A/N: Based on what we've been learning in Spanish History.

Um... Spain is a complex figure with a complex history. I legitimately love the Spanish Civil War. It fascinates me. It is awful. And because of how much money and troops were lost in La Gurerra Civil Espana, Spain was neutral in WWII, but would return French refugees to the Nazis. Interesting.

"You should have joined my side of the war," France said flatly, spinning the top on the table, watching the life putter out of it, listening to it stop.

Spain laughed. "I saw what happened to you. I figured it was smarter to join the winning side." He looked at the still top curiously. The light from the windows was flickering with the cloud-cover and wind.

"Germany and gang is not the winning side."

"We don't know that. They won over you…"

France sighed. More than anything he wanted to leave. But the letter from Romano had hooked hold of France's sentiments. He hadn't expected it, but then again, he wasn't the best judge of future events.

"France. I don't like you. In fact, I think I fucking hate you. But that's not the damn point. The damn point is that I can't talk a word of sense into his stupid, fat head. Go talk to the bastard. – Romano."

How could France say no to that? It was… so romantic. In an odd kind of way.

"Sure," France said quietly, "They won over me. And over you."

"They didn't win over me, France. I went with them. It just seemed easier. After the last few years and all, you know…"

France looked at Spain's wrists, at the bandages that hadn't been allowed to come off. "I know, ami."

"Pues, mi amigo, what are you here for? Other than to bother me, of course."

"Your little boy sent me a letter."

"Romano?" Spain's demeanor picked up slightly, his eyebrows rising sharply. "He wrote to you? You're not friends."

"That was his first line."

Spain laughed quietly, his dull green eyes filling up with tears. And then he couldn't stop. He hung his head and began to sob. The bandages were getting wet, the scabs beginning to itch. He told himself he'd had enough of picking them until they bled. His boss wouldn't let him anyway. And he had to do what his boss wanted now. "Este chico…" he managed between breaths, "No le gustan nada."

"I know," France said quietly. He didn't know what to do. For the past five years, he had watched Spain tear himself apart until he was too tired to fight any more. His people had fought brother against brother, and now stayed in dull terror of their ruler. Pacified under fascism.

It had been France and Portugal who had had a front row view of the way Spain slashed his wrists open, screamed he couldn't take it anymore. The way Spain had burned through money and laughed too loudly while he bled. The way Spain had toppled over and, finally, stopped smiling.

They could have predicted it. Anyone could have. Spain was a shaky building on top of unstable foundations. He had too much madness and conquistador in his soul. He had never forgiven the colonies of South America for leaving him. Plunged head-long into an 'epoca negra' and never really came out.

"You know," Spain said, finally, wiping his eyes. "I'm neutral. So I say. So we say. But I'm helping him. Why the hell am I helping him?"

France shrugged, not meeting Spain's red-rimmed eyes. "To win?"

"Yes. To win. I am so… fucking sick of losing!" He slammed his fist down on the table and stood up, going to look out the window. He was thinner than France remembered, and his silhouette appeared broken and light.

"I know, mon ami." France stood up and put his arms around Spain's waist, holding him the way he used to, hoping to soothe Spain's racing mind. "But if you lay low like you have been, you'll be fine."

"I'm not lying low," Spain said flatly. "I'm buried. I'm six and a half feet under."

"You could join with us…"

"No. I'm neutral. Remember? Neutral with a side of insanity. Like a tapas plate. Give me something strong and bitter to drink. They blew up my favorite bar, you know. Just… gone." Spain began to laugh quietly, every muscle shaking.

France nodded, kissing the back of Spain's neck and taking him back to the table, pushing him into the seat, his eyes always wandering back to the bandages. Spain sat limply, like a doll.

"Spain," France said quietly, "You know you're scaring us all, don't you?"

Spain nodded, "I've started painting my room again. You can go and see. Don't worry. I'm not going to get up and stick my head in the oven."

France looked him over once and then nodded, "Fine. I'll be back."

Black, red, and white. The colors leaked out of Spain's bedroom walls like an oozing sore. The people in the picture had deformed faces, smushed up bodies, and gaping eyes and mouths. Epoca negra. Insanity embodied.

Cautiously, he went back to the kitchen. Spain was sitting where he had been left, looking out the window, toying with one of the wrappings. The horrified thought that some of the paintings had been done in blood dawned on France, and passed quickly. Even if it was true, it was too gruesome to entertain.

"Did you like them?" Spain asked, a touch of irony in his voice.

France smiled his best face smile. "Loved them."

"You should be leaving, I think," Spain said finally, after a long moment of silence.

"Right."

"Tell Romano thank you for sending me company."

"Even if it is just your silly old friend?"

Spain nodded. "Especially since it was just a silly old friend. I don't need a lover right now, anyway. I wouldn't have the stamina."

"Well… If you ever find it again," France said, putting more effort that he felt he should have into his words, "You know where to find me."

"And you know where I'll be avoiding you."

"Like old times."

"Always."

And for the first time in the hours that France had been visiting, Spain smiled genuinely. It lit up his whole face and made his eyes gleam with joy. It was at that moment that France didn't regret accepting the request Romano had made him. If France could bring a bit of light into Spain's darkness, it had been worth it all along.