16. Beneath the Surface

Date Written: February 3, 2019

Date Posted: June 22, 2019

Characters: America, Romano, Veneziano

Summary: Romano's thoughts on America's new hobby.

Notes: It's canon that Veneziano is really skilled at fencing.

America, Italia Romano thought, was an idiot. The American was a young Nation, almost comically so when comparing his paltry experience to the wealth and power he had garnered over a short period of time. And quite like the young man his body impersonated, he was impressionable and flighty—the two such characteristics that could somewhat explain why he was aimlessly swinging around a fencing sword.

It must have been a slow meeting because most of the European Nations who liked fencing, along with a few dozen countries from other continents, began to ask for a demonstration. Surprisingly, the American was adept at the art and managed to gain the grudging approval of his peers. That grudging approval became excuses to challenge America to see if he could truly beat them.

However, most of those assembled had dispersed—America, if a little unskilled, was still too strong for even the most able-bodied. The only ones who dared go up against the determined young man were France, Prussia, Russia, and surprisingly, England.

One by one, America managed to sidestep himself into failure after failure. Fencing was a sport that dealt with agility and quick thinking. Clever and smart, America may be, but he relied more on strength than bouncing on the balls of his feet. Most of the matches lasted less than a minute, with Prussia—former mentor to America—managing to land a hit at thirty-six seconds.

Hmmph, Romano couldn't help but scoff. There was another Nation among them that could fence the little brat into defeat within a second if he so wished. It was too bad that he was taking a siesta—

"Fratello," Italia Veneziano mumbled through a yawn. "Is the meeting over yet? Everyone seems to be—" another yawn "—gone."

"If the meeting was over, I would have left your sorry ass for the wolves."

Dramatically, his younger brother wailed, "There are wolves!" and proceeded to tear up.

Idiot. They just don't let anyone into hotel conference rooms.

He took a sip of his coffee and gestured to America, who was busy laughing off his defeats while recovering some tips from the aforementioned Europeans.

"If America were to… I don't know, pick up a new hobby like…" Romano feigned a 'thinking pose'. "...fencing, would you duel him?" The older Italian representative couldn't help but let a slow smirk spread across his features when he saw his little brother battle his intrigue. "I mean, the kid is so excited about his new hobby that he brought a couple fencing swords with him: foil, epee… sabre."

Did his eyes deceive him, or did Veneziano's eyes flash with murderous delight at the mention of sabre?

"Kid managed to hold his own against Prussia for a little over half a minute."

"Sabre?"

Romano shrugged. He wasn't paying attention at that particular battle, only the timing and the technique was of any interest to him.

He turned back to his northern brother and scowled. Veneziano was doing that I-want-to-do-something-but-it-could-ultimately-hurt-someone's-feelings face. He must have surprised those who would have gone up against America and deduced that the blond was probably not in top form.

Dio mio, his brother's heart always bled for the wrong reasons.

"Veneziano."

"Yes?"

"Beat his ass."

"Fratello, he is a bambino and—!"

"If you don't beat his ass, I'm telling your boss that you like drawing cats all over your paperwork."

"That's not—"

"And I will grant Seborga independence so I can become his favorite brother."

Obviously, Veneziano was the stronger half of the nation, what with his industries and business opportunities, but his little brother was just dying to have a good reason to duel America.

"You're playing dirty, Romano."

"Beat his ass, Venezia, and then we'll talk."

And so, it was with a heavy heart (ha!) that Romano watched his little brother worm his way into the Eurocentric circle and ask to "Pretty please, Mr. America! May I duel you?" that had little Venice bouncing like a little child, weapon in hand. Most of the European Nations present knew of his brother's skill, but it would appear, from the lazy way America played with his own sabre, that he was going in blind.

"What an idiot," Romano talked into his cup of coffee when the opponents faced each other. "That kid is going to die."

And the match began.