Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I do own a nice radio and a pair of pink socks.
A/n: English isn't my first language - sorry if I made (some/many?) mistakes...
This Dance: Intro
It happened to be late in the evening when I found myself being home alone.
Well. What a nice coincidence, having this giant, weird House (no really, it was) all for myself without my stupid little brother around to annoy me.
Although it really wasn't that much of a 'coincidence'. In the past couple of weeks, Feliciano had often left the House in the evening, never, ever telling me where the fuck he was going to. That little bastard. Not that it was really necessary to tell me – we both knew he was planning to see potato-smelling bastard Germany again today when he was standing in the middle of the living room, sheepishly asking me if it was okay with me if he left right after dinner.
'Of course it isn't 'okay', you potato-humping idiot!' was what I wanted to shout at my very gay brother (he was so undeniable, so absolutely gay, I often wondered why he didn't barf fucking rainbows or Mika CD's yet), but since Feliciano would go anyway, no matter what I said, I kept my mouth firmly shut and let him go. That's right, I'm a very noble person.
And so here I was, home alone, yet again.
At first I didn't feel too happy about this, but when I ignored the fact that my younger brother was probably going to get some (potato) tonight and took a closer look at our brand-new television…
Fuck yeah! Being home alone was great!
But after 30 minutes of zapping around the many, many channels (goddammit, over fucking 300 channels already), I got bored and decided to watch some crappy movie. Good lord, that movie was full of shit. No, made of shit. In any case, it was shit. Shit shit.
You get the picture.
I groaned and knitted my eyebrows together. Great. New television, no whining Feliciano in sight… and not a single interesting program, whatsoever. That's the story of my life, I guess. I turned off the TV and suddenly felt a bit (just a bit, I swear) lonely.
'Ah, whenever you feel lonely, Lovi, all you have to do is give me a call!~'
I felt my face heating up when I thought about the friendly – no, not friendly, stupid – words of a certain Spanish bastard, which the same Spanish bastard (what are the odds) had told me earlier this week when I complained about Feliciano and his wurst-sucking lover.
Like hell I was going to call him! No way! No fucking way! I didn't need him! Why should I call him when there were plenty of cute, pretty girls around my place to hang out with? Yeah, exactly!
I felt better and sat up. Like the girl I met yesterday, she had such shiny, green eyes and short and curly hair and a voice so overwhelmingly beautiful…
'Ah, something wrong, Lovi? I thought I could visit you to give you some of my freshly harvested tomatoes!~'
My blush increased. That hadn't been a girl.
Fucking shit. Fucking Antonio.
Maybe I should call him.