Anime: Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating: K+ for this chapter, but T for the next.
Warnings: I'm sure everyone's OOC here. Well maybe except N. Italy, since he's barely in this. I'm not too familiar with Romano's character, so sorry if he's kinda OOC here. It's rated K+ for now since this is the first chapter and all, but eventually will be M.
Pairings: S. ItalyxGermany eventually.
Disclaimer: Me no own this
Notes: I'm sticking to them referring to each other as countries, except for N. and S. Italy, since it's a bit weird to have them be referred to as N. and S. Italy. Too bad. Oh yea, and Germany might be a little OOC here. Who knows. That's for the otakus to judge. I need to stop staying up till 1 am. The bags under my eyes are going to call over some friends! Also, this story will actually have chapters... unlike most of my stories. So here is CH. 1.
Romano's never liked Germany. In fact, Romano's never liked men in general. One can compare him to a dog affectionate only towards females, a common attribute to a poorly socialized or abused puppy. A puppy with a tough exterior, but eventually whines and retracts back in cowardice.
Romano's been noticing how much time Veneziano's been spending with the tall German. Although he usually seems to care less for his counterpart, he's not completely heartless. Veneziano has often come home with bruises or scratches, upsetting his brother.
"And where in the hell did you get that?" cried Romano, rising from his seat as his brother entered the house, noticing his brother's bruises.
"Oh, this? Germany did this to me!" he said happily for some odd reason.
"Germany? I knew that guy was no good! Nobody's allowed to beat you but me!" he said defiantly.
"Aww... my brother cares!" said Veneziano, embracing Romano in a hug, to which his brother responded by prying him off.
"Don't do that again! I'm going to pay a little visit to Germany today!" he declared.
"Tell him I said 'Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!'" sang his idiotic brother.
Where is that coward? thought Romano, I hate him, but that doesn't mean I won't tell him what needs to be told! Romano searched through town and saw nothing but ditsy Italians with basket loads of pasta, tomatoes, and other Italian foods. Not one tall, blond, German in sight. He sighed in defeat, and turned around to head back home when he crashed into something hard. The impact made him fall back into a cart of tomatoes, totally destroying the vendor's supply. Tomatoes rolled across the street in all directions, to the delight of many starving Italians. Romano rubbed his head, groaning in irritation and looked up to see it was not something he bumped into, but someone. The offender was Germany himself. Romano was about to spout something that'd make Grandpa Rome stick a bar of soap into Romano's mouth if still alive, but Germany said something first.
"Ah, Italy! I thought you left home? I will take the fault on this one, I wasn't watching where I was going, and since I'm so big and you're so small and frail, physics kind of took over and well..." Germany stopped apologizing and put his hand out to help the mistaken Veneziano up. Too confused to respond, Romano watched as a tomato rolled and stopped in front of him, giving him a nice reflection of his face on the tomato's surface. Apparently, the fall had ruffled his hair into Veneziano's style somehow, and also switched the position of the curl to the left side, giving him a very uncanny appearance to his brother. Aside from the difference in clothes, their appearance was virtually the same, if one tweaked with the hair a bit and doesn't know the difference between a slight change of shade in the hair color. Honestly, it's such a subtle difference ('least to me!) the naked eye wouldn't take notice unless they truly have a knack for grasping insignificant differences.
"Why are you wearing your brother's clothes...?" asked Germany.
"Ah, um..." Romano didn't know what to do. Should he go with this charade, possibly have some fun? Or should he curse out Germany as was his original plan?
"I um..." he suddenly changed in tone of voice to resemble that of his thoughtless brother's. "Ve! I had no more clean clothes! My brother was kind enough to lend me his!"
"PASTA!" he shouted out, trying a little too hard to pass as Italy. "Um..." Romano took Germany's hand and was pulled up by the blond. Ignoring the vendor's constant cursing in Italian for the destruction of his stand, Romano asked hesitantly, "Um, what are you doing here? Pasta?"
"Thought I'd look around..." responded Germany.
"Oh really? Pasta?"
"Yes. what are you doing here?"
"Oh, just looking for some pasta! 'Cuz that's what I like! I like pasta! I love pasta soooo much I sleep with pasta! PASTA!" replied Romano, severely overdoing it.
"Are you sick or something? You seem off." asked Germany, placing his hand over Romano's forehead. The fake Veneziano blushed as red as the tomatoes around him, and staggered back.
"You must be sick. Your forehead is very hot." Observed Germany. Romano was indeed very hot, only because he was trying extremely hard to not blow his cover, so much that it took a toll on his body temperature.
"N-no, I am fine! Ve! I'll just go home! My pasta is waiting for me! I like pasta!" said Romano, not wanting to continue the charade. Germany grabbed his shoulder. "You live 5 miles from here. I have a place right across the street. Why don't you situate yourself there until this heat dies down? Don't want you to faint in public. That means I'll have to carry you again. God, that was awful." finished Germany, recollecting on the past experience of having to carry an unconscious Veneziano with a tendency to drool EVERYWHERE in his sleep. Romano gulped, but agreed, thinking the real Veneziano would agree anyway. On the way to Germany's Italy home, Romano began to wonder. He thought Germany was meaner, more strict to his moronic brother. But in this experience he seemed thoughtful, calm, even nice.
Then how in the hell did he get those bruises?
Within a minute or so, they had arrived at Germany's home. Germany unlocked the door and let the disguised Romano in. He looked around blankly. He felt something brush against his leg and squealed just as his brother would, leaping into Germany's arms. What had brushed against his leg was his host's German Shepherd Dog.
"As if you've never seen Blacky before." commented Germany, setting his "friend" down.
Blacky! What an awful name for a dog! Who just adds a 'y' to a color and declares it a name?
Romano quivered at the sight of the dog, who didn't take long to notice it was not the usual visitor. Blacky began barking at Romano, making him squeal again and cling behind Germany.
"Odd, Blacky knows you." said Germany. He chuckled, and added "What are you, some guy in disguise?" Romano left Germany to laugh on his own.
After Germany had banned Blacky to the backyard, he offered Romano a drink, to which Romano declined. He sat on his host's sofa, feeling a bit awkward. He wanted to go home and flirt nicely to the pretty ladies who walked past his house. But it seemed he wasn't going to have that leisure today. Romano sighed, longing home.
"So you're not thirsty. Are you hungry?" asked Germany, standing in front of Romano.
"Huh? Oh, no."
"Not hungry, I am full and tired. Ve!" He added, stretching his arms. Germany frowned and sat next to Romano.
"You refused my pasta. There is something strangely wrong with you. Italy doesn't refuse pasta, whether he's hungry or not. He eats it, even if he pukes it back up. And then he eats his puke, because there's pasta in it, which frankly makes me want to throw up, and I do."
Romano stared nervously at the German seated next to him. Germany brought his face closer to Romano's.
"I know." said the German. "You don't need to hide it anymore." Romano quickly got up. The man was not as dumb as he thought! What was he to do now? Beg for his life? Beg for forgiveness? Beg in general? He looked at the German's facial expression. It did not seem mad, or irritated. It seemed lost, perhaps even a bit betrayed if you tilted your head a bit. Romano wasn't sure what to make of it, but was ready to fire out a series of apologies, fearing he would never make it back home to flirt with the ladies again.