Fic: The Terrible Potato Incident
Title: The Terrible Potato Incident
Rating: PG-13
Characters & Pairings: Romano/Spain; Germany/Veneziano
Warnings: Language, sexual references, making out, implications of involving pain in sex
Summary: Occupying the number one slot on Romano's list of 1,074 Reasons Why I Hate My Brother.
-
Retrospectively, he will conclude that all of the blame can be pinned squarely on every single person involved that isn’t Romano himself. It has always been clear to him that his little brother is an idiot, and there can be little cause for questioning this well-established wisdom of the ages. In fact, Veneziano must be well-established in the rankings of the world’s greatest idiots - he could possibly even have earned the top spot, if not for Spain’s continually irritating existence, but is certainly worthy of an honourable mention. In any case, the pair of them are evidently useless enough to be comfortably blamed for a significant proportion of Romano’s troubles in general - and in this case, if not for the presence of Germany at the fateful moment, Romano would have been happy to declare both his brother and Spain intellectually bankrupt and therefore, between them, responsible for everything.
Germany’s presence, however, will complicate these proceedings, since it is to Romano equally obvious that everything the bastard touches turns to shit. Certainly it is his fault for corrupting the thick-headed Veneziano. That idiot has never been the same since that time back in nineteen-whenever-it-was; the time he suddenly bolted like a faun away from Romano and into a forest, screaming something about a tomato box. Romano had of course gone after him - it is his job to protect his younger brother and, equally, any tomatoes which may be in the vicinity - but the trees were thick and the screams could have been coming from any direction. All that he ever managed to track down that day was a tomato crate with no tomatoes in it, signifying failure on all accounts.
The next time the brothers met, Veneziano had been transformed: from a whiny annoying too-happy little brat into a whiny annoying too-happy little brat who couldn’t stop talking about Germany. Even now, it is enough to make Romano want to declare the potato bastard lord and king of all that is wrong with the world - except that in this case, to do so would prevent Veneziano and Spain from being held to account and subsequently yelled at, which will not do at all.
In the end, after a lengthy wrestle with the problem, Romano will come up with a satisfying solution: dumping total responsibility on all three of them. Paradoxes are of little account when there is shouting to be done.
But on the day of the incident - or, as he will eventually christen it, The Terrible Potato Incident of Great Suffering and Things that Are Just Too Gross to Think About- such complicated logic is the furthest thing from Romano’s mind. Instead he is almost solely occupying himself with the question of how exactly he is going to get Spain’s trousers undone. It is not a complicated problem, on the surface: the removal of clothing is a procedure with which Romano is long acquainted, having had many opportunities to develop the technique on himself even before he first had a reason to attempt the same on another. In fact, right now is the first occasion in a long time that he has perceived the necessity to pause and consider strategies in the matter - a necessity largely due to the fact that Spain’s hips are currently pressing hard into his own, leaving very little room for Romano to work his hands into. Ten minutes ago this had not seemed much of a problem, distracted as he was with the equally challenging task of removing Spain’s shirt without being able to see or even reliably feel what he was doing. Yet things change, and now that the shirt has been flung aside with little regard for anything save getting it as far away as possible - and especially now that Spain is doing that thing with his mouth and that other thing with one of his hands - the prospect of them both remaining trousered for any longer is nigh unbearable.
Romano grunts irritably in the back of his throat (more at the necessity for a pause in the proceedings rather than at any misdemeanour on the other man’s part, but he doesn’t need to know that) and heaves an elbow into Spain’s face. “Get off me a second, bastard. I can’t breathe like this.”
Spain pulls his head back with such evident reluctance that by the time his pout finally comes into view, Romano merely rolls his eyes with the scorn of a superior being. “But Romano,” he begins - at least, Romano can only assume that other words were intended to follow, but Spain still hasn’t stopped doing that thing with his finger and thumb, and seems to get suddenly very absorbed in watching the reaction it provokes. His mouth is hanging slightly open with interest and his lips are very red and shining from what they have just been doing.
Romano cannot prevent himself from leaning up and flicking his tongue across that lower lip, as if to sample it, but immediately afterwards places his hand on Spain’s chest and shoves at him. “No. Off. Come on, idiot, the cushions are falling everywhere.”
The idiot in question hauls himself upright to kneel precariously between Romano’s legs, one knee practically slipping off the sofa, but all the while pulls such an expression of woe that it would almost be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic. It is of course purely to prevent him from whining that Romano follows him up quite so hastily; purely for the sake of comfort that he wordlessly tugs at Spain’s limbs until his feet are on the ground and his shoulders flat against the back of the sofa, before swinging a leg over him and settling in his lap.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Romano mutters, grabbing a fistful of Spain’s hair while his other hand finally sets to work undoing his trousers. “It’s disturbing.”
At that, he pulls Spain’s head back by the hair with every intention of wiping that worrying expression off his face - but before he can lean in, before he can move any further, his eye is caught by something lurking behind the place where the other nation’s head used to be.
That is to say, out of the window.
“Fuck!” he yells suddenly into Spain’s face.
“But don’t you enjoy the build-up?” Spain says, squeezing his behind in both his hands.
Damn, but Spain is stupid.
Romano flings himself sideways onto the sofa and out of sight of the window as if someone is shooting at him. “Not that, you cretin! Veneziano and the potato are outside!”
Spain turns around half-way and glances outside. “So they are,” he agrees, and then pauses, before peering a little closer. “Hey, looks like Germany found out what that bit of curly hair is for.”
“As if it didn’t take you centuries to figure it out,” Romano snaps as he struggles to button his shirt - and then abruptly finishes processing the comment. “What?!”
“I didn’t think that Germany would want Veneziano to do that to him in public,” Spain goes on in a tone of mild surprise.
“Fucking hell, don’t tell me about it!” Romano snarls, kicking Spain hard in the thigh with his heel. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he elaborates when he realises that he has done up his buttons lopsidedly and will have to fasten them all again.
Spain has been watching him in bemusement. “What’s the matter?”
Keys jingle outside.
“That!” Romano hisses, attempting to flip the cushions back onto the sofa with his feet. “They’re outside and soon they’re going to be inside and why couldn’t Veneziano go to his own house rather than here for a change and fucking hell Spain, put your clothes back on!”
“Oh,” Spain says thoughtfully, zipping his fly. “But then why didn’t you go to your private house?”
“Because this one is bigger, moron! Veneziano pays half the rent!”
There are various thuds and scuffles in the hall outside, followed by some low muttering and then the sound of the front door being pushed shut with more force than necessary.
Spain is still frowning in confusion. “But then surely he -”
“Look, forget it. You’re such an idiot.”
Feet move towards the door.
Romano practically lets out a scream: he had assumed the worst in all his haste to dress, yet somehow had not allowed himself to believe that the unexpected guests would go so far in their quest to ruin his life as to actually enter the room he is in. Cursing with more creativity than even he is used to, Romano flings himself back onto the sofa and affects a nonchalant pose.
Germany and Veneziano are not physically connected when they enter the room, God be praised, but their every aspect is more than incriminating enough. Since Veneziano is in front, Romano can see that his clothes have been rumpled in an entirely unacceptable manner: his jacket has been pushed back over his shoulders as if intentionally to display the crumpled extent of his shirtfront, and the button on his trousers is already undone. Behind him, Germany is mostly obscured - and a good thing, too, since it is hardly as if the situation would be improved if they were able to see him - but his head is clearly visible, looming over Veneziano like a great big potato moon. Romano can see even from where he is sitting that Germany’s hair, normally so ruthlessly under control, is falling forward over his brow and ears; the force of Romano’s realisation that the dishevelment was caused by his baby brother running his fingers through that hair makes him want to dry-heave.
There is the sound of something dropping heavily to the carpet, but for a long time nobody moves.
“Spain!” Veneziano says at last, after one of the most God-awful silences that Romano has ever experienced has grown too much even for him. “What are you doing here?”
It is a poor choice of words.
Romano grits his jaw and refuses to look at Spain even a tiny bit - but since continuing to look at Veneziano whilst all the signs of Germanic corruption are so glaring on his person is unbearable, he is forced to keep his eyes fixed on Germany himself. The blond, for his part, is turning very slowly but thoroughly red. Romano would laugh at how stupid he looks, if not for the very real fear that Spain just might mistake Germany for an enormous tomato and start licking his head.
“Oh, not much,” Spain replies affably. “Just dropped by to see your brother.”
“I see,” Veneziano says, with the most marked, sombre emphasis.
Damn it all, but this is torture. Despite the many horrifying predictions that flashed through Romano’s mind on seeing the two intruders approaching the house, he has never had the malevolence or twisted creativity necessary to imagine this result. And yet, despite the wild implausibility, here they are, in various states of undress and hasty re-dress and awkwardly making small talk. Romano himself is suffering from a particularly bad case of disorder in the underwear department - but since it would draw attention if he were to shift where he sits, and any attempt to ease the discomfort manually would surely border on the obscene, he is left with holding his legs in an extremely unnatural position and trying not to grimace.
“Germany and me -” and even now Veneziano has the nerve to reach openly for the potato’s hand, which is reluctantly surrendered to him - “were just going to, um. Watch television. Weren’t we, Germany?”
Germany makes a strangled sound.
At this point in the proceedings, a chain of events is set in motion. Germany, still bright red and floundering, obviously with no coherent thoughts in his stupid potato skull, dumbly turns his head to look at where the television is standing on the other side of the room. Immediately, his face tautens and creases all over, as if he has just smelt something horrible. Veneziano - detecting this change in attitude via that extrasensory perception he possesses which only seems to work on Germany, and even then not often - also looks over, at which point his eyes go very wide and his cheeks very pink.
Romano, who has been looking at them both, feels his head begin to turn as if of its own accord, drawn by his own terrible curiosity; despite his mind protesting, despite his brain telling him that he will not like what he sees.
What he sees is Spain’s shirt, having snagged on one corner of the screen, now draped and hanging down over one side of it like a long veil and seeming to stare back at the three of them.
“We could always move into a different room,” Spain says without seeming to notice.
Romano whips his head around and glares at him. “What?”
“No, no,” says Veneziano, voice slightly more high-pitched than before, “it’s alright. We’ll just go to Germany’s house, won’t we Germany?”
“Absolutely,” Germany says weakly, now staring at the carpet as if it is about to leap up and bite him.
Veneziano turns on his heel and plants a hand in the middle of Germany’s chest, beginning to push him backwards out of the room. “Alright then. Sorry about this. We’ll be going now. Nice to see you both. Careful you don’t trip on the coats, Germany. Oh, and we’re nearly out of pasta here so can you two get some more? Okay, see you later!”
The front door closes. When Romano glances out of the window behind him, he can see Veneziano steering Germany backwards all the way onto the pavement.
“I forgot to invite your brother to breakfast tomorrow,” Spain says sadly after a short silence.
Romano slowly turns around and fixes his gaze on him. “You fucking idiot,” he says flatly.
“That’s uncalled for,” Spain pouts. “It’s only breakfast. I can invite him some other time.”
That does it.
Although the head-butt to Spain’s solar plexus does leave Romano with a sharp pain in his forehead, it also leaves Spain doubled over and whining, so on balance Romano feels better for having done it. “Fucking hell!” he bellows, seizing his hair in each fist and pulling hard in sheer frustration. “Doesn’t this bother you? What is wrong with you? And couldn’t you at least have put your shirt back on?”
“I couldn’t find it,” Spain says, sounding a little defensive - and, Romano notices, choosing not to address the first two questions.
“How hard did you look? Don’t answer -” he puts up one hand in front of him, pre-emptively cutting Spain off before he has even opened his mouth - “I’ll tell you. You didn’t. It’s right there!” Romano flings an arm out in the general direction of the opposite wall, unwilling to look at the shirt again for fear of losing his cool entirely.
Spain blinks at it. “Wow, so it is. Why did you throw it all the way over there?”
Losing his cool is no longer an issue, Romano realises in the split second of stillness following this remark. He is fairly sure that he has never found his cool.
“This is not my fault! It was you - you’re the one who started molesting me, you sick fuck, and don’t pretend you didn’t. What’s wrong with the bedroom, anyway? You waited two minutes, this’d never have happened.”
“Romano...” Spain has assumed that devil-sent wheedling tone that activates whenever he is being shouted at, and is shuffling over the sofa towards him, picking up and gently petting his hand. “Don’t be angry, okay? It’s not such a big deal. It’ll all stay a secret between us and it’ll be like it never happened. And anyway, you never told me to move into another room.”
Later, it will be easy for Romano to deny that Spain’s soft touches and coaxing voice had ever had a calming effect on him, because of the violence with which he wrenches away at that moment. “That’s - that’s not the point! It was Veneziano who dragged the potato in here; it’s his fault for not going to his own bedroom, or his own house, or something.”
“But he shares this house,” Spain says, evidently falling into the idiot’s recourse of stating the obvious in an attempt to disguise his own thick-headedness.
“So do I! And anyway, didn’t you see? They were going to have sex!”
“Probably,” Spain assents.
“In here. Probably on this sofa.”
Spain glances down at it, then back up. “You mean this sofa?”
“What else, numbskull?”
“The one that we were about to have sex on?”
Romano feels his blood pressure spike high enough to blow a puncture in his arteries. “That’s different! Veneziano likes you! I can’t stand that God-damned steroid-fuelled potato-brain. I don’t want him anywhere near this sofa, let alone... doing things with my little brother on it.” At this point his disgust becomes too strong to suppress, and he leaps up onto his feet and stares down at the furniture with growing horror. “This is cursed ground.”
“Veneziano likes me?” Spain echoes, sounding altogether too happy about it and evidently not having heard anything that followed that statement.
Several seconds later, Romano can only conclude that it is physically impossible to set someone on fire merely by glaring at them - but it is not for lack of trying on his part. “Listen you asshole, keep that up and you’re not getting into my pants ever again.”
A sudden thudding noise comes from somewhere behind him, almost before the sentence is out of his mouth; he whirls around to find Germany kneeling on the carpet with an expression of distress as his hands fumble for the wallet which has evidently just fallen from his fingers.
Once he has secured it, he looks up almost guiltily, like a schoolboy caught stealing sweets. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you, but I thought you heard me knock. I dropped my wallet, you see, so I had to come back to get it, although it was rude of me not to wait until you answered -” He stops speaking suddenly as his eyes fall on the persistently shirtless Spain; Romano can practically see the recollections flash before his eyes.
When Germany gets to his feet, his expression is one of stony, obviously forced composure. “Good day,” he says, nodding stiffly to the two of them, and then retreats in the manner of a man with a broom handle for a spine and no knee joints whatsoever.
Romano swivels around to face Spain, his entire body moving slowly, overwhelmed by the outrage which is consuming his chest, licking along his ribs and sending bright flames shooting into his extremities. And yet, despite feeling just about capable of declaring war on puppies, Romano does not so much as stamp his foot. Instead he channels it all into his face, turns, and makes eye contact. The result must be truly formidable: even Spain - blithe, grinning, semi-naked Spain - looks a little perturbed and shrinks back into the sofa at the sight of him.
“He doesn’t deserve to live,” Romano announces with great gravity.
Spain winces.
“As if it wasn’t enough for him to twist and corrupt my little brother - and damn he’s stupid, no wonder he doesn’t see what a bastard that macho-head is - as if it wasn’t enough to deliberately spend time with him, in front of me, or to barge into my house without permission, he had to come back again. Did you see him? Rubbing it in my face!” Romano breaks off here to re-inflate his lungs, and then resumes his stony-faced attitude. “I’m going to murder that potato.”
“Calm down, Romano,” Spain urges, getting up and advancing a few cautious paces.
“He’s a dead man. Vegetable. Whatever.”
“Can’t we just forget about this?” Spain is now close enough to wind an arm around Romano’s waist.
“He’d better sleep with his eyes open, because I’m coming for him when he least expects it.”
“Let’s just take deep breaths, and move on.” Spain hooks one thumb into the back of Romano’s belt whilst his other hand goes to his shirt buttons.
“He’s seen his last sunrise - oh for fuck’s sake, Spain, get your mouth off my neck.”
“But it tastes nice,” Spain mumbles, continuing to kiss his way down to Romano’s collar, where he pulls the cloth aside and sucks at the top of his shoulder.
This is not entirely unpleasant, but he’ll be damned if he’ll admit that. He shoves, not exactly firmly, at Spain’s chest. “Go away. I’m pissed off.”
Spain pauses where he is undoing Romano’s trousers, and despite the affectedly innocent way in which he turns his eyes up there is a definite wicked look in his face. “But I was thinking that you could work off your anger.”
Even though Spain is no longer doing anything that would warrant such a reaction, Romano utters a soft, barely audible groan.
Then he lurches forwards and grabs Spain’s hair as before, this time pulling his head to one side so that he can bite into the sensitive area below his ear. Spain jerks beneath him and makes a sound half of surprise, half something else, one hand skidding lightly down his chest, nails snagging and tugging at skin.
“I mean what I’ve said, you know,” Romano says at length, voice a little hoarse, disengaging to look up into the other nation’s eyes.
“I know,” Spain says soothingly, fingers tugging Romano’s trousers off his hips - and oh, that is good, that does wonders for the problem which Romano has been suffering with all this time and refusing to own up to. “Why don’t we get back on the sofa and you can bite me some more and tell me all about how furious you are?”
If Romano practically falls over himself in his haste to push Spain back onto the sofa and leap on him, it is only because his legs are growing tired of standing.
-
I think of Spain as having a masochistic streak. The way I see it, he'd pretty much have to, pfft.
Rating: PG-13
Characters & Pairings: Romano/Spain; Germany/Veneziano
Warnings: Language, sexual references, making out, implications of involving pain in sex
Summary: Occupying the number one slot on Romano's list of 1,074 Reasons Why I Hate My Brother.
-
Retrospectively, he will conclude that all of the blame can be pinned squarely on every single person involved that isn’t Romano himself. It has always been clear to him that his little brother is an idiot, and there can be little cause for questioning this well-established wisdom of the ages. In fact, Veneziano must be well-established in the rankings of the world’s greatest idiots - he could possibly even have earned the top spot, if not for Spain’s continually irritating existence, but is certainly worthy of an honourable mention. In any case, the pair of them are evidently useless enough to be comfortably blamed for a significant proportion of Romano’s troubles in general - and in this case, if not for the presence of Germany at the fateful moment, Romano would have been happy to declare both his brother and Spain intellectually bankrupt and therefore, between them, responsible for everything.
Germany’s presence, however, will complicate these proceedings, since it is to Romano equally obvious that everything the bastard touches turns to shit. Certainly it is his fault for corrupting the thick-headed Veneziano. That idiot has never been the same since that time back in nineteen-whenever-it-was; the time he suddenly bolted like a faun away from Romano and into a forest, screaming something about a tomato box. Romano had of course gone after him - it is his job to protect his younger brother and, equally, any tomatoes which may be in the vicinity - but the trees were thick and the screams could have been coming from any direction. All that he ever managed to track down that day was a tomato crate with no tomatoes in it, signifying failure on all accounts.
The next time the brothers met, Veneziano had been transformed: from a whiny annoying too-happy little brat into a whiny annoying too-happy little brat who couldn’t stop talking about Germany. Even now, it is enough to make Romano want to declare the potato bastard lord and king of all that is wrong with the world - except that in this case, to do so would prevent Veneziano and Spain from being held to account and subsequently yelled at, which will not do at all.
In the end, after a lengthy wrestle with the problem, Romano will come up with a satisfying solution: dumping total responsibility on all three of them. Paradoxes are of little account when there is shouting to be done.
But on the day of the incident - or, as he will eventually christen it, The Terrible Potato Incident of Great Suffering and Things that Are Just Too Gross to Think About- such complicated logic is the furthest thing from Romano’s mind. Instead he is almost solely occupying himself with the question of how exactly he is going to get Spain’s trousers undone. It is not a complicated problem, on the surface: the removal of clothing is a procedure with which Romano is long acquainted, having had many opportunities to develop the technique on himself even before he first had a reason to attempt the same on another. In fact, right now is the first occasion in a long time that he has perceived the necessity to pause and consider strategies in the matter - a necessity largely due to the fact that Spain’s hips are currently pressing hard into his own, leaving very little room for Romano to work his hands into. Ten minutes ago this had not seemed much of a problem, distracted as he was with the equally challenging task of removing Spain’s shirt without being able to see or even reliably feel what he was doing. Yet things change, and now that the shirt has been flung aside with little regard for anything save getting it as far away as possible - and especially now that Spain is doing that thing with his mouth and that other thing with one of his hands - the prospect of them both remaining trousered for any longer is nigh unbearable.
Romano grunts irritably in the back of his throat (more at the necessity for a pause in the proceedings rather than at any misdemeanour on the other man’s part, but he doesn’t need to know that) and heaves an elbow into Spain’s face. “Get off me a second, bastard. I can’t breathe like this.”
Spain pulls his head back with such evident reluctance that by the time his pout finally comes into view, Romano merely rolls his eyes with the scorn of a superior being. “But Romano,” he begins - at least, Romano can only assume that other words were intended to follow, but Spain still hasn’t stopped doing that thing with his finger and thumb, and seems to get suddenly very absorbed in watching the reaction it provokes. His mouth is hanging slightly open with interest and his lips are very red and shining from what they have just been doing.
Romano cannot prevent himself from leaning up and flicking his tongue across that lower lip, as if to sample it, but immediately afterwards places his hand on Spain’s chest and shoves at him. “No. Off. Come on, idiot, the cushions are falling everywhere.”
The idiot in question hauls himself upright to kneel precariously between Romano’s legs, one knee practically slipping off the sofa, but all the while pulls such an expression of woe that it would almost be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic. It is of course purely to prevent him from whining that Romano follows him up quite so hastily; purely for the sake of comfort that he wordlessly tugs at Spain’s limbs until his feet are on the ground and his shoulders flat against the back of the sofa, before swinging a leg over him and settling in his lap.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Romano mutters, grabbing a fistful of Spain’s hair while his other hand finally sets to work undoing his trousers. “It’s disturbing.”
At that, he pulls Spain’s head back by the hair with every intention of wiping that worrying expression off his face - but before he can lean in, before he can move any further, his eye is caught by something lurking behind the place where the other nation’s head used to be.
That is to say, out of the window.
“Fuck!” he yells suddenly into Spain’s face.
“But don’t you enjoy the build-up?” Spain says, squeezing his behind in both his hands.
Damn, but Spain is stupid.
Romano flings himself sideways onto the sofa and out of sight of the window as if someone is shooting at him. “Not that, you cretin! Veneziano and the potato are outside!”
Spain turns around half-way and glances outside. “So they are,” he agrees, and then pauses, before peering a little closer. “Hey, looks like Germany found out what that bit of curly hair is for.”
“As if it didn’t take you centuries to figure it out,” Romano snaps as he struggles to button his shirt - and then abruptly finishes processing the comment. “What?!”
“I didn’t think that Germany would want Veneziano to do that to him in public,” Spain goes on in a tone of mild surprise.
“Fucking hell, don’t tell me about it!” Romano snarls, kicking Spain hard in the thigh with his heel. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he elaborates when he realises that he has done up his buttons lopsidedly and will have to fasten them all again.
Spain has been watching him in bemusement. “What’s the matter?”
Keys jingle outside.
“That!” Romano hisses, attempting to flip the cushions back onto the sofa with his feet. “They’re outside and soon they’re going to be inside and why couldn’t Veneziano go to his own house rather than here for a change and fucking hell Spain, put your clothes back on!”
“Oh,” Spain says thoughtfully, zipping his fly. “But then why didn’t you go to your private house?”
“Because this one is bigger, moron! Veneziano pays half the rent!”
There are various thuds and scuffles in the hall outside, followed by some low muttering and then the sound of the front door being pushed shut with more force than necessary.
Spain is still frowning in confusion. “But then surely he -”
“Look, forget it. You’re such an idiot.”
Feet move towards the door.
Romano practically lets out a scream: he had assumed the worst in all his haste to dress, yet somehow had not allowed himself to believe that the unexpected guests would go so far in their quest to ruin his life as to actually enter the room he is in. Cursing with more creativity than even he is used to, Romano flings himself back onto the sofa and affects a nonchalant pose.
Germany and Veneziano are not physically connected when they enter the room, God be praised, but their every aspect is more than incriminating enough. Since Veneziano is in front, Romano can see that his clothes have been rumpled in an entirely unacceptable manner: his jacket has been pushed back over his shoulders as if intentionally to display the crumpled extent of his shirtfront, and the button on his trousers is already undone. Behind him, Germany is mostly obscured - and a good thing, too, since it is hardly as if the situation would be improved if they were able to see him - but his head is clearly visible, looming over Veneziano like a great big potato moon. Romano can see even from where he is sitting that Germany’s hair, normally so ruthlessly under control, is falling forward over his brow and ears; the force of Romano’s realisation that the dishevelment was caused by his baby brother running his fingers through that hair makes him want to dry-heave.
There is the sound of something dropping heavily to the carpet, but for a long time nobody moves.
“Spain!” Veneziano says at last, after one of the most God-awful silences that Romano has ever experienced has grown too much even for him. “What are you doing here?”
It is a poor choice of words.
Romano grits his jaw and refuses to look at Spain even a tiny bit - but since continuing to look at Veneziano whilst all the signs of Germanic corruption are so glaring on his person is unbearable, he is forced to keep his eyes fixed on Germany himself. The blond, for his part, is turning very slowly but thoroughly red. Romano would laugh at how stupid he looks, if not for the very real fear that Spain just might mistake Germany for an enormous tomato and start licking his head.
“Oh, not much,” Spain replies affably. “Just dropped by to see your brother.”
“I see,” Veneziano says, with the most marked, sombre emphasis.
Damn it all, but this is torture. Despite the many horrifying predictions that flashed through Romano’s mind on seeing the two intruders approaching the house, he has never had the malevolence or twisted creativity necessary to imagine this result. And yet, despite the wild implausibility, here they are, in various states of undress and hasty re-dress and awkwardly making small talk. Romano himself is suffering from a particularly bad case of disorder in the underwear department - but since it would draw attention if he were to shift where he sits, and any attempt to ease the discomfort manually would surely border on the obscene, he is left with holding his legs in an extremely unnatural position and trying not to grimace.
“Germany and me -” and even now Veneziano has the nerve to reach openly for the potato’s hand, which is reluctantly surrendered to him - “were just going to, um. Watch television. Weren’t we, Germany?”
Germany makes a strangled sound.
At this point in the proceedings, a chain of events is set in motion. Germany, still bright red and floundering, obviously with no coherent thoughts in his stupid potato skull, dumbly turns his head to look at where the television is standing on the other side of the room. Immediately, his face tautens and creases all over, as if he has just smelt something horrible. Veneziano - detecting this change in attitude via that extrasensory perception he possesses which only seems to work on Germany, and even then not often - also looks over, at which point his eyes go very wide and his cheeks very pink.
Romano, who has been looking at them both, feels his head begin to turn as if of its own accord, drawn by his own terrible curiosity; despite his mind protesting, despite his brain telling him that he will not like what he sees.
What he sees is Spain’s shirt, having snagged on one corner of the screen, now draped and hanging down over one side of it like a long veil and seeming to stare back at the three of them.
“We could always move into a different room,” Spain says without seeming to notice.
Romano whips his head around and glares at him. “What?”
“No, no,” says Veneziano, voice slightly more high-pitched than before, “it’s alright. We’ll just go to Germany’s house, won’t we Germany?”
“Absolutely,” Germany says weakly, now staring at the carpet as if it is about to leap up and bite him.
Veneziano turns on his heel and plants a hand in the middle of Germany’s chest, beginning to push him backwards out of the room. “Alright then. Sorry about this. We’ll be going now. Nice to see you both. Careful you don’t trip on the coats, Germany. Oh, and we’re nearly out of pasta here so can you two get some more? Okay, see you later!”
The front door closes. When Romano glances out of the window behind him, he can see Veneziano steering Germany backwards all the way onto the pavement.
“I forgot to invite your brother to breakfast tomorrow,” Spain says sadly after a short silence.
Romano slowly turns around and fixes his gaze on him. “You fucking idiot,” he says flatly.
“That’s uncalled for,” Spain pouts. “It’s only breakfast. I can invite him some other time.”
That does it.
Although the head-butt to Spain’s solar plexus does leave Romano with a sharp pain in his forehead, it also leaves Spain doubled over and whining, so on balance Romano feels better for having done it. “Fucking hell!” he bellows, seizing his hair in each fist and pulling hard in sheer frustration. “Doesn’t this bother you? What is wrong with you? And couldn’t you at least have put your shirt back on?”
“I couldn’t find it,” Spain says, sounding a little defensive - and, Romano notices, choosing not to address the first two questions.
“How hard did you look? Don’t answer -” he puts up one hand in front of him, pre-emptively cutting Spain off before he has even opened his mouth - “I’ll tell you. You didn’t. It’s right there!” Romano flings an arm out in the general direction of the opposite wall, unwilling to look at the shirt again for fear of losing his cool entirely.
Spain blinks at it. “Wow, so it is. Why did you throw it all the way over there?”
Losing his cool is no longer an issue, Romano realises in the split second of stillness following this remark. He is fairly sure that he has never found his cool.
“This is not my fault! It was you - you’re the one who started molesting me, you sick fuck, and don’t pretend you didn’t. What’s wrong with the bedroom, anyway? You waited two minutes, this’d never have happened.”
“Romano...” Spain has assumed that devil-sent wheedling tone that activates whenever he is being shouted at, and is shuffling over the sofa towards him, picking up and gently petting his hand. “Don’t be angry, okay? It’s not such a big deal. It’ll all stay a secret between us and it’ll be like it never happened. And anyway, you never told me to move into another room.”
Later, it will be easy for Romano to deny that Spain’s soft touches and coaxing voice had ever had a calming effect on him, because of the violence with which he wrenches away at that moment. “That’s - that’s not the point! It was Veneziano who dragged the potato in here; it’s his fault for not going to his own bedroom, or his own house, or something.”
“But he shares this house,” Spain says, evidently falling into the idiot’s recourse of stating the obvious in an attempt to disguise his own thick-headedness.
“So do I! And anyway, didn’t you see? They were going to have sex!”
“Probably,” Spain assents.
“In here. Probably on this sofa.”
Spain glances down at it, then back up. “You mean this sofa?”
“What else, numbskull?”
“The one that we were about to have sex on?”
Romano feels his blood pressure spike high enough to blow a puncture in his arteries. “That’s different! Veneziano likes you! I can’t stand that God-damned steroid-fuelled potato-brain. I don’t want him anywhere near this sofa, let alone... doing things with my little brother on it.” At this point his disgust becomes too strong to suppress, and he leaps up onto his feet and stares down at the furniture with growing horror. “This is cursed ground.”
“Veneziano likes me?” Spain echoes, sounding altogether too happy about it and evidently not having heard anything that followed that statement.
Several seconds later, Romano can only conclude that it is physically impossible to set someone on fire merely by glaring at them - but it is not for lack of trying on his part. “Listen you asshole, keep that up and you’re not getting into my pants ever again.”
A sudden thudding noise comes from somewhere behind him, almost before the sentence is out of his mouth; he whirls around to find Germany kneeling on the carpet with an expression of distress as his hands fumble for the wallet which has evidently just fallen from his fingers.
Once he has secured it, he looks up almost guiltily, like a schoolboy caught stealing sweets. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you, but I thought you heard me knock. I dropped my wallet, you see, so I had to come back to get it, although it was rude of me not to wait until you answered -” He stops speaking suddenly as his eyes fall on the persistently shirtless Spain; Romano can practically see the recollections flash before his eyes.
When Germany gets to his feet, his expression is one of stony, obviously forced composure. “Good day,” he says, nodding stiffly to the two of them, and then retreats in the manner of a man with a broom handle for a spine and no knee joints whatsoever.
Romano swivels around to face Spain, his entire body moving slowly, overwhelmed by the outrage which is consuming his chest, licking along his ribs and sending bright flames shooting into his extremities. And yet, despite feeling just about capable of declaring war on puppies, Romano does not so much as stamp his foot. Instead he channels it all into his face, turns, and makes eye contact. The result must be truly formidable: even Spain - blithe, grinning, semi-naked Spain - looks a little perturbed and shrinks back into the sofa at the sight of him.
“He doesn’t deserve to live,” Romano announces with great gravity.
Spain winces.
“As if it wasn’t enough for him to twist and corrupt my little brother - and damn he’s stupid, no wonder he doesn’t see what a bastard that macho-head is - as if it wasn’t enough to deliberately spend time with him, in front of me, or to barge into my house without permission, he had to come back again. Did you see him? Rubbing it in my face!” Romano breaks off here to re-inflate his lungs, and then resumes his stony-faced attitude. “I’m going to murder that potato.”
“Calm down, Romano,” Spain urges, getting up and advancing a few cautious paces.
“He’s a dead man. Vegetable. Whatever.”
“Can’t we just forget about this?” Spain is now close enough to wind an arm around Romano’s waist.
“He’d better sleep with his eyes open, because I’m coming for him when he least expects it.”
“Let’s just take deep breaths, and move on.” Spain hooks one thumb into the back of Romano’s belt whilst his other hand goes to his shirt buttons.
“He’s seen his last sunrise - oh for fuck’s sake, Spain, get your mouth off my neck.”
“But it tastes nice,” Spain mumbles, continuing to kiss his way down to Romano’s collar, where he pulls the cloth aside and sucks at the top of his shoulder.
This is not entirely unpleasant, but he’ll be damned if he’ll admit that. He shoves, not exactly firmly, at Spain’s chest. “Go away. I’m pissed off.”
Spain pauses where he is undoing Romano’s trousers, and despite the affectedly innocent way in which he turns his eyes up there is a definite wicked look in his face. “But I was thinking that you could work off your anger.”
Even though Spain is no longer doing anything that would warrant such a reaction, Romano utters a soft, barely audible groan.
Then he lurches forwards and grabs Spain’s hair as before, this time pulling his head to one side so that he can bite into the sensitive area below his ear. Spain jerks beneath him and makes a sound half of surprise, half something else, one hand skidding lightly down his chest, nails snagging and tugging at skin.
“I mean what I’ve said, you know,” Romano says at length, voice a little hoarse, disengaging to look up into the other nation’s eyes.
“I know,” Spain says soothingly, fingers tugging Romano’s trousers off his hips - and oh, that is good, that does wonders for the problem which Romano has been suffering with all this time and refusing to own up to. “Why don’t we get back on the sofa and you can bite me some more and tell me all about how furious you are?”
If Romano practically falls over himself in his haste to push Spain back onto the sofa and leap on him, it is only because his legs are growing tired of standing.
-
I think of Spain as having a masochistic streak. The way I see it, he'd pretty much have to, pfft.