Part One:
The Monkey and the Weasel Begin their Chase
"All around the mulberry bush..."
Okay, maybe not a mulberry bush, but a small shrubbery of some kind. Squatting behind its dark leaves in the middle of a garden courtyard and singing to himself was a dark-haired male with olive green eyes and tanned skin.
"The monkey chased the weasel..."
His gracefully muscled body was clothed in dark trousers and an orange v-neck, knees and elbows dirty from trailing another figure through the rows of bushes and smallish trees. The weasel that the monkey was following was a few feet away, walking slowly through the flora with his hands clasped behind his back. He was petite and a little on the pale side with shaggy brown hair, a curl of it sticking from his head. Spain's eyes were glued, as was his camera lens.
"The monkey thought 'twas all in fun..."
He loved this past time, especially in the lovely weather that had been about the place recently. Spain's home, a tall castle-like building surrounded by a maze of stone walls, archways, and various gardens, had been bathed in warn sun for the past month, even though it was late summer and the days should have been getting grayer and rainier. Romano would spend his days walking or pestering people, and Spain, when he wasn't occupied elsewhere, would follow him. Now he was closer, standing behind a pillar and watching Romano's back. He smiled to himself, slipping the small camera back into his pocket and crouching.
"Pop! Goes the weasel..."
And he ran up to the smaller and poked Romano in the sides. "Boo!" The smaller shrieked, whipping around and striking out. But it was too late, Spain had already constricted his arms around Romano's shoulders and snuggled close.
"Spain!" It was more an exclamation of... discovery, at finding who it was.
"Romano," Spain murmured, nuzzling his arm as the smaller tried to push him away.
"Wha-What are you doing?" Romano asked the least bit uninterested. "Get off me Goddammit!" But Spain continued to hold the other in a death grip. Tight, but not so much so that it constricted Romano's air passage. He could still cuss. "You Bastard! Go away!" The other was still completely oblivious to Romano's banterings, squeezing him tighter.
"You're so cute!" He reached up with one hand and grabbed a hold of Romano's ahoge. The smaller froze up, then his squirming got worse.
"You Pervert!" and his fist flew into Spain's stomach. He ran off, leaving the other on the ground, holding his middle and gasping for breath. The taller was downed, still smiling, and managed to capture one last picture before Romano disappeared around the bend. The camera fell from Spain's hand as he rolled over in the dirt, groaning in pain. He could practically feel the bruise start to appear on his skin, and it felt like he was being ripped in two when he pulled himself to his feet. That kid could hit hard. He bent over, which was also quite painful, grabbed his camera and started off in the direction of his house. There was no use perusing this pastime any longer, at least for the day. Other things needed done, and at the moment, that other thing was dinner.
The sky was in its orange-ing phase, where it wasn't quite daytime nor was it really dusk yet. It lit everything on the earth with a golden-yellow light and made them cast long shadows across the ground. The leaves on the bushes and trees turned to an olive color and each flower appeared more beautiful. Even the man walking through the garden seemed more angelic. However, in his opinion, the mansion (which more appeared a castle) was the most impressive thing to be magnified by the change in light. The windows perfectly reflected the bright orange sun and the white outer wash was moved to a soft orange. Even without the magnificent lighting, Spain's house was really something to look at. The thing was a three-story adobe style house with lots of windows, verandas, and balconies that were covered in nice furniture, along with two heavy doors that lead to its equally lavish inside.
The place was like a palace; with grand stairs leading to all three floors and walls washed with golden and red paints. There were fancy decorative carpets on the shiny floors and curtains of the same nature hung at every window. The physical build of the house was similar to a Spanish style building with a few Italian accents for Romano (when he was little, it made him feel more "at home" though he refused to admit to such homesickness), and furnished lavishly as was called for by both varieties of culture. Spain felt that he blended in to what was around him as he moved through the house, even there casting a shadow due to the many chandeliers that hung from the tall ceilings, though not as stretched as outside. The polished floors let a clacking sound come from his shoes and magnified his whistling so by the time he entered the secondary wing, the dining room door was already open for him, and the smell of tomato sauce drifting from the kitchen adjacent it. The carved table made of dark wood was set with fancy dishware and glasses that no one would ever drink or eat from, being purely for show and colored with toxic metal-paints, save for two places at one end that were set for he and Romano, who was not there yet.
So Spain sat at the leftmost seat, crossing his legs in the chair and leaning across the table for a bottle of '89 that had been so kindly left for them. He poured two glasses, taking a small sip from his own before returning it to the tabletop and waiting. It was not long after that one of the many assistants that helped around his house brought out the meal; pasta, as always. However not just any dish. Spain had made sure it was Romano's favorite. It was, naturally, not often he got to chose what he wanted fro dinner in his own house, since the other that he lived with had a rather pushy personality. Of course he never minded his own ideas being overruled by Romano's, he having practically been raised by Spain, therefor making their opinions all the more similar. It was because of this that made Romano's tardiness for dinner a little odd.
It wasn't like the younger to miss dinner like this, however Spain inferred that it had something to do with his behavior just a half an hour earlier. He pushed his chair back from the table and walked over to the empty one beside it, taking the plate and glass of wine and exiting the room. He headed through the living room and past the entryway of the main parlor, into one of many small hallways. The floors were made of plain wood that hadn't been swept in a day or so, with plain white walls and pale green runners by the floors and ceilings. There were few doors here, one standing out with a brass plaque on its front. He moved to that door, looking at the name plate for a moment. Spain had offered him other rooms on the top floor; big and spacious, but Romano had stuck to the ground floor. The taller had made a joke about his room being right next to a bathroom, and of course that got him a punch in the gut like he deserved. Carefully, he reached out with the hand that held the wine and knocked on the wood with his knuckle. There seemed to be no one in there, but Spain knew this is where Romano would be. He'd pulled this moping, I'm-not-eating trick before. He knocked on the door again, and still no one answered.
"Romano?" He paused, then spoke again. "Romano I know you're in there. I have dinner." He could hear a faint shuffling, but the door stayed closed and locked. Spain sighed, bending over and setting the dish and glass down. "I'll just leave it here, if you're hungry." No more encouraging sounds resounded from the other side of the door, so Spain waited a little longer. Romano must have known he was there, because it was only after Spain had left and returned to eat his own dinner that the door creaked open and the boy with the dark hair stuck his head out and took both items back into his room. Typical teenager behavior. He left both outside when he was done, glass and plate empty of their original contents, and one of Spain's few attendants picked them up.
Spain, meanwhile, had finished eating (alone, and at the long desolate dining room table that seemed depressing when it was filled with only one body) and was making his way up the grand-staircase to the middle floor. He paused on the landing, looking back down to the level below. Spain was debating whether or not to go try and get Romano to come out of his room. He would like him to, even though he had no plan after Romano opening the door. But still. It would be nice. Nice unfortunately didn't exist all that often, so he continued down the long and wide left wing hall. The walls were a deep wine red, doors a tan wood with shiny doorknobs that matched the gilded frames of the portraits that were hung everywhere. The lights hung from the ceiling and threw all sorts of interesting shadows everywhere, but Spain paid them no notice. He'd walked down that hall so many times that the grandeur was no longer astonishing to him.
As if they were stuck on a track, Spain's legs led him to the last room on the right, his own bedroom. Upon opening the door, he found everything as he had left it that morning. The golden curtains were drawn over the window seat and the glass itself, tied with a cord that matched the beige walls. Like in the hall, there were paintings in decorated frames and a crystal light fixture above. The floors were made of wood, and the thumping of Spain's clothes sounded clear as he stripped to his underthings and walked to the door a few feet from the bed. The bathroom was tiled in cream, the toilet, sink, and tub made of some cold marble. The only light came from one tall lamp in the corner, but even that was dim, Spain found as he turned it on, most likely due to the frosted shade or the fact it was an old bulb.
Regardless of the reason, it didn't help his mood, which could only be described as a sigh and a weary shake of the head. It wasn't often this funk came and ruined his normally cheery days, but it must have been a special day or something. He crossed the cool floor over to the tub, sitting on its edge and turning on the hot water. He watched as it filled the room, and steam fogged the mirror until it was hardly distinguishable as a mirror anymore and the tub was full. Spain slipped out of his boxers and into the water, staring blankly at the faucet that dripped slightly even after it had been shut off. The house was getting old. He was getting old too; the warm soapy water feeling all too good on his joints. It made him laugh a little. He'd grown up in the house, and already he was feeling the age that was in the wood of the walls. Granted twenty-five wasn't all that bad, but sometimes it felt like he was an old man.
He didn't much have the will to move his arm and grab the soap from its holder on the wall. It seemed too far a distance and his limbs felt too heavy to move. He could feel his eyes drifting closed. The water was still hot, the humid air concentrating the fresh smell of soap, the hazy light from the lamp in the corner. It all made him tired. He allowed himself to soak longer before beginning to wash off the day's dirt and stress. Well, just the dirt; the stress seemed to always be there. Stress from his boss, from having to watch over the huge house, from Romano being a pill yet oh so adorable at the same time. Romano. If he wasn't in the bath and in the shower instead, he would have allowed his thoughts to go further. Being that he was indeed not, Spain washed those ideas away with shampoo and more water. They weren't helping him any.
After pulling himself from the tub shortly after that, draining the water, and drying off with a rather large and fluffy towel, Spain slipped his boxers onto his legs again and flipped on the bathroom fan. Its whir was familiar, and as he clicked off the light and the entire room became dark, he felt no impending sense of alarm. It wrapped him up and guided him over to the bed, where he yanked back the pile of ornately embroidered comforters and silk sheets. They felt scratchy, and the feather pillow seemed to be just a brick. Fantastic. It was another one of those nights.
It was some time after he lay down that the faint groan of door-hinges reached his ears, and footsteps a moment before the door closed again. Under normal circumstances, he would have reached for the knife at the bedside table and flicked on the light, but he knew he didn't have to. The way whoever was there breathed and walked was well-known and most definitely well-welcomed. He heard the mattress creak, felt another sit on its edge, but he feigned sleep and didn't move. He felt a familiar body wriggle in next to him, take his arm and drape it over his own shoulders.
"Goodnight Spain," Romano whispered, and the taller felt warm arms tighten around his middle. As believably as he could, he mumbled and adjusted himself more comfortably around the smaller. Romano kind of freaked out, withdrawing from the touch before again leeching onto Spain like he was the last living thing on earth. It took him all of three minutes to fall asleep, and after that, it was Spain's turn. He moved his legs about the other's and pulled him in closer, if that was even possible. He could feel himself smiling, and he could have sworn that Romano was smiling too. That was nice. To be so close and not have to worry about getting slugged. He wasn't even thinking about sleeping with Romano in the idea of sexual interest, which strangely enough, was new. He fell asleep content, for the first time in quite a while.
And it was then that that night seemed like one years ago, when Romano was very little and would sleep with Spain because he felt safe there. The only thing that was different was age, experience, and somewhere inside themselves was a change of affection that Romano was oblivious of until very recently. The safety bit was still there though; the comfort of familiar arms was heaven to someone who was a crybaby and a coward. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending upon how you looked at it), Romano was one of those people, and Spain had just the embrace he needed. They were like that awkward box one finds in the closet, and the lid is in another. No other box would fit with that lid, just like no one else could fit with Romano, and likewise Spain.
When they slept, the box had found its lid, and they fit perfectly together. Every limb, every finger, seemed made just the right size and shape to match so their bodies would entwine in one fitted shape. They held hands when they slept, they smiled and once Romano even giggled about something in his dream that of course he wouldn't remember then. But maybe that was the point. To be happy now, and not have to worry about later, even if later wasn't all that grand. It wasn't exactly ideal, especially when planning for the future, but both were young enough to not have to worry about that. They had no worries together when the slept, except for maybe awkward morning wood. The weak hours of the morning brought dim light into the room, casting shadows of the drapes onto the bed, where the two still lay, entangled. They grew stronger with the hours passing, as did a bond inside both males on the bed. Subconscious, but there. It would be a while before either one noticed.
Spain woke with this dawning attraction to find a head of dark hair buried into his chest, a curl tickling his nose, and two arms wrapped tightly around him. He had his own hands on Romano's shoulder and head, and he found himself smiling. Gingerly, he removed his arm because he didn't want to wake the smaller. Well, really more than anything he wanted to wake Romano up, but he knew as soon as he did, he would get yelled at and punched a few times before Romano would clear like smoke. Carefully Spain lifted himself on one arm, and the one that had been near him shifted and hugged the pillow closer. Spain looked down. No one knew the Romano he was looking at; the one that snuggled into his pillow and smiled when he was sleeping. It felt like a little privilege to be able to reach over and stroke Romano's dark hair and hear him mumble happily instead of shout. Spain felt immensely lucky to see the flushed face grin instead of glower when he bent over and kissed him gently on the forehead. The boy in the bed, that was his Romano.
With one last glance, he carefully rolled from the mattress to the cold wood floor that bit at his feet. He made his cautious way over to the dresser, looking behind him every time a board creaked to see if Romano had woken. Every time it was just another look at a snoozing kid strangled in the silk sheets. He dressed silently, trying to quiet the scraping noises the drawers made when they opened. After pulling on the day's clothes, he tip-toed up to the bed again. The boy in the sheet was still out, face flushed and breathing even. Spain leaned over and kissed Romano's neck gingerly, resting a hand on his arm before pulling away. His gaze lingered on the bed all the way across the room and even after the bedroom door was shut again, a large part of his mind was still wrapped in the blankets with Romano.
