Better Late

Part 1

ChiaroscuroEffect

Summary: AU. In the modern world, Spain meets Romano for the first time. Romano, on the other hand, isn't pleased to have Spain running around after him.

AU: In this particular universe, the nations exist as we know them, but Austria, when given control over the Italies, decided Spain couldn't be trusted to take care of another person, let alone himself, so Romano got bounced around a lot, but was never under Spanish control.

Disclaimer: Hetalia Axis Powers belongs to Hidekazu Himaruya

Spain was in Sicily, where Italy had asked him to meet, saying that he was visiting his brother. "You can't miss the house," he'd said, waving his arms. "It's the little one by the sea with the red shutters and the biiiig garden!"

Unfortunately, he'd forgotten to call to remind Italy that he was supposed to be stopping by. That was probably why no one was there. Or it was because he was just a little late. He stood back from the door, painted a cheery red that matched the shutters, trying to figure out what to do. His cell phone was dead, and even if it wasn't, Italy's probably was.

He decided to check out the garden. He wasn't expecting much, because he'd given Italy a potted tomato plant once after he'd admired Spain's garden and the poor thing had died of neglect. (Spain had been a little horrified.)

He was pleasantly surprised. Instead of an overgrown wasteland, there was row upon row of carefully tended tomato plants, filled with delicious looking ripening tomatoes.

He'd just picked one to savor when he heard a soft yelp and a thump.

He turned to see Italy…no, wait, that wasn't Italy, was it? Someone had apparently just emerged from the shed and dropped the watering can upon seeing him in the garden.

"Oh, hello!" Spain said cheerily. "I'm looking for Italy, he said to meet him here, I think. I could be wrong. Is this your garden? It's very nice! You should come see mine sometime, I think you would like it too~!"

The nation slowly picked up the watering can. He really did look a lot like Italy, but with darker hair and eyes, and a curl standing up from his forehead rather than twirling around his ear. He was dressed for gardening, in worn jeans and a t-shirt, a straw hat dangling from the cord hung around the man's neck. If Spain had been paying any attention, he would have noticed that there seemed to be some inward debate about whether or not to answer him.

"Who the fuck are you?" he finally asked.

"I'm the Kingdom of Spain! Reino de España!"

"Spain…you're that guy that hangs around with France and Prussia?"

"Si!" And because someone who kept such a nice garden (it certainly wasn't Italy's doing, the plant murderer) was worth knowing, he said, "Who are you?"

"Me?" The other nation seemed surprised. "I'm South Italy. L'Italia Meridionale. Most people call me Romano, if they remember I'm alive. And…what are you doing with my tomato, bastard?"

"Oh, this," Spain said, remembering the fruit he was holding. "I was going to eat it! It looked so perfect and delicious, and I wanted to see if it was as good as mine! I brought them back from the Americas, you know!"

"Of course it is, in fact, I bet you it's better than yours!" Romano put his hands on his hips and glared. After a moment though, watching Spain eat the (really very excellent) tomato, he crossed them over his chest.

"I've never seen someone else eat them like that."

"Like what?" Spain asked guiltily. France and Prussia made fun of it sometimes, saying you weren't supposed to just bite into them. He realized he had seeds on his tie and haphazardly brushed them off.

"Like an apple. Veniziano doesn't even like them unless they're cooked."

"Is that Italy?" At the sudden glare, he amended it to "North Italy?"

"Yeah." Seemingly making a decision, he pointed to the back door. "In. I'll see if I can get a hold of him."

Spain was soon seated at the scarred wooden kitchen table, watching Romano's back as he tried to locate his brother by phone.

"His cell's dead, of course I tried that first, how fucking dumb do you think I am?" and "I just wanted to know if you'd seen him! I've got Spain sitting in my kitchen!" were constantly repeated sentences. Spain drummed his heels idly against the chair. It was a nice kitchen, he thought dreamily. It had very pretty tiles, red and green and white patterns. Lots of dishcloths flung everywhere. Worn copper pots, wooden spoons.

When the novelty of staring at the kitchen walls faded, he unabashedly checked out Romano, comparing him to his brother. Where Italy was all childish and cute and skinny, Romano was leaner, a little more filled out in the shoulders. He probably had a hard time finding pants that would stay on his narrow hips, Spain speculated, before moving his eyes upwards.

Romano was staring at him. "You…you…what…"

Spain watched in amazement as the man turned bright red. "You look just like a tomato…so cute…"

"You were staring at my ass," the other nation finally managed to spit out.

"Si," he agreed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm sorry. It's a very nice ass, though."

He hadn't thought Romano could get redder. He had been wrong.

"Just…just stay there," the man told him, "And don't you try anything, tomato bastard! I lived with France for a while, so I know how to handle myself!"

"I'm sure you do!" Spain agreed, cheerful now that it didn't look like he was in any trouble. The other nation frowned at him, gauging his sincerity.

"Just…damn it, he's probably over at the potato bastard's again…"

"Potato bastard?"

"Germany," and Spain had never heard a word said with such vehemence before. Romano stared at the phone for a moment, and then back at him.

"Is this meeting important?"

"Yes? We're putting together a presentation about the state of tourism in the Mediterranean, and ways of boosting it. Greece might show up later," he added. "But he has to wake up enough first."

Romano gnawed on his lower lip. "Fuck. I put together that information, it is important." With a long sigh, he picked up the phone and started dialing.

"Ciao. …No. I said no. Fuck you, Prussia, put your brother or mine on the phone this instant, I've got your friend Spain sitting in my kitchen looking for Veniziano, about some stupid meeting."

"HI SPAIN!" Prussia's voice was really quiet from where Spain was sitting, but the way Romano jumped, it probably was a lot louder if you were holding the phone to your ear.

"Put Veniziano on the phone. Now," and Romano's voice was really quiet all of sudden, and really scary sounding.

Later, when he'd finally gotten to meet up with Italy, who cried and told him he and Germany and Prussia were just getting gelato and away from his brother, because Romano got so mad when he and Germany hung out, ve, he realized he hadn't asked South Italy if he wanted to be friends. If nothing else, they had gardening in common, and Romano was really cute when he wasn't angry. So he zoned out a little bit during the meeting, thinking about tomato-red cheeks and a nice ass and wondering, idly, if Romano was dating anyone, and if he wasn't, the best way to go about asking him out.

Romano was aware that he was not the most highly-regarded nation (half a nation) in the world. He was nothing like his brother, sweet, talented, loving Veniziano. No, he was ungrateful and loud and cruel, and other nations avoided him. That was fine with Romano. He didn't need them. He didn't need anyone.

(Don't leave me alone, cried the tiny nation, watching Rome walk off, Veniziano held securely in his arms. I don't want to be alone.)

Most of the other nations blamed his upbringing, or lack thereof. He'd spent a little time in Austria's house with Veniziano after Rome had died, and some in Turkey's, and some in France's, but since none of them really cared much about the temperamental child beyond their own immediate wants of him, he'd mostly raised himself.

(He'd been given up without a fight, he was only a conquest, that was all, nothing valuable about him except for his lands.)

After the unification, he'd mostly withdrawn from the rest of the nations, except for his brother. It wasn't like he wanted to keep in touch with any of his old bosses. He'd stayed in his house in Sicily, growing the tomatoes that had been so scarce in his childhood, and taking care of the Nation business that Veniziano couldn't. He'd been mostly happy, then, with his brother keeping him company and their country at peace for the first time in a long, long time.

And then the World Wars had happened, and Veniziano had met Germany, and everything had gone straight to hell. He still wasn't sure if his brother realized the full extent of what Germany had done. Romano had betrayed them, sold out Italy to the Allies, to save what little he could of the situation.

(I couldn't do anything else, he screamed into Veniziano's face. They were dying and hurting and you were gone! You left me to die!)

Veniziano still hung around with Germany all the time. Romano had tried not to care after the war, even as he sank further into the arms of the mafia, and even now avoided them as often as possible. His relationship with his brother, never good at the best of times, had been on the rocks ever since.

(If he cared about someone, he'd given them the tools to hurt him. Drawn an x over his heart and shown them where to stab. The dons and made men with their false smiles and expensive suits had taught him that. He would never be that vulnerable again.)

Spain stood in his doorway, not looking for Veniziano, this time, with a bouquet of daisies, looking hopeful. "Romano, I wanted to see if you'd maybe consider going on a date with me?"

"A date." Romano said blankly. "Why…why would you…"

"Because you're really cute? And I asked your brother, and he said you weren't seeing anyone…and you like tomatoes too, and growing them, and I think I could fall for you if you give me a chance!" Having concluded his speech, Spain held out the daisies again, along with a bright smile. Romano stared at both offerings blankly.

Could fall for him? Hadn't he heard anything Romano had said since they'd met?

"Leave me alone," he said, knowing his voice was too sharp. "Just go away, and leave me alone!"

"But Romano-"

"GO THE FUCK AWAY!"

The nation looked disappointed for a split second, and then looked back up. "Well, if you don't want to go on a date, would you maybe like to come over and see my garden sometime? I mean, there are so few nations with a real interest, I mean, besides the agricultural stuff. So it would be nice! I could make you paella, if you've never had it!"

Romano stood still for a split second, and then slammed the red door in the man's face.

"Um…Romano…? It's ok if you don't want to try paella…or see my garden, or date me," came the muffled voice. "But I like you a lot, and I would like to get to know you better…we could be friends, right?"

He refused to answer, until at last the other nation went away. He'd left the daisies on the mat in front of the door, though, and a hastily scrawled note with his phone number and address, just in case he changed his mind.

Romano tore up both, and promptly put the remains in the compost bin.

Austria threw a party every year, to celebrate United Nations Day. Well, it was supposed to be a party. Spain thought parties should be a lot louder, with drinking and dancing, maybe karaoke, but Austria apparently thought it meant having half the world over for light refreshments and conversation, and Spain wasn't allowed to get drunk, not after the one year where he and France and Prussia had apparently destroyed the kitchen trying to bake a cake. He didn't remember that part, really, just waking up on the kitchen table half-naked with a hangover and flour in his hair.

Good times.

But fresh from his defeat in trying to take Romano out on a date and even worse, his defeat in trying to befriend the prickly half-nation, he wasn't really in the mood to play nice with his ex-husband, or anyone else, either. So he was hiding in the kitchen. He liked kitchens. They were always the heart and soul of a home. Austria's was kind of too neat and clean for him, though, but it was still better than playing nice with England and the Netherlands.

Italy bustled in, with empty appetizer trays. "Oh! Hi, Spain! How are you?"

"Ok. You're helping out Austria? That's super nice of you."

"Yup! He's wondering where you are!" The trays were deposited in the sink, and then Italy hopped onto one of the tall stools surrounding the kitchen island Spain was leaning against. "You and Romano."

"Romano's coming to the party?" Spain said slowly. The other man nodded, looking slightly confused, curl bobbing.

"I make him, every year. He shows up kinda late and leaves really early though."

"How do I look?"

"What?"

"How do I look?" Spain ran his fingers through his curly hair distractedly. Italy eyed him.

"Fine, I mean, your jacket's out of style, and…ve, Spain, you really need new trainers…but…are you trying to impress Romano…?"

"He's so cute…not that you're not cute too, Italy, but he blushes so red, and I really want to get to know him, but he yelled at me when I got him flowers and told me to go away, so I did, but maybe I can do something to make him want to hang out with me? And then we can be friends!"

"You got him flowers? Is that what he was grumbling about the other day? Ve! That's so adorable, Spain!"

"What's adorable now?" came a soft, low voice from behind Italy. Spain met Romano's eyes and started staring, not stopping when the man turned his head and met his eyes, scowling.

Romano looked good. Romano looked really good. From the snug brown leather jacket to the faded black button up with the loosened red tie, dark jeans on his long legs…

He was carrying a helmet, which he sat on the kitchen table. "You ride a motorcycle?" Spain blurted out.

"Noooo, silly. Romano has a Vespa. It's a really pretty glossy red." Italy chimed in. "But it's cold out, Roma, you should have taken the Ferrari."

"I like my Vespa." Romano threw over his shoulder as he exited the kitchen. "I'm going to find something to eat."

"Oooh! Good idea, I'll come with you!" Italy bounced after Romano.

Spain leaned back against the wall. After a moment of consideration, he went to the table and picked up the helmet.

It was red, probably to match the aforesaid scooter. Someone had put a tomato sticker on one side. The insides were soft and worn, and Spain sternly told himself that only creepy people smelled helmets.

He was halfway through sticking his face in to try anyways when the kitchen door opened.

Luckily, it was France. "Mon cher, why are you hiding in the kitchen? Prussia is looking for you. I think he has firecrackers. And…what are you doing with little Romano's helmet?"

"Putting it on the table!" Spain said quickly. Then, "Wait. You know Romano?"

"Of course. He lived under my care when he was young. Well, sometimes. He's a terrible prude, you see, so I sent him back to Austria now and then." France rubbed his chin. "And I know Austria sent him to Turkey when he couldn't handle him anymore. Really, I've never met a ruder child. He never wanted to hug, or kiss…or sit on my lap…"

Spain laughed nervously. "He's not that bad."

"My dear, you have no idea. I'm sure Austria is at this very moment berating him on his rudeness…and his posture…and probably his clothing as well."

"What…? Why?"

France shrugged elegantly. "The child has no grace in his soul, no appreciation of l'amour, of the finer things in life." He sighed theatrically. "We tried to instill these things in him, but…" He trailed off, a martyr in the face of overwhelming odds.

"FUCK YOU, I DON'T GIVE A DAMN ANYMORE!" Romano came bursting in the kitchen door, Italy behind him, pulling at his sleeve.

"Roma, Roma, ve, please calm down, you're scary when you're like this!"

"I'm going home," Romano said, his voice shaking. "You can stay. I don't care."

For a second his eyes met Spain's, and then he was shoving past, grabbing his helmet. They heard the engine start, and then the sound of it disappearing into the distance.

"Like I said," France said, idly swirling the wine in his glass, "No appreciation."

Romano didn't make it all that far, really, just to the nearest all-night café. He knew better than to drive when he was so worked up. He'd lost his last three scooters that way.

Damn Austria. Where the hell did he feel he got the right to criticize Romano? He'd practically thrown him at Turkey multiple times to avoid a minor war, and he and France had fought over who had to keep him when he wasn't stuck with stupid smug Turkey. Fuck him. It wasn't like he actually cared, anyways. He just wanted people to look at Romano and say how good he was at raising kids. Well, he wasn't. Veniziano was just perfect to start with. And fuck if Romano was going to kowtow to a nation that didn't even realize why he was so pissed off.

The pricklings of shame he was feeling weren't about anything he'd said to Austria. It was seeing Spain's face after he'd heard Romano shouting. And France had been there too, probably telling the green-eyed nation all about how very uncontrollable and rude he was.

And that was good, because then Spain would leave him alone. He'd give up this absurd idea of dating. He'd be left in peace, alone in his house.

The bell over the door tinkled. Romano stayed where he was, face flat on the table, unwanted cappuccino slowly getting colder. All the stupid parties ended like this. He wasn't looking for fights, like Veniziano accused him of, but if he didn't stand up for himself, how could he call himself a nation? He might as well lie down and die and let Italy take care of everything.

He felt someone slide into the booth on the other side, and peeled his face off the table to yell at his brother.

It wasn't Veniziano.

"Hi, Romano," Spain said softly. His dark curly hair was tousled, his cheeks were faintly pink, his eyes were that soft, warm green, and his ridiculously bright orange scarf was slightly askew.

He felt his heart jump, even though it was the last person he wanted to see, even though he knew he looked like shit right now, hair messed up, face all weird from pressing it into the table, damp from the misty rain falling.

He let his face smack back down on the table. Fuck everything.

He heard the waitress come over, heard Spain order something in halting German. He moved just enough so he could look up a little at the other man.

Spain was watching him with a dreamy sort of gaze. Not like France, where he could feel the man's eyes like fingers, or Austria's glare of disapproval, or Turkey's utter amusement, but just. Just…watching. It was almost the same look that he'd had when he was checking out Romano's ass in his own kitchen.

It made him feel warm. He stomped on the feeling. He wasn't doing this. He wouldn't let this happen.

Spain reached across the table, and tangled their fingers together, smiling softly. "Your hands are cold."

"Why are you here, bastard?" he asked, voice muffled a little.

"Spain."

"What?" He sat up a little more.

"Call me Spain. Can I call you Romanito? Or Roma? It's so cute…"

He stared. "What?"

"Spain? It's my name. You haven't forgotten already, have you?" Spain took his other hand now too, and he had to admit they felt warmer. He felt warmer.

This was a very bad idea. He knew it was. He shouldn't.

"…Fine. Spain. Why are you here?"

"Because you looked really sad when you left." The man gripped his hands a little tighter. "I didn't want you to be sad all by yourself. So Ita- North Italy told me you'd probably be here."

"Idiot. I'd be fine. It happens every year."

"You…no one comes to make sure you're ok?"

"No?" Romano said, confused. "Who'd come after me, anyways? Veniziano did a couple times until I told him to quit it."

"Oh…" He didn't like the look on Spain's face. It dimmed the glow of his green eyes. "Roma, why do you say that like you think no one cares?"

"Because no one does, bastard." He took his hands back, and watched as the waitress slid a plate of pasta in front of the other man. Remembering his coffee, he reached for it and took a sip. Stone cold. Disgusting.

"What? No, Roma, that can't be true!" He nearly growled at the way the man was ignoring his serviceable (even if it was Austrian) pasta. It even had nice big chunks of tomato in it.

"If it isn't, they've got a funny way of showing it," he muttered. Then, louder, "Look, eat, and I'll tell you the sorry story, but don't waste food."

Spain obediently shoved a forkful of pasta into his mouth and waited expectantly.

"God…look, I'm a brat. Always have been. Rome took Veniziano and left when I was really little, the next thing I knew he was dead, we went to live with Austria, Austria traded me to Turkey so he wouldn't have to fight the Ottoman Empire, Turkey got tired of me and France claimed me, and then he got bored and sent me back to Austria. So on and so forth. A couple hundred years later, Veniziano and I finally got our independence. And since then, they get together at parties and badmouth me when they think I can't hear. And then Austria has the balls to go tell me that I'm doing everything wrong! Fuck him. He's never even been to my place!"

"What? But it's so pretty! And you have such a nice tomato garden!"

Romano was ready to snap at him for teasing, until he met Spain's eyes and realized he was serious.

"Don't say things you don't mean," he grumbled instead.

"But I do! And I really really want you to come see my house too!"

"Maybe. But don't count on it!"

Spain beamed at him, full of joy and spirit and simple happiness. Romano managed a tiny smile back, his stomach sinking.

Maybe he could survive this one more time, maybe it was worth seeing Spain look like that, knowing it was because of him.

He wasn't really sure if there was even a choice, anymore.

A/N: Next chapter: Romano goes to visit Spain in…well, Spain.

Virtual cookies for anyone who catches a human name stuck in there somewhere, I switched about halfway and I have no idea if I caught them all in my read through.