Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

This is not, and will not become (to the best of my knowledge) a story, exactly. You see, frequently, every day or several times a day, I have random Romerica scenes run through my head which have nothing to do with any stories (along with the ones which do)...more like, a slice of life type things, or character studies perhaps. Or just Things That Happen. Sometimes I write them down, but more often I don't, but I've often wondered if I ought.

So a little while back I was visiting my oft-forgotten-and-deeply-neglected dA account, and thought...'I ought to update this thing more often. What would make me visit dA more frequently?' and it occurred to me that I could throw up some of these random scenes into the journal there. I could do it every day or several times a week, at my leisure and as the scenes occurred, and then I'd remember that the bloody account existed. So I dropped in and wrote up a little scene that had been on my mind, and posted it, figuring that I'd come back the next day and post another, and perhaps update my gallery. I'd thought it'd go unnoticed for some time, and perhaps in a month or two someone would notice I'd been updating the journal frequently, and they'd have a nice little Romano/America-themed archive to go through.

But the next day when I came back I'd gotten some very nice feedback on it; which took me completely by surprise. And then I felt awkward and embarrassed and pleased and a bit bewildered all at once, and a bit confused as to how to proceed. It was just a lot of randomness, really. What if the next one wasn't as good? Ought I continue the previous scene? I'd considered it, but hadn't intended to...well, I'd intended to eventually, because it was already in my mind, but the next one I had planned to be a different scenario entirely...would people be disappointed? I didn't even know people were reading it! If I added new Romerica stuff everyday, would it look like I was trying to capitalise on the attention? I felt like a dog who has done a good trick completely by accident and isn't sure what it is that it did or is supposed to do next.

So I didn't post anything, and dithered over it for a few days, and then decided I was being completely silly, because I love to write and I'm going to write anyway, and since when did I worry about what people think about what I do? (Although I will admit I do tend to be a bit self-conscious about my writing, in part because it's something I have little control over, and I'm not used to not having complete control. How do you ensure quality if you don't have control?)

And then I lost my contacts, and since I can't wear my glasses with the stitches behind my ear, I ended up not writing at all for most of the week (which is why I'm throwing this up here, since I haven't had a chance to get any other chapters finished and thought you might like to have a thing to tide you over).

Life is such an interesting thing, isn't it?

Anyway, I shall be updating my bloody dA journal with random stuff. Most likely not everyday, though. Some scenes will be connected, some shan't, and some shan't be scenes at all. It will be what it will be.

Now let's move on from the Saga of Me, shall we?

Romano goes out with him. Not just on dates, to restaurants and movies and parties and all that, although there's that too; but outside with him. America loves the outdoors, all of it; forests and mountains, deserts, caves, oceans, rain or shine, night and day; he loves to be out in it and experience it all (even the snow, but temperatures below fifteen degrees can go fuck themselves). But Romano likes the sun on his skin and earth underfoot almost as much as America does, and allows his lover to drag him out on camping trips and walks and wilderness explorations (as long as America carries their gear and promises to protect him from the wild animals and other dangers that might crop up— except ghosts, which is Romano's job; but that's another story).
One of the unexpected perks of bringing Romano along is that Romano knows a lot about wild herbs and how to cook. And he doesn't mind if America hunts, in fact he appreciates it, is pleased when America catches fish or rabbits or ducks (as long as America cleans them, first), and does amazing things with them over the fire or the little propane camp stove America brings along for trips where there's not likely to be much firewood. America's never eaten so well in the wilderness as he does when Romano's along. (He's learned not to bring back anything larger than a goose while they're camping, though. Romano doesn't mind if he brings bigger game like deer or bear home when they're, well, home,where there's a freezer readily available, but out in the wilderness it's 'too damn much meat and takes too damn long to cook, bastard. And just who do you expect is going to carry all that, exactly?')

But the moments he loves best may be the ones like these; when they find a stream, and Romano kicks off his shoes and wades in, clear water around his ankles and rounded pebbles between his toes, and almost smiles in the dappled shadows of the trees.
America watches, drinking it in.
After a few minutes Romano wades to the edge of the stream and settles down on the bank, letting his feet dangle in the water, and turns to look at him. America sets their camping gear down and pulls off his shirt, kicking off his shoes and busying himself rolling up his pantlegs.
It's time to go fishing.
He wades into the middle of the stream, where the water runs cool below his knees. There he stops and stretches, closing his eyes and spreading his fingers to feel the slow, barely-there breeze flowing between them, soft against his skin, its warmth a sharp contrast to the coolness of the water flowing almost just as slowly around his legs and feet. Exhaling, he lowers his arms, turning his gaze to the water below, searching out deeper, shadowed sections of the riverbed, where the water is deep and still, the sort of place fish like to hide in the middle of the day. There's a cluster of large rocks a few yards down where the riverbed dips and the water pools which looks promising; and the riverbank near where Romano sits overhangs a little, causing a shaded nook that would make another good hiding place. He can see both places pretty well from here, so now all he has to do is be patient and watch for the movement of a fin in the shadows; if there are any fish in either spot, he'll see one eventually. It's just a matter of time.
He settles in to wait.
He doesn't have to wait long, as it turns out— barely ten minutes have passed before Romano frowns absently, and shifts his foot incrementally in the water, drawing America's attention. "Romano," he says softly, lifting a hand to indicate that he should remain still, "don't move."
Romano frowns at him, brows furrowing in question.
"There's a fish," America explains, just as softly. "By your feet."
Romano looks down, and leans slowly forward, trying not to move his legs as he tries to see for himself what's been brushing against his feet. Sure enough, there's a fish underneath him, edging out from under the riverbank to nibble at his toes.
"What is it doing?" He asks, mystified; although it's pretty damn clear what it's trying to do. It tickles, and is kind of weird to see; a silver-brown, undulating body in the water under his feet, checking out his toes for edibility. He holds his breath and tries not to move in reaction to the odd sensation as it nibbles his toepads, waiting for America to do his thing.
"Eating your toes." America answers matter-of-factly, and moves slowly towards him, careful not to disrupt the riverbed or water enough to alarm the fish. Once he's a foot or so from Romano he leans over, dipping his hand smoothly into the stream and under the fish. His expression is focused as he gently strokes its belly with his fingers, and soon the tickling against Romano's skin stops as the fish goes still, fins waving lazily; and before Romano knows what's happened, America's holding a fat, wriggling trout by the gills with a victorious whoop.
"Told you your toes are delicious." America grins, and Romano blushes and kicks water at him and calls him an idiot, because really that's the only logical response to something like that. America laughs, and climbs out of the water to clean his catch, and Romano settles back against the riverbank to relax until he's done and it's time to set up camp and cook.

AN: This scene will most likely be continued eventually, although probably on my journal and not here, and probably sporadically, interspersed with other things.

Catching fish by hand is my personal favourite method, although I usually let them go afterward. I hear it's illegal in many places, though? Which seems odd to me.