Title: Nostalgia in a Small Café

Disclaimer: I own a Keyblade made of cardboard, but not Hetalia.

Warnings for this Ch: Vulgar humor, language, drug references, passive-aggressive Canada, human and nation names used, France, the awesomeness that emits from crack pairings

Main Pairing: Romano x Canada (How would you write that, RomaCan? Canmano sounds better)

Side Pairings: GerIta, Spain x Austria, PruHun, FrUk, RusAme, GiriPan, probably more later on

A.N.: This originally was going to be a one-shot friendship, but shit happens, and now you get a multiple chapter romance, yay.~ I will do my best to update once a week on the weekend, but my computer access is limited. How many chapters this will be is classified information.
About the name usage, I believe that nations use their human names only if they are really close, such as siblings or in a relationship, or if they are in public. Also I am using the Prussia became East Germany theory.
I may write lemon later on if enough people want it, thus the rating is subject to change. Another thing that may up the rating is future drug and alcohol usage. Because everything is funny when you're high or smashed.

Done rambling, enjoy~

Chapter I: Actually Noticed, Would you Like a Side of Apocalypse With That?

Canada's Point of View

It was just another week-long world meeting between the nations on the top floor of the UN building in New York, New York (America and his redundancy), US of A. Today, being day four, means that no one gives a shit anymore. Except Germany. Thus, the meeting is eventful, but productive?

"Get your bloody hand off my arse, Frog!"

About as productive as a pastaless Italian soldier.

"Hahaha, Iggy, looks like— " America began to commentate until…

"France, remove yourself from England at once," a dictionary definition of an Aryan man, Italian glued to his arm included, sternly ordered the blond Frenchman attempting to rape/ show l'amour and cutting off the main reason painkillers were made. Thank god for multi-tasking.

Cutting off (the theme of the day) his friend's dramatic to-be speech on love, an albino spoke up. "Kesesese, West, you're only jealous that England is getting some action. You could as well, but they would have to remove that stick first. I wonder how Italy does it." Thus, a fight between the two halves of Germany erupted and the productivity level dropped to the amount of American flags England has embroidered.

Due to World War IV going on (WW III happened two years ago when Spain and England reverted to their pirate days during a game of Battleship) no one noticed the pseudo-ghost sneak into the conference room, late. He took a seat at the only open spot left, muttering to himself that at least they were fighting and did not notice his blunder. On his right was a sleeping Greece, probably dreaming about Japan in cat ears, which would explain those questionable noises he was making. Canada looked to his left to see Spain's temperamental ex-henchman (call him that and you will wind up at the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea with a pair of cement shoes) whom was sketching in a sketchbook, shocker with the usage of the book. Usually he is playing catch with other people's faces and the sketchbook is the ball.

Canada gave an exhausted sigh, no one noticed him, but it was ok… who was he kidding? It hurt like a body check into the board wall when the other nations looked right through him. What is so interesting about the air behind him?

After another half-hour of fighting and five broken chairs, two black eyes, and one East German with a duct-taped mouth did the meeting resume; Canada making a mental note to ask England for the notes to the other countries whom he missed.

Up next was Sweden, but the only people who can understand what the dancing maple leaf he was saying are the Nordics… probably something on IKEA, Canada annotated in his head. Placing his head into his palm, Canada decided to be snoopy (being invisible does have its perks), and peered over to what Romano was sketching as a sleeping Greece is as interesting as socks for Christmas. It was a pencil sketch of a potato with a firecracker sticking out of the top with the fuse about to be lit…

Canada was trying to understand just what he was looking at when a "What are you staring at, bastard" broke his concentration. Snapping out of his trance, startled indigo met probably permanently pissed (AN: try saying that five times really fast) amber.

"E-Eh, nothing, sorry." Canada backed up in his seat as to not piss Romano off even more and set off an Italian wrath that can make Poland's little ponies cry.

Romano glared at Canada for another second. "Whatever bastard," and went back to his spudcracker. Hong Kong would be proud, on the inside, of course. Canada sighed in relief and decided to try to cut down on the dangerous things he did and pay attention to the boredom in meeting form.

After Sweden came Alfred, who immediately started talking boisterously about his heroic new idea of making a new energy source from hamburgers. "If only you could harness the bullshit that comes out of his mouth, then we would not have to worry about an energy crisis again," Canada muttered to himself.

A snort to Canada's left startled him, again. "If your brother started spewing out more bullshit, then we would need to start building a motherfucking arc." Canada looked to his left to see a slightly frowning (but that is just his face) Romano looking at him, not through him. Holy maple-shit in a bottle, someone actually noticed me without me doing anything to try to get their attention.

Romano gave him a What the Fuck stare/glare. "I sa-said that out loud, didn't I?" Canada asked with his whispery voice.

"No shit." Replied the Mediterranean nation. Canada was use to this type of language as hockey fans, himself included, can get pretty rowdy at games when the players mess up. But the language was not what intrigued Canada, it was Romano's eyes. They were not the default pissed they usually are, but more calculating? Probably trying to remember who I am…

Determined to not let this chance for nation contact, Canada decided trying the suicidal task of starting a conversation with Southern Italian, respect to the current speaker be damned. "So, ah, Romano, w-what were you drawing, eh?"

That 'I just found my brother fucking Germany' look came back, but its power was reduced by the small blush that adorned his cheeks. Kind of looks like a maple leaf in the fall, Canada noted.

"None of your fucking business Maple Bastard," and he turned away from the arctic nation, closing his sketchbook in the process. Even though he looked angry, he did not say this with a burning hatred, more like an ember of hatred. Canada sighed at not having his wet dream of having a simple conversation with someone fulfilled.

The rest of the morning portion of the meeting consisted of Canada estimating how much furniture Kumachica, no, it is Kumashima… Kuma will chew up for being left back home and half listening to the speakers yet still getting the jest of what they were saying, a useful skill he picked up from having to deal with a motor-mouth brother. Just give a simple nod here, or a yes there… Unless he says that American Football is better than hockey, then you grab your hockey stick and smack that mother- Bad thought bad thoughts, Canada remained himself, feeling as he did during the War of 1812. During his little internal civil-war, Canada did not notice that Germany finally released the nations for lunch time like a whole bunch of five year olds, reminding them that the meeting begins again at 14:00 (2:00pm) sharp. Add an hour to that for America, the host, to show up from McDonalds.

All the nations were filing out, causing the infamous Bulge to form (as it does every time) from the large number of nations all trying to escape out the one, too small, doorway at the same time, being too lazy to open another door. Canada gathered his papers while he waited for the Bulge to die out; he learned from previous experience that trying to work his way through it results in Matthew-pancakes due to the other nations not noticing his presence. While gathering his real notes and self-notes on the differences between using a piece of cardboard for sledding versus an actual plastic sled, he noticed a red notebook with the doodle of a scowling tomato on the front. Canada took a wild guess at assuming it was Romano's sketchbook, and his papers near it, but who cared about those?

Like the curious hoser he is, he picked up the sketchbook and began penning through it. God, I feel like Alfred now, invading peoples personal space. The first page had writing, but it was in Italian and Canada never bothered to learn the language despite Italians being the 5th largest ethnic group in his country. There were only three pages with drawings on them, the rest being blank. On each page was a cartoon of a potato being… mutilated? Did I accidently mix up the flour and cocaine again for those pancakes this morning?

Once consisted of a Rube Goldberg like device, the other was… is that a massive flyswatter? The third is the spudamite from earlier. Overall, it was pretty amusing. The whole world knows Romano hates potatoes with a passion that can rival all the Spanish put together with how he constantly calls Germany a 'spud-fucker' or, more commonly, 'Potato Bastard,' but going so far as to make this?

Looking around the room to see if he can spot that infamous hair curl of the dark chestnut variety, Canada's search came up fruitless. He put the journal and papers in his satchel, or man-purse as Alfred calls it, and started to head out to his favorite café around the block, early August sun streaming through the windows to his back.

That bulge scene needs to become canon.

Got the idea for potato mutilations from something I saw called 'Bunny Suicides.' If you get a good idea for future mutilations, feel free to review or PM because Romano and Canada need to fill that sketchbook out. You may or may not see your ideas later on in the story, depends on if I took my medication that week. }:3

Next chapter will be in Romano's Point of View, see ya in a week :D