel that pain very strongly lately," Italy whispered. Germany's thoughts rolled around in his head, and he literally shook himself, as if to eject the memories. The other night when Italy came into his bed had stirred him to think that maybe there was something wrong with his most cherished creature.
"You know I would, well -" Germany took a moment, like Japan, to find the right words. "I would do anything to make you not feel pain."
Italy looked up at him, dazzling clear eyes that always caught Germany by surprise on the best of days. "I hope so," he said softly, an emotion that Germany did not quite understand on the wrist of Italy's sleeve.
Startling Germany, Italy hopped off his desk, sending a single paper fluttering away. "Come on, Germany," Italy quipped, smile bright on his pretty face. "I want to go on a walk with the dogs."
And Germany stood up, wrapped around the sweet scent of a boy he had fallen too hard over.
(A/N: Aww! I forgot that I didn't update it, sorry for the delay!)
