Romano stormed off to his house, ignoring the Spaniard pleading for him to come back. There were a lot of things he could tolerate Spain doing, but this time he had gone too far. Romano had yelled at him more than he ever had, with more anger than he had ever shown, and gave him a good hit to his face before storming off and swearing to himself he would always hate that tomato bastard. He swore he would never go to him again. He swore he would never want to go to him again. …

Romano sat up suddenly in bed a few days later. He had dreamed of Spain again. He didn't know why he couldn't get him out of his head. Romano cursed the Spanish man under his breath as he got up.

"Dammit, why won't you leave-a me alone?" he asked himself as he got dressed. He glanced out the window and saw it was still dark. Glancing at his watch, he discovered it was only five in the morning.

"Making me lose-a my sleep. Damn tomato bastard." He stripped down to his black undershirt and gray boxers again before crawling underneath the covers of his shared bed. Italy wasn't there, and it pissed Romano off that his brother was at the potato bastard's.

The next morning, Romano woke up to the smell of tomato sauce that filled the house. He rolled out of bed and dragged his feet as he walked down to the kitchen. He was greeted by a cheery Italy, cooking. And he had brought Germany with him, who was sitting at the table.

"Oh, buongiorno Romano! (good morning)" Italy said when he saw his grumpy older twin entered the kitchen.

"Ciao." Romano grumbled, then asked, "Why is the potato bastard here?"

"Romano, please don't curse." Italy begged, setting a plate of pasta in front of Germany. "And I invited him over for some breakfast. Do you want any?"

"No." Romano pushed past his brother to the cabinet and grabbed a bottle of wine and some tomatoes.

"You're drinking this early, Fratello?" Italy asked, a little concerned for his brother.

"I can-a drink whenever the hell-a I want!" Romano yelled. He stormed out to the porch and sat on the railing, his back to the house. He opened the bottle and took a long drink from it before he put it down next to him. He picked up one of the tomatoes and was about to take a bite of it when he saw Spain.

He was coming back from shopping for groceries. He didn't look over as he past Romano and Italy's house, knowing Romano was still mad at him.

"I HATE YOU TOMATO BASTARD! DON'T YOU-A COME AROUND-A HERE AGAIN!" Romano yelled, throwing the tomato at Spain, hitting him the head with it.

"I was only coming back from shopping!" Spain called back, looking over at him.

"There's another way-a you could-a go!"

"But I like going this way Lovi~!"

"Don't-a call me that bastard!" Romano threw another tomato at Spain, who only laughed and walk off to his house.

Romano grumbled and drank his wine again. It was accompanied with the two or three tomatoes he had left after throwing the other two at Spain.

Romano stumbled back into the house a few hours later with the now empty wine bottle. He saw nothing wrong with that, except that he was still thinking about Spain.

"Fratello, did you drink that entire bottle?" Italy asked as he took the bottle away from Romano and sat it on the counter.

"And what if I did? Does it even-a matter? No! And I don't-a give a damn about what you-a think." Romano grumbled as he got another bottle. Italy tried to grab it from him, but failed.

"Romano, please don't drink that."

"Why-a don't you make-a me?" Romano grumbled as took a sip of the wine.

"Why have you been drinking so much? Please stop." Italy begged, tugging on Romano's undershirt, since he had never got dressed after waking up the second time. He just took another mouthful of the wine.

"I'll stop once that fucking tomato bastard apologizes for-a what he did."

"What did he do?"

"If I told you, you'd make him apologize, and he-a has to do it himself. Now-a get, get off my shirt." Romano pryed his shirt out of his brother's grip and went to their room with the bottle of wine.

"Sto andando a uccidere la prossima volt ache ti vedo bastardo pomodora. (I'm going to kill you the next time I see you tomato bastard)" Romano growled as he sat on the edge of the bed, glaring out the window a few hours later. The second bottle was almost completely consumed. He finished it in one last gulp, then threw it at the wall, saying, "Ti adio (I hate you)!" He watched, feeling somewhat satisfied, as the bottle shattered into so many pieces as it hit the wall. He couldn't tell it was a lie that he hated Spain, but he kept telling himself he did.

Romano stumbled downstairs, going to the kitchen. He looked through the cabinets, looking for another bottle of wine. He couldn't find any, but he spotted a note where the wine should have been. He picked it up and read it. It was written in Italian, but it said:

Freatello, I don't want you drinking so much. I took the wine away so you wouldn't drink it. Then I'm leaving for a few days after I write this so won't hurt me. Don't worry, I'm in good care. I hope you can use the alone time to calm down. I don't know why you're so mad, but I hope you'll be… back to being not so mad soon.

~Italy

Romano cursed briefly at his brother as he crumbled up the note. He threw the paper in the trash, then looked around for some more wine. Surely Italy couldn't have taken all the wine. But he had. Romano just cursed more in Italian as he sat on the sofa and turned the TV on.

He watched it, not paying much attention as the alcohol left his body and he thought. He thought for a while. The more he thought, the more he got lost in his mine. Eventually, he got up, took an aspirin for his slight headache (from thinking too much, but he knew he'd need another one in the morning), and went back up to his room to sleep.