Details/Notes: Hello, historical inaccuracies, my new fandom friend! I wrote this about five minutes after waking up in the morning, take that as you will. Italy and Germany are adorable and vaguely heartbreaking. Oh, Germany, why your boss gotta suck so much? As always, comments and favourites are loved, people checking out my other fics are loved twice over, and my general disclaimer is up on my profile. Please enjoy!

Touch and Go:

Nothing is simple for Germany.

He and Italy are walking together when he realises for the first time that he is wearing gloves. He isn't sure how he missed it before, but somehow it doesn't seem important until Italy grabs his hand and squeezes it, and Germany realises that he can't feel his skin, only the pressure of his palm.

He stares down at their knitted fingers, at the black leather of his gloves stark against Italy's tan fingers.

"Have I always worn these?"

His voice is stupid, and Italy laughs at him gaily, answering boisterously, "Germany is always wearing gloves, but Italy doesn't mind."

He creases his brow in frustration at his lack of knowledge, but doesn't question the incident further, and more importantly, he doesn't remove his gloves. Heat from Italy's palm against his own is enough, he thinks, actually touching their skin together seems vulgar.

He must remember his position in the world above all things.

Italy sleeps entirely nude in the afternoons, Germany has noticed, whenever he can get away with it, which is often because whenever Germany tries to get him to do anything his resistance is loud and annoying, and why bother over something so stupid and obviously fundamental?

He whacks the chocolate haired nation over the head to wake him up, and winces when he shrieks suddenly, sitting bolt upright so that the sheets previously wrapped around his body pool at his hips.

"Shut up!" Germany shouts, and grabs Italy by the shoulders before he can jump out of bed entirely. "You slept late again, and we have a meeting in the war room."

"Germany?" Italy questions, and then laughs, brightly, "How funny, I was just dreaming of you!"

He swallows sharply, refusing to acknowledge the flush that creeps onto his cheeks, and he pulls his hands away quickly after that, crossing them behind his back and standing almost at attention. "Get dressed," he orders, before spinning around and stalking out of the room.

"Do you want to sleep with me tonight?" Italy asks for the first time when Russia knocks the wind out of him with an unexpected advance, unexpected because Germany has been the one advancing the entire time, and Russia was supposed to be an easy victory.

Of course, everything was supposed to be an easy victory for him. He was Germany, after all.

He brushes Italy's stray hair out of his eyes without thinking about it, ignoring the sharp intake of breath he receives for his trouble, and turns back to his papers. "I'm working late tonight."

"You look tired," Italy says, pouting.

"Russia is being troublesome. It's better if I stop him before he gets ideas." Germany draws back his hand and rests his chin on it, staring up at Italy for once. "You understand?"

Italy laughs. "Not really."

"At least you're admitting to it," Germany says with a sigh that never leaves his thoughts. "Go to sleep, Italy."

"You're no fun, Germany!"

"Who says I want to be, huh? Get out of here!" Italy scampers at his harsh words, and Germany feels almost instantly regretful, and a bit confused as to why he was so short with the other country.

He stares down at his fingers, gloved again. Didn't he take them off when he started writing? He thinks it funny that he can't remember that when he is normally so focused on details, but perhaps he really is just tired. Fighting wars, keeping peace in his own land, carrying out his bosses orders.

No one said it was easy.

He picks up his pen once again, and begins to write.

"I want to drive in the countryside today," Italy announces, and then turns to him to plead, "Can we Germany? Can we please? We've been working too hard lately!"

"Like you've done anything except cause trouble!"

But when he turns to his boss for confirmation he is greeted only with a piercing stare and a casual order to, "Make our loyal friends as happy as possible."

"Sì! Germany, come on! Germany~!"

"Mein Führer," Germany agrees in resignation, before turning and shouting at Italy, "Shut up! I'm on my way. Don't you dare think you're driving this time."

"But you're so slow!" Italy moans, running in front of him, and Germany has to practically chase him through the building, outside to where cars are always waiting for him.

"You're just impatient," he ends up lecturing, knowing that Italy isn't paying attention, "What's the point of going anywhere if the journey isn't pleasurable?"

"My driving's fun! Stop being such a stick in the mud!"

"You'll thank me when we don't end up flipped over in a ditch," Germany grumbles, tugging irritably at his gloves as he slides into the driver's seat. "Get in already. You're the one who was so eager to leave when it's not even noon yet!"

Italy pouts at him, but jumps into the passenger side.

"Be glad we're going at all."

"Germany~!"

"As if we don't have more important things to look after than your desire to sightsee."

"Germany likes to sightsee too," Italy pokes him, just above his armband, and Germany rolls his eyes until Italy continues, "Your country is very beautiful, but not as beautiful as Italy!"

"Ah, well," Germany blushes unexpectedly, turning quickly so Italy cannot see, "Perhaps that is so."

"Can we stop for pastries before we leave the city?"

"All you ever think about is food, isn't it?!"

"Germany~! Don't be mean~!"

"Oh, shut up, Italy!"

"Ah, it's so sunny today! I'm glad we're outside," Italy says, reaching his hands up to the sky as if stretching high enough would allow him to touch the sun.

He is stripped out of his jacket, down to his thin, cotton undershirt, and Germany can't help staring at him. His skin seems to nearly glow in the bright light of summer, and Germany feels stifled in his uniform. Italy turns to him, completely unaware, and smiles as if there weren't a war at all.

His ability for delusion is amazing. For the first time, Germany is jealous of it. He feels the war now like a constant presence buzzing in the back of his mind, like someone eyeing him over his shoulder at all hours of the day.

Italy dances around him, and Germany feels his heart hammer in his chest.

"Are you quite finished?"

"We only just got here, Germany." Italy continues to smile. "Dance with me?"

"I don't dance!" His protests are in vain, however, when Italy grasps his hands and drags him into a spinning waltz.

"You're completely ridiculous," Germany tells him, nevertheless twirling him out on his arm and catching him again by the waist. "I don't know why I put up with you."

"Because we're friends," Italy answers simply.

Italy asks him again that evening, "Do you want to sleep with me tonight, Germany?"

"I have work to do."

He gets a sigh of exasperation, and then suddenly Italy is plopped into his lap, arms around Germany's neck, smiling right into his eyes. "But you always have work to do."

"Ja, your point?" Germany asks, frustrated.

"Germany needs to stop working sometimes, even if he doesn't want to."

"Will you get off me?"

"Nope!" Italy continues to smile at him, and Germany's breath stops when he wriggles in his lap. "Come on, Germany! Please? Pretty, pretty please?"

"Italy," Germany begins, but he's cut off.

"Germany, I promise I'll work extra hard tomorrow for you, okay? Just stop for tonight." Italy squeezes his neck tighter, pulling his upper body against Germany's in something of a hug.

He sighs, and orders, "Swear me."

"I swear!" Italy says, excitement infesting his voice like a virus.

"No backing out of that," Germany warns him, before bringing his hand up to his mouth, and pulling his glove off with his teeth. Italy stares with wide eyes as the black leather falls to the ground, and Germany presses his palm against the side of Italy's face.

Italy sighs, breath fluttering coolly across his face, and Germany smiles ever so faintly.

His bare fingers slide carelessly into Italy's hair when their lips touch moments later, and then Germany can feel only softness, heat spilling from their mouths as their tongues meld together. Italy is beautiful and fragile and vibrant in his arms, and the buzzing in the back of Germany's mind stills, if only for a brief moment.

Italy is smiling against his lips, and quiet for once, the only sounds he makes small moans and breathy sighs.

His own lips can't stop curling upwards.

Heat pools in his abdomen, stretching lower, making him arch his back.

He forgets for a time why he must wear gloves. He is above all things, but what is that but a metaphor for loneliness when all he wants is to feel forever the flush of Italy's skin against his fingertips?

His eyes fill rapidly with tears, and Germany's lips fall slack. He can only live in the hope that Italy's eyes are also closed so he does not see him falter.

End.

End Notes: I thank you all for reading, and ask that you please review! I love hearing your thoughts, whatever they may be.