[Fanfic] Culture Shock [Part 3/??]

[kaasen.livejournal.com]

Title: Culture Shock [Part 3/??]
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.

Part 1
Part 2







“Wha—”

“Aw!” Italy trilled. “Aren’t they cute?”

“Oh my God,” said Germany. He spun back around in the chair and felt his mouth working uselessly for a moment. “Oh my God, they’re—they’re really—but he’s supposed to be—what about being Catholic?”

Italy blinked at him, puzzled.

“Catholic?”

“You know—the Catholic—the Catholicness—” Germany dug the heels of his palms into his eyeballs as if to try to assure they would never betray him like this ever again. “I just thought—after all Romano’s been saying about us—”

“Oh, that’s not a Catholic thing,” said Italy, shaking his head. “That’s more of a Romano hating you thing. Don’t worry about it. Are you worrying about it?”

“I’m not—I’m not saying I’m against it,” Germany said. He felt like he was trying more to reason with himself than anyone else. “I don’t mind whatever they want to do but I’m just—God. I thought maybe Spain—or Romano—I thought they must have—I don’t—my coherency. I just realized. It’s gone. Forever.”

“Well just calm down first and try again.” Italy patted him sympathetically on the back. “It’ll come back, it always does.”

“Why am I so traumatized all of a sudden?” Germany held his head in his hands and groaned. “Agghhh. I knew. I knew I knew all along, but I’m—why are you still watching them? Are they still going?”

“Yup, still going.” Italy bounced a little in Germany’s lap as he stretched to see better. “You looked away right when Spain started kissing him back. They’re just kind of cuddly right now but I think Spain’s just about to—yup! Spain pushed Romano down so I can’t see them anymore, but they’re definitely still going.”

Germany felt his throat going very dry. It took every ounce of his self control not to turn back around and see for himself.

“And is this a normal thing to see around here?” he asked, tensely.

“Well.” Italy laughed a little sheepishly. “See, I only found them out ‘cause I walked in on them making out once, so I guess you could call it that. I remember Romano was really embarrassed but Spain was okay with having me know—he ended up having to tell Romano it wouldn’t do him any good to try drowning himself in the bathtub or anything—”

“If Romano would prefer we didn’t know then I think I can deal with pretending I never saw anything,” said Germany, very seriously. “In fact I think I will do just that. Italy, we are leaving right now and we’re not coming back until this weekend is over if we have—oh my god whatareyoudoing?”

“What?” Italy didn’t even look at him because now he was busy waving into the house. “Spain gave me a thumbs-up so I gave him one back.”

All joking aside, Germany could be just as good as Italy at retreating if he wanted to, and this was one of those times. He had Italy by the wrist and was dragging him down the lawn before he could even remember to breathe again.


-----


Tomatoes, in Germany’s opinion, were the sort of food that a person would not want to eat just on their own. He liked them in things, like in salads and on sandwiches, but he’d never thought of a tomato as something he’d like to just bite into and eat raw. Certain people did, apparently, but Germany was just not one of them.

“Oh, look at these pretty ones! I think those are called Campari tomatoes, and they’re supposed to be extra sweet.” Italy pulled a small tomato straight off the vine and bit into it, juice dribbling down his chin. “Dhey are! C’mon, try a fhew, yu’ll like ‘em!”

“I wouldn’t think it’s very polite to just take them like that,” said Germany.

Italy swallowed and shook his head, reaching toward other plants for more ripened tomatoes. There was just enough light left to see that most of the tomatoes around them were still yellow or orange, but just a few here and there looked ripe enough to eat.

“Don’t worry about it, Germany! Some tomatoes just get ripe before the others do and if no one takes them they’ll end up rotted or eaten by bugs.” He passed a handful of tomatoes to him, smiling. “And even if we take a bunch I don’t think Spain will mind, he’s always let people come and pick some to take home with them. It’s not like he can eat all of these himself, you know?”

Germany didn’t doubt that for a moment. It was small field, relatively speaking, but each plant bore dozens of tomatoes that would eventually need to be harvested and stored. Germany could definitely appreciate the sort of dedication that it must take to care for all of these plants—less and less people seemed to have the patience for it in these last hundred years.

“There’s lots of different types of tomatoes out here,” Italy was saying. “Those ones over there—” He pointed to a larger, plump tomato growing on the left. “Those are the ones you usually think are what tomatoes look like, right? Big and round and red? Tomatoes are really a lot more different than that—they can have all kinds of differences to them!”

Italy carefully stepped in between two tomato plants and pointed to a row of plants that had much smaller tomatoes on them that grew in clumps.

“Do you see these, Germany? They’re the tiny ones you can eat in one bite. A little further down—the ones that look kinda long? I know that those get made into sauce or they get canned for later usually. I also know there’s tomatoes that look like strawberries or grapes or like hearts and there’s ugly tomatoes and there’s pretty tomatoes. They also come in green and yellow and orange and gold and pink and almost black and all different shades of red and even zebra stripes!”

So maybe some of these tomatoes weren’t just unripe. Germany looked down at the tomatoes in his hands and thought perhaps he should try one: fresh picked fruits and vegetables supposed to be better than the ones you bought from the store, right? Maybe he was missing out here. Maybe he just didn’t know the joyous wonders of a tomato straight from the vine.

“Italy?” Germany realized with a jolt that Italy had completely vanished without him knowing it—and only once he’d turned around a few times in a panic did he realize how stupidly ironic his reaction was. Hadn’t he just witnessed Romano panicking over a missing Spain a few hours ago? Hadn’t he been the one thinking to himself at the time how utterly ridiculous it was?

But that had been before Germany knew. Now that he did, he almost found it understandable.

Horribly, horribly understandable.

“Italy!” said Germany, louder. “Where’d you go?”

“I’m right here! Sorry!”

The vines and leaves in front of Germany shook as Italy made his way back through, holding a new variety of tomato in his hands.

“Sorry!” Italy said again, a little out of breath. “I went because I remembered that Spain had this kind of tomato right here but they take a long time to produce fruit so this one was the only one I found that was ripe. And I wanted to show it to you since I think it’s kind of like you in a way.”

Germany gave him a doubtful look. The tomato was quite large for what it was, but it also looked like a very small, very red pumpkin.

“Would this count as one of the tomatoes you’d call ugly?”

“Well maybe,” said Italy, considering it for a moment. “But that’s not the point! See, this is a beefsteak tomato, and it’s the biggest kind of tomato you can grow.”

“Oh,” said Germany. He had no idea why he felt almost disappointed. “Because it’s big. I get it.”

“That’s not the point either!” Italy said. “It’s not just because it’s big, it’s because of other stuff too! See, beefsteak tomatoes have a thin skin to them, and they also have a short shelf-life, so they aren’t the most popular for selling at big grocery stores and stuff. Normally the ones you see at the store are the round ones, right? But people still like this kind because they’ve got a lot of flavor on the inside! And they’re good on sandwiches!”

“I don’t understand how that’s anything like me,” Germany told him. “You’re telling me I’d be good on a sandwich?”

“I don’t know, but you do seem like the good-on-a-sandwich type.” Italy gave him the beefsteak tomato to hold too and went to pluck one of the little tomatoes he’d pointed out earlier off the vine. He held it between his finger and thumb and showed it to him. “I’m probably more of a cherry tomato. I think I’d go better on a salad, don’t you think?”

Germany stared at him, baffled.

“I don’t think I understand your metaphor here.”

“I’m not talking about metaphors, I’m talking about tomatoes,” said Italy. He popped the tomato into his mouth and looked fairly confused himself. “Anyway, why are you being so weird tonight, Germany? Is it about Spain and Romano still?”

Germany startled a little.

“It’s still on my mind, if that’s what you mean.” It wasn’t very often that he felt so unsettled, but now knowing for certain what those two felt about each other, knowing what they were doing together, probably still doing right now—no, no, don’t even consider it. He wanted to be able to sleep tonight. “I’m trying really hard not to think about it but it’s not working. I’m sorry.”

Italy shook his head at him.

“Don’t be sorry about it. Germany, do you want to sit down with me?”

Italy led him to a weather-worn bench under a tree and sat, putting all of their tomatoes between them. He began dividing them up pile, making sure each of them would have exactly half—Germany let him, and didn’t have the heart to tell him he only wanted one or two.

“I have an idea,” Italy announced, breaking the silence. “I think we should try talking about it.”

Germany grimaced.

“You think so?”

“I think we really should.” Italy bit into a new tomato, nodding. “Talking is what Grandpa always said for me to do when I was upset and punching the problem wasn’t going to work. But see, Romano doesn’t take getting punched very well so I think we should skip that step and just have you tell me about your feelings, and I’ll listen, and then I’ll tell you what I think about it and try to make it better. How does that sound?”

It sounded like a decent plan, Germany had to admit, but if he was supposed to just start talking—Italy’s eyes were already on him and yet he truly had no idea where to begin. There were a million little things bothering him now, had been bothering him ever since he’d arrived, but he didn’t think he knew how to say them, or at least not very tactfully. If Germany had learned anything so far today, it was that people didn’t often appreciate being told the things they’d always done were weird or wrong, and he also already knew that he’d come here to learn, not enforce his own rules. Even if he was uncomfortable, even if his stomach was doing backflips, he had to try to adapt.

“Are you giving me the silent treatment?” Italy asked, a little timidly. “Like, on purpose? Are you mad at me still? I told you already Germany, Spain was the only one who saw, and I really don’t think he would’ve given me a thumbs-up if he was upset. And if Romano saw he would’ve dismembered everyone already so I’m pretty sure—”

“I’m not mad,” said Germany. He was pretty sure he’d said this already some time today. “I was never mad at you. In fact I’m glad that nothing bad happened. But Italy, please just try to understand that having to see your brother do that has caused me a lot of emotional trauma, and for a couple of reasons. Talking is a good idea, but I don’t think I’m going to be ready to talk about it soon, or any time this century actually. I think I need to talk about it, eventually, but not right now. If that makes any sense.”

Italy pursed his lips for a moment before speaking.

“Was it really that bad?”

“No,” Germany admitted. He said this even though there was a very small, very bitter and unreasonable part of him which he normally did not allow to see the light of day, a part which did not want to accept in any way whatsoever that Romano could have feelings for another person. Because if that were the case then that meant Romano probably had other feelings too, and he wasn’t in fact just the embodiment of the most insufferable sort of person on the planet, and then Germany wouldn’t have his usual excuses for having nothing to do with him. “No, it wasn’t really that bad, I’m just upset.” Germany sighed. “I’m upset and I don’t exactly know why, so I can’t fix it, and that makes it worse. If I don’t know what to fix or have a plan then I just never know what to do.”

“So what’ll happen?” asked Italy. He seemed genuinely concerned even though he was still eating. “What happens when you get upset over something that you can’t fix? Or when you get upset for no reason at all?”

Germany looked at him.

“Does that actually happen to people?”

“It does to me.” Italy didn’t quite meet his eyes when he said that. “Some of the time.”

Germany stood up. He didn’t really know why, he wasn’t going anywhere, but it helped to feel like he could, if he could just figure all this out.

“I just.” Germany mussed up his hair as he raked his fingers through it; it was hours past neatly combed anyway. “I’m sorry. I know what’s bothering me doesn’t even have anything to do with what they did, it’s more—something else. Which doesn’t make sense, and I hate it. I shouldn’t even be thinking it.”

He looked back. It was almost completely dark now, so it was difficult to tell what sort of expression Italy was making.

“I know I’m not very good at giving advice,” Italy said, “but I think maybe you should go ahead and say it anyway, if you want to. Feelings always count for something, don’t they? Even when they’re stupid?”

“It’s—no. I shouldn’t.” He almost got him there. Germany had almost wanted to say it, all of it, but then his sense of self-preservation kicked in and froze his tongue on the spot. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “It’s really so stupid I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh,” said Italy. “Well, that’s okay too! You can talk to me about it a century from now when you’re ready, like you said. No rush. I’ll be here for you whenever you need me.”

Germany chanced another look behind him and realized that Italy had suddenly gotten up and come to stand at his side. Germany might have reacted with somewhat of an unflattering noise, but he managed to cover most of it up with a cough.

“Sorry,” Italy said, looking guilty. “This is the last one, I was listening to you so I wasn’t really paying attention and I ate all the rest. Do you want it?”

Italy put a tomato into his hand, and he saw—well, saw the outline of it, anyway—that it was one of the oblong shaped ones that he’d talked about before.

“You don’t have to act like you’re offering me the very last one, do you? There’s more ripe ones, aren’t there?”

“I know I could go look, but it’s probably too dark to find a good one now. You don’t want it?”

“No, no, I’ll try it.” Germany shook his head and turned the tomato over a couple times before bringing it to his mouth. He bit in and chewed, telling himself that no matter what he really thought about it, he was going to smile and nod and act gracious.

“Good?”

“It’s—” Germany blinked. Well, certainly not as bad as he’d feared it would be. “It’s good. I probably couldn’t eat a bunch of them like you just did but I like it. What’s this kind called?”

This time he could see the curve of Italy’s mouth as he grinned.

“I like that kind a lot, too. It’s called a Roma tomato, but I wouldn’t say it’s a very Romano-like tomato.”

“Oh God, not this again.” Germany groaned and took another bite. He’d always eaten cold tomatoes, never one that was still warm from the sun, but it was good. In a different way. “Why? Because it’s not very squishy on the insides?”

“Romano’s very squishy in the middle,” Italy agreed. “But also I think he’d have more seeds, too.”

“Italy, that sounded almost vulgar.”

“I mean it as something you have to spit out.” He rolled his eyes, smiling. “C’mon, don’t be gross! And anyway I bet they’re probably done by now, Germany. I think we should start heading back, seeing how dark it got and how I’m almost blind now.”

Germany finished his tomato and swallowed, but still couldn’t get rid of the sudden lump in his throat.

“But it’s going to be so awkward,” he said. Maybe he was just imagining it, but it looked like storm clouds were forming on the horizon, and that seemed to set the mood a little too well. “What am I supposed to say to them, exactly? ‘Sorry I accidently saw something that no creature should ever bear witness to?’”

“It’s their business.” Italy took his hands and squeezed them. “You don’t have to say anything at all if you don’t want to. And don’t worry, I’ll be right next to you the whole rest of the weekend so I’ll be your meat shield if you need me to be! I’ll defend your fragile emotions at any cost, Captain.”

Germany sighed, and he smiled, and he wondered if maybe he should say it after all. He wanted to pull his hands away and he didn’t. He wanted to act like an adult and talk about it, for Christ’s sake. He wanted to know why the world required so many tomatoes and why he didn’t just start covering himself in a layer of plastic wrap whenever Italy was around, because if Romano could do what he could not then he was doomed, doomed to live the rest of his life an arms’ length from one of the few things he’d ever really wanted.

“Italy,” Germany said, very seriously, “do you actuallywant to know what I think you smell like?”

Italy gave him a bewildered look that lasted for several seconds.

“Are you serious?” Now the grin was spreading all over his face. “Germany, I was joking before.”

“Well thank goodness,” Germany laughed, nervously. “If you’d really like to know, Italy, the answer is that I really don’t know. I didn’t say this before because it’s a stupid question in the first place but also because you don’t smell like anything, I think, though maybe I’ve just been around you too long. And you probably won’t believe this but I don’t always have all the answers, you know, and sometimes I pretend just as much as everyone else. But if you do smell like something it’s probably something good, and I’m not just saying that because I think it would hurt your feelings to hear otherwise. That’s what I really think.”

Italy blinked at him.

“I think that might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“What?” It was Germany’s turn to look bewildered. “No it’s not. Is it? No. Not even that I love you?”

“Oh!” Italy’s eyes sparkled a little. How they did that, with minimal lighting, would forever be a mystery. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve said to me! I love you too, Germany!”

“Oh my God. I’ve said that before! I swear I have!”

“No you haven’t!” Italy bounced up and down, excited. “That was the very first time! I was waiting for it! See, it was just kind of implied all along and I knew and everything but you hadn’t ever actually said it! But now you did! I’m so happy!”

Germany made a pained sort of nose, and he knew there was nothing else he could at that moment, after hearing all that, but lean forward and kiss him. So he did, and Italy made a delighted little noise against his mouth.

“Wow,” said Italy, and threw himself at him with a laugh. Germany hugged—held—him back. “You need to be traumatized more often. I love you, Germany!”

“I—love you too,” Germany tried. “Italy, I’m sorry for being so incompetent at this. This is not an area where I excel.”

“Incompetency where it counts is our middle names!” Italy told him, which wasn’t helpful, exactly, but he was smiling so that made it a little easier to hear, at least. “And don’t worry, I’m used to it so it’s okay! Even if it took a long time I knew you’d get around to it eventually.”

“Incompetency?” Spain asked, out of nowhere. “Ita, you’re not talking about me, are you?”

Germany very near to literally leapt out of his skin, but at least he wasn’t the only one. He felt Italy jump, too.

“Oh! Hi Spain!” He seemed to recover quickly enough because the very next thing he did was skipped over to him for a hug, which Spain gladly gave him. “No, of course I wasn’t talking about you! Did you come out to find us?”

“Well it’s getting awfully dark,” said Spain. He was smiling. “I thought I ought to come find you sometime before dinner since even Romano was wondering why you’d been gone so long. Were you helping yourselves to some tomatoes?”

“Yup, we ate a whole bunch of them! Well, actually I was the one who ate a whole bunch of them and Germany tried one. But they were just as good as always!”

“That’s good to hear.” Spain gave Italy an extra tight squeeze and laughed a little. “I’m so sorry about running you both off, I hope you’re not mad. Roma doesn’t normally act so affectionate so I ended up getting a little carried away—”

“I understand,” said Italy, giving him a huge wink. “I’m sure it makes you happy when he finally shows you how much he likes you.”

“Speaking of,” Germany mumbled. “How much did you see just now? And uh—how incriminating was it? Are you traumatized?”

“What?” Spain looked confused. “I didn’t see anything since it’s so dark. Was I supposed to see something? What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” said Italy. Germany glanced at him, but Italy just nodded at him and seemed to understand. It was their business too, after all.





A beefsteak and cheery tomato.




*No notes this time! Also sorry if I'm updating slowly but I am having a suddenly busy summer.