Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
I wanted to get the whole night done in one chapter, but I've noticed when chapters get longer than 6k people have trouble remembering what happened in them. Or don't have time to read them all through. So I'll have to break it up into smaller parts. I know some of you can handle longer chapters no problem, but when you only have ten minutes/half an hour to read before bed/school/work it can be difficult, because when you get back to it you've probably lost your place. If FFnet ever adds placemarkers my chapters will probably get a lot longer, but until then I'll try and make things convenient for you!
This chapter, as well as the story in general, is devoted to sakerat, who listened to me rant for over an hour about moon rocks without complaint. The sign of a true friend.
"I didn't drive, so we'll have to walk." America explains as they exit the building. "But it's not far from here, so it won't take long." He stops and turns to lock the door behind him. Romano frowns.
"You have the keys to England's conference building?"
America glances back at him as he finishes up. "Hm? Oh, yeah." The keys jingle as he slides them back into his pocket. "I usually end up working late, so England lets me have the keys so I can lock up when I'm done." He turns and heads off down the street. "France and Canada usually let me have their keys, too, when the meetings are there."
"Oh." Romano nods, falling into step next to him. They walk the streets in silence at first. It's not quite dark, but it's getting there; helped along by the thick blanket of darkening clouds that hang low in the sky, heavy with the promise of the rain that England is known for. The sun may not have fully set yet but it's dark enough out that the ancient streetlights lining the pavement have been lit, though the dim, orange-yellow glow of the light they cast seems to emphasize the darkness rather than illuminate it.
And America is walking next to him, so close he can smell him, feel the heat against his shoulder where they're not-quite touching, except when they occasionally, casually, accidentally bump into each other; America's shoulder bumping his, the back of his hand brushing against America's, the fleeting touch of knuckles and fingers and sidelong glances they're pretending not to notice. As it grows darker they grow bolder; 'accidental' touches linger, glances are held and heated, until Romano deliberately draws his fingertips up the length of America's palm, and America's breath catches and his eyes flicker, and when Romano draws his fingers back down again and slides them in-between America's, America caresses the intimate, sensitive skin on the inside of Romano's wrist with his thumb in a slow, steady rhythm that makes Romano's head spin and his knees tremble, and he stops in his tracks, pushing America down one of the dark, narrow alleyways they've been walking past and up against the brick wall, grabbing his lapels and kissing him fiercely.
"I know what you're trying to do, bastard." He growls once they part, barely a fraction of a centimeter from America's lips. "It's not going to work."
"What?" America pants a little dizzily, craning his head for another kiss, but Romano pulls back, staying just out of reach, and hazy blue eyes flicker up to burning hazel ones to blink in confusion. "What? I—"
Romano tightens his grip on America's lapels, shaking him once as he growls firmly, "It's not going to work."
"Okay." America nods, eagerly meeting Romano for the next kiss. Slowly, Romano's grip on his lapels loosen, and his hands slide up to America's shoulders, his neck, 'til he's cupping his jaw with one and the other is gripping the back of America's neck, and America feels it's safe then to wrap his own arms around Romano's waist. Then Romano starts to grind against him, heated and fervent, and America presses his hand flat against Romano's lower back, urging him closer (although they're already pressed so close against each other that their clothes barely matter, 'cause they can feel everything): Romano's heart racing against his chest, every breath he's taking, and it feels like he can feel the blood rushing through Romano's veins and the electricity of Romano's thoughts as well as he can his own. Romano's tongue inside his mouth, stroking his own, feels like it's meant to be there and Romano's scent surrounds him and fills his nostrils and makes him hungry and dizzy, and Romano's in his ears and in his blood and filling his senses and it's too intense, "Romano," he gasps, pulling back from the kiss and lifting his head free. "Romano. Romano. Romano."
He's not sure if he's trying to get Romano's attention or just needs to say his name, but when Romano tries to catch his lips again he pulls his head sharply back, accidentally slamming it against the brick wall behind him, and the moment's sharp pain clears his head just enough for him to realise why he broke the kiss in the first place. "Romano," he pants, patting the small of Romano's back to get his attention, "stop. We have to stop." Romano slows and pulls back to look up at him, brows furrowed in bewilderment.
"What?" He pants, a little cross-eyed with pleasure and terribly confused. He can't remember ever having been asked to stop before. "Why?"
"'Cause, um," America leans his head back against the wall, screwing up his face with the effort of thought, trying to keep himself from grinding back against Romano's slow thrusts and failing, "I don't know." He admits, exhaling in a rush. "Oh!" He remembers, lifting his head to meet Romano's gaze. "Because I'm going to come in my pants if you don't."
"Oh." Romano blinks. And blinks again. "Oh." Another blink, as he tries to think past the haze in his brain. "Yeah, me too." He agrees, nodding. "We, we should stop."
"Yeah." America pants, nodding too.
Romano nods again, dropping his face onto America's shoulder. For a few moments the only sound in the alleyway is that of their laboured breathing as they both struggle to stop moving with each other. Romano groans. "If you want me to stop, bastard, you have to stop too."
"I'm, I'm trying," America says, voice strained. "You, nh, h-have to stop first." He whimpers.
"Fuck." Romano swears. America's right, he has to stop first. He's the older one here, America doesn't know what the fuck he's doing. He has to take the lead. He's in charge here. "Fuck. Fuck. Okay. Okay." He struggles to stop, but his body has its own agenda in this. He forces himself to slow, but his body fights his mind, struggling to keep moving, making him feel like he's stuck in molasses. It really, really doesn't help that America keeps moving with him. He's so fucking responsive. Fuck. "America," he gasps, squeezing the back of America's neck, "I need you to help me out here. Okay bastard?"
"Okay," America gasps, understanding where he's going, and his hands find Romano's hips, holding them perfectly still.
"Good." Romano nods shakily, dropping his head back onto America's shoulder. "Thanks." He adds, voice muffled.
"No problem." America nods, panting, and closes his eyes, although it's so dark in the alley it makes little difference. It's hard to think. Romano's still pressed intimately against him, pneumatic and warm, and Romano's breath is hot against his shoulder, and the soft, heated curve of the shell of Romano's ear is pressed against his jaw, and his cock is pulsing and aching and pressed against the inside of Romano's hip and abdomen and nestled against the hard length of Romano's and he can feel Romano aching and pulsing too, and he knows Romano's aware of it and they're both hanging right on the edge, and it's kind of an exquisite sort of torture in a really amazing, wonderful way, and he feels so close to Romano, and he's pretty sure Romano's biting his shoulder, he can feel his suit jacket and shirt growing wet where the material's clenched between Romano's teeth. He can feel Romano vibrating with the effort of holding himself in check, and realises that pretty soon he's going to come just from the intensity of it all. "Romano," he gasps, finally, "this isn't working."
Romano makes a strangled sound of agreement, and spits out his jacket. "I know." He gasps, forehead pressed against America's shoulder.
"I'm going to come in a minute." America adds breathlessly. "And I'm pretty sure I'm starting to leak through my pants."
Romano nods, and lifts his head. "Me too." He pants. They both look down to confirm the state of their trousers, which is pretty pointless, because even if there was enough light to see by they're pressed too close together to see anything other than each other's collars.
"What're we going to do?" America asks Romano, perplexed. "I can't walk like this. It hurts too much."
"I know." Romano agrees. "I can't either." They pause for a minute, realising with dismay the depths of the trouble they're in. They can't keep going and they can't walk away, not 'til these erections go down, and they both know that isn't going to happen. There's no way out. They'll be trapped in this dark alley in England forever.
There's very little blood going to their brains at this time, so they may not be thinking entirely clearly.
"Fuck." Romano says fervently, dropping his head onto America's shoulder. America groans in agreement, letting his head fall back onto the brick wall. Romano wracks his brain for answers. He's pretty sure there's a solution; something in the back of his mind is trying to tell him there's a simple way out of this if only he could remember, but it's so hard to think with America pressed against him like this; breathing and warm and trembling and— he hears America swallow, hard, and something in his brain clicks. "Ah!" He exclaims, lifting his head as the revelation strikes him. "I know what we can do!"
"You do?" America asks, amazed and hopeful and a little impressed, because he can't think at all right now.
"Yeah. Hang on. Oh, let go." Romano bats America's hand on his hip, and America obediently releases him. "Hang on." Romano moves back a little, pressing a hand in the middle of America's chest to hold him in place. "Stay there." He orders, moving down.
"W-what're you doing?" America asks, craning to see as Romano gets down on his knees, but Romano's unzipping his fly before he even finishes the sentence and he has his answer. He doesn't have time to process the idea before the cold night air is on his cock followed swiftly by slick, wet indescribable heat as Romano swallows him whole. His fingers flex into the brick behind him as his breath catches in his throat and his brain shorts out. The heat disappears from around his cock.
"What the fuck was that?" He hears Romano ask through the hot, pulsing red haze in his brain.
"Nothing." America answers, shifting his fingers a little guiltily in the finger-shaped holes in the wall behind him. Romano pauses: America can tell he's not buying it, but his breath is ghosting over his cock, heating and cooling wet, aching, sensitive skin, and he screws up his face with the effort of not coming right there. But a little tendril of guilt curls through his chest, too. He hates lying, even by omission. "Wall." He admits, a little shamefacedly. He hadn't mean to do it, it'd been reflexive. He stiffens when Romano hums and engulfes his cock again, aroused and a little freaked out. He wants to thrust, his body is telling him to thrust, and fuck that feels so good but he doesn't want to hurt Romano, and he didn't mean to break the wall, he lost control, and Romano's a lot softer than brick and he usually has better control than that, but this is a new situation and he hasn't learned how to — his mind blanks as he comes, and all he's aware of is the tightening pulse of release like a supernova in his brain, and Romano's throat constricting around him as he swallows it all.
When his head finally clears he's sitting on the ground, back pressed against the wall, panting heavily. Romano's crouched on his haunches in front of him, a dark silhouette, but America can tell he's watching him with an odd expression.
"You gouged the fuck out of that wall, bastard." Romano says levelly, eyes flickering to the wall behind America and back. America twists his head 'round to see deep furrows he's dug into the brick, trailing down from where he was to half a foot or so above the ground where he sits.
"Oh." He says, a little weakly in the aftermath of his climax. "Whoops."
Romano ignores this, leaning forward to run one hand down the wall, feeling the depth of the gouges for himself. "Fuck." He breathes, disbelieving, and drops his hand. "Do you always do that when you get worked up?"
"Um... no." America admits. "It's just...that was pretty intense." He surreptitiously wipes his fingers on his slacks to get the brick dust off. "I'm not quite... " he pauses, looking for the way to phrase it, and settles for, "used to it yet."
Romano watches the action, frowning thoughtfully. "What, so...if you do this enough you'll stop doing that, bastard?" He asks, eyes flickering back up to America's face.
"Yeah, once I can adjust to it." America confirms, letting his hands drape on his thighs. He becomes aware that he's unzipped, still, and exposed to the cool night air, but in a strange way it feels really good, because even though he's soft and clean and dry now he can still feel Romano's mouth on his cock and remember what Romano did for him, and that was amazing. He can't help the smile tugging at his lips as he tucks himself back in and zips himself up, and looks up at Romano. "Can I kiss you now? I really want to kiss you."
"Mm," Romano agrees, wall forgotten, and leans forward, reaching a hand to slide behind America's head, cupping the base of his skull as they meet in a soft, languid kiss. Romano's lips and tongue and mouth are soft and firm, and there's a slightly musky, tangy, almost salty-sharpness overlaying the taste of Romano that America is becoming familiar with that he guesses is a result of what they've just done. His heart speeds up a little and he reaches for him, cupping his face in his palms, and tilts his head to delve deeper into his mouth, splaying his fingers through Romano's hair and stroking his temples with his thumbs, trying to drink him in as deeply as he can. Romano responds in kind, exhaling deeply through his nose in a sigh and tilting his own head to gain better access to America's mouth as well. He steadies himself with a hand on America's thigh, shifting his weight forward, balancing on the balls of his feet and releasing the back of America's neck to place his hand flat against the wall behind them to help support his weight.
Preoccupied with drinking each other in, neither notices the faint roll of thunder in the distance, nor the thickening scent of rain in the air.
When they part America licks his lips, and swallows in an attempt to compose himself and steady his voice. "That was amazing, Romano, thank you." He says sincerely. "Do I do you now?"
Romano pauses, reminded of the aching need between his own legs. He'd... intended to take care of himself at the same time as America, but America had started gouging holes into the wall just as he'd been reaching for his zipper and that'd distracted him; and when he'd gotten back down to business he'd been too fascinated by what America was doing to the wall as a result of what he was doing to America to remember to attend to himself. It was kind of heady, knowing that he caused America to lose control and tear the fuck out of a brick wall in pleasure.
But hadn't expected America to offer to return the favor. He's pretty sure America's completely inexperienced, and half expects the younger nation to retract the offer once he has a moment to think about it. "Do you want to?" he asks cautiously. "Have you ever done it before?"
"No," America admits, and hesitates as it occurs to him that maybe Romano doesn't want him to because he doesn't have any experience. "Is, is that a problem?" He asks, a little embarrassedly. "I mean, I don't have to if you don't want me to. I, I just thought...I mean, you did it for me..." he trails off awkwardly, face warm in the darkness.
"It's not a problem," Romano says, inwardly kicking himself for quite possibly pissing away his only opportunity to get his cock in America's mouth, "it's just, are you sure you want to?"
"Yes?" America answers honestly, embarrassment having dissipated with Romano's response, and folds his legs underneath him, shifting up on his knees. "I'd like to. That is, if you don't mind?"
"I don't mind." Romano admits warily, and stands, shifting his hand from behind America's head to rest on top of it, anticipation rising and buzzing under his skin. America's going to suck his cock. America wants to suck his cock. He leans back against the wall behind him for support, bracing his legs a little apart. His fingers splay through America's hair, heart thudding in his chest as the blond shifts towards him. This is one fantasy he thought would never come true. Should he unzip himself? No, the moment will be sweeter if America does it for him; another indication that America's chosen to do this. He wants to savour this, and know America wanted to do it.
America's hand spreads gently against Romano's crotch, fingers probing to find his zipper in the darkness. He finds the tab and slowly pulls it down, slipping his fingers into the opening, carefully pulling Romano's hardened cock out. His fingers are warm, so warm. Romano's lips part at the touch, his eyes hooding, and he slides his hand to cup the back of America's head as his cock twitches in anticipation. America's hands are gentle and warm, cautious in part due to his inexperience, because he doesn't know how to handle someone else's member and doesn't want to be too rough. His fingers settle gently around the base, trailing lightly up to the tip, an innocent gesture that Romano knows is just America trying to find the head in the darkness so he can get started, but which he finds no less sweet and deeply sensual for its innocence and practicality.
His heart jumps and his breath catches when America's tongue, soft and wet and warm, lathes experimentally across the sensitive, weeping head of his cock as America tentatively licks him, testing. Then America mouths him, gently, softly closing his lips around the tip in butterfly light kisses, curious and exploring and innocently sensual, because he knows America isn't trying to tease, he's just experimenting with the feel of him. He tries to hold still as America's fingers wander his shaft, his soft, warm mouth sliding over him, surrounding the head of his cock, slick, heated tongue probing and testing curiously, pulling back again to expose now-wet skin to cool night air, and engulfing him again to try once more, pushing a little further, taking him in a little deeper, sucking carefully and massaging the shaft in his mouth with his tongue, stroking what isn't in his mouth with his fingers.
He's a little clumsy and obviously inexperienced, but there's no hesitation in his actions. He's clearly fascinated by what he's doing; and Romano can tell that he's trying hard to make it good for Romano, and it's so fucking sweet he can't help the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, his heart warming even as his cock pulses with need and his loins ache with the desire to thrust into the slick, wet heat. He regrets the darkness deeply, suddenly, realizing that he wants nothing at the moment so much as to see America's face as he tastes and explores and learns him. He wants to watch as America wraps soft lips around his cock and takes him into the warm, wet cavern of his mouth; see his cheeks flush and his brows furrow in discovery and concentration and pleasure. He wants to see himself sliding between those lips into that sweet, eager mouth, coming out glistening and gleaming wet, over and over and over; to see America's hand working his shaft, those blue eyes glancing up at him through lowered lashes, hazy with honest desire and earnest desire to please. He wants to burn that image into his memory, to treasure it in his heart and remember that in this, too, he was America's first, and that America wanted it to be him.
The blunt head hits the back of his mouth and America pauses, taking his hand from shaft and taking a moment to adjust to the feeling of Romano's cock in his mouth, filling it with a hard, thick, living weight. Romano lifts both hands to America's face, needing to touch him, caressing his face and nose and brow, stroking his hair, running his fingers over America's lips, soft and sweet and wrapped around his cock. America's mouth turns up at the corners at Romano's touch, and he sighs, exhaling through his nose. The gust of warm air over the skin of the exposed length of his cock makes Romano smile, running his fingers almost affectionately through the blond's hair. "You're doing just fine, bastard." He murmurs, thinking that America might be getting nervous.
That must be all the encouragement America needs because he pushes forward, suddenly, taking the whole of Romano down his throat in one go, and Romano panicks, because that feels so good but the idiot is going to choke himself.
"Shit! America," he says shakily, tugging on America's hair to get his attention, heart racing, but America doesn't notice or hear him, which he can't really blame him for because he knows a cock down your throat tends to preoccupy one's attention, especially when you're not used to it, "America—"
America swallows, reflexively, and tries to suck but ends up swallowing again; and Romano gasps and shudders, fighting not to thrust, "Nngh! America!" He tries to pull out, 'cause he's going to come any second —and doesn't America have a gag reflex? Oh right, England's food must have destroyed it— but his back is flush against the wall and there's nowhere to go but forward, so he thrusts a little, tugging on America's hair, hoping he'll get the hint. But America's preoccupied with the new experience of Romano's length filling his throat, and moves his head experimentally, shifting Romano inside him and oh sweet fucking heaven that's good; and when America swallows again, humming interestedly at the sensation, Romano gives up and comes, hoping America will figure it out and pull away in time.
To Romano's dismay America seems to have other ideas, though, and tries manfully to swallow. He manages okay for the first couple of swallows, but he can't keep up and starts to cough, wetly, around Romano's cock. Guilt wells up in Romano's stomach and he tries to pull the blond off; but America seems determined to follow through, stubbornly resisting —possibly just not noticing— Romano's attempts and managing a few more rough swallows, holding back his coughs for the time being. Finally Romano's done and America releases his semi-hard length, letting it slip from his mouth as Romano's legs give out and he slides down the wall to the ground.
America coughs into his forearm, trying to clear his throat. "I-" he tries to say, voice hoarse, and coughs some more.
Romano reaches for him, scowling as he pulls out his handkerchief and begins wiping the idiot off. "You idiot! You fucking idiot!" He scolds, getting the trickle of cum coming from America's nose, guilt and worry and anger churning in his stomach, "What the fuck were you doing, trying to swallow the whole fucking thing? Were you trying to kill yourself? Do you want to die? Are you trying to choke to death on my cock, bastard, is that it?"
America coughs a little more, leaning his hands on his knees and letting Romano attend to him as he tries to catch his breath and clear his windpipe of cum.
"Shit," Romano complains, wiping America's chin and mouth, "You really are a fucking idiot, you know that?"
"I wanted to try swallowing it," America explains roughly, coughing a little, and clears his throat. "You swallowed it. But, I didn't get it all." He admits.
"I know what the fuck I'm doing." Romano scolds, swiping at America's mouth again although it's already clean, and fingercombing the hair out of his face. "You can't swallow straight out of the gate, idiot. It takes practice." He stuffs his handkerchief back into his pocket, grabbing America's chin and turning his head this way and that to examine his face, though all he can really see in the dark is a shadowed silhouette. America pulls his head from Romano's grasp, batting his hand away.
"I'm fine, Romano, really." He reassures, voice still a little hoarse, and coughs into his hand. "But it's sweet of you to worry." He adds between coughs, smiling.
"I'm not fucking sweet," Romano growls, "and I'm not worried, I just, don't want to tell everyone you died choking on my come."
America laughs and coughs a little at the same time. "Oh man, that'd be embarrassing." He chuckles, amused. "Still, seeing as how many nations hate my guts at the moment you might get a party." He sniffs, wiping his nose as he grins. "You'd be a hero."
"Shut the fuck up, that's not fucking funny." Romano snaps, all the more pissed off because it's not entirely untrue.
"Ahh," America sighs, still grinning. "Did it feel okay though? It wasn't too bad or anything?"
"No, it was fine." Romano admits, settling down a little. "Aside from where you tried to kill yourself." He grabs the back of America's head, pulling him in for a kiss. "You're a fucking idiot." he murmurs against his mouth.
"Mm, probably." America agrees between kisses, smiling. "You know, it's weird." He turns aside for a second to cough a bit, before returning to kissing Romano. "It tastes a bit like wine."
"What?" Romano's brows furrow, and he reaches up to hold America's head still so he can nibble his lower lip without pulling on it if America moves unexpectedly, "Oh. Yeah. Everyone's is a little different."
"Yeah?" America murmurs, holding still and letting Romano do his thing and enjoying the attention. He likes the way Romano nips and bites, teeth grazing gently over skin followed by the caress of a warm tongue, or gripping and tugging, firm but not painful. "Interesting. Why's that?"
"How the fuck should I know?" Romano responds, sliding his hands up into America's hair and tilting his head to kiss him properly. "Body chemistry, or something."
"Interesting." America repeats, and loses his tongue in Romano's mouth for awhile. "What's mine taste like?" He asks when they surface, although he has a pretty good idea, since he can taste it on Romano.
"Hamburgers." Romano deadpans, and America laughs, meeting Romano for another long kiss."Mm, hey." He hums softly once they part again. "You're not zipped up yet, right?"
"No," Romano admits. "Why?"
"Can I touch you?" America murmurs against his lips.
Romano's brows furrow. "Why?"
America shrugs a shoulder. "I just ...want to touch you. See what it's like. Can I? You don't have to say yes."
"Well...okay," it's an unusual request, but Romano doesn't see the harm, "I guess it's okay. Just don't break anything, okay bastard? I'm-"
"Alot softer than brick, I know." America smiles, reaching for him. "I'll be careful, Romano, I promise." His fingers meet Romano's sternum, just below his breastbone, and he trails them down over Romano's stomach, over the buttons and folds of the Italian's jacket, slowing when he touches the bare skin of Romano's lower abdomen where his waistband is unbuttoned, until he finds Romano's softened cock. He touches it softly, almost reverently, caressing it with the backs of his fingers, marvelling at the softness of the skin. It's so soft, soft as silk- no, softer, because silk has a roughness to it that Romano's skin doesn't; it's soft as whispers, soft as warm summer breezes kissing bare skin. He's never felt anything like it; his own doesn't count, and his feels different than Romano's anyway, which is part of why he wanted to try this. He slides his fingers underneath, supporting it, feeling the soft, pliable weight and warmth, and draws his thumb down the top. It's unbelievably soft and delicate, yet a short while ago it was hard and smooth and thick and heavy, filling his mouth and throat and grinding against his own.
Romano bites his lip, heart rate climbing, unsure what to do with himself in this situation. It's not that he's scared or anything— he feels oddly safe, in fact— it's just...America's handling him so carefully and gently, and he's not used to it, and it's making him feel... weird. He's not used to anyone touching him so intimately without sexual intent. But America's touch is clearly innocent, and it's...it's...it's a little unsettling. He's not sure how to handle it, or how to respond, or if he should respond, or if he should just sit still and not fuck it up. Because he doesn't want it to stop, exactly, either, even if it makes him feel weird and he doesn't know how to deal with it. So he sits as still as he can, focusing on the feeling of America feeling him and trying not to do anything that might make him stop.
After a while America lets the soft length slip, gently, from his fingers, reaching down a little further and sliding his fingers underneath Romano's balls, feeling their weight resting in the curve of his fingers. These, too, are soft, though in a slightly different way, and less changing; but also intimately part of Romano. He presses his hand to Romano's groin, cupping everything, fascinated by the soft heat and delicateness of the weight held in his palm. He's struck by the brilliant complexity, in form and function, the simple genius of its design; how sensitive and delicate, yet resilient this multipurpose organ is. How integral it is to daily function, and interpersonal interaction. How much this, all of this, has changed his life. How all of Romano has changed him, has had such a profound effect on his life in such a short time.
There's no going back.
And he doesn't regret it.
"Wow." America says finally in tones of awe, and Romano can tell he's smiling like an idiot, and feels his face heat up in the darkness. America leans forward to nuzzle his nose, draw his lips across Romano's, and buries his face in the crook of Romano's neck, still cupping him. "Wow." He repeats a little giddily, like he's just discovered something incredible. Romano doesn't know how to respond to that, but he feels it's safe to move, now, so he places his hand on top of the one cupping him, and brings his other hand up to cradle the back of America's head, threading his fingers through his hair. He can feel America smiling against his neck. "It's hard to believe that just a little while ago you were inside me." Romano's face heats up, and his heart skips a beat. He tightens his hold over America's hand on him and on the back of America's neck, and America nuzzles into his neck in response.
"You know," America tells him after a few moments, his voice warm and low and sweet and rumbling into Romano's skin and hot against his neck, and Romano's stomach and his heart do this funny little warm twisty thing that kind of hurts, "I've been to the moon. I walked on it, and touched its face, with only a thin layer of fabric between me and the vacuum of space; and I looked up and saw this big, beautiful planet we live on glowing blue amid all the stars of the cosmos. I've done all kinds of things that were amazing and wonderful and fascinating, but this is still one of the most incredible things that's ever happened to me." He shifts, pulling his hand from Romano's and wrapping his arms around Romano's waist in a hug. "Thank you, Romano." He adds sincerely.
Romano wraps his arms around America's neck, his chin resting on America's shoulder, and says nothing. His heart kind of aches, for some reason.
After a few minutes there's another soft roll of thunder, and afterwards America shifts his hands to Romano's waist. "We should probably get going. It's going to rain."
"Yeah." Romano agrees, releasing him, and tucks himself in, zipping himself up as America stands. America reaches a hand down to help him up, and he takes it, hauling himself to his feet and pausing to brush alleyway dirt off his clothes once he's standing. America waits for him to finish, and leads the way out of the alley.
AN: More to come.