Chapter Text
“I’m sorry, I have to do what?” America asked, obviously confused.
The United States Ambassador to the Italian Republic looked unimpressed with his nation’s reaction to a simple request.
It had been a hard few months for the Ambassador as of late. The situation in Italy was tumultuous at best, and disastrous almost every other day. Italian bureaucrats were incompetent and absolutely unwilling to comply with regulations (What do you mean, senor, corruption? What corruption? I promise you, Paolo is an angel, the Mafia allegations are completely false!). Negotiations with the rest of the EU quickly turned into a shit show every time the Ambassador attempted to weigh in on an issue (Stay out of this, American, the hamburgers are over there!), and the Italian legislative staff seemed to have no interest in bettering their situation (You can tell your Mr. Obama to-a, fuck himself, yes?). The fact that Washington ignored his reports and pleas for assistance really was just the icing on the shit-tastic cake the Ambassador had been served when taking the “lucrative” appointment in Italy.
But perhaps the worst part of his job was dealing with the Italian twins who were meant to represent an ancient Republic, but seemed to represent man-children everywhere instead.
The Southern one was a pain in the ass every single day, and the Ambassador always fervently prayed that Washington never had any business that dealt directly with South Italy. Romano was a stubborn monster who didn’t seem to realize what a precarious position his nation was in. It took every lesson in diplomacy he’d ever received to keep the Ambassador from screaming at Romano that he did not in fact appreciate being called a “hamburger bastard”, thank you very much (he also wished Romano would be more original in his insults—America was also named “hamburger bastard”, and at some point it became very difficult for the Ambassador to discern who exactly Romano was bitching about).
But as horrifically awful as Romano was to deal with, the Ambassador preferred to argue with him any day than to deal with Northern Italy as of late. “The break-up”, as most foreign-service officers at the Embassy declared, “had ravaged poor Italy and left a shell of a man in his place!” While the Ambassador thought the young embassy workers were melodramatic brats most of the time, they did have a point about “poor Italy’s” state of being. He was a broken man.
Germany and Italy had, ah, “parted ways” only three months after the Ambassador received his appointment. Though Italy seemed stressed and conflicted when he had still been with Germany, it was nothing compared to the misery he fell into after they broke up. The small Italian man was a mess of emotions that he could hardly keep out of his workplace (something the Ambassador proudly noted America had no trouble with—then again, that may have had something to do with the fact that not many nations liked America personally).
In any case, the Ambassador didn’t believe in the “power of love” until he met Italy. Now he actively feared it.
“You are to fly to Rome and keep Mr. Vargas company for a while. Escort him, entertain him. All of that diplomatic crap-shoot we pay you for.” the Italian Ambassador said to America, wishing he didn’t sound quite so impatient and demanding. While his statement was curt, surly, and probably gave America the wrong idea, the Ambassador’s stint in Italy had really made the him appreciate his own nation a bit more. Because as far as anthropomorphic countries went, Alfred at least rarely cried in public.
“Ok first of all, you don’t pay me to do shit, and second, you can’t boss me around! I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I am still your nation, Mr. Ambassador, and I demand and deserve your respect.” America replied, affronted.
The Ambassador backtracked. “I apologize for my tone, Alfred,” he said, clearing his throat, “but you must understand. The Italian bureaucracy isn’t like ours. They look for any excuse to put off work. Every time Mr. Vargas is upset, it’s like the whole damn place shuts down—nothing is processed or negotiated, and I can’t do my job!” he paused to take a breath. “Oh, and the best part, is that when I insist they continue to work, they shove Vargas in my face and ask me to cheer him up! As if I’m some over glorified therapist!”
America, though he attempted to appear uninterested in his Ambassador’s plight, felt for the man. Humans were so often prone to fits of hysteria, the poor things. And while America usually aimed for acting like a disinterested party where human emotions were concerned, he really couldn’t leave one of his own citizens in such obvious distress. “Come now, Mr. Ambassador. Surely you are an over glorified psychiatrist, at the very least?”
The Ambassador ignored America’s insensitive jab. “I’ve gotten permission from some of the higher-ups to task you with this. You aren’t doing anything too urgent in Washington, and we really need the Italian’s cooperation on an upcoming trade bill.”
America snorted. “Since when have we needed the Italian’s cooperation on anything?”
The Ambassador ‘affectionately’ smacked America’s shoulder. “It would do you well to learn some humility, Alfred, as I’m sure Mr. Kirkland has told you plenty of times before.”
“Ugh, you all promised me we wouldn’t bring him up, remember?” America said, rubbing his shoulder with a pout. The Ambassador remembered that particularly awkward conversation, and wisely chose not to comment on America’s reminder.
“In any case, you aren’t doing anything useful here.” he said instead, handing America a slightly crumpled ticket. Plane ticket, if the British Airways logo was anything to go by. “You’re going, and you’re making Mr. Vargas happy.” Ignoring America’s outraged countenance, the Ambassador smiled. “I hope you enjoy your vacation, Alfred.”
...
Italy was sulking. Again. It wasn’t like he wasn’t aware of it. It wasn’t like he didn’t understand that allowing a personal relationship to affect his business and nationhood in this way was pathetic and terrible and probably really destructive.
But he couldn’t help it! Germany had cared for him at a time when no one else did. It had made Italy feel wanted and special and—well. It doesn’t matter much anymore, does it?
He should have probably gotten back to work. That’s what Germany would have done. But then again, Italy wasn’t very fond of Germany at the moment, so maybe he behaving in ways Germany wouldn’t approve of was a way to retaliate. Though it was a shaky justification, Italy ran with it, and slumped against his desk for the third time that morning.
He lay there in relative peace, until his phone began buzzing. He looked up tiredly, then haphazardly wrangled the contraption from his suitcase, and squinted at the screen.
Incoming Call: America
Italy raised his eyebrows. “Ve…why would America call me…” he asked out loud. He hoped the superpower wasn’t calling to ask after his Ambassador. Italy wasn’t sure where exactly the man had run off to, but he did know that Romano had been quite short with him the other day…
“Allo?” Italy finally answered.
“Italy! How’re ya, buddy? Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” America said, his voice slightly static-y but nevertheless full of the enthusiasm he was (in)famous for. Usually, Italy did not take notice of America’s constant exuberance, but in the past couple of months, as Italy’s own excitement had dimmed, America’s had become exponentially more annoying.
“Um…no, I’m not busy, America…” Italy replied, seeing no reason to lie.
“Great!” America exclaimed, “I hope that’s the case for the rest of the week, because I’ve decided to grace you with my heroic presence for a while! That’s exciting, right? Please don’t ask why though, it’s complicated and I don’t wanna talk about it.” The whole statement was rushed, and Italy really didn’t know what to make of it.
“…is this for work?” Italy asked, attempting to clarify America’s confusing behavior.
“Work, what? Nah dude, no trade treaties or anything like that, hahaha! I just wanna see you, is that so hard to believe?” When Italy didn’t reply, America plowed on, “Haah, uh, whatever. Listen dude, I’ll be in Rome tomorrow, ok? We can spend some quality time together and shit. I already cleared it with your boss. He said you weren’t being too productive anyway, haha. I’m not sure he was joking, either. Anyway, pick me up at the airport?” When Italy still didn’t reply, America’s tone became a touch less friendly. “I’m gonna take that as a yeah. Anyway, I’ll let you get back to work. Or sleep, or whatever Italians do when they say they’re working. I’ll see ya tomorrow, ten o’clock.” Before Italy could get offended, America hung up, and the dial tone hummed in Italy’s ear.
Later that night, while cooking dinner for his brother and Spain, Italy continued to ponder the strange, mostly one-sided conversation. America wasn’t really known to make personal visits, preferring to meet only for business or other necessities. The only exceptions to this rule were Canada and England, whom America seemed to think were adequate enough to socialize with. Apart from that, he preferred to host nations in his own country, which, according to him, “was the awesomest anyway, why would I bother going anywhere else?”
“Italia?” Spain’s voice broke Italy’s concentration. “Are you alright? You seem a little out of it today…”
So Spain had come inside from gardening, and had even remembered to take off his dirty sandals at the door! Romano’s constant scolding seemed to be producing results. Italy paused his rapid tomato chopping. “Ve, I’m fine…” he began. He wondered whether he should enlist Spain's help in figuring out America's strange phone-call. Italy was half convinced it was a prank. Perhaps Spain could shed some perspective on the situation, though he was certainly no expert on America's preferences. “I got an interesting phone call from America this morning, which was a little strange.”
Spain instantaneously perked up, as he had been doing for the past two weeks whenever America was mentioned. If Italy wasn’t 100% certain that Spain was unequivocally in love with Romano, he’d be suspicious.
“Oh?” Spain said, feinting disinterest, “and what did he say?”
Choosing to indulge Spain’s curiosity, Italy replied, “Ve, it was strange. He told me he was coming tomorrow, but not for work? He didn’t really give a reason; he just wanted to spend time together, apparently…” Spain’s face lit up, more so than it had all month, and had Italy been someone who could read any atmosphere ever, he might have recognized the warning signs in Spain’s manic glee.
“Oh Italia, that’s wonderful news! Finally, amour is on the horizon for you again!”
Italy, who had begun to dice his tomatoes again, nearly sliced his finger open.
“Ve, what—“
“America is interested in you, Italy! You know very well he doesn’t visit others outside of business! Oh, the amour must bloom, I am so excited for you, mi querido!”
But Italy had his doubts.
“Espana…I don’t think that’s what’s going on…”
“What else could it be?!” Spain questioned, feverishly happy now. “Oh, where did Romano go, he’s been in that bedroom for hours, I need to tell—” And he ran off, leaving Italy alone with his thoughts.
And while the Italian was not convinced, the seeds had been planted.
.....
“I feel like a prostitute. He literally told me to ‘escort him’ around. Escort him! That is literally the job of a prostitute!” America complained, throwing another pair of jeans into his suitcase. The damn thing was probably over packed already, but America was not in a gracious enough mood to give a shit. Instead, he just stomped on the overflowing pile of clothes in an attempt to wrestle them into submission. “He has no authority over me; I can’t believe the powers that be approved this!”
England, who was watching America wrestle with his clothes over Skype, yawned widely. “You do realize it’s four in the morning here, correct?”
America glared at England’s distorted face on his computer screen. “This is important, England! I don’t wanna listen to Italy bitch for a week. It’s bad enough I do it once a month.”
England stifled a second yawn, and fussed with the collar of his shirt. “Yes, yes, I understand your concern. It wouldn’t hurt for you to practice some empathy though, Alfred.”
America, who had given up on making things more compact and just started to zip the suitcase up, rolled his eyes. “Yeah, thanks for that great piece of advice from you, Britain, the Empire built on sympathy.” He looked at his computer screen to gauge England’s reaction to his snappy comeback, but the Briton was far to pixilated to even make out. Damn Skype, anyway.
“There’s no need to be surly with me, America. I’m just saying, it might be good for you. And it might help rid you of this habit of being nasty to me so early in the bloody morning.”
Finally forcing the suitcase shut, America looked at his screen again. This time, England could be seen clearly in the small Skype window, arms folded and pout in place. America noticed, though, that the bags under England’s eyes were a bit darker, and that the color in his skin was even more washed out than usual. The glow of his computer screen made the smaller man look a bit translucent, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the freckles sprinkled across England’s cheeks and nose. America felt a twinge of guilt at the obvious exhaustion lining the Brit’s face.
“…Sorry.” America finally replied, a tad reluctantly.
And when England rolled his eyes with a long-suffering sigh, America knew all was forgiven.
“It’s alright, you twat. You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t insensitive.”
America smiled at this admonishment, but turned to his suitcase once more so England wouldn’t see. “Whatever. Point is, I am coming to Europe, and I am not happy about it.”
England laughed. “Oh, but it gives you plenty of opportunity to stir up the drama you love so much!” America threw a sock at his computer screen, and England smirked. “I know your education rankings have been dropping America, but I didn’t think you’d forgotten how communication via computer works.”
“Now who’s being nasty?” America muttered.
England, perhaps detecting the hint of hurt in America’s tone, dropped his teasing. “I’m sure you’ll be fine, love,” he said, changing his tone completely, and America shivered, just like he did every fucking time England accidentally used a term of endearment on him. “Italy’s annoying, but you like his food well enough, and he respects you enough not to bother you too much, hm?” he cleared his throat, and America watched him cover his throat with his hand. “Besides, you can get him in a compromising position and call Germany over to see. I’m sure the fallout would be hilarious.”
America, who only a second ago had been uncomfortable and hurt, roared with laughter. “That’d be bitching!! Haha, Germany would kill me, that’s hilarious!”
Well, nobody claimed that England and America were particularly nice.