West Italy (HETALIA)

Chapter 6

A few hours later, Lovino opened the door and stepped inside, an exhausted America carrying many shopping bags right behind him.

"Ve? Fratello, is that you?" Feliciano called from up the stairs.

"Si," Lovino shouted back. "Come down and see the clothes I picked out for Alfredo." Pounding footsteps were heard above, and then they continued rushing down the staircase. He turned around to face America. "See that reaction? That's how you should act when you hear the mention of clothing."

America looked skeptical but didn't get the chance to comment before Feliciano appeared.

"Ve~ I'm ready!"

"So, the first place I took Alfredo was-" Lovino froze, having turned around and seen his brother for the first time since he arrived home. "Feli...what the fuck?"

"Don't I look pretty, fratello?" Feliciano chirped, spinning around and showing himself off in America's discarded furisode.

"No, Feliciano," Lovino hissed between his teeth. "You look like a fucking fag!"

"But I am a fucking fag," the Italian responded with confusion. "I'm gay and I sleep with Lud-"

"Don't finish that sentence!" Lovino roared. I don't need to know what you and that fucker do in your free time." He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. "Just go change. I'm not showing you Alfredo's new clothes until you're dressed like a man again."

Feliciano pouted. "Fine," he said. "But just so you know, you're a fucking fag too, fratello," he winked, giggling as he ran off.

"Feli, I am going to kill you!" Lovino snarled, chasing after his younger brother.

"...I thought he looked pretty..." America mumbled to himself.

*****

After much shouting, the breaking of windows, and a cry of "Not the pasta!", the Italian twins had made it back downstairs and were digging through America's bags. The nation himself sat, bored, on the couch.

"Ooh, this one's very nice! The color goes well with his complexion," Feliciano smiled.

"Si, si! And look at the stitching on this one!"

"Wow! That's really high quality!"

"Of course it is! I'm Italian; I don't buy that cheap shit."

America sighed. He liked a good shirt as well as anyone else, but these two were obsessive.

"Hey, 'Mano?" he called lazily. "Could you not call my stuff 'cheap shit'? It's kind of offensive."

"I just call them as I see them."

Feliciano, who had been rifling through the bag, suddenly shrieked. Lovino's head snapped in his direction, big brother instincts kicking in. He readied his hand to grab Feliciano's wrist and hightail it out of there.

"Feliciano, what's wrong?" he asked urgently.

"It's..."

"What?"

"It's a... a..." Feliciano whimpered, unable to finish his sentence.