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World meetings are always an exercise in frustration, patience, and temperance. Germany generally prides himself on being able to stay level-headed – it's a chore, sometimes, especially when everyone else's tempers run high, but he manages. There have only been a handful of times that he can think of that he's lost his cool, and otherwise, he tends to be the peacemaker.
Still, everyone needs a break, and Germany calls them regularly during large meetings like these, to give himself and everyone else a chance to cool off and calm down. For him, that means returning to his room, splashing cold water on his face, and fixing the part of his hair. For others, he knows, it involves yelling at each other while not on an official world stage, to try and avoid any international incidents. Personally, Germany doesn't understand how that is supposed to help, but Veneziano is always saying that he sometimes misses the finer points of social conventions. In total, all of that means he's not unused to hearing angry shouting in the corridors as he makes his way back towards the meeting room. What he is unused to, though, is that shouting being a flurry of rapid-fire Italian.
"Come osi mi chiami quello? Davanti a tutti?"
At first, Germany simply assumes Romano is being his usual self, complaining and ranting, possibly on the phone to someone back in Italy – the elder Italian is known well for his temper, and Germany has been on the receiving end enough to know that Romano doesn't always necessarily care if the recipient actually understands what's being said. A stream of Italian curses and insults is just as common as any comprehensible complaint in Mother-Tongue. But then he hears the second voice, and for a moment he nearly doesn't recognise it. It's not often that he's ever heard Veneziano raise his voice in anger.
"Che cosa? Perché è importa, Romano, non so-"
"Sai cazzo bene! Tu non dammi rispetta, quindi tutti pensano che possano fare lo stesso!"
When he turns the corner he can see them, further up the corridor – Romano jabbing a finger at Veneziano's chest, while Veneziano simply stands, arms crossed, looking unimpressed. Veneziano, strangely, is scowling, and for a moment Germany is struck by how similar the two actually look – until now he's seen nothing but the differences, but now he can see that they have the same furrow in their brow, the same lines around their eyes. Veneziano presses his lips together in the same way that his brother does, and makes the same dismissive scoff.
"Ma dai, Romano, è solo un soprannome, non è così serio. Siamo fratelli, perché saremmo formale?" Veneziano throws his hands up, exasperation and dismissal. Romano slaps his hand away, his cheeks reddening as he gets in Veneziano's face. It's starting to get a little awkward for Germany to keep advancing down the corridor without acknowledging the two, but they're so busy glaring at each other that they haven't noticed him yet.
"Perché siamo in una riunione officiale! Sono Italia, come tu così! Roma è il mio cuore, non il tuo!" Romano snarls. Germany isn't really sure what is being said – he caught "Rome", perhaps, and "Italy" for sure, but his Italian is rusty at best – but whatever it is, Romano looks furious, and his reply prompts Veneziano to curl his lip and roll his eyes viciously.
"Di nuovo, questo! Per amor di Dio, le cose dici non è il più importa solamente perché Roma è il tuo!" This time its Veneziano getting in Romano's face, gesturing sharply and hitting him in the chest. Usually, Germany loves watching Veneziano's gesticulation. It encompasses all the energy and enthusiasm that Veneziano has, the passion he and his people are known for. This, though, doesn't feel that way, far too pointed and harsh. "Forse le gente non ti rispettano perché non sai come cazzo comporti bene-!"
"Non cominci parlare a me come quello, Veneziano-!"
Germany clears his throat, finally deciding he simply can't pass by while pretending not to see the two. Both of them jump, turning to look at him, and for a moment he really sees why some Nations think the two of them are twins – identical scowls on their faces, twin expletives on their lips, both flinching the same way before they register who he is. Then the differences kick in. Veneziano's shoulders relax, the scowl lifting a little and his gaze softening; Romano, on the other hand, only seems to bunch tighter, lip lifting in one part snarl, one part sneer.
"North Italy. South Italy." He says, nodding to each in turn. It always feels a little strange, to refer to Veneziano by his official title, so used to the more informal name he uses. But he's also aware that Romano isn't the most fond of being referred to by his informal name by Germany, especially at world meetings, and he is a man who errs on the side of caution. "Is everything alright?"
"Why do you want to know, bastardo?" Romano snaps, at the same time that Veneziano says "Of course, Germany!", which only causes the older to round on him again.
"Oh, naturalmente, tutto è bene perché dici così-"
"Accidenti, Romano! Basta-" Veneziano throws right back, and Germany clears his throat again before the conversation can descend.
"Is it anything I can help with?" He asks, looking between the two of them. "Only, we are due to be back in session in 10 minutes, and I'm sure you would prefer this to be settled before then."
Co-running a country with another Nation is difficult, he knows; although generally, Gilbert is perfectly happy to let Germany handle the running of their country, the former Nation of Prussia has had choice words for his thoughts on policy and politics more than once. Generally, because Germany has become extreme in his conflict avoidance, and Prussia's heart still beats hot with a warrior's blood. He can imagine the Italian brothers run into similar arguments, with Romano being so much more hot-tempered than Veneziano.
"Oh, no, Germany, it's fine! Romano is being silly over a nickname, that's all." Veneziano says quickly, flapping his hands in dismissive placation. Romano makes what Germany is fairly sure is a rude gesture, based on the times he's had it directed at himself, slapping a hand against a bicep.
"Vaffanculo. It's not that and you know it!" Romano snarls. When he looks over at Germany it's still more of a glare than anything, but he at least seems to be entertaining a conversation that includes him. "Veneziano is being a rude, pompous bastard, as always. He insults me, and expects me to take it." Romano tuts, jerking his chin. "It's still not German business, but you might as well have the right information before you piss off."
Veneziano looks flustered, cheeks going red. "I do not!" He protests, and Germany sighs, pinching at the bridge of his nose. He suddenly feels like he's put himself in charge of quarrelling toddlers and wonders if he would have been better enduring the awkwardness of just walking past.
Veneziano turns quickly to Germany, huffing a little. "I called him Mezzogiorno." He says, sounding exasperated. "It's not offensive, it's just a name for the South-"
"It's a name you use when you want to feel better than me." Romano sneers. “Do you really think I don’t know that? You use it when you want to think I’m lazy, or I’m stupid, or whatever other excuse you have. I am sick of you disrespecting me, acting like you’re better! And I thought I’d do the reasonable thing and take you outside to discuss it, but of course, you won’t listen to me, and now you’ve dragged the German bastard in here to take your side as if I’m not the one in the right here!” He scoffs, crossing his arms aggressively over his chest. Although Romano looks angry still, furious, there’s a tension to his expression that Germany recognises because he’s seen it so often on his brother’s face – a tension as if Romano is about to cry. He rolls his shoulders, and shakes his head, turning away. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. You think whatever you want. I’ll be at the meeting in 10.”
With that Romano turns and storms away, down the corridor and around a corner and out of sight. Germany just stands there for a moment, blinking in the wake of the silence that follows after the argument. It’s obvious that as much as the whole disagreement was over ‘just’ a nickname, Romano is genuinely quite upset about it, and he cannot help but remember the matching anger on Veneziano’s face, when they hadn’t realised they were being watched.
“Dannazione.” Veneziano mutters beside him, and Germany looks down to see Veneziano curling his lip and gesturing angrily after Romano’s retreating back. He stamps a foot, throwing his hands in the air for a moment. “Che cazzo! Così stupido…” Veneziano’s anger is a brief flash which fades into something far more melancholy, his lips twisting like he wants to stay angry but is trying not to cry. The two truly are brothers, through and through. Veneziano hangs his head, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, not unlike Germany had done only moments previously.
“I think,” Germany ventures, hesitant, not sure he really understands enough to actually speak on this matter, “that no matter your intent, your brother is truly upset by the name you used.”
“I know.” Veneziano sighs, resting one cheek against a palm. Then, he continues, a little quieter, “He’s right. It’s a mean name. It’s what I used to call him when we first unified.”
Germany can’t help raising his eyebrows in surprise. He knows Veneziano is far more than the shallow coward he tends to play at; he’s a man who feels deeply, who loves wildly and freely, who enjoys the pleasures of living and tries to share them with everyone around him. He’s cheerful, generally; maudlin, sometimes; and although his temper isn’t as close to the surface as his brother’s, Germany knows it can burn just as hot. But one thing Germany has generally not thought of Veneziano as is cruel – he’s always known the other Nation to be kind, sometimes almost to fault. It surprises him to think that maybe Veneziano had been calling his brother names with the intent of being hurtful.
“Why did you call him by it, then?” Germany asks. Veneziano looks chastised, glancing only briefly at Germany before his gaze skitters away.
“We were talking with France and Hungary and Austria.” He murmurs. “Fratello France said something about… about being surprised Romano ‘bothered’ to show up. Romano got mad, and I was telling him to calm down.” His expression twists, and he rubs his hand over his face. “I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean to be condescending, I just- No, I was being condescending. I was joining in with France.”
Germany is well aware of the various divisions within Europe; has to be, when he’s one of the Nations at the head of the EU. He knows the East and West divide is harsh, both in cultural difference and economical ramifications. He’s well aware of the various stereotypes and views each side has of the others; particularly, he’s aware of how the affluent Western Nations tend to view their Eastern neighbours, no matter how unfounded these assumptions are. Slightly less prominent, although no less existent, is the divide between the North and South – and, similarly, he knows views aren’t always the most positive between them. He’s heard the way that some Nations sneer “Mediterranean” when talk turns to economies and work ethic and Nations like Spain and Greece – and Italy. He didn’t realise that such feeling might apply even between Veneziano and his southern brother. But then, he supposes he should have – the East/West divide is still strong within his own country, after all.
“I need to go and apologise to him.” Veneziano murmurs, worrying his fingers together and bouncing on the balls of his feet, like he’s barely stopping himself from simply running after Romano. He looks up to Germany. “I’m sorry Germany, I really have to go and apologise.”
Germany nods a little. He agrees – it’s definitely needed. “Go. I will see if I can delay the start of the meeting until you are both there.” He says. It won’t be hard, really; no-one particularly enjoys the gruelling hours of dry political debate and policy writing. Germany tends to be the one to insist they start on time and focus on business; if he simply doesn’t call the meeting to order, no doubt it will continue as an amalgamation of casual conversations until everyone is present and ready.
Veneziano smiles at him, dimmer than his usual radiant grin, but no less genuine or thankful. He squeezes Germany’s elbow, hand warm and firm, before dashing off with his usual speed, rounding the corner in the direction his brother took.
Germany shakes his head a little. These meetings are certainly never dull, although sometimes he rather wishes they would be. It is interesting, though, to see another side of Veneziano, one he hasn’t really known before – even if that side is a little less than positive. Strange, how even after so long knowing each other, there are still facets to be uncovered.
Germany’s watch beeps at him, telling him he has only 5 minutes before the meeting is due to restart. He clicks the alarm off, double checking his folder of papers to ensure he hasn’t left anything behind in his room, and straightens out his suit jacket. It’s not going to be hard to delay the meeting, but it is likely to be difficult to actually get it restarted, and they’ll have lost time. He’ll have to figure out ways to keep everyone properly on track, to avoid missing out on any of their agenda…
In the end, he doesn’t have to delay very long – barely 10 minutes, before the two Italians are slipping into the meeting room and into their seats, bumping their shoulders together. Veneziano looks up at Germany and beams, full force, giving him a thumbs up. Romano looks at him and rolls his eyes, visibly tutting, but its a less rude gesture than he usually receives, so he decides to take it as a win. It takes another 5 minutes to get everyone corralled and settled and quiet, and when all is said and done, the meeting runs over by half an hour regardless thanks to an argument concerning exchange rates.
It’s alright, though. The Italian he overhears as he’s packing up his documents is far more light and friendly, the melody of it bouncing with laughter, even from Romano. The delay, he decides, is worth that far more pleasant sound.