I'm posting this as I write it...which is randomly, in random snatches of time at work, then typing it up around midnight before going to sleep...so check back again soon as I'll probably alter the chapters a little and fix any mistakes. Thanks for patience!

Romano dragged himself from his little red Fiat- the old classic version, obviously, what the hell would he want with the modern American monstrosity?- bone weary and bleeding all over his shirt. His brand new, cameo pink shirt. He was so cross as well about the oil stains on the knees of his favourite pinstripe trousers that he barely noticed the big, black station wagon in the drive as he limped to the front door.

'Never again,' he barked, slamming the door shut behind him. 'Why the fuck do we always have to meet in auto garages these days? And what kind of stupid asshole fights with knives anymore? Che palle!'

'Fratello!' Veneziano came flying out of nowhere and squeezed him with all his might. Romano's ribs groaned. 'Romano, I was so scared! There was a noise outside and I thought it was big brother France or Turkey or England back with his dog food and you weren't here so I had to call Germany but he just sat here drinking coffee but he brought a big box of stuff but he won't let me look at it because he says it has to stay clean and-'

'Get off me you stupid idiot, my ribs already hurt enough without you crushing me to death! Chigi!' He shoved Veneziano away, who looked like he was about to burst into tears, and shouldered his way through to the kitchen. Normally he'd feel bad but right now he was more concerned whether or not he could save his new shirt. 'There'd better be some pasta left, I'm fucking starving. And what were you saying about the kraut-breath?' He pushed open the kitchen door. Germany stood up from the table and nodded sharply.

'Romano.'

Romano shrieked and threw himself backwards through the door. 'Chigi! What the hell is the borscht-bastard doing here, eh?'

'He came to help with the scary noise!' Veneziano beamed.

'Yeah, but why is he still here? You should have sent him straight home, not invited him in for a biscotti and a cappuccino!'

'Veh, but he wanted to wait until you got home! That's what the box is for!'

'For me, eh?' Romano narrowed his eyes and squared his shoulders. So, the potato head wanted to see him about something, eh? Laugh at his trouble with the mafia? Well, he'd show him! He kicked the kitchen door in. 'Alright, Herr Haagen Dazs, what do you want?'

Germany was calmly taking things out of his box and setting them down in an orderly manner on the table. Scissors, bottles, gauze, tape. 'I'm here to help you with your injuries,' he said, voice as placid as his blank expression. 'I know from trying to train your brother that he is not the most efficient or skilled in first aid.'

'You shut up about my brother, okay?' Romano grumbled, already rolling up his sleeves to expose the raw, handcuff-sized rings around his wrists. He stuck his arms under a cold rush of water in the sink, gritting his teeth as the skin burned. 'And I don't need any help from you.'

Germany grunted and finished setting out his supplies. He then walked over to the sink, pausing halfway over to shut and lock the door (and Romano didn't shiver at all at the resounding click). The looming blond head hovered on the edge of Romano's vision as he continued letting water run over his wrists, trying to rinse away the embedded grit.

'How did it get so dirty?' a deep voice rumbled behind him.

'Got shoved across the floor and cuffed around a dirty pipe,' Romano snapped. Deeming the cuts clean, he shut off the water and reached for the nearest towel. Germany gently caught Romano's hands in his bigger sausage fingers and tugged him to the table.

'You need to put some antiseptic on that. There might still be pieces from the metal or floor.'

'No I fucking- chigi!' Germany had dumped a bottle of hydrogen peroxide over his wrists, soaking the blistered skin and making the cuts fizz angrily. 'What the fuck did you do that for, you turnip-mongering-'

Germany gave him a stern look with icy blue eyes, and Romano shrunk quietly into a chair as the tall blond carefully wrapped his wrists in gauze. Well. It's not like he could really do that part himself anyway. And he might as well let the cabbagehead waste his own supplies. So he sat docile as Germany deftly and efficiently stripped off his shirt and vest, cleaning his various cuts and scrapes, settling his left arm into a sling when they jointly decided that putting a much larger, very angry mob boss into a strangling headlock had been perhaps very effective but nevertheless Not A Good Idea, No Matter How Badass (and Romano just couldn't help the tiny twist of a smile at the obvious impression in his nursemaid's voice as he said those words). By the time they finished with his torso it was well past three in the morning, Veneziano had finally stopped wailing behind the locked door, and Romano had loosened up enough to start regaling his captive audience with tales of his Mafioso exploits.

'And then that douchebag Vincento showed up, nobody likes him, he's a fucking idiot and acts like he's in an Al Pacino movie- he even bought those stupid red trousers like the guy is wearing in the beginning of Scarface, who the fuck wears those? And he's supposed to be Italian! Country of fashion sense, you know? I don't think even someone with what goes for fashion sense in your country would wear shit like that anymore, eh, Potatohead?'

'I've never seen the film,' Germany confessed. Romano was shocked.

'What! How can you not have seen it? You own it! Your brother has all those movies! Scarface, the Godfather trilogy, Il camorrista, La mala ordina, all on the original release date vhs' and the new super edition dvds!'

Germany raised an eyebrow, pausing his work in applying a thick white cream to the powder burns on Romano's hands. Fucking useless old-school piece-of-shit guns. So pretty, though.

'How do you know what films my bruder has?'

Romano shrugged, inspecting the broken ends of his fingernails. Ugh. He needed to fix that. He glanced over at the short, ridged, ragged nails on Germany's calloused hands. Now, that really needed fixing. 'I gave them to him of course, you idiot. The vhs' he asked for with a note on Gilbird- or Gilbird and a Pierre tag-teamed it because they're both too small alone, stupid little fluffballs- way back when they first came out, you know, East Germany days. The dvds were birthday presents.'

Germany looked shocked. 'You talked to Gilbert behind the wall? You sent him movies? How? Russia refused to give him anything from me!'

Romano scoffed. 'Well, you're not Sicilian, are you, Deutsch Dog? I had no problems. Anyway, I can't believe you didn't know that. He comes over once a year or so and we watch the whole Godfather trilogy back to back, then Profumo di donna and whatever German shit he brings. I thought you kept tabs on him, fucking nuisance.'

Germany looked thunderstruck. 'I didn't even know you two were friends,' he said blankly.

'Oi, we're not friends, dumbass! It's like a two-person club for former nations. And people other people can't stand. And older brothers who aren't as good as their younger brothers...'

/

Ludwig stared. Romano seemed to be speaking to himself now. Which was a good thing, really, because Ludwig didn't know how to comfort the man if he snapped out of his introspective moment. Everything he had said was true, though. Gilbert and Romano really were rather similar now that he thought about it. Both with rough, abrasive personalities, both without a place in the politics of the modern world, both with a surprising and outdated chivalry, both with an unshakeable scrap of deep-rooted religious devotion left from earlier days.

Both now merely existing in the shadows of well-known younger brothers.

He couldn't believe he hadn't seen it before. Of course they'd be friends! They could relate to each other in ways that no other nation could. And...they were both so proud and stubborn that neither would want their little alliance against a forgetful world discovered by anyone else. He wondered how often they were able to meet and soothe their lonely aches, given that they both lived with their brothers and neither had an economy healthy enough for distant or frequent holidays. But perhaps he could do something...after all, his greatest nightmare, in the terrifying quiet of his bedroom, was that he might wake up to find the great once-Prussia faded away, much like Romano might be expected to now that his broken nation was unified and only the northern half was acknowledged on the word stage. He wondered if the two together were all that kept them around, some days. The thought broke a little the heart he thought he'd gilded in iron.

'You should come over sometime,' he suggested mildly, keeping his voice steady, 'and watch those films with bruder and I. I am sure there will be elements of Italian culture and history I will not understand without assistance, and I am sure my irresponsible bruder has failed to thank you properly for your gifts; it will be an opportunity for him to do so. He makes very good cakes.'

Romano's cheeks went pink and he mumbled a long string of rapid Italian/English interspersed with cursing, from which Ludwig could pick out only what sounded like 'I know he does...that cherry one' and 'of course you wouldn't fucking understand, fucking Bildung bastard' and 'not like I can say no, asshole, make me sound rude...' He figured that was as close to an acceptance as he would get and stepped back to admire his patching up with satisfaction.

'Almost done,' he said. 'Now, take off your trousers.'

Romano's eyebrows shot up. 'Look, broetchen-brains, I don't know how your country works but that's not how we pay for services rendered around here!'

Ludwig felt his face go red. 'I didn't- your knees,' he mumbled, sure that he hadn't felt so embarrassed since Gilbert announced on his blog that the younger Germanic used wurst to 'relieve his frustrations.' They were relaxing to cook, verdammt! Gott. Why was it always wurst? But Romano saved him from further humiliation, glancing down at his stained trousers and going into a furious, spitting mix of English and Italian.

'And these are my favourites, Armani himself gave them to me, made by his best tailor! And this fucking stain will never come out, maledizione...'

'I can get the stains out,' Ludwig said quickly, keen to salvage some dignity. 'Mein bruder often comes home with strange stains and I have become very good at removing them.'

The effect of this statement was instantaneous. Romano blanched, gagged, and dashed his head against the solid kitchen table. 'Ugh- you stupid flaedlsuppe-face, I don't ever want to know about what kind of stains your perverted brother comes home with! Mio dio, I need brain bleach!'

'Yes...well,' Ludwig muttered. 'The oil stains on your trousers will pose no challenge. And you shouldn't hit your head like that when you already have a concussion.'

'Shut up, germknoedel-guts, it's all your fault anyway!'

'Out of curiosity, how is it that you know so much about German food?'

'I know nothing!'

/

In the end, Romano handed over his beloved trousers, though not without much threatening and suspicion. Ludwig slept the night on the sofa because Feliciano claimed that the German would be sleeping with him, and the promise-of-death look in Romano's eyes made him nervous to sleep anywhere without a good number of escape routes. Twenty minutes after lying down on the comfortable, if a little short, sofa with one of Veneziano's pillows and a thick quilt, he heard the soft, soothing hoo...hoo of an owl. He smiled. Not a minute later, he sat up in shock at the blast of a gunshot from upstairs.

'And stay away, you stupid fucking vermin!'