"…fuck you…"
"You just did, or actually, the other way around."
The Southern Italian only growled into his pillow, scooting farther away from Gilbert on the bed they'd shared for nearly a year and pouting. Gilbert's breathy chuckles shook his end of the mattress before mushrooming into light coughs, and when they stopped and he'd wiped the bit of dribble of blood out of the corner of his mouth away, he could feel Lovino's eyes on him.
"It's only getting worse, isn't it?"
He'd been coughing for the last few months, and Lovino had never truly taken his "dry throat getting torn" stories. It was coming from his lungs and they both knew it.
"Why can't you take medicine or something? You just let it reign free without even bothering to treat it!"
"…I'm fine," Gilbert laughed again, forcing his throat to clear to please his lover, "let's talk about something else, if you're intent on staying awake."
Lovino huffed and buried his face in the pillow, growling softly and muttering something incomprehensible.
"Is Berwald Oxenstierna in the room?" Gilbert mockingly cupped his ear with his hands and leaned closer to the now-irritated Italian, "or do you speak Swede-gibberish now?"
"Fuck you, potato bastard!"
Gilbert yelped as the top of Lovino's skull made violent contact with his chin; his trademark headbutt had not softened with age, although the afterbrush of his silky hair soothed the throbbing a tad.
"I asked," Lovino paused in fury, and abruptly his face fell to that of embarrassment, "…am I the best you've ever fucked?"
An awkward silence filled the room, and for a moment they could hear at least ten different crickets outside as the Prussian's scarlet eyes fixated directly on Lovino's golden ones…before he burst into a fit of hysterical laughter and coughs.
"Oh my God, did you seriously just ask me that?"
"URGH!"
Lovino flopped back down, positively fuming now. He yanked the covers up over his shoulders, suddenly feeling ashamed of his own body and of being near the man beside him. He felt a rush of disappointment and a feeling of being used. Was he really that terrible at sex? He despaired silently like a high school female while his lover nonchalantly lit a cigarette and took a drag.
He was just about ready to explode when finally Gilbert spoke.
"I'd say you beat out everyone except for…Antonio, you've gotten yourself tied with him. You might just give him a run for his money, if you perform tonight like every night."
"Shut up, you bastard…potato…"
But inside, Lovino was glowing with pride and satisfaction, quick replacements for the emptiness and shame he'd felt only moments ago. Taking it hard up the ass hadn't been for naught, after all! Gilbert loved sleeping with him, he loved it, he loved it, he loved it…
Gilbert sensed a second of calm before a storm, and put his cigarette out.
"YOU SLEPT WITH ANTONIO?"
"Yowch! Jesus, Lovino, I'm right here."
"YEAH, BUT JUST HOW LONG AGO WAS BOSS IN MY PLACE?"
"Back when you were two feet tall."
"…STOP REMINDING ME THAT YOU'RE SO FUCKING OLD."
Red as his favorite fruit by now, Lovino scrambled off of the bed and to the dresser, where his phone was hooked up to the charger. Now angry that Antonio was even on his contacts at all, he pounded the memorized number in.
"You realize it's like…four in the morning in Spain, right?"
"FUCK THAT! I DON'T GIVE A FLYING FUCK!"
Stupid Germanic and his stupid mocking voice and his stupid cigarettes and potatoes and delicousness…
"AGH! GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!"
"Did you stub your toe?"
"NO!"
The phone was ringing, ringing, ringing…
"Hola?" a sleepy voice resounded through the speaker, "Romano, bebe, usted sabe que le amo, pero en cuatro por la manana? Realmente?"
"I DON'T GIVE A SHIT OF YOU LOVE ME OR NOT!" Lovino roared into the phone, ignoring the yelp of surprise he received as a response, "I'M MORE CONCERNED ABOUT YOU LOVING MY BOYFRIEND A COUPLE HUNDRED YEARS AGO!"
"Wh-wha...oh….OH, that. Listen, Roma, it wasn't as serious as he's probably making it sound…"
"I didn't make it sound like anything!" Gilbert called from the background, silencing himself at a seething glare from the Italian.
"…but I promise you, it had nothing to do with love! No offense to Gil…"
"GIL? NICKNAMES! SERIOUSLY?"
"…but he and I and Francis…we were just really sick of fighting Roderich and we were horny and…"
"FRANCIS TOO? WHAT THE FUCKING HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?"
With a final shriek of rage, he threw the phone across the room, watching as it smashed into the opposite wall and exploded into a million pieces and tiny shards of glass. Breathing like a matador's bull, he turned his wrath once more to his Prussian boyfriend, who had scooted to the very edge of the bed out of fear.
Moving slowly, calculating and analyzing Gilbert's every twitch, Lovino slowly reentered their bed. He crawled all the way up to straddle the older man, his eyes becoming half-lidded and hot with a mix of his rage and sudden lust. Angry sex didn't seem like a bad idea right then.
"So," he said slowly, his voice far too calm and collected for Gilbert's liking, "So, you fucked both Francis and Antonio at once, did you? And Boss is better in the sack than me, huh?"
His eyes seemed to glow with a need for vengeance, and Gilbert could only shrink down in his growing terror and Lovino's face, which was getting closer every second.
"…you're never going to say anything like that ever a-fucking-gain."