Hey everyone! This is my first Spamano and Hetalia story, though I've been a lurker and fan for a loooong time~~ (Nice to meet you all, Hetalia fans!) I'll be posting up lots of lovely Hetalia fics soon, so keep an eye out for them! Anyway, just quickly about this story! It's called "Busking For Hearts", and I've had it stewing in my mind for a while now. Not all of it is planned out, and I'm rather busy, so I do apologise for fluctuating update times and plot. Not to mention characters... I roleplay Hetalia, but, in terms of writing it on my own, I'm a bit nervous, haha! (Shut up, back to Busking For Hearts!) Right, so, warnings are in call for. This story will have some darker themes, Lovino's potty mouth, lemon later, and I must warn you, this is slight shota. (This writer is now officially going to hell! Yay!) If there are any further warnings, I'll be sure to put them up before the Chapter begins! The rating willgo up to M in future chapters, so unless you are reading this when it is already rated M, be warned please :)

Anyway, please enjoy Busking For Hearts!

Chapter One

Winter is harsh, more in Europe than almost anywhere else in the world, being rather high on the northern hemisphere. Today was the coldest December day on record, snowing for the first time in many years. Not that I minded much, even if the layers of clothes I wore were rather pitifully unsuited for the weather. With the bitter cold and sharp winds of winter, the warm caress of summer follows, licking at your skin and heating your heart like the blazing beats of the drums played at festivals as you dance around a fire in celebrations.

Spain was always a beautiful country, and I loved it with all of my heart.

Being Spanish, it's almost natural to be a patriot, but it flows so naturally to me, to be so utterly devoted to and in love with my country. I'd cheer for my team in the FIFA, I'd be on edge all through Eurovision hoping that perhaps we would win this year, and when a foreigner came into my land and attempted Spanish, I could never be prouder that they had chosen my country over all those many others.

It was no different today.

The winds were particularly harsh, and snow drifted in little flakes across the streets, trees, buildings and my hair and clothes. My guitar caught a few of the crystallised beauties, though they melted with the warmth of my hands on the neck and strings.

Actually, to be telling the truth, I was rather cold.

A breeze swept along the street I sat on, picking up the snow, dirt and the occasional piece of rubbish that had settled on the pavement, carrying it past me. I shivered briefly but didn't cease the movement of my hands as I strummed the guitar to the melody in my heart. The instrument sung of warmth, beauty, joy and love, or… so I believed. That was the melody I heard. That was what it whispered to me with each pluck of the strings and glide of my calloused fingers along the slim neck of the instrument, making it call out beautifully to the evening air for all to hear.

Not many people were around. It was getting late, and everyone seemed to have developed a fear of the cold. Most had left the city by about half past three in the afternoon, and it was bordering six now. Actually, I wasn't quite sure- I couldn't see the clock from here and I had no watch on me. I could only ever guess by the position of the sun in the sky.

That was why I became extremely surprised to see a young boy, standing on his own, simply watching me on the opposite edge of the sidewalk I sat on.

At first, all he did was scowl at me, his little nose red from cold, face otherwise buried in the scarf wrapped around his neck. Tiny arms were wrapped around the small body, shivering quite vividly, yet the child made no attempt to leave for someplace warmer. After a while of watching me play my guitar, he seemed to realise that my eyes were resting on him. He had the most beautiful colour eyes, amber, or hazel; it was hard to tell from the little distance of a couple of metres, but they were a remarkable colour.

"Che cazzo, bastardo!"

Oh, my, what unexpected language from a child…

I smiled in response, laughing as I tilted my head, some snow falling from my dark brown waves and curls of hair.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, "Shouldn't you be at home in the warmth?"

My answer riled the little Italian boy, making him stomp a little foot, glaring foully at me. Actually, it was too cute to call anything but a pout, though his eyes narrowed at me as though he were trying to appear frightening.

"Fuck you!" he responded angrily, "I can be wherever the fuck I want!"

Ceasing in my strumming of cold steel strings, I let my guitar rest in my lap, legs crossed as I sat up a bit straighter, not leaning on the dirty wall behind me as much.

"You have quite a mouth on you for a little boy," I said in amusement, not even concerned when the little thing snarled at me, yanking down his scarf with a gloved hand to stick his tongue out at me.

"If you're not careful, your tongue will freeze off in this weather," I teased, receiving a rude little gesture in return.

"Fuck you!"

Sighing, my breath forming a translucent cloud before my lips, I gave a shake of the head, leaning back against the wall, adjusting the fingerless gloves I wore on my hands as a little shiver trickled down my spine.

"What are you doing here by yourself?" I tried again, studying the impatient shift of the boy's feet, his slightly hunched posture and that nervous and angry look in his eyes. Such a fiery child…

"What the fuck does it matter to you?" the boy huffed, crossing his arms once more as he began to rub them for frictional warmth.

"It's cold and getting dark. There are creepy people on the streets around this time, you know?" I warned with the same gentle smile.

"You mean creepy fuckers like you?"

Oh, ouch…

"How mean, no! Not like me!" I whined with a laugh, shifting a tad to stretch my long legs out before me, only vaguely noticing the child eying me warily. I was more focused on my poor legs which had begun to cramp from sitting in the same position for hours. But now, all stretched out, they were unprotected from the temperature by my body.

"Then I don't get what you mean," the boy grumbled, narrowed eyes trailing over me in a not so subtle inspection, "You look like shit."

That was one way to put my appearance.

I wore a worn light green turtleneck made of once thick cotton, a pastel green jumper with a hood hanging down my back atop of that, and a dark green long coat to top it off. My fingerless gloves were a faded black and beginning to tear at the hems, already having a hole in one palm from where it had caught on something some time ago. They went up just past my wrist, but the jumper sleeves thankfully covered just a little bit over my wrist to catch any chills. My pants were probably the part that made me look, as the boy had so delicately put it, "like shit". They were olive green, but ripped and frayed a bit at the hem and a bit dirty. There was a patch in the knee where I had haphazardly tried to stitch it back together and my bare ankles could be seen from the length, or, slight lack thereof. My poor feet were in no better condition, fitted in old once-were-black shoes that looked like they had certainly seen better days.

All in all, I wasn't the classiest looking man around right now.

"Why are you sitting on the fucking street like a loser?"

I smiled to the boy, brushing some of my bangs and snowflakes from my face.

"I'm busking," I replied easily.

A little eyebrow quirked, showing the boy was confused.

"What the fuck is that?"

I laughed at the bizarre sweetness of the puzzled voice. I couldn't help it—children were so cute!

"It's where you do something out on the streets, and people give you money if you're any good at it," I explained, holding up my guitar slightly, "I play the guitar and sing."

"Oh." It seemed the Italian got it. Taking a few small steps forward, the boy stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat, narrowing his eyes to glance into my guitar case.

"So you must play as shit as you look if the money is anything to go by."

My own eyes fell down to the rather pitiful quantity of money in the velvety ruby interior of my case, counting the few notes and coins to add up to something a little over fifteen Euros. Not the biggest I'd seen after a day of busking.

Laughing, I turned my attention back to the boy who was glaring at me once more.

"Not many people are out today. It's cold, so everyone has gone hiding in their nice warm and cosy homes," I explained, bending down and reaching over to tug the tongue of my slip-on shoe further up my foot, trying to protect the exposed skin from the bitter cold.

The Italian frowned, watching my hand briefly before looking back up at my face.

"So why are you still out here?"

Pausing for a moment, I gave a gentle smile to the boy, moving one leg so it was bent at the knee, foot on the ground, while the other crossed beneath my body. Resting my arm against me knee and holding my guitar close to me, I replied.

"It's because I'm a grown up. What about you? Where's your family?"

The boy's face soured right up again, glare directing itself at the ground at my feet. In all honesty, if looks could kill, the poor cracked cement would have a hole burnt in it. It seemed it wasn't a very nice topic for the child, so naturally I wanted to drop it, but, he was a child, after all, and children wandering about the streets of Spain alone, at twilight no less, was worrisome.

As a responsible adult, I couldn't let him just wander off by himself.

I kept my eyes on the flushed and angry face, and suddenly I was struck with the image of a tomato. I can't logically explain why it hit me so suddenly, but the cute little round face with chubby cheeks, flushed from cold and what seemed to be anger was utterly adorable.

"It's none of your fucking business, old man," he spat at me after a few moments of silence.

"I'm not old!" I protested, pouting myself.

The boy shot a scowl at me from the corner of his eyes, not turning his head to face me as he scoffed, his breath fogging before his little pale lips.

"You look it, grandpa."

"Aww, how mean! You're only saying that because you're little and young," I replied, my bottom lip jutting out further.

"I am not little!" The boy shouted as he turned his body to face me, stomping his little boot covered foot, shoulders hunched and a curious curl of hair twisting and becoming jagged to the left of a part in his hair.

"But you are! Look at you! I bet you're not even five years old~!" I teased with a light smirk.

"I am fucking too!" the boy shrieked back indignantly.

"No you're not~!"

"Yes I fucking am!"

"No way~!"

"I'm fucking eight, you old bastardo!"

I blinked in surprise. Eight? What was a little eight year old doing alone here?

"I'm eighteen."

It was only fair that I told him my age in exchange for his, even if I had cheated it out of him. Such a cute child…

"See, I'm not that old," I laughed, lifting a hand up to brush some snow from my shoulders, "Ah… And my name's Antonio. What's yours?"

Grumbling for a moment, the kid wrapped his long burgundy coloured coat around him tighter.

"Why do you care?" he asked with a frown.

I smiled, placing my guitar down in its case, covering the morsel of money I'd received that day.

"I'd like to know the name of the boy who I'll help home," I spoke as I closed the case, zipping it shut.

"No!"

Startled, I looked back up at the boy who had stepped forward, only to seem to halt himself.

"Just… I… Um…" Face flushing a bright red, the boy scowled to the side once more, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I don't want you to know where I live, fucking creeper."

Oh, was that the problem?

"I can take you to the police station and they can take you home instead?" I suggested, tilting my head, blinking innocently up at him.

"I said no!" the boy shouted at me, shoulders hunching and eyes shutting.

I can't really say that the next few moments were pleasant. They were filled with the awkwardness of his outburst, the whistle of the wind and the uncertainty of what to say next. I wasn't exactly sure what I could say, and thankfully, I didn't have to think of something to fill the silence, because he spoke up once more.

"S-So… You play the guitar?"

In that moment, even though I didn't quite understand it, I knew that maybe all he needed was to talk, if only for a while.

"Sí, I play the guitar. Want to hear me play?" I asked with a bright smile, taking the instrument back out from the case with care. I treat my precious guitar like it's made of fragile porcelain and glass, you know? It's my one most valued and loved treasure.

"No," he grumbled, though he took a step closer anyway as I set the guitar up in my lap with a smile.

"Do you have any favourite songs?" I asked, giving the strings a gentle strum with my fingers, looking up at the child.

Shrugging, he reached up a gloved hand to rub at his nose and frowned.

"I don't know. Just play what you were playing before, bastardo."

If he wanted to hear me play, then I would play for him. Picking up the song from where I had left it off, my guitar broke the stillness of the streets with melodious chords and sweet harmonies, blown away with the wind to be carried wherever they could. I kept my eyes on the boy, briefly studying his black pants tucked snugly past the cream fluff of his brown boots, his dark blue-black scarf wrapped thick and warm around his little neck, and the large and puffed out burgundy coat that was stopped above the knees.

Such a fancy brand name too, I could tell. It was high quality fabric, and undoubtedly expensive.

My eyes trailed back up to the boy's face as I played, admiring the small lips set downward, round cheeks dusted crimson with a little nose- small but straight- at the centre of his face, chilled from cold. His little eyebrows were drawn down into a scowl above his eyes, and now that he was closer, I could see the amber colour with flecks of gold and hazel. Such a unique colour… Strands of brown hair fell across his light olive skin, cut in a neat and short style, but what caught my eye about it was the wayward curl to the left.

It was such a curious strand, in a perfect curl at the end but otherwise straight and long, dipped slightly and faintly frazzled, more than likely from the wind.

I continued to watch as I played my song, smiling happily as the child took tiny step after tiny step closer towards me, as though he thought he was being subtle about it.

"Lovino."

I blinked up at him, a confused expression on my face, continuing to strum the frigid strings.

"My name… bastardo… It… It's Lovino."

Such a soft voice, but the name flowed with the notes and seemed to blend with the beauty of sun, warmth and wide open fields. It was like this boy—Lovino—was made for this song.

Suddenly, I found our surroundings very unfitting.

The snow that fell on our bodies was too cold, and the clouds overhead that darkened the sky to a deep blue-grey, obscuring the stars and moon, made too gloomy a backdrop. The streets were a cold and miserable grey, and the only warmth that could be found was the street lamps that emitted bursts of gold, scattered along the street and down the path that led into the park across the road, winding through trees and greenery.

It wasn't right, but it was still beautiful. The way that his face seemed to glow in the little light despite his frown and how he just stood out as something perfect in a city that was anything other than flawless had me entranced.

I loved Spain, I truly did, but I'd be fooling myself if I pretended that the streets weren't dirty with litter and cigarette butts and sometimes stained with graffiti.

"Lovino," I repeated, rolling the name off my tongue, smiling brighter as he twitched and scowled, cheeks flushing to the colour of a ripe tomato while I laughed, "What a beautiful name."

Amber eyes widened and an angry look deepened in the little Italian's face.

"C-Che cazzo! Fuck you bastardo! It is not!" he shouted, darting forward the last metre and a half to kick me in the shin. I let out a little yelp of surprise, ceasing the melody to grip my leg, watching as the boy ran off down the dark streets. I couldn't help but laugh.

Such a strange child…

… Thinking back… It was on that day… I must have fallen in love…

Thank you all for reading Chapter One of "Busking For Hearts"! If you want to see Chapter Two and the rest of this story completed, please leave a review! (Seriously, the amount of pushing we had to do to push this one to commit to writing something again and posting it up was a challenge. Without motivation, she stops and slacks off!) Either way, I'd love to know what you think! I'm a bit rusty on writing fanfics due to uni being busy and living out of home (and general slackness), but I'd love some constructive criticism if you have some! (Flames will be used to fuel our stove and oven to keep this one fed though.) Hope to see you next chapter guys! :)