Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

...um. Yeah. *awkward cough*

She had to be wrong, right? She couldn't be right, right? It was a joke, right? No, no, it was a mistake. It was definitely a mistake. A misunderstanding. America couldn't possibly be Amando. They were nothing alike. They didn't even look alike, aside from, y'know, the blond hair and blue eyes, and fair skin. But Amando was taller than America, and better-looking, and fitter, and he didn't wear glasses. And he spoke Spanish. America didn't speak Spanish, right? He hadn't paid much attention to the other nation, outside of Spain's occasional grudge-fueled rants, but he was pretty sure the guy was an idiot. And okay, so Amando came from the Americas, but that was just a coincidence. A, a, what's it called, a hook. It was a period drama. The 'New World' had been a pretty mysterious place, back then. Spain hadn't been able to shut up about it. Cities of gold, and shit. Of course Amando was from the Americas. Come to think of it, they hadn't even said where in the Americas he was from. It could be like, South America. In fact, it probably was, since Amando didn't seem to carry a gun. Everyone knew Americans carried guns all the time. They were practically born with them.

Yeah. There was no way that guy was America.

That settled, Romano set aside the rest of the mousse. It was good, but somehow he didn't feel like eating right now. He could use a drink, though. Something to settle his nerves. It'd been a really weird day. He'd discovered he was some kind of pervert (obviously he'd been spending far too much time around Spain's creepy friends. He'd managed to hold out for centuries, but their perversion had finally rubbed off), and that was unsettling enough without that whole America scare on top of it. Now he just had to come to terms with the fact that he was a deviant. A, a, sexual deviant.

It was weird. It was weird, it was weird, it was so weird. At least it was only Amando. That was something, at least. He'd checked, to make sure, and yeah. The thought of any other guy even touching him was...eugh. But for some reason Amando was different. So...so at least he wasn't a total pervert. He, he was...he was a situational pervert. No, no, wait, that wasn't right. He was, he was a pervert for Amando. Amando was the exception that proved the rule, or something like that. Amando was the only one who brought out those...weird feelings in him. Made him want...weird things.

Only, only it didn't feel weird when, when he thought of them with Amando. It hadn't felt weird at the time. It'd felt...it'd felt natural. Normal. Like...he didn't know. When Amando had started talking, and he started having those thoughts and feelings it hadn't seemed strange or weird or, anything like that, not until after, when Amando wasn't onscreen and he, he had time to look back and think on it and realise it was...weird.

But, but...it didn't even feel weird in retrospect, which was weird. Thinking back on the thought of the feel of Amando's hands on him and in him and that voice in his ear it still felt, felt natural. His cheeks warmed, and his heart fluttered, and he couldn't help but smile, unconsciously, at the memory. Amando was, Amando was...special. He, he was...different. Amando was a man (and normally that word would automatically make him distrustful and uncomfortable and on his guard, but when it was Amando it made him feel warm, and liquid, and a little weak in the knees— in a good way, and that was weird, too, but it didn't feel weird, which was so weird.)

The whole thing was just...really weird. The weirdest part about it was that it didn't feel weird, not with Amando, which was so weird. It unsettled him that he wasn't more unsettled.

It was confusing.

M-maybe...maybe it was...okay. It was just Amando, right? No-one else. As long as it was just Amando, it was okay. Only Amando made him feel like this. Only Amando. Not the actor, or, or anyone else. It was only Amando.

So, so that was okay. It wasn't weird, if it was Amando. It wasn't weird, because it was Amando. He wasn't really a deviant or anything, as long as it was Amando, and just Amando. So it wasn't weird, and he wasn't a pervert, or a deviant, or anything like that.

He wasn't turning into France, or any of the other pervert bastards. That was a relief.

Okay. It was okay. He was okay.

Right? R-right. Of course. Right.

He was fine. Everything was...fine. He relaxed his hold on his pillow, pushing it aside and scooting off the bed. He opened the door, poking his head out and listening carefully to make sure no-one else was there. Yep, quiet. Good. He might have ...tentatively come to terms with his new attraction, but he still didn't want to deal with any awkward questions or even talk to anyone right now. He needed some alone time to, to adjust.

He exited the bedroom and went downstairs to the kitchen, to pour himself some wine, and maybe he'd listen to some music or watch a movie, something relaxing to distract him from the unsettling lack of being unsettled he was feeling over what he wasn't feeling as a result of how he felt.

Yeah. Wine sounded good.

A quick visit to the kitchen, and full glass in hand, he stood in front of the entertainment system in the living room, where he found an envelope with his name written on it in his brother's handwriting taped to the television screen. Frowning curiously, he pulled it off and flipped it open. Inside, there was a disc, and a note.

Romano~, Belgium brought us a copy of today's episode that you missed for our collection! Wasn't that nice? Since we're going to watch the next episode together tomorrow, you should watch this tonight to catch up on what you missed, okay? Oh, and I almost forgot! I'm going over to Germany's later, so I won't be home for dinner. Bye~!

He snorted, crumpling the note and tossing it aside. If Veneziano was going to Germany's, he wouldn't be home all night. He probably wouldn't even be home tomorrow. He'd be surprised if heard from the idiot at all for the next couple of days. What the hell he saw in that repressed macho fuckbastard, he'd never know. He didn't want to know. He shuddered, briefly, lip curling in disgust, and then was distracted by the light shining off of the disc he still held.

His eyes narrowed as he contemplated the disc in his hand. He took a sip of wine, thinking, and raised the disc, staring at the way the mirrored surface caught the light, spun it in multicoloured patterns like the surface of a soap bubble.

Amando wasn't like the potato bastard. Amando was different. He turned the disc over, staring at the edge, and took another sip of wine. Amando wasn't like anyone. He was all the good things a man should be, but never were. He was handsome, but not arrogant. He was strong, but gentle, and... and protective. Amando was passionate, but patient, and considerate. Intelligent, but not condescending. He was open, but mysterious.

He turned the disc over again. He'd already watched the episode, he didn't really need to catch up, but...he had been a little distracted, the first time through. Maybe he should watch it again, just to...make sure he hadn't missed anything.

He turned on the player and inserted the disc, his heartbeat quickening a little as he pressed 'play'. (Maybe he wanted to see Amando again, too. He could admit to that, in the secrecy of his mind.)

He settled on the couch, laying on his side, and grabbed the controller. Taking another sip of wine to settle his nerves, he turned on the TV just as the title scrolled across the screen and the opening theme began to play.

The sun shone bright through the door, and gulls wheeled in the endless blue overhead, their distant cries the only sound in the still afternoon air. He turned around, blinking as his eyes accustomed himself to the lower lighting of the place he found himself. He looked around at the dirt floor underfoot, the wooden walls and stalls and hay-filled lofts. He knew this place. This was...Spain's stables. It'd been a long time since he'd last been here. Why..? Oh, that's right. He'd come here looking for...

A warm pair of hands fell on his hips, and he leaned back against a strong, warm chest, heart quickening. "Amando."

"I didn't think I would see you so soon." The smooth, familiar voice sent tendrils of liquid electricity down his spine, setting his body tingling and burning with desire. Amando's strong arms slid around him, holding him gently; one hand splaying possessively over his lower abdomen, the other slowly stroking his side. His head fell back and he hummed with pleasure, melting into the touch. "I'm glad."

"Amando," he breathed, turning around in his arms, reaching up to slide his arms around his lover's neck. Amando lifted him effortlessly, murmuring sweet nothings into his ear, his breath hot against his skin, and they were pressed together, skin on skin, his back against smooth wood, supported in Amando's arms, his legs wrapped tightly around his waist, moving together, the delicious friction of Amando's heat against him making his insides coil and tighten and pulse, and Amando's protective hold turning his muscles to water, and the feel of Amando's muscles moving under his hands, fuck yes, and he came, slick and hot and sticky-wet between them, Amando still moving against him as he rode it out, the slick, rythmic sensation of that hard length and muscle and heated skin against his hypersensitive cock, still leaking cum, throbbing so fucking good and he wanted more, more, please Amando, more.

And then they were lying in the hay, Amando's firm weight on him making him feel unbelievably secure, untouchably safe and wanted and nothing bad could ever happen to him in these arms, and Amando was smiling down at him, warm and bright like the sun, blue eyes almost glowing in the low light of the stable, and he ran his hands up those strong arms and shoulders, clinging to the man above him, letting him know with his eyes and body what he wanted, needed, and Amando chuckled, understanding, and his legs were spread wide, and he was caressed and stroked and cherished, and Amando's fingers were moving inside him, preparing him and Amando's eyes were locked with his, intent and stormy as the sky during a thunderstorm, but he was safe, secure in these arms; and then Amando was moving inside him, oh—

"Hey you guys!" America's head popped over the stall wall nearby, peering curiously down at where they lay in the hay. "Whatcha doin'?"

With a growl, he struggled onto his elbows, wrapping his legs tightly around Amando's waist, locking his ankles together and glaring over Amando's shoulder at the intruder. "What the fuck are you doing here? Go away!"

"Just passing by." America leaned nonchalantly on the wall separating them, and held out the hamburger he held in his hand. "Want a bite of my hamburger?" He offered.

Ugh. He couldn't believe this. Couldn't the stupid bastard see they were busy? He flopped back against the hay in exasperation, slapping a hand to his forehead. "Go away, bastard. You don't belong here!"

"Okay," America shrugged unconcernedly, taking a bite of his burger, and waved as he wandered off, warning casually, "but you don't know what you're missing."

"Ugh. Can you believe that idiot?" He growled, settling his hands on Amando's shoulders. And then he woke up.

Still half-asleep, Romano growled, irritated, frustrated, and deeply unsatisfied as he fumbled on the floor for his pants. Pulling his cell from the pocket, he dialed quickly, snarling as soon as it picked up, "Listen, asshole. I don't know what the fuck you thought you were doing, but stay the fuck out of my dreams!"

He hung up, as angrily as you could on a phone you couldn't slam, and fell back asleep, the phone dropping from his hand to the floor once more.

"Alfred," Theresa asked carefully, quirking an amused eyebrow at the phone in her hand, "do you have any angry ex-boyfriends I should know about?"

"No," came the preoccupied answer from behind the changing screen of their shared dressing room (space being in low supply while they were filming on location), "why?"

"Are you sure? I know you said you've never really had a relationship, but maybe there was someone you forgot? Someone...Italian? Who might be pissed?"

"Um," Alfred rustled behind the screen, "the last Italian I dated was the daughter of a business partner at an official function, and she got pissed at me 'cause I didn't dress to match her gown." He paused, and there was the sound of a zipper. "I didn't know I was supposed to. But that was, y'know, work. We weren't actually in love or anything."

Theresa blinked, reflecting that she really should find out what Alfred did for a living before he started acting. Everytime she'd thought she'd figured it out, he came out with some new snippet of information that threw her previous theory out the window. But for now, they should focus on the matter at hand. "Are you sure. Because an unexpected ex turning up when we're not expecting them could ruin our plans, Alfred."

"I think I'd remember if I'd ever been in love." Alfred answered, and she could hear his insulted pout. "Besides, when I fall in love it's going to be forever."

And that was another thing she was going to have to watch out for, Theresa reminded herself. Alfred was a hopeless romantic with a hero complex. All it would take would be some 'damsel in distress' swanning along pretending to need saving, and he'd be trapped and their plans would be ruined. Then the bitch or bastard would show their true colours, and break his heart and ruin his career, and she couldn't let that happen. She liked Alfred, for one— he was fast becoming her best friend— and already the station was being swamped with calls and emails requesting more of 'Amando' (which was why they were back on location, filming extra scenes to retrofit into episodes already filmed), and that meant the series would become more popular, which meant she would become more popular, and that would open up opportunities for her and Alfred both. Syndication. Movie deals. International stardom! She wasn't about to let him throw that all away on one of the vapid, soulless tramps that were all you met in this line of work. Alfred deserved someone special. Someone romantic, but with a good head on their shoulders, too; because Alfred needed looking after.

"You're a virgin, right, Alfred?" She asked absently, scrolling through his address book. She didn't recognise the caller's number anywhere in here. Probably a secret admirer, then. God knows she knew how that went. Sounded like they were in denial about it, though. Cute.

"Of course!" Alfred admitted easily, and there was the sound of ripping cloth.

"Good." Theresa said, noting the area code. It was probably nothing, but you never knew. "That makes things easier."

"Makes what easier?" Alfred poked his head around the edge of the screen.

"Oh, nothing." She dismissed, setting the phone down on the vanity. "You didn't tell me you spoke Italian."

"It didn't come up." Alfred stepped out from behind the screen, poking at a hole in his shirt, underneath the collar. "Is this good enough, you think?"

She glanced at his reflection in the mirror, and reached for her makeup kit. "Rip a little more across the top, so it drapes down across your shoulder."

"'Kay." He carefully tore the garment across the top of his right shoulder. "Why, do you speak Italian, too?"

"I was a model before I was an actress." Theresa nonchalantly swept her hair up into a ponytail, so it would be out of the way. "Lived in Milan, traveled the world. I speak Italian, French and a little English." She pulled a brush through her hair in preparation for styling it. "What's your excuse?"

"Huh?" Alfred frowned in puzzlement, wiggling his shoulder to settle the hole in his shirt in place. "Excuse for what?"

"You speak Spanish, English, I heard you speak French to the maitre'd the other night, don't think I didn't notice that, honey; and now, apparently you speak Italian." She gestured to the phone near her elbow, and reached for her blusher. "How many languages do you speak?"

"A few." America admitted, tucking the bottom of the shirt into his leather trousers. "I travel alot. Plus, the US has a lot of immigration."

"Alfred." Theresa lowered her brush, leveling a serious look at him in the mirror. "Are you a spy? You can tell me."

He glanced up and met her gaze in the mirror, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Are you serious?"

She raised an eyebrow, and crossed her arms. He laughed, coming to stand behind her and reaching for the styling gel. "Nope, not a spy."

"If I find out later on that you're a spy, and you didn't tell me, I'm going to be very upset." She warned, reaching for her blusher again.

"I'm not a spy." He grinned, carefully styling his hair to look attractively wind-tousled and touchable. "I think I'd know."

"Mhm." Mollified, she glanced down at the phone at her elbow, remembering that she still hadn't passed on the message. "Your Italian not-ex-boyfriend wants you to stay out of his dreams, by the way." Theresa informed him, deeply amused, and tapped her blusher brush on the edge of the vanity to remove excess powder.

"Well, that should be easy enough." He nodded absently, and Theresa rolled her eyes heavenward as she swept the brush across her cheekbones, because sometimes Alfred didn't understand people at all. "Wait, how did you know he was Italian?"

"He was speaking in Italian." Theresa said dryly, reaching for her eyelash curler. "The rest was all deduction."

"That's weird." He frowned in puzzlement, tamping down that errant cowlick that always gave him trouble. "I don't know any Italians that would have that number. What was his name?"

"He didn't say." Theresa hummed thoughtfully. Secret admirer, then. Probably someone he'd worked with before who'd developed an understandable interest, but hadn't acted on it due to the denial they seemed to harbour, for whatever reason. That would explain how they got the number, why they were dreaming about him, and why they were upset about it. Cute.

"Maybe it was a wrong number." Alfred tilted his head, and nodded, satisfied with his hair.

"People don't usually dial international wrong numbers." Theresa said doubtfully.

"Y'never know." Alfred shrugged, dismissing it, and leaned over her shoulder, peeking into her makeup bag. "Can I borrow your foundation? I left mine in the—" She reached under the table, coming up with his makeup bag. "Oh, thanks!" He grinned, grabbing it and kissing her cheek. "You rock, Theresa."

"I know." She answered smugly, batting him away. "Don't smudge my makeup. And make sure you put extra on your freckles, too."

"I know, I know." Alfred sighed. His freckles had come out in the sun over the last couple weeks of filming, so for the shots that were going to be inserted into earlier episodes he needed to cover them up, so it wouldn't be too obvious that they'd been filmed later; which meant makeup, which was a pain. He didn't know how Theresa could stand it all the time, it smelled and felt weird and unnatural.

"You missed the bridge of your nose." Theresa pointed out helpfully, enjoying the hell out of his disgruntled pout.

"I haven't even gotten there yet." He pouted harder, swiping at his nose.

"Just trying to help." She smirked, pulling her hair out of its ponytail and dragging the brush through her curls.

"If it wouldn't set us back like, an hour, I'd swipe you with this junk." He threatened, waving the foundation-covered makeup pad at her.

"I'm a professional, Alfred. It never takes me more than 15 minutes to prep for a shoot." She corrected primly, pinning her hair up.

"Yeah, well it wouldn't have taken me so long if I hadn't had to modify my wardrobe." He tugged at the hole in his shirt with his free hand.

"That was a good idea, though. Where did you come up with it?"

"There's this character in an old show where I come from who's known for always ripping his shirt in combat." He explained, dabbing the last of his freckles from apparent existence. "I just took the idea and ran with it."

"I like it." Theresa nodded approvingly. "By the way, your little 'secret' is out."

His eyebrows rose in surprise. "Already?"

"Mhm. Some of the girls came by my dressing room after our little performance, and 'pried' it out of me." Theresa tilted her head this way and that, checking her hair, and reached for her lipstick, smiling in satisfaction. "I swore them to secrecy, so everyone should know by now."

"Damn." Alfred shook his head admiringly. "I didn't think that'd work."

Theresa glanced sidelong at him, and focused on applying her lipstick for a few moments. Then she carefully capped it and put it away. "I want 'Alfred' to take Gabriela Covas out this Friday."

Alfred stilled, then resumed applying his foundation, hiding the last of his freckles, face carefully blank. He capped the foundation and dropped it in his bag, and asked lowly, "Do I really have to do this? It feels...wrong."

"It's not wrong, Alfred. It's necessary." Theresa zipped her bag, putting it aside, and stood, examining the finished product in the mirror. Catalina looked fantastic. "You're not even going to do anything. People are just going to think you have. No-one's going to get hurt."

"Yeah, I know." Alfred sighed, putting his things away. "I just...don't like it. It feels like lying. And what if it doesn't work?"

"It'll work." Theresa stated surely. "If there's one thing I know, it's people. It'll work. Just think of it as...putting on a show. People want a show. They'll believe what they want to believe. All you have to do is give them something to believe in."

"I know, I know." Alfred nodded, exhaling through his nose. "I don't like it. But I'll do it."

"Start drawing her in today." Theresa said, walking to the door. Alfred followed. "You know what to do."

"Yeah." He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and slipped into character. He leaned close, reaching around her to take the doorknob and opened the door, resting his other hand on her lower back, and smiled, ushering her through. "After you, Tessa love."

On their way to the set, they passed a group of visitors, family and friends of some of their sponsors or the producers, as well as some potential sponsors who'd come to watch the filming. As they walked past, Alfred glanced sidelong, making eye contact with one of the women. His glance was brief, but heated under lowered lashes, and the visible corner of his mouth quirked up wickedly, and her heart skipped a beat. Then he was gone, and she went up on tiptoes, leaning forward to crane her head after him.

"Don't even think about it, Gabriela." One of the other women warned her, with eager confidentiality. "He's not the commitment type. Haven't you heard the story?"

"Oooh, what story?" One of the other women asked, interest piqued. The first woman launched into the tale, which she explained to the group she had learned from one of the makeup artists, who had learned it from one of the costumers, who'd learned it from one of the stagehands. Gabriela wasn't listening, too busy staring thoughtfully after the departing actor. Not the committment type, hm? Maybe she could change his mind.

AN: I...am totally forgetting something. It'll come to me later. When Theresa's done running off with the plot. Y'know, half of this chapter and all of the last were written from Belgium or Theresa's point of view. Which may be biased or, you know, coloured by their perception of things (for instance, Belgium seems not to realise that Romano hit puberty centuries ago). It's...interesting. I'm not sure how it'll effect the story, but it's fun writing from their perspectives. It's kind of an adventure. I hope it's not confusing, though.

Poor Romano. All that denial's not going to save you, buddy. *sigh* At least he'll have a few peaceful weeks, maybe months, before Valentine throws him for another loop. (Or will it be Alfred, first? We'll see.)