Just a little one-shot I came up with on the spot. It's not exactly historically accurate, since I've only read up on the basics of the War of the Spanish Succession, but it's enough I guess~ Haha
This is the decade of the war in little Romano's point of view!
Previews for any stories I'm working on are on my profile.
Enjoy~
1703, a rather annoying year for the Southern Italian. The Spanish Succession was well underway, Spain himself being undeniably busy during the whole ordeal. Romano knew the nation was already tired, being the third year into this war. Why on earth would the idiot pair up with that creepy French bastard was beyond him, but then again, the southern Italian hardly understood the Spaniard at all sometimes. In the end though, it was his choice, he assumed, so he wouldn't question it.
The only thing was... The idiotic duo now had the rest of Europe practically breathing down their necks, and every battle was fought in bitterness and jealously.
Children fighting over a stupid crown. Idiots, the lot of them.
Romano stood back quietly as yet another maid rushed by with crimson stained clothing. Ever since the war began, the house was always one of two things: either brimming with maids and nurses rushing back and forth, catering to those wounded and cleaning up the bodily fluids left behind, or deathly silent without a soul in sight.
It frightened the Italian greatly, thinking that perhaps one day, just one fateful day, the large home will succumb permantly to the silence of emptiness. Maybe just one day, there will be no more busy maids and no more lively colonies to occupy these halls, leaving a lone and broken Spanish empire at it's center to bask in the silence by himself.
"What's with that face, Romano?"
The voice resounded above the rest, causing the dark haired Italian to snap his head up and stare in disbelief at the Spaniard nation before him. Spain's arms were bandaged greatly, but aside from that, the brunette just looked tired. Even his smile appeared to be forced on his face.
"It's my face idiota," Romano retorted with a grumble.
Spain kneeled over to his level now, eyes genuinely curious and worried for the boy, "Are you sure, Romanito? You look so focused and distant. Is something on your mind?"
"Mind your own damn business and go back to playing with your little friends."
The man's green eyes dimmed slightly, smile dropping a degree or two before he corrected himself with a forced laugh, "Ah, sì, of course..." And with that, he returned back into the messy gathering of the wounded, unruly mess of hair vanishing without a trace.
Romano stared at the floor with saddened eyes, thnking of how the other looked as he left. "Stupid bastard didn't even try to hang around," he murmured quietly to himself. "This war better be over soon."
This war would not be over for another decade.
1708 went by no differently. Infact, things were getting worse.
Spain was hardly ever home anymore, always out frighting various battles in various countries. That prissy aristocrat Austria, bushy brows Brittain, and even Prussia were all giving them hell. Sometimes at night, if Romano listened carefully beyond the crickets chirping outside his window, he could hear the faint battle cries of the men who fought nearby.
It was stupid, he thought, all this fighting for who gets the throne of Spain. Didn't they already decide on one of France's people? Why was everyone being so damn pissy about it? Maybe it was because he was still physically a child?
"No, that's not it," he grumbled while folding his arms, feet hanging off the edge of his bed.
Although Spain was physically older than Romano, by nation years, the small boy was far older. (He was just a late bloomer, or so he told himself.) He had lived for a long, long time, so mentally he was very well developed. Forget that he behaved like a child most of the time, so did Spain when he was homeー
"Spain," he whispered now, arms dropping to his sides while tears gathered in hazel orbs.
How was the bastard doing out there? Was he hurt? Was he even able to fight anymore? Had one of the opposing nations gotten to him yet?
He wouldn't admit it to any of the few maids that were somewhere in the massive home, but he really worried about the Spanish nation. If he were to get hurt, return home bloodied and battered, weakened and broken, Romano wouldn't know what to do with himself except what he was doing right now: cry.
1711 was when Romano began to think things couldn't and wouldn't get any better. The French were slowly being defeated, and Spain was quickly losing morale. Bavaria was proving to be useless aid as well, with how hopeless the entire thing had become. More and more men were being brought home either dead or dying. The front stone steps of the Spanish home seemed permantently painted red from all the spilt blood. The maids paid him no mind was they rushed through the halls with specific tasks in mind. And yet, despite the sudden increase of life within the house... silence was the only thing to greet the small Italian.
Every. Single. Morning.
Silence.
It was deafening.
No one wanted to speak, not even in hushed whispers. The women did not dare to gossip or share any news on the war. It was like taboo. Usually, it was alright with Romano. After all, who would want to dread the new heir to the Spansih throne anyways? It only brought more stress and unwanted thoughts.
But the Italian needed to know how was Spain doing. He needed to know if his care taker wasn't bleeding out in a field somewhere in Austria, calling out in mourning for a taste of tomatoes or a descent siesta. He would be stupid enough to do so, wouldn't he?
'Stop being an asshole and give the man more credit, damn it! He's out there fighting for his country's throne, and what are you doing? Insulting him even when he's not here!' he mentally scolded himself, tears begining to gather in his eyes as they did many times before.
'I'm just fucking worried about the bastard and playing it off makes me feel like he's actually going to come back home in one piece!'
He couldn't take it anymore, he needed to know something, anything, about the Spaniard. The nurses were too busy to notice him slipping into the living room, hazel eyes scanning the large area that was cluttered with the various wounded men. They didn't appear to be awake, something that caused him to frown. He would have to wake one up to get his answers, as harsh as that was for a battle worn man.
Romano decided on bothering one of the men in the far back corner, since he looked comfortable enough on the various cushions the maids had provided for him.
He patted the man's arm a few times, "Hey, hey you."
No response.
"Hey, Mister," he continued, now nudging the other gingerly as to not upset any wounds, "Mister wake the hell up!"
The man now groaned, eyes blinking open slowly to reveal deep blues. The man's face scrunched in confusion, sight eventually falling on the Italian whom stood before him with a determined face.
"Is Antonio okay?" Romano urged straight to the point, using the Spaniard's human name for recognition and leaning in a bit to hear the answer.
What he recieved was not the answer he was looking for.
An earsplitting scream errupted from the man's throat, body thrashing violently and causing the Italian to stumble backwards with wide and frightened eyes. The maids and nurses all rushed in as more screams awakened within the room, more and more men springing to life as they voiced out their pains. Frightened out of his wits, Romano darted out of the living room, sprinting down the halls as fast as his small legs would carry him, and hurled himself into the massive empty bed.
Spain's bed.
He sobbed while gripping the sheets, scared from the man's pained reaction, frightened from the lack of information, and just so and so angry at the Spaniard for not being home yet.
Romano was indeed, such a child.
1714 was the year that news had finally arrived to the Italian.
The French had lost the war against the First Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene of Savoy. Apparently a couple of treaties were made, and the current holder of the throne was allowed to stay, but he was removed from the French line of succession. (Was that French face's choice?) Romano wouldn't doubt it was a choice enforced upon them.
Many things had happened, and to suddenly hear of it all at once was making his head hurt. Everyone just needed to shut up and let him digest the news.
Was Spain coming home then? Was it all finally over and they could go back to the way things used to be?
His paused, biting his thumb nail in worry.
Was Spain even alive?
"Excuse me," he suddenly shoved aside by a maid that rushed by in a hurry.
What was her problem?
Another pushed by, nearly stumbling by how quick her steps were as she vanished just beyond the corner of the hallway and towards the main entrance. More and more of them ran past, their voices chatting away in hushed tones of excitement and curiosity. Some even in relief. This made Romano curious himself.
"Hey!" he ran along side of one of the women who served as a nurse, "Hey what's going on?"
"Master Carriedo is coming home!" she dark haired woman replied, picking up the pace as she left the Italian behind with a dumbfounded look.
"He's..."
Eyes lit up instantly, legs propelling him forward as he sped through the massive crowdーWhere the hell did Spain get all these women anyways? Damn ladies manーand pushed his way out the front door and into the sunlit outdoors.
Outside, more wounded men made their way over, most looking relieved to be done with the fighting and back home in their land. They all towered over him, making it difficult to spot the Spanish nation amongst them. He didn't get discouraged, searching frantically for the other without rest. Eventually the sea of men thinned out, causing Romano to panic slightly as he turned to face the house and watched them go inside to rest. Hands began to shake, lip quivering as familiar tears began to build up in his eyes. Spain wasn't... he wasn't...
A gentle and warm hand on his shoulder caused him to jump, tears falling down his tanned cheeks as he quickly spun around to stare at a pair of familiar emerald eyes.
"Looking for me?" Spain spoke softly, eyes gentle and warm while wearing a bright smile. A real one this time.
More tears fell as Romano hesitantly reached a hand out to touch the man's cheek, feeling the warmth radiating off the other's flesh, seeing that he was indeed alive and well.
"Y-you're home," he choked out, "You're really home."
The Spaniard let out a musical chuckle, "Sì, I'm home."
Romano wanted to do two things in that instant.
Hug the bastard.
Punch the bastard.
Naturally, he chose the latter.
"Damn it, Spain! Why didn't you come home earlier?! I was starving! The maids here suck! They can't make any food!"
"Ow! Ow! Roma! Perdón! I'm sorry! That hurts!"
Romano would rather die before he admitted missing the other, but he had a feeling Spain knew he had. After all, the man was smiling brightly all the while.
Fin~