Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Even in soap opera form.

Yeah, you get this raw, 'cause that's how I roll, baby.

Romano gulped mouthfuls of water from the cascading stream above in an effort to quench the thirst he'd developed as a result of his...activities, and ducked his head under the showerhead, gasping for air. It wasn't fair! It was only an hour long episode, dammit; and the bastard (at least he had a name for him now: Amando), had only appeared in four scenes! Growling internally, he slicked his wet hair back, grabbed the soap from the shower rack, and began lathering up. He wasn't a horny teenager anymore! His puberty had ended a long time ago! He had some self control, right? This stupid bastard and his stupid voice should not have such an effect on him.

But, even when he had been going through puberty he hadn't...he dropped his face in a sudsy palm, exhaling frustratedly. Not...not that much. Nobody jacked off that much. Except maybe France, who was perversion personified, so that didn't count. He scrubbed furiously, trying to wash away the embarrassment along with the evidence. And it'd be one thing if jacking off was all he'd done. It was bad enough that he'd done it four times over the course of the episode (not counting the first time after he'd entered the room), and that he'd finished so embarrassingly quickly the first two. But no, he didn't stop there. He'd...gah...he'd fingered himself, too; sprawling in his seat and using his own cum as he stroked himself off, and it'd felt so much better than it had any right to, considering that he hated that sort of thing and never touched himself that way.

But that'd been the scene where Amando was talking about horses and how responsive they could be and how a gentle, firm hand and a soft voice could get them to do anything, and it'd been Amando stroking him and Amando's fingers inside him and Amando's voice in his ear, saying those things in that accent and touching him that way and he'd have done anything, too. Anything.

He shivered, and braced his arms against the shower wall for support at the memory, panting. Fuck. He'd be Amando's horse. Amando could ride him anywhere.

Shit, what was he thinking? No! He pushed himself off the wall, turning the shower knob a few notches closer to 'cold'. He was not going to lose his head (too late, an internal voice whispered), or jack off in the shower, not to a fuckin' memory, especially not a memory of something that'd never actually happened with someone who didn't even exist, dammit. A fucking fantasy.

Besides, his hand ached.

He groaned, running his fingers through his hair, tugging on it. He was losing his mind. He grabbed the shower knob again, fiercely twisting it all the way to the right, and yelped.

Shit, that was cold!

"Romano~, you missed it!" His brother's eager voice greeted when he staggered into the kitchen a short while later, clean (well, showered, anyway) and clothed and too preoccupied to pay much attention to his sibling. He grunted in response, and going to the fridge to look for something to eat. He was starving, dammit.

"Romano, Romano, guess what?" Veneziano continued excitedly, wriggling in his seat at the table where he was enjoying some post-premiere pasta. "You'll never guess. So, the new guy turned out to be Amando, who came to Spain from the Americas— he didn't say why but there were hints that it's something important — and Catalina's father was so grateful that he saved Catalina that he's letting him stay in the mansion, and Amando's going to be his horse trainer! Isn't that exciting?" He gestured wildly, waving his arms in the air. "And! And! And! Amando offered to give Catalina some riding lessons, and they had this scene at the end, Romano, you should have seen it, they have amazing chemistry. Oh," he added offhandedly and with little interest, "and there was some tension between him and Juan, but that's just because Juan wants to seduce Catalina."

"Did you eat all the pasta, or is there more?" Romano asked, grabbing a drink and shutting the refridgerator door.

"There's more on the stove." His brother gestured to the pot on the stove, and Romano nodded, going to the cupboard to get himself a plate and dish himself some pasta. "But, oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! That's not even the best part! Romano! Guess!" Veneziano flailed frantically, leaning out of his seat in his excitement, nearly unseating himself. "You'll never guess. You'll never guess, ve~."

"You're gonna fall, idiot." Romano said, sitting down at the table with his pasta and folding his hands and bowing his head over his meal. "Oi," he added sternly when his brother took a deep breath, mouth open to babble at him some more, "wait 'til I've said my prayers." Veneziano obediently clapped his mouth shut, folding his hands in his lap and fidgeting silently while he waited for his brother to finish. Once Romano lifted his head and picked up his fork, Veneziano leaned forward excitedly again, eyes sparkling.

"Amando is-"

"I can't believe it's him." Prussia complained over his shoulder as he entered the kitchen, glass in-hand. "That's so lame. How could you let this happen, Spain?"

"I didn't have anything to do with it!" Spain protested, looking irritated and ruffled, himself. "I didn't even know he was here! He can't be here! I would have heard about it, right? It must be some mistake."

"Yeah. Yeah, that's gotta be it. In fact, bet it's not even really him, just someone who looks like him. Like, you know, a doppelgänger or something." Prussia said, trying to convince himself. He pulled a bottle of bottle of amber liquid from the cupboard, filling his glass to the brim as he talked. "In fact, it didn't even really look like him. Totally different, you know," he put the bottle down and waved his hand in front of his face, "face and shit. It was probably just the lighting. Like, special effects."

"Y-you're right." Spain nodded frantically, a man miserably unconvinced but holding on to hope that what he knew he'd just seen wasn't what he knew he'd just seen. "It's not him. It's not him at all, right?"

"Whether you want to believe it or not, it's definitely him." France assured them flippantly, entering just behind Spain. He also looked irritated, although whether it was because the others were doubting him or because it'd taken him so long to figure it out in the first place was a toss-up. "There can be no doubt about it."

"Sure there can," Prussia argued, pouting petulantly as he sat at the table, "I'm doubting it. It isn't him. Didn't look like him. And it can't be who it didn't look like 'cause Spain doesn't know he's not here and it's all special effects."

"I didn't even know he was here." Spain frowned bewilderedly, dropping into a chair next to Prussia and propping his head in his hands, elbows on the table. "How come I didn't know?" He grabbed the glass from Prussia's hand and downed it, emptying the whole thing in one swallow. He handed the glass back to Prussia and dropped his chin in his hand again, looking miserable.

"If you're going to start drinking, Veneziano and I are leaving." Romano scowled, starting to hurry through his pasta. He knew better than to stick around when these three started in on the alchohol. "Where're Belgium and Netherlands? " Belgium at least would be able to keep Spain from doing anything too stupid.

"They went home." Spain answered offhandedly, "they had some things to do before we go to Lux's later." He rubbed his face in distress, moaning. "It can't be hiiiiiimmm, can it? That bastard wouldn't be here, right? In my house?"

"In your daytime drama." Prussia added unhelpfully, and Spain groaned.

"There's an easy way to settle this." France decided, settling down across from them and pulling out his phone. He pressed a button, and then turned the speakerphone on and set the phone on the table in front of him, turning up the volume so everyone could hear it clearly.

The line rang several times before it was finally picked up. "Buenos...dias." A distinctly feminine voice came over the line, sounding strained and breathless. France's eyebrows slowly climbed, his mouth open in the act of responding. "Ah! Nnnh." The woman gasped, and then asked again, "¿B-bueno?" They heard her groan, and gasp. "Di- ah!— Diga."

"Ah," France shook himself, still looking a little mystified, and answered in Spanish (picked up from years in Spain's company). "Perdón, doña. ¿Se encuentra..." He paused momentarily, trying to decide how to best phrase his inquiry, "Alfred?" he decided finally, assuming he should use the name that had been listed in the credits.

"Hmm." The woman hummed noncomittally, sounding displeased, or simply preoccupied, it was difficult to say which. "¿De parte de quién?"

France laughed charmingly, trying to soften the woman's reception a little, "Habla Francis, señorita."

"Hm. " She responded, graciously dubious, and then she must have lowered the phone because they heard her talking to someone in the background, too faint to make out the words.

"I'm going to get some more pasta." Romano decided, standing up from the table with his now-empty plate.

"Oh, can I have some too, Romano? Please~?" Veneziano asked, rapidly stuffing the last of his pasta into his mouth.

"What am I, your slave?" Romano grumbled, holding out his hand for his brother's plate, which Veneziano handed to him with a smile, before returning his attention to what was going on (which Romano was mostly ignoring, knowing from experience that whatever these three were this interested in was probably something he was better off not knowing anything about).

There was a the sound of fumbling through the speaker, presumably the phone passing hands, and a cheerful male voice answered, "Heya Francis. What's up?"

"What's this, no Spanish?" France smiled teasingly, leaning his chin in hand.

"What? Oh, because of Theresa? Nah, she's just Spanish. I'm working with her on..." he paused. "I'm working with her. Oh, hey!" They heard him talk to someone in the background, presumably Theresa, "Que encontró mis pantalones! Gracias, Theresa!"

(Now back at the table with his pasta, Lovino's knuckles whitened around his fork, and he stared at the phone sitting in the middle of the table with wide eyes. There was no mistaking that voice. France knew the actor who played Amando? Shit. Shit, shit, shit.)

"Mhm." The voice from before, presumably Theresa's, replied faintly, sounding amused. "Prisa, ¿eh Alfrrred?"

"Si, si." His voice became clear once more as he returned to the phone. "Sorry about that, Francis. I'm kinda busy at the moment. Can you make it fast? I've got about five minutes."

"Of course, of course. I won't take up too much of your time, 'Alfrrred.'" France smirked, enjoying himself highly. "It's just that I wanted to talk to you about something terribly interesting that I saw a little while ago."

"Okay." Alfred responded, sounding distracted. "Shoot."

(No, Romano thought, not listening to the conversation around him, it was okay. It was okay. He'd just...never see France again. No problem.)

"You see, on occasion your loving big brother Francis gets together with some dear friends of his to watch television together, enjoy each other's company, etcetera. Sort of a bonding exersize, n'est-ce pas? Good times with good friends."

"Uhuh."

"And, well, it just so happens that there's a show we're all quite fond of, you see?"

"I'm not fond of it." Prussia mumbled, only to be waved to silence by France, who scowled briefly at him.

"'Kay." Alfred said, to show that he was still on the phone. "Uh," He added, when there was a banging sound in the background, like someone was knocking on a door, "one sec, Francis." Again, there was a muffled conversation they couldn't make out in the background, and after a few moments his voice came back, sounding weary. "Okay. I guess I have a half-hour or so now, so take as long as you need."

"Busy day?" France inquired curiously.

Alfred sighed. "Yeah, something like that. Some days nothing seems to go right. So, what were you saying about your friends?"

(Except, Romano realised, spinning his pasta around and around on his fork, he'd been trying to avoid France for centuries, and it'd never worked before. The bastard was a fucking barnacle. The fact that he was best friends with Spain didn't help either.)

"Are you sure you don't want to talk about it, ma chaton? I'd be happy to listen to your troubles." Francis offered slyly. "Especially ones that pertain to your ...what was it, 'work', with Theresa, hm?"

"We're not sleeping together." Alfred said flatly. "And I don't really want to talk about work. Just say what you need to say or I'm hanging up, capice?"

"Oh, you speak Italian now? Are there no end to your unexpected talents? This is a day of surprises."

"'Capice' isn't Italian, it's American. Are you gonna stop bein' a dick and tell me what you called about, or what?"

"Touchy, touchy. Well, since you're in such a foul mood today I'll get straight to the point. Guess who I happened to see on television this afternoon?"

(Maybe...maybe he could...he didn't know. Kill France? Romano's mind went on a brief side tangent at that happy thought, entertaining itself with daydreams of the possibilities.)

An irritated, tired sigh. "I don't know, Francis, wh- oh, shit."

"Yes." France agreed delightedly.

"Shit. I didn't even know you watched soap— you know what, scratch that, I'm actually not surprised." Another frustrated exhale. "Please tell me you're the only one who saw it."

"Mmm, I'm afraid I can't do that, mon petit Alfred."

"Well, fuck." There was a thump in the background. "Fuck fuck fuck fuckity-fuck fuck."

(No, he realized glumly. That would never work. France was like, fucking impossible to kill. Otherwise England would have done it already.)

France giggled.

"Look, Francis." Alfred said, urgently. "You can't tell anyone about this, okay? I mean, you know, any of the others. I don't really mind if they know, it's just that I don't want anyone we know to know, y'know? It's..." He trailed off, obviously searching for words.

"Ve~, why don't you want anyone to know? I thought you were very good!" Veneziano asked curiously, leaning onto the table to be closer to the phone.

(...Maybe he was overreacting. Just because France knew the guy didn't mean he had to meet him, right? They'd probably...never cross paths.)

"...And I'm on speakerphone. Of course I am. Ahaha." A pause, a deep breath. "Thanks, I'm glad you liked it!" He said, suddenly sounding more cheerful. "I just wanted it to be a surprise!"

"I was very surprised!" Veneziano assured him, wriggling further onto the table 'til he was hovering over the reciever. "We didn't even recognize you at first!"

(In fact, they never would! Why would they? It was ludicrous to think they would. He didn't hang out with actors.)

"...We?"

"All of us! Me and brother and Belgium and her brother and big brother Spain and-"

"Ahahaha." Alfred's laugh sounded a little hysterical. "Great! That's...that's really great. Just, just awesome. I, uh, yes. It's wonderful that you're all fans of the series!"

(In fact, he hardly ever hung out with France, either; except when France was visiting Spain or stalking him or his brother or at world meetings, but what would a soap opera actor be doing at world meetings? He was definitely safe.)

"I'm not a fan." Prussia mumbled, sulking petulantly. France shushed him.

"So. Alfred." France leaned forward, grinning a little predatorially. "Why don't you tell us how this marvelous little secret of yours came to be?"

"What?" Alfred asked blankly.

"Come on, don't play dumb with me. How on earth did you land a role in the hottest daytime drama in Spain?"

"Oh. You want the official version or what really happened?"

"Is there a difference?"

"Dude, of course. This is television. Even 'real life' is scripted."

(Romano frowned, poking at his pasta. Maybe he was thinking about this all wrong. He wasn't...reacting, now, right? Except for the moment when the actor had ...spoken in...S-Spanish... he shivered a little, and took a deep breath to calm his reaction to the memory. Except, except for...then, he was perfectly fine, right? Normal.)

"The truth, then."

"Kay, fine. Lemme make sure no-one's listening." They heard some rustling and clattering in the background, and he talked, a little absently, as he checked for eavesdroppers. "Y'know, Spain is insane. I have never been groped so much in my fuckin' life. And the director's a total creeper, man, you have no idea. If it weren't for Theresa I'd be doing every scene buck naked, I swear. Amando would have a clothing allergy or something, I don't know. You don't even want to know what I'm wearing for pants right now, ahahaha, " he laughed a little helplessly, "except you totally will, won't you, 'cause you watch the show, isn't that great."

"You sound a little upset, mon chaton." France said, exersizing his keen observational skills.

"Well, I am and I'm not. I mean, I actually really love the acting. And Theresa is great." He confessed. "It's just, I don't really like being treated like a sex object." France and Spain and Prussia exchanged confused glances.

(So it wasn't like it was the actor that got that reaction from him, right? It was... A-Amando. So, so the actor shouldn't be a problem, right? He just...reacted... to the character.)

"I knew he was an idiot, but I didn't know he was insane." Prussia stared incredulously at the phone. Spain shook his head, disbelief clear on his face.

(Right. Of course right, dammit. He was...attrac— ...uh...it was just...Amando. Not the actor. He only reacted to Amando. So, that was fine. No problem. Right?)

"Alfred, darling, you really must learn to let go of this nonsensical American prudishness of yours." France said paternally. "Of course you're a sex object, silly boy."

(It was weird he'd react to the bastard's voice like that, though. It was almost like an allergic reaction— except instead of a rash, he got... aroused.)

"Why else do you think you were given a penis, if not to—"

"SO ANYWAY HOW I GOT THE JOB," Alfred interrupted quickly, breaking through Romano's reverie, "I was on the beach in Spain, right? And this woman comes riding along on this fabulous horse— did you see the horse? His name is Cantante. He's fucking gorgeous—"

"Yes, he is!" Spain agreed enthusiastically. "He's very handsome, isn't he? How old is he?"

"He's about 3 and a half. He shouldn't even be broke to ride yet, but I guess he was a present to the producer's wife and she doesn't really ride so they decided to use him in the show. Which was kind of stupid, 'cause he was barely even greenbroke, but I don't think they know much about horses."

Spain hummed disapprovingly. "That's a shame. Such a beautiful animal shouldn't go to waste."

"I know, right? They're letting me work with him though, between shoots and after filming's done for the day, and it's awesome. He's so smart!"

"Of course he is, he's of the Yeguada Militar bloodline, isn't he?" Spain asserted confidently. "He looks like he could be a son of Evento."

"That's right!" Alfred said excitedly. "He is! I checked his pedigree. How did you know!"

"I know my horses." Spain grinned, just as excitedly. "He's beautiful though! Such a waste to have an animal of such potential underappreciated."

"I know, it's totally not cool." Alfred agreed. "I'm working with him now, though. I'm kind of hoping I can convince the producer's wife to sell him to me someday. Oh! Hey, I was thinking of collecting some semen for my breeding program. You want me to get you some, too?"

"That's very nice of you!" Spain waved his hands in the air, beaming. "That would be wonderful! I'd love to add Evento's blood to my stock!"

"Sweet. I wanna wait a bit just to make sure he's sound and doesn't have any congenital defects or behavioural issues, first. I don't think he will though, he's such a sweetheart, and smart as a whip." He said proudly, like a doting parent bragging about their child's exceptionally good report card. "I've only been working with him for a couple of weeks, and already he's—"

"As fascinating as it is to hear you two go on and on about horses and semen," France interjected dryly, "your half an hour is almost up, and we have yet to hear how you landed the role."

"Oh, right. Sorry. Where was I? Oh right, the beach. And Theresa comes along on Cantante, and he gets spooked— totally not his fault, by the way; I checked him after we got back and —"

"Alfred."

"Right, sorry, okay. So I jump in to help, and get him calmed down and make sure she's okay, which she was, and then she says she might not keep him so I convince her to give him another chance, 'cause it'd be a shame to lose such a fine animal for somethin' like that, Cantante's such a sweetheart, really—"

"Alfred..."

"Right, right. So anyway, yeah. I offer to escort her back to wherever she was stayin' to make sure it didn't happen again and make sure she was really gonna give him another chance, or maybe see if she was willing to sell, 'cause you don't see a horse like that every day, y'know?" France pursed his lips impatiently, not really willing to sit through another digression about the wonders of Cantante, but Alfred only continued with his story. "But then these guys come running up and start going on and on about how the 'scene was amazing' and shit, and, well, long story short they'd been filming for Forever is Not Long Enough. Originally Theresa— that is, Catalina— was supposed to be abducted by pirates, but Cantante spooked before they got to the pirates and when I showed up, well, they liked what they saw. So, I got cast as 'Amando.'"

"What were you doing in Spain?" Spain asked, having been wondering this for some time.

"Oh. Well, I was going to see Mount Vesuvius, 'cause I wanted to see if it was true about the virgins, but the skiff capsized."

"...What?" The faces around the table mirrored each others' confusion.

"The skiff capsized. You know, sank."

"So...how did you get to Spain?" Veneziano wondered, brows furrowed confusedly.

"Haha, I swam, silly."

"Oh." Veneziano nodded, satisfied by that 'explanation'. Everyone else, however, remained unenlightened as Alfred continued.

"Yeah. Actually I wasn't sure about accepting the role at first, but as it turns out my boss's mom and sisters are huge fans of Spanish soaps. So when they heard about it, they were so excited I just couldn't let 'em down." He chuckled, adding, "And actually, it's pretty fun. The acting, anyway. The script's so corny! But being treated like a peice of meat I could do without."

"Weirdo." Prussia shook his head. There came another banging sound in the background over the phone, and someone yelling unintelligibly.

"Ah, I gotta go, I'm due on set. Keep this to yourselves guys, 'kay?" Alfred asked, without much hope that they would. "Oh— Antonio, I'll get you that semen as soon as I can. Bye."

The assembled nations stared at the phone in the center of the table, as the dial tone rang clear and steady.

"Well," said Prussia. "Anyone else need a drink?"

"Yes, please." France nodded, collecting his phone and pocketing it. "Thanks."

"Make it a double for me." Spain gestured. "It's very nice of him to offer me semen. The things I could do with such a bloodline!" He accepted the glass Prussia handed him without looking up, staring starry-eyed into the future of his breeding program, envisioning wobbly-legged foals, the offspring of champions, that would grow into superb champions in their own right. Then he blinked, frowning, remembering that he still wasn't thrilled about having the noisy, obnoxious, empire-collapsing bastard on his soil and in his entertainment, semen or no semen.

"C'mon Veneziano, time to go." Romano hauled his brother off the table, seeing the alchohol flowing freely in the hands of the trio.

"Okay~. Bye Spain, bye Prussia, bye France!" Veneziano waved as they left. "See you tomorrow for the next episode!"

"No you won't, bastard. We are never watching that show again."

The three left at the table glanced at each other surreptitiously, no-one wanting to be the first to say they wanted to watch it again.

"Well, America may be a shit actor," Prussia said slowly, staring into his drink, "but that Catalina chick is hot."

"You're right." Spain nodded, sipping his own drink and avoiding eye contact.

"It's practically worth watching the show for her alone." France said in nonchalant, 'I'm just throwing this out there' tones, tapping his fingers on his own glass.

"You have a point." Prussia nodded, frowning thoughtfully.

"It'd be a shame to miss out on Catalina's charms." Spain agreed. "Just because that bastard American happens to be in some scenes."

"Hardly any scenes, really." Prussia pointed out. "The show's about Catalina, right?"

"You're right, you're right. He hardly shows up at all."

"True."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"Alright. We'll watch it tomorrow. For Catalina." France decided finally, raising his glass. The others followed suit. Glasses clinked.

"For Catalina."

"Ve~, are we really not going to watch it anymore?" Veneziano asked as his brother shoved him into the passenger side of the convertible, sliding into the driver's seat after him. "Never and ever?"

"That's right, bastard." Romano confirmed, slamming the door and starting the car. "Never and ever."

"But," Veneziano pouted, growing teary-eyed, "How will we know what happens between Amando and Catalina? Or why Amando came to Spain? Or how Ama—"

"I don't give a shit about that, dammit." Romano growled, tearing out of their parking space and down the street, from zero to sixty at the press of a pedal. "We're never watching that stupid show again, ever."

His brother stared at him, frowning. "...Is this because of your broken heart?"

"What?" Romano glanced quizzically at his brother. "What the hell are you talking about, idiot?"

"Your broken heart!" Veneziano informed him. "You know, because you're in love with—"

"It's not love!" Shouted Romano, scowling at the road. "It's an allergic reaction, dammit!"

"...You have an allergic reaction to Catalina?" Veneziano asked, brows furrowing in confusion.

"What? What does Catalina have to do with anything, moron?" Romano asked, just as confused.

"France said you were upset because you're in love with Catalina, and Amando is competing for her affections." Veneziano explained. "If you're not allergic to Catalina, then what are you allergic to, Romano?"

"...Nothing." Romano tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "I...was thinking about something else."

"Oh." Veneziano nodded, settling down in his seat. "So, if you're not allergic to Catalina, can we watch it again?"

"No!"

"Because of your broken heart?"

"My heart isn't broken, dammit!"

His brother pursed his lips, unconvinced. Romano'd had a crush on Catalina from the first episode of the series, and had been a little upset when Pedro had come along, too (although Pedro had eventually won his brother's grudging approval when he rescued Catalina from the slave traders were going to sell her to the pirates, saving her life and virginity in one fell swoop.) It would make sense if he was upset that Amando had come out of nowhere just when Catalina had become available again. But, he really wanted to watch the show! He wanted to know what was going to happen, and learn why Amando had come to Spain and what Catalina's family's terrible secret was! But how could he convince Romano...?

"You like Catalina, right, Romano?"

His brother shifted in his seat. "...Yes."

"But, you don't like Amando, right, ve~?"

"..."

"Right? Amando's the reason you don't want to watch the show anymore?" Veneziano pressed.

"...Yyyes." Romano answered slowly, staring at the road ahead.

Veneziano nodded in satisfaction. He knew it. After all, France was almost always right. "So, if you like Catalina, you want to know what happens to her, right? And Amando will probably have hardly any scenes, 'cause he's just a background character, but Catalina will have lots, 'cause she's the main character! So Amando will probably hardly show up at all." Veneziano pointed out reasonably, "He's only the horse trainer, after all. In fact, I bet he won't even appear in some episodes. Maybe he'll only show up now and then, like the Baron. Probably not even once in three or four episodes, sometimes. Maybe more!"

Romano frowned. "...You think?"

"Sure! And it'd be a shame to miss Catalina just because Amando might show up, don't you think? She appears in so much more of the show. And don't you want to find out what her terrible family secret is?"

Romano pursed his lips. "Well..."

"It's Catalina's show, really. And she's very pretty. And brave. And spirited. And she's pretty, ve~!"

His brother nodded, somewhat reluctantly.

"So we could watch it for Catalina, right? Not for Amando. Just for Catalina!"

"F-for Catalina?" Romano's brows furrowed uncertainly, his hands shifting on the wheel.

Veneziano smiled. He almost had him, he could feel it! "Yes! For Catalina, ve~. Not for Amando."

"Well..." Romano hesitated. "...okay. For, for Catalina. Not for A, Ama," He swallowed. "...him."

"That's right, ve~!"

"But we're not watching it with those bastards." Romano asserted, recovering his composure a bit. "Belgium's fine, but I don't want to be anywhere around that asshole France or that potato-fucking Prussia. Or Spain, when he's anywhere around those two."

"We can watch it at home." Veneziano assured him, smiling in satisfaction at his success convincing his brother. "I can make us lots of pasta!"

"Okay." Romano nodded. "For Catalina, got it? Not for...for that bastard."

"For Catalina." Veneziano agreed.

"F-for Catalina." Romano muttered to convince himself, fingers drumming against the wheel.

AN: I wasn't expecting America to go on that little horse tangent, but hey. Horses are awesome. If you don't know much about them, Andalusians are a Spanish breed of horse, a bit rare in America. They, like Lipizzaners and certain other breeds, are not usually started under the saddle (by good breeders and trainers) or ridden until they're at least 4-6 years old, because their bodies haven't stopped growing until then and so riding them before that age can damage their skeletal system and development. Of course, that doesn't stop impatient people from breaking them younger, which usually ends in health problems which only exacerbate as the horses grow older.

Collecting semen from stallions (and bulls) to use for artificial insemination of mares (and cows) is a common practice among breeders. It prevents wear and tear on both stallion and mare, prevents parasitic and sexually-communicated infections, and extends the productive capabilities of the stallion; because you can use the semen gathered from one ejaculation to inseminate multiple mares, whereas during a 'natural' breeding one shot is all you got. Owners of stallions 'at stud' commonly ship cooled or frozen semen to breeders for a reasonable price, usually $400-2000 depending on the breed and credentials of the stallion.

Anyway. I have no intention of explaining America's little story there in the story proper, so you get a shortened version: He was in Hawaii visiting a friend, there was a luau, partygoers got drunk and started talking about Kilauea, they exchanged wild volcano stories, America got upset about the virgins, the host of the party claimed that the volcano god of Vesuvius probably got mad and destroyed Pompeii because there weren't any virgins for him since Romans were always having orgies, America decided to go and confront the volcano god of Vesuvius about that, which the whole party thought was a grand idea. They got as far as Costa Rica in the host's yaht, but they decided to stop there and party some more. America, determined to finish his quest for justice, hopped a navy cruiser bound for Portugal, and from Portugal he bought a skiff to sail 'round Spain to get to Italy, but the skiff capsized in the Balearic Sea when a couple of the giant devil rays he was playing with got a little too excited and tried to jump in the boat, which although big enough for an American, was somewhat less commodious to the weight of two 1500-odd lb fish. Once he'd surfaced and assured the rays he was alright, he ended up swimming back to Spain, and the rest is history. Or, you know, not.

And now you know. (But Romano still doesn't, because he was busy Not Paying Attention.)