AN: Hello my lovelies. I am back. Mwahahahahahahahaha. I'm sorry for my extended absense... I don't want to explain. However, if you wish to yell at me and spam my PM box as a way to keep me writing, go ahead.
Seriously guys. Do it.
But anyway. Here is the long awaited next installment of Knocked Up! Enter big brother Romano! Enjoy my darlings!
A shitstorm had just rolled in, and Germany was nowhere near prepared. Why did Italy have to call Romano? Why? The older Italy brother sounded as if he were kicking the front door while yelling at his brother to open the "fucking door, dammit!"
Germany closed his eyes and groaned. He hadn't even had a single beer and he had to deal with Romano? Not fair. Not fair at all. He was not drunk enough to deal with him.
"Fratello~!" Italy cried, opening the door for his brother.
"WHERE THE HELL IS THE FUCKING POTATO BASTARD?!" Romano shrieked, pushing away his brother's attempts at a hug.
"It's nice to see you too Lovino." Germany said, faking a smile as he entered the room to face his demon. "Hello Antonio."
Spain stepped into the house behind his angry Italian, his ever cheerful grin present on his face.
"Hola mis amigos. Lovi, please try to be civil."
"WE TALKED ABOUT THIS BASTARD! THE POTATO BASTARD IS NOT YOUR "AMIGO" AND I WILL NOT BE CIVIL TO THE FUCKING BASTARD WHO FUCKING KNOCKED UP MY STUPID IDIOT BROTHER!" Romano screamed. He had been in his house for one minute, and Germany was ready to never see the furious Italian ever again.
"Fratello… Why are you being so mean?" Whined Italy, who had managed to attach himself to his brother while the elder Italy was busy yelling at Spain.
"Have you met him?" Germany grumbled under his breath. Romano seemed to sense that he had been insulted and his glare harshened.
"Tell me stupid little fratello, how the fucking hell are you fucking pregnant?" Germany could see the terror on Italy's face as his brother turned his fierce gaze upon him.
"Well… Um… Uh…." Italy began, unsure of what he was going to tell Romano.
"How is it possible, Feliciano?"
"England made a potion for me…"
"Wait," Spain interrupted before Romano could begin on another rant, "are you telling me you drank something Inglaterra made?" Spain looked as if he might faint. "And it actually worked?" Italy nodded in response. He couldn't tell if Spain looked impressed or terrified.
"Well, congratulations!"
"Did. You. Just. Congratulate. Him?" Romano growled, the death stare that he had been giving Germany turning to Spain. "The fucking potato bastard fucking knocks up my stupid fucking brother and you fucking CONGRATULATE HIM?" Italy let go of his brother. He could swear there was smoke coming out of his brother's ears.
"Lovi?" Italy asked, trying to distract his brother before he murdered someone.
"What?" The older Italy spat.
"I made pasta." Romano's anger seemed to subside immediately at the mention of food.
"With tomatoes?"
"Si."
"When do we eat?"
Dinner was horribly tense. For Germany, that is. Spain and Italy gabbed away while Romano spent the entire time he was not eating throwing dirty looks and rolls at Germany. He suppressed the desire to punch the Italian in the face with mixed results. On one hand, he did manage to keep himself in his seat, on the other, a deep rage filled his entire body, and he wore the anger on his sleeve for everyone to see.
His obvious irritation was ignored by the others, however. Spain and Italy continued to gush over the unborn baby, and Romano continued to glower at everyone.
"So, I was thinking that if the bambino is a boy, we could name him Heinrich." He caught Italy saying through the meaningless babble.
Suddenly Germany could not contain his anger any longer. For some unknown reason, the name Italy spoke grated against his ears and sent an unspeakable amount of rage rushing through his body.
"No child of mine will ever have that horrible name." He growled, glancing over at Italy with hate reflecting in his eyes. Without warning, Italy's eyes widened and filled with tears.
"But… But… What's wrong with Heinrich? I… I love that name." The little Italian sobbed, standing up out of his chair and taking a step back from Germany.
There it was again. That horrid name. Germany scowled, his chest tightened with hatred.
"Italia. Our child will not be named… Heinrich…" He spat the name as if it were poison. "Not on my life." Italy swallowed hard at Germany's harsh words, his entire body shaking. Before anyone could react, the little nation ran from the room, tears streaming down his face.
"Y-you… You BASTARD!" Romano roared, jumping over the table and attempting to punch Germany in the jaw. The larger nation simply put a hand out and pushed Romano back down, the angry Italian landing on a plate of pasta as he fell on the table.
Ignoring the stream of insults, obscenities, and challenges rushing from Romano's mouth, Germany ran up the stairs to where he knew Italy would be hiding.
Sure enough, Italy was curled up under the blankets in their bed. Germany felt a sharp twinge of guilt as he looked upon his lover's shaking form.
"Feliciano…?" He asked softly from the doorway. Italy probably wouldn't want to talk to him, and Germany couldn't blame him. His anger had been unwarranted. Italy had done nothing to deserve his anger, but he had let himself unload upon the little nation. HIs anger, as usual, had gotten the best of him. He hoped Italy could forgive him.
"A-are y-y-you going t-t-to yell a-at me?" Italy managed to choke out between sobs, still hiding his head beneath the covers.
"I'm not going to yell." Germany walked over to the little Italian and knelt at his bedside. "I'm sorry Feliciano." He whispered, bright eyes dim and downcast.
"What's so wrong with Heinrich, Luddy?" Italy poked his head out from his hiding place to look at his lover.
"I'm not sure." Germany admitted with a slight scowl, "I just know that every time I hear you say that name I'm filled with anger." He looked up at the smaller nation, guilt and pain causing his stomach to knot up as he looked upon Italy's tear-stained face.
"But… It's his name…" Their eyes met, both dim and sad.
"Who's name?"
"Holy Roman Empire…" Germany felt his body grow rigid with anger as he heard Italy speak the name. Jealousy. That's what he was feeling. Jealousy for a boy who had been dead for centuries. Prussia, Austria, and Hungary had told him about Holy Rome and Italy when they found out about his feelings for the latter. The idea of Italy harboring feelings for the deceased nation had always filled him with dread. Now he wanted to name their child after him? Germany didn't think he would be able to stand that.
Italy seemed to notice the change in Germany's demeanor when he spoke Holy Rome's name.
"Luddy?" He asked softly, reaching a hand out to the larger nation. Germany took his lover's hand and held it close to his face.
"Do you still pine after him, Feliciano?" He immediately regretted the question. His stomach was turning at the thought of Italy's answer. The look of anguish and quiet terror on Germany's face tore at Italy's gut.
"What? Ludwig, you know I love you."
"That's not an answer." Frustration bubbled up in his stomach, causing the churning mess to threaten to come up. Germany desperately wished he could convey his feelings better. Perhaps he should have consulted one of his manuals before coming in here and facing his emotions. Emotions made him woozy.
"I don't understand why you seem to hate him so much…" Instead of answering, Germany pulled Italy off the bed and into a tight, slightly possessive hug, desperate to get Italy to understand his inner turmoil. Suddenly, a thought popped into Italy's head. "Luddy, are you jealous?" He giggled at the thought of his big tough Germany jealous over him. It was kind of cute.
Germany blushed slightly and nodded, pulling Italy closer. This little Italian was his. HIS. And he wasn't going to let anyone take him away. He didn't know what he'd do if someone did. Didn't know what he would become without his loud, obnoxious, troublesome, messy, lazy, beautiful, perfect little Italian. The rushing thoughts made him feel sick, but his jealousy seemed to make Italy happy.
"Mine…" Germany pouted childishly, laying his head against Italy's shoulder, eliciting another giggle from the little nation.
"Don't worry. I'm yours." Italy wrapped himself around Germany and sat quietly on the larger nation's lap, enjoying the affection of the embrace. They sat wrapped around one another on the bedroom floor for several minutes.
Their nice loving scene was interrupted by banging on their door. Germany groaned. He had forgotten about his unwanted houseguest. Italy begrudgingly got off Germany's lap and went to see his brother.
"Are you two done in here?" Romano growled as his brother opened the door. "I have a bastard's ass to kick."
"Everything's all right fratello." Italy insisted, making himself a barricade between his brother and lover.
"He made you cry." Romano spat the words like venom, "It's not 'all right', stupid little fratello." Romano's dark eyes sent daggers through Germany's soul.
First he'd befriended Italy. Then he began dating him. Then he got him pregnant. Now he'd made him cry.
Germany was certain he was going to die that night. And if Romano had any say in the matter, he would.
The den was just big enough to cozily fit roughly six people. When one of those people was Romano, it felt like the confines of a coffin. Germany could feel the murderous thoughts exuding from the elder Italy from across the room as the two couples sat in rather uncomfortable silence. Thankfully, he was working on his fifth beer and the tension had subsided slightly due to the alcohol. Unfortunately, Romano had already drank two thirds of the bottle of wine he and Spain had been sharing.
Alcohol did nothing to alleviate Romano's temper, and whenever Spain and Italy left to find a new bottle of wine to open, he let Germany know.
"Fuck you, fucking potato bastard and fuck your house and fuck this room and this fucking uncomfortable sofa and..." Germany stopped listening and began simply counting how many times Romano used the word "fuck". By the time he had run out of breath (with a final, "and once more FUCK YOU") Germany had counted a grand total of thirty-three fucks. He was fairly certain that was some sort of record. Stifling a chuckle, he imagined Romano's cursing abilities being recorded in one of America's stupid world record books. "You're not listening, fucking bastard."
Germany groaned loudly. What did Romano care if he listened as long as he got to rant?
"Because you're a stupid fucking potato-headed bastard, I will repeat this once more. If you ever make my fratello cry ever again, I will end your sorry fucking life." Romano had gotten uncomfortably close as he growled the warning.
"And why not now, Lovino?" The blonde asked, exasperated. Rule number one of murder: never tell the victim they are going to be murdered. It's just common sense.
"I promised the tomato bastard I wouldn't try anything murderous while we were here..." Romano pouted. Almost as if he had heard his name being called, Spain reappeared with two glasses of wine. He stared at them for a moment, as if trying to remember what was in them before handing one to his temperamental lover.
"Here you go Lovi!" Spain basically shoved the wine in Romano's face, and refused to take a drink of his own glass as he was watching the Italian intensely, as if waiting for something.
"Did you put something in my wine, bastard?" Romano glared at Spain momentarily before studying his wine as if looking for contamination. After deciding there was nothing wrong with the wine, he began drinking it like normal. Spain looked way too happy just to see Romano drink some wine.
The two of them made no sense to Germany. But before he had too much time to think about how odd Spain and Romano's relationship was, Italy had returned and was pulling Germany out of the room.
"Italia? What are you doing?" He asked, a little confused at the sudden arrival and departure. Not that he was complaining. No, he did not want to be in that awful room with Romano any longer than was absolutely necessary.
"Let's leave them alone for a little while." Italy giggled as he led Germany back upstairs to their bedroom. "Oh, did fratello drink his wine?" Italy turned to look at Germany, almost bouncing with excitement.
"Yes, he did." Germany's brow knitted in confusion. What was with the wine? Italy squealed a little when Germany confirmed Romano's drinking habits, and ran upstairs, practically dragging Germany behind him. It was times like this that made Germany wonder why Italy refused to run during training. He knew he was capable of running, and fast too! He guessed it was just another thing he would never fully understand about his lover.
They made their way into their room and Italy immediately began to strip as he made his way to their bed. Well, at least bedtime was going to be normal. The Lord knew the rest of the day wasn't.
They had been lying in bed for maybe twenty minutes, curled up together, cuddling, kissing, and whispering sweet words to one another when Germany stopped and his body went rigid with a sudden, horrifying realization.
"They're going to have sex down there, aren't they?" No, no, no, no, no. That was not okay. It was not okay for Spain to take Romano in his den. That was where he read and did crosswords and where he slept, cuddled up with his dogs when Italy was gone, and where Italy played with the cats, and, coincidentally, where he had gotten Italy pregnant.
Italy did not seem so concerned about the fate of the den. He simply shrugged and buried his head further into Germany's chest, "Probably." Germany groaned. He was going to have to have his den fumigated now. Damn Romano. Damn Spain. And damn their amorous nighttime activities.
The turmoil of this train of thought tortured Germany for another good twenty, thirty minutes before an even more terrifying thought entered his mind. Italy had said it was a potion that had made it possible for him to become pregnant, right? What if... what if he and Spain had put that same potion into Romano's wine, and that was why everyone was so interested in whether or not Romano drank his wine? Oh no. Spain and Romano were going to have a baby too, weren't they. Shit, shit, shit, shit.
"Feli?" Germany whispered, terror written across his face and laced in his voice, "What did you put in your brother's wine?"
Italy giggled, "You'll see."
