[Fanfic] Culture Shock [Part 1/??]

[kaasen.livejournal.com]

Title: Culture Shock [Part 1/??]
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Germany/Italy, Spain/Romano
Warnings: Language. Later on there will be some mild sexuality.
Summary: Germany and North Italy vacation at Spain's house (relatively neutral ground) so everyone can bond and get to know each other better. Romano's not having it, and Germany is suddenly faced with having to deal with the culture clash of not just one, but three Mediterranean nations in one house. Awkward, funny, and sometimes heartwarming scenarios ensue. From the kink meme, now hopefully improved.






Germany fiddled with his watch for the second time in five minutes and truly began to wonder why he’d thought this was going to be such a good idea.

The whole prospect of spending time with Italy in Spain’s home sounded wonderful at the beginning—Germany appreciated vacations just as well as anyone, after all, and lately he’d been feeling guilty about always putting work before togetherness. But now, the closer they got to Madrid, the more Germany felt the reality of the situation soaking in. This wasn’t like taking Italy out for dinner, or tolerating his family for an afternoon, and this most certainly wasn’t like when he nodded politely when (sort of) listening to Italy’s stories about tomato fields. This was to about be an entire weekend spent in the dangerously sunny territory of the Mediterranean, and everything comfortable to him would be far, far away.

Even though Italy was sitting right at his side—he was playing games on his phone with his feet up on the chair in front of him—Germany still felt completely out of his element, suddenly thrust into this unfamiliar world that was filled with lively Spanish people. All around him were conversations being carried on in rapid Spanish and the sights of dark complexions and tans. Not a single one of these Spaniards seemed bothered by the heat inside the train, nor the intense sunlight coming in through the windows—Germany, meanwhile, was certainly wishing he’d dressed lighter, and he was already in a t-shirt.

Come on, keep it together Germany, he coached himself. He had to physically stop himself from compulsively checking his watch again. He knew he was just nervous. He’d been all over the world and visited a lot of warm places in the past. Just because things were a lot different in Spain’s home didn’t mean it was the end of the world for him. He could deal with a week of heat and siestas and pretending to be Catholic if he must.

“Oh, someone’s texting me,” said Italy.

Germany snapped out of his thoughts.

“Who is it?” Germany lowered his voice in case anyone in the vicinity was listening. “Is it Spain?”

“It’s—” Italy hit a button and squinted at the screen. “Romano. Uh oh, he says he just now found out you were coming.”

Right. Romano. That was the other reason why Germany was starting to second guess himself about this weekend getaway—he’d preferred being in denial about Romano supposedly attending this little family function too. Germany hadn’t thought at the time this vacation was being planned out that Spain was actually serious about making sure Romano was there. It was like planning a family reunion and intentionally inviting that one relative who no one liked to talk about. It was a bad idea.

“I guess that’s how Spain convinced him, then. Is Romano saying he’s not coming anymore?” Germany probably shouldn’t have sounded so cheerful saying that.

“No, he says he’s already there.” Italy frowned and started tapping back a reply. “But he also says that if you really show up he’s going to go straight home. I don’t think he really would though, since I know how much he likes to be with Spain.”

“Right.” Germany had a suspicion about that, but it was best not to say it out loud. It was the sort of thing you didn’t want to ask about and then be wrong. “You might as well tell him I’m going to be there.”

“I am.” Italy finished his reply and put his phone away. “I hope he won’t make a big fuss about it when we get there. Romano always gets angry and ruins stuff, you know?”

“Well aware,” said Germany. He reached down for his water bottle and took a long drink. “How hot is it supposed to be in Madrid the next few days? Do you know?”

“Well, I heard there’s a chance of it raining, but otherwise it’s supposed to be around thirty-two all weekend—”

Italy laughed at the look on Germany’s face and gave him a sympathetic pat.

“Spain’s got air conditioning. You’ll be fine.”


-----


“Ita! Germany! Over here!”

Germany stood up just as Italy turned—he was nearly hit in the face by Italy’s swinging suitcase—and they both saw Spain jump up from a bench he’d been sitting on with Romano. Germany felt a little faint just looking at the two of them wearing long pants in this weather, but he did his best to keep up as Italy bolted over to them.

“Hi Spain! Hi Romano!”

“Hi Ita! It feels like I haven’t seen you for a long time!”

Italy laughed as he caught up to him and they hugged each other tight. Germany was surprised when after he let go, Romano put his arms around his brother too.

“Ciao, Vene.”

“Ciao! I’m glad you’re here, Romano!” Italy said, excitedly. “I guess you didn’t go home after all?”

“I didn’t want to leave after I’d just gone through the trouble of coming,” Romano said, bluntly.

“Germany!” Spain exclaimed, like he’d only just seen him, and enthusiastically put out his hand. Germany took it just as Italy started fussing with Romano’s messy collar and Romano started batting him away. “Good to see you again too! See, Romano’s here and he’s not even complaining that much, everything worked out.”

“Worked out my ass.” Romano jerked his collar flat and glared at Germany like he was sizing him up for a fight—for the second time that day, Germany wished he’d dressed differently. “I can’t believe you fuckin’ lied to me, Spain. You said it’d just be us and then you went and invited this bastard too.”

“I invited him because you ought to learn to how to make friends,” Spain said, and seeing the faint blush on Romano’s features, Germany thought, was completely worth the insult. “This weekend is going to be an exercise in bonding, Romano, and you can start by being polite to our guest.”

“How about you start by fucking off,” suggested Romano.

“You first,” Spain challenged, brightly, and then turned to face Germany. “Would you like me to carry some of your luggage to the car, then? Those look pretty heavy.”

“Oh.” Germany looked down at himself and realized just how much he was holding. He probably shouldn’t have packed quite so much, but he’d wanted to be prepared. “Uh, well, I think I’m fine, so you don’t have to—”

Italy shook his head and leaned upward to whisper to him.

“You should let him, Germany, he’s trying to set a good example for Romano.”

Germany glanced over to see Romano trying with all his might to glare at Spain hard enough to vaporize him.

“Well,” Germany said, with a cough, “actually, a little help would be nice, if you’re offering.”

Germany set down their luggage, and by the time all the suitcases and bags were shuffled around, everyone had something to carry. Even Romano was holding something, though that most likely had to do with Italy shoving a bag into his arms. He began to complain again in an instant, but Spain, with two suitcases under his arms, gave him a big smack on the back and cheerfully told him to shut up.


-----


When Germany first caught sight of Spain’s house, he had to pause for a moment to gaze at it with proper awe. He’d seen brick and stucco homes in the past, but Spain’s was particularly handsome and well-kept—it soothed his mixed feelings about coming, somewhat, to know that at least cleanliness was considered a universal virtue. He could also see a tomato field off in the distance, probably the one that Italy always spoke of so fondly, and he thought to himself that maybe if the heat died down he’d like to go out to see it.

“Germany,” Italy reminded him, “weren’t you going on about wanting to be back inside already?”

He collected himself again and continued onward to the front door, the siren call of an air conditioned house now back in mind.

“Oh c’mon now, Romano,” said Spain. As soon as they’d come in—Germany was very glad for the sudden blast of cool air—Romano dropped the bag Italy had forced on him and went to kick off his shoes. By the time he’d turned around Spain was holding the bag out to him again with a smile on his face. “Help me out and take this back to the guest room, would you? And these suitcases.” Spain passed everything he’d been holding to him and Romano seemed for a moment too shocked to even react. “Show them the way there while you’re at it, will you?”

“Why do I have to carry all this crap to the back? This isn’t my house, you ass!”

“Because I’m going to trust you to go practice being a good host while I get lunch started.” Spain good-naturedly brushed some of the hair from Romano’s face and Romano began to look steadily more irritated. “Germany told me on the phone he eats lunch around noon, so I thought we’d eat a little earlier today, alright? I know you’re not going to complain about that too, are you?”

Spain shooed them all away and just as he said, made straight for the kitchen—Romano bitterly watched the place where he’d disappeared for a few moments before he turned and snapped, “well come on already!”

“Spain’s always had such a pretty house, Germany,” Italy said knowledgeably, hurrying along like nothing had just happened he wasn’t used to. “Well, he lived somewhere really fancy back when he was powerful, and his house didn’t look so nice during the civil war, but I think he does a good job of keeping up the place even if no one lives with him anymore. Maybe it’s also because Romano isn’t in charge of keeping things clean anymore either, now that I think about it. And oh, see all this cute stuff he has everywhere? Spain likes buying things from artists in town and from antique shops and from all over the place, so long as he thinks it might look good on the walls. It gives the place a lot of flavor and personality, don’t you think? And I know you’re probably thinking his house looks old but it’s not really, it’s actually just traditional and I think that’s part of its charm—”

“You’re saying the same sort of crap Spain always says,” Romano interrupted, loudly. “If you want to know why he really keeps his house this way it’s because he’s just stuck in the past and he won’t move anywhere where he can’t have his tomatoes.”

Italy’s smiled faltered for a moment, but then he looked at Germany again.

“And I think those are very good reasons, don’t you?”

Germany nodded slightly, just trying to take everything in as they went further into the house. It wasn’t every day that he got to see a Mediterranean home so full of character, and he found himself liking the contrast of bright walls and more richly colored furniture. It felt like the sun and sky was still inside the house, air conditioning notwithstanding.

“Here’s your room,” Romano announced. He opened a door and jabbed his thumb inside. “And you.” Germany pulled his gaze away from the wide bed and row of plants on the windowsill inside to see Romano now pointing down the hall. “Your room’s the one with the door open down that way.”

“Romano, Spain didn’t say anything about two rooms,” Italy pointed out.

“This one was going to be mine,” said Romano, “but guess what, turns out it’s yours now. Congratulations.”

“Wait.” Italy’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment as he tried to understand. “Wait, why aren’t we sharing a room?”

“There’s plenty of rooms. Spain’s got like a million of them. There’s no reason to share.”

“It’s not a problem,” said Germany, waving his hand around. He didn’t know why this idea sat with him so poorly, unless he wanted to admit to himself that he’d assumed he’d share a room with Italy from the start. “I honestly wouldn’t mind. I wouldn’t want us to take up your room when we don’t need to.”

From a purely logical stand point, sharing a room would be the best way to maximize his time spent with Italy. From a less logical stand point, Germany felt he needed an excuse to spend time with him anyway. Sharing a room also meant he could sleep in with him and not feel guilty about it for once—maybe he could even try lying in bed and doing nothing, an art form which Italy had long since perfected. It sounded like a sufficiently lazy thing to while on vacation, anyway, since most of the time Germany wouldn’t consider doing such a thing unless he was deathly ill.

“Well according to Spain,” Romano said, “I’m supposed to be playing the gracious host now.” He threw Italy’s bag through the doorway, aiming for the bed, but it slid across the sheets and landed on the floor on the other side with a thump. “So I’m telling you that you both get separate rooms.”

“Um,” Italy said, watching it go, “that doesn’t really make sense, Romano. If you’re giving up your room then where are you gonna sleep?”

“I’ll sleep wherever I want. But you aren’t. You’re sleeping here and Germany’s sleeping down the hall because I said so.”

It dawned on Germany that this probably had very little to do with who slept where, and a lot more to do with just making sure Romano got his way.

“Are you entirely sure this is necessary?” Germany sighed.

“Yeah, come on, let Germany stay with me,” begged Italy. “Germany’s already really far from home and being in Spain’s house makes him feel weird so what if he gets lonely without me? And don’t worry, Germany!” Italy quickly turned to him. “I don’t mind sharing a room with you! We like sharing, don’t we?”

“Yeah,” Romano snapped, “I bet you don’t mind sharing.”

Germany could feel his cheeks tinge pink as Italy started flailing his arms at him.

“You’re doing this on purpose, Romano!” he yelled. “All I want is for Germany and I to have lots of time together while we’re here! Just because you’ve always got to be nasty to him doesn’t mean you have to tell him what to do!”

“Germany’s room is down that way,” Romano said, sternly. “And if you don’t like it you’ll have to argue with me about it.”

For a moment, Germany really did want to argue about it, but he remembered that arguing with Romano had always been about as affective as arguing with a brick wall. So maybe he should just put his luggage down inside the room and shut the door. Maybe be should skip the part about the luggage and just hit Romano in the face. No, forget all that, he’d rather have just gone back to the beginning of this conversation and hit him really hard in the face then and there. Now that was a tempting idea.

“Fine,” said Germany. He realized, sadly, that if even he couldn’t be mature about this then there was no hope for any of them. He made up his mind that it would be easier admit defeat for now and talk to Spain about it later. “Alright.”

Italy jerked toward him, opening his mouth to protest, but Germany shook his head.

“It’s fine. I’ll just go put my stuff away, it isn’t a big deal.”

Germany turned around and made for the room that was supposed to be for both of them—it was just as nice as the other one, so it wasn’t as though he was being forced to sleep in a closet, at least. Germany went in and closed the door behind him just as he heard Italy shout “Romano!” and the subsequent argument exploding into full force down at the other end of the hall.


-----


“Well,” Germany said, chancing a discreet glance over his shoulder, “it looks like he’s calmed down now, at least.”

“He always does,” sighed Italy.

Spain had apparently meant to prepare lunch by himself, but since allowing Romano to socialize unchaperoned had turned out to be a bad idea, there’d been a change of plans. Now everyone had been herded into the kitchen and given jobs to do—Germany and Italy were sent to the kitchen island to chop ingredients and Romano was at the stove helping Spain prepare the shrimp and scallops. Though he was certainly glad for it, Germany wondered how Romano had managed to go from screaming at his brother to perfectly amicable in the span of only a few minutes. Maybe Italians were even more mysterious than he knew.

“The fact we’ll be eating soon probably helped, though,” Italy added. Cooking had always been one area where he excelled, so Germany had wisely allowed him to take care of the onion while he cut up the garlic. “And I bet he’s extra excited to eat Spain’s paella, too.”

“Really?” Germany looked again, and now the other two were chattering to each other in Spanish. Germany didn’t know Romano ever spoke Spanish. “I thought since it’s paella he’d want to eat something else. He always seemed like a picky eater to me.”

“He is, but he also tends to exaggerate.” Italy had deliberately switched to his heavily accented—though very endearing—version of German, to keep Romano from hearing. “He might say he only eats Italian food but if Spain puts something in front of him he’ll probably eat it.” He laughed. “He likes seafood especially. I always see him going down to the market on weekends and fighting the old ladies for the good stuff.”

“Speaking of seafood,” said Germany, also switching languages, “I’ve heard that squid goes in paella sometimes? Is that true?”

“Yeah?”

“Well.” Germany liked seafood every once in a while, but when he tried to imagine himself eating squid he could practically feel the tentacles wriggling down his throat. He shuddered. “Uh, I mean, it’s not that I have a problem with Spanish food, but I can’t say squid sounds very appetizing—”

“Oh, so you’re the one being the picky eater now?” Italy teased. “Don’t worry, Germany. I don’t think Spain wouldn’t get too weird with what he puts in so long as you’re eating with us. And if there’s something in it you don’t like anyway no one’s going to be offended if you pick around it, or at least I wouldn’t be! Though if you really hate it you can always just eat bread I guess, Spain always has some out on the table—”

“I don’t think it’ll be so bad I’ll need to resort to that,” Germany assured him.

“Romano would.” Italy shook his head and passed a tomato for Germany to chop up—a high honor in this household, probably. “Spain told me that Romano did that for two weeks straight when he first went to live with him. He wouldn’t eat anything Spain gave him. Even when Spain asked his cooks to make something Italian none of them knew how to make anything the way Romano wanted. So for two whole weeks the only thing he ate was bread.”

Germany grimaced. He didn’t think he could be that stubborn even if he tried.

“Then what got Romano to start eating normally again?”

Italy smiled.

“Spain introduced him to tomatoes.”

“What are you both babbling about over there?” Romano demanded, loudly. “Are you finished cutting or not?”


-----


Eating with everyone turned out to be pleasant enough, if just a little different from what Germany was used to. Once Spain had set the paella out in the middle of the table and said ‘¡Buen provecho!’ everyone immediately began serving themselves. Germany went through the motions of filling up his plate, but he hesitated to start eating like the others—he decided to observe instead, to see what sort of table manners were expected of him.

Germany ended up eating, rather than waiting any longer for any mysterious table manners to reveal themselves. He assumed this either this was meant to be a very informal meal, or that the only rules in Spain’s home were to keep your elbows off the table and talk as much as possible.

“So what exactly was that shouting match about earlier?” Spain asked, merrily. “Just the usual?”

Germany had to keep himself from spitting up his food.

“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about it now,” he said, quickly. They’d made this much progress toward peace and now he was bringing it up again? “It’s already done, so—”

“Romano was being an asshole,” answered Italy, anyway.

“I was making some necessary adjustments for my sanity,” Romano shot back, pointing accusingly with his fork. “And Veneziano started yelling at me for it.”

“What did you do, Romano?”

“You’re siding with him on this?”

“You just admitted to doing something, didn’t you? I’m not taking sides, I’m asking what happened.”

In a normal household, perhaps, this sort of talk wouldn’t have been appropriate mealtime conversation. Bringing up an argument once it was already over might usually have been asking for another fight to break out, but not here. Now that Spain had brought it up everyone just kept talking and talking about it, and yet no one was raising their voices or getting mad. It was like watching a bizarre therapy session unfolding right in front of him, and ten minutes of silence on Germany’s part later, Romano was actually apologizing.

“Well, sorry,” he snapped. “I didn’t know you’d go fucking ballistic over it.”

“I’m sorry too,” said Italy. “I don’t usually yell and I shouldn’t have. But thank you for being sorry.”

“Whatever. You’re still sleeping in my room,” Romano told him. “I’m only sorry you had to go and get pissed off.”

“I’m still not sure I understand,” Spain said, puzzled. “Ita, if Romanito is giving you his room, then what’s there to get so mad about?”

“Spain,” Germany tried, “may I ask you something?”

“Yes?”

“Is it alright with you if Italy and I share a room? That’s all we wanted.”

“Oh.” Spain looked back and forth between Germany and Romano. “Of course it’s alright. I thought that was the plan all along. If that’s the case then why are you fighting so hard to give up your room, Romano? Did you want to sleep in my room?”

“That’s got nothing to do with it!” Romano spun around so fast in his chair that it made a nasty creaking sound. “I’m just telling them to get separate rooms and I don’t care if I have to sleep somewhere else because of it!”

“Well that still means you’re giving up your room, doesn’t it? You can still sleep with me if you want, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Fine.” Now Romano was bright red and stuffing shrimp into his mouth. “Can we stop talking about this? I don’t even care anymore, Jesus.”

But the look he shot Germany clearly, clearly said just the opposite.

“Well then,” said Spain, brightly, “is that all settled? What else do we have to talk about? Germany, do you like your food?”

“It’s delicious,” said Germany. He meant it.


Continue to Part 2


^{Notes:
*32°C = 90°F
*Paella is a rice dish prepared in a paellera and is a very iconic dish that originated in Spain. Seafood paella is a variant of the more traditional paella valenciana, which does not contain any seafood.}

Please let me know what you think of this fic. I will post more when I am able to.