This fic is so homosexual. Fffff.

The sun was beginning to dip lazily towards the horizon, burning the sky in an orange glow, wispy clouds drifting on the slight breeze carrying hues of pinks, and purples, watercolour streaks across a vibrant sunset canvas. The world that stretched out from beneath it gleamed in the dying light, mottled by long shadows that reached out like greedy fingers, snatching up the last rays of sunshine, and ushering in the night.

It was late August, and Romano could already smell autumn approaching. The familiar, and comforting sweet scent of freshly cut hay, interwoven with heavier, subtler, earthy scents hanging gently in the air around him. It gave him a sense of being home, more so than either Spain's, or his own house could make him feel, holding more value to him than bricks, and mortar. It defined him. His culture, and Spain's both, treasured memories, and tender familiarity. A much- loved, and welcome companion, constant throughout his long life.

Although he was barely aware of it, the distant scent of harvesting, coupled with the promise of a pleasantly warm night that would bring merciful relief from the humid, uncomfortable summer evenings that both of their houses had offered no respite from until now, left Romano in an extremely amiable mood. Though he had no desire to allow Spain to escape fully unscathed that night, his usual need to make Spain constantly aware of what an idiot he was seemed to be wavering in favour of simply enjoying the evening instead. With a soft grunt, he pulled away from where he leant against the window frame, stretching languidly in his chair, fingers flexing as if he sought to capture the satisfaction that ran through him as sleepy muscles were pulled taught. Slumping back into his chair, he paused for only a moment before he was up on his feet, and sauntering towards the kitchen, the scent of tomatoes, herbs, and chicken guiding him, making his mouth water, the sweet spiciness almost tangible in the air around him, the taste hovering upon the tip of his tongue.

He found Spain standing at the stove, mouth curved in a contented smile as he hummed distantly, stirring the contents of the pan in lazy motions with a wooden spoon. For a moment, Romano watched him, silently appreciating the way in which the dying, golden light of sunset made Spain's rich, mocha skin glow, and flecked his hair in a way that emphasised the wavy, tousled strands that framed his face, contrasting beautifully with his eyes. He moved around the kitchen with the easy grace of a fencer, purposeful, but not above small bouts of flamboyancy, his natural showmanship guiding his hands in little flourishes.

He noticed Romano as he set down his spoon, and reached for the glass of wine that was perched upon the bar next to him.

'Ah, Romano!' he said, smile stretching further across his lips, pearly teeth flashing as a look of unrestrained delight passed across his face. 'Come, come! Have a taste!'

Romano shot him a steady look, and ignored his stomach rumbles of agreement. 'I'll try it when I eat it, idiot.'

Spain's smile did not fade and, utterly ignoring Romano's refusal, he picked up the spoon once more, and dipped it into the sauce that the chicken was currently simmering in. Looking more like a mother than Romano was comfortable with, Spain waved the spoon around, jabbing it in Romano's general direction, one hand poised beneath it in order to catch any stray drops. Heaving a great sigh, as if he was being greatly put out, Romano stomped around the bar, moving to stand at Spain's side, crossing his arms and huffing, just to make sure that Spain knew that he was being a pest.

Not caring in the slightest, Spain pushed the spoon towards Romano's mouth, his other hand still hovering uselessly beneath it, offering Romano a reassuring grin. Romano rolled his eyes, and reached out to seize Spain's wrist, pulling the hand that was gripping the wooden handle closer towards himself. He glanced down at the sauce, deep red, rich, and tentatively poked his tongue out in order to swipe some into his mouth.

'Well? It's good, right?' Spain grinned.

'Mnhh,' Romano shrugged noncommittally.

'I knew you'd love it!' Spain responded, expression breaking into one of unrestrained pride.

Romano looked at him steadily for a moment, expression deadpan, but sighed and looked away a moment later, allowing Spain his self- delusion simply because he could not be bothered to argue. It was the first evening that he'd been able cope comfortably with the temperature in a week, and the simple fact that he didn't feel like he was stuck in a fucking nuclear reactor did an awful lot to ease some (but not all, of course) of his perpetual irritation at the world. Spain, naturally didn't notice, and had already returned to cooking, mind God- only- knows- where as he began to hum once again, stirring idly.

Bored, Romano reached out to take Spain's wine glass, and left the other to it, sauntering across the room, and out through the glass double- doors on the other side of the kitchen, making his way out onto the patio. The scent of fading summer was stronger outside, enriched by the sweetness of the carnations that bloomed in the courtyard. It was calming, rather than cloying, and, after a quick check to make sure that Spain was still thoroughly distracted with the food, Romano sank into one of the chairs with a tiny, satisfied smile upon his lips. Pulling his feet up, he sipped his pilfered wine in silence, listening to the birdsong, and the sound of the breeze rustling the leaves overhead.

Spain found him a few minutes later, and Romano cringed at the thought of him breaking the peace with his mindless chatter, but quickly reconsidered the idea of telling him to go away when he spied the wine bottle in Spain's hands. Grudgingly, he allowed Spain to take the seat next to him; wordlessly holding his almost empty glass out the moment that the other man's behind had hit the cushion. Taking the hint, Spain placed his own empty glass down upon the table that the chairs loosely surrounded, and tipped the wine bottle towards Romano's glass, refilling it, before doing the same to his own.

'2004?' Romano questioned.

'Mmm?' Spain smiled, looking back at him as he stretched out to put the bottle down.

'The Rioja, idiot,' Romano clarified, rolling his eyes.

Spain's expression positively lit up. 'Yes! How did you know?'

'Because you wouldn't shut up about how good it was that year,' he muttered.

Spain, as usual, chose to interpret Romano's words in his own, entirely unique way, his resulting grin making Romano's stomach flip- flop in dread. 'Awww, Roma!' he cooed. 'On your birthday, I'll buy some Vega Sicilia for us to drink. Would you like that? It's very expensive, but special occasions are special occasions, right?'

'H- Hey wait a minute, you bastard,' Romano growled, cheeks flushing at Spain's assumption. 'What makes you think that I'll be spending my birthday with you? It's months away yet, which means that I have plenty of time to find much better company than you.'

Spain's smile didn't even falter. In fact, it was extremely likely that he hadn't even registered Romano's protests. 'Well if you're that impatient, I'll try and get us some for Christmas, even though we usually drink Cava then, and the two don't really go together that well, hmm,' Spain broke off, already deep in thought as to how he was going to plan a Christmas together that Romano had no recollection of agreeing to. One might have suggested that it was fair for Spain to assume, since Romano had –with the odd exception- spent every Christmas period since 1889 in Spain's house, but still, out of principle, Romano was deeply offended. It was only the fact that Romano was comfortable, relaxed, and had a belly full of wine, that limited any possible explosions of righteous fury to a sharp glare.

Which, naturally, Spain didn't notice anyway.

They spent the next couple of hours chatting (or, more accurately, Spain chatting, and Romano making vague responses when he was prompted to), and sharing the Rioja as the sun finally set, and night crept in. When the natural light failed them, Spain fished out a box of matches from his trouser pocket, and lit the tea lights that were arranged in the centre of the table, encasing them both in a soft glow that seemed much more welcoming than the distant lights of the city. Cicada song fell around them like a curtain of sound, enclosing them within their tranquil, little sanctuary, making the rest of the world, cold, and impersonal, seem so very, very far away.

'Mnnnh,' Spain groaned as he stretched languidly. 'Time for dinner, I think.'

'Early for you,' Romano muttered after glancing at his watch.

'I know,' Spain smiled, rising to his feet. 'But tonight the temperature is so lovely, I was thinking about maybe going out, and enjoying the night air.'

'I can't be bothered to go out into the streets, and dance around like an idiot with you,' Romano responded immediately.

Spain's face fell slightly for the briefest moment before his smile returned full force, and he reached out to grab Romano's hands in his own, tugging at him gently, but insistently. 'Then let's have a mini- party! Just the two of us! We could dance!'

'I am not dancing with you, Spain.'

'It doesn't have to be dancing! We could just have some fun. Come on! It's the first night in ages that we've not needed to go straight to bed because we're so sleepy! We could even make love, if that's what you want.'

'No, I- what?' Romano spluttered, vivid blush flourishing upon his cheeks. 'What do you mean if I want? I'm not a pervert like you are! Don't confuse me with yourself!'

'Awww, Roma,' Spain pouted. 'That's not cute at all.'

'Good. I wasn't trying to be. And stop calling it love- making. You're making us sound like teenage girls,' he added.

'But "sex" doesn't say how much I love you!'

'Stop it. You're not being as charming as you seem to think you are,' Romano scowled, although the soft dusting of pink across his cheeks spoke otherwise. Spain's grin deepened further still, the dimples that materialised upon his cheeks giving him a slightly slyer appearence. 'Don't.'

'Don't what?' Spain replied, trying to make himself look innocent.

'Whatever inane comment you're about to make involving me, and tomatoes. Don't.'

'Awww,' Spain pouted. 'Uncute.'

'Yes, yes. I'm uncute, how tragic,' Romano muttered, rolling his eyes.

'Only sometimes,' Spain corrected him with a wide smile. 'You're absolutely adorable most of the time.'

Romano stared at him in exasperation. '... You know, it really is kind of worrying that you talk about me like I'm your pet dog... Or even worse, like I'm still a little kid, which really is kind of creepy. Much as you seem to think that "creepy" is a compliment.'

'Well you say it so much, that I kind of guessed that it was you just being affectionate. You know. Like when you call me a bastard,' Spain explained, an adoring smile stretched across his lips.

'Idiot.'

'Yeah, that too!' Spain grinned. He tugged gently on Romano's hands, reminding him suddenly that Spain had never released them. 'C'mon! Let's go and eat.'

'Stop holding my hands, moron,' Romano muttered. It was a rather ineffectual protest, considering that Spain didn't listen, Romano didn't pull away, and the two still ended up walking back into the kitchen with their hands loosely clasped together.

Spain released him with a flourish, movements unconsciously those of a natural dancer as they reached the kitchen table, and he stepped around the chair that Romano sank into, without the briefest pause. Romano sat silently, toying with the pepper grinder placed at the heart of the table, and stealing glances at the other man as he moved around the kitchen with an easy confidence. Not that it was attractive, or anything, Romano told himself, willing his cheeks to cool down before Spain had a chance to see.

Luckily, by the time Spain had finished dishing up, Romano looked decidedly bored, and decidedly un- tomato- like.

'About time,' he huffed by way of thanks.

Spain accepted it as nothing less, grinning merrily as he placed one of the plates down before Romano. 'Ah, sorry, sorry,' he responded as he placed the bowl of salad down next to the salt, and pepper, sounding in no way sincere. 'Eat! I'll just be a minute.'

Despite his offer, and Romano's rumbling belly, Romano waited until Spain had brought over the rest of the side dishes, the wine, and finally, his own meal.

'Ah, we should have eaten outside,' he said with a sigh as he took his own seat. 'It's such a beautiful night.'

Romano tore his gaze away from the vibrant colours before him (reds, yellows, greens... Such a fitting way to welcome in the autumn) and shrugged. 'What, with all of those insects buzzing around my head? No thanks,' he said dismissively, before smirking and adding; 'I already have to eat with one annoying niusance.'

Surprisingly, Spain didn't miss that one, and responded with a whine of his name, and a pout, before returning Romano's amused smirk with a smile of his own.

'We should go out somewhere tomorrow,' Spain said after they had started on their meal.

'Who said that I'm not busy?' Romano questioned after swallowing down a mouthful of wine.

Spain's face fell. 'But I thought-'

'Relax, will you? Do you think that I'd be helping you on a second bottle of wine if I had to be up early for work in the morning?' Romano snorted.

Spain's smile returned full force. 'I'm glad to hear that.'

Romano blamed the smile that was trying to crawl its way onto his lips on the wine. 'Naturally,' he said instead, hiding the faint curve of his lips behind his glass.

Spain's smile softened, eyes dancing in the gentle light. It was a look that Romano had grown used to over the years, and had only ever seen directed at himself. It was different to his usual smiles. Something far more personal- a look of absolute, and perfect devotion that meant so much more than any words, or actions.

'Stop smiling at me like that,' Romano grunted, clearing his throat and trying not to let Spain see how uncomfortable he was becoming under that expressive gaze.

'I can't help it,' Spain laughed, his smile returning to his usual, delighted grin. 'I'm just so happy!'

'You're stupid if something like that makes you happy,' Romano muttered, flushing, and stabbing at a piece of chicken with his fork.

Spain shook his head lightly, the understanding smile never once leaving his face. 'No, it's not stupid, Roma. Happiness can be found in the smallest of things, because really, they're the most important things in the world, don't you think? People spend a lifetime looking for happiness instead of realising that they're surrounded by it. So the little things count for so much. Especially for people like us.' For a moment, they stared at one another, Romano, as always, unprepared for those rare moments when Spain revealed the tiniest glimpses of how deep he truly was.

Realising that he was still staring, even after Spain had returned his attention to his food, Romano blushed awkwardly, and turned back to his own meal, grabbing his wine glass and gulping down a couple of mouthfuls in order to rid his throat of the dryness that had seized it.

Once Romano had calmed himself down, the rest of dinner passed with an easy quiet, both of them enjoying their food too much (much as Romano would deny it) to spend a great amount of time not savouring it. Upon finishing Spain, in a rare fit of self- preservation, chose not to comment on Romano's empty plate, and instead gave him a knowing smile as he cleared the tableware away before moving around the kitchen counter in order to prepare dessert.

As he had half- expected, the smell of sugar, and cocoa powder, and tell- tale sizzle of oil soon followed. Part of him wanted to call Spain out on it, call him talentless, and cliché for choosing to finish their meal off in such a way, but another part of him- a greater part- revelled in the scents that he could almost taste upon his tongue. Churros. Such a usual, complacent way for Spain to finish a meal, and yet something about the hiss of oil as the dough was squeezed out, and the rich aroma of chocolate was as comforting to him as those fields. If he closed his eyes, (and he did, just for a second when he knew that Spain wouldn't be looking) he could almost pretend that he was a boy- nation once again, sitting in a chair that was too big for him, swinging his little legs forwards, and backwards irritably as his stomach growled in expectant delight.

When he opened his eyes again, he realised that he was smiling. It was a lazy curling of his lips, a satisfied expression that few around him were ever blessed enough to witness, softening his features as the usual sharpness faded away momentarily as Romano basked in the feeling of contentment that came at the end of a great day. In fact, it had been a wonderful day. It had been a wonderful day, and nothing had even happened.

Frowning slightly, Romano sat up straight, brows furrowing the tiniest bit as he tried to recall what exactly had made him feel so pleased with the world. The day had been average at best, with only the slight drop in temperature to give it any sort of distinction.

But then, there had been the little things. Tiny fragments of goodness that had somehow come together in a perfect collage of a moment. Spain had said that happiness could be found in the smallest of things, and Romano hadn't known what to think. He still didn't, but somehow, the gentle, warm feeling situated in his chest as a result of these tiny, insignificant things helped him to understand just a little bit more.

'I'm happy,' he whispered, face slack with shock. The words rocked him, shook him to his very foundations where centuries, and centuries of self- depreciation, and jealousy, and hopelessness, and anger, and hurt, and bitterness, and loneliness, and fear shivered with the threat of crumbling to dust. He was happy. He was happy. He couldn't be happy, he didn't deserve to be happy, he didn't know how to be happy, and yet he was sitting at a kitchen table, at the end of an unimportant day feeling what he could only describe as something akin to his heart soaring. When had it stopped feeling fragile?

'Did you say something, Roma?' Spain asked, setting a plate of churros in the centre of the table, gold dusted with sugar, and cinnamon, just how Romano had always loved them.

For a moment, Romano looked at him, all pretences dropped, his expression unguarded. Spain halted in his movements, and returned the stare; grin fading into a look of surprise before his expression softened into a gentle smile.

'No,' Romano said a few seconds later, turning his attention to the plate in front of him.

Spain chuckled to himself, returning to his seat opposite Romano, openly watching him as he unceremoniously shoved his late- night breakfast into his mouth.

'They taste like shit,' Romano growled shortly before popping another one into his mouth.

Spain simply rested his chin in his hand, and offered the other a lazy half- smile. Happiness, to him, was something that came easily. Except, despite his words, for him, it wasn't just in the little things. After all, he needed none of that when he woke up every day to the knowledge that the one that he loved was happy too.

Clear message of this fic: Drink rioja. It's lovely.