Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
A couple of quick reminders: This is an M-rated fic. There are allusions to sex, and dreams about sex, and eventually, there will be sex. Since this is a soap opera/dramatic/absolutely silly fic, most of the sex will be soap opera/romance novelesque sex. Keep that in mind. Also, I sincerely hope you are of age.
"Well, that was a total bust." America muttered under his breath. So much for getting away from the show. He sighed, picking up his briefcase, and looked around. The meeting was over, and he hadn't gotten anything done; but at least everyone was currently preoccupied with something that wasn't him or Forever is Not Long Enough: Prussia was showing off his collectibles to an admiring Belgium, France was waking up Spain, North Italy was begging Germany for ice cream (oh, that sounded like a good idea!), Russia was reading over Lithuania's shoulder, and England and Canada were chatting by the door...if he moved now he might be able to get out of the room without being caught.
He glanced to the left, and the right, and made a beeline for the door as quickly and quietly as he could. Almost there...two more steps and freedom...yes! He darted through the door and into the hallway, rejoicing in his escape.
Too soon, as it turned out. "America, wait a moment, if you please!" England's voice called after him before he got more than halfway down the hall. "I'd like to have a word with you!"
America winced, cursing internally, but turned to wait for England to catch up, and even attempted a smile. "Hey, England. What's up?"
England took a moment to compose himself, trying to appear as though he wasn't out of breath from his short trot down the hall after America. "I wanted to talk to you about what happened in the meeting today."
America launched into damage control. "If this is about what happened with Italy and Germany, it wasn't what it looked like. I was only acting—"
"No, no," England held up his hand, cutting him off. "No, I quite understand. I was an actor once myself, you know."
"You were?" America paused, surprised.
"Oh, yes." England reassured him, "For over twelve years I was one of the most renowned actors of the early 1600s. I was in all the Bard's greatest works. Hamlet in Hamlet, Olivia and Sebastian in Twelfth Night, Prospero, Cleopatra, Falstaff..." He reminisced, eyes misty with nostalgia, smiling a little proudly. "My King John was particularly well received, as was my Rosalind. And my Prospero was the toast of the town. And my Titania...there's never been such a queen of the fairies since." His smile turned dreamy for a moment as he lost himself in memories of past accolades. Then he blinked, and cleared his throat, blushing a little. "Well, I did have a bit of an edge, there." He admitted. "After all, I knew the real thing."
"Uh...huh." America stared at him in blank fascination. England as an actor? And a couple of those sounded like women's roles...he slapped down the mental image of England in a dress before it could arise. "Wait, the 1600s? I don't remember that. How come you never mentioned it to me before?"
"Nevermind that." England dodged dodgily. "The point is I understand what it's like to be an actor. The fame, the money, the tight pants and fancy dresses," (America quirked an eyebrow) "the adulation of your fans...the heady rush of energy and power when you're up on stage." He clenched his hand, eyes bright and cheeks flushing as he continued almost passionately, "I know how easily it can all go to your head. To be carried away by the glamour of it all." He paused, lowering his hand and shifting, continuing more subduedly, "I just...wanted to give you some advice, is all. One actor to another, as it were."
"Yeah?" America was intrigued. "Okay, shoot."
"I...confess I don't quite know where to start." England admitted, frowning concernedly. "There's such a lot I ought to tell you. Things you should know. Perhaps I should tell you about my experiences. But...it's a little difficult..." He hesitated, looking uncomfortable. "I don't suppose there's a pub around here where we could go and speak privately? If I'm going to talk about this I'd like to have a drink or two in me."
"There's a bar downstairs in the lobby," America informed him, "but—"
"Oh, no fair, England!" Belgium teased, having come out of the conference room along with North Italy just in time to hear England's last remark about finding a pub for drinks and misunderstood the reason. "I wanted to ask America out for drinks, too! It's been a while since we've had the chance to catch up, hasn't it?" She winked America's way, and cast her catlike grin at England. "But it seems you beat me to it, hmm~?"
"Ah, no, I—" England flushed a little at having his motives misunderstood.
"Oh, are we going out for drinks?" Veneziano clapped his hands excitedly. "How fun! Germany, we're going out for drinks with America!"
"What? Drinks?" Prussia exited the conference room, his duffel slung over his shoulder and carrying the carefully-packaged poster in his free hand. "I want to come too!"
"Of course!" Veneziano assured him. "Everybody's invited, ve~!"
"Wait, no—" England protested, hands lifted in denial. "That's not what—"
"How nice it is to see everyone getting along so well." Russia smiled as he dragged a worried-looking Lithuania through the growing gathering of nations in the doorway. "It's too bad, but Lithuania and I won't be able to stay this time. Be sure to drink a glass of vodka for me, okay~?" .
"If we're going out for drinks, I know this divine little club we simply must visit." France contributed, standing in the doorway. He turned back to the conference room to call out, "Hurry up Spain~, we're going out for drinks!"
"Don't just invite yourself along!" England yelled, taking his frustrations out on France. "America and I were having a private conversation!"
"Ahonhon~, trying to keep our little America all to yourself, England?" France grinned, waggling his eyebrows in an insinuating fashion which he knew drove the Englishman insane. "Now that he's a famous actor you want to curry his favour, hm? Getting close to him to take advantage of his status, is that it?"
"Wha— No! That's exactly the sort of thing I'm trying to warn him about!" England sputtered, flailing a little. "And we don't need you along to muck up the works!"
"Sure, whatever you say, England." Prussia leered, snickering. "Your intentions are totally innocent. We believe you, don't we, Belgium."
"Oh, yes." Belgium nodded, lips pursed mock-seriously. She knew England's intentions actually were innocent, but she was enjoying teasing him. Besides, she wasn't going to let him get away with stealing her chance to spend some time with America, even if it meant interrupting his plans. She needed to find out about Theresa Álvarez for Romano (and she kind of wanted to spend some time with America, too. He'd grown up so cute)! "It's very obvious, isn't it?"
"I have innocent intentions! I want to be alone with America, too!" Veneziano volunteered, waving his hand. "We can all be alone with America together! As a group, ve~!"
"As long as I get some drinks I'll be alone with anyone." Prussia agreed, turning to his best buds. "Right guys?"
"Are we going out for drinks?" Spain yawned, rubbing his eyes and leaning on France. "That sounds nice."
"It's decided, then." France nodded, satisfied. "We'll all go to—"
"Now hold on a minute!" England interrupted, protesting. "That's not—"
"You can't—" France started to argue, joined by Prussia and Spain, just for the hell of it.
"Keep us from our drinks—
"You English bastard—"
"Ve~, but—" Veneziano chimed in, just to be a part of things.
"Guys! Guys." America called over their yelling, and held up his hands, gesturing for them to calm down and listen for a moment. "I don't have a problem with going out for drinks with everyone, and if we did," he added, turning to England for a moment, "I'm sure we could find some time to talk," England nodded, reluctantly acknowledging this, "and it does sound like a lot of fun," America added, turning back to everyone. "But I have plans with—"
"Alfred?" He momentarily froze, momentarily as a familiar female voice called him from the end of the hall near the elevator. Crap, the girls from last night! Fuck. Automatically, he slipped into character and into a charming smile as he glanced around. Great. Both of them were standing at the end of the hall, staring at him in surprise as they tried to determine if it was really 'him'. As soon as he made eye contact, they broke into smiles and giggles and ran towards him, waving.
"Alfred!"
He turned to the group of watching nations.
"Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen." He said smoothly, charming smile still in place, and turned to walk towards the girls, arms spread in greeting. "Mes belle amies!" They giggled delightedly at being greeted in French, and he took them in his arms, kissing each of their cheeks and lips in turn. "Quelle surprise!"
The assembled nations stared.
"Bloody hell he's speaking French." England gaped in mounting horror as the girls' kisses got a little more passionate than greeting kisses should be, and one of the girls reached down to grope America's ...backside. "He's speaking French and he's acting French."
"He is." France covered his mouth in disbelief, his eyes wide, delighted smile growing behind his hand. "I cannot believe it. I have never been so proud!"
"What are they saying?" Prussia elbowed France sharply, eyes on the action. "What're they saying?"
"Oh, ah.." France blinked, translating distractedly. "He's saying he thought they'd left this morning...the girls' French is terrible, I can barely understand it, something about...sleeping through their departure time? Because of ...the activities...last night...oh!" He covered his mouth with both hands, flushing happily. "I'm so proud!"
"What, what?" Prussia nudged him rapidly. "What is it?"
"He was with them both! Last night! And he still came to the meeting, no wonder he looked so tired." France fanned himself with his hands as his emotions overwhelmed him, flushing with pride and pleasure. "Oh, apparently he was very good. They say they'll remember it always. He gets that from me, of course," he added, preening briefly, "Oh, he's telling them— Oh! Oh!" He pressed his fist to his mouth, and swallowed hard, tearing up.
"What!" Prussia poked him hard in the ribs.
"He's quoting my poetry!" France choked out, blinking rapidly, and sniffled. "Peirre de Ronsard! He remembers! I didn't think..." he paused, overcome, and pulled out his handkerchief to dab at his eyes. "I didn't think he was listening! He does love me, after all! I'm so touched!"
"Yeah, okay, that's great, but what're they saying?" Prussia asked impatiently, unimpressed.
"Oh, they've switched to Spanish." France waved a hand unconcernedly, pressing his handkerchief to his nose and sniffling. "Something about the girls calling their father or uncle who's a producer and getting him something he wanted, I don't know. He remembers!"
"He's sleeping around to further his career?" England frowned, heart sinking. That was exactly the sort of thing he'd been hoping to prevent. Among so many other things. But it seemed the boy was doomed to repeat the same mistakes he'd made so long ago. He only hoped that it wasn't to late to warn him about the other mistake...
"I don't know, I wasn't really listening." France said airily, sniffling. "Good for him if he is, too."
"No, I don't think so," Spain contributed, frowning thoughtfully at the trio a little ways down the hall. Those were Spanish girls... "The one girl said 'I know you weren't aware of it, but my father's an executive producer'. It was a chance meeting, I guess?"
"The lucky bastard." Prussia admired, crossing his arms. "I could do with some luck like that, kesesese~!"
"Oh, they're leaving." Veneziano observed, as the girls kissed Alfred goodbye and left, waving.
"Aaand here he comes." Prussia remarked, as Alfred turned back to them.
"So, anyway," America started normally, stoically trying not to blush in embarrassed guilt at what'd just happened and the fact that everyone had seen it and probably misunderstood. "I—"
"My boy!" France flung himself forward, gathering America in his arms and kissing his cheeks. "Mon beau bébé! I have never been so proud! You have made me so happy!" He buried his face in America's shoulder and squeezed him tightly, crying a little. "You remembered my poetry!"
"Um, yeah?" America tentatively hugged France back, patting his back, a little alarmed by his tears but happy he was happy.
"I knew you loved my culture deep down inside!" France sobbed muffledly into his shoulder.
"Those girls were Spanish, weren't they!" Spain pointed accusingly. "You had better have used protection, America! I don't want any of your little bastards running around my place!"
"What? No!" America stared, taken aback by the insinuation that he had...would...with those girls. His cheeks flushed hotly in embarrassment. "I would never do that!"
"You didn't use protection?" Spain fisted his hands in his hair, eyes widening in horrified abhorrence. "I'm going to be overrun with illegitmate Americans! No! I won't have it! All those little American babies with their obnoxious smiles and big blue eyes and chubby cheeks and dark curly hair and— oh my god that would be so cute," he paused, calming a little as visions hordes of blue-eyed, plump-and-dimple-cheeked, curly-haired children toddled around in his mind; and then he shook his head, trying to recapture his earlier revulsion and anger. Americans! In his home! No! "But no! I don't want it!"
"No, I didn't— I mean, I—" America paused, realizing there was no way they were going to believe that he didn't do what it looked like he'd done, and sighed, resigned. "Look, there won't be any babies. I promise."
"There had better not!" Spain huffed, clenching his fists in warning, and squashed down the small part of him that was a little disappointed that the adorable babies in his vision weren't going to exist. "Or I'll be very angry, you hear?"
"No babies." America assured him. "You don't have to worry."
"Okay." Spain huffed, hands on his hips, feeling a little victorious, like he'd won a battle to prevent swarms of Americans invading his shores.
"So, about those drinks we're all going to be alone with." Prussia prompted, bored of all this emotion and lack of alchohol.
"Oh, yes, we should really get going." England started. "America and I, that is. You all can—"
"Actually England, guys, I'm sorry, but I really can't go out for drinks right now." America interrupted to inform them firmly but apologetically. "I have plans. And I really should get back to the suite, Theresa's probably worried. I told her I was going to be back almost an hour ago, now." He sighed, patting France's shoulder before disengaging him from his person. "But, we're supposed to go out dancing tonight. I'm sure she wouldn't mind going out for drinks beforehand if you guys want to meet up somewhere later this evening?"
He suddenly found himself the focus of the wide-eyed stares of several nations.
"Theresa Álvarez is here?" Prussia almost shrieked, vibrating with fanboy excitement. He fisted his hair. "Mein gott, I have to meet her! America, you have to introduce us!"
"I want to meet her, too!" Veneziano exclaimed almost-as-excitedly. "Oh! Oh!" He turned to Belgium. "And we have to get brother! He wouldn't want to miss this!"
"You're right!" Belgium grinned delightedly, clapping her hands together. Such luck! Theresa Álvarez was here! She could introduce her to Romano and his first love was sure to follow!
"Englaaaand, America's sharing a suite with a beautiful woman~!" France sing-songed in a tattle-tale way. "He's living in siiinnn~."
England twitched, desperately clamping down on the rising apoplectic fit. Perhaps it wasn't what it seemed; after all, when he was an actor he used to share suites with beautiful women all the time, and — oh, balls. His fists clenched in despair.
"I am not, it's a two-room suite." America protested, frowning a little at the insinuation France was making about Theresa. "And besides, I haven't spent much time in it. I didn't have much chance."
England clasped at his heart, breathing in relief, while France sniffed in disappointment.
"Well, I suppose we must believe you're only friends if you would spend the night with those two young ladies when you have a vibrant, beautiful woman like her waiting for you in your suite." France said ironically, nodding in mock-seriousness. "Very well. But, I'm still proud!"
"I'm glad to hear it." America sighed, missing the irony entirely, and slung his briefcase over his shoulder again. "Okay guys, I really do have to go. Why don't you guys decide when you want to get together and leave me a message letting me know when and where, and Theresa and I will show up. 'Kay?"
"Yes, yes, I'll arrange everything." France agreed, fluttering a hand. "I know just the place. Drinks and dancing, so your darling co-worker won't have to miss out on her fun. We're looking forward to meeting her."
America smiled a little, ruffling his hair. "To be honest, I'm sure she'll be excited to meet you, too. She's very...curious about what I do when I'm not acting."
"Why don't you just tell her?" Veneziano asked, curious.
"She likes to guess." America grinned. "She said she wants to figure it out on her own, and telling her would spoil the fun. And it's interesting seeing what she comes up with."
"Why is everyone standing out here?" Germany demanded exasperately, coming out of the conference room along with Japan and Canada to find a cluster of nations blocking the way. "If you weren't going to leave, you should have helped clean the conference room after the meeting. You left a terrible mess."
"I-it's alright, eh?" Canada tried to reassure him. "The three of us managed alright."
"Sorry guys, I'll be sure to help next time!" America laughed sheepishly, turning to head out. "Bye! Leave me a message when you know what the plans are!" He waved over his shoulder as he took off before anything else happened to stop him.
"Germany! I'm sorry I didn't help clean, I'll help next time!" Veneziano greeted enthusiastically, clinging to Germany. "Guess what? We're all going out for drinks later with America and Catalina! You're coming too, aren't you, Japan?"
"Ah, thank you, but, my age..." Japan declined politely, hurrying away. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy a drink or two with friends on occasion, but the thought of spending an evening with the nations present when they were intoxicated gave him a preemptive stomachache.
"Aw, that's too bad. Bye Japan!" Veneziano waved after him, and turned back to Germany. "So, are we ready for ice cream?"
"I never agreed to buy you ice cream." Germany reminded him, fully aware of the futility of his argument, and sighed. "Very well. Get your things and I'll check the directory for the closest ice cream parlour."
"I already know where it is!" Veneziano beamed, gathering his stuff together and latching onto Germany's arm, tugging him along. "There's a cafe not far from here!"
"Come on guys," Prussia grinned, slapping Spain's shoulder and nudging France. "West's buying us ice cream!"
"He is? How nice of him!" Spain yawned, rubbing his eyes. "I could use something sweet right now. And maybe some coffee, too."
"Yes, sounds nice." France nodded, and turned to pounce on an unsuspecting England before he could get away. "Come on, England! Maybe some ice cream would sweeten up your sour spirit!"
"Wh-what! I'm not sour!" England flailed as he was dragged long despite his struggles. "Let me go, you stupid frog! I don't need any ice cream, and I certainly don't need any ice cream with you!"
Belgium watched them go, lips twitching as her smile threatened to break into laughter. What a fun morning it had been! She exhaled, and stretched, catlike, to diffuse some of the excitement bubbling up in her so she wouldn't start skipping down the halls like a little girl on sugar; and took a moment to brush out her skirts, before heading purposefully back to the suit she was sharing with Romano. She covered her mouth, unable to keep a giggle from escaping. It was so exciting! She couldn't wait to tell her little Romano he was going to meet Catalina! Oh! Did he have any suitable clothes for the occasion? Well, if he didn't they could go shopping. Oh, he was going to be so excited! And nervous, probably— Romano could be so shy, poor boy. But that was okay, she'd be there to help him, and really he was such a darling with women that Miss Álvarez was sure to be instantly charmed once they were introduced. It was inevitable, really. And Romano's first love would begin!
Alone in the elevator she indulged in a moment of girlish glee at the thought, clasping her hands to her mouth and bouncing up and down a little on her toes. Eee! It'd be so cute!
"Romano? Romano!" She called as she entered their suite, kicking off her shoes and closing the door behind her. "I have wonderful news! Romano~. Are you in?" She tilted her head and listened, a little surprised that he hadn't answered instantly. Since they were in France, she wouldn't have expected him to leave the suite at all. It would be more likely that he would stay cloistered up in the suite, ordering desserts and wine from room service and watching soap opera reruns and pouting about having had to go to France (she smiled at that— it was awfully sweet of him to agree to come for her sake, considering how much she knew he disliked France. He'd even paid for the tickets and their suite, insisting on the best room so she'd have someplace nice to stay while they were there. But that was Roma all over, he was such a chivalrous little sweetheart. Well, to women, anyway, she admitted with a smile. But that's part of what made it so sweet! It was cute that he treated men and women so differently. And it was kind of nice to be treated so specially by Romano. Veneziano was sweet, too; but he was sweet to everyone, while Romano was only sweet to women! It was like being part of an exclusive club.)
"Roma?" She called, entering the main room. Oh yes, she remembered as she viewed the room— the rooms in this hotel didn't have televisions, so he couldn't have watched soap operas. But there was no tell-tale mess and empty plates and dishes in the main room, or in the little kitchenette to show that he'd been taking advantage of the room service, either. Maybe he'd gotten bored and went out? That would be unusual, but Romano had been going through a lot of changes, lately. Perhaps he was becoming more outgoing? That would be good, Romano needed a little more confidence. Another good reason to get him and Miss Álvarez together— a sweet, lovely young woman's love and support would do wonders for his confidence and development.
...Or maybe he was sleeping, she admitted with a grin as she caught sight of his curl peeking out of the covers out of the corner of her eye as she passed his room. She paused in the doorway to smile at his sleeping form, sprawled out under the covers which were pulled up over his head, except for his rebellious curl which had escaped confinement. He mumbled some unintelligible complaint and squirmed a bit, sighing before he relaxed, and she could just imagine the sulky little pout he was wearing even in his sleep. Poor baby. Worrying about being in France must have tired him out.
She shut his bedroom door as quietly as she could so she wouldn't wake him as she went about the suite, deciding to let him sleep for a while. They had an hour or so before they had to start getting ready for this evening's outing.
In the meantime, she had plans to make. Maybe she'd go shopping, pick up something for Romano to wear, and perhaps even find an outfit for herself that would help her catch America's eye for the evening. She headed to the restroom to freshen up, lips stretching in a catlike, mischievous grin. After all, they were in the romantic French Riviera, weren't they? No sense in letting all that romantic atmosphere go to waste. And America had grown up so handsome! She wasn't looking for anything serious, but apparently he was willing to play, from what she'd seen.
She winked at herself in the mirror. Why should Romano have all the fun, when there was plenty to go around~!
Theresa stalked the floor like a vengeful lioness, eyes flashing as she waited for her prey. She'd had plenty of time to think about what she'd heard, about what had happened between Alfred and Mister Vargas as she'd made her way up to the suite, and as she waited for Alfred's return, and the more she thought about it the angrier she got. It probably didn't help that like any good actress and Spanish woman she had a flair for the dramatic, and had concocted an elaborate backstory in her head about what had happened and why, and the past between Lovino Vargas and Alfred— because obviously it hadn't started with The Contract. The way Mister Vargas had spoken about Alfred and his idealism had made it obvious to her that he'd had some prior interest in Alfred, probably for some time, even if he hadn't realised it himself. She could just see it— the beautiful, sensitive Italian meeting Alfred early on in his career, caught by his boyish enthusiasm and the purity of his idealism, inspired against his will by Alfred's confidence and open friendliness, slowly falling in love by inches, meeting after meeting, encounter after encounter, through the years as they worked together. Engrossed in his work and family affairs— and never thinking of the possibility of falling in love with an American, of all things— the young Italian businessman would have been unaware of his growing attraction, his tender feelings, only knowing that there was a longing in his heart, a restlessness in his spirit; not even realising that Alfred was both the cause and the cure.
And then tragedy struck— his father's death— or grandfather, yes. His stern but loving grandfather, who'd raised him and his brother after the death of his parents, and whom he was completely devoted to, the former, formidable head of the business empire he inherited, died; and Lovino Vargas, as the eldest living descendant, took his place as the new leader— but his grandfather had made enemies among his many business rivals, men who'd been too intimidated to take on the elder, more experienced family head, a man too powerful and ruthless to oppose.
But Lovino Vargas was young, too young. He had made an easy target for their revenge. He was talented, and had fought hard, but he'd been betrayed by his grandfather's former allies, who had little confidence in this inexperienced youth's ability to lead them. Between them they'd torn his company out from under him, hungry for his grandfather's power and legacy, leaving him nearly destitute, a broken man— but still, he'd managed to save something, parts of the business, small but important— what his grandfather had started with. Believing that the failure and loss was his fault (although there was nothing he could have done to prevent it), he'd turned leadership of the what was left of the company over to his brother, and given up.
Perhaps thoughts of Alfred had helped him then, and Alfred's example— because Alfred had to be around the same age, if not even a few years younger, and he seemed to be very successful, if the money he threw around was any indication. And then Alfred himself had come along, offering this important Contract, this business deal that would fix everything, restore the fallen former head of the company's self-respect and confidence, and spurred on by the hope Alfred engendered in him and his own unconscious feelings for the American, Lovino Vargas had taken a chance, thrown himself back into the fray, giving it his all. And Alfred had been there by his side, encouraging him and working with him and believing in him (and making the passionate Italian fall even more in love with him in the process), until Lovino had begun believing in himself again, as well. And together they'd made something beautiful, and perfect, something that would restore Lovino Vargas to his rightful place and restore his confidence in himself, as well as others' confidence in him. Inspired by Alfred's support and his unconscious love for the American, Lovino Vargas was growing into his own, becoming the man he was meant to be.
She sniffed slightly, wiping a tear from the corner of an eye, blinking rapidly as tears prickled behind her lids. What a beautiful story. It'd make a wonderful movie. It was so romantic.
But then Alfred had to go and ruin it all. How could he have done something like that? At worst it was malicious cruelty, and at best it was incredible, breathtaking thoughtlessness. She spun on her heel, hands clenching into fists as she fixed the door with a burning stare. She had a hard time thinking of Alfred as malicious or cruel, even now when she was furious with him, but thoughtless? He could do that. But that was no excuse! How could he have done such a terrible thing to that sensitive, sweet and innocent, sexy, tragic, beautiful man! After leading him on for a year, too, no matter how unconsciously!
With his brother no less! Twice the betrayal!
And poor Lovino still loved him, after everything!
(It really would make a wonderful movie. Or perhaps a miniseries. So romantic and tragic.)
Ooh! She hissed in fury. When she got ahold of Alfred, she was going to...to...do something, she was sure! She wanted to slap him silly, but everytime she thought of slapping him instead of the victorious, vengeful satisfaction she usually got from picturing herself slapping people she was angry with, she'd see his innocent, boyish face, ice cream smeared on his nose, and she couldn't go through with it. It was like thinking of slapping a kitten. It just made her feel mean.
And then she'd think of Lovino Vargas, and all the pain he was going through because of Alfred, and want to slap him all over again.
Argh, she was too angry to think. Deciding she needed a drink to settle her nerves, Theresa poured herself a glass of the cognac that'd been sent to the room as a gift earlier, courtesy of Alfred's pervert uncle, according to the concierge (although he hadn't used the term 'Alfred's pervert uncle'). Downing that quickly, she coughed, wheezing a little at the strength of the liquor burning its way down her throat. Once she caught her breath she decided she needed another, as she was still too furious to think clearly. That went down a little more slowly, as did the next, and she was on her fourth glass when Alfred finally walked through the door.
"I'm back," he said as the door shut behind him, dropping his briefcase and kicking off his shoes, loosening his tie. "Sorry I'm late, I—"
"You!" She interrupted, pointing furiously, and staggered across the room, glass in hand, to where he stood, brows rising in surprise. "How could you? And with his brother! Have you no heart?"
He paused, blinking, glancing down, and back up again. "Um...I'm not familiar with that script..."
"It's not a script, you idiot!" Theresa slapped his arm repeatedly, incidentally sloshing the liquid in the glass she still held in her other hand onto the floor with the action.
"Um, are we ad-libbing?" Alfred guessed, trying not to flinch under her ineffectual blows. It didn't hurt, but it was unexpected, and he wracked his brain, trying to remember if they'd agreed to practice when he'd got back and who he was supposed to be being, and why they were being hit. Probably Valentíne, then? He tended to bring that out in Catalina...
"No! I'm not acting! I'm hitting you because I'm angry with you!" Theresa yelled, irritated at both his lack of flinching and comprehension, and added a few shin kicks for good measure. She felt slightly more satisfied when he did flinch, then, trying to escape her assault by ducking around her, but she followed him, slapping at his arm and torso as he backed away, his hands lifted in a pacifying gesture which she ignored. "How could you be so cruel to that poor, sweet, beautiful man! You're such an asshole, Alfred!"
"What?" Alfred's brows twisted in confusion, and he leaned forward, deftly plucking the glass from her hand. "Have you been drinking?" He frowned, sniffing the glass, and blinked, tilting his head as he caught sight of her face. "Are you...crying?"
"So what if I am! You'd cry too if you had a heart in that stupid American chest of yours! Which you obviously don't, after what you did to him!" She yelled, swiping tears from her cheek with the back of her hand, and tossed her hair back, gesturing imperiously. "I'm furious with you, Alfred! How could you? How could you! He loves you so much, and you, you—" she hiccuped, covering her mouth, and swayed, looking green. "Oh, dear..."
"Uhoh." Alfred leapt into action, recognizing the signs, placing the glass on the nearest flat surface and hurrying to her side. "C'mon," he soothed, ushering her into the bathroom, and held her hair back, rubbing her back as she emptied her stomach into the porcelain bowl.
"Ohhhhh..." Theresa whimpered in distress, sniffling, and heaved again. Alfred patted her back, sighing.
"You know you can't take strong alcohol." He reminded her sympathetically, handing her a tissue. She took it, wiping at her mouth, and crumpling it in her hand.
"Not... helping." She groaned, knowing it was true — anything more than one glass of wine or champagne went straight to her head, which is why she and Alfred had worked out a system— but she didn't need to be reminded of that right now when she was miserable and nauseated. She shuddered, heaving again.
He waited 'til she'd finished, and soon she was was seated on the seat (after the mess had been flushed and the lid lowered) and holding the glass of water he'd fetched for her so she could swallow the aspirin he gave her before asking, "So, what was that all about?"
She sniffled wetly, wiping at her eyes with a tissue. She knew she had to look a mess— she was still crying, and her makeup was probably smeared, and no-one looks their best after they've been violently ill, but she was too upset to care too much at the moment. Besides, it added to the pathos. "Which part, the drinking or the yelling?" She asked, mustering up a little hauteur. She was still angry with him, but it was hard to be too angry with someone who'd so sweetly held your hair and comforted you when you were emptying your guts into the toilet, and fetched you water and aspirin afterwards, even after you'd hit them and kicked them. Stupid Alfred, making it hard to stay mad at him. But she would! He'd done something horrible. Lovino Vargas deserved someone being angry on his behalf.
"Um, pretty much everything." Alfred answered, brows furrowing in honest confusion. "I don't really understand anything that happened after I said 'I'm sorry I'm late'. You said you're mad at me, but I don't understand why?"
"No, you don't." Theresa said angrily, sipping her water and setting the glass down forcefully on the counter. "You don't understand anything, and that's the problem. And I can't even slap you! Because it'd be like slapping a kitten for peeing on your favourite shoes. It can't help it, it doesn't know any better. You make it so hard to be angry with you! And I need to be angry with you, Alfred, because you did something horrible. You really hurt that poor man, and you need to understand that—"
"Hang on, hang on." Alfred interrupted, lifting his hands. "Hold up. Can we start over? At the beginning. Because I have no idea what you're talking about. I don't remember hurting anyone, but if I did I want to know who and how so I can apologize. I really don't remember hurting anyone, but you seem to believe I did, and if you're so upset about it, whatever you think it is I did has to be pretty bad. So can you explain it to me? From the beginning. I'd like to understand what's going on."
"Alright," Theresa sighed, running her hands through her hair, still visibly upset. Alfred stood, holding out a hand to help her up.
"Let's move this to the main room," he suggested diplomatically. "This seems like it's going to be a long story, and I think we'll both be more comfortable there. I'll order some coffee from room service, and maybe something sweet, okay? And we can start from there."
"Okay." Theresa nodded, picking up her water and taking his hand, allowing him to help her up and escort her out of the bathroom. He was right, explaining on the couch would be a lot more comfortable than the hard porcelain of the toilet.
Twenty minutes and two cups of sweet, creamy coffee and petits pots de crème au chocolat later, Theresa set her cup down on the table, staring at Alfred.
Alfred sucked on his spoon, despite the fact that all the chocolate had been sucked off ten minutes before.
Theresa narrowed her eyes, deliberately folding her arms.
Alfred stared back, waiting.
Theresa tapped her forefinger on the crook of her arm, irritated.
Alfred pulled the spoon from his mouth. "...Are you done? Is that it? The whole thing?"
"Yes." Theresa affirmed dangerously. "That's it."
"Hm." Alfred sucked the spoon contemplatively, turning his gaze onto his coffee.
"Well?" Theresa demanded, gesturing. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
Alfred looked thoughtful, and pulled the spoon from his mouth. "Um," he started, setting it into his coffee cup, and straightened in his seat, looking at Theresa. "I don't understand what the problem is. I mean," he frowned, ruffling his hair, "I get that you're mad and that he might be upset, but...I don't see why? I don't understand what I did wrong."
"You—! Argh!" Theresa made a noise of frustration, picking up the nearest throw pillow and slapping it against the couch cushions. "How can you sit there and say you didn't do anything wrong! You— you betrayed that poor man! You stabbed. Him. In. The. Back." She pounded the pillow with each word, glaring at him. Seeing his lack of comprehension she gestured at him, elaborating, "How would you feel if you had a brother, and you'd worked on a contract like that and then the person you'd worked with got your brother to sign it instead?"
"Um, well," Alfred shifted, setting down his cup. "My brother and I have different bosses, so that would be illegal; but if we worked for the same boss I wouldn't mind? I'd be convenient. I'd probably thank him for saving me the trouble."
"But you were the one who worked on it! Wouldn't it upset you if someone else finished it?"
"Not really?" He shrugged a shoulder. "I mean, it's just a formality. That sort of thing happens all the time in America. It saves time. Unless there are special conditions it doesn't really matter who finishes a project, as long as it gets done."
"Really?" Theresa frowned, taken aback. They did? How strange. She opened her mouth, and closed it again, pressing her lips together. "I don't—" she hesitated, not sure where to start to get this through his thick, obviously American head. First, she decided, she needed to know why he'd done what he'd done. "Okay. Why did you have his brother sign the contract? Instead of waiting and signing it when you said you would with the person you said you would." She added reprovingly.
Alfred tilted his head, thinking. "Well...I ran into him in after a meeting with Ludwig in Germany, and since I had the contract with me, it seemed a good opportunity to get it done ahead of schedule, and save me a trip." He paused, reaching for his coffee. "Feliciano didn't seem to think anything was wrong with it? He was all for it. I would have thought he would say something if I was supposed to wait?" He frowned, setting the cup on his knee. "He said he'd tell his brother about it, I don't know why he didn't. That's not real cool. I can see why he'd be upset about that. But still being upset about it seems to be a little bit of an overreaction. I mean, it doesn't really matter who signed it, they work for the same boss. Finishing early is just good business." He sipped his coffee, adding, "In fact, I got a commendation for finishing ahead of schedule. And a medal."
"...And that's how they do it in America." Theresa stated, seeking confirmation.
"Usually, yeah. I mean, depends on who you work for, there are some exceptions, but on the whole, yeah it is."
Theresa rubbed her temples, trying not to screw up her eyes in frustration so she wouldn't get wrinkles. Working internationally had taught her to be patient with different cultures (even when they were stupid), but it wasn't always easy. Especially when what she really wanted to do was hit someone over the head with something.
You know what? Screw it.
Theresa snatched up the throw pillow in both hands and stood, repeatedly smacking Alfred over the head with it. He flailed in surprise and tried unsuccessfully to catch it. "Wha— There— I— Hey—!" He tried to get out, repeatedly interrupted by pillow to the face.
Finally Theresa tossed it aside and smoothed her hair back with both hands, flushed and panting from all the exertion. "There."
"Er...Feel better?" Alfred asked cautiously, eyes wide and hands still raised in self-defense in case another unexpected assault was in the offing.
"Much." She answered primly, sitting down and arranging her skirts around her legs. "Alfred," she started in a businesslike fashion, "you did something horrible. I see that you don't understand that, but I'm going to try and explain it so you do."
"Okay." Alfred shifted in his seat, pulling his legs up onto the couch and folding them, straightening up and looking attentive. "What did I do?"
"Alfred," Theresa stalled, frowning, and tilted her head as she tried to think of a simple way to explain it so he would understand, because Alfred's background was obviously against him in this, "you remember how angry Marco got when you let that intern help with your makeup when he had to step out to yell at Paulo for ordering the wrong type of foundation?"
Alfred grimaced slightly, wincing. "Oh, yeah. She just offered to wipe some of the base off since my hands were full— I didn't realise it would be such a big deal. It was just a couple of dabs with a sponge. But then when he came back and saw her with the sponge he flipped his shit. I mean," he allowed, "he's a tempermental guy, he's always throwing a fit about something, but that time he was actually angry." One side of his mouth pulled back a little ruefully. "I didn't mean to make him mad."
"Do you remember why he was so mad?" Theresa prompted.
"Well," Alfred thought back, tilting his head. "You said it was because he's supposed to be my personal makeup artist, and artists are sensitive and possessive and I made him feel like I didn't need him when I let someone else do his job; and when I caught up to him he said it was because he's an artist and I insulted him by letting some rank amateur paw at his canvas and ruin his work, and I had better decide whether I wanted him or a bunch of incompetent floozies. He said he'd leave if I wasn't going to commit, 'cause he wasn't going to waste his talent on someone who didn't appreciate the fact that he's a genius." He grinned, a little sheepishly. "I had to buy him flowers and wine and offer to let him help me with Valentíne's costumes and accessories before he forgave me." He settled back on the couch, sipping his coffee, and grinned. "Best decision I ever made, by the way. I never would have considered half the stuff he picks out for Valentíne to wear. It's darker than I would have thought to go. Kind of predatory. It really adds a new dimension to the character." His teeth bared in a hungry patherine smile, eyes hooding and growing intent. "He gave him fangs."
"Mhmm." Theresa agreed, almost purring, her penchant for bad-boys showing as her own lips curled up at the corners. Mmm, Valentíne. She loved watching him work. She wasn't sure whether he or 'Alfred' was her favourite. 'Alfred' was more tragic, hiding so much pain and a terrible past behind his charming facade, and was technically more redeemable; but Valentíne was passionately dangerous and darkly sexy...
"But, what does Marco getting upset have to do with getting Feliciano to sign the contract instead of Lovino?" Alfred wondered, brows furrowing in confusion.
"Hm? Oh." Theresa snapped out of her fantasies and returned to the task at hand— explaining to Alfred how he'd been an asshole. "Well, Marco and Mister Vargas are both Italian." She started, watching to see if he was listening. He was, so she continued. "And Italians are very passionate people, Alfred."
"Heh," He snorted, nodding his understanding. That was an understatement.
"And when they do business with someone, it's a very personal affair." Theresa said seriously, making sure Alfred understood how grave this was. "Americans might go from partner to partner without really taking it seriously," (Alfred frowned) "but when you're doing business with an Italian, it's not just business, it's a relationship."
"It's not that we don't take it seriously," Alfred interjected, still frowning, "and it's not like we don't form business relationships; it's just, you're doing business with the group. It's not personal, it's business. It's not—" he paused, frown twisting as he tried to think of how to explain it clearly.
"But to Italians it is personal. You build a relationship with the person you're doing business with, and stick with that person. You don't go around," she pursed her lips, waving her hand expressively, "jumping from one person to the next. You stay with the person you have a relationship with, and invest in that relationship. You don't go behind their back with other people." She wrinkled her nose distastefully.
"It's not like that." Alfred shifted uncomfortably, and set his cup down, ruffling his hair. "I mean, it's not like we're cheating or something like that." He protested. "Looking for a better deal or trying to finish faster is just good business sense. No-one holds that against you. I mean, they might not be happy to lose the business, but they understand. They'd do the same thing in your shoes. Keeps things competitive."
"In America." Theresa snapped, slapping the couch cushion she sat on in frustration. "You're not listening, Alfred. I'm not talking about Americans, I'm talking about Italians. They do things differently."
"Feh." Alfred huffed, sinking down on the couch and crossing his arms in a sulk. "It's just, you make it sound like a relationship relationship." He muttered, pouting. "Like lovers or something, and I slept around." He set his jaw stubbornly, eyes sliding to the side, upset that anyone would imply that he would ever do something like that. Ever. Even metaphorically.
"That's kind of very much like what happened, honey." Theresa said gently, watching him carefully. He was getting upset over the idea, like she'd known he would, which was good, because it meant he was taking it seriously. Part of the reason why she'd led him in the direction of thinking of it like a 'romantic' partnership in the first place was because she knew it was a concept that would resonate with him, catch his attention and hold it, and because it wasn't at all a bad analogy, really, for an Italian business partnership, one that would stick with him and he would remember. (The other part was because she was secretly hoping he would begin to correlate Lovino Vargas with the idea of a romantic partnership and romance, however subconsciously).
But she had to be careful. If she didn't handle this part right, if she was too aggressive and accusatory, he'd feel like he was under attack, and become resentful and defensive and close off to anything she tried to say. Especially if he felt she was accusing him of something he felt so strongly about not doing.
She smiled a little tiny bit, eyes softening. It was cute how innocent he was.
"Ah, Alfred," she sighed, relenting, and stood, walking around the coffee table to sit down next to him, facing him slightly. She smiled gently, and reached for one of his hands. Still sulking, he let her, uncrossing his arms so she could take his hand in both of hers (causing him to assuming a more open posture like she'd intended, which would help him relax). She squeezed his hand and reached up to gently brush his bangs back. "I know you didn't mean to hurt anyone, honey." She assured him softly, touching his cheek. "This was a terrible misunderstanding, I think. You're a sweet boy, I know you are. And you always mean well. You would never hurt anyone on purpose."
"Of course not." He pouted, staring down at their hands. "I'm not a cheater." He added defensively, brows furrowing in a frown.
"I know, honey." She squeezed his hand.
"I would never cheat on someone I was with."
"I know. I know." She soothed, rubbing his upper arm. "You're very faithful. You're a good boy. I'm sorry I yelled at you." She added, reminding him that she had, and settled against his side, leaning her head on his shoulder and still holding onto his hand. They sat that way for a while, while she waited. Not long now...
She saw Alfred's expression change from sulking to remembering, probably thinking about her words earlier, and confusion and vague guilt. She knew he understood from what she'd said earlier that he'd hurt someone, and that he'd know from how upset she'd been that it had been bad, but he didn't know what or how. But Alfred liked to fix things, and hated the thought of hurting anyone, and so he wouldn't be able to let it lie like that. He'd want to know, so he could fix it.
(And if he took too long to ask, she could always prompt him again.)
He looked down at her hand in his, and frowned uncomfortably, one side of his mouth pulling back, and she knew she had him. "What did I do?" he asked a little plaintively.
"Well, honey," Theresa paused, acting like she was thinking about how to phrase it. Alfred looked up, and she nibble her lip, looking pensive. "Maybe it's best if you think of it like a romantic relationship." He pursed his lips, brows furrowing doubtfully, but didn't protest, so she continued. "It isn't, I know, but it's like one in a way. You see, Italians usually only do business with you if they like you. They want to get to know you, and figure out who you are as a person, before they commit to doing business with you. They like to get to know you, first— 'hang out' with you, as you'd say, and see if they like you, and if you like them. If they don't like you, they won't do business with you unless they absolutely have to. But if they do, and you enter into a business relationship, well, then...they see it as exclusive. They'll stay loyal to you —they won't do business with anyone else, even if the 'deal' is good— and they expect the same from you."
"Really?" Alfred frowned dubiously. "That's not a very efficient business model..."
"It works for them." Theresa shrugged. "They don't really look at it the way you do, it's more important to them that it's a...personal relationship. And they'll put a lot of effort into maintaining the relationship between you, that connection. I bet Lovino Vargas 'hung out' with you fairly often outside of work, didn't he? Invited you out to eat and things? And he probably called you, too, to talk about things outside of business. Am I right?" She prompted, and waited while he thought about it.
"Well, yeah, I guess we did hang out alot," Alfred conceded after a moment. "I mean, not so much at first, it took him a while to warm up to me, but after a while, yeah, we'd do that stuff. But, I thought it was because we'd become friends. And then after the deal was done he stopped talking to me and wouldn't take my calls and stuff, so...I just figured he'd just been pretending like he was my friend to get a better business deal, and since it was finished he didn't need to pretend anymore."
"Didn't that upset you?" Theresa wondered a little incredulously.
"It happens." Alfred shrugged, nonchalantly. "I mean, it's not nice, and I was kind of disappointed, yeah, but he did what he thought he had to to get shit done, and I can understand that. We both got a great deal, and that's the main thing in business. No point letting it get to you or holding a grudge." His brows furrowed again, and he tilted his head in an effort to comprehend. "But, so... you're saying the reason he stopped talking to me was because I had his brother sign the contract." He said slowly. "Not because our business was done?"
"That's right!" Theresa affirmed, spreading her hands as she reiterated, "He thought you and he had a personal relationship, and any business that you had was between you and him. And when you had his brother sign the contract, it was like saying you didn't care about your relationship, and didn't respect him or want to do business with him. It was kind of like you cheated on him, see? And then, to make things worse, no-one told him about it until afterwards, but everyone knew— so it was like not only did you cheat on him with his brother, but everyone knew about it and was laughing at him behind his back. And to top it all off, because you made it clear to everyone that you didn't respect or care about Lovino Vargas or want to do business with him, that damaged his reputation at work and among his peers, so he was basically publically humiliated." She sat back and summed up, counting off on her fingers. "So, because of what happened, his brother got the credit for the work he did, and he lost face at work and among his friends and family, and he was hurt by what he perceived as your betrayal, since he was prepared to be loyal to you in your relationship, but you went behind his back— as he saw it— and pursued a relationship with his brother, instead. You see?"
"That's terrible!" Alfred said, stricken and upset. "Why didn't he say anything?"
"Well, you kind of broke his heart, honey." Theresa said, as sympathetically as she could. "I think it's understandable that he wouldn't want to talk to you, don't you?"
"I can fix this," Alfred wriggled in his seat to pull his cell out of his pocket, and scrolled through his address book. "I'll call him, and— no wait, he's not taking my calls. He's staying in the hotel, right?" He made to stand, intending to head for the door. "I'll just go to the main desk and look up his room, and go and—"
"Alfred, no." Theresa said, and he paused halfway through rising, looking at her in surprise
"But I have to—"
"No."
"But—"
"Alfred, sit down." She said sharply. Confused, he slowly sat back down. Theresa crossed her arms. "What exactly do you expect you're going to do, marching into his hotel room?"
"I'm going to apologize." He said automatically, earnestly.
"He doesn't want to see you, honey." Theresa said firmly. "He's very hurt, and upset, and nothing you could say could make that better. If you go running into things without knowing what you're doing, you're just going to make things worse."
"But I have to fix it," Alfred protested. "I can tell him I didn't know, and that I'll make it up to him."
Theresa shook her head. "No, that won't work. A simple apology isn't going to fix this, Alfred."
"But..." For a moment he looked like he wanted to argue, but then he sighed. "Well, what am I supposed to do, then? How can I fix it? I don't want him to feel bad because of me. I have to fix this."
"Not by running off impulsively and ruining everything. It'll take time, and finesse, and experience." Theresa said firmly, and patted his arm comfortingly. "Don't worry, I'm on your side. I'll help you fix things. Just you leave it to me. I'll arrange things, and let you know what to do and when, okay? Just promise me you won't try anything on your own." She raised a finger at him sternly when he pouted. "Promise, Alfred. If you try and rush things you could make things even worse. That's how you got into this mess in the first place, no? So just wait and let me handle things. I know what I'm doing."
Alfred sighed. "Alright. I promise, but ...I don't like knowing that he thinks...that he's like that because of me. Can't we just... can't I just, apologize? At least to start."
Theresa sighed too, rubbing her temples. "Italians are very proud, Alfred. If you go in there and just apologize, you're just going to add insult to injury. You're going to have to do a lot better than that. And it'll take time. Trust me. Have I ever steered you wrong before?"
"...Well, alright." Alfred agreed reluctantly. "I'll wait, and do what you say. How long will it take, though?"
"Well, if it was anyone else I'd say there was a good chance you'd never be able to fix things." Theresa said, and Alfred's face fell. "But with me looking out for you, we should be able to do it. If you don't do anything stupid."
"I won't." Alfred said determinedly. "I'll do it right this time."
"Good." Theresa nodded, satisfied. "Then we're done for now. Didn't you want to take a nap before we go out tonight?"
"What? Oh, yeah." Alfred nodded too, running a hand through his hair. "I do. But, I forgot to tell you— we're going to be meeting up with everyone later, for drinks and dancing and stuff."
"The people you work with?"
"Yeah. They heard we were going out and wanted in. Is that alright?"
"It's kind of short notice, but it's fine." Theresa said, mentally running through her outfits and making plans. "Where are we going?"
"I don't know yet." Alfred admitted. "Francis is making the plans, and he'll call us and let us know when and where. Probably not 'til after eight or nine though, so we have some time."
"It's a good thing we went shopping yesterday." Theresa mused, and stood, prodding Alfred. "You go and take your nap. I'll get started picking out our outfits and wake you when it's time to start getting ready."
"Thanks, Theresa." He stretched, yawning, and stood, pecking her cheek. "'Night, then."
"Mm, enjoy your nap." She said absently as she waved him off, her mind busy with plans. "Don't forget to drink some water before you sleep, you have to keep your skin clear and hydrated."
"Yeah, 'kay." He yawned again, rubbing his eyes, and stumbled off to bed.
"I love you..." he sighed, pressing closer to Amando. Fine sand shone silver in the light of the full moon, soft and smooth against his skin, but he barely heeded the sensation, his attention focused on the delicious heat between his legs, and the the thrumming ache in the pit of his abdomen, and the man above him, in whose arms he lay. "Mm," he murmured, breath catching as he splayed his limbs in the sand, and opened his eyes to see Amando gazing at him with love and devotion. He smiled, reaching up to touch the face he loved so.
Amando smiled blissfully, turning his head to press a kiss to his palm, never removing his eyes from Romano's. "When we're married, we can be together like this for the rest of our lives." He promised, leaning down to kiss Romano's nose, trailing kisses down his face and jaw and neck, whispering in his ear as his hand trailed Romano's torso. "I can make love to you, and love you, for eternity."
"Ah, A-amando!" Romano gasped, digging his heels into the sand underneath him, arching up into the touch as Amando found him, fondled and stroked his secret places, driving him wild with pleasure and love and desire. Amando responded, murmuring sweet nothings in his ear that he barely understood in his haze of pleasure, his low, sweet voice and delicious accent stoking the flames within him until he couldn't bear it anymore; he needed to feel Amando's skin against his, Amando inside him, filling and fulfilling him in a way that only Amando could.
"Amando," he parted his legs, offering himself to his lover, "I need you."
"I need you, too." Amando murmured against his skin, lowering himself onto Romano, the firm, muscled weight of his body pressing Romano's into the soft sand as he shifted his hips against his in a teasing rhythm. Romano moaned, responding in kind, feeling the deeply arousing play of muscle under the heated skin of the body pressed against his, Amando's voice low in his ear. "Can you feel how much I need you, my love?"
"Yes," he breathed, sliding his arms around Amando's neck, opening his legs wider in eager invitation. Amando pushed himself up on his knees, grasping Romano's hips and lifting them off the sand, sliding deep inside him.
"Yes," Romano spread his arms to dig his fingers into the sand, mouth open in pleasure as Amando began to move inside him, the delicious friction everything he desired, his entire body thrumming yes,"yes, yes, yes."
"I love you," Amando moaned, leaning over him and lifting Romano's hips further, dominating and powerful but safe and Romano gasped, writhing, his mind and body humming with ecstasy as Amando's easy thrusts drove him into pleasure-filled oblivion.
"Amando, Amando, Amando," he chanted fervently, running his hands over Amando's muscled chest, his stomach and loins tightening and coiling as he rode the edge of climax, each deep, claiming thrust bringing him closer, closer, so fucking close—ah! "Amando!" He cried out, closing his eyes and flinging his arms around Amando's neck as waves of pleasure overtook him.
Amando took him in his arms, holding him close, murmuring endearments in his ear as he moved inside him still, and Romano clung to him, surrendering to the overwhelming pleasure of his release, the movement of Amando inside him intensifying and prolonging the shockwaves of rippling pleasure radiating through his body, leaving him liquid and warm and spent.
He lay his head on Amando's shoulder, eyes closing in utter contentment, sighing as he slipped into unconsciousness under slow waves of pleasure, "I love you, Amando..."
Everything faded into darkness.
A knocking sound woke him up, and he opened his eyes to an unfamiliar white ceiling.
"Romano, it's time to get up." Belgium's voice sang gently, as she rapped lightly at his door. "Come on honey, wake up. It's getting late."
"What?" He said groggily, rubbing his eyes and sighing. Where was he? Oh, right, hotel. France, argh. Comfortable bed. So relaxed...
"Are you awake yet? Romano~." Belgium knocked again. He yawned, feeling regretful he'd been awakened. He'd been having the most wonderful dream...
Suddenly he became sharply aware of the embarrassing stickiness of his bedclothes, the sheets plastered to his skin in the wake of his dream activities. "D-don't come in!" He yelled in panic, bolting upright and throwing the covers aside, gathering the tell-tale sheets into his arms. "I, I'm awake! Don't come in here!"
"Okay~. I ordered an early dinner for us, so meet me at the table when you're dressed." She called through the door.
"Okay! I will!" Romano shouted back, casting frantically around the room for a place to hide the incriminating sheets.
"Hurry, I have something to tell you! Something good~."
"Ok, ok! I'll hurry!" He assured her desperately, relieved when the sound of retreating foosteps indicated she'd left. Unable to find a proper hiding place, he ended up stuffing the sheets under the bed, and arranging the blankets to hide the fact that they were missing. He'd deal with them later. No time now. But what about himself? Shit. He was sticky and gross, but he didn't have time to shower. Shit, what— Aha! He pounced on his toiletries bag, pulling out a bottle of cologne, ripping off the top and pouring the liquid liberally on a washcloth, which he used to wipe himself down. There! Good as a shower, right? Now no-one could tell!
He grabbed the clothes he'd worn earlier from where they lay neatly folded on a chair, pulling the shirt and slacks on as quickly as he could, leaving the rest and running his hand through his hair a few times to smooth it. There. That should be good, right? He checked his reflection in the vanity, nodding. He looked okay. Belgium wouldn't be able to tell he'd been having...dreams.
"There you are. I was just about to go and see if you'd fallen asleep again." Belgium greeted him with a smile as he approached the table, and indicated the place she'd set for him. "Sit down and eat. Did you sleep well?"
"Mm." He grunted, flushing, and sat, focusing on his plate.
"Oh, here, have some lemonade, too." Belgium said, noticing he was beverage-free, and rose to pour him a glass. Leaning a little closer to pass it to him, she wrinkled her nose, spreading her fingers delicately in front of it. "Um, Romano, honey...you know I love that cologne, it suits you very well, but I think you may have put on a little too much." She smiled, tactfully trying not to cough, blinking rapidly as her eyes began to water. "It's a little...strong."
Romano's flush deepened, and he hunched over his plate. "I, uh, spilled the bottle."
"Oh, that's too bad." Belgium said sympathetically. "I hope you still have some left? Do we need to go shopping?"
"Y-yeah, there's some left."
"That's good." Belgium returned her attention to her plate, adding consideringly, "Though, we may have to go shopping anyway. You only packed clothes for business, didn't you? And I'd like to get something special for tonight. " She paused to take a sip of her own lemonade, and nodded. "Yes. I think we'll go shopping. Maybe I should call France and ask him to recommend a good boutique to get outfits for this evening."
"Why do we need outfits for this evening?" Romano asked warily, lifting his head. "What's going on? If this is something France is planning..."
"No, no, nothing like that." Belgium hastened to dismiss his fears, not entirely successfully. "You'll like this Romano, it's something wonderful! Just listen;" she leaned eagerly forward, eyes sparkling with excitement, "Theresa Álvarez, the actress who plays Catalina? She's here in the hotel! Can you believe it?" She clapped her hands, bouncing excitedly in her seat. "America brought her along with him for the meeting. Isn't that exciting?"
"W-what?" Romano said, stomach sinking. "He, he did?"
"Yes! And that's not the best part," she added, oblivious to Romano's stricken expression. "We're going to meet her! All of us together. We're going to meet Miss Álvarezand America later for drinks and dancing. He said she wanted to meet us! Isn't that amazing? Eeeee!" She gave a high-pitched squeal of excitement, unable to contain herself. "We're going to meet Catalina! Eeee!"
"W-what?" Romano paled, dropping his fork. No I don't want to go I'm not going, he wanted to say, but Belgium was looking at him with sparkly-eyed excitement and overflowing with happiness and well, he could never say no to Belgium. Shiiiit. Shiiiiiit. "Th-that's..." he swallowed the lump in his throat, looking down at the plate. "That's...great."
Seeing this, Belgium calmed somewhat, touching his arm sympathetically. Poor baby was so shy sometimes. "Oh Romano, don't be shy! I know you must be nervous, but it'll be okay! You're so very sweet and handsome, I'm sure she'll be charmed by you. And we'll pick you out the best outfit, and I'll be there to help you. You just be yourself, and everything will be alright!" She smiled encouragingly, and winked. "Who knows? She just might fall in love with you." Romano mumbled something unintelligible, reaching for his glass, and she patted his shoulder, returning her attention to her own plate. He was just feeling a little nervous, that was only natural. But she knew he had nothing to worry about. She had full confidence in his ability to charm any woman he wanted to. He'd be fine once they got him there and he got over being starstruck, and realised that Catalina was actually a living, breathing, beautiful young woman named Theresa Álvarez, and he'd turn on the charm and they'd fall madly in love! Or, well, maybe not all at once, she admitted to herself as her practical side cut in; but it'd be a start. She smiled, mind filling with plans and visions of future happiness for her little Romano and his new love. "As soon as you're finished eating, we'll go shopping. We have a few hours to get ready, so that should be plenty of time." She reminded him, and paused, subtly clearing her throat in an attempt not to breathe in too deeply through her nose. "But...perhaps you should take a shower, first. Then we'll go shopping."
AN: Theresa may be...exaggerating somewhat in order to lead Alfred in the direction she wants, as well as get through his thick skull. She's not far off, though. Although I should point out business in North Italy is done a bit more brusquely, most likely due in large part to German blood and influence.
I did not forget China, he just didn't show up.
Um. Oh! England as Titania, Queen of the Fairies, makes me very happy. I'm pretty sure you already know, but all the characters in plays during Shakespeare's time were played by men, as having women onstage was considered...immoral. And was therefore illegal. (But dressing men up as women and having them enact mock-relations with other men was less immoral and not illegal, because...they had their reasons, I'm sure. Ah, the 'good old days'. *note sarcasm*)