Romano looked at Germany behind his Gucci sunglasses, chewing on his lip. And no, it was not because of sexual tension. It was because of a much more serious reason; and no, this reason was not that he was a goddamn potato bastard, or that Romano was wondering why the hell he was in the southern part of Italy can't he go to Veneziano's house, because fuck he is tainting the beautiful Italian scenery –
Even though Veneziano's house was Italy too – Romano's house was the better part of Italy, is all; with exciting mafia activities which America had said he would make a movie out of.
He muttered something under his breath; and really it wasn't 'fuck the Germans – '
And he turned.
And he gave a glare to the blond-haired man, who barely noticed – he was more concentrated on a map, slightly crumpled. He must have gotten lost, Romano thought. Well hahaha, because unlike in some of Japan's yaoi fanfiction, he was not going to help him, no sir! He was going to tell him exactly what was wrong with him being here! Right now!
"Ah . . . Veneziano's brother? The southern half . . . this map is wrong, then! . . . I wonder if Veneziano gave me the right directions . . ."
It irked the handsome brown-haired Italian (the handsome, sexy, delicious, captivating, chick magnet Italian –) that the German could remember Veneziano's name but not his. Even though they rarely ever saw each other. But that was irrelevant! He had to address the true problem at hand!
"Take off your clothes." Romano said; and no, there is no innuendo there, stop staring.
". . . W – what?" The German blushed furiously and Romano mused for a moment that he looked like a tomato but that was an insult to tomatoes because Romano liked eating tomatoes but he did not want to eat a stupid German because stupid Germans must taste like potatoes and ew, potatoes. "This is . . . it's wrong! We've only just met, and I'm looking for a commitment, and you're just not my type and – don't touch that!"
Romano paused in taking off the ugly, brown, lumpy jacket that was very ugly and brown and lumpy and resembled a potato sack and ew, potatoes.
"What the hell are you ranting about?" he said with a sour (but nonetheless extremely attractive because he was Italian) expression. "You're just like that bastard Spain. Pervert."
"I am not a pervert! You – you sleep naked, like Veneziano? That's being a pervert! I am perfectly proper, you know, ask Japan –"
"Don't need to. Already saw his erotic doujinshi of you and Veneziano." He replied, with a careless shrug. Not that he had read any of that erotic doujinshi. He was not that type of person. He did not need beautifully drawn doujinshi of a muscular German and cute Italian – he didn't. Really, that was disgusting. He looked down on anyone who needed that sort of thing! Viagra was for true men, anyway! . . . wait. Screw that! No, he didn't read doujinshi about his brother! Shut the fuck up, yaoi fangirls!
"S – stop touching me! I am not stripping in the middle of Italy!" the German screeched; the sound was oddly feminine, Romano thought, but he was not distracted, busy at taking off the blond's belt.
"No, you strip on the bottom of Italy. At least, from that's what the doujinshi told me. Also I am the southern half, so this is the bottom of Italy, and you're stripping here. Stupid potato bastard!" At which he inserted a charming bell of laughter which was not similar to a stupid "OHOHOHOHOHOHO WHO'S AN IDIOT NOW, YOU BASTARD?" Really.
"J – japan makes doujinshi? What is doujinshi –"
"It's pr0nz, you silly German n00b." At which Romano showed off his skillz in his colorful vocabulary. Finally he decided to enlighten the horribly idiotic blond. "You're shaming my country. You can either get the fuck out or I can strip you down and then have my way with you."
". . . w – what? You're – you're – "
"Improving your fashion sense?" Romano finished his sentence, knowing exactly what he was going to say; he was really that intelligent, but no, he did not have a romantic telepathic connection. God, no. "You don't have anything Gucci, do you. Stupid and fashion vic – murderer. Murderer!" he scowled the blond, grinning at his amazing-ness. The blond looked like he was going to scream rape as Romano felt his back pocket and pulled out Germany's wallet.
"Oh hey you're broke, that's no fucking good in my fucking city. But wow, you have a million credit cards – we can use this. You know what for?"
". . . you can't just take my wallet like that, it's robbery, it's –"
"My fucking city, my fucking rules. Shut up, you stupid German. Anyway, we can use this for clothes. Maybe I can buy some, too . . . maxed out my cards last week, so all I have are these stupid clothes." But then he took off his Gucci shades in an amazingly graceful fashion. "Except the shades. Rule number one, silly stupid German – don't ever touch the shades."
". . . I'm really very busy, I need to go pick up something from Veneziano, and if I don't, he'll lose it, and it's important – "
"You can pick up your vibrator later, silly German. Today, we make you a true man."
"T – that . . . you're not referring to – " The potato bastard flushed a deeper red. "Sexual activities, are you? We barely even know each other –"
"Oh God, German pervert! I meant, we are going to fill your closet with Gucci and pretty things instead of ugly lumpy brown things like potatoes because you are shaming my country and I hate you and I want some dominatrix boots."
The German was speechless in joy. Utter joy at being chosen by this hot sexy piece of man meat to teach him the ways of hot clothing hunting.
No, Romano was not delusional, shut up.
(In truth, however, Germany was extremely scared and oh God, this could not get worse.)
"Hey! German bastard! There's a sale, look it –"
(Never mind.)
The first lovely shop they went to that day was called Dominatrix in a fancy, curly type of font that made it look more like Doberman. This made Romano think of female dogs and this made him think of a certain curse word which made him snicker.
Despite the name, the store was actually quite innocent. It was filled with lacy, sleeveless shirts that had small, barely there skirts of lace after that, like a million doilies had died to make it. However, Germany's face still flushed toma – ugly unnatural potato red as he read the sign, which said 'Lingerie' – it sounded French, Romano thought; even though it came from the pervert bastard, it was not too dirty, actually. This made him wonder if the gutter-minded man had changed in the past few years.
"W – why are we here – "
"I need to get a new lin-jer-ee." Romano said, pronouncing the name carefully. "For Veneziano. He likes crossdressing, weird bastard."
". . . Can't we go somewhere more appropriate – "
The Italian gave a short laugh – it wasn't a snort, you see. "Appropriate? This is the most appropriate place in Italy."
Somewhere, in a distant place in Japan, a man named Kiku Honda had an idea for an erotic fanfiction.
