KissMeDeadlyT-T: Alright, so I've had major Writer's block and depression lately, which combined pretty much spells out like the worst thing ever for an author. If anyone who reads this has read and is waiting for the next chapter on any of my other things, I'm really sorry, I'm working on them, as much as I can everyday.

About this: This is something I found in my folder and decided to go with, because I'm trying to get over this damned phase in my life and get back on track. Also, since I am sick as all fuck with a fever, I thought I would have some inspiration for this. It is going to be more than one chapter, but I already have chapter two almost done and a general idea for what is going to happen in chapter three.

-Warning: Well, the rating might go up. I'm not sure, but there may be a smut thing in this. It depends how chapter three goes. So for now, all I can say is that there is some sexual themes and Romano's language, but if you don't like smut, just be warned that it may occur later. That is all ^^

-I don't own Hetalia and I sadly never will. (By the way, did you guys know there is going to be a fifth season sometime in 2013? YEEEEE)

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Have you ever had a fever that just wouldn't go away? One that festered in your lungs and made you cough your throat raw and wouldn't let you keep any food down? One that caused shivers to tingle up your spine even as you are sweating buckets and your skin is like hot coals to the touch?

It's a pain, right?

"Tell me about it," Romano muttered to himself, answering the thoughts his inner voice had been narrating for whatever reason. He shoved his sweaty bangs out of his face and shifted, trying to get comfortable on the bed that he'd been stuck in for almost six days now. "Dammit," he grumbled, throwing the blankets and sheets off of himself as his body temperature decided to spike yet again and make him feel as though he was standing on the surface of the sun. As he was moving, a wave of nausea rolled over him, and he closed his glittery hazel eyes, forcing the regurgitated tomatoes and crackers from earlier back down. He had a bucket beside his bed, just in case, but he really didn't want to throw up again; his throat was burning enough as it was, thank you.

What he did want, however, was a glass of water to soothe that raw, parched throat. He grumbled to himself again. Like hell he was going to get up when he felt like this. Normally, he'd call for his brother, but since Veneziano had decided to have that Potato Bastard, Japan, Greece and a few other countries Romano could care less about over, the Italy household was full. Plus, Romano did not want to be in the same country, let alone house, as all those couples that were most likely going at it every night, so he'd left in a fit of anger and ended up wandering the streets with nowhere to go. Eventually, after passing a tomato stand, he'd (unwillingly) decided to see if Spain would let him stay there for a week or so, and to his partial resolute dismay, the tomato-loving Spaniard had agreed right away.

It was weird to be back in that house after leaving it so long ago, but for some reason (he'd never admit it), he was happier and more relaxed in the familiar place than he was in his own home. Spain was all touchy-feely and squealing about how cute and tomato-like Romano was, as usual, but deep down inside it made him happy, since Spain was the one person who treated him as equal, if not superior to his younger brother. Spain made him feel loved.

Of course, being himself, he'd never admit that to anyone. Ever.

To top off with having to deal with that fucktard's paedophilic, overly-affectionate, but somehow comforting ways, Romano's immune system had decided to peace out (probably because of some civil arguments within his country) and allow him to get sick with the worse flu he'd had since... well, decades, maybe centuries ago, back when he'd actually been living as a child with Spain. His brother was probably feeling it too, or at least he hoped. He didn't like suffering alone, and plus this was all Veneziano's fault anyways. Stupid little brother inviting Potato Bastards and such to their humble abode, where no Potato Bastard should ever put his filthy potato-loving foot into.

Dammit, his throat was still burning even after all that inner raging and ranting. He didn't want to call for Spain, though, and seem like the helpless child he used to be. Eventually, though, his thirst got the better of him and he croaked, "Spain!" He cringed at the patheticness of it. He sounded like an old dying toad. He coughed a few times and swallowed, attempting to wet his throat, then tried again. "Spaaaaiiin!" he whined. "Come heeere!"

"Un momento, Romano!" Spain's voice called back from the lower floor, where the clinking of pots and pans could be heard. Romano grumbled, falling back onto the pillows, and started to shiver again. He was soaked in cold sweat, his loose red PJ pants loose around gleaming hips and his shirt tossed to the side long ago. He debated whether or not to put the blankets back on; since when he did, he always got really hot a few moments later. Another shudder tore through him, and he decided fuck it, and reached to pull them back up. Spain's scent overwhelmed him, and for a moment, all he could do was sit there in a daze, before finally shaking himself out of it.

He was just getting curled up, wincing at the dull aches and pains that shot through him from the movements, when Spain's curly brown haired head peeked in through the door. "How are you feeling, mi tomate?"

Romano was feeling so miserably shitty that he didn't even kick up a fuss about that little tedious nickname. "I'm fine," he lied, because he didn't want to seem too annoying. Spain's green eyes studied him dubiously.

"You don't look fine," he said, opening the door all the way and leaning on the frame. The top three buttons of his white collared shirt were undone, and made the caramel-coloured skin underneath look even darker in contrast. He was wearing tight black jeans that hugged his hips perfectly, and he was holding a set of keys in his left hand.

Romano flushed, although he wasn't sure why. He blamed it on his fever. "Are you going somewhere?" he asked, mostly to change the subject, partially because he didn't want Spain to leave.

Spain nodded. "I was going to go pick up some groceries, and some more antibiotics for your fever."

"Oh... I'm fine, don't—"

"You're clearly not fine, Lovino."

Dammit... Spain only said his human name like that when he was serious. Romano sighed, uncharacteristically passive. "Okay, I feel like complete shit. Happy?"

"Not at all," Spain frowned. "I can't be happy when someone I care about isn't feeling well."

Romano felt his cheeks warm and had to push the blankets off a bit, until they were just covering his legs. He hated the way that his heart did a stupid little flutter at Spain's nonchalant admission that he cared for Romano, that the idiot had no idea how much that one statement meant to him. Spain was really annoying, but he was special, and Romano wouldn't admit that he was the one person he cared for and could actually tolerate without wanting to bash his head into the nearest chainsaw. He cleared his throat, blushing, and gruffly said, "Water. Can I have some?"

Spain nodded and went off, returning moments later with a glass of water in his hand. He walked over to Romano's bedside and handed the sick nation the glass, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching Romano with worried eyes. Romano ignored the stare, gulping down the cold water. When he was done, he placed the glass on the night table, still avoiding Spain's scrutinizing stare.

"It's still pretty bad, huh?" Damn, his lisp was just adorable. Romano liked to think that it was the fever making him think that, but he'd always found it sort of endearing.

He shrugged. "It's getting better," he lied. Spain looked at him doubtfully. "What?" Romano snapped defensively. "I'll be fine in a day or two."

"None of the medicines are doing anything, are they? You've been stuck in my room for days."

"Are you not listening? I said I'm fine."

Spain ignored him again, placing his cool palm on Romano's forehead. The younger hissed at the contrasting temperatures, but he had to admit that the coolness felt good on his fiery skin. The contact made his heart flutter, and the way Spain was leaning closer to him made it start beating erratically against his ribcage, like it was trying to escape. He started to sweat again and threw the blankets off completely, kicking them off of the bed with his feet before flopping back onto the bed.

"It's just the fever that's left, right?"

Romano started to protest that he was fine again, but decided against it. Begrudgingly, he mumbled, "Sort of. I still have a bit of a cough, I think, and my stomach won't keep much down. But it's mostly just the fever."

Spain's frown deepened, his forehead creasing in worry. He gently pushed Romano's dark brown hair out of feverish eyes, and the locks in between his fingers were damp with sweat. "It's been nearly a week now. Maybe you should go to the hospital."

"No!" Romano protested, cringing at the thought of some old dude in a white suit with gloves approaching him. "It'll go away on its own. Don't get a doctor."

"But they can help—"

"Get a doctor, and I'll kick you somewhere a man should never be kicked. Plus, I'm a country. I don't think they have doctors for us."

Spain winced, but rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine. But what are we going to do? We've tried everything I can think of; antibiotics, soup, cold baths, sleep; but your fever won't break."

"How should I know, dammit?"

"I don't know... Lo siento, Romano. I wish I knew how to help you..." Spain's face drooped with sadness. Romano squirmed a bit, unsure what to do.

Finally he just said, "It's not your fault, so don't be sorry."

Spain smiled sadly at him. "I know. But I can't help worrying about you." He stood up. "I can go ask people if they know a way to get rid of a fever while I'm out doing the groceries. Do you need anything else before I go?"

"Uh... another glass of water, I guess. And an Advil."

Spain nodded and grabbed the empty glass from the night table, smiling once at Romano before heading into the bathroom across the hall. Romano heard the taps turn on and the swishing sound of water filling up the glass, a strange sort of fuzzy warm feeling spreading through his chest. It wasn't a heat rush from his fever; it was something different, something that Spain's worrying and caring made him feel. He flushed when Spain walked back into the room, that sad smile still on his face.

The glass was set on the night table with a muted 'clunk', along with the tiny blue painkiller, and Spain bent down to press his hand against Romano's hot forehead again. Romano shut his eyes, his lips trembling for some reason, his heart beating unnaturally quick. He hadn't really noticed earlier, but Spain smelt really good today; he must've spent a good amount of time in the tomato fields, because he smelt almost good enough to eat. Something heated up deep in Romano's core.

Something soft pressed to the bridge of his nose, right between his eyes. He opened them tiredly and was shocked to see Spain's face right in front of his, and saw with a heart-thudding realization that Spain was kissing him, pressing his lips softly against his nose as an apology for something he couldn't help but desperately wished he could. Romano didn't know why he didn't scream and kick the bastard in the face, but instead let his eyes flutter back shut and his cheeks tint pink, heart beating even quicker against his chest. His body relaxed and he suddenly felt very sleepy. He found himself struggling to stay awake.

"Rest now, mi tomate," Spain said softly, pulling away. "I'll be back in a bit."

By the time Spain shut the door quietly and left, Romano was already fast asleep.

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Spain was sitting in the front seat of his bright red car, scrolling through his contacts list and cursing under his breath. He should probably be heading home, since he had some groceries that shouldn't be sitting under the sun, but he didn't really care about that right now. No one was picking up the phone! He didn't know who to talk to and ask for advice on getting a fever to break, since the pharmacy had stupidly decided to be closed and Romano was firmly against going to the doctor's.

"Mierda," he grumbled, scrolling up to the top again. Maybe he'd missed someone.

Austria was out with Hungary, and he was no help in that field anyway. Belgium wasn't answering her phone, and neither were Monaco or Netherlands. Prussia was... well, he was Prussia, and he was busy trying to figure out the best way to beat Canada in a game of hockey. Romano was obviously out of the question, Germany had his hands full with Veneziano, and Greece was sleeping. Japan had suggested everything they'd already tried, and everyone else was either partying and getting drunk or hungover and too fucked up to help in any way. He sighed, slumping down in the leather seat.

People walked by, pushing their shopping carts and staring occasionally as though wondering why a young man would be sitting in his car in the grocery store parking lot, cursing and mumbling to himself as he stared at his iPhone. He wondered why. It wasn't that uncommon...

He was about to throw the phone at the window when he scrolled past a name he had somehow missed the dozen or so other times he'd gone through the list. How the hell did he manage to skip this name? He stared at the screen for a few moments, wondering if it was even worth it. He sighed once more. Well, no one else was helping, what else was there to lose?

The number dialled and he waited as patiently as he could as it rung and rung. He was about to hang up, cursing under his breath, when the telltale 'click' of the phone being answered stopped him.

"Hey, France?" he said immediately, not even waiting for a greeting. "I need your help."

There was no answer for a moment save for a string of curses and then a very pissed off, muffled, "Why would you answer the phone now of all times, you bloody frog?" The voice was very crisp and annoyed, and it sounded disturbingly breathless. Spain chewed his bottom lip, unsure whether to laugh or cry from the image that was forming in his head of what he seemed to have interrupted. He usually wasn't very good at assessing the situation, but this one was pretty obvious.

"It's Antonio! He's a little bit stupid! He might be bleeding in a ditch somewhere!"

"I don't give a damn about that—"

"Shhh! He'll hear you, stupid," France hissed. Clearer and directed towards Spain this time, he said, "Bonjour?"

"Sorry, am I interrupting?"

"Bloody right you're interrupting, you filthy piece of—"

There was more muffled movements and a few French curses, and then France said breathlessly, "Non, do not worry. It's just Arthur, we were just... ehm, having tea, and you know how he loves his tea."

"Errr...right," Spain answered lamely. "I'm sure he does love his... tea. I'll make this quick." Mostly so that he could blissfully stop hearing Britain's muffled yelling and annoyed curses and France's occasional grunts as he struggled to keep the temperamental country under control. "Lovino is muy enfermo—very sick—with a fever, and I don't know what to do. We've tried everything I can think of, but nothing is working," he said frustratedly. "I was just wondering if you have any suggestions."

France made a 'hmmm' sound, and then suddenly did his signature perverted chuckle. Spain had a strange feeling France's suggestion was going to be questionable to Romano's tastes. "What, Francis?" he asked impatiently as the French man continued to chuckle.

"You have tried to sweat it out, non?"

Spain paused. "What? What do you mean?"

"You've never heard of it?" France sounded amused. "It's pretty simple, Toni. The trick is that you're not actually sweating out the fever, but the cause of the fever. The viruses and stuff that cause the fever die at a temperature higher than normal body temperatures—which is why you have the fever in the first place, it's your body's way of fighting of the bacteria. If you increase his body heat enough, it'll kill off those viruses quicker than it normally would, and his fever would break." He finished with a little hum, and Britain's muffled cursing could be heard.

Spain blinked in surprise. France... had actually said something intelligent that made a lot of scientific sense. He smiled excitedly. "Ah, gracias! Great! I'll just make him sit in a bunch of blankets and stuff! Thanks, France!"

France's smirk was evident in his voice. "Why would you do that? There are funner ways to make one sweat, non?"

"Huh?" Spain asked obliviously. "Like what?"

Instead of an answer, what Spain got was a shuffling movement as France did his laugh, and then Britain suddenly choked out a cry of pleasure.

"Hey! Y-you're still on the pho—ahh!"

"Oh hon hon hon~"

"Francis—goddamnit, g-get off the phone!"

Spain turned red up to the tips of his ears as France said, "You get the idea?"

"Got it," he said quickly. "Thanks France I'll talk to you later have fun bye," he blurted without breathing between words. He hung up and threw his phone to the side, rubbing his hands on his face. Thanks to France, his overly-imaginative mind was now taking him places he hadn't dared to go except in the safety of his own room at night, and he was now sporting the beginnings of a very painful erection at the images flying through his head. Ones that he very much wanted to try, but knew would probably cause Romano to murder him in the most gruesome of ways. He groaned.

"Stupid Romano," he muttered. "Why are you so stubborn? I could make you feel so good..."

That statement made his imagination go off the deep end again. A very convincing image of a blushing Romano, drooling mouth open as he gasped for air and moaned Spain's name and stared up at Spain with seductive Italian eyes ran through his head, and he couldn't stop the tiny whimper that bubbled up his throat. He slapped himself, firmly changing the course of his thoughts, and willed the arousal thrumming through his body to calm down. Once he was settled down enough to concentrate, he bit the insides of his cheeks and put the car in ignition. Despite France's pervertedness, the man actually had a point, and Spain supposed it couldn't hurt to try. Try his original idea with the blankets, that is— he wasn't about to attempt to seduce Romano into anything. He liked having his dick where it was and not in pieces on the floor.

Jaw set in determination, he backed out of the stall and tore out of the parking lot, tires squealing as he sped down the streets of Madrid back to his house.

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KissMeDeadlyT-T: Aw yeaah France being a pervert. Anyways, how was this? Does anyone want more? Or do you wish for me to go crawl into a hole and die and never, ever write again? Please leave a review, and let me know!