Axis Powers Hetalia, Germany/Italy, cleaning
The sound of a large crash and a subsequent shout from what seemed to be Italy brought Ludwig running toward the kitchen to investigate. The scene as he peered into the room, a hand on the door jam, had him gasping in surprise before fuming at the sight.
Feliciano knelt on the floor next to a still-steaming stock pot turned onto its side and slightly rocking to and fro. Its fall from the counter had part of the floor, cabinet, and wall painted in red from the pasta sauce Italy had apparently been making. He'd even managed to get some on his cheek and the apron he wore. Italy had frozen mid-wipe as he attempted to clean the mess up with a kitchen towel now sopping with what he'd intended to be dinner. He gazed fearfully in the direction of the doorway stuttering, “G-Germany?”
“Must you always make such a mess of my kitchen?” Germany shouted, his brows furrowed as they almost always were when dealing with Feliciano's antics. He stormed into the room, grabbing a spare towel to dampen and soap in the sink. He soon sank to the floor to join Italy. “Hurry up before it leaves a stain!” he chastened, horrified at the idea of anything marring the usual pristine state of the kitchen.
Prodded into motion, Italy began to scrub furiously at the floor, muttering apologies as he did so. Ludwig sighed as he headed to the sink to rinse out the cloth and return to wash down the wall. How did the other man manage to fling the sauce up this high?
“I'm so sorry, Germany,” Italy continued in a sad voice. “I wanted to make you a nice dinner. I even made a new tasty sauce, but I slipped on water that was on the floor and ruined everything.”
Germany paused, turning to watch him wash out the towel and return to sink to the floor to swipe at the rest of the mess. “You didn't have to do that,” he told Italy, touched by the gesture.
“But you've been working so hard lately even though you're so tired from saving me,” Italy protested. He gazed at the now clean cabinets before him absently. “I just wanted to say thank you, but now there isn't any of it left. You didn't even get to taste any of it.”
Ludwig joined Feliciano on the floor, eying the streak of red sauce marring the skin of his cheek. “Well, there is a bit of it left,” he noted. Italy looked mildly confused before Germany leaned in to swipe at it with a warm tongue, drawing a gasp. When no more of it remained, Ludwig noted in a husky voice, “You're right. It was delicious. It's a shame there isn't more.” He slowly pressed Italy down to the cool floor by his shoulders, moving to lap at what he imagined was a stray droplet or two at the base of Feliciano's open collar.
“I don't think there's any down there,” Italy told him as he felt Ludwig's gloved hand grope him beneath the apron he wore. He couldn't say that he minded the turn in Germany's mood. He'd forgotten the effect that cleaning had on the man sometimes. Heaven knew he'd given Ludwig enough reason recently to demonstrate.
“Don't you want me to finish making dinner?” Italy asked as his apron was briskly tugged off and tossed away.
“I'm hungry for something else right now,” Ludwig announced, making short work of the buttons and clasps on Italy's uniform.
“But, Germany, won't we get the floor dirty again?” Italy asked.
“Don't worry,” Ludwig answered, a gloved hand toying with the bulge peeking out from Italy's open trousers. “I'll be sure not to spill a drop.”
As Ludwig swallowed him down to the hilt, he noted that the shrill way Feliciano shouted his name didn't bother him half as much at moments like these.