Reasoning
Pairing(s), Characters: Romano, Spain, past HRExChibitalia, light-light Spamano
Summary: Just WHY does Romano hate Germany so much?
Deals with possible Germany=HRE theory? Eh, I dunno. It's just sorta there.

There was a certain question always hanging above everyone's heads, though they never really wanted to voice it. Maybe it was because it seemed insignificant; after all, Southern Italy hated everybody, so that wasn't much of a big deal. But it remained all the same, and every day, at least one nation would ask in their minds:

Just why did Romano hate Germany so much?

It was clear to anybody who cared to look that the antagonism Romano pointed toward Germany was tremendously great. He couldn't even stand in the same room as the other man without throwing some sort of sneering, poisoned remark at him, all of which Germany deflected with a bland expression. It was a never-ending, one-sided battle, which the blonde man won time after time; but no matter what, Romano would always be back, cursing and spitting at him like the last defeat had never occurred.

It made one wonder just what drove him to do this day after day, year after year. Surely wasting energy trying to start a war with someone would be pointless, and not to mention stupid? But when asked, Romano would just look to the side and glower at the floor, with a "Who cares, stupid," waiting on his lips. Same question, same answer, continuously, again and again. So most simply gave up, and watched the ongoing battle with resigned, bemused expressions. It went on for years.

One day, Spain decided to ask Romano the real reason behind his anger—really, really ask.

Upon arriving at Romano's home, it was obvious that the owner was not there, so Spain did what he always did: cleaned a little, cooked dinner and left it on the table, ventured into Romano's room to look for mementos to take back home and use as decorations. He stepped through the doorway, and didn't step any further.

The bed was a crumpled heap—paperwork was strewn across the floor like someone had ripped them from a folder and thrashed them into the air—empty wine bottles, chipped and broken, rolled to a stop beside his feet.

It seemed Roma had gotten drunk the night before.

Stifling a sigh, Spain bent to the floor to pick up one bottle, then another. Romano, if he was coming home, wouldn't be back for several hours yet; it wouldn't hurt to straighten things up for him before he returned. Setting that in mind, he got on his knees and swept up document after document, covered in boring twelve-sized font and laws that really and truly didn't matter…

There was one that had a corner torn off, and Spain flipped it over to find sloppy, angrily scrawled words on the other side.

Spain knew, from past experiences, that Romano spoke his mind best when drunk and with a pen, and this was no exception. The penmanship was awful, the words radiating hatred—and though he knew he shouldn't, knew Romano would break his neck and stomp on it if he found out, Spain was intrigued.

Surely reading the first few lines wouldn't hurt, right?

So he sat back on his knees, leaned against a half-closed dresser, and began to read.

.

People always ask me why I fucking hate you so much, you know? They always ask, "Hey Romano, why the hell do you hate Germany so much, Italy likes him, why don't you?" And you're always watching, you with your stupid wurst and beer and Veneziano hanging off of your arm like a fucking woman, and he shouldn't. He should punch you, or slap you, or something, 'cause I sure as hell want to. He should hate you just as much, or more, than I do.

Why do I hate you?

Because I know my brother—I know that he cries a lot—and I know that he has never cried more than the time he cried over you.

Germany.

Holy Roman Empire.

Whoever the fuck you are.

You weren't there the night he…fuck that, you weren't around at all, how could you be around for this? "I love you most in the world"? The fuck kind of goodbye is that? You weren't there. You didn't hear him that night.

Even God fucking hurt over what my brother had to say.

.

.

Romano still didn't know Veneziano very well, and the feeling was mutual, so he was perfectly fine with glaring at the other boy while Spain and Austria talked at the big meeting table. He didn't like Austria's place. It was far too clean, and sparkly, and why was the piano so damned huge? He was about to make a comment on it when Spain rested a hand on top of his head and smiled down at him, the tall jerk. "Hey, why don't you and Italy go on to bed now? It's late, and we'll have to get up early tomorrow if we want to make it home in time to make churros with Belgium."

"I got it, I got it! Stupid." Romano pouted, and Spain only laughed.

"Good! How about you, Italy?"

Romano stopped his pouting long enough to glance at the other Italy, who tilted his head and smiled brightly.

"Ve, I want to go to bed with fratello! Bed time, bed time…~"

Austria shook his head. "You're much to kind on these children…in any case, go on to bed now. We'll talk more in the morning, everyone."

"Fine. Whatever. 'Night," Romano said, and bounded towards the stairs to his room, not caring if Veneziano caught up or not. It didn't matter to him.

After undressing and climbing into bed, he stared at the wall, at a spot by the huge window that dominated most of his vision anyways. He stiffened when the doorknob rattled, and didn't relax when it slowly creaked open, and a tiny voice called out.

"Ve…Fratello? When Big Brother Spain said we should go on to bed…um, is it alright if we sleep together?"

Together? They barely knew each other's names. Romano tugged the sheets tighter around himself. "Hell no. This bed can't fit the both of us."

"But, fratello…"

"But nothing. Go back to your own room. I'm trying to sleep."

There was silence. The door didn't creak again. Romano pinched the bridge of his nose, and heaved a sigh.

"…Whatever. Fine. Damn. Come on, get over here."

"Ve! Thank you, fratello!"

He rolled over to say something particularly rude and biting when his arms were suddenly filled with a blur in white. "Oof! What, you're just going to bed now? Stupid! What about your prayers?" Even Romano said his before bed, and this other Italy didn't? The mere idea was appalling.

"I will, ve, I will!" Veneziano said, happily nuzzling into a space between Romano's chin and the pillow. "I'll say them later, I promise."

"Hmph. You better."

After much shuffling about, and swearing on Romano's part, they were both in a comfortable position. He closed his eyes, and slept more soundly than he had in months.

.

Sometime in the dark of the night, Romano was woken by the sound of whispers.

He froze, face half buried in his pillow. The space beside him was empty of his stupid little brother, so that meant…

Carefully, so as to not disturb the sounds, he turned on his right side and peeked out of the covers.

Veneziano was still dressed in white—it was a miniature priest's robe, similar to Romano's own—and was kneeling by the gigantic window, head bowed over hands that were clasped tightly in prayer. Silently, he raised one and crossed over his heart, lips moving, whispers never stopping.

Romano, with wide eyes, lay there and watched.

Finally, Veneziano lifted his head toward the cloudy night sky. "Oh Father, who art in heaven…I have a request."

There was no "ve" punctuating his words. Romano was suddenly hit by the idea that maybe, maybe, this stupid little brother of his wasn't completely an endless bowl of sunshine. Maybe he had faults too. He shifted a little and narrowed his eyes at the tiny form.

"Father…there is someone I need you to find for me. Someone you need to watch over for me."

Veneziano smiled, and it was such a sad little smile that Romano hurt and he didn't know why. "He has blonde hair, and blue eyes, and he's a country, just like me. He went off to war a while ago, and he said he'd come back safe and sound, but…but I wanted to make sure anyways. That he'd come back."

His whole body shook, and Romano had to narrow his eyes more to see the cause of it—and when he did, he wished he hadn't.

Big, fat tears dripped onto the windowsill, each one punctuated by a shuddering hiccup. Veneziano kept talking, but his words were becoming less articulate and more slurred, more like the scared, hurting child he was.

"He said he'd come back for me, because he said he loved me, and I promised I'd wait for him too. I said that, but…b-but, ve, but…"

And now there was no doubt that he was crying, but Romano couldn't say anything, Romano wasn't supposed to be watching this in the first place and now he couldn't stop—

"Bring him back! Father, God, bring him back to me! It's b-been a century! Where is he? Is he okay? Why won't he come home?"

Veneziano choked on a sob. "He's not dead, is he? He's not dead, he can't be dead, because he promised me he'd come back and I'd wait for him—"

Romano squeezed his eyes shut, pressed a fist against his face. Damn it Veneziano, stop, just stop, God's heard enough, just stop and come back to bed…

It took hours, but Veneziano eventually did stop, his cries dying down to an empty, empty silence. Romano waited, eyes never leaving the boy, not as he finally relinquished his robes and crawled, still shaking, into bed with no clothes on. He waited, until Veneziano was deeply asleep, before rolling back over and pressing a rough kiss to his forehead, his own tears barely at bay.

He didn't go back go sleep again that night.

.

.

Every promise you made him was a lie, wasn't it? You'd come back, you'd protect him, you love him. I waited centuries beside my brother for a blonde, blue-eyed country to show up, even to just say goodbye, and you do. You fucking show up in Veneciano's life, and all of a sudden his heart is broken all over again. Do you know what it's like to watch your other half cry like that, over a good for nothing son-of-a-bitch who doesn't even remember his childhood? And how he's fucking obsessed with you, "Germany this," "Germany that," and it's just like back then only worse. Much worse. Because you don't remember a mother fucking thing. Or maybe you never had those memories at all.

I really don't care if you're Holy Rome or Germany. I don't care. You have blond hair, and blue eyes, and you hurt my brother in a way that he still hasn't recovered from, and that's fucking love.

I'll hate you for that.

I'll always hate you for that.

Someday, you'll pay.

.

Spain sat in silence for a long time, twirling the paper between his fingers, before folding it three times and slipping it in his back pocket. He finished cleaning the room, and when Romano crashed through the front door, swearing loudly and demanding food, he simply smiled at him and pointed him towards the table. Evening came, and they both settled on the couch, sharing a bowl of popcorn while some cheaply made movie blared on the screen. With his knee touching Romano's, Spain leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Roma, why do you hate Germany?"

Romano glared at him, clenched his jaw, and said, very quietly, "Who cares."

Spain nodded, and left it at that.

Oh my lord, I've written something again! This time with PAIRINGS! /zomg shock
But yeah, I had a lot of fun writing this one. Once again, apologies for grammar errors and any obvious bad characterization. I hope you enjoyed! ^^