Notes: de-anon from the kink meme. Request was for Russia and Italy to meet and slowly become friends, and then fall in love. Human names used. Goofy Italy POV and touristy scenes of Florence and a few small bouts of angst.
our electric hearts
Italy feels bad spilling his gelato. It's not a tragedy, like La bohème, true, but it's painful nonetheless, and there's a tremendous wave of sadness that overwhelms him as he watches the pistacchio gelato – his favorite lately, although the limone-menta and the fragola and the vaniglia and the caffè are also really good – drip out of the paper cup, smashed between his hand and Russia's chest. Mostly onto Russia's chest.
Russia, who is staring at him, stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, immovable like a statue against all the tourists milling around them. The little plastic spoon in Italy's hand feels lonely. Italy feels sad about his ruined gelato, and stares at the glob on Russia's coat, which drips down and leaves a dark stain behind. Italy feels bad about that, too.
"Ve ~ I'm so sorry!" He says, and it sounds a little wobbly even to his ears, like he had been singing Rodolfo's part in the opera. The sweet taste of his gelato is fading, and the rest is a mess on Russia's coat. Russia is probably going to kill him for that, too, and Italy doesn't even get the benefit of a full cup of gelato before hand.
But Russia doesn't look angry, and when he opens his mouth kolkolkol doesn't come out like Italy expects. "It's fine," he says, a smile fixed on his face, and gestures to the shop behind Italy. "Do you want to get another one?"
The gelateria! Why didn't Italy think of that? He beams. "Ve~ Yes! Come on, I'll buy you one, too!" He latches onto Russia's wrist and pulls Russia inside.
Italy smiles at the owner, who just smiles back, not surprised to see him again. There are a few people in front of them, picking out flavors, so Italy bobs around them to get napkins for them to clean up, first of all. Secondly, the decision making process begins, and Italy makes sure to point out all the good flavors to Russia, so Russia can make a good selection and be happy and not kill Italy for ruining his coat.
Russia doesn't say anything. He's still smiling, but he looks pensive, a line creasing his brow. After a long moment he nods deeply, like he has just reached an incredibly important decision, maybe picking out Italy's gravestone or something, and orders nocciola – hazelnut, so good! Italy claps his hand in agreement and gets that too, with a scoop of pistacchio again, to make up for his earlier loss.
They eat outside – there are no seats inside the tiny shop, of course, even though there seems to be a wide berth around him and Russia – and Italy savors his gelato like there is no tomorrow (which maybe, possibly, there almost wasn't). Russia seems to be enjoying his gelato, too, although maybe not as noisily as Italy.
"I'm sorry about your coat," Italy says again when they finish, because it never hurts to say sorry twice, and Russia smiles. He's still smiling. Or maybe he never stops, Italy wonders, and panics at the thought.
"It's fine," Russia says, and smiles some more.
"Okay!" Italy agrees, nervous, and expects Russia to leave. They've both finished their gelato, after all, and Italy can think of no reason for Russia to hang out any longer than he already has. Unless he wants more gelato.
"Do you want more gelato?" Italy asks, because Russia keeps smiling and not leaving.
Russia shakes his head no.
"Okay!" Italy says, and falters. What should he do? What would Germany do? No, actually, that would probably be bad. Besides, as Germany reminds Italy constantly, Italy is not Germany. He's said that a lot, recently, mostly when pushing Italy onto a train, back to his homeland. He's said it often enough that Italy is starting to think about what he's trying to say. (After all, he has time, on those train rides, to think.)
So it's not, what would Germany do, but what would Italy do? Thoughts take flight in Italy's mind, but never quite finish the trip, and he's halfway through the motions of making a small flag out of his gelato napkin when Russia simply says, "Thank you," and walks away.
"You're welcome!" Italy calls back automatically, and then shakes his head because that's what he should be saying to Russia and yells "Sorry about your coat!" because it never hurts to apologize again. And Russia just waves a hand at him and disappears around the corner.