Warnings: In-explicit mentions of the Red Scare, Prohibition, the Italian Mafia. Hinted Spamano, RusAme, Romerica. Discriminatory use of the word Ruski and violence
Roaring Twenties
America laughed in the speak-easy, slamming his drink against some stranger's in a toast to something that probably didn't even matter, not that America cared to remember. All that mattered was the music, the pulse of the room, the warm bodies laughing and dancing, and most importantly, the warm burn of alcohol sliding down his gullet.
America easily slid from the speak-easy, and despite being totally hammered, walked with forced practiced steps. He wouldn't want to be caught by the police. Then he would have to go on the lam, and report to his boss, who'd be furious that he was breaking Prohibition. But it was the Big Cheese's fault, yeah? Prohibition was stupid, and forbidding the hooch made it so much more the Cat's Meow. Alfred giggled, adding a jump to his step, as new giddy, twisty words popped into his head; the slang of the decade. A figure appeared in the distance. Leaning against an alley wall, he stood sharp just beyond the lamplight of streets and the law, with a slimming pinstripe suit, black tie, and sleek fedora pulled low over his dark auburn hair. A cigarette was stuck casually in his mouth, his shiny ebony shoes tapping the pavement impatiently. Golden slices for eyes slid over to America, hair curl bobbing along.
"Hey, baby!" America sang, sliding up to Romano cheerfully, flinging an arm over the Mob boss's shoulder. "You come 'round here a lot lately, Spain being a flat tire tonight?" Romano's hand twitched towards the gun America knew he had within the confines of his suit jacket. The man took a drag from his cigarette, before tossing it on the ground and grinding the smoke and fire out with his pretty shiny shoe. "Stop fooling around Alfred." Alfred roared with laughter. "If Spain's not working for you, I could satisfy you for a night. Cash or check, doll?" Romano, quick as a striking cobra, pushed off the wall he had been coolly leaning on and swiped at his neck with a shiv hidden in his sleeve. Alfred leaned back and let out a jeering meow. "Oh! Check, then!"
"I don't want your fucking 'check' dammit!" Romano hissed, knife still in hand and wielded expertly, eyes on fire, but still calculating. Those eyes were like a eagle's, they burned you. Watched you. Waited for your trust to build, your guard to lower, before zooming in on you and making the kill. Alfred had seen those eyes many times before tonight, they didn't scare him. "Yeah, yeah." Alfred waved his hand dismissively, "I'd rather have a nice flapper. A real dame, you know? Hell, if drunk enough, I'd take the Ruski." America burst into a fit of scandalized giggles, as the idea of a night with the Russian popped into his head. "Sexy Reds all 'round my place." He stage whispered to the irate Italian. "Don't tell Arthur, but I wouldn't mind necking Ivan sometime."
"I'm running out of patience, you stupid brat." Romano said, eyes now cold. "I have things to do."
"Cops to kill, Roma?"
"Among others. Your place is in the day now, Golden Boy." Romano said quietly, taking a swift glace for any authorities. "The night, American or Italian, belongs to me."
"Looks like a naughty owl is sprouting keen lines!" America hooted, rocking forward on his heels to stare into the clear eyes of the shorter but much deadlier man. "Sexy tomato, you sure you aren't up for a quick petting?"
"I'm not a woman, dammit!"
"You didn't say no to the petting~"
"FUCK OFF."
"Right, right. You're the sap stuck on España." Alfred smirked wickedly, and Romano stared before smirking back. The smooth Italian slid up to the America and traced his collar with long, artist fingers clothed in black gloves. Alfred's eyes turned smoky from the previous fog, and ignored the blood stains on Romano's covered hands. "Well," Romano murmured silkily, hand now dragging down the toned chest of his counterpart seductively. "A little jealousy never hurt a man. And it would be fun. Don't you think, Jones?" The other hand sifted through hair made of gold. Romano tilted his head and brushed sinfully soft lips to the American's ear. "Such a golden boy you are," he breathed hotly, "Golden boy for a golden state." America tugged on the Southern Italian's lapels. "Only the best for California." He whispered back. "The gold of the Empire." Alfred's mouth pressed against the smooth column of Romano's neck just beneath the jaw.
"Empire?"
"An gold of Imperial design." A tongue slid on the skin, and America couldn't tell if his tongue was cold, or Romano's blood just burned that hot. Romano let out a chuckle, before pulling back and sharply pulling on America's hair, causing America to cry out in pain. Romano smirk was no long sultry and burning, but cold and cruel. "I told you not to fuck with me." The hand released the hair, only to grab the younger nation's throat and pin him to the wall. "I want what I want, bastard." Romano hissed. "And when I want something, I fucking get it." America choked out a laugh. "Then what do you want, Romano?" The drunk teen was removed from the wall by an inch, only to be slammed back into it, cracking the brick and Alfred felt the blood drip down his temple rather than see it. "I want you to stop fucking around and I want to settle my business, bastard." Romano said coldly, before dropping the now bruised throat and grabbing America's shirt collar instead, dragging him to the Italian's chest so the two nations were nose to nose. "You. Me. Here tomorrow. And be sober, dammit." The most feared Mafia boss in all of America smiled demonically, condescension dripping from the perfectly curved lips like poison. America hated it and loved it all at once. "Or else Big Shot Boss finds out about your dirty little escapades." America's back hit the wall again when Romano shoved him off, and America let out a strained gasping laugh as he felt the bruises form and the scratches scab. Romano pulled out his gun. "Be there, babydoll."
The night heard the shots, but didn't see the slick man dressed in the sweet pinstripe suit stride out of the alley into the low light of the streets and back into the darkness. And Alfred, with a bullet lodged in his heart and brain, laughed. Blood, burning hot and sticky and full of iron bubbled up his throat and spattered onto his rumpled shirt as the booming laughter strained his lungs and struggling heart as he sat slumped against a broken brick wall.
"Fucking wet blanket," Alfred gurgled, coughing as the red iron tickled his throat. He looked up to the sky, gazing at the inky midnight expanse and winked back at the stars that coyly waved and batted their eyelashes. "I still want my goddamn check."
*Big Cheese: Boss; Big shot
*Cat's Meow: Something splendid or stylish
*Hooch: Bootleg liquor
*Flat tire: A dull witted, insipid, disappointing date
*Cash or check: Kiss now or later?
*Check: Kiss later
*Tomato:Woman
A/N: So this one was supposed to be about America and Romano interaction and it just evolved into this darkness. I'm actually very happy with it, despite it being so off tangent.