Diplomacy
Germany gave a nervous twitch. "ITALY!" he barked in his 'I mean SRS BIDNESS' voice, adopting his 'you are SO in trouble' pose and scrunching his face up in an 'I am so pissed at you' expression, his blue eyes mere slits and his eyebrows forming angry diagonal ridges above them.
"Oh? Germany~!" Italy flailed happily, putting his traitorous arms around Germany's shoulders as he frolicked happily away from the crowd of adoring women he'd just been entertaining.
"Italy, are you making alliances with other people again?" he growled.
"…Noooooo?" Italy asked, ruffling Germany's hair in a way that was completely unbecoming for the vicious scourge of the free world.
"You just were!" Germany spluttered angrily, his hands tightening to fists as he glared at the young Italian.
"Eh heh heh," Italy laughed sheepishly. "Don't be jealous, Germany! I'm not going to break my alliance with you!" he cried joyously.
"…You did in 1902… and in 1916," Germany said, almost glumly. He certainly didn't pout, though. Germans don't pout. Instead, he stuck his bottom lip out in ANGER and RAGE and GERMAN MANLINESS.
"Aww," Italy cooed, patting Germany's head. "Don't pout. England didn't mean anything to me."
Germany glanced up, too happily surprised to growl about being petted like an overgrown lapdog. "Really?"
Italy nodded adamantly. "And France-niichan was just some pervert."
Germany's fingers twitched. "France did what?"
"Oh, this and that." Italy waved the question away with a giggle. "But you have no need to worry. At the end of the last war, they told me not to come back."
Germany grunted. "I wouldn't take you back either, if I could get rid of you." He crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at the boy.
"Oh, Germany," Italy flailed, as if to indicate the ridiculousness of the idea. Germany took a little step back to avoid getting hit in the head by Italy's wild arms. "You know you couldn't live without my pasta," he murmured, sidling closer and leaning against one of Germany's broad shoulders.
Germany certainly didn't blush to the tips of his ears. "I only eat sausages." Sausages were MANLY and GERMAN. "I don't eat your girly pasta." Pasta was GIRLY and ITALIAN and NOT GOOD TO MAKE WHEN YOU WERE IN THE DESERT.
"I only eat your sausages too."
Germany could've sworn there was something seductive in Italy's voice, hiding somewhere behind the irritating girly squeak and the cyclone-like flail of the boy's limbs. After a moment, Italy giggled. "It makes brother angry."
Germany sighed. Just kidding—Italy totally wasn't hitting on him.
"Hug!" Italy cried, reaching his arms up to Germany. He blinked at the smaller man, watching him stretch on his tip-toes. "Germanyyyyy~! Huuuuuuuuug~!" he whined.
Giving in, Germany leaned down and put his arms around Italy. The man fit snugly in his arms, warm and smelling of lasagna and paint, and he allowed himself a sigh.
"Germany's hugs are the best," Italy whispered obnoxiously loudly in Germany's ear, in the air of one telling a secret, but about five decibels too loudly.
"Inside voice," Germany scolded with a wince. But he couldn't resist—a moment later, he ventured, "Better than England's?"
"Eww. Of course! I'd get England-germs, and then all my food would taste like England-food!"
"…And France?" Germany asked worriedly.
Italy grinned impishly, leaning up to peck Germany's cheek before taking advantage of Germany's shock and scrambling out of his arms with a giggle.
"ITALY!" Germany roared, ignoring the way his face burned and tingled in favor of chasing after the other man.
Germany would have to teach Italy a thing or two about diplomacy.
AN: I wrote this ages ago, forgot about it, and just found it on my computer a few days ago... so here it is. Not too great, not too terrible. Enjoy it if you can, and have a happy valday!