AN: My sister made me do this, so it's pure crap right now. I hope you're happy, AYSE-OF-HEARTS. Now where's my new chapter of 'Romerica and Juliet', ya butt?
Disclaimer-Hetalia is not mine.
She figured she was perfection.
Her looks, her personality, her body, her mind, her spirit, her everything was perfection.
The strong steps of her gait as she walked, the straight angle her headband laid perched across her hair, her sharp eyes that kept everything in check and calculated measures that weren't needed.
She was something else she figured; something else indeed.
She hadn't really known her that good, they'd been friendly acquaintances, talked when they had to at meetings and interacted when their bosses met from time to time, but that's it. There was no fairytale romance about her saving her from the clutches of evil (she did save her from being harassed by Russia one time, to which she earned a mumbled 'Grazie' which made her blush and stutter) but she'd always proclaim to her about how she was a hero and that she's supposed to keep people safe; a point that she's heard be defeated by the fact that she's put up with the mafia and their shit for a long time so she can defend herself, dammit.
No, their romance started with politics. The meetings between their bosses and governments increased in frequency and they saw more of each other. Their leaders encouraged them to get to know each other and they did.
They exchanged tidbits of information, like hobbies and favorite foods, then phone numbers; to keep in contact. Soon, business meetings weren't enough and their friendship turned social, no politics attached. Her boss urged her to take her on a tour of the capital because he could see that his nation was feeling something for the other nation besides friendship ( he'd sit back and laugh later when his clueless nation finally did realize her feelings for her.)
So she agreed, convincing her to take a walk around her capital while their bosses had coffee over trade agreements and export papers. They shared small talk, discussed the mending relations between their former caretakers and other nice things. She tells her a joke that she heard from Denmark a few days ago, she smiled and stated that the joke was stupid; which in turn made her smile.
They toured the landmarks and she explains the history of their importance. The Italian nodded earnestly and watched the blonde as she explained her history (it's not like she admired the look on the young blonde's face while she spoke, nor did she notice the gleam in her eyes and the extra hype in her voice as she recounted her past. That's preposterous.)
They were on their way back to the White House, holding hands (thanks to the blonde connecting their hands. The brunette protested but didn't let her hand go), when the rain began to fall. The American was quick to drape her worn bomber jacket over her Italian's shoulders as they picked up speed. The brunette fought and argued but the blonde silenced her with a reassuring smile that made her heart flutter and face color.
Speechless, she settled for draping half of the bomber over the blonde's damp head.
To which the blonde quickly removed upon her decision to dance around in the rain, exposing them to the downpour.
Before they knew it, they were sitting on the front steps of the White House, clothes soaked to their frames and both not giving a damn. The American placed a hand on the Italian's chest, over her heart, and counted the beats.
"Let's forget our lives for a while." She spoke, startling the air between the personifications. "For tonight, let's pretend that we're not nations, that we're not the United States of America and the Italian Republic. Let's just be regular people, Amelia F. Jones and Chiara Vargas."
Her hand was still on her chest, still counting the beats synced with the gentle rise and fall of the brunette's chest. The Italian buried a hand in the blonde locks; it was as soft as it looked.
"Forgotten. Now shut up and kiss me."
And just like that, their lips were sealed.