So let me try to explain this story to the best of my ability.

I got bored at my dad's house. That's the short version.

Long version: have you ever read those stories, usually on , about a certain character and every kiss they've ever had? (Sometimes, it's worse than kissing, but you get the idea.) Anyway, typically you'll have a very 'experienced' character-though not too experienced because we don't want to be here for hours-and have little qualifiers. "Worst kiss-*insert diatribe about a kiss with someone who sucks*" "Best kiss-*insert diatribe about a kiss with one true love*" Etc, etc. Anyway, the idea is usually that each person the kiss is with is a different one.

You know me, I just love to break the rules! Oh, aren't I crazy?

Yes, so this is basically the same idea, if you replace the kissing part and more to the point, it's more like the course of one relationship rather than several. It's also a songfic, and it's made up of eight drabbles that are labeled (his first, his worst, etc.).

Fair warning: there is more than one reference to BDSM. It's not really heavy or graphic, but I know a lot of people are not into that sort of thing so consider this your warning. There's also some dubcon (dubious consent) so please, don't read if it offends you. It does have a happy ending, though! :)

Also, some of the songs are inappropriate. Dearest apologies.

Please read & review, and please enjoy.

His first:
"I am tired, I am weary, I could sleep for a thousand years/A thousand dreams that would await me. Different colors made of tears."- Venus in Furs by the Velvet Underground

His 'first' was in his mind. Though it really wasn't his fault at all. What had caused the dreams to be so vivid, he did not know. Maybe it was the wine. The party-France's, hadn't it been?-was unhinged and wild. Italy recalled that everyone had been laughing far too loudly, that the laughter had made the walls shake and his head throb. He remembered the air being thick with smoke, and definitely not cigarette smoke. He remembered that-Prussia? Denmark? One of them, for sure-had ushered him to a couch to let him pass out. And he remembered his dream.

Boots. Of course it was obvious who they belonged to (because really, who else would wear boots like that?) but outside of the dream, Italy never admitted who had been wearing them. He recalled licking them in the dream; slowly, carefully, obscenely. He remembered licking them until they shined. Then, he had kissed them; delicately, with all of the care that he would have put into kissing a girl, if that would ever happen. Not that the wearer of the now shined to perfection boots was a girl, but wasn't that what was supposed to happen? Weren't you supposed to have vivid, wild dreams about kissing girls? Rather than the boots of someone you surely didn't like all that well, let alone like that? But that was what happened in the dream.

The strangest thing wasn't what happened next. (What happened next was a lash, over and over again on his back and on his chest, leaving bruises. Beautiful, he remembered thinking in the dream; but bruises were really gross, so that made no sense.) The strangest thing was that in the dream, he wasn't screaming. He was making noises, but they were obscene and even a little dirty. Never mind what came after it; though Italy's grasp on what could be called sex was rather flimsy (as his impromptu sexual education had been from France, who had said a lot of confusing things without explaining any of his terminology) it was still sex that had happened to bring the confusing dream to its grand finale.

He knew because when he woke up, running to the bathroom to examine himself in the mirror, his face was flushed, his eyes were wide and their pupils were almost dilated, and Italy had stayed in whoever's bathroom it had been for almost an hour, splashing cold water on his face and trying very hard not to think about or interpret what he had dreamt about.

His most confusing:
"Jetzt kommt er rückwärts mir entgegen/Honig bleibt am Strumpfband kleben/Ich bin enttäuscht/ Total enttäuscht."- Bück Dich by Rammstein

Italy's grasp on the German language was strenuous, at best. Oh, he could speak a few words here and there: yes, no, I love you, idiot. He could get by if he had to, if 'getting by' didn't require communicating anything more complicated than what wild gesticulations and facial expressions could express. But either way, he didn't know German. Not really.

And the thing about Germany was, he was so serious that you wanted to believe he knew what he was doing all the time, even when he clearly didn't. In addition to this was the fact that when Italy himself got drunk, usually off of wine, he sang and danced and felt very, very happy until he passed out. So it took him longer than it should have to make the connection that an Italy on wine was far, far different than a Germany on beer.

Italy had tried desperately to get him to speak English. Because they both spoke it near-fluently, and Germany had worn such a look on his face that not knowing what he was saying made Italy feel terrible, like he was ignoring instructions or missing out on a great secret. Then he had started asking a question, though what he was asking Italy did not know. Over and over again he asked it, and he had stared right into his eyes when he did, once even picking him up by the shirt collar and repeating it, nearly shouting it.

So, Italy had done what anyone would have done. He had nodded and said a (rather shaky) 'si', then saying 'yes'.

That was how he had ended up halfway on top of the armoire, with one of the knobs to a drawer pressing into the small of his back, kissing a man who-not only was his superior, the one who was going to lead him into war-but who also tasted like cheap beer and cigarette smoke. And a little like cars, he had decided. Italy hadn't been able to pinpoint how.

Even though he had been the one sober, in the morning he had been the second to remember the events from the night before. Judging by the look on Germany's face, it was very very bad, so he acted solemnly and pretended like it was much worse than it really was.

His most secretive:
"You make me feel, you make me feel something/And feeling something beats feeling nothing at all." -Bang Goes The Knighthood by The Divine Comedy

So now they had something of a pattern. They would meet at places (usually during a time when they were supposed to be training; strangely, their fellow ally, Japan, rarely commented on this, as if he never noticed, though surely he did) and then they would have rushed, secret, 'we don't talk about this ever' sex. Italy was fine with the arrangement; he had the smallest, nagging feeling like it wasn't quite right, but then, right in the middle of the afternoon when the sun was shining at its hardest, he would find himself being led away by the wrist to some super secret location, and even though the nagging feeling would still be there, ultimately Italy would be unable to resist Germany's 'advances'. And anyway, it had occurred to him more than once, upon forcing himself to look directly into Germany's eyes, that technically he would be disobeying a direct order if he stayed.

Also, Italy liked him. A lot-but he kept this to himself.

As secretive as these always were, his most secretive was along Germany's very own streets. Because if he got caught there (by anyone, really; Prussia, for instance, or even his own older, kind of mean brother) then that would be it. He could almost visualize his life going down the drain.

So he walked carefully, as if every footstep he took was incredibly loud and obvious-out of the station, through the arcade, past the antique shop to a seemingly innocent Berlin address. And there he would be; deadly handsome in his war uniform, as if he hadn't had the time to change, and usually with a look in his eye that made Italy's breath catch in his chest, every time, as if he was shocked to see Germany there. That thought alone made him giggle, and he'd have to hide it behind his hand, or choke it back altogether. 'Oh, hello, friend and ally! What are you doing with that riding crop?' Right.

It was funny that it was months later, when the arrangements had maybe-sort-of taken a turn that could possibly be construed as 'romantic', that Italy learned that the mainstream idea of 'normal' sex didn't look anything like the sex he and Germany had. Not even close.

His most peculiar:
"Me, I'm lying on the carpet," Margaret's Eyes by King Missle

It was in the middle of the war. Tensions were high, but all it really seemed that Germany wanted was to relax. So unusual for him, but Italy let him. He would always let him. He glanced up at Germany every so often, and he would close his eyes and breathe the cigarette smoke in deeply. Italy watched in fascination as Germany would take a drag every five seconds or so. It would have seemed perfectly normal (though by now even Italy knew that it wasn't). Germany would be reading the paper or listening to the radio on the couch, with his cigarette and possibly a beer. Italy would be lying on the carpet. They were both in full military uniform, and they both sat in silence-or near silence, because even though he was expecting it, even though it was typical, Italy would still flinch or scream or make some noise when it inevitably happened.

Because cigarette burns hurt and he couldn't help it. But it was okay; though after that they would both always try to keep their faces from revealing anything, Italy knew he would always sort of wince, and he could always see the faint blush on Germany's face, always somewhat there from what he could tell, but more prominent when he himself was in pain.

His worst:
"Tender-want me to say 'I love you'/Love, I heard it's all the rage." Love by Abney Park

So the war efforts were going badly. Italy got it, he did. How couldn't he have gotten it? It was everywhere. It was in his face everyday. Sometimes, the laugh of that America resonated in his ears. Italy didn't quite know what he was fighting for, of course, and sometimes-every once in a while-Germany would say something that would imply that he knew exactly what they were fighting for, and didn't care for it. But he followed orders to a 'T' even when Italy could see it killed him. At any rate, almost always he acted as if there was no other side or morality involved in the war. Just, we need to win and we will win.

Well, the war efforts were going really, really badly. And tensions were high, everyone was angry-except Italy. Italy could not find the anger no matter how hard he tried.

It had been one day during training (when Italy had wanted to take a break-just a quick break from hiking up some gross hill, just a quick break to relax in the grass and look at the sky) when Germany had taken him by the elbow, dragging him away from Japan (who only watched) and into a different part of the forest. Various twigs and branches scratched his face, but it didn't hurt that much, and he said nothing.

To Italy's massive relief, they had reached something of a clearing, and he had smiled broadly. He had just been about to lie down (because at this point, even the dirt looked inviting) when he found himself pinned against a tree, his face pressed against the bark, as he felt his hands being tied together. Rope, was it? Everything else was a blur, because all he could really remember was how scared he was, how genuinely, honestly scared. He was scared when Germany had forced him to face him (lifting his chin to ensure eye contact as his other hand unbuttoned his military jacket, only to tear the black shirt underneath it off completely, buttons spilling everywhere). He was scared when Germany had pinned him to the ground, saying a lot of very angry things in a mixture of English and German, and yet he had also been so scared that even the English sounded foreign. He had been scared when Germany had torn off his tie and used it as a blindfold.

The scariest thing of all is when he had said he loved him. This was love? Because it hurt. It wasn't gentle, or nice, and even though it never really had been any of those things, this was feral and rough and horrible and it made him scream. Scream so loud he was sure Japan-wherever he was-could hear him. All he could feel, all he could taste, all he could smell, all he could breathe was pain. And not love. He was naive, he was, but he downright refused to believe this was what love felt like.

Because after everything, after he had been unable to find the energy to stand up, as he lied on the dirt, crying without able to stop, he realized that he would still follow Germany to the end of the earth and back. At the time, he had hated it-the feeling of devotion, or obedience, or whatever it was. And he had hated even more how all it took was for Germany to apologize (once in German, once in English) softly, picking up anything that may have belonged to either of them, and carried him to his home.

His most heartbreaking:
"Inside my heart is breaking/My makeup may be flaking, but my smile still stays on." The Show Must Go On by Queen

Since that incident, both Italy and Germany had said 'I love you' many times, and for many occasions. For Italy, it came easily. The words rolled off his tongue in any language, and he always said them with a smile, and usually a hug. Because it was true. Over and over again, it was true. He loved him when he cooked breakfast, when he stopped training to go and get gelato, when he kissed him, when it was morning, and when they were leaving. And all of the times when he didn't say it, it was still true. For Germany it was obviously harder, a challenge to even say the words, but Italy hadn't cared. He had earned those 'I love you's, no mater what language they were in, and he cherished them.

But at this moment, Italy had decided that saying 'I love you' to someone (or ti amo, or ich liebe dich, or whatever) should be banned. Because it wasn't fair what those words could do to someone. They could drive a person insane with their intensity. They could make a person commit crimes. Worst of all, they could make a person believe that the words in question were true.

Meanwhile, the war was ending. It would be soon now. Germany was constantly mad at him. After all, he and his brother had tried to surrender. In fact, wasn't it at Romano's house? Where all of the papers were signed and the...what was it? Armistice? Well, whatever it was, Italy was not affected by it. Because as it so happened, Italy had not surrendered. Or maybe he had-but though he had gone to bed as Italy, one morning, he had woken up as the Italian Social Republic.

It was for this reason that he had to go on. He had to march on with a smile, sometimes literally. inside, he was dying; formerly, the fact that he was happy, alive, and in love had motivated him to go running towards enemy troops and actually try to inflict any sort of damage. But now he felt empty, like a puppet. Like every decision he made wasn't actually his at all.

He was weak. He cried often. But in front of Germany, this was simply no longer tolerated. It was so funny the command he gave, how 'smile' could sound so solemn. But it did. And so, no matter what he did, Italy's smile still stayed on.

It was the same with love. Now they no longer talked about it; Italy believed this was because Germany had either never meant the words or didn't anymore. Of course Italy still did, but every time he tried to say 'ti amo' or any variant, he would feel himself start to cry, and crying was bad and a sign of weakness, not to mention losing, and they were not going to lose because the show had to go on. Usually the sentiment was punctuated with a curse word of some kind.

Anyway, it was just like that with sex. Inside, his heart was breaking, over and over again, and sometimes he really couldn't stop himself and he did cry. Not because of the pain (in short, he was used to it) but because he felt so incredibly hollow that the words 'puppet state' had to be the only thing you could really call him.

His most guilty:
"They forced me to do it! I'm innocent!" The Bondage Song by The London Underground

In short, Italy was unfocused. Because they had lost. And that meant everything, even to him.

It wasn't because he had cared about winning. Not really. There had often been times where he had wanted somebody to lose just so the whole, horrible thing would be over with. He read about how America, England and the rest of them celebrated and kissed in the streets. Italy was not on the streets. It took him a moment to remember where he was. His basement. The opposite. Not out and in the sunshine and in public, but hidden away. Shaming.

But really, it was him who was ashamed. Because losing meant that they were wrong. Right? Didn't the good guys always win? And so this loss had to mean that they were the bad guys, which secretly Italy had begun to suspect, but had never wanted to face.

In addition to mourning over the loss of his brother (who now lived with Russia; Italy shuddered at the thought) Germany also mourned over the loss of the war. And it was obvious, painfully obvious, so Italy left him very much alone. It had to have been what he wanted, right?

Italy himself cried frequently. Because, Dio, this meant that all this time he had been bad and wrong and everything he had meant to do in the name of love was in the name of something much worse. Frequently was not a strong enough word for how much he cried. He cried when he ate breakfast, he cried when he cleaned his house, he cried in the shower and, all too often, he cried in public. He cried at meetings. He cried on the phone. He felt like a failure, not for losing the war, but for being on the wrong side altogether. But, see, it hadn't felt like the wrong side at the time at all. Not even when Romano had switched over, it had always felt right because Germany had never been wrong before. Only now he had been. It wasn't just that, though. Everything felt wrong.

In all honesty, when it came to seeing Germany again (and the thought crossed his mind often, but Italy was far too frightened of the prospect) the idea of sex was the very last thing on his mind. Once, he had thought of it-and he had remembered that time in the forest, and after crying some more, he had dismissed the thought, never to recall it again. It wasn't until about a year later when Italy had answered the phone call, only for it to be Germany, which made him want to never answer the phone again. At the same time, he didn't want to hang up.

Whether or not the night that followed had been out of love or not (and this time, it was less clear; Italy did know that Germany had been drinking, but then again, so had he) Italy did not know. All he knew was that it was a distraction from the overwhelming feeling of shame that he couldn't seem to shake. Dio, all of those people and we were bad we are bad we lost 'cause they won and are they really the heroes because I think we may have been the bad guys I want to be held but I'm afraid of your touch, a steady, if confusing, stream of consciousness that clearly the act was meant to draw his focus away from. Well, that, and it was about ownership; in a sense, it had been meant to portray something along the lines of 'you can't run away, it's too late to back out, you're in, you're still mine,' etc, etc.

But the next day, Italy had said, "Never again," and even though for once Germany had not been awake before him to hear it, Italy got up and left the house, which was cold, and gone back to his own, which was cold in a different sense altogether.

The only thing he was wrong about was 'never again'.

His favorite:
"Hold my hand and we're halfway there." Somewhere from West Side Story

It was funny-well, not funny 'ha-ha', more like funny 'strange'-how unable they had been to stay away, either of them. What wasn't funny at all (in either sense) was how wrong this was. Because it was. Even Italy had to admit that.

Italy could only think of two cases off of the top of his head that could really be called 'marriages', regarding other nations. Austria and Hungary had been married. Everyone knew that, citing it as the textbook example of what a marriage could be. And, Poland and Lithuania had also been married-or whatever you were supposed to call a 'commonwealth'. Which was marriage. Everyone also knew that, but it was mentioned far less often.

Anyway, you weren't supposed to do it, not in this day and age, and if you were going to do it, you had to consult your bosses, and they had to think it was a good idea, and if they didn't then you were out of luck. Not to mention the fact that no one got married anymore. Ever since the formation of the EU, technically there was no need for anyone to be married, not really.

It was wrong. And it was so freeing, so liberating to not care even a little bit.

Technically, it was not a marriage in the sense that anyone would recognize it on a map. In fact, no one else really knew about it-well, they would soon enough, but for the moment they did not. Nobody's bosses were informed, and no other countries knew. (Though, if Italy was being honest with himself, lots of countries suspected.)

It was interesting how it had come to pass. There wasn't a song for it, not one Italy could name, but basically even though they had both boycotted each other, eventually they had...well...not. Sometime after the Berlin Wall coming down, everyone was a lot happier. Of course, that had basically meant a forty year break-up. But then again, they had never really been a couple, so maybe that wasn't the case at all. Besides, Italy had been around for centuries. Forty years wasn't that long at all.

Anyway, after the fall, they had both been friendly to each other. Uncharacteristically, it took Italy a long time to realize that (somewhat irritatingly) the urge to kiss him was back again. Which was completely unfair. Surely his heart had to learn sometime not to trust him? That horrible nation with the nice hair and the intelligent eyes and everything else that Italy had to repress, keep to himself, and try to forget? Anyway, he was bad and not to be trusted.

So when they had met on 'friendly' terms at a party (it was America's, celebrating his birthday; Italy had gone because it was always rude to miss someone's birthday) and Germany had greeted him with a deep, completely and totally spontaneous kiss, Italy had forgotten that he was bad and kissed him back. Then when they parted, he remembered. It had also taken him a second to realize that they were both sober. Peculiar. But, Italy couldn't have held a grudge if he had wanted to, and so he had taken Germany's hand and they had watched the fireworks together that night.

Italy was probably more trusting than he needed to be, and everyone knew it, but now, it seemed worth it. But it hadn't been a choice so much as it had been a reflex.

And so here he was, walking down a street he recognized as his. He turned the corner until he got to a seemingly innocent Venice address. And he knew what was coming, but he still allowed himself to be surprised.

"Oh, hello, friend and ally! What are you doing with that wedding ring?" He allowed himself to laugh as he spoke. And to his surprise, he heard a laugh from the doorway. He turned around. There he was. Deadly handsome in a suit (a nice suit) and Italy felt his breath catch in his throat.

But this time, their meeting had a different tune. Minoring in foreshadowing, but primarily majoring in what Italy was forced to call love, for a lack of a better word. And he looked Germany in the eyes and smiled as he took his hand, and they walked over to the bed, and that's when Italy knew he had found it. The place where he could be himself: silly, naive, confused, in love.

Everywhere, he thought. But for now, somewhere would have to do. And when they kissed, the rest of the world ceased to matter.