'Why are we doing this again,' England asks, green eyes sparking with confused irritation as he stares down at his tea. 'Don't we hate each other…?'

Spain looks up from his coffee. 'That's what you said for the first five times. I'm not sure why we keep meeting either, it's never intentional… it just happens, somehow…'

'Except the first time,' England says, looking up. Green meets green as their gazes align. They both seem to be trying to figure the other out, looking for a sign of the hatred they bore for so long. It couldn't have disappeared, just like that, could it?

'I suppose America and Romano being friends started this… this peace?' Spain says thoughtfully. 'And we're continuing it for their sake? To establish better relations…' he trails off. Who was he trying to convince anyways?

England shakes his head, mystified. 'I think we should admit that when we stop hating each other, we actually get along quite well…for some odd reason.'

Spain nods calmly in agreement.

Across the cobblestone paved street, France and Prussia inconspicuously peer through a bookshop window at the two nations sitting at the café table.

'How are they just sitting there so calmly?' France fumes. 'Why is nothing interesting happening? Is my brilliant plan not working? I'VE PUT THEM ON FIVE DATES ALREADY, MON DIEU, CAN THEY PLEASE-'

'Chill, bro,' Prussia cuts him off calmly. 'You're getting all freaky over your matchmaker crap again. Have you considered they might not like each other that-'

'THEY ARE PERFECT FOR EACH OTHER,' France insists, his blue eyes lighting up with an intense passion. 'HOW CAN YOU NOT SEE THAT?'

Prussia raises a silver eyebrow skeptically. 'Five weeks ago, they hated each other. They're working things out because their kids are friends now, not because of your weird romance crap.'

France sighs dramatically, bringing out a handkerchief and dabbing at his eyes. 'Oh how sad it is that you can't see my beautiful French magic taking place in this dull world…'

'Excuse me,' the shop owner interrupts. 'Are you two going to buy something? You've been here for an hour already. This isn't a library, you know.'

'Yeah, we're leaving,' Prussia replies, tossing down the graphic novel he'd been holding upside down. He grabs France and drags him outside. 'Come on, drama queen, let's go do something fun.'

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'Tomato bastard and the sentient eyebrows… are friends now?' Romano muses. 'That's so strange to think about.' He leans out his apartment window, carefully watering the potted herb plants on the window ledge.

'Yep,' America replies, sprawled out on the couch in his work clothes, suspenders, shoes and all, with his suit jacket tossed over the arm rest. 'That's what Canada told me. He got it from Prussia, who got it from France.'

Romano half-turns to look at him, the warm afternoon sun catching his hazel eyes at an angle that makes them glow. 'Wait. So if Canada and Prussia are together, and Prussia's related to Germany, who can't keep his potato hands off my brother, and you and Canada are related to France and England, and Spain is now… oh god, I can't. It's like the world's most fucked up family tree.'

America grins at him. 'Don't think about it too much. You wanna go somewhere tonight?'

'Yeah, as long as France isn't there creeping on us like last time,' Romano replies with a shudder. 'I don't get why he's so excited about us becoming friends anyways. If he tries anything again, I'm going to shoot him in the face…'

The blonde chuckles and sits up on the couch. 'You shouldn't bother. He wouldn't die anyways.'

'America,' Romano whines jokingly. His Italian accent rolls the 'r' slightly, giving America an odd feeling. 'Don't be such a killjoy, you bastard.'

'Aw, you called me bastard. Does that mean you love me now?' America teases, skilfully dodging as Romano goes to hit him.

'Shut up, Am-e-ri-ca,' Romano complains. 'You idiot.'

'Admit it, man,' America laughs. 'We're totally besties.'

'Best friends?' Romano questions, raising an eyebrow. 'What does that entail?'

'Oh you know, spending time together, watching movies, having sleepovers, talking about feelings and braiding each other's hair,' America explains with a grin.

'Sorry, but we can't be best friends,' Romano says with a straight face.

America's grin fades into disappointment. 'Why not?'

'Your hair's not long enough for me to braid,' Romano replies, breaking a smile. 'Pff, you should've seen your face, you looked like a kicked puppy.'

'Heh,' America huffs in amusement. 'I can't be your best friend either. I don't even know how to braid hair.'

'I do,' Romano says, getting a quizzical look from the American. 'Belgium taught me when I was a kid. I may or may not have braided Netherlands' hair at one point. Thing is, it's really easy.'

'Teach me so I can braid your hair and seal our BFF pact!' America commands jokingly.

'Oh hell no, bastard,' Romano rejects immediately. 'You're not touching my hair.'

'Eh, why not?'

Romano turns pink and huffs, quickly changing the subject. 'Hmph, you and your curiosity, you're such a kid sometimes, America.'

'I'm taller than you.'

'That means nothing!'

'I'm stronger than you too.'

'Oh for fuck's sake,' Romano rolls his eyes. He grabs his wallet and keys, throwing America's jacket at him. 'Let's go somewhere public, with witnesses, where I won't be so inclined to strangle you.'

America smirks, following the Italian outside. 'Heh, I win.'

'Shut up, bastard.'

ooOOOOoooOOoOOOOOOOOOOOooOOOOoOOOOOooo

'Romano! America!'

The two mentioned turn their heads to see an excited Italy dragging an awkwardly stumbling Germany down the street towards them. Romano mutters under his breath in Italian as America waves unsurely at the strange couple.

Italy runs straight to Romano and wraps his arms around him, almost knocking his brother over. He looks up at him with his usual wide grin plastered on his face. 'Buonasera, Romano! What are you and America up to this evening?'

Romano looks down at him awkwardly, but doesn't move to push him away. 'We're going to a restaurant… what are you and, ahh, Germany doing tonight?'

The way he says 'Germany' makes it seem physically painful for him, eliciting a small chuckle from America.

'We're going out to eat as well!' Italy replies, letting go of Romano.

'Perhaps we could join you?' Germany asks politely.

'Maybe you should eat shit and die,' Romano mutters, drawing a shocked 'Ve' from Italy and a wary look from America.

'Excuse me?' Germany says, beginning to regret asking.

Romano glances at his brother, who has already begun to look tearful, and sighs. 'Maybe we should eat, sit and dine. How about Il Castello di Sabbia? It's not far from here.'

'Yes, that sounds excellent!' Italy cheers, grabbing a confused Germany's arm and dragging him away toward the restaurant.

'Nice save,' America says quietly to Romano as they begin to follow.

'I will attempt to be civil to Germany for my brother's sake,' Romano grounds out slowly and grudgingly. America pats his back supportively.

The evening goes relatively smooth. Romano is civil, if somewhat cold to Germany, Italy only cries twice, no one gets shot and no lawsuits are filed.

As they leave the restaurant and begin to part ways, Italy links his arm through Romano's and brings their heads together, their hair curls bobbing on either side like strange antennae.

'Hey Romano,' he says quietly. 'I think you should go visit Spain some time. I think he misses you every now and then.'

'Isn't he friends with England now?' Romano asks, frowning. 'Why would he miss me?'

'I don't know,' Italy shakes his head. 'But I was on the phone with him the other day and he was complaining about how 'America has stolen away Romano' and how you'll forget about him or something.'

Romano rolls his eyes. 'He was probably drunk with Prussia or something. He gets sentimental and even stupider when he's drunk.'

'Romano,' Italy says with an unusual sternness. 'Don't make excuses to not visit him. Just because he's made friends with England, doesn't mean he doesn't miss you. What do those two have in common anyways?'

Romano sighs. 'Fine. I'll make time to visit him on the weekend. I don't get his friendship with eyebrows either. It's weird.'

'What are those two whispering about?' America muses, watching the two Italians.

'Italy is trying to persuade Romano of something,' Germany replies. 'Romano is skeptical, but has agreed to whatever Italy is saying.'

'Woah, dude, how do you know that?' America asks, looking at Germany with a mixture of admiration and surprise. 'Do you have superpowers?'

Germany smiles very slightly. 'Italians are very expressive with their hands. If you watch them for long enough, you will begin to see patterns. Their hand movements are almost like a language on its own.'

America turns back to look at the Italy brothers. He'd noticed it before as well; the way Romano would animatedly move his hands. It confuses him sometimes, when Romano talks, but the Italian's hands seem to be saying something different, like some form of subtext.