Disclaimer: Don't own Hetalia or any related insignia.

Warnings: some Fem! characters or mentions of them, language, angst, mild sexual behavior, some cheesiness (slap it on some bread and enjoy), general bar scene tomfoolery

Italics are thoughts or they are stressed words.

Translations (cross-referenced on different sites)
French:
Non - No
Aucune raison- No reason
Italian:
Bambini - Kids (or babies)
Signorina - Miss
Bella - Beautiful
German
Zimt - Cinnamon

Enjoy!

Two Birds With Two Stone

Dim lighting taxing the sight of every unfocused party-goer, sexy clothing attracting the attention of every horny onlooker, jarring techno music deafening every conversationalist, and endless mind-numbing alcohol (at least until the bartender deemed one too drink to drunk) filled the bar rightly named Unexpected. Because everyone knows anything can happen with a BAC of .20% from a zit-faced nerd sucker punching the ego out of a tattooed muscle head to discovering one's belief in a higher being.

"Which is why a colder climate is best," the blonde 20-something year old condescended, adjusting his 'inconspicuous' sunglasses and 'I *heart* NY' cap swiped from a younger sibling's fallout of a room. At first glance, the other participant in the futile argument questioned why the fuck his friend was wearing those items on a cloudy day and if he chose to accept his mission.

The cynical, proud brunette sitting across from him fumed as he does at things that mocked his heritage, "You are so Canadian Matthew! I wouldn't be surprised if you can shit snow. And in a warmer climate, you get to keep all of your fingers and toes. Case fucking closed!"

"And you are so Italian, Lovino, ordering wine in a place like this." Matthew retorted this in reference to the classiness wine generally dictated. Which the disco lights gyrating along the walls erased all hopes of.

"Bite my Italian ass. And why do you keep looking towards that banshee-loud, pale girl over there?" Just as he jerked his thumb towards said stranger, she (or she physically but he mentally) announced to the bar about her awesomeness. Or something stupidly boastful along those lines causing Lovino to roll his eyes.

Resorting to French because of sudden frazzled nerves, Matthew squeaked, "N-non. Aucune raison." Steeling himself, "It's just... you claim to be some super smooth, in the words of my brother, sexy beast, with women, but I have yet to see this phenomena. It makes me wonder."

Lovino recognized a challenge when he saw- heard it. "It sounds like you have a bet in the works," Lovino smirked over his drink, hazel irises shooting pointed bullets across the secluded booth.

Straitening his spine, "I do," Matthew confessed, "I remember about two years ago you told me you preferred women that are a little more on the... rough side? Does this still hold true?"

Surprise found its way on Lovino's angular face; he did not recall the question from his cluttered memory sack, but the statement spoke the truth. Combat boots and destructive language has always appealed to the Italian more so than purses and perfume, and this fondness probably stemmed from the years of abuse Lovino was subjected to by his spineless younger sister, Felicia, a 100% blood member of the flowery-skirt cult. After living with someone who wails and apologizes to ant hills because she unintentionally squashed one of their brethren, forces participation in seven hour shopping excursions, asks which shade of brown eye shadow is prettier, (Lovino is convinced they are the same fucking shade with different names) and needs to find the house key in her bottomless hellhole called a purse... when he is not forced to carry it. No thank you.

Lovino wanted a woman who doesn't mind the dirt under her fingernails from hours of gardening, shooting his best friend in the face when all of his ammo was spent on a jump scare in video games, would prefer actually going out more than getting ready to do so, and can simply put up with his dickishness. It takes a hardened (or lacking any and all grey matter and completely oblivious to any and all surroundings) individual to do that and Lovino has had enough flighty dumbasses in his life that one more addition would give some mafia hit men extra pocket money.

After a moment of reflection, "Yeah, it does. Why the fuck does it pertain to you though? You better not be setting me up on some blind date, Bieber Bastard," Lovino angrily spewed and not so subtly hinting at the last catastrophe of a blind date the two were involved with.

Matthew raised his palms, invoking innocence, "No, there is no blind date, I promise on the life of all the polar bears."

He knew Matthew did not joke about his fluffy, white Northern friends. Lovino instantly relaxed at his friend's calm attitude, relishing in his comment. This is how their relationship has always worked from when they first met on that indirectly successful blind date; Matthew was the calm ice that cooled Lovino's bitter fire while Lovino was the pressuring heat that thawed Matthew's shy walls. Whether Antonio and Francis were actually thinking or not when they stuck their 'lonely little brothers' together, a close, platonic friendship was composed instead of the usual suggestive couple. Because neither of them were homosexual, a mighty flaw in the disappointed Antonio and Fracnis' grand scheme.

Upon seeing the heat dissipate in Lovino's eyes, Matthew continued his earlier flow, "You were correct about the bet though. I bet there is one girl in here that you can not woo. Terms, I select the person and you have to use your 'Italian magic' to get her number."

This seemed to easy. "What is the catch?" Lovino questioned.

"I select the girl, if you can get the number I'll make you those tomato-flavored pancakes you have been begging ("I not a dog!") for. No number means that you have to share your secretive cannoli recipe with me. Does that seem fair?"

Honestly, Lovino was not too intimidated by the terms of the bet. His cannoli recipe was just swiped from the back of a box of ingredients from Italy with a few personal alterations. No, what made the Italian the most nervous was the waves of confidence that spewed from his generally meeker Canadian friend. Something was up with this bet. He just didn't know what. Besides, if I do happen to lose I can just forge some random number. With a wicked grin, "Pick my poison Matthew and prepare your batter for the addition of tomatoes."

With a curt nod that both sides have accepted the terms and conditions, thankfully not in written form, Matthew casted his indigo eyes onto the heaping clusterfuck bar scene. Lovino followed his line of sight, although it was difficult to see a damn thing because the blonde requested an already isolated booth in the backwoods of the bar.

Pretty brunette softly smiling to a pouting blonde girl, no, that was a guy in a skirt. Skinny red-head drinking an equally red, frilly drink. That obnoxious pale girl from earlier. Another brunette- shit, don't do it Matth-

"The combat booted, pale women over at the bar with the huge jug of beer."

Sucking in a deep breath and hissing it back out, "You. You just had to pick the one girl in here that I hate the most. Oh wait, she is now in second place because you have just been promoted to first. Congrats."

"Charming, Lovino. Do you forfeit?"

"Like hell I do." Lovino took a few seconds to contemplate the best course of action till he remembered that planning was never his strong suit. Lets just wing it, he passed high school just fine that way with minimal detentions from pranked, homework-assigning teachers. Sighing and peeking up at his... target, she was no longer chatting it up with the bartender and instead was brushing her nearly white (reminding Lovino of the crests of ocean waves from his homeland) pixie-style hair with her hand, so now would be the best time to go.

Rising from his padded seat, it took the Italian several minutes to maneuver his lanky body through the hoards of sweaty 'dancers' when, in reality, it looked more like sex with clothes.

Thankfully, the girl had yet to turn around and see a disheveled Lovino behind her. That would have flattened any and all of the confidence Lovino has been harboring. To remedy this, he straitened his black button up shirt and maroon vest and pushed those ever hanging bangs out of the way of his vision. Almost ready to pop a mint in, I am putting way too much thought into this, the brunette reflected.

Casual is one of the best ways to approach a stranger. It puts no pressure on them to be formal nor does it freak them out if they are of the more laid-back type and it creates an overall sense of ease. And if they are of a more serious nature, well fuck them. With this in tow, Lovino swiveled the bar stool to the right of the girl to allow himself to sit.

Step one, approach without interest, check. He sat down without glancing at the other occupant of the area as if she was a non-existent ghost, but because he was closer and could get a better view of her features, a ghost description is not far from accurate. This lack of force gives the target room to adjust to the new surroundings of having another presence near.

The bartender she was talking to earlier approached him... Shit on a gondola, are those eyebrows real or are they implants? "Good day, what drink would you prefer, lad?" he asked with a positive London accent.

After blinking once and then twice to make sure this was not a dream, "Um... Just a Bloody Mary." With a nod, the blonde left to create the cocktail.

Step two of subtly attracting attention went a little... what the fuck genetics? But never the less, step three... Where is that weird-ass snickering coming from?

There was only one other person that could be making noise in their general area as the two seats on her left and his right were unoccupied. And the Londoner was adding the tomato juice into the cocktail at the far end of the bar.

Turning his head 90 degrees, it was, as he guessed, signorina Ghostie smirking her ass off which would be a shame because those black skinny jeans looked gorgeous on her long legs. Her heart-shaped face required no make-up, for it appeared there was none on, and it had the most unique eyes Lovino as ever seen, they were red. Not like murder, Christmas, blood red, but a dark maroon color.

"Before your brain combusts, yes, those are his real eyebrows." she cackled with a light German accent. Not enough to make you cork your ears, but still present enough to be... kind of sexy with it's rough nature. This is wrong...

Again, Lovino blinked once, then twice. If only he had a totem. "No fucking way those are real." In reference to both the kitten-sized eyebrows and dark red eyes. He turned back to where the bartender was mixing the drink only to have his view blocked by the object of his quest.

"Here is your drink, and it would be in your best interest to not talk about people behind their back, especially if they are handling your drink." And with that pompous threat, he left to go handle some other customer.

"Careful, Mario, if you keep that expression on your face people will forever be assuming you have just smelled shit."

Due to the expression on her face, the next phrase could not be avoided, "Then I must be smelling what you just ate. And my name is Lovino." The brunette would rather give out his name than be referenced to that big-nosed plumber.

"Hey, my shit-eating grin is much more awesome than anyone else's!" She declared, raising her half-filled mug of foaming beer into the air as if it was a toast. "And Lovino huh?" She cocked her head to the right, some of her platinum hair tips brushing against the white sleeve of her (Prussian?) eagle-printed shirt. "I kind of prefer Zimt." Her smug smile was distorted by the glass and color of the beer she began to drink.

Step three, make conversation, accomplished. Abet, in a unique way. This will diffidently be a seduce he will remember for a long time.

Zimt? Must be some type of insulting jest. Good to know she has a non-pudding backbone. "Then I'm guessing your name is sauerkraut?" Lovino morphed is usual light grimace into a coy, small smile. This girl was amusing.

"Hell no! That shit is disgusting." She stuck her tongue out as if she was actually eating the cabbage. "Name is Julchen, but you get the special privilege of calling me the Awesome Gil!"

Learn their name, step four, terminated.

"Because Hell has frozen over. How do you get Gil from Julchen? And are you meeting up with someone?"

Slapping her mug on the counter, "Nope, no boyfriend to meet or anything like that," she explained not too innocently (Step 5, figure out the relationship status, safe to flirt.), "Their was a friend of mine who was suppose to be here a while ago, but the little Birdie never showed. Oh well, his loss on all of this. And Gillian is my middle name and Gil is a trillion times more awesome sounding than Jul or Julie or, god forbid, Chen. There has got to be some type of nickname you hate, Lovi."

The brunette took a shot of his drink to help calm his nerve spikes. "And you have just found it. Don't fucking call me Lovi.

Only one person has his permission to call him Lovi. Not Felicia, not his grandfather, and certainly not some random (yet enticing) chick at the bar. This one person cut his sandwiches when he was young, made sure his teeth was brushed, helped with addition math homework, game him attention in the work-centric world his parents breathed. And was six feet under. God damn, why didn't she tell anyone about her tumor. If only they had known a few months earlier Lovino would not have attended his first funeral at eleven.

Brooding Lovino felt a gentle yet firm poke that brought him spiraling back up from hell. He glanced to his left to see those satin eyes of Gil examining his face, but they were doing just that, examining. Not pitying like he was some victimized damsel, but curious. "It seems I have struck a nerve. Whatever way I have pissed you off, I'm sure my awesomeness can help amend it." She smiled at her drinking partner, a smile that was pleasantly different from all the previous ones.

Racking a had through his unkempt hair and wearily dragging it across his face, "You didn't piss me off Gil... I was just thinking of my mother." Lovino replied, unable to come up with a reason as to why he was shoving his deepest hidden weaknesses at this stranger.

"Oh, I bet she is a beautiful woman!" She strained to righten the mood. Great, another oblivious one.

An image of her long, wavy brown hair billowing behind her with hazel eyes shining just like the home-grown tomatoes she carried in her woven basket. "She was."

"Was? ...Shit, Ah..." Her voice lowered several octaves, making it difficult to hear the next words. "If it makes you feel any better, my father died when I was young. Car accident. Some shitfaced, dumbass ran into him. and it just fucking figures that we are here drinking what caused the accident." She swished the foam in her now empty mug.

Lovino just stared at the girl in stupefaction and some anger at her naivety. "How in the heavens would that make any of this feel better?"

"I don't know for fuck's sake! But just saying 'I'm sorry your mom died' has always seemed like a waste of words. People don't need pity, they need to learn to move on."

Maybe waywardly understanding is a better description.

Swallowing the completely correct words that agreed with his own ideologies, Lovino raised his half-filled drink, "A toast, to our parents."

Gil responded by clanking her mug to Lovino's glass, stealing his drink right out of his hand, and pouring half of the remains into her own glass all with that bewitching (the correct term for the unclassified smile he received after his mental tirade earlier.) grin.

Step six... you know what, fuck the bet. Lovino wanted more than just a phone number from this woman, and strangely enough, not in just a sexual way. With her friendly-cruel wit, the conversation was always interesting. And unlike most loud-mouths he has met, she actually talked less about herself than he would have believed. Lovino was not much of a conversation starter, but her bluntness did an excellent job of starting a new subject while Lovino's role was to be an arguing partner (or agreeing and ranting partner). Yeah, Lovino never took himself for the relationship type, but after their mushy, heart-felt exchange earlier... normal people just don't do that upon first meeting each other. That is more of a the shit-filled soul mate shit that Felicia babbles on about. But, there is a first time for everything, right? There better be, or I will look like a fool.

"Despite not being a country anymore, Prussia's legacy will never die! Just look at it puddin', their is the Prussian National Monument in Berlin an-" The rest of the platinum blonde's patriotic rave was short circuited by Lovino's face. Specifically, his lips.

It was a simple brush of skin, more for getting the Northern European to shut up than to seek relief from UST, but static still clung to both of their still relatively sober mouths.

Shocked, Gil jolted back at the sudden closeness nearly falling off her stool. She tried to laugh off her blunder with that cute but weird hissing-laugh. Thing. "Kesese, I know I'm awesome, but give a girl a warning." Her face was a warm red color that stood pronounced on her fair skin.

"Fine, I'm about to kiss you."

But instead of Lovino moving forward it was Gil who did so, even going so far as to wrap her thin arm around his neck for better leverage. Her tongue brushed against his smooth lips, leaving a trail of warmth. Yeah, Lovino decided that he diffidently wanted more of this, selfishness be damned.

When they parted, the brunette, with reddened cheeks, summed up the question that has been formulating in his mind for some time: "Gil, bella" (two can play that game), "do you. Want to go-"

"Sorry sweet cheeks, but I have just got a sighting on that ditching Canadian jackass and plan Whip Williams' Ass is now in progress." So with a wicked wink, the oxymoronic beauty raced off to the exit/entrance of the bar where, sure enough, Matthew was leaving. At a pretty fast rate.

Matthew was about to get his ass kicked by a woman, this is something no self-respecting individual would give up.

To keep his warmth as the Italian approached the front door, he shoved his hands into his dark denim pockets only to feel something crumply. He pulled out the object to find a piece of napkin with scrawled letters and numbers hastily written across it. It was her number, her full number, and that she was free this Saturday.

"And that, bambini, is how I met your mother," Lovino softly cooes, examining his work of making the two young children sleep via bed-time story; a skill he perfected at an early age to help protect his younger sister from the monsters under the bed and his lover from boredom. He was so engrossed in the story that he did not notice their heads hitting the pillows. "Though you guys don't seem to care at the moment." His sarcasm is answered by soft snores.

Rising from the small pink stool in between the two twin-sized beds, placing a hand on the small of his back for support, Lovino moves towards his daughter first and places a chaste kiss on her forehead covered with sandy, light-brown hair. An action the Italian swore on his life that he would never do until he saw his angel's light, hazel eyes for the first time.

Now with the tucked-in daughter, Lovino journeys across the pathway, almost tripping over that damn pink stool, towards his son. Smoothing out that piece of dark-brown hair that seems to defy the laws of physics, similar to his own, a quick kiss is placed in between the cherub's thin eyebrows which topped deep, a little lighter than familiar, brown eyes.

"If only you acted that sweet with me, baby, maybe you would have gotten laid that same night," a voice, one Lovino could pick out from across the galaxy, jeers from her leaning position in the doorway.

Sardonically smiling, but with eyes of affection, "If I came up to you with a sugary as fu-" Remember, the kids are in the room. "smile, you would have just poured your beer on my head, moonbeam." Lovino answers, motioning the woman to exit the bedroom while he followed.

With a barrier between the innocence and them, Julchen lightly shoves her husband against the back wall, their breathing in sync with each other, and he automatically responds by pulling her closer against his chest, sparking heat across any region in contact. The couple guesses they should have given their Canadian friend a thank you for meddling with their lives and setting them up instead of the noogie and swear-fest.

"Moonbeam? You're becoming an old fuck, pumpkin," she mocks. Lovino decides to avoid bring up the subject of the wing-shaped, tiny crow's feet framing her immeasurably brown (swearingly red under the right lighting) eyes. Crow's feet that take flight every time she smiles.

"Shut the fuck up and kiss me already, you mental patient."

To keep up with their personal game of creating the cheesiest pet-names and/or sayings, "And maybe I am crazy," Julchen declares just before their lips meet, her breath caressing Lovino's chapped mouth, "crazy for you."

Never for patience, the both of them fall into the perfect position, one that sealed their lives together standing at the altar, lifted their insecurities into pure passion between the sheets, and triggered their relationship all those years back on that fateful night in the bar.

And in our most recent story, the world has exploded into little pieces of mozzarella and butterkase. French, Swiss, and Italians everywhere rejoice.

The two main ingredients in a Bloody Mary is vodka and tomato juice and it is garnished with various fruit and veggies.