Fic: Diplomacy
Title: Diplomacy
Rating: PG-13
Characters & Pairings: Germany, Romano, Veneziano; some (implied?) Germany/Veneziano
Warnings: Romano's unique use of language
Summary: Romano has the bad habit of showing up unexpectedly. Veneziano has the bad habit of not relaying relevant information. Germany has the bad habit of believing he might possibly get work done whilst in Veneziano's house.
-
Germany leans his head onto the hard wooden back of the chair, closes his eyes, and tries to think calming thoughts. Summery gardens. Budding flowers. Warm air. Lush green meadows, filled with the distant sound of children’s laughter - plus the occasional reverberating clang. Calm balmy oceans, awash with the whisper of shifting water - punctuated every so often by shrill metallic clattering, as if an entire army of tin soldiers has fallen down the stairs.
He looks down to find that he is gripping his pen so tightly that his knuckles have gone white. So much for his happy place.
Perhaps it had been overly optimistic of him to hope that he would be able to get any work done whilst staying at Italy’s house, Germany thinks, staring ruefully at the not insignificant mound of paperwork that remains incomplete. His discovery earlier that same morning, that despite the size of the place it does not contain a single room which comes anywhere close to serving the function of a study, was after all hardly fortuitous - and yet despite everything he knows of the other nation, Germany had entertained the idea that the obstacles could be overcome.
Italy’s house does not have a study. That problem had been easily solved: what the house does have is a dining room, and the table in it is proving quite sufficient as a workspace.
Italy does not keep sensible hours. Again, the solution was easily apparent, and although in truth neither of them had been much enamoured by the idea of Germany getting up early to work while Italy continued to sleep, it had been the most obvious compromise. Germany had not anticipated exactly how difficult it would be to force himself to go through with this plan, but after steeling his resolve - and prising Italy off him; the smaller nation clings like a limpet, even when unconscious - it had proven perfectly possible.
Yet another impressive crash shakes the house, and Germany grits his teeth. There is nothing for it, he decides: he still has a considerable amount of work left to do, and it is impossible for him to concentrate with this much noise. At least he will have no trouble tracking Italy down.
He leaves his reading glasses folded on the table and proceeds through the adjoining corridor and into the kitchen, beginning to call out even before he has opened the door. “Italy, would you mind keeping it down? I still have -”
“What the fuck?!”
Germany freezes, half-outside of the kitchen with his hand still on the doorknob. Even if the visual clues had not been enough to alert him that something is not right, that exclamation would have clinched it.
Romano had whirled around, Moka pot clutched in his hands and fire flaring in his eyes, as soon as the door opened, and is now standing there looking at Germany as if he is a cockroach. One that Romano bears an especially violent grudge against.
“How did you manage to make that much noise with just a Moka pot?” Germany says. It is the first thing to come to mind.
The comment seems to provoke Romano out of his motionless glaring; he slams the aforementioned pot down on the counter in a sudden, violent - and, inevitably, extremely noisy gesture. “What the hell are you - God damn it! He never told me you were here. Shit!”
Good morning to you too, Germany thinks, but bites his tongue: Romano already appears aggravated enough for anyone’s purposes. “How did you get in?” he says instead, picking cautiously through his words and attempting to choose a neutral, non-confrontational phrasing.
His efforts, inevitably, are for naught. Romano is slamming his way around the kitchen in seemingly uncontainable pique, even managing to transform the filling of the Moka pot with water into a cacophonous process. “How do you think, kraut-for-brains? My damn idiot of a brother let me in.”
He marches over to a cupboard, for a split second looking almost militaristic, and wrenches the door open. An avalanche of cans and jars issues forth, crashing down onto the floor and counter top and Romano’s feet in roughly equal proportions. Romano jumps backwards and hops from foot to foot in impotent, spluttering anger: it looks as if he is attempting to take the weight off his injured limb, but is being continually thwarted by the fact that both his feet hurt equally. “Shit! Not again!”
Germany thinks to himself that this, at least, explains the mystery of how Romano made so much noise with merely a Moka pot.
His cautious steps forward and vague offers of assistance are impatiently dismissed - although Romano does not seem inclined to clear up by himself, merely grabbing one of the tins from off the floor and kicking the other items into the corner. “So now he’s upstairs,” he resumes as if the interruption had never even taken place, flinging a handful of ground coffee into the filter of the pot with all the righteous fury of a wounded deity, “taking his sweet God-damned time in the shower while I’m stuck down here making caffelatte with you.” At this last word, his lip curls hard enough to distort his entire face.
Germany tries his very hardest to suppress his automatic urges to begin feverishly tidying up; he manages to remain still, but his fingers are twitching at his sides and he has to avert his eyes from the mess in order to stop the vein in his temple from pulsing aggrievedly. “But why did you decide to come here?” he says, and the chagrin in his voice is not as well-disguised as he would like.
For the first time in the entire conversation - if one can call it that; it has mostly consisted of a one-sided, unfiltered venting of spleen - Romano appears genuinely offended as opposed to his default setting of enraged apparently just for the sake of it. “And why shouldn’t I, bastard? Can’t a guy visit his little brother whenever he damn well wants to?”
Germany swallows slightly nervously as he watches Romano screw the pot together and stamp towards the stove. It is not that the Italian poses a threat to him - definitely not, he thinks wryly when Romano catches his hand on the hob and leaps a dramatic five feet into the air, shrieking and thrashing his arms - but it is probably in everyone’s best interests for Germany to maintain at least a superficially courteous relationship with Italy’s family. Besides, nobody actually enjoys being hated. Except, perhaps, for Romano himself.
“Of course,” Germany says, spreading his hands in what he hopes to be a pacifying gesture. “It’s just that I didn’t think you saw each other very often.”
Moka pot safely on the hob, Romano turns slowly on his heel and fixes Germany in his sights, fists clenched at his sides and his entire face thunderous and flushed with anger. “You keep out of my family affairs.”
Attempt at conciliation: failed.
Germany mentally backpedals, but ends up colliding rather suddenly with the solid wall of fumbling, half-formed excuses all fighting each other for territory in his head. For an exceedingly brief moment, he considers mentioning that he too has a brother who he does not exactly spend a lot of quality time with - unless being dragged to bar after bar and rendered inconceivably drunk counts as “quality time” - but quickly discards the idea. He has yet to discover a situation in which mentioning Prussia can possibly be effective at dispersing tension. Instead he remains vague, muttering things about never meant to intrude and thicker than water and so on, all the while hoping that the attempt at appeasement somehow come across as genuine and sincere, rather than patronising and inept.
Romano is looking at him warily, eyebrows furrowed, as if not quite sure whether or not to fly into a tantrum. “Bastard, are you making fun of me?”
“Certainly not,” Germany says, and if there is any mood he can successfully convey, it is one of solemnity.
The other nation gives him a suspicious once-over, his eyes seeming to linger around the region of Germany’s hair (has a strand come loose?) and shirt (he could swear he had been careful with his ironing) before pursing his lips and folding his arms haughtily. “Hmph. Should have known. You look like you’ve got a poker up your ass - bet you’ve got no damn sense of humour anyway.”
Germany, taken aback by the sudden change of topic - although it is not a dramatic about-face, still focussing as it does around the subject of why Romano would like to hang Germany by his ankles from the roof - pulls what feels to him like a bemused and mildly affronted frown.
Judging from the Italian’s reaction, however, that is not how it has come across: Romano utters a sound like a startled rodent and recoils, his gaze jumping around the room at random as if searching for something to hide behind. “D - damn it, don’t glare at me like that!”
Before Germany can begin to explain that he was in fact not glaring - or not intentionally, at least, but he can hardly be held to blame for the natural set of his features - there is a muffled slamming noise from above that catches the attention of them both. Once the reverberations have died down there comes a distant regular pattering, which sounds to their ears rather like a mouse running on top of a drum and growing closer at great speed, and which is accompanied by a breathless, high-pitched sort of crooning. The sound speaks of the limitless contentment engendered by the simple pleasures of life, and of complete ignorance of the veritable hurricane which its owner is rapidly heading into.
“Did you remember to put on trousers, Italy?” Germany calls, at the same time as Romano yells, “I swear to God, if you’re not properly dressed, I’m getting the hell out of here.”
The next few seconds consist of possibly the most tense and awkward moment of solidarity that Germany has ever experienced. Romano is gawping at him with his eyes popping out of his head and his expression warping back and forth between vindication at being backed up and disgust at finding common ground with Germany. It is plain to see that he is suffering from some sort of psychological crisis, and Germany feels uncomfortable just looking at it - and yet he himself is staring right back, equally astonished at the momentary synchronicity between them.
It is during this uniquely volatile moment that Italy chooses to appear at the door, thankfully completely dressed and smiling so sunnily that the room genuinely seems to light up. “So you found each other!”
Romano turns on him, obviously seizing on the opportunity to forget that the latest exchange ever took place. “Damn right we did! Why the hell didn’t you tell me he was in the house?”
Italy’s face falls rather dramatically, and as he looks back and forth between the two of them it visibly dawns on him what sort of situation he has inadvertently created. “Oh... I’m sorry, Romano! I forgot to mention it. I didn’t think you’d mind this much...”
“Of course I mind!” Romano exclaims, entirely ignoring Italy’s quivering bottom lip. “What business does he have here?”
“Excuse me,” Germany puts in curtly, “but Italy has the right to choose who his guests are.”
The brothers turn to him in unison, his presence seeming to take both of them by surprise: Italy appears as startled to be defended as Romano is to be challenged.
At that precise moment, the Moka pot begins to gurgle.
“I’ll get it!” Italy cries shrilly, and vaults across the length of the kitchen to leave Germany and Romano locked in a particularly hostile staring contest.
Romano is beginning to breathe more heavily than usual, fists clenched and shoulders tense and slightly raised; it looks almost like a fighting stance, except that he is poised to charge towards not Germany but the door. Even so, he raises his chin and meets the challenge. “He let me in, too. I’ve got just as much right to be here as you.”
“I never said you didn’t,” Germany reminds him. “I was hoping we could work through the situation calmly, but that seems difficult to achieve given certain attitudes.” And he folds his arms and raises his eyebrows pointedly.
From behind him, Italy’s humming takes on a distinctive panicked edge.
There is a definite flicker of fear in Romano’s eyes, as well, but it is overpowered by the stubborn set of his jaw. “Bastard, if you want to say something, just come out and say it.”
Germany could say any number of things, but he can see the way that Romano’s fists are shaking - or are they trembling? - and he knows that it would be counterproductive, to say the least, to provoke an out-and-out fight. Moreover, he can hear the strain in Italy’s voice as he darts fretfully around the room heating milk, even the typical clattering of pans sounding more anxious than usual. It reminds Germany that while his point is certainly one of principle, it was in essence provoked by the desire to defend Italy - and what Italy wants is for them to get along, or at the very least not brawl in his kitchen.
It is not possible to take back his earlier words, but Germany decides that at the very least he ought to defuse the atmosphere somewhat. He is far from an expert at communication through the means of body language, and cannot hope to compete with the brothers’ tendency for dramatic gesturing, but he does uncross his arms and attempt to ease up on the glaring. “This is Italy’s house, and as guests we should both respect his decisions over who else he invites here.” Not that Romano had an invitation, from the sounds of it, but he overlooks that detail.
Romano is still eyeballing him with the utmost abhorrence, but seems to be thinking this over. The hostility in his face wavers ever so slightly as he stares back at Germany, and downright cracks whenever he glances over at Italy, who has fallen uncharacteristically silent and seems to be listening intently, despite facing away from them.
Just as it seems that peace has been restored, Romano’s eyes narrow with renewed anger yet again. “Where the hell do you get off calling him Italy, anyway? I’m half of Italy too, damn it. Why does he get to be Italy where I get stuck with my full name?”
There is an abrupt clattering as Italy drops a spoon onto the floor.
Germany is rendered temporarily speechless. It is a point that he has never before considered, never having spent much time with Romano before the Italian’s tumultuous emotions grew too strong to contain and he either launched an attack or fled. And yet despite his less than reasoned demeanour whilst making his accusation, Romano’s argument is valid: it does indeed come across as an injustice, seeming to imply that Romano is somehow secondary or entirely unimportant when compared to his brother. Germany can understand his anger.
“Well?” Romano barks, when a few seconds have passed without Germany replying.
Suddenly Italy has appeared in between them, gesticulating frantically in an effort to calm the situation. “No, no, that’s okay! My full name is way too long! And everybody calls me Italy anyway!”
Germany winces.
Sure enough, Romano’s face contorts like he does not know whether to cry or start throwing things. Italy gazes back, expression genuinely hopeful, not seeming to realise the implications of what he has said. His brother grits his teeth, appearing to decide that it would be useless to raise a protest - but it is obviously too much to hope for that harmony will be established. “God damn it, Veneziano, you never take my side!”
“I’m not on anyone’s side!” Italy wails.
This has gone far enough, Germany decides. Romano is obviously not about to back down, and they have reached a point at which it seems likely that the majority of people in the house will be crying before very long: Germany is fairly certain that he can see tears gathering in Italy’s eyes already. Even if he is mistaken, just hearing the distress in that voice would make him ready to climb mountains in order to put things right - but in this case, he himself is the source of the trouble.
“I think I should just go,” he says quietly, and with more reluctance than he had anticipated.
When no response comes, both Italians staring at him wide-eyed and failing even to move, he gives a curt nod and turns away. It will only be a few minutes until he is ready to leave, he thinks, doing his best to ignore the nagging sensation of displacement that claws at his insides: he has papers in the dining room and clothes in the bedroom and -
Without warning, there is suddenly a highly flustered and loudly protesting Italian clinging to him. Italy has wound both his arms firmly around Germany’s elbow and is pulling insistently at him, even going so far as to lean backwards and dig his heels into the ground - despite the fact that Germany stopped walking as soon as they made contact and was not moving all that quickly to begin with.
“I don’t want you to go!” Italy says - somewhat redundantly, since his fingers are pressing into Germany’s upper arm hard enough to make indentations in the flesh, and the look in his eyes as he gazes up at the blond makes Germany feel as though he just kicked a kitten.
Romano appears seconds away from emitting steam out of his pores, although there is a very definite edge of hurt lurking behind the bluster in his voice. “Well - well fine then! Do what you like! I’ll just -” and he begins stamping towards the door, his footfalls coming not quite heavily enough to disguise the fact that he is turning his face away from them and sniffing noisily - “I’ll just have breakfast in my own house, see if I care!”
“Noooo!”
Italy lunges across the room yet again, this time dragging a rather startled Germany with him - impressive given then the other nation is considerably taller and not far off twice Italy’s own width - and frees one arm to latch on to his brother instead. Romano staggers and curses, the impact knocking him back several paces, before turning his head away again and rubbing his sleeve quickly and angrily over his face. “Damn it, you’ve bruised my ribs. My eyes are watering.”
“I just,” Italy says quietly, his voice far more hushed then it ever usually is; it seems to catch Romano’s attention as well as Germany’s, the room falling abruptly silent, “I just want us all to have breakfast, and drink caffelatte together and talk about things and not get all angry and shouty.” His grip tightens on both their arms and he turns his face up to smile briefly, beseechingly, at each of them in turn. “Okay?”
Germany takes a sharp breath, the kitten-kicking sense of guilt swelling magnificently in his stomach: Italy’s pleading looks never fail to make him feel like the worst person alive, even though in this case he has actually been arguing for Italy’s sake. Then again, he thinks, perhaps Italy simply prefers peace over whatever concept of honour Germany has been trying to defend.
He nods once. “All right.”
“Fine,” Romano bursts out eventually. “But the mangiapatate was asking for it.”
And that, even though it was the least sincere agreement to a ceasefire that Germany has ever heard, appears to be that. Italy erupts with smiles all over again and hauls them to the table, pushing them down into chairs - neither next to nor opposite each other; he seems to have learned from his earlier errors - where he orders them to remain whilst he fetches the meal.
Germany sits stiffly at first, back rigidly straight and fists tight on his knees, but Italy’s relentless chatter slowly relaxes him to the point of being able to haltingly respond. Eventually, by the time Italy is sitting down opposite him and tearing off a chunk of fresh buttery bread, they have managed to establish a three-way conversation of sorts, and all without getting angry and shouty. Even though Romano is talking mostly to his brother and responding to Germany only in the curtest manner possible, it feels like a victory for international diplomacy.
It is not until halfway through the meal that Germany remembers about his paperwork, the recollection hitting him sharply in the back of his brain. Immediately his fingers twitch, and his legs tense up a little as if urging him to stand - but just then, before he can move, Italy leans across the table and dunks a piece of bread in Germany’s coffee. He is laughing aloud, spreading crumbs everywhere and dipping his sleeve in the jam; Germany leans his chin on his hand, his face softening without meaning to, and decides that he can always stay for longer.
-
A Moka pot is a well-known Italian stovetop coffee maker. Here are some people getting very excited about using one. Here is an example of how not to use one. I doubt anyone has a searing desire to learn very much about them, but just in case.
Caffelatte is what you get when you mix hot milk (latte) with strong espresso-style coffee (caffè) of the type made by Moka pots. Outside of Italy, it's made using foamed milk, and usually referred to simply as "latte".
Mangiapatate is an Italian epithet for a German. It means "potato-eater". (At least, I hope it does. If any Italians out there - or, indeed, anyone at all - can see that I got something wrong, please correct me. This goes for the rest of the fic, too. :3)
Rating: PG-13
Characters & Pairings: Germany, Romano, Veneziano; some (implied?) Germany/Veneziano
Warnings: Romano's unique use of language
Summary: Romano has the bad habit of showing up unexpectedly. Veneziano has the bad habit of not relaying relevant information. Germany has the bad habit of believing he might possibly get work done whilst in Veneziano's house.
-
Germany leans his head onto the hard wooden back of the chair, closes his eyes, and tries to think calming thoughts. Summery gardens. Budding flowers. Warm air. Lush green meadows, filled with the distant sound of children’s laughter - plus the occasional reverberating clang. Calm balmy oceans, awash with the whisper of shifting water - punctuated every so often by shrill metallic clattering, as if an entire army of tin soldiers has fallen down the stairs.
He looks down to find that he is gripping his pen so tightly that his knuckles have gone white. So much for his happy place.
Perhaps it had been overly optimistic of him to hope that he would be able to get any work done whilst staying at Italy’s house, Germany thinks, staring ruefully at the not insignificant mound of paperwork that remains incomplete. His discovery earlier that same morning, that despite the size of the place it does not contain a single room which comes anywhere close to serving the function of a study, was after all hardly fortuitous - and yet despite everything he knows of the other nation, Germany had entertained the idea that the obstacles could be overcome.
Italy’s house does not have a study. That problem had been easily solved: what the house does have is a dining room, and the table in it is proving quite sufficient as a workspace.
Italy does not keep sensible hours. Again, the solution was easily apparent, and although in truth neither of them had been much enamoured by the idea of Germany getting up early to work while Italy continued to sleep, it had been the most obvious compromise. Germany had not anticipated exactly how difficult it would be to force himself to go through with this plan, but after steeling his resolve - and prising Italy off him; the smaller nation clings like a limpet, even when unconscious - it had proven perfectly possible.
Yet another impressive crash shakes the house, and Germany grits his teeth. There is nothing for it, he decides: he still has a considerable amount of work left to do, and it is impossible for him to concentrate with this much noise. At least he will have no trouble tracking Italy down.
He leaves his reading glasses folded on the table and proceeds through the adjoining corridor and into the kitchen, beginning to call out even before he has opened the door. “Italy, would you mind keeping it down? I still have -”
“What the fuck?!”
Germany freezes, half-outside of the kitchen with his hand still on the doorknob. Even if the visual clues had not been enough to alert him that something is not right, that exclamation would have clinched it.
Romano had whirled around, Moka pot clutched in his hands and fire flaring in his eyes, as soon as the door opened, and is now standing there looking at Germany as if he is a cockroach. One that Romano bears an especially violent grudge against.
“How did you manage to make that much noise with just a Moka pot?” Germany says. It is the first thing to come to mind.
The comment seems to provoke Romano out of his motionless glaring; he slams the aforementioned pot down on the counter in a sudden, violent - and, inevitably, extremely noisy gesture. “What the hell are you - God damn it! He never told me you were here. Shit!”
Good morning to you too, Germany thinks, but bites his tongue: Romano already appears aggravated enough for anyone’s purposes. “How did you get in?” he says instead, picking cautiously through his words and attempting to choose a neutral, non-confrontational phrasing.
His efforts, inevitably, are for naught. Romano is slamming his way around the kitchen in seemingly uncontainable pique, even managing to transform the filling of the Moka pot with water into a cacophonous process. “How do you think, kraut-for-brains? My damn idiot of a brother let me in.”
He marches over to a cupboard, for a split second looking almost militaristic, and wrenches the door open. An avalanche of cans and jars issues forth, crashing down onto the floor and counter top and Romano’s feet in roughly equal proportions. Romano jumps backwards and hops from foot to foot in impotent, spluttering anger: it looks as if he is attempting to take the weight off his injured limb, but is being continually thwarted by the fact that both his feet hurt equally. “Shit! Not again!”
Germany thinks to himself that this, at least, explains the mystery of how Romano made so much noise with merely a Moka pot.
His cautious steps forward and vague offers of assistance are impatiently dismissed - although Romano does not seem inclined to clear up by himself, merely grabbing one of the tins from off the floor and kicking the other items into the corner. “So now he’s upstairs,” he resumes as if the interruption had never even taken place, flinging a handful of ground coffee into the filter of the pot with all the righteous fury of a wounded deity, “taking his sweet God-damned time in the shower while I’m stuck down here making caffelatte with you.” At this last word, his lip curls hard enough to distort his entire face.
Germany tries his very hardest to suppress his automatic urges to begin feverishly tidying up; he manages to remain still, but his fingers are twitching at his sides and he has to avert his eyes from the mess in order to stop the vein in his temple from pulsing aggrievedly. “But why did you decide to come here?” he says, and the chagrin in his voice is not as well-disguised as he would like.
For the first time in the entire conversation - if one can call it that; it has mostly consisted of a one-sided, unfiltered venting of spleen - Romano appears genuinely offended as opposed to his default setting of enraged apparently just for the sake of it. “And why shouldn’t I, bastard? Can’t a guy visit his little brother whenever he damn well wants to?”
Germany swallows slightly nervously as he watches Romano screw the pot together and stamp towards the stove. It is not that the Italian poses a threat to him - definitely not, he thinks wryly when Romano catches his hand on the hob and leaps a dramatic five feet into the air, shrieking and thrashing his arms - but it is probably in everyone’s best interests for Germany to maintain at least a superficially courteous relationship with Italy’s family. Besides, nobody actually enjoys being hated. Except, perhaps, for Romano himself.
“Of course,” Germany says, spreading his hands in what he hopes to be a pacifying gesture. “It’s just that I didn’t think you saw each other very often.”
Moka pot safely on the hob, Romano turns slowly on his heel and fixes Germany in his sights, fists clenched at his sides and his entire face thunderous and flushed with anger. “You keep out of my family affairs.”
Attempt at conciliation: failed.
Germany mentally backpedals, but ends up colliding rather suddenly with the solid wall of fumbling, half-formed excuses all fighting each other for territory in his head. For an exceedingly brief moment, he considers mentioning that he too has a brother who he does not exactly spend a lot of quality time with - unless being dragged to bar after bar and rendered inconceivably drunk counts as “quality time” - but quickly discards the idea. He has yet to discover a situation in which mentioning Prussia can possibly be effective at dispersing tension. Instead he remains vague, muttering things about never meant to intrude and thicker than water and so on, all the while hoping that the attempt at appeasement somehow come across as genuine and sincere, rather than patronising and inept.
Romano is looking at him warily, eyebrows furrowed, as if not quite sure whether or not to fly into a tantrum. “Bastard, are you making fun of me?”
“Certainly not,” Germany says, and if there is any mood he can successfully convey, it is one of solemnity.
The other nation gives him a suspicious once-over, his eyes seeming to linger around the region of Germany’s hair (has a strand come loose?) and shirt (he could swear he had been careful with his ironing) before pursing his lips and folding his arms haughtily. “Hmph. Should have known. You look like you’ve got a poker up your ass - bet you’ve got no damn sense of humour anyway.”
Germany, taken aback by the sudden change of topic - although it is not a dramatic about-face, still focussing as it does around the subject of why Romano would like to hang Germany by his ankles from the roof - pulls what feels to him like a bemused and mildly affronted frown.
Judging from the Italian’s reaction, however, that is not how it has come across: Romano utters a sound like a startled rodent and recoils, his gaze jumping around the room at random as if searching for something to hide behind. “D - damn it, don’t glare at me like that!”
Before Germany can begin to explain that he was in fact not glaring - or not intentionally, at least, but he can hardly be held to blame for the natural set of his features - there is a muffled slamming noise from above that catches the attention of them both. Once the reverberations have died down there comes a distant regular pattering, which sounds to their ears rather like a mouse running on top of a drum and growing closer at great speed, and which is accompanied by a breathless, high-pitched sort of crooning. The sound speaks of the limitless contentment engendered by the simple pleasures of life, and of complete ignorance of the veritable hurricane which its owner is rapidly heading into.
“Did you remember to put on trousers, Italy?” Germany calls, at the same time as Romano yells, “I swear to God, if you’re not properly dressed, I’m getting the hell out of here.”
The next few seconds consist of possibly the most tense and awkward moment of solidarity that Germany has ever experienced. Romano is gawping at him with his eyes popping out of his head and his expression warping back and forth between vindication at being backed up and disgust at finding common ground with Germany. It is plain to see that he is suffering from some sort of psychological crisis, and Germany feels uncomfortable just looking at it - and yet he himself is staring right back, equally astonished at the momentary synchronicity between them.
It is during this uniquely volatile moment that Italy chooses to appear at the door, thankfully completely dressed and smiling so sunnily that the room genuinely seems to light up. “So you found each other!”
Romano turns on him, obviously seizing on the opportunity to forget that the latest exchange ever took place. “Damn right we did! Why the hell didn’t you tell me he was in the house?”
Italy’s face falls rather dramatically, and as he looks back and forth between the two of them it visibly dawns on him what sort of situation he has inadvertently created. “Oh... I’m sorry, Romano! I forgot to mention it. I didn’t think you’d mind this much...”
“Of course I mind!” Romano exclaims, entirely ignoring Italy’s quivering bottom lip. “What business does he have here?”
“Excuse me,” Germany puts in curtly, “but Italy has the right to choose who his guests are.”
The brothers turn to him in unison, his presence seeming to take both of them by surprise: Italy appears as startled to be defended as Romano is to be challenged.
At that precise moment, the Moka pot begins to gurgle.
“I’ll get it!” Italy cries shrilly, and vaults across the length of the kitchen to leave Germany and Romano locked in a particularly hostile staring contest.
Romano is beginning to breathe more heavily than usual, fists clenched and shoulders tense and slightly raised; it looks almost like a fighting stance, except that he is poised to charge towards not Germany but the door. Even so, he raises his chin and meets the challenge. “He let me in, too. I’ve got just as much right to be here as you.”
“I never said you didn’t,” Germany reminds him. “I was hoping we could work through the situation calmly, but that seems difficult to achieve given certain attitudes.” And he folds his arms and raises his eyebrows pointedly.
From behind him, Italy’s humming takes on a distinctive panicked edge.
There is a definite flicker of fear in Romano’s eyes, as well, but it is overpowered by the stubborn set of his jaw. “Bastard, if you want to say something, just come out and say it.”
Germany could say any number of things, but he can see the way that Romano’s fists are shaking - or are they trembling? - and he knows that it would be counterproductive, to say the least, to provoke an out-and-out fight. Moreover, he can hear the strain in Italy’s voice as he darts fretfully around the room heating milk, even the typical clattering of pans sounding more anxious than usual. It reminds Germany that while his point is certainly one of principle, it was in essence provoked by the desire to defend Italy - and what Italy wants is for them to get along, or at the very least not brawl in his kitchen.
It is not possible to take back his earlier words, but Germany decides that at the very least he ought to defuse the atmosphere somewhat. He is far from an expert at communication through the means of body language, and cannot hope to compete with the brothers’ tendency for dramatic gesturing, but he does uncross his arms and attempt to ease up on the glaring. “This is Italy’s house, and as guests we should both respect his decisions over who else he invites here.” Not that Romano had an invitation, from the sounds of it, but he overlooks that detail.
Romano is still eyeballing him with the utmost abhorrence, but seems to be thinking this over. The hostility in his face wavers ever so slightly as he stares back at Germany, and downright cracks whenever he glances over at Italy, who has fallen uncharacteristically silent and seems to be listening intently, despite facing away from them.
Just as it seems that peace has been restored, Romano’s eyes narrow with renewed anger yet again. “Where the hell do you get off calling him Italy, anyway? I’m half of Italy too, damn it. Why does he get to be Italy where I get stuck with my full name?”
There is an abrupt clattering as Italy drops a spoon onto the floor.
Germany is rendered temporarily speechless. It is a point that he has never before considered, never having spent much time with Romano before the Italian’s tumultuous emotions grew too strong to contain and he either launched an attack or fled. And yet despite his less than reasoned demeanour whilst making his accusation, Romano’s argument is valid: it does indeed come across as an injustice, seeming to imply that Romano is somehow secondary or entirely unimportant when compared to his brother. Germany can understand his anger.
“Well?” Romano barks, when a few seconds have passed without Germany replying.
Suddenly Italy has appeared in between them, gesticulating frantically in an effort to calm the situation. “No, no, that’s okay! My full name is way too long! And everybody calls me Italy anyway!”
Germany winces.
Sure enough, Romano’s face contorts like he does not know whether to cry or start throwing things. Italy gazes back, expression genuinely hopeful, not seeming to realise the implications of what he has said. His brother grits his teeth, appearing to decide that it would be useless to raise a protest - but it is obviously too much to hope for that harmony will be established. “God damn it, Veneziano, you never take my side!”
“I’m not on anyone’s side!” Italy wails.
This has gone far enough, Germany decides. Romano is obviously not about to back down, and they have reached a point at which it seems likely that the majority of people in the house will be crying before very long: Germany is fairly certain that he can see tears gathering in Italy’s eyes already. Even if he is mistaken, just hearing the distress in that voice would make him ready to climb mountains in order to put things right - but in this case, he himself is the source of the trouble.
“I think I should just go,” he says quietly, and with more reluctance than he had anticipated.
When no response comes, both Italians staring at him wide-eyed and failing even to move, he gives a curt nod and turns away. It will only be a few minutes until he is ready to leave, he thinks, doing his best to ignore the nagging sensation of displacement that claws at his insides: he has papers in the dining room and clothes in the bedroom and -
Without warning, there is suddenly a highly flustered and loudly protesting Italian clinging to him. Italy has wound both his arms firmly around Germany’s elbow and is pulling insistently at him, even going so far as to lean backwards and dig his heels into the ground - despite the fact that Germany stopped walking as soon as they made contact and was not moving all that quickly to begin with.
“I don’t want you to go!” Italy says - somewhat redundantly, since his fingers are pressing into Germany’s upper arm hard enough to make indentations in the flesh, and the look in his eyes as he gazes up at the blond makes Germany feel as though he just kicked a kitten.
Romano appears seconds away from emitting steam out of his pores, although there is a very definite edge of hurt lurking behind the bluster in his voice. “Well - well fine then! Do what you like! I’ll just -” and he begins stamping towards the door, his footfalls coming not quite heavily enough to disguise the fact that he is turning his face away from them and sniffing noisily - “I’ll just have breakfast in my own house, see if I care!”
“Noooo!”
Italy lunges across the room yet again, this time dragging a rather startled Germany with him - impressive given then the other nation is considerably taller and not far off twice Italy’s own width - and frees one arm to latch on to his brother instead. Romano staggers and curses, the impact knocking him back several paces, before turning his head away again and rubbing his sleeve quickly and angrily over his face. “Damn it, you’ve bruised my ribs. My eyes are watering.”
“I just,” Italy says quietly, his voice far more hushed then it ever usually is; it seems to catch Romano’s attention as well as Germany’s, the room falling abruptly silent, “I just want us all to have breakfast, and drink caffelatte together and talk about things and not get all angry and shouty.” His grip tightens on both their arms and he turns his face up to smile briefly, beseechingly, at each of them in turn. “Okay?”
Germany takes a sharp breath, the kitten-kicking sense of guilt swelling magnificently in his stomach: Italy’s pleading looks never fail to make him feel like the worst person alive, even though in this case he has actually been arguing for Italy’s sake. Then again, he thinks, perhaps Italy simply prefers peace over whatever concept of honour Germany has been trying to defend.
He nods once. “All right.”
“Fine,” Romano bursts out eventually. “But the mangiapatate was asking for it.”
And that, even though it was the least sincere agreement to a ceasefire that Germany has ever heard, appears to be that. Italy erupts with smiles all over again and hauls them to the table, pushing them down into chairs - neither next to nor opposite each other; he seems to have learned from his earlier errors - where he orders them to remain whilst he fetches the meal.
Germany sits stiffly at first, back rigidly straight and fists tight on his knees, but Italy’s relentless chatter slowly relaxes him to the point of being able to haltingly respond. Eventually, by the time Italy is sitting down opposite him and tearing off a chunk of fresh buttery bread, they have managed to establish a three-way conversation of sorts, and all without getting angry and shouty. Even though Romano is talking mostly to his brother and responding to Germany only in the curtest manner possible, it feels like a victory for international diplomacy.
It is not until halfway through the meal that Germany remembers about his paperwork, the recollection hitting him sharply in the back of his brain. Immediately his fingers twitch, and his legs tense up a little as if urging him to stand - but just then, before he can move, Italy leans across the table and dunks a piece of bread in Germany’s coffee. He is laughing aloud, spreading crumbs everywhere and dipping his sleeve in the jam; Germany leans his chin on his hand, his face softening without meaning to, and decides that he can always stay for longer.
-
A Moka pot is a well-known Italian stovetop coffee maker. Here are some people getting very excited about using one. Here is an example of how not to use one. I doubt anyone has a searing desire to learn very much about them, but just in case.
Caffelatte is what you get when you mix hot milk (latte) with strong espresso-style coffee (caffè) of the type made by Moka pots. Outside of Italy, it's made using foamed milk, and usually referred to simply as "latte".
Mangiapatate is an Italian epithet for a German. It means "potato-eater". (At least, I hope it does. If any Italians out there - or, indeed, anyone at all - can see that I got something wrong, please correct me. This goes for the rest of the fic, too. :3)