Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
This is short, but I realized things flowed better if this was separated from the following parts. Consider it a bridge of sorts.
The two nations stared at each other for a long moment. Then America smiled, lifting a hand in greeting. "Hi Romano! I didn't expect to see you here! What were you doin' in the closet?" He asked, tilting his head curiously.
Romano recovered from his shock, all his previous frustration and irritation returning in full force. "This is all your fault, bastard!" he accused, pointing at the blond.
America blinked, nonplussed. "It's my fault you're in the closet?" He asked, brows raised in confusion.
"Yes!" Romano fumed, flailing his arms, then paused. "No, idiot! Dammit, it's your fault that- uh- dammit, just get in here and help me find my key, bastard!" he snarled, the fact that he'd already searched the closet forgotten in the turmoil of emotions the idiot's appearance brought forth.
"Sure, I can do that." America agreed, and followed Romano inside. "Where'd you lose it?" he asked, glancing around.
"If I knew that, bastard, it wouldn't be lost."
"Oh, right." America laughed, and started looking around the floor. "How did you lose it in here, anyway? Seems like an odd place to lose a key."
"I told you bastard, it's all your fault." Romano grumbled, crossing his arms petulantly.
"How could it possibly be my fault?" America contradicted from where he crouched on the floor, tilting his head to try and see under a shelf. "I haven't even had anything to do with you at all today."
Frustration peaking, Romano kicked the door, and it slammed shut with a resounding 'bang!'. He stomped over to the blond nation, yanking him up to his knees by his tie. "This," he growled, as America looked up at him with startled blue eyes, "is all your fault, bastard, because I wouldn't have even been in this closet if it wasn't for you and your stupid virginity and your stupid...stupidness and dammit, making me think about you and, and," he gesticulated wildly with his free hand, unable to articulate the sheer havoc the idiot had put his mind and emotions through in the past few hours.
The corner of America's mouth quirked up. "You've been thinking about me?"
"Uh." Romano froze, rapidly flushing, realizing what he'd let slip. "Um." He blinked, and looked down to where he held the other nation fast by his tie, and up again to America, who was smiling slowly, "Um." His mind was blank, he wasn't sure how to proceed- and then his gaze fell on the red mark on America's face; almost faded now, but still clearly a handprint, and without conscious thought, he released America's tie, and his hand lifted to touch the mark. His brows furrowed, and he stroked it with his thumb, frowning, not fully noticing when America's breath caught in surprise. "Who-, what happened, bastard?" He asked, gaze fixed on the reddened skin underneath his fingertips.
"I, uh, got into a little argument with England." America confessed softly.
"D-does it hurt?"
America shook his head incrementally. "No." He whispered.
Romano nodded, once, slowly. "Okay." He moved his hand over the mark, spreading his fingers to fit the red ones marring America's fair skin, as if covering the imprint would erase its existence. His eyes flickered, and he looked at the nation watching him. He licked his lips, uncertainly. "I-is, was it...because of me?"
A strange expression passed over America's face, and his smile returned. "No." Not the way the Italian meant, anyway. "He doesn't know."
Romano exhaled. "Good. That's...good." His mouth relaxed into an almost-smile, and his thumb caressed America's cheekbone. America leaned ever-so-slightly into his touch, and his own hand came up to cover the one on his face.
"It's sweet of you to be concerned, though." He added quietly.
"I'm not sweet." Romano corrected, drawing closer. "And I wasn't worried, dammit."
"No?" America's eyes shone with amusement, and his chin lifted slightly.
"Never." Romano affirmed, his other hand coming to rest against the other's chest.
"Alright." America murmured, his breath warm and sweet against Romano's mouth. "If you say so."
"Damn right." Romano murmured back, as their lips met.
America smiled.
The kiss is slow, unhurried; not a battle or struggle for dominance, no surrender; simply a sustained, sensuous moment of 'this is me, learning you'. Lips, tongues, fingers, bodies entwine, and they lean into each other, each feeling and allowing himself to be felt, a mutual sensation of you, me, here, now.
Eventually, they part; and lean into each other, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling. Romano's eyes are closed, America's, half-open. Romano exhales, a long, deep breath, and he nuzzles America's nose. Slowly, his own eyes open, and their eyes lock.
They have no words for what passed between them.
Again they kiss- a feather-light brush of lips.
Lowering his head, Romano presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the hollow at the base of America's throat, and America closes his eyes, tilting his head back in wordless invitation.
They miss the rest of the meeting.
("This doesn't mean anything, bastard." Romano pants between wet kisses, as they they twine, slick and writhing, on the floor of the utility closet.
"I know." America gasps, eyes closing as he arches into skilled fingers, moving his hips in a way that steals Romano's breath.)
AN: Gahhhh this story is kicking my ass...*bangs head on desk* *deep breath* Okay. Okay! It'll get better, I promise.