*Disclaimer* I don't own Hetalia but the character Sicily is mine.

A/N: Okay, I've been meaning to write a story for Sicily for a while but never got around to it. Basically when I write a one-shot for Sicily it will go here. This story might not be updated on a regular schedule but whenever I write a story for Sicily it will be put up. Enjoy, I guess? Also, I don't edit my stories so sorry for spelling and grammar mistakes. And, these stories will have no story line, just a bunch of random stuff I decided to write.

*Description for story* Sicily gets tired of Italy cooking pasta every day and goes out for pizza. But of coarse something has to go wrong.

Sicily had enough. Pasta for every day off the week, 365 days a year. That's enough pasta to last someone a lifetime. Sadly, Sicily is only 13. When Italy put down a heaping plate of pasta for breakfast on no day in particular, Sicily snapped.

"What is your problem!" she yelled. "Pasta for every dang day of the year! On my birthday last year you cooked a PASTA CAKE!"

Italy looked like he was about to cry. "But I thought you liked my pasta?" he asked Sicily. "You said you did."

"Well, I lied," she said casually. "I'd prefer pizza." Her chair scraped on the floor as she got up from the table. She walked out of the kitchen and outside. Her short hair was plastered against her forehead because of the shower she had just taken, it was the same color of Italy's and she also had the annoying curl.

"Pizza," she muttered to herself, "I just wanted pizza for once." Sicily started walking down the sidewalk to the nearest pizza place, that she just happened to own.

She pushed open the door and the scent of freshly baked pizza washed over her. She pulled out a five-dollar bill and bought a slice of pepperoni pizza. She sat down at a table and waited for her pizza.

"Yo, Sicily!" Sicily smiled and looked down at the table. America had just walked into the restaurant and spotted her. He ordered something and then came over to sit with her.

"Hey America," she muttered, still looking at the table.

The pizza was set down at the table and Sicily took no time in taking a bite so she wouldn't have to talk to the other country. It's not that she didn't like him, quite the opposite actually, but sometimes it could be awkward.

"Sicily, why are you here anyway?" America asked, "I thought Italy didn't let you out of the house much?"

She swallowed then answered, "He doesn't. I got tired of eating pasta 24/7 so I got up and left."

"Are you going to go back?" America asked. He seemed concerned, which was a bit strange.

"I have to," Sicily said with a smile. "He's my brother. I have to forgive him! And I only brought five bucks with me so I don't have much of a chance of making it out in the great big world."

"You could always stay with me."

The statement was almost too quiet to hear and she probably wasn't meant to hear it, but she did. A light pink color dusted her cheeks and she looked down at her pizza. America's slice lay untouched on his plate and her own slice, which should have been gone, was still sitting on her plate with only one large bite taken out of it.

"I should go," Sicily said, looking up at America when she was sure that her cheeks were back to their normal color, "I don't want Italy to worry to much."

America perked up, "I'll walk you home. Because… I'M THE HERO!"

Sicily laughed at her friend and didn't object when he started walking home with her instead of going to his own home. When Sicily got to her house she waved good-bye to America and opened the door. Italy was talking to Germany and Japan while making frantic gestures with his arms.

"We have to go find her! What if Russia got her? What is France got her!"

Sicily walked in and shut the door. "Now there's a scary thought. If I had seen France at all, I would have come running home."

Italy turned around and then pulled his little sister into a hug. Sicily laughed and hugged her brother back. She waved to Germany and Japan. When Italy let go of her he told her he was sorry for never asking if she wanted something other than pasta to eat. He also said he'd make her pizza if she wanted. But, remembering the awkward time with America at her pizza place she declined.

"I'm actually in the mood for pasta," she said, a light, almost undetectable, pink crossing her cheeks at the thought of America, "I've had enough pizza to last me a life time.

Italy happily hurried off to the kitchen and cooked Sicily an entire new plate of pasta. She ate it and never told Italy anything about what happened while she was out. No, that would remain her secret for as long as she should live. And perhaps one day she'd take America up on his offer?

A/N: Well, that was not exactly how I planned that to turn out but hey, what works, works, right? And maybe Sicily and America will get together in the end if I stop failing at every Romance story I write. XD. Ah well, until then Sicily and America will have to get along with out me.