Romano watches the movie through his fingers, cringing every so often at something one of the characters says. Somehow in the course of the last hour, the blanket on the side of the couch has migrated to his lap and then to almost entirely covering his face, resting just below his nose. He, himself, has become stiffer, tenser. His knees are drawn up to his chest (opposed to stretched out across his side of the couch, as they had started) and his hands alternate between wrapping around his legs, clenching the blanket, or covering his face at they are now.
It's not that he's scared, really, but more like there's this horrible uncomfortableness twisting about in his stomach like a bunch of slithering snakes (and Romano stops that train of thought quickly, because he hates snakes very much - and it's not that he's afraid of them, no, really, because he's not - and the thought of them inside of him slithering about in his stomach only makes him feel more nauseated than before. Which is quite a feat, considering he has already considered throwing up the popcorn he'd been eating when the movie started many times already).
The fact that his companion doesn't seem bothered in the least only makes it worse. Romano is stubborn (his brother reminds him constantly, in that nice, friendly way of his, and Romano stubbornly ignores him) though, and refuses to admit how much the movie is bothering him. Not when the person beside him is sitting there relaxed and contently eating popcorn and acting as if the movie is not about very sadistic people who resort to violence and murder whenever they deem it necessary - which happens to be quite often. (Some part of Romano's mind reminds him that the hands covering his eyes and the twitches and jerks every so often probably say it all, but he ignores it and pretends that he's not a completely open book.)
And then, quite suddenly, the car on the screen blows up in a lovely, fiery explosion that causes Romano to jump, before he realizes that the lovely Italian girl he was starting to like (and no, not just because she was Italian, though that certainly did help) was in the car as it exploded and is now just one more dead character. And then, as he's figuring that out, his oh so helpful mind decides to remind him just how much that particular character was like his brother (with her cheery, playful words and her big, brown eyes, and her blindingly, gigantic smile and probably so many other things if he decided to think about it hard enough) and suddenly, he's holding back a sob and squeezing his eyes shut to hold back tears (and of course he's not crying, why ever would you ask that?).
The sound from the movie stops, and after a second or two of getting himself under control, Romano opens his (slightly tearful) eyes to see Michael Corleone's face frozen on the 64" screen. He sits for a moment in confusion, wondering if the DVD has decided to be stubborn (and unexpectedly helpful) by pausing the movie before he hears the person beside him say, "We can watch something else if you want to, dude."
Romano swallows the lump in his throat (or tries to at least. It decides to be annoyingly immovable and stay right where it is) and turns to his left. America stares back at him, blue eyes wide and filled with something that Romano will insist is not concern (because that would mean there is some sort of something between them that causes America to actually care about him, and well isn't that just frightening?).
The Italian clears his throat quietly and takes a deep breath and hisses, "It's fine. I don't care." before turning back towards the screen and secretly congratulating himself on not whimpering or stuttering or showing any sign that there is still a horribly uncomfortable pit of snakes in his stomach and a lump lodged in his throat.
America raises an eyebrow, studying him. "I don't want to keep watching it if it bothers you," he says finally, watching the other nation carefully for his reaction.
"It doesn't bother me, asshole," Romano snaps, turning back towards him to glare. (The curse is the only word not coated in a heavy accent, strangely enough, and America has to hold back a chuckle when he realizes it's either because a) curses were the first things Romano learned to say in English or b) they are the things Romano says most often in English. America has to hold back another laugh when he comes to the conclusion that it is probably because of both.)
Despite his reply, the movie is obviously bothering him a lot. America almost wants to hit himself for not noticing sooner (damn atmosphere and it's habit of being so damn unreadable). The blanket is up to Romano's nose and clenched tightly in his hands, and Romano seems to be almost folded in on himself, shaking slightly.
Not only does he feel guilty for picking something that made Romano so clearly uncomfortable, but as much as America doesn't want to admit it, he's terrified of the thought that the other nation will never want to spend time with him again. (There's always Japan, he reminds himself. And Canada - when he can find him - and Lithuania - when he's not superglued to Poland - and England….sort of. When he feels generous….or when America has duck tape on his mouth.)
America likes Romano. Not romantically, no. He doesn't think he will ever romantically like the Italian nation (someone has already claimed that emotion and held it captive for years, despite being completely oblivious of it himself) but there's something fun about hanging out with Romano. Something about the curses and insults and punches and screeches and blushes that is so entertaining, and America doesn't want to give it all up just because he was stupid enough to pick The Godfather for movie night.
( ( It started with, strangely enough, an intense argument over coffee, which soon escalated to throwing things - which, America finds out after spending more time with him, is not very uncommon when dealing with Romano - and then somehow ended with Romano angrily dragging him - in all literal senses of the word - to the nearest Italian café to prove his point. Which, luckily was really not that far away considering the World Summit was in Rome, Italy that time around.
What's even more strange than a violent argument over coffee - and whether American or Italian coffee is superior - is that they end up staying there for over two hours doing nothing but talking - or insulting and cursing, which actually is considered talking for Romano. Neither of them can even remember what was discussed - and really, it isn't all that important - but soon enough the talking led to more talking in other places at other times, and then lunch together after meetings.
It was almost scary how easy talking with America was. Or scary to Romano at least. No matter what insult or curse Romano threw his way, the superpower would only laugh it off. It wasn't even like Spain, who would sulk for a bit but then come running back later, spouting loud proclamations of love and devotion and other such nonsense. It wasn't that America didn't care what he said, but almost like he understood that what Romano said and what he meant were two completely different things.
And that just proved to be frustrating and scary as hell, because America was known for being oblivious as could be, and well, if he could see through Romano, just who else could? And then Romano reminded himself that America grew up with England as a caretaker, and so maybe it wasn't that strange after all.
For some reason, Romano found himself almost - dare he say it - enjoying the other nation's company. Of course, he soon assured himself that he was only spending time with America because Spain was an ass, his brother was practically attached at the hip to that damn potato-eater, and no other nation was really worth bothering with so America it was.
The strange almost-but-not-quite-no-not-at-all-not-really friendship they had continued and the conversations grew longer and more personal - though never lacking in colorful curses and insults - and soon switched from simply talking at meetings to texting and emailing at other times and then to where they were now: sitting in America's basement watching a movie together because according to the superpower he was bored and so Romano might as well fly out to come see him. And of course Romano came, but only because he was bored too, so he might as well amuse himself by insulting the American face to face rather than through text.
And no, they were not "hanging out" because not only was that phrase completely stupid, according to the Italian, but it would also imply that they were friends and Romano wasn't quite sure he was willing to admit that. Yet. ) )
America gets up from the couch and heads towards the t.v. Romano watches him from his spot on the couch, huddled in the blanket (it's incredibly distasteful and decorated with an obnoxiously patriotic design, but hey, it's warm) and raises an eyebrow when America removes the movie and the screen goes black.
"I was getting kind of bored of it anyway," America says casually in way of explanation. "I've seen it like…only a million times, so if you don't mind, I kinda want to watch something else. I've got a ton of other good movies; well, I mean, they're all American, so of course they're good movies!"
Romano just makes a grunting noise in the back of his throat and watches the blond nation search through a pile of DVDs. It's silent for a few minutes, the only noise is their breathing and the sound of rejected movies hitting the carpet, before America (naturally) breaks the silence. "I totally understand, by the way. Don't tell anyone, but there's this movie, The Crucible, and I swear I cry every time." (There's other movies too, of course; worse ones even, about even worse times. But America hopes that if Romano decides to question him about it, he can answer knowing that the Italian nation has never heard of the Salem Witch Trials. And, even if he has, he wouldn't have any personal ghosts floating about that particular time in history.)
Romano just grunts again; the blanket has been let out of his tight grip and no longer hides half of his face from view. He stares at the ugly colors (that really don't match the couch or the room at all, he observes, and cringes slightly) and mindlessly traces the pattern with his finger.
"We all have things we don't like to think about, ya know?" America continues, finally selecting some movie and placing it in the DVD player. "I may not be observant, but I'm not an idiot. I should of realized you wouldn't like The Godfather." He comes back to sit on the couch next to Romano (who's still staring at the blanket rather than the other nation) and grabs the DVD remote, fast forwarding through the previews.
"It's just," Romano says, so softly America almost doesn't hear him (and so quiet that he can pretend he doesn't hear him if he needs to - Romano's tricky like that). "it….." and then he falls silent again, because not only does he not really know what to say but he doesn't realize why he's even considering telling America, of all people.
America just grins, a look of understanding on his face (and wow, the world must be ending, Romano thinks, if America, the home of the ignorant and the land of the oblivious, actually understands what Romano's going through). "It's just it hits a little too close to home, huh?"
It's a stupid phrase (well, obviously, Romano thinks. It is American, after all) but it also is exactly what Romano was trying to express. "I guess," he mutters and stops tracing the blanket's pattern.
America pauses the movie again (Romano hasn't even realized that it's started until then) and turns to face him. He looks curious, but cautious too, and takes a moment before he asks, "Do you have to deal with them a lot?"
Romano winces a bit , and then nods. "All the fucking time, damn bastards."
America chuckles awkwardly (there's nothing really funny at all, but the silence is a bit uncomfortable and at least laughing makes a sound). "What about Feliciano?" he asks.
He doesn't call Italy by his human name out of respect or closeness, as is typical, but because he's learned that one of the easiest ways to get on Romano's good side is to call his brother Feliciano rather than Italy (the reason why is never voiced aloud, but after thinking about it, America thinks he understands. It's not fair that after unifying Feliciano is the one allowed the title of Italy; it's not fair that Lovino is simply Romano while his brother is Italy; isn't Lovino just as much Italy as Feliciano is?).
Romano sighs, his shoulders droop a bit and he leans back into the couch, face still turned away from America and fingers still fumbling with the blanket in his lap. "He probably doesn't even realize they still exist," he admits quietly, some part of him wondering why he's still talking and reminding him that he better just shut the hell up right now before he reveals anything more to America. "I deal with them."
America watches him curiously and finally (after a deep breath or two) Romano drags his gaze away from the blanket in his lap and towards America. The blond stares at him with something like admiration (and no, certainly it can't be that. Because America is America, after all, a superpower, and Romano isn't even Italy) and Romano stubbornly denies that his face is flushing.
America suddenly grins, Hollywood-white teeth flashing (and all the obnoxious arrogance and immaturity that had been previously missing is suddenly back and as bad as ever), and leans over to pat Romano on the shoulder. "Well, if you ever need help from the Hero, you can just ask, kay?"
A bowl of previously ignored popcorn is thrown in his face; Romano curses under his breath as he turns away from the laughing superpower and glares at the t.v.
For about the millionth time, Romano questions why he bothers being friends with the American in the first place. (And for about the millionth time, he pretends that he doesn't enjoy it.)
De-anon from the Kink Meme. The request was for two nations to be hanging out and just being friends. So why America and Romano? I felt like it. (Also, there are countless movies I could have chosen for America to mention, but I was reading the Crucible at the time I wrote this.)
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