A/N: Written in record time. For the prompts 'pizza' and 'shoes'. O obscurity, what fools you make of titles.

Yes I know the food prompt was changed to 'sausage'. I CARE NOT.

Enjoy it, 'specially you, NinjaOfEpic. There, was that kind enough for your gracious highness?

Of Pizza And Shoes

It takes a lot to faze the awesome Prussia, who took it as part of the job description of being the epitome of Awesome that fainting to the floor every so often in a picture of the proverbial damsel in distress was a big no-no. As big as rejecting the fiftieth round of beer even on a full stomach and even fuller bladder, because that being the very description of a bad sport aside, imagine the scandal such a scene would spark. Well. Almost as big.

Still, it's not really his fault if all of a sudden his clothes all tightened simultaneously and started attacking him, mysteriously and fixedly intent on choking him. The sudden beads of sweat popping out on his forehead were due to the horribly stifling heat of Italy's fully air-conditioned lounge. He did not gasp, and nor did he screech, that was a very awesome verse of opera that just escaped his lips there. The way he flopped onto the couch was down to tiredness from the whole previous day of exertion taking an all-day siesta, and was not, he repeats not, a swoon. Because bottom line: Prussia did not get fazed.

But…but.

There stood Italy, after half an hour of thumping and rustling and very un-Italy-esque cursing from the adjoining room. (On second thoughts, it's not so out of character. On a previous visit to Italy's house, Romano had been there, too, and when he had passed the kitchen at lunchtime and heard Italy positively howling that Romano had burnt the water for the pasta, and he was pretty sure that the volley of 'bastardbastardbastard's were actually from Italy, for once, and not his all-too-charming brother.

But back to the situation on hand. There stood Italy. Yes, he's already done that bit. There stood Italy. Yes, we get the idea.

There stood Italy. (Really!)

In bright red, strappy stilettos. Complete with the nine-inch pencil-thin killer heels, ending in a point so sharp that Prussia was surprised they didn't pierce and sink right into the floor like a couple of pins. Well, surely there would be two matching holes in the carpet when Italy moved. If he ever moved. Looking at his current tottering, it didn't seem like it would be soon.

Stilettos that reached all the way to his knees, and completely swamped his feet in strips of tangled crimson and shiny silver spikes here and there. All those intricate straps, no wonder the poor thing had loosened his tongue a little there. Half an hour suddenly seemed like a few seconds to wait.

And Prussia was no expert on stilettos, but he was pretty sure the spikes were meant to face outwards, not in. But what the hey.

Italy tottered forwards, and perhaps that had been an admiral stab at taking a step forwards in those eye-burningly red death traps, though in the end Prussia never found out, because Italy tottered forwards, and kept tottering.

Until he fell splat onto the carpet. At least the carpet was soft, huh? Good choice in furniture, Italy.

Various thoughts were colliding frantically round Prussia's mind at this point, flashing and screaming and blaring in red alert. As red as those hell-sent stilettos, oh yes. The thoughts could be condensed into the horrified words STILETTO and ITALY and FRITZHELPMETHEAPOCALYPSEHASCOME.

Italy very slowly raised his head from his decidedly ungainly position on the floor, face very, very red. Prussia was just about starting to dread that colour.

Italy opened his mouth to speak.

"I want pizza."

And suddenly it all makes sense.