A/N: I adopted this little story from theSardonyx her awesome story is found on her profile under Wrong (For some reason it won't let me leave a link to her story)
Normally the American wouldn't stand at the door and listen, it wasn't his place to interrupt his friend at work but as the cries turned to sobs; it pulled at his heart strings. After biting his lip for a moment he pushed open the door to see the pure mess the room had become. "Dude…" He muttered quietly out of pure shock as the other's head shot up.
"Get out!" Romano screamed as he reached for anything to throw at the unwelcomed guest. His hands found an emptied bottle of blue paint but just as he's about to throw it the American speaks.
"Are you making modern art or something?" While most of the time a comment like that would have been said with a sly smile it only came with an outreached hand. "Or are you one of those pissed off artists?"
Romano only stared at his hand before looking up, "I said get out."
"So," America started as he knelt down to meet his old friend's eyes, "A pissed off artist then?" While he knew that Romano could at any time shove him back and storm off he was willing to take that chance. "Did all your fruit look like potatoes again?"
"You're one to talk idiot…" Romano muttered as he wiped his eye leaving a blue stain across his cheek, "What do you want anyway?" It comes out with a glare as America picks up a white canvas from his table.
Without a word the American quickly rights the stool and easel before putting the canvas in place, "I wanted to paint and thought you'd give me a few tips."
It only got a snort from the Italian, "Go ask Feli if you want to learn so badly." He sat definitely in his spot before curiosity finally got the better of him. "What are you doing?" When he wasn't answered he stood up and walked over to see the American painting what he had been trying to for hours.
The swirling blues and the bright yellows all melted together on the canvas haphazardly and as America moved the brush over a section Romano just sighed. "It's wrong."
"So?" America finally said as he dipped his brush in the paint.
"So it's all wrong! The blues are supposed to be small strokes except in the hills. The yellows are too bright and-"
"And it's not wrong." America said simply as he looked around the room for a new color to use. So as Romano continued to speak he refused to listen as he searched. Finally on a high shelf he finds what he's looking for and as he opened the lid he started to listen again.
"It is wrong."
"But you didn't tell me why it's wrong."
Dumbfounded Romano just stared, "I just told you! The wind direction isn't right and-"
"And that doesn't mean anything." America interrupted again, "It doesn't make it wrong or right." He dipped the brush in the new found paint and continued as he spoke. "It's just not as good as yours."
Quietly he whispered, "Not as good as Feliciano's you mean…"
As soft as it was America heard every word, "Not every artist has to paint a fucking church ceiling to be good." He stood up and sat the paint down on the stool. "I thought there was supposed to be some joy to this…" With that he walked towards the door.
Romano picked up the small bottle of paint as he let out a sigh, "You're not wrong about that." Gently he returned the bottle to its spot on the shelf.
He took one last look around the chaotic room filled with broken canvases and blue stains before he turned off the light. As wrong as the painting is, he'll still let it dry but only because he feels it's the right thing to do.