He prodded him roughly. He would let Italy sleep on, only he couldn't get out of bed himself while the ill-muscular arms were stuck on his waist. He kept prodding the deep-sleeper until he finally felt a stir... and was kicked roughly in the leg. He didn't cry out, since it didn't hurt. The weak little stick of a man didn't have any real way of hurting him bare-handed. Despite the kick, though, Italy was apparantly still fast asleep.
He sighed. He didn't want to have to use this method. He brushed Italy's hair away from his ear and whispered, "Italia, I made pasta."
The child-like man jumped up in all his shame out of the covers with bright eyes and a twinkle of exitement suggesting he hadn't had pasta in years, even though he had has some twice yesterday. If he had a tail, it would have been wagging furiously. Too bad Italy wasn't a dog.
"Where is it?!" He asked eagerly, still flashing the German. Ludwig shook his head and a look of incredulity was given. No pasta? What a crime.
Well, apparantly it was.
"EEEH, YOU LIAR. YOU SAID THERE WAS PASTA!!" The apparant Italy scolded, and threw a pillow in Germany's face. He got up and streaked (literally) out of the house.
That's when it hit him what was differant about Italy that morning.
But a whole new set of questions were left in it's wake.
"Why was Romano... in my bed..."