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Germany falls asleep alone. His dogs sleep in a different room, curling up next to each other by the fire, limbs and heads flopping as they snore. Prussia takes the guest room-or more likely the couch-if he doesn’t stay out the whole night with France and Spain. It’s just him, with the wind sighing in the window, careful not to sleep on the side of him that still aches from time to time.
Italy sneaks into his room every night without fail. Sometimes Germany wakes up. Sometimes he doesn’t.
Sometimes Germany will wake up to Italy’s breathing as he tries to maneuver himself closer to Germany’s side. To his contented sighs as he settles closer that replace the empty wind. To his unconscious smile and the mumbled noises he makes when he’s almost asleep. To his soft brown eyes that, right before he closes them, turn upwards and gaze into his. They are so full of that love for life and the world that it makes Germany’s chest hurt, silently promising something their foolish human hesitation can never put words to.
(They won’t say their promise aloud, but if they could manage to pen words to whatever they feel, it might be this: I’m here. It’s okay, leave the thoughts in your head, the ones that gnaw at you, behind. I will stay the night; I will always stay. And I’ll be back tomorrow.)
Sometimes Germany will wake up to Italy’s fingers ghosting over the veins that show through in his wrist, painting little circles with his fingertips. They share whispers those nights, and kisses, and the soft rumble of laughter that bubbles up from their chests. When they’re both on the cusp of sleep, the jokes and stories become quieter, and they become suddenly aware of the feeling of each other’s hands and legs and soft, deep breaths. Germany’s hand ends up at Italy’s side, absentmindedly tracing the swell of his muscles and bones with a smile he no longer has to force himself to repress. They fit together.
Sometimes Germany wakes up when Italy curls tightly against his side, shoulders tense and eyes worried and weary about the world. His hand finds Italy’s ribs and his fingers pattern out the indentations, like the ripples the tides leave in the sand. Italy closes his eyes slowly and breathes out with a tremor in his voice. Those nights, the air is heavier and presses down on them both, making Germany wrap a hand around the smaller man and pull him closer in a vain effort to protect him.
Sometimes Germany wakes up to Italy’s quiet sobs, muffled with a fist and the sheer determination not to disturb him, not to be the cause of the tiredness that sometimes settles in his every motion in the morning. On those nights, the air is so much thicker; it hurts to breathe. It sticks in their chests and throats and makes their words raspy. Germany pulls him closer, runs a hand through Italy’s hair, over his neck, down the bare expanse of his back, rubbing out any tension he might find. His other hand is occupied with tracing Italy’s features, his long eyelashes, his jaw, his eyelids. He isn’t good with comforting words. He doesn’t know the right thing to say to make it all go away. He can just hold Italy until his tears slow and the brunette slowly falls asleep. Then Germany can follow him into slumber.
Sometimes Germany doesn’t fall asleep at all, and just waits with an awful pain in his chest from the weight of the day until Italy gently turns the doorknob and slides under the covers with him. Then he manages to breathe again, quietly, almost shakily, the edges catching in his throat. He isn’t quite ready to let completely go yet, not willingly. But Italy understands that, and he’ll hold onto the blond nation and whisper words that are sometimes Italian and sometimes English and sometimes just the few phrases in German he knows. Sometimes the words don’t even make sense, but they’re calming and Germany listens to them as he drifts asleep.
Sometimes Germany doesn’t wake up at all, and Italy presses quiet kisses to the face that seems so much younger in sleep, to the hands that uncurl from fists, to every pale scar on his golden skin. He whispers quiet words of love and pulls the blanket tighter around Germany’s shoulders.
Germany falls asleep alone, but it never lasts the night.