hetalia | [Fanfic] Educating America 6

Title: Educating America
Author: coffeefate
Genre: Humor/Romance(?)
Characters/Pairings: America, Romano. Some background pairings in passing.
Ratings/Warnings: PG13 for language, I guess. Rapid tense change. Awkwardness!
Summary: America wants to get to know Romano better. Romano just wants to fix the idiot's tastebuds.
Notes: Again, I'm not sure how this works yet, so if I screw anything up, just let me know.

America had been pretty stoked after he'd left the truckstop diner. Not only had that whole experience gone way better than he could have hoped, but he'd managed to score a date for next Saturday. Well, ok, not a real date, date, but still. Definitely a big step in his goal of getting to know Romano!

He'd ridden an excited buzz all the way home. He felt like a kid waiting for Christmas, and knew he'd be counting the days 'till Saturday, and went to bed early (with the time-honoured reasoning that it would make Saturday come all the sooner). America arrived early to work the next morning practically vibrating with excitement and good cheer.

Which was dampened somewhat when he found out that there'd been an unexpected influx of urgent matters overnight; which since the Boss's Vice was on vacation for two weeks, left him to handle things pretty much on his own. This meant America was expected to work through the weekend in order to take care of it all in time.

Not good. At all.

Which left him with a dilemma. Cancelling his dinner with Romano wasn't an option. It'd been an amazing stroke of good fortune that America had managed to obtain it in the first place. It wasn't like Romano had even intended to invite him to begin with (he knew that much, but he also knew how to take advantage of an opening when he was presented with one, intentional or not), and if he cancelled now, well...he had no illusions that the opportunity was likely to arise again. There was no way he was going to let this chance slip through his fingers. He had one shot, and he couldn't, wouldn't, waste it.

There was nothing for it, then. Decision made, America rolled up his metaphorical sleeves and got down to business.

He threw himself into his work, putting in 20 hours or more each day. He ate and slept at the office, working through breaks, living on coffee and energy drinks and snacks from the vending machines (they might not be 'real' by Romano's standards, but they were pretty convenient when you worked as much as America did). He was determined to finish in time, come hell or high water.

Despite the grueling schedule and inevitable exhaustion, his coworkers were surprised to notice that America was in abnormally high spirits day after day, even for him. Papers were signed, proposals read, reports written, meetings attended and Big Decisions were made, all with an infectiously sunny smile and a bounce in his step.

The reason? While America's hands were full of work, his mind was full of Romano.

He was thinking of Romano's peacefully sleeping face, or how the Italian got all flushed and spluttery, yelling and huffing when he was flustered (and he was so easily flustered), or fiddled with his clothes when he was nervous.

He was remembering the way hazel eyes flashed when he was riled, shone when he was pleased, or shadowed when he was unsure, and sharpened when he was focused or interested in the subject at hand. America had been mesmerised with how those expressive eyes displayed the Italian's real thoughts despite his outward bluster. He wanted to see what they looked like when Romano was happy, or excited. A whole array of emotions, actually.

Romano's hands, too, were wonderfully expressive. Long-fingered and agile, they spoke volumes with a grace that his words lacked. They splayed and curved, curled and flexed; dancing on the table, in the air, across documents, articulating in motion more emotions than America could keep track of or interpret. It was fascinating to watch, and he wanted very much to learn to understand the meaning of each little gesture, each movement.

Romano would never be able to conceal his true feelings. His hands and his eyes would betray him, everytime.

He'd smile whenever he recalled Romano's face when he'd taken his first sip of the malt America had insisted that he at least try. He'd scowled and grumbled, but wrapped his lips around the straw, and America could tell the second the malt hit his tongue. Romano's eyes had lit up, his eyebrows lifting incrementally, and his fingers tightened reflexively around the cup, drawing it closer to him. He'd recovered his habitual scowl almost immediately, and obviously unwilling to admit that he enjoyed it aloud, he looked away and muttered "I suppose since you ordered it, I might as well drink it.", a light blush dusting his cheekbones.

Or the pleasure he took in describing his architecture, eyes glowing with self-satisfaction, chin lifted with pride, gesturing expansively as he boasted about arches and mosaics and basilicas (none of which America understood, but it was just so... adorable how proud he was that America felt all warm and fuzzy inside just listening to him).

Or the endearing way he'd tried to apologize for the mafia, of all things. Shifting and mumbing, flushing awkwardly, hunched in on himself, looking haunted and guilty. It'd taken America a moment to figure out what was bothering him, and he could have kicked himself for introducing the subject (not awesome or heroic at all). He was a little surprised to realize that the half-nation felt the need to apologize for something so clearly beyond his control. It was really kind of sweet of Romano to try to take responsibility, and he was a little impressed, but he'd hastened to assure him that it wasn't necessary. At all. After all, he himself knew quite well that although they personified their nations, their influence over their citizens only extended so far, hero or not. Sometimes their people or governments did things that contradicted everything they, themselves, stood for.

It'd been a relief to see the shadows clear from Romano's eyes, the tension in his posture ease. It'd disturbed him to see the fiery Italian so depressed, and he couldn't help but chuckle when the other had chucked a cherry pit at his head, pleased that Romano was feeling more himself.

In some ways, he sort of reminded America of an awkward, temperamental kitten most of the time. One of those cagey feral ones that you have to tempt with delicious treats and soothing noises for ages before it comes close enough for you to reach out and try to pet it.

Ocassionally America wondered what might have happened to make Romano so guarded. Whatever it was, he could fix it, he was sure. He was a hero, after all! With a little time and patience, he could do anything!

So with thoughts of Romano to sustain him, how could a little work possibly get him down?

Romano called him Wednesday evening to let him know that the reservations had been made, and when he was expected to arrive ("And don't you dare be late, bastard! I'm doing this for your sake, you know! I'll leave without you if you are!"), adding that he'd invited Feliciano and Germany along as well ("but Germany's paying for their half, so don't worry about those bastards."), and reminding him again what time he was expected ("You're driving, just so you know. The potato-bastard's driving my stupid brother, though." -which made America wonder how Romano'd planned to leave without him, but Romano'd hung up before he could ask, after a final "You'd better not be late!"). America thought that was a bit excessive, really. He was perfectly capable of being on time when he wanted to. Okay, so he was late to world meetings sometimes, but that was because they were boring.

He resolved to get there early, both to appease Romano and, hopefully, to squeeze in some extra time getting to know the Italian nation. He was determined to become good friends with Romano.

America's smile for the rest of the night blinded everyone who saw it.

It occurred to him the next morning that he should really bring a gift along. That was polite, right? You were supposed to bring a gift to your host. But what to bring? Traditionally it was wine or flowers, but...well, what he knew about wine was less than what he knew about architecture (and besides, he was technically underage). If he showed up at Romano's place with flowers, he was pretty sure Romano would slam the door in his face, possibly after slamming the flowers in his face first. What sort of gift would be appropriate? He'd like to get Romano something he could use (and maybe something that would remind him of America, too). Something to facilitate their friendship.

After a little brain storming, inspiration struck. Yes. Yes. It was perfect. It was awesome. He was a genius. And best of all, Romano would be able to use it everytime they hung out together, and would definitely remember America whenever he did. It'd have to be custom-made, which would be tough to get it done in time, but if he pulled in a few favours...he made some quick calls, and set everything up. It'd be close, but he was sure his awesomely perfect gift would be ready to pick up just before he left for Romano's place.

The next couple of days passed in a blur, and he was so excited that he forewent sleep entirely to focus on work. He managed to finish everything early Saturday morning, signing off the last report with a flourish.

After which he promptly passed out on his desk.

He awoke a few hours later, with a pen stuck to his forehead, facedown in a puddle of drool. Checking his watch, he realized that he had just enough time to get in a quick shower, and swing by the workshop to pick up his gift before he left for Romano's. If he timed it right, he should get there almost an hour early. He peeled the pen off his forehead with a grin, and headed out.

When the door swung open just as he raised his hand to knock, he briefly wondered if Romano was psychic. As soon as he saw the Italian nation, though, he sincerely hoped not, because holy hamburgers Romano was gorgeous. His eyes were amazing, and his neck went on forever, and since when were Romano's eyes flecked with gold? Huh, he hadn't noticed that before. How could he have missed it? America hoped his mouth wasn't hanging open, because that would be extremely unheroic.

But seriously: Wow.

He'd finally recovered somewhat from his stunned state, and managed to greet Romano without stuttering or making an idiot of himself (he hoped). Except Romano hadn't responded, and the silence was making him nervous. Maybe he'd been too obvious with the staring? Had he creeped Romano out?

Then Romano had yanked him inside, and alot of stuff had happened that he didn't entirely follow (partly because he was trying hard not to stare at Romano, whose eyes were intense when he was pissed), but apparently there was something wrong with his clothes. Which he didn't quite get, 'cause he'd been wearing this outfit for years, almost a century, really, and it'd never been a problem before, but if it made Romano happy then he was willing to go along with whatever was going on. He let the smaller nation manhandle him down the front steps and over to his motorcycle, growling at him all the way.

It was a good thing he'd come early, he decided. Hopefully it gave him plenty of time to make up for whatever he'd done to upset Romano, and get their budding friendship back on the right track. 'You can do it, America!' he psyched himself, 'You're the hero, remember? Now get it together and do your hero thing!'

Yep, he assured himself, he and Romano were going to be very good friends.