Notes: Romerica exchange fic for piratecat on tumblr! Took me 4 months to finish this. I really can't write humor. orz
Prompt : There's a world meeting in the US, and somehow all the nations end up in Vegas…and then Alfred and Lovino wake up married. Both their governments end up freaking out, followed by their fellow nations freaking out, and they're so busy dealing with the freak out that they kinda forget to have the marriage annulled.
Warnings: Swearing, poor Brit-speak on the author's part, a wild Spain appears, lots of feelings with a side of cheesy endings.
The first, and most crucial thing upon waking, according to his stomach, was to make it to the bathroom. Like now, thanks very much.
Romano tore the bed covers off his legs, lurching out of bed and taking long, weaving steps to the bathroom, where he barely made to the toilet before heaving up something that could only be described as awful from the night before.
"Oh, Dio," he mumbled in between deep breaths. What had he done last night? He hadn't felt this bad since...since...he couldn't even remember, that's how long ago it was. Had he really drank that much?
"Ugh," Romano muttered, basically summing up all thoughts and feelings he had towards himself, his body, and the general state of his life at the moment. One minute he'd been having a drink with Veneziano and the potato bastard, along with Spain and that other potato bastard, and then when they had disappeared he'd been comfortably situated at the bar by himself.
And now...on his knees in front of a toilet in someone's dirty bathroom.
Great.
"Hey, here you go." Someone placed a damp washcloth in his hand and he gratefully took it, feeling slightly better after scrubbing his face clean. His mouth still felt like the inside of a garbage disposal, but small favors.
"Thanks," he muttered.
"You're welcome. You feeling okay?"
Now that was too stupid to even reply to, he thought. What kind of idiot would ask that to a guy puking in a toilet? Wait, what idiot was he talking to? Romano turned his head – slowly – and looked over his shoulder.
America was crouched next to him, hands on his knees, looking obnoxiously sober and well-rested and alert. "Romano?" He asked, concerned.
The fuck? What was America doing here? Did he even – had he been hanging out with America? Or just ended up in his room somehow? Did America even know he existed, much less his name? Romano was interrupted from his inward panic attack by another rebellion in his stomach, and leaned back over the toilet, coughing violently. America, oddly enough, stayed next to him through it all, rubbing his back and murmuring comforting nonsense.
The fuck. Was going. On!?
"G'wayh," Romano tried to say, because the last thing he needed was someone watching him throw up. Did anyone understand the concept of privacy around here!? When America didn't respond, he flung out a pitiful hand to push him away. He was hungover, okay. Nobody was on top of their game while hungover.
America seemed to get the hint, though, after another of Romano's angry – more pathetic than furious – groans.
"Right, okay, let me know if you need anything." A hand settled on his back briefly, and then disappeared.
Romano gargled some kind of affirmative, anything to get the superpower out so he could puke in peace, and listened to the steps recede and the door click gently closed.
God. America, really? America? Why was he here? Had he...Romano twitched. No, he couldn't have slept with America. Stumbled back to the wrong room, sure. But...sex?
No. Couldn't be. America didn't even know who he was. Right?
Romano coughed again, leaning his head against the toilet seat, germs be damned. If he had slept with America – ha! There was no scenario Romano could ever envision that would end with them in bed together.
God dammit. Romano could barely think. Anyone was better than France, or Germany. Jesus, even France was better than the potato bastard, but. America?
There was no way Romano could have been drunk enough to sleep with America. No way.
"God," Romano moaned again, and slumped with his hands against the side of the toilet. How the hell was he so hungover!? He was practically made of wine. Wine was in his blood! His blood was wine! Or some other fitting metaphor!
He stayed like that for a few minutes, hunched over the toilet bowl, waiting for anything else to arise from his tumultuous stomach. He must have gotten it all out, though. He felt better after little while, enough to rise slowly, his head protesting, to stand at the sink and splash water on his face. One look in the mirror, and –
"Ugh." Romano looked almost as bad as he felt, face pale and eyes framed by dark shadows, hair greasy and disheveled. He splashed some more water on his face and wiped it off with a towel, letting it fall to the floor. His head, God. His poor head. He leaned the sink, hands planted on the counter, trying to convince himself up to move back to the bed or to get a glass for water or something. Something was on his hand, though, which was odd.
Something – small and gold and circular-shaped.
A ring.
A gold ring.
On his hand.
His left hand.
The second finger from the left –
"Oh my God," Romano choked out, elbows giving out so he almost face planted into the sink, and winced instantly as his head exploded in pain. Fuck. FUCK.
He was wearing a fucking wedding band.
A knock on the door, and then America spoke, muffled through the wood, "You okay in there?"
"Aaughhunnghhaaa!," Romano slapped his good, ringless right hand against his mouth and tried not to freak out, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. This wasn't happening, this wasn't happening -
"I heard yelling?" America's voice insisted otherwise.
"Fuck!" Romano whimpered. He spun around, ignoring the way his stomach spun nauseatingly with him, and took two steps to the door.
"Uh," America started, and then took a step back when Romano flung the door open. One day, Romano will look back on this and remember how he made the world's greatest superpower actually shrink away in fear, and smile. But not today.
"What the fuck is THIS!?" Romano held up his left hand and shook it violently in America's face. "Did you – did Spain – did France – Germany -" his voice rose sharply with every word, breaking high notes not known to most men on the last name.
"No, I – " America raised both hands in a placating motion, and then dropped them quickly behind his back.
Romano followed the movement, eyes wide, mouth opening in shock.
"You! You?!" He grabbed America's left arm and yanked it, and after a moment America relaxed enough to let his arm swing forward, and Romano pulled at his arm until his hand was eye level.
There was a ring.
Romano stared.
America's hand twitched, a little.
The ring was nice. Gold, a little chunky, thick enough to stand out on America's big fingers. A ring.
A
.
.
wedding
.
.
ring
.
.
Motherfucker.
"...Romano?"
"I need to lay down." Romano abruptly dropped America's hand and drew in a deep, calming breath, eyes closing.
"Okay, uh –"
"You BASTARD!" Romano opened his eyes and shrieked – and it was a shriek, high pitched and vicious and this was code red levels of emergency, goddammit people – and threw a wild punch at America. He was aiming for the face, but hit more like the chest or shoulder area. His aim was off, after all he was hungover and clearly losing it and apparently married.
Married. He had a husband.
Romano had a husband. And it appeared that America was his husband.
He wasn't sure which was worse.
"Aggghhhowwwuh," Romano groaned unintelligibly, words failing him. He clutched his hand back to his chest, not really hurt, but stunned by the events. America, the bastard, didn't even look phased.
"Careful, you'll hurt yourself!" America was even reaching for him, hands coming up around Romano's shoulders.
"Fuck you, bastard, GET OFF!"
America instantly froze, and then stepped back, eyes going wide behind his glasses.
Well. That was new. Romano glared, rubbing at his hand. Which was probably broken. Again, bastard. Did he mention America was a bastard?
"Sorry," America said, and that was...even newer. Somebody was apologizing to Romano? And it even sounded like the bastard meant it.
Romano looked at the other nation warily. America looked concerned, and seemed equally wary, watching him and waiting for Romano to make the next move. That was just, too weird, Romano wasn't even sure what he wanted, but it was nice that America –
NO. Don't even, Romano told himself. He fucking married me without my permission, how could I even – is he even Catholic – No!
"Look," America finally spoke. He hesitated when Romano glared, but took a breath and continued. "Can we – um. Can we sit down?"
Romano opened his mouth to argue, but his pounding headache, which had been ignored in favor of the recent events, started thumping in agreement.
"Fine," Romano snapped, only because he felt like shit and honestly, he was just as capable at yelling from a sitting position as a standing one.
He took the seat by the table and glared at America, who sat on the bed.
There was only one bed, Romano noticed, and clearly they had both been on it. They couldn't have, could they – ? Although Romano was still wearing all his clothes. He looked down to double check this, and yes. Still wearing pants and a shirt and a tie, and even both shoes. His suit jacket seemed to be missing, though.
America must have noticed his not subtle at all survey because he said, "We didn't do anything."
Romano looked at him sharply and America pinked, a little.
"If that's what you're wondering. I slept on the top covers." He gestured with his hand, and he was sitting on the ugly flowery bedspread, whereas the other side was open and obviously slept-in.
Romano continued glaring, though, because he could have just as easily fixed the bed while Romano was throwing up in the bathroom.
America looked stoically back at him, even if he was still blushing a little. Why was he blushing if they hadn't done anything? Although Romano didn't actually feel like they'd done anything, and he'd know if they'd been that...serious.
And now he was thinking if they had done anything, like kiss, or –
Knock? Someone was pounding on the door. They both turned towards the door, and America looked – not nervous, ha! When was the superpower ever nervous? – but sort of keyed up.
"Don't get it!" Romano said, hissing.
"But they know I'm in here," America said, confused, looking between him and the door before getting up and walking towards the door.
"Wait - how do they know that!?" Romano slumped back in his chair. Was there some sort of committee lining up outside to congratulate them?
Oh no. This was worse than he thought.
"Who is it?" America said loudly.
If Romano leaned over a bit, he could see America hadn't opened the door.
"Ve~ it's Italy, America!"
Romano jerked back in his chair at the sound of his brother's voice. Oh shit. Did he know? He must know. Did he...had he been there at the wedding? Why hadn't he stopped him?!
"And Germany, too! Ve~" Italy said merrily through the door.
No. Veneziano wouldn't have let him get married, not to America. Especially not to America. Spain, maybe, but America made no sense. Which meant that he didn't know – which meant that maybe they had a chance –
America reached for the door.
"Wait –" Romano started, and then flinched back, flattening himself in the chair as the door clicked open.
"Hello, America!"
"Hey, um. Do you think you guys could come back? Later? I'm kind of, uh. Busy."
"Ve? Oh, of course! You'll miss brunch if you don't come down soon!"
"Yeah, yeah, great. Uh –"
Germany said something that Romano couldn't quite hear, and Italy spoke again.
"Oh, yes! We just wanted to check and see if you've seen Romano? I haven't seen him yet today, and maybe he got lost?"
"Um. Lost?" America cleared his throat.
"I don't know! I don't think he would miss brunch, though! There's fruit and pastries and four different kinds of bread and - "
There was a sharp sound of Germany clearing his throat, and Veneziano giggled before continuing. "Oh, right! But you were with him last night, yes? Do you know where he went after he was with you?"
"After, um. After he was with me? Well, uh."
If Romano leaned forward just a little bit, he could see the back of America, standing in the doorway and scratching his head. The idiot was awful at lying.
"No, no. Can't say that I've seen him...after." The pause was so telling, how the fuck does he get away with anything? Romano could practically feel the vein in his temple throbbing – maybe that was his headache – as he glared at the stupid bastard.
Veneziano's head popped over America's shoulder at that moment, and Romano stared, frozen.
"Ve~ Romano?"
Shit.
How –!? Romano wasn't even in his line of sight, it was like his brother could sense his glaring or something. He sank back into the chair and folded his arms into his sides, tucking his hands out of sight. He was like one of Spain's turtles, only without a shell to retreat to. He had never wanted to be a turtle before, but well. Now would be a great time.
Veneziano squeezed past America, calling out, "Fratello!"
America moved aside reluctantly, almost unwillingly, one could say.
"Veneziano," Romano said slowly, mind racing as he tried not to panic. He couldn't know they were married. What would happen if people knew they were married? Chaos? War? Embargoes? More McDonalds opening in Italy!? What could he do? He needed to get rid of Veneziano and the German bastard, so he could get rid of the American bastard.
"What are you doing here?" Veneziano asked curiously. "Where have you been? I was worried!"
Romano involuntarily met America's gaze and was not surprised to see he looked a little guilty. Like he should. The potato bastard was behind America, frowning over his shoulder. Romano scowled in their general direction.
Veneziano came over to Romano and draped himself over him, cuddling close. "Come on, let's get something to eat! You can tell me what you did last night~ did you go back to the room?"
Romano grimaced, not sure if this was an innocent question or not. They were supposed to be sharing a room, but once Veneziano got anywhere near Germany, the two of them tended to disappear, very suspiciously, in Romano's opinion.
Romano quickly smoothed over his expression, trying to look stern, but also completely innocent of any sort of fake-marriage drama. "I'm not hungry. You go."
Veneziano blinked, eyes widening in shock but then narrowing immediately. "Ve~ are you okay?" He tried to place his hand across Romano's forehead and check his temperature.
"Fine!" Romano bit off a curse, and caught America looking rather dubiously at him. Apparently Romano wasn't very good at lying either. Fuck him, he was a great liar! He sat up straighter and nodded. "Yes, fine. I just need to...talk to America for a...minute." Was that more plausible? No? Even Germany looked doubtful, and America, the bastard, raised a blond eyebrow.
"Romano, what's wrong?" His brother leaned closer, pushing his face into Romano's – examining his eyes, what the fuck? Romano hunched backwards, shoulders rolling up protectively.
"Stop it, dammit. I said I'm fine!"
Veneziano didn't move back. He pushed closer, bangs tickling Romano's forehead. "Are you sure," he said in a stage whisper, because subtle was not an option for Veneziano.
"Shit, I said –"
"Fratello –"
"Go, stupid! I'm not eating that buffet style crap!" Romano glared fiercely.
Veneziano frowned. He wasn't buying it. Dammit. Romano groped for a suitable excuse.
"I...had bit too much last night," Romano muttered. Veneziano's look immediately softened.
"Oh, frat-"
"I'm fucking fine! I just need a minute!" Romano managed through his teeth, embarrassed. It was one thing to wake up cursing his existence in his own bed, by himself, but entirely another to admit weakness in front of Veneziano and the German bastard.
Reluctantly Veneziano moved back, patting his shoulder sympathetically.
"Of course, take your time! I'll save you an omelet!" Weren't those made to order? "Drink lots of water and feel better! See you later?" Veneziano looked anxiously at him.
"Yes, bastard, now go," Romano agreed..
Veneziano removed himself from Romano to go plaster himself against Germany, and Romano let out an aggravated sigh, choosing not to acknowledge that at the moment. He had much more serious problems to deal with.
"See you America~ " Veneziano clung to Germany as they shuffled back to the door, and Germany nodded stiffly in goodbye.
"Right, see ya later, gators," America casually waved a hand in their direction and Romano hissed through his teeth.
"Ring!"
America glanced over his shoulder at Romano until his eyes widened in comprehension, and he immediately dropped his hand behind his back.
"Ciao!"
"Uh, ciao!" America jerked back to face the doorway, jumping forward to shut it one-handed, the other clasped in a fist behind his back, and Romano slumped back in the chair.
"Sorry," America said as he came back into the room, apologizing for the second time in less than an hour, and Romano repeated his brother's action, feeling his forehead for a temperature. Was he still drunk, or dreaming? Married to the world's top super-power who was actually going out of his way to apologize to Romano, of all nations?
Not a dream, then, but more like a nightmare.
Romano lowered his hand and stared at his fingers, at the innocuous gold ring on his finger. It didn't look bad – it was slimmer than the one on America's finger, with some faint patterns engraved into it – but it didn't look good, either! He sighed and shook his head, and his pounding headache reminded him of what got him into this mess anyways. He raised his head and stared at America, who shifted on his feet rather awkwardly in front of him.
"I don't know what the hell happened," Romano said, raising one hand to stop America's big mouth. The small gold ring shone accusingly at him. "I'm sure - I know it involved too much alcohol and extremely poor choices on my part."
America frowned, mouth slowly closing. "You don't remember anything?"
"I just - I mean, what the hell?" Romano said, dropping his hand to glare at America. "This is the stupidest joke in the history of - in my entire history, and that's a lot fucking longer than yours!"
"I – it's not a -" America mumbled, and then looked confused. "What does age have to -"
"We can still get a – what do you say? Not d-divorced, right," Romano said, talking over the bastard, tripping on the word divorce. Never thought he'd use that word in reference to himself.
"Annulled?" America said slowly.
Romano nodded. "Yes. That. God," he said for the umpteenth time, rubbing his temples and exhaling shakily. And that way no one would know, not Veneziano or their government, that's for damn sure. Right. People did this all the time in Las Vegas, right? They just needed to get back down to the chapel. Or the city office? Maybe the signed papers hadn't gone through yet. America would know, it was his city, after all.
"Hey –" When Romano looked up, America was gone. "Hey!"
"What?" America said, slightly muffled by distance and the sound of running water. He came out of the bathroom a moment later, with two cups of water.
"Here," he said, handing Romano a plastic cup.
Romano took it, realizing just how much he needed to rehydrate himself. "Thanks," he muttered, and took a deep drink as America gulped his down.
"You're welcome," America said, crumpling up the cup in his hand. "You looked like you needed it."
Romano took another long drink, finishing up what was in his glass. That was nice of America. Except, no. Marrying another nation while drunk - Romano clenched his own cup tightly, crinkling it into a little ball of plastic.
"So, uh, about this - thing. I know you said you don't want to know, but I really want - "
Romano dropped his hands onto the armrest and shoved himself out the chair. "I don't care what stupid bet you lost, and - and - whatever, okay, we can't be married anyways, we're nations." What a joke - America, the world's super-power, marrying poor South Italy. Fucking ha. When Romano was less hungover, he was going to hunt down whatever nation started this and kill them, slowly. If Romano had to put money on it, he would bet it was probably the potato bastard's brother.
"We're going to get an annulment now, before anyone else finds out." Romano snapped, pointing a finger at America. Then he could go home, meeting be damned, and sleep off this hangover in his own bed.
"But it's not a joke!"
Romano felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rise in his chest and come out through his mouth. "Right, of course, you married m-me on purpose, not because you lost a bet or got tricked into it. Whatever you h-have to tell yourself to make yourself feel better, I really don't give a shit."
America stared back, and for a minute Romano thought - maybe he was going to make a big deal out of this, try to take this joke further - fuck him, Romano wasn't drunk now, and while he wasn't as strong as America he sure as hell was smarter, so America better watch himself - but instead America sighed.
"I - fine," he said, jaw working like he wanted to say something else but didn't dare to. He turned away, muttering something to himself, and opened the door.
Damn straight. Nobody messed with this half of Italy! Romano straightened his shirt as he walked through the door, following America. He wondered where his jacket was, but in his mind, this was the least of his worries. Probably some poor bastard was feeling lucky, walking around in high Italian style, but Romano would forgive him if they could just get this stupid marriage thing worked out.
Fixed. He meant fixed, dammit, there was no working out like this was an actual marriage.
"Well?" Romano asked, when it looked like America was just going to stand there. "Where do we go for this – thing." Romano couldn't quite bring himself to say the word, but he didn't have to finish when a shout from the end of the hallway interrupted him.
Romano turned to see a very agitated Veneziano running toward him, waving a cell –
SHIT. His cell phone! He patted his pockets frantically, front and back, but it must be in his missing jacket.
"Romano, Romano, the boss says you're married! Why didn't you invite me? I'm your brother!" Veneziano seemed close to tears, which didn't bother Romano as much as the fact that their boss had called him, probably when he couldn't reach Romano's phone.
Shit. Romano was so screwed. So much for no one finding out what happened.
Veneziano was being followed by someone else. Romano couldn't quite recognize the person but he seemed very familiar. He was holding something in his hand, and what looked like America's customary bomber jacket, and appeared slightly less agitated then Veneziano, although a little put out.
"Crap," America said, paling next to him. "That's my –"
"RoMANO –" Veneziano wailed.
"Here." The other currently nameless nation thrust his jacket and phone at America. "I suppose a congratulations is in order?"
"Fratello, I am happy for you! But you didn't ask me to be your bridesmaid and I –"
"Shut up!" He wasn't the bridesmaid!
"Canada. Heeey. So, uh. News travels fast, huh?"
Canada raised an eyebrow. "Really? That's all you have to say?"
"That's okay, we still have time! We'll have a reception, with flowers and cake and pasta –"
"Uh. Well, hahaha. Las Vegas, amirite?" America chuckled and then cleared his throat. "Yeahhhh, so we gotta go - "
"No!"
"No cake? But America likes cake, doesn't he? Do you like cake, America?"
"Goddammit, Veneziano –"
"So that's it, eh?" Canada looked even more put out than before. "You're really not as clever as you think, you know."
"Haha, ha. Ha. Um. What?"
"And the tarantella! Oh, I wanted to dance to that – was the wedding in a church? Did you cry? What did you wear? That nice Armani jacket? That one is so pretty. Romano, why didn't you tell me -"
"Dio." Romano buried is face in his hands.
"You could have just said something!" Canada said loudly, interrupting all of them.
Veneziano sniffled and wiped at his eyes, but even he shut up. Romano rubbed his aching temples and gave everyone a dirty look, especially the bastard America.
"Well...it happened so fast?" America said weakly, and Canada shot him a stern look.
"Oh? Well, I'd sure like to hear how it did happen," Canada said, folding his arms. "Since you weren't so keen on inviting us to the ceremony," he added darkly.
Veneziano nodded enthusiastically besides Canada. "Yes! Tell us all the details!"
"Details?"
Romano glanced over at America, only to see America was looking at him. No fucking way, as far as Romano was concerned, this was all America's fault! Romano was not going to say a damn thing.
"Um." America paused, then took his jacket, and shrugged it over his shoulders. He did this not exactly slowly, but rather deliberately. They all watched him; Veneziano still snuffling and holding his cell phone, where the other line had long since gone dead, Romano suspiciously - he knew the bastard was stalling - and Canada shaking his head, also knowing his brother was stalling.
"So, you see," America cleared his throat, looking into the distance. He stopped suddenly, eyes going wide. "Uh."
"Oh, just say it," Canada said, rolling his eyes.
"No – it's – uh, everyone!" America pointed, and they all spun around to see that yes, indeed, England and a few others – not everyone, but a lot of nations – were indeed headed their way, wanting to be the first to torture - er, congratulate them.
"Crap." America swore, and for once, Romano agreed with his sentiments. "How did they find out already?"
"Oh, I called them~ isn't it just wonderful news?" Veneziano beamed and waved his cell phone in the air.
The two North American nations stared. Romano just took a deep, calming breath, because he'd already had centuries of dealing with this.
"I shouldn't be helping you with this, but." Canada sighed.
Finally - someone who was on his side! Romano looked gratefully at Canada and swore to remember him next time. Bastard was all right in his book.
Canada gave him a slight smile and continued, "You should get going on to your -" He blushed slightly and waved his hands. "Honeymoon. I'll cover for you at the meeting, just this once!"
Wait, what?
Veneziano bounced on his feet. "Yes, go~ we'll get the reception ready for tomorrow!" Canada nodded in agreement next to him.
Was he still drunk - or was everyone else? What was going on!? They weren't married! It was all a terrible mistake! There's no way America would ever marry Romano - why was everyone acting like this wasn't a surprise!?
America grinned. "Seems fair. You're the best, bro!" He held out a fist and Canada rolled his eyes, but pounded it.
"Next time, just invite us, okay?When good things happen you don't need to be so secretive." Canada smiled and put his hands on America's shoulder.
"Enjoy your honeymoon!" Veneziano said, clasping his hands against his chest and looking, disturbingly, as close to starry-eyed as Romano had ever seen.
"Are you out of your fucking-" Romano wheezed fruitlessly, while America grabbed on to his wrist and yanked him down the hallway.
"Oh! I'm getting white for you to wear tomorrow, fratello, I hope that's okayyyy!" Veneziano called out, waving furiously before the stairwell door shut on them.
What little dignity Romano had left crumpled up inside of him and died a short death.
Within moments they were jogging down to the main floor, where they stopped to rest against a wall.
Romano leaned on his knees and gasped for breath. "Oh my God," he panted. America, the bastard, seemed hardly affected.
"That was close, huh?" he said with a grin, one hand on his hip, the other curled around his chin. He was rubbing a thumb against his bottom lip and surveying the crowd of tourists that walked through the lobby. There was the faint clink of coins hitting metal – slot machines were placed in every available space – but the sound was tinny, fake to Romano's ears, because everything was mechanized now.
"I don't really like running away, though. It's so un-heroic!" America continued, turning his head to look at Romano.
Romano shot him a dark look.
"Yeah, uh," America seemed to wilt a little under his glare. "So about...this thing. I really need to talk to you."
"Talk!?" Romano rasped.
"Yeah, like, explain things. I really want to start over."
Romano glanced upwards, hands still on his knees. He could just see America's blue eyes over the rim of his glasses. "What."
"I mean, I know this is a shock, but also, it's almost like you're –" America paused, the next words coming out quickly. "Embarrassed?"
Romano made a garbled sound in his throat, pulling himself upright. "No, wait, what? What does that have to do - we – they – there is no talking! We need to fix this!"
America frowned. "I'm just saying –" His phone buzzed loudly in his pocket and as he pulled it out he transferred his frown to it. "Man," he said, letting out an aborted sigh. "It's my boss." He looked at Romano, grimacing. "Should I...?"
Romano shrugged helplessly, hands in the air. How the hell should he know? He felt like he was in the same situation – sort of hopeless, really, since it appeared his boss already knew. What he needed was some water and time – time to think, time to rally. He would get through this. He'd had worse things happen.
Rubbing his chest – running was definitely not his thing – he pointed towards the lobby, indicating he was going to get some water, and saw America nod, eyes still narrowed in a frown. Romano could hear another voice on the phone speaking loudly. Presumably, his government wasn't happy with him.
His own government wasn't happy, either, Romano thought tiredly as he scanned the lobby for a water fountain. The fact that they'd called Veneziano was enough of a clue.
He came to an abrupt stop a step later as America grabbed him by his arm.
"Where are you going?" America said under his breath, as he held the phone away from his mouth.
"Water, asshole," Romano snapped back at him, trying to pull his arm away.
"Okay, just a second," he said, and then spoke into the phone, "Gotta go – yeah, yeah, I know." He swung his phone closed and tucked it back in his jacket. Lucky bastard actually had his jacket.
"You want some water?" America said cheerfully, letting go of Romano's arm and settling his hands against his waist, posing like an idiot.
"Do I want – did you hear me? I just fucking said that!" Romano folded his arms across his chest and glared.
"Okay, I'll get it for you!"
"It – are you – what?"
"Yeah, hold on just a second! I'll be right back. Stay here, okay?" America added, taking off into a sea of people, easily weaving in and out of them.
"I –" Romano held up his hands, head cocked to the side. What the fuck? He could get his own water. What was America doing? He leaned back against the wall and heaved a sigh. They really just needed to get to the office – city hall – whatever and get this thing fixed.
Yes. That sounded like a great plan. As soon as America got back, they'd –
Clap a hand on his shoulder and breathe alcohol into his face?
"'ello, luv! Er, I s'pose you're not a love, or, heh. More like America's love – "
Romano shrank away from England, his shoulders curling up defensively, anything to get away from an incredibly drunk England. What the hell – hadn't they just seen him in the hallway? How had he gotten down here so fast? Romano tried to edge away but the hand tightened painfully around his shoulder and pulled him closer.
England seemed unaware of his death grip. He smiled beatifically up towards – the ceiling? Romano looked up to see what was there and saw nothing – before his head dropped to the side, eyes glazing over as he stared at Romano. "So it seems, anyhow. Not sure 'ow that happened, but eh. Why not? Love is love, and such."
Romano debated saying something, but kept his mouth shut. It didn't seem like it mattered if he talked anyways, but he didn't want the other nation to lose his shit – England could be pretty fucking terrifying, especially when it came to his former colonies.
Not that Romano thought he cared that much about America, but one couldn't be certain.
"The two of you'll be happy together, yeash? All lovey-dovey, that sort of thing. 'ow'd it happen, anyways?"
Romano hesitated. "Um –"
"It don' matter. I wanted to be there, you know. Always thought I'd make a fine wedding – he'd make a fine wedding – the wedding – wha's I saying? I'd walk 'em down the aisle, right, give 'em away, so lovely in their dresses –"
"Who?" Romano asked faintly, wondering if they were talking about the same nations. America in a wedding dress or...? His mind got as far as America's smiling face, surrounded by a white veil, and then his bare shoulders, because he'd be wearing a strapless dress – and then Romano blanked on the image. Made himself stop thinking about it, Dio.
"The kids! Try'n raise them well, nex' thing y'know their revolting, declaring independence, and bugger all – you still care!" England's voice wobbled, his hand relaxing and dropping away but his full body slid down to lay against Romano instead.
Okay. Apparently he did care about America. Romano grunted, bearing the weight of the other nation and the full brunt of the smell of beer.
"Speakin' of buggery," England chuckled in his ear. "How's that working out for ya?"
"Wha –?" Romano caught on to the implication and he spluttered. "It's not –"
"Ha! Not 'ta worry, m'dear, you're young. It'll work out which hole to go in an' –"
Romano choked. No, England was not giving him – Romano might not have the storied talents his dear brother had, but he was fucking Italian for god's sake. "It's fine, thank you very fucking much! Not that it's any of your goddamned business, bastard!"
"No?" The hands around him suddenly tightened into claws and Romano held himself very, very still. England straightened up and stared down at him, green eyes not quite focused but bright and fierce. "He's my business, whether you like it or not. Harm a hair on his head and you're dead. And every time you come back to life, if you do, I'll fucking kill you again."
Romano stared back frozen, sweat slipping down his back. He barely held back a whimper. They were practically nose to nose, and England held his gaze for a long, sweat-inducing moment before suddenly he stepped back, grinning.
"Jus' so ya know, love. And when the babes come, don' be looking at me for sitting," he added with a shake of his finger, and Romano's eyeballs fell out of his head. Which was unfortunate, since he needed to desperately signal to America without screaming obscenities in a crowded room that could be full of children, and eyes would be really helpful for that.
Romano craned his neck, trying to see him, but all he could see was Spain, bobbing around in front of a blonde –
Oh.
OH SHIT.
"Whattya looking at? Oh, Spain. Spain!" England waved his free arm around, like he had suddenly forgotten their significant disagreements over the past hundreds of years.
"Shhhhh!" Romano hissed, because yelling out a nation's name in public, HELLO.
"Wot?" England said indignantly. "Wot'd I say?" He let go of Romano when America and Spain finally got to them.
"What took you so fucking long?" Romano hissed as America handed him a bottle of water. He was carrying a black jacket around his elbow – oh. He must have gone back to where Romano had left it last – the craps table? The bar? A bar? – and picked it up.
America wordlessly handed it over to him, and Romano felt a trace of guilt bubble up.
"Thanks," he said, and when that sounded irritable he tried a smile, just to let the other nation that he was glad to have his jacket back, along with his cell phone. America smiled hesitantly back, lips slowly curling into a full-on smile, when England elbowed him in the side.
"What?" America glared. Romano ignored their beginning argument – England's eyebrows were waggling at an alarming rate – and slid his jacket back on, pulling his phone out of pocket. Eleven missed calls – three from his government and one from Spain, and the rest from Veneziano.
"Romanoooooo," Spain cooed as he latched on to him, and Romano cursed and tried to shove him away. "Why didn't you tell me? Are you sure about him? How long have you been –"
"The fuck – get off," Romano managed to get a hand in between his face and Spain's, and pushed. At least Spain wasn't drunk, like England, but he was still annoying, as usual.
America was staring at them, eyes narrowed, and what the hell? It's not like he wanted Spain all over him. He hadn't wanted England all over him either, and where was America then?
"Asv lung asf ew loaf eafh othor," Spain said, muffled by Romano's hand. Romano barely kept himself from rolling his eyes. That moment of weakness cost him, though, and Spain glomped on to him more completely.
"And your boss will always take you back!" Spain said, tightening his grip around Romano, snuggling him hard.
"Bastard!" Romano flailed, trying to pry the nation off. He pushed particularly hard and then staggered back, balance upset, as Spain was wrenched from him.
America was positioning himself in front of Romano, glaring at Spain, who stumbled for a second, wide-eyed, before steadying himself and frowning right back at America.
"He said to get off," America said in an odd voice.
"Did he?" Spain said carelessly.
America glared. "Yes, duh."
"It's fine!" Romano snapped, adjusting his clothes, hands smoothing the wrinkles out of his jacket.
The two nations ignored him, engaged in their weird staring contest, before Spain grinned and winked, and Romano watched as America's cheeks slowly turned pink.
"Hey!" Romano said, irritated and annoyed by their weirdness. "I said, it's fine." He yanked on the sleeve of America's jacket when he didn't stop staring at Spain. "I'm fine," he said again, and America briefly scowled at Spain before turning around towards Romano.
"Look, we really need to talk!"
Romano frowned. Weren't they supposed to be going somewhere to get things fixed? But they kept getting interrupted. He looked around America to see Spain and England whispering conspiratorially. He shook his head and looked back at America. "Can we talk on the way to the, uh, courtroom or whatever it is?"
"Um," America looked downcast for a second. "Okay, but, you see, I wanted to tell you –"
"I think we need a toasht!" England suddenly broke in between them, followed closely by Spain.
"Huh?" America said eloquently.
"To the newlywads – I mean, wedsh," England said. Spain nodded furiously beside him.
"With wine?"
"Eh? Or, er, champagne?"
They frowned at each other.
"Or wine," Spain said again.
"Bloody hell, fine, wine it ish," England waved his hands and shrugged.
"No, we need to go! To the, uh. The – " Romano trailed off. Should he be saying this out loud to the two of them? Did it matter if they knew it was a mistake? Probably Spain would give him grief, but surely England would be supportive, considering how he had threatened Romano earlier. Or maybe they both knew it was a joke and were just taking things as far as they could go.
"The what?" Spain asked, and England leaned toward him, whispering behind his hand. He pointed between America, then Romano, and made exaggerated hand motions that were borderline lewd. Spain's face went from furrowed confusion to a bright understanding. And then they broke out in laughter, Spain slapping England's back and England smirking at the two of them.
Romano felt his face heat up. He knew what they were talking about and the insinuation was clearly wrong. Bastards!
"Ah~ then another hour won't hurt!" Spain sang, and America looked between the three of them.
"Okay?" he said, just as Romano said, "No!"
Wait, what? Romano glared at America, who shrugged. "Well, one hour wouldn't hurt, right?" he mumbled, studiously avoiding Romano's death-glare.
"Three to one!" England crowed victoriously, and Spain and him latched onto Romano's shoulders before he could get away.
"To tha' bar!" England declared, and Spain cheered.
"I'm never coming to America again," Romano said darkly as he was dragged forward, missing the brief flash of distress on America's face.
At the bar, Romano slumped down in his seat, tucked in the small, uncomfortable space between England and Spain. He refused the glass of wine in front of him on the bar, and on the other side of England he could see America's glass was untouched and pushed far away from him, almost on the other side of the counter with the bartender. England's glass seemed to be on the verge of becoming permanently attached to his lip, but Spain was just grinning like an idiot, sliding his eyes back and forth between America and him.
Romano wasn't a coward, but he desperately wanted to run away right now.
"So!" Spain clapped his hands on the counter of the bar and England jumped, his glass slipping before he caught it, wine spilling down his hand.
"Wha'd the hell was tha' for," England muttered, flicking wine off his fingers.
Spain ignored, sticking his head down so he was eye level with Romano (which was nearly on top of the counter.) "Tell us about the wedding! Or oh! Oh, the proposal!"
Romano twitched. Avoid eye contact at all costs, he told himself. "I don't - know?" he muttered, because it was true, and Spain's eyes widened before he tsked.
"Oh Romano! Were you so overcome by feelings that you didn't pay attention!" He blinked his eyes rapidly, to Romano's horror - was he going to cry?
"That's why you need to invite you familia so we can take photos!" He patted Romano's shoulder comfortingly, wiping at his eyes.
"No," Romano said, shaking his head back in forth vigorously.
"Yeash!" England straightened up in a flash, sticking his index finger in the air. "Photos. Photos of everything, and don't stint, lads."
"Huh?" America said, on the other side of England.
Spain interrupted. "Ah! The reception tomorrow! We'll take some there."
"No!"
"Yesh, there, and also after too." England gave an exaggerated nod, something close to a leer on his face.
"You are never getting photos, ever," Romano hissed.
"What's after, though?" Spain said, confused.
England opened his mouth to speak and then closed it. "Er, never mind thash..." He sunk his face back into his drink.
For a minute there Romano thought they were in the clear, but then.
"Oh! You mean the honeymoon?" America said, and Romano let his head drop the few inches to the counter in a soft clunk.
"Why would you want..." America trailed off and gave England a look. "Gross." He made a face.
"England!" Spain exclaimed, and England looked guiltily between the two.
"What? Im just tryin' to halp. Help."
"How is that helping!" Romano yelled into the counter top.
"Ah, entiendo," Spain said, grabbing on to his glass of wine and taking a sip. "Sometimes, when you care about someone, it can be more stressful that just an easy..." He made a thinking motion with his hand.
"Fuck!" England supplied gleefully.
"Yes, that!" Spain nodded with a smile.
"Please stop talking," Romano said, rolling his head to the side. America looked stricken next to England. Just about how Romano felt at the moment.
"A little bit of wine always helps! Not too much," Spain said, wagging a finger. "But enough to relax a little."
"Also, lubricant," England said, nonchalantly, and America made gagging noises next to him.
"What are you, France?" America said, and England glared at him.
"Absholutely not," He snapped. "Although he is going to be disappointed he didn't get to give you thish talk. Ha ha ha! Beat 'em to it!" England laughed and tossed back his glass, which had been empty for awhile. "Hey, wheresh the wine go?" He said, tilting the glass.
Spain had his chin in his hand, frowning as he thought hard. "Speaking of lub-"
"No, NO, no." Romano bolted out of his chair. "Shut up. You too," he jabbed a finger at America, who opened his mouth to speak and then closed it at the sight of Romano's face, looking crestfallen.
"I -" Romano looked at the three fools in front of him (really only two, but he wasn't feeling generous enough to overlook America at this point) and snarled out some colorful words in his own language – with a slight pleasure at the blanched look on all their faces, signifying they all understand that bit of Italian – before concluding in English, "I am done." He turned on his heel and stalked off.
Nobody shouted out his name, and if they did, Romano didn't hear them. Fine. That was fine, he need to be alone. He needed to scrub his brain with bleach to get the horrifying images out if his mind. His headache, which had never really gone away, was coming back with a vengeance, throbbing behind his eyes.
Romano shouldered his way past several groups of tourists, crowded around some game tables, and through a narrow aisle of slot machines, each with a warm body filling the seats. Did they pack as many damn machines as possibles or what? It was crass and irritating, no style to be found whatsoever in the gaudy carpet and the disco lights overhead.
Again, who's fucking idea was it to have a world meeting in Vegas? Could only be America's, that bastard.
Romano managed to find his way to the lobby, and then outside past the cars and the vans and the porters loading luggage onto trolleys, where he stopped, not certain where he was stomping off to. Now that he was away from the idiots, he could rest for a second.
Okay. Reset. Time to get things in order. First, water. Lots of water. Enough water to wash out the horrible taste in his mouth. Something had crawled in there and died, most likely his sense of humor. Wait, he had mints in his pocket, didn't he? They'd had a little bowl sitting out when he and Veneziano checked in, and he'd grabbed a couple. That would help a little.
Digging through his trouser pockets, he continued his checklist. After water came looking for the wedding chapel – it had to be close by, right? Maybe even in the hotel. Probably next to the bar, he thought bitterly.
Unsuccessful at finding anything in his trouser pockets, he searched through the pockets on his jacket hanging over his arm. Maybe he didn't have any mints anymore. Could of eaten them last night during the drunken mess he'd somehow gotten into. A fold of paper brushed at his fingertips and he grabbed it.
He pulled out a crumpled up sheet, sloppily folded into a square. Romano stared at it uncomprehendingly until an idea dawned on him. Maybe it was the marriage license, or at least a copy of it! He fumbled at it with both hands, eager to open it. This was great, he could take this directly to-
Reasons I want to marry -you- South Italy
Romano's mouth went dry and unconsciously, he swallowed. The you was crossed out, the words South Italy written larger afterward, with several lines drawn crookedly underneath.
What was this. What. Was. This. His fingers tensed around the paper as he read, heart pounding fast in his chest.
Reason number 1:
Romano lowered the note, raising his head up and squeezing his eyes shut. This was – it must be America's handwriting. Writing – writing reasons to marry him.
America.
Romano made himself back down. He read through the list, chest getting tighter and tighter as he went down the list, words becoming progressively more blurry. Damn desert air. He lowered the paper, rubbing at the base of his throat with one hand. Made it hard to breathe. The sunlight was killing his eyes, too, making them water.
This was - unbelievable.
Reasons I want to marry you
Romano coughed, wiped his eyes, and tucked the paper back in his pocket. Then he walked very quickly back to the bar, a tightly controlled anger growing as he went. They'd just have a short little talk. No yelling. Just calm explanations.
Romano very carefully stepped around the throngs of sun-burnt tourists, men in ties, sleeves buttoned up to their elbows, and employees dressed as Roman gladiators or gods or some unholy combination of the two. By the time he reached the bar, his fingers were tightened into fists, and no one was there. He turned, not really planning anything, just walking - he'd find the bastard eventually - until the thought slowly processed that maybe he was back in his room.
With this idea in mind, he took the stairs up to their floor and stalked through the corridor until he reached the room he thought he'd been in early. No yelling, he reminded himself.
He pounded his fist three times against the door, and then stepped back.
Less than a minute later, the door swung open to reveal America.
"Romano?" Something close to relief, but also wariness, was in America's look.
"I don't understand, asshole!" Romano forgot about the not-yelling part and stormed up to America and shoved the note right in his face. "What is this? Is this – is this part of the j-joke?"
America looked a little startled by his yelling, but otherwise he just shrugged, one hand coming up to scratch at the back of his head, slightly embarrassed but braving Romano's glare. "I was trying to tell you earlier-" At Romano's look he half-smiled. "Okay, forget about that! You, uh, needed some reasons last night. So I wrote you some!" America smiled, like that made it okay.
"You wrote," Romano started, and then stopped as things suddenly clicked into place.
"You wrote these," he said, suspicion darkening his voice. "No one m-made you?"
America looked at him, and this time his smile was more genuine, and beyond the obvious anger Romano started to feel a distant sort of curiosity as the meaning of the words sunk in.
"Why? Why are you – " He said, a little more subdued, frustration clear in his voice.
America rubbed his lower lip with his thumb in what Romano had started to realize was a nervous gesture, eyes wandering away and growing unfocused. He shifted a bit on his feet, and Romano lost his patience.
"You know what happened last night. You started this joke -"
America's eyes snapped back towards him.
"No." He said sharply, hard. "It's not a joke." Then he softened. "Actually, uh, it was your idea," he pointed out, and Romano's jaw dropped.
"What!?" He yelled, disbelief clear in his voice. "Why the hell would I –" He flailed for a moment and then pulled himself together. "And you said y-yes?" Romano's throat closed on the word, but he forced it out.
America made a strange motion, almost like he wanted to reach out for Romano, and then stopped. "You were sitting at the bar by yourself, last night. And we - talked," he added lamely, and then stopped again, straightening almost imperceptibly, shoulders going back and a muscle working along the line of his jaw. And, if you didn't know him you wouldn't have seen it, but Romano had spent the better part of the day with the bastard (and last night, but let's not get into that) and could almost judge him well enough to see America was about to do something big.
"You were laughing," America said in a rush, stumbling through the words but quickly picking up steam. "You don't know what you look like – I've never seen you laugh before, like that, I liked it. I like it. I wanted to make you laugh, be the one who," he cleared his throat, "the one who makes you smile."
Of all the cheesy lines - still, America seemed serious, and Romano could feel his cheeks growing warm. America looked so earnest – eyes wide and blue and honest. Confessional. Romano had never seen anyone look like that (had anyone ever looked at him like that?), always assumed that America was obsessed with looking stupidly heroic and being in charge and annoyingly lacking in self-awareness, hyped up on his own ego.
"After I said yes, I mean, you were laughing then, but then you were laughing like it wasn't funny, and asked me why. Said you didn't think anyone would want you, especially – especially not forever."
Sounded like something he would think, Romano thought with a twist in his stomach. Although saying aloud – but then, he was drunk, wasn't he? Not in full possession of his faculties.
"You wanted reasons, I gave you some. You wanted them written down, heh." The corner of America's mouth pulled into a small curling smile, a private memory of what had happened and Romano really wished he could remember too, wanted to know what made America smile like that.
"Keep going," Romano said hoarsely, surprising himself with the words and the especially the rawness in his voice. "Not that I - I believe you, or anything. R-right now."
America blinked and then a huge smile bloomed on his face. "Not much else to say. You said we were already wearing suits, all we needed were rings, and you held my hand all the way chapel."
Fucking Vegas and its chapels on every corner.
Romano's eyes dropped to America's hand, to see that ring again, as the other nation stepped closer.
"And I know. I know we'd been drinking, especially you." He smiled crookedly as Romano glared. "Not that it makes it okay! But. You just seemed so – happy, excited, like it was a good thing, and I thought – I guess I thought we could make it work, that maybe you did want it. Uh. Me. That maybe you liked me too."
Romano felt his glare soften, possibly melting into a frown.
"I mean, I see you all the time at meetings, and you always look angry, and every time I try to talk to you, you just cut me off." America made a slashing motion with his hand, and Romano felt his frown slipping. He did automatically turn America away, the few times he'd come up to them in a meeting, but he'd always thought he was just there to talk to Veneziano, and his politeness was infuriating, like he was looking down at him, the less fun, mean, grumpy half-nation that no one cared for.
And he'd been doing it today, hadn't he? Every time America had said he wanted to talk, Romano had just blown him off. He chewed on the inside of his lip and looked away, not wanting to see America's eyes right then. He was this close to feeling bad, and he shouldn't – America had apparently been sober enough to know this was happening, to remember all of it, and he still said yes.
Wait.
Romano had been trying to convince himself all day that America was somehow to blame for this disaster, but no. Romano had proposed it. (Proposed, ha!) America was watching him, a hopeful look on his face, but not touching him. Patient. Not forcing him to do anything. It made – it made Romano – his poor stomach was going through so many uproars today.
"Dammit." Romano scrubbed a hand through his hand and down his face. How could he have gotten drunk, proposed to another nation, proposed to the one other nation that happened to like him, and still wanted to be married to him.
He turned towards America, raising a hand and pointing at him. "You – I don't – we can't be married," Romano pointed out, and the way America's face fell made Romano hurry to continue, "before we even go on a date." The swiftness from tragedy to confusion to hope on America's face was almost comical.
"You mean. What do you mean?"
Romano crossed his arms over his chest and took a steadying breath.
"I – I'm not going to be married to you without knowing you. If we're going to do this, we do it right," he said severely, and was not at all affected by the blindingly gorgeous grin on America's face. "And if it doesn't work out! We stop this and get d-divorced. Immediately."
America tempered down his smile and nodded seriously.
And if it does work out we get married in a real church, Romano thought to himself, but America didn't need to know that.
Yet.
"Okay." America was still grinning like an idiot.
"Doesn't it hurt to smile that much?" Romano said, rolling his eyes. "Don't look so stupid," he said gruffly, because it was doing weird things to his stomach.
"Can we start now?" America took a step closer and his hands came up to grasp Romano's, larger and warmer than his own. His ring was pressing into Romano's skin, a cool bit of contrast.
"Start what?" Romano said, a tiny bit of shakiness in his voice, mostly covered by his sharp annoyance.
"Our date," America said, squeezing his hands.
"Only if I get to pick. I'm not eating at some shitty buffet just because it's cheap."
"'kay, whatever you want, babe."
"I'd rather stab myself with a plastic fork – no nicknames," Romano groaned. "It's too soon for that!"
"Hmm," America hummed thoughtfully. "Isn't it a bit too late if we're already married?"
Romano swung at him with one hand. "Shut up, bastard! That joke isn't funny."
America took the hit, grinning. "I don't think it'll ever get old," he said, bumping his shoulder into Romano's, eyes sparkling with humor.
"Shut up," Romano said lamely, and turned his head so America couldn't see his blush. "Now hurry up, I'm starving."
"Me too."
They walked out of the hotel room, still holding hands.
Fin.
I'm thinking about adding an outtake to this - when Romano drunk-proposes to America, when America and Spain talk, or the reception the next day. (Which Romano forgets about until the next morning and then is suckered into it, heh.) y/n? anybody want to see those?