France and Prussia were over at Spain and Romano's house, waiting for Spain to hurry up and get dressed. Normally the two would gladly help him get dressed-which would inevitably turn into a make out/grope session-but Romano had locked the door behind Spain this time. Said Italian was sitting in the chair opposite the couch they occupied, characteristically glaring at them.
The glare only deepened when Spain sang out, "Romano, underwear goes on before pants, right?"
"No shit fucker!" Romano yelled back before glaring at France and Prussia and announcing, "It's your fault he's like this you know."
France-who's head was in Prussia's lap, legs lazily hanging off the arm of the couch-looked at him in surprise. "Ours mon ami?"
"Piss off wine bastard. And yes, yours."
"Impossible!" Prussia proclaimed defiantly. "Nothing is my fault; I'm too awesome! And what's wrong with our loveable idiot?"
"He's a dumbass!" Romano yelled, and France looked at him with a quizzically raised eyebrow.
"And that is our fault? He's been like that since the beginning."
"Exactly! You two act like idiots. You two are fuckin' idiots. You two are around him constantly since fuckin' birth. He's exposed-"
"Oooh, big three syllable word."
"Exposed is two syllables mon ami."
"Shut up fuckers. My boyfriend's been exposed to you two pretty much 24/7 so now he's a damn idiot because you rubbed off on him. It's your fault."
"Hmmm…." France mulled this theory around. "We have jacked off on notre friend Spain, but I don't think nous have rubbed off on him. Even we are not gifted-"
"Or awesome."
"Or awesome enough to lower his IQ that much. He was like that when we found him."
"…..It's still your fault fuckers."
And that settled that argument.