You: "Hey, Mouse. Haven't I read this from you before?"
Me: "No, dear reader. I know that this kind of Feli seems to be something of a recurring theme in my work, but bear with me on this."
You: "Okay, I trust you."
Me: "...fool."

Okay, first of all, this is really an epilogue. GerIta isn't really a big thing in this story. BUT. It's needed for this bit.

Lots of swearing and Germany-bashing. I think we know who's taking the limelight in this one... ;D

Ludwig really didn't have enough time for this.

Sure, he liked Feliciano. In fact, he wasn't very sure if it was more than that, but it wouldn't surprise him, particularly. And yes, Feliciano liked him, the point was made very clear. But having to allow himself extra time in the day to be insulted was another thing.

He could not be with Feliciano for any prolonged amount of time without being ridiculed.

"I know exactly what you're doing, Kraut," Romano would glare. "Just because he's on your side doesn't mean you've won Italy." He would then go on a rant, which usually involved a lot of reminiscing- if it could be called that- about the war, and how Germany had tried- and failed- twice to 'take over the world', and how he was trying to turn Feli into a potato-loving freak to build up the army again...

Really, the kind of misinformed racism that got Ludwig, quite rightly, angry. Today was no different.

Feliciano had been in the kitchen, clearing up after lunch, leaving the German man at the wrath of his brother.

"It's a nice day," Ludwig had offered. Romano had turned it down.

He opted instead for crossing his arms over his chest and sighing. "Feli!"

"Sì?"

"When are you and this bastard leaving?"

"Don't be nasty, fratello! Whenever I'm done!" There was a break whilst he clattered around. "Did you like the sauce?"

"Yeah."

"Good! I didn't really want to tell you before you had it, but did you notice that there were German ingredients? Ve~, I invented it at Germania's house, so-"

"It tasted shit," he announced, more to Ludwig than Feliciano, which the younger Italian realised.

"Stop being so rude, Lovino!" he whined, entering from the kitchen and wiping his hands on an apron, which he took off and put on a hook at the door. "Germania will never want to come back. I'm being serious!" He swore, with about as much ferocity as the pasta they had just enjoyed.

This seemed far too endearing a chance to miss, so Romano continued to pry.

"Where are you going?" he enquired, and muttered, "Oktoberfest?" beneath his breath. Ludwig bit his tongue. He hadn't heard that one a thousand times.

"There's a German market across town just now! Would you like to come?"

"You couldn't pay me," said Romano, more interested in a cut on his finger, which he was studying intently.

"Stop-being-rude!" Feliciano seemed to be on the actual verge of anger, whacking his brother a little harder than lightly on the head. Ludwig prepared himself to intervene when Romano shot a venomous glare at the younger Italian man. "We're not even leaving Roma. I don't know why you get like this."

"Because I don't like them," he pointed at Ludwig's face, which was struggling to hide its owner's irritation. "Scheming. Fighting. Marching. They're all the same."

"Romano, you apologise!"

"And I don't like them because they take after him."

"Romano!" squeaked Feliciano.

He turned to push his insult further into Ludwig, into Germany. "Sick, twisted, Kraut basta-"

"Don't you dare!"

The yell halted through the older Italian's speech like a fist on a table, and he looked to his brother with a shocked, almost anxious expression. Feliciano himself was wearing a look that could have been patented by Romano- 'I have a point to make, and you're going to hear it, like it or not.'

... the tables seemingly turned, Ludwig felt unease bubbling like boiling water.

"Ah, Feliciano-"

He was cut off by a finger being raised like a struck match, which was then pointed at his face, close enough to burn him.

"This man is good," said Feliciano firmly. "And you will be the only one to blame for what happens to you if you insult him again, fratello."

Quite terrified, Ludwig looked to Romano, who scoffed unconvincingly.

"What're you going to do, Feli?" he smirked, crossing his arms, panic darting through his dulled eyes.

He frowned, turning to rummage in some drawers on the other side of the room. "I will burn... this." He lifted a small, but quite thick, deep red book, which had no visible title, and glared.

Romano stiffened.

And then laughed.

"Go for it."

Feliciano was obviously expecting him to cave, as it was his turn to let his emotions take control of his expression. Only for a second, mind you. He nodded determinedly and made his way to the kitchen. There was the sound of him going through more drawers, and then the deafening triumph of, "Ah-ha!"

He had found some real matches, and had struck one. "I'll do a page at a time so you can watch," he promised, holding the flame up in a villainous style. For once, the older Italian was silent. "Are you going to insult Germania again?" asked Feliciano teasingly, but not cruelly.

... Ludwig had forgotten that he was even part of this argument, let alone the cause of it. "Feliciano, really, I don't-"

"Sssh!"

The dancing flame had grabbed Romano's eyes, and they didn't once wander as he whispered, "Get out, Kraut."

Feliciano acted pained as he held the match closer to the book. "I warned you, Lovino..." he lamented, quite obviously keeping a careful distance between the flame and the paper.

Ludwig got the impression that Feliciano didn't quite realise how tense his brother was. He could feel it through the couch, every muscle in Romano's body stood on tip-toe.

Romano's pride crumbled and without hesitation, he swept it under the rug, so as not to cause anymore mess. "Please leave the room, Germania." The foreign, traitorous sound was barely a croak, and, wishing he had left much sooner, Ludwig got up, crossed the floor and closed the door quietly behind him, immediately trying to listen very, very intently.

... he needn't have bothered.

Romano was speaking loudly enough to be heard, but not shouting. He seemed to be being very careful of that. Also, he was speaking in such rapid Italian that there was very little point trying to translate. He seemed pained. Pleading, almost.

Feliciano's whimpers also grew louder, until there was a cry of, "Mi dispiace, fratello!" and much sobbing.

After a couple of minutes, Ludwig figured he should re-enter, lest one of them choke.

The extinguished match lay on the floor beside the black mark it had made upon kissing the carpet. Feliciano was hugging his brother tightly and apologising profusely into his hair, pecking him every now and then, sobs jagging at his speech. Romano was apparently trying to compose himself, and clutching the red book tightly, knuckles white and terrified that it should fall into harm's way again.

"I- I'm sorry..."

Ludwig wasn't quite sure he heard that, but once it had been said, Feliciano hugged his brother even tighter and nodded. "Bene, grazie, Romano..."

... Italians were far too emotional.

Mi dispiace - I'm sorry (you got that, right?)

Okay. This story is really a mega bitch slap in my face. And it screams, "WRITE SOMETHING YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO!" And I say, "Bitch, you a story, I ain't gon' do what you say."

No, seriously. I owe two people fics, and I won't update this until they're written, and I really want to continue. So it's an incentive.

Thanks for reading, please review! :3