romerica bullshit

Prologue

     Bright sunlight glares through the beige curtains, much too thin to properly darken the room our young Italian immigrant is staying in. He grumbles while rolling over, trying to spare his eyes from the harsh light, only to accidentally smack his bedmate in the face. ‘Wait a minute. Who the Hell is the bed with me?!’ Romano thought, bolting up to take in his surroundings. ‘This isn't the room I've been staying in... It's much too tidy, and I know for a fact that damned bookshelf fell on me yesterday.’ Giovanni threw the covers off the bed, revealing a blonde man sleeping peacefully, despite the ruckus. “Al...fred?” Ah, fuck. He was walking in his sleep, again. This is the fourth time he's ended up in America's bed, and Gio would rather die than be caught. So he quickly, and quietly, ran off to the kitchen to make some breakfast for himself.
     “Good morning, Romano,” Toris chirped from behind a newspaper. “What will you be making for breakfast today?”
     “It's crespelle. Not that it should matter to you, I'm only making it for myself... But it's like crepes, just better.”
     “Mhm. Make sure you put a couple in the fridge so Al can have some when he wakes up.”
     “...Yeah, I know.” Romano opened up the ice box, looking at the fruits he picked from the garden yesterday. “What kind of jam does the blundering idiot like again?”
     “Apple's usually a safe bet, although I wouldn't mind some peach jelly.”
     “Fine, but you're helping me with the peaches,” Gio snipped, pulling out 5 of each fruit. He rummaged through the cupboards grabbing some sugar, salt, and a cup of lemon juice. Before chopping up the apples and peaches, Romano turned on the radio to fill the room with something other than the irritated ruffling of Lithuania's newspaper. Quiet enough to not wake Alfred, although that's always a very difficult feat, Gio hums along to the spunky American tunes. Singing has always brought him comfort, it brings back memories of home and singing with his brother. Happy memories, sure, but lately they've been tainted by Veneziano's blind allegiance to their bosses. Unfortunately, there wasn't anything Romano could do except run away. Being Italian, he's a master at running away, but it doesn't make abandoning your brother any easier.
     Snap, snap, snap. “Hey, Gio, are you good?” Toris removed his hand from in front of the other's face. Giovanni had stopped moving while spiraling down through his thoughts. “Yeah,” he scoffed, pushing Lithuania out of his personal space, “Of course I'm fine. Hurry up and mash your stupid peaches.”