A/N: Just a little something I wrote for the kinkmeme. The request was for Italy to be all affectionate over Germany's baby belly. Instead of being cute and fluffy, Italy comes off as a creeper. Mpreg, and Italy waxing poetic about his kid.

It goes without saying that I don't own anything.


Italy sighs for the umpteenth time that night. It's just past one am and he can't sleep. It's rare that he has such trouble and when it happens, it's usually because he is hungry or in danger. He's pretty sure neither are the case tonight, however, though there is a heaviness in his stomach he can't place.

He rolls over to face Germany, who is sleeping on the other side of the bed. The moonlight filtering through the window causes his pale skin to glow vaguely silver. He's breathtaking, and Italy's fingers itch for his paintbrush. Instead, he reaches out and runs his fingertips lightly down the German's face. His touch continues southward, lingering for just a moment on the Iron Cross hanging from his lover's neck before ghosting down to where the strong chest becomes a softer curve.

"Così bello. . ." Italy whispers to the quiet air, his hand finally coming to rest on Germany's stomach. Beneath the stretched skin, a new life is forming. His child. Their child. It's a little overwhelming to think about.

Contrary to his youthful demeanor, Italy has never much cared for children. They require a lot of attention and hard work, both of which Italy either does not have the desire to do or simply doesn't possess. Children are also messy, demanding, and expensive. They expect you to bend over backwards at their whim and give them everything they want, no questions asked. They rather remind Italy of bosses he's had in the past.

But this is different. Italy feels a rush of fierce possessiveness, his other hand coming up to cup the gentle swell. This is their child. Therefore, it is the exception. He somehow knows that he'll do everything in his power to be certain the baby is happy. He would move heaven and earth for them, if they only asked.

. . . is that the right way to go about raising a child, though? Not having any experience, Italy is suddenly unsure of himself. The heaviness in his stomach - fear, he realizes belatedly - claws its way up his chest and squeezes his heart.

What if he messes up? What if he makes a careless mistake (as he is prone to do) and Germany takes their baby and left? What would he do then? Could he continue existing, even knowing that the loves of his life don't want anything to do with him? Or, worst case scenario, what if the baby grows up to hate him?

He is brought from his dark thoughts when he feels movement. He peers down at the curve of Germany's stomach under his fingers. He sees nothing unusual but can feel something pushing weakly against his hand. It lasts less than a minute but he knows that he will never forget it for as long as he lives.

"Ve? What's this?" As carefully as he can, he lifts the black muscle shirt Germany always wears to bed. One of his hands slides under the material and he waits for a long while, expecting something to happen. Nothing does. He lets out a sigh and is about to give up when the gentle pressure from before finally returns.

"Hello there," Italy whispers, smiling to himself.

The baby, as if in response, pushes against his hand with its tiny foot. Unthinkingly, he leans forward and kisses the area.

"I-italy, what're y'doing. . . ?" Comes Germany's sleep-worn voice, causing the Italian to jerk back in surprise.

"Nothing, I. . . nothing. Go back to sleep." Italy says, feeling inexplicably light all of a sudden. He presses a kiss to his lover's mouth, which is sleepily returned. Germany then lets out a soft sigh and closes his eyes, nodding off almost instantly. Italy turns over to stare out his window at the moon.

He feels tired. As he begins to drift off, a single thought runs through his mind.

'I'll do my best to be a good father, il mio piccolo tesoro.'


Così bello - so beautiful

Il mio piccolo tesoro - my little treasure