Spain sighed and studied his face in the mirror. His eyes were glazed over by a sheen on bright, rheumy tears, his normally olive complexion pale save the deep blush across his cheekbones. His chin bore a bit of shadow, which was unusual since normally he shaved every day, but the raw skin underneath his nose and the dark circles outlining his eyes explained it all.

Yes, Spain was sick. No, there wasn't much he could do about it. Romano and Italy were coming over later and he hadn't seen his "babies" in months! There was no way he was going to miss them. He ran his fingers through his dark hair and laid a hand on his forehead. So he could have probably fried an egg on it; so what? He was still going to give the Italian brothers a great day! Sweet memories of two brunette children with matching curls flying kites with him, drawing pictures with him, and calling him "big brother" made him feel peacefully nostalgic.

But when the doorbell rang he nearly jumped out of his skin, shivering. "H-h-hatchoo! H-hola," he responded to its call, his voice gravelly. He tried to cough it back into existence but it didn't really help. He opened the door and greeted Romano and Italy with a huge smile, despite feeling like such crap. "Como estas, mi hermanitos?"

"Ve, big brother Spain's voice sounds-a funny~!" Italy giggled, but Roma's eyes narrowed.

"You okay, tomato bastard?" Spain wasn't hurt by the name; Roma always called him something like that.

"Si, I'm-" he coughed "-I'm fine."

Romano looked unconvinced for the moment but said nothing. Italy started looking through Spain's fridge. "Ve, got any pasta?"

"Idiota, he's always got-a pasta!" Romano handed Italy a bowl and Spain moaned softly. Just the sight of food made his stomach roil.

"Big brother-a Spain, are you okay?" Italy pouted in concern, his eyes so wide as to almost be open. "You sound-a sick."

"Gracias, Italy, but I feel fine." The coughing fit that followed contradicted Spain's words, and Romano put a hand on the sick nation's forehead. He was burning.

"You've got a fever, stupid," he sighed, making Spain blush and look at his feet, feeling like an idiot for letting the brothers over while he was sick. He'd just missed them so much, and he didn't feel quite this sick earlier…

Italy saw Spain's embarrassment and intervened, taking his "older brother's" arm and leading him upstairs to bed, the "mother hen" side of him making an appearance. He pulled up the blankets and let him step in, kissing his forehead affectionately like Spain used to do when Italy was little. "Let's-a get you warm and cozy and I'll-a take good care of you, ve~!"

Romano was less accommodating. He walked into the room and practically shoved a thermometer at him. "Keep-a your mouth closed, idiota," he ordered, making Spain obey meekly. This worried Romano a little, and he waited impatiently for the small device to be done. "Don't chew on it!"

When it was done reading Spain's temperature Romano frowned at the results. "102? Mio dio, Spain, why didn't you-a tell me you were that-a sick? Idiota!"

Spain blushed, wiping his mouth where he had drooled on the thermometer. "Lo siento…" A little tear formed in his eye; Spain was always more sensitive when he was sick. "I- I just missed you and Feli so much and didn't know when I'd see you two again…"

Italy instantly dried Spain's tears with a handkerchief, putting a finger to his lips. "Roma's just-a worried about you big brother, don't-a cry…" He looked at Romano as if to say, "You could be nicer, y'know…"

Romano sighed and took Italy's handkerchief, wringing it out in cold water and laying it on Spain's forehead. "Get-a some sleep, Spain. I'll go to the store to get-a some medicine, si?"

Spain nodded, curling up under the blankets as he began to feel sleep tug at him again, even though he'd just recently woken up. "Gracias, Romanito. Gracias, Italy. Si."

Romano sighed and started the car, Italy sitting shotgun, tears in his eyes. "Fratello, you weren't-a very nice to big brother Spain!" he sniffled as he buckled his seat belt. "He's-a sick, you know! He's always nice to us when we're-a sick!"

Romano hated it when Italy cried; it always made him feel guilty, even if he wasn't the reason for his younger brother's tears. "Listen, fratello, don't-a cry, si? I just get mad because Spain doesn't take-a care of himself! He's always doin'-a somethin' like this! He didn't even tell us he was sick!" In a smaller voice, as though he was ashamed to admit it, he added, "It makes-a me worry."

Ohhh… That made sense. Sometimes when Italy's older brother acted mean or angry, he was actually just upset or sad. Italy followed him dutifully as he got some medication for Spain's fever and cough, along with some soup, and came back home.

"I hope big brother Spain is okay," Italy whispered as he and Romano climbed the stairs to the older nation's bedroom. Romano gasped as the door creaked open; the sheets on Spain's bed were messy and he was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is he?" he said frantically, more to himself than to Italy, and a voice from behind, a low, throaty growl, answered, "Olé." Romano's heart leapt- not in a good way- and he whirled around to see Spain standing across from him, holding out a red blanket and sweating like mad, his face fever-red and eyes wild. "Torro," he coaxed.

To be continued…