Chapter Nine – Back in Black
Germany woke up convinced he had seven large elephants balanced on his skull. It took him a few moments to establish that he had a hangover. Languidly, he smacked his lips, trying to get a little moisture into his dry mouth. Stretching, he rolled over in his bed lazily – only to let out a short, sharp, girly scream.
"ARGH! Sheiße!" He screamed, before rolling off the bed into a heap in the floor.
The reason for his fright was the presence of his stark-naked older brother who was squashed into his bed and was cuddling a large orange and white traffic cone like a teddy bear. Frankly, the unexpected sight would be enough to give anyone a fright, especially when you have just woken up. The cuffuffle from Germany stirred Prussia who woke up with a groan, clutching his head.
"Mein Gott! Ficken…where did I get a traffic cone from?" Prussia moaned.
"I don't care, go put some clothes on now!" Yelled Germany in a very loud whisper. Even Germany's anger could be contained by a raging hangover.
-Hetalia-
It was not long before they were back in the conference. Well, Germany was back in the conference room, Prussia was sitting with Spain in a ventilation shaft overlooking the conference room. Clearly, the best cure for a hangover was to sit with one of your best friends and stalk your brother and other best friend with an army of pranks stowed at your disposal. They sat and ate churros (Spain's best cure for a hangover) and quietly commentated on the conference below.
"So, Italy and England still have not showed up." The muffled voice of Germany drifted up to them. Even they could tell his headache was not just down to his hangover.
"I'm sure they are having a very good time honhonhonhon."
"Do you think they have gone to my place to become one with Mother Russia, da?"
"That Russian gives the awesome me the creeps."
"Would you like more churros?" whispered Spain to Prussia.
"Ja, danke!" The albino replied politely.
"Did you ever check to see if England was in his room last night, France?" They could just make out the German taking a sip of a strong, black coffee as he tried to cure his hangover.
"No sign of him, apparently mon petite lapin checked out the night before last."
"Aiyaa, clearly he was lying on the phone. If he is dead I will sell all his stuff for a cut-price." China chipped in (un)helpfully.
"Iggy has probably just gone to play with his invisible friends or something. Italy is probably just on a three-day nap. But when they come back I will tell them off, because I am the hero!"
"It's a shame we don't have a cardboard cut out of Italy. The awesome me could have totally tricked West into thinking he was really there."
"If only Romano was here, I'm sure we could have tricked them into thinking Romano was Italy. I could have bribed him with tomatoes." It is unclear whether Spain had just forgotten England, Italy and Romano's plans or whether he was improving his acting skills.
"I did visit Italy's house last night and found he was not there again. Well, we still have a lot of business to attend to today. We still have twenty-four hours for them to come back before we really get into action. Russia, I believe it was your turn to present on climate change…"
The meeting progressed in relative peace. The only interruptions were the stink bombs that Prussia and Spain threw into the room (bad move for people stuck in a ventilation shaft…); and when they later decided to release thirteen live sparrows into the room. It turned out that thirteen sparrows were enough to cause a lot of chaos and leave more bird droppings than one would initially have suspected.
-Hetalia-
That evening, Germany went back to his room for an early night. The German had no intention of ever repeating the previous night's drunken shenanigans again. He was still frightfully worried about his Italian friend. Although he was almost certain that Italy was with England and therefore, safe; he could not help but feel that something was very amiss. Italy always picked up his mobile when Germany called. He always told Germany if he was going away for long. Italy always came to the conferences he was supposed to, even though he rarely did much in the way of contributing to them. It was rare for the Italian to miss a chance to sleep in Germany's bed let alone anything else. Although Prussia had managed to fulfil that task the previous night. Germany let out a long-suffering sigh.
"Damned, bruder…" He mumbled to himself.
After spending some time lost in his thoughts, he quickly decided to flick the television on. Soon, he lost himself in a silly film about goats and was gorging on a takeaway pizza. Some subconscious part of him hoped that the Italian food and relaxed atmosphere might somehow draw Italy back to the German's side.
Once the film had finished, Germany cleaned up his dinner and took a long, hot bath in his small en-suite bathroom. He clothed himself in clean pyjamas and then settled down in his bed, more than ready for an early night. The German was lost in dreamless sleep in less than five minutes.
-Hetalia-
The next morning, Germany woke up bright and early. Feeling energised after his good night of sleep, he went for a quick jog around the block. Then, he showered, got himself dressed and went down for breakfast. A bowl of cornflakes and two slices of toast and marmalade later and the German set off for the conference room.
As usual, he was the first one there. After the bird related chaos of the previous day, the German had stayed behind to clean the conference room (twice in one week was a bit much really). Slowly, he scoured the rest of the room before the meeting started. Theoretically a cleaner environment would lead to clearer thoughts and more productivity; although in practice this almost never happened with the chaotic nations.
After about fifteen minutes, the other nations started to file in. Everyone chatted amongst themselves as they took their seats. France was telling the assembly about his latest conquest in the bedroom when the door opened to reveal someone unexpected.
"Ah, England, you have finally chosen to join us." Germany stated as he eyed the Englishman suspiciously.
Marching into the room with confidence, England took a seat next to France and opposite the door. Nothing seemed amiss with him, no tell-tale signs of illness or stress. In fact, he seemed more relaxed than he had in a while. A small glint of a smirk could be seen in his bright, green eyes and twitching across his lips.
"My good fellows, I would not have missed this were I not unwell." England sighed dramatically and not even America was gullible to believe his words.
"Did you finally get laid? I knew mon grand ami sourcils had a bit of a -BEEP- in him. Did she like it up the -BEEP- with the -BLEEP- in the -BEEP-?" France winked outrageously and blew a kiss England's way.
"I am not going to dignify that with an answer you bloody French wanking git-tits." The Englishman grumbled, his good mood already strained in the presence of his long-time rival.
"Ahh, l'amour!" France cooed.
"England-san please ignore France-san. Although it would be good if you could truthfully answer the question of your whereabouts?" Japan replied with a blank gaze in England's direction.
"If England get's out of the meeting that easily then we all should aru."
"Can we get hamburgers yet?" America decided to get right to the heart of the matter in hand.
"Mister Kumichi, would you like pancakes soon?" The chair spoke quietly.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Canada."
"Argh! The ghost is back! I'm scared – I'm scared! I'm scared." America took that moment to get up and start running around in circles in blind panic at the sound of the ghost.
"Ghost become one with Mother Russia da?"
"Mon petite Canada is not a ghost – he is an angel!" France replied smoothly only to meet a sea of blank faces.
"Who is Canada?" America voiced the question that everyone thought.
"Your brother?"
"That's so awesome! I have a brother! Wait, I knew I had a brother. Silly Canada." He moved to slap the Canadian hard on the back in a gesture of brotherly banter which sent Canada flying. Sometimes it was easier to be invisible…
"Enough!" Exclaimed Germany, thumping his fist on the table in exasperation. "When you have all quite finished?" He spoke threatening, sending an icy glare to the nations spread around the table who quietened down and resumed their seats, "Now, England. Have you seen Italy at all?" He turned to the Englishman.
England raised a large eyebrow, his smirk widening expressively. "Italy? Why, yes I have seen him as a matter of fact."
"You have?! Where is he? Is he safe? Is he well? Has he had enough pasta?" The German stood up emphatically, an overwhelming sense of relief washing over him.
"You ask where he is and I say, he is right there." England pointed to the door in front of him and sat back with folded arms and a large grin on his lips.
With that the double doors swung open with a loud bang, slamming against the walls either side of the door frame and in strode Italy, but not as Germany knew him.
Italy was wearing skin-tight black, leather trousers that sucked in his already tiny legs and waist and showed off his arse exceptionally well. On his torso, was a plain, black tank top with a few black tassels dangling down over his shoulders. Although only one shoulder could be seen as he wore a thick, leather jacket off that shoulder. The jacket was covered with silver studs and his sleeves were rolled up. On his feet were a pair of black Doc Martins that came up halfway up his calf muscles and were laced with black ribbon. The Italian was wearing a silver ring with a skull engraving on it; a black, leather bracelet with a small, silver cross dangling from it and a good half a dozen piercings for ears, tongue and nose. His dainty hands were covered by small, fingerless, leather gloves.
The changes were not just limited to Italy's dress sense. Normally the Italian had brunette had silky hair with a single unruly curl bouncing up from it. Now, Italy had night-black hair, spiked into every direction in the manner of a mohawk that had been in a washing machine. Italy was wearing night black nail varnish on all his long nails. Furthermore, the Italian's eyes were caked with black eyeliner and black eyeshadow so he looked like his eyes were surrounded by vivid dark circles. A small, wireless headphone could be seen in his right ear and the faint, tinny sound of death metal could be heard to ooze from the earbud.
But the most surprising change could be seen clearly on the Italian's right forearm. Marked in vivid black ink and still a little red from its recent application, was a tattoo. Swirling in a myriad of whorls was a bowel of pasta. The spaghetti pasta seemed to run up his arm in a rounded shape, with a couple of stray tomatoes in the centre that could have been eyes, and a stray mushroom that could have been a nose. Nobody could deny the resemblance that the pasta tattoo had to Germany. After all, if Italy was going to get a tattoo, then tattooing Germany's face made out of pasta was the only real option.
The thunk, thunk, thunk of Italy's heavy, new boots echoed around the room as he strode over to his chair. He sat down with a crash and swung one, then the second leg onto the table, one resting over the other at the ankles. He bought his hands up to interlace his fingers and rested them lightly behind his neck before swinging back on his chair. After a moment of silence, Italy looked around the room before announcing in a loud voice:
"Ve-ve, Motherfuckers."
A/N: I don't own Hetalia or the song Back in Black, or Doc Martins. I have literally been wanting to write Italy's entrance to the conference since I started this story. Thanks for reading, reviewing and following my story.