Chapter Six - Stage Two – Pasta Tattoos

England, Italy and Romano picked up their pace after the phone call from France. They bustled through the shops of central London with renewed vigour and soon were burdened with many bags. Black Doc Martins; a ring with a skull on it; a black leather bracelet with a small silver cross on a chain dangling off it; a bottle of black hair dye and an excessive amount of hair gel. The trio paused only to pick up a quick sandwich each on the go before resuming their efforts.

It was half three in the afternoon by the time they stopped for a proper break. They had found a small café near Oxford Street and had decided to sit on a table outside – the two Italians huddled over a coffee each and the Brit making his way through a pot of Yorkshire Tea. England was preoccupied with frantically texting on his phone to someone; although the other two had no idea who. They chatted amicably while the Englishman was distracted.

"Well the Tea Bastard sure knows how to get a bit of punk gear." Commented Romano as he sipped his coffee.

"Ve…Do you think England still has some himself? It'd be great to see him dressed like that. I wonder why he stopped dressing like that. Do you think Big Brother France has any photos of him?" Italy babbled enthusiastically.

"I'm sure if he did then the Tea Bastard would get them back pretty quick. He won't let him mess around that's for sure." Romano remarked dryly, recalling past escapades of them all in the Second World War.

The two nodded their agreements with one another and fell into silence. Around them, people bustled through the busy streets. Some with hands laden with shopping bags, others dressed for business and some strapped up with rucksacks as they chatted in a multitude of languages. Locals, businessmen and tourists hurrying though the old city, their voices and footsteps forming a gentle background hum of life. Besides them, England finally put his phone down and took a delicate sip of his tea, a wicked smirk on his lips as he seemed to size the two Italians up thoughtfully.

"I think it is about time that we moved onto Stage Two of our plan." England paused for dramatic effect, "I've booked you in for a tattoo Italy." England finally spoke after a long pause. Both the brothers looked up in surprise, Romano's mouth forming a perfect O of shock as Italy's eyes widened.

"Ve…a tattoo?!" He exclaimed loudly, "But don't they hurt?"

"I won't let you force my brother to do anything he doesn't want to Tea Bastard!" Romano slammed his coffee mug down loudly as he spoke, a scowl on his features as his chocolate coloured eyes glared into the Englishman's emeralds.

"Oh don't you worry about that! I have booked him in because the place I usually go to has a long waiting list. I pulled a few strings to get him in tonight. If he does not want a tattoo then I certainly won't force him." He took a small sip of his tea, a glint in his eyes as his gaze flickered between the two of them. "I must admit it hurts a little, but not so mu-"

"Wait a minute…." Romano interrupted. "What do you mean the place YOU usually go to?"

"Oh I have six tattoos currently." England replied, the gentleman clearly enjoying the shocked expressions of his companions.

"Six? Ve…what are they all?"

"I have a tattoo of the Union Flag on my right thigh; the Tudor Rose is on my lower back; I've got a guitar on my…well…" He blushed a little, looking awkward for the first time, "My rear end."

"Mister stick-up-his-arse, perfect manners, bastard, tea-drinking Englishman…has a tattoo…of a guitar…on his arse…?" Romano practically spelt it out, his eyes looking close to falling out their sockets as he spoke. It was clear he would sooner believe England about his unicorns and fairies than believe his tattoo stories.

"Of course! That was the only one I had done whilst drunk. Still, I don't regret it. It's a rather nice guitar." England replied, his embarrassment soon replaced by a mild sense of smugness at the reactions of the two.

"They say never judge a book by its cover and I never will again. Jeez…" Romano trailed off, downing the rest of his coffee in one as though hoping to drown his sorrows.

"I think it's nice you have lots of tattoos Mister England. What other ones do you have?" Italy chipped in, curiosity overwhelming him.

"I have a tattoo of a ship on my right upper arm." England lifted up the sleeve of his dress shirt to show them this one. There was a black outline of a sailing ship, swirling on a stormy sea on his skin. The design was small but beautiful and fitted his skin well. There was no colour to it, only black and the light pink of his soft skin. "The design was modelled on HMS Victory, my favourite ship."

The two Italians sent the design admiring glances. The tattoo finally seemed to prove to them both that England was telling the truth about his tattoos and they both had similar expressions of surprise mixed with admiration on their features. Italy reached out and traced his finger delicately over the design. England raised his eyebrows but did not move away, surprised and a little uncomfortable over the physical contact but not so much to risk upsetting the Italian.

"Ve…ve…ve…" Italy mumbled thoughtfully. "This is a beautiful piece of art." His renaissance mode activated and he beamed a smile. "I think I would not mind art on me so much if it was as nice as this."

"All tattoos are just art. Besides, for us they are not permanent anyway." England explained, "They only last about forty to sixty years before fading as our skin regenerates." Pulling away from Italy, he rolled his sleeve down again and took a sip of his tea. "If a nation gets a tattoo it stays for a while before fading unless you get it redone. And you can always get it removed earlier through that new-fangled process if you wanted."

"That doesn't sound so bad!" Italy beamed a smile, folding his arms and looking between the two of them. "Maybe I will just get a little tattoo."

"Well there's no pressure. It will hurt remember so if you don't want to then neither of us will force you." England spoke gently.

"Do what you want bastard, but just make sure you pick a good design." Romano grumbled, not entirely convinced about the idea, but seeming to relax a bit when England explained the lack of permanency. After all, having a design on your skin for life means something else entirely when you are effectively immortal like the nations are. "Still, I want to know what your other tattoos are?" Romano said, eyeing England again.

"Well, I have a tattoo on my ankle of a unicorn." He ignored Romano's derisive laughter, "It is not a feminine tattoo just to clarify."

"Sure, it's not…" Romano teased, smirking at England's slightly affronted look.

"Tattoos are about being who you want to be anyway. Seeing as nobody believes me about the unicorns I can see, it's nice to have something that they can see." England explained, although he still looked a little offended.

"I'm sure it looks very nice! Although not as nice as pasta looks." Italy's wisdom was infallible for the situation.

"Anyway," England interjected before Romano could chip in or Italy could go off on a tirade of pasta-love, "My last tattoo is a Celtic Cross in between my shoulder blades. I never could work out if I was Catholic or Protestant but Celts are a part of my history and so is Christianity so I thought that was a good compromise. It's my oldest tattoo, I've had it since I was a very young nation."

The two were a little surprised by this. Italy felt less afraid of England now than he had for centuries. The variety of tattoos and the meaning and history behind them had taken the Italian by surprise and he felt that there was a lot more to the Island Nation than met the eye. He drained the last of his coffee. A sense of decisiveness overcame Italy and he placed the cup down thoughtfully, looking between the others earnestly.

"Ve…what should I get my tattoo of?"

-Hetalia-

They had gone back to England's flat not long after that, deciding to take the tube before the rush hour descended on London. Once there, they had sorted through Italy's new possessions and England had dyed Italy's hair black. The process had been remarkably smooth, although the Italian did end up wearing some of the black hair dye on his knee – goodness knows how it had got there but Italy had a lot of skills in chaos and destruction. The dark hair colour felt odd to the bubbly Italian but he was slowly getting used to seeing it in the mirror in England's lounge. The first time he saw it he retreated behind the sofa with a white flag until he realised it was himself in the mirror and not a dark-haired burglar.

England had disappeared into his bedroom for a while and had reappeared with a small box which he gave to Italy. When the Italian opened it up he found a large selection of silver and black false piercings of varying types.

"I still wear them sometimes. I let my own piercing holes close up." England explained. "You should find false piercings for your tongue, several for your ears and one for your nose. I've cleaned them all so you should be fine to wear them."

It took some time to get Italy into the piercings but soon the Italian started to look the part. Something about Italy with a tongue piercing gave England the shivers and made him glad that the Italian was still as naïve as ever. Romano hardly recognised his brother when he emerged from the kitchen with pasta for three. Still, he was starting to quite enjoy seeing Italy look less likely a wimp and more like the grandchild of the Roman Empire.

The three ate their dinner and then decided to head out to the tattoo parlour. Italy left his 'piercings' in, deciding to try and get used to the odd feeling of the foreign objects on his skin and body.

-Hetalia-

The tattoo parlour was in east end of London, not far from the Thames. From the outside, it looked a grimy little place plonked haphazardly between some terraces, a few flats and a fish and chips takeaway shop. It had no windows and the door was painted in black with a single sign above it saying Tom's Tatt's in large red letters. England waltzed up to it and knocked confidently on the door, despite the small closed sign that was hanging up on a peg in front of him.

"Go away, we are fucking closed." A male voice with a thick, cockney accent yelled; the anger muffled by the door.

"It's your favourite customer, Arthur." England replied with a light-hearted tone, knocking louder in response to his anger.

The two Italians watched the exchange dubiously. Romano already had his doubts about the place, but after half heartedly vowing not to judge things by their appearance again, he thought he should give it a chance. Italy was happily looking for material to make a white flag with, the place and the person behind the door terrifying him enough to resort to his favourite 'weapon'. When the door opened, he let out a little squeak and hid behind Romano, peaking over his brother's shoulder to eye the owner of the tattoo parlour.

The man was a good six foot two inches tall and broad shouldered to boot. He had muscle born from hours at the gym and looked like he could pick up all three of the petite nations with one hand. His hair was dyed black, green and orange and was spiked into five different directions and his beard was pointed and bright green. Italy counted five piercings on his face and at least that many on each of his ears. The man was dressed in a black tank top with the words I Fuck Tits designed in silver letters on it. He was wearing black leather trousers and huge, thick, black boots which added another two inches to his height. Overall, he looked terrifying and both Italy and Romano were ready to bolt a mile in retreat from him.

England approached him and they awkwardly hugged, the man looking about three times the size of the small nation.

"Tom! I dare say, it's jolly good to see you."

"Arthur! It has been too long. You don't look a day older you lucky fucker." Tom glanced at the two Italians over England's shoulder. "These the guys you were telling me about?"

"This is Feliciano and Romano. Feliciano needs a tattoo and I know nobody better to do it." England grinned, clearly hoping to flatter the man's ego a little.

"He looks a weedy lad, but I'll give it a go. I still owe you one for that time Arthur." Tom glanced at his watch briefly before beckoning them in, "Let's get this over with then. Come on in."

England strolled in with confidence whilst the other two trotted in hesitantly behind him. They were presently surprised by the interior which was bathed with lamp light and airier than the outside would suggest. The walls were white washed and covered with A4 posters of tattoo designs of all shapes and sizes. A few benches and magazines along with a small till made up the only furnishings of the room. Two doors led off, one with a large sign that said PRIVATE on it and the other which said TATTOO ROOM. England sat down on one of the benches and beckoned the others to take a seat which they did with trepidation.

"So, do you even have a tattoo design?" Tom asked, eyeing up Italy with doubt in his hard gaze.

"Ve…ve…ve…" Italy squeaked nervously before pulling out a picture and giving it to the man. "Here!"

Tom snatched it up and stared at it for a long moment before looking back at the Italian. His expression turned into a hard frown before he spoke, "You do know this is permanent right?"

"Ve…I do…sir!" Italy swallowed thickly, wondering how quickly he could make a retreat from the room if he tried.

"Well…if you're sure?" One nod from Italy was the confirmation he needed and he turned and made his way to the tattoo room. "Let's get this over with then…"

-Hetalia-

Although Italy had wailed a lot throughout the process, both Romano and England were surprised he did not come flying out the door until the tattoo was finished. The wailing had eventually stopped after what sounded like some kind of threat from Tom and everyone was grateful for the peace it brought. Romano spent the time texting Spain to check up on his beloved kitten Tomato and was relieved to hear that the cat was fine, if well fed on milk and making friends with some turtles. England sat and embroidered, having had the common sense to pack his needlepoint with him for the wait.

When the door opened, both looked up expectantly as a nervous looking Italy emerged, his right forearm wrapped tightly with clingfilm.

"Well…let's see it!" England put down his embroidery hoop with a grin and leaned forward in anticipation.

"Italy – you bastard. That tattoo is perfect…"

A/N: Hello! It has been a while. Thanks for reading and your support with my story, I will get it finished eventually. I still don't own Hetalia. For reference: Oxford Street in London is where a lot of the big shops are and is the equivalent of a high street in some ways. Let me know if you want clarification on the history of England's tattoos? I might add in a little side story or sub chapter about them.