Romano awoke to watery rays of sunshine streaming in through a crack in blue curtains, squinting at the bright rays and absentmindedly watching dust particles swirling around in the stripe of sunlight. For a second he wondered where he was, distinctly recalling that his curtains were a Bordeaux color, not azure like these ones.
However, the sensation of an arm draped around his waist (quite heavily, actually), and soft breathing ruffling a few loose hairs near the crown of his head reminded him of where exactly he was. He shifted in the loose embrace of the man behind him and turned to face him, regarding the sleeping man with rarely displayed fondness.
While sleeping America's face always broadcast a look of contentment. No lines indented his peaceful face, no glasses rested atop his nose or shielded his eyes. No loud words or boisterous laughs left his thin, pink lips, and his hair fell across his forehead with an unkempt ease. He was almost angelic in appearance, the little sunlight streaming through the window seeming to catch his hair and play across his handsome features.
Romano would have been rather envious of any other lovers America might have had, had he not already filled the position of America's lover himself. Though he would never admit it, Romano thanked the powers that be every day for allowing America to burst into his life laughing and smiling and being a moron; somehow capturing his nearly impenetrable heart.
And Romano knew the looks he got. He was aware of the jealous stares and the confused glances. He knew what every other country in the world was thinking. 'How is it possible that America is in a relationship with Romano? The only superpower in the world loves that insignificant, disagreeable fraction-of-a-country?'
Yes, Romano was well aware of the opinions of others. And to be honest, it did get to him a little. But he could manage to forget all of it when America would point out how amazing his cooking tasted or how beautiful his artwork had turned out or how gorgeous he looked without even having a reason to pay him such complements. Sometimes he would call Romano in the middle of the day just to tell him something like this, followed with an 'I love you!' before hanging up. No conversation, no intent to make plans - just a complement.
It made Romano happier than he would have liked, as he found it hard to wipe what he called an America induced smile off of his face after such calls. He had always been the twin nobody liked as much, the weak, cowardly country, a nation who merely played an extra in a movie starring the rest of the world. But America had a funny way of Romano feel like a protagonist, even when the Italian was still starstruck by the powerful, magnificent nation that was the United States of America.
This didn't mean that he had to change for the blonde man - oh no. He was more himself with America that he could ever be in the presence of others. America would never ask Romano to change, for he loved the Italian for who he was.
As Lovino lay mulling over these thoughts, he didn't notice Alfred's eyes flicker open and blink a few times to adjust to the light of morning pouring through the curtains. Gazing down at Lovino with a grin tugging at the corners of his lips, he watched the man chew his lower lip in thought as he stared unseeingly at America's collar bones. 'So cute.' the American thought, grin widening.
"Lovino? Whatcha thinking about?" he asked rather quietly compared to his usual volume, voice slightly raspy. Recognition surfaced in Romano's eyes, and he looked up into America's face with a soft smile on his lips.
"Us," he answered, accented voice reaching America's ears, "You?" he inquired, looking into Alfred's blue eyes, the same shade as a cloudless sky on a sunny day.
"Breakfast~" America replied, unashamedly.
"You're such an idiot." Romano chuckled in reply, feigning anger at his clueless boyfriend. Sometimes Romano wondered about what went on in America's head.
But we all know that America never was one for sensing the atmosphere.