This was my first Hetalia kink meme de-anon. The original prompt was something along the lines of England wooing America as an Italian while still in Italy after being captured and having his fancy Italian makeover. This is the first of three parts; it's already been posted to Live Journal, but now it's coming here.

Bell'Italiano

This was one of those rare times England wished he were more prepared for living in Europe. He owned a small series of books, all pocket-sized, each one a different major European language. This was the middle of a continental war; why hadn't he been carrying his Italian book?

But regardless, here he was, loitering against an aged brick wall, arms crossed, doing his best to blend in as an Italian. He would be stuck in the little city for at least a couple more days, and so far, he'd been able to avoid Germany and both Italian brothers.

He was dressed sharply, his hair was slicked back and he even felt like his skin was shining with a renewed glow of confidence. Now that he no longer stuck out like an eyesore among all these beautiful Italians, he had to really act the part to keep the hawk-eyed German from spotting him.

And this is where the language barrier faulted him. He only knew basic Italian, and those skills came from knowing a tidbit of Latin from his days as part of the Roman Empire. He had to be a romantic, flirtatious Italian lover if he were going to escape this country alive.

England shifted his weight uncomfortably. In the romantic sense, he was, at best, awkward. He had never been adept at the art of seduction, let alone even flirting with someone successfully. Considering the person who he'd been in love with for several hundred years never even noticed his obvious attraction was crushing enough to his romantic self-esteem.

And yet, this was war. He would have to swallow his fear and attempt to be at least friendly with the people around him, even if they were the enemy. Maybe he could find someone on holiday from England or even France, since his French was much better than his Italian.

Two girls walked by him, their eyes trained on his broad shoulders and his slim face, and they giggled between each other.

"Lo vedi?" one whispered to the other, and they spun their eyes on him. They giggled again when England gave them a dazzling smile, but they hurried away before he could approach.

At least I'm attractive, he thought to himself. He pushed himself off the wall and walked towards the street, sliding his hands into his pockets. He had to talk to someone, anyone, before Germany came and—

"Scusi! Scusi!" someone was calling from behind him. England stopped and turned, hearing the distinctive non-Italian accent. Whoever was calling out to him wasn't an Italian, and as he lay his eyes on the stranger, his breath hitched in his throat and his eyes widened.

Inexplicably, he was looking at America. America, who was not supposed to be in Italy, he was supposed to be back in London, but no, here he was, wearing a navy blue suit with a crisp white oxford and a navy blue tie, a charcoal pea coat in his arms, his hair combed much more carefully than normal. England just gaped at him, a blush rising unknowingly on his cheeks.

America is going to blow my cover. America is going to get us both captured. America is in Italy. America looks so incredibly dashing I don't think I can move.

"Um, scusi mi, er, uh—ciao, I'm, uh—" England stared at America as he fumbled his way through a question, and he wanted to grab America's shoulders and shake him and tell him to speak English, and what in Heaven's name are you doing here? But as America spoke, it dawned on England that America didn't recognize him. America made no motion of recognition towards England; he was far too focused on speaking in Italian.

"Uh..." America trailed off, looking helpless. England blinked and realized he was waiting for a response. Should he reveal himself? America was so tactless; surely he would do something that would blow both of their covers in an instant. But surely England couldn't keep up the facade for long, right? He didn't really speak Italian, so how could he keep up the charade? But still...

This was America that he was talking to. And there were such things as immigrants, he realized: not every single Italian person necessarily spoke only Italian. He was sure that some Brits had, at one point, made a new home in this delightful little country.

He smiled warmly at America and extended his hand.

"Don't fuss with the Italian, mate," he said, and America's baby blues widened in shock. "I speak English, too."

"You do? But you're Italian?" America asked, bewildered. The corners of England's lips twitched into a bigger smile.

"British born, Italian raised," he said, and at that, he lifted America's hand to his lips and pecked his middle knuckle gently. America's face burned bright red, and he bit his lower lip, pulling his hand back.

"A-ah, I see. Well, could you help a fellow out?" America asked, shifting his bag from his shoulder. "I'm trying to find something, and, well... I could really use someone to help me who knows this place."

"I'm your man, bellissimo," England responded, his voice as sweet and seductive as he could muster. America's cheeks burned even brighter and he nodded. England grinned.

This was going to be a wonderful day.

"So, what is it you're looking for, lad?" England asked, laying on a thicker accent than normal. He was surprised that America hadn't recognized his voice, and yet at the same time, he wasn't surprised in the least. If something wasn't painted neon with signs all over it, America often didn't notice the obvious.

England had led them to the small café he had seen earlier, and they sat on either side of a small round table that had a mosaic on the top of it. It was spectacularly beautiful, England noted. The two sat down and ordered drinks.

America, who was taken aback by the good fortune of finding an English-speaking (handsome) Italian, seemed to have permanently flushed cheeks as he placed his bag by his feet and folded his hands on the table. England took note that his hair had a bit of sheen to its slickness—did he gel it? Normally America's sunny blonde locks were flying every which way, but even Nantucket seemed to be behaving itself today. England was trying to be suave but his heart was beating like crazy at the sight of the cleaned-up American. He was so ridiculously attractive when he tried to be.

"I-I'm looking for someone, actually," America stammered, coughing into his hand and giving England a somewhat weak smile. England narrowed his eyes just the slightest bit and crossed his left leg over his right knee, his slacks riding up at the ankle, exposing the top of his sock and the slightest bit of skin. America bit his lower lip, and—did he shiver?

England found himself enjoying this very, very much.

"Oh? What makes you think they're here in Italia?" England asked, and he thanked the waitress when she brought over their drinks. England half-mumbled grazie, but he did it so quickly that to America's ears, it sounded perfect and fluent.

"He said he was coming here about a week ago, and we—I—haven't heard from him," America said, and England noticed a downcast look in those beautiful eyes.

"He's not missing, is he?" England asked, and he struggled to keep the guilt from rising in his chest. Of course, America was referring to himself, to England, since he had been here for a while, and he hadn't contacted any of the other Allies yet. He'd been trying to build his cover so he could escape effectively. He didn't realize he worried them so much...

"Well... I don't think so," America admitted thoughtfully. "I'm just worried, y'know? He's... he's—"

"...a good friend?" England supplied tentatively. He realized his façade was slipping, and he immediately tried to save face. Luckily America didn't notice the change in his demeanor and he just nodded.

"I guess. I'm just worried is all, he was only supposed to be gone for a couple days."

"I'm sure he's fine," England said, and he folded his hands on the table. "But if you're worried, I can try and help." America's eyes lit up at the prospect and he smiled at England. But it wasn't his normal shit-eating grin; this one was gentle, and genuine. England felt, well, touched that America would go out of his way to look for him like this. Unless, of course, he were being put up to it by the other Allies.

America sucked thoughtfully on his straw, getting the last bits of soda from the bottom of the glass, and he stood up, England following close behind.

"Now, the only thing is, you can't be so conspicuous," England said as the two wandered away from the café, leaving a few lira behind. "You make yourself seem obviously foreign."

"Do I really?" America asked, frowning. England nodded.

"You need to blend in, lad. What is your name, anyway?" England asked, curious to see what America would answer. America faltered for a moment, and then glanced at England.

"You can call me Alfred." England's lips pulled into a coy smile. "Mind if I ask your name?" Crap, England hadn't thought that far ahead. His mind racing, he literally came up with the only name he could think of—

"Arturo," he replied, and America's eyebrows rose. Was America suspicious?

"Your name is really nice," America responded, and England let out a mental sigh of relief. The two of them stopped by the same brick wall England had been loitering against earlier and he reached up, smoothing down America's hair more and restyling it somewhat. America blushed furiously, and there was a sudden tension in the air that wasn't there before. England smoothed his hair to one side of his head, trying to make it stick down less, and his fingers grazed America's forehead. There it was again—a slight movement that seemed to rush through America's body at his touch. England stole a glance at his eyes and he nearly cried out in surprise at what he saw.

Whether America knew it or not, he was very, very attracted to this mysterious Italian man he'd just met. The look in America's eyes betrayed any amount of composure he was forcing himself into. It was then England noticed how America was fidgeting with his hands, how he was breathing rather quickly and how his knees were buckling somewhat.

Am I really that attractive? England wondered as he finally brought his arms to his sides. America blinked furiously and looked away, but England wasn't finished yet. He reached out and fixed the lapel of America's jacket, readjusting his tie and smoothing out the fabric as he went. Every touch sent a spark down England's arms, rushing through his body like electricity. America seemed to be trying even harder not to react to England's touch, but England could tell he enjoyed the attention. England had never experience an America like this, and he found that he really enjoyed it.

England wondered for a moment just how far he could take this... and how far he'd let it actually go. He'd be lying if the prospect of wooing America into his bed wasn't an appealing thought (or one he hadn't fantasized about many times) but his conscience seemed to be kicking him in the gut. He was charming America not as England but as Arturo, a romantic British-Italian man.

Or was he? Was it really the clothes and the polished look that was wooing America? Or... or was it England himself? Were his half-assed flirting attempts actually eliciting a response? He wasn't sure. Under normal circumstances he'd never have the confidence to flirt with America so... strongly.

"There, that's better," England said, stepping back. America's cheeks were still flushed, and England found the heat rising in his face as well. America just looked so damn good all dressed up like that. "So, Alfred, do you have any idea where your friend may be?" America stared at England for a moment, blinked, and then realized what England had asked and immediately turned away.

"U-um, not really. Is there... is there like, a government building or something around here?" America asked. England glanced in the direction of the prison he'd been held in earlier. He didn't really want to stray down there for fear of running to their enemies again, but he was with America now, and as England removed America's glasses... neither of them were that recognizable now.

"How much can you see without these?" England asked, pocketing the lenses. "Because if you can manage without them, I think you'd be much better off." America blinked, his eyes adjusting, and he shrugged.

"I can see alright. As long as you don't go too far away from me—not that you can't," America said suddenly. "I mean, i-if you want to walk away from me, it's okay, it's not like—"

"Hush, you'll draw attention to us," England said, and he grabbed onto America's fingers and tugged him along the road. As they wandered, England waited for America to let go, but he realized that America wasn't going to. He was applying slight pressure to England's hand, as if he thought about letting go but wasn't. England didn't mind.

"So, I can tell you're American," England said, and America glanced away. "But do not fret, I'm not a fascist. I may live here but I'm not for the Axis." America's eyes lit up, and... did his grip tighten on England's hand? "That's why I'm helping you."

"I'm glad," America said, smiling. The two wandered towards the government building but England slowed down, keeping an eye out for Germany. Although he didn't see him, that didn't mean he wasn't around somewhere.

"So, this place isn't normally very popular to be around, so we being here could potentially look dangerous," England said. He felt like a secret agent in a movie. "We must look touristy or at least not like we're trying to find a way into this building." They were in some sort of quaint little square, with a fountain in the center and little shops and stalls surrounding the walls of the square. It was adorable, to say the least. America let go of England's hand and nodded in agreement, and the two began loitering around the square.

England bought a blood orange and sat down on the edge of the fountain, peeling open the dark rind and hungrily eating the sweet flesh inside. He'd forgotten that he really hadn't eaten anything today. America was standing at a different cart, looking at what appeared to be little trinkets. He was also conversing with a young child standing next to him, although by the way America was gesturing with his hands, it was obvious that neither spoke the other's language. Somehow, that never seemed to deter America, and he just smiled at the little boy.

The pair spent the better part of the day in the square, feeding pigeons, America making friends with small Italian children, and eating the fruit from the carts periodically. The sun broke through the overcast sky every now and again, and England carefully kept himself in check. There was no way that Germany could mistake him for, well, himself if he were to notice them. And America was just unidentifiable enough, especially since Germany was used to seeing him in military attire with that bomber jacket.

The day passed pleasantly, and England found himself enjoying the casual way that America leaned against him ever so slightly, and how he even laid his head on England's shoulder in a moment of rest, only to immediately jump back up, his face flushed. There was even one point when England briefly laid his hand over America's when he sat back down, and he pretended not to notice America's smile.

It was almost like they were on some sort of really strange date. England had all but forgotten that he was there on a mission, and that America was there only to find him. As the sun began to fall on the horizon, electric lights flicked on around the square, and it was illuminated as if being lit by dozens of stars. America pulled his pea coat on as the nighttime chill set in, and England shrugged into the new coat he had to go with his new ensemble.

They had talked amicably, although England had to choose his words carefully so as not to give himself away. He didn't exactly lie to America when he told him about himself; everything he told America was true, he just didn't mention that the brothers he spoke of were Scotland, Wales and Ireland, or that the funny story that happened in his childhood actually happened about six hundred years earlier, as opposed to the ten or so he had said. He noticed that America also told stories of his childhood, true stories, considering England had been there for many of them, and he also conveniently left out the fact that he was a child during the eighteenth century.

Soft music began to play from a nearby restaurant as a live jazz band started up their instruments for another evening of pleasure. It was dusk now, and England had all but forgotten that he was supposed to be putting on an act. Once he was over the initial awkwardness, he found it quite easy to be flirtatious towards America. Of course, he'd been in love with the young fool for years, and finally allowing some of those emotions to shine through was a relief.

England wondered about the nature of America's actions. Was he also acting? Trying to keep a cover? England doubted it. America wasn't subtle, every bit of his country seeped through him like water through a paper bag. He was America through and through, and although he could hide behind the façade of Alfred, he was never fully cloaked. Anyone with a trained eye could spot America immediately.

It was a good thing that Germany seemed to have given up the hunt, if only for tonight.

America leaned against England's arm, heavier than before, and laid his head on England's shoulder. The music was soft and warm, and it was almost like a lullaby, putting a comforting haze on the square. England nearly forgot that they were in the middle of a bloodthirsty war. It was like they were in the eye of the storm.

Gathering up more of his courage, England slid his arm around America's shoulders, hugging him gently, his fingers grazing the wool of his coat. America made a soft sound and shifted, but he didn't move away. England smiled in spite of himself.

America lifted his head from England's shoulder, steadying himself so he was more level with England's face. He reached up and gently touched the hand that was on his arm, stroking England's fingers in the smallest of movements. England's heart began to race. He wasn't sure if he'd ever been touched so—

He lost his train of thought as America's lips connected to his own, and he was kissing him, lips to lips, and America was intoxicating, it was like kissing chocolate and hamburgers and cold air all at once, and it was more than England could have even imagined. When America pulled away gently for air, England leaned in, capturing his lips again, trying to regain America's unique taste. It was like an exquisite drug.

England pulled away and stood up, pulling America up with him. He saw the haze of attraction and want in America's eyes, and England blushed not just from arousal but from what he was seeing—had he really elicited that response from America? Him? Really?

"Come, let us go someplace more private," England said, and America followed him through the narrow streets to the small inn that he had checked into that morning. America glanced at the inn in confusion, and England suddenly remembered that he wasn't England, he was supposed to be an Italian citizen, and wouldn't he have his own house?

"I live in another city," England explained quickly. "I'm here visiting. I visit here often, I just have yet to get my own house here."

"That makes sense," America said, and he followed England up the spiral staircase to his room on the corner of the second floor. It overlooked the square, although when they were up higher, England realized he could see past the square and could see the vast rolling hills beyond, all the way to the edge of the sea.

England fumbled with the lock but managed to push open the door, the only light in the room coming in from outside. England clicked on the small lamp on the front table and pulled off his jacket as America clicked the door shut behind him.

No sooner had America shut the door then he was at England's back, running his arms around England's waist and kissing the back of his neck.

"You Americans, always so eager," England said, and he heard America grunt behind him.

"We're efficient," he heard America say, and England turned around to envelop the younger man in a kiss. Within the next few minutes, England had America pinned to the king sized bed, straddling his waist, wearing only the fine dress pants he'd acquired that morning. America was leaning against the oak headboard, a pillow at the small of his back, nipping England's stomach gently right above his abdomen. He had his arms wrapped around England's waist, his fingers inching into the gap between the small of England's back and his trousers, and England reached out and pulled the chord that controlled the curtains, and once they were pulled, he reeled back and got down to America's level, kissing him forcefully on the mouth, unbuttoning his crisp white dress shirt and tossing it to the floor.

"That shirt's brand new," America muttered against England's lips. "Just so y'know. S'good thing you moved it before I messed it up."

"I didn't realize you were so concerned for its safety," England said back, and America blushed. This was a side of America he'd never seen before, a softer, politer side. It was strange. Was America always like this with strangers? To be honest, he never imagined sleeping with America would be like this, he always pictured them fighting and yelling and competing for dominance, since, well, that was their everyday life anyway. But this was different, it was loving and soft and sensual, and maybe it was just because they were being swept away by the romance of Italy, but it was different then England imagined it, and the next thing he knew they were one, and he could feel America's breath on his neck. Their clothes had been completely discarded, mostly on the chair next to the bed, and the soft light from the lamp on the other side of the room made America's well-toned body glow as his muscles flexed as he moved with England.

It was perfect. That was, until—

"You sh-should speak Italian," America said in a hoarse whisper, right into his ear. England faltered. Yes, of course America would find a way to completely screw this up. Although it was England's fault for not actually knowing any real Italian. He knew that America was just in the moment and he also knew that America was known to have a bit of a language fetish—it probably came from being a melting pot—but there was no way he could get away with just some simple phrase. America was probably expecting something beautiful or poetic or even dirty, and England knew none of those things. So he did the only thing he could do to try to retain the atmosphere. He leaned down, close to America's ear and said tentatively

"...that's amore?" America sniggered into England's collarbone and let out a baleful laugh, and he opened his eyes and they shone on his sweaty face.

"You're wonderful," he said, and he drew England into a long, sensual kiss, and England knew that his answer had somehow been satisfactory. Apparently America appreciated the humor route, and England was glad when America didn't ask for any more auditory requests.

America's touches were like silk on his skin, and his heightened senses reeled at his fingertips. America had his arms wrapped around England's neck, and England could feel him running his fingers down his back and back up his spine, caressing the nape of his neck, and the back of his head, running his fingers through his tousled hair. England wondered momentarily if his cover would be lost as his hair became messier, and well, he wasn't hiding under the clothes anymore...

But those thoughts vanished from his mind as both he and America were lost to passion. He felt fingertips gripping at his back, digging into his flesh, but he didn't mind. He was here, in a beautiful country, with America beneath him, moving in sync, kissing his lips furiously, along with his neck, his chin, his nose, anywhere he could reach, and was he really responsible for the sounds of utter pleasure America was making right now? He never thought he'd be in this moment.

He was in pain just a bit, especially since he'd been unprepared, but, then again, he didn't anticipate that he'd be thrusting into America while in Italy. He also never expected to be in Italy this long, either, as a matter of fact why on earth was he still here?

But at that moment America pulled his head to his chest, and England kissed his neck, and he felt America arching his back at his touch, and his knees were bending up, and England brushed his foot against America's toes and he could feel them curling in, and America gripped his neck and moaned in the softest way, and England had his lips pressed to the side of his sweaty neck all the way through climax, and he thought he heard a muttered "Arthur" but it was probably "Arturo". England followed soon after and tried his hardest not to cry America's name and it worked, kind of, although it came out more strangled then anything. He wanted to emulate the softness of America's voice, which was toned down and hoarse with lust but, he just couldn't. He collapsed onto America's chest and ran his fingers through his hair, and he listened to America's pounding heart and heavy breathing. England leaned up and pressed a kiss to his temple, and he pushed the wet blonde hair off of his face. He groped around for the towel he'd used that morning to shower and used it to clean both of them off, and then chucked it to the floor to be dealt with later. America turned to face England with a smile.

"I'd once been told that Italians make the greatest lovers," America said, his voice still soft.

"Is it true?"

"I suppose so. Although you're British too, so maybe it's a combination of both," America replied, and England felt his heart soar. He had somewhat successful seduced America, even if he had to pretend to be a different nationality to do it. Of course, one day, if they ever did this for real, he wondered if America would wonder why having sex with England was a lot like having sex with that Italian man...

The soothing sounds of the nightlife outside were like a lullaby, and within minutes he felt the even breathing of America's chest. England couldn't stop the fatigue from washing over him, and he soon fell into an easy sleep, America's arms around him protectively, as if this were the way it was always meant to be.

"Alfred?"

"Mmmmhmm?"

"I'm leaving in the morning, so it'd be best if you could get up on the earlier side."

"Mmmhmm," America mumbled, but he was already mostly asleep. England closed his eyes and curled up, drifting off once more into a world of pleasant dreams and of America.

The next morning, America woke to find himself completely alone in the large room. England's clothes were gone, and he saw a note on the bedside table.

Alfred—

I'm afraid I had to leave on the earlier side. Something came up. I have the room until 9 a.m., so if you wake up earlier than that, feel free to stay there. Thank you for spending time with lonely me and I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful in locating your friend.

—Arturo

America shuffled out from underneath the covers and stretched, his back aching. He pulled his clothes on and grabbed his bag from the edge of the bed, buttoning his cuffs. Part of him couldn't believe that he'd really just done that, but on the other hand, part of him could. He ambled downstairs to the lobby of the inn and asked the innkeeper if they had a payphone or just a phone he could use. The woman kindly let him use the one behind the desk and he patiently dialed a number that would start ringing several countries away, in a big white building.

"This is the office of Arthur Kirkland, I'm afraid he's... out," a tentative voice said when someone picked up. America chuckled.

"It's just me, Ch—Yao," America said, realizing he was still in ear shot of the innkeeper. China faltered.

"Oh, hi, America. How are you?"

"I'm alright," America said, straightening out his sleeve. "I meant to call yesterday but something came up. I found Arthur."

"Did you now?" China said, and suddenly he was gone and his voice was replaced by France's.

"You see, that wasn't so hard, was it? Where was he, in jail?" France asked, and America could hear China's protests in the background.

"No, he was in disguise. Masquerading as an Italian." There was silence on the other end, and then France burst out laughing.

"Are you kidding me? We're at war and England decides it's time to play dress-up? Bonne Dieu. Where is he now?"

"Somewhere, he can't have gone far, he has nowhere to go. I'll find him," America said patiently. "I think he was spying on Feliciano or something. They were here, at the very least. Both Feliciano and Ludwig. Not sure if they still are though."

"Try not to get captured. And try to drag England away from his fantasies so he can be back tonight," France said, irritation creeping into his voice. "What exactly kept you from letting us know this information yesterday?" America crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"Oh, I was just letting England have some fun, y'know," America said. "It's not every day we get to pretend to be something we're not, now is it?" America couldn't see it, but he knew France had a pensive look on his face.

"...did something happen yesterday?"

"Nope, nothing at all," America said, and with that he bid his companions farewell as he hung up and went off into the morning to—once again—locate England. Maybe he'd be England this time around, but as America wandered he wondered exactly what was it that brought out England's flirtatious side? Because he felt like speaking to that man again.

America wandered out into the bright sunlight of morning, searching for England, his body relaxed and his mind racing with thoughts of England.

I hope I can find him again...

I'll post the other parts probably within the next couple of days, I just have to re-edit them.