Letters/We're just old friends, honest!
Prologue…
A young Italian man sat at a desk, its material some kind of dark wood. He tapped the table top furiously with a freshly sharpened pencil, twirling a single strand of brown hair with his free hand. No matter how hard he tried, he could not even bring himself to write one word. It'd been so long, after all. With a rather disgruntled sigh, the man pushed back his chair and got up, and still with pencil in hand, began to pace. Pacing helped him sometimes; it cleared his mind and made it easier to think. Well, normally at least. He was nervous; his legs had become like freshly cooked spaghetti - limp and wiggly, his face flushed pink as the stress levels rose higher and higher.
The door burst open, causing him to jump. Leant against the doorframe was a man of similar height, also with brown hair, but his being a much darker shade. He had a serious expression on his face, his gaze not breaking away from the other young man.
" Mamma Mia, Romano, you a-scared me!" He snapped, flustered.
" You've a-been like this for a week a-now, fratello. Is there a-something bothering you?"
The young man stared long and hard at Romano, wondering what he was supposed to say. His brother wasn't the most helpful when it came to problem-solving such as this, and he in no way intended to seek his advice. But, the fact was, he did need help, he so desperately wanted help. His head drooped sullenly, rocking a little on his heels. Romano's somewhat cold stare pierced into him for what seemed like forever, the pencil in his grasp being squeezed – so much so it could have snapped.
It wasn't THAT big a deal, and his brother would probably not give it a second thought. But there was something that was making his lips stay tightly closed together. Eventually, Romano would get bored and walk away, finding entertainment somewhere else, and maybe that'd be for the best. No, he thought, He's a-my brother, and the a-only one here right now, so. With a huff, he finally opened his mouth and with a tiny little voice managed to speak.
" I'm… I'm a-just trying to figure out how to a-start this letter, you see, I haven't written to them in a very a-long time, so-"
" What are a-you? Un pollo? Just a-write something like, ' Hi, Imma Italy, that a-little wimpy country who a-likes waving his a-white little flag around everywhere….'" Romano said with a grin, and before leaving he threw over his shoulder, " Oh, you a-get the point, ciao."
He stood for a while longer, quietly contemplating whether Romano had actually meant that – whether he had meant for him to write that down. Thinking about it, his brother was probably right, Italy was well known for his cowardice and even with a subtle mention of a white flag, a bum living in a cave would know exactly who he was. Italy wasn't particularly proud of his sorry reputation. But, why bother himself with unnecessary battles when there were lively bars and delicious pasta waiting for him at home? He could never get his head around why other countries enjoyed fighting.
Italy took one last glance at the paper, before his stomach growled, forcing him to go make some Bolognese. Finding that Romano had left the house with pretty much no warning, he put on his apron and prepared enough pasta for a couple of people at least, just in case his brother decided that when he came back, he wanted some too. Making such a simple dish wasn't really apron-worthy, but Italy cherished every minute wearing it. If there was one thing he WAS good at, it was making good food, and if that meant him wearing a pink apron to do so, nobody judged him.
Once he'd finished, he sat alone at the table, humming as he ate, and, for a few happy minutes, he forgot about writing the letter to his friend, becoming his carefree, happy self again.
The German marched angrily around the vicinity of his garden, frustration driving him onward with a grimace on his face. His general character had been driven up a notch, and he felt as if he was going to scream. Normally, writing was so boringly common to him that it wasn't hard at all. But writing a letter to an old friend? Pah! That had proven to be so difficult that he had almost gassed one of his men. Not even his favourite wurst had been able to calm him, and people were beginning to fear that he'd start World War Three just to amuse himself. His blond hair was out of place and messy, and his striking blue eyes filled with confusion and 'Look at me und you vill die'.
He'd woken up in a good mood; he'd had some beer, shouted at his men a bit, always a happy start to a day when he could do two of his most beloved things. But then he'd began to wonder about a friend of his, and why they hadn't even so much as called him, even if it was just a pathetic plea for help. The dummkoph was probably too daydream driven that he'd completely forgotten about his old freund, Germany. Italy, vhy must you be so dumm? You vere alvays talkink to me vhen I didn't vant you to back zen, vhy isht it any different now? Germany thought, continuing to march around his garden, leaving a path in the blades of grass as he went. He just kept going and going until he came to an abrupt stop.
" This isht stupid, vhy am I doink zis to mienself? Just go back to zat room and finish zat awful letter…" Germany said to himself sourly, his fists clenched, muscles tensed.
He felt weak, his legs not moving an inch. He couldn't, he physically couldn't force himself back into his house. Germany, for once in his life, actually felt scared, of a wimpy country such as Italy. Argh! Vat has become of me?! Vhy?! He screamed at himself, his anger boiling even more so than before. He burnt a hole in the ground with his cold stare, the fires starting up within him too much to be contained. With a frustrated grunt, he stormed into his home, alarming some of his men in the process. He grabbed a barrel of beer and a pint glass, and to the shock of the people around him, drank, and drank… and drank. He couldn't even remember his name after half a barrel full. He was blissfully happy, until, of course, he woke up the next morning with a pounding head ache.