Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever own Hetalia - Axis Powers or anything affiliated with said series.


Pasta, Accept No Substitutes


Italy blinked his eyes open and covered a yawn behind his hand. Rubbing his eye, he sat up and threw the blanket off his legs before standing up with a stretch. Glancing around his newly painted room, blue was the new green after all and Germany really shouldn't have been so annoyed with him for changing the color, he made a mental note to have more paintings shipped from home. The walls were still too bare for his taste, and the rest of the house could use a splash of color as well.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Italy hollered. "Good morning Germany!" Knowing full well his friend was already awake and most likely sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and the morning paper, he grinned when he heard a growl of annoyance in response. "Always so cranky in the morning." He tsked. Turning towards the door, he took a step towards his closet and promptly fell on his face. With a groan, Italy kicked his legs free of the blanket he'd carelessly tossed to the floor and stood up to try again. When he'd made it to the closet without incident, he nodded to himself as he rifled through his uniforms in search of one that was somewhat clean. "I really should have Germany do my laundry soon; I'm running out of things to wear." He muttered as he stripped out of his pajamas and pulled on his blue uniform.

He ran his fingers through his hair, not in any real attempt to tame the messy locks, but more out of habit instead, and then deemed himself presentable enough to join Germany for some breakfast. "I wonder what I should make this morning." He thought out loud as he walked out of his room and down the hallway to the kitchen. "Linguini, fettuccini, spaghetti? Ooh, I know, I'll make some chicken alfredo. There's bound to be some leftover chicken from last night." Humming happily to himself, he walked into the kitchen and smiled brightly. "Morning!" He chirped as he headed towards the cupboards.

Germany, dressed impeccably in his uniform as always, rolled his eyes at the hyper houseguest he'd somehow managed to acquire. "Hmm." He replied around his cup. It was still too early to be a 'good' morning; he hadn't even finished his coffee yet. Setting his cup down, he flipped a page in the paper and browsed the different headings, eyes darting around quickly until something caught his interest.

Italy wasn't bothered in the least by Germany's response, or lack thereof, he was well aware that Germany wasn't much of a talker, besides, the call of pasta was far too strong to worry about anything else. Pulling open one of the small cupboard doors, Italy began to sift through the supplies buried inside in search of his goal. Wrinkling his nose when he came up empty, he moved on to the next one, and then the next after that until he'd rummaged through all the cupboards in the kitchen. Fingers tightening on the door he was currently holding open, Italy began to shake. "Where's the pasta?" He cried, whirling around to face Germany with a panicked look on his face.

Shrugging, Germany didn't even bother to look up from the paper. "Maybe you ate it all." He replied unconcerned. "You have been cooking it non-stop for two weeks."

"B-but, b-but…but it can't be gone! I'll starve without my pasta!" Italy wailed, arms flailing around wildly.

"You could always try eating potatoes and eggs for breakfast." Germany offered, only to cringe when Italy turned a glare on him. "Or not, it was just a thought." He muttered under his breath.

The idea of having to eat something other than his precious pasta was becoming too much for poor Italy, and he sank to the floor and began to rock back and forth on his heels while sucking on his thumb.

Germany watched the pathetic display for several minutes before once again rolling his eyes. "Quit being so dramatic." He ordered, pushing back his chair and standing up. Walking over to the cupboards, he dug to the back corner of one and pulled out a small round bowl. "Here, if you're so obsessed with pasta, eat this." Tossing it to the whining mess formally known as Italy, he sat back down and resumed his perusal of the paper.

Italy blinked when he was pegged in the head by a small round object. Curious, he picked it up off the floor and held it up to his face. As he read the packaging, his eyes widened in horror and then he threw it as hard as he could across the room. "Blasphemy!" He cried vehemently. "Instant pasta is an insult to all pasta, in fact, it shouldn't even be called pasta!"

Watching as the cup of noodle went flying through the air; Germany rubbed his forehead in hopes of alleviating the oncoming migraine. Not that it ever worked, but short of strangling the annoying whelp, nothing would. When Italy picked up a chair from the table and started beating the small bowl to a pulp, he shook his head and sighed. This was turning out to be a fan-freakin-tastic day.

"Die you disgrace to all pasta!" Italy said angrily as he continued to bash the bowl with the chair he was holding. "All imitations will suffer a painful death at my hands; make sure you tell your friends!"

When the bowl exploded all over the floor, Germany decided he'd had enough and, grabbing his cup and paper from the table, he walked out of the kitchen. Knowing Italy, and sadly he really did, he'd be in there for quite some time destroying the 'evil pasta impostor' and Germany had much more important things to deal with this morning. The top thing on his list being a foolproof way of shipping the irritating man back to his home country, he really needed some peace and quiet. As he walked down the hallway towards his room, the last thing Germany heard was the sound of Italy threatening the innocent noodles with a spatula. "Damn whoever created pasta to the depths of hell."