All hail the magnifficent Italian curls! That's all I have to say...

Once upon a time, there was a writer that didn't own Hetalia. But I do own the OCs in here. And the story. The end.

"Why is it," Germany asked no one in particular "that he always manages to call when I'm busy?" he glared at the phone as though it had offended him greatly, before picking it up. "Ja? This better not be about your shoelaces."

"N-no, it's not! This is, a-hah, really bad! R-Romano and- We- It won't get out! It hurts! Ow! Ow!" a mix of Italian and English streamed out the receiver, accompanied by another voice cursing in the background. But there were also a few other, quieter voices there, too distant to recognise. "Help me, please!"

"Fine. I'll be right over. Just calm down, please. If you stay still, it won't hurt so much." Slightly disturbed by the shaky breaths Italy was sending straight into his ear, Germany slammed the phone down, hurriedly going through his inner map to find the quickest way to Italy's house.

"How, exactly, did this" Germany gestured towards the tangled up limbs of Italy and a bunch of what looked like siblings of his with a frown. "How did this happen?"

Italy smiled sheepishly, using a head to prop himself up. "I'm not sure, actually. Th- Ow! Romano; that hurt!"

"Why do you always call that bastard for help? We can manage on our own. We're the fucking country of the Mafia, for crying out loud." Romano, polite as ever, or should I say never, spat.

"Si. I'm sure that we could clear this up on our own." The only girl in the lot, a small frown on her face stated, gasping every time she moved her head to much. "Be still, damn it." Her relation to the others was quite visible in fiercely red hair and large hazel-coloured eyes, and a small, frustrated pout on her face.

"I'm trying. It's Malta's fault, anyway, he moved! Stop being mean to fratello's friend, Sicily, it's not nice!" he turned his head slightly to smile at Germany. "Ciao~! I'm San Marino. This is mio fratellone Malta" he pointed to a boy with black hair but a rather kind face "and mio sorella Sicily. She's a big meanie-pants, isn't she? Just like Romano!"

Romano smacked his brother's chocolate hair with an angry scowl. "Just shut up. Cazzo."

"Why does no one introduce me?" a sixty head appeared from the tangle, blinking confusedly with emerald eyes. "No fair! I'm Seborga, by the way. Ciao."

"How many are there?" Germany yelled, getting frustrated with all the babbling Italians and their constant gasps and moans whenever the curls accidentally were pulled. "No, don't answer that. I'll help you, just calm down."

"Wait, what? What is he going to-" San Marino stuttered, staring at the approaching Germany.

"I swear to you; touch mio sorella, and I'll kill you, damn bastard." Romano snapped. "It'll be painful, too."

Malta punched him. "Just shut up Roma. I don't want to be stuck this close to all of you anymore. We're ready, signore Germania."

Shaking his head over all these Italians, Germany got to his knees, carefully taking hold of the knot the separate curls they all sported had created. All of them gasped in surprise, turning their heads to stare at Germany as he worked on the knot. "Tell me how you got into this situation. Since it's the middle of the day, I can assume that it's not because of your siesta, right?"

"I-it's not my f-fault." Italy explained, panting in what seemed to be pain. "S-san Marino and Si-Sicily were teasing Romano 'bout Spain. A-and Roma got angry, s-so he tried to beat them up. Sebo and Ma-hah-lta and me tried t-to stop them; and now we're like th-this."

"Stop blaming this on m-me, you bastard!" Romano yelled, red enough for Spain to call him tomato, no doubt of it. "Mierda."

He didn't look like it, but Germany was quite good with small things, like knots for example, and even though this particular knot proved to be a tad more difficult than a normal knot, it was soon undone.

"Grazie signore Germania!" Malta cried, throwing his arms around Germany. "Grazie! Grazie mille!"

"Stop touching him, idiota! You'll get his bastard-germs, and then you'll become like him." Sicily was quite obviously influenced by Romano. Seriously, you're such a puttana."

Malta let go, matching Romano in his blush. "Non è vero. I am not a puttana."

"Here we go again." Germany sighed. "Can't you just stay in different rooms? I really don't have the time to free you all the time."

"Que? Please stay, Germany. Romano's going to beat me up for calling you here! I don't want to die, so save me, per favore!"

Having to admit himself defeat by Italy and two of the others cutely begging him not to go, Germany sat down on the floor next to Sicily. "Why do you even have these curls, anyway?" he took the curl dangling by Sicily's face between two fingers, casually twirling it. "Isn't it bothersome?"

"Y-you don't want to know. Let go of it, per favore." Sicily's attitude changed rapidly. "Fratello, help me here."

"You let her go, you-" Romano tried to rush over to punch Germany in the face, but was held down by his younger brother. "Aah! Let me go, stupid fratellino!"

"Seriously, what are they? Tell me, bitte."

"Well…" San Marino began, fiddling with his fingers. "Grandpa Rome used to call it, um, la zona erogena."

Sure, Germany didn't speak Italian, but he could understand that. "Mein Gott!" he let go of Sicily's curl, as though he had burnt himself. "Es tut mir leid, but I had no idea. Gottverdammt! Warum ist sie da? Why is it there?"

Italy will have to explain this. Germany thought, pinching the ridge of his nose.