Impossible is nothing, if you're Italian [2a/?]
anonymous
July 12 2009, 23:12:03 UTC
author!anon is adding chapters like crazy today...
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“Ve~! Germany! Germany! Please come! I beg of you!”
Germany slammed his phone down and stood up in a hurry. Italy’s voice in the phone had been panicky and definitely scared, or more than, frightened, and he felt his heart constrict in his chest.
He did sound like he was in the middle of who-knows-what, and even though wars had ended many years previously, it didn’t mean he couldn’t get into some sort of problem.
Running to the house the Italians shared took him almost nothing, despite the distance, as worried as he was that something had indeed happened, but when he slammed the entry door open and ran in, what he saw, once again, shocked the core out of him.
Italy was sitting at the table, with a cloth in front of his mouth, looking vaguely sick, and in front of him, intact, was a plate full of pasta.
Germany surveyed Italy’s body, eyes checking every inch, but saw no wounds nor anything that could make Italy yell that much. Was it possible that Italy had overreacted to something again?
… Ludwig had to give it to Feliciano. Yes, it was very much possible.
“Germany!”
Italy’s eyes saw him standing there, flushed from his running and the embarrassment for rushing quickly to his lover’s side for some stupid problem, and jumped right at him, still looking ill.
Germany braced himself, but was surprised when instead of running at fast speed in his direction, Italy wobbled, and finally let himself fall into Ludwig’s awaiting arms with a sigh of relief. There were tears in his eyes, but his skin looked pale, and sickly, and Germany felt his rush of worry return tenfold.
“G-Germany!” Italy whimpered, clutching him close.
Germany held his lover to his chest, and frowned when he felt something poking at him down south -and no, it wasn’t anything sexual either.
“Italy, what’s wrong now?” there was a vague condescending tone in the German’s voice, but it was a given he would be wary, after seeing Italy apparently unharmed.
“I-I cannot eat pasta anymore!” and then, Italy started crying really hard in Germany’s shirt. “It smells badly! It tastes like burnt paper! Oh my lovely pasta~! Why~?!”
Germany blinked, and detaching from his lover, he observed him carefully.
So close, his pale skin was even paler, and the way Italy was sobbing was different than his usual crying for stupid reasons. He was truly sobbing, as if someone had killed his pet or something close to that.
All for pasta.
If Ludwig didn’t feel this worried, he’d bump Italy on the head.
“Feliciano, are you feeling ill?” he asked, probing his lover’s neck, forehead and cheeks.
Italy hiccupped. “I keep throwing up i-in the morning a-and then the pasta… and I want to eat broccoli but I hate broccoli a-and my back aches so much, a-and I feel tired and cranky and weak and-”
Ludwig leaned forwards, his lips barely touching those of Feliciano, making him shut up with a last hiccup. Careful not to jolt him around, he took the Italian in his arms and brought him out of the kitchen and onto the sofa in the sitting room, sitting down next to him to hold him close. Italy whimpered, trying to find a comfortable position, and snuggling close to the German, who took the opportunity to lift Italy’s shirt.
As he had expected, Italy’s stomach was showing even more than usual.
Feliciano, noticing what Germany was staring at, let out a growl, and Ludwig backed away, surprised.
“Italy, wha-”
“I know I’m fat! But it’s not my fault! It’s been one week and I’ve not been eating as much! And I can’t stand pasta! So don’t come accusing me!”
Saying this with dried tears on his cheeks, Italy slapped Germany’s arm and turned promptly around, to hide his growing stomach.
Ludwig was left flabbergasted at this sudden mood swing, and unable to know what to do.
“Ita-”
“Uwaa! Germany~! I’m sorry! I really am! Please don’t hate me!”
And there it was again, an armful of sobbing Italian.
‘The hell is happening here?!’
Germany felt the dire need to find a book on how to deal with suddenly moody Italians.
---
“Ve~! Germany! Germany! Please come! I beg of you!”
Germany slammed his phone down and stood up in a hurry. Italy’s voice in the phone had been panicky and definitely scared, or more than, frightened, and he felt his heart constrict in his chest.
He did sound like he was in the middle of who-knows-what, and even though wars had ended many years previously, it didn’t mean he couldn’t get into some sort of problem.
Running to the house the Italians shared took him almost nothing, despite the distance, as worried as he was that something had indeed happened, but when he slammed the entry door open and ran in, what he saw, once again, shocked the core out of him.
Italy was sitting at the table, with a cloth in front of his mouth, looking vaguely sick, and in front of him, intact, was a plate full of pasta.
Germany surveyed Italy’s body, eyes checking every inch, but saw no wounds nor anything that could make Italy yell that much. Was it possible that Italy had overreacted to something again?
… Ludwig had to give it to Feliciano. Yes, it was very much possible.
“Germany!”
Italy’s eyes saw him standing there, flushed from his running and the embarrassment for rushing quickly to his lover’s side for some stupid problem, and jumped right at him, still looking ill.
Germany braced himself, but was surprised when instead of running at fast speed in his direction, Italy wobbled, and finally let himself fall into Ludwig’s awaiting arms with a sigh of relief. There were tears in his eyes, but his skin looked pale, and sickly, and Germany felt his rush of worry return tenfold.
“G-Germany!” Italy whimpered, clutching him close.
Germany held his lover to his chest, and frowned when he felt something poking at him down south -and no, it wasn’t anything sexual either.
“Italy, what’s wrong now?” there was a vague condescending tone in the German’s voice, but it was a given he would be wary, after seeing Italy apparently unharmed.
“I-I cannot eat pasta anymore!” and then, Italy started crying really hard in Germany’s shirt. “It smells badly! It tastes like burnt paper! Oh my lovely pasta~! Why~?!”
Germany blinked, and detaching from his lover, he observed him carefully.
So close, his pale skin was even paler, and the way Italy was sobbing was different than his usual crying for stupid reasons. He was truly sobbing, as if someone had killed his pet or something close to that.
All for pasta.
If Ludwig didn’t feel this worried, he’d bump Italy on the head.
“Feliciano, are you feeling ill?” he asked, probing his lover’s neck, forehead and cheeks.
Italy hiccupped. “I keep throwing up i-in the morning a-and then the pasta… and I want to eat broccoli but I hate broccoli a-and my back aches so much, a-and I feel tired and cranky and weak and-”
Ludwig leaned forwards, his lips barely touching those of Feliciano, making him shut up with a last hiccup. Careful not to jolt him around, he took the Italian in his arms and brought him out of the kitchen and onto the sofa in the sitting room, sitting down next to him to hold him close. Italy whimpered, trying to find a comfortable position, and snuggling close to the German, who took the opportunity to lift Italy’s shirt.
As he had expected, Italy’s stomach was showing even more than usual.
Feliciano, noticing what Germany was staring at, let out a growl, and Ludwig backed away, surprised.
“Italy, wha-”
“I know I’m fat! But it’s not my fault! It’s been one week and I’ve not been eating as much! And I can’t stand pasta! So don’t come accusing me!”
Saying this with dried tears on his cheeks, Italy slapped Germany’s arm and turned promptly around, to hide his growing stomach.
Ludwig was left flabbergasted at this sudden mood swing, and unable to know what to do.
“Ita-”
“Uwaa! Germany~! I’m sorry! I really am! Please don’t hate me!”
And there it was again, an armful of sobbing Italian.
‘The hell is happening here?!’
Germany felt the dire need to find a book on how to deal with suddenly moody Italians.
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