A/N: It's my birthday, so I decided to spend it writing~ ^ ^ I don't own Hetalia, though it would make an awesome birthday present~

"Another," ordered Romano as he finished his glass. He was slumped in his stool, drunk on cheap wine, and pitying himself. Just another day of being passed over and shunted to the side in favor of his brother. Really, just because he wasn't warm or friendly or cute didn't make him a bad person. He certainly tried. It wasn't his fault that no one appreciated his efforts.

Today, when he had finished his paper work, he had decided to make lunch for his new boss, because he hadn't had a chance to wow him with his cooking skills yet. He had made wonderful and delicious Pasta Fagioli. How was he supposed to know his boss was allergic to basil? If it had been his brother, he'd have been patted on the head and told that it was okay, that it wasn't his fault and that everything would be alright. But no, Romano had been treated to an hour long lecture and forced to pay for his boss' medical bills. As if he wasn't poor enough already.

He had gone home for the day, only to realize that he had wasted the last of his ditalini on his boss, and that he was stuck with penne. His tomato supply was running low, his oregano was all dried up, and his best pot burnt through. Then, Italy had decided to visit, and bring along Spain and the potato bastard, who had spent the whole time cooing over Italy and asking Romano why he was so nasty all the time.

So he'd gone to the bar to drown himself in alcohol and pity.

"Stupid bastards," he slurred, his head hitting the counter top. "Don't know what they want from me. 's not like I try to be mean." He tilted his glass back, only to notice that it was empty.

"Hey, bastard! Gimme more wine!" he called, looking up to glare blurrily at the young man behind the bar.

"Sir, I think you've had enough," he said, looking around at the thirty something glasses that littered the area around him.

Romano stood, swaying slightly. "Bastardo," he growled. "Gimme more wine before I rip off your testicoli."

The bartender sighed. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to pay for your drinks and leave," he said, polishing a glass and looking quite unperturbed by his threat.

"Stupid piece of rigatoni," he snarled, pulling his fist back to punch the merda out of the only thing between him and his liquor.

His arm was stopped by something strong clamping onto it. Romano looked around and found Germany holding his arm back and wearing a weary expression.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, potato bastard?" he demanded, struggling to pull his appendage from Germany's iron grip.

"Come now, Romano," he sighed. "Ve're leaving."

"You can't tell me what to do, asshole!" he garbled, punching him repeatedly with his free hand.

Germany remained stoic as he laid enough money on the counter to cover the expenses as well as a generous tip, before picking up the raging Italian and throwing him over his shoulder. He ignored the yelling and walked into the parking lot, proceeding to open the door to his car and dump Romano in the back seat.

"Where are you taking me?" he cried, too tired to attempt to escape. "Are you going to try to brainwash me like you did my brother? Cause it's not gona work. Hey, are you just gona leave my car here? I can drive myself, you—"

"I'm taking you home to your bruder," said Germany, cutting off Romano's rant.

"Why are you doing this?" asked Romano, glowering. "It's not like you care if I get hurt or not, you stupid piece of—"

"I'm doing this because Italy asked me to." His tenacity seemed to be wearing on Germany's nerves.

"Oh, so you just wanted to shut him up, is it? I knew you just wanted to use him—"

"No," said Germany through gritted teeth. "Italy is my friend, and I don't want him to be upset, and for some reason, he seems to be upset when you're upset." Something Germany had yet to understand.

Romano was quiet for a moment. He hadn't considered that the kraut might actually care about his brother's feelings. That he might actually be a good person some of the time.

He shook his head quickly. All this thinking was hurting his drunken head, and he was beginning to feel nauseous.

"Hey, Wurst," he called. "Pull over. I think I'm going to hurl."

Germany sighed but complied, opening to door just in time to avoid getting regurgitated wine all over his upholstery.

Huh. Maybe he wasn't that bad, after all.