AN: All translations can from Google Translate, so pardon if they are wrong.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my character Camilla Madrigal. I am poor, do not sue me, you'll get nothing.
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Germany sighed. He absolutely hated being shut up in his own house, alone. Normally there'd at least be the sound of his brother typing up a blog entry, or the sound of pasta boiling over in the kitchen. Yes, this was supremely boring. Depressing, even.
That's when there was a knock at the door. Germany was surprised, it was raining out – who was it?
He went over, opening it. He couldn't make out the person in the storm, only that it was definitely female.
A sultry voice punctuated by a very familiar accent floated in. "Do you mind if I come in? It's a little wet out here…"
Stunned, he moved to the side, watching as she walked in. She had a very round bosom and full hips, her makeup subtle yet powerful.
Her skin was warm and yet not dark, her hair a deep shade of brown. It was straight, and flowed elegantly to her waist. Her eyes were a pretty hazel color, and held herself gracefully.
She wore a red pencil skirt and a black blouse, a crimson jacket over it. She also wore black stiletto heels, and a chic feminine hat with a black rose stemmed into it, with a ruffled purse on her arm.
She turned slightly with a daring smile. "Are you just going to stand there?"
He jumped slightly. "Oh… ah… who are you?" "Not going to let a poor woman rest for a second, are you? Alright."
She brushed a hand down her hair. "I was working in a bar down in Italia when this Spanish man came to me, said he was named Antonio. Said he had a friend that could use some cheering up, but was specifically looking for an Italian. I gave him my card. Called me a while later, said my new clientele was a 'Ludwig Beilschmidt'. Now, normally I'll take any customer, but being employed for a German while in the midst of World War Three? It cost him extra. Must be pretty close if he was that desperate."
Germany was horribly confused, piecing it together slowly. He first realized she had strictly used their human names – she had no idea they were countries. He wanted to leave it that way.
"I'm sorry but… he's not that close a friend of mine." "But see – you know him. Therefore, I stay."
It was obvious there would be no budging her, so he gave up on that matter. There wasn't even a shadow of a doubt in his mind that he wouldn't care… he decided as he looked her up and down again.
"So," she said, Italian accent floating lightly as she sat down on the couch, "why exactly was he so adamant about an Italian? Sounded as if he had been looking for a while. Was there another? Are they gone now?"
His mouth went dry as she peered at him. He found himself suddenly sitting next to her. How had he moved, he didn't remember moving? Something about her just pulled him closer.
"Ja… let's say there was another," he said slowly. "An Italian?" he nodded in response.
"I see," she nodded herself, looking thoughtful. "That's why. Oh, and you asked my name. Arabella Russo."
Her eyes softened slightly, as if realizing something. "Tesoro, you look upset. Can I make it better?" Her slender arms wrapped around his neck slightly leaning in to press her forehead to his.
He looked away, not completely unhappy with the gesture. "No… you can't. I'm afraid I… liebe ihn immer noch."
"Oh, I get it." Her lovely voice was soft. "You're a soldier, aren't you? So is your little Italian. This war has taken you two apart." "You could… say that."
"Well," she leaned back, fishing in her purse for something, "I'll see if I can help. Here's my number." She gave him the card, standing to leave.
He caught her arm, turning to look at her again. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I'll call."
The next thing that he was aware of, were smooth, spicy tasting lips pressing against his own.
"Oh, trust me, you will."
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AN: Well this is getting interesting...