I watched the dark lamplights flash by me as the cheap, clanking bus drove on. A creeping numbness seemed to wash over me as my eyes focused and unfocused on the hypnotizing lights.

. . My thoughts swirled as I thought to improvise a decent excuse for returning home. I was going home.

It was difficult. Difficult indeed to think of something, anything that could liberally pass. Spain wasn't as stupid as he led the world to believe. Sighing as my eyes closed in slight frustration; I bent over on the seat, my elbows on my knees," Cazzo, this is really stupid of me."...

My small backpack limply hanging from one of my shoulders, I trudged my way up the stone road leading to Spain's house in Madrid. He always preferred his country homes, I remember, his favorite one was the mansion in Barcelona.

Home…. It should have been Italy for me.

But yet, as I looked up at the warm lights filtering dimly from a house with red curtains, I felt a sense of relief and joy that could only come with the statement...

I was home.

This place will forever be my home. Italy is who I am… it's my own f*cking body. You know, it exists and you care for it as well as you can and you try to be content with what you have. But home… it arises different emotions. A comforting nostalgia… warmth. I wonder if personifications have homes aside from their own country… I can only guess that they do.

Twisting open the dull metallic doorknob, I faintly smile as I am flooded with the scent of spices and candles.

That tomato bastard was always fond of the strong scents. He would purposely buy the strongest candles of scents like cinnamon and place them randomly throughout the house. When I asked him about such a stupid method of doing things, he answered," But Lovi, it's more exciting this way. I never know when I will smell something nice. And when I do smell it, it will be more surprising and I'll have to take time to enjoy it."

A damn idiot he was.. full of his own idealism and optimism. It would have sickened me if I hadn't loved him so.

Love, now there's a fan-f*cking-tastic emotion. I, as THE country of love (screw you France, suck my Italian womanizing balls), am an expert on this subject. Or at least, I thought I was. I couldn't see what I felt for the guy until it hit me upside the head.

I slowly make my way down the hall, head turning from side to side as I expect an overly cheerful Spaniard to greet me and crush me in a warm hug. Warmth… there's that word again.

Tossing my pack to the side, Spain will pick it up anyway; I collapse onto a kitchen stool. Where the fuck was Spain? He should have come to greet his favorite henchman.

Dios, his henchman. Can you believe that's what he thought of me?

A cute, f*cking henchman. A child, he was saying to me (not directly of course, the idiot was too dense). You're still such a child, Romano.

My hands clenched as I bit my lip hard and yelled to the empty home," I am no f*cking child. I am independent! I am f*cking Italia de Sur! And you had better recognize that Spanga!"

"I do." A voice answered back, making chills run down my spine.

Spain stood at the doorway to the kitchen, his hand holding up his head with his one elbow propped up against the doorframe. The bastard was smiling at me.

He moved closer to me with the smile ever constant on his tan face. His green eyes didn't f*cking sparkle, okay (but they sure looked like it). And with a gentle hand, he reached down to grab my clenched fist. My hand grip loosened as he leaned down to kiss me softly. He looked so sure of himself as he spoke," I do see you, Lovino. You as mi amor."

I couldn't help my blush from rising and tainting my cheeks a light pink;" Bastard...I'm home."

Short Spamano... was listening to a song called Homeland when I wrote it. ^^

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