Apologies to anyone who thought I might update with a semblance of regularity. Well, now you know better.

'We-eeest! The clothes dryer is beeping at me!'

'That's because it's done,' Ludwig grunted, shifting a pile of dirty dishes into the sink.

'Are you sure?' Gilbert's voice yelled back. 'I think it's just saluting to the honour of carrying my awesome clothes! Hey, I knew you stole my Gilshirt.'

'It was filthy,' Ludwig said with distaste, heading back to the laundry room to see his brother pulling a large white pyjama top decorated with yellow chicks- apparently a gift from Denmark- from the dryer. 'You can't sleep in it every night without washing it, that's unhygienic. It smelled horrible.'

'Yeah, yeah, you're just jealous of my awesome manly odour! Huh? Whose are these?' Gilbert held up a pair of slim, dark pinstripe trousers, much too small to belong to either of the Germans, and smirked over the waistband at him. 'Well, well, well, kleinen bruder! Finally growing up, are we? Kesesesesesese! Whose are these, then, and how did I not know about it?'

'They're Romano's,' Ludwig replied, straight-faced.

Gilbert blanched, gagged, and started banging his head against the washing machine in such an exact copy of Romano that he couldn't help cracking a smile. 'Why, West? Why?' Gilbert whined. 'You could at least have gone for the cute one!'

Ludwig raised an eyebrow. 'That's a little hypocritical of you, isn't it, bruder?' he said, and for the first in a long time he was treated to the great satisfaction of having made the great Prussia speechless.

/

Romano showed up at precisely twenty minutes past eight- exactly an hour and twenty minutes after they had agreed upon. Just late enough to be properly annoying, he figured. But apparently the Germans had never lost their gift for anticipating the enemy, because Prussia was just walking out from the shower and Germany himself was selecting a bottle of wine from a kitchen rack as he let himself loudly in. 'Alright, where are my trousers?' he asked without preamble, looking around. The house wasn't as sterile as he'd expected. Painfully clean, sure, but with just as much pale wood as stainless steel and with colourfully-striped rugs softening the pine floors. German posters and photos of German scenery and prints of Prussian and German buildings covered the walls- pale green in the entry hall, bright blue leading off to the lounge, warm sunny yellow in the kitchen.

Prussia smirked wickedly as he rubbed a towel over his silver hair, made grey by the water, and Germany answered without turning round. 'They're sitting on top of the dryer. Would you prefer a cabernet or a merlot to start?'

'I'm not drinking any of your Rhine-grown piss, I brought my own. Where's the dryer?'

Prussia cackled as he slung an arm round Romano's shoulders. 'What, you don't know? I'd have thought you two had done it in every room in the house by now, a hot little Italian stallion like you and a big beefy stud like Westen!' He broke off, doubled over and gasping, as Romano and Germany simultaneously drove a fist into his stomach.

'Stop talking shit and go out to the car, you deranged idiot,' Romano snapped before Germany had a chance to say anything. Dinner's in the backseat.'

As Gilbert limped off, whining about unawesome brothers, Germany raised an eyebrow at him. 'I had planned to order food from a local Italian restaurant,' he said mildly.

Romano was a little startled at his show of thoughtfulness. Not like he'd admit it, though. 'Che. How authentic could they be when they have to use German ingredients?' he scoffed.

Ludwig leaned back against the counter, a long, thick board of smoothly worn pine that Romano secretly rather admired. What? It'd be handy for rolling out pizza dough!

'Your brother likes it.'

Romano's scoff was genuine this time, and he mirrored the blond's relaxed gesture by leaning his side against the shining steel fridge, hoping to 'accidentally' leave fingerprints. 'Feliciano is North Italy, fuckwit! We don't have the same foods all over the country, you know? Anyway, his tastebuds got ruined by all that time he spent with goddamn Austria.'

'What about Specs?' Gilbert sailed through the door, carrying a cardboard box with a large iron roasting pan in his hands and a canvas bag over his shoulder.

'He has horrible taste,' Romano said blandly.

Gilbert laughed. 'Won't argue with you there, Lovi. West you gotta come look at this, it smells awesome!'

Germany looked confused as Romano unpacked the hot pan from its next of kitchen towels. 'I thought you didn't like being called 'Lovi'?'

'And I thought you didn't like being called 'West,'' Romano snapped in reply, his face reddening. Once Gilbert got an idea in his head... 'Now bastard, are you gonna get some plates or are we just gonna fucking stare at it?'

/

They spent the entire night on the lounge sofa, Gilbert naturally throwing himself in the middle, steadily working their way through Romano's culinary offerings: a classic Sicilian caponata which Gilbert deemed 'awesome,' and Ludwig privately agreed, though he didn't voice his opinion for fear of having the embarrassed chef's blushing tirade directed at him as well; a freshly made loaf of soft, crusty Italian bread; and for dessert, a chilled glass bowl of tiramisu, which Romano and Gilbert enthusiastically attacked with flourishing spoons, forgoing individual servings. Realising he wouldn't get any of the delicious custard and cream layers if he kept complaining about the danger to his carpet, Ludwig snatched a ladyfinger from his brother and dug in too.

Finally, the food was gone, and all three slouched back on the sofa to nurse their full bellies, watching absorbedly as a flashback showed Vito Corleone deal magnanimously with a terrified landlord.

'Damn,' Gilbert muttered, slouching down and leaning over to press uncomfortably into Ludwig's side. Ludwig shouldered him off. The lighter German slumped instead onto the shoulder of the short Italian on his other side, who grumbled and shuffled a bit but, interestingly, didn't push him away. Gilbert peered up at him, blinking wine-brightened red eyes. 'You should definitely come over more often,' he informed the brunette seriously. 'Your food is awesome. I was getting so fucking tired of wurst and pasta. Make me some of your awesome pizza for lunch tomorrow, ok?'

'Fuck no,' Romano said idly, without any heat.

'Please?'

'Shut up, your brother's missing the movie.' This was said in such a lofty, patronising way that Ludwig remembered, quite suddenly, that Romano was the older brother, too. Was he older than Ludwig?

Gilbert fell silent, but his disappointed pout was visible even from the corner of Ludwig's eye. He never could stand up to that face very well, and wondered if that restaurant made decent pizza. It wouldn't be anything like Romano's, though, he was sure, and now he'd actually tasted South Italy's own cooking, he found himself a little disappointed, too.

A few minutes later, Romano sighed and muttered, 'You're such a loser,' which must have been some kind of acquiescence, because Prussia beamed all the way through the next assassination scene.

/

Ludwig woke up warm, stiff, and weighted down. He'd spent too long living with war and a devious brother to really take his time waking up so he knew several important things within a matter of seconds:

a) no-one was in any immediate physical danger.

b) no-one was physically harmed, though his neck and back would probably pain him through the day.

c) He and his brother lay sprawled moderately comfortably head-to-foot on the lounge sofa, the tv playing an infomercial for some kind of salad chopper and blinking a time of 04:17, a statement confirmed by soft falls of blue-black light and only the faintest scattering of sleepy chirps from outside.

d) a rather-small-but-surprisingly-solid dark haired man lay beneath the fairer German, murmuring quietly in Italian and stroking Gilbert's hair with one arm wrapped tightly around his shoulders because

e) Gilbert was crying.