[Fic Fill] You Are Not Magnificent
Aug. 31st, 2010 03:27 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
umbrellaracing.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
hetaliasunshineTITLE: You Are Not Magnificent
AUTHOR/ARTIST: umbrellaracing
RECIPIENT: hello_yes
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Prussia/Romano
RATING: PG
NOTES (optional): The prompt was Prussia/Romano, with "summer at either the Italies or German houses and neither Italy nor Germany is home. Get them up to no good!" I really do hope you enjoy- my mind sort of copped out at the 'get them up to no good' part ;a;
SUMMARY: Romano finds Prussia hiding in the laundry room. It all goes downhill from there...sort of.
When he finds Prussia in the laundry room, he shrieks. It’s a large sort of shriek, not because of its loudness or girliness but because of the huge arm movements that come with it—that come with being Italian, maybe, except probably not to this extreme. He whacks Prussia in the face with one arm and topples over a neat line of detergents with the other and alternates between feeling smug and horrified, but mostly horrified.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” He screams as Prussia reels back and clutches his nose while groaning theatrically.
“What duh fuck did you do wid by beaudiful dose?” Prussia counters. Romano is not impressed. He shows this by lunging for his face again, but Prussia sidesteps him and he lands face first into a pile of fresh and folded laundry.
It smells like pasta.
“Answer my question first,” he shouts, and scrambles to stand back up again because now Prussia’s laughing, which he shouldn’t be because he just had his nose whacked in and god this is so freaky why is he here?
“I came to see you,” says Prussia. His hand falls. His nose is perfectly intact, the bastard.
Romano registers what he’s just said.
Oh.
Oh.
“Most people come in the normal way,” Romano shoots back weakly. He’s suddenly aware of how hard he’s breathing and the small mess he’s made in the room, which has also become very quiet.
Romano has a problem. When things become quiet he feels the need to fill everything up with expletives. It’s a reflex, sort of.
But before he can say anything Prussia is dragging him out of the tiny laundry room, which still looks like a robber’s been through it, and says,
“I had to hide in here until your brother left with mine to molest each other in public instead of in your house,” which is a perfectly sane reason, of course.
“Your brain has been fried into chicken shit,” Romano deadpans.
“I know right? It’s awesome!”
And then the afternoon begins.
Then they realize why they’re having this sort of afternoon.
“My brother abandoned me for your meathead one,” Romano says, more than a little irritably.
The insult goes over Prussia’s head entirely. “That’s because he likes pasta, and pasta has meatballs in it! Way to be obvious, moron.”
Romano closes his eyes and counts to three very slowly. Because he’s mature. And Prussia’s not.
“And I can’t blame Feli for wanting his balls meaty. Ha.”
This is what’s part of the difference between a dignified country and an autistic slug.
“God, are you doing the I’m-not-an-autistic-slug shit again? Because it is seriously getting old,” says Prussia, snapping Romano out of his quasi-relaxation and into a burning that envelopes his entire body. It isn’t because Prussia’s hot. Although he is. Except that’s not the point here—the point is that sometimes he’s really fucking infuriating and—
“But hey, you know what talking about pasta and being ditched reminds me of?”
“What.”
“How awesome my ideas are. Because we’re going to replace all the food in dear Feli’s kitchen with…”
Prussia’s eyes light up at something behind Romano. He feels something akin to impending doom as he turns around to see what Prussia has.
It’s a sock draped over a chair.
“With socks,” Prussia declares.
Romano stares at him.
Prussia leans over, mouth right over Romano’s ear, which grows redder and redder, and cackles. Right into it.
Then he speeds towards Romano’s room, its owner still frozen on the spot, and doesn’t forget to pluck the sock off the chair as he goes.
Sometimes Prussia is really fucking infuriating and—
And…a genius.
“THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING,” Romano squawks when he sees his room. His closet and drawers are all open with clothes spilling out of them, and Prussia is grabbing bunch after bunch of socks from everywhere he can reach.
“You asked me that already today,” says Prussia, not caring to turn around from his state of raiding.
“With good reason!” He stalks over and yanks a wad of socks from Prussia’s left arm. And then wilts a bit inside, because they’re unwashed and smell horrible.
Apparently Prussia is immune.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” he says. Prussia grabs the socks back and grins.
“We’re doing this. And yes you can. Now be a good little accomplice and go steal stuff from your brother’s room, okay?”
Romano knows very clearly that he’s breathing too hard and if his chest feels any tighter he might really pop a few arteries, but thus is the tortured life of being around Prussia. He can only trek to his brother’s room and actually go looking for the socks, because in all honestly this is a fan-fucking-tastic idea—the looks that will be on their faces—but before he does, Romano punches Prussia in the face again.
“Don’t call me little,” he grits out.
This time, Prussia’s cry is real.
Even the fridge has socks in it.
They move the food into the basement.
“The gelato,” Romano whimpers. Manlily.
“They’ll be back before it can melt,” Prussia says in a surprisingly sensitive voice, although this may be because he’s despairing about the gelato too. It was Feliciano-made.
And when everything’s said and done, they stand back to admire the kitchen.
“It’s a masterpiece! Look at those sock placemats! So neat! So placemat-y! So—so—“ Prussia collapses onto Romano’s shoulder and starts bawling.
“Get your fucking nose and snot away from me,” yells Romano, pushing at Prussia head. It turns to look up at him.
“I am too awesome to get snot in my majestic nose,” it says. “Also, I can’t believe you guys don’t have beer, you pansies.”
“That’s it.” Romano shoves Prussia into the fridge and stomps out of the kitchen.
“Hey hey hey, I didn’t mean it!”
“Yeah, you don’t mean a lot of things, huh—“
The front doorknob jiggles. The voices behind it get louder and more distinctive.
Romano and Prussia stare at each other.
“The back door!” Romano screeches, and they do a mad dash for it, colliding into the screen door behind it and then vaulting into the garden behind the house. The afternoon sun slams into them as they run towards it and away from the little summer cottage the Italies always use. They’re running, running, running and shit they forgot to close the back door and running and Romano’s heart is banging against his chest like the worst and best cliché in the world and—
They stop. The plants and flowers are wilder around here, less taken care of and bigger, snagging into each other with tendrils of green and red and yellow at their ankles.
Romano can see the flush in Prussia’s face and how wide his eyes are as they heave their breaths out and can hear him…laughing. Not cackling—it’s genuine hearty laughter, something Romano hasn’t heard for a long time and hasn’t realized how much he’s missed it.
So he joins in. And they laugh, even as the sweat grows under Romano’s armpits. Prussia straightens when he laughs. Out here, it means he straightens into the August sun that washes over them, so that his hair catches the light in a way that makes it look almost gold but mostly just outlined in a halo, and for all his crassness and dragging Romano around, it seems like he softens in the sun.
It’s nice.
There are tomatoes in the garden. There’s probably a sobbing Italian and furious German back in the house. The tomatoes that still bother growing this far out are undersized and perpetually green, but they have enough sun. All they need is more water, which is easy.
Romano can tell Prussia likes this place as much as he does because his grin isn’t conspiring anymore either—it’s fresh and exhilarated and a tad anticipating.
“You magnificent motherfucker,” sighs Romano, and then he gives Prussia what he wants.
AUTHOR/ARTIST: umbrellaracing
RECIPIENT: hello_yes
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Prussia/Romano
RATING: PG
NOTES (optional): The prompt was Prussia/Romano, with "summer at either the Italies or German houses and neither Italy nor Germany is home. Get them up to no good!" I really do hope you enjoy- my mind sort of copped out at the 'get them up to no good' part ;a;
SUMMARY: Romano finds Prussia hiding in the laundry room. It all goes downhill from there...sort of.
When he finds Prussia in the laundry room, he shrieks. It’s a large sort of shriek, not because of its loudness or girliness but because of the huge arm movements that come with it—that come with being Italian, maybe, except probably not to this extreme. He whacks Prussia in the face with one arm and topples over a neat line of detergents with the other and alternates between feeling smug and horrified, but mostly horrified.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” He screams as Prussia reels back and clutches his nose while groaning theatrically.
“What duh fuck did you do wid by beaudiful dose?” Prussia counters. Romano is not impressed. He shows this by lunging for his face again, but Prussia sidesteps him and he lands face first into a pile of fresh and folded laundry.
It smells like pasta.
“Answer my question first,” he shouts, and scrambles to stand back up again because now Prussia’s laughing, which he shouldn’t be because he just had his nose whacked in and god this is so freaky why is he here?
“I came to see you,” says Prussia. His hand falls. His nose is perfectly intact, the bastard.
Romano registers what he’s just said.
Oh.
Oh.
“Most people come in the normal way,” Romano shoots back weakly. He’s suddenly aware of how hard he’s breathing and the small mess he’s made in the room, which has also become very quiet.
Romano has a problem. When things become quiet he feels the need to fill everything up with expletives. It’s a reflex, sort of.
But before he can say anything Prussia is dragging him out of the tiny laundry room, which still looks like a robber’s been through it, and says,
“I had to hide in here until your brother left with mine to molest each other in public instead of in your house,” which is a perfectly sane reason, of course.
“Your brain has been fried into chicken shit,” Romano deadpans.
“I know right? It’s awesome!”
And then the afternoon begins.
Then they realize why they’re having this sort of afternoon.
“My brother abandoned me for your meathead one,” Romano says, more than a little irritably.
The insult goes over Prussia’s head entirely. “That’s because he likes pasta, and pasta has meatballs in it! Way to be obvious, moron.”
Romano closes his eyes and counts to three very slowly. Because he’s mature. And Prussia’s not.
“And I can’t blame Feli for wanting his balls meaty. Ha.”
This is what’s part of the difference between a dignified country and an autistic slug.
“God, are you doing the I’m-not-an-autistic-slug shit again? Because it is seriously getting old,” says Prussia, snapping Romano out of his quasi-relaxation and into a burning that envelopes his entire body. It isn’t because Prussia’s hot. Although he is. Except that’s not the point here—the point is that sometimes he’s really fucking infuriating and—
“But hey, you know what talking about pasta and being ditched reminds me of?”
“What.”
“How awesome my ideas are. Because we’re going to replace all the food in dear Feli’s kitchen with…”
Prussia’s eyes light up at something behind Romano. He feels something akin to impending doom as he turns around to see what Prussia has.
It’s a sock draped over a chair.
“With socks,” Prussia declares.
Romano stares at him.
Prussia leans over, mouth right over Romano’s ear, which grows redder and redder, and cackles. Right into it.
Then he speeds towards Romano’s room, its owner still frozen on the spot, and doesn’t forget to pluck the sock off the chair as he goes.
Sometimes Prussia is really fucking infuriating and—
And…a genius.
“THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING,” Romano squawks when he sees his room. His closet and drawers are all open with clothes spilling out of them, and Prussia is grabbing bunch after bunch of socks from everywhere he can reach.
“You asked me that already today,” says Prussia, not caring to turn around from his state of raiding.
“With good reason!” He stalks over and yanks a wad of socks from Prussia’s left arm. And then wilts a bit inside, because they’re unwashed and smell horrible.
Apparently Prussia is immune.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” he says. Prussia grabs the socks back and grins.
“We’re doing this. And yes you can. Now be a good little accomplice and go steal stuff from your brother’s room, okay?”
Romano knows very clearly that he’s breathing too hard and if his chest feels any tighter he might really pop a few arteries, but thus is the tortured life of being around Prussia. He can only trek to his brother’s room and actually go looking for the socks, because in all honestly this is a fan-fucking-tastic idea—the looks that will be on their faces—but before he does, Romano punches Prussia in the face again.
“Don’t call me little,” he grits out.
This time, Prussia’s cry is real.
Even the fridge has socks in it.
They move the food into the basement.
“The gelato,” Romano whimpers. Manlily.
“They’ll be back before it can melt,” Prussia says in a surprisingly sensitive voice, although this may be because he’s despairing about the gelato too. It was Feliciano-made.
And when everything’s said and done, they stand back to admire the kitchen.
“It’s a masterpiece! Look at those sock placemats! So neat! So placemat-y! So—so—“ Prussia collapses onto Romano’s shoulder and starts bawling.
“Get your fucking nose and snot away from me,” yells Romano, pushing at Prussia head. It turns to look up at him.
“I am too awesome to get snot in my majestic nose,” it says. “Also, I can’t believe you guys don’t have beer, you pansies.”
“That’s it.” Romano shoves Prussia into the fridge and stomps out of the kitchen.
“Hey hey hey, I didn’t mean it!”
“Yeah, you don’t mean a lot of things, huh—“
The front doorknob jiggles. The voices behind it get louder and more distinctive.
Romano and Prussia stare at each other.
“The back door!” Romano screeches, and they do a mad dash for it, colliding into the screen door behind it and then vaulting into the garden behind the house. The afternoon sun slams into them as they run towards it and away from the little summer cottage the Italies always use. They’re running, running, running and shit they forgot to close the back door and running and Romano’s heart is banging against his chest like the worst and best cliché in the world and—
They stop. The plants and flowers are wilder around here, less taken care of and bigger, snagging into each other with tendrils of green and red and yellow at their ankles.
Romano can see the flush in Prussia’s face and how wide his eyes are as they heave their breaths out and can hear him…laughing. Not cackling—it’s genuine hearty laughter, something Romano hasn’t heard for a long time and hasn’t realized how much he’s missed it.
So he joins in. And they laugh, even as the sweat grows under Romano’s armpits. Prussia straightens when he laughs. Out here, it means he straightens into the August sun that washes over them, so that his hair catches the light in a way that makes it look almost gold but mostly just outlined in a halo, and for all his crassness and dragging Romano around, it seems like he softens in the sun.
It’s nice.
There are tomatoes in the garden. There’s probably a sobbing Italian and furious German back in the house. The tomatoes that still bother growing this far out are undersized and perpetually green, but they have enough sun. All they need is more water, which is easy.
Romano can tell Prussia likes this place as much as he does because his grin isn’t conspiring anymore either—it’s fresh and exhilarated and a tad anticipating.
“You magnificent motherfucker,” sighs Romano, and then he gives Prussia what he wants.
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no subject
Date: 2010-09-01 10:43 pm (UTC)Also, Prussia is a genius XD Replacing food with socks...that's just...well, it really makes me wonder how Prussia's brain works, let's put it that way XDD
I loved the dynamic between these two, and they were perfectly in character despite the cracky content of this fic. You write humour really well! I was laughing IRL throughout the whole thing!
no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 08:09 pm (UTC)and i'm so glad the humor came through 8D
no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 02:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-02 08:07 pm (UTC)