Give me your lips for just a moment.
And my imagination will make that moment live.
Give me what only you can give,
A kiss to build a dream on.
-from "A Kiss to Build a Dream On", recorded by Louis Armstrong
When America arrived at the camp set up in Sicily, he couldn't believe they had captured South Italy so easily. He'd figured the guy would be hiding with Germany and his brother, not stuck in a jail cell to be interrogated by the Allies. But, hey, this invasion might be easier than they expected if they already had half the country.
He entered the small, stone hut that England had assigned as their jail for any important prisoners they might take. It was dark inside and only a single light-bulb swung back and forth, casting shadows over the sparsely furnished room. England stood near the middle of the room, his hands on his hips as he spoke in sharp Italian. He looked around the furious Brit to see South Italy tied to a chair, his face bruised and his lip was split in many places. The dark-haired man, even with the blood from his lip running down his chin, smirked triumphantly and sneered at his captor. England rose his hand and struck the man across the face, before England could land another hit, he grabbed the Brit's fist.
"Stop! What are you doing?" He yelled and dragged his former mentor aside.
"What? He was disrespectful and won't give me the information I desire," England replied calmly. The war had sucked all the life and compassion out of England's dull green eyes. The older man just wanted the bloodshed to end, but if spilling more blood brought peace in quicker, then so be it.
"But you don't have to beat the crap out of him! That's not right, and you know it!"
"You're still young, America. But, I suppose it's time for a break," England said, and rubbed a weary hand over his face, his knuckles bloody from striking the other Nation. It looked like he hadn't slept in a few days, from the shadow of a beard on his face and the dark circles under his eyes.
"Go get some sleep, Iggy. I'll handle it from here." He pushed England towards the door.
"Fine. Don't get too close to him, he bites," was all the Brit said, before disappearing out the door.
"Wow. I'm sorry about him, I don't think he's been sleeping well lately," he said and pulled a medical kit from his pack. America smiled at the other man, who glared at him warily. "You don't have to be afraid of me, I won't hit you. Oh, dammit. You can't understand English, can you?" He tried to think of how to convey he meant no harm.
"I'm not fucking afraid of you, or that shitty bag of tea."
America stared at him in amazement. The other man's voice was surprisingly deep and smooth for the state the his body was in, with his face badly bruise and bloody. He took out some gauze and wetted it with alcohol, dabbing it against South Italy's cheek. "Sorry if this hurts. Dang, England sure did a number on you."
The Italian hissed and he sunk his teeth into America's hand.
"Ow! Not cool!" He jerked his hand back and clutched it to his chest. "What did I do to you?"
"Don't fucking touch me." South Italy licked the blood from his lips, glaring at him coldly.
"Then how am I suppose to treat your face?" He wiped his bleeding hand on his newly cleaned uniform.
"Untie me and I'll do it myself, dammit."
"Are you kidding? England would have my head if he found out!" America stared incredulously at the battered man.
"He's not here."
South Italy did have a point, England would probably be asleep for a while. He didn't want to leave the guy's face all beat up and blood like that, and he could always stop him if he tried to run. "Oh, fine."
"Really?" The man's piercing hazel eyes lit up with surprise for a moment, then he shook his hand his head and mumbled under his breath.
"By the way, I'm The United States of America, or just America." He untied South Italy's hands from the chair's armrests and loosened the ropes around his chest. Then, he suddenly blurted out, "But you can call me Alfred."
"Oaky? Um, why are you giving your goddamn name to the enemy? Aren't you suppose to be beating the shit out of me?"
"I...don't know why I gave it to you, but it's alright if you call me Alfred. And there's no reason to hit you anymore, England did enough of that," he said cheerfully, watching the smaller man rub his hands together to get the blood flowing to them again. Alfred set the medical kit in the man's lap. "What's your name?"
"You already know I'm South Italy, although most just call me Romano." The dark-haired man began cleaning his face of blood, wincing at the burn of alcohol on open wounds. As the blood came away, Alfred could see Romano's face more clearly, he was obviously handsome. Well defined cheek bones and a sharp nose leading to eyes that cut through you like a knife, but from the line between the Italian's eyes showed he didn't smile much. Alfred thought that Romano would look even better if he smiled just a bit.
"I meant your real name."
Hazel eyes glared fiercely into his. "I know what you meant, bastard. I'm not going to tell you." Romano stood up and stretched out his legs and arms.
"Why not?" Alfred whined.
Romano gave him a strange look, like he was stupid or something. "Why do you want to know so fucking badly?"
"I...don't know."
"I'll make you a deal, if I can get past you and escape this cell, I'll tell you my name." The Italian picked at his nails in boredom.
"But I can't let you escape." He scowled moodily at the brunette. "England would kill me."
"Then don't. Hand me a pencil and a piece of paper," Romano demanded, holding out his hand expectantly.
"What for?" Alfred reached into his jacket and retrieved a notepad and a sub of a pencil. Romano tore a small strip of paper off and wrote on it, handing back everything except the paper he took.
"So, deal or no deal?" Romano folded the paper in half and put it in his pant pocket.
Alfred huffed loudly, and chewed the inside of his cheek. He knew Romano wouldn't be able to get past him, but he wanted to see what the small Italian would do. For some reason, Romano seemed confident that he could get by him and make it out of the camp. "Deal."
As soon as the word left his mouth, Romano rushed him and threw all his weight against the taller man. Alfred wasn't expecting such force from the other Nation, and stumbled back a few steps. He reached out and hooked Romano around the waist just as he tried to slip past him, bringing the smaller man against his chest. The close contact shocked them both and they jumped away from the each other, shaken by the electricity passed between them, even through their clothes.
"Fine," Romano said slowly, "I don't like this deal anymore."
He blinked, surprised that Romano sounded like he was admitting defeat; he seemed like a much more stubborn guy. "Yeah..."
"But...I want to tell you something. Get your ass over here," Romano grumbled, a light blush tainting his cheeks.
"What for?" Alfred stepped a bit closer.
"You talk too damn much." Romano grabbed the collar of his jacket and pulled him into a passionate kiss. The Italian nipped and sucked his bottom lip, enticing a groan from him. He took the chance and slipped his tongue into the American's mouth, stroking and coaxing his tongue to play. Alfred let his eyes slide shut and he returned the kiss with full force, slowly wrapping an arm around Romano's slim waist. They finally pulled away when the need to breath became too much.
"Sorry..."
"Why...?"
Romano silenced him with another kiss, but pulled back quickly and slammed his head into his forehead. The shock made his knees buckle and he fell to the ground, unable to register what just happened. Stars danced across his vision and he barely noticed the opening of a door and the running of feet. He laid there until there was only a dull throb in his skull and he could think straight again. He was so confused by the kiss and the headbutt, and the Italian hadn't even kept good on his end of the deal.
"America? What are you doing on the floor?" A soft, gentle voice called to him from the doorway.
"Oh, hey, Mattie." Alfred sat up and grinned at his brother. He could still feel Romano's lips against his, his spicy taste still lingered with the slight hint of blood. It was intoxicating.
"Where's South Italy?" His brother's voice rose in alarm.
"He escaped." He waved a hand carelessly and got to his feet, feeling a bit woozy.
"What? England's going to kill us!" Matthew fled the room to go tell England.
"Just me," Alfred said to himself and shoved his hands into his pockets, bewildered by the why his heart squeezed painfully in his chest. Something met his fingers and gave a crinkle. In confusion, he pulled out a small strip of paper, unfolded it and read the beautiful cursive on it.
Lovino Vargas.
A slow grin spread across his face and he kissed the paper. Now, he had a dream to reach for.
First time writing for this pairing. Heck, first time writing a one-shot in a long time. I might continue it, but I don't know. I kinda really wanted to write a one-shot, because I can never seem to write something that doesn't turn into something more. Thank you for reading.
-Windy