Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
Warnings: This is basically an attempt to overcome writer's block and demotivation. Yet another failed attempt to write a one-shot (which is to say...this was supposed to be a one-shot, but will be chaptered). I'm basically going to use this fic as a 'junk drawer' for combating writer's block, dumping random ideas, and so on. I can't promise much quality from it and I have no plans as to the plot, but I'll let it develop on its own and see what we get.
Kind of like jazz... pffft.
The Southern half of Italy wobbled precariously on traitorous legs, arms spread wide in a desperate attempt to maintain his balance. Sure, his legs had supported him fine for centuries, yet just when he needed them most the bastards turned on him. Okay, so maybe if someone had strapped blades to him he might feel a little resentful, too; but dammit, it'd be nice if they could pull themselves together (literally and figuratively) and do what he told them to do for five seconds straight.
He'd fallen so much, his bruises had bruises.
Dammit, Veneziano! Romano glanced over to where his brother was gliding along, idiotic smile plastered to his face, laughing and fawning over the potato-bastard. If it wasn't for him and his stupid puppy-eyes and incessant whining and begging, Romano wouldn't even be in this situation in the first place! Why did he always let the idiot talk him in to these things? This was even worse than the stripping! Trembling, unsteady as a newborn fawn, Romano cursed whatever bastard had dreamed up ice-skating (Ice-skating! On -cue mental flailing- ice! How stupid could people get?) to a slow, painful death, somewhere where he could watch. Along with the bastard who'd suggested it to Veneziano, causing the idiot to drag him out on this godforsaken la- his arms pinwheeled wildly as his legs shot out from under him.
He braced for impact, eyes instinctively screwing shut- this was going to hurt.
"Woah, there." He was halted mid-collapse by a firm, steady hand on his back, supporting his weight with ease. He opened first one eye, then the other, and slowly tilted his head back to see a pair of big, blue eyes looking down at him with concern. Where the hell had America come from? "South Italy, right? You alright there, buddy?" America asked, setting Romano back onto his feet, steadying him with a hand on his back and another gripping his arm.
"I'm fine, dammit. F-fucking fantastic. I just t-tripped, is all." Romano growled, yanking his arm from America's grasp, pride alone keeping him on his wavering feet. Well, that and America's hand still on his back.
"Haha, alright. Careful, little Italy, it can get slippery out here!" America laughed, patting his back (nearly sending Romano sprawling, since he was barely hanging onto his upright status as it was). "I'll see ya around!" He waved with a friendly grin, preparing to skate off, only to spin and catch him again when Romano's watery legs betrayed him a second time. "Woah! Steady there."
"I said I'm f-fine, dammit." Romano insisted, flushing in embarrassment, and pushing ineffectually at the arm holding him up. "I've got this. And what are y-you doing here, anyway?"
"Same thing as you, Italy!" America grinned, displaying his skates. "This your first time ice skating? You know what you're doin'?"
"O-of course I do! I do it all the t-time. It's just, this ice is different than w-what I'm used to, d-dammit." Romano lied badly, gaze sliding off to the side.
"Yeah, Canada's ice does take some getting used to." America nodded seriously.
"It does?" Romano blinked up at him, surprised.
"Oh yeah. Not nearly as awesome as American ice. But I can teach you the secret to it if you'd like." He leaned down to add confidentially, "Since Canada's my brother, I know all the insider's tricks."
"Well..." Romano pursed his lips, considering. "Okay. If you w-want to. Not that I need y-your help, I c-could f-figure it out if I t-tried," He added quickly, "but, since you're offering, it'd be r-rude to say n-no."
"All right! This'll be fun!" America cheered, and slid 'round in front of him, taking his hands. The second his skin touched the Italian's, his eyes widened. "Holy crap, you're freezing! How long have you been out here?" He exclaimed, looking down at the hands he held.
"N-not long. A h-half hour, m-maybe?" Romano answered, hunching defensively. "I-it's n-not that c-cold."
"Bullshit!" America contradicted incredulously, switching both Romano's hands into one of his while he dug through his pockets with the other. "You're not dressed for this kind of weather, Italy! Don't you have a hat, or something?" Finding what he was looking for, he drew a pair of gloves from his coat pocket, and set to pulling them over the other nation's frozen fingers. "God, you're shivering! Are you trying to get hypothermia?" He pulled off his knit cap, tugging it down over Romano's ears.
"I, I'm fine, d-dammit." Romano argued weakly, teeth chattering. He hadn't realized how cold he actually was until America's warm hands had closed over his, the heat of the taller nation's skin almost burning against his own. No wonder he'd been shaking so much. It hadn't been his balance, it'd been the cold. The gloves and cap, still warm from America's body, seemed to radiate heat through his frame, spreading deliciously through his stinging fingers, scalp and ears.
America laughed, pulling off his scarf and wrapping it around the Italian's neck and shoulders. "You say that now, but another twenty minutes or so and you'd be singing a different tune. You have nice hands, South Italy. It'd be a shame to lose them to frostbite." He fingered Romano's collar critically. "At least you have a decent coat on. What is this, boiled wool? That should keep you warm enough." He checked the now-bundled Mediterranean nation over, and nodded, satisfied. "There. Now you should be plenty warm. Looks good!" He grinned and winked, adding, "Let's get some hot chocolate or something before we start skating."
"I,I,I, d-d-do-" Romano attempted a protest through chattering teeth as America led him off the ice, only to be halted by a warm finger pressed to his lips as the blond turned to face him.
"No arguements! We have to have a hot drink before skating, it's traditional." America insisted earnestly as he stepped backwards onto the bank, "Otherwise it's bad luck!"
"I-it i-is?" The Italian shivered, taken aback. Wait, Feliciano had had coffee before they'd skated, right? But he'd turned it down, because the potato-bastard had been the one offering. No wonder he'd been falling so much! It was luck, dammit, luck! He knew it! It was all Germany's fault- that bastard must have known all along!
"Yep!" America affirmed, wrapping his arm around Romano's shoulders and leading him to a nearby bench. "You can't skate in Canada without having a hot drink first. Hot chocolate or coffee is best, but anything hot and liquid will do in a pinch." He explained, brushing snow off the seat and settling the Italian nation down. "So wait right here, and I'll bring some right over, 'kay? Then we can get started!"
Burying his face in America's scarf and trying not to shiver, Romano watched as America strode over to the vendor, with the long, confident, slightly bouncy strides of someone who had far too much energy and good cheer, and was eager to share it. It was the sort of walk that warned everyone in the vicinity that this person was likely to arrange sing-alongs or soup kitchens, or campaigns to save the children, endangered animals, Tibet, or anything else that needed saving, really, if you didn't give them something to do and fast. The dangerous sort of person who firmly believed life was beautiful and that everyone had the power to make the world a better place -yes, even you- and would have you believing it too if you weren't careful; and then you'd find yourself volunteering for charity or campaigning to save something you'd never even heard of a few days ago before you came to your senses.
The fact that he could walk like that in ice skates said it all, really.
Romano wondered if he should abandon his own skates and run while he still could.
Eh, they would take too long to unlace.
His brother's laughter rang out over the ice, and he glanced over to where Veneziano was skating circles around a stiff and awkward Germany, grinning like an idiot, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling. He'd gotten a hat and mittens from somewhere -Germany had probably brought along an extra pair, knowing Veneziano as well as he did- and as the elder half-nation watched, his brother moved to stand next to the German, pulling one of his mittens off to take Germany's hand in his, lacing their fingers together, and Germany's mouth quirked up in a tiny smile. It was impossible to tell if the flush across his cheekbones was from cold or embarrassment or happiness (or all three) as he slid their entwined hands into the pocket of his coat to keep them warm, and they moved side-by-side across the ice.
He felt an all-too-familiar pang as he watched his brother leaving him, yet again. Always, always, Veneziano was running ahead or being taken away, whether by Grandpa Rome or Austria or Germany, and Romano was left behind, forgotten, unable to catch up or fight back, and dammit, dammit. His eyes stung, and he blinked furiously, turning from the sight of his brother's back moving further from him once more.
He supposed, bitterly, that he should be grateful to that blond fucker for taking such good care of his little brother, but that was his job, dammit, he was the elder brother. He and Veneziano were two halves of the same country, they were supposed to be together, dammit, and after the union he was sure they'd finally be together but here he was, watching his brother leave, same as always. With Germany, no less, and he knew Veneziano didn't remember, had been too young to understand, really; and Germany obviously couldn't remember but dammit, he couldn't trust or forgive the bastard after-
"Here you go!" Something white obscured his vision and he blinked, looking up. America held out a large styrofoam cup, steam escaping from its vented lid, and beamed down at him. "We're in luck!" He said excitedly, like a kid sharing a secret, gesturing with his own cup, "They had fresh hot cider! It's the absolute best ever. Better than anything. Drink up, Italy!"
"I thought coffee or hot chocolate was best." Romano said as he took it, wrapping both hands around the warm beverage, letting the heat seep through the gloves, into his fingers.
"Mhm, they're the best, but that's only because it's nearly impossible to find real hot cider anymore." America explained cheerfully, crouching down beside him and taking a large swallow from his own cup with an appreciative hum. "Mmmm! It's like, ultra-super rare! You know what this means, don't you?"
"People hate squeezing apples?" The Italian asked dryly, tentatively sipping his own, rolling it over his tongue. Hm.. fresh apples and spices, hm, allspice and cinnamon and cloves, and...maybe a touch of brown sugar? He licked his lips. Not bad, actually. Not bad at all.
"Haha, no! Well, okay, maybe they do." America conceded, licking traces of cider from his own lips, "It's a pain in the ass. They're so hard. But I meant, finding it today is like, a sign! That today is going to be really good. It's like, God's saying 'Hey you guys, I've got amazing things in store for you!'"
"You don't actually believe that, do you?" Romano snorted, closing his eyes as he drank, savouring the taste of apples fresh from the orchard (it sort of reminded him of harvests and autumn sunshine, and pleasant hours in the kitchen, turning ingredients into masterpeices). Its heat spread through him, warming him to his toes, and bringing a flush to his cheeks. "I thought you didn't believe in supernatural stuff."
"Of course I do!" America answered. "I mean, I don't believe in magic, that's silly. But I believe in God and angels and stuff. Don't you? I mean, I've seen a lot of miracles in the last few hundred years, and you're older than I am, right? So you must have seen even more!"
"No miracles for me, bastard." Romano said bitterly, clutching the cup in gloved hands. "God forgot about me a long time ago."
His companion blinked, turning to look at him. "Do you really believe that?"
"I don't believe it." The Italian replied, looking out over the lake and sipping his drink. "I know it."
"Hm." The blond hummed thoughtfully, returning to his own drink and staring out over the ice with furrowed brows. "Well," he said after a moment, tipping back the last of his cider and tossing the cup into a nearby trash receptacle as he stood, "it's time to change that, then. How's the cider?"
"'s alright." Romano admitted reluctantly.
"Glad you like it." America smiled, coming to kneel in front of him, lifting Romano's left foot and examining the figure skate encasing it. "Gonna check your skates out before we go, make sure they're okay."
"They'd better be, I just paid three hundred for the damn things."
America whistled, eyebrows raised. "Plan on doing a lot of skating?" He asked, running his hands over the boot to check the fit, testing the blade.
"Not particularly." Romano responded, nursing his drink as America put down one foot and picked up the other.
"That's a lot of money to drop on a pair of skates, then." America mused, prodding the toe of the boot. "Still, these are really nice, I'm impressed. You're lucky we're in Canada, or you might have gotten ripped off. Actually, now that I think about it I'm kind of surprised you didn't end up with hockey skates. They're a little obsessed with it up here."
"I know what I'm doing." Romano contradicted obstinately, despite all evidence to the contrary.
"Y'know, your feet are really small." America observed interestedly, lifting Romano's foot to look the blade over. "Are these women's skates?"
"Fuck you, asshole!" Romano growled, flushing, trying to kick America in the face with little success, as his foot was held fast in the other's hands.
"Haha, sorry, sorry." America laughed, holding up a hand conciliatorily. "I didn't mean anything by it, they're very nice skates. Definitely worth what you paid for 'em. They comfortable?"
"Of course." Romano huffed, barely mollified.
"Good, good. That's important." America stood, brushing the snow off his knee and holding out his hand to help Romano up. "You about finished with that cider?"
"Nh." Romano made a face, swallowing the rest of his drink and rising from his seat. His ankles wobbled on the blades, and he growled in frustration when he had to grab the hands America proffered for support, or lose his balance. "I don't understand why anyone would want to do this crap." He grumbled, watching his feet carefully as the blond led him back towards the lake. "It's such a pain in the ass."
America chuckled. "It's a lot of fun! Just takes a little practice."
"Fun? Fun? What part of this is fun?" Romano scowled, as the tip of one of his blades caught a clump of earth under the snow.
"Once you get used to it, ice skating can be pretty awesome." America insisted, steadying him with a hand against his chest as the half-nation stumbled forward.
"Cheh." Scoffed Romano, inching slowly forward, eyes steadfastly on his feet.
"Here, I'll show you!" America announced, helpfully, and lifted the Italian up off the ground to sit on his shoulders.
"W-what the hell are you doing?" Romano yelped, clinging to the American, arms and legs wrapping around his neck and head. America reached up to loosen the arm around his eyes.
"Not the eyes, Italy, gonna need those~!" Was the only warning Romano got before they were on the ice and accelerating.
"OhshitohshitohshitI'm going to diiiiie on a maniaaaac." Romano moaned, holding on for dear life as the nation under him gathered speed.
"Hold tight, we're goin' for a spin!" America called out, reaching up to hold Romano's knees to make sure he didn't fall off as he revved up into a good, smooth glide.
"Yeeeehaaaaaaaaw!" America howled in excitement as the landscape blurred past.
"Yeeeeaaaaaaaaaahhhh!" Romano yowled in terror as the American wove between the other skaters with reckless abandon.
"Too many people here!" America shouted, skillfully whipping through the crowd cluttering the ice near shore, "Gonna head out towards the far side of the lake!"
Romano whimpered desperately into America's hair, closing his eyes and tightening his already vice-like hold. As the moments passed and he failed to die or careen headlong into anything or plunge through the ice, his natural need for speed began supercede his fear. He adjusted his hold and settled himself more comfortably across the taller nation's shoulders, tentatively enjoying the ride, relaxing into the slight rocking motion of the nation underneath him. For a while there was only the shhhshhhshhh of America's skates as they sped across the ice, adrenaline riding high.
He wondered if they could go faster.
"All good?" America called up, having felt the nation settle into the movement of his skating.
"Oi!" Romano leaned low over the American's head. "Can you go any faster, bastard?"
"You got it!" America laughed as he coiled for takeoff, putting more power into his strokes. "Buckle up, little Italy, we're gonna fly!"
And fly they did. They shot across the lake, eating up the ice in long, hungry strides that had both speed-hungry nations grinning like maniacs.
"Haha!" Romano exulted, throwing his arms wide, feeling the wind on his face. "Faster, bastard, faster!"
"Wahooo!" America agreed, shouting, "Watch this!"
The Italian's arms and legs tightened reflexively around the other nation as they started to zig-zag, undulating across the ice like a greased eel on a wet floor. "Holy shit!" He gasped, quickly recovering, but maintained his hold as America swerved, executing several looping turns at break-neck speeds. "Fuck yeah!" Romano howled as they shot out of the fourth turn, "Do that again!"
Laughing, America obliged, spiraling them through tighter and tighter turns until they were spinning across the ice and South Italy was screaming in his ear. He finished with a spinning jump, landing to swizzle backwards, slowing into a smooth backward glide. "Good?" He asked, tilting his head back to grin at the nation on his shoulders as his strokes evened out. Romano chuckled breathlessly, nodding.
"Th-that was great." He panted, once he could talk. "C-can we do it again?"
America laughed again. "We could, sure, but don't you want to learn how to do it yourself?"
"Eh." Romano made a face. "That's alright, bastard. I'm fine riding."
"Aw, haha. Don't be like that, Italy!" The blond grinned, lifting him off and slowing to a stop. "It'll be fun, promise!"
"Fun for who?" Romano grumbled as America settled him on the ice.
For the next hour or so, the American taught him how to stand in his skates, explaining how to get up if he fell; how to stroke at an angle to propel himself across the ice both backwards and forwards, how to coast with the flat of the blade, to turn using the edge of the blade to dig into the ice, and —after he'd ended up chasing a screaming South Italy across the ice to catch him before he slid, out-of-control, into a snowbank— how to stop.
"This is impossible." He growled in frustration the umpteenth time he'd stumbled into America's arms in his thus-far-fruitless attempts to execute a stop that didn't end up with a faceplant into the ice (or, in his case, America's torso; since the taller nation seemed to have a thing about being there just in time to prevent a real fall, no matter how far away Romano had managed to skate before tripping). "I'm never going to get it. This is a waste of time, dammit."
"No way, you're doing great!" America encouraged. "The only thing you've had trouble with so far is braking. But you can do it, don't worry! You'll get it next time!"
"Easy for you to say, bastard." Romano muttered, irritated. The taller nation moved on ice like he was born on it, effortless and easy, and it was making him feel impossibly clumsy and ungainly in comparison. He'd been at this for ever and he still couldn't move like that, dammit. Sure, he was fine going forward or backward, and gliding was easy enough, and he'd pretty much gotten the hang of accelerating or slowing down, but he could barely manage a proper turn without wobbling terribly, and stopping was eluding him entirely. Maybe he just wasn't cut out for ice skating. Must be something you had to start from infancy, or something. Certainly everyone else on the lake seemed to have taken to it like fish to water. "I thought you said this was going to be 'fun'." He added plaintively, pushing himself away from the other nation, using the extra momentum to speed his skating. "I'm still waiting for the 'fun' to start."
"You're not having any fun?" The taller nation asked curiously, gliding backwards a little ahead and to one side of him, clasping his hands behind his head. Romano tripped before he'd finished the question, toepick catching on the ice, and the Italian growled in vexation as he found himself draped over the blond's arm once more.
"No I am not having any fun. Look," He pinched the bridge of his nose, gesturing frustratedly with the other hand, "it's obvious we're wasting our time here, bastard. I'm never going to get it. You should just go do whatever and let me go sit on a bench somewhere until my stupid brother remembers I exist and I can go back to the hotel and forget this ever happened, dammit."
"But you're doing so good! You can't give up yet, Italy, you've almost got it!" America protested, setting him back on his feet.
Romano crossed his arms, scowling. "It's been over an hour and I still can't stop without falling over. I think that's a pretty clear sign that it's hopeless."
The blond looked down at him, eyebrows raised. "That's what has you down?" He rolled his eyes, and started counting off on his fingers. "Italy, you've learned how to stand, skate forwards and backwards, turn and balance in a little over an hour. It takes most people weeks to learn all that. Heck, most beginners take hours just to learn how to stand on ice. I've been really impressed with your progress, actually."
Romano blinked. "R-really?"
"Definitely! You're doing great." America nodded earnestly. "In fact, stopping is the only thing that seems to have given you any real trouble so far."
"Oh." Romano pondered this for a moment. That changed things a bit. Well...it was only natural. He was pretty impressive. "O-of course! I'm good at just about anything." He asserted, raising his chin. "There's nothing I can't do if I try."
"That's the spirit!" America cheered, grinning and punching the air. "A little ice can't get you down!"
"R-right!" Romano agreed, puffing with bravado, hands on his hips. "I'll show this stupid lake what for!"
"Give 'em hell, Italy!"
"Haha, just watch me!"
"Romaaannoooo~!" Their ice-conquering was put on hold by a call from across the lake. They looked over their shoulders to see North Italy waving at them from near the shoreline, one hand cupped around his mouth in a makeshift loudspeaker. "Romaaaanooo, it's time to gooo~!"
"Aww." America said disappointedly, turning to his playmate. "Looks like 'mom's' calling you in for the night."
"Cheh." Romano scoffed, crossing his arms again. "Stupid little brothers, always spoiling my fun."
"Ameerrrriiicaaa~!" Canada called on cue, waving from a spot not far from Veneziano. "Let's go home! It's dinnertime!"
"I hear that. Little brothers suck." America commiserated, sighing. He shrugged and held out a hand. "Want a ride back?"
Romano considered it. His legs were pretty sore. "Well, alright. Can we do that stuff you did before?" He asked, as America lifted him onto his shoulders again, "All the spinning and stuff. Before we go."
"Haha, sure," the other nation agreed, "I think we've earned it. I'll have to get a running start, though." He added, turning to skate towards the center of the lake. "We're gonna need room to build up enough speed."
"Sweet." Romano grinned in anticipation, holding on tight.
"America! What are you doing? Come on, it's time to go!" Canada shouted from shore, exasperated to see his brother skating away from shore.
"Hold your horses, Canada!" America hollered back, nearly shattering Romano's eardrums, lifting an arm to wave over his shoulder at his brother. "We'll be right there!" Reaching the centre of the lake, he skated a slow circle, and grinned up at Romano. "You ready for this?"
"Do it, bastard." Romano ordered, leaning low over his head, arms wrapped tightly around his neck.
"Haha, you got it!"
They rocketed towards the shore, hurtling through a series of loops and spins, topped off with another spinning jump and ending in a long sideways skidding slide, leaning low over the ice. They stopped dead a few feet from the shore, and Romano's mouth dropped open incredulously.
"What the hell was that?" He demanded, frowning down at the blond, who tipped his head back to regard the angry Italian with confusion.
"What was what?"
"That! That thing you just did to stop!" Romano gestured furiously.
"Oh. That was a hockey stop!" America explained, reaching up to help Romano down.
Romano slapped his hands away, and crossed his arms. "Why the hell didn't you teach me that? That's way better than that stupid thing you showed me earlier!"
"It's harder to learn, though." America answered back, grinning amusedly. "So I figured it was best to go with the basic stop."
"You thought wrong." Romano sulked, feeling cheated. "Next time teach me the good stuff, dammit."
"Haha, okay." America laughed, reaching up to help him down again. This time Romano allowed it. "I can show you tomorrow. You free around two?"
"No, that's siesta time. I'll be free after 4, though." He answered, smoothing out his jacket.
"Alright, cool. Meet me here at 4, then, and I'll show you how to do a hockey stop." America grinned, shoving his hands into his pockets.
"'Kay. But if you're not here I'm not waiting around."
"I'll be here! Thanks for the fun, Italy! I'll catch you tomorrow." America said with a little wave and a smile as he skated easily backwards towards an impatient Canada.
"Seeya then, bastard." Romano agreed, and turned to skate to where his brother was waiting on the bank, unlacing his skates.
"Wait!" He looked back to see America skating up, waving him down. "One sec," The blond smiled, stopping in front of Romano and patting his pockets, pulling out a pen. "You got some paper or something?"
"Um," Romano said, eyebrows raised. "No?"
"Oh." America frowned thoughtfully for a moment. "Oh! I know. Here, gimme your hand." Puzzled, Romano held it out, and America took it, pulling off the glove and turning it over to write on the Italian's palm.
Romano stiffened, taken aback. "W-what are you doing?"
"Figured I should give you my number." America answered idly, sticking his tongue out in concentration as he wrote. "Just in case. There you go!" He nodded in satisfaction, pocketing his pen.
Romano blinked down at the digits in his palm, nonplussed. Were all Americans this weird? "Um, thanks?"
"No problem. Call me anytime!" America beamed, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Well, I've gotta go, Canada's waiting. I'll see you tomorrow!"
"Oi, wait- you want your stuff back?" Romano called after him, waving the glove.
"Keep 'em!" America called back over his shoulder. "You'll need 'em tomorrow, too!"
Shrugging, Romano pulled the glove back on, and headed for shore.
It wasn't until he'd reached the shoreline, realized that he still didn't know how to stop, and ended up sprawled in a snowbank that it occurred to him to wonder why he'd signed himself up for another day of this.
AN: Unlike with my other fics, I did no reasearch for this (beyond looking up a glossary of skating terms, which I ended up not using 'cause only a skating enthusiast would recognise them). Still, it was fun to write! I pretty much let whatever happened, happen. I'm curious to see where it'll go.