"There." Romano slapped a piece of crumpled paper on top of his brother's keyboard. "I did it and now you can rest easy in knowing that I'm a failure."
"Ah, such a nice—"
"If you think lying to me is going to make me feel better, then you obviously have learned nothing over the past one-hundred fifty years or so." Romano stumbled back into his chair across from his brother. "Also, your pens are shit."
"But, Romano! You have such nice, strong down strokes!" Veneziano excitedly pointed at the mess of scribbles that his brother had hastily made upon request. "Look here! The curlicue is so defined—almost as if it were made by a computer, yet so uniquely you!"
If his brother's eyes didn't stop shining, they would start shining like the brightest star in the sky and Romano would go blind.
Romano didn't want to go blind.
So, away with Veneziano's bright smile.
Romano flicked one of the red pens at his brother's side of the table. He preened when he saw that he got a clear shot at his brother's obnoxiously straight, long nose.
"All I did was write my name three different times in three different styles." He crossed his arms in defiance when he saw that his brother was looking at him in a way that inspired an angry flush to creep up the sides of his neck. "Absolutely no effort was put into it. It's a mess."
"But it's so you!"
"Are you implying that I'm a mess?"
"No!" Veneziano leaped over his side of the office desk (if Germany were present, he would have surely scolded him for not applying that same work ethic into military training), and straight into his brother's personal bubble. "Look! Your handwriting is an art-form! Such style! Such grace! Such—"
Romano slapped his brother's face with a bunch of outdated documents.
"Being patient with you is an art-form. Now shut up and finish your work."