Chapter Eleven – Causing Chaos
Germany had a headache. His headache had been plaguing him for months and had abruptly taken a turn for the worse. The German was a scientist and had taken to noting down his headaches in a small notebook. Naturally, he also made a note of Italy's unusual behaviour. The two variables had formed a beautiful correlation when he plotted them in a graph. Currently, Germany thought his head was about to explode – not dissimilar to an Italian attempting to throw a grenade.
Maybe he could give up on being a country. He could take a leaf out of his Big Brother's book and follow Prussia into a life of debauchery, drunkenness and pranking. They would be the perfect duo; Prussia's daring coupled with Germany's minor management skills; they would be practically unstoppable. Unfortunately, the rest of the world may possibly implode if Germany was not there to attempt to keep some order amidst the countries. The German wondered if it was almost worth it for a bit of peace and normality.
To say that Germany was surprised by the current turn of events would be the biggest understatement since America had decided to go for a "small bite to eat" and ended up with fifty-seven hamburgers, twenty-nine cans of Coca-Cola and thirteen cakes for himself. The German could not believe that Italy would ever change his ways. Germany knew that Italy had been upset with him, but to run off and change his looks and get piercings and a tattoo was quite the overreaction. Normally, Italy barely disagreed with Germany for more than a few minutes and it was almost always over something trivial. For example, when Germany had stated that siestas were a waste of time, Italy had spent some thirty minutes arguing the alternative case and then did not speak to Germany for about ten minutes. The Italian had then demanded pasta and the whole incident was put behind them. But to disappear without a word and come back several days later like this was something else entirely.
The German was so absorbed in his own thoughts that it took him a moment to register that Italy was addressing the meeting room.
"Ve…what you all looking at, bastards?" Italy did not look up to address them, instead focusing his attention on examining his perfect, black nails.
Germany suddenly wondered if Romano and Italy had disguised themselves as each other. They looked close enough that they could potentially get away with it and it would explain the attitude. Somehow, Germany knew that this was not the case. Despite the many reasons to believe otherwise, Germany was fond of his Italian friend and had got to know Italy well over the last century. The German knew that this really was Italy. With that he facepalmed his head into his hands, headache taking over completely.
Italy was quite enjoying the attention. As he had walked to the conference centre, he loved the looks that the pretty ladies gave him on the street. He also found the reactions of the other nations quite entertaining. Italy's only concern was the fact that Germany appeared to have face-palmed the desk and had not moved for the last few minutes. Thinking back to his lessons of the last few days, the Italian decided that it was time to step things up a notch.
Any concerns were quickly overwritten as Romano very softly whispered into his headphones, "Get your arse moving and do something, bastard."
With these polite words of encouragement, Italy swung his legs down from the table and stood up. He stretched his arms languidly above his head and let out a lazy yawn. Slowly, he stepped onto his chair, his Dr Martins creating twin thumps against the wooden seat. He then took another step onto the table and waltzed down the conference table towards Germany, not caring if he stood on the few scattered papers that littered the desk. Italy bent down and scooped up a marker pen from the desk.
Still balanced on the desk Italy, promptly sauntered off towards America. He stood in front of the American for a moment, before shrugging and placing one booted foot on the American's shoulder, the other resting on the desk. America let out a small squeak of protest before his hero instincts kicked in and he proceeded to stay very still lest the Italian fall from his somewhat precarious position and hurt himself. He bit his lip slightly as the boot dug uncomfortably into his shoulder. The poor American kept his eyes to the ground, as to look up would have given him a view of leather clad Italian, nether regions and he was certainly not prepared for that.
Meanwhile, Italy leant forwards and placed his left hand on the whitewashed wall in front of him for balance. His other hand popped the lid off the marker pen carelessly and proceeded to begin to draw on the wall. The other nations watched in shock as the Italian drew a somewhat uncanny likeness of Russia – or at least a naked Russia with breasts that would rival Ukraine's.
From the other side of the room a distinct "Kolkolkolkolkol…" could be heard and a faint purple aura added to the pleasant décor of the room.
Next, Italy lobbed the pen carelessly over his shoulder, narrowly missing France in the process. Carefully extracting himself from his precarious position on America, he turned and sauntered across the table towards Japan. Italy proceeded to kneel down in front of his Japanese friend, causing the man to look somewhat alarmed.
"Italy-kun, what are you doing?" Japan asked nervously.
Italy sent him a wink before replying, "Ve…I'm just doing this…" And he leant down to plant a large, sloppy kiss on the man's small nose.
It took about ten seconds before Japan was able to form a coherent thought to react. Then, he went as red as Spain's tomatoes and leapt out of his seat like he has been stung. His chair fell to the floor behind him, knocked over by the sudden movement of the Japanese man.
"I…erm…Italy-kun!" He babbled, wafting his hands around in socially awkward distress.
Italy got back onto his feet and blew another kiss to Japan. "Ve…you taste almost as good as pasta." He winked flirtatiously at the Japanese man.
At this Japan fainted into an unceremonious and undignified heap. The lack of appropriate decorum overwhelming the poor man. Fortunately, China provided the Japanese man a soft landing as Japan slumped into his brother. China caught him gently and slowly lowered him to the floor.
With this latest development the conference room broke into inevitable chaos. China produced a wok from under the table and leapt over towards Italy, intent on giving the Italian what-for for being marginally overly affectionate with his "little brother". At the same time, Russia jumped up behind him and produced his trusty pipe, deciding that the lude drawing of him definitely meant that the Italian deserved an introduction with Mr Pipe. An ominous "Kolkolkolkolkol…." seemed to emanate from the giant Russian.
Quick to rush to Italy's defence and feeling at least partially responsible for the ensuing situation, England jumped to his feet and stood between the two oncoming nations and Italy, his fists raised in defence.
"I say chaps, cool it!" He exclaimed, his emerald eyes glinting dangerously.
To his surprise however, England felt himself moved gently to one side with a hand from behind. Italy walked past England and stood between them, eyes narrowed and looking more dangerous than the Italian ever had before in his unusual getup.
They stole your pasta…
And with that, Italy sent a flying that connected straight to China's stomach and sent him hurtling backwards. China rubbed his stomach and decided it would be safer to go back to looking at Hello Kitty. Italy then slammed his fist into Russia's nose, causing the giant Russian to stop and blink childishly. Russia then pouted outrageously and cuddled his metal pipe to himself like a comforting teddy bear.
"He hit me!" Russia exclaimed, almost sobbing in a somewhat heart-breaking noise, "I want my Mother!" Russia wailed.
"I'll be a hero!" At this America leapt forwards and struck a hero pose, his teeth glinting in a huge, hero-like grin. Spreading his legs, a little, he placed one hand on his hip and the other into a dramatic thumbs up. The American could not have looked more heroic if he tried (in his own opinion anyway).
Seizing up his latest opponent, Italy narrowed his eyes. The Italian could have really done with a huge bowl of pasta, or maybe a pretty lady to take his mind off all the confused, somewhat angry nations around him. Still, even Italy had to admit this was somewhat fun.
"Ve…America, there are no more mother-fucking burgers. They sold out." Italy stated, folding his arms in a rather cool and collected response to the Americans' antics. "Apparently some ghosts ate them…"
With this America took a step back and dramatically screamed. Looking around for the source of the ghosts. Failing to find any he jumped over and dived to hide behind England instead, who gave him a somewhat exasperated look.
"No burgers! Ghosts! IGGY, SAVE ME!" The volume of the American could be heard halfway across Rome and left England somewhat deafened. The Englishman offered America a half-hearted pat on the shoulder before looking back at Italy with a small grin.
France took his turn to act at this point. Standing up, he walked over to Italy and moved to wrap an arm around the Italian, only to get the offending arm swatted away.
"Mon petite, allow Big Brother France to assist you. Looking like that you could get some BLEEP in the BLEEP with that kind of look." The Frenchman sent a very suggestive look to the Italian.
"Ve…Well, I prefer the BLEEP in the BLEEP with the BLEEP." Replied Italy with a cocksure attitude brought along by Grandpa Rome singing away in his ear.
France looked shocked at that and blushed. Nothing could quite prepare him for -that- and to come from Italy's mouth seemed to completely ruin the Frenchman. Dramatically he placed one hand over his brow.
"Mon Dieu!" He exclaimed and went back over to his chair, sinking down into the seat he took a moment before exclaiming, "Nobody needs that Italy, Big Brother France cannot condone such activities. Not even for l'amour."
Italy turned towards Germany who had sat up by this point and watched the unfolding chaos with an expression of utter disbelief. Grinning, Italy sauntered over to him and stood behind him. The Italian placed a gloved hand on each of Germany's shoulders, flexing his fingers to show off the black nail varnish and array of punk jewellery that displayed themselves on his slender fingers. Tapping each of his fingers individually on the German's shoulders, he looked as though he was playing the piano for half a moment. Suddenly, the Italian leant down and murmured softly into Germany's ear.
"I think you'll find the meeting is in chaos. But I am not doing what you say Germany. Not even for pasta. You aren't the boss of me. I am my own Nation. And even though I can't tie my shoelaces, I can cause more chaos than you can possibly imagine."
Italy retreated, but not in the cowardly usual kind of Italian way. Instead, he took a couple of simple steps backwards to eye the German's reaction. He was not disappointed. Germany stood up, turned, gave him a tired, apologetic look and then slowly, with measured steps left the meeting room.
A/N: I don't own Hetalia, Coca-Cola or Dr Martins. Thanks for reading and apologies for the lack of updates. Please feel free to review.