And finally I got to start a fic about my OTP in Hetalia (Spamano it is. Really! I just…cheat on USUK and other random pairings sometimes. But only sometimes!) but this one's been sitting in my iPod for ages. Let it be warned that I have absolutely no control over where this story is headed, as is usual for me…And I haven't even gotten close to wrapping up my Bleach GinHitsu stories. I just can't resist the compulsion when faced with cute countries that are obviously gay for each other…

Ahem. Disclaimer: This story uses human names, and so has absolutely nothing to do with any real countries, people, militaries or governments. Well duh. I am, however, on a never ending internet quest to find a hint, any hint, that Himaruya is updating his website somewhere in the world. IT'S BEEN MONTHS, PEOPLE. I hope Himapapa is alright!

Also, I'm still technically underage. And definitely no bartender/keep. All and any reference to the art of drinking or making drinks are from what I gather from TV or that pretty iPod game, Bar Oasis. So have fun picking apart my nonexistent theories of logic!

The blue button at the end awaits reviews~

Bacchus has drowned more men than Neptune.

–Giuseppe Garibaldi

Antonio loved his bar. He had found it on a rare lonely night back in his last few days of college, when dusty and tired after hours of moving boxes out of the dormitory he decided a walk will be nice and refreshing. Strolling through the lamp lit streets near his new apartment, chin tilted up as he followed the full moon wherever it might take him, the desire for fresh air turned into one for a strong nightcap. It was not always that he was left to the quietness of twilight by himself, although Antonio knew there will be many more nights like this to come now that he had left the rowdy boys' dorms. He might as well enjoy the novelty while it lasted.

So he had spotted a faint flickering light over a door across the road, which simply read "BAR" as he got closer. Inside he found a dim room, lights hanging low over a counter and a few round tables scattered across the wooden floorboards behind it. Black-and-white framed pictures adorned the otherwise bare, dark green wall, showing streets and people of the old city, motorbikers on the road, a large house teetering on a cliff over some sea. Calm, relaxing jazz played quietly from the old speakers in the corner, filling the room with soft tones. It had more class than the bars he was used to, traipsed one after another, night after night with his best friends, but he was alone now and also old enough to drink without a certain French man's easy flirting to coerce the bartender into letting them stay.

The bartender himself was friendly enough, although he had a dazed expression and was definitely more of a listener than an asker. But that suited Antonio just fine, because he could see he was being paid attention to by the way the other man's dark eyes were boring into his under heavy lashes, and because he was a talker himself. One thing led to another, and soon the Spaniard was nursing his third whiskey shot – he'd learnt that he was definitely a lightweight after many a wild escapade, so he sipped the burning liquid carefully – feeling the heat in his body rise slowly and pondering aloud over his new rent, and the bartender had silently slid a "Help Wanted" sign from across the other end of the counter. And looked at him.

Antonio was not the actual owner of the bar, but he was certainly the one who spent the most time in it. It turned out that Mr. Karpusi, his boss, was fed up with having to keep long hours he could spend getting some decent sleep (somehow he had obliterated "working throughout the night" from the job description he had personally written up when he had set the bar up) and the only thing that had kept him from closing was the popular Irish pub some blocks away run – for some reason – by a certain Turk Antonio had been ordered to never mention, talk to, or even look at (although he was confused of how he was supposed to keep to that, seeing as he did not even know who the man was. Mr Karpsui said that he was easily recognizable, however, and refused to say any more on the matter). Antonio was, putting it lightly, a scapegoat from the endless nights and migraine-inducing customers; the bar of his dreams could be kept open, money will keep flowing, and there was still plenty of time to pay the debts off little by little, said Mr. Karpusi. Antonio decided not to ask further, as personal affairs are sometimes better off kept that way. In any case, his boss rarely made an appearance and never came on time when he did, so the young man, fresh out of college and emitting that sort of naïve, noobie sort of aura from his very being, was left alone with the keys and the glasses shortly after his employment.

At first, it had been because it sounded like an adventure. He was always willing to try new things! Besides if memory served, the nightly trips he, Francis and Gilbert had undergone were some of the best times of his college life, and now he got to relive them again every night! After a couple of weeks, however, he also remembered that on about 80% of those occasions they had all ended up being thrown out into the streets by the ear, Antonio sleep-talking – sleep-screaming – loudly in Spanish (¡Oh! Pero yo sólo estaba bromeando, señor diablo! Yo no realmente creo que se podría construir un puente durante noche! Me no quiero casar realmente contigo, mi amigo alemán aquí me dijo que debo rechazar con buen humor, así que pensé una broma podria uno lo animara. Haha que era una buena broma, ¿no? Haha!), Francis doing something with his eyelashes which were probably meant to be fluttering seductively as he tried to grope the man handling him, and Gilbert bawling his eyes out as he sobbed about either the rest of the world leaving him behind or spoilers of the most recent Prohibido Amor episode Antonio hadn't gotten to see yet. Yet even they had only started a brawl once or twice, usually drunk, often when insulted of their masculinity ("Non non, mon Cher, ladies do indeed dig the strawberry cologne! However, you are sadly mistaken if you still believe that practicing flower arranging will make you attractive." "What the hell! Flowers are awesome! And badass! Back me up here, Tonio!" "zzzzzzzz...") in which case was perfectly excusable, went out for some fresh air when asked to (if it got them free drinks), and learnt from their mistakes.

Not all customers were so pliant. The British regular who came in every Friday evening – sometimes already inebriated – for example, had two settings, and two settings only. Sometimes he would order shot after shot of whisky before crumpling into a sobbing mess over the counter, spitting and raising a ruckus whenever somebody (Antonio included) attempted to comfort him or get him to the cab waiting outside. Other times he would spend the night laughing raucously at something until tears beaded at the corner of his green, clouded eyes, and talked to himself, rambling on about some girl that apparently used him up for all he was worth before leaving him in the gutter to get him as miserable as this. The newly minted bartender figured out later rather than sooner that the most sensible thing to do was leave the thick-eyebrowed man alone until he passed out, and do his best to ward off any curious customers until then.

Like this, however, Antonio managed to get a hang of things. He learnt that what was most important for the business and his rapidly shortening lifespan (if the grey hairs he sometimes found were anything to go by) was not wheedling every last penny from the drunk, vulnerable customers – at least not allof them – but rather to keep a watchful eye on each of them separately, and try and estimate their maximum level of alcohol intake. Taking a leaf out of his boss's book, he made sure to be firm, yet gentle, to the poor tired souls who were attempting to see if they could drown their miseries within the spirits, to let them know when they were at their limits, and managed to convince them what he couldn't while they had been completely sober; that tomorrow will be a better day, and that even if it wasn't, he will always be waiting there behind the counter. He opted to listen to his customer's conversations, whether they had come in a group or not, so that it was possible for him to intervene when he heard the telltale signs of the beginning of a slur, or sensed the unstable emotions of an upset drinker reach its peak. Antonio grew to prefer talking drunks out of irresponsible actions over forcibly manhandling them, for the sake of actually getting paid for his job as well as keeping the blood and vomit off the dark floors.

Antonio's regulars gradually came to know him as the amateurish, cheerful bartender who nonetheless worked hard to get his customers exactly what they wanted, although at times it wasn't exactly what they had ordered. It was hard to get mad at him, however, once they understood that it was just the man's nature to act dense and absent-minded at times. It got even more difficult (and confusing, but everyone decided not to dwell too long on that) once they realized that his dense, absent-minded-ness was not applied to his perception of the customers moods, for Antonio was always quick to turn the mother hen on his more depressed drinkers, catering to their every need should they require it, and leaving them be if their eyes were lost into the depth of their glasses. One would think that a quieter, less intrusive (because try as he might, Antonio let too many things that were not his problem become too personal, and could never keep the smile off his face) bartender was more fit for the atmosphere of the simple bar – and frankly, those who left without a tip and a promise to come again did – but to most the perpetually cheerful, bright air that surrounded Antonio was more than infectious. It was better for all around to come to the conclusion that if they wanted serenity and still, uninterrupted peace there were other places they could go to. But Antonio, the handsome, foreign bartender who always had something to talk about and always seemed happy for their company, was a unique treat world-weary customers came to when all seemed dull and meaningless.

(It didn't hurt that he had nice arm muscles, too.)

(Unfortunately, none of these were proven to ever be effective on one British patron, who came to bitch every Friday night regardless.)

- X -

Up, down, through the loop. Pull it taut.

Antonio Carriedo was having a slow day. It was a Sunday, and the small pendulum clock on the wall would strike midnight any minute now. Earlier, the elbow of his shirt had snagged on something jutting out of the liquor shelves behind him and the counter, tearing the fabric and scratching a light red line across his dark skin. He'd spent a couple of minutes rooting around in his boss's drawers, searching for something to patch it up with, only blind trust that the absent Mr. Karpusi would prove himself useful in emergencies as he had time and again leading him (although why a man as easygoing and, well, buff would own a sewing kit was beyond him). Sure enough, he'd come up with a small pincushion stabbed with silver needles, hidden underneath a leather address book that seemed to have never been used, and after feeling around further he'd found some loose, dark blue thread as well. Praise be with Mr Karpusi.

Antonio had grown up with a younger brother and sister he was often left alone with, since both his parents worked – his father at a factory and his mother as a dry cleaner. His numerous cousins lived in the neighbourhood they first resided in, too, and a scruffy lot they were. He and his brother were content with playing with their sister's make believe games and dressing up in frocks for a tea party rather than deal with the cousins who always tried to pick fights, but then the second eldest of them tried to snatch Mr Woobie the Third from their sister in the sandpit. And nobody, nobody, messed with Mr Woobie the Third.

Anyway, the point was that Antonio considered himself quite deft with the needle after long years of fixing his and his siblings clothes, as he stretched his arm in front of him and stitched the seams together single-handedly, albeit a little haphazardly. He debated internally whether he should have searched for at least a lighter coloured thread, as the blue was stark against his otherwise spotless shirt sleeve, or if he should retire to the restrooms for a couple of minutes to do the job properly, where nobody would find him in such an awkward position. After all, that the looks were just as important as the skill in bartending were one of the first (and only) lessons Mr Karpusi had taught him. But it also wouldn't do to leave the bar unattended when it was open, and it was currently empty at the moment anyways. He could fix a tiny rip before anybody comes, Antonio reasoned.

But luck should have it that just as he was finishing up with a scraggly knot (he was deft, not neat), the heavy door to his left swung open. A creak and a soft gust of wind, accompanied by a low giggle and the clickety-clack of heels, was his only warning before he managed to cut the string with his teeth, store the needle under the counter and brush himself off, smile at ready as he turned to the customers.

Then the smile froze.

The owner of the giggle was glamorous enough; short black dress that gave a generous view of her thighs, little pale feet encased in high heeled shoes of some expensive brand, a mink jacket to complete the look. Under the makeup and the attire her features were delicate and well groomed, and her curled light hair rested on one shoulder as she hooked a few stray strands behind her ear. In one hand she held a black purse that seemed to be made out of crocodile skin, and in the other was the arm of a young, handsome man in a fitting suit, with rich auburn hair that lopped softly with every movement and pale skin that seemed illuminated in the semi-brightness and eyes that were amber against it and really, who was he kidding, the only customer Antonio was registering at the moment.

His lips were moving against the lady's crystal-pierced ear, soft-looking and pink and his tongue rolled in an accent that Antonio wasn't familiar with, but decided he liked.

"...looks adequate enough, I think," he was murmuring. "What do you say we have something nice and strong to go with that excellent dinner, warm ourselves up a little, and then–"

Dark eyes caught green ones, and he cut off unexpectedly. Something flickered, changed in his expression, but he did not continue with the soft melodious thing he had been doing with his voice (which Antonio thought would be nice to hear more of, because it had sounded low and in the small bar and even made Antonio shiver, though the words were obviously not directed at him). The lady had also been preparing to look as though she was enjoying it, but blinked at the sudden halt, and tried to glance at her partner from their awkward position.

Antonio got a fleeting thought that maybe he was making the man uncomfortable with his staring, but try as he might, he couldn't tear his gaze away from the figure across the counter. It was like there was something magnetic about him that refused to relinquish control of the Spaniard's eyes, and although that sounded a little silly, Antonio didn't quite mind because he was pretty sure there weren't many better things to look at.

He watched, utterly fascinated, as the man's cheeks started to colour in the cutest way, and he seemed to regain the strength to talk. "The-then we'll catch a cab," he said, flustered, stumbling on his words. "And call it a day, because – because I'm afraid I'm a bit tired, yes, long day and all."

"Oh?" the woman exclaimed slightly, and Antonio had to agree with the surprise in her voice. He could faintly smell the remnants of dinner from them, probably expensive (but he'd never had any of the sort, so that might have been his brain putting two and two together, with the dressing up, and the manner they held themselves, and how smart and princely the man looked, in particular, with that slick manner and thin waist and those smooth hands which...yeah) and although he couldn't call himself an expert on dating – when you had a friend like Francis, no one could – he was given the impression that dates that lasted as late as this usually ended in bed together. Perhaps the young did things differently nowadays.

As the man in the suit turned his full attention back to his pouting lady to stroke her arm and apologise hurriedly, Antonio found himself freed from the spell and shook himself, before moving to clean the glasses with a rag. He already had two glasses of red wine ready as the couple took their seats in the middle of the counter before him, and set them on top of the coasters he had prepared. The man turned startled eyes onto him, and Antonio relished it as he smiled warmly in the stare.

"It's on the house," he said. "It's probably not as quality as the ones you might be used to, but it's not always we get such happy, young people here."

The lady laughed prettily and thanked him, while the man simply ducked his head before taking the glass. Antonio stepped away, careful not to let his eyes linger on the burning cheeks (now that they were in closer proximity, he felt the awkwardness set in at his earlier actions). Busying himself with checking the drink shelves and trying not to fiddle with the torn elbow, he was suddenly self-conscious about his appearance, his surroundings, and caught himself listening into the couple's conversation as he kept his back turned away and his head down, slowly polishing his boss's best glasses.

There wasn't much to hear, though, as it was very much one-sided, if not forced. The lady was certainly trying, commenting on the wine as she washed it down her slender white throat and hinting heavily at what she would like afterwards, should her companion change his mind. But the man remained unresponsive to her sultry purrs or her arm when it snaked over to stroke his shoulder, and actually shook it off when it trailed across the back of his neck ticklishly. The bartender wondered what had happened to the bubble that had surrounded the two in their own world when they had first entered. The young man was only making a half-hearted effort to give noncommittal answering grunts, and the lady was getting visibly irritated, now that the initial confusion had worn away quite some time ago.

Antonio chanced a glance in their direction. The man was scowling into his drink, as though the dark liquid waiting encased in the clear glass had displeased him greatly in some way. The bartender wondered if he had served it wrongly somehow, when it was clear he was no sommelier and could only do his best by keeping the bottle at room temperature and pour from it. His companion had finally fallen silent, after realising that not even her best efforts at persuading him was going to work. She, too, sipped at her drink moodily, staring disgruntled at an imaginary spot on the counter and sighing and tossing her head at regular intervals.

Antonio began to feel sorry for the girl. She seemed to really like the man in the nice, fitting suit and even Antonio badly wanted to see the body underneath it. He knew what it was like to not have his affections returned, having gotten burned a few times when he could not restrain his passion enough to back off. He wondered, again, why the man was being almost deliberately mean to her – but then, everyone had their own reasons, didn't they.

After a while of tense silence in the small bar, the man got up to excuse himself for the bathroom. Antonio showed him the way through a small corridor that also lead to the back room, noting that the shadows made by the creases on his forehead had darkened, and that his face seemed slightly coloured, and puzzled over just how much alcohol the man had had in that one night. The woman watched her partner disappear round back with an almost hurt expression, before exhaling loudly, and set her small, jeweled bag on the counter with a thump. Antonio watched nervously as she took out her wallet and started fumbling with it.

"Um...you don't have to pay, ma'am, it was on the house," he said, trying to be helpful.

"It doesn't matter," she answered tartly, if only to cover her apparent misery. "You saw how he treated me. Happy couple, my ass."

She stifled a sob and hopped off the high stool. Antonio fretted about behind the counter, before grabbing a napkin and holding it out to her. She took it and dabbed at her eyes for a moment, then, still sniffing, tossed her head and pushed the cash across the counter.

"Just tell him not to call me when he comes back, please. Although I doubt he will even bother."

"Wait," Antonio called helplessly as she stalked towards the door. "Let me call a cab-"

"No, thank you," she replied bitterly as she leant her weight against the heavy door to open it. A draft of cold air slipped in through the gap.

He grabbed the money and darted around the counter, towards her, just as she was about to pass through the threshold. "Then let me at least put the drinks on his tab," he said softly, smiling at her widened glittering eyes. She stared at him for a long second, before a little smile crept up her lips as well and she looked down, blushing. She took the cash from him with delicate, manicured fingers.

"You're very...nice," she said, smiling a bit more boldly now and looking up at him through her lashes. Antonio felt quite proud of himself. He reached up and pressed a hand on the dark surface of the half-open door, holding it for the lady.

Before she let herself out, however (Antonio thought that she looked like she wanted to say something more), there was the sound of footsteps and her date appeared from the back, scowl still set in place. He stopped in his tracks when he caught sight of the bartender apparently leaning over his girl. They both stared back at him.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he asked, voice flat, and as Antonio watched fascinated his ears behind the brown locks turned an ugly shade of red.

Before Antonio could remember and relay the message the lady had asked him to pass on a minute ago to him, she cut in before him. "You're paying for the drinks, jackass," she said, curt and angry, and stalked off into the night without a second glance. The man gaped after her.

With a shrug, Antonio let the door swing back and moved to return to the bar, but instead found the air knocked out of him when the man barreled into him and held him to the wall, fists tangled in the collar of his uniform. He choked a little, before asserting himself and holding up his arms in a surrendering manner. He found himself to be taller than the infuriated man, so he looked down, bewildered, at the darkened, furious eyes, the lips pulled back into a snarl, revealing pearly whites.

"What did you do with her!" It was a near shout, and Antonio winced as the man pressed closer, looking almost mad in his fury. "Well!"

"Nothing!" Antonio yelped. The body before him was very, very warm and he desperately tried not to react to the lack of personal space, especially in such a situation. He kept his gaze trained straight into the other's angrier one to show some sincerity, and instead found himself rather captivated in those chocolate-dark orbs glaring at him. "She just left on her own! And – and she was trying to pay for the wine, so I was just giving the money back to her and showing her out, owowowthat'sallIswear! Please get your elbow out of my ribs!"

Dios mio, he's got muscle underneath that slender frame. So white, too...like as though he never goes out in the sun, although he'd probably glow in it. Those topaz flecks in his irises look the exact same colour as the Caola Ila... And those pants look like they're hugging a tight ass, mmhmm...

Fortunately (or perhaps not so much so), the man released him after a second's hesitation and stepped away, effectively pulling Antonio's mind out of the gutter and leaving him a little disappointed. He half expected him to stalk out after his girlfriend, without so much as another word, let alone a phone number. But then the young man huffed and made a sort of pout – he seemed to have done it unconsciously, given the circumstances – so that was okay. More than okay. Antonio slid down the wall a bit, dizzy.

"Yeah, well," he muttered, crossing his arms and half-turning away, "You'd better not, bastard."

He then stalked back to his stool, and flopped into it, glaring. His cheeks were pink for some reason, but Antonio suspected overexertion.

"Get back here, bastard. If I'm going to pay then I might as well order a drink for myself; the wine was mediocre at best by the way. Don't just sit there like a retard and do your job, idiota."

The bartender gladly leapt to his feet and scurried over back to the counter again, partly because like Mr. Karpusi always said, a grumpy customer was either a heavy drinker or a non-paying one (sometimes both) and it wouldn't do to keep them waiting either way, but partly because he was relieved to hear that he would get some time alone with this intriguing, well-dressed man. Up close, his features made him look as though he was just only reaching the peak of his youth and Antonio was rather reminded of his younger brother and his friends, who were still in school. He wondered if this boy was, too, despite how expensive and formal his clothes seemed to be.

"What will it be, sir?" he asked, reaching for the glasses on the shelf behind him.

The man gave an unconcerned sound. "Surprise me."

During the few minutes it took Antonio to prepare the drink, he took sneaking glances at the other man. He was staring off to the side, thin legs crossed beneath the counter, and still seemed sore about losing his date in such a manner (although Antonio privately believed he had had it coming). He could have sworn, however, that he could feel sharp eyes watching his movements at times when the drunk commanded his absolute attention lest he spoiled it.

He carefully placed the finished cocktail on a coaster and slid it towards the customer. "Martini," he said, slightly pleased with himself. He actually had confidence in this one, if only because his boss had made him practice it in the beginning – "Let's start...with...basics...a very...good place to...start..."– until they had almost run out of gin. He supposed it wasn't much of a surprise, but it was better than a disappointment in his mind.

But the man sniffed before he sipped, and made no comment about it as he turned the glass in his hand. Antonio waited, but when it became clear he was going to get neither praise nor ridicule, which meant he wasn't going to get sued or anything (Antonio Carriedo liked to think himself as a positive man), he turned away with a small sigh, and picked up a rag.

"So where's home for you?" he asked cheerfully, cleaning the finished wine glasses.

"What?"

He gestured with the cloth and smiled brightly. "You're foreign, right? It shows a little. I mean, I'm not from around here either, so it's always interesting to meet people like me! Like, this one time, this guy from Rus-"

"Italy," the man cut in, still glaring into his glass as he shifted it in his fingers. "I came in from Rome a couple months ago, if you must know."

Antonio brightened up even more, if it were possible. "Wow! Italy? I've never met a real Italian before! I mean, there were these kids in my old class who were always wearing some nice looking clothes and shiny watches, but they were just from the neighbourhood. But Italy's a lot closer to home for me. I'm from Spain! I used to live there when I was younger, you know. See, my uncle got a place a few towns over and–"

The Italian snapped his head up. "Weren't you quieter a few minutes ago?"

"Would you rather I was? Sorry, I get asked things like that a lot. It's just that you're new, and I'm curious! This is a pretty small place, see, and most of the regulars have other things to do, usually, at this time in the week. But the boss only keeps guys who're ready to forfeit their weekends on, and I reallyneed the money to pay my rent and stuff. Also, I have to keep my tomato plants alive. I'm Antonio, by the way!"

The Italian had reached up and started pinching the bridge of his nose as Antonio introduced himself, as though he might have been developing a headache. Antonio couldn't fathom why, but experience had taught him to recognise the symptoms and decided that the man had, indeed, had too much to drink beforehand. But as he reached underneath the counter for a cool, sympathetic cloth, the Italian raised his head from his drink. He had a larger, heavier scowl set, which spelt brawlerall over his face and was oddly reminiscent of the one the British guy often wore, and Antonio wondered if the alcohol was already getting to him. He didn't really want to manhandle the boy, though. Maybe he could get him to sip some water before he did anything rash.

But instead, the Italian opened his mouth, and with a dark blush that crept quickly from underneath his collar, said:

"You grow tomatoes?"

Tsundere is tsundere is tsundere XD I wonder what exactly I'm going to do with this story. And all the other ones I have kept in line behind this…

Perhaps the big blue button below could decide that for me. Reviews~ Please!

Oh, and I've never studied Spanish before! So I'm really, really sorry that (not if) the Antonio-sleeptalk thing makes no sense. It's not exactly relevant but more of a shout out to Volume 4, page 102. Hey, my only friend was Google Translate!