Before you read this, the first thing you should know is that there's some possibly controversial material within! There's a few parts where Romano believes his being homosexual is wrong due to his country's deeply-rooted Catholicism. And in real life, these things would absolutely conflict. In this fanfiction, since you didn't see "darkfic" or something in the summary, you know Romano and Spain will get together in the end, and the religious conflict will be resolved. If you believe homosexuality is wrong or have some religious "thing" against it, back out now.

I feel it necessary to post a warning because so few yaoi fanfictions even touch upon the religious aspect of being gay, (understandably, since people who read yaoi generally don't care about people who say it's "wrong,") However, I read a recent theory about Romano being all defensive/in denial of his feelings for Spain is actually because he has some (Roman, lol) Catholic beliefs, or just is a hardcore (and secret) Catholic. I was intrigued by the idea of Romano acting that way towards Spain for a...you know, a serious reason. So here we are.

Oh. Less important warning but: beware of Angsty!Romano (in the beginning and middle, and a much better Romano at the end of the story :D) though he still retains his natural personality of a snarky, whiny, contradictory and foul-mouthed little bitch~


Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!

He was always told that he cussed too much. But Ant—Spa—fuck!

Romano picked a rock up off the ground and hurled it at the nearest brick wall. It crashed and made tiny spider web cracks on the surface about ten inches away from the display of a flower shop. The woman whose flower shop display he'd just missed dropped a packet of seeds on the ground and gasped, "Oh dios mío!" Romano sped away before she could see him. At the least, he was good at running. He had spent a good amount of his childhood yelling and running away to avoid things. Or running around in Spain's house trying to find some room or other. Fucking Spain!

'Calm. Down. Calm. Down. Think of something good, come on, come on! Pizza Siciliana, Piadina, fresh Ziti, Tortellini, ah, god, now I'm hungry.' But not so angry anymore. Well, that was good.

The weather outside was nice. There were birds, clouds, a breeze, lots of sunshine, all those retarded, good things that you saw in kids' movies because the world was so Mister-Rogers perfect when it wasn't the real world. His mood could have turned the atmosphere into something that would blow America's little Katrina incident out the goddamn door.

If he could just find a bench he could sit and try to think this through—Romano sometimes tried to think about things—honest to God, he tried, and screw anyone who didn't believe it—but it hardly ever gave him answers or epiphanies that he wanted to get, and so he tended to act unfulfilled and bitchy afterward. Sorry.

Think. Just go over it again. He was in Spain's country presently. He and his brother had been invited over, along with Germany Potatohumper and emotional-floorboard Japan, to see some cats. Cats which had been given to Spain by Greece, whose feline friends had been spending way too much time breeding for their master to keep all the babies.

It was the stupidest reason to spend two hours in a plane with Italy that Romano could think of. Honestly, if Spain could invite friends over to watch a movie or something, like normal people would do, but no, Spain had to share his stupid, new cats with them, and pick up that big-eyed little grey one and say, "Oh, Lovi, this one has your eyes! Why don't I name it Beauty?" Romano had told him what a gay statement that was, what the hell was he thinking, Spain would soon wake up with a bullet in his head if he didn't start calling him "Romano," and even a male kitten would shoot itself in the mouth if it knew its name was Beauty—when he realized what he should have stopped himself somewhere around "gay" and had run out of the house, too furious to say anything else.

The hand resting on the armrest squeezed the metal so hard it nearly broke through the skin. Once again he'd managed to mess up what could have been absolutely nothing instead of taking it…like…a man. Well, how the hell was he supposed to take anything like a man if he hardly was one?

Men didn't like men like he did. All he was, was wrong.

At that moment, a woman carrying a basket stopped by, rather breathless, and asked where Hernan Street was. Romano, in his awkward Spanish he kinda-sorta-not-really knew, told her to continue until the public park area ended and turn left. She smiled a bit at his speech but must have understood, since she thanked him and jogged off.

Why couldn't he be as normal and perfectly, simply simple as that whenever he spoke to Spain?

'Damn it.'

This was getting nowhere. He had to find someplace private to think, to talk. There were several convenient trees to hide behind, and he could see they were flimsy shelter, but he only needed a few minutes and most people were out eating lunch at this time of day anyway, not strolling in the park. With a final glance around, Romano stood and ducked behind the widest tree he could find, sat against the trunk, laced his hands together—sat up straight, because that was proper for this kind of thing—and tried again. This time, he wasn't talking just to himself.

'Hello? It's me again. I'm sorry you have to hear me bitch so much but I guess there's probably even worse nutcases than me out there, and I don't know who else to tell this to. Maybe you've got the Kraut on your ass, too. Yeah, well, I got the same complaints as always…'


"And that one can be Banana Split, because its face is yellow and brown like bananas and fudge, veeeee!"

"Ba…na…na…Split." Japan dutifully wrote it down as neat as possible on his list of names, and wrote down "Number 11" below it. "And that one? It's a female, pure white. Blanca is the feminine word for white in Spain-san's language, correct?"

"Oh, that's so pretty!" Italy gushed. He picked up the kitten off the couch and held it up to Germany, sitting beside him and sipping a glass of water. "Germany, isn't Blanca very pretty?"

"The name or the cat, Italy? Because the cat seems to be very irritated." Blanca turned her head in the German's direction and mrrrr'd. Looking just beyond her head he saw a door open and Spain came through, his hair slightly more wind-tossed than normal, and his eyes dark and half-lidded with exhaustion.

Newly-named-Blanca lifted herself in Italy's grasp to see him and mrrrr'd yet again. When her new owner closed the front door and came to went over on the couch with the rest of them, the other guests at last noticed. "Spain! Oh, you look so sad! Did Romano trample on your heart?"

Pushing Supercat and Rutherford off the armrest, Spain slid slowly onto the end of the couch and sat cross-legged. "I couldn't find him. I thought he'd be in one of the Italian restaurants, or this bookstore where there're always girls in the romance section. But he wasn't there, or anywhere I looked. I…I don't know." He put his chin in his hands, fingers over his mouth. "I hope he's not lost. He hasn't been to this city in years. There's no way he'd still remember how to get around."

"He can ask directions to your house…" Japan supplied, trying to be polite.

"If there're girls nearby," Spain conceded. "Lovi is so nice to girls. And they're nice to him. If a man comes up and asks him if he's lost, though…he'll…start a fight or something…get jailed…" He dropped his head into a hammock of his half-laced fingers. "I hate when he runs away from me. I don't know why he does it!"

Japan blinked several times at that little display of idiocy, and then looked up when the door opened again. Through it trudged Romano, the knees of his pants scuffed with dirt and unmistakable redness trickling from between his lips onto an already-red spot on the collar of his shirt. Italy leapt up immediately. "Romano! Romano, where did you just eat? The waiters didn't even give you napkins!" Germany grabbed a fist full of the back of his shirt and pulled hard once; he fell into a sitting position again as Spain went up in his place.

He chased Romano down one hall, up one set of stairs, down four other hallways which incidentally did nothing but make a square, and down another hallway in which he finally found Romano sitting against the wall, panting and frustrated. Spain jogged over to him and sat down as well, adjusting himself at Romano's side.

It was no surprise when Romano stuck out his elbow and pushed him over. It was the angry, defensive sort of thing he always did when he was trying to be playful, right? Spain got up again, smiling at that, feeling more confident now. "You should tell me who you started a fight with, Lovi. So I can go apologize to them tomorrow."

"If I have to apologize to somebody I don't need some fag babysitter to do it for me!" Romano spat back, adjusting his shirt. "Like I need to apologize anyway! He was just some dick who wouldn't leave me alone, probably wanted to steal my wallet. I defended myself and that's that."

"If somebody tries to beat you up, I should know—"

"I just said I don't need a damn babysitter!"

He'd been saying such things since he was little so Spain laughed a bit nostalgically as he replied, "But I'm older than you, Lovi, so of course I'm the babysitter!"

"What the fuck did you come up here for?" Romano deflected.

Settling just a little closer, making Romano try to scoot just a little farther away, Spain replied, "To make sure you're okay, silly. You were gone for two hours and came back with blood on you. Seeing that makes me worried, and makes me wonder what you were doing. You could be fighting crime, maybe! Or leading a double life with the mafia!"

"Yeah. 'Cause that makes sense. Let me just call them up for my next hit."

"What? What? Y-You're actually with the mafia!" This was followed by a "gyakk" sort of sound made by Romano's fist meeting his neck, which was followed by the biting reply, "No, I'm not in the goddamn mafia, you idiot! HEY!"

Just after the "no," Spain thrust his whole body forward and embraced Romano, his arms effectively covering the younger's torso. And hopes of scooting away. "Oh, I'm so relieved! Because, I've seen people like that, you know? They're not good people, my Lovi. They'll hurt you." He pulled back and made Romano go eerily still by putting both hands firmly on his shoulders. "You know that, don't you? Whatever you want or need, don't go to the mafia. You come to me."

At first, Romano had no reply but an exaggeratedly exasperated frown, but all he got in return for such an expression was an unchanging one from Spain, which slowly became stony, and then unnerving, and then—"Of course I'm not gonna go to the damn mafia for stuff. How the hell would I know where to find mafia guys, anyway? It's not like they hang around the town market buying tomatoes." And Spain's face smoothed into a soft joy, with eyes half-lidded, something like that of a parent watching to their child learning to read.

"Yes," he said, one hand dropping from its place on Romano's shoulder. His pleased expression remained. "It's not like anyone knows where to find the mafia. But you know what found you, Lovino?"

Possibly taken aback slightly by the use of his entire name, Romano didn't even answer. Spain didn't wait long for one before chirping, "Me!" and pushing him onto his back.

It had been literally years since such an attack. Romano made some distressed, thoroughly angry sounds when Spain sat on him quite inappropriately. He struggled even more when the attacker pushed his shirt up and let his hand skitter where it pleased. Romano bucked exaggeratedly to the side, trying to bash Spain's head against the wall, slapped his hand over his mouth and gagged all at the same time. Spain now added his other hand and let them both crawl and patter around, and that time Romano could not hold it in. He laughed so loudly the exhalation blew his hand right off his mouth.

"You dick," Romano said, grabbing at Spain's hands and carelessly using his nails, as well. "Get—ghaaaha!—get the fuck off me!" Spain didn't particularly feel like hearing such things so drifted nearer to his waistline, where memories of more innocent years told him Romano was dreadfully ticklish.

"No-ooo," Spain sang. Romano tried to slash his nails on his attacker's arms but were blocked by sleeves. "I haven't seen you smile or laugh in so long. And getting into fights now! You need to unwind. Be happy." Romano tried to sit up, and Spain moved his hands farther up his chest so as to have a better leverage point from which to shove him back down.

By now, poor Romano was nearly choking on laughter. It took him several seconds to calm his reddened face down and prepare his mouth for coherent words again. He didn't, completely. "I need air, dipshit! I need air to be happy!"

Still Spain kept up his devious torture, seemingly oblivious of the latest comment. "Hmm? Are you happy?"

"I'm fucking ecstatic!"

"Okay!" And Spain lifted up his hands as though telling someone to stop. Which left him quite unprotected for the punch that struck his jawbone and sent him onto his back. "Aughhh…" he groaned, rubbing the spot. "Lovi…that's not something happy people do."

"Tackling young men's not what normal people do, didja know that?" was the scathing reply. "Seriously! I come up here to be alone and I'm fucking hunted down and tickle-molested by an older man, where no one can see or hear, and he's all like, 'don't worr-ay, be happ-ay,' like it's just another day! Just another day in Pedoland, where penises abound and sodomy is A-okay!"

Now grimacing for something besides the pain, Spain replied a bit softly, "That's not true. And it's not even very nice. I tried to make you laugh because you're angry all the time."

"I'm not angry all the time, moron, I'm normal all the time," Romano scoffed. "You just think I look angry 'cause your little world is all full of smiles and sunshine, and when I come around, you act like I brought the fucking Holocaust with me."

Spain's face fell. "That's not true, either." He moved up till he was on his knees, higher than Romano, who sat cross-legged and ruffled some two feet away. "That's a very big lie. I try to make you laugh because I love you a lot." Japan's yelling a floor below, intermixed with two screeching cats, filled the silence that Romano otherwise let sit there.

"Don't say stupid shit to me when I'm already pissed," Romano chose to say eventually, and began to stand up. When he appeared to be higher, Spain stood up as well and took Romano's wrist in his left hand.

"It's not stupid." he said, smiling only slightly. "I do love you a lot, mijo." He took the other wrist, and let his forehead fall onto Romano's. There it stayed, and there Romano would absolutely not look. Spain remained untouched by any punches, clawing attempts and angry screeches as he took both of Romano's hands and dropped them onto his shoulders, and even when he laid both his own hands to rest round the Italian's back.

"I love you like this," he added, and nudged his forehead up slightly so the rest of their faces would meet as well. Spain's lips touched Romano's, and it would be a lie to say he didn't delight in the spasm of fingers on his shoulders.

Romano was not kissed often, and certainly not by many people, but Spain rarely took advantage of this. Today, he did not, and let it go on for perhaps ten seconds. He felt the soft contours and pretended his tongue was searching for a spot to pass through, and Romano pretended he didn't feel a thing. Once, perhaps a decade ago at a European convention, when all others had been away for lunch, Romano parted his lips slightly, a small enough amount that one would almost miss it, and in each subsequent kiss it became Spain's faint hope that perhaps this time, maybe this time, it would happen again, and their tongues would play together.

It didn't this time. No, the only movement was Spain's own mouth massaging Romano's, and the latter's near-constant gripping the former's jacket in his fingers as though in pain. It came time to end, so as a sort of parting gift Spain licked Romano's lips as he retreated, and stood up with a lovely smile. "That's kind of different from how I loved you when you were a little kid!"

Romano looked about to say something cynical, but his mouth didn't seem able to move, and his hands now lay moody and defeated on Spain's shoulders but were quite unwilling to leave there.

Spain fixed this problem by taking one hand in his own and then beginning to walk away. "Come on and I'll get you a shirt you can wear while I put that one in the washer. Lovi, did you know I love when you wear my clothes? It's so cute! Haha!"


Encounters like the one last week were dreams.. So enjoyable, so perfect, they just absolutely could not be real, Romano decided and stood kinda-sorta firm by that decision. His zigzagging heart and morality could not realistically meet Spain's smooth affection and meet, and shape themselves into each other like…like fucking perfect puzzle pieces. In real life, Spain would only do those things if they were false, amusing, just a game, just like costume parties and charades, which were shitty, fake things, done for fun and laughter.

In real life, men only acted the way Spain acted towards him…towards women.

For the last few decades there was a growing population around the world that thought otherwise. Romano wanted to join them and be a part of a pack that accepted him like he would never accept himself. The "never" could be changed, possibly, just maybe, if Spain's actions were anything more than playful. Amusing. Fake. But they weren't, obviously!

Spain had been fucking with him ever since he started pretending to give a damn. In the earliest days, when he was a little one, Spain didn't even pretend: he outright told Romano he was unmanageable, un-trainable and plain and fucking simply irritating. Then he started comparing him to his little brother, and then he wasn't good enough and was too loud and helplessly clumsy—well, that wasn't even his fault!—and not cute enough and was once eligible to be handed right back to Austria, apparently. So much for being a nice guy, he had no idea how much that hurt, the freaking jackass!

And then he got older, and Spain's attitude started changing. It wasn't even when Romano was wholly grown. He was still very young, his voice barely beginning to deepen, when he noticed Spain began treating him…like he cared.

The first time, he'd hugged Romano tightly and nuzzled his hair after he'd gotten some pizza sauce on his cheek, and gotten a napkin to get if off for him, laughing. Which was obviously him holding back from acting exasperated at Romano not exhibiting the good eating habits Spain had tried to teach him. Obviously. What the hell else would Spain hug him for?

It got more frequent as he got older. Spain would find the stupidest excuses to hug him or hold his hand or pick him up or kiss his face—or his stomach a couple times, freaking weirdo—and the time Italy realized he liked it was a little bit before he realized that the affection usually came with a laugh or smile. A joking laugh or smile. So it was fun. Amusing. Not real. Romano was hooked anyway and couldn't be unhooked. Long before that, though, he was educated in the ways of the real world, and most of the real world did not accept Romano's feelings. In many parts of the world, Romano would be shot for his feelings.

Suddenly, he wished he would be, and the strength of the wish made him clench his hands and curl his toes till they cramped his whole foot. Goddammit, he wished he could just be shot, and it would all just go away. Feli would be fine without him. Germany would dance on his grave and kidnap Feli to his Nazi bedroom. Spain would be short one…victim?

Romano lifted his hands slightly and straightened his back. Begging. 'Please, please make me stop thinking he's so beautiful and kind and happy. When he said he loved me, I believed him and I know that's stupid. Make me stop wanting him, make me stop wishing it was real, make me stop being a sinner.'

"Ro-maaaa-noooooo," came Italy's voice from outside his room. "Fratello Romanoooo! We're going to be late! I don't want to be late, this month's meeting is in Germany's capital, you know! I wanna—"

"I know, okay? Shut up and let me put my fucking shoes on!" And Romano stood up, his knees sore and his palms warm from touching each other so long. He found his shoes under his bed and tied the laces extra-carefully, just to take up a little extra time. Plus he couldn't tie shoes worth shit so he had to redo them once they were all done.

This was just to put off having to listen to Italy jabber on and on about wurst and Oktoberfest and gay Nazis while they were in the taxi and checking in at the airport and buying food at the Olive Garden To Go at the airport—Romano turned away from the cashier lady and snapped" Will you shut up?"—and while they were on the plane and when the flight attendant asked him to please be quiet—"Italy, close! Your! Fucking! Mouth!"—and when they got off the plane—"Oh my god, do you not breathe?"—and when they took another taxi to an administrative office in Berlin where it was supposed to be nice and official and quiet and shit so Romano turned around and grabbed his brother's shoulders and was about to scream something really nasty when Italy nicked his ear in an effort to point swiftly over his shoulder.

"Look, look! It's Spain and he has cookies!"

Romano whipped around, still holding his brother, and saw Spain coming towards them in a short-sleeved, way-too-casual jacket…with a little cloth bag of cookies in his hands. What.

Romano had absolutely no interest in his casual attire or his happy, "Hola, mis amores!" but watched with mild interest at how retard France was running behind him, pulling on his hood to try and keep up. France brushed hair out of his eyes and said something in his own tongue that sounded annoyed. He was ignored.

A smile bloomed on Italy's face when Spain dropped the cookies into his waiting hands; Spain sidled past him and nearly fell onto Romano to embrace him. Romano chigigigi'd and heard, "Te extrañé!" chuckled into his ear, whatever that meant. He would have chigigigi'd more if he hadn't had the breath squeezed out of him: Spain unnecessarily tightened his arms around him and hoisted him several inches up off the ground.

"What the hell are you doing, you creep? Put me down! Now!" He beat his hands on Spain's back, feeling warm muscle there and stopping immediately.

"I just want you to sit next to me this time," Spain explained, and opened a door leading to a fake pine-smelling room where chairs had been arranged around a fancy black table. "Oh! Oh! I'll get us window seats! They're the best!" Spain giddily walked to the other side of the table, situated near the corner of the room. He pulled out a chair and gently slid his charge into it.

"Window seats are cool on planes, retard." Romano said, gritting his teeth. Actually, Italy thought window seats were cool, but Romano much preferred to sit in the aisle and pretend they weren't actually floating precariously a million miles in the air, thanks. But why would Spain bother knowing a personal thing like that about Romano when it was so much more fun to do retarded things like carry him across a meeting room?

'Lazy, uncaring fucker.'

Spain turned around when other nations started piling in, chattering about things like the World Cup and the latest Bond movie and Twilight. He waited till Prussia appeared in his polished navy uniform and waved. "Prussia! Prussia, sit here!"

Prussia pushed Cuba out of his way, ran over, leapt the last several feet and landed like a leech on Spain's side. "Hahaha! I told you bitches I could jump six feet! I can outdo a damn kangaroo!" He slid off and chuckled as he pulled out his own chair on his friend's left.

Internally, Romano scoffed, 'What a goddamn—HEY!' Spain had suddenly pulled on Romano's chair to bring him closer and embraced him again, tucking his "victim's" head under his chin. "I know you don't like hugging, Lovi, but I had this awful dream last night, but there was no pequeño Lovino there when I woke up for me to—" Romano bucked his head up against his captor's chin, making the teeth meet. He heard a rather satisfying, "—Ghhth." Spain's arms suddenly went very lax.

Shaking now, Romano tore out of them. "Do something like that again, and I'll make you bite off your whole damn tongue."

Swallowing what had to be blood, Spain blinked as merrily as a kitten and then replied, "Such a violent way to play hard-to-get," he remarked airily, and then smiled in such a way as to make Romano's spine tremble. "And unnecessary. Do you want to bite my tongue yourself? I'll let you."

"Whoa. Gayness." Prussia leaned out over the table to have a better view of the two of them, and took Romano's acidic glare in stride. "Oh, what? Can't act on your hot, hot desires now that you got a witness, little man? Man, Spain, your uke's got a long way to go."

"Spain's what?" Romano lunged at him and Prussia kicked against the side of the table to push himself out of reach.

"Hey! Bad uke, bad! Spain, bite him! Show him who's boss! Oww! Fuck, don't kick me!" Now shaking with fury, Romano heaved his chair right up to the edge of the table and lay his head down against him, nested by his arms. Spain moved his hand back and forth across his shoulders and was frequently but ineffectually shoved away.

The other nations were just about settled when Prussia finally came close again. He leaned his chair back and planted his boots on the edge of the table, reclining back. He said something probably arrogant or totally inappropriate but Romano wasn't listening. He was far too busy staring at the table an inch away from his nose and trying to cool his face a notch down from red-hot. What the hell was wrong with him, if a damn backrub made him flustered?

Up near the front of the table, Austria had gotten up and was reminding the nations about Oktoberfest coming up, which he and his colleagues Germany and Prussia were indeed very excited about, and certainly everyone was invited to the celebration they were holding together on Rosenmontag and aristocracy and afternoon tea and sipping beer and blah blah blah.

Romano had eyes only for the table his head was on, and felt nothing but Spain's hand still trying to smooth the furious knots out of his tight back. Could he see Romano's fists clenched so tight they hurt? Of course he could if he looked, but he was about as cunningly observant as a guy at an American wet T-shirt contest, so he wouldn't.

'To the left. Left, you moron!' Romano thought, pretending desperately he would be heard. 'Are you freaking deaf? Left! The hand you don't write with? Over that way! Oh…nnn…thank you. Hey, ungrateful dick, I said thanks! It's fucking polite to say 'you're welcome' and I—nononononono.'

Now Romano could feel one of his fists bleeding. 'I mean…I mean…stop. You're a prick and a two-faced little bitch and I wish I had a baseball bat so I could smack you upside the head but you'd just laugh about it and try to hold my hand and aaugh!'

As luck would have it, Romano leapt up from his chair about the same time everyone else did to leave the concluded meeting. Only Netherlands and Cuba, sitting near the door, had left when Prussia leapt up onto the table and shouted for everyone to look at him (Netherlands and Cuba came back). Romano looked, too, but scowled when Prussia just reiterated Austria's Oktoberfest invitation in simpler, cruder words. Prussia promised to give his favorite nine-millimeter pistol to whoever beat him in a drinking contest. Romano was about to saunter out the door wondering aloud who gave a damn about Prussia's gun when a hand pulled him back. He swatted it away, knowing too easily who it was.

"Wait a minute. I didn't give you yours," said Spain, rummaging around in a little backpack he'd brought.

"My what? Sanity?"

Smiling and chuckling a little at that, Spain produced a little cloth bag tied by a white string. "I gave Italy his earlier, and I asked France to wrap yours special. Here. "

"…Cookies," Romano stated rather than asked. His body seemed curiously frozen, not burning nor freezing, but numb. This gift was so simple. So nice. "Cookies from France? What, do they have snail extract?"

"No, silly," Spain laughed. "France made these himself, and I told him not to include funny stuff like that 'cause you don't like it. Instead, he put these really delicious little chocolate things in them, and I think they taste fantastic and—"

"I don't want 'em, you take 'em," Romano interrupted, and tried to pull away, but Spain's hand wouldn't let go of his wrist.

"Ha? Really?" he replied, quite oblivious to the force fruitlessly trying to pull his arm off. "You want me to have them?"

"Geez, they're not my kidneys, you idiot! Sure, fine, have them. From me to you." 'What? What did I just say?'

Some other nations leaving the room gave the pair odd looks as they went by (Hungary snuck behind the door and stayed there). A lot of odd looks were given before Spain's smile grew even bigger and he said, "That's, that's so sweet of you! Aww, I love you, Lovino~" He jerked his arm to the side, heaving Romano forward, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and laid a little kiss on his hairline. "Haha! A little faster and you could have tangoed into my arms like we were dancing—"

"IhavetogofindItalyso—" Struggling wildly, Romano escaped Spain's hold and sped out the door as though there was a monster coming after him.

Behind him, Netherlands was yelling, "Yeah, you better run, you dickless little punk!" and Italy was probably crying for him to come back, but Romano couldn't care less.

He ran all of three miles to the airport and sat on a bench with a freaked-out native couple to wait for his brother. And for his heart to slow down.


'What the hell is taking so long, I've been patient as a saint and tried to be a good freaking person but no matter what anything he does makes me happy as a glittering fucking girlscout and I just can't stop it! He said he loved me today! And—and—and I believed him, just as easily as I believe tomatoes are red!

'Yeah, I love him, okay? Sorry! I know I have no right to do that, but Lovino-fucktard-Vargas is in love with the hottest, best guy in the world and it's a mutual feeling, apparently, so there!

'Except that's it's...not. Except that I know he's just playing around like he always does, and if I'm lucky he thinks of my like an annoying tagalong little brother but sure as hell not the way I hope he does. Right? Right? He's fucking with my head and not even trying to! You don't fall in love with somebody who plays a dumb joke on you! If you do, your name is Lovino-fucktard-Vargas and you're destined to jerk off thinking of matadors and babysitting your stupid brother for the rest of your life! Sucks to be you!

Ugh.

Italy's calling me to help me make his pasta 'cause he forgot how to turn the stove on. I'm gonna go press the button for him. I, uh…yeah…that totally wasn't cool to go off like that. I kinda have temper tantrums sometimes. I shoulda saved that for when I was done. Sorry. Oh, uh, praise be to You, man. Amen.'

"Italy, if you forget how to press a button one more time—"


I'm quite nervous to be posting this because it's strange and dangerous territory...of course, you know it'll all end up nice and happy but I'm sure having a conflict like this in a yaoi fanfiction (as opposed to the ever-popular, "Oh my gosh, I can't be gay!" predicament.) is a new experience to most readers here. Well, at least in the range of normality, Romano contradicts his own feelings about as often as he blinks, and Spain was unfailingly happy and airy in expressing his. Obviously he's got no problems with the relationship, because he can't read the atmosphere (LOL REFERENCE JOKE!). Though I'm sure he'd sense some sort of, uh, atmospheric change if Romano was wearing his clothes, as was mentioned once. I know I would~

If Angsty!Romano was too much for you, you may be happy to hear that he gets shot in the second half of this two-shot. No, that's not a spoiler.

I'm pretty sure it's clear, but on the off-chance you didn't get that, about ninety percent of the things in italics are Romano praying or attempting to talk to God. That's the last thing you'd ever think he'd do, huh? Right after Belarus says she wants to divorce Russia. Well, it's his only solace. Italy's too silly to take such an issue seriously or truly understand it, and honestly, what other friends does Romano have?

This was originally going to be a oneshot, but it went on too long so I split it here. I don't know if you guys' attention spans can hold on for all eight thousand, six hundred and one words I have thus far ^^; The rest will come soon, literally soon, because nearly a third of it is already written.

See you in the conclusive next and final chapter :D