based on one of the names for engita obviously huehue rly bad oneshot im sorry
"What on earth are you doing?" asked England, staring at the brunet in the meeting room's kitchen. Yes, the meeting room indeed had a kitchen, thanks to the gourmet nations, France and China. He was technically banned, but France had decided that he was allowed in to make tea in there, or else he would complain incessantly. Someone (America) had broken the electric kettle while trying to make coffee all too enthusiastically, so he had to resort to boiling the tea water on the stove. He had only left it for a split second to yell at France in the main part of the meeting room, and when he returned, another nation was standing at the stove.
"Making pasta, isn't it obvious?" Italy turned with a little smile, amber eyes wide and cheerful. "Someone left this pot of water, so I put some pasta in it, because I'm hungry."
"I left the water, and it was for my tea!" England protested, crossing his arms in disapproval. The Italian let out a quiet squeak, and raised his arms in a form of surrender.
"I didn't know that! Maybe it would be wiser if you labeled your pots from now on, or brought your own kettle, or didn't leave a boiling pot on the stove!" He squeaked, looking like he was about to cry. "Please don't hurt me-"
"Calm down, chap," he murmured, wandering over and staring into the pot. "But your pasta's going to taste odd, as there were tea leaves in there." He sneered. "Tell me you saw them before making your wise decision?"
"Oh, hah, I guess not," Italy mumbled, laughing awkwardly and shrugging his meek shoulders. "It's just like herbs though, right? So I'm sure it'll taste fine!"
"They were all the tea leaves I had on me," England muttered, suddenly grumpy with Italy once again.
"I'm really sorry, I mean-" Italy stammered, trying to stop himself from blurting an insult to the man's gargantuan eyebrows to distract him. "Why don't you just have the pasta?.. It'll taste like your tea, I think, so it'll be totally fine, Engbrows!"
"Engbrows?" the Briton repeated, with Italy bearing a look of utter dread. He never really was that great at self-control.
"What? What're you talking about? I said 'England', because that's your name." Italy said quickly, smiling with exuding innocence. "Engbrows, that's silly!" England squinted with suspicion, but dropped the subject for now.
"Perhaps I should go and get Germany to get you to go and buy me some more tea," England pondered, creasing his brow and giving the Italian a stern look.
"Oh no, please don't, mercy!" Italy squeaked, shaking his head quickly. "He's scary and he might yell at me!"
"I'm going to go out on a limb here and ask Japan or China then, since I won't be drinking pasta-tainted tea." England muttered, pushing his way out of the kitchen door, and living Italy to pause, confused, and then return to stirring the pot on the stove. "Don't make pasta coffee as well while I'm gone!" The Briton called back.
He had left the meeting room's kitchen only to be greeted by a brawl in the middle of the table. For once, he wasn't involved, and for that, he was thankful. What surprised him the most though, was that it was Japan and America who were the ones arguing, wit the American pinning down the smaller man. Shock was the first emotion he registered.
"-And that's why Eren is so much cooler than Armin!" America shouted, holding down one of Japan's shoulders with a strong hand. "And Mikasa would kick Armin's ass anyday!"
"No, America-san, you do not understand at all!" Japan protested softly. "Armin-kun is the smartest one; with his mind he could lead any squad to greatness!"
"But what's the use if he's a weak loser-"
"Break it up, you two!" England interjected, heavily cross. "Need you fight over every difference in your damned anime or whatever the hell you're fighting about?" He grunted, watching with stern eyes as America slowly climbed off of Japan, and then off the table entirely. The smaller man rolled off the table, quickly and embarrassedly shuffling to his seat.
"England is breaking up a fight? What is this, some alternate world?" France chimed in, but England just shoved him in the face before he could continue.
"Japan, now that you're no longer in the heat of battle, do you possibly have any tea with you?" He murmured, wondering if Japan would even carry tea about like he did. Then again, he himself only carried about small boxes of tea leaves because he was an eccentric man who required tea three times a day, at minimum.
"Erm, yes actually, and I suppose you may borrow some-," Japan uttered softly, reaching into his bag and pulling out a small box of some of his country's tea. He was interrupted by China, though.
"What about my tea?! It is clearly superior to your stinky English tea! It's even better than Japan's!" He insisted, throwing a box at England. "Your stuff tastes like crap!"
It struck him in the chest and he just stared at the ancient nation with disbelieving eyes. For such an old country, he could get very vocal and childish.
"Erm, fine, but there was no need to throw it," He muttered, leaning down and taking the tiny box of tea leaves. Perhaps he wasn't the only one who required tea very often. China was about to get mad again and call England ungrateful, but was calmed by Russia, who had been sitting beside him, now petting China's hair softly. America was very tempted to make a snide remark about stealing England's tea boxes and tossing them in the harbor, but Japan gave him a stern look, and he refrained.
With no more business with these idiots, England took both of the tea boxes offered, and returned to the kitchen. He wasn't too fond of foreign tea, but it would do in substitute of good old Earl Grey. He put the boxes on the counter, ignoring Italy's quiet singing, and ducked down to take another pot out of the cupboard. As he retrieved one that was an appropriate size, he stood up properly again. Great. The boxes were gone.
"For the love of the Queen, did you touch the boxes I just put here?" England asked, staring at the slightly shorter nation.
"Oh, si!" Italy hummed, grinning and tossing the now-emptied boxes back to England.
"Dear god, tell me that you didn't put them in the water.." England grimaced, unable to believe this damned Italian. "I duck my head for less than a minute.."
"Mmhm! Made it extra tea-y." Italy chirped, not sensing England's frustration. Well, he was needing his cuppa soon, and he had no other alternative.. He swallowed his pride.
"Fine, I'll.. Damn it, give me some of this when it's done." He ordered gruffly, irritated to no end.
"Decided you want some pasta after all?" Italy sang, turning the hotplate off on the stove and waltzing around the small kitchen.
"Just a little. Leave the water with it." He grunted. Luckily, the tea boxes that Japan and China had offered had been quite small, so the water wouldn't taste too overpowering. God, he was never leaving a pot unattended again.
Italy nodded and served England's portion into a tea cup, as he assumed that's how the Briton would want it. He handed it over with a smile, before serving himself a bowl of the strained spaghetti.
"Thanks, I guess," England muttered, to which Italy laughed quietly, and tried to pretend that he was not slightly frightened of England's bark or bite.
With that matter sorted, the two ambled out of the kitchen with their meals, and sat back down at the meeting table. Another argument had broken out, this time between China and Russia. It was gentle on Russia's side, with the bulky nation smiling sweetly and laughing every now and then as China rambled on about how disgusting vodka tasted. Italy assumed his spot on the other side of the table beside Germany, and England tried to smooth out his headache with a gulp of tea.
Something caught in his throat, and he found himself gagging and trying to cough it back up. China and Russia's arguing quietened down as America so kindly exclaimed a 'Dude I think England is dying or something'. The few nations who seemed to care (Japan, America, Canada, France) looked to him and just sat wondering if they could help instead of actually doing anything. After another few moments of gagging, England coughed up a spaghetti noodle, and just stared at it on the table. Squinting, he looked up at the nervous Italian at the other side of the table.
"This is Italy's fault." He grumbled bluntly. "And I am never, ever, drinking spaghettea again."