Disclaimer: Don't Own Hetalia.

AN: A part of my Fill the Gaps: Cannoli Style where a story is written for some of the hetalia duos that don't have a story about them. (Better explanation on profile). This is told chiefly from Sealand's point of view, but may waiver at some points. En-joy~

Warnings: LANGUAGE (this is Romano we're talking about, expect a few fucks here or there), Sealand's naivety, fluff, emotionally-constipated England.

Translations:
Italian
vaffanculo - fuck off
turisti - tourists
Sai, mi ricordi Feliciano. - I'll let you Google Translate that one yourself ;D

Fitfully, a large, pale hand racked through the unkempt mess of wheat-blond hair atop of the green-suited personification's head while the other hand dragged along a younger boy, sailor's hat knocked askew due to the struggle, who was kicking and whining about how it was child abuse to be man-handling him like this. Needless to say, all pairs of eyes were watching the show; but sadly, this was a common occurrence between England and Sealand. Sealand would find some way to infuriate, whether it was purposely (such as the time a kick-me sign was taped to the elder's back) or accidentally (like when Sealand trekked into the freezing rain to buy England his favorite tea at the local store), England resorted to solving the solution the best way he knew how, through anger and condescendingness. Hey, he had a public image to uphold! And both Finland and Sweden were unable to attend and an absent Finland meant no provision of the motherly calm advice. So-

"Bloody hell Sealand! What were you thinking? That a little sea-post can take on the entire world!"

-time to fight barking with barking.

"S-Stop, let me go you dream-ruining poop head! Gah!" Sealand attempted to fend off the Englishman by kicking him in the knee, but England's skills, built up after years of being an empire, anticipated the blow and easily dodged it. "Wah!"

To avoid the examinations and preserve some form of public peace, England, with one more yank, pulled the micronation back behind a wall in shiny main lobby of the conference building. "Sealand! Listen to me!" The only response he got was a few tears starting to prick the youth's ocean-blue eyes.

Taking a long, deep sigh, calmed the enraged blond's mood. With a tone of pure disappointment, "Look at me Sealand. You can't go running off like that, what if you got hurt? What if some country, like the frog, tried to take advantage of your small stature? How would that make me look and feel, Peter?!" Just thinking about what could have happened to this little punk pissed the Englishman off again.

The last comment started the micronation off on another freedom tangent. "That's all you ever care about! Your gosh darn image! What if I don't want to be like you, huh? "Let. Me. Go!" Determined to make a lasting image for himself, Sealand tugged his wrist that was covered by England's hand up towards his mouth and, with as much force possible, bit down on the offending appendage hoping to leave a scar. With a flabbergasted yelp, the nation jerked back giving Sealand a few seconds breath to make his escape. And fartface says I can't protect myself.

Slapping the ground with his feet to produce as much noise and speed as possible for a 12 year old looking boy, Sealand echoed out of the lobby for the pursuit of breathing space in the busy streets of Rome, unaware of his elder brother's pleas for his return.

Haggard and holding on to a brick wall like an anchor to life, Sealand stopped fleeing to collect some energy and rest his sore feet. Perhaps I should start walking around more instead of riding the goat everywhere... Determined to not let these small, physical hindrances ruin the gorgeously sunny day (a rarity in his section of the world), Sealand rose his head to inspect his surroundings.

He has never been in Rome before and it astounded the micronation at the compactness of everything. All of the stores were wall to wall, their seating arrangements right out side and practically chair to chair; cars of varying colors lined the curbs, nearly bumper to bumper. Blue openness was what Sealand was use to; to be able to wake up each morning and see the abyssal ocean. Now the ocean was made of people. And the heat. It was hot enough to cook an egg out here!

Large, ocean-blue eyes innocently traveled along the paved roads where dozens of other Italian citizens and tourists were traveling upon; captivating the young one into fits of ADD. He wanted to explore and now that that Jerkland was not strapped to his back, he could commence the merriment without interruption. Before he took his first step after recovering from the earlier run, Sealand stopped for a brief, one second moment to reflect upon his earlier treatment of England. Moment over, he can handle it, he is a full nation after all. Bittersweet smile set in place, Peter Kirkland began his full throttle journey towards an Italian adventure.

As the stars began to beat away the sun, Sealand found himself sitting on one of the steps of some large staircase randomly in the street. Why were they called the Spanish Steps if they are in Italy? Surprisingly, he has not ran into another nation since his departure, but it would be expected since all of the other nations have probably seen the sites of Rome at least a dozen times in their long lives and would prefer to kick-back in their rooms. Which was really, kind of boring when there was always something new in this city just around the corner or down the next alleyway.

He had fun talking to the locals, a fear he first had at first as his language skills went as far as English and some Finnish and Swedish. They were friendly and gave him directions to some of the popular places. Except for this one group of teenagers who kept calling him a vaffanculo, whatever that meant. Some of them joked about his poor pronunciation and helped him improve upon it, but really they were the ones with the funny accent and hand gestures that correlated. It is like Italians are speaking two languages at once, the spoken one and sign-language. A few of the restaurant owners could not pass up his stray-puppy-dog look and snuck him small samples of some of the best food he as ever eaten. He'll have to ask Finland or Sweden next time he was over at their place if they knew how to make minestrone soup or puttanesca. Overall, it was a lovely day for the micronation, but all good things come to a brick wall as the only light was now coming from late-night office buildings, streetlamps, and the waning moon.

Deciding that he has given England enough of the cold shoulder, he fumbled around with the pockets of his capris to look for his mobile. Only to come up with blue lint. Alarmed, Sealand double-checked all of his pockets to come to a definite conclusion that his mobile was gone and the little money (Why don't Italians accept pounds? Life would be easier if there was only one currency system.) he had for a trinket was missing. He knew he had it earlier in the day as it vibrated with several missed calls and text from 'Jerkland'. Could I have set it down somewhere and left it? No, I don't remember taking it out of my pocket at all when I stopped somewhere. The last time was when I checked the time... then that one guy bumped into me... petted the cute dog... then I checked out all the tourist shops. Worried Sealand patted his pockets for the third time, just to be sure some phone fairy didn't magically zap it back. Empty. Greaaat.

Because he was having too much fun earlier and wishing to forget his fallout with a certain bushy-brows, Sealand never really planned out how he would return to the conference building. He left no red string path for him to help navigate the labyrinth streets of Rome and all the names being foreign and unpronounceable were of no help what-so-ever.

Resorting to his nervous tick of rocking his legs back and forth like twigs in the wind, he began to ponder whether England was right while enjoying the gentle breeze that rolled by. Maybe I am not experienced enough to take care of myself. But I went the entire day without incident! That has to count for something. I don't know, but sitting here solves nothing. Stiffly, Sealand stood up to try to scour for any familiar landmarks. Like the Colosseum or that one prank store with the cool snakes in a can.

People milled about everywhere so there was no shortage of people to ask for directions. Walking up to the first couple closest to the micro nation, "Hi, my name is Peter and I was wondering if you could point out where the conference building is."

The two Italians looked at each other, both forming a smirk. "Yes, it is up the street of fuck" (although to Sealand, this sounded like fork) "and then take a right on you." The other Italian snorted while smacking his friend on the back for that come-back, leaving a confused and shocked Sealand in their wake as they took their leave muttering something about turisti.

Tilting his head to the side, "Up Fork Street? I wonder where that is." Scanning the diminishing crowds, Sealand found another person that wasn't preoccupied with something else. He was leaning against a stone wall, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, eyes intent on discovering all the secrets the stars held with how he glared at the little lights. He didn't look too friendly with that scowl, but Finland says to never judge a book by it's cover. And besides, something seems familiar about this person. The face rang no bells but that loosened, salmon-colored tie did. If his tie looked familiar, then he must have met this person before! And surely who could resist his face when the charms were put on.

Nervously, for this person gave off a slightly venomous field, the blond strolled up to the smoking individual. "Hi, my name is Peter!" But instead of asking where Fork Street was, Sealand's mouth got ahead of his brain. "Don't you know it is bad for your health to smoke?"

Casting his eyes from the twinkling ballet, the Italian looked over to where Sealand stood, then looked down slightly to get a view of whom spoke to him. "I'll live." And with that curt response, he took another drag of the cigarette, ensnaring a section of the air with a ring and returning his attention to the darkened sky.

Now that Sealand got a good view of this person's face, he definitely looked familiar. And by face, he meant hair curl. From his earlier position he couldn't see it for it was blocked by the guy's head; but this was Tie-Man from earlier in the meeting when he was trying to introduce himself to the other nations. The butt-head ignored him, didn't even bother to spare a glance! So, this jerk was a nation, but he didn't look like Italy, they had similar features and accents, but still different.

"So what nation do you represent?"

Alarmed, the brunette turned to glare at the youth, his sharp stare and abnormally golden eyes frightening the micronation. "Where are your parents, kid?" Oh no, you're not changing the subject.

Sealand was asked this question many times during his strolls earlier so he perfected his reply. "Around."

"Then go find them." The other nation threw his cancer-stick on the ground and stopped out the flame, turning to trudge in the opposite direction of the micronaiton.

"W-Wait! I'm a nation like you are!"

The other nation stopped, and hesitated for a moment before asking, still without turning around, "If the baker creates a dozen cookies, how many cookies does he have?"

Sealand recognized that code. England taught it to him, though he still doesn't know why if the Jerkbrows won't acknowledge him as a nation, but he said it was for public use to help distinguish who spoke the truth about nationhood. Replying like an excited schoolchild with the phrase that all nations knew, "Fish swim in volcanoes!"

With a speed that caught the micronation off-guard, the other nation spun around and took precise steps up to him. "So then who are you suppose to be, bastard, I haven't seen you around."

Sealand gasped at this rude guy's casual use of swear words. It was as if those bad words were second nature. "You used a bad word! Finland always says that swearing is for people who can't come up with something better to say." Maybe indirectly insulting this intimidating figure was not a smart idea.

His eye twitched, "Well Finland can take that up the ass and suck it. Quit evading the question."

Giggles erupted from Sealand's body, he has never heard this type of language before, except when England was drunk or near France, and it was funny to see the censorship walls crumble. Sticking out his thin hand, "I am the mighty Sealand! Pleasure to meet you." He added the last part because England has always said it is important to be polite. Not that he actually listens when the tea-face speaks.

The yet-to-be-titled nation took the offered hand in a firm hand shake that kind of hurt and briefly shook Sealand's hand up and down once, making it look like a flimsy, pale noodle. "Italia Romano, aka, South Italy. And where the hell is Sealand at?"

Sealand's face joyed at the prospect of being able to boast about himself, "I'm a little island, or more really an abandoned British naval fort to the East of England. We have four citizens and a goat! It may not be much, but my huge heart helps make up for it!"

There was a pregnant pause before this 'South Italy' (since when does a nation have two representatives?) spoke again. "Who paid you to punk me, I'll match their offer if you give me a name or looks."

"Nobody, I'm really a nation err-micronation, but I'm tying to be recognized as a full-fledged nation! Speaking of which, would you be willing to recognize me as a nation South Italy?" Sealand looked up at the older nation with hopeful-puppy-dog eyes.

South Italy shifted his feet slightly and his glare wavered when I called him by his name, and he mumbled something under his breath. "No, you should get back to your hotel room before the police take you into child services or something." With those parting words, slate-colored jacket thrown over the right shoulder, South Italy began to speed walk away from their location.

"Hey, Jerkmano, wait!" Due to his shorter legs, Sealand had to run to keep up with the taller nations strides.

Upon seeing the struggling nation, the Italian slowed down his pace, but just so that the smaller nation had to only speed walk instead of run. If only Sealand knew that his speed walking was due to the Jerkmano comment. Once caught up and in stride, the taller nation rose an eye-brow to signal the blond to get on with it.

"Th-that is what I was trying to ask you ear-earlier." It is difficult to talk while practically running. "Where is Fork Street at?"

Coming to a sudden halt, the brunette regarded the blond for a second. "There is no Fork Street in Rome."

"Are you su-"

He turned to fully face the micronation and knelt to be at complete eye-level. "This city is my heart, home, and namesake. I know the locations of every single pot-hole in the streets and the names of every single skull in the catacombs. There is no fucking Fork Street." Taking full stance, Jerkmano began his path once again.

"But, but then that means those meanie-butts lied to me."

"Get use to it kid, shit happens."

"But, if they lied to me, then how many other people in the past has done the same?"

"Probably a decant amount. Didn't you lie to me about your parents? Lying is a part of nature, again, get use to it. And quit stalking me!"

"But I'm not stalking you, just following."

The brunette stopped to massage his temples. That eye twitching was back. But Sealand can only read the atmosphere half the time.

"Oh, since this city is your heart, why are they called the Spanish Steps if it is in Italy, wouldn't the Italian Steps make more sense? And also-"

"STAI ZITTO!"

Sealand stopped his ranting, and stared wide-eyed at the back of the fuming Italian before him. He didn't need to see his face to know he was angry, South Italy sounded like England when he got worked up.

"South Italy," the blond began carefully to not cause a full nuclear reaction, "are you ok."

"No, Sealand, I. Am. Not. Ok. I just wanted to take a fucking smoke on the god damn Steps to help get all the piss-poor memories of those ass-hat bitches we work with in this shit-hole we call a world! But instead, life wanted to be a fucking cunt and threw some bastard child with the shut-up filter of the motherfucking Hamburger-Humper at my face! And now you are fucking crying! Just add upsetting children to my growing list of shit I don't want to happen today!"

Tears were leaving wet paths down his child-cheeks, they weren't the hacking sobs that leave one a withering mess, but instead the shocked kind that just spill over. Non-stop. Sealand didn't understand what he did wrong, he was just trying to engage in conversation with the older nation and then he started to yell. And the blond couldn't find it in himself to be angry for he used all of his anger reserves on England this morning.

South Italy was waving a hand in front of his face in an attempt to get a reaction, but none would come because the blonde's mind was focused on the ruined prospect of a new friendship.

So, Sealand resorted to solving the solution the best way he knew how: running. And he ran. Until a pair of warm arms coiled around his chest and he was heaved atop a bony shoulder.

"Hey, Jerkmano! Put me down!" Anger now resolved into the blond's actions as he kicked and scratched at the torso below. He did not want to be ensnared by another jerk, zero was his daily maximum.

"We're going to get gelato."

Gelato? "I don't care, wahhhh, put me dowwwwn! Or I'll bite you." There wasn't anything in range for the micronation to sink his teeth into, but sometimes just the threat was enough to get someone to back off; and judging by the wary stares the duo were receiving, it must have been working.

Unfortunately, South Italy was unphased. "You'll like gelato, it is Italian ice cream."

Upon hearing the godly two word, Sealand's resilient actions halted. Like every non-lactose intolerant child (and even some), he had a soft spot for the sugary dessert; especially the kind he made with Sweden and Finland. The two older nations new just the right amount of ingredients for the best yumminess and fresh snowfall works better than crushed ice.

While reminiscing about the time Sweden added a little too much vanilla flavoring and the ice cream came out too strong in flavor, he barely heard South Italy's announcement. "Ok, were outside the gelato store. I'm going to put you down, promise you won't run off like some chicken with it's head cut off?"

"Umm, yeah. I won't" He was still weary from his hissifit earlier, but Romano seemed to feel bad about reciting nearly every swear word earlier. The slumped shoulders and acting like Sealand was some delicate flower (something that annoyed the blond) were habits that Engand also did when he wanted to say sorry but was to prideful.

Besides, it was free ice cream, what idiot wouldn't take advantage of that deal?

Gently, the nation slid the micronation off his shoulders and onto the paved street. In front of the duo was the entrance to an old-style looking building that may have been built in the 18th century or something, but it was quaint. Weirdly, it was still open and thriving with dimmed lights and light mingling.

"Alright, come on." Hesitantly, Romano grabbed the micronation's smaller hand and lead the way into the ice cream store while saying "Sai, mi ricordi Feliciano." Feliciano must have been a name, but the blonde didn't understand the rest of the Italian. Stupid different languages.

As soon as Sealand took his first bite of the vanilla-flavored gelato, which was much creamier than ice cream and he would have to add it to Finland's list of things to try making, the micronaiton could help but look over towards the nation across the table. Despite the gelato cup being in front of his lips, he could see the slight curve over the top of the lid. Somehow, Peter knew this was South Italy's way of saying sorry. Sealand gave a reassuring smile back to let the brunette know he was forgiven.

And who knows, maybe once he finally found his way back to the conference building on You Street he would be getting a small smile from England.

If there is a Fork Street in Rome, forgive my ignorance. C: