Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia!

I should really sit on this a while longer and tighten and polish it up, but I'm so excited to be writing again I just can't wait. So here! Take THAT!

Romano began to feel a little steadier once they were in the kitchen. America took the basket from the counter, pulling out a manila file for some reason, which he put aside before emptying the rest of the contents onto the counter near the stove. Basket empty, Romano set him the task of heating the oven while he himself separated the things that needed to be heated from those that didn't. And there was plenty of food to sort. Amata, in her endless wisdom, had sent along enough to feed an army. Either she'd learned some things about America during their correspondence, or (perhaps more likely) she was working off the assumption that every young male was a bottomless pit that required three square meals in one sitting to survive.

He frowned, though, when he opened the container of gnocchi. "Ugh." Potato gnocchi. Revolted, he held the container away from him like a dead thing.

"What's wrong?" America glanced back from his task watching the microwave timer (two-and-a-half minutes left 'til the oven was ready).

"Gnocchi con il sugo di pomodoro." His lip curled, disgusted. "Why would she send this? She knows I hate potatoes. Such a fucking waste of good tomato sauce." He looked around for a garbage can.

"Is that 'nookie' spelled like 'gin-oh-chee'?" America asked interestedly, craning his neck to see the container.

"That's 'gnocchi', and yes. Why?"

"Then it's probably for me." America came over to peer into the container, and took the lid from Romano's other hand. "Yep." He flipped it over, displaying the 'Alfred' written on it in marker. Romano handed the container off with a grunt, glad to be rid of the thing. "She said I might like it, since I eat lots of French fries and stuff."

"Oh." Said Romano, slightly mollified now that he knew Amata hadn't been trying to poison him. "I guess that's okay. Just...keep it away from me." He turned to the last of the food, which turned out to be a container of tomato-stuffed rigatoni, with roast tomatoes and thick, rich tomato sauce, and another of tomato salad (with extra tomatoes. Four kinds.), and she was completely forgiven. Amata was an angel.

"Alright." He said, carrying the rigatoni over to the counter where the other things that needed to be heated sat. "Put these in casserole pans and put them in the oven, then set the timer for ten minutes. I'll set the table and get the rest ready."

"'Kay. How many do I need?" America asked, digging in the cupboard.

"Four should be plenty." Romano answered, rifling through the cupboards and drawers to locate America's tableware. He found the dishes and silverware fairly easily, and with a little exploration discovered a tablecloth, too.

"What about the gnocchi?" America wondered, sliding the pans into the oven. "Should I put that in a casserole dish, too?"

"That you can microwave." Romano answered, turning up his nose in disdain.

"Really? Sweet!"

Well, the table was ready, and the food looked good. A glance at the timer showed they had another few minutes before the rest of the meal was warm. Something was missing, though.

Oh, right. He went into the pantry and dug through his luggage, recovering a bottle of wine, and reentered the kitchen to rifle through the drawers for a bottle opener.

"I had that in the pantry?" America asked in surprise, removing the hot dishes from the oven.

"No, bastard. I had that in the pantry." Romano answered, plucking a slice of tomato from the salad bowl to nibble while he opened the bottle. "I brought it with me so I'd have something to drink."

America raised his eyebrows, pulling off his oven mitts. "Y'know, I do have a wine cellar."

"You do? I thought you didn't drink alchohol."

"I don't, but I still have a wine cellar. I'll show you later if you'd like."

"...What do you keep in it?"

"Wine and spirits, mostly. Y'know, stuff that goes in wine cellars. I'll show you later." America reiterated, poking tentatively at one of the casserole pans. "I don't go down there much, it's mostly for guests. Is this ready to eat?"

"Yeah, sure. Bring it to the table and we can get started."

"Yay!"

America still ate like a starved animal, but at least he managed to chew with his mouth closed and swallow before trying to speak, Romano had to give him that. Besides, he was pretty damn hungry himself. They ate in relative silence for a while, except for the occasional request to pass a dish or expressions of gustatorial pleasure. Romano kept the tomato rigatoni to himself, refusing to share ("You have your damn gnocchi, bastard. This is mine."). He allowed America to try a little of the tomato salad, though, which he liked, and thought would go great on hamburgers- nearly sending the Italian into an apoplectic fit.

A few helpings later, the edge had been taken off Romano's hunger, and he was able to turn his mind to other things as he ate.

"You never explained what you were doing at Nino's, bastard." He remembered, curiousity peaked in the wake of a full stomach.

"Oh," America nodded, and swallowed his mouthful, "right. I was picking up some stuff! Remember I told you Nino said he had something for us whenever one of us stopped by next? He sent..." He frowned, and patted his pockets, "well, he gave me an envelope with some pictures in it I guess, but I forget where I put it...um," He twisted in his seat, looking around the kitchen as if it might be laying on a counter somewhere, "he said not to open them until we were both...around...where the heck did I put it?" Romano raised an eyebrow, watching as America struggled to remember what he'd done with Nino's envelope.

"Did he say what kind of pictures they were, idiot?"

"Oh, yeah!" America turned back to him with a smile. "They were of us!"

Romano's brows furrowed. "Us? You and me, you mean?"

"Yep! I guess he took pictures of our last visit. I totally didn't see him do it though, so I don't- Ah!" He snapped his fingers. "I put it in the inside pocket of my jacket! Did you notice it while you were wearing it?"

Romano thought back, although he didn't really need to. He hadn't noticed anything. He didn't even know the bomber had inside pockets, although he probably could have guessed. "...No. I left your jacket back in my room, though, so we'll have to check it later."

America nodded again. Sounded good to him. "I guess photography is Nino's hobby, which is pretty neat. He sent me a couple of landscape shots he took of the area Amata's from, in, uh..."

"Sorrento." Romano supplied, nodding. "Nh. Nino mostly does landscapes. He doesn't usually shoot people. I wonder when he took pictures of us. I didn't notice him do it."

"I know, right? He's a camera ninja." America grinned, licking some sauce off his chin. "I'm seriously curious what pictures he took. I'm pretty sure he didn't take any while I was changing."

Romano snorted. "He's a sneaky bastard, but he wouldn't do that. It was probably either when we came in and were talking to Amata, or when we left."

"Well, we'll find out soon." America leaned across the table to grab a breadstick, which he ate in two bites before continuing, "I'm thinking of getting him a new camera. The one he uses is analog, and so I thought maybe I'd get him a digital one he can use, too, to thank him for all the stuff he's done to help me out."

"Nothing wrong with analog, bastard." Romano frowned, defending the medium. "It works, and he likes it. He likes processing the film himself. Besides, it's hard to find a digital camera that produces the same quality shots as his old camera."

"That's true, but there are some that are really good. I don't mean that he should get rid of his old camera, though," America agreed, explaining, "I'm just thinking it might be nice for him to have a digital one to experiment with, too. Easier for him to transfer the pictures to the computer, and stuff. The pictures he sent me are pretty amazing. If you don't think he'd like it, though, I'll think of something else."

"...He probably would, if you explain it like that." Romano allowed, after a moment's reflection.

"Okay!" America smiled, using another breadstick to wipe the remnants of sauce off of his plate, "Now I just have to think of something for Amata."

"Good luck with that, bastard."

"Does she have any hobbies, that you know of?" America wondered. "Special interests? Things she likes to do?"

"I thought she wrote you letters, idiot. You don't read them?"

"Well, yeah, but it's only been a couple of weeks, and she doesn't write nearly as often as Nino. He writes almost every day. I've gotten three letters from her, which were really long and interesting, but they were mostly about you, or her family. She didn't say much about her personal interests, like, things she likes to do in her spare time."

Romano sighed, leaning on the table. "Matchmaking. That's what she likes to do."

"Hmm." America paused, tilting his head, and blinked at the ceiling. "I'm...I don't really know anything about matchmaking. How does she do it? Like, what does it entail?"

"Watching people." Romano gestured expressively. "Poking your nose into other peoples' business. Waylaying innocent people with advice and suggestions and help and food and confusing the hell out of them 'til they do what she wants and end up together."

"Hm." America chewed thoughtfully. "Okay. Does she have a good pair of binoculars?"

Romano's eyebrows rose at the thought. Ha, Amata with binoculars. No-one in the city would be safe. "I'm sure she'd love that." He admitted, lips quirking up as he sipped his wine. Why the hell not. It'd keep the place on its toes.

"Sweet." America grinned, happy to have his thank-yous sorted out. "Now we just gotta get your room all fixed up. You have it all planned out, yet?"

"Most of it." Romano nodded, nibbling thoughtfully on a breadstick. "I'm going to need a place to put shoes. I'm thinking a shoe cabinet in the closet. Something big. I'd like it to match the rest of the furniture, though, too."

"Well, I'll have to check," America said, reaching for the last of the potato gnocchi. Amata had been right, it was delicious. He didn't know why Romano was so dead set against it. "but I'm pretty sure I still have some seasoned mahogany in the shed. It'd take a while, but I could build a shoe cabinet to match, sure."

Romano rolled his eyes. "No, bastard, I want to get it from the same place as you got the rest of it. I want it to look good."

America rolled his eyes right back. "Romano, I'm where I got the rest of it. I made it." He gestured to the table and chairs they were using. "This, too."

"The hell you did." Romano crossed his arms, disbelieving. "This is quality shit."

"Yes, yes it is." America agreed. "I made it."

"You did."

"I did. Cut down the trees, seasoned the wood, cut and planed and joined and carved it, and smoothed, finished and varnished every last piece in here." America explained slowly. "Along with the rest of the house. I told you before, remember?"

Romano glanced around the room, and back at America, brows furrowed. "You built this house."

Dropping his fork, America held up his hands, fingers splayed. "These two hands."

"But this is a nice house." He said, bewildered.

"Yep, I built it. Bottom to top. I did tell you I built my house before." America reminded him. "On the phone, remember?"

"Well, yeah, but I thought you meant you had it built." Romano argued. "By like, contractors and stuff. Y'know, professionals."

"No, I did it. Why is it so hard to believe that I built it?" America wondered, a little insulted. "It's not that unusual. Sweden built his house."

"Sweden's built a lot of people's houses." Romano agreed. "But Sweden's a handy guy. He knows how to build shit."

"Yeah, well, Sweden was around when I was a kid, and taught me how to build shit too." America toyed with his food, frowning. "And I'm a handy guy." He added, sulking a little. "I'm super handy."

Romano looked at the chair he sat on, and ran his fingers hesitantly over it, tracing the carvings. "...You built this?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"Yeah." America said, not looking at him. "'Oh.'"

"That's...pretty amazing." Romano admitted.

And just like that, America perked up again, all insult forgiven. "Yep!"

"So...you, uh...think you could build a shoe cabinet, then?"

"Yep." America nodded, polishing off his plate and getting up to retrieve another soda from the 'fridge. "After this we can go back up to your room and you can show me what you want, and I'll see what I need to get it done."

"Okay." Romano nodded, reaching for his wine. "That sounds good. You finished there?"

America looked down at his empty plate. "Yeah. I don't think there's anything left to eat, anyway." He peered hopefully into the surrounding bowls and dishes, finding them all equally empty. "Yeah, all gone. I guess I'm done."

"Alright." Romano put down his glass and stood, gathering their empty plates. "I'll wash, you dry. Got it bastard?"

"That's okay, Romano! I'll just put everything in the dishwasher." America stood too, taking the dishes from Romano and carrying them over to the the dishwasher, which he kicked open and began to load. Romano followed to watch. America had a dishwashing machine, huh? That was...convenient. Expensive, probably, what with all the water it most likely used, but still.

"Will it actually get them clean?" He wondered, leaning over America's shoulder where the other knelt to put the dishes away.

"Yep, it should. Hand me those casserole pans." America took them from Romano, and continued. "On the older models you used to have to wash the junk off or let 'em soak first if they were really dirty, so you kinda ended up washing the dishes before you washed the dishes." Romano nodded. That was one of the reasons he and his brother had never bothered to get one. "But this is a newer model, so you can just put the dishes right in and they get clean. Plus," He closed the door and pointed to an icon on the side, "this is an energy-saving model, which is supposed to use less energy and water than handwashing. I don't know if that's true, though." He admitted, pressing some buttons and starting up the machine. "It doesn't really matter, 'cause I'd use it anyway. I hate washing dishes."

Romano snorted, nudging the blond with his knee. "Lazy bastard."

"Haha! I'm not lazy." America grinned up at him. "I just have better things to do with my time." He got up, brushing off his hands. "Speaking of which, gimme a minute to grab my stuff, and let's get your shoe cabinet planned, huh?"

"Yeah, okay."

"Cool. Meetcha in the closet, then!"

Romano watched, fascinated, as America measured for his shoe cabinet. The bastard actually seemed to know what he was doing. He'd listened carefully as Romano explained what he wanted, nodded, pulled out his measuring tape (which had a laser function, for some reason) and a grease pencil, and set to work. Measure, fire laser, make a mark. Measure, fire laser, make a mark. No stupid comments or questions or jokes or anything. This was a side of America he hadn't seen before. No, wait- he had, hadn't he? Back in the diner, when he'd surprised Romano with his seriousness in business matters. It seemed like the younger nation just kept surprising him. He would never have guessed the silly, boisterous blond could do...well, something like this. Sure, he knew America could work with engines and that sort of thing, but that was easy. Every nation picked it up sooner or later. You had to. When you were on the battlefield and the enemy was coming and your tank or truck or whatever wouldn't start, you learned your way around an engine pretty damn fast; in order to fight back or make a quick escape (and no-one made vehicles as fast as his and Feliciano's). Engines were a piece of cake.

But this sort of thing, furniture and houses and stuff, stuff that was actually useful; that took time and skill and hard work and concentration both to learn and to make. It took years to learn to build this sort of thing, let alone build it well. He wouldn't have expected America to have the attention span necessary to do either, but the furniture outside told a different story. That stuff was beautiful.

How much did he know about America, really? They'd been talking on the phone an awful lot lately, and he knew from their phone conversations that America liked Saturday morning cartoons, and that he had pajamas with some of the characters on them; and he knew that America liked snow but hated that it was so cold, and that he liked all flavours of ice cream except pistachio because it 'tasted weird with toppings on it', that he'd once had a pet ox named 'Blue' that went everywhere with him, and had cried for months when it died, that he loved cars and motorcycles and stuff but sometimes missed riding horses to get around. So he knew all sorts of random stuff; but they hadn't really talked about anything in particular.

He was beginning to realise that maybe there was a lot more to America than he'd ever imagined. Decisions and behaviour that a while ago he would probably have dismissed as random stupidity from another stupid airhead were turning out to have thought and reasons behind them (even if they were occasionally stupid ones, they were still reasons, which was more than he'd have expected before he'd started getting to know the bastard).

Speaking of which...

"What's the laser for, bastard?" He wondered, watching the nation fire it off again.

"It's a level." America answered absently, making another mark on the wall of the closet. "Helps me know if things are even."

"I know what a level is, bastard." Romano defended, frowning. He'd used levels before- spirit levels and plumb lines, while drawing or sculpting or painting, he knew what they were for and how to use them, but he'd never seen a laser level before. Unconsciously, he moved closer to watch America work with heightened interest (honestly, he wouldn't have been surprised if America had just attached a laser to it just to have a laser on it, he seemed to want lasers on everything). He could see the benefits of a laser as a level, though. For one thing, light wouldn't be affected by temperature in the same way as the liquid in a spirit level would, or the string used in a plumb line, so it would be more accurate; so that made sense, sort of, "But, why do you need one for this? Shouldn't everything already be straight and even? You built it, right?"

America glanced between two of the marks, and pulled the tape across the span from the door to the wall. "Mhm. Sometimes walls and floors shift over time." He explained as he worked. "It's good to check if everything's still straight, in case you need to make adjustments to the measurements. If it's shifted and you don't compensate, what you build might not fit."

"Oh." Romano looked at the wall, and the floor. Looked straight to him. "So, are they? Straight?"

"Everything's straight so far." America replied, pressing the base of the measure against the inside of the doorframe with one hand, and took a step back. "Here, hold this here for me."

Romano stepped in to do as he was bid.

"Ah, here." America moved forward, putting his hand over Romano's to adjust the placement of the measure, moving it up slightly against the frame, and suddenly Romano was simultaneously very aware of the taller nation's heat at his back, and the sensation of America's hand on his, firm and sure, their fingers tangled together. "Keep it right here. Make sure you hold it steady, okay?"

Romano just nodded, not trusting his voice to be steady at all.

"Good." America released his hand and leaned in to take the end of the tape, which meant his chest (broad and warm and even firmer than his hand) was briefly pressed against Romano's back and shoulders, which meant Romano briefly couldn't breathe; until America stepped away, pulling the tape down to the far end of the closet. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly, trying to calm his racing heartbeat.

"Okay, now, fire the laser." America ordered from the other side of the closet. Still a little disoriented, Romano looked at the measure in his hand, and pressed the helpfully labelled 'laser level' button with his thumb, careful not to move the measure from its place. "Thanks. Now tell me what it says."

Romano blinked, and stared at the object he held. What it said? It wasn't saying anything to him. Was it supposed to talk? "What what says, bastard?"

"Oh, sorry. There should be a digital readout on the side, displaying some numbers. Read those off to me."

"Uh...two-hundred and eighty-eight point two."

"'Kay, thanks." America paused to make a mark, and then knelt down. "Now, put it against the base of the wall. Same thing, keep it flush against the inside of the doorframe."

Romano obeyed, crouching down and pressing the measure carefully against the inside of the doorframe, resting it on the floor.

"Good. Hit the laser." He did. "Great, thanks. What does the display say?"

"Same as before, bastard. Two-hundred and eighty eight point two."

"Great." America made another mark. After a few more measurements America had Romano bring the tape measure to him at the end of the closet, after which Romano excused himself to get a drink, still feeling very off-balance and unsettled, and badly in need of something rather stronger than the water he got from the sink in the bathroom attached to his room. He'd have to get America to put in a minibar. Heaven knew the damn room was big enough for one. And he was pretty sure he was going to need it.

He exited the bathroom just as America was exiting the closet, chewing on the end of his pencil, looking thoughtful. "Hey Romano," He said casually, "c'mere for sex."

"W-what?" Romano took a step back, shaken. America couldn't possibly have said what he thought he said, right?

America took the pencil out of his mouth. "C'mere for a sec," he repeated, and gestured for Romano to follow him into the closet, "I wanted to ask you something."

Mentally cursing Feliciano and his ridiculous 'advice' for messing with his head, Romano moved to the door of the closet, and peered in to see America staring at the space where his cabinet would be, toying with his pencil. He looked over and gestured at the wall. "I have enough mahogany to build what you asked for, but I was thinking; would you like it to move, too?"

"What do you mean 'move', bastard? Like, on wheels?" Romano asked from the safety of the doorway.

"I mean, the shelves." America elaborated. "I can make it so they pull out, if you want- like drawers, or rotate- y'know what, why don't I sketch it out for you so you can see what I mean."

Romano backed rapidly up as America exited the closet once more, waving him over to the bed, where he sat and pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, smoothing it out on his knee. He began to sketch the shoe cabinet on it with his pencil. Romano followed cautiously and stopped a little ways away, going up on tiptoes to peer at the sketch. "See, I can make it so they pull out like drawers, and that way you could probably fit 3 extra pairs of shoes in each shelf, cubby— whatever you want to call it. I could also make sort of like a rotating rack if you'd prefer. That would store about the same number of shoes as the drawers." Romano leaned a little closer, tantalized. "I can make it so you can slide the sections around, too," America continued, sketching quickly, "like a slide puzzle, so you can rearrange the look whenever you want. I can even automate it, so you can use a remote control to move things around or open to the shelf you want, so you don't have to dig around. I fact, you could use the remote from outside the closet so that the shoes you want would be ready when you walked in."

"...You can do that?"

"Yeah, no problem." America affirmed. "It'll take a little longer to build, but it's not hard to do."

Romano stared at America, unable to think properly in the face of all this unexpected competence. "C-can I think about it?"

America nodded, handing him the paper. "Sure, take your time. No rush. Actually, no matter what you decide it's gonna take a couple of weeks to build, so it won't be done in time for you to use it this visit. What do you want to do with your shoes in the meantime?"

"They'll be okay in the case for now." Romano answered, perusing the rough sketch and considering the possibilities. Well, if America could do all this, then he could get a lot more creative with his design. It'd been a while since he'd designed anything, but he was feeling ...inspired. He sat on the bed, holding out his hand. "Hm. Give me that pencil, bastard."

America passed it to him, watching curiously as Romano flipped the paper over and began to draw. He scooted closer, leaning over Romano's shoulder to see what he was working on. The Italian's fingers flew across the paper. His brows furrowed. "You have those measurements, bastard?" Wordlessly, America took the scrap of paper he'd written them on from his shirt pocket and handed it to Romano, who took it without looking up, scanned it over, and handed it back with a grunt of thanks, turning his attention back to the paper in his hand. America found himself once again mesmerized, as an extremely detailed diagram began to come to life under Romano's pencil with a speed that was a little unbelievable.

Where had Romano learned to draw like that? It was incredible; more art than a diagram, really. And the more Romano drew the more realistic it became, simple strokes of the pencil giving it shape and shadow and depth and texture, until he felt like he could almost reach out and feel the grain of the wood under his fingertips.

Was there anything Romano couldn't do with his hands? He felt the urge to reach out and run his fingers along Romano's, long and agile and expressive and graceful, to take those amazing hands in his and learn their secrets. Romano was drawing though, and probably wouldn't want to be disturbed while he was working. Maybe later.

Romano had such slim wrists, too. Slim and flexible and delicate- not delicate like, fragile, just...very fine-boned. They moved smoothly, as Romano drew or gestured or lifted his hand to brush his hair back. Every movement Romano made was that way; smooth, flowing, effortless, with sinuous, catlike grace. The quirk of an eyebrow, the blink of an eye, the way he walked, the way he stood, even when he was still, or asleep- Romano was beautiful to watch. America didn't think he could ever get tired of watching Romano...just be.

He tilted his head a little to observe Romano's face, focused so intently on his drawing. Romano's eyes had that same sharp look they got when Romano was interested in something; but it was softened, distant, like his mind's eye was focused inward, drawing forth the image taking shape under those skillful fingers. Romano's brows, dark and elegantly arched, were furrowed in concentration, and America's eyes travelled down, noting equally dark lashes fanning gracefully across lowered eyelids, the fine slope and turn of Romano's nose (his lips quirked up in an unconscious smile. Aw, was there any part of Romano that wasn't adorable? He was pretty sure there wasn't), the soft curve of his lips, turned down in a small frown of concentration... America's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He wanted to see Romano smile. Really smile, not just the slight upturn of the corners of his mouth that occurred when Romano was amused or genuinely relaxed and contented, although that was wonderful, too; but a real, 'so happy I just can't contain it' smile, overflowing from Romano's heart and into his eyes and lips and lighting up every part of him. He wanted to see Romano happy, really, truly happy. He wanted to make Romano happy, somehow. Genuinely.

He wasn't sure how, though. Maybe buy him shoes? Romano seemed to like shoes. But America had to admit that he didn't know too much about shoes, not fashion-wise, anyway. Maybe he could...he wasn't sure. Get in touch with his East Coast? Though, Romano had a lot of shoes already, and they didn't seem to make him happy, not the kind of happy he wanted for Romano.

He'd have to think about it.

In the meantime, Romano seemed to be enjoying drawing, and he wanted to watch. It looked like he was almost done, too- he was just making notations in the margins around the cabinet. He rested his chin on Romano's shoulder to watch more comfortably. "Can I- "

"Wah!" Romano flailed in surprise and alarm, and fell off the bed with a thud. America almost lost his balance and followed, but managed to catch himself in time.

"Ahhhhhh shit!" He'd hit his head when he'd hit the floor, and it throbbed sharply, pain temporarily overwhelming all other concerns. Romano curled up into a ball, covering the injury with both hands, and whimpered.

"Romano!" America scrambled off the bed to kneel over him in concern, "Romano, are you okay?"

"Shiiiiiiiit." Romano moaned, tears leaking from eyes screwed shut against the pain. "Dammit, dammit, dammit!"

"Are you hurt? Let me see!" America reached for him, only to have his hands slapped away.

"Don't touch me! This is your fault, dammit!" Romano lashed out, voice tight. "I, y, you-"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you," America explained, reaching for him again, "I just wanted to see better! I didn't mean to freak you out." He helped Romano sit up, wrapping an arm around his waist. "C'mon, lemme see." He coaxed, moving Romano's hands aside to gently probe his scalp. Romano winced, another whimper escaping him, and America grimaced in sympathy. "Ouch, you got a nasty bump there. I'm sorry, Romano."

"I-it's your fault, idiot." Romano sniffled, wiping at his tears. "If you h-hadn't been stupid I wouldn't have f-fallen, dammit."

"I know, I'm sorry." America soothed, pulling him closer, and gently petting his hair. "I just wanted to see. You're a really good artist, Romano. I didn't mean to surprise you."

"...Jerk." Romano buried his face in America's collar, muttering. "Y-you're so stupid. I got hurt because of you, idiot. It hurts. Stupid."

America chuckled, squeezing Romano tight and nuzzling the side of his head. "Want me to kiss it better?" He teased.

Romano pressed closer, face burning, and hit the idiot on the chest with a closed fist. "...Idiot."

America laughed. "We should probably put an ice pack on it though. You want some ice cream, too, Romano? Ice cream always makes me feel better when I'm hurt."

"Yes." Answered Romano, tears almost dry by now, mostly soaked up in America's shirt. Ice cream sounded good. Sure, they'd just eaten not long ago, but there was always room for ice cream or gelato. He pulled back, wiping his eyes. "But it better be good, bastard. I don't want any hamburger-flavoured shit, alright?"

America laughed again. "Is vanilla alright?"

"Nn." Romano nodded. "It'll do, bastard."

"Alright." Grinning fondly, America scooped Romano up and stood, causing the Italian to cling tightly to him in surprise at the sudden elevation. Before Romano could properly register the change, though, America deposited him gently on the bed. "You just rest there for now, okay?" He instructed, brushing a lock of hair out of Romano's eyes, "I'll be right back."

"O-okay." Romano swallowed, tongue-tied and shaken, face growing hot. America smiled down at him, and caressed his cheek briefly, before turning and leaving the room.

Listening to the receding footsteps, Romano exhaled shakily, and covered his face with his hands. He had to stop this. America was a friend. His best friend. He couldn't keep getting all flustered and, and, ...reacting like this everytime the idiot got near him. America was just being friendly. It didn't mean anything. They were friends. In Italy it wasn't uncommon for friends to kiss and hug and hold hands and all that shit. It was what friends did, especially close friends, and he and America were best friends, so he had to man up. The sooner he got over this stupid crush, well, not really a crush but almost-maybe a crush, a proto-crush really, barely even a crushlet, the better. He wasn't going to be like Feliciano, pining after his friend for fucking ever, especially since this was a totally different situation and America was just being friendly, unlike the potato bastard who was too much of a moron to realise he was head-over-heels for his stupid little brother for practically a century.

Romano's fingers brushed his cheek where America had touched him. Friends. Friends, friends, they were friends. Best friends. He could do this. He took a deep breath, and rubbed his face.

They were friends.

Breathe.

Friends was good. Friends was safe. America needed him. As a friend.

It was okay.

He breathed out, calm. Friends. He was America's best friend. America was his best friend. He relaxed, feeling his blush recede. He could do this.

They were friends.

"Here we go," America returned carrying both a cone and a bowl of ice cream, and an ice pack, "got an ice pack, and some ice cream for both of us." He paused, looking at the stuff he held. "Hm. Here, take this," he handed Romano the bowl, "and, uh...this," he gave him the cone to hold, and climbed onto the bed next to Romano. He leaned close, prodding gingerly at the place where Romano had been hurt, "I'm gonna have to hold this thing on for you," he said, pressing the icepack to the bump, "'cause you won't be able to eat your ice cream and hold this on at the same time. I got a cone for myself, though, so I'll have a hand free." He held out his hand for the ice cream cone, and settled back, smiling in satisfaction. "There. All good!"

"Y-your arm's going to get tired, bastard." Romano said, heart pounding a little. Not crushing. He just wasn't used to all this touching and attention, that's all. "I, I don't need the ice pack."

"Sure you do." America contradicted, licking his cone. "I don't mind holding it, Romano. It'll heal faster if we put ice on it."

"But this feels awkward," Romano protested. "I won't be able to move my head or anything anyway if you do that. And it's embarrassing." He confessed, not-quite-pouting.

America looked at him, pursing his lips in thought. "You're right," he decided, "it is a little awkward." Removing the ice pack, he shifted back onto the bed, so he was leaning back against the headboard. "Here, c'mere." He patted the bed between his outstretched legs. "Come sit here, instead."

"H-how's that supposed to help, bastard?"

"This way you can lean back on me, and it'll be easier to hold the ice pack on. That way you can eat your ice cream more comfortably." America explained helpfully. "You won't have to hold your head straight."

Romano bit his lip, considering. America was right, it would be easier that way, and more comfortable- at least, physically. And they were friends, so it was okay. "...Okay." Giving America his bowl to hold, he crawled over the idiot's ridiculously long legs, settling inbetween them, and relaxed gingerly back against the taller nation. America handed him his ice cream, and pressed the ice pack to his aching scalp, and Romano tried to relax.

"Better?" Asked America.

"Nn." Romano grunted, not really trusting himself to speak. He focused his attention on his ice cream, which was sweet and creamy and rich, and soothingly cold on his throat, which was a bit sore from having been crying earlier. Slowly he began to relax, tension seeping from his frame, and he calmed, soothed by the coolness of the ice on his injury and the ice cream, the softness of the mattress and the warmth and firm support of the nation at his back. This was actually really comfortable. It was...nice. He could do this, this whole closeness thing. It was allowed. They were friends. He melted back against America, moulding himself to the nation's frame, and shifted to tangle their legs together. America made a happy little humming sound, and Romano smiled, heart warming.

He could get used to this.

AN: ...They completely forgot about the pictures. Man, these guys can't focus. That's okay, they'll remember them later.

Okay. Some things! First. You don't usually stuff rigatoni. Amata just really loves Romano. My mom has that tape measure, btw. Very handy. All tools should have lasers on them.

Okay. America's house... from when it appears in the background of the comics, and also the partial floorplan showed in one of the strips, I get the impression that it's a colonial-style mansion. Himaruya mentioned in some of his notes that America built his house and was heavily influenced by Sweden's designs and style of dwellings.

He can fit a whale in his living room. And have tons of room left over. That's a big room.

It also always looks very empty in the strips, despite the furnishings. And America complains when he's younger, that the house is too big and empty and lonely, since he's the only one there.

Now, since he's never shown in a house as Chibi!America (he always is shown living in the wilderness, in bushes and fields), but does have one when he's a bit older, about 6-12ish, and England didn't build it for him, I imagine England sort of forgot that maybe America might need a house to live in, in his usual neglectful approach to parenting; and Sweden came along after a while and realised that the poor kid needed a house, and showed him how to build one, which Sweden tends to do. He also tends to build ridiculously huge houses. In support of this several of our founding fathers had similar mansions around the same time, so I've based some of the features and designs that might come up in future chapters (like the wine cellar) after theirs.

Also, Europeans were/are very 'status'-conscious, so I imagine any of the other nations would have encouraged America to make his house as big as he could, in respect to his 'status' as a nation personification, and America pretty much did everything he was told when he was a baby, unless he felt it was morally wrong (like when chibiAmerica chided England for beating on Spain), so he'd just have went along with it. Uh...there are other reasons, too, but I'm hoping to add them into the story, so I don't want to spoil things.

Analog cameras are awesome.

Oh! Washers and dryers. I was going to go a different direction with that, but then I did some research just to be sure (had to do a lot to find multiple sources of the information I was looking for), and found out that less than 13% of the households in Italy have washers/dryers/dishwashers, and less than 30% have 'fridges. That last one I find difficult to believe, but I really can't say for sure. Although, most studies did say that the percentage of all those appliances is rapidly increasing, due to recent companies producing the washers/dryers/dishwashers/ etc in Italy at a very low cost, more easily affordable to the average household. Which is neat. I did learn some very interesting things about how they do laundry in South Italy, because apparently it's practically an art form. That might come up when we return to Italy.

Ah! I've gotten some more fanart, which I will link later in my profile. It might be a day or so, because I have work soon now that the weekend is over, but in the meantime you can always check the AmericaxRomano deviantart link also listed in my profile, because some of them are posted there. Uhm...if any of you can draw, we definitely need more fanart of these two, not least so we can get more AMVs made. *coughcough*

I think that's all! That's a ridiculously long author's note, but I'm excited to be writing again. I apologise for any mistakes in this chapter due to overeagerness to post.