A/N Ciao, everyone and welcome to my first multi-chaptered Spain/Romano fic. Thank you so much for clicking on this! Anyway, *official cough* I suppose I should get the warnings out of the way. This piece is rated M for a reason.

Warnings: Romano's mouth, torture (both implied and not, there'll be more of this in later chapters) and boyxboy (obviously).

Pairings: Spamano, DenNor and SuFin are the only ones I have planned though I may add PruHun in as well.

Romano liked the system he and Spain had fallen into. It was simple, it was easy and it was something he had grown to depend on these past few years. Sometimes (though he would never admit it) Romano had wondered if there could be something more beyond this but old insecurities quickly pushed those thoughts to the back of his head.

Whenever Germany came over to visit or Romano was feeling upset for some other odd reason, he left the house quietly (one-sided screaming matches with Germany had ceased to provide entertainment), got in his car and drove the many miles to Spain's house where he knew warm hugs, tomatoes and a plate of churros were waiting for him. No matter how busy, the older nation would never turn him away and would always listen to his rants and dry his tears before ushering him out into the tomato fields where together they would tend to them and talk. After weeks of this quiet ritual they knew nearly everything about each other, things Romano had been too embarrassed to admit when he was younger and things Spain had not told him for fear of being hated by his little henchman.

And sometimes (well, rather often actually) Romano found himself spending the night at Spain's house. Sometimes Romano just couldn't go home because he knew an empty eyed German would be there, latched to his brother's side and pretending to love him when everyone knew (except for Veneziano himself) that he had not loved him since the end of WWII.

Spain was there for him in the middle of the night, when Romano cried openly because he knew that one day his fragile little brother's heart would be broken and there was nothing he could do. And on some days, when Romano hardly even bothered sprinkling his speech with the usual profanities that were his trademark and he was feeling particularly open, Romano would tell Spain his deepest and ugliest fear: the fear that one day Romano would disappear because, really, who needed two Italies anyway?

His old caretaker stroked his hair and whispered to him that he had nothing to fear because as long as he knew someone loved him, he couldn't disappear and Boss Spain loved Romano more than anything else in the world. More than tomatoes, more than turtles and more than New World gold.

And when Spain cried (however rarely that occurred) Romano was there to offer soft words of forgiveness as the nation's body shook with the sins he had committed in the name of progress and riches and promise him that he would love Spain, too, no matter what he did and how many curse words he threw at him. There were hundreds of guest rooms in Spain's house but neither Romano nor Spain ever slept alone.

And so when Spain first kissed him, it came as no surprise to Romano. In fact, he welcomed it with the air of someone who has waited a long time for a prize and discovered it was most certainly worth the wait. They were countries, so they had time enough to let love grow slowly, nourishing it like the tomato plants they both loved so much.

He didn't taste like tomatoes, as Romano had sort of expected, but he couldn't find it within himself to be disappointed. He tasted deep and earthy and behind that softness he could detect the bitterness of gunpowder and the metallic flavor of gold. It was perfect and entirely Spain. Romano wondered briefly if Spain could taste his history as well. Perhaps all nations tasted of their pasts.

The kiss was chaste but long, each unwilling to pull away from something they had both wanted for far too long. Romano found himself disappointed when Spain finally broke the kiss, gasping for air. He placed his warm hands around Romano's face, smoothing away tears he had not even been aware of.

"I love you, Romano."

Somehow those words meant so much more than the ones whispered at in the dark beneath the bedcovers as they helped each other struggle through the night. It wasn't just an 'I love you', for that had already been established.

It was an 'I need you, I want you, I want you here with me forever. I want you to hold me and never ever let me go."

And Romano's reply, "I love you too, you bastard," was so much more than that.

It was an "I will never let you go if you promise to do the same for me."

After that, Romano stopped going home at all.

Two Months Later

"Remember to give Ita-chan a hug from me, alright Romano? I'll miss you!"

"Yeah, yeah, you won't be missing me much if you don't even let me make it to my car," mumbled Romano from his place sandwiched against Spain's chest. Not that he particularly wanted Spain to let him go or anything. The car didn't really seem all that important right now.

"Oh, sorry," Spain chuckled sheepishly, releasing his little tomato from his grip. Romano immediately felt cold.

Lovingly, Spain arranged Romano's scarf around his neck and straightened his jacket, fingers lingering a little too long on the hem. This would be the longest Spain and Romano had been away from each other since they had started officially living together. For all they cared, one week might as well have been two years.

He planted two brief kisses on Romano's cheeks and one slightly longer one on his lips that the younger nation sighed into happily. "Mm . . . I love you Spain." The words were quiet but Spain heard them all the same.

"I love you, too Romano," he grinned. "Call me if you need anything, alright?"

"Of course, idiot," Romano replied, breaking away before he could be detained any longer and walking to the car. With one last wave and a blown kiss, he was gone, pulling out of the driveway and speeding recklessly down the road.

Spain watched until his love's fashionably red car was out of sight before walking back into the house with a sigh. He missed him already.

Later, Romano would curse himself, wondering if maybe things would've turned out differently if his traitorous stomach hadn't forced him to pull over at that little café in that equally little town whose name he had long since forgotten. But then he would realize that the events had been so perfectly planned, so perfectly calculated that there had been really no way of avoiding them. Even if he had stayed at Spain's house for the rest of his existence, they would have gotten to him eventually.

Romano parked his car on the curb and slammed the door open (to announce himself of course), stepping daintily up onto the sidewalk. The café wasn't really much to look at. There were a few plastic tables scattered haphazardly in front of it, most of which seemed like they hadn't been used in a long, long while. The shop front was . . . tacky. Or 'quaint' as Spain would probably put it.

Shaking his head to banish thoughts of the bastard from his head, (there was no way he was missing him already) he pulled open the door to the shop with a jingle.

The interior was as equally quaint-tacky- as the exterior. And also equally empty. Romano looked around in confusion. The sign on the door had clearly read 'open'.

"Are you lost?" A voice said from behind him. Romano froze. He knew that voice. Before he could figure out what that meant for him, a suspiciously wet cloth was being pressed against his nose and Romano felt his eyes slipping closed of their own accord.

"I'm sorry, Romano," a voice hissed in his ear before everything went black.