Romano wakes up earlier than Alfred. It's a rare occurrence, and he's startled enough to check and make sure the idiot is still breathing and not actually dead. Alfred usually rises with the sun, showers, then goes downstairs, watches television or takes a walk, and makes coffee to bring up to Romano. Then Romano will bat him away, hissing that it's only like eight in the morning and Christ he can't even make good coffee, and then he'll get up and storm downstairs and make coffee properly and he'll only get one cup because Alfred will drink all the rest and then thank him profusely for his coffee-making skills.
Romano glares at America. The inconsiderate bastard has thrown off his entire morning routine.
He considers shaking Alfred awake and demanding he complete the daily ritual, but then realizes that it's too late anyway and America will probably start smiling like Romano's done something cute and then he'll kiss him like he actually loves him and that's all very embarrassing.
So Romano takes the opportunity to examine Alfred while he's asleep. America looks younger in his sleep, more vulnerable and less defined. His forehead is smooth and without his vivid blue eyes open, it's much easier to look at his face and not feel overwhelmed with silly butterflies. His mouth is pulled down a little and half open, gusts of air escaping at calm, regular intervals. He's sprawled out in the sheets, all his muscles relaxed and his skin radiating a gentle warmth.
Romano bites his lip a little. Alfred is very attractive (although he'd never tell the egotistical bastard that) and Romano still can't quite believe he's the one the superpower picked, so he reaches out and brushes Alfred's hair out of his face and smiles a little when Alfred mumbles something in his sleep. He lets his fingertips run over the contours of Alfred's face – over the sharp nose and cheekbones and across the eyelids and down to the mouth and chin. By the time he's progressed to Alfred's chest, he's tracing his name out very lightly.
Lovino Vargas. Lovino Vargas. Lovino Vargas. His looping fingertip claims America as his over and over. In fact, he's become so absorbed in writing his name all over the other nation that he startles a little when Alfred's voice, rough with sleep, mumbles, "Hey, 'Mano."
Romano snaps his hand back to his side and glares at the sleep-hazed blue eyes that are staring blearily at him. "You didn't make me coffee," he snaps.
America groans and buries his head in his pillow. "You don't ever take it anyway," he points out, voice muffled.
Romano blushes and glares harder at America, even though he can't see his face. "That doesn't matter! It's…it's…it's what you do!" He begins to feel genuinely upset. Then he feels stupid.
America pulls his face out of the pillow and frowns in concern, pushing his face closer to the Italian to see his expression since he doesn't have his glasses on. "Hey," he soothes, "Hey, it's okay. I'll…do it tomorrow, mkay? I was just really tired last night because I was working on some report and shit until like four in the morning."
Romano blushes deeper and pulls away. "Well then I'll go make it," he decides, feeling nervous because America's getting all nice and concerned and he isn't quite sure how to feel about it.
America wraps his arms around his waist before he can go anywhere and pulls him back into his chest. Both nations sleep shirtless, and America's skin, extra-warm from being under the covers, sends little shivers of warmth down Romano's spine. "No, stay here," America pleads. "We can spend the day in bed! It's already like…eleven. Too late for morning coffee."
Romano doesn't have the energy to struggle. "That's a terrible idea. We both have shitloads of paperwork and-"
America groans. "Romanoooo, I just spent like ten hours working on that damn report, if I do anymore paperwork in the near future my brain is going to leak out my ears and then I won't be able to remember who you are and that would be awful!"
"Uh," Romano says, flushing yet again, "I feel that you may have, erm, taken some artistic license with that idea."
Alfred tucks his face under Romano's chin and kisses the hollow of this throat. "Please can't we just be lazy today?" he pleads, nestling closer to the half-nation and curling around him securely.
Romano doesn't have the heart to pull away, and he is feeling very warm and protected now. Anyway, he reasons, America won't let him leave, so why should he even bother trying?
With a sigh, Romano wraps his arms around America and pulls him a little bit closer. "Okay, fine, you lazy bastard, one day in bed. But when you wake up hungry, you go get the food."
America wriggles with joy and says, "Yay, Mano! Now let's go back to sleep. It's too early."
Romano dozes off feeling warm and secure and with a tiny smile on his face.
. . . . .. .. .. .. . . . . .
America discovered, somewhere along the lines of this relationship, that Romano likes being in control, or he at least likes things to be predictable. The more power the Italian nation has, the better his mood seems to be.
America has adjusted accordingly.
He eats sloppily sometimes so that Romano can brush him off. "Honestly, I've seen rabid dogs eat with more grace than you do," Romano will snap as he grabs Alfred's napkin and dabs at his chin or clothes.
Alfred puts his clothes on wrong, too. "How the hell have you lived this long and you can't even tie a damn tie!" Romano demands, shoving Alfred's hands out of the way so he can loop the fabric himself.
"Well, I don't really wear ties," America says, grinning at the smaller nation.
"Shut the hell up. You look like an idiot if you don't wear a tie with a suit. And, actually, this is a terrible color. A charcoal suit with a green and white tie? What were you thinking? Come here, I'm going to have to completely fix you." And Romano drags him back upstairs by the tie.
Alfred will even pretend like he doesn't quite get the Italian language, despite being rather fluent in it.
"Uh, Mano, what did the waiter just say to me? I got that he wants me to order, but what the hell was that last bit?"
Romano groans and says, "Just shut up, you'll embarrass me. I'll order."
He fires off a round of Italian at the waiter (he orders them both a pasta with lamb and tomato sauce. Alfred acts oblivious and plays with his fork.)
Of course, putting his clothes on wrong and eating messily and getting languages confused are things Alfred would do anyway, but he makes them more extreme to give Romano a chance to feel in control.
And it isn't like it's just him constantly making a fool of himself; there's a payoff involved.
Like the time Romano decides that the wine Alfred has spilled on his shirt will stain, so he demands that Alfred take it off. After the shirt Romano says that some drops got on his pants, too, so he should get those off as well, and eventually Alfred and Romano are sprawled across their kitchen counter.
Or the time Romano says he's tired of America wearing his damned bomber jacket all the time, and drags him off to go shopping, and they spend the whole day at upscale stores, with Romano repeatedly flushing and stammering, "I…guess that'll work. Whatever. Better than the jacket," and it's only that night that Romano admits America looked completely delicious in his suits and asks if he'll model them again.
And since Romano doesn't really understand that Alfred is good (really good) at Italian, he tells him things in his native language that he thinks America can't understand.
Like, "I love you, you stupid bastard."
Yes, the payoff makes it worth it.
. . . . .. .. .. .. . . . . .
Romano visits America reluctantly. He, quite honestly, finds America(the country itself) to be a little bit (a lot) intimidating, with so much noise and business in places but then silent, vast empty fields in other spots. The general vastness and the mix of cultures and the various climates all serve to confuse him, so generally he convinces Alfred to visit him instead.
Which is why he isn't too pleased that he's visiting Colorado. In the wintertime.
"Fucking hell," he curses, stumbling after Alfred, "Why the fuck did I agree to come here for Christmas? This is ridiculous!" The snow comes up to his thighs and he's freezing and America is acting like this is all very normal.
"You okay?" America asks, turning around and giving Romano a concerned look. Then, "Mano, your pants are totally soaked! So is your shirt!"
Romano speaks through chattering teeth. "Yeah, I noticed."
"You aren't dressed for Colorado at all! I told you to bring snow clothes, idiot!" America protests, wading back through the snow to Romano. They were walking in the woods behind America's Colorado house and now they still have like a mile to go to get back to his house and Romano is miserable.
"I brought snow clothes! It isn't my fault Colorado is so damn messed up and has huge snow drifts!"
America huffs through his nose and stares at Romano, considering. Romano shivers and glares at him.
"Okay," America finally decides, and before Romano can say 'okay what' America has yanked his bomber jacket off and slung it over his shoulders. And before Romano can protest that, America picks him up like he weighs nothing and he starts walking again.
"Wh-wh-what!" sputters Romano, equal parts enraged and flustered. "Alfred!" He's aware that he's blushing furiously and that only makes it worse.
"Look," America sighs, "I know you're going to freak out at me but in all honesty, this jacket is the warmest thing ever. I don't want you getting sick, and if I let you walk through the snow looking all miserable and shivering that wouldn't be heroic at all."
"But this is humiliating!" Romano wails, and buries his head in Alfred's shoulder.
"There's nobody here to see it!" America replies, sounding baffled. "Seriously, I may kind of be a shitty boyfriend, but I'm not going to let you freeze to death."
Romano pauses and snuggles down into the jacket a little deeper. It really is warm, and it smells faintly of spices and food and clean laundry that's been dried in the sun. "You're not a shitty boyfriend," he mumbles very quietly.
America doesn't respond, but his cheeks go very pink and his nose crinkles a little like it does when he's really happy.
. . . . .. .. .. .. . . . . .
Romano is sick. Very sick. Rolling around in misery, sweating and groaning sick. He woke Alfred up by vomiting very close to his head and has been a pain in the ass ever since.
Still, America feels bad for him. Romano may be more of a jerk when he's sick than when he isn't, but America kind of really likes him and anyway, when you're sick you aren't really responsible for your actions. So he brings Romano tomato juice to drink and he gives him sponge baths and he shuts the blinds when Romano complains the light hurts his eyes and opens them again when Romano says it's too dark. He puts heating pads on Romano's stomach for the cramps, and takes them off when Romano snaps he feels like he's a girl with them on him. He brings him tissues for his nose, then takes the tissues back and goes to find silk handkerchiefs at a nearby store when Romano says the paper is too rough on his nose. He changes the sheets three times because Romano feels too weak to get up to go to the bathroom when he needs to throw up.
All in all, it's very exhausting.
Still, when Romano isn't forcibly trying to heave his stomach up out his throat, and when he's not crying from the pains of stomach cramps and his nose isn't running everywhere, Romano whispers hoarse "Thank you's," to Alfred whenever he does something for him.
Which more than makes up for it.
Still, Romano can't eat anything, and as the day wears on America finds this most worrisome. Any liquid he puts into the Italian nation gets ejected mere moments later, and the food receives similarly violent treatment. Romano's fever, which started as mild, is quickly beginning to rage out of control without any sort of liquid.
Then Alfred remembers this one James Harriet book he read once that he stole from England when he was bored. James Harriet, a vet from the English Countryside, had found a sick dog that couldn't eat and put it in a drug-induced slumber for a few days so the body could heal itself without being weakened.
Or something. He doesn't quite remember. But he does know where to get sleeping drugs from.
France drops a bottle of pills off the next day with a wink and a camera. "Take some pictures!" he says brightly.
America chucks the camera back at him but laughs and thanks him for the help. France asks if he can go see if 'Romano is feeling any better.' America shuts the door in his face and prepares a glass of water, then dissolves the pills in it and brings it upstairs for Romano.
Romano, who started hallucinating last night, has only gotten worse and takes the glass, mumbling, "Go to hell, Spain, it isn't like I wanted Turkey to kidnap me."
"Drink it!" America encourages, and watches anxiously as Romano chugs the whole thing in one go. Then he flings the glass at Alfred and roars, "OUT OF MY HOUSE, YOU FUCKING FROG, I DON'T CARE WHAT NAPOLEON WANTS!"
America carries the glass downstairs and waits for ten minutes, like France advised. When he goes back upstairs, Romano is slumped in his pillows, unconscious. Relieved (but slightly creeped out that France knows the exact timing of these pills and has bottles of them – oh God, he's never going drinking with France again) America pulls the covers up around Romano and then yanks the blinds down and leaves the room.
Romano is out for a whole day – he wakes up at about two in the afternoon the next day, when America is filling out some paperwork. He only realizes Romano's awake when said nation stumbles downstairs and starts knocking jars down in the refrigerator trying to find tomatoes. Alfred convinces him the acid would wreak havoc on his stomach and gets him to drink some milk and eat some crackers instead.
Romano, although he's pale and shaky, keeps both down and staggers to the couch to watch television. America finishes up his paperwork and goes to keep him company. "Hey, feeling better?" he asks, settling down beside the prone Italian.
Romano shrugs. "I'm kind of confused," he says instead, "What time is it?"
"It's, uh, two in the afternoon."
"Weird," Romano says, "I only slept for like…half an hour but I feel way better."
"Erm," says America, "Well, you actually slept through the…whole day."
Romano gapes at him. "What?"
"Weird, right?" America says, and leaves it at that. Later, when Romano is asleep again (due to natural circumstances) he runs upstairs and flushes the rest of the pills down the toilet.
Three weeks later, when Alfred and Romano run into France after a meeting and France asks Alfred with a smirk 'how the pills worked', America glares and drags Romano off before the Italian can say anything.
"What was all that?" demands Romano.
"Just France being France," Alfred says with a shrug.
. . . . .. .. .. .. . . . . .
Romano watches with mounting rage as Prussia flirts with America. Alfred is oblivious, but Romano isn't, and he's aware of his fists clenching as he gets close enough to listen to their conversation.
"So, America, how're things?" Prussia asks, leaning up on the desk America is sitting in front of.
America shrugs. "Okay, I guess. You?"
"Can't complain," Prussia says, and slides closer. "Okay, Alfred, I have to ask you something."
"Shoot!" America says with a big grin.
"It's kind of a secret," Prussia continues, eyes fastened on America, "so can I …whisper…it to you?"
"Uh, sure?" America looks a little bit confused. He looks even more confused when Prussia leans close and presses his whole body up against him and starts whispering something.
Then he drags his tongue up the shell of America's ear instead, and America yelps, jerking backwards, at the same time Romano storms up to the pair, seizes America's arm, and yanks him backward even further before stepping in front of him and glaring at Prussia, who is smirking. "Get the fuck away from him, you bastard," Romano snarls.
Prussia rolls his eyes and takes a step towards Romano, trying to intimidate him with his height. "Who're you to say anything?" he drawls, his ruby-red eyes slits. "You and America keep insisting you're dating, but you certainly don't seem to be making any claims on him, so-"
He cuts off when Romano jerks a pistol out of his slacks and points it steadily at his forehead. The meeting room, which has been filled with noisy countries, falls silent. (This usually happens at meetings, but it never involves Romano.)
Romano grits his teeth and takes a step forward, his hand still steady. "I don't see why I would need a claim," he snarls, "When my word should be enough."
"Please," spits Prussia, "You're a pussy, Romano, you're fucking Italy! Don't act all tough, it isn't working. And anyway, it's not like you're with Alfred for keeps. He's kind of a whore, you know, I've heard he sleeps with nations to cut down on his debts to them-" America makes a noise of surprise and protest, "And he doesn't deserve you, so I figured I could just take him off your hands!"
Romano fires. The bullet brushes Prussia's hair as it flies past him to bury itself in the far wall. "Shut your mouth," Romano hisses, and Prussia begins to look a little alarmed when Romano keeps advancing. "You aren't even a damn country, and yet you dare to presume that you can claim my boyfriend as your own?"
"Hey, uh, listen," America says behind Romano, "I'm really not cool with this whole 'claiming' shit, so 'Mano, why don't you just put down the gun?"
Romano ignores him and instead strides up to Prussia, until he's got the gun pressed against the German's temple. "If you ever attempt to claim Alfred as yours again, I will be forced to drastic measures that will involve cutting off your eyelids with nail clippers and pouring boiling tomato sauce in your eyes, nose, and throat," Romano snarls. Prussia actually looks alarmed.
"Good God, okay!" Prussia finally mutters, holding his hands up and shooting discreet looks around to see if anyone is witnessing this humiliation, "Calm down! I won't make untoward advances again." He backs up and then storms off, muttering about crazy Italians and how weapons shouldn't be allowed to be used against the awesome Prussia and how it wasn't a defeat, only a temporary setback.
Romano watches him leave the meeting room, then calmly pockets the gun again and turns to face America, who looks a little stunned. He strides forward, eyes blazing, seizes America by his tie, and drags him out of the silent meeting room.
"Gah!" Alfred gasps, stumbling after him, trying to prevent himself from choking, "Romano, what the hell?"
"If he ever tries to act like that with you again in public and humiliate me so thoroughly again, he will be sorry," Romano growls. He's worked up and his adrenaline is pumping. Alfred stares at him with wide, shocked eyes. "That was unbelievable! Can you believe his nerve? I should've shot him," Romano seethes, and lets go of America to begin pacing. "I don't care if I don't have a claim on you, I-"
"Shut the hell up about claims!" Alfred yells, and throws his hands into the air. "I'm a god-damn superpower! I'm America, for fuck's sake! Nobody gets to 'claim' me!"
Romano pauses, and then yanks America forward and crashes their lips together in a bruising kiss while he simultaneously slides one hand into Alfred's pants and gives him a few rough strokes. Alfred groans into Romano's mouth. When Romano is satisfied he's got his point across his withdraws his hand and lets go of Alfred, who is looking rather ravished.
Still, Alfred obstinately straightens out his suit, blows air out his nose, and says, "Okay, look. I won't talk to Prussia anymore if you stop pulling your gun out on nations you think are threatening. I don't let just anybody fool around with me while a meeting is going on," America reminds him, the corners of his mouth quirking, "so consider yourself safe in this relationship."
Romano narrows his eyes. "I'd still like to make a claim."
"Well, we have…" America checks his watch. "Eight more minutes before the meeting starts. Do your worst."
. . . . .. .. .. .. . . . . .
Alfred doesn't like to share his scars with people, but not for the reason people would think – Alfred doesn't feel they're disgusting or horrid. Just the opposite, really.
Looking at a nation like England or Russia, his scars are laughable. He's seen England's scars for World War Two – huge, jagged gashes that are still bright red and cut across his whole chest and back. Russia has a lump of reformed flesh on his shoulder from some civil war or another, where a hole was carved out and then healed over.
Alfred, on the other hand, has been alive for barely enough time for nations like England to call him a baby. So when the meetings one day devolve into scar comparisons, Alfred hangs back. France uses it as an excuse to take off all his clothes ("look, zere is one on my left buttock from ze revolution, you see?"), Russia and China compete with how many and how serious ("I have one hundred and six on my left arm alone!") , and even Germany and England participate, comparing the scars they gave each other during the World Wars ("No, I remember, this was in a final act of desperation to try and crush your spirit! I…I really am sorry…about that." "Oh, no worries, I gave you some bad ones too! Like this one, I do believe?").
Eventually, attention turns to America, since normally he would be showing off and he's currently hanging back looking uneasy. "Are you ill?" England asks. "Why on earth aren't you being irritating and insisting your scars are the worst?"
"I, uh…yeah, actually, I haven't been feeling very good," Alfred lies, shifting uneasily as all the nations watch him, "I think I'm just gonna go back to Romano's for a while. I'll see you later, Romano," he adds, waving a little as he stands up and leaves.
Romano is hosting the meeting and responsible for the entire cleanup, so he doesn't get home until late. Alfred has spent the day on the roof, sunbathing and dozing, but it's night by the time Romano climbs up to join him. The Italian is strangely quiet as he lies down beside Alfred and stares upwards. Finally, though, he breaks the silence.
"What happened today?"
"I felt sick."
"Bullshit."
"…yeah." Alfred admits is quietly and Romano sighs, but doesn't press him. Eventually, Alfred continues. "I don't like comparing scars."
Romano props himself up on his elbows and looks confused. "Why not? Do you have a particularly bad one?"
America struggles to put it into words. "No, that's just it! I don't….I dunno. I don't have any impressive ones. Like Yao and Ivan and Arthur and Spain and you all have these huge, epic ones, and I…don't."
Romano is quiet. "Oh."
"Yeah." Alfred closes his eyes and lets the night breeze wash over him. Romano's roof still has heat from the day, and it warms his back.
"I, um." Romano begins, and then is silent for a minute before he starts up again. "I think your scars are…pretty epic."
America says nothing. Romano glares. "Listen to me, you bastard, I'm being nice!" When Alfred's eyes open, Romano continues, "I mean…" Alfred is shirtless from sunbathing, and Romano takes his opportunity. "Look at your Independence Scar," he says, pointing to America's chest, where four lines run parallel to each other from his collarbone to his right ribcage. "That's just as awesome as China's opium war scars."
"But I'm not…I haven't…God, this is hard to explain," he sighs. "None of mine really show suffering, you know? I haven't been alive long enough to be ripped apart and healed. There isn't history on my skin like there is on yours," he finally says, and the root of the matter is finally out there.
Romano, still up on his elbows, raises one eyebrow. "If you really want a scar that badly, I can give you one," he suggests. America gives him a lopsided grin and shakes his head.
"Nah, 's fine. But thanks. That was nice of you," America says with a snort of laughter. Romano, joking aside, frowns in thought.
"But you've got scars," he finally points out. "You've got awful scars. Like…the Civil war? Those scars don't joke around. Yours is particularly bad." It's true. America has a faint line under his left ear that grows wider and wider as it progresses down until it is almost a five inch chasm at his waist. It gradually tapers down his left leg, ending at his heel. The mark shows how close Alfred came to splitting into two; and while many nations bear the scars of Civil War, few have ones as horrific as Alfred's. (Not that he exactly spends his time looking at nations undressed. France, and his Revolution buttock scar, don't count. You can't be around France and not see him naked at some point.) "Or…September Eleventh gave you a bad one."
America stiffens next to him. 9/11 is kind of a taboo subject, and they haven't talked about it since the day Alfred called England while they were at a meeting waiting for him. He had been half-screaming from pain over the phone, and choking on something (later they discovered it was blood.) To be honest, the whole thing had been terrifying, and Romano had never mentioned it. Alfred didn't even know he'd been at that meeting. "It shouldn't be bad," America mutters suddenly.
"What?"
"It shouldn't…it killed 3000 people. It was awful, it was a devastating blow, but…I don't understand why that one was so bad," America breathes. "Like Russia lost so many more people in wars, but his scars aren't that awful for 3000 people. Am…am I weak?"
Romano stares at him. "What the hell? Alfred…you're the strongest person I know. You can pick me up with one arm! Scars don't work like that. Scars…it depends on how badly the nation is personally hit. You'd never been attacked directly, you weren't expecting it, your people were shocked and terrified and furious. Of course it was a bad scar! It's a scar on all your people's minds, so it's a bad scar on you too."
Alfred blows out a breath and suddenly rolls over and hugs Romano tightly. "Augh!" Romano protests, but America clings to him and is mumbling 'thank you' so many times that he settles down and starts petting his hair soothingly instead.
They stay this way a long time, until Alfred pulls away and gives him a little smile. "Let's get inside," he suggests. "I want you to show me all your scars and explain them! I don't think we've covered all the ones on your back yet."
Romano agrees wholeheartedly.
/ Authors Notes!
Good Lord. I try to write a fluff fic that's like two pages and get an epic Romerica novella thing.
But less explicit sex scenes! Go me! I'm learning!
Eh, I dunno. I love writing short snippets of stories. Sorry if this wasn't terribly good – my ideas sound good in my head, less good on paper. Tragic, really.
Also, Romerica is addictive to write. Try it, I dare you. YOU WILL NEVER TURN BACK.
Actually, most of these are other stories I started that I just spliced into this one. The Prussia one was originally a PrussiaxCanada where Canada gets pissed that Prussia is flirting with his brother, but I like it here better. And the first one was just going to be a stand-alone fluff. But I sacrificed them for a good cause, yes?
A few notes: Why Romano's gun? Because he's the mafia central, fool! Of course he has a gun. That's why he and Alfred are so well matched. ;)
9/11 WAS SERIOUS WHY ARE YOU DOWNPLAYING IT RAHHHHH? I'm not. I lost a cousin in 9/11, so the last thing I would do is downplay it. In my headcanon, though, Alfred is ashamed of how awful the scar is because he feels like it isn't proportional to how many lost their lives. I meant no offense, and I'm sorry if I did offend you. Feel free to message me about it.
Why the hell did you bring up James Harriet? I ADORE James Harriet's books. And that one story stuck with me in particular. The dog was a poodle, I think. *shift eyes*
Review!