Chapter One
*A/N Hey everyone! I just started a new fic that I hope you enjoy! This is my first Hetalia fic, so constructive criticism would be great, but no flaming please! I hope you enjoy it. Please read and review! Reviews are what motivate me to finish the next chapter!*
"Marukaite chikyuu. Marukaite chikyuu. Marukaite chikyuu. Boku Hetalia!" Italy had a blinding grin on his face as he sang a tune that he's known for most of his life. He doesn't know where he heard it, but it feels as if it's always been a part of him. Italy giggled as he stirred the sauce he was making.
"Ve! I hope Germany likes my pasta! He's always working, and I don't think he's eaten anything today. Pasta always cheers me up, it's so delicious! I bet Germany will love it!" The Italian bounded around the kitchen, still singing, as he poured his pasta into the boiling water next to the sauce. Italy leaned in close to the pot, taking a deep breath.
"Ve! It smells so good!" His singing had toned down to a continual hum as he dashed around the kitchen, grabbing various things out of the cupboards and slamming them onto the counter, a bit harshly out of excitement. Peering over his shoulder at the pasta, he whipped out his wooden spoon and rushed over to taste his masterpiece.
"Perfetto! All done!" Moving at lightning speed, Italy drained the pasta and grabbed a bowl off the counter. Once he had everything ready, he ran out of the room, heading for Germany's office.
The German was hunched over his desk with a pile of painful looking paperwork in front of him. He sat in silence; the only sound in the room was the rustling of papers whenever he finished checking a document. This went on for a few more minutes until Germany put his pen down on his desk and flipped through the rest of his work, counting how many he still had left to do. Sighing in defeat, he ran his hands through his perfectly slicked back hair.
"I'm never going to finish all of this. I knew I shouldn't have let Italy convince me to play football with him the other day. There's no way I'm turning this in on time." Groaning, Germany picked up his pen and returned to his seemingly never-ending pile of documents. However, the peace and quiet didn't last long. Just when Germany was finding his rhythm, the door to the office burst open with a loud bang.
Startled, the pen flew out of Germany's hand and hit the wall, leaving a small (permanent) black mark. "GERMANY!" Italy screamed, quivering with excitement, the pasta in his hand.
"What the hell do you want Italy?!" Germany yelled back, finally noticing the mark on the wall. "You know not to bother me when I'm working, and look, you ruined my wall when you burst in the room."
"S-sorry." Italy murmured, averting his eyes. He suddenly remembered why he decided it would be a great idea to bother Germany in the middle of the day. I mean, it's better than in the middle of the night. At least, that's how Italy saw it. Brightening at the thought, Italy brandished the pasta bowl out in front of him, waving it around excitedly.
"Ve, I made you some pasta! You haven't had anything to eat the whole day, and you can't work on an empty stomach!"
Germany's eyes softened as his eyes darted between his Italian friend and the pasta balanced precariously in his hand.
"Ja, I guess that is true. Come over here, but don't make a mess. You've already ruined enough for one day." Germany beckoned him over to his desk. Excited that he wasn't going to be scolded too harshly, Italy began to skip over to where the German was sitting. Just as he was about to hand the pasta over, Italy's feet came out from under him. He was on the floor in an instant. The pasta went everywhere, splattering across the room. Italy looked up from his place was on the ground, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. The face that met him was not a happy one. Germany was covered in marinara sauce. Large drops dripped off the end of his nose, and a few stray strands of spaghetti were stuck in his hair. His ocean blue eyes hardened into shards of ice, his face livid. Italy began to cower in fear. He knew he was going to be scolded…again.
"ITALY!" Germany screamed, standing up with such force that the desk chair tipped over violently.
"AHHHHH! I'm sorry! Please! I'll do anything! Don't hit me! It was an accident!" Italy cried, tears spewing from his amber eyes. This was the angriest he'd seen Germany in decades. It was just an accident, he couldn't be that mad, could he?
Germany kept yelling, "I TOLD YOU TO BE CAREFUL, YOU RUINED ALL MY PAPERWORK! NOW I'LL NEVER GET IT IN ON TIME!" He was panting by the end of his sentence, his face still twisted in rage.
Italy looked fearful, "I said I'm sorry. I tripped over my shoelace, see? It came untied." Italy gestured to his feet, his laces everywhere. Germany seemed to calm down a little at this comment. He put his face in his hands and sighed. Italy's heart skipped a beat. The only time Germany ever got quiet like this was when he was too furious for words.
A soft sigh came from the pasta covered German. Italy picked up his head in surprise, hoping that Germany was done yelling.
"I knew it was a bad idea becoming your ally. All you do is cause trouble; I never get a break. You're useless. You can't even tie your own shoes! The only thing you're good for is food, and now you can't even do that right. It's no wonder you don't have any friends, how could anyone stand to be around someone so stupid."
Italy's mouth dropped open in horror. Germany…thinks I'm stupid? Germany…thinks I'm useless? Germany…regrets becoming my friend? The tears that were threatening to fall, suddenly began streaming down his face. His face contorted into a look of pure anguish. It's no use trying to reconcile, why would anyone want to listen to a stupid, useless weakling. Italy picked himself up from the floor, not looking at Germany, tears still sliding down his cheeks.
"I-I'm sorry." He murmured, running out of the office as fast as possible.
"ITALY! WAIT!" Germany desperately called after him. He regretted those words the moment they left his mouth, he didn't really mean any of it. Okay, well some of it was kind of true, but not to that extent. It wasn't even the paperwork that he was upset about. That was part of it, but when Italy tripped, the pasta bowl knocked a picture off of his desk. Germany bent down and picked through the shards of glass on the floor, gently putting the photo back on the desk. It was a photo of himself and Prussia, now slightly covered in pasta sauce. The only one they'd ever taken. It's already been twenty-five years since his dissolution, but it still strikes a chord with Germany. Seeing that the picture was relatively safe, guilt washed over him. He really didn't mean any of that. He valued his friendship with Italy, even if he was basically useless.
Germany was a man of action and discipline, so why did he continue to be friends with someone so whimsical? He could have just kicked him out, or banned him from coming to see him, but he didn't. Why? Why is it that whenever Italy frantically calls, speaking so fast that Germany can barely understand him, he rushes off to his aid? There isn't a logical reason. Germany thought he knew better, but something about the optimistic Italian flips a switch in Germany's mind. Maybe it's his sunny disposition, or his ability to make any situation brighter, or the way he greets Germany with a hug and a kiss, or even his smile. He has a beautiful smile. It can light up the whole room in a split second. Germany's lips turn upward in an unconscious grin. He's a beautiful person overall, not just in his personality. He's got a nice-
"What am I thinking?!" Germany broke out of his thoughts with a yell, a small blush starting to creep down his neck. He buried his face in his hands again, vainly attempting to rid his mind of the image of his best friend.
Best friend? Could he really call him that after what he said to him a few moments ago? Italy probably hates him now. But could he really call what they had friendship in the first place. They weren't really the typical pair, that's for sure. What with all of Italy's quirks, it was kind of impossible. Germany didn't really understand anything about the sunny young man. He was always following him around and clinging to him; giving him hugs and kisses whenever they saw each other; sleeping in the same bed…
Germany's cheeks reddened even further. Why does he feel like this? It doesn't make sense. He just a friend…right? Determined to sort this out, the German jogged out of his office, ready to search for his friend.
He would find him, and he would explain. Italy would forgive him, right? That's what he does; he's so sweet and so kind. He would understand that this was all a mistake.
Right?