A/N:

I'm not sure if I should call this M or just high T, so for now it's M. Tell me if I should drop the rating, kay?

This is a Framano (FrancexRomano) and Spamano oneshot (yep, you read right~) that I wrote for mi Romanito~ she helped me come up with the plot and everything in it while at Connecticon this year. I just wrote it all down into this... whatever it is :D

So this is for you Roma~!

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or the characters.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me!"

"Language, Romano~"

"Fuck language! I can't believe you would do this to me, you bastard!" Romano fumed from where he lay on his back on the bed he shared with Spain, glaring at the ceiling so he wouldn't have to see his lover's annoying face.

Said annoying-faced Spaniard was across the room, fixing his tie in the vanity mirror, trying to calm Romano down as he rushed around to get ready for a meeting with his boss, America, and America's boss that he was already late for. "Roma, it's not the end of the world! It's only a few days, just until I get back from the meeting-"

"I don't need a damn babysitter!" Romano yelled, throwing a pillow at Spain, who dodged.

"Well I don't know how long the meeting will be, and I don't want you to be here alone," Spain explained. "Last time I left you alone, you-"

"YOU SWORE YOU WOULD NEVER MENTION THAT AGAIN!" Romano screeched, blushing madly as he beat Spain with another pillow.

"AH! Lo siento, lo siento!" Spain tried to apologize through the onslaught of pillow. "I just didn't want you to be lonely without me."

"Why the hell would I be lonely?" Romano growled.

"Because you'd miss Boss~?"

"Hell no. And stop calling yourself Boss; it's stupid." The Italian half-nation clutched the pillow to his chest and flopped back down on the bed. "Who the hell did you get to be my 'babysitter' anyway, Tomato Bastard? It better not be any of those perverts you call friends."

Spain refused to meet Romano's eyes in the mirror. "Ah, about that…"

Before Romano could issue any threats, the doorbell echoed throughout Spain's house. "Mon ami, open the door! It's raining!" a very familiar voice called through the door.

Romano shot up from the bed, eyes wide in horror. "Oh my fuck, you did not get that thing to watch me," he hissed.

Spain gulped. "Ah… surprise?"

As France knocked again, Romano bolted from the room with a screech of "CHIGIIII!"

"Romano!" Spain ran after him, but, having no idea where his little tomato disappeared to, stopped to let his friend out of the rain.

France stepped into the house with a small huff, wringing water out of his hair.

"Sorry about making you wait in the rain," Spain apologized to his friend, handing him a towel. "Romano was being… difficult."
"That is not surprising, is it?" France teased lightly. "Now, where is that precious little ball of fire that I'm supposed to be watching?"

"I'm… not sure," Spain admitted. "He ran off when you came."

"That is also not surprising," France sniffed, feigning hurt. "He doesn't like his Big Brother France very much, does he?"

"No, I guess not," Spain sighed. "But thank you for watching him for me anyway! I'm really late, so I should probably be going now," he turned down the hall and called "Romanito, I'm leaving!"

There was a bang from somewhere in the house followed by a muffled "Chigi!"

Sadly, being as late has he was, Spain would have to accept that as a goodbye. Turning back to the door, he addressed France again. "Oh, and before I forget…" the air around him seemed to darken as he glared warningly at his friend. "Remember that there is an axe blade with your name on it if you touch one hair on mi Romanito's head. Comprende, amigo?"

France stared at his friend's dark smile and gave him a wide eyed nod. "O-of course, mon ami. I understand."

"Good~!" Spain said with a wide smile, dark aura gone. "I'll be back eventually then!"

As the door closed behind Spain, France let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. Now, for an unknown amount of time, he was alone in the house with Romano, who hated him.

Wait. He was alone. In an empty house. With only Romano.

France could feel a smile unfolding on his lips. Maybe this wasn't so bad after all~

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

"Romano, mon cher, you can't hide forever!" France called once again as he searched Spain's house. Seriously, did his friend need so many rooms? "You'll need food eventually!"

Somehow, a defeated France found his way back to the living room and he flopped gracefully (because he can do that) onto the couch with a small sigh.

The couch 'chigi'-ed.

With a smirk, France got on his hands and knees and peered under the couch. He was greeted by two wide, shocked hazel eyes glaring back at him. "Found you~" the Frenchman cooed.

Romano yelped and tried to escape from the back of the couch, but France grabbed his arm and pulled him into his lap. "I never even got a proper 'hello' from you yet, mon italien~" he pouted, cupping the struggling Italian's chin as he tried to bring it closer to his own lips. His other hand busied itself with the buttons of Romano's shirt. "Now how about a welcoming kiss for your Big Brother France~?"

Romano's eyes opened even wider and froze as the distance between their lips got smaller and smaller. Briefly, he could feel his lips brush France's and it broke him from his momentary trance. As France pulled away, Romano's look of fear transformed into a vengeful glare and he slammed his skull into the Frenchman's chin.

Reeling from the unexpected (that should have really been expected) blow, France's grip on Romano loosened just enough for the smaller man to wriggle away and bolt. "Perverted old bastard!" the Italian screeched as he disappeared down the hallway.

Rubbing his (probably bruised) jaw, France lay back on the couch and sighed. Maybe he came on too quickly…

No matter; he still had time to catch his cute little prey~

And, without Spain there for him to hide behind, there was nothing in his way. ~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

Romano spent the night curled up in a ball under the bed he shared with Spain. Why didn't he sleep on the bed? Because that's exactly what the Wine-Bastard would expect him to do, duh!

Mumbling to himself and rubbing his sore back, he made his way quietly to the kitchen. Maybe he could sneak some tomatoes out of the fridge before France noticed him.

'…Or maybe not,' he thought as the smell of omelets wafted from the kitchen accompanied by France humming contentedly to himself as he cooked.

Noticing Romano watching him from the doorway, France turned away from the stove briefly to give him a smile. "Bonjour Romano," he said and turned back to the eggs. "Breakfast will be ready in a moment, so don't disappear."

The only reason that Romano found himself sitting at the kitchen island was because he was hungry and the omelets smelled pretty damn good… for French food, of course.

France handed him a plate and, after inspecting it for date rape drugs, Romano dug into it hungrily.

France laughed. "It seems that you like my cooking, oui?"

Romano grunted, still shoveling the food into his mouth. "It's passable…"

The two ate in silence for a few minutes before France leaned over the counter toward him. "You have a bit of egg on your face…" he said and lifted Romano's face so that he could lick away the egg at the edge of the Italian's lips.

Romano tensed at the Frenchman's soft touches and let the fork in his hand fall to the plate of half-eaten omelet. The touch at his lips reminded him of Spain for a moment and he leaned into France's hand for a moment before hastily shoving him away.

"B-bastard!" he yelped and put some considerable distance between him and the blonde nation, but didn't immediately run like he had the day before. The gesture with the egg had reminded him of Spain, and though he wouldn't admit it, maybe he did miss the Tomato Bastard a bit… "Why the hell did you do that, you pervert!"

"Ah, Romano, you wound me, mon cher!" France sighed dramatically. "If you weren't such a messy eater, I wouldn't have had to clean your face."

"With your damn tongue? That's sick!" Romano grimaced and walked quickly (because he wasn't running away from the wine freak, of course not!) out of the room.

France leaned on the counter with a content smirk. Romano didn't immediately run from him this time. He was getting closer. Slowly, yes, but he was getting closer…

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

This went on for two more days. France would make a subtle (or not so subtle) pass at Romano and Romano would curse and push him away. Now, after all of the defeats, it seemed that France was finally beginning to give up his chase.

In all honesty, Romano wasn't sure that this distance between him and the touchy Frenchman was better, or more threatening.

Romano stood outside the living room, watching France, who was reclining on the sofa watching some cooking show and toying with a half empty glass of red wine. Another glass and a wine bottle sat on the coffee table in front of him.

Eyes narrowed suspiciously, Romano walked into the room and stood in front of him. "You're finally giving up?"

France's gaze flickered between him and the television. "You seem disappointed~"

"Hell no! It's just… creepy having you not perv out on me all the time," Romano defended himself. "It's just not you."

France shrugged. "I realize now that I would rather have my head connected to my shoulders than chase after you and have Espagne destroy me with that axe of his."

"Smart move, bastard," Romano nodded and sat on the edge of the couch farthest from France, still not totally trusting him. "What are you watching?"

"I'm not sure, really. It's one of America's shows," France explained.

"The burger bastard can't cook for shit!" Romano complained.

France laughed and poured a second glass of wine and handed it to Romano, who accepted it without a second thought. "Oui, but he's not as bad as Angleterre."

Romano grunted in agreement around the edge of the wine glass. "I'd rather eat that McDonald's crap then be anywhere near those 'scones'."

The two drank their way through two more bottles of wine after the original first (France made sure that Romano drank most of the alcohol) and now the sun was beginning to set. The television no longer played reruns of American cooking shows; the two Mediterranean nations had long grown bored with their lessons, and now played out the overly-dramatic lives of some Spanish telenovela.

Romano let out a small hiccup as he swirled the wine in his glass, staring intently at the man and woman making out on the screen. "Y-you can't really do that!" he complained and gestured wildly at the TV. "Ya gotta… gotta breathe sometime!"

"That's when you start to breathe through your nose, of course!" France explained, watching Romano instead of the telenovela. The Italian was obviously drunk off his ass.

"Psh, can't do that…" Romano shook his head, trying to clear it, and instantly regretted it as the world spun.

"Sure you can,"

Romano's glossy eyes landed on France. With a sultry smirk, he crawled over to the Frenchman and made himself comfortable in his lap. "F-Fuckin' prove it then!"

'Just as I thought,' France thought. 'Spain doesn't lie about Romano ever, does he?' It might have come up during some conversation amongst the Bad Touch Trio that Romano becomes… more willing when under the influence of alcohol.

"Do you really mean that, mon cher?" France raised an eyebrow, pretending that he wasn't wrapping eager arms around Romano.

Romano's eyes cleared for a brief second and he tried to take it back. "W-well, no… kinda, but- mmph!" he was cut off by France's lips and was immediately distracted by how different they were from Spain's.

For one, they were soft and-was that gloss?-like a woman's, not chapped and warm like a certain Spaniard's. They were also persistent and confident, none of Spain's hesitant gentleness like he was used to when Spain initiated a kiss. Obviously, where Spain had passion, France had experience.

Their tastes were also different as well. While Spain tasted spicy and of tomatoes and the slightest hint of cinnamon (Romano would deny knowing any of that) France reminded him of cool, expensive wine with something he couldn't quite catch…

Intrigued by that, Romano unconsciously tried to deepen the kiss, much to France's amusement. However, once Romano realized what he was doing, he tried to get away.

'This is France, goddamnit!' he screeched in his head as the arms tightened around his struggling body. 'He planned this!'

"L-let me go!" the Italian stammered, blushing fiercely as France released his lips and pinned him on his back across the couch. "I didn't mean it!"

"Don't lie, mon cher~" France teased. "You were enjoying that~"

"M-maybe… but you can't prove it!" Romano struggled to think clearly through the overwhelming smell of roses and the haze of alcohol.

"This," France brushed his fingertips across the starting of a bulge in Romano's jeans, making him blush and wriggle underneath him "Is all the proof that I need." He leaned in for another kiss that Romano eventually complied to. If he really couldn't escape, then why not enjoy it, his fuzzy mind sighed.

Feeling the fiery Italian relaxing underneath him, France successfully deepened the kiss, running his tongue skillfully along Romano's lower lip until he was allowed entrance, immediately exploring the new territory.

With France invading his mouth, Romano could no longer hold back the quiet moan that he had been suppressing and allowed France to swallow it greedily.

With Romano distracted by his amazing kissing skills, France began to unbutton the Italian's shirt, the fabric parting easily under his practiced fingers. As his hand grazed an exposed nipple, Romano whined and pushed up against him, enjoying the contact despite the fact that it was France.

However, it all went downhill from there.

Preoccupied as they were, neither heard the front door open, or a tired "I'm home!" from a certain, overprotective Spaniard. They also didn't hear the footsteps coming closer to them, the shocked gasp, or the loud thud that the stylish leather briefcase (a Christmas present from Romano last year) made when it dropped to the hardwood floor.

They did, however, notice the sudden lack of contact as France was ripped from the couch and thrown across the room by said overprotective Spaniard.

France yelped as his back slid across the ground, hitting his head against one of the recliners scattered around the room. Before he had a chance to recover, Spain grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and lifted him to meet his furious emerald gaze.

"A-ah, m-mon ami!" France whimpered. "You're home!"

"Didn't I warn you about what would happen to you if you touched mi Romanito, Francia?" Spain questioned; voice dangerously calm.

"W-well you might have mentioned something about that…"

"So you disobey me, go behind my back and take advantage of my trust and mi Romanito-"

Hearing his voice mentioned for the second time, a still drunk Romano decided that this was his best chance to voice his complaints about the wine bottle that he had found being empty. "Oi, Tomato Bastard, got any more *hic* wine?"

Spain's gaze traveled between France (who was still trapped in his grip) and Romano (who looked like he was going to fall off the couch at any second), growing a bit more dangerous with each glance. "…He's drunk?" he finally asked.

"P-perhaps a little…"

Throwing the Frenchman over one shoulder, Spain sent Romano an apologetic look. "Ah, this will only take a moment, okay mi amor?"

"Take your time," Romano slurred and waved a dismissive hand before flopping onto his back to wait.

"Gracias," Spain smiled and carried a struggling France from the room.

"W-wait! Mon ami, what are you gonna-"

Romano raised an eyebrow at the bloodcurdling scream that cut off France's words, but didn't think much of it.

A few minutes later, Spain came back into the room and sat down next to Romano's head. "I'm so sorry, Romanito!" he apologized. "I thought I could trust France to stay away for you!"

Romano shrugged and took off his already unbuttoned shirt (it was beginning to bother him) before making himself comfortable in Spain's lap. "Don't blame yourself, bastard," he slurred. "France is a fucking pervert. It's not your fault. And besides," he gave Spain a sexy little smirk. "I let him."

Before Spain could comment, Romano captured his lips in a fierce kiss. "But your kisses are better."

Happily surprised by the compliment, Spain allowed Romano to pull him down on top of him and promptly spent the rest of the night removing all traces of France from his little lover.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

"Someone fucking turn off the damn world!" Romano groaned the next morning, covering his head with a pillow to protect his throbbing skull, the messy sheets barely covering his naked body. "Shitty hangover… and my ass hurts, too, you stupid Tomato Bastard!"

Spain rolled over with a sleepy chuckle and wrapped an arm over his little Italian, pulling him close. "I'm sorry, mi amor, I didn't mean to be so rough! And the hangover is your own fault~"

Romano grumbled in slight discomfort, but didn't bother to get out of Spain's embrace. He could say that his head hurt too much to move if he needed to, because, of course, he didn't enjoy cuddling with the idiot at all, no way. "It's that damn wine pervert you call a friend's fault," he complained. "…Speaking of that bastard, what did you do to him, anyway?"

Spain hid his guilty blush in Romano's shoulder. "That's not really important, is it?"

Romano just grunted and made himself more comfortable in Spain's arms. "No, I guess it's not…" At least, it wasn't important to him.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.

However, France's fate was important to a certain Brit.

England stretched tiredly and stepped out onto his front porch, intent on grabbing that morning's paper before starting breakfast, only to find a large cardboard box at his door.

Giving it a suspicious glare, he kicked it, earning a grunt from somewhere inside.

"Curious…" he mumbled before pulling it into his kitchen and grabbing a knife, both to open the box and maybe as a weapon if the box proved to be dangerous.

As he cut away the tape, he discovered that the content of the box was harmless… well, at least for the moment.

In the box, England found France, unconscious and tied up. What looked to be cuts from a large axe covered him (but he was a nation, so they were already healing) and a tomato was shoved into his mouth as a gag.

And painted on his forehead was a Spanish flag.

England promptly resealed the box and shoved it in his supply closet for later. He couldn't deal with this, not before tea.

End