A/N: Because this story is from Germany's perspective, English-speaking is indicated in italics, while German is in normal punctuation.

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It won't be long now, Germany knows. He can feel the happy agitation in his people, both those who are officially his and those in the East who are his-but-not-but-actually-his. It's not going to be long. The writing (and graffiti) are on the Wall, and Germany walks through most of his days feeling honest-to-god high from all the heady emotion around.

England isn't happy about it (the one and only time Germany almost gave in to the urge to punch the other nation was when he had the gall to comment, I like Germany so much I'd prefer two of them, but Germany didn't because violence is apparently not the answer) and nor is France (he's toned down a bit, though, just rolling his eyes), but America's basically over the moon about it. If he had to pick one of the three to be pleased, America's the one he'd pick, if nothing else for strategic purposes.

Of course, America only likes it because it's basically the symbolic destruction of the Soviet Union; the only reason why America likes him at all is for the symbolism, really. East vs. West, the great Hollywood blockbuster being played out on a live stage in Germany. Sometimes this feels extremely demeaning, but, well, Germany's been demeaned worse before and he does like Hollywood movies. (Except for the ones about WWII. He doesn't watch those.)

Though, Germany understands why America's movies are so good: the man is a fantastic actor. He has been since the Berlin Airlift, frankly, where he more or less forced Germany to drink pilfered coffee in the name of something America had called "friendship." When he had started spearheading the initiative to drop candy parachutes over West Berlin, Germany had avoided him for months, baffled. Finally, Germany had invited America to his postwar hovel of an apartment where they drank Coke and America actually allowed Germany to take him, which was surprising. Germany tried to make it as good for America as Prussia always had for him; it seemed to be successful but America probably had no experience having clandestine sex in tents because the man was loud.

In the years since, he'd seen a lot of America, in particular; the man liked to do things. He liked to go camping. He liked to go drinking. He even convinced Germany to buy a motorcycle because America wanted to go speeding down the Autobahn like an absolute madman. He would invite Germany frequently over to his house, but leaving his country just seemed too utterly painful to Germany. He actually hadn't since the end of the war. Leaving Prussia - even though they hadn't seen each other since that camp in 1945 - was just too much to bear.

…Germany had to admit that the motorcycles had been the most fun he'd had in a while, though. He likes machines, he likes going fast, and America squealing over a BMW and German engineering was more than enough masturbatory fodder for a while.

Camping wasn't bad either. He enjoyed it now that it was a recreational activity rather than something he had to do in order to vainly try to not lose a war. That's how he found himself camping in the middle of nowhere around Munich, sitting around a dying fire with America seated across from him, with America vaguely strumming on an old guitar.

Unlike Germany, who had made an art out of revealing as little as possible, America was always managing to express something. He talked a million miles a minute while wildly gesticulating; when he wasn't talking he was normally humming or producing extremely expressive facial expressions or playing a guitar or drumming out rhythms on a tabletop. The man could have an entire conversation without saying a word if he wanted, it seemed… but America really liked saying words.

In some ways it reminded Germany of Italy, which is probably why Germany appreciated it on a certain level. Being expected to hold up an end of idle conversation was stress-inducing; having the responsibility taken away by the other person doing all the talking was a relief. Just that rather than Italy's sweetness and softness, America was an absolute juggernaut. But at the moment he didn't appear to be: across from the fire, looking up at the stars, aimless soft noise coming from his hands, that one stray lick of blond hair moving in the soft breeze. Unsurprisingly, America was also quite good at the guitar; Germany liked to watch his fingers when he wasn't watching the fire.

The music abruptly stopped, which got Germany's attention. He could see America stretch and stand, before walking around the fire to sit on Germany's left side, so he could still hold the guitar without hitting Germany in the chest with it. His other hand held a bottle of bourbon, which he knocked back a swallow of before handing it to Germany.

Germany had already had quite an impressive amount of beer for the night, but America also seemed rather hammered and wasn't that the point of camping if you didn't have to worry about shooting enemy soldiers at all? He took the bottle and had a drink.

America took it back. "Ludwig, Deutschland," he said, making Germany turn to look at him - America rarely bothered to speak German with him nowadays, given that Germany was now entirely fluent in English. You know, I like the ways your names sound better in German rather than English. Swig. He passed the bottle back.

…thanks, Germany said, not sure at all how he was supposed to respond to that. Drink. Pass.

America took the bottle and had another tipple - it wasn't even half empty. Yeah. English sort of ruins it. It makes the name 'Ludwig' sound like you're accidentally dropping books on the floor or something. 'Lud-wig.' Nah. 'Loot-vig,' now that's sexy.

…Germany took the bottle from America this time, making America laugh as Germany desperately took another swallow to cover his blush and the spike of arousal that went through him. German is not a sexy language, he tried, going with well-known stereotypes. We sound angry all the time.

This made America's flushed face produce another one of those smiles. German is sexy as fuck, he responded, causing a hot flush to erupt across Germany's face. Very commanding, authoritative, that sort of thing. He tipped his head. It doesn't sound angry to me, just… you know, forceful. Aggressive. Assertive.

None of which are words that describe me, Germany said, looking off to the side and unconsciously shifting up his shoulder. Oh god, please don't let this conversation involve the 40s. I've done everything you've told me to do.

A warm hand rested on his arm. That wasn't what I meant, America said, and when Germany looked back over, a strange, more serious pall was cast over the other's face. Germany, I… There was a pause, and then America switched to German. "Germany, I'm going to ask you a question, and you need to answer."

Germany knew that America had actually been trained by Prussia back in the day when America was attempting to break away from England; sometimes they had eerily similar mannerisms. Germany thought that Prussia and America would probably get along too well if they ever spent a long enough amount of time together after the current conflict with Russia ended. (This would be bad for the world.) Germany simply looked at America; wordless permission to continue.

"Whenever I say something, you seem to always assume I'm making some critical remark about you or am trying to use you for something. Obviously, back in the 40s and 50s… I understood that, and, yes, the whole thing with Ivan involves you a lot but… if I tell you I think your language sounds good because it's authoritative and assertive, why do you think I'm actually making a negative comment?" The stray lock of hair bent in the wind over blue eyes that just looked confused.

Germany looked at him blankly, and took another large gulp of the bourbon, feeling the world spin slightly too quickly on its axis. He was too drunk for this, and even though his face was in its usual impassive mask, it felt like everything behind the wall was falling into nothingness. "It was a misunderstanding," he replied woodenly. "It won't happen again."

America sighed, and rubbed his forehead. "Germany, this happens all the time. I'll say the food was good; you say it's mediocre. I'll say the scenery is nice; you say I've got bigger mountains or wider plains at home. It's not as though I don't get… mm… how do you say in German when you don't give yourself enough credit?"

"Self-deprecation," Germany responded immediately, taking another drink before America relieved him of the bottle to have one of his own.

"Yes, self-deprecation. England's the king of it and Japan's reigning empire. But when you do it, it seems like you… you believe it."

Germany, who was too drunk for this conversation, wondered who in the hell pegged America as unable to read atmosphere. Currently, it was Germany who was unable to figure out how to stop emitting atmosphere. "Because I do," he said, four syllables that fell to the ground like shards of glass.

Silence for a moment. "Why?" America asked.

Germany looked at him. "How would you feel if when people thought of you the first thing that pops into their mind is death camps?" he asked. "Beyond that, I've been split in two, I can't see my brother, I don't govern myself, part of me is worried about what will happen if I do end up governing myself since I didn't do a very good job of it before, did I? Not to mention, you do have more land than I do and the Rockies are bigger than the Alps." No reason to be illogical about it.

America's face looked bewildered. "…look, the Nazi regime is going to loom large for a long time… and for good reason… but there are lots of things about your history that don't involve that. Your people invented the printing press, for crying out loud."

Germany shook his head. "I don't remember any of that, he said flatly. I only remember from 1871, and then Prussia was mostly in charge until after WWI." He reached out for the bottle again, and America handed it to him.

America nodded slowly, and Germany waited for the expected remark about how young Germany was. "You've had a shitty time of it, then," America said, instead.

"I did it to myself," Germany said shortly.

America shook his head. "No, I mean, like, you. Ludwig. Not Germany. I mean, in terms of actual years of memory, when I was just over 100 years old I hadn't even seen real combat yet and was barely out of a christening gown. You've had much more shit happen."

Germany looked at him, and then away.

America shifted the guitar so he could lean forward against Germany's side, a warm, heavy weight that smelled vaguely of sweat, barley, and soap: Germany was used to America's particular scent bouquet at this point. "I like you, though. Like, I really do, outside of the nation stuff. Though I do like your language, food, and scenery, mind."

…Germany felt the blush start to return, and he looked away. America's fingers reached out and tugged his chin back over; Prussia used to do a similar thing.

God, if America and Prussia ever spent any time in each other's company, the world was over. The American-Prussian Empire would drown everybody in self-proclaimed awesomeness. Or nukes. Probably both.

"You're smart," America went on, absolutely relentless. "You're a good listener. You're obviously good with your hands and good with mechanics. You love dogs; it's hard for me not to like a person who likes dogs. You're good at cooking, a hell of a lot more considerate than I am, and… well, I think you're nice. You've always been nice to me. Don't think I haven't noticed how you always have the beers I like and Coke and things on hand when I come visit. You pay attention, and I like that, too."

This was all said at such rapid fire and with such apparent blatant honesty that Germany was sure his face was as red as a tomato when America was done.

…he was also undeniably, embarrassingly hard.

America was looking down at the tent in Germany's jeans with interest, and then back up at Germany. "So that's what you like," he said absently, apparently more to himself than anything. "That doesn't happen… all the time when somebody compliments you, does it?"

"No," Germany said, shifting. "But it's not like it happens all that frequently."

Jesus Christ, America muttered, slipping back into English for the utterance. "All right. Put your hands on your head for me."

…Germany obeyed. A bit hesitantly, but it wasn't like he couldn't move them down if he wanted-

"Good boy," America purred, and it had been so long since anybody had said that Germany almost came in his pants, gasping quietly, his blue eyes snapping to America's face.

America grinned, a flush of his own appearing. "Is there anything in particular you like for this? Or just for me to say nice things about you until you shoot? Trust me, I'm willing to do that - this is pretty hot, actually."

Germany wasn't sure if his face could get any redder as he looked away. "I need to be doing something," Germany mumbled. "Doing something well."

"So you get off on following orders and being told how well you're executing them," America said, and if he hadn't of sounded so delighted about it Germany probably would have gone soft with humiliation. "That's so you. No, don't look like that. It is you, and you're wonderful!"

Germany took a breath over another wave of hopeful arousal. He supposed that if getting off on following orders was "so him," being able to praise others as effusively as he praised himself was "so America." Hearing him say it in German made it all the more potent.

"German does sound sexy when you speak in it," Germany said, voice a little weak, trying to hint that he should keep speaking in it.

America laughed. "Hint taken. German it is. So, like, military orders or…"

On one hand, it was excruciatingly embarrassing to be talking about this with anybody - he'd never even openly discussed it with Prussia, really - but on the other hand he was drunk and needy and just so weak with it all that oh God who really cared? Did it matter? He shook his head, his hands still resting on his head. "No. Not military at all."

America tipped his head, looking very much like one of Germany's shepards. Germany might have patted America on the head (I am not sober) if his hands weren't under orders not to move. "Can you tell me what it's like, then?" After a moment, America reached forward and his large, warm, calloused hand cupped Germany's chin and ohhh.

Germany leaned into that touch and allowed his eyes to shut, his body vibrating in pure joy. "It's like this," he whispered quietly, unconsciously turning his head so he could brush his lips reverently against those fingers. They were thicker than Prussia's, the palm wider; despite the differences, though, his innards quivered with the need to please, the need to be reassured, the need to hear a voice say kind words louder than all the cruel ones in his head.

America was quiet for a moment, brushing the pad of his thumb against Germany's lips when Germany tipped his head up again, the touch reminding Germany of being fed sweet orange from these same hands back in the late 40s. He kept his eyes closed as America said, "You know, over the past… forty years, I think I've ended up sleeping with half the world for one reason or another. I've gone from being a recluse to being a whore, basically. Most of us have… well, certain fetishes and interests and whatever. I won't kiss and tell, but… I will say that you probably have the softest and most romantic kink of the lot. Which… if we're playing the stereotype game… is… not what I would have expected."

Germany's eyes opened and he looked up into America's flushed, smiling face. "Is that a bad thing?" he asked, voice very quiet. The quivering inside shrank; fear of rejection.

America grinned and shook his head. "It's a wonderful thing," he blessedly said. "You're… damn, Ludwig, how sweet you actually are is probably one of the world's best kept secrets."

Germany blushed to the tips of his toes and felt a warm wave go through him. Yes, exactly, to be seen as gentle and likeable and eager-to-please rather than warmongering, hateful, divided-and-conquered. He was already hard and this would be embarrassing, but, damn it, what was wrong with wanting this? To be liked? "Am-America," he tried, not sure how at all to talk any further about this. "Please." His eyes closed.

America leaned forward and kissed Germany's forehead, Germany could feel the heat from America's body, and feel the curve of his smile pressed against his skin. "Of course," America said easily. "Fucking hell yeah. Okay, can I tell you how hot you are as well?"

…Germany nodded, feeling his skin heat up and tingle.

"God, this is going to be fantastic. Germany, you're hot as hell… everybody thinks so. You could sleep with damn near anybody you wanted to. Chisled features, blue eyes, blond hair-"

"Stroke it," Germany interrupted, the syllables escaping from his mouth like desperate bubbles to hang in the air. "My hair. Please."

Germany opened his eyes to see America smile over at him - and oh, that smile - before nodding, reaching forward and brushing blunt nails through Germany's gelled strands, breaking up the style. Germany's nerves sang a choir of pleasure and he could feel his mouth slide open. His hands were hovering in the air - no longer on his head so America had room to stroke him, but not down since America hadn't given permission to lower them. He felt like he was surrendering to a head massage, which… was not untrue.

"…soft hair, too, under all the gel," America continued, voice having dipped a little softer, a little warmer, a little fonder. "You can put your hands down, by the way. Hm… well, I didn't bring any lube with me and it's not like we have much to work with out here-"

Germany put his hands down. "If you don't mind using your tongue, that… well, it used to be enough, back… back during the 40s." Normally he kept tight-lipped about his relationship with Prussia since they technically were brothers, but those hands on his head felt so good and oh there was a bit of nail, yes, and Germany knew America had to have had sex with England and Canada at this point, so. Plus, Germany was rapidly losing his ability to withhold anything with America's hands doing that and the urge to please starting to absolutely consume him.

There was a problem: Germany was good at solving problems. As tribute to those hands, he offered solutions. "W-we don't have to have intercourse, of course, but I don't mind fingers with saliva and-" he did not groan here, instinct held him back, but his tumultuous sentence ended with a soft gasp, "-I'll use my mouth, if you'll let me."

America had risen an eyebrow at this point, but Germany's eyes were closed again, half-insentient with the fingers in his hair. "Impressive that you could have sex with just Prussia's tongue as lube," he remarked, correctly guessing the only individual Germany would have allowed to penetrate him in the 40s. "But… I assume that you don't have intercourse as often now as you used to… though I definitely don't mind engaging in the act if you like it. And… Germany. Open your eyes."

Germany's eyes popped open to settle on America's face, particularly when America stopped stroking his hair. America gave a little smile. "Of course I'll let you use your mouth if you want. I just figured you didn't like the act. Don't feel like you must."

It was true that Germany had not used his mouth on America since that first sex act after surrendering in 1945. It wasn't that Germany had much against performing oral sex - in fact, a part of him craved that attention - but he never performed it on his occupiers unless it was demanded, and America hadn't ever demanded after the first time. Germany was well-aware he had submissive tendencies by this point, but that was sexual (and somewhat emotional) but not political.

This, however, was different. Germany looked to the side, and then up. "Germany doesn't want to perform oral sex on America because we're not equals and Germany doesn't grovel despite everything," he said, hesitantly trying honesty. "Ludwig wouldn't mind - and would actually like - doing it to Alfred, though, if it would please him."

America listened with his head tipped again, and then nodded. "That makes sense. God knows that if I were occupied, I'd be more apt to bite than not unless put in a stranglehold, which you more or less were." This conversation was getting dangerously close to extremely unarousing things, but, like with most subjects, America skipped off of it as easy as light on waves. "All right, Ludwig. Stand up."

Glad to have a direct order to obey, Germany rose from the ground and stood straight, hands at his sides and shoulders square, eyes straight ahead. The military figure he was attempting to cut was a little marred by the fact that his hair was mussed, but it couldn't be helped. America rose up from the ground after him, smiling and putting the guitar on the ground.

"Beautiful," America whispered, with such sincerity that Germany felt his nipples and heart tighten at the same time. "Now kiss me."

Instantly, Germany leaned forward and tipped his head against America's, opening his mouth and pressing, America's hand reaching up to brush through his hair. Germany vibrated, trying to convey what he wanted until the kiss turned sloppy and broke, America's blue eyes mirroring his own.

"Ludwig, take off your sweatshirt," America crooned, and thrill went through Germany's body as he obeyed, draping the sweatshirt over one of the logs surrounding the fire. The wind whistled.

"Very good," America said, and pleasure went through Germany's veins, such joy. "Now…" Here, his hands reached down and went under the hem of Germany's t-shirt, America's warm hands sliding up his taut stomach and defined abs, under the shirt. "It might be a little chilly if you take all of your clothes off out here, but I just want to feel… ah, you're in such good shape, really. Do you work out often?"

"Five days a week, normally," Germany automatically reported. "Sometimes more."

"Well, it certainly has paid off… hard abs, hard chest… mm…" America rolled up the bottom of Germany's shirt so he could look; this somehow made him feel more exposed than simply taking his clothes off. America bared Germany up to his pectorals, lifting the fabric and openly ogling. "Oh, Ludwig, really beautiful, truly. If you traveled more, you'd have people crawling all over you…"

Germany was flushed beet red so heavily Germany knew it had to be spreading to his neck and chest. While he couldn't see America's finger since the shirt was blocking his view, he gasped as he felt a blunt nail trace over one pectoral, and then the other - avoiding his perked nipples - and slowly outline the slight definition in his abs. His breath stuttered when America's finger hooked above the button in his jeans and tugged them down enough to reveal the soft blond trail of hair leading down to his straining cock.

"Perfect," America said with conviction. Germany could have cried, but didn't because there was another order coming: "I think I'd like to suck your nipples," America went on. "But I want to feel your muscles. Put your arms up and flex for me."

A blink and then Germany obeyed, feeling a little awkward for a half-second before America leaned forward, under the shirt, and the tip of his tongue teased the tight nub of Germany's left nipple. With one hand holding Germany's shirt and the other still hooked in Germany's jeans, America held Germany in place while his tongue swept back and forth, teasing and warming and cooling and Germany exhaled tightly as he focused on keeping his muscles tight as America's tongue started to lave wide circles over the nipple and pectoral alike.

"Mmm," America intoned reverently, and Germany was so strung out with pleasure and tightness crackling along his spine like a livewire that he actually let loose a whine before cutting it off.

At that, America pulled away. "Relax," he commanded, and Germany dropped his arms, taking deep gasping breaths. His left nipple was as hard as a diamond, and when the wind blew through the campsite, the nipple contracted further and Germany shivered at the sensation.

"Ludwig," America said, sounding stern. A flash of concern arrowed through Germany's body and he straightened up into the stiff military position again, though he was being held exposed and flushed and aroused to the open air. "I want to hear you tonight. If you want to moan, or whine, or anything, I want to hear you. Understood?"

"Yes," Ludwig whispered, and was rewarded by America's smile and a wave of relief.

"Good. Very good. Now. Flex for me."

This time America attacked the right nipple, and Germany… well, he tried to obey. After a few seconds his panting became louder, and soon his voice was spilling out alongside the pants, a strange rhythm of oh, oh, oh, oh that repeated itself like a record with a skip in it.

This time when America pulled back, Germany did whine. When America looked up, entreaty must have been written all over Germany's face because America smiled. "You're so lovely," America said, and Germany closed his eyes, letting something like a sob escape him.

But he wasn't sad. For once.

America moved, then, stepping behind Germany, pressing his body against Germany's naked back and shoulders; they were almost of a height, Germany only slightly taller. "A sexy back, as well," America purred. "One day you'll really need to show me your routines, if they're this effective." His hands snaked around Germany's side to start trailing over Germany's front once more. One of them came up and cupped Germany's jaw, running a thumb along the stubble. Germany let another little moan escape.

"What do you prefer, here? Let's see… I could put fingers in your beautiful mouth…" the fingers of the hand at Germany's jaw teased Germany's lips a little, "…I could wrap a hand around that firm cock… but do you like that, I wonder?" The hand lower on Germany's body traced fingernails lightly over the bulge in Germany's jeans, causing Germany to gasp. "Or do you like to wait? Test your discipline? You seem like you'd be a bit masochistic… or, well, I guess I know you are since the whole porn debacle. Say, when you watch that porn… do you imagine being the one holding the riding crop or feeling its sting?"

Listening to America talk was quite literally like ingesting beautiful drugs. Germany was so high on sensation and warmth that even mentioning the whole "now the whole world knows I'm into leather" debacle couldn't bring him down. He panted for a moment. "Which do you think?" he whispered. He knew answering a question with a question wasn't-

His thought process was derailed when America stepped away from him. Germany almost fell over from the sudden loss of warmth and stimulation, and he made a quiet gasping noise before whipping his head around to see America standing slightly off to the side, his arms folded.

"Prussia never let me get away with answering a question with a question when he was torture-training me," America said with a half-smile.

"I imagine being the submissive," Germany said, the words tumbling out of his mouth hastily. "I… it's what I…" Now he started to stutter, a bit embarrassed and not sure what else to say to get America to stand against him again. "Mostly with Prussia…"

"I'd pay good money to watch that," America said, and now that Germany was looking at him again, America was very flushed. "Mm, handsome Germans dominating each other. Yes, that would be… quite nice." America stepped forward and put his arms around Germany in a hug that would have seemed odd were it not so welcome. Germany slumped into him, letting America take his weight, knowing that the other could and would.

"You are beautiful," America murmured into his ear, voice so quiet it was hard to believe it was America's. "Really. Not just for this, either."

There was a pause where the world teetered on the edge of a knife; it swirled around him fueled by beer and bourbon and arousal; it buoyed him up with such kind words; it warmed him with arms that smelled of plenty and warmth.

The wall fell.

With a single thrust forward against America's thigh, Germany lost control of himself and hit orgasm like a supernova: sensation spiraled out to the tips of his fingers and made him go lightheaded and at the same time he burst into tears.

America, once he realized what was going on, pressed his thigh forward to give Germany something to grind against as he released, and one hand went to rest against the back of Germany's head, putting Germany's head against America's shoulder when Germany tried to pull away. It didn't take much convincing for Germany to stay where he was, sobbing even as aftershocks shook him to his core.

It was too much. Everything was too much.

It took a few moments for Germany to suck in air and calm down enough to at least try and pull away: America let him. After a few moments, Germany swallowed and wiped his mouth.

"I'm… I'm so sorry," Germany said, not sure of a single other thing to say. His gaze hovered in the vicinity of America's shoes. He could feel sticky semen starting to leak out from one of the legholes in his underpants down his leg, and a lump grew in his throat. For a moment, he was terrified of crying again.

America's hand curled under Germany's chin and tipped it up. Germany's eyes connected with a smile. "Don't be," America said. "Everybody cries sometimes, even nations. Even though England likes to lie and says he never does. But he's a damn liar; I've seen him do it."

Well, even nations may cry, Germany thought, but not typically in the middle of sex. He inhaled, exhaled, and took a look down at America's crotch. There did not appear to be an erection there.

"Nah, lost it," America told him, still smiling. "And I'm probably too drunk to get it up again. Don't worry about it. There's always next time, yeah?"

Germany nodded dumbly, and America reached out to take his hand and guide him back to the tent. Inside the tent, America switched on the electric lantern and picked up the two neatly set-out bedrolls atop the sleeping mats, and unzipped them.

"Help me zip 'em together?" America asked, and Germany stepped forward, his hands attempting to stabilize the bags as America affixed the zippers; this took a couple of tries due to both parties being a bit intoxicated. Once the bags were together, America laid them out on the ground and pointed to Germany. "Strip," he instructed, and started to do the same.

Germany would have liked to get a wet washcloth or something to clean up first, but instead did what he was told, using his soiled underpants to at least get off the worst of the stickiness. When he turned around, America was already underneath the now-double sleeping bag, brandishing a wet wipe in one hand. "Get in," he said, still cheerful.

Germany crawled into the sleeping bag, and lay on his back. America's naked body shifted close to him, laying on its side; America reached forward. "Might be a bit cold," America warned, before the hand with the wipe started to clean between Germany's legs.

Sighing, Germany parted his legs to allow America better access. Frankly, America was taking a bit more time with the act than necessary, but Germany didn't mind: the nakedness and the gentle touch were soothing.

America's lips pressed against his temple before he snuggled down next to Germany like he'd been born to do it, one arm draping over Germany's chest. "Now let's go to sleep," America intoned, his eyes already sliding shut: he hadn't taken off his glasses, and they were rucked awkwardly on his face. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Germany replied, watching America's face in the dark carefully as the other drifted off - this didn't take long.

With his free hand, Germany reached forward and gently removed America's glasses, careful not to wake the wearer. Folding them, he set them above the pillow where they wouldn't get smashed.

Tucking his head into America's embrace, it didn't take long for Germany to drift off, either, floating.

# # #

Germany woke up the next morning with a slight headache, but he'd certainly had worse hangovers.

America was still asleep, plastered against his side, his hot breath rhythmic against Germany's shoulder.

The events of last night were… embarrassing, frankly, but the way that America was still plastered up against him seemed to mean that he really hadn't minded. And he had said so many very kind things that still warmed Germany inside. It wasn't going to fix everything, no, but… oh, he hoped at least some of the things America had said were true.

A part of him felt guilty… America had been bluntly calling Germany his friend for a while, now, but Germany hadn't ever really believed him. Germany looked at the sleeping barnacle that called itself America and let his lips bend up in a small smile, feeling warm.

As Germany was on his back and America on his side… it didn't take much to reach between America's legs and… yes, there it was, the morning erection.

There wasn't anything that Germany could do about last night and how it ended… only be thankful that America apparently took it so well. Today, however…

Germany carefully shuffled out of America's grip, causing the other nation to grunt and wake up a bit. America would wake up more, shortly; Germany crawled deeper inside of the sleeping bag, put his hands on America's thighs, and gently pressed a sweet kiss to the underside of America's unaware, hard cock. Another. Another.

Eventually, Germany felt America shift slightly, and then a hand rested on his hair, making Germany look up.

"Good morning," America said quietly, still speaking in German. Germany's heart fluttered.

"Good morning," Germany responded. "May I?"

He was rewarded with a sleepy smile and a nod. "Hey, I'm not complaining," America said, brushing Germany's hair back fondly. Germany sighed with pleasure and then leaned forward, taking America in his mouth.

Germany knew he wasn't the world's most adventuresome sex partner: he knew how to give acceptable, quiet head, and had never deviated from it since there was no reason to. His head moved up and down and his offerings were obviously adequate: America was thickening under his tongue and he could hear soft half-gasped pleas and groans from the other.

After a moment, a memory popped into his mind from last night: I want to hear you, America had said. This wasn't 1945. It wasn't 1919. There was nobody else around, no risk, no danger.

The next time when Germany pulled up, he added more suction and slurped, the noise tearing through the morning.

Ohhhh, God, fuck, damnation, America said in response, falling back into English due to surprise.

Yes. That was a very pleasing reaction, even if it wasn't in German. When he bobbed back down this time, he opened his mouth wide and laved his tongue as far down toward America's balls as it would go, drawing in a sharp breath.

Shit! America responded. Germany thought it was a very good thing that he had a clandestine relationship with Prussia while trying to avoid Nazi suspicions of homosexuality and not America.

Not that he would have been having sex with America at the time. That would have been extremely bizarre. The thought was so absurd that Germany felt a little chuckle bubble up in his throat as he pulled back again, starting to bob faster, crimping his lips in new positions, twisting his head, changing the rhythm, drooling and slurping and mm.

America very vocally approved of his efforts, which was appreciated. A hand rested in Germany's hair, which felt so damn good, as good as the strengthening taste of salt and the sound of oaths becoming gradually fiercer.

Germany definitely didn't love America the same way he loved Prussia, but he let every movement of the other nation strengthen that warm feeling inside, the one that had been there for a while but constantly ignored: fondness. I like America, he realized as America's body froze under him and his mouth filled with the half-forgotten bitterness of semen; he likes me.

He swallowed, and then pushed himself up out of the bag. America was panting, red-faced on the pillow.

"God damn it, Ludwig," America said, eyes adorably slit as America attempted to focus on Germany's face without glasses. "If I had known you sucked cock like that, I would have been requesting it earlier!"

Germany snorted. "I don't suck cock like that when I'm being ordered to do it." Er. "…well, depending on the situation and who's doing the ordering…"

That drew a hearty laugh from America and Germany smiled too, particularly when America shifted forward and rested his head against Germany's chest when Germany lay back down.

"Your glasses are above the pillow when you want them," Germany informed America after a moment. "You fell asleep with them on last night."

America snorted. "Do that all the time. Thanks."

"My pleasure," Germany murmured.

It was.

# # #

HISTORICAL NOTES

Not that many this time! Basically, the Western powers of "trizonia" (US, UK, France) were indeed divided on reuniting Germany. The UK in particular was bitterly against it, or at least Margaret Thatcher was ("We defeated the Germans twice! And now they're back!") since by the late 1980s West Germany was the dominant economic power of Europe already, and it was feared reunification would make Germany more dominant. France was also more against it than not, with Mitterand's opinion that a modern reunited Germany could "make more ground than even Hitler had." However, Mitterand realized that reunification was inevitable by the late 1980s, and changed his public tune much quicker than Thatcher did.

The US was far less concerned about reunification. As per Condoleezza Rice: "It [West Germany] had been a good friend, it was a member of NATO. Any issues that had existed in 1945, it seemed perfectly reasonable to lay them to rest." The only thing the US required in order to support German reunification was that it stay in NATO, which was a concession that the West German government agreed to readily.

Due to overall support, the US is often given more credit for German reunification than it deserves, though. Really, the nation that made it happen was Russia (specifically Gorbachev), since it allowed the GDR to vote itself into West Germany.

Obviously, I will be writing fic on this at a later date, because fun.