I do not know if this is what you wanted, but... ---
“I think… I have something I need to tell you,” said Germany, finally sitting down at his kitchen table. He’d made pasta that night, and though he was sure he’d somehow made it wrong, Italy seemed to be satisfied with it, slurping it up before he’d even touched his plate.
“Yes?” Italy piped up as soon as he’d finished slurping, sauce already smeared over his mouth.
“I, umm…” Germany didn’t know how to say what he needed to say. That he was disgusted by the feeling of Italy’s skin against his? That the feel of Italy’s muscle flexing and contracting as Italy clung to him made him feel he needed to vomit? That, despite all this, somehow he wanted to be with Italy, if not forever, but for a long, long time?
“Ve, what did you want to say?”
“I think that I don’t want you to touch me so much,” said Germany, “If that’s possible.”
Italy paused from eating, a blank expression on his face.
“Germany doesn’t like me touching?”
“I don’t,” Germany said, his face tensing, steeling for a blow he knew wouldn’t come.
“Germany… doesn’t like me?”
“No —”
Italy’s eyes welled up with tears. “Germany doesn’t like me!”
“It’s not… it’s not that I don’t like you, I don’t like you touching, I don’t like anybody touching —”
By now, tears streamed down Italy’s face, and this was why Germany hadn’t wanted to say anything, had just wanted to continue to swallow the disgust he felt when Italy touched, when anybody did, and let his stomach become so full of bile that that it became a heavier and heavier pit.
His fingers brushed over Italy’s, a light touch, and Germany tried to imagine the comfort he was supposed to feel in touches like that. Italy suddenly stopped.
“I like you,” said Germany, their fingertips barely overlapping. Italy stared at their hands. “I really do.”
“So what doesn’t Germany like?”
“The jumping, the hugging the grabbing, the… the holding, the…” he swallowed. Through Italy’s fingers thrummed blood and life and nerves and unpredictability, warmth radiating in every direction. Others somehow enjoyed this. Germany hoped he could learn to stand it.
“O-oh,” said Italy.
“Do you understand?”
“No.”
“It makes me uncomfortable.”
Italy still stared at their hands, where they met. “This makes Germany uncomfortable?”
“A little, yes,” said Germany, “But this… this is okay.”
“What about this?” Italy flipped his hand over, palm exposed, and slid it under, slowly wrapping his fingers around Germany’s palm. “Is this okay?”
Germany thought for a moment, feeling the warm, fleshy part of Italy’s hand, for a moment, afraid it would move, wriggle, squeeze too hard, otherwise do anything, skin too soft and bones so hard and —
“It’s okay,” Germany swallowed. He was supposed to like his lover’s hands, wasn’t he?
“I didn’t know,” said Italy, eyes downcast, almost shamed.
“I didn’t tell you. Just ask me first, before you try to touch me,” said Germany, “and I’ll tell you if it’s okay.”
For a while, they waited, just holding hands, until Italy took his hand back, picking up his fork, and slurped more pasta. “Germany’s such a good cook!”
The corners of Germany’s mouth almost curled into a smile. That had almost not been as difficult as he had thought.
Hands
---
“I think… I have something I need to tell you,” said Germany, finally sitting down at his kitchen table. He’d made pasta that night, and though he was sure he’d somehow made it wrong, Italy seemed to be satisfied with it, slurping it up before he’d even touched his plate.
“Yes?” Italy piped up as soon as he’d finished slurping, sauce already smeared over his mouth.
“I, umm…” Germany didn’t know how to say what he needed to say. That he was disgusted by the feeling of Italy’s skin against his? That the feel of Italy’s muscle flexing and contracting as Italy clung to him made him feel he needed to vomit? That, despite all this, somehow he wanted to be with Italy, if not forever, but for a long, long time?
“Ve, what did you want to say?”
“I think that I don’t want you to touch me so much,” said Germany, “If that’s possible.”
Italy paused from eating, a blank expression on his face.
“Germany doesn’t like me touching?”
“I don’t,” Germany said, his face tensing, steeling for a blow he knew wouldn’t come.
“Germany… doesn’t like me?”
“No —”
Italy’s eyes welled up with tears. “Germany doesn’t like me!”
“It’s not… it’s not that I don’t like you, I don’t like you touching, I don’t like anybody touching —”
By now, tears streamed down Italy’s face, and this was why Germany hadn’t wanted to say anything, had just wanted to continue to swallow the disgust he felt when Italy touched, when anybody did, and let his stomach become so full of bile that that it became a heavier and heavier pit.
His fingers brushed over Italy’s, a light touch, and Germany tried to imagine the comfort he was supposed to feel in touches like that.
Italy suddenly stopped.
“I like you,” said Germany, their fingertips barely overlapping. Italy stared at their hands. “I really do.”
“So what doesn’t Germany like?”
“The jumping, the hugging the grabbing, the… the holding, the…” he swallowed. Through Italy’s fingers thrummed blood and life and nerves and unpredictability, warmth radiating in every direction. Others somehow enjoyed this. Germany hoped he could learn to stand it.
“O-oh,” said Italy.
“Do you understand?”
“No.”
“It makes me uncomfortable.”
Italy still stared at their hands, where they met. “This makes Germany uncomfortable?”
“A little, yes,” said Germany, “But this… this is okay.”
“What about this?” Italy flipped his hand over, palm exposed, and slid it under, slowly wrapping his fingers around Germany’s palm. “Is this okay?”
Germany thought for a moment, feeling the warm, fleshy part of Italy’s hand, for a moment, afraid it would move, wriggle, squeeze too hard, otherwise do anything, skin too soft and bones so hard and —
“It’s okay,” Germany swallowed. He was supposed to like his lover’s hands, wasn’t he?
“I didn’t know,” said Italy, eyes downcast, almost shamed.
“I didn’t tell you. Just ask me first, before you try to touch me,” said Germany, “and I’ll tell you if it’s okay.”
For a while, they waited, just holding hands, until Italy took his hand back, picking up his fork, and slurped more pasta. “Germany’s such a good cook!”
The corners of Germany’s mouth almost curled into a smile. That had almost not been as difficult as he had thought.