He was an enigma. One moment Romano thought he'd finally figured out the damn bastard's reasoning and then… well… America'd pulled another 'America' and Romano was left wandering all over again. The door slammed behind him, rattling the picture frame on the walls. Romano rubbed viciously at his face, the stinging on his cheeks matching the stinging in his eyes.

There was never any way to know what would set him off, America had finally realized, after the fifth surprise meltdown. Things would be fine and then he'd do or say something and Romano's face would get red, or he'd just storm off, or, worst of all, he'd cry. That was always the worst. What hero makes their boyfriend cry? This time it'd been the whole nine-yards.

And he always looked puzzled! Like he had no clue what was going on. Maybe he didn't. He was always so oblivious. Worse even than his brother. At least with his brother they had the same frame of reference. He didn't have to remind him… tell him about basic things.

Well… basic for him at least

He tried. He really did. He thought he did at least. But maybe he wasn't… America dragged a hand through his hair looking up the stairwell. He took a step forward, hand on the banister, and angry, biting words flew around his head again, still as sharp as when they'd flown around the room, nicking and slashing. He took a step back.

He could do better.

But so could Romano.

There'd been words this time. He had to get through to the bastard somehow.

But maybe… he'd said some things he really shouldn't have.

As warm as Romano could be, he also had a temper, and sometimes Romano's ire could come right out of the blue, taking him aback with its force, and with so little explanation… real explanation.

Romano just wished he'd listen. Really listen…

He could just be so hard to understand. And America wanted to, badly. But sometimes America wandered if Romano really wanted him to.

He knocked on the door and there wasn't a response.

America stood there in the hallway, looking between the door and the stairway he'd just climbed. He didn't know how to fix things. Didn't know how to make things right, because he kept messing up and he could never get through to Romano. He always felt like he was bashing himself up against reinforced concrete.

He knocked again.

The knocking wasn't going to stop. It had taken Romano a few arguments to realize why that didn't bother him.

He finally responded, with America's name on his tongue and a curse on his lips.

A breath left him, and with it, a bit of something else. It was always there in times like this, sitting in the pit of his stomach until he heard Romano's voice. It was a monster clawing him open, a fear that this time it had been too much and he'd never hear that voice speak fondly to him again.

The door eased open.

And America was wearing a different expression than normal. Romano grimaced.

He almost backed right out the door. Almost.

America had several expressions he brought out when things… anything… went south. Romano was used to America's puppy face: that sheepish 'things are messed up but you love me anyway look' he'd pulled out when he'd burned the pasta last month.

Then there was that slightly downcast glance, or the panicked I don't know what to do expression.

America stood by the door for a moment, before hesitantly walking over.

Maybe that hadn't been an invitation. Maybe he'd misread things again. Because Romano was staring at him and the puffy redness around his eyes made America's chest hurt, and Romano was scowling but there was something there behind it that America just couldn't understand. Maybe he never would.

He could deal with any of those. It was better than when he tried to hide something with a smile, which made Romano want to throw up his hands up and run; because those were some of the worst types of lies, and they were too famililar, and if enthusiastically vocal America wouldn't talk to him, couldn't tell him what was wrong…

But this time he looked so solemn and wary and Romano just didn't know how to react.

Because that wasn't right.

Later on he'll sit down by himself and go back over what happened in that room, because to his surprise Romano moved first, grabbing his wrist and pulling him down onto the bed.

He'd reached out before he even thought, but the warmth of America's body beside his, the strength of his arms around him, erased his own shock.

America felt his own tension easing out as Romano relaxed and turned in towards him. Words started haltingly, painfully.

Words he never thought he could say worked their way in besides America's. The words settled as closely together as they sat now, and as awkwardly as they'd sat when they'd started dating.

And there were the tears. He hated them. Hated how they streaked Romano's face, and how they clouded his vision; hated the choked sobs that wrenched their throats and left everything raw and aching.

These felt different though. Cleansing, clearing, like a long sought for rain washing away layers of dust. So he didn't fight them; just leaned into Romano more and let there tears mingle.

Then at one point one of them laughed, and it was just enough to set the words into a flow that curled around the both of them, sweeping away razor edges, the hurt and anger, and holding them tight.

And at that moment, with Romano's weight and warm laughter resting against him the confusion was replaced with an odd clarity.

Romano felt America's grip tighten and he looked up, already preparing for another bomb of some sort to blast away this moment, and caught sight of the smile, genuine and pure, and that spark dancing in America's eyes that he'd seen so often before, the one that seemed to go straight down to America's core.

Romano confounded him. He was hardly ever at a loss for words, and Romano left him standing, sputtering, in unfamiliar doorways, searching for connections and meanings that he sometimes thought he had no way of ever understanding.

But there was so much more.

Sometimes Romano would catch that glint, fleeting though it was, and try to follow it down as far as he could go,

Down through the bravado and dorkiness,

His dedication to everything that meant anything to him,

In through the bravery and joy,

Whether it was his cooking or America.

Finding his way through stubbornness

That simple care and attention to detail,

Into determination,

That made everything he touch come alive;

To the vibrance,

The Passion,

The creativity,

The warmth,

The love.

The love.

The spark seemed to go on forever, spiraling down into depths he had to way of seeing, let alone reaching.

Every word, every piece to that puzzle- That mystery wrapped in the very fiber of Romano's being, left him wanting more, forever trying to connect-

America smiled into Romano's gaze, letting love and warmth overtake him.

Someday he'd understand.

Then Romano felt, rather than saw, the spark turn, reaching out towards him. Just an arms-breadth away. Just beyond reach but coming, stretching nearer as time went on.

He'd get there someway.

It wouldn't be easy, but…

If they took it a step at a time

They'd get there together.

They'd get there together.

Author's Note: Hi, Thanks for reading. This was one of those stories that kind of hit me very hard and very sudden and wouldn't let go, so I got it written down and edited over the space of maybe 12 hours... that leaves me feeling a little uneasy... okay, very uneasy about it. Constructive criticism is very welcome.

Also, this fic was inspired by two separate songs: Someday, Someway by Marshall Crenshaw and Mi Marciana by Alejandro Sanz. In my opinion both are awesome in their own sort of ways, so I recommend checking both of them out.