Who: Italy [
p-p-p-pasta] and Prussia [
thelonelyawesme]
What: Sleepover! After weeks of cockblocking.
When: Backdated to Wednesday night.
Where: Prussia's room.
Warnings: None. So far. But it's Prussia so... ;A;
Italy wiped unceremoniously at his face with the edge of a sleeve, standing outside of Prussia's door. Normally, he wouldn't care too much about keeping clean, but this particular batch of pasta had been a messy one, and he could still feel the flour caking his cheeks, and was almost positive that some lingered in his hair. Not that he really cared too much about it. After all, the end results were always worth it, the small container of spaghetti under his arm attesting to that. Hopefully, Prussia would think the same. The other country never said anything bad about his cooking (that he could recall at the moment), so it wasn't a huge concern, but to a chef, this was always a thought to contemplate. Food was life. Food was art. And food brought people together to share something incredible. He puffed his chest in pride. Italy always did his best to make excellent food.
He knocked, hoping the door wasn't moody.