'My ass is not here for your personal enjoyment, cheese-eating douchebag! Stop staring at it!'
Germany sighed. Romano's sudden shriek cut through England and America's shouting like a knife, stopping the argument dead. France looked nervous while Spain glared in his direction.
'If there is not a problem, South Italy-Romano, may we move on?' he asked in a tired voice, rubbing his temples. He'd had a headache since morning, the moment he saw Greek Economy Measures right above Turkish EU Application on the meeting agenda.
'You can shut up too, jerk-face. It's lunchtime ok, or did you not see the damn clock through that sausage-greasy cloud you live in?' And with that Romano stood up and started gathering his things, Spain immediately leaping up to help and starting off another (quieter) round of bickering. France edged quickly towards the door, England close behind.
'And don't you dare thinking about starting up again anytime soon, potato head. It's going to take me at least three hours to find a decent place to eat around here that serves food better than I would give to my dogs!' Romano yelled back over his shoulder, dragging his brother along as the northern twin tried to cling and squeal about pasta.
Germany sighed and neatly stacked his papers. Three hours, he'd found, meant at least four to an Italian. Well, at least with North Italy gone he could have a proper hearty German lunch, and there would still be time left for nice long nap to soothe his aching head. And when he'd got through the crush of nations squeezing out the single door, he found that someone- perhaps a mafia-trained, sticky-fingered someone- had dropped a bottle of headache tablets in his coat pocket.