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Romano stomped through the streets of Naples, angry enough to ignore his aches and pains. He passed shelters and bombed out buildings, citizens hurrying in fear and soldiers marching in step.
German Soldiers he thought with contempt.
But, they're pulling out and the Allies will be here soon, and then it will be all over.
There was a kind of bitter satisfaction in that thought. But he was still angry, angry at his brother, his "ally" Germany, his idiot boss, everyone!
He finally reached his apartment, a dingy run-down place on the outskirts of Naples. It was a long walk from the headquarters to his apartment but after gasoline had been rationed he couldn't really take his motorbike.
Once inside he tried to settle to something, anything to take his mind off his impending fate. Drawing, gardening, cooking, none of it worked. As he sank onto one of his kitchen chairs rubbing at his bandaged legs, he realized what he really wanted was to talk to someone, not that he would have readily admitted it to anyone.
Veneziano was out of the question. For one he wasn't here; and for two as well meaning as his brother was, he wouldn't be much help.
The Potato Bastard, fuck that.
No, there was only one person in the world he really, really, wanted to talk to; and he wasn't here either. He suppressed a flicker of irritation at that thought and glanced across the messy kitchen table. It was covered with magazines, books, half-completed sketches, dirty dishes, an ash tray, and mail. He sighed and his bangs blew upward. Then he reached forward, found a blank sheet of the cheap stationary he'd bought, and then dug around for something to write with. His hand skimmed over his drawing pencils; and didn't even pause over the cheap pencils he'd bought from the stationary store, those were out of the question at least for the letter he was about to write. Finally he found the pen he was looking for. It was an old fashioned fountain pen that he had received back in 1861 when he had been unified with his Northern brother. He twirled it between his fingers, reading the hand engraving, Italia Romano. Then he began to write.
16 Settembre, 1943
Caro Spagna,
I'm sure you'll hear about it in a few days but the Allied powers will take me. Today that fucking Potato Bastard received orders to pull out because his fucking boss thinks I'm not worth protecting. See if I care. I stopped caring weeks ago, dammit. All that stupid Potato was doing was trying to decide how best he could push me in the Allies way so that he could get away, Bastard.
I never trusted that Potato Bastard, it's his fault all this happened anyway. Him and his greedy boss. It almost makes me wish I was still independent of Veneziano, if it weren't for him then we wouldn't be in the mess anyway. I hate it, but at least I have that British bastard's food to look forward to.
That thought was truly frightening. Romano shuddered, put down his pen, and went to make some pasta for dinner. As he went outside to pick some tomatoes for sauce he felt a small swell of pride. Even in these hard times he still could count on the tomatoes to be red and plump in the fall. He twirled one between his fingers, his thought drifting back to Spain again. It had been so long since they had seen each other. Not since the war started and Italy had been inevitably drawn with that power hungry Potato bastard. Loathe as he would be to admit it to anyone, especially Antonio, he missed him, a lot.
He remembered the last time he had seen him. Antonio had been acting like an idiot, as usual. But Romano was good at reading others, in the mafia you had to be. He could tell Antonio still felt the pain of his civil war, was still angry about Franco and Guernica. He had wanted to say something to make Antonio feel better. Wrap his arms around him tell him that he was so much better than the Potato Bastard, that he, Romano, would never let Spain get hurt again. That he loved him. Then lay him on the bed and change the bandages. Feed him something delicious, and make love to him, nice and easy. Show him that everything Romano had told him was true and would remain so.
But he hadn't. He'd complained about the Potato Bastard and about Veneziano and about how the world was going to the dogs. Antonio has smiled and said something stupid like "Oh Lovi, I'm sure Veneziano only meant for the best." But then again Spain tried to justify people, like Franco. It pissed him off. Then, after dinner he'd gotten drunk and asked Spain to join the Axis Powers or at least come back to Italy with him. When Spain had refused, he'd stormed out.
Romano's frown deepened and he put the tomato in his basket. He finished picking some more ripe ones before going inside to make sauce. That helped dispel the regret, a little. Since then he and Spain had exchanged letters, writing at least once every month without fail. Antonio's were long, full of news about the goings on in Spain, very little mentioned about the war. Romano's letters, on the other hand, were short by comparison. Usually just reports about what was going on in the Mediterranean front.
Antonio had written him first, a month or two after he'd left Spain for the last time. Inside he had said nothing of the argument or Romano's behavior. Just asked about him: How as he holding up? Was he eating enough? Was he injured? It had taken Romano a whole month and several wasted sheets of paper to write back. When he had his letter was clipped, cordial, and concise.
I am doing well. I have spent the past few weeks meeting with Mussolini and Veneziano about our war plans. If you could call it a meeting, basically we sit there while Mussolini tells us what to do. Then the Potato Bastard comes and orders us around. It's sickening how much Veneziano adores him. I hope you continue to be well.
Sinceramente,
Italia Romano
Spain's letters were the high point of his month. He had saved them all. He liked the outlet Spain gave him for all the frustrations of his situation. He also liked it when Spain gave him advice, usually unasked for, but somehow Spain always had something to say that would pick him up. Because, contrary to what people (including Romano) said about him, Spain wasn't stupid. Hell, you couldn't be in this world and survive; no Spain just acted like an idiot so much that it was easy to forget just how intuitive he could be.
Romano cleared a small space on the table for his plate and began to eat. He reread his letter to Spain and felt the world close in again. Fuck, It's my last meal. Why shouldn't I make the most of it?
He went outside to a shed in the backyard. Inside he dug around until he found the crate of wine he'd been storing away since Mussolini became his boss. Veneziano had given it to him as a birthday present; it was some of the best wine in the world. He'd only opened one bottle before, on his birthday all those years ago at Feliciano's insistence. After that he'd been saving it for a special occasion but kept putting it off. He pulled out a bottle and brushed the dust off. He'd wanted to share this wine with Spain too but never gotten the chance, he'd probably never get it now. He picked up another bottle and went back to his apartment.
It was long after dinner when the wine was all but gone. He swirled the second bottle, there was only about one glass left. He grinned and raised the bottle.
"To the Ending of it all." he slurred and drank, some wine dribbling down his chin. When he set the bottle down he was a little surprised to hear some wine still splashing around in there. He wiped his chin with his sleeve.
"Fuck I can't even drink wine properly." He leaned his head on the cool table top, pushing his empty plate forward. He heard something rattle and looked up to see his pen rolling toward the edge of the table. He snatched at it and barely managed to trap it under his hand. He glanced over toward his letter to Spain and saw some marinara was threatening to drip onto it. He pulled the letter out from under his plate. He should finish it and send it off soon. The post would probably become very touch and go or nonexistent altogether in a day or two. His last letter; he should say goodbye, if not for Spain than for himself. He put the letter down and set his pen to paper once more.
Antonio, I don't know what to do. I don't want to die. I'm so scared but I don't know what I can do to keep them from killing me. But what else will they do with me? I'm useless; everyone thinks so, even if they don't say it.
Romano growled to himself as he finished that line and propped his forehead on his hand. Nearly ever since he could remember he had been conquered, used. He had been a servant for an empire, a place to farm. But neither Britain nor America wanted him for those reasons, now he was just in the way. He was helpless yet again, and he hated it.
Hopeless, useless, lazy, cowardly, he'd been hearing from the world for centuries. Except from one person.
Everyone but you. But why you anyway? And if you don't think I'm useless than why aren't you here? Why aren't you helping me dammit?
Why did you leave me alone?
I miss you so much Antonio. I haven't stopped thinking about you since 1939 and wishing I'd done something to change your mind. But instead I acted like an asshole. I'm sorry Antonio, so sorry…
I hope you will continue to be well, even with the hell around us. Ti voglio bene Antonio. Arrivederci.
Amo,
It- Lovino
Italia Romano
Spain slowly folded the letter and looked out his window; he felt something in his eyes and closed them. He ran his hand through his hair,
"Señor, salven mi querida Lovi por favor." he whispered.
He opened his eyes and stood up from his armchair. When he reached his study he sat at the desk and reread the letter. Pobre Lovi, he must have been really upset or really drunk to write this, or both. Spain longed to travel through the letter somehow. Stand with Lovi as the Nazi's abandoned him to the Allies; hold him through the painful nights. But he could not; all he could do was write a reply.
Querida Lovi,
Ti amo también, Lovi. I always will. You will never be useless to me, never.
I remember when I learned the truth about you. When I really, truly learned what you could do when you set your mind to it.
Do you remember Lovi?
I'm sure you remember that night, our first night together, when you admitted to me you loved me and when I realized just how much I loved you too. I will never forget the events of our first night...
He paused and grinned, then continued:
but it is the day that stands out in my memory. I remember coming back to Naples after your rebellion against becoming that French puppet, the Parthenopaean Republic; you met me on the wharf. You were wearing the uniform of The Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, it was torn and stained, not what you usually wore. I remember you were injured, not terribly thank the Saints. You were smiling wider than I've ever seen you and you said "Antonio, I've beaten them! I've beaten back that bastard France for you Antonio."
I know you are scared Lovi, so am I. I wish I could be there for you and protect you like I have in the past. This existence is hell, but I know better than anyone how brave you are. Never forget that no matter what.
Amor,
Antonio
España
Lovino smiled softly, folded the letter up small and put it into his pocket. Then the jeep when over a bump and jostled him. He bit back a snarl at the soldier driving, his thoughts returning to the letter. He had just received it after nearly a month of silence. The silence was understandable, especially as the Allies were consolidating their hold on Southern Italy. During that time he'd been allowed to heal up from his wounds before meeting with the Allies, and do a lot of thinking and worrying. He'd been so worried that Spain would never write him back, not after such getting such a shameful letter from him.
Reflecting on what Antonio had written he couldn't help but blush, even just thinking about it. But it made him smile, a little. It was so typical of them. He would insult Antonio, and Antonio would remind him of the night they first made love. He blushed deeper at the memory, still vivid even all these years later.
He didn't even notice when the jeep stopped. "Sig. Vargas, siamo arrivati. Comandante Jones e Comandante Kirkland ti aspettano."
Lovino repressed a wince at the butchering of his language but nodded and got out of the car. It was time to walk into the lion's den. But he would do it with his head held high, for Antonio, and for himself.
Authoress Notes:
I'm so glad I finally got this finished and uploaded. When beatles-revelution1204 asked for a historical fan fic with Spamano I don't know why but my mind instantly screamed "Oh, it should take place in WWII!". Anyway... I hope that you all enjoyed, thank you for reading.
I got the translations from google so if the Italian or Spanish is wrong please correct me and I'll change it. Please review~
Historical Notes and Translations:
1 Romano's aches and pains: This is in reference to injuries he's sustained as the Germans and Allies have fought for control of S. Italy. Considering they are blowing up his land I would imagine Romano to have some injuries.
2 16 Settembre, 1943: September 16, 1943 was the day that the Germans received orders to withdraw from Southern Italy.
3 Italian: Dear Spain
4 Romano not worth protecting: Hitler was advised that Southern Italy was not strategically important enough. So the Germans withdrew.
5 "I stopped caring weeks ago": The Italian Government agreed to an armistice with the Allies on Sept. 3, 1943.
6 Franco and Guernica: Francisco Franco became dictator in Spain after the Spanish Civil War. Guernica is a town in Basque in Northern Spain that was bombed by the German Luftwaffe and Italian Aviazione Legionaria in 1937. It is considered by many historians to be a precursor to the German Nazi Army's 'Blitzkrieg' tactic.
7 Italian: Sincerely
8 Since Mussolini became his boss: Mussolini rose in 1923.
9 Italian: I love you Antonio. Good bye.
10 Italian: Love
11 Spanish: Lord, please save my dear Lovi
12 Spanish: Poor Lovi
13 Parthenopaean Republic: When Napoleon took Naples for the French Republic in 1799 they tried to establish a republic there. However, the lower classes formed a counter-revolutionary army and reestablished the monarchy of the Spanish Bourbons.
14 Kingdom of the Two Sicilies: The united kingdom of Naples and Sicily. Ruled by a member of the Spanish Bourbon Dynasty. I don't know if they actually had uniforms but it fit with the story.
15 Italian: Mr. Vargas we've arrived. Commander Jones and Commander Kirkland are waiting for you.