Title: Loser Nation
Genre: Comedy
Rating: R for swearing
Warnings: If you need warnings you are a pansy.
Loser Nation
"This is fucking outrageous! Insane! What the hell is this, you fucking bastard?"
Spain had found a new mole, or a freckle perhaps, that had caught his interest, his smile like a Picasso portrait as he scrutinised the mark on Romano's hand. His fingers were long and dark, the colour of milky coffee, nails trimmed, filed and pale pink. Not a mark all the way up to his shoulder but for a single brown dot.
The Sunday mornings spent lazing bare foot on the soothingly hot patio with his beloved companion were Spain's favourite, weekend newspapers spread across the table, ink bleeding with peach jam and marmalade spots. The cafe con leche was stewing much like the fervent Italian sitting across from it, aroma of walnut enticingly drifting across the terrace, strong enough to wake the dead.
Romano splashed hot milk into his cup, half hitting the target, half mixing with the peach and ink concoction on the table. He didn't finish the article he was reading, rolling up the newspaper to wave threateningly under Spain's nose. Spain's eyes eagerly followed the little spot. "Don't you go getting any ideas about me being poor you son-of-a-bitch. Do you hear me? I am not poor. These bastards don't know anything about me. Statistics. Pah!"
If Spain had been a crueller man, he would have noted how many years Romano had spent living under his roof, his protection, eating his food and generally loafing around like a homeless sponger. Instead he recalled happy memories, the child with tomato cheeks sourly glaring up at him whenever he didn't get his own way – or when he did. Romano's expression rarely altered. Hours wiled away cooking, singing, swimming, dancing. Though Romano rarely joined in, grumbling in whichever adopted corner that Spain was a 'stupid bastard' with 'stupid bastard ideas' and there was no way he was going to prance about like his brother did.
"Do you have any idea how bad this makes me look, you bastard?" he grumbled, taking no notice when Spain leaned towards the table, nearer to Romano's clenched fist. "Fucking Eurostat. Who the fuck are they anyway? No wonder the PM fucking left them the fucking idiots."
Spain wondered why it had appeared - the mole – when Romano hadn't a blemish on him. Hours had been spent staring at his skin, investigating every inch. Aside from a pimple or two, Romano had faired well during his teenage years, cocoa smooth and syrup soft. This was no bigger than the lightest dab of a ballpoint pen, perfectly round and dark. A delicate drip of chocolate.
"You will never be fucking better than me, bastard. You know that, don't you? Never."
Romano tore a chunk from his toast, chewing it noisily. "S'a fuckin' joke'. Got 'alf a min' to speak t'editor! Bastard."
He swallowed as noisily as he had eaten, tossing the remaining toast onto his plate. It missed, sliding across the table to leave a strip of pinkish jam. "Did a Spanish person write this? Who the fuck wrote this?"
Spain blinked when his new favourite area of skin was snatched out of his view, the newspaper rolled out on the table. "Well, who the fuck is that? A nobody, that's who. It's all lies."
The paper was subsequently screwed up into a ball and tossed to the floor. He picked up the magazine that came with it, turning to the second page, rustling it and taking a breath. Spain tilted his head, index finger poised to prod the teasingly tiny mole as though it would activate his—
"And another thing!" Romano cried, head appearing over the top of the magazine. "My prime minister was an economics professor! That stands for something, doesn't it?"
Spain grinned and jabbed once. Twice. A third time for luck.
Romano blinked, lowered the magazine and glanced quickly between his hand and Spain.
"What...what are you doing?" he muttered, turning his hand to inspect it. Spain's cheeks exploded with colour. He sat back in his seat, nonchalantly lifting his coffee to his lips.
"Nothing, little Roma," he said cheerfully, grinning behind his cup.
Romano pursed his lips, tracing circles around the area of skin that had been so haplessly abused. Cautiously, nervously, holding his hand in his lap, he said, "You were doing something, bastard. What? Are you just being a fucking weirdo again? What's your fucking problem?"
Spain sighed, deliciously amused. "Just noticed something cute," he answered, stirring a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. It fizzed and frothed excitedly.
Romano clenched his fist. "So all this time I was trying to have an intelligent conversation with you and you were staring at my fucking hand? You're such a fucking creep," he snapped, covering his hand with the other. Spain was nonplussed, finger following the path of his eyes as he read. Cheeks redder than before, Romano lifted his hand to narrowed eyes. Swallowing, he mumbled, "Seriously,
what were you looking at?"
Spain moved quicker than Romano had ever known him to, carefully grasping his fingers. "Look," he insisted, capturing the mole between his thumbs. "You have a mole. It's so cute, look at it."
Romano shouldn't have been surprised, nor should he have been embarrassed by the display when Spain had been doing these kinds of things since the day they met. "It's just a mole, idiot," he said, though he leaned nearer, skin tingling where Spain's fingers were touching. "What's cute about it? It's practically cancer."
Spain pouted, blowing air onto his favourite little melanoma. Heat crept up Romano's arm, the slow warming of water trickling from high mountains. It pooled in his belly, soothing. "I think it's cute. You don't have to."
Romano snapped out of his daze when soft lips grazed his skin, snatching his hand free. "What the fuck is wrong with you, you stupid, fucking-bastard-fucking-creepy...creep! This is why you will never be better than us, Spain! Because you're a bastard. That's why!"
"That isn't really a reason, cute Romano," Spain mumbled, his smile widening. Romano glowered.
"But if you say so, then I believe you."
"Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up! Don't patronise me!" Romano yelled, flustered. "I'm not a kid! You can't placate me! You can't tell me what to do!"
"Of course not."
"Stop it!"
Spain was smacked across the head by a rolled up magazine before Romano flounced into the house, yelling, "fucking bastard!" at the top of his voice. Doors slammed in his retreat, something shattered and Spain sighed, brushing his lips with his finger. The sun lazily rolled between wisps of cloud until afternoon had arrived. It wasn't until the remnants of breakfast had been cleared away and lunch had begun that Romano skulked downstairs, plonking himself in a sun lounger that normally remained in the shade.
"Oi," he said to Spain as he brought out a tray of juice and two bowls. Spain smiled over at him, perfectly cheerful as if their altercation had been a dream.
"Yes?" he said, pouring him a glass of juice before sitting down beside him.
Romano shuffled, middle finger rapidly tapping the side of his glass. "This mole," he said, nodding towards it. Spain cocked his head. "M'not...m'not gonna' get cancer and die, am I? What's it there for? Have I been getting too much sun?"
It took great resistance not to laugh at Romano's naivety. For an adult, he was certainly dense at times. Instead Spain patted his arm and shook his head. "No. You're not going to get cancer and die.
It's just a mole."
Romano thought this over and then with a resigned nod, he muttered – very quietly – 'thank you'. Taking this to be a sign he could, he ruffled his hair and got to his feet, continuing to set the table for lunch. A bowl of fruit, afternoon coffee, more juice, fruit. Something with chilli and peppers was bubbling in the kitchen. As Spain walked inside to investigate, he heard the faintest voice whisper,
"M'still better than you. Bastard."
Spain laughed. Some things never changed.