Disclaimer: I don't own it, I just ship it.
Warning: swearing, male x male pairings (Romerica), and a touch of OOC (which I'll try to avoid the best I can)
…Dammit, I tried. I tried so hard just to make it into one chapter and throw it on Coffeehouse Drabbles, but I couldn't. By the time I forced my brain to stop coming up with ideas, it was already 5 chapters long. So here, ya go. Romano's adventures and exploits in winning over a certain oblivious American. (Gift fic for 91 RedRoses for requesting it and being awesome in general)
oOo
It was a rainy day in Italy, but that was fine with Romano. It suited the miserable mood he'd worked himself into. You see, for the last 150 years or so, he had been afflicted with a terrible curse. A curse called a crush. And of all the people he knew, it just had to go and make him feel all lovey-dovey and sappy around America. America. The most idiotic, oblivious person he knew. (And this was saying a lot with Italy as his brother and Spain as his former caretaker.)
He had hoped with the freaking ocean that separated them, his feelings for the blondest of the blondes would fade, but it didn't. He had eagerly awaited the day where he'd wake up and not think about what America was doing or spend every spare thought fantasizing about how different his life would be with America in it. That never happened either. Romano was stuck with his crush the size of the land he personified and there was no getting out of it.
It frustrated him to no end that he couldn't get America out of his head. Everything he did or saw somehow reminded Romano of him – the blue sky was the color of his eyes, the golden sun was the same color as his hair, whenever someone laughed, he couldn't help but compare it to the American's cheerful laugh…hell even the ground beef he used in his rotini yesterday nearly became hamburgers for the sole reason that they were America's favorite food. And Romano hated hamburgers! This had to stop!
They barely spent any time together outside of meetings, for christ's sake. Romano just couldn't understand the logic behind his heart's inner workings. So on this rainy day, Romano handled it like he always did – moping around the house. Eventually, his younger brother found him lying on the couch in the living room. Veneziano noticed the gloomy look on his face and tried to fix it.
"Ve~ Fratello?"
Romano didn't answer. He didn't even blink to acknowledge him.
"Fratello, what's wrong?" Italy asked sincerely. He just wanted to help.
"…Nothing."
"…It's about America, isn't it?" he sighed.
That got his attention. Romano shot off the couch as if it had been engulfed in turtles.
"Cazzo!" he spat out. "What did you say?! Why the hell would I—"
"It wasn't that hard to see!" North Italy laughed. "He's probably the only one who hasn't noticed!"
His southern counterpart blushed. Was he really that obvious? No, he couldn't be. Veneziano's just freakishly good at this kind of stuff.
"Why don't you just confess to him?" he asked. "It worked for me!"
"It's not that simple," Romano scrunched up his face. He hated being compared to his brother, but he hated being compared to that potato-munching bastard dating his brother even more.
"Of course it is!" his brother exclaimed, hugging him. "We're Italian! Don't you remember what Nonno always said about that?"
"Don't call me, I'll call you?"
"We make the best lovers in the world!" Veneziano elbowed him. Romano perked up at this. "There's no one we can't sweep off their feet!"
"Y-You think so?"
"Fratello, if you put even half your effort into it, you could be dating America by the end of the week!"
"Of course I can!" smirked the motivated Romano. Feli was right; Italians were known for this sort of thing and he personifies half of them! He quickly thanked his brother and ran upstairs to plot, er, plan.
After some thought, Romano figured the easiest way to win America over was with his favorite thing – food. America always seemed hungry or in the process of snacking on something. Lucky for him, cooking was one of the Italian's specialties. Romano smirked. He could have 1/8 of his culinary talents and still make something better than that crappy English food America grew up on.
By a stroke of luck, the next World Meeting was being held in Italy. He'd have a chance then. Until then, he cracked open the cookbooks and began picking out recipes that would have America on his knees begging for more or in a food coma. Romano decided to try and avoid the second option.
oOo
Romano nervously drummed his fingers over his meeting notes. He didn't have to take them, as he had prepared the presentation himself. The brunette had made a deal with his brother that if he made the presentation, Veneziano would give it. As his brain had been in overdrive over making tonight's dinner perfect, he didn't want to make an idiot of himself during the meeting. All the same…where they fucking done yet?
During the lunch break, Romano noticed the garbage America had chosen for himself and decided to make his move. He was actually alone for a change too, he'd never have an opening like this again. He took a deep breath and walked over.
"Hey bas-America!" he called out.
"Hmm? Oh, hey, South Italy!" America looked up and smiled. "What's up?"
"I saw the crap you were having for lunch, that's what!" he scowled, but mostly at himself for being unable to sweet talk him in the presence of such horrifying food. Had he brought it with him from America? Or worse…England?
"Want some?"
"No!" he shuddered, then recomposed himself. "How could you come to Italy and eat that?"
"Oh, I got in late and didn't have time to grab something else," America grinned sheepishly.
"You can't visit Italy without eating true Italian food!" Romano chided him. "That's just…fucking wrong!"
"Uh, sorry?"
"Tell you what," Romano began, sighing. "My brother bailed on me for dinner tonight and I already have most of it laid out. Want to come over and eat true Italian food?"
In reality, Romano knew that Italy would be with Germany tonight and for once encouraged it.
"Yeah, that sounds great!" America happily accepted. "I love Italian Garden, I'm sure your cooking is even better since this is where it came from!"
It took all of Romano's self restraint to not strangle the blonde for comparing him to that cheap knock-off. Did he even know what they did to their pasta?! No, forget about it. Not important.
"What time do you want me over?" the fast-food chain junkie asked. "I have a really late flight, so any time shouldn't be a problem."
"U-Uh, how about seven?" Romano was starting to get nervous.
"Seven, it is!" America stood up to throw away the remains of his lunch. "Seeya then, South Italy!"
"Just don't be late, hamburger-bastard!"
Romano watched as the golden-haired man walked away from him and tried to get his heart to stop racing. He had a godamned feast to make.
oOo
By 6:30, Romano was putting a large pan of lasagna in the oven and setting the timer. As long as America was on time, it would be ready at 7:00 sharp. The Italian picked up his knife and resumed cutting up tomatoes for the bruschetta. This meal was going to be perfect or he was going to die trying.
Surprisingly enough, Romano had to stop topping the grilled bruschetta bread with olive oil when he heard the doorbell ring. Was America here already? He's usually late to everything. Romano felt his heart skip a beat.
"Hey, Romano!" America greeted him brightly at the door. "I was totally starved, so I got here a little early! Hope you don't mind."
"Che, like I care," Romano lapsed back into his tsundere defense mechanism. "I was wondering if you'd show up at all."
"Of course I would! You invited me, silly!" laughed the American. "Thanks for having me, by the way."
Luckily for Romano, America seemed to have the same immunity to his scowly face and snide comments that the other airheads in his life gained over time. Whatever it was, it had to be powerful or he was fairly certain that Veneziano and Spain would have disowned him by now.
They walked inside and Romano gave his guest a brief tour of the place on their way to the living room. The Italies' house was very old and very big, but that was fine with America. He loved old architecture, after all. Just as he was about to bypass the kitchen entirely, Romano stopped him.
"Take this, bastard," Romano said, shoving a plate full of bruschetta into his arms.
"Huh?"
"Not that I care, but you said you were hungry, right?" the Italian rolled his eyes. "Think of this as an appetizer."
"Wow! Thanks, Romano!" America beamed. Not only did those look good, but they smelled good! The blonde wasn't used to both things happening to his food at the same time. "But don't you want any help?"
"You could barely find the kitchen, much less make your way around it," he waved him off. "Living room's straight ahead. Go watch some TV or something while you wait."
"If you're sure…" America did as instructed while Romano returned to making heaven in a four-course meal.
oOo
In the living room, America was too distracted by the antipasto in his hands to focus on TV. Was this really just bread? It was amazing! They sure didn't have this at Olive Garden, that was for sure! Within minutes, the bruschetta had vanished. America didn't want to leave the plate out there, so he decided to take it back to the kitchen.
He was about to call his fellow Nation's name, but was distracted again, this time by Romano's mad cooking skills. America was impressed as he watched him work. It was incredible to see how fast he sliced, diced, and created a meal from scratch. If it tasted even half as good as all the effort Romano was putting into it, it would be amazing! The smell alone was enough to put America in seventh heaven.
"I don't know what you're making, but it smells delicious!" he told the half-nation.
"H-How long were you standing there?!" Romano nearly dropped a pot of noodles.
"I don't know…a few minutes maybe?" the superpower smiled and noticed his companion's face turn bright red. It must be really warm in the kitchen!
Once dinner was laid out on the table, Romano gave his guest permission to dig in. As soon as America took his first bite of lasagna, he was convinced he died and had gone to heaven. He closed his eyes in ecstasy and praised his host/chef.
"Oh, mannn! 'Mano you're the best ever!"
The Italian brightened at this and didn't even call him out on talking with food in his mouth…yet. He was just happy America liked his cooking…not that he was worried he wouldn't! Italian cooking was by far the best after all! Romano was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost missed America begin to devour all the food in front of him like a black hole.
"Slow down, idiota!" Romano commanded. "You'll ruin the flavor if you don't take the time to actually enjoy it!"
"Sowwy," America chewed what was left in his chipmunk cheeks. "It was just so good that I wanted to eat it right away!"
"Maybe, but it tastes even better when you take your time to savor each flavor."
America was confused by this, but decided to try anyway. Unsurprisingly, Romano was right. As he slowly chewed his food, one bite at a time, the natural flavors and spices practically danced on his tongue.
"Romanoooo…" America began.
"What?"
"Where have you been my entire life?" he laughed. "I can't believe I've been missing out on this for so long!"
"Whatever, bastard," the other quickly looked away to hide his blush. He'd been doing more of that this meal than he had his entire life.
America happily chatted throughout the dinner while Romano listened and made mental notes. When he noticed the American had barely touched his wine, he asked him if he didn't like it.
"It's good, but I don't really drink much wine," the blonde shrugged. "In my country, I'm not even old enough!"
"Idiot. You're well over 200…" Romano pointed out.
"Yeah, but my body doesn't look it!"
Romano silently agreed and tried to avert his eyes.
"Not everybody knows I'm a Nation in my country, so it would cause trouble if I'm seen drinking since I look like I'm under 21," he grinned. "Plus, I have to drive to the airport to fly home tonight."
"Why don't you just get a cab?"
"Because I rented a motorcycle for the day!" the blonde told him excitedly. "It's been forever since I got to take one out for a spin! Cabs are more fun here than at my place, but I still prefer driving.
Romano learned two things from that conversation – No Wine (which would change his game plan later) and He Likes To Go Fast.
oOo
After dessert and America begging him to give him leftovers of whatever sacred pastry he made, Romano tried to gather his courage. He got America all to himself tonight, made him a damned tasty dinner, there was really only one other thing he had to do.
"S-So, America…there's um, a r-reason I invited you over, bastard," he mentally slapped himself for cursing during his confession.
"To eat real Italian food?" America asked, looking up from helping clear the table.
"N-No, besides that…um…how to say it…?"
"Something wrong?" America tilted his head in an adorable fashion that really didn't help Romano in this situation.
"I-I was hoping you…er, we could…uh…" he fumbled over his words. Why couldn't he just say it?!
"Oh!" America's brilliant smile lit up the room. "I think I know what this is about!"
"You do?" Romano asked in surprise/terror. What if he was pissed off now? What if he didn't like him back? His head was reeling.
"Yup!" American nodded and he walked towards Romano. "I feel the same way!"
"R-Really?!"
"Of course!" the blonde clapped him on the back. "I'd love to be friends with you!"
Romano's world came to a screeching halt.
"F-Friends…?"
"Yeah! I know we'll be great friends!" He laughed and hugged the Italian. "And it'll be awesome having a friend who can cook as well as you! I've never eaten such good food!"
"Friends," repeated Romano, who was still stumbling over that hurdle.
"Yep, we're buds now!" America rested a hand on his shoulder.
"…Great."
oOo
America ended up staying a little longer to help Romano clean up ("Least I can do for my new buddy!") and then had to leave to catch his flight. Italy came home a few hours later, excited to hear about how his brother's night went. He was surprised to find him face down at the table, beside an empty bottle of wine, cursing everything from the Lord, to Jupiter, to their cookware set.
"S-So how'd it go, fratello?" Italy sat beside him, patting his back.
Romano glared at him. If looks could kill, he would have become an only child at that moment.
"I-I'm sure it couldn't have been that bad…" Italy winced. Had he not lived with his older brother for centuries, he would have fled instantly.
"…He wants to be friends," Romano emphasized the last word with a hiss. It was the same tone he used to describe war crimes, France, and Kraft-brand macaroni.
"Okay, that's okay," Italy nodded. "We can work with that! Think of it as the first step!"
Romano rolled away from him.
"At least he doesn't hate you!" Italy stroked his hair softly in a reassuring manner. "If he wants to be your friend, that means he likes you!"
Romano grunted.
"Maybe not in the way you want him to, but it's a start!" the half-nation was getting all fired up. "You just need to re-double your efforts and win his heart! You can do it, fratello!"
"…You really think so?" the older brother slowly sat up.
"I know so!" Italy clenched his fists. "Nobody can beat an Italian in love!"
"Y-Yeah, that's true…"
"Of course it is! We're irresistible!"
"Right! That's right!" Romano smiled. "If you were able to win over that macho potato bastard, it should be a snap for me to be with America!"
"That's ri—hey! Fratello!" pouted the Northern half of Italy. "You meanie! That's not very nice!"
"Sorry, Veneziano," he stood up an puffed out his chest. "Okay! Tomorrow I'll start over! I'll win that hamburger-bastard over yet!"
oOo
A/N
And there's chapter one! I have it outlined to be a fairly short story, roughly five chapters. Let me know how you liked it~
-Rajikka
Translations:
Fratello – Brother (It.)
Idiota – Idiot (It.)
