Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia
Established relationship. Completed drabbly-thingy.
"Wait, what are you wearing? Where did you get those? You're not planning on wearing those, are you bastard? Not to the beach." Romano pales, taking in his boyfriend's beach attire.
America glances between the knee-length board shorts he's wearing, and his boyfriend's apalled expression. "What's wrong with them?" He asks, curious. "I wear these all the time back home. They're comfortable." He looks down, checking them over for any rips he might have missed or food spills, but they're clean and intact. "They cover everything up," He adds, in case that's Romano's concern.
That's the problem! Romano doesn't say, and flails a little. "You can't wear those! No-one here wears suits that big! If my people see those they'll think you- they'll think-" he gestures, reddening, too embarrassed to explain that they'll think his boyfriend has something to be ashamed of in the shorts department. "They'll think you're...hiding something." He mutters, lamely.
America looks at him, puzzled, for a moment, and then his face clears in comprehension. "I'm not carrying any guns in my trunks." He says, a little exasperatedly. "Promise."
Romano gives up. He'll let America wear the stupid shorts. The color and cut isn't bad, and they actually look pretty good on the blond, even if they don't display certain... assets... as much as he'd like. If he was wearing them in America, Romano wouldn't blink twice. Maybe it won't be as bad as he thinks.
It's worse. An hour after they've arrived at the beach, Romano's almost at his limit. He doesn't know what's upsetting him more: the pitying looks being cast in his direction, or the derisive ones being cast in America's. America, of course, is completely oblivious to either, and having loads of fun building sandcastles and chasing seagulls up and down the beach, but Romano can read the damn atmosphere and doesn't like it at all.
It's a far cry from the sort of looks he's used to when he's out with America. Admiration, approving murmurs, open appreciation frequently tinged with desire; these are the things he's accustomed to. And despite the fact that the visible areas of America's sculpted frame and lithe body are fucking gorgeous, that his bright blue eyes and golden skin and hair are shining with sunlight and life, his beautiful smile rivaling the sun above them, it doesn't matter; because what everyone's looking at is what they can't see.
Damn those board shorts. Damn them straight to hell. When they get home they are going to burn.
But the damage is done. By nightfall news of his boyfriend's— completely fabricated— inadequacies will have spread like wildfire. By morning the whole town will have heard the 'news'.
Romano grits his teeth, trying not to run down the beach to pin America down and force him into a decent pair of briefs— he has an extra pair in his beach bag, since Veneziano tends to lose his (sure they might be a little small, but better too small than huge and baggy), or even rip those fucking shorts right off him so everyone can see it's not true. But that would embarrass America, and America would be upset with him and that would be even worse than the whispers and looks— just barely, but enough to hold him back, for now.
And then a sweet, elderly woman comes up to him and puts a soft, understanding hand on his arm. "It's okay," she says in tones of deep sympathy. "Size isn't that important. He seems like a very nice young man. I'm sure he has other qualities that make up for it. Sexual satisfaction isn't everything, you know?" She smiles, patting him comfortingly, before moving on.
Romano stares after her for a few seconds, and then turns back to America, who is sitting in the sand poking curiously at a hermit crab, oblivious to everything else. As if sensing his gaze, America looks up, catching his eyes, and smiles and waves sunnily before standing, tugging up his shorts which were beginning to slide too far down his hips for his comfort.
Someone behind Romano snickers. Romano scowls, looking around, but trying to figure out who it was in this crowd is futile, so he turns back to the beach, where America's started to build a sandcastle for the hermit crab.
Romano narrows his eyes. After a moment, he heads determinedly towards the ocean.
America looks up and smiles in welcome as he approaches, "Hey 'Mano, look at this castle I'm building for Kermit! I met him on the beach. Isn't it cool?"
"It's nice, bastard." Romano comments, glancing down at it briefly. "Look, I'm going swimming."
"Okay." America nods, carefully working on a turret. "Once I finish this up I'll join you."
"Sounds good." Romano agrees, and heads into the surf. He wades out until the water is above his waist, and begins to swim, heading away from the shore. He swims out to where the water's deep, deep enough to dive, and stops, treading water. He takes a few steadying breaths, steeling himself for what he's about to do. He can do this. It's a sacrifice, but it's for the greater good. He's doing this for America.
With that in mind, he tugs off his swim briefs, takes a deep breath, and dives. Once he reaches the bottom of the ocean he wedges his briefs under a rock— with some regret, because they're lovely designer shorts, his favourite pair, worth over $200— but this isn't about him, it's for America, so he'll take the hit. Once he's sure they're secured he heads back to the surface and towards the shore. When the water's just about waist height again he stops and stands. "America! Oi, America! I need your help, bastard!"
America immediately abandons his sand-architecture to hurry to Romano's aid. "What's wrong?" He asks anxiously as he approaches, scanning the area for sharks or communist submarines or anything else that might threaten Romano. "Are you okay?"
"Just... come here." Romano doesn't have to fake his blush, a little embarrassed about what he's about to do. America obeys, wading closer to stand next to him, and having failed to locate any potential threats, he turns his full attention to his boyfriend, frowning in concern.
"What's wrong?"
"I...I lost my swimsuit." Romano tells him, holding his hands in front of himself under the water.
"How'd you manage that?" America's eyes flicker down, but frankly Romano's suit was so small that he can't tell the difference with Romano's hands in the way, but there's really no reason to disbelieve it. Still though, he's never one to pass up an opportunity to see his baby's cute little butt, so he leans a bit, subtly tilting his head to check, and yep, naked cute little butt under the water. He grins. Aw.
"I...I was diving and th-they just got lost." Romano blushes deeper, noticing his boyfriend's actions.
"Oh. Well, I'll go and find them for you!" America offers helpfully, turning to head out into the ocean and search for his boyfriend's tiny swimshorts. "Wait here, I'll be right back!"
"What? No!" Romano reaches out to grab America's arm. "Are you nuts? You'll never find them out there!"
"Sure I will." America gives him a confident smile, and winks. "I'm the hero! And if I have any trouble, I'll ask my whale friend to help me look. Don't worry."
"No! N-no, I...I..." Crap, this isn't working. Romano casts around for a way to keep America here. "I, I hurt my foot, too. It, it got caught. I think it needs ice. And, and I'm hungry. Really hungry. I want to go back to the beach."
America turns back to him, frowning in concern. "Okay, I'll carry you back." He reaches for Romano, who puts a hand on his chest, stopping him.
"Wait! I'm, I'm naked."
America's eyes narrow. He's not about to let anyone else see Romano naked. Everything between Romano's hips and thighs is for his eyes only. Well, only one thing to do. "Here." He says decidedly, pulling off his board shorts and holding them out for his boyfriend. "Wear these."
"Th-thank you." Romano took them gratefully, biting back a triumphant smile as he pulled them on. America helped him pull the laces tight so the shorts wouldn't fall off, and scooped him up.
"Let's get you back to shore." He says, smiling and hefting Romano in his arms, happy for an opportunity to play the hero to his beloved 'not-a-damsel, dammit'-in-distress.
"You know you're naked, right bastard?" Romano almost-smiles, wrapping his arms loosely around America's neck, and America smiles down at him.
"I don't mind. Anything for you, babe." He assures him, kissing his cheek. "As long as you're happy, I'm happy."
"Don't worry," Romano grins with smug anticipation, looking towards the shore. "In a few minutes everything's gonna be just fine."
AN: Inspired by a quote from a woman in Sicily discussing with her friends why they didn't care for men in swim trunks instead of briefs: "Whenever I see a man in trunks, I can't help but think he has something to hide."
This isn't going to be turned into a story or anything...it's more of a drabble I wrote and didn't know what else to do with. It's complete, but seemed too unpolished to stand on its own as a oneshot and too long to post to tumblr— which I think I am pretty much spamming anyway.