Copper Curl Part I

Germany's eye was twitching.

Not to mention that his temple was pulsing and his fists were clenching.

"…and then I'll make a pasta shaped like the Leaning Tower of Pisa! Wouldn't that be great? And then I could show it to big brother Spain and he could add the tomatoes to it to make it better…"

On and on and on.

Veh this and veh that and pasta up and pizza down.

Germany can only handle Italy for so long before completely snapping and capitulating into a huge shouting spree that involves explicit curse words that combine a strange dialect of Deutsche and some other made up language.

"I'll also add a pizza! There's nothing better than pizza and pasta. Even the sausages from your place cannot compete with it! Don't hit me for saying that, because the sausages do taste good. Far better than the English food…"

Germany started to breathe in and out, determined not to look in the face of the irritating nation. He could not stand to look at that huge dazzling smile, stupid red-brown hair with that annoying curl, and those eyes that always seem to be squinted with joy.

"I have an idea! I'll make pasta tonight for dinner! We'll have it at your place so I won't have to leave for a very long time! Isn't that great? I'll add a tomato sauce and a good cheese. Maybe I can even make a pizza!" Italy ranted, completely oblivious to the growing climatic thunderstorm that surrounded the continuously irritated nation.

Germany ground his teeth together. Sometimes he wondered why he even allied with Italy in the first place. He's such an annoying and cowardly man. All he does is rant about pasta, call for help, and wave white flags in surrender.

He doesn't run laps during training when Germany tells him to; he is very high maintenance; and, his voice is the most irritating thing to ever grace this God-forsaken planet.

Well…maybe except for America.

But Germany always had this immediate impulse to worry when Italy didn't call or show up, to freak out when he got hurt, to always rescue him when he was in danger, to act as his protector.

Germany rubbed his temples and cringed as Italy kept ranting away.

"Italy," he said through clenched teeth, squeezing his eyes shut.

"I'll put cheeses and tomato sauce and basil and…"

"Italy…"

"And if you really want, I could put some wurst in yours…"

"ITALY!"

His thick grating voice smashed through the delicate air like a sludge hammer. Germany panted in and out, feeling the wave of constant annoyance and irritation stream out of his pores.

Finally. Some relief at least.

He allowed himself to look into the face of the Italian man. His eyes were still squinted, his long eyelashes very prominent. His cheeks were still glowing and he still had a damn smile on his face. And that long damn curl. Germany made a mental note to snip it off when Italy was asleep.

He inhaled deeply, holding his breath for a split second before exhaling with a loud puff.

"Veh…"

Italy's breathy and carefree voice swum around the room once again, immediately inflaming Germany's intolerance meter.

He let his head slam against the hard wooden table in front of him with a thick thump.

Why can't this irritating Italian understand that just because one is cute does not mean that one can be as annoying as possible?

Wait a minute. Did he just refer to Veneziano as….cute?

Germany cringed and mentally slapped himself. Of course he didn't! He doesn't refer to anything as cute. Grown men who use the word cute are perverts. Like that frog, France.

Plus, Italy is NOT cute! He may be an…uh…attractive man, but cute? No.

"Germany! Germany! Are you okay?" Italy's voice rang in his ears. Germany felt his shoulder being repeatedly shaken.

"I'm sorry if I annoyed you; I just wanted to tell you about my pasta plan and the tomatoes, and I even offered you sausages because I know how much you like them; just please don't get mad at me Germany, because you terrify me when you're mad, almost as scary as Russia. Oh no, I wasn't supposed to say that! Veh, don't hit me! You're my best friend and I would never compare you to Russia because he's scary and mean and frightening and you're not…"

There he goes again.

Cue the eye twitch and the temple pulsing.

"Italy!" Germany burst out, sitting up abruptly and spinning around to face Italy, causing the annoying man to jump up and yelp in surprise…

Only to trip on his own damn feet and fall smack into Germany.

Germany felt the painful collision of Italy's forehead against his. He felt the man's weight press against him swiftly, but Germany was too preoccupied with the damn throbbing pain in his head to push him off.

Ouch. Germany grimaced and clenched his teeth, determined not to express pain. No, instead, he'd express that pain with anger and robust behavior.

But before he could open his eyes and start criticizing the Italian about his carelessness and clumsiness, he heard an, "Owwwwww….owww! Germany! You're head is really hard."

Mein Gott! That man needs to watch what he says. That can be taken two ways!

With that thought in mind, Germany slowly realized the position that the two of them were in. It was a rather…um…awkward position to say the least.

Italy's plastered against Germany's body, his arms hanging limply and his legs buckled at an awkward position, his torso in between the legs of the blonde nation. Germany also spluttered, realizing that his mouth was infested with reddish brown hair, for the top of Italy's head was against his mouth.

Italy lifted his head from Germany's chin with a small frown on his face as he rubbed his forehead.

For a man, he has very pretty eyes.

Suddenly, Germany's breath hitched. His thoughts seem to disconnect slightly and swirl in a strange illusive haze as he stared into the bright innocent face of his annoying friend.

A scene seemed to be unfolding before his eyes. A scene that tangled in and out of the Italian's face like mist.

The images seemed to assault Germany's eyes.

A dark cape. A broom. A tall man….Austria, maybe? A child. A small girl. A pretty girl. Tears. Nervousness. Sadness.

A kiss…

"Ever since the 900's, I've always loved you…"

And a long reddish brown curl.

"ACK! Get off of me!" Germany exclaimed suddenly, shoving the Italy off of him.

His heart was racing, beating violently against his chest. What in the world was that? Why had he suddenly thought of those images? Were they… could they possibly be memories?

Germany had no recollection of his childhood whatsoever. For as long as he remembered, big brother Prussia always took care of him… but he didn't know where he came from.

What would Austria be doing in his memories?

Who was that girl?

She looked sort of like…almost exactly like…

Germany glanced at Italy, who was sitting on the floor, rubbing his forehead. ("Veh…")

He abruptly stood up, rather clumsily.

"Uh…um…I'm eh…going for a little valk, Italy. I-I'll be back soon," he stuttered, avoiding looking at Italy.

"Okay! But what am I supposed to do here alone?" Italy responded, still on the floor.

"Just make your pasta and pizza. Ve're having dinner here tonight. There's something I need to talk to you about."