A Saucy Affair
by soviet-chan
"Italy, we have to go!"
It was mid-morning and the lazy sun had just finished working it's way into the sky. Germany checked his watch again.
"Italy!"
"...but, it needs oregano!"
This had been the theme of the morning. Before Italy's large bowl of spaghetti bolognaise had needed oregano, it had needed white pepper and before that it had needed crushed garlic and the parade of spices before that was so extensive that Germany had easily lost track. All he knew was that if the pasta continued to be so needy, the two of them would wind up late and Germany did not like being late.
"Italy, we have to go! Now!"
"...but, Doitsu!"
"No buts! We are leaving!"
"Hahaha! You said 'butts'!" Italy giggled.
"That's it! I'm coming in!" His combat boots clattered loudly as he stormed up the steps and straight into the kitchen. He had to admit, the dish did smell delicious but there was no time to admire it. He grabbed Italy's shoulder and, making sure he had the pot of pasta in hand, directed him out the door.
It was only a few blocks to the room they had rented for the meeting, but the pair still had to hustle. Italy had been distractible as usual, but relatively compliant. Unfortunately, however, about halfway to the meeting room, he discovered the urgent need to use the restroom.
"Italy!" yelled Germany, in frustration, "Why didn't you go before we left?"
Italy pouted. "You said that we needed to go, so I came."
That's not my memory, of the situation. Germany thought angrily, but he kept that to himself. Arguing would only waste precious time. Instead, he sighed.
"Okay, Italy, here's the deal: You go into that bakery and ask if you can use the men's room. But do not get distracted by the food. Be polite and don't daw-"
But Italy was not dawdling. Before Germany could even finish his sentance, he had already ran past him and down the street, big pot of pasta and all.
PASTA!
Germany gasped. He couldn't let Italy bring his own food into a store that sold food! That was terribly impolite! Bolting down the street after Italy, he cried out, "Italy! Throw me that pasta!"
It was a deadly mistake.
It all seemed to happen in slow motion. Italy turning around, the sun illuminating his auburn hair, the huge pot soaring through the air, the perfect kinetic energy of the spaghetti bolognaise flying out of the pot, and then as a grand finale, the crash of the pot on the pavement, followed by the splat of meat sauce all over the front of Germany's pants.
The world seemed frozen. Nobody else was present, save Spain and South Italy, who were making out in a bush, a good ways down the street. They stopped for a moment and Spain asked his partner if they should go try to help. South Italy responded by slapping him in the face. Then, they resumed their business.
It took Germany a moment to realize what had happened, but the loud noise had made Italy jump back. It had also made him even more desperate to go to the bathroom. He took advantage of the Germany's frozen position and dashed into the bakery.
A horrified grimace surfaced on Germany's face. A soundless scream followed by a stream of profanity. An awkward effort to remove the steaming food from his pants. A defeated cry when he realized that no matter what, a large red stain would be left behind. An angry howl of remorse when he realized he was late. A pained sob when he realized that he would be forced to show up with the dreaded stain. Then, finally, a grunt that meant "I'm leaving Italy behind like I should have done who knows how long ago."
With that, he was off. And for once, upon returning from the restroom, Italy had the good sense not to shout "Doitsu!"
When Germany arrived at the blocky building in which the meeting was going to be held, he had almost forgotten about the stain. At least, he had pretended to forget. His plan was to act like it wasn't there and his hope was that nobody would notice. It was an excellent idea and had worked infallibly. That is, until he ran into somebody.
Room #862 was on the left hand side of the narrow hallway, but it was not the room number that signified the meeting place. Even down the hall, the sound of arguing could be clearly heard.
Of course France and England would arrive together, thought Germany, rolling his eyes. But perhaps the bantering would be just enough to distract them both from the stain. Unfortunately, Germany was not that lucky.
"You said the meeting would start thirty minutes ago!" yelled England, "thirty bloody minutes!"
"Oui. I thought we could use some alone time."
"You know, I could use some alone time. AWAY FROM YOU!"
France looked slightly offended. "What? You cant handle my sexiness?"
"What the bloody hell are you talking about? You think you can just force a kiss on me and everything changes? That I suddenly think you're sexy? What is this?"
France chuckled and Germany tapped his fingers uncomfortably on the doorframe.
"No, no, ma cherie. You always thought I was sexy. Don't be scared to admit it."
England let out a yelp as France closed in on him.
"There you go again!" he protested, breathlessly, "another bloody kiss and you bloody - bloody...bloody...what the bloody hell is on his pants?"
The pair turned to face Germany, in a fluster of embarrassment. The sudden recognition caught him off-guard and he walked in stuttering dumbly.
"Buh...duh...puh...pants...pants...pan-what the hell were you two just doing?"
Now it was England and France's turn to stutter. France stepped forward.
"We were just...you see...having a moment. Let us sit down and pretend that neither party saw anything."
Germany and England nodded gratefully and three took their seats. Relaxing, Germany took a huge breath of relief - and coughed abruptly. Somebody was giggling from the door! Everybody turned to face the laughter.
Their shocked faces reflected in America's glasses. Germany cursed under his breath. England's burning face rested on his arms and he muttered profanity as well. France looked somewhat indifferent. America, on the other hand, was beaming.
"I didn't know it was your time of the month, Germany!" he shouted. Clutching his belly as he guffawed at his own joke, he staggered into the room and slammed himself into a chair. Germany looked livid, but before he could make any sort of self redeeming comment, a tall ominous figure appeared in the doorway.
Russia smiled innocently at the four men as he made his way into a chair in the back next to America. "Did I miss anything?"
"No." four voiced lied in unison.
There was a moment of awkward silence. Russia's chair squeaked as he got up and walked over to a plant in the corner. Everyone stared at him in obvious confusion as he shook a leaf and removed a small, metallic device.
"I'm collecting the footage from the video camera I set up," he explained, nonchalantly, "I'll review what I missed later."
England and Germany's simultaneous groan was cut off by a small knock by the side of the door.
"The door is bloody open!" yelled England, in annoyance.
"I'm so solly!"
A horrified Japan poked his head out from around the door. His expression was one of deep hurt and fear. England looked at him guiltily and bit his lip.
America walked forward and patted him on the shoulder, making him flinch.
"Hey, it's okay, buddy," he said loudly, "England just woke up on the wrong side of...ahem...somebody's bed."
France nodded in agreement. "It is the truth."
Then he added hastily, "England just isn't particularly cheerful today."
Now all eyes turned to England. He was humiliated, frustrated, and red faced; clenched fist portioned dangerously close to France. His eyes were practically hidden in a mass of angry eyebrows.
"Well, what did you expect?" he shouted, making Japan flinch more than America's touch had, "An impromptu performance of "8 Days a Week" with high-kicks followed by a desperate plea for forgiveness?"
France gave him an approving smile. "Why not? You are British."
"You just want to see the high-kicks." America smirked.
"SHUT UP!" screamed England, looking between the two of them, murderously, "America, you bloody hypocrite, I happen to know about your little excursion in a sunflower field with Russia last Tuesday and it doesn't involve clothes so I would shut my mouth if I was you!"
"I have footage." offered Russia, helpfully, holding up the tiny device from earlier.
"WHAT!" screamed five voices in unison. That was when the cacophony began. America was shouting at Russia and jumping for the recording device desperately. England was shouting insults at France and France was firing back with more insults and embarrassing pet-names. Japan was cowering in the far corner, looking down and pretending not to notice what was going on. China, who had entered the room at some point during the chaos, was talking to a preoccupied America, demanding an explanation.
Only Germany sat silently, angrily grinding the heel of his boot into the floor, his head pulsing with the earsplitting noise of the room around him. At last, he decided he couldn't take it anymore. He stood up and began rapping his fists on the table.
"EVERYBODY, SHUT UP!" he yelled furiously. Six sets of eyes went directly to his pants. Many began to giggle.
"You think this is funny?" he bellowed with such ferocity that everyone quieted, "Well, I'll tell you something. It would have been more productive to stay home and eat pasta with Italy - and that is saying a whole lot!"
As if on cue, a perky-looking Italy burst through the door. He grinned broadly at Germany.
"Hello, Doitsu!"
Germany sighed. "Hello, Italy."
"I brought you a change of pants!" Italy cocked his head, handing Germany a pair off his own pants. Perhaps 15 sizes too small, but for Italy, it was a good effort.
"It's okay, Italy. We're leaving."
"But Doitsu! What about the important meeting?"
"It's officially over."
He stood up, gesturing to the door with his head. Despite the stain, he must have looked pretty official, because everyone else stood up as well.
"Well, that was lovely." England said sarcastically, "If anyone wants to come over later, I'm baking homemade scones."
Japan ran for the door. China followed him, quickly dodging the corner. America proceeded them, slamming himself carelessly into the corner at full force. Russia meandered out, pocketing a sketchpad on which he had doodled a man getting his head cut off by a sickle and pounded in by a hammer. He really was a good artist. England stormed out, yelling something over his shoulder to France, who followed him in a graceful leap. Germany stepped out with a groan, yet again directing Italy by his shoulders.
Everyone had cleared out of the building save Germany and Italy who had decided that he wanted to play hopscotch on the tile floor. Germany sat in a chair nearby, watching and letting his rigid muscles relax.
He hadn't changed into Italy's pants but had rather tied them around his waist in the fashion of a lumpy belt. He was determined to put the unsuccessful meeting behind him. Perhaps Italy would remake that spaghetti bolognaise for him. It really had smelled delicious.
Just then, a clattering of footsteps made them both look up. Into the hall, ran a short young man with glasses and a red maple leaf on his sweatshirt.
"Um, hi..." said Germany tentatively, "who are you?"
The man smiled broadly. "I'm Canada. Do you happen to know which way Room #862 is by any chance?"
"862? Are you looking for the country meeting?"
Canada's eyes grew wide, "Why yes! Would you mind sending me in the direction, eh?"
Germany sighed. Italy was making faces at a beetle in his peripheral vision.
"Sir, the meeting got out ten minutes ago."
"Darn it!" exclaimed Canada, "and I just paid a Looney for the parking meter!"
He ignored Germany's sidelong stare of confusion.
"Well, anywho, would you two like some syrup?" he revealed a large brown bottle, that had it been Russia's, would have probably contained something scary.
"I was going to share it with everyone, but seeing as the meeting is over, I might just as well share it with you two."
Italy was already grabbing Canada's hands in a gesture of thanks. Germany bowed his head slightly. The prospect of eating plain syrup was absolutely disgusting.
"Well, uh...Canatia-"
"Canada." Canada corrected him blissfully.
"Right, uh, Canada. What do you say to coming over to our place? We can sit down with rolls and syrup and have a proper meal."
"That sounds great!" said Canada and Italy at the same time.
"Well, let's go, then." Germany adjusted Italy's pants around his waist. Even though it looked moronic, Canada was kind enough not to comment.
And so it was that the three of them walked back along the pavement, the sun beating down upon their backs. When they traveled past a large portion pasta that was sweating in the street, Italy paused to sniff it.
Canada frowned. "What a sad waste of food."
Italy smiled. "It's not a waste, Canada!" he explained happily, "It needed oregano!"