disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, it's characters or related properties.
This might be awkward.
It's really far too late for lunch, and the diner turns out to be more of a truck stop, which Romano wasn't too familiar with since they don't really do truck stops in Italy; at least, not to the degree America does (and even if they did, he wouldn't be caught dead in one). The air is greasy, smoky, the lighting is dim and harsh at the same time. It glares off the chrome and red vinyl furnishings, casting everything in a sort of grim relief. America, whose arm is still around his shoulders, drags him past the counter lined with burly, serious-looking men, hunched over plates and huge vats of coffee with the air of men to whom Time is Money and food is Serious Business. Some of them glance up in the midst of their frenzied shoveling to greet America as they pass, with a nod or a "Heya, Al." and he calls back a cheery "Heya fellas!" as he manhandles Romano into a booth. Plopping into the opposite seat and leaning his elbows on the table, he drops his chin into his palm and flashes a grin at Romano (who is is looking at him like he's crazy). America opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by the arrival of the biggest hamburger Romano has ever seen, along with a small mountain of fries.
"You're late today, Al." the waitress attending this abomination greets fondly, snapping her chewing gum with a grin."Everythin' ok?"
He beams up at her like a little boy as she sets the plate in front of him.
"Great, thanks! How's things?" he asks, mouth already full. 'Gladys' rolls her eyes, swatting his shoulder.
"Don't talk with your mouth full, kiddo. Who's your pal?" she asks, turning to Romano.
America swallows hastily, "This is my buddy Romano," he replies (they both ignore Romano's snarl of "I'm not your buddy, bastard!"), "We're sort of partners. We had some work to take care of but things ran late, so we're having a business lunch!"
"Only you would think of having a business lunch in this dive." she shakes her head, and smiles at Romano. "Can I get you anything, hon?"
Romano shakes his head. Watching that big blond idiot wolf his meat monstrosity was more than enough to kill what little appetite he might have had. "I'll just have some water, thanks."
"Bring him a chocolate malt, Gladys." America casually overrided once again, licking catsup from his fingers, "and a cherry soda for me, too."
"Alright sweetheart." she pockets her notepad and leaves.
"I don't need anything." Romano frowns, not really sure what a 'malt' is, here. The way things were going, he hopes it's alchoholic.
"If you don't like it, I'll drink it." America shrugs. "But you'll love it, they're awesome here. You sure you're not hungry? You can share my fries if you'd like." he offers. Romano's amazed to see that he's halfway done with his burger. He shakes his head again, both in disbelief and refusal.
"Watching you eat killed my appetite, jerk."
"Haha, alright!" America laughs, mouth full.
"And don't talk with your mouth full, idiot! Cheh!"
"You tell 'im, darlin'." Gladys' voice calls distantly from the kitchens.
While they're wait for their drinks to arrive, America's observing Romano over his burger and fries. He's pretty happy to have him here, 'cause, well...
He'd noticed South Italy fall asleep during the conference. He'd briefly considered waking him up, but Romano had looked so tired when he'd arrived for the meeting, and was resting so peacefully that America didn't have the heart to disturb him (it wasn't like there was anything important going on, anyway. Some of those nations could go on and on forever).
It'd occured to him that he'd never actually seen Romano so...relaxed. Not that he saw him very often, but when he did the other nation was always either yelling at North Italy, or yelling at Spain, or yelling at Germany, or trying to fend off France and Spain and Prussia and yelling at everybody. Now, though, with his head pillowed in his arms and sprawling slightly across both the table and his seat, without his perpetual scowl, he looked...different. Almost...sweet.
America tried to focus back on the meeting, but found himself increasingly drawn in by the novelty of the other's sleeping face. His gaze kept returning to the half-nation, noticing something new each time. The softness of the curve of his lips when not drawn tight into his usual frown, or the fineness of his nose and cheekbones, or the surprising strength and elegance in the arch of his neck. The way the sunlight falling through the conference room windows lit his dark hair and golden skin, lending him a fiery halo.
Then there'd been a loud noise from the other side of the room, someone dropping something. Romano's brows had drawn together in a small frown, and America's own lips turned down in an answering frown to see it. He'd been struck with the strangest urge to reach over and soothe it away, to smooth the furrow with his fingertips.
The strangeness of that thought shook him.
Suddenly realizing what he'd been doing, staring at an innocently sleeping nation for who-knows-how-long, he'd shifted in his seat to face away, hoping that would be enough to distract him from his worrying new fascination. His face burned in embarrassment. He felt like a stalker. Maybe he'd been spending too much time with Russia, lately? Or his creepy sister, whatsername, Bel-Air or whatever. They hadn't actually been spending any time together, per se, but their seats weren't far from his. Maybe the siblings' combined creepiness was so strong it could effect people from a distance. Airborne infection, or something.
Crap, what if he was catching communism? He wasn't sure how it worked. Was this how you became one with Russia? Maybe strange obsessions with other nations was the first sign...
Okay, now he was just being silly. America was way too awesome to be a communist.
Internal crisis resolved, he'd struggled to return his focus to the meeting, and succeeded for a while. But it was desperately boring, and his thoughts turned inexorably back to South Italy. Mentally replaying all of their (very few) past encounters, he realized he knew very little about him, actually.
He decided he'd like to get to know Romano better. But how?
Under normal circumstances, if he wanted to get to know someone, he'd just walk up and start a conversation. Everyone wants to be friends with America, right?Something told him that wasn't the best course of action here, though. First of all, he didn't want to wake the other up, and second, he was fairly sure from what little he knew of him that the high-strung nation would not respond well to that sort of approach.
He could ask around, he supposed, and check his information online, or keep watching him from a distance, but he was trying to be less creepy-stalkerish, not more. He needed to find a way to talk to Romano that wouldn't scare him off or involve stalking of any kind.
After the meeting he'd lingered, still trying to come up with a plan to get to know Romano properly (or possibly just waiting for Romano to wake up). He'd finally given up and decided to head out, realizing that his behaviour was bordering on pathetic, and was therefore pleasantly surprised when Romano'd approached him just as he was about to leave.
Being a country who knew how to take full advantage of good fortune when it presented itself, America had siezed the opportunity accordingly.
Which brought them here. Now, a truck stop is probably not the best place to get to know Romano, he knows, but he's winging it, and he hadn't been kidding about being hungry, and he's been eating here almost every day lately. It's familiar ground for him, and he's hoping that if he's relaxed and comfortable maybe he can find a way to get Romano to open up. So he's watching Romano, hoping for a clue on how to proceed.
The small Italian is shifting slightly in his seat, looking vaguely uncomfortable, like he feels out of place. He's alternately fiddling with his shirtcuff and toying awkwardly with his buttons. America's eyes are drawn to his fingers, slim and deft, as they pluck at cloth and mother-of-pearl. Hazel eyes glance uneasily around the diner from under lowered lashes, brows furrowed and lips curved into his habitual frown. Slender shoulders hunch slightly as he watches, drawing up protectively around his neck. America's own brows furrow in response, wondering what's causing his distress. He wonders if he should ask, or if drawing attention to it would just piss him off, when Romano finally notices him staring.
For his part, Romano's wondering why the hell he let this idiot drag him along. He's a little intimidated by all the huge, burly men in this place, and frustrated and angry with himself for being intimidated. Is everyone in America so huge? It's as bad as Germany. How the hell do these guys get so gigantic? They're more like bears than people. Steroids in the coffee, or something?
It's almost a relief to notice that America, that oblivious idiot, is watching him curiously.
"What are you staring at, bastard!" he snaps, glad to have something to snarl about.
"You." America answers honestly. Romano isn't sure how to respond to that, really.
"W-well stop it, it's creepy." he crosses his arms and stares at the salt and pepper shakers to hide his blush.
"Sorry." he says, insincerely, as he coats a fry in ketchup, "It's just, you're very interesting." (He almost adds 'I'd like to get to know you better." but thinks that might be taken the wrong way.)
"Chigi! B-bastard!" Romano sputters in incoherent embarassment for a moment, ears burning crimson. "You don't j-just... say stuff like that, moron! Didn't that jerk England teach you anything?"
A half-shrug. "Probably, but if I listened to half the stuff England told me I'd never get anything done."
Romano grudgingly concedes the point. England, already reserved by nature, had a tendency to become unbelievably uptight and irascible when it came to this particular former colony. "Whatever, idiot." he mutters, "Let's just get down to business."
"Haha! Okay!"
AN: I don't know what happened with the tense in this. It came out that way.
