Brothers

Better Late Than Never I

~*~One Year Later; September 5th 1929 ~*~

Alfred sat at the round table, propping his head up on his hand and using the other one to vaguely cover up his loud and obnoxious yawn. There was no progress to be made. Italy’s representative, Feliciano Vargas, was rambling on about how much he loved pasta at the moment and how everyone in the World Meetings should demand to have pasta served to them instead of the crappy scones that Sir Arthur Kirkland, England’s representative, had been ever so kind to bring in. He practically wanted to kill everyone in the room due to the bad economy, including a certain someone with glasses and always shouted, “I’m the hero!”

Greece’s representative, Heracles Karpusi, was asleep as usual, sitting in his chair with a kitten on his head. How he managed to get that feline into the room when there were strictly no pets allowed baffled everyone. And how he had the authority to enter the room as well…Life was indeed a mystery. Kiku Honda sat in his chair, sitting upright and pretending to listen to Feliciano’s rambling when all he really wanted to do was to fall asleep, like everyone else. A blonde haired man with his mane up to his shoulders kept staring at himself using a large 8” pink mirror with a large handle that his right hand was wrapped around it as his left hand adjusted his hair. This was France’s representative, Francis Bonnefoy.

A brown haired man sitting down with a sewing kit in front of him was Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, Spain’s representative, was stitching in the letter “N” of his red, green and white sweater. The red letters so far read “ROMA” and a little over half way done with the “N”. He sat there, content to himself as he sewed, giving up on trying to read the atmosphere. He also was not supposed to be in the meeting room, but since Feliciano was friends with him (and with some insistent begging on Antonio’s part), he was allowed to come. Yao Wang, China’s representative, sat next to the Spanish man holding a pair of wooden chopsticks was eating some white rice, oblivious of the current ramblings of the Italian man.

An empty seat was between the seats of the representatives from Italy and Japan, belonging to the representative from Germany, Ludwig Beilschmidt. Let’s just say that the reason that he wasn’t in the room at the time was because he had one of the English delicacies brought in by the Englishman and well…Germans and scones don’t mix well.

“…And that’s why I think Pasta can get us out of this mess.” The brown haired Italian man ended his speech, smiling dreamily still. One could practically see little pink flowers surrounding the man. One could also wonder whether Italy’s representative was a transgender person or not.

Sir Kirkland put down his china tea cup after finishing a sip gently on the saucer that he held with his left hand. While swallowing, he took the opportunity to think of an appropriate thing to say. Sighing contently with a hint on annoyance, the British man spoke. “Thank you, Mr. Vargas, but I don’t think that pasta will help us get out of the debt hole that we’re in.”

Feliciano blinked once, then twice, before he got the message. The next thing that one could see was the Italian man in the corner, sobbing and moping. Sir Kirkland panicked slightly, a drop of sweat forming at his left temple. “Ahh, Mr. Vargas, I can assure you that it’s not that I don’t like pasta, but-”

“Why are British people so mean~!” the Italian man sobbed hysterically, now sucking his thumb. Alfred sighed as he watched the scene unfold before his very eyes. Out of boredom, the American glanced down at his watch. 1:52…1:52?! SHIT!

Alfred quickly stood up and grabbed his suit case that was resting on the floor on the left side of the chair that he was sitting a good three hours in until now. “Shit, I’m gonna be late!” the man grumbled under his breath as he. This did not go unnoticed by Sir Kirkland and the others (who were still awake…).