SOY: I'm posting this fanfic here, following a kink-meme request that I wanted to fill. The pairing is AmeIta, as for the prompt I found. I hope you enjoy!
The pairing is a bit unusual, but give it a go nonetheless!
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
America let out an exaggerated huff as he walked down the street, not knowing where he was going; it had been a tiring day, what with all those reports to go through, and then having to do that long speech about being the hero and saving the world again –the other Nations never did anything on their own, they were so uncooperative!– and he was terribly tired.
Being a huge, strong, loved Nation was life draining.
He had wanted to indulge in a glass of beer, but unfortunately, the pub closest to the UN building had been taken hostage by some of the Nations he really didn't want to meet (namely France, England and Russia, god forbid), so he was wandering around, hoping to find another promising one.
He needed alcohol.
Until the previous year, if in need of booze, he'd trick England into going to the nearest bar and chug it all down, laughing at how quickly the British could get drunk, undressed and violent, but times had changed.
Things had gotten… well, uncomfortable lately. More than just a bit, to the point where he had started to avoid England whenever they happened to cross paths. During meetings, America was hesitant to joke around with him, or even speak directly to him unless he had points to discuss with him, and outside… well, it was easier to avoid him rather than confront him in general.
England of course had noticed, but he hadn't made a single step to try and understand why America was avoiding him, probably because of his ego, or maybe because he was England, and he never had what others considered tact. Well, America didn't have much of that either, so… as it was, the only change America had noticed about England was that he turned just a bit grouchier than usual, and that his insults and prods towards America sounded somewhat empty.
Alfred might have looked an idiot to most, and perhaps in certain ways he was –but if it was about his own feelings, then no, he wasn't.
'Beer' he thought, eyes darting around; then he brightened up as he noticed a green neon banner that signalled the presence of a pub. It was not that far from the UN building, so he would be able to get back there and take the car to his house, but it was far enough that it would never attract England.
England had a clear preference for pubs that reminded him of home, so English-looking, but this one was a normal pub, if a bit gaudy.
It would do well for him, definitely.
Pushing the door open, America was greeted by soft lights, a row of seats on the counter, walls with plaques of old coca cola ads from the 70es and many strong-built men gulping down huge mugs of beer. Oh, the manly appeal of a pub, late at night, to drown away the fatigue.
Alfred shrugged, feeling somewhat welcome by the fact that nobody looked at him as he entered, and made his way inside.
As he approached the counter, though, he noticed with a grimace that he was not the only Nation who had opted for this pub. In a corner, sitting at one of the farthest tables, there were Germany, Prussia and Denmark chugging down beer like pros, laughing and basically being chaotic together.
On a better day, he would have joined and drowned in alcohol with them, but as it was, he needed a subdued form of booze.
Trying to fight the urge to make a hero–like appearance, he slumped at the counter with his back to the group, and attracted the attention of the bartender.
"A beer!" he stated, cheerfully.
"Uh~ that was my place~"
America tried to put together a scary face and turned around, pissed off at the interruption, only to blink in surprise when he noticed it had been Italy speaking; the Italian eeped in surprise and fear, and backed away, waving his arms in front of him.
"N–no! It's nothing! I'll… I'll go take another seat! You can keep my jacket too!"
Looking down to his stool, he noticed in shame he had sat upon what looked like Italy's jacket. He jumped up too, feeling quite silly, and chuckled. "Italy, here, take your seat back, I didn't mean to scare you". 'Heroes can't scare their minions!'
Italy stopped his apologizing, blinked in surprise, then a sheepish smile appeared on his lips. He accepted his jacket and seat back and waited until Alfred pushed another stool next to his.
"Why aren't you there with them?" America pointed at the chaotic table behind them.
He didn't really feel like conversing with the other Nation, but he guessed Italy would be chatty, and it would be not that heroic of him to avoid being friendly over his own depression.
Did heroes even get depressed in the first place?
"Oh, well…" Feliciano fidgeted a bit, and was grateful when the bartender brought on Alfred's beer and his own.
"You drink beer?"
Italy pouted. "I prefer wine, but I'm not picky when I need to get drunk, ve~".
Which didn't sound as cool as he might have wanted.
America chugged down his first glass of beer, feeling the liquid run through his throat, leaving some sort of bitter aftertaste, and he licked his lips, wiping the remains of its foam from his chin.
Slamming the glass on the counter, he snapped his fingers at the bartender to order a second one.
"It looks I'm not the only one wanting to get drunk~"
Alfred turned around and stared in annoyance at the Italian, who was busy sipping his own beer and was not looking at him, so with a small shrug, he also returned to his second beer. Not to be outdone, Italy chugged the remaining of his own glass and ordered a second.
Despite his annoyance, Alfred had to admit that Feliciano wasn't really the lightweight as he'd expected him to be.
For a few minutes, the two simply minded their own business, each one drinking at their own pace until they reached the third glass. They didn't drink it with the huge mugs Germany and Prussia were used to lap at like dogs, so it wasn't half the amount it occurred to have them drunk.
"You didn't answer me," America pressed his elbows on the counter and returned his attention to the fellow Nation; the beer, although still too little to affect him, had at least mellowed his annoyance, and he felt prone to talking now, proved it would be just idle chat.
"Why are you drinking here, alone, and not with them?" he pointed a thumb at the three drinking fiends with a raised eyebrow.
Italy's eyes flickered in that direction, mainly on Germany, who was by now rolling his sleeves up and chugging down what looked like his sixth pint of beer, and sighed.
"It evolved into a challenge," he stated, as if it was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard. "They're trying to drink each other under the table –again".
"And this is wrong because…?"
Italy attempted a glare, but it came out more as a pout than anything else, and resumed his sipping at the beer.
"… it's complicated," he muttered finally, low enough that America had to strain his ears to hear him.
It was quite strange, to watch Italy being so subdued, but there again, America himself was acting a bit differently. Not that it mattered much. Not that he cared.
He was just there for the booze.
"Stupid England," he muttered.
Italy stared at him, curious, then shrugged.
Both fell into some sort of comfortable silence after that, drinking their glasses and then kept on ordering more beer.