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"Your eyes."
Italy touched his face, his fingers poking the pudgy flesh of his cheeks before sliding to the soft skin just under his lashes. His face was hot, but he wasn't as drunk as —
"Your eyes," Germany insisted, and he tilted on his stool, leaning heavily on his elbows, which earlier in a moment of foresight he'd propped against the bar. "You've got…" He made a face that Italy knew he made when he was trying to find room in his tummy after the soup and salad and saltimbocca, and then Germany reached towards Italy — which was a bad idea, a really bad idea because he was barely keeping his head off of the bar with both hands — and put his fingers on top of Italy's fingers on Italy's cheek.
"You've got eyes," Germany said, and his voice was full of such wonder that Italy didn't have the heart to giggle at him, or to tell him that he had them too, and that his were so blue it made Italy forget to swallow sometimes and —
"H-hey!"
Germany had taken advantage of Italy's being distracted by his eyes and had moved his hand to Italy's neck, and now he was tilting towards Italy instead of towards the bar, and if they weren't careful they were going to end up on the floor and then Germany'd never let them come back to this place because he'd be so mortified when he remembered and Italy loved this bar because the bartender knew how to mix a margarita just right and sometimes the bartender got sausages from the restaurant next door and gave them to them when they came in as a gift!
And then Italy squeaked, because Germany's other arm had at some point left the bar and the hand attached to it was carding through Italy's hair and straying dangerously close to one particular strand… Germany swore he didn't know what was so special about it, and always got angry whenever Italy flailed at him when he touched it, but maybe when Germany was drunk he got psychic and —
"G-Germany, let's get you home!" Italy said, and down the bar the bartender looked up from his cleaning and grinned at them in a way that was wholly improper for a citizen to be looking at his Fatherland with though it also said some things about how maybe Germany should take note that some of his people weren't quite so strict anymore and maybe he could loosen up a little and.
And Germany curled that single strand of hair around his pointer finger and tugged, and Italy felt a spike of heat explode in his stomach and shoot lower, and Germany slid off his stool and half onto Italy's lap and almost onto the floor.
"Home!" Italy repeated, and he hooked an arm under Germany's, and somehow managed to get off his stool without toppling the both of them over — it wasn't as though he hadn't drunk anything either, except Germany had been there with Prussia before Italy had gotten there with Austria and Hungary, and where did they get off to anyway, Italy thought uncharitably, leaving him to smile sheepishly at the bartender (who gave them a cocky salute and told him that it was all on Bundeskanzlerin Merkel's tab, so not to worry!) and manhandle Germany out the front door.
They made it outside on the momentum they'd built up coming off of the stools, and Italy tugged Germany upright before he careened out into the street and got run over; but it was with upsetting clarity that he realized he'd overcorrected — Germany swung unsteadily next to him and then, suddenly, was pushing him backwards against the front side of the building.
"Ow," Italy whined, and he tried to reach up to rub the back of his head which had said a rather unpleasant hello to the wall. But Germany's bulk prevented him from having enough space to move, let alone touch his head, and then Germany was pressing his face against Italy's neck and making this sound against the skin just under Italy's ear… and Italy giggled.
"You just went schnuffle!"
Germany made the noise again, and it sounded a lot like his dogs when they flopped onto the ground and heaved big sighs, and Italy was going to giggle again except Germany's hands went all grabby at Italy's sides, his fingers poking into the soft of Italy's middle.
Except Italy giggled anyway, because Germany was tickling him and his lips against Italy's neck were doing weird things to Italy's insides.
"'N' why're you wearing clothes?" Germany slurred, and at the end of the sentence his tongue came out, just sort of licked under Italy's ear like Italy tasted good — which he did, so that made sense, but Germany never seemed to think so.
And then Germany's words hit Italy, and his cheeks puffed out and he said, "You said I had to! When me and Austria and Hungary showed up you made me promise I'd keep all my clothes on and I did!" Italy'd been put out, too, because he hadn't even planned on being naked, especially not when it'd make Austria make that face he always made which sort of looked like all his other faces only more constipated — but Germany said it like he was just gonna run around naked all night! It was still too chilly in Berlin, for one thing…
Germany snorfled this time, and his fingers stilled as he said, right in Italy's ear, "Y'smell nice."
And his breath in Italy's ear tickled too, and the tickle went all the way down and mixed with the fire in Italy's stomach, and he turned his head and kissed the side of Germany's face, the red skin of his temple, because he just couldn't not.
"C'mon," he said, because Germany had stilled pretty completely all over, and it'd be no good to spend the rest of the night propped upright against Italy's favorite bar in Berlin; and so Germany worked with him enough to get them staggering down the street until Italy could flag down a taxi.
The cabbie took one look at the two of them and smiled kindly, and helped Italy get Germany into the backseat. Italy climbed in next to him and the cabbie started off, obviously knew where to go, and didn't pay attention when his country slumped against Italy and slid an arm around his waist.
Germany's mouth went to Italy's ear again.
"Germany," Italy whispered to him, and the cabbie nonchalantly turned the radio on. "Germany, I'm being responsible." And if Italy thought about it, he was really put out that Germany wasn't aware enough to appreciate it, and compliment him on it, and Italy was definitely going to use this as an example in the future for times when he did the right thing, except Germany probably wouldn't accept it because he'd say he remembered nothing.
"Mmn," is what Germany said now, and that was probably an agreement sound. "Take this off," he said next, and his hands strayed under the waistband of Italy's trousers and tugged out the bottom hem of his shirt.
Italy considered it for at least ten seconds, because his shirt had been itchy against his shoulders for quite a while now and the very nice cabbie was stoically keeping his eyes on the road and was humming along to some woman on the radio singing about being the queen of the night, and Germany was probably just drunk enough that he'd not be embarrassed about it later when he was sober because he wouldn't remember; but then the cabbie was pulling up outside Germany's flat, and he and Italy were back to the task of moving the Fatherland without letting him collapse onto the pavement.
Germany draped across Italy's shoulders - and oh, um, he was doing this thing with his teeth on Italy's ear that was making Italy go weak in the knees, and Italy had nursed a couple margaritas and it was already a little hard to focus on the cabbie's quiet smile and assurance that the ride was on the house. Italy was just about to thank him when the cabbie wished Germany good luck tonight with a twist of his lips, and got back into his car.
Germany waved an unsteady hand at him that Italy thought may have been a salute three Bocks ago.
"C-c'mon, Germany. Aah, you're heavy." And it was hard to move when he was licking the inside of Italy's ear like that - and his hands were back to tugging at the hem of Italy's shirt.
It was with a concentrated effort and the blatantly forced obliviousness of the doorman that Italy got Germany up to his flat. And by up to his flat Italy really meant right outside his flat, because Germany decided it was a great idea to press the Italian against the wall next to his front door and shove his thigh between both of Italy's, and run his hands up Italy's sides, under his shirt.
But Italy didn't have to be responsible anymore and he was fairly certain everyone else in the complex was asleep (and they would surely feign ignorance for the sake of their country's pride)... which were both conclusions he reached with startling clarity considering the margaritas and the slow rock of Germany's hips against his thigh, but really he was just thinking too much for the situation at hand. So he threw his arms around Germany's neck and kissed him, kissed him until he ran out of air and they had to breathe through their noses, breathe in each other's breath; and Germany's hands stopped at the small of Italy's back, under Italy's shirt, and they were so warm it -
Italy tilted his head to kiss Germany's jaw, and Germany's head flopped disconcertingly onto Italy's shoulder - and Germany was never ever allowed to say anything snide about Italy's ability to fall asleep at the drop of a hat, not ever again.
"Germanyyy," he groaned, because the country was twice as heavy asleep and was already twice Italy's size, and Italy had to stretch out his arm and flail a bit until he found the doorknob of Germany's front door, and really it was an act of international cooperation and maybe a little peacekeeping - because Italy wasn't sure what the consequences would be if he dropped the Fatherland and his head split open on the tile flooring - that he got Germany inside and into his bedroom and sprawled out on his bed.
He unlaced Germany's boots and tugged them off, and got his belt undone, and then he slid out of his own clothes and flopped onto the mattress next to him. He'd always thought getting Brother home after he'd spent a night with too many bottles and complaints about Spain was hard... He sighed loudly and twisted around on the bed until he was curled towards Germany, and Germany's blue blue eyes were open and watching him, and Germany raised a hand and fumbled it across Italy's chest and jaw, until he was cradling Italy's face in his palm.
"You..." he said, and Italy's stomach did weird, traitorous things that reminded his whole body of how close Germany had been too many moments ago, and how forthrightly he'd touched Italy wherever he'd damn well pleased. "D'you know when I was little I." And he stopped, and he looked like he was trying to think really hard about something, and he said instead, "D'you remember when y'were little?"
Italy nodded, and when Germany didn't say anything else Italy guessed that meant he wanted to hear something, so Italy told him things he remembered from when he was younger, when he lived with Austria and Hungary and when the Holy Roman Empire would stare at him from behind barely-open doors. "And one time when I couldn't find anything to eat... Germany?"
Germany was smiling, just a quirk of his lips, but when he talked his forehead scrunched up. "Prussia made Kartoffelkloesse, but he let 'em touch, and e'rything fell apart wh'they cooked. He served 'em with a big spoon and they were hard to eat. Got e'vrywhere. Still tasted good though."
Italy tried to imagine Prussia cooking, and his mind supplied Prussia with Hungary's body and kerchief, wielding her frying pan, and he giggled. Germany laughed too, and his fingers touched the soft skin under Italy's eyes; and he tilted his head forward, closer to Italy's shoulder.
"He had a dog named Falk," Germany whispered, hot air puffs against Italy's neck. "I remember he loved walks. Hated carriages."
Italy laughed, imagined Prussia and a grey dog with red eyes bounding about next to him, flopping onto the ground and kicking his legs and paws in the air, jumping up onto Germany, slobbering all over him.
"When he was a pup he'd almost got hit by one," Germany continued, and Italy watched his forehead wrinkle up. Italy moved his hands, brought Germany's face up, smoothed his fingers over Germany's brow, smoothed out all of those wrinkles until Germany's eyes closed and he stopped talking, his mouth open just so.
Italy leaned over, kissed the corner of that mouth. Germany grimaced and Italy felt the sudden, startling beginnings of panic claw at his chest before Germany threw his arm over Italy, said, "He had another one, Grau. Good dog. Dunno what happened to him. They built the wall and Prussia didn't talk to me for a while."
The panic bled over into a dull, well-worn ache, and Italy slid his arms up to cradle Germany's head against him, curved his own head down, as though he were able to shield Germany from his own memories.
"Italy," Germany said, and then, "I remember... Mn. I love you," and Italy's throat felt like it was full of cotton.
"Love you too," he whispered, and Germany nodded -- thought better of it and closed his eyes, frowned.
"Good," he said, and his hand dropped to Italy's chest, and he was asleep again.
Italy woke up with something crushing him, and he struggled against it until he was awake enough to realize it was Germany, and then it was okay because the weight became warm and reassuring. And Germany's mouth was hot on his chest, Germany's tongue dipping into the curve above Italy's collarbone, and Italy twisted under him, made a happy little sound, and Germany raised his head and moved up a bit, kissed him on the mouth.
Italy kept his eyes open and he saw that Germany was still flushed - not the red he got when he was excited (well, that too), but the red that flooded his face when he was drunk - and then Germany pulled back enough so that Italy could look at him without going cross-eyed. He had a gentle smile on his face and his eyes were heavy-lidded. Sometimes, Italy remembered, he and his brother and Spain would get so drunk that in the morning when they woke up they were still drunk; and it was still early in the morning, now, because the sun wasn't even coming in through the windows. So Germany was still drunk but not as drunk as he was last night which meant he might actually stay awake this time, which also explained the reason he was mouthing at Italy's jaw at the same time that his hands were wandering over Italy's middle like he could map the contours with the pads of his fingers.
Italy's breath caught in his throat - the cotton had never gone away, had just reproduced like rabbits at the back of his mouth - and he tried to undo the buttons on Germany's shirt. This, he thought, was the last time he didn't undress Germany before bed if he had the chance, because Germany wasn't being helpful at all now! He got this one-track mind that was admittedly kind of sexy but Italy'd never seen him as drunk as he was last night or even now and apparently that one track headed straight to despoiling Italy, and while that wasn't something Italy was going to whine about he'd at least like Germany to take his pants off.
Except apparently when Germany was still drunk from the night of debauchery he and his brother had engaged in, he was not interested in taking off his pants. (Which he really should be, Italy thought, because his pants were always itchy and now they were itching both Italy and Germany and that was not on at all.) He was instead interested in licking his way into Italy's mouth and drawing the Italian's lower lip out between his teeth, nibbling like he was hungry for it, and that wasn't fair because it made Italy hungry for breakfast and he couldn't concentrate on Germany when he wanted food and he couldn't concentrate on food when he wanted Germany.
"Germany," he said, and it came out garbled because Germany's fingers were moving on his stomach, touching his belly, and it did weird things to Italy's voice. "Germany, I want breakfast."
"S'early," Germany responded, and in a move that Italy wasn't sure he could accomplish sober, hooked an arm around Italy's back and reversed their positions, flopping back on the bed and tugging Italy over him to straddle his waist. His hands rested on Italy's hips, his fingers moving in small circles against his skin, and he said, "And you're in m'bed."
Italy blushed, and poked at Germany's chest, and said, "And you're still wearing clothes! I bet I could eat something in the time it took you to get your clothes off." And he could, too, and then maybe when he'd finished he'd come back in with leftover cream and discover Germany sitting in bed, his shirt half off and his trousers undone because he didn't have the coordination to get everything off him, and then maybe Italy could sit on him again and put the cream on his stomach and --
Germany took advantage of Italy's distraction and moved his hands inward, curving around Italy's thighs, and Italy's fantasies of food cut off because one of Germany's hands continued in, bumped against Italy's penis, pressed slow-moving fingers against the tender skin at its base. Italy's own hands scrambled for something to hold onto, twisted in the bottom of Germany's shirt, and Germany exhaled in a low laugh.
"Payin' attention?"
"Uh-huh!" Italy said, and of course he was going to pay attention when Germany's hand was moving, way too slowly but still moving, and Germany was looking up at him like... Germany had the most intense stare Italy'd ever seen and it made him feel naked even when he wasn't wearing clothes, which was weird but.
"Want you to know," Germany said, and it wasn't fair that he was expecting Italy to pay attention to both his hand and the words that were coming out of his mouth, because if he were able to multitask then Italy'd still be thinking about breakfast too; but Italy tried really hard to listen to Germany talk because Germany wanted him to, and when Italy leaned forward it was because he wanted to make sure he heard everything and not because Germany's hand was moving more quickly or that his other hand had moved to slide down Italy's back, to cup his buttocks, to slide between... "Want you to know," Germany repeated, and this time he said it into Italy's ear because Italy was close enough now, "'m serious."
"Yeah," Italy said, though it came out more like a gasp, and he closed his eyes. It was like last night was catching up with him, like his body remembered the way it'd felt when Germany'd pressed him against the wall (both times, actually, um) and was eager to pick up where they'd left off. "Serious," he agreed, even though he really wasn't sure what Germany was talking about.
And Germany let go of him; Italy whined high in his throat, his hips jerking forward before he could even think about it, except Germany's hands were on his back and he was tugging Italy up, and at the same time he was kicking his legs awkwardly - and Italy wasn't so out of it that he couldn't figure out Germany was trying to finally take his pants off but he was trying to do it without moving, which was silly, so Italy slid off of him to one side and helped.
And Italy swore he'd only looked away for a second to throw Germany's pants and underwear towards his own pile of clothes from last night, but it was enough time for Germany to regain his bearings and grab Italy round the middle, push him onto his back. Which in the end was okay, because it meant that Germany could settle (flop) between Italy's legs and press heavy weight to Italy's hips, could thrust and slide their erections together.
Italy's hands scrabbled against Germany's back, his fingers skidding across the fine cotton of Germany's shirt — and why hadn't he taken that off too, so Italy could touch his chest, kiss his collarbone — at the same time that Germany flattened a palm against the mattress, lifted himself up enough so that he could reach between their stomachs.
Italy jerked, arched up underneath him when Germany encircled their penises with strong, long fingers; and Germany bent over him like a bridge, kissed Italy's shoulder, scraped his teeth against Italy's skin. He whispered words that Italy only half-heard, liebling and schön and Italy had to be half-hearing wrong because that sounded a lot like wurst and he was going to ask about it, observe that maybe the time for wanting breakfast was ten minutes ago when he'd first suggested it, except Germany did this thing with his strong, long fingers that made Italy squeak — dig his fingers into Germany's back — and Italy quite forgot whatever it was that he had been thinking about and instead simply felt, the warm knot in his stomach spreading throughout his body until everything tightened, his toes curled.
He came with a soft cry muffled by Germany's mouth, and he sort of didn't pay attention to anything after that. What had been that hot urge melted into a calm contentment, a drowsy lull that settled all over him, and when he was startled awake by Germany flopping onto the mattress next to him he realized he must have briefly fallen asleep, which was embarrassing and probably made Germany mad and he was just opening his mouth to apologize when he realized that Germany looked happy.
Or at least — at least Germany looked contented as well, his whole face slack in a way that Italy only ever remembered seeing at times like this, when it was quiet save for their breathing and they were alone and close… and Italy yelped because right when he thought that, Germany slung an arm around his middle and yanked him over, settled against him and pressed his face against Italy's neck.
He'd never been quite so grabby before though, Italy concluded, but he also decided it was fairly wonderful. He twisted onto his side and squirmed until neither of them were in the wet spot — and Germany was so drunk because normally he cleaned up and now he was just barely staying awake! — and folded his arms up against his chest, held his hands against Germany's sternum so he if he concentrated, if he really paid attention, he could feel his heartbeat.
"Y'know," Germany whispered later, into the centimeters between them, against Italy's lips, "sometimes I can remember what it was like when I was young."
Italy imagined Germany young — tousled, sunny hair; sky blue eyes. He pressed closer against the solid line of Germany's body and curled his hands over the skin that protected Germany's heart. I love you, he thought, and with a smile against Germany's mouth said, "Tell me?"