Warning: a little America bashing, some reference to Nazis and one to the Vietnam War. Just for plot points! I have nothing against Americans, I promise! 3

'You're such a grammar Nazi!'

'Don't be ridiculous, America!'

'Yes, you are, you're a totally obsessed grammar Nazi!'

'Please don't use such language, Amérique...'

'Grammar Nazi! Grammar Nazi! En-gland's a grammar Nazi!' America sang, fist-pumping as he danced in circles around his end of the table. Romano felt a vein in his forehead twitch. What a fucking idiot. He opened his mouth to yell something rude but someone else beat him to it.

'Shut up, Amérique!' France snapped, all traces of his usual good humour gone. His summer sky-blue eyes were sharp and his mouth pressed into a line. 'No-one wishes to hear of your prejudices here, Alfred. Please apologise.' It was rare that France went into Papa Francis mode anymore. Rare enough that America was startled into an equally rare moment of silence before looking to England for help, but the bushy brows were drawn together in a matching disapproval. America drew himself up.

'Hell no, dude! I don't have anything to say sorry for. It's just a saying, it's not prejudice! We don't do prejudice in the USA! Ever heard of the Civil War, buddy?'

China looked confused. 'Which civil war do you mean?'

America's jaw dropped. 'What? You mean somebody else stole the name of our war? Not cool, man! Alright, hands up! Who dunnit?'

England sighed, raising his eyes to the ceiling. 'Who did it, if you don't mind. And nearly all of us have had a-'

'See! You're such a grammar Nazi!'

There was a light rustle from the centre of the U that the tables formed. Just a few papers falling to the floor from a trembling hand. Certainly not loud enough to be heard over America's din on the left side of the U, and hardly audible where Romano sat between a Mediterranean melange of Spain and Greece on the right. But he heard the sound like the almond tree leaves whispering outside his bedroom window in the spring winds, the Sirocco that made his blood boil into a little insanity, and he saw the further paling of already fair skin, and the Sirocco tearing through his garden back home made anger roil through him like thunder. 'Shut the fuck up and stop using that goddamn word, you arrogant asshole,' he snarled.

'What?' America protested. 'Nazi's just a word! We use it like a metaphor, you know? A joke! Like ha ha you pasta Nazi, won't do anything without tomatoes!'

'You might be able to use it without hearing screams of the dying but most of us didn't sit around on our fat asses until things got too personal to ignore.'

America's face turned ugly. 'And you'd know all about it, fucking fascist,' he sneered. Spain, his eyes warning of the buried savagery nearly pushed to the surface, slammed his hands on the table as he stood, but Romano pulled him back into his seat, clutching his hand under the table to calm him down. 'And you're forgetting who won the whole war in the first place!'

'Canada,' Romano said flatly, and the vague blond nation shot up in surprise. 'Canada and England stopped the fighting. No-one wins a war like that.' America opened his mouth to keep arguing but Romano cut in. 'Now stop acting like such a naive, childish bastard and sit down and shut up.'

'I'm not-'

'Fine,' Romano said shortly. 'I'll have Italy market citrus jello as Agent Orange .'

And America glared wretchedly at him, loathing and angry, but he pressed his lips together and sat down. All the nations were staring at the two of them now- all but a faintly shaking blond. Romano scowled at the tabletop. Medium brown wood-pattern laminate. No-one made solid wood furniture in any large amounts anymore, unless to sell for a fucking fortune. God damn Sweden. As the room slowly filled with rising murmurs he was aware in the corner of his eye of France rising from his seat and coming to rest gracefully in a crouch at Romano's side, their eyes level (and Romano wasn't that short, dammit, Francis was just that freakishly tall!).

'Merci, mon cher Romain,' he murmured for Romano's ears only, and he was so perfectly serious that it was almost difficult to remember that this was the same man who usually threw roses at him and hid in streetside bushes to grope his ass. 'It is sometimes difficult for me to choose between my own family and the family of my dearest friend. Merci for protecting him when I am unable to do so.' Francis cupped his cheeks and gently pulled Romano's head down to place a warm, dry, lingering kiss on his forehead. Romano bore this silently with eyes closed until the hands left his face.

'Always knew you were a coward,' he muttered. Francis laughed.

'Only a coward! With no swearing? Ah , cher Romain, you do love me! Come, give frère aîné Francis a kiss!'

'Shut up and get back to your own damn table, idiot!'

Francis pirouetted back across the room to England's side. On Romano's left, Greece remained a warm and silent presence; he knew what things had been like for Italy even better than Spain did. And in the middle of the table arrangement, a now-steady Aryan restacked his papers with a militant efficiency and a loud call of 'will everyone get back into order!' Romano was momentarily caught by piercing, pale blue eyes before they turned back to a meeting plan. The glance didn't say much, but it didn't really need to as shared history is, of course, shared knowledge and any more sharing would just be embarrassing, so blue eyes narrowed importantly as a German voice boomed out and hazel eyes turned away lazily as an Italian sotto voce asked a Spaniard to find his damn lunchbox, he was fucking starving, and 'stop eyeing my pizza like that you greedy tomato bastard, you're not getting any! Yeah, well fuck you!'