Seduce a Stranger
Part 1

Normally barefoot, Spain keeps his dusty pumps on, though he folds the heel beneath his foot so he can still feel the grass tickling his skin. Sweat is pouring from his forehead, under his arms and down the delicious curve of his back. He swipes it clean from his skin with the dirtied hem of his shirt before it can sting his eyes, blinking furiously to focus against wincing sunlight.

The long-limbed figure of his henchman has just appeared upon the brim of the dustpath. Spain's smile is fluid, quickly cascading when he remembers he's not very pleased with Romano today.

"Romano, where have you been?" Spain calls breathlessly, Romano just now at the fading swell of the hillside, dressed to the nines in silk, cotton and leather finery; sweeping tailcoat and high-waisted trousers imported from home (at Spain's expense, of course). Romano barely pauses to glance his way. He's Spain's youthful opposite now, quick-stepped and sharp-tongued, wittier than he's given credit for, albeit with a sting bleeding a little more poison than Spain would like.

He trudges by without a word, nose in the air, prim black lace-ups leaving prints in the dirt. Only pausing to pluck a plump tomato from the basket on the floor, he sinks his teeth into the flesh, wiping juice and seeds from his chin, cocking Spain a look over his shoulder as he licks the remnants from the arch of his thumb. Spain blushes; too much sun, he assumes, brow knitting as he bends to hoist the final basket under one arm, flicking the tip of his sunhat and following Romano towards the house.

"Romano, I asked you a question," he continues when he reaches the open kitchen door, dangling vines brushing his forehead even as he dips to avoid them. A wayward leaf grips his hair. Tugging it free, he lets it flutter to the floor. "You've been gone since this morning. I was starting to worry."

Romano is slicing bread, casual and collected, half eaten tomato left to wither, a wooden bowl of fresh olive oil already poured beside him. "I was out," he clarifies, shrugging. He dips a chunk into the bowl, devouring it in seconds, a rebellious drip trickling down his chin. "I don't always have to ask for your permission, do I?"

Spain slides the basket alongside the others, dusting his hands on his breeches. Hand on hip, he says, "No, but it would be courteous if you at least told me you were going out. What if something had happened to you? How would I know where to find you?"

Romano smirks in a way Spain finds thoroughly unnerving, a smirk so utterly unsuited to him that he feels the hairs on his arms stand on prickling like heat. "You not knowing where to find me would be a fucking blessing, you bastard," he says, swinging precariously on his stool. His daredevil smirk remains as he tears a slice of bread into three, folding and dipping. Stung by the comment, but not unused to those remarks, Spain only pursues his cause, pushing Romano's stool flat to the floor.

"You're going to fall and crack your head open if you keep doing that," he notes as if he hasn't repeated the same information a hundred times or more. Romano rolls his eyes. "And don't be a brat, I just care about what happens to my little Roma-Roma."

Romano's face darkens like sun behind clouds. "Don't call me that," he growls, hopping from the stool. He leaves it as a barrier between them, jabbing his finger into Spain's sweat-dampened chest. "I'm Italy. Not 'Roma' or 'Romano' or anything else."

Spain doesn't miss a beat, plucking Romano's hand from its abusive endeavour, smile warm like his heart, pulling his hand to his lips to brush soft kisses over protruding knuckles, delighting in the fading fragrance of Eastern import oils thieved from Spain's personal washroom.

"Don't be silly, I've always called you by that name. 'Italy' is your cute little brother's name-"

Spain recoils, blinking the sting of a sudden and sharp pain from his eyes. Staring at Romano as though he has never seen him before, he lifts his hand to his cheek, proving to himself that Romano has just hit him. "Wha...why did..." he tries, words stumbling in his throat. His eyes glimmer with hurt and surprise.

"I said not to call me that," Romano says simply, voice tight, harsh. "I am not a child. I am not 'Romano'. I am just as much 'Italy' as my idiot, bastard brother and don't you ever, ever forget that!"

Romano sweeps clear of the kitchen, the thud of his feet on the stairs echoing through the house. Spain's hand slowly falls from his cheek, the heat from his skin soaking into his fingertips. Wordlessly he tidies away Romano's mess, methodically placing items in their respective homes and then sinking into the previously occupied stool, as always in matters of Romano, confused.

Spain has fallen asleep in his chair again. Romano didn't come down for dinner, but he did eat the bowl of spicy stew left by his bedroom door. He couldn't be too angry to have finished his dinner, Spain had thought before he drifted off, throwing his legs up on a cushion atop an ottoman, fingers entwining comfortably on his stomach.

Soft snores drift from within the modest sitting room, air midnight hot and thick and dry. Romano is peering into the room, judging for signs of wakefulness, or at least sobriety. There's no emptied bottle of wine or sherry at the side of his chair, but Spain seems dead to the world anyway.

Romano glances over his shoulder, down the night-lit hallway. The remaining servants have long since retired to bed. The hall at the top of the reception stairs is flickering with a candle left to guide master to bed - or to tempt deviant youngsters into mischief. He knows he's taking a chance here; will Spain sleep all night here or retire to bed in the early hours, poking his head into his protectorate's room before wobbling back to the pleasant nothingness of sleep? He feels lucky, boots in his hands as he tip-toes past the door, holding his breath, steeling himself for the race home before the moon dies and the sun rises.

Spain continues to snore, head rolling to his shoulder. Romano peers around the other side of the doorframe, grinning, backing away quietly. He winces when he bumps into an ornate cabinet, gathering all of his grace and dexterity to catch the antique pot he sends flying, hooking the garish object where shin and foot meet. Quickly gathering it into his arms, he carefully places it back, chancing a final peak into the room to ensure Spain is still sound asleep, almost worried the thudding of his heart might wake him.

Wasting no more time, he tugs his boots up over his stylish trousers and slips out of the open door, jacket cast across his shoulder.

His night-time excursions had made him feel guilty at first, fooling Spain, finding ways to cover his tracks so he would be none the wiser. Then it had turned into a daring game, strategic and fun, a means to get one over on Spain without him even knowing about it. The more often Romano successfully executed a plan, the more confident he grew and the easier it got each time. He knows the habits of the servants better than they know themselves; knows when Spain will retire, knows how likely it is he will fall asleep depending on what he's done with his day; knows which doors and windows are left open and which ones make the least noise.

It 's so easy for him now, it's almost boring.

Easy is the reason Spain, woken by the servants' cat winding around his legs, cracks open an eye in time to see Romano dart past the sitting room window. It takes him a moment to process the scene before he's on his feet, legs swift to bring him to the sill, flicking the catch to peer into the dark. Romano pauses for a moment to swing his jacket around his shoulders and Spain takes a breath, shielding himself behind the curtain, and then he's off again, vanishing into the woodland.

Is he seeing things, Spain wonders, rubbing his eyes. Is he still dreaming, perhaps, but his dreams are normally only vivid after several glugs of sherry, so he dismisses that thought quickly, squinting into the dark.

"Where are you going...?" he murmurs to himself, plucking the curtain aside. Night is still again, not a breeze, not a sound. Sighing, he closes the window, fingers idly brushing his cheek still hot from the smack of long fingers.

The path Romano has taken heads into the nearest town, a place by the sea, morning and night heaving with traders of all kinds. There is plenty there to entertain a seeming seventeen year old boy: dancing and drink and food and pretty young things ready to be charmed by his foreign tongue and youthful looks.

Spain is taken aback by the burn of jealousy in the centre of his chest, fingers drifting down to sooth, trickling over his heart. It's been some time since he's felt the sensation he'll admit, but never over Romano, his little Romano. His hand closes into a fist, eyes darkening. He wants to know what he's doing, who he's with, how long he's been sneaking out at night for secret rendezvous with strangers.

No, he's not a child anymore, nor has he been for some time. Spain is not oblivious enough to miss Romano growing into something new, something different, something dangerous and tricksy and deceitful. His throat rumbles with a predatory growl.

Thishe has felt before, the ache of losing another of his children, hot and powerful and maddening.

At least for now, Spain is fortunate. Romano doesn't yet realise he's been caught.

TBC~