2.

Romano took one long look at him, from top to bottom, before scowling. "What are you trying to say, huh? Is there something you're trying to prove?"

"What do you mean?" Italy looked down at his outfit. It was only custom-made Armani paired with comfortable Bottega Veneta loafers. "You don't think the colours match?"

Romano was seething at this point, turning redder and redder, trembling with rage.

"I'll tell you what doesn't match, you potato-loving, jerk-faced, kraut-"

"Feli!" Spain suddenly pushed Romano out of the way. He pulled Italy into a joyful hug. "Come in, come in- even though it's actually your house and you should be telling me to come in, haha!" It was the late afternoon and they all agreed (Spain, Austria and Hungary, that is) to meet for lunch in the new house. "Hola! Austria-" he pulled Austria, who had expected a calm handshake, into a hug, then, "Hungary, bella dama-" and kissed her cheeks.

He whispered something in her ear, olive eyes dancing, and Hungary giggled like a schoolgirl. Italy could hear the wheels in Austria's skull shudder and clang.

The sheets covering the furniture were removed and the floors were dusted, a broom and bag loitering by the corner. When Italy went into the kitchen, he saw a basket of tomatoes; a large bowl of unpeeled shrimp on the counter and plates of sliced lemon, crushed garlic and herbs, waiting by a vat of olive oil.

Italy wrinkled his nose. "I don't like fish, so we're not making any of that. I brought cream and saffron so we can make risotto and I also brought veal for the cotoletta-"

Romano, who was angrily smoking by the backdoor of the kitchen, choked on his cigarette. "What did you fucking say?"

Italy beamed. So they were on speaking terms after all! "I said that I really don't like fish so I already brought ingredients so we can make a better-"

"I heard you the first time," snapped Romano. "We're going to make fucking seafood so you can stuff that fucking saffron in your ears before I do it for you."

Italy hopped to his brother, frowning. "Why are you so angry? I thought you liked risotto-"

"I'm not angry! Don't say I'm angry!"

"But you're talking really loud and when I heard England talking really loud once, Germany told me he was yelling-"

Romano attacked him. "Don't fucking say that name in this fucking house or I'm going to fucking cook you for lunch you FUCKING IDIOT-"

Spain was suddenly between them, hauling Romano off to the corner. "Breathing exercises, Lovi!" he chirped cheerfully. "Deep breath in-"

"DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO YOU, BASTARD, LET ME GO-"

"And deep breath out-"

"OR I'LL PUNCH YOU SO BAD-"

"Aaaand deep breath in-"

"YOU WON'T RECOGNIZE YOUR OWN FACE-"

"Aaaand deep breath out-"

Romano was writhing in Spain's grip. Even though he was still screaming his head off, threatening to smash Spain's skull with a hammer and promising to beat him in his sleep, at least he wasn't screaming at Italy- which was all Italy wanted, really.

Austria and Hungary walked into the kitchen, carrying the bags of ingredients Italy had left in the car- he didn't want to hurt his arms with the effort- and Italy fluttered towards them to begin arranging the herbs.

"I swear to God Almighty, Veneziano," hissed Romano, glaring at him so threateningly Italy actually cowered back. "If I see you take the fucking saffron out of that bag-"

"You mean this saffron?" Italy pulled out the vial.

Romano pelted a tomato at Italy's face. It was warm and soft and ripe and stained his white, custom-made Armani shirt. For a moment, nothing moved. Then, Italy, in eerie calmness, picked up the basket of unpeeled, raw shrimp and dunked it over his brother's head.

"How about we stop this before it gets out of hand-" Austria coughed.

Before Romano wrestled Italy into the barrel of tomatoes.

What followed was mess of screams and cries. No matter how many times Spain tried to cart Romano away, Romano managed to twist away and wrestle Italy to the ground. No matter how many times Hungary tried to pry Italy off, it didn't relent Italy's grip on his brother's hair.

By the end of it, Italy was beaten by his own Bottega Veneta loafers and Romano had saffron shoved into his ears. Romano ended up sobbing and Italy sobbed for making his brother sob.

"I'm sorry, Romano," Italy reached out to hug his brother.

Until Romano bit his arm. So Italy bit him back on neck. They had to be separated again, like boiling water and scalding oil, by a very bruised Spain and a rather amused Hungary.


"Did you see?" Romano seethed. He was trembling with rage. Steam screeched from his ears. "Did you fucking see?"

"Lovino-" started Spain.

"He fucking did that on purpose! He wore that stupid outfit and brought those stupid, fancy foods because he wants to prove that he's smarter than me- that fucking idiot, kraut-loving, German zoccola, sei un rompicoglioni-"

Spain, nursing a wonderful black eye from where Romano elbowed him in the kitchen, offered him a cigarette.

Veneziano may act like an airheaded idiot, but Romano knew otherwise. His brother showed up in that designer outfit, glistening like some newly polished coin found in the middle of a fucking golden vault of jewels, and had brought ingredients that Romano could never even dream to afford. All to prove that he was richer, smarter, better.

And Romano, who wore the rough wools of his barren land, whose fingers were roughened by scarcity, who could remember hunger more than he could remember satiety, felt belittled and humiliated.

"I'm not living here," Romano teemed. "You'll have to rope my fucking carcass to the ceiling if you want me to live here, because no way in hell am I going to live in this house."

"Look, Lovi, I think this here would be nice for a tomato patch. And maybe even some eggplants," Spain was already walking towards the small stretch of grass in the garden. "And you can grow basil at the corners so you can perfume the garden."

Romano wanted to tear his hair out. "Did you not listen to a word I just said?"

Spain was kneeling by the soil, feeling the texture with his long, scarred fingers. "It's a bit dry, though, but I think I saw a small gardening shop when we were driving in."

"You know what? You can fucking talk about the fucking garden, and make lunch for fucking Veneziano, because I know you always preferred him over me." To his horror, his voice trembled; his throat swelled with hurt, hurt tears. "And you think he's so fucking wonderful and you wouldn't care less if I used my own fucking pasta to hang myself off the fucking alps-"

Spain calmly watched on. Romano felt his head threaten to explode. He didn't know half what he was saying only that he wanted to say it, scream it, rip it out of his skin, bleed it all over the floor.

Veneziano was always better. Even when they were children, Veneziano was better. Even Spain- and Romano hated, hated admitting this- the only person who Romano was close to, the only person Romano trusted, the only person Romano felt safe with, had once wanted Veneziano over him.

And he was afraid that a few more minutes in Veneziano's company would make Spain remember that and leave him.

"Oh look, Lovi!" Spain cheerfully pointed to a small sprig of lavender miraculously pushing through the coarse soil. "It's your favourite, isn't it?"

Romano pelted his shoe at Spain's head and stormed away.


Italy sat in the living room floor, so he wouldn't stain the sofa with tomato, and let Hungary wash the soft flesh out of his hair.

"I didn't do anything, really! I was only asking if it's the one he meant because I had three different types of saffron and I wasn't sure which one he was talking about. And I woke up really early to buy the veal and the big butcher man said it was the best one because I told him I wanted the best for my brother- and he told me everyone liked his veal because he fed all the cows in the mountains himself- and I really like the mountains because there's a lot of mountains next to Turin and I used to visit Turin all the time in the winter-" Italy suddenly shot up to a stand. "I know: I'm going to ask Germany."

Hungary pulled him down. "I don't think that's a good idea, Feli."

Italy stood back up. "But why not? Germany's my best friend! He's smart and big and blonde and knows everything!"

"Not a good idea," Hungary pulled him back down. "Trust me."

Italy sprang up again. "Then I'll ask Mr Austria." He had a funny accent, just like Germany, so he was bound to be just as helpful.

"The only thing Roderich will do is tell you off for staining his cravat," he was unfortunately in the way when Romano kicked an entire bowl of tomato sauce at Italy's head. "How about we think about cleaning up the mess in the kitchen?"

"No," sighed Italy. "I don't like cleaning. Germany and Japan usually do that for me." Italy worriedly twiddled his thumbs. "Why do you think Romano got so mad? It's not just because of the saffron right? Is he allergic to saffron? Is that why he didn't want it?"

He had never lived with Romano so he wouldn't know. Even during the Second World War, when they all moved into Germany's house, Romano spent more time sneaking out and causing problems than staying with Italy and helping.

Fottuto fascista, fucking fascist, Romano had hissed when Italy had pointed a gun at his brother's heart.

But Italy slammed the memory shut and locked it with fearful fingers. He thought of lavender instead; of Romano's olive-skin when they used to swim in the river as children; of Romano's fingers, brown and scarred, as they trimmed vines and felt the coarse texture of the soil.

"Hey, pezzo di merda," Romano snapped his fingers. He was standing by the archway of the cream living room, impatient. "Get off your stupid ass. Andiamo."

Italy sniffled. "Why?"

"Don't you want to fucking eat or what? I'm fucking starving. Get off your stupid ass and help me peel the fucking tomatoes."

Italy felt like a hundred stars. He twittered to his brother, arms spread like a bird, until Romano threatened to break his arms and use them as breadsticks. But Italy wasn't deterred; they were on speaking terms again.

Italy sat as close to Romano as possible, shoulder brushing against shoulder, jabbering about how hot Roma was and how different it was to Venice, how really old the roads were when compared to Milan and how sparse the surroundings were when compared to Florence. He didn't notice his brother wincing, a tightly wound coil, ready to spring at the wrong moment.

But Italy was too happy. They grated Parmesan and peeled tomatoes and crushed garlic and chopped parsley and it felt nice. Sure they had to prep the food on the staircase because the kitchen had to be stripped, mopped and polished, but it felt nice nonetheless.

"It's been so long since I had a big brother to cook with. It feels so nice," hummed Italy.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

"We should do it everyday! I also want to walk with you down the markets in the morning and I want to visit the old coliseum that Grandpa Rome used to take us to and I want to buy new shoes, so we should also go there together. Oh! There's a nice place we can have gelato, I remember seeing it years ago and it's still here, it's so funny!"

Romano frowned. He looked so different when he frowned. He looked almost like he did when they were children, small and frail in his long white robe, before he had been snatched out of Italy's arms.

But Italy would rather have Romano scream at him than frown at him. When his brother was this quiet, this despondent, it reminded Italy too much of the war, the pointed gun and the way his brother had hissed: fottuto fascista, fucking fascist, before the trigger was pulled.

"Romano?" said Italy tentatively.

Romano snapped his fingers. "Strain the pasta. Andiamo. Come on."


They ate outside on the terrace, on the old, rusty chairs and tables that had yet to be replaced. But they coated the surface with one of the sheets used to cover the furniture and bunched the rest into makeshift pillows for the chairs. The food was simple, delicious, because Romano was always the better cook and the wine was rich, tannic, classy, because Italy always had better foretaste.

Spain and Hungary flirtatiously carried the conversation, leaning towards each other, heads tilted, glances playful. Austria anxiously fidgeted, a worried crease settling between his brows. Italy tried to reach out to his brother but Romano was absently pushing at his pasta, not really eating, a sad, faraway look shadowing his dark, dark eyes.

Spain offered to make coffee and Hungary followed suit with the plates. They were already halfway towards the kitchen that overlooked the terrace by the time Austria realized the imminent risk of losing his fiancée to another man. But Austria leaving the table meant that Italy and Romano would be on their own- and Italy didn't think he could bear anymore of Romano's out-of-character silence.

So, he grabbed the empty wine glasses and jumped off to the kitchen before Austria had the chance to stand.

Spain had a moka pot over the stove, casually smoking a cigarette as he leaned by the counter, green eyes glancing over at the coffee to make sure it didn't bubble and burn. Hungary was sitting up on the counter, floral dress fluttering at her ankles, and extended her arms to Italy as he came through the door.

"Did Austria try to run after me?" asked Hungary.

"Si, but I ran before he had the chance to reach the kitchen," replied Italy. He tilted his head. "Why?"

Hungary threw her head back and gave a raucous laugh. Spain looked utterly delighted. He gave her a victorious high five.

"Oooooh!" Italy's little eyes widened. "This whole time you were doing it on purpose-"

"Shhhh!" Hungary tiptoed to the backdoor of the kitchen and closed it. Her hair bounced after, big and brown, laced with ribbon and flower. "It's just to get him fired up a bit- revive the young, possessive man inside him, you know?"

"Nothing can ignite passion in man like jealousy," said Spain knowingly. "I bet the sex is even better."

Hungary literally cackled. "You have no idea."

Italy wondered if there was some twisted way that would work with his brother but he felt spent for ideas. From the window, he could spot Romano, hand-on-cheek, nodding absently to something Austria was saying. Then, he noticed the tomato stains all over the light-coloured wood of the windowpane, almost as dry as splattered blood.


The only reason Romano decided to ignore his brother's pompous idiocy and get started on that goddamned lunch was because of that sprig of lavender.

Because Veneziano used to smell like lavender.

They used to roll down hills as children and sleep next to each other under the sultry, summer sun; by cool streams; under the safe sky owned by their grandfather. His brother had been smaller than him and his little fingers would curl around Romano's sleeve, hair nuzzling against Romano's cheeks, scented sweet by olive soap.

And Romano had loved him. God, how Romano had loved him.

But Veneziano grew up worlds away. His cities were too different, his accent was too sharp, his food, his clothes, his skin, his scent- all of it was different. And no matter how nice Veneziano was trying to be right now, Romano couldn't forget how difficult he had been in the past.

Time and time again, whenever Romano had reached out, Veneziano would take his hand- only to turn and stab him in the back. It happened countlessly during the Risorgimento. It happened countlessly during the great wars. It was bound to happen again.

"It's been such a long time since I had a big brother to sleep with!" beamed Veneziano.

"And who the hell said you were going to sleep here?" snapped Romano. "Get the fuck out and sleep in your own goddamn bed."

"But sleeping alone is no fun! I get really sad and really scared and really lonely but whenever I sleep with Ja-"

Veneziano clamped his mouth shut but Romano had a very good idea about what his brother had intended to say. His eye twitched. His jaw clicked.

"Finish that fucking sentence, I dare you."

"I'm going to open the windows. It's really hot isn't it? I'm also going to get a jug of water from downstairs. I'm really thirsty. Are you thirsty? I think you're thirsty so I'm going to bring two glasses just in case."

"I said finish that fucking sentence!"

"But if I finish it you're going to get really mad and then you're going to beat me again and my head already hurts from when you threw the bag of onions at me."

Romano grabbed him by his shirt. "You know what else is going to hurt if you don't finish that fucking sentence-"

And before he knew it, he was sobbing his eyes out because, dammit, he didn't want to be here, in this room, with his brother. He wanted to be back in Napoli, in that little farmhouse that smelled like tomatoes, lavender and shit; or in Madrid, with Antonio, smoking out on the porch or walking downtown or picking up girls or doing anything, anything, other than stay here and listen to how much his brother liked that fucking German over him.

"Don't cry, Romano! I'm so sorry- please don't cry-"

Romano punched him. Veneziano punched him back so fucking hard that he lost his balance and hit his jaw against the cabinet.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to hit that hard- I panicked- I'm so sorry! Romano, are you okay? I"

But Romano shakily stood, hand on his swollen cheek, and spat out a tooth.

A fucking tooth.

Veneziano held up his hands. He was as white as a sheet.

"Mi dispiaci," he squeaked.

If Romano was angry before, he was livid now. He wrestled his brother onto the floor and, come hell or high water, he was going to pull out Veneziano's tooth with his bare fingers because, god-fucking-dammit, that fucking hurt. Veneziano was writhing, screaming, trying to grab hold of his wrists and Romano was screaming, crying, trying to land a head-butt.

But there was a ripping sound and he caught sight of a knotted scar in the middle of his brother's bare chest.

An ice-cold bucket of water splashed over Romano's head. He lurched away. Nausea knotted his stomach. He sped to the bathroom, doubled over the toilet and puked.

Romano remembered that hot, humid evening, not unlike tonight, and the steely cold of the gun tucked into his vest. He remembered the booming echo of the gunshot and the swathing warmth of spilt blood and the sound of their bodies as he dragged, dragged, dragged across the open stretch of war-torn Berlin.


AN:

Just a few cultural points!

There is a very distinct cultural difference between North and South Italy. When it comes to food, Northern Italy has more cream-based, buttery dishes with exotic/expensive ingredients (saffron, veal, venison) and better wines, highlighting how much richer the North is vs South Italy, which is a lot poorer, that has a simpler cuisine with more vegetables and seafood rather than any meats.

The reunification is a bit of a mess- really confusing- but, in a nutshell, there was a lot of Veneziano trying to fight against Austria (by allying with France and Prussia) and Romano trying to fight against Spain (all on his own, bless). But, when the two italies finally came together in the late 1800s, they realized that their languages were different (what we know as Italian today is actual Tuscan- southern Italian cities would've spoken a different language altogether), their economies were different ( being poverty stricken and simple farmland vs industrialised ) as was their education (illiterate in the south) and their healthcare (more disease in the south) so…

The north began seeing the south as just this big, barbaric burden and the south saw the north as Germanic bootlickers who lacked traditional values.

So, they began attacking each other :(

As for Spain and Hungary's camaraderie… no historical point there xD I feel they'd make such good bros.

Hoped you enjoyed that! Reviews make my day 3