Routine: A Prumano Fanfiction

One

He remembers the first time they spoke.

     Romano had never liked bars, but, as much as he hated to admit it, he loved his brother; because Feliciano wanted him to go, he went. Gripe and grumble he did, but he went.

     The place reeked of stale sweat. He was taken aback by the atmosphere, thick and humid as a result of all the airborne cheap alcohol and various bodily fluids. Potato bastards filled the joint, doing everything too loudly: smoking, drinking, talking, laughing, dancing, existing. The grouchy Italian had been there only a few seconds and was ready to leave. Alas, he had promised his brother he would stay, and he was usually a man of his word. So he allowed himself to be pulled to a table for four, close to the bar—the loudest table there, despite only half the seats being filled and one person talking. His only thought as the duo approached the table was, 'I wonder if the bartender carries aspirin.'

********

      Fifteen minutes had passed, Romano's short fuse burning ever shorter as words poured incessantly from the lips of the male before him—quite a feat, as beer entered his mouth twice as fast as the words left it. Did he even breathe? The brunette's nose was wrinkled in a permanent expression of disgust as he regarded the pig Feliciano and The Other One had left him with. Pale in both hair color and pallor, with scarlet eyes that screamed of a lack of inhibition for which the beer could not be held totally accountable. Lean-bodied, there was no sign of bloating from constant alcohol consumption. The man was Gilbert Beilschmidt, personification of Prussia and insufferable ass (not to mention Potato Bastard Number Two, being the brother of a certain blonde-haired, blue-eyed not-boyfriend of Romano's ridiculously childish counterpart). And Romano was, to be frank, fed up.

     "Are you going to drink that?" Prussia—is that even a country anymore? Geez—paused in his monologue long enough to jab a finger at the brown, long-necked bottle sitting, untouched, in front of the man who, with every passing second, wished more and more for someone to come put him out of his misery.

     "Of course not. It tastes like piss," was Romano's snappy response.

     "Suit yourself." Long, thin fingers grasped the bottle. Romano's frown deepened as he watched Gilbert drain the contents before the bottle joined its brethren lined up on the other side of the table. 

  Merda, did his brother owe him big time.