I'll Never Call You Maestro

I'll Never Call This Chapter 3

Fratello, Più Veloce! Faster, stupid Hetalia! Good for nothing Italian!" The older Vargas stomped his foot on the ground, gritting his teeth. He was in the middle of another incessant beckoning when Feliciano hopped down the wooden stairs, he was still pulling a sock on over his bare foot and his boot in the other hand. Damn him, if they were late again, Romano would have to start making time after school for all the minutes he had lost.

Education was taken seriously in Italy, unlike Alfred's. That guy could learn to lose a few pounds. Feliciano bounced off the last few steps, and Romano scurried over to grab his arm and drag him out the door, the younger Italian was still fitting his heel into the cobalt blue of his other shoe.

"Ah, it's on." Feliciano exclaimed when the shoe fit, but his brother had already began shoving him into the spot beside the driver's seat.

With Feliciano riding shotgun, checking his bags and fixing his bed hair in the car mirror with his fingers, Romano yanked the handle to the car door and flung himself into the driver's seat beside his brother. He slammed the door and fiddled aggressively with his keys to jam the thing into the ignition. Bingo.

He turned the key and the Renault Clio purred and vibrated as it was brought to life. Nonno had helped Romano and Feliciano afford a car, and it was nice, affordable, and not to mention hella sexy. Vermilion coat, and black leather seating, plus good grip for the steering wheel. What kind of car could look this good? Only a car picked by the Romano Vargas himself. That's what. He was the only one eligible to drive in comparison to his knock-off brother. But in all honesty, they were both terrible at driving.

Nonno Roma would wake up in a cold sweat when he still was breathing, and the next morning he would tell his grandchildren that he had another nightmare where Feliciano, with himself and Romano in the back seat, drove them off a cliff. True story. And so, the moral of this tale is never let an Italian operate any kind of vehicle. Ever.

Feliciano eyed Romano as he gripped the steering wheel and tapped the gas pedal while the car hobbled out of the drive way.

"Fratello, you look tense. Maybe I-" Romano cut him off with a look of horror and disgust.

"Don't EVEN volunteer to drive this car, bastard Hetalia. You will kill us all. I'm too young to die!" They got onto the road without any break slamming or run-over cats. Maybe, today was going to be tolerable?

"But, I like it a hell lot more when you're in this car rather than in the starch-fucker's stupid BMW," Romano turned slightly, keeping his attention on the green light turning to yellow. Feliciano opened his mouth, as if to say something, but kept it closed and smiled at the back of his brother' s head. Romano would not look at him.

"Dere dere." The youthful Vargas said under his breath with a glowing smirk.

"I fucking hate that bastardo of a potata! Why doesn't he just leave us the hell alone? Che diavolo!" And back to his usual habits.

Feliciano sighed. "Tsun tsun." He said.

Driving a vehicle in Rome was less a luxury than public transit. People walked, the city of Rome was meant to be visited on foot since the time it was created. It was built for running, springing, jumping. The roads were, in most of the old families who had seen their beloved city grow to be more modern over many generations, their thoughts were that the roads and newly risen skyscrapers were an inconvenience more than anything else. They clashed with the Victorian architecture and majestic cathedrals. Still, the city was beautiful. It was Italy's one capital, home of the slanted Colosseum and Vatican City.

Tourists traveled to witness its timeless beauty, all across the globe. The world wanted to see Rome. And The two brothers felt lucky to have been born here, in Italy.