For some reason, my edits got deleted... Ungh. Yes, so I'm sorry if there are any mistakes, it's still somewhat difficult for me to write in English and stuff. Also, a thing I would like to add is that in my head!canon, countries call each other by their human names when they have deep connections, such as the Italian brothers, the north American brohters, the Baltic trio... Hence Romano calling his brother "Feli" here. And he used not to want Spain to call him Lovino, because he's just being the little tsuntsun he is, so that explains a part further in the story. Yes, I believe this is about all I wrote before, plus a little fangasm about the suffering of the characters and how I liked to add a little humour in hurt/comfort stories and yes, I should shut up.
Epic translations at the end :)
Memorie amare is Italian for bitter memories.

The first thing that I had noticed when entering my house, was the fact that a tomato was missing in the basket among the others, silently waiting on the table in the middle of the kitchen.
A tomato was missing.
A tomato was missing.
I violently threw my keys on the table, next to the tomatoes, glaring a the basket as if it had personally harmed me. And it had, because it had let a tomato disappear.
I was now officially pissed.
The only suspect who came to my mind was a certain Spaniard. And I did not like the fact that he was sneaking into my house to steal my tomatoes. Not. At. All.

I thought for a second that it might have been because Spain actually wanted to see me, but I brushed the thought away quickly, already feeling a blush on my cheeks. It was too embarrassing, to unmanly, to unlike me to care about something like that. But by now, I was thinking that something was wrong. Because otherwise, I would have been thrown off-guard by an armful of Spaniard as soon as I had come in. But I wasn't.

That was the second thing that caught my attention, after the tomato incident.

The third thing (no, I wasn't worried, I was just wondering why the idiot had picked a tomato and then left, really !) was the fact that my house was empty with every possible Spanish presence, except for all the furniture I had received from my former caretaker over the centuries, an occasional picture in a locker (and no, I wasn't going to show them to anyone, thank you very much), or any other useless gifts hanging around with little "I love you Roma~ (and then a heart. A HEART.)" notes stuck to them.

In short, this emptiness was just plainly awkward.

"Dammit..."

And that was not why I had ended up at the idiot's house. I just wanted the explanation for the tomatoes, it had nothing to do with me worrying over him, because hell, I wasn't.
I entered the house, not at all surprised at the fact that the front door was open (it was Spain, after all), and made my way inside, casually throwing the jacket I had been wearing over an armchair and taking off my shoes.

And then I heard something terribly similar to a sob.

It was actually starting to freak me out a little (just a little).

I wandered through the hallways and rooms, wondering if my hearing hadn't been... well, playing me some pranks. Who would be crying in Spain's house anyway ? I was the only one to randomly stop by, and I was fairly sure that neither France nor Prussia would be sobbing in a corner of his residence.

I came closer to the idiot's room, hearing another sob from the inside, and this time I was certain not to know the person who cried, or never to have heard them. Not that I had heard a lot of people cry, but I had had quite a bit of practice with my little brother ; living with Feliciano makes you more... receptive to this kind of thing. And I was fairly positive not to know the person whining on the other side of the wall.
That was, until I got a peek inside the room.
And I quickly pulled back against the wall.
I first thought I must have seen wrong. Yes, probably, so I looked back inside, but the person remained the same.
Cheap clothes, check. Short and curly auburn hair, check. Lightly tanned skin, check. Spain, check.

Shit was the best thought I had at the moment to resume the situation.

Spain was on his bed, his back against the frame and curled into a ball, hugging his knees as tight to his chest as possible, sobbing. Well, no, he was more so crying.

What the hell was I supposed to do right now ? Even if Spain wouldn't mind, I still hadn't been invited, and it felt wrong to just pop up next to him and go all "Oi, bastard, what's with the bawling ?" like I would have usually done. But the thought of Spain crying made me cringe a little, as I had never had that experience before. Ask me how to make Feliciano feel better, I'd tell you to go make him pasta, or call the potato bastard over, or both. With my brother, I could deal.

But with Spain... I couldn't.

I felt even more useless at that thought : Spain had always been the strong person I looked up to (not that I would actually admit it... !), the one who would protect me from Turkey, or any other nation, the one whom I had grown up with, the one who was supposed to be invincible, if only at one point in the past...! and I was unable to do anything for him. (Not that I cared, but the crying made me want to punch him, I swear !)

Fact was : I had no idea how to deal with this.

Everyone has their secrets, I knew that, and I also knew for sure that Spain was no exception. Hate and pain had consumed him long ago, and I suspected his cheery and annoying personality to just be a facade, but the reality of what he could possible really be like under those masks hit me hard just now.
Not like I had spent much time thinking about him anyway... !
But the actual breakdown in front of me painfully made me realize how weak Spain had become, at least compared to before, how his former empire had been destructed, torn apart along with himself. I remembered every single one of his wounds he got from the defeats, the pain, the blood, his smile... But he had never cried.
I had been part of that empire too.
So it was also my fault for the state he was currently in.
The realization of this made me want to throw up, and I leaned my back against the wall to steady myself. Never. be. weak. Again. It was a promise I had made myself ways too often, but one could still hope. And if I could be strong for just a few minutes, for him...
Another thought came to my mind : what if Spain actually didn't want me to know ? He was so open about his feelings,... So if Spain didn't want to show whatever it was to me, I should just let him, right ? Because it meant he didn't want me to know, and I should accept that. Right ?

...Right ?

My monologue was interrupted when I heard the creaking noise of the bed, alarmed as I thought that Spain had finally noticed me, and then, unexpectedly, the sound of breaking glass. As I peeked back inside, I saw him –facing an nonexistent point between ground and wall, teeth clenched, eyes red, cheeks burning– his whole pose miserable, his hand tightened into a fist as blood was dripping down his knuckles and onto the ground, still slightly hitting against the wall where there once was a mirror. Pieces of glass were now scattered all over the floor, some stuck in his skin, the perfect surface reflecting its surroundings with a nostalgic glint, as blood dripped down on them, washing away their purity.
The scene was frightening in its own way. Not that Spain really looked scary right now, but seeing him so broken, so unlike his cheery self and bleeding, made me snap, and I moved from my spot.
And to my own surprise, I did step inside the room, not away. One step. Two. Three. And then I stopped. The Spaniard hadn't noticed me yet, his eyes were still shut, and he slowly slumped down to the ground, apparently trying to calm down his sobbing.

"Oi."

Spain's face jerked up, his face a mix of pain, tears, shock, humiliation, vulnerability. There were probably some other emotions, but I didn't really bother to decipher them all.
We stood still in silence for a long moment, both trying to figure out what we should –and would– say next. Something like "Hey, I came to get my tomato back, bastardo." wouldn't be really appropriate.
Not that Spain's answer was anything near appropriate.

"Oh, R-Roma ! I-I didn't expect y-you to c-come today !"
"I guess." I said, irritatedly, and I hated myself for that.
"I-I just punched the mirror,..."
"No shit."
"Y-You don't mind going upstairs ? In the kitchen, f-for example ?" he breathed to steady his voice –miserable fail, if you asked me– and then, the bastard smiled. "Listen, I'll clean this up, get yourself a tomato in the fridge, o-or something. ¿ Sí ?"

I didn't move the slightest bit, and he seemed close to breaking down again. I swear, I had never seen him like that. I didn't even know if I wanted to see him in that state ever again ; of course, I would have been stronger than him, but if my heart, and his too, was torn apart like that, it wasn't worth it.
I seriously needed to go to the doctor, what was wrong with me ? Sentimental crap, it was probably all Spain's fault.

"Lovi-I mean... Romano... Por favor, leave me..." I heard his voice crack, and let out a silent sigh, closing my eyes.
"Spain, I believe you're dumb, dumb enough to randomly punch a mirror." I looked back at him, and unsurprisingly, he seemed hurt. "But not dumb enough to get all emotional over said broken mirror and start to cry."
"I-I cried because it hurt..."
"Of course, you have fucking glass stuck in your knuckles, but you were already crying before." As he face shot up, mouth slightly open to deny, I quickly added "Don't shit with me, I see that you've been crying for a while now, your eyes are all red. I've lived with Feli, you know ? And now, why did you do that ?"

His eyes dropped down again, and he whispered "Because it hurts.".
Was that what he intended to do ? Hurt himself ? As if the physical pain could kill another one ? This was definitely not the way I would deal with things.
I sat down next to him, what kind of shit was I going to say next ?

"Your physical pain won't lighten the psychological one."

Oh, okay, of that kind. Nice one, me.

And then, Spain started sniffling again, his face directed back towards the ground as a few tears made their way down his cheeks. He rubbed his face, hastily, smearing blood all over his cheeks, his eyes, his mouth, with both his good and pained hands. I stood up, he jumped slightly at my movements, and stiffened when I took his arm to make him raise up and push him down on the bed. As I sat next to him, he buried his face in his hands again, he cheeks flushed, from embarrassment I guessed, his skin shimmering in the dim afternoon sunlight of the Spanish sun.

"So. Now, what's wrong ?" I asked, my voice remaining calm. I saw him wince lightly ; if it was because of the calm tone, or because of my unusual gentleness, (I can be very nice, people just tend to piss me off !) I couldn't tell. I couldn't even understand what he was saying, his words were blurry and made no sense, his voice cracked, his hands were shaky. From time to time, I heard him whisper, and as if he were under a spell, he looked up at me, his eyes were dark and missing the emerald shimmer they usually had and I shivered at that, he whispered "Soy un monstruo...", with in his eyes all the sadness that could only have been gathered after living for so many centuries.

"No, non sei." I answered, calmly, and surprisingly, I wrapped my arms around him, not really knowing what I had to do and what the heck was I just doing ? He stiffened again (why ?), and I heard the bed scream in protest as I readjusted my position, turning him so he faced me, my legs on either side of his, pressing his head against my chest. Until I had seen Spain cry, I would never have done that. But he reminded me of how I used to be, scared and broken, crying and hoping for someone to be there. And he always was. (Shit, the sentimental stuff was coming back full force.)

"¿Por qué no me odias ?" It was only a whisper, I wondered if he even intended for me to hear it, but that was beside the point : because what he had said made me realize a few things : firstly, he knew I didn't hate him ; secondly, he was still stiff, scared, ready to defend himself ; thirdly, I was actually holding him in my arms.

What in fuck's sake...

I tried to ignore the blush spreading across my cheeks, because if I pushed him away then, it might have broken him completely ; and I didn't want that. I felt that he tried to get as much space between the two of us as our position would allow, words of the same sentence still spilling out of his mouth.

"... no ..."

It actually hurt a lot more than I thought it would, because it was him who said those words. I thought I didn't care, but apparently I did.

"... me ..."

He was practically begging for the hatred, and then again, I didn't know why, and I started to hate that "why" because it always was so desperately suffocating, and my vision started to blur.

"... por qué ..."
I clutched the fabric of his white shirt –or at least I supposed it to be white– a little harder, trying to press him closer to me, or myself to him, I was beyond this kind of detail at the point.
"... no me ..."
"Non dica..." I heard myself beg.
"...odias ?" He whimpered, again, keeping on repeating his mantra of hate over and over.

I swallowed hard, because even if I was not supposed to respond, I couldn't hold back from doing so. I started shaking nervously, and with all the honesty I could muster, I kissed his forehead. And that one kiss seemed to have hit the both of us very hard, though in different ways. Realization struck me as I understood how much I wanted this and how much he needed me to say it. "Perché..." I murmured into his ear, followed by another hesitant kiss on his forehead, and I just knew that he wanted it as much as I did because I felt him shivering, not out of fear but something else and it just felt good to be that way, breathing in his scent, while the words slipped out of my mouth before I could understand what they were doing.
"Antonio..." It was awkward to say his real name, for the least, but also quite enjoyable, and I knew I was right to do that because he had relaxed just a tiny bit and if his real name had such an effect then honesty should too and he was pretty handsome anyway and looked absolutely ravishable and this thought should end right here and before I knew it I had kissed him.
On the mouth.
At least, it shut him up very effectively, I thought, and when I pushed away, I hummed a soft tune, my own response to his question, if the kiss wasn't enough.
But Spain was still Spain.
He looked at me with a confused expression, still slightly shaking, and I decided to just let my voice soothe him as I whispered "Sarà perché ti amo...", and held him close.
And then, as unexpected as it was, he grabbed me with all his strength (and fuck, it was a lot !), buried his face in my chest, and started to cry. Shamelessly.

It was the biggest prove of confidence I could have ever asked for.

Epic translations

bastardo (it) bastard
por favor (sp) please
soy un monstruo (sp) I'm a monster
No, non sei (it) no, you're not
por qué no me odias (sp) why don't you hate me
sarà perché ti amo (it) it would be because I love you [Yes, I shamelessly took this from the song by Ricchi e poveri, and this is the song Romano is humming at the end. Just so you know :) ]