My native language isn't English, and this is the first time I attempt a translation. Therefore, I apologize for the spelling mistakes. I hope improve with time.

I know that usually the dialogue is marked with "", but in Spain they are marked in this way, and I want use it for know your opinion. My original story is a one-shot, but I have separated it into chapters because it is easier to translate this mode. Thank you for your attention, and sorry for the inconvenience.

This is a translation of my story "Nuestro Pecado".

PS: Hetalia is not mine.

†The sin of innocence†

"Let's make a promise"

"A promise?"

"Yes. We promise to be together forever"

"Forever…that is a long time"

"Do you not want?"

"I don't want you to break it"

"I won't do it…and you?"

"No"

"Well! Then it is a promise! It is prohibited to not comply with it!"

—It is the last box?

—Yes. Finally, I thought that it never would end up.

—It is your fault for having so many things. I told you to do cleaning.

—No. I told it you, don't be so hard face.

—Ok, but I have done my part of the bargain. You haven't pulled anything. In fact…isn't there more?

—It isn't my fault. I can't rid myself of objects so easily…

—Say that you use one-third of those things would be an understatement. —Antonio took of the cardboard box that he was unpacking a sort of brush with shaped rear-view mirror, only that more elongated and narrow, and with a red pad rather than barbed. —What you want a…What is this?

—It is a brush picks up-hair, ignorant.

—We haven't pets, Arthur.

—Yes, but you lose more hair than a German shepherd, love. —Antonio puckered his lips and pulled his brush with every intention of hitting him in the middle of face, if it weren't for the English saw it coming and crouched to time. —You don't throw things; you can break a window of our brand new house. We haven't paid it yet.

—Not worry, that we have another twenty-something years of mortgage before being able to say this house is mine. Give us time to break as many windows as we want and more. —He let his eyes wandered by the dozen and a half boxes stacked bizarrely the length and width of the room, making movement difficult and cutting step. —And if I help you move a pair of boxes to the rubbish tip? Vagabonds and I would appreciate you. Who says a pair says four o five, you know.

—They are things of my past. I can't throw the memories as if nothing.

—They aren't memories, they are garbage. —Arthur Kirkland looked at him annoyed. —Why are you so worried about the past? Focus of your future silly, I'm right here. —He smiled in a way strange, almost forced.

—Do you feel abandoned?

—With a sexually depraved as you by partner? —Arthur blushed comically. —Never.

—You seem worried. —He insisted, pretending that he was unpacking the nearest box so Antonio would not notice his notable blush. —Which it is strange; because it is easier to Spain out of the crisis you get stressed about something. —Antonio taught the tongue, making a funny face.

—Just wondering how it is possible that you accumulate so much crap in so little time.

—Seven years is a reasonable time. —He defended with swollen cheeks.

—Seven years? —He opened lot his eyes, Arthur looked at him a little worried. —Go…the years have flown. —He laughed foolishly, but to the ears of the blonde boy sounded as gurgles of sadness.

—Toni…Are you well?

Antonio left to simile and his face clouded.

—I hate that you call me Toni. You only do it when you are worried.

—Why should I worry about an idiot? Idiot. —He grumbled nervously, not realizing that instead of removing objects from the box, he was keeping again things already extracted. Antonio smiled mockingly.

—You're easier to understand than the cereal boxes instructions. —He approached stealthily, catching Arthur off guard. Antonio hugged his back. —Everything will turn out well, right? —He whispered, sinking his face in the hollow of the pale neck.

Kirkland unraveled Antonio's hands of his waist and he embraced them vigorously. Arthur stroked the back of his hand, surprising small compared to his, in centrifugal movements with his thumb. He was allowed a moment to admire the delicacy of the contrast between two disparate, and at the same time, so perfectly harmonious, skin tones.

—Now our situation will improve, I promi… —Antonio, with unexpected movement, broke the handshake and rushed to cover his mouth.

—We have already made enough promises, do not you think? —He sang softly. Arthur turned in his arms to make him face, confused. —Simply, I take your word seriously. Don't let me down.

Arthur surrounded well-formed and narrow waist, attracting the Spanish near his body. Antonio grabbed the elegant white shirt, mottled of paint stains, with his fists, at the height of the chest. Blonde stroked the soft and tousled hair, lifting the bangs for give him a kiss on the forehead. Antonio, flushed, shut his eyes waiting something else which did not, and he looked for Arthur's lips with a grimace of puerile annoyance. Separating, Kirkland smiled and joined their foreheads together, watching Antonio's emerald orbs.

—When I have failed you?

—Never —He moved away just enough to cover his lover's cheeks with hands. —Always remember it. —Before the inquiring gaze of Arthur, he denied with head and he rubbed their noses together in an Eskimo kiss. —Come on, get to work. —He pushed at the blond suddenly, without much care, and he clapped resounding on the air. —There is much to unpack and we haven't time to lose. Let's go! —He walked to kitchen, whistling a melody that seems suspiciously to La Macarena.

From the floor, Arthur stared at the retreating figure with a frown.

Antonio Fernández Carriedo. Metre seventy three, gently tanned skin even —as Antonio exaggerated when he was moody— permanently cloudy weather England; chocolate-colored hair —with out of place stands of coca milk here and there, plus some coppery, fugitives—; large, almost oval eyes, olive green in the shadow and lime with gray lines and blue under sun. The most beautiful and expressive eyes that Arthur has seen in his twenty four years of existence; an ass of catwalk and Castilian; born in the heart of Seville and moved to the beautiful London at the tender age of six, following the family unit. Arthur loved the way he moved his hip while walking, almost feminine, and his Spanish accent despite being, as Arthur liked to call it, an English reasonable adapted. He couldn't complain; seemed to him extremely sensuous his manner of speaking (which is, actually, a serious problem). Do you get an idea of how difficult it is to suppress an erection whenever your partner opens the mouth to release any of his stupid comments? (Antonio can't keep silence even if his life depended on it). A twenty five young trapped in the body of a teenager of nineteen, which sometimes released some envy —well-meaning, of course— in the gentleman Arthur, who was beginning to notice timid crow's feet on his freckled face. On the whole: almost perfect.

Make no mistake. The one who say that the perfection doesn't exist make a mistake enormously. Arthur is a Kirkland and Kirkland are living proof of perfection. The almost of Antonio is because something —often— he doesn't think much before talking. The boy isn't fault to not have the lights of the Tower Bridge of London which does gala Arthur, scholar by nature. By opposing party, this makes that Antonio emit a lovely aura and Kirkland seem a Nobel Prize to his side. All are advantages.

Twenty five years…it is hard to believe. Sometimes he had the feeling that was last week when they met first time, brats eight years, fighting over the same swing even though there was another just like right next, and ending the meeting rolling on the floor and pulling at their hair between white snow. A bad first impression. Making memory, he remembered vaguely have thought first time that annoying guy that pronounced so rare shape was really cute lying helpless on the ground, with the dark hair scattered forming a ring around his head. Arthur blushed furiously. Perhaps Carriedo was right and if he was a little bit perverted by nature. It will be a family thing, after all had a quarter of Irish blood lurking out there. Blame genes, Antonio.

—Are you taking a break nothing more start? —Antonio suddenly appeared in front of him (thought actually he had crossed the length of kitchen to the lounge in the more noisy way that a human is able when hi only is walking) with his hands on his hips, tracing the typical posture of angry mother. In his right hand he was holding a pair of rubber gloves and a sponge, on the left hand a scissors. On the floor rested a cube of water bubbling sporadically. Pumps rose a few centimeters before exploding releasing the penetrating fragrance of cheap bleach. —And then I am the bum.

—I was checking the sheathing of the floor, idiot.

—Ahhh, obvious, as you understand both of that.

—More than you, I am sure.

—Oh, go. You aren't able to distinguish a screwdriver of a hammer.

—Of course yes! —He protested, throwing kick to the shin of Antonio. The Spanish dodged it with a graceful leap.

—OK, I accept that you aren't so clumsy. But I'm sure that to hang a picture you make me a hole in the wall the size of a hammer. You will be wrong about to choose the correct bit. Arthur wrinkled his nose and sat up, ending the argument. If he perseveres on the subject, he will lose; because he wasn't very clear the metaphysical and accurate definition of a bit.

—You end up opening the boxes while I release the furniture of its thick coat of dust? — He negotiated, passing the scissors to Arthur and shaking the sponge in the air. Gloves are slipped off his hand and fell into the bucket. Antonio sighed and rolled his eyes while Kirkland laughed noiselessly.

—Fantastic. —He stooped to pick them and Arthur caught him by the waist and made he lose the balance to hit the back of his knees. They fell to the ground with a blow dry, the English cushioning with his body the impact of the dark haired, who was left sprawling on Arthur.

—Auch…Arturo! Why have you done that? Have you done harm? —He stirred until he incorporated and sat astride on the abdomen of the blonde. —Arthur? Has the blow to the head left you fool?

—Shut up, idiot. —He surrounded the neck of Antonio with his arms and forced him toile down, leaving their faces at the same height. They remained silent, trying to decipher the secrets hidden behind the crystalline iris of the other.

—Now is when you must say me something sweet, Arturito? —Arthur drew a grimace of disgust at the mention of name, but he merely outlined the cheek of Antonio, gently, with his finger. He played with pink skin, smiling internally, satisfied to feel rising temperature on the cheeks to every touch, every caress. He ascended the hand toward the neck, causing light shudders of pleasure in the body of Antonio by tickle, until reaching the nape and gently to attract his head at distance shorter. When their noses touched, Arthur vocalized with his lips a "I love you" not pronounced aloud, but enough to fill with tenderness the bright eyes of the Spanish. He cradled Antonio's head on his chest, kissing the hair, which caressed his face and nose cheerfully, and he untangled the silky strands with his fingers.

—I know that I have taken a long time, but I can finally give you the house that you deserve. That we deserve. We will go forward as we have always done. Today begins a new life, Antonio. A better life. And I want to share it with you. Would you stay with me? Would you stay with me, forever? —He intensified the embrace, inspiring and exhaling air to find the forces that would allow him to continue despite the knot in his throat and the moths that danced inside his stomach, causing a feeling of dizziness. —Would you want to keep company to this curmudgeonly English?

Antonio didn't answer. When Arthur began to worry and internally cursed in English and other invented languages the ridiculous act that he had interpreted, the embarrassment that he was feeling and the blow that he would give to Fernandito if he roared with laughter, He noticed a strange moisture, penetrating in his shoulder, and the body of Antonio convulsing in quiet sobs. Tears that Arthur attributed to happiness, of course. He is a tender little thing when he wants. How is it possible not to hold some affection for him?

Arthur raised the face of Antonio and he wiped tears with his thumb. The wet face quivered with contact. Antonio sighed with a shiver.

—And what is the final impression? —He managed to articulate with voice distorted by tears, doughy.

—About what?

—Of the floorboards.

—Ah. Well…it is wood…

—And…?

—And it is good nailed…with nails…

—Ok. —he smiled. With the smile still curving his fleshy lips, he grazed the fine, soft and cold lips of Arthur in a chaste kiss, innocent.

Arthur couldn't set aside the suspicion that Antonio had changed the subject deliberately. Like all good Kirkland, he had an acute instinct.

But it will have been a thing of his imagination.

Yes, just that. His imagination.