AN: Hey, I'm relatively new to the Hetalia fandom. This was co-authored with my friend, so this entire fic was a joint effort. I'd like some creative criticism por favore, and if you do I'll mention you in my next Hetalia fic, which should be coming up soon!
As for the Spanish and Italian phrases, you may look them up on google translate because that's what we did. I don't like putting the English translations in the story because I feel like it takes away from what I'm trying to describe or what a character is trying to say. I hope you all understand!
Antonio walked into his house, weary with fatigue and stress. It had been so long, so many years since he'd been home, since he'd been able to sleep in his own bed without having to worry about groping another guy accidently and having to apologise over and over again for it. It had been so long since he'd had a good home-cookedmeal, because all he got at the camp was gruel that looked like mud and had little grey lumps in it, like little frog eyes. His comrades called it oatmeal, Antonio called it mierda. But most importantly it had been so long since Antonio had seen Lovino, who had been absent from his life for a while now. Usually his underling came with him on trips to the battlefield, but the war this time had proved too dangerous for the small, unprotected country, and Spain would not allow Romano to put himself in any sort of harms way.
He shuffled his feet across the wooden floor, which was spick and span. Had Romano done this for him? Spain didn't think that he was capable of such a feat, although last time he had seen him Lovi still had cheeks like a baby rabbit and the height of a six year old. Spain stood in the hallway, looking at the darkened house he'd been absent from for so long. The shadows the came in through the windows caressed the corners of the living room, making a home for all the demons and ghosts that might take refuge there. Everything was bleak, making Spain feel as if he was a stranger. This wasn't the house he left, the house he left had bright gradients of red and yellow and green splashed across the house like the rare birds he had seen in the brazilian jungle. There was actual evidence of Spanish culture on the shelves and the curtains and walls, but that had all been erased. The house now looked haunted.
"Spain?" A small timid voice came out from the living room, and a figure came to meet the tired country. It was Romano, or, at least, that's who it looked like. Antonio wasn't sure who he was looking at to be honest. The boy in front of him had shaggy straight hair, the colour of amber whiskey in the late afternoon sun, and eyes the colour of tarnished gold. He had grown some, still shorter than Spain, but no longer did he only reach up to his knees. The signature curls was still wrapped around an invisible curler, and Antonio had to resist the urge the touch it. Lovino's voice had gotten deeper too, though it still held the hints of boyhood.
"Lovi?" Spain asked, and stepped forward, stumbling on his own feet. The battle had not been kind to him, it hadn't been kind to anyone. He'd lost. He'd lost everything and there was no way he could get it back. Lovino caught him and pulled him into a hug. "Dios mio I missed you so much. What happened to the house?" They stopped embracing, and Spain placed his hands over Lovi's shoulders. They were so strong, so lithe. It was hard to believe that this was once the little kid who headbutted him every morning to wake him up.
"I didn't know if you were coming home or not, I decided to redecorate." Romano answered, his voice cracking once or twice. Spain forgot that he'd left Romano just before he hit puberty, and now he was probably fifteen. "I promise I'll give everything back. It's going to be hard, idiot Fratello stole a lot of things."
"¿En serio? Is that right?" Spain asked, taking another look around the disarranged house, his eyes meeting the characterless ones of his subordinate. "Why don't we go over there and ask for them back? He is your brother, after all, and a more than reasonable man, he'd understand, Si?"
Romano shook his head. "Idiota, that's not how it works, España. You've been gone for so long, did you leave your brain on the battlefield or something?" Spain gave him a smile, missing the sarcastic comments from his henchman. "Italia has gotten pretty strong, you know. I don't think he'd put up with me any longer."
Spain laughed, earning a look from little South Italy. "Así que lo siento! I didn't mean to laugh, Roma, but do you really think your hermano would change so fast?"
Romano's eyes glazed over, tears forming within his broken orbs. "Perché pensi che avrebbe fatto questo allora? Perché?" Romano cried, balling his fists and rubbing at his eyes. Spain frowned for a moment and sighed. Lovi hadn't changed. He was still too young to understand the ways of the world. If he knew Italy, then he was almost sure that he'd give the stuff back. And if not, they could always steal it. Feli and Lovi weren't very knowledgeable with protection against invaders.
Antonio grabbed the other country's hands, rubbing his thumb along his knuckles in small circles, trying to coax Lovi to relax. It always worked when he was a child, he was sure it would work now. He leaned his forehead on South Italy's and smiled contently. "It's okay, Lovi. Just as long as I am with you I don't care what my house looks like, Bueno?" There was a silence after that, pouring into his ears and drowning out everything but his heartbeat. He was finally home, and yet the man had never really left the battle. To take his mind off of the horrors, he spoke again. "So, what's my little Lovino been up to, eh?" He grinned, showing his sparkling white teeth.
Romano shrugged, looking away from the tanned man. "Niente, davvero. I tried to clean up, but everything kept breaking. I wanted to cook, but I burned everything I made… Except the pasta. I know how to cook that." Spain chuckled when he said that, knowing how much Lovi adored pasta. "I tried to learn more Spanish, but it's troppo duro. Things have been really boring around here, dumb tomato bastard."
It was strange, Spain thought, how you didn't know you missed something until you had been ripped away from it. He didn't know how much he missed Lovino's less than loving endearments, but he did. No one else called him tomato bastard, and if anyone else tried, well, god help the poor soul who did. Spain missed almost everything about Romano, except for his cleaning skills and the habit of being a complete and utter butterfingers. Maybe Feliciano taking things was a good thing, maybe he took the good china and Antonio wouldn't have to worry about that getting broken anymore. "Do you still wet the bed?" He asked the other, meaning it as a joke. Surely a person of his age could have learned by now to control his own bladder? Apparently though, Romano didn't take it as a joke, and jumped away from Antonio's grasp, landing about five feet in front of him.
"CHIUDERE LA UP INFERNO DI CORSO SONO NON SONO QUALCHE STUPIDO POCO RAGAZZO PIÙ ANTONIO BASTARDO CAZZO!" Romano yelled, red blotches of embarrassment showed bright on his cheeks. Even if he had grown up a little, he still looked like a tomato to Antonio.
Spain felt bad and shook his head. "Lo siento, Romano." Again, the unforgiving silence, a faithful mistress of the night coming to take Antonio's hand and lead him into madness. He cleared his throat. "Have you met any girls?"
Romano twisted his foot, the blush becoming even more prominent on his arabic face. "N-no. It's not b-because they run a-away from me everytime I try to t-talk to them either. I, um, I l-like you." He stuttered, and Spain smiled.
"Well of course you like me! If you didn't, I'm sure you would have found a way to run away from me!" Antonio said, walking past the other country into the dark kitchen, only pausing to ruffle up his hair like he had done so many years ago. He heard Romano grunt, and then stomp his feet as he trailed along after him. Spain turned on the light and heard Romano mutter under his breath.
"No, Toni, you're not listening you dumb fucking idiota. I like you. Like I-might-want-to-go-on-a date-with-you like you."
Spain, being the idiot he is, didn't catch the last part that Romano said to him. "Lovi, you're going to have to speak up. Lo siento. But hey, I like you, too, Romano. My little henchman," Spain smiled, rubbing the top of Romano's head. His stomach grumbled, and he went to the cabinet where he thought the peanut butter would be. If what Lovi said was true, and he really still did suck at making food, then there would be no reason for him to mess up how food was stored.
Romano, red with frustration, tackled Antonio to the ground, knocking the wind out of him. Spain gasped for breath, his eye closing from the pain of Romano's tackle. Spain noted how much his strength differed from the last time he saw him, making sure not to upset him again in fear of his attack. "BASTARDO! Come hai potuto? How could you, idiota?! Why can't you realize it yet?"
"Realize what, Roma?" Spain said through painful breaths, still recovering from the force of Romano. Spain looked at the boy on his chest, seeing the whimpering mess that was now South Italy. "Did I do something wrong?"
"OF COURSE YOU DID! Do you not understand me, España? Do you not understand what I'm trying to tell you?!" Spain shook his head, still not getting what Lovino was getting at. "T-t-t-ti amo, il mio amore!" Romano howled. Spain's eyes broadened at Romano's words, catching him off guard. Spain's cheeks turned a light rosy color, his lips curling up into a nervous smile. His fingers hesitated to curl around the younger's waist, his eyes gliding over his body. He scolded himself mentally, taking his eyes away from his body and into his eyes. He carefully placed his hands on the younger's waist, trying not to seem like he was leading him on.
"W-what? Lovino..." There really were no words to describe how Spain felt. There was happiness, because Romano actually enjoyed being around him, there was fear, because no matter how he sorted through his own feelings, Spain couldn't return those feelings, and there was anger. Anger at Romano because how dare he drop a bombshell on him like that when he had just returned home from war. Antonio had hoped to have a relaxing night, a blissful sleep, for just one day before diving in head first into work. Damn Romano for making him feel too uneasy and sick to his stomach to relax. Damn him.
"Lovino...listen," Antonio started. He couldn't let him go on continuing to think that there was a spark between them, because as far as he was concerned, there wasn't. He had to let Lovi down gently, which was probably the worst thing Spain would ever do, fuck the battle and the tough decisions between life and death. This was his best friend, and there was nothing worse than making him sad. "It's not that I don't love you, because I do. But not in that way, bueno? You're just a friend to me. But you're the best friend I could ever have." He couldn't face his companion, not with what he just said still hanging in the air. Antonio faced the counter and gripped the white tile with his fingers, until his knuckles were white with pain and tension. He didn't want to say that, but it had to be done. Trying to act like what he said didn't feel like a thousand knives slowly being twisted into his gut, Antonio grabbed the whole wheat bread from the corner of the counter. "Would you like me to make you a sandwich, as well?"
Spain turned to see Romano standing motionless, his eyes downcast, covered by sadness. An air of melancholy surrounded them both, the only sounds filling the void were the breathing of the two and the knife scraping the peanut butter can. "No. I don't want your stupid fucking sandwiches," Romano replied unmannerly, racing from the illuminated kitchen.
"Romano!" Spain called, dropping the knife, and it clattered to the floor. Each time the metal hit the linoleum it sounded like the silverware was screaming in pain. Antonio cringed, unmoving like a statue. Lovi must have felt awful, being rejected by the one he had a crush on. Spain, of course, hadn't meant to cause pain to the boy, but it happened. He supposed it was unavoidable, that it had to be done, but it hurt nonetheless. The knife was like Lovi's heart to Spain. Cool and cold and impenetrable, especially now at a time like this. He heard the door slam, signaling Lovi's leave of the house. "Romano!" Antonio cried out again, rushing towards the door to follow his best friend, his dear Lovino Vargas.
Spain swung open the wooden slate, looking from either side to get at least a glimpse of his little companion. Spain was frantic, searching the whole front yard until he saw something in the distance. He saw a figure stuffing another figure into a car. Spain tried to run, his legs feeble; possibly from the feeling of disappointing someone he cared about. He tripped over his feet, stumbling across the dirt floor. "Deténgase!" Spain clamored, reaching out in front of him, hoping to be able to grasp something. "Stop right now!" Spain couldn't see anything because of the tears that were blocking his vision, but he didn't need to see. He could smell the dead flowers from where he was. He knew it was the frog. "Let Romano go, usted rana fea!"
Spain miscalculated his footing, flinging himself across the dirt floor. Mud was smudged against his tanned skin, dirtying his perfect Spanish face. Leaves and small twigs roped themselves within his caramel hair, locking themselves within his messy curls. Spain wiped the mire from his cheek, helping himself up from the ground. He started to run again, inching closer and closer to the vehicle.
But it was too late.
Francis Bonnefoy was already off, going at a speed Spain only wished he was capable of. As if in chronological order, Spain's knees gave out, sinking to the ground in a fit of dejection and dissatisfaction. He screamed at the top of his lungs, realizing how neglectful he was. He was a hopeless human being, a worthless piece of trash. He'd damn himself to hell if he could only do so. His tears mixed with the grime that stuck to his face like morning dew on the blade of a emerald leaf. Antonio punched the ground and took in a deep breath. He smeared the residue from his face, his eyes become infused with vexation. He wasn't going to let Francis get away with this. France was his friend, but he wasn't going to sit back and let the frenchie steal Romano from him.
The city was a little disorienting to Antonio, who had just come home from the war a few hours earlier. Of course he knew where France lived, all the countries did because he handed out his address at meetings all the time, but Antonio had forgotten the streets. At one point in his life, he could run barefoot through the cobblestone avenues with his eyes closed and get to the best Spanish restaurant in town. Now? Now he barely remembered where he lived. The reds, greens, and yellows of the street lights blinded him until he was a deer in the headlights, and the tears that stung his cheeks like razors didn't help in the slightest. It was his fault Romano was kidnapped, and without him by his side, Antonio was virtually lost in a maze of skyscrapers and smog.
The voices in his head, the people he had killed in battle, had now decided to torment him. Lies and whispers filled his ears, and there was nothing Spain could do. "Dios Mio," he whimpered, clamping his hands over his ears in an attempt to quiet them. This always happened when he was alone and things were particularly bad. The poor country was taunted by his past, pushed into agonizing mental pain by the things he had done as a conquistador. But it was nothing compared to the screaming of Romano inside his head, yelling at him that he fucked up in raising him, telling him that it was his fault no one could ever love him, and told him that he really hated his tomatoes and that they sucked.
"Yo dude, you okay?" A person came up and laid a hand on Spain's shoulder, and the country jumped.
"Fine. Go away," he snarled, curling in on himself like a wounded animal. The strange man looked startled and ran away, obviously not wanting to cohort with an insane person. Spain picked himself up off the ground, and dusted off his faded yellow sleeves which were ridden with gravel. He wasn't going to waste another second sobbing over his mistakes he had made with Romano. Pushing the horrible voices from his mind, he made his way to Francis' house. It was surprising how clear everything became when you were on a mission to save someone you cared about. His legs were no longer made out of useless jelly, trembling with every twitch. His blood was pumping, adrenaline shooting through his system faster than ever. Spain just ran, and he never stopped. Nothing could halt him, he was determined to get the one he cared so considerably for, someone who meant more than the amount of paella or tomatoes one could offer him.
Antonio made his way up to the familiar royal blue door, the one with fancy swirls and a golden door knob. Antonio stopped to gain his breathing, his breath being seen in the cold bitterness of night. The cold bit at him like the sting of many mosquitoes, deriding him constantly. The lump in his throat grew as he tried to think of different scenarios that could possibly go down. What if Romano isn't here? What if France is doing unspeakable things to him? What if Romano didn't want to leave? Antonio shook his head at the thought. Romano wouldn't stay with France, he was afraid of him. Spain knew Romano would see Spain walk through the door and he'd run to him with open arms, wailing to go home with Spain. But Spain knew it wasn't that easy. He knew what he had done to Romano, why would Lovi want to go home with him? After the things he made him feel?
He pounded on the door with all his might. France needed to know that he meant business, that this wasn't just some meeting. This was about Romano and who he truly belonged with. "FRANCIS YOU BETTER OPEN UP THIS DOOR OR I SWEAR TO EL DIOS I WILL CHOP OFF ALL YOUR ROSE HEADS!" Spain bellowed, eyes flaring up with emerald fire.
Honestly he wasn't sure whether it was the threat he had made, or the pounding of the door, but five seconds later the door swung open. Without so much as a glance France's way, Antonio stormed into the house. His nostrils flared as he looked for Romano. Knowing France, he was probably in the bedroom tied up and gagged.
"Antonio I-" Francis began, but Spain wasn't in the mood. He grabbed the French's royal purple cloak and slammed him against a wall with tremendous force. He may not have been the strongest country, but he could still beat up his enemies.
"Don't you 'Antonio' me, you bastard. Where the hell is Romano? Don't play games with me either," he snarled, inches from France's face. Spain was so furious that spit flew out of his mouth, as if he were a rabid dog. France flinched under his touch. In a way, Antonio was glad France was so afraid of him at this moment. He usually was a pretty nice guy, and tried to be friends with everyone, but stomp all over him and Romano and it was all over for you.
"Spain." Another voice came from the other room, one that Antonio recognized instantly without looking. It was Romano, and he was safe. Relief crashed through his body, endomorphins filled his brain. He was okay. His beloved Lovino was okay. Spain felt like weeping, but held it together. If he did cry, Romano would call him a twat.
"Lovi-" Spain began, slowly undoing his grip on France, letting him slide to the ground in a trembling state. He started to walk towards the other man.
"Don't. I don't want to see you again, bastardo." Lovino's words were bullets, piercing through Antonio's skin.
"W-What?"
"You fucking heard me, fucking twat." Lovi's eyes were full of tears, amber glistening in the rain. "I never want to see you or your stupid Spanish face again."
"You can't possibly be serious, Roma!" Spain laughed, because laughing was the only way to mask the pain he felt. Lovino's rejection hit him like a ton of bricks. "Why would you want to stay with France? He's a pervert!"
"At least he doesn't reject my feelings and smash them on the floor, and then fucking aSKS IF I WANT A FUCKING SANDWICH!"
"Is this what that's about? The sandwich?"
Romano screamed and balled his fists up in his hair. "YOU'RE SO GODDAMN CLUELESS, ANTONIO. IT'S NOT ABOUT FOOD, IT'S NOT ABOUT ANYTHING BUT MY FEELINGS FOR YOU AND HOW YOU'RE TREATING ME LIKE MERDA AND HOW I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE! I LOVE YOU. I'VE ALWAYS LOVED YOU."
The realization dawned upon Antonio like a ton of bricks. Had he really been that insensitive? Had he really been that big of a dick to not realize how Romano felt? And, if so, had he really been so clueless as to not realize that everyday he hurt Lovi, that every sentence he said to him had cut the small boy with the shallowness and sting of a paper cut? Spain felt weak in the knees again, and fell to the floor. He couldn't find the strength to get up. Roma was his strength, and he had rejected him. Now he was weak and poor, with no purpose in life. He crawled to Romano, begging, pleading for forgiveness.
"Lovi, lo siento. I really am. I didn't realize-"
"Of course you didn't because you're a fucking tomato bastard," Lovi muttered, looking to the right of him. Spain wished he would look him in the eyes even if he didn't deserve to gaze upon the wonderful irises for the rest of his miserable days.
"No, just please please please be quiet and listen to me Romano. I do love you. I love you more than the moon and I love you more than the stars and I love you more than the blackness in between. If I could, Lovi, I'd get you the moon just because you asked me too. I may be an idiot sometimes, but there's no doubt in my mind that you're the one person I truly and deeply love. It only took me many years of war and a stupid sandwich and you getting kidnapped for me to realize it. I can't be without you, Lovino. I'll go mad. You're the only one at night who can stop the demons from tearing into my chest and ripping out my heart because of the grief I feel. Please don't let me drown. Por favor, no dejes que me ahogue."
Spain started to sob, coffee coloured hands covering his face. His broad shoulders shuddered with sorrow. He couldn't lose Lovino. He just couldn't. He had lost so many friends due to war and the Spanish influenza, and now he might lose the only love of his life. There was a touch on his shoulder as soft and as light as a butterfly's wing; a light amidst the darkness. It was Lovino Vargas, his angel who sometimes wet the bed.
Lovino Vargas was the one person that illuminated his darkened path, the one Antonio thought he would have to walk along on his own.
"I won't. I'll swim through the demons enough for the both of us."