::A/N:: Disclaimer, I don't own Hetalia, nor the icon picture. Hello. This is a fill for meenahs-sassy-left-braid.

Enjoy.

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo had been born to Spain twenty-four years, six months, eighteen days, and forty-three seconds previously, with a brief strangled cry, blue skin, and for those first few hours, more tears than joy. The doctor told his parents the umbilical cord had wrapped around his neck during exit from the womb, and they were lucky he hadn't been strangled.

Later Toni's father would crack jokes about how his mom hadn't quite given it the college try on their second son, and how she'd "felt a little half-assed about you, Toni". But for those first few minutes they had truly feared nine heart wrenching months would result in failure.

It was just the first of many adventures for the boy, but like every adventure, it changed him. Blue was always his least favorite color.

Lovino Romano Vargas was brought into the world in a back alley, behind a rusting metal door with rusting metal tools, some twenty years ago. His birthday was celebrated on the seventeenth of March, give or take a few months. He was the first of two babies to exit the womb that nameless night (perhaps in March, perhaps in September), with only three people to witness it.

His mother had lived for approximately another two minutes after the birth of her second child, and she had found the strength to utter only one name. Feliciano, she had rasped through a throat tired of screaming, and no one knew which child it had been meant for. Either way, it translated to mean "fortunate" in English, and the black market doctor had chosen the younger, smaller child to have the promise of such a title. The third party standing in a room reeking of blood was the paternal one, and he gave the remaining kid the name Lovino.

The child would later remark that he had fit that bill the minute he was conceived.

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, or just Toni as he was called, loved public school. He loved first grade the same as he loved seventh grade the same as he loved eleventh grade. He loved schoolwork and homework and the friends that he made. He loved involving his parents and involving his grandparents and involving himself. He was in four clubs and three sports by the time he graduated high school and was devoted to every single one.

His fuzzy feelings towards the institution probably came from the ease in which he breezed through it. He was handsome, even with pimples, and he was kind; he was funny and sweet and incredibly popular. He wasn't brilliant, not by far, but he worked hard enough to scrape solid B's and A's and his doctorate parents were no detriment to that feat. He was the type of person who talked to everyone, who picked up the books that bullies' shoved to the floor. He was the type who people called "a good guy".

Lovino Romano Vargas hated private school, and he hated his adopted family for enrolling him in it. Six-year-old Lovino took about as much shit as the wrestlers he watched illicitly on the family computer. But he weathered through it for seven years, not that his parents noticed. What they did pick apart were the scathing report cards, the lack of friends, the moodiness that he brought home each day.

Twelve-year-old Lovino punched a classmate in the face and broke his nose. The twerp had called his brother a fag. Deemed delinquent, Lovino was transferred instantaneously to the nearest inter-city public school.

But free education didn't spark his desire to learn. Rather, it was a hell of a lot easier; getting A's for Lovino was effortless. He also got in less trouble for running his mouth, but as the years went by and his classmates got bigger, Lovino lost the upper hand. By tenth grade, Lovino was the scrawny kid having his books shoved onto the floor.

He became bitter towards a society that had only ever shown him its darkness.

Antonio Carriedo was just easier to write on university applications… not that he didn't like his middle name, but it felt like a mouthful, and Antonio didn't want to seem like a mouthful to university admissions officers. Antonio wanted to be the sharp breeze of aged Gouda, the smooth richness of tomato soup, the tantalizing bite of fennel. Really, he wanted to be a chef. A chef with a minor in business management because Antonio found that he didn't take direction well. Or adhere to time tables.

He applied to three universities, but really had one in mind all along. Antonio was a people person who wanted a break from his small-time Italian town. He wanted to see and smell and taste Florence, Florence where Antonio could rent a flat and maybe even find a job.

When his confirmation came from the Apicius Culinary Arts Program, part of the Florence University of the Arts, Antonio took a day off from school to celebrate.

Romano Vargas was sick and tired of his first name, sick and tired of his father stressing the middle syllable – vi – whenever he was angry, sick and tired of getting weird looks for its strangeness. Romano was wading through the last few months of teenage muck, and he was ready to escape somewhere far away and get a degree that could take him even farther. His grades were good, he was second in his class, and he'd even suffered some extracurriculars to spiff up his transcript.

But his parents, as parents are wont to do, stamped out that dream so quickly it made Romano physically sick. "Your brother knows what he wants to do; he wants to paint, so he can apply to an expensive art school in Rome. You have no idea, Lovino; it'd just be a waste of money. Florence University of the Arts is cheap because it's local. You'll do fine there, you're smart. They have an architecture program, don't they?"

Romano submitted an application early and was accepted immediately on scholarship money. He'd never been more miserable.

Antonio Carriedo was already an abnormally excitable guy. But now, being one of the first to receive word of his future, he was hands down the most excited guy in his entire school. He was ready to meet people, ready to study the one thing he truly loved, and he was ready to leave. Antonio who had always loved the rural country, Antonio who the neighbors had been so sure would marry one of their daughters, Antonio who was going a hundred miles away to study the culinary arts in Florence. Well hadn't that been a surprise.

Now all he needed was somewhere to stay.

Romano Vargas had all summer to walk by his new school and brood. It was right on the river, which was hardly any relief at all considering how near to it he already lived and fuck! the point was to escape. He honestly could not believe just how stuck he was. He was going stir crazy in Florence, he had dreams that he knew could not be achieved in his hometown.

Yet Romano had never been dealt a golden hand. And no matter how he rearranged the cards, a two year program at IDEAS was not the plan Romano had spent countless hours concocting.

Stupid school. Stupid career program. Stupid Florence University of the Arts.

But Romano wasn't stupid. His very first arrangements were to secure a flat as far from his house (and the school) as rationally possible. He wasn't as financially stable as he'd have liked to say and so his second arrangements were to put up advertisements, two room space, bed plus kitchen, small washroom, two year contract preferred.

And so maybe the trip was a mile and a half to school every morning… but if it got him the hell out of his house, he'd have walked ten miles.

Antonio Carriedo just couldn't believe his good luck. He often found that the case, always had something to thank someone for and was happy to do it. He liked people's help and he liked helping people, and so when his longtime friend Francis had heard from their mutual friend Gilbert who had heard somewhere along the grapevine that Feliciano's dear older brother was in dire need of a roommate, happened to live in Florence, and happened to need a two-year applicant, things just fell into place (except Antonio was already poor and didn't have much to thank Francis with apart from a hearty handshake and a heartier smile).

He called Feliciano first at Francis' instruction, was told that if he wanted to tame the bear he should charm the bear's brother… which seemed straightforward enough, but then Antonio wasn't sure why there were bears involved? It hadn't seemed to matter because Feliciano was very much human and probably more cheerful than Antonio. He said, "xyz, leave Lovi to me," and Antonio had liked the sound of that almost as much as he liked the sound of "Lovi". That kind of cute nickname had to be attached to some kind of cute person… especially if they were related to Feliciano.

It was one o'clock in the morning and Romano Vargas didn't hate his brother, but he sure as hell hated impromptu phone calls in the middle of the night asking for favors. He definitely hated favors. But unfortunately (or fortunately if you asked anyone else), this was a favor just as beneficial to Lovino as it was the favoree. And so he couldn't refuse.

But he still most definitely absfuckinglutely did not like the sound of this "happy Spaniard named Toni" because he hated- well… he hated a lot of things, and happiness and Spaniards and the name Toni were about to top the list.

It was one o'clock in the morning.

Antonio Carriedo didn't get nervous often. Or maybe he did? No… he was sure he didn't! But- gah, he was just so nervous.

Feliciano had picked him up an hour before, had straightened the lapels of his jacket muttering something about hooligan fashion sense, and had departed with a soft pat on the head and a favorable "Good luck!" Well. Antonio hoped he wouldn't need good luck, if that was the principle of the thing.

Lovino's apartment building seemed nice enough, was just about as brown and antique looking as the rest of the city. Antonio already loved Florence, had loved it from the minute he'd google-searched it (and had then briefly considered the fact that he might have wanted to look at the city before applying to school there).

Either way it didn't matter now, now things were looking up and he just really needed to nail this interview.

Romano Vargas had most certainly not spent the last five minutes staring at the guy staring at the front of his flat building. So maybe he was watching out for this Antonio guy like the pure-blooded hawk he was and had gotten distracted by the hot foreign looking kid who was probably a model and twenty-seven and way out of Romano's league but that didn't mean anything.

(It might have meant he was a little nervous and, damn, people had never been his specialty).

He finally withdrew from the window, marginally disgusted with his lack of maturity (and lack of sex, which probably had something to do with him eye raping strangers). Feliciano was always so painfully vague about stuff like this. It didn't matter if Romano was being set up for a job interview, a roommate screening, or a blind date, Feliciano was the absolute worst at weeding out the weirdos. "No, I swear he's so nice ve" was not a description, was not even a reassurance because no one was nice and Feliciano's oaths were about as reliable as the damn weather channel.

Less, probably.

He was going to drown the city in nervous sweat if Antonio Carriedo didn't show up soon.

Ding dong.

Antonio swore that his luck never died! Lovino Romano Vargas was incredibly cute (sexyhot) and an intellectual! Studying environmentally sustainable architecture! Lovino was not only willing to pay his half of the rent if Antonio did, he would also test out the chef-in-training's new recipes and he promised to do the dishes once or twice a month!

For Antonio, there was just no downside to his future in Florence, it was going to be great, it was going to be perfect.

Lovino invited him to move in as soon as he wanted to, and when Antonio called Feliciano to gossip about the details of his meeting, Feliciano said that was a very good sign, but he probably shouldn't accept any drinks from Lovino for a while just in case. Apparently architects work with some dangerous chemicals. Antonio learned something new every day.

He moved in a week later, had less trouble than he supposed he would saying goodbye to all his friends and family back home, and found that life in Florence might not have been relaxing, but it was certainly exciting.

Lovino was always keeping Antonio on his toes.

At first, Romano was about two thousand percent positively certain that he would need to slip something in Antonio's drink before the month was up. Antonio was just… stupid. He was always humming while he made dinner and as cleaned up the mess. He never missed an opportunity to tell Romano how cute he was, and even after the two Latin men had spent more than a month together, Antonio physically refused to call Romano anything other than "Lovi". Though if the Spaniard-turned-Italian kept saying his full name like that, with lazy n's and lazier l's, he might maybe come to like it.

But Antonio still had no jurisdiction over the puke-in-your-mouth nickname "Lovi".

Fate, an entity Romano like to blame a lot of things on, it seemed had set him up again, this time with a roommate who was enrolled in the same university for the same two-year stretch as Romano. And he was a goddamn chef. Even Romano couldn't turn circumstances like those down, no matter how many hours a day Antonio spent humming classical pieces he didn't know.

It was only two years, two whole years, and then they'd be heading their separate ways. In the meantime, Antonio was well endowed enough on the outside to make up for his lackluster intelligence on the inside.

"Hey, Lovi-!"

"ROMANO GODDAMMIT."

"-we're out of milk! I'm going to run to the store and pick some up. Do you need anything else? You've been working on that design for a really long time."

"That would be because it's my independent study for this level, you idiot, and no, I don't need anything."

"Are you sure?"

"Bastard, we still have three dozen of your cookies to eat."

"Oh right!"

Antonio struggled with his jacket for a minute before flinging open the apartment door, stopping to send Lovino one last blinding smile that put the Italian's heart into a tailspin.

"Wait, Antonio!"

He turned around, quizzical.

"Don't forget your superfine baker's sugar this time."

Antonio's whole face lit up like a beacon of surprised gratitude. "Wow, Lovi, you do listen when I'm talking, thanks, I won't forget it!"

When his heart finally calmed down, Lovino sent his roommate a text reminding him again, just in case.

"Do you really introduce yourself as Lovino, now?"

"Yeah, what's it to you, bastard?"

"I'm just glad. I always liked that name."

"I know."

Sometimes living with Lovino was a freedom.

And sometimes living with Antonio was a constraint.

"Can you please, for the love of motherfucking God, shut the fuck up?!" Lovino snapped, wrenching himself out of his prone position to yell across the back of the couch at the boy cradling the landline in the corner.

"I'm just talking to my friends from back home." Antonio was defensive.

"For the past hour! And before that it was Feli! And before that you were talking to yourself while making pizza! I can't focus when you're running your mouth!"

Antonio was clearly affronted and moved to cover the receiver from Lovino's poisonous attitude. "This is my apartment, too, Lovino."

"Fuck!" Lovino bellowed, jumping to his feet. "Can't you just respect my studies? Or respect my goddamn space?"

"Look, the landline is only in here, it doesn't go any further, so if you want to be an antisocial prick, go study in the bathroom!"

Lovino felt trapped, hemmed in, caught between a wall and another wall because this was Antonio's apartment too, that was technically half his phone line, and the cord didn't stretch into another room. But that didn't stop the frustrated ache from growing in the back of his throat.

"Fine."

It was summer again, the stifling days giving way to energizing nights, and both Antonio and Lovino found themselves too poor to travel out of Florence. They were entering their second set of courses, were on a high after hurdling the first half, and somehow were content just to have a few months off, to be able to breathe again.

That didn't mean that Lovino stopped sketching or that Antonio stopped cooking. Quite the contrary, they did these things more often and for each other because now they weren't being graded, only appreciated by friendly tongues and eyes.

And maybe things were getting just a little more than friendly between the roommates. Maybe Antonio pulled the arm over the shoulder move every time they watched a movie and maybe Lovino suggested they stay in more often.

And sometimes, after splurging on a well-earned bottle of cheap wine, they gave into kisses and stolen touches they pretended not to remember in the morning.

The summer months were unreal in those ways, in the memories that they couldn't talk about but privately reveled in the most, sprinkled between domestic shopping trips and lazy mornings. It was the start of something binding, all the more so because it was never disclosed, never revealed, only reflected upon, and every time it was reflected back stronger and more encompassing than before.

The second year came for Antonio with a bit of melancholy, while Lovino held baited breath.

Lovino knew what he wanted; he had big dreams for Rome after this shit was over, for a job in progressive sustainable remodeling. One more year and he was finally going to get out of Florence. It was time for him to be assertive, and after he graduated he'd finally have the means to tip his chin up instead of down.

Antonio, on the other hand, was terrified. He didn't want to go back to his small-time village. He felt like he had something in Florence, something that he knew was only a stepping stone, but it was the farthest he'd ever gotten in life and he was afraid to let it go. Next to Lovino's surety Antonio felt small, like a child told for the first to time to ask the waiter for juice all alone.

The future hadn't felt so ominous a year ago. In the country Antonio had wanted one thing, to start a new life on his own two feet, to do something –anything- without his lungs shutting down for lack of breathing room. He felt like he'd done that something, but that something was here in this apartment with Lovino and his charming laughter.

Antonio was unable to vocalize any of these fears, these burgeoning feelings that threatened to blow his ribcage outward. He saw how hard Lovino worked, listened to his plans and premonitions, watched his eyes light up every time he sketched something so beautiful. How could Antonio ask Lovino to stay with him? How could he ask Lovino to live in the city that had trapped him and beaten him down for years?

Lovino was going to be somebody, and Antonio couldn't take that from him.

"Bastard? Hey! Antonio?"

Antonio jumped, his chin falling out of his palm. "Sorry what?"

Lovino leaned down close, blocking up his personal field of vision with honey eyes and auburn hair and skin that was smooth to the touch. "What's up with you?"

"What do you mean?" Antonio scooted backwards a few inches, blood pumping too fast.

"You're antsy as fuck," Lovino commented, settling across from him at their kitchen table, concern more prominent than usual. Antonio must really be off his game, then, for Lovino to look like that.

"Oh… nothing, it's fine. I'm fine! Just busy tying up loose ends." He smiled something that tasted like plastic.

Lovino didn't appear to buy it, never did, but also didn't press, never did. "Tch. That busy at the end of third level?"

"A bit more than usual."

"Is shit still going okay? You haven't suddenly decided that you hate cooking, have you?" Lovino asked, even as a forkful of the Spaniard's latest rice dish was being transported to his mouth.

"No, I still love what I do," Antonio laughed. I just don't know how much longer I'm going to be able to do it. Because what kind of job opportunities will there be back home?

"If…," Lovino began, swallowing around rice and meat, "if you, you know, want to…" He looked awkward, hell, he felt awkward. He was emotionally crippled, and oftentimes felt like he needed a handicap sign stapling his mouth shut. "Oh fuck it, never mind."

And that was that, because for once Antonio didn't press either.

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