He probably should've known better than to try and get Alfred drunk. But he'd heard that not only was it almost impossible to get the American drunk, but that he didn't get hangovers. This was a mystical power that Romano was eager to explore, mostly because he didn't believe it was possible.

So he'd plied America with drinks. America had been staying in a hotel since the meeting was being hosted in Italy, and Romano had invited him over on the pretense of some extra paperwork. Then he'd forced every type of alcohol he could think of into the great buffoon, pretending like it was extremely offensive if you didn't drink things your host offered you when you were in Italy.

"I don't remember that rule," America had frowned. "Hell, like half of your citizens and their descendents live on me and I'm pretty sure that rule doesn't exist."

Romano glared and shoved another shot aggressively in front of him. "It does," he said waspishly. "Drink."

"Dude," America snorted, "If I didn't know better I'd say you were trying to get me drunk."

Well, it had worked. Oh, how it had worked. America was currently sprawled out on his patio, since it was a warm summer night, and he was giggling about the time he beat Russia to space or some nonsense and (incorrectly) pointing out constellations. Romano, who had been cleaned out of a liquor cabinet that he had spent over two hundred years stockpiling, was determined to get something out of it.

So he goes and sits next to America.

"Hiiii," America says, making no move to get up, "Hello Southern It'ly!" And he reaches up to pat Romano on the cheek. He misses a little and punches him in the chin.

"Fucking bastard!" Romano swears as America dissolves into snorting laughter. "Once you get drunk you get drunk." He hasn't seen America this vulnerable in quite a while.

America struggles into a sitting position. "Don't get drunk…very often," he explains, suddenly fixing Romano with an uncomfortably intense gaze. "Last time…Spain 'n Gillby 'n Franshis…" he slurred a little and regained himself. "Attacked me," he finishes with dignity. "Pinned me down and…tried to…do things." He looks very uncomfortable. Romano blinks, thinking about the damned Trio and their determination to gang-rape everything when they were drunk.

Actually, they act like that sober, too.

"Did they succeed?" he asks curiously, unable to help himself.

America snorts. "Nah," he said, sounding like he was slightly more sober from just the memory, "Close call though. Francis had my shirt off and everything. Hnng." He shudders.

Romano's train of thought takes an unexpected turn, and since he's had a few shots too (mostly for show, to convince Alfred) it slips out before he could think about it. "You're not very experienced, are you?"

America doesn't seem startled by the questions – he is clearly entering a calmed-down phase of drunkenness. "No," he says, looking slightly uncomfortable, "Uh, not a lot of time, you know, given that I'm a superpower and hate-sex isn't my thing."

"…why would it have to be hate sex?" SHUT UP, Romano screeches at himself.

America gives him a look. "Uh, I dunno, maybe because three fourths of the world would like to see me die a painful, humiliating death, and the other one fourth is only because I owe them money or I'm trying to support their economy? Nobody likes me." He shrugs. "And anyway, the Cold War sex with Ivan totally ruined my hate-sex appetite. He used to play Russian Roulette with me right before I climaxed." America pauses to muse. "'Course, I didn't help much by playing the game called 'Bring Hidden Knives and Stab Ivan randomly when we were Getting It On to Induce a More Painfully Erotic Sensation.'"

"…" says Romano.

America chortles and shakes his hair out of his eyes. "Hey, but isn't Italy like, renowned for sexy times?" he asks, nudging Romano a little harder than necessary. "You must have loads of sex!"

"…on occasion," Romano manages, trying to fight down the rising blush. "I guess. Kind of. I mean, it's complicated. I don't have a LOT of sex. I'm just…good…at it." Oh, hell. Why was he saying this? One would think that he'd be able to hold his alcohol a little better.

"Huh," America says, and lapses back into silence for a minute. Then, "Was Antonio your first?"

Romano sputters again, actually lost for words. "I…what!"

America shrugs. "Jus' wondering."

"He might have been," Romano says evasively. "I don't really remember."

"Bullshiiiit," America says lazily, "But whatever. Hmm. Worst boss you've ever had?"

"I don't...what are you trying to pull?" demands Romano suspiciously, shifting away from the superpower.

"Question game," America says brightly. "Hmm. Person you hate t-"

"Potato Bastard," South Italy spits instantly.

America flings himself backwards and lands with a loud thunk on the floor. "Haha, I knew it!" He says happily. "I called that one. Okay, hey, hey, Romano, look." He points up at the sky.

Romano looks up. "What, bastard?"

"Look at the constellations," America insists. Romano rolls his eyes and makes to get up, at which point America jerks him back down to the ground. His knees give way and he collapses on top of the larger nation with an undignified yelp. "No, you didn't look!" America pins him across his chest using two freakishly strong arms. Romano starts struggling violently.

"Bastard, let go!" God, he's blushing like a schoolgirl. "America, I swear, I'm going to fucking-" he cuts off to punch at the blonde nation, who laughs a little and effortlessly keeps him in place. Romano gets a good hit in, at which point America pins his wrists using one hand and points up at the night sky with the other.

"England used to make up stories about stars to tell me. He told me this patch-" America gestures to a cluster of glowing dots with his fingers, "was called the Eight Sisters. They were all very beautiful, with long dark hair and eyes, except for the youngest, who had brilliant gold hair and skin that glowed in the moonlight. A star became so enchanted with her that he took her to be his wife. But the other sisters became disconsolate and began to waste away without her, and the star's bride pined away for them and began to die of grief. So the star took all the sisters and surrounded his bride with them again, so that they were all happy. That's why the star in the middle is the brightest."

America has soothed Romano temporarily, and he realizes belatedly that he's no longer struggling, but lying limp against Alfred as he listens to the story and feels America's heart pumping steadily under him. Shit. He scrambles to gain control of the situation and comes up with a rough, "You have a horrible way of telling stories, dipshit."

America looked wounded. "You wound me," he says dramatically, proving Romano's thoughts correct. "Seriously, though, England told me a ton like that. He told me one about you!"

"What?" Romano asks, curious despite himself. "A constellation story?"

"Mmhmm," America nods, eyes serious if not slightly hazy, "he made them up about a bunch of nations, to help me remember the world map. Only it's pretty confusing and that's why I suck at geography," he adds with a frown. "But you and your brother are right over…" America squints at the sky and points his finger at the moon, then draws it to the left a little. "…there!" he finishes brightly. "You two are the little blinking ones. Kind of to the northwest of the moon, I guess. There's two little ones and then a big glittery one right next to it, yeah?"

Romano nods. "Wait, am I the big glittery one?"

"What? Haha!" America says, "No! You're one of the little tiny ones and the big glittery one is the rest of the world coming down to conquer you because you can't fight at all!"

Romano's eyes narrow. "Bastard!" he shrieks, and punches America, who does appear slightly injured this time, since his nose starts gushing blood and he releases the Italian nation to cup his hands around his nose. Romano leaps to his feet and kicks the superpower's side, venting his fury. "I hate you! Get out of my house!"

"Fuck!" America yelps as Romano's feet start kicking him black and blue. "Jesus Christ! You can't kick me when I'm down! Ow! You little – stop!" And he seizes Romano's foot and yanks. Romano falls with another shriek and, furious, surges upwards to attack America. Luckily for the superpower he's much bigger and rather significantly stronger and he's able to fend off the furious attacks with strategic , slightly drunken blocking. Still, he needs make Romano stop soon, or he's going to seriously hurt himself.

"Out! Out! Out!" rages Romano, hands scrabbling across America's chest in an attempt to reach his face and claw the living daylights out of it.

"If you wanted me out of my shirt you should just say so!" is America's response, because he's still smashed as hell and also he's the King of Tact. Romano stills completely; even his face freezes. America, in the face of the storm he knows is coming, giggles a little uncertainly.

"…what." Romano finally says, in a quiet, dangerous voice.

"Haha, nevermind!" America quickly rolls away, trying to dislodge Romano from his torso so that he doesn't get his face completely crushed by the Italian's rage. Instead, Romano braces his knees on either side of America and stops the action. America, a little bit unsteady from all the alcohol consumption which is finally all starting to hit him, stops trying to roll over and stares at Romano.

"Repeat what you just said," Romano says, still very quiet and even.

"What?" America asks. He stares at Romano. "Uh…I'unno. What'd I sha-say?"

Romano hisses through his teeth. Now is not the time for America to relapse to annoying full drunkness. "You said you wanted me to take your shirt off," he prompts. He wants America to say it so he can properly beat the shit out of him.

"You…want…my shirt off?" America's brow furrows and then he shrugs. "Okay, I guess," and before Romano can stop him he's stripped out of his shirt and is looking blearily up at the half-nation. "What now?"

Romano's mouth goes dry. Then all the blood in his body divides; half rushes to his head, enabling him to blush throughout his entire face. The other half rushes to his groin, which only humiliates him further. "Dammit!" He manages, "Put your shirt back on!" Dear God, America is more toned than Italy has ever suspected. Not that he's spent a lot of time really pondering that.

"No," America sulks. He likes to be contrary and do exactly the opposite of what people tell him. Shit, Romano forgot that part. He tries to amend things.

"Fine. Don't put the shirt on. Keep it off, for all I care, keep it all off," he says in exasperation, and, throwing his hands in the air, gets off America. He storms into the kitchen and starts washing out the empty alcohol bottles and wine and shot glasses, fuming about how his plan has backfired. Somewhere, he forgot to factor in the fact that in between testing if he could get America drunk and testing if America got hangovers, he'd be dealing with America being totally fucking trashed.

He's interrupted by America coming up behind him and saying, "Okay, now what?"

"Hmm?" Romano asks, only half-listening, and he turns around, scrubbing out a vintage wine glass. Then he catches sight of America and drops the glass, shattering it all across the ceramic tile in his kitchen. "Wha-what-wh-" he manages, and then just stands and gapes at the completely naked America standing in his kitchen, face half-shadowed, his body looking like something Romano may have sculpted in the Renaissance years. Hell, those abdominal muscles looked like something he would still sculpt.

America moves closer, and the light catches his high cheekbones and his eyes, making them glitter a vivid sapphire. Romano finds that it's suddenly much harder to breathe. When America takes a step closer, the Italian pushes himself off the counter and stares at him. America reminds him of something Spain had back when he was King of Europe (a self-proclaimed title) and he would let Romano play in his treasury. The superpower's skin is illuminated a burnished gold, every muscle defined and highlighted by shadows. His eyes are glittering jewels hidden under corn silk lashes, and there's a lazy, vague-looking smirk to his face.

Suddenly, Romano finds he has to touch him, and he does exactly that. America is warm, almost burning, and he shivers under Romano's fingers. "Cold," he murmurs, ducking his head and staring at Romano from under his lashes. Romano doesn't pay any attention to him; he's watching in fascination as his fingertip travels up America's chest, leaving a wet trail behind it from when he was washing dishes.

Then his finger seems to make a decision and it picks up speed, taking a right turn to trace over America's nipple. The other nation shivers again, and he moves a little sluggishly to make a grab for Romano's hand. Romano calmly removes it and keeps going, running little circles over America's chest, paying special attention to sensitive areas.

"Why're you naked?" he asks quietly, concentrating on the patters his finger is drawing.

"You told me," America breathes, sounding a little bit confused and a little bit aroused and rather drunk. "You told me to go for it and take it all off." Of course the idiot wouldn't realize that Romano hadn't meant in the literal sense.

"Now what am I supposed to do with you?" Romano asks, finally glancing up at America's eyes. They are hooded and, although a little cloudy, they're watching Romano with a kind of curious awareness.

"Dunno," America says, lifting one shoulder and then lowering it.

Romano places a finger to the side of his mouth and considers. "I'm hungry," he finally announces. America nods a little and sways on his feet. Romano frowns and considers some more. "All right, I don't want you cracking your head open in my kitchen. Come here." He leads him carefully around the shattered glass and out to the kitchen, dragging him into the family room, where there's thick, idiot-proof carpet on the floor. This is the room he puts his brother in when his brother is drunk, too, so that he doesn't smash his head open on anything looking for pasta.

"Lay down," he instructs. America is remarkably compliant. "Wait here."

He goes and retrieves some of the tomato pasta sauce from when Feli was last over. He heats it up until it's bubbling very slightly and then he carefully stirs it until it's just heated enough to touch without burning. Then he pours the sauce into a bowl and takes it back to the room where America is lying on the floor, giggling again and rolling around on the carpet.

Romano feels very put-upon. "What the hell are you doing?" he asks, standing in America's path. The idiot rolls into his legs and stops, looking surprised.

"I am rolling on your carpet," America announces. "It's soft!" he grins up at the Italian, and Romano is taken off guard by the sheer brilliance and happiness of the smile. He reminds himself to stay on track.

"Stop doing that and lie still. You'll get all your…skin cells…on my carpet." He tries hard not to look below America's waist, but it's proving difficult. America makes it no easier by flopping on his back. He's still fully naked. Romano's lower half is most appreciative and is letting him know it in a rather inconvenient, embarrassing way. Also, he's feeling a little out of sorts himself, and he's hungry, and America's torso look like something you would see in a photo shopped Calvin Klein advertisement, and he's hungry for that, too, just in a different way.

So he tips the bowl and dribbles some of the sauce over America's stomach.

"Whoa! Careful, Romano, you spilled some on me," America says, dipping his finger into the sauce. Then he sucks it off his finger and looks pleased. "It's good! I want some more," he pleads, still lying on his back, but making grabby hands up at the pot.

Romano sits down beside him in a slightly more graceful manner and says, "well then, hold still and I'll give you more." He tips the pot again and makes a line of sauce up America's torso, from his navel to the hollow of his collarbone. America makes a whining noise.

"How am I supposed to eat this?" he demands.

"Suck it off your fingers," Romano suggests, not very subtly, but he's past caring about that.

America groans. "Italians are weird," he tells Romano with a scrunched up face, but he's also busy getting all the tomato sauce off by dragging his fingers up it and then licking them off.

It's the most arousing thing Romano has ever seen.

When America has almost finished, Romano thwarts him by dribbling more sauce on his collarbone and down one arm, all the way to his hand, careful not to get any on the carpet. America makes an annoyed sound and starts actually licking the sauce off his hand and arm, like a cat. He isn't even halfway finished when Romano is making a path of tomato sauce stomach again.

"Hey!" America finally protests, "Stop it! I'm full!"

Romano blinks at him and sets down the mostly empty pot. "Well then," he says after a moment, "I'll just have to eat it for you." He swings his one leg over America's outstretched ones and, before he can lose his nerve, drags his tongue up America's stomach.

The effect is instantaneous. America gasps in surprise that quickly gives into a groan and his whole body tenses against Romano. Spurred on by this response, Romano sets to work getting every last trace of tomato off the body beneath him. By the time he's worked his way up to America's neck, said nation is writhing and panting hysterically, his hands knotted in the carpet and his toes curled. Romano's never really thought about sex with America before, and now he finds himself wondering just how the other nation likes it. He's powerful enough that rough and fast shouldn't be a problem, but America's kind of a romantic sap too, so would slow and sweet be better?

Romano experiments by nibbling on Alfred's neck while grinding his hips into Alfred's. The conundrum is solved when Alfred bucks up into him, pulling in a sobbing breath and hissing, "Fuck me, Romano, I swear to God, if you don't finish what you started I'm going to kill you – oh God yes!"

Romano grins and wraps his hand more securely around America's length. At some point the superpower has gotten a raging hard-on and Romano's finding it harder and harder to control the twisting nation underneath him. He's also finding it harder to control himself – he's been turned on since Alfred took his damn shirt off – which is why it takes him a few minutes to process that Alfred is speaking Italian.

His hand stills on America's cock, eliciting a whimper from America as he jerks his hips in an attempt to keep the stimulation going. "Were you…that was just…Italian!" he finally manages to force out, staring at Alfred who is sprawled out below him.

The cords of America's neck stand out alarmingly as he speaks, a testament to how hard he's working to keep control. "I speak any language if enough of the people settle on me," he grinds out, "And Italians are a huge part of my population so yes I can speak it and I don't really think about it now please take a hint from your people and invade me already god dammit!"

Romano, eventually, does. It's a delicious mix of hot, gasping hisses, and America won't let Romano go get lube because he keeps insisting that he likes it as rough as it gets, and Romano's feeling heady from alcohol and Alfred and tomato sauce, so he does the worst thing a lover can do and believes him.

Except America really does seem to love the pain, and anyway it's not like by the time Romano enters him there isn't enough precum and sweat to act much the same as lube would. Alfred's golden skin is glowing under the dim lamp in the room and he still smells heavily of tomatoes, and all his muscles are pulling and straining and jerking around, and Romano finds his tenacious grasp on control on the whole thing so heady that he almost comes before he even has time to adjust.

America, for himself, throws his head back and practically sobs, a funny raspy shriek rising out of his mouth, and Romano groans in response, low and desperate, and waits until Alfred has stopped making slightly distressed huffs of air before he starts moving.

They reach climax together and both scream simultaneously. America's body arches and he calls out Romano's name with hysterical fervor until finally he collapses to the ground and continues to gasp 'Romano' like a prayer. The Italian nation is fairing no better; he sees white, and the heat coming from Alfred's skin runs through him and the feeling of complete release makes him stiffen and slam his hips forward one more time before he collapses bonelessly.

Both pass out almost instantly.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Romano wakes up the next morning and covers his eyes, squinting in the sunlight before he groans and lays his head back down on the carpet.

The…crusty…carpet.

His eyes shoot open instantly and he scrambles up to survey the damage. Tomato sauce mars the white expanse; it's practically ground in. On top of this is...bodily fluids from last night's excursion.

Oh God. Last night! His head is already pounding because it's a tad bit hung over, but he still swings around to stare at Alfred, sprawled out on the carpet. The other nation has speckles of sauce all over his body and his glasses are lying five feet away from him. His hair is ruined from where Romano gripped it last night at some point. Then Romano sees his clothes, scattered about the room, and he rushes to put them all back on before he can die of embarrassment. After he's done with that, he collapses back on the carpet and glances over at Alfred again. Lying next to Alfred is a pot. A sauce pot.

And then Romano starts remembering exactly what led to the sexcapade (i.e. him dumping sauce on Alfred and telling him to lick it off) and he flushes a bright scarlet. Before he can go hang himself on his clothesline, Alfred stirs and groans a little.

Romano freezes.

Alfred comes fully awake slowly; he scrubs at his face with one hand and blinks languidly, before feeling around him for his glasses. Locating them, he plops them gracelessly on his face and blinks his world into focus.

"Ah! Romano!" he says once he sees him, "What's up? Hey, don't some people call you Lovino? Can I call you Lovino now? It's much less personal." He smiles brightly and then glances around and begins to look guilty. "Oh. Uh. Wow. This room is…destroyed. Good lord. I'm really sorry about the carpet, this looks like it was expensive. I can pay to have a new one put in. But it was for a good cause, right?" and he grins nuttily again.

Romano, for his part, blinks slowly and then says, "How the fuck are you not hung over? You were totally sloshed last night. You couldn't even stand up."

"Oh. Erm." Says America, and it's his turn to look guilty. "I…I really wasn't."

"What?"

"I, ah, pretended." Alfred rubs the back of his neck. When Romano stares uncomprehendingly, he sighs and says, "Okay, fine, whatever. I've kind of thought you were cute for a while and then when I came over it was kind of obvious you were trying to get me drunk so I played along because I was curious what you were going to do with it and then you got really provocative with the tomato sauce and I just totally lost it and now here we are and I should be sorry I fooled you but I'm really not because that was the best sex ever and I kind of really like you," Alfred explains in one breath.

Romano blinks at him again. "You…tricked me?" he should be outraged, but he's just totally confused and still headachey.

America winces a little and says, "Yeah. But in my defense, you were totally trying to get me drunk first."

This is true. Romano bites his lip and says, "You've liked me for a while, you say?"

Alfred nods enthusiastically. "Like, ever! Since your people settled on me, kind of, because we got a lot closer then. Actually…hang on." He gets up and trots out to the patio. Romano, stunned, stays sitting on the carpet, mulling things over. When Alfred comes back, he is clothed and looking as bright-eyed as ever. "So. That's the story, I guess. Um. Should I…stay? Or leave? Or what?"

Romano closes his eyes and thinks back on last night and suddenly he opens them and shrugs and says, "Okay."

"Okay?" Alfred is the confused one now. "Meaning…?"

"I'm not going to kill you. I'm not going to lie, that was some good sex, and you can be kind of nice when you're not acting like a total burger bastard. How about you make me a good hangover cure and we'll start from there."

America's enthusiastic nod makes a violent return. "Totally!" he exclaims, and leaps to his feet, before bending down and hoisting the prone Romano up into his arms. Romano makes a noise of protest but being carried really is eaiser than walking, and Alfred's arms feel strong and kind of nice carrying him. "I have the best hangover cure ever. I had to perfect it for Arthur."

"Really?" Romano glances at Alfred. "What is it?"

"It involves tomato sauce," Alfred explains with a wicked grin.

There's a yelp of pain from the hallway as Romano punches Alfred in the jaw.

/ / Authors notes!

Hurrah, took me forever, which is why the ending may seem a little rushed.

Why is it that whenever I try to write cute fluff it turns into sex with a fetish? I DON'T UNDERSTAND.

At any rate, this is one of my favorite pairings (largely due to CoffeeFlavoredFate) and there's been far too much UKUS lately and none with US and Romano. Since they're adorable together, I had to fix this.

So I wrote them having sex and eating sauce off each other. *slinks away*

Also, I LOVELOVELOVE the idea of Alfred being able to speak like fifty millions languages because of who settled on him. Languages are a huge fetish of mine. Hmm. Potential fic in the works…*plots*

I've got a PrussiaxUs in the works, too, but I'm trying my best to keep the smut out. I hope I actually succeed this time. Ha. Hope you enjoyed this one! (I apologize for my failure at being able to write sex scenes. It is two in the morning. Sex scenes elude me.)

Review!