It was really on a whim, even for Italy. He'd been in the middle of a very boring lunch with a few fellow nations, and was feeling excluded. All this serious talk of labor unions and failing economies in no way aided digestion, and so Italy allowed his mind to wander in search of greener pastures.

He had not expected it to settle on Romano.

Poor Romano. He thought of his brother, left behind to mind the house, probably not to the credit he deserved. It churned Italy's stomach all the more knowing he was guiltiest of all in that department. I'll have to thank Romano later, he made a mental note, with lots of hugs and kisses. He imagined coming home in a few hours, exhausted from travel but happy to find his brother, propped against an ungainly mountain of pillows on their bed, nose shoved in a musty book of love poetry which he would shove away in time for Italy to climb in his lap and kiss him. Kiss him and kiss him and kiss him while they both pretended – with amusement, on Italy's part – that he hadn't just been blushing scarlet over the elegies.

And now Italy's stomach churned for another reason entirely.

Antsy, he crossed and uncrossed his legs, trying and failing to readjust himself as the first poignant pangs of arousal stirred below his navel. He suddenly found himself immensely interested in trade agreements and tax control, now that he was badly suppressing a growing erection. And of course, he could not escape the thought of Romano beneath him, sucking on his lower lip, stroking the roof of his mouth with his tongue...and Romano had such a softtongue.

Unable to concentrate – and bored out of his skull, besides – Italy made his apologies and excused himself, almost knocking over his chair in the process. Three pairs of eyes watched him hustle away, threatening a near sprint as he beelined in the direction of the hotel.

"The meeting doesn't resume for another hour," drawled Greece. "Do you think he's alright?"

Spain shrugged, still smiling. "I guess we'll see."

Meanwhile, Italy hurried up the street, only giving a curt nod to the doorman as he assaulted the revolving door. It took more concentration than he cared to admit not to trip over himself, dizzy as he was. And then, horror of horrors, the elevator appeared to be out of commission, and regretting the lack of slack in his slacks, he raced up three flights of stairs, vainly trying to hide a raging hard-on. He only passed two people the whole way up – one of whom was a bellboy, very preoccupied with a stack of luggage – but still, he was painfully self-conscious. When at last he found himself at his room, he fumbled through his pockets for his key – and blast, wouldn't it be now of all times that a hotel actually used real keys? Whining, Italy jerked the key back and forth erratically before it found purchase and the lock surrendered with a gentle, archaic 'click.'

Italy flung himself inside before slumping backwards into the door, locking it. It was too hot. Much too hot. Immediately, he began to strip, intending on taking a long, very personal shower. Images of Romano flashed across his eyelids: Romano staring up at him through sunshine and dark lashes; Romano, naked and sprawled across their bed; Romano playfully offering himself up, as he was wont to do every blue moon or so.

It was when Italy tripped out of his slacks, belt still in its loops, that fleeting panic tainted his fantasies; one sleek, expensive white phone flew from his left pocket and onto the floor with a thud, missing the soft carpet by inches. Italy was not prone to cursing, but did he ever in that instant, watching the phone arc through the air. He at least had the good sense to cross himself, just in case.

It must have paid off, because when he picked up the phone to examine it, there wasn't a scratch to be seen. There was, however, an idea that wheedled at his brain. It was a splendid idea, the kind of idea that rarely chose to bestow itself on him. But it was there now and the delicious idea would not leave him alone. Hopefully, he glanced at the clock; it was eleven here. Romano was probably settling in for a siesta back home.

Italy pressed two on speed dial and held his breath.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. And –

"Prónto, chi parla?" Romano sounded angry.

Italy replied cheerfully, "Romano? Hi."

A snort. "What do youwant?" It did not matter that they shared a bed or toothpaste or that Romano hugged him each morning when he entered the shower. Romano was still Romano. Italy hoped that would never change.

"Ve, I know it's later over there, but –"

"But what, you idiot, I was getting ready to sleep!" This of course translated to, I've missed you; I'm so glad you called, as anyone who spoke fluent Romano could tell you.

Italy decided he'd better get straight to the point. Holding the phone flush against his cheek, he murmured, "Fratello, I couldn't stop thinking about you. I want you."

Silence, accentuated by the crackle of static and what sounded like rustling cotton in the background. This could easily go one of two ways. "You wantme, do you?" Oh, but there was a sly, amused note in his brother's voice, thank the heavens. "I bet you cut the damn meeting just to get away for me, huh?"

Well, it wasn't entirely a falsehood, so Italy nodded. "Yeah, I left." Climbing onto his bed and shucking off his button-down, he nestled into the pillows, leaving his free hand to wait on a thigh, anticipatory. "Romano?"

"Hmmm?" He sounded so smug; it was sort of endearing.

"What are you wearing, Romano?"

A dark, cunning chuckle. "Nothing, Vene. Nothing at all."

Italy loved catching Romano just before a siesta; he was more readily persuaded when in the mind for sleep. Normally, coaxing his brother into phone sex could be compared to pulling teeth, but with his mind kneaded into mush by a lazy Italian afternoon, well...it was better compared to pulling weeds from softened, wet soil. Romano's favorite time to fuck was in the afternoon, when the sun was high and the heat was thick.

"Mmm, I wish I was there. I wish I could touch you, Romano." Italy closed his eyes and rubbed his thigh, imagining it was Romano, straddling him, naked, cock hard and brushing his stomach. "I wish I could kiss you. I miss kissing you."

"I'll kiss you all over when you come home, Veneziano." There was the muffled 'thud' of a book being closed and discarded on the floor; Italy smiled.

"Where, Romano? Tell me where," he begged, fingers running slowly up and down his shaft, teasing. It was easy to imitate strokes and grabs, but Italy desperately wished there was a way to imitate kissing. Conflictingly though, he was thankful there was not, lest the magic be sucked out of the act itself.

"Mmm." Romano was dithering now, uncomfortable. He always got embarrassed when asked to describe even the most innocent things, and Italy could not understand why. Romano could be so sexy, when he didn't think about it too hard.

Whining into the phone, he asked, "Will you kiss me on the lips?" He knew it was a stupid question, but it served two purposes: for one, it would prompt his nervous brother. For another, it would quell one of his oldest fears.

It made him happy then, that he could practically hear Romano's frown. "Of course, you dumb bastard." And this, certainly, was Romano-speak for I love you.

Italy groaned and kicked impatiently at the duvet. "Tell me more, Romano."

There was a cough, and then, "I...I'd pull you down on top of me, Vene, if you were here. And I-I'd kiss you and kiss you until you couldn't breathe. God, Vene, I want to feel you on me, I..." he choked a little, losing momentum. Gallantly, though, he pressed onward. "I want to touch you everywhere. I want to put my hands all over."

"Mmm, I'm so hard, fratello. I wish you could see it."

Romano growled. "Me too."

"I want to rub our dicks together," Italy bit his lip, feeling a blush ignite in his cheeks. No one could hear him, yet he felt compelled to keep quiet, as if the meeting was taking place just the room over. "You're so big, Romano."

"You are too, Vene, though," he scoffed, "not quite as big as me."

Italy chuckled good-naturedly, indulging his big brother. Grasping his cock, sighing at the momentary relief, he asked, "What do you want to do? What would you do if I was home?"

Another prompt, another minute spent waiting for Romano's courage to catch up with his breath. "I-I'd kiss your neck –" A needy mewl from Italy, "– and squeeze your balls."

"Ah," Italy cried out, mimicking this as best he could, as if Romano were there with him.

"Are you touching yourself, Vene?" he asked, less of a question and more of an afterthought.

"Mhmm!" Italy nodded, in spite of his brother not being able to see him. "I'm pretending it's you, fratello. What about you?"

A beat. "Not yet."

"But –!"

"I said not yet," he growled. Italy whimpered. "You should lick your hand, Vene. Get it nice and wet." There was an appropriate pause, allowing for his instructions to be carried out. "Did you do it?"

"Si," Italy murmured. "but why?"

"You're going to jerk yourself, Vene, and you're going to pretend it's my mouth." He waited, savoring his brother's reaction. "Because if you were here right now, in bed with me, I'd be kissing and licking your cock, fratellino." He laughed while Veneziano moaned. "I bet you taste so good right now, all fresh still from your shower – you didshower today, right?" he amended suspiciously.

"Yes," Italy lied. He'd been too tired and had wasted time rolling around in bed.

"Good," Romano praised. "Good, because God, Vene, I could lick your cock for hours. I want you to fill my mouth. I want to feel you in my throat," he groaned then, as did Italy. "I want you to push me down on your dick, make me blow you and – mmm, damn it, Vene, I can hear you touching yourself, it's so hot."

Indeed, if Italy listened hard enough, he could hear the slap of his wet palm over his cock reverberating through the phone.

"So how about it, Vene? What would you do, with my mouth on your dick, huh?"

This was Romano feeling somewhat neglected, then. And that wasn't a nice thought at all. "Oh, Romano," Italy paused, licking his palm again, tasting himself, "I'd caress your hair and push you down, like you like, and ah..." he thought about it – difficult, the circumstances what they were. He re-imagined them then, so that Romano was on his hands and knees, sucking him off from the side. "I'd reach over and grab your ass – you have such a nice ass, fratellone."

"Mmm." This could either be interpreted as embarrassment or approval. Or perhaps a smidgen of both.

"Yeah," Italy sighed, "I'd grab your ass, and smack it. Not too hard! Just enough to make you moan around me." Outside, a bird cawed and Italy sat upright, freezing still while on the other end of the line, Romano moaned his name. "You like that?" he asked halfheartedly.

"Oh yes."

Italy heard a loud smacking noise, and could only picture his brother burrowed face-first in his pillows, ass in the air, spanking himself; his attention was drawn reluctantly away from the window he wished he had closed.

"Mmm, harder, Vene – spank me harder." Romano's rough voice broke over the static.

"You're so naughty, Romano."

"Damn right, sucking my fratellino'scock." Another, louder smack, followed by a husky groan. "Damn it, Vene, I wish you were here."

"Me too," Italy sighed with some remorse.

"I wish you would make me suck on your fingers before you prep me."

Italy gulped. He loved the way Romano sucked on his fingers, silly as it sounded. He had a special way of going about it, a way that could not be emulated no matter how he tried. So rather than disappoint himself, he laid back and gently stroked his dick, listening to Romano moan and pant, a jolt running down his spine upon hearing a very loud cross between a groan and a yell, some curses strewn around intermittently.

"Ve, Romano...are you fingering yourself?" Somehow, his cock managed to get even harder, and he had to bite back a pathetic noise. Romano gave only an ambiguous moan. "Do it how I'd do it, you know: nice and slow and gentle. Stretch yourself good, but take your time."

"But Veneziano –"

"Nope!" Italy grinned into the phone, his brother's frustrated whines flooding his ears. "I even bet you started with more fingers than I would," he accused, feigning hurt.

"That's 'cause – ah – that's 'cause you always start with just one! It's frustrating! Ohhh..."

"That's because you're so tight." Italy listened contentedly to Romano fucking himself on his fingers, wishing so badly that he would do this for him in person. As much fun as it was to finger Romano – and it was a novelty – it was ten times as much fun to watch him do it himself. But in the entirety of their relationship as lovers, Romano had only allowed that to happen once. The memory was branded vividly on Italy's mind.

"Fuck, I'm going to ride you so hard when you get home." Romano's baritone shattered the air around his brother, feral and demanding, even in their reversed roles. "I can't wait to hold you down and fuck you, Vene."

Italy squirmed and moaned, nearly dropping the phone. "Kiss me," he begged, blurring the line, folding back into what felt familiar.

"Oh, I will. I'll kiss you so hard, your lip will bleed."

While he didn't particularly mind these threats of passion, Italy had always wondered where exactly Romano had picked up this rough streak of his. It was difficult to imagine Spain as having instilled it in him, particularly when remembering how much he'd spoiled the young and bratty Romano. And though he talked big, Romano wasn't much of an aggressor – not to the point of actually hurting anybody.

"Veneziano?"

"Huh? Oh, sorry. I was just thinking," he smiled.

"What about?" Romano's voice had reverted into satiny cynicism, ever on the lookout for a crack in his brother's unfathomable loyalty.

"You, kissing me."

"Hmph."

"Romano," Italy trilled, "I want you to kiss me gently. I want to feel your tongue in my mouth–"

"Even after I've been sucking you off?" Romano sounded positively astounded by this request.

Laughing, Italy agreed. "Yes, I don't see why not. Oh Romano, I love when you kiss me. You're such a good kisser." Tugging lightly on his own curl, he moaned. "I want you to kiss every inch of me. I'm getting harder just thinking about it."

Romano moaned, a long, sensual purr in the back of his throat. "I want to see." Pause. "I, that is, I mean..."

Italy sat up, fingers flitting around his curl with caution, wary of setting himself off without warning. "What is it, Romano?"

"I mean I reallywant to see..."

"Romano, I can hear you blushing! So cute!"

"Shut up!" He waited until his brother's laughter had dissipated into static. "I mean it, Vene. I want to see your dick. Right now. You have a camera in that overpriced phone, don't you?"

Italy hesitated, though for none of the right reasons. "Ve, that's not very fair. I'd like a picture of you with your fingers up your –"

"I'm going to let you do me when you get home; it's plenty fucking fair!"

Well, there was no arguing a point with Romano. So Italy sighed, quietly determined to get his brother to prep himself when next they saw each other. All the better, he convinced himself, I'll get to see it in person. Repositioning himself so that the sunlight flattered him, Italy self-consciously snapped three different pictures. He knew they'd been received when he heard a low, appreciative moan, strung with obscenities bridge the gap between them.

"Vene." Lots of heavy breathing. "Vene, I want you in me."

Italy keened, wriggling on the sheets. "Are you ready?" he asked. "Have you done three fingers, yet?"

"No," Romano replied, overly casual, "but I don't need it. I'm ready."

Before Italy could protest, he heard Romano put the phone down, followed by the scraping of a drawer being opened and the diminutive 'snap' of plastic. Soon, there were cries on the other end, and Italy was worried; he couldn't tell if Romano was in pain or ecstasy.

"Oh...oh..." Romano's voice was coming from a distance; he was probably using both hands, the phone lying beside him. "Vene, I wish this was you. Dio, vorrei che fossi tu."

And oh, that was a nice image, Romano using a toy on himself, probably stroking his own cock or pulling on his curl. Italy hadn't even known his brother owned a toy, keeping his bedside table locked as he always did. Was Romano really so ashamed of wanting to bottom that he did it by himself, more often than not?

"I want your cock, Veneziano," Romano moaned, reeling his brother back into their conversation, "I want to feel you in my ass, oh God. I want you so bad."

"What do you want when I get home, huh?" Italy asked gently, feeling the heat in his stomach tighten and start to trickle down.

"God, I want to ride you! I want to ride you and hold your face to my chest and kiss your hair...oh, Vene." He was practically whimpering now, which sounded oddly hot in his deep voice. "Veneziano, I want you to spank me while I ride you! Spank me for being so bad...oh, mmm." There was a satisfying smack of skin on skin, and Italy's breath got caught in his throat.

"You know I will," he promised sweetly, stroking himself harder, tightening his grip, pretending it was his brother's ass and not his hand. God, did he ever miss Romano.

"Good, 'cause I deserve it." Ah, the guilty brother routine. This was a favorite of his. "I'm such a bad fratellone, fucking my little brother like this...ah, nnnn-yes! Right. There." Romano howled and Italy wished desperately to see him, to see this toy he knew nothing about deep in his brother's ass, probably knocking his prostate. "Fuck, I want you inside me, fratellino, I want your cock!" A gasp that sent shivers up Italy's spine. "I want your hot cum in my ass!"

"Ah!" With a last, hard tug, Italy came with a (rather unmanly) cry, his phone tumbling onto the rumpled sheets beside him, thankfully safe from harm. Romano had to have been close; he always got a little slutty towards the end – it was part of his charm. Forcing himself into as much composure as he could manage, Italy tried to help finish his brother off. "R-Romano...play with yourself, Romano. Jerk yourself off and pretend it's me, like I'm stroking you while you ride me. C'mon, Romano, cum."

"Did you – did you cum – already?" Romano panted, uncertain.

Heading off a potentially upsetting plight, Italy turned the tables in his favor. "Yes, Romano. I came, really hard, inside you, like you wanted." He sculpted the words temptingly so that his brother would not feel bad for not getting them off together. "And now I'm jerking you off and my cum is sliding down your thigh."

"Ohhhh fffuck!" There was a stifled grunt, promptly followed by a violent, protracted yell as Romano started riding out his orgasm. "Oh, Vene, there's...there's so much! I'm cumming all over your chest and your face!"

If Italy weren't his brother, he probably wouldn't have understood a word that was just said, for it was all garbled and shrouded in a moan. As it was, he was blushing immensely at the thought, thoroughly enjoying it. "Yeah, that's so good. Cum on me, Romano." He said this in barely more than a strained whisper, but he knew Romano had heard him. There was another minute or so of loud yelling before the line went silent, and for a few seconds Italy worried that, embarrassed, Romano had hung up on him.

But no. There was his breathing, heavy and desperate, as though he'd just sprinted several miles. At last, in a voice like jagged, broken glass, "Veneziano?"

"Si?" Limp in his messy bed, fingers wibbly and like Jello around his phone, he smiled, imagining what would come next. 'I love you,' perhaps, or maybe 'I miss you.' Italy's skin buzzed with contented afterglow.

"I just changed these fucking sheets, bastard," Romano growled with venom.

Italy grinned. That was good enough. "So change them again, fratello – or don't. Because when I come home," he teased in sing-song, "I really willmake you cum all over me."

A shift in the cotton, a moan of happy disgruntlement. "You fucking better."

"Have dinner waiting for me when I get back?"

"Like hell," Romano sighed, the sheets muffling his voice. Italy knew he could expect a heaping plate of pasta upon his return – maybe capelli carbonara – along with a nice bottle of Amarone. If Romano was feeling especially romantic, there might even be candles on the table.

"Romano?"

"What?"

Italy hesitated. "Don't...don't hang up, okay? Stay on the phone with me? 'Til I fall asleep?"

Was that a chortle buried in that snort? "Won't you be missed?"

"We never get anything done anyway. You know that." Italy yawned. "Besides, there's a reason they call it 'sleeping together,' right?"

There was no reply, and for a frightening, heartbreaking moment, he thought Romano had put an end to their conversation. And he had, in a way, Italy supposed as he tucked his cell phone in the crook of a pillow. Smiling, he closed his eyes; Romano's soft snores sang him to sleep.

fin

Translations:

Prónto, chi parla; Hello, who is this?

Dio, vorrei che fossi tu; God, I wish this was you.