Word count: 260

Genre: humour...?

Rating: not worksafe

Note: figlio di puttana = 'son of a bitch' (Italian)

"I'mma do you so hard, your brother can feel it."

At first, Italy hadn't thought much about the low, rough words that Germany has mumbled into his shoulder – how could anyone blame him, considering the situation he'd been in? The idea seemed so hot at the time, not dangerous but just thrilling, as Germany snapped forward again and made sure the promise behind the statement was clear to him. Italy just moaned loudly into the pillow and thought nothing more of it – as he did with most things.

It wasn't until the next morning, when his phone ringing woke the two of them up, that he felt the tingle of danger in his stomach.

"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO, FELICIANO?!" his brother screamed at him over the line. Beside him, Germany winced and pulled a pillow over his head.

"What's wrong, brothe—"

"I CAN'T FUCKING STAND UP PROPERLY, THAT'S WHAT'S WRONG. I SWEAR TO GOD, IF I FIND OUT YOU AND THAT FIGLIO DI PUTTANA HAD SOMETHING TO DO WITH IT…"

Oh.

Oh.

Italy felt a sudden urge to giggle hysterically, even though he knew he ought to feel sorry for Romano. Instead of apologizing, though, he assured him that there had been nothing going on last night that may have caused the older nation trouble. Nothing at all. Oh no. Especially nothing that him and Germany may have been able to predict would have an effect on him. No, no.

Although, he thought as he hung up, they should have been able to figure it out, really. Romano was the lower half, after all.