It was warm in Italy this time of year. Of course, this was the north of the country, and surely it wasn't as warm as the parts closest to the Mediterranean, but the change from Japan was still lovely. Honda Ayame, Japan herself, leaned against the wall of the small cottage in which she was staying, her eyes tilted toward the stars. A small radio in the kitchen played a curious mix of American and Italian music; a light breeze carried the scent of alpine crocuses and pansies and stirred the fabric of her skirt about her legs.
It was very kind of Feliciano to invite me here, she mused. Since her arrival in Verona, per his request, the Italian nation had gone out of his way to make her welcome. It was charming. He had grown up since the war—not a lot, but there was most certainly a change. Namely the way he treated her like a lady, rather than a comrade. She recalled an incident in which she and a handful of other countries had the… Ayame elected to call it the experience of meeting Feliciano's grandfather—a small smile shaped her lips as she recalled the awe-filled way he said, Grandpa Rome—and how he described Heaven.
Your lover would naturally be Italian, the song assured. Was this why Feliciano insisted she come see his home, why he put her up in this tiny cottage on the edge of his magnificent house?
A knock in the kitchen distracted Ayame from these thoughts, and she turned quickly. Her worries evaporated when she saw the very nation on her mind standing in the doorway that separated the kitchen and the patio on which she stood. The dim light made his navy-colored uniform seem even darker. "Buonasera," he greeted cheerfully.
"Good evening to you, Feliciano," Ayame replied, bowing slightly.
"I brought you something," Feliciano announced, holding out an earthenware pot filled with blue, trumpet shaped flowers to her. "Gentiana clusii—they grow wild here, and I thought you would like some."
"Arigato," Ayame said sincerely. "I will put them in the kitchen." She offered him a small smile as she stepped past to find a suitable place for the flowers; Feliciano returned the expression before stepping out onto the porch to enjoy the evening.
As Ayame returned, brushing dirt from her slender hands, a new song started to play on the radio, something big and sweeping in nature. Ayame paused to give it listen, but Feliciano seemed to light up when he recognized the tune. "I like this song!" he spouted.
"It is American?" Ayame asked, listening to the opening words. Hold me, hold me, never let me go…
Feliciano nodded eagerly, the stray curl of hair that marked him as Feliciano Vargas bouncing with the motion. He stepped out into the middle of the patio and held his hand out to her. "Ayame, come dance with me!"
She smiled slightly and shook her head. "No, thank you," she politely denied.
"Please?" he asked again.
"I would prefer not," she repeated, glancing around her, as if she were looking for peeping eyes.
"No one will see us," Feliciano promised, crossing the flagstones to stand in front of her. "Please?"
Ayame considered his request, his outstretched hand, the way he asked so simply… What could it hurt? "Hai," she agreed, taking his hand and allowing herself to be draw to the center of the patio.
Feliciano grinned in reply and laced his left hand with hers and settled his right hand on her waist. Ayame laid her free hand on his shoulder, which was Feliciano's cue—with a gentle nudge, he started to guide her through the steps. The bottoms of their shoes scuffed at the flagstones as they danced, though the sound was quickly covered up by Feliciano mumbling along with the song. "They told me, 'Be sensible with your new love. Don't be fooled thinking this is the last you'll find.' But they never stood in the dark with you, love, when you take me in your arms and drive me slowly out of my mind."
He lifted his left arm slightly and gave Ayame a small nudge, cueing her to turn. She was certain it wasn't the finest turn ever executed in a dance, but the smile Feliciano gave as he settled his hand back on her hip to continue leading made any errors seem trivial. "You're a good dancer," he complimented.
"Arigato," she replied sincerely. "You're very talented as well."
The Italian nation beamed in reply and led her through the final steps of the dance. As the final bars of the song faded, he stopped and brushed a soft kiss against the back of her fingers. "Grazie per la danza," he said, restoring her hand to her.
"Thank you for asking me," Ayame replied, watching as he broke away to leave. "Aah, Feliciano?" He paused in the doorway, and after a moment, she added, "I would like to dance with you again."
Feliciano smiled warmly. "I would like that too."