Title: Twisted With You
Characters/Pairings: , some
Rating: R
Note: Written for hetalia_kink on LJ

The words are right there on the tip of your tongue. They've always been there, really, in the back of your mind, tucked into a little pocket in your heart, at the core of your very being, to be honest, just waiting for the fog to clear, waiting for you to finally realise what those feelings meant.

It took some time (a few weeks, hundreds of years, who's really counting?), but you finally figured out what caused those butterflies in the pit of your stomach. You finally figured out why you felt nothing but warmth and heat and intense longing every time Antonio smiled at you, every time his hand grazed yours. You know it can only come down to one thing, that one beautiful thing that everyone hopes for, and you're happy, so fucking happy, but... But. There's always a but.

The dense moron somehow managed to figure things out before you did, and has been professing his undying love and devotion ever since, yet it scares you anyway. You return his feelings, but you just can't bring yourself to tell him. Every time you muster up some semblance of courage and utter his name, he looks over at you with the utmost of attention, green eyes smiling and trained entirely on you. What you want to say is . And then...

I... don't think you screwed up too badly on this pasta, bastard.

I... want another blanket, it's too damn cold in here.

I l... liked that film we saw earlier, I guess.

You can never seem to find the right time to let your feelings be known, and when you finally do, one look from the object of your affections sends your mind into a spin, causes all your doubts and frustrations and embarrassments to come rushing at you full force.

Antonio never seems to notice anything off about your tone, and you flush so often in his presence that it most likely ceased to be a surprise. He is completely clueless to your internal struggle. Half of you likes it that way just fine, is perfectly alright with him not knowing, but the other half desperately wants Antonio to ask you what is wrong.

There are just so many things you want to say, but no possible way for you to let them pass your lips. Not so long as there is any possibility he will see all the insecurities written plain as day across your face.

I want you.

I need you.

I love you.

---

You sit on the couch in Antonio's living room, silently fuming to yourself as the bastard cleans up after dinner. Not one thing about the situation is odd, not in the slightest. You are often in Antonio's living room, he always cleans up after dinner, and really, when are you not angry about something? Typically, however, you are just a bit (a lot) calmer after dinner, the late hour and your full stomach working together to keep you from exploding. Unfortunately, a certain dinner guest grated your nerves, and the fact that they ruined what would normally be a quiet evening only adds to your irritation.

"Ve~, fratello! Big brother Spain! It's so nice to see you~."

Hugs are exchanged. Hugs that linger too long for your liking. One kiss. Two kisses. Three--

A slap. "You're not that fucking wine bastard, Feliciano, that's enough."

Feliciano cries, of course.

Antonio comforts your little brother, giving you an odd look and an exasperated, "That was so not cute, Lovi."

You storm off, refusing to come out of your-- Antonio's bedroom until dinner is ready.

Your fists clench as the past few hours reiterate themselves in your mind, your own inability to just forgive, forget, and let things go mocking you endlessly. "Stupid bastard," you mumble quietly, far too quietly for the words to be heard over the soft clink of cutlery and the cheerful humming coming from the kitchen. "Always taking his side."

Dinner is quiet. Well, you are quiet. Feliciano is going on and on about some new tomato sauce recipe he has been trying out, and about how that potato bastard, "Really, really seemed to like it, ve~, and I'm so glad, because I worked very, very hard, you know!"

Antonio is nodding enthusiastically at each and every word, hanging off of every syllable it seems.

"That's really great, you'll have to share the recipe with me sometime! I'm always looking for new recipes."

"I should come over again and show you! I forgot to write what I did down... but I'm sure I'll remember if I try again!"

"Good idea, what are you doing next weekend?"

The conversation goes on, and though you pretend not to listen, not to care, you hear every word, witness every ring of laughter, see every smile, and your blood boils.

"Ah, I should be getting home~. Ludwig doesn't like it when I stay out so late."

More hugs are exchanged. (The kisses are, fortunately for all of you, left out.)

You say nothing, do nothing. You simply watch the display in front of you through a green-tinted haze.

"Lovino, are you alright?"

Your head snaps up, and it is only then that you realise a few traitorous tears have escaped your eyes. Your face immediately heats up when you see the concerned look in Antonio's eyes, and your gaze once again goes to the floor.

"I'm fine, asshole. Go away."

He doesn't go away (he never does, not when you want him to, but mostly when you don't actually mean your words of dismissal), and instead takes a seat next to you on the couch, wrapping an arm around your slumped shoulders.

Warm, soft lips flutter over your forehead in a barely there touch. You have no idea how long they actually linger on your skin, if they even do at all. All you know is that even after Antonio has pulled back, uttering a gentle, "You don't seem to be ill," to himself, you can still feel the heat of his lips on your skin, as if they never left to begin with.

You look up, and Antonio smiles at you. His eyes beg for an explanation, and you want to give him one, you want to give him everything, anything he could ever possibly want, but...

"I..."

"You what, Lovi?"

"I'm tired," you finish lamely, face once again heating up, this time with shame.

Antonio nods and runs a gentle hand through your hair before you stand up, mumbling an indistinguishable, "Goodnight."

"Buenas noches, Lovi. Sleep well."

---

You fall into an uneasy sleep in one of Antonio's guest bedrooms. You refuse to acknowledge why it takes you so damn long to actually fall asleep in the first place, why you continue to wake up, more tired than you were before. The mattress is too soft, the pillows too hard, and that jackass must have taken all the good blankets with him into his room. His room that you normally sleep in.

You sleep, and you dream, simply replaying all your inner-most worries.

What if he gives up on me?

What if he finds somebody else?

What if he doesn't really love me?

Waking up once again, this time in a cold sweat, you desperately try to calm your breathing, to push back the tears already rolling down your face.

"Fuck it all," you mumble, drying your eyes on one of the (way too stiff) sheets wrapped around you. If you don't tell him soon... If you don't tell him at all... If only you didn't have to see that goddamned cheerful face of his...

You close your eyes, blind to the world for a moment, and that is when it hits you.

You don't have to see his face.

You quickly get up, not even bothering to throw on clothes, and rush (but not too quickly, you're not that fucking desperate, alright?) down the long halls of Antonio's house to his bedroom. Your footsteps echo through the darkness, just as your heart beat echoes through your head. Not one light is found on as you move on through, and any open curtains are closed. You don't want to take any chances, don't want any sliver of moonlight or starlight to ruin the plan you have been haphazardly hatching for the past few minutes.

Time stops for the briefest of moments when you reach Antonio's bedroom door. A glance at the bottom of the door reveals the yellow glow of light, and you swallow hard, almost giving up... but no. The light switch is right by the door, you can just switch it off. You can give yourself the darkness you need.

The door is swiftly pushed open, and before Antonio has a chance to speak (or to look up at you from the book he had been reading), his room joins the rest of the house in its obvious lack of light.

"Lovino? Are you--"

"Shut up."

You practically leap into the bed, barely managing to land on the soft edge. You look up in the direction you know Antonio is in (you can hear his breathing, sense his presence, and god...) and you see nothing. Perfect.

"Is everything okay?"

"I said shut up."

You glare for a moment (a useless action, you know) before reaching out a tentative hand. Your fingers find Antonio's cheek and gently stroke across the much beloved (though you would definitely never say that) face of the man you so desperately love with everything in you. Any further questions he may have die when his lips are captured by yours in a kiss. Soft, hard, warm, wet, passionate, heated, gentle. You don't really know, you're beyond descriptions because you never realised until now just how much you really, honestly wanted this, and now you finally have it.

Seeking hands stray lower, glad for the fact that Antonio has already undressed for bed. The flesh they come in contact with, while familiar to the eyes, entirely foreign to the fingertips. The slick skin of a shoulder becomes the jutting of a collar bone becomes the hint of a muscular chest becomes a hardened nipple becomes...

You remove your mouth from Antonio's, bending to taste some of what your fingers have found, to kiss and nip and gently suck at anything you can. If you leave marks, you don't care, it's all for the best anyway, because then he'd know-- you'd know, everyone would know-- who he really belonged to.

He moans your name (and nothing has ever sounded so beautiful) when you take a nipple into your mouth, and his hands are gripping at your back, dragging you closer to him. His nails ghost along your flesh and the faint sting is one of the best things you've ever felt in your life.

You want more.

You need to make sure he understands what this is about.

"Antonio..." You trail off, not really sure you ever intended to say anything to begin with. You hesitate, fingers twitching, and in your moment of distraction Antonio lays back, pulling you on top of him, lining your bodies up perfectly. You curse yourself for not thinking of that sooner.

A foot rubs at your lower calf and you bury your face in Antonio's neck, biting down hard at the soft juncture between neck and shoulder, grinning when the hips beneath yours buck up in pleasure. You lick at the wound, place a gentle kiss to the no doubt reddened flesh, before your exploration continues, lips and tongue and teeth grazing lower and lower, silently asking for access to .thing. they can find.

The hesitation of before forgotten, you lovingly wrap your fingers around Antonio's steadily hardening length, moaning when he lets out a soft gasp. His hands blindly grope for something to hold onto, and you take one in your own, bringing the hand up to your mouth. Feather light kisses against finger tips contrast the quick movements of your other wrist, contrast Antonio's other hand which is now tugging on your hair.

The other hand which is getting ever so much closer to a certain strand of hair...

"Fuck!" You grind your hips down hard against whatever it is they're leaning on (most likely Antonio's own hips, possibly a thigh or a stomach, you really don't care). "Antonio, dio, I..."

Antonio laughs softly and continues to tug at your curl. You'll have to kill him for being such a smug bastard later, but right now you don't want him to stop, need him to keep going.

He doesn't stop, thank god, and before you know it, tense heat is pooling in your stomach, your skin is on fire, your mind is hazed and clouded and itfeelssogood. With one last expert tug of your wrist, Antonio is crying out to the heavens, and the extra hard pull at your curl brought on by his orgasm brings about your own release.

"I love you."

Your body relaxes. Every muscle unclenches and you slump forward, resting a wet (wet?) cheek against Antonio's chest.

"I love you too, Lovino."

You sigh when Antonio begins to gently stroke your hair, and in that moment you are completely content. In the morning, when the sun peaks through the curtains, you know you'll feel horribly embarrassed, you know the smile you'll wake up to will irritate you beyond belief, but that doesn't matter right now. All that matters is this moment, this person, this feeling.

Your breathing slowly steadies to match the rise and fall you feel beneath your cheek, and you drift off, dreams no longer plagued with doubt. You both fall asleep, unknowingly sharing a single thought.

He loves me too.