"..to represent the power and energy that you're capable of unlocking within yourself."

-Above

Why hello once again, my bunnies! Welcome to my not-so-little EngRoma twoshot. This couple needs so much more love. So here we are, and here we be, so sit back and read instantaneously!

I'm an awesome rhymer. Be jelly.

Helpful terms:

writer- a graffiti artist

throw-up- a quick signature

tag- a more stylized signature

wildstyle- interlocking letters, sometimes with designs or small pictures connected to them

Krylon- spray paint most writers use

pilot marker- a very thick marker that can be refilled

Alright, ONWARDS TO ADVENTURE! *superhero pose*

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Cans quietly clinked together in his worn messenger bag as he jogged to his in-progress piece located in the inner city. Frigid November air attempted too seep it's way through his much too baggy clothing, unable to chill the man for his body heat was risen from the labor of lugging his tools block after block. Finally he stopped in front of a wall, relieved it hadn't been tampered with since the day before; he would have been furious.

Not that any other writer would fuck with his work anymore. He's gained too much respect for that kind of treatment.

Normally the man was called Arthur Kirkland. Twenty-one years of age, choppy blonde locks, vivid green eyes, dark(er than he'd prefer) eyebrows, and employed at a small bookshop. He was held back in his eleventh year of school for a lack of completed, or even attempted, work. He'd graduated a year after his original class. Arthur wasn't an unintelligent boy by any means, but had unfortunately fallen in the wrong ring of friends once he started high school

Then Alfred, his idiot of a cousin, had organized an intervention. After a flurry of extremely emotional conversations, meetings, and counseling sessions, Arthur had begun his rehabilitation. Months had passed before he was finally ready to go out on his own without having to fear a sudden unexpected need to relapse.

Since then he's tried to become closer to his family. Alfred and Matthew have been especially close, and for that he was extremely grateful. It was much easier to talk with them than his parents and brothers. Also, unlike his parents and brothers, they know of his second identity: Spade.

Yes, the Spade. The man who has taken over the city's graffiti world in only a few months. Whose pieces end up all over the news without fail. Sooner or later the media will get bored with him, he knows, but he doesn't care. This new... hobby of his wasn't a way to get attention. It was a way to vent. A way to express himself and his views, because even though he has a seemingly infinite vocabulary, Arthur can't easily put these feelings into words. Sure it may be less than legal, but (although he still complains) even Matthew admits it's better than the shit he used to do.

It was a hell of a lot more fun, too.

So here he was, ten 'till four in the morning, setting down his bag of spray paint and allowing himself a couple of minutes to catch his breath. Reaching into one of his oversized pockets, the Englishman grabbed a cheap medical mask and slipped it around his neck before pulling on a pair of latex gloves. Arthur then pulled the hood of his hoodie over his head and secured the mask over his mouth and nose. Glancing at his mural, he decided to resume with a sky blue, and pulled out the appropriate can.

Arthur liked this piece. It was of a pirate ship, and the outline and some fill-in were done. The bow was a mouth, wide open and swallowing a variety of both mythical and ordinary sea creatures. Some being caught on the ship's "teeth" made from splintered planks. On the ship's sides were big, idiotic eyes. Waves crashed throughout the scene. A lone woman stood at the helm, grinning in a tattered dress with her hair whipping wildly. The image came to Arthur when he was reading a book on pirates, and how women were believed to bring bad luck aboard a ship.

Arthur sprayed the blue not on the sky or waves, but on the ship itself. This was his style. Working with the most vivid colors, and using them on objects that would never be such a color. The water would be pink, and the sea life would be bleeding yellows and greens and purples. Because of this, his pieces never failed to pop out and demand attention from passers by.

After finishing the base of the entire picture, the man decided to take a quick smoke break before working on the details. Grabbing his cigarettes and lighter from one of his many pockets, he lit up and took a long drag. Footsteps soon disturbed Arthur's silence (he didn't feel like bringing his iPod - Alfred and Matthew's birthday gift to him), so he immediately pivoted around and shrunk into the shadows.

Instead of the cop he feared it to be, passing by was a boy who looked younger than him. His clothes were obviously designer, and his hair was a deep chestnut. Arthur could hear the brunette grumbling to himself, which only grew louder as he noticed the graffiti.

Amused by the angry boy, the blonde let out a soft chuckle. Immediately the other froze, then shot his head towards the quiet sound that wouldn't have been audible if it weren't four in the morning. Terror etched itself across his tan face, and Arthur let himself feel a little guilty for scaring the poor boy so much.

"Oh calm down," said the Brit, walking over and standing under the nearby street light. "I'm not going to chop you up and store you in my freezer." Emerald eyes rolled and a smirk played across his cigarette.

Once the boy realized his life was no longer in danger, his face slowly contracted into one of rage. "Vaffanculo!" Arthur raised an eyebrow at the foreign language. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, bastard? Who just sits around in shady fucking places waiting to scare the shit out of someone?" The smirk grew with each word, and the identified Italian stomped under the lamp post as well. Now a red tint could be seen shining in the brunette hair, and his eyes were like liquid amber. Loud cursing continued for a few more minutes. Arthur mostly tuned it out, instead focusing on the passionate expressions dashing across the boy's face until he felt a jab to his chest and tuned back in to the other. "Well, are you going to fucking answer me? What the fuck are you doing creeping around in the dark, bastard?"

"I don't see how it's any of your business, brat," replied the blonde. "Besides, I could ask you the same question."

At this, the other bristled. "I was at Church, retard!"

Arthur blinked. "Wow. I'm surprised you weren't thrown out with such a mouth and attitude. I mean, I've been here for about an hour, working, and you start screaming your lungs out because I was taking a rest." He tsked. "Not very kind or Holy or whatever if you ask me."

Watching the boy was like watching a bird deflate, as he tucked away his wings and chest after trying to scare a predator from it's nest. "Oh," he said dumbly. "So... what's your job then?"

"I work at a book shop."

There was a pause. "You said you were working!"

"I am."

"On what? There aren't any book stores I know around here!" the Italian shouted, incredulous.

"That," smirked Arthur, pointing to the colorful wall behind him.

Amber eyes followed his finger and widened. "Wait a goddamned minute! You're Spade?"

"How did you guess?" he snickered rhetorically.

"You...You..." the boy's face was beginning to turn red again, "You fucking bastard!"

An impressive eyebrow raised. "Again with the mouth."

"I don't give a shit! You!" Here he pointed a finger at the man, almost jabbing his nose. "I fucking hate you!"

"Really?" drawled the blonde. Then he sighed. "Look, I don't remember meeting you, but I apologize for anything I said or did to you in the past. I wasn't myself."

Looking taken aback, the Italian muttered a much confused, "What?"

"Oh," Arthur flushed, "You're not talking about- Ah, nevermind. Why do you hate me, now?"

Remembering he was in the middle of a rant, the younger puffed himself up again. "I hate you because of that!" He pointed to the mural.

Taking the spent cigarette from his mouth, the Englishman crushed it under his heel. "It's not finished yet."

"That's not what I mean, you stupid bastard!"

"Then what do you mean, small Italian with a large mouth?"

"I'm not short, asshole!" exploded the brunette. "And I'm talking about how you ruin this damn city with your fucking... fucking vandalism! And you think it's art? Do you even know what art is, idiot?"

"Art," Arthur started, scrunching his nose in thought, "the expression or application of human creative skills and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power." At the younger's dumbfounded expression, he snickered.

"S-so what!" he stuttered, "You're a fucking dictionary? Bug fucking deal! Then I'm sure you know the meaning of vandalism!"

"Vandalism," Arthur's smirk still not leaving his face, "the crime of destroying or damaging something, especially public property, deliberately and for no good reason."

"Fucking smartass bastard," grumbled the boy. "Well," he said louder, "you've proved my point then, idiot."

Putting a finger to his lip, Arthur grinned. "I don't remember disagreeing with you."

Cheeks pinking and puffing with anger, he shouted, "You're a fucking asshole, you stupid tea bastard!"

"That's really stereotypical of you, poppet," laughed the man.

"Whatever, you're still not an artist."

"Then you can call me a writer."

"...What?" the Italian asked, emotions twisting at the confusing man he'd met.

"A person who has written something, or writes in a particular way. You couldn't argue with that, since I tag every piece I make." Arthur chuckled.

The brunette stared at him like he was an idiot (which, to be fair, seemed to be his default expression). "You know what? I'm over this," he growled. "You're a fucking retarded, idiot bastard, and I need to be somewhere." He turned, and Arthur saw a strange curl hidden within the right side of his chestnut locks. "I don't want to catch your stupid anyway," he called as a goodbye.

Intrigued and amused at the person he'd just met, Arthur stood there for a few moments to collect himself. A feisty young Italian whose bark was worse than his bite. Interesting.

Replacing his mask, he turned and picked up a can of violet. As he began to outline and define the ship's individual planks, an idea began to brew in his head.

Four hours later he finally finished the piece with his tag, SPADE, with the 'A' in the shape of a spade, colored with a mixture of blues and purples (like always), and formed as clouds in the sky. Good timing too, because the sun was rising and and soon people would be flooding the streets.

Packing up his cans and accessories, Arthur took one last look at his product. Standing up, he saluted the Flying Mint Bunny themed Jolly Rodger and began his trek home.

In his opinion, the stray hair curl spouting out of the ship made it a masterpiece.

.:.:.:.:.

Almost three weeks have passed since his encounter with the Italian. Still, his interest never left. Browns and tans and golds clouded his thoughts whenever he had nothing else to think about. Arthur had stopped trying to make them disperse, finding it impossible after his mind had wandered back to the earthy colors... again. It wasn't so bad, in all honesty. The colors were warm and calming, which was surprisingly welcome instead of the bright and loud tones he splashed on his walls.

Tonight he did have something else on his mind. The writer was on his way to a shadier part of the city. Larz, his old friend and former dealer, had asked him to paint something for him. Now, if Larz was only his past dealer, he would never be doing this. They had known each other since the seventh grade, when Arthur had moved from his home in England to the United States. They had become quite close through their two a.m. bonding sessions in either their own, or some stranger's smoke-filled basement.

The first time Arthur saw Larz after his rehab, he was surprised. He had expressed worry for Arthur. Worry that turned to relief. "Good for you, Artie!" he exclaimed, hugging his old friend, "I hope now that you're clean, you won't throw me to the curb or somethin'." Arthur assured the other that he wouldn't dream of it.

Shaking his head from his thoughts, the blonde rose his eyes and noticed he was almost at his destination. There was Larz, waiting under the murky yellow of a corner light up ahead.

Tall was the first word to come to mind at first glance. Arthur only came to his chin, and always kept some distance between them so the height difference wasn't so noticeable. Next you would notice his hair, which was a normal shade of light brown, but gelled so much the blonde doubted it would move in a typhoon. His eyes were the same grey-blue as the ocean on an overcast day. There was a scar on his forehead that absolutely no one could recall as to how he obtained it. A well-loved, blue and white striped scarf draped around his neck, and he gave Arthur a friendly smirk as he leaned against his bicycle.

"Hey Artie," greeted the Dutchman. Walking to the writer, he pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. A tiny part wanting to embrace his friend, but the other, much larger part doing it because it would piss the shorter man off.

Gasping, Arthur choked, "Damnit! Get the fuck off of me you fucking Neanderthal!" Needless to say, he did not like his space being invaded so suddenly. Being held a few inches off of the ground was also greatly disliked.

Deep, crackling laughter echoed in the silent night. Though it was only nearing ten, the general public tended to avoid this area; especially in the dark. It was unsafe, and if Arthur didn't know these alleys like the back of his hand, he would probably feel uneasy as well.

Once sat down, the Englishman took a big step back from his companion while glaring and composing himself from the attack to his dignity. "So, how have you been?" asked Larz a couple of minutes later, seeming genuinely interested in the well-being of his friend.

"Alright," grumbled Arthur, still ruffled, "Yourself?"

"Can't complain."

"How's Bella?"

At this, the taller man rolled his eyes. "Oh, you know, the same nagging bitch she's always been."

"You love her," the blonde chuckled. There was no response. "So, where am I doing this?"

Sauntering over to the building bathed in artificial light, the Dutchman slapped a hand on the wall. "Right here."

Humming, Arthur inspected the place. "What is this building?"

"It used to be a grooming parlour for animals, but it's been abandoned for years now."

Running a hand over the cold surface, the writer nodded. "Okay. What do you want?" He turned his luminescent eyes to Larz, looking intimidating. "I swear, if you say a little girl I'll rip your balls off and shove them up your arse."

Big hands were held up in a sign of surrender. "Geez, tell a guy one little thing and he holds it over your head." Arthur snorted. "I was going to ask for some forest animals, actually."

A large eyebrow raised. "Forest animals? Like, woodland creatures?"

"Yeah!" Larz grinned. "Like, rabbits and deer and moles and shit!"

Shaking his head, the Brit got out the necessary items to prepare for the piece. He pulled on a new pair of gloves, switched the cap on his orange, and began the outline of the deer. Larz swung a long leg over his bike and took a seat. It was uncomfortable, but the ground was cold and he really didn't want to deal with a freezing ass right now. At the moment, he was content to sit and watch the master at work.

Once the outlines and base colors were complete, Arthur jerked his mask down and shook a cigarette from his half-empty carton. Throwing his previous thoughts to the wind, Larz decided to move to sit on the ground next to his friend. They both lit up and cuddled against each other for warmth. For a while, there was an amiable lull in conversation.

Then the larger man decided to break it. "So, what's new in the life of Arthur Kirkland?"

Rolling his eyes at Larz's interview voice, he replied, "Not much. Working. Christmas shopping. Sleeping. Designing. Repeat. I'm planning on going poster posting soon."

"Flying Mint Bunny getting into the Holiday spirit?" the Dutchman queried, amused.

"Maybe a little bit.."

"Hmm. Nothing else?"

Images of browns and curls suddenly assaulted him. "Well, I did have an interesting encounter a few weeks ago."

"Oh?" The other perked up. "Do tell."

Leaning on his friend, Arthur took a drag of his cig as his head rested on a soft shoulder. "Back when I was working on the pirate ship-"

"That thing is fucking awesome."

"Thanks," the blonde said dryly, not appreciating the interruption.

"Kiku took some great pictures of that thing."

Arthur smiled at the mention of their Japanese friend, and nodded in agreement. A short moment passed. "As I was saying," Larz smiled at the Look Arthur gave him, "when I was breaking, this boy walked past my wall. I accidentally scared him shitless, but once he knew I wouldn't hurt him he turned into a little bastard."

"Really?" A nod. "Wait, you usually paint early as shit. What the hell was some kid doing out so early?"

"He said he was just at Church.. Yeah, I know, I thought only old people went to the four o'clock service too, but had been proven wrong," he added as he got a disbelieving look. "By the way he was cursing me out, I was surprised he was allowed in the building."

Snorting, the other inquired, "Why was he going off on you?"

"Because I exist," deadpanned Arthur. Sighing, he continued, "He doesn't like what I do, and holy fuck was he vocal about it. No wonder they say Italians are loud." Paying no attention to the man against him, he began to grumble, rolling his irises to the Heavens.

Recognition sparked in Larz's eyes. "Wait, Italian?" Arthur nodded, intrigued. "Kind of short, brown hair, weird little curl, would probably yell at a puppy for being too cute?" More nods, and the blonde was about to ask about how he knew the boy, but the other wasn't done. "Yeah! I know him! He's that damn Antonio's cousin or some shit! He and his twin moved in with the bastard a couple of years ago after their grandpa died. I think they go to that Catholic school the idiot Spaniard went to. St. Maria's or whatever."

"Really?" breathed Arthur, eyes wide with wonder and mirth at learning so much about the boy who has been filling his thoughts. It was also strange that the Italian was related, and now living with, his ex. "Do you know his name?"

"Nah," Larz didn't see the put out expression on the Brit's face. "He usually comes with stupid Antonio to pick up Bella when they all go out. That's as much as I see him. Bell says he has some sort of tomato addiction, though."

Scraping his cigarette on the rough concrete, Arthur stood and stretched while turning to his mural. "Interesting." A plan was swirling in his head. The rest of the night was spent with nothing but the sounds of cans clinking, spraying, and friendly chatter filling the air.

Quarter past three read the writer's watch. He had just finished his tag and took a step back to scrutinize his work. The orange deer was the biggest animal, a light tangerine making it's underbelly and antlers. Lounging in one of the antlers was a pink squirrel. A yellow mole popped it's torso from a hole, the soil colored grey and black. Blue rabbits snuggled against the hooves as red mice scurried around in a game of tag (or something, Arthur wasn't really sure what they were doing). Behind blue and purple bushes (Arthur's tag) was Flying Mint Bunny. He was peeking at the colorful scene with interest.

Happy with his work, Arthur turned to his friend. "I'd say it's done. You like?" Since he worked the evening shift at the shop, he hadn't been able to rest all day, and the weariness that coated his being was expected.

Beaming, the Dutchman hugged Arthur once more, picking him up and spinning this time."Are you kidding? It's fucking fabulous! And really, who else can brag that they got Spade himself to make a mural for them?" If Larz wasn't right there, the Englishman would have most definitely fallen over from dizziness. An almost inaudible "Wanker" followed. "Hey, you want a lift back to your place?"

Green eyes answered with something along the lines of, "Oh my God yes please I don't think I can make it on my own right now." Arthur's bag was then packed and the duo mounted the bike. Standing on the rear pegs, the blonde wrapped his arms around strong shoulders and buried his face into a clean smelling neck. They reached his apartment with no trouble. Once Arthur hopped off the bike, he turned to thank Larz, who responded with an "Anytime," and kiss on the cheek before he paddled off.

Turning to walk into his building, Arthur shook his head with a small smile on his lips.

.:.:.:.:.

His plan was supposed to go into action two days ago. Unfortunately, he hadn't counted on Alfred stupidly inserting himself in the Hell that was Black Friday. Which was three days ago. To simplify the American's obscenely long story, he tripped and got his wrist trampled on in the chaos. That day Arthur had planned on staying in and losing himself in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, because he was not feeling very chipper, and wanted to be as far away from reality as possible.

Curse Alfred for ever being born.

Laying on his sofa, the man was reciting the Duchess' lullaby, or what he liked to call, "A Guide to Horrible Parenting."

"Speak roughly to your little boy,
And beat him when he sneezes,
He only does it to annoy,
Because he knows it teases.

I speak severely to my boy,
I beat him when he sneezes,
for he can thoroughly enjoy,
The pepper when he pleases."

A loud ring echoed throughout the apartment just as the baby's grotesque transformation into a pig had begun. Sighing, the blonde bookmarked his page and grabbed his phone from the coffee table. It was Matthew, causing him to sigh again because it was impossible to be annoyed at his youngest cousin. Trust him.

"Hello?"

"Arthur?" the frantic tone of the other made him immediately sit up.

"Matt? What's wrong? What's all of that noise?" he asked, because there truly was an ample amount of noise and static.

"Al's hurt." Arthur's heart sank as his mind filled with scenario after scenario, each getting worse and worse. "I think his wrist is broken or something. He wanted to go shopping today, and he fell a little bit ago and got stepped on. Can you pick us up and take him to the hospital?" the other requested. In the background Arthur could hear a distinctly loud voice repeatedly whine "I'm going to die!"

After sighing once again, Arthur asked for their location and said a polite goodbye before hanging up. Stuffing himself into his boots and winter coat, he jogged out of his building and to the beat-up car while thinking of a lecture that would make Alfred think twice (maybe even thrice) about doing shit without thinking first.

And it was quite the speech, for once they reached the hospital Alfred practically sprinted into the large building, leaving his phobia in the car along with a smirking Arthur and laughing Matthew.

All of the next day the man took it upon himself to nurse his cousin. It was both an apology for the awful rant, and his motherly instincts (which he would not admit to having, ever) kicking into gear.

Now it was the 28th of November, and he was standing in front of a totaled car that nobody has bothered to move since the surrounding area was already something like a junkyard. In actuality it used to be a baseball field, but as the neighborhood turned to shit, children had stopped playing there. Which was good since it was disgusting. There were bugs skittering on the ground, looking for shelter from the cold winter or something rotten to eat. An indescribable stench filled the air, and Arthur was 97% positive something illegal was transgressing about thirty meters away.

Ignoring the shady characters, the Englishman busied himself with his usual preparations. That night he was doing something different. The piece was going to be a wildstyle, but instead of his name it was going to read "Romano". Oh, he simply couldn't wait. Imagining that feisty Italian's reaction has been Arthur's whole motivation driving him to carry this out.

Picking out a light brown, the blonde began the letters. It was an unusual feeling for Arthur. Such subdued colors were foreign to his fingers and eyes. This would be the whole wildstyle: subtle and quiet. A mixture of red-browns, and umber-browns, and golden-browns littered his bag. He connected any stereotypically Italian items he could think of to and around the name. Pasta slithered down the 'A' and a pizza made an 'O'. Many, many tomatoes sat and stacked and splattered against the letters. There was a moment where the man pondered why food was the only thing he could associate with Italians, but soon chalked it up to them being a carefree and gluttonous people, and painted a bottle of wine with a grape vine curling around the base in front of the 'N'.

It was pretty, he decided. Even though it's canvas was the side of a dirty automobile (a Lancia, to which Arthur cracked a grin), the wildstyle was beautiful. With the caramel lettering and coffee outlines, it looked rich. The foods blended well with the color scheme, and Flying Mint Bunny was perching on the last 'O' in Gondola dress. An exaggerated curl sprouted from the 'R', passing the side of the car and ending on the hood some. Only a small throw-up had signed his work this time; he didn't want to take any attention away from the main attraction.

While packing up Arthur noticed the shady men eyeing him with unabashed interest. Arthur swung his bag over his shoulder and twiddled his fingers at them. Checking his watch as he turned away, he had discovered it had taken about forty minutes to finish. Not too shabby, in his opinion. A small diner he liked was only a few blocks away, and he decided a nice dinner was on order.

Not once did he look back. That part of his life was over.

.:.:.:.:.

Yesterday Arthur had been working on posters. Almost all of the ink in his pilot marker had been used, but the sheer size of the stacks of paper made it all worthwhile. Christmas was in two weeks, and even though he couldn't show his excitement on the outside, the season's spirit swirled inside of him.

Inside of his messenger bag was a large binder. He used it to line the bag so his posters would not get crumpled as he traveled around hanging them. Once all of the posters had been stuffed away (all Flying Mint Bunnies in festive gear representing all of the December holidays), the green-eyed man stepped into his boots, buttoned up his heavy coat, and wrapped a scarf around his neck. It was freezing, and he was going to be out in this weather all day. Joy.

Pulling on his gloves, Arthur made a beeline for Larz's bike. He had asked to borrow it for the day, and even though his friend was planning to go around with Matthias, he'd agreed to lend it to him. Larz then added that he would just share with Matthias, and Arthur made sure to text Lucas and demand he take a picture. Two obnoxiously tall men riding a single bicycle was something you had to see at least once in your lifetime. Mounting the bike, the blonde reached in his pocket to extract a pair of large sunglasses while pulling up his hood with the other. Both protected him from the frigid wind, and his identity from being reveled. He would be riding around in broad daylight after all.

A couple of blocks further, he braked at a telephone pole. In the front pouch of his bag sat a cluster of nails, and a small hammer. Pulling out a nail and the tool, he grabbed the front poster from his binder and quickly nailed it up. Not even a minute passed and Arthur was gone before any of the early morning pedestrians knew what happened. Hours passed in the same rhythm, but then something interesting happened.

Another poster had just been nailed to a tree in an apartment complex when a very loud, very distinct "Bastard!" rang through the air. There was no time for Arthur to pedal off, because in only seconds he was face to face with a steaming Italian. It was unbelievable. Over a month had passed since their last encounter, and even though the Brit had been dreaming of their next meeting, he hadn't been expecting for it to actually occur.

Suddenly his head was bopped, and Arthur realized Romano (he was glad he had an actual name to call the boy by now) had been yelling at him and causing a scene the whole time. Which, honestly, wasn't very surprising. Behind his glasses he took a quick scan of their surroundings, and affirmed his suspicion of nosy people halting to stare at them. Luckily none of them approached.

Planting his feet on the ground and leaning against his handlebars, Arthur grinned at his company. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I was lost in thought. Can you repeat that?"

Romano began sputtering, and the blonde could barely withhold his laughter. His grin had gotten bigger, though, causing the other to growl. Arthur mentally compared him to a cat that had just got it's tail stepped on. "Who the fuck do you think you are?" he shouted, face red and nostrils flaring.

"Well, people call me Spade, but since you're so fond of calling me a bastard, I guess I'll answer to that too." Answering rhetorical questions was something Arthur liked to do. For the lulz, as Alfred would say.

As expected, the brunette got even angrier. A bulging vein in his neck had captivated Arthur with an odd sort of interest. He'd only wanted to tease the boy, not give him a tumor. "Bastard," was all he snarled.

Rolling his eyes, the Englishman shifted a little. He'd been sitting on this damn bike all day. "Hey, calm down git. You seriously look like you're about to faint."

"Tsk. What do you care?" grumbled Romano. Still, he took a few deep breaths. His shoulders were visibly relaxing.

"Good. Now would you like to calmly explain what's got you so brassed off?"

A short growl sounded, but stopped as Romano reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. While he was scrolling through it, the blonde took time to properly take in his appearance. He wore a while button-down tucked into a pair of khakis. A stylish coat and scarf were wrapped around him, and brown loafers shifted on the sidewalk. He must have just gotten out of school. As the other shifted, Arthur caught sight of a belt buckle designed as the Italian flag.

"What is this?" the brunette seethed, shoving the screen into Arthur's face.

Leaning back and lifting his glasses, he responded, "Oh. I did that a couple of weeks ago. Why?" False innocence radiated from the writer, and he knew Romano could see the amusement in his eyes.

"What the fuck is Romano?"

"I thought it would be obvious," he answered, innocence shattering as he couldn't hold his grin in any longer. "Why, you're Romano, little Italian."

If the the other were more brave, Arthur would have been tense and ready for an attempted punch to the face. Fortunately he knew Romano had as much fight as a baby panda, but the mouth of a thousand seagulls to make up for it. Therefore, he sat back and counted down to the inevitable explosion.

"BASTARD!"

There it was.

"What the fuck? I mean what! The! Fuck! You racist bastard! Where do you get off? And why? You fucking tea-drinking, big eyebrowed, che va in culo a sua madre!" By now Romano was panting heavily.

"Really?" drawled the unfazed Englishman, "What exactly makes me racist?"

Throwing his arms to the sky, the other cried, "All of those fucking symbols, asshole! Just because I'm Italian you use pasta and pizza and shit? What the fuck?"

Arthur tilted his head to the side. "Tell me, Romano-"

"And that! Why are you calling me that?"

"Because I did some research, git, and it fit. Now answer me. Do you like pasta?"

Looking shocked at the question, the Italian eventually answered with a quiet, "Yes."

Do you like pizza?"

"...Yes."

"Do you like wine?"

"...Yes..."

"Do you like tomatoes?"

"Goddamnit yes!"

"Then if you like all of these things, how am I in the wrong?" asked the blonde with a raised eyebrow.

"Because.." murmured Romano, looking momentarily unsure, "because you didn't know that about me before, jackass!"

"True," hummed Arthur, "but that doesn't make it racist. I was simply playing with stereotypes. Like what you did by assuming I automatically like tea because I'm English." He was smiling more gently now. When his company wasn't screeching at him, he could be enjoyable to be around. Romano wasn't too bad to look at, either.

"W-well.." he stuttered, frowning, "do you like tea?" Curiosity sparked in his eyes.

The writer grinned. "I love it."

"And... do you like scones and crumpets and stuff?"

"I do."

"And the rain?"

"Mmhmm. It reminds me of home."

There was a moment of quietness. The pedestrians who had been watching the entire time were now confused, and some continued walking to their destination now that things seemed to quiet down. Green met brown, and both boys seemed to feel some sort of electrical shock.

"Fratello!" The moment had been successfully shattered.

Quickly, Arthur replaced his sunglasses. He turned only to see something that could be described as a giant, blinding smile running towards the duo. This other person looked almost exactly like Romano, only... brighter. Auburn colored his hair instead of chestnut, hazel glistened in his eyes instead of deep amber, his skin was a soft tan instead of the warm coffee-and-cream Arthur was used to. Even his personality was brighter; cheerful instead of gloomy. They were exactly the same, but completely different. A similar, much closer pair of twins popped into the blonde's head, and he smiled.

The giddy boy never stopped, and practically tackled his darker twin when he was close enough. "Fratello! Where did you go? You started running out of nowhere and I couldn't keep up! I never knew you were so fast! Oh! But then I bumped into Luddy and were talking and stuff, but then I remembered that I was following you and you disappeared and it took forever to find you! Oh, and I bumped into Toni too! He was helping, but then I found you!" Even though the Brit was used to Alfred's mile-a-minute speech, he could barely keep up with this one. Though Romano didn't have any trouble with it, and tried to shove his brother off of him while curses and "stupid potato bastard" ran from his mouth like water from a faucet.

Then the name Toni registered in his brain, and Arthur whipped his head to the direction the hyper Italian came from. Lo and behold, Antonio was leisurely walking towards them. A large blonde he recognized as Gilbert's younger brother was accompanying him. After a moment Antonio realised who he was, and was about to call out with a big smile when Arthur shot a finger to his lips, gesturing for him to be quiet. Antonio rightfully appeared confused, but did as he was asked. Ludwig also looked bemused, but decided not to comment.

"Damnit Feliciano! Get off of me!" yelled Romano, shifting the blonde's attention.

"Aww! But Lo-" a hand was slapped, maybe a little too hard, across Feliciano's mouth. A leer was sent to Arthur.

Finally the more energetic of the two saw they were not alone. "Oh! Are you a friend of my big brother? Ciao!" he greeted. Soon his lips twitched downwards as he scrutinized the somewhat intimidating figure perched on the bicycle. It wasn't the best first impression, since the Brit was wearing dark colors with his hood up and tinted glasses covering his eyes.

"We know each other. Just call me Spade, yeah?" Arthur responded, holding his hand out.

Instantaneously Feliciano's eyes lit up like Christmas had come early. "Ve! You mean the guy whose beautiful paintings are all over the news? No way!" he gushed, taking the writer's hand in both of his and shaking with vigor. "I can't believe I'm meeting you! I love your work! It's so colorful and pretty!" Suddenly he gasped, still shaking Arthur's hand. "You have to meet Ludwig! Luddy! Look! It's Spade, ve! Isn't this amazing?" Arthur's hand was still in an unexpected iron grip. Ludwig and Antonio reached the trio, and the blue eyed blonde released Arthur from the spastic handshake. Close up the German's eyes glowed with realization, but he kept silent as he recalled the earlier exchange.

Tuning Romano back in, he shook his head clear. The other was ranting about how Arthur was not amazing, but a criminal. Only, it sounded more subdued than before. "I mean, look at this!" He ripped down the poster Arthur had nailed up earlier. "What the fuck is this even supposed to be?"

"It's Flying Mint Bunny, ve!" Feliciano squealed. "He's so cute! I love his hat," cooed the younger Italian.

"You can have it if you want," chimed the writer. It was impossible to hold back his smile as Feliciano shouted a disbelieving "Really?" and snatched the paper from his twin, twirling around happily.

"No fucking way!" shouted Romano. The paper was snatched back. Then he crumpled it into a ball. It seemed like a crime when you saw how that action effected the auburn. Feliciano's happiness had been crushed, and now his eyes were teary and staring at the ruined poster clutched in his brother's fist.

"That was not nice!" scolded Antonio, stomping over to his ill-tempered charge with an uncharacteristic frown. "You apologize right now, young man!"

Visibly shrinking at the scolding, Romano turned to his brother who was huddled against Ludwig and doing his very best not to cry. Glowering at the German, he said, "I'm sorry, Feli." Turning to Arthur, he growled, "But I'm not sorry to you, bastard."

"Lo-!" A glove covered hand grasped the Spaniard's arm.

"It's okay. I'm not offended." Antonio gazed at the blonde, a thoughtful frown in his eyes. He knew first hand what Arthur had gone through, and knows how much this art means to him. No matter what, he will always care deeply for the blonde. Past the large eyeglasses he could make out a secret smile, and relaxed. "Feliciano," called the Englishman.

Sniffling, the auburn boy looked up. Arthur motioned for him to come over. With some hesitation and a glance to his twin, he approached the writer. Another poster was pulled from his bag, and he gave it to the boy with a kind smile. Feliciano gaped, and his bright grin rejuvenated. "Gratzi Mister Spade! Gratzi! Gratzi! Gratzi!" he exclaimed, hopping up and down. He then gave Arthur a kiss on the cheek, and froze immediately. It was different in America than back in Italy, and he was still getting used to the culture. You can't go around kissing strangers here for various reasons.

Touching his cheek, Arthur smiled a charming smile and chuckled. "You're welcome."

As the bubbly Italian skipped over to show his picture to Ludwig, Arthur grabbed Romano and brought him close. "I don't care if you don't like me or what I do, but don't crumple someone else's happiness for your own selfish reasons. He's a sweet boy, and deserves a good older brother, not one who spits on what he likes," he murmured into the other's ear.

Romano had the decency to look remorseful. That did not mean he would openly admit it. "Whatever, stupid bastard." Walking away he announced loudly, "I'm leaving." Antonio gave Arthur a kind smile and wink before trailing after him.

A warm bundle enveloped the blonde, and he hugged Feliciano back once he regained his balance. "Bye Mister Spade! Thank you again! I'll take good care of it, ve!" Then he was gone, running after his family.

Ludwig rolled his eyes, but a half-smile curved his lips. "How long have you been at this?" he asked, motioning to the new poster Arthur was hanging.

"Um, since around eight this morning."

A fine, blonde eyebrow raised. "Have you taken any breaks?"

"A half hour to grab a quick lunch," he shrugged and replaced his hammer. "I probably won't be done until eleven. Ten if I'm lucky." Leaning back on the bike again, he turned to his German friend. Green eyes drifted to the retreating group behind the tall blonde, and he could see Romano pocketing the wad of paper he had clenched in his hand. A warm feeling crawled up Arthur's spine.

"Why don't you come over our house when you're done? I'll save some dinner for you, and I'm sure Gilbert will be happy to see you." It was touching, and the Englishman's heart began fluttering from the kindness the other had offered.

"That sounds fantastic. Thank you so much... Luddy," teased the older blonde.

"Whatever," grumbled the German, but allowed his awkward smile to stay. "Get back to work. You better move it if you want to eat tonight."

"Yes, mum," laughed Arthur. Before departing, he mock saluted Ludwig. As he pedaled away he heard a loud, "Luddy! Hurry up because we're leaving you!" followed by an equally loud, "Or you can go jump off a building, you stupid macho potato eating bastard!"

The rest of the day was tiring, but the prospect of a nice home cooked meal at one of his best friend's houses lifted his spirits. Arthur's thoughts trailed back to Romano, and the ghost of something crawled onto his face without him knowing. Even though he knows a lot of his posters are going to end up in the trash by tomorrow, he couldn't bring himself to feel down about it.

As long as one certain torn, crumpled, imperfect Flying Mint Bunny stays alive, he's okay.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

I'd like to explain the title and quote a little. There's a graffiti artist who goes by the name Above, and all across America he's thrown his signature arrows. They all point up, and he'll hang them (among other places) on overhead wires like shoes, a lot of the times he'll hang them from or next to the shoes, so all you can see is his bright, floating arrow reading "ABOVE". I think it's pretty inspirational.

And, of course, I used the Arte Stella cards for Arthur's name, Spade. the colors, too, if you noticed.

I've read that Netherlands has a pet rabbit, therefore I deduct he likes cute animals like that. He's also a very clean character, like Germany. And into lolita.

I did a little research, and Romano isn't just a type of cheese, but if used as a prefix, it means "related to Ancient Rome". Yes, really. I fangasmed a little when I read that. (Most of you probably already knew that though, didn't you?)

The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland is a pretty fucked up book, to be honest, and neither of the movies can compare to it.

Bicycling is taken VERY seriously in Denmark and the Netherlands. DON'T MESS WITH THEIR BIKES OR CYCLING LANES, YOU GUIZ!

Oh, hey, here's something. Take Romano, and replace the "R" and the "n" with "t"s. Kesesesese~!

Taken from a site with nothing but Italian curses:

Vaffanculo- Fuck off

che va in culo a sua madre- motherfucker

"Graffiti" also comes from the Italian word, "sgraffio". I thought that fitting for this fic. :)

Alright, sweethearts, This is the end of part one. I hope to see you all in part two~!

Ciao~!