Hey there, Hetalia fandom! It's Kitty again, taking a quick break from working on my original novel to give you some new fanfiction. This was hastily written, and probably sucks, but IDGAF. I wanted to address a topic I feel very strongly about, that being domestic abuse, and felt that the subject would be best applied to a Spamano fanfiction. Why? Because the way Spamano often gets portrayed in this fandom is highly toxic and/or abusive. This is not true of every Spamano fanfiction, however, but I have found too many toxic Spamano fanfictions to count. It is not cute/funny/acceptable, when someone verbally or physically abuses their partner, be it real, or fictional. It is also not cute/funny/acceptable when the abused party laughs it off like it was nothing. A sorry and makeup sex doesn't cut it, when it comes to domestic abuse, and it never should.

If you are a victim of domestic abuse, please seek help. Leave your partner, if you can. Call a domestic abuse line, or even the police (There's an app called Aspire News, which looks like a regular news app, but it's actually a domestic abuse line, enabling abuse victims to get help discreetly). Arrange to stay with a friend or relative, because you don't deserve what's happening to you, and you deserve better than to be treated like a punching bag.

One last thing, before the story begins. Who is Ricardo, whom I mention in the story? He's supposed to be Andalusia, the southernmost region of Spain.

Antonio hissed as he recoiled from the bitter taste of gin. Last night's fight had been just like any other; Lovino had gotten angry over something silly, he'd yelled at Antonio for it, and then Antonio had ended up all apologetic, and trying to calm him down, instead of telling him to go cool off, instead of taking it out on him. And then Lovino would calm down, and maybe, he'd begrudgingly spit out, 'sorry'. And that, for the past six months, had become somewhat of a bedtime routine for them.

He glanced over at a vase of carnations. He'd known exactly what he was getting into, when he got into a relationship with Lovino. He knew that Lovino was quick to anger, and irritable, and, to a point, extremely rude, but he was only like that because of his upbringing, or so his brother said. He'd had it hard, and that had made him hard too, but, in the early days, Antonio had been convinced that he could love the 'hard' away, amd just be left with the parts of Lovino he liked. The Lovino that used to try to help, even if he made a mess of it. The Lovino that once made him a batch of polvorones on Christmas Day, because the markets were sold out. The Lovino which could be sweet, when he really, really wanted to. But in the past few months, all of the sweet Lovino seemed to have gone away. Now he was only left with angry Lovino, shouting Lovino, constantly complaining about whatever he did Lovino. The Lovino who no longer treated like the sweet carnations in the vase, not real ones, anyway. Just cheap plastic fakes, to be torn and snapped and torn and twisted and torn until they no longer resembled any sort of living thing. And very soon, he felt like he was going to snap, just like the plastic carnations.

Eventually, he forced himself up to the kitchen. It was around nine o'clock, a bit early for dinner, but he'd had an especially bad day, and the last thing he needed was for Lovino to come home and shout and scream about how he was hungry, and how he never had any food in the house. Of course, Lovino was probably going to complain about whatever he made, but he decided that he'd rather deal with an angry Lovino, than a hungry and angry Lovino. Angry Lovino was a true monster.

He got some defrosted prawns, and some fresh chili and garlic from the fridge. Gambas al pil pil was light on the stomach, but it was tasty, and it gave him a good excuse to use up that last bit of stale bread, as a side.

He was just taking it to the table when he heard the door clink open. Lovino kicked his shoes off, as he trudged into the dining room.

"That smells...Interesting," he said as he went to sit at the table, "What is it?"

Antonio spooned it onto two plates. "It's gambas al pil pil. One of my favourites."

The Italian huffed. "Really? You've made Spanish food again?"

Antonio raised an eyebrow. "We're in Spain, Lovino."

"Whatever," he scoffed, "Why don't you make something I like, for once? Why don't you ever make pasta anymore?"

"I made you carbonara the other night," Antonio reminded him, "But you hated it. You said I used too many eggs, and not enough cheese."

"So? You should have made it again tonight, bastard!" he spat, "And properly this time, to make up for it! Seriously, were you born stupid, or did you practice?!"

The Spaniard shook his head. "There's no need for that, Lovino."

Lovino folded his arms. "Yes, there is. I fell in love with an idiot. A complete and total idiot!"

Antonio bowed his head as he added a slice of toasted bread to his plate. "Let's just sit down and eat," he said tiredly, "It's been a long day."

"Like you can complain, tomato bastard. You haven't been at work today!"

He sighed as he began eating, dipping the bread in the sauce. "I've had a lot on my mind Lovino," he replied, "Boss gave me a royal chewing out yesterday."

Lovino didn't reply. For the last few months, Antonio had been getting far more sensitive. Far too sensitive for his liking, if he was honest. Antonio used to be the one he could come to for anything, but now, whenever he was particularly cross, and ranted at him like he always had, Antonio hadn't laughed it off. He looked actually...Hurt by what he'd done. And then, afterwards, Lovino had had to tell him, 'sorry', and buy him polvorones, or fresh tomatoes, and it had worked, the first few times. But then Antonio had started making him promise to never yell, never complain, or anything ever again, and he had, but he hadn't been able to stick to it. He needed someone, anyone, to take out his rage on, to take out how he was always being thrown aside and overlooked for other people, Feliciano, in particular, and if it couldn't be Antonio, who could it be?

"How is it?" Antonio eventually said.

He stirred the prawns with his fork. "I hate it. Too much olive oil," he answered, "What is it with you Spaniards and olive oil, drowning everything you make in the stuff?"

The Spaniard sighed softly, poking at a piece of garlic which hadn't been chopped up properly. "Course you do," he replied, "You never like anything I make, do you?"

He glanced up at him. "What are you on about?"

"I do my best to make you happy, y'know. I always make dinner, I always make sure the house is clean when you get home, I always take care of the tomatoes in the garden, in fact, I do everything around here, even though I have a job too," he replied, "And all you ever do is moan."

He stabbed a prawn with his fork, prongs clinking against the plate. "Of course, that's not the only thing you moan about..."

Lovino shook his head. "So what if I moan to you about watering the tomatoes?" he scoffed, "Cagna, Antonio, if I didn't you'd probably forget. You're such a blockhead!"

"Calling me a blockhead, too?" Antonio continued, "Díos mío, you never stop, do you?"

He let his fork clatter to the table. "What do you mean?"

"You'll look for any excuse to put me down, won't you?" he said, "Anything I don't do exactly the way you want it. You're always treating me like you hate me, and I don't know why."

The Italian screwed his face up. "Hate you? Now you're just being stupid!" he cried, "Even more stupid than usual. Look, Antonio, if I hated you that much, I wouldn't have started dating you, and I wouldn't have bought a house with you, would I?"

Antonio felt a hot flush run through his body. "That's not the point," he answered, "I've said it a million times before, but I need you to stop. I can't take it anymore, and if you really loved me, you would."

"Oh, please. You know what you were getting into, when you said you liked me that first time!" Lovino answered, "You know me. Always getting thrown away for someone else. I'm allowed to be mad about that. I'm allowed to be mad at everyone else in my life, for that, because it's their fault I ended up like this!"

"Well it wasn't my fault you ended up this way, because I didn't raise you," Antonio snapped, "And yet, I'm the one who gets the worst of your temper every day!"

"Now you're just being a baby," Lovino scoffed, "Pathetic whiny, tomato bastard baby! I've always been like this, so why is it such a problem to you now?"

"Because"-

"You know I've been through a lot, and nobody else will let me yell at them when I need to. Only you will! I need you for that!"

"But I'm not"-

"You're always so happy-go-lucky. No one's ever thought your brother's better than you. So maybe, just this once, you can think about me, and think about what it's like to feel like me?!"

The light went out in Antonio's eyes. After all he'd said, he couldn't believe that Lovino still thought he was the victim. "Shut up."

"What it's like to spend your childhood being tossed around. What it's like when nobody wants you, until you come along."

"Shut. Up."

"And then, that idiot decides he doesn't want you either. Do you know what that's"-

"Shut up. Shut the hell up."

And Lovino had looked at him like he'd never heard anything quite so preposterous in all his life. "What?"

"Shut up. Lovino, I'm sick to fucking death of you," he said, trembling, "I can't take it anymore. I can't take you anymore. I don't care what hapoened you were a kid anymore."

Lovino paled. "What are you saying, tomato bastard?"

Antonio shook his head. "You seriously don't know?" he began, "I'm sick of this. I'm sick of you yelling at me and calling me a bastard every single day. I'm sick of you waking me up because you want things at all hours of the night. I'm sick of you never being happy with what I do for you. I'm sick of always having to compromise for you, but you never do it for me. I'm sick of...God, why have I have I stayed with you this long? You do nothing but treat me like garbage!"

Lovino raised an eyebrow. "Since when? This is just how I treat everyone," he responded, "Actually, no, it isn't. I'm nicer to you than I am anyone else, so what are you moaning about?"

He put the fork down. "You call the way you treat me being nice?" he huffed, "Because it isn't. It's the furthest thing from it. I think Roderich treated you better than you do me, and that's really saying a lot."

The Italian paled. "But Antonio, I"-

"No you don't," he said firmly, "This isn't love. It's not fair, and it's not right. I want better."

He froze, for a moment. And then he lit up, like a crazy thing had popped into his head, and he dashed upstairs as Lovino cried, "Antonio? Where are you going?"

No answer.

"Antonio!"

Antonio returned momentarily, with a duffel bag packed. He scrambled for his keys and phone, tapping the screen hurriedly.

"We are through," he said firmly, "I don't deserve this. I want someone who loves and respects me, and that someone is not you."

Lovino wanted to put his foot in the door, but he was shoved aside. "What do you mean, tomato bastard? Of course I...Care about you! You know I do!"

Antonio shook his head. "Look at you. You can't even say you love me," he sighed, "And you don't even care how I feel!"

Lovino swallowed. Antonio was never angry, or at least, not like this. But he wasn't about to lose him. Antonio wasn't going to walk out on him. He couldn't. He couldn't have driven him away, too.

He pulled Antonio back from the door, but he struggled, and broke away. "Look, I'm sorry, ok?" Lovino eventually said, "Whatever I did, I'm sorry, so just tell me what you want, and I'll do it."

"It's too late for that," he said firmly, "Lovino, I've had enough. I've told you, over and over, to stop the insults. Stop the attitude. Stop everything, but you never do. Sorry's just a word to you. You just say it so I won't go."

"But"-

He zipped up his jacket. "But nothing. I'm leaving, and I never want to see you again."

Lovino ran up behind him. "You can't seriously do this, Antonio. Where are you even gonna go?"

"Seville," he said plainly, "Ricardo will gladly offer me a place to stay."

Lovino snapped back to his old self, for a moment. "Like the orange bastard is gonna have room for you at his place!" he scoffed, "And it's probably at least a three-hour drive from here!"

A light lit up in Antonio's eyes. "Good," he said coolly, a new, spiteful streak taking over, "Then it's nice and far away from you."

He grabbed one more pair of shoes from the rack. "Goodbye, Lovino."

And with one slam of the door, he was gone.

Lovino shook his head, going to sit in the living room. Antonio didn't really mean goodbye, did he? He'd never really leave him. All he'd have to do was wait for a bit, and welcome him home with polvorones and pestiños and the best sex of his life. Then everything would be ok again, like it always was. Then Antonio would be his again.

So he waited.

An hour went by. Lovino made polvorones, following the recipe to the letter. He gave them such a heaping of icing sugar, that by the time he was done, they looked like little powdery snowballs.

Nothing. Not even a call or a text. Antonio hadn't come back.

Another hour. Lovino made pestiños, shaping the dough into little A and L shapes, before he fried them. He covered them with a dose of fancy honey, the stuff from the farmers' market.

Antonio didn't come back.

Another hour. He set their bedroom up with rose petals, and romantic music. He created a perfect love den for the two of them.

Antonio didn't come back.

He ordered some of Antonio's favourite cologne. He didn't come back. He watered the tomatoes. He didn't come back. He bought a vivarium, so Antonio could finally have the turtles he'd always wanted. He didn't come back. He wrote him a long, long apology letter. He cleaned up the mess from dinner. He bought some of Antonio's favourite serrano ham. He made a list of all the reasons he loved him.

And by the time he was done, it was half past two in the morning. Five hours. Antonio had never been gone this long before. So he called him, texted him, messaged him, no reply. Checked the nearby bars, and convenience stores. He wasn't there.

Lovino's heart dropped, as he realised that this really was it. It was over. It was over, and Antonio was never coming back. He'd had but one good thing in his life, and somehow, he'd managed to screw that up too.

He went to the living room, putting his head in his hands, as he began to sob pitifully. This was it. Now he really was all alone, with no one to love or support or defend him. And worst of all, it was all his fault.

After several hours of driving, Antonio arrived in Seville. Ricardo welcomed him with wine and a tray of pestiños, fresh from the fryer.

"It was just...Grr, I couldn't take it anymore. I wanna be treated like a person, and not like a punching bag!"

Ricardo wrapped an arm around his brother. "I understand," he said softly, "That bastard...You deserve better than him, anyway."

He poured himself another glass of wine, watching as the red liquid sloshed out of the bottle. "It's not like I don't love him, or anything," Antonio sighed, "Because I do, honestly, and I feel terrible for leaving him to begin with. All his life, he's had people tossing him aside for his brother, or abandoning him, and now he's lost me too, he..."

Ricardo shook his head. "Tío, it's not your job to stick around for him just because nobody else would," he said bluntly, "It doesn't matter what he's been through. Not if he uses it as an excuse to treat you like shit."

Antonio pulled his knees up to his chest. "I suppose..."

Ricardo helped himself to another pestiño. "Maybe losing you will be good for him, anyway."

He cocked his head at him. "How?"

"Face it. Tonight, he lost the best thing that's ever happened to him," he replied, "You stuck with him through thick and thin, always made excuses for him, always tolerated his abuse, but now you're gone, because you can't take it anymore. Maybe because of this, he'll learn to treat people better. Maybe because of this, he'll, I dunno, actually take some time to sort out his issues, before he tries dating again."

Antonio sipped his wine, downing it delicately. "Maybe," he replied, "Just maybe."

"I think you should, too," Ricardo added, "I mean, face it, you don't wanna end up with another guy like him, do you?"

"You're right," Antonio responded. "I think I should stay off guys for a while. Maybe just do whatever I want for a bit. Watch a Spain game, go to a flamenco bar again, finally learn how to paso doble, y'know, the things Lovino didn't like."

Antonio had loved going to flamenco bars before Lovino came into his life. He'd loved going, and watching the fiery dance of Andalusia beaten out on the floor, as guitars strummed, and tapas were served, but Lovino never wanted to go with him. Too loud, he said. Lovino would never watch any Spain football games with him, he supported Italy, and only Italy, he said. And forget learning to dance with him; when it came to the paso doble, Lovino wouldn't dance any of the traditional roles, be they matador, or cape.

"Sounds like a good plan," Ricardo agreed.

He finished the glass. "And maybe, in time, I'll fall for someone else," he replied, "Someone better."

"You deserve it, brother," Ricardo responded.

"Thanks, Ricardo," he answered, helping himself to another pestiño. Tonight had been awful, possibly the worst thing he'd ever done, but he'd had no other choice. All he could do now, was try to heal as best he could.