Details/Notes: I swear this past month has not been a fun one for me in terms of writing, and I am so happy to have finally written something halfway decent, even if it isn't very long or profound. I hope you enjoy it nevertheless, and please see my profile for my disclaimer (surprising, I don't own APH) and my other fic.

Folding:

He isn't actually drinking from the Devil's cup. It just feels that way.

"I told you not to do this again," he mumbles, and his voice sounds unsteady in his own ears, matching the way his hand shakes as he reaches out in the darkness to tangle his fingers in Italy's hair.

He exhales something reminiscent of a sigh, but with all the weight drained from it, which is strange considering how heavy he has been feeling lately. He should be yelling.

Italy hitches his breath, and explains in a rambling whisper, "I got scared, there were scary shadows on my walls, Germany, please don't make me go back I'll be so quiet, you won't even know I'm here, and Germany will protect me because Germany always protects me, right, Germany?"

"Right."

It seems as though he's done nothing but protect Italy these past few months, as one disastrous campaign after another leads to him missing sleep, gazing skyward as his heart thumps nervously in his chest and his stomach burns with acid. He keeps fighting, is reassured by superiors that there is nothing wrong, but he can still feel each death as a sudden absence within his mind, leaving him wondering if he's forgotten something.

"Does that mean I can stay, Germany? Germany?" He throws a tanned arm across Germany's chest, and outlines the Iron Cross resting there as he waits for the answer.

He is too warm to be believed against the coming of winter only weeks away. His skin heats him like fire through the fabric of his shirt.

He takes too long to answer, "If someone needs me. If we are attacked, you can't be seen in bed with me." It isn't a real answer, but it's the best he can do to bridge the gap between what he wants to say, and what he should say.

"I'm wearing clothes though, and it's cold tonight, ve."

"That isn't the point at all!"

"Ve?"

He bounces his head against his pillow with an unsatisfying thump. He is blushing again, from his cheeks all the way down to his collarbones, and he knows if there was any light in the room at all he would look ridiculous. He doesn't think he ever used to blush this much, even for all the times Prussia teased him or ruffled his hair as he grew up, but now the mere thought that he has once again misinterpreted something, made some mistake, when it comes to what Italy wants or is thinking, mortifies him beyond all measure.

"I don't want to go back to my room, Germany, please don't make me."

"Italy."

His hand moves slowly through Italy's hair, carding the soft, faintly oily strands as Italy sniffles into his shoulder and digs his fingernails into Germany's skin.

He says again, "Italy," and doesn't know what else to do.

"Please, Germany," Italy whispers.

He can pinpoint the moment, then, that his heart stutters, causes his breath to catch in his throat and strangle his words. He knows that it's wrong when he then lowers his lips to Italy's own, and sucks him into a kiss, but he will do anything to get that desperate, tearful edge out of Italy's voice.

His tongue can taste the salt of Italy's stray tears, but the kiss isn't deep until Italy turns up his face to meet Germany's, and their tongues touch, sending shocks of pleasure down Germany's spine.

He fights to control his breathing after that, to not tug too sharply on Italy's hair, or bite his tender lower lip. He is nearly shaking when they break apart, and aroused enough that he is flushed, not blushing. Italy giggles, and Germany would like nothing more than to kiss him forever.

Instead, he swallows again and again, exhales, and tells Italy, "You may stay."

End.

End Notes: I would really appreciate hearing anything you have to say about this, so please review! Even if you don't, thank you so much for reading!