Spain/Antonio x Italy/Romano/Lovino
Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, weaponry, blood.
A/N: Continuation! Disputes, arguments and more. The next chapter there will be fluff...I believe. I hope. Anyway, please enjoy. Key is at the bottom, though not necessary at all to read the fic. There's very little translation involved!
Chapter Two: Hypothetical Knive
1539 - The treaty of Nice is sighed by Charles V, King of Spain, leaving the North Italian city of Turin in French hands. The rest of Italy, since 1538, undergoes massive changes under HRE and Spanish oppression.
Francis never seemed to be politically involved. He attended the meetings, fought in his wars, but never really...showed interest. He was a simple representative, unconcerned with the political end of his monarchy. He did not often agree with his monarch, nor did he usually obey his own laws. My country is my heart, he'd said, not my mind. I represent it, but often I do not approve of it.
Those were possibly the wises words Romano had ever chosen to acknowledge. Other than that, France had never really been taken seriously. Not since the Battle of Garigliano. But Romano has yet to doubt his abilities or threats of invasion...French armies outweigh his own.
"You are sure you'd never ally yourself with moi? Never again? I'm very lenient in demands, unlike your Spanish Empire. France would take care of Italy, not sack it upon denial." He smiles, urging an immediate and thoughtless response. His ways of flirtation, though illegal as another man, were far too suggestive to be requited.
Francis mentions 1527, a seemingly dark age upon his relationship with Spain. The very ground had shifted beneath the Spaniard upon his Pope's alliance with France. In choosing the cowards over Spanish warriors, Antonio had been devastated. Unfortunately, so had his monarchs. They had infiltrated Rome, and ripped apart their capital mercilessly. The bruises left behind had not been so easily healed, and neither had his people. They are required to forgive each other as beings without age, though the idea still burns at the base of his skull. Spain did not have tolerance of supposed 'insubordination'. His stern sense of betrayal was indeed justified, especially as both Italian brothers had agreed with the Pope's decision.
That was the past, he thinks. Unimportant.
"You've already taken Turin, you damn pervert!" He snarls, nearly disgusted. The idea of ownership makes him nauseous, as does the implications of homosexuality. France is too lenient with their punishments. As the decades pass, they've become so much more accepting of something so uncomfortably taboo. Francis predicts it will be legal by his early 1700's. He grins at this openly, proud.
But what offense does it actually bring?
His grandfather had started it, after all.
Yet these are the simple things Romano ponders, forcing himself to be unconcerned with Veneziano's problems and rather any topic that comes to mind. Italy faces oppression of both French and Spanish inquisitions, suffering from their disagreements and need for control. The northern half had been invaded, trampled upon by French horses and beaten by Spaniards. He lacked tolerance for this. He felt sick. For the second time in his elongated life, he genuinely hated Antonio.
"Where is Veneziano? Why do you do all of the work?" He asks, rather politely. He drinks at his wine, offered from the Italian to his guest despite the livid vibe received for his perversity and audacity. His mood does not change.
"My brother attends to other issues. His cities are destroyed, because of you and your power hungry monarch."
Veneziano is bed-ridden. The crumbling economy in Milan had deteriorated his health. He will not admit his sibling's weakness, though. Not to the likes of him.
Francis chuckles...in that horridly French way of laughter. Romano cringes.
"Those are not my decisions, mon amour. If I could back away from this, I would. I prefer you over your brother, anyway." He smiles again, playing a weak hand at seduction. Winking.
There are loud, firm footsteps down the hall, nearing. Abruptly, the door opens, and the Spaniard steps in. And he gives that awfully naïve, free smile to his underling, which seems to shift from kindred fondness to confused intensity at the sight of his former enemy.
Lovino pauses, uncertain, and speaks his mind. "What the hell are you doing here, Spain?"
"What is he doing here, Lovi?" He turns the question, pointing a swiftly unsheathed sword at the forehead of his concern. France stiffens. Antonio squints, thinking.
"We're discussing the reasoning behind his alliance with the Ottoman. This is a meeting of personal relations, you're not required to waste your time here." Lovino defends his blonde companion, irritated in doing so. He shows spite to his former caretaker, distrusting.
"Romano, send him away, immediately. I do not want to take action again."
"You won't have to, you dumb bastard. This does not concern Spain! This is not a political meeting!"
The tension rises and suffocates the room. They both force themselves to be harsh. Lovi does not think of his youth, picking tomatoes with his benefactor in their garden, or playing the tambourine as the other strung lively, classic notes on his guitar. When they'd nap in the sun of his front room window, together as a child and his guardian. And Antonio refuses to recall the nightmares that would drive the younger to his bed, stubbornly denying the idea that 'some Spaniard idiot' could defend him from his fears. Or when he would try and clean, sometimes being entirely successful, others only partially. When their relationship had become kinder and more open, and they both tried to make the other content or proud.
...He tried hard to not think of his one return from war, bloody, and seeing the angered and worried expression on his Lovi's face. He tried so. damn. hard.
He missed those days...now awfully bleak.
"Italy concerns Spain, Roma. Send him off!"
"Why do you keep doing this? What benefits does the Spanish Empire gain in oppressing Italy?" He asks with a valid point. There were no serious or necessary reasons for his constant threat of oppression. Only partial benefits that were sometimes questionable.
"What does it matter, Roma? We defended you!"
"And lost! Your damn king signed the Treaty of Nice and folded! My brother lost Turin because of you spineless idiots!" He points an accusing finger, directing his rage. His tone of voice is raised enough to pierce Francis' ears. There's just an odd sense of betrayal and bitter naivety sullen in the air. They all hate it.
Antonio feels wronged. He feels the piercing pain of a hypothetical knife sticking out between his shoulder blades. His closest companion despises him for actions he could not control, bitter, angry and indifferent. But, as odd as it was, Romano shares the same ache of stern dejection. He resents Spain, forcing the similar feeling of a turned back and absolute failure to plague him due to more threats of inquisition. He feels his teeth grit.
"Quiet, Lovino! You don't know what you speak of! We are trying to help you!"
"You waste all of your resources, all of your money! On nothing! Ever since I was a child all you did was throw yourself in front of bullets and swords to protect a piece of peninsula worth absolutely nothing! I don't understand! Leave us alone!"
He really didn't understand. He wasn't catching on. He'd never really get it. But what was there to understand? To get? Antonio felt panicked for a reason that even he could not place. They are both confused beyond recognition and are incapable of bruising their pride through admittance. Why would someone of his personality and stature continuously stay with and care for such a negative, insubordinate boy such as Lovino? Even after such a simple question, obvious, neither could really answer it.
"Lovino! I am the Boss! Show some respect!"
The boy dismisses him with a swift hand, rolling his eyes and scoffing. He acts as he had years ago.
"I have work to do. I have a country to repair, including Feliciano's half. I'm busy uniting the Kingdom of Naples with the Republic of Venice, so I'm asking, as a former underling, for you to go." His accented tone rolls from his tongue in an oddly eloquent and respectful manner. He is demanding, but explains himself with honesty and urgency. There's a directness in his voice that he could only inherit from a single figure of authority who'd taught him such. Antonio feels...proud.
So it stings...being denied.
"Former? You are still my Lovi! South Italy was not lost to this-this goddamn ligón!" Another index pointing judgmentally. Francis coughs, waving a bit with an unusually coy smile. He apparently knew the word well.
"I don't care!"
"What is wrong with you, Romano? What did I do?"
It was falling apart at this point. Their once striving, unbreakable relationship was crumbling because of politics and control. He wonders, ever briefly, if power was truly worth losing Romano. Why did he blame him, rather than the Pope or his monarch? Why was he responsible, other than backing the King's plans when asked for a trustworthy opinion? He plays in favor of his origin and representation. To turn against The Spanish Empire was to spit on himself as it's embodiment. It was not his fault. He would never suggest harm unto the Italian peninsula.
Any yet Lovino would not allow him to explain. He dismissed him yet again, shaking his head at this final attempt to clarify the situation. Lovino turns to France, tense.
"We will continue our discussion later, Francis. You're always here conquering, anyway."
And he turns his back and leaves. The door slams behind him. What did he do? What did he do? Antonio turns to Francis, weapon once again at his throat, seemingly flush against the other's skin. Francis puts his hands up in a mock surrender, less nervous than expected.
"You know something! Tell me!"
There is no hesitation is the eyes of France, though hardly discernible through his reluctant, cheeky smirk. He sighs, as though swooning, and clears his throat with the usual laugh of insincerity. His glee broadens with the anticipation of conquering Italy. He answers with a smirk of smug superiority.
"Romano spoke with Portugal and Brazil. They told him of your wars and possessions. Complete decimation of large populations does tend to cause some issues involving trust. He thought you were an upbeat, fair leader with a knack for diplomacy. Not some blood-thirsty, ax wielding dictator that's just like moi. You managed to fool the boy."
"Lovino would never think less of me."
"Even after sacking Rome? He trusted you with such dedication, left his lands in your care. He even willingly increased exports when Spain struggled. Then you play your hand at oppression, and he reassesses the intentions of The Spanish Empire. I'll be honored to steal your attention, if only for a few centuries." He sighs, as though love-struck. Smile expanding as he rests his chin in his hands.
"Eres diferente."
"As a reassurance, mon ami, this has nothing to do with personal emotions. It is all political and strategic. If it were up to me, we'd be invading Austria – que beauté. I could never disrupt what you two have."
"Shut up, Francis! We have quarrels beyond Italy!"
He laughs, again, smug.
"How dramatic! Unfortunately for The Spanish Empire, we'll be back for him, le roi, il a assuré. With Lovino's word against Veneziano's, regulations for peace will hopefully push them into the loving arms of France. Do not spoil him while we're preparing."
There's this odd sense of nausea that overwhelms him. He sheathes his weapon into his scabbard, scowling at the other with intent. The man before him had once been a very liked and appreciated companion, despite political regulations and disputes. They had been close, enough to jest on the battlefield with knives at each others throats. Francis stands to leave, fixing his hair in the process.
"You know, Toni...if I could prevent this, I would." He's still smiling, though now a little more somber in his defense.
Antonio ignores him. Romano had chosen France over Spain.
1544 – The Battle of Ceresole takes place on North Italian soil. The French army is defeated by Imperials, and fails in invading Lombardy.
Charles V and Henry VIII of England invade northern France as retaliation, seizing Boulogne and Soissons.A lack of cooperation between Spanish and English armies led King Charles to focus more on Ottoman threats and leave France be.
South Italy is still in Spanish hands.
"Do you still hate me, Romanito?" Spain smiles at him, lively, joking.
He ignores the question entirely, focused more on the smoked horizon that reflected previous battle. They rest outside of his property to the far east of Palermo, standing outside and observing the distant dissipation of violence. He listens to the sudden calmness set upon Italy by his people, and for a brief moment Lovino feels relieved. He does not hate Antonio. Not like he did a few years ago upon the sacking of Rome. Not as he had when Austria dumped him on the Spaniard's doorstep. No, now he's simply indifferent. Numbed by history and the constant wars over his peninsula. Feliciano is still bed-ridden.
But at least his little brother is capable of speech.
"You should come to Spain!" He suggests it happily, green eyes bright and grin wide. Like he'd been years ago, before King Charles V. It nearly brings a smile over the his own face. Tempting. "You haven't been home in a while, Lovi!"
He scoffs, raising his chin. "I am home, idiot."
That phrase was as true as it was painful. This was his home despite being raised on the properties of Spain. The smell of Italian food. The breads. The herbs and spices. The coasts and architecture. He hates the fact that (despite the differences and cultural individuality) some things remind him vividly of Spain. Antonio's food was rubbing off on his people. His language, clothing and décor reflected in Mezzogiorno. Not as much up north, but still apparent.
"Our home, then," he says. He takes his hand abruptly, squeezing to comfort him with a very uplifting countenance. Toni did this when he was a child. To keep him company or reassure him. A while ago. Years.
Lovino feels almost guilty. Because he feels suspicious rather than flattered or embarrassed. He feels threatened and uncertain and paranoid. But how could he not? After all that has happened? Who were they to tie his hands and control him? Who was Spain?
"Why are you here, Spaniard?" It comes out far harsher than intended. But Romano refuses to feel guilt so late in the game. Not now, not after the wars.
"So, you do hate me."
"I don't hate you, Antonio! You invaded Rome!"
He recalls his grandfather. Ancient Rome...what a joke. Supposedly nations become mortal once dissolved or eradicated, but apparently Rome had been the only known exception. His grandfather had loved him, but his adoration and pride had always been in favor of Veneziano. Because Veneziano could draw, and he was sweet, and very much ignorant of Rome's previous (rather sultry and dictatorial) lifestyle. Everything Lovino could not do and was not at all, which was why he came a very obvious second. His inferiority complex was easy to diagnose, though he realized that other countries had a tendency to over exaggerate his need for approval. He knew his brother was better than him in most aspects, but he was far more aware and strategic. Lovi admits he has Spain to thank for his abilities with preservation and systematic planning. Listening to war stories impacted way of thought; watching idols polish weapons beckoned him to use them.
"I didn't do anything! I couldn't stop them!" Toni defends himself uselessly, eyes wide and hands palms up. He yearned forgiveness, reaching out to his underling with a hopeful, uncertain expression. But it was time to pull away, Romano thinks. He would no longer depend on someone else, and nor would he let them control him. Not anymore; he seemed sick of it.
"Don't think Italy didn't have a representative witnessing the King's decision. You voted in favor of invasion!" His evidence is sound and solid. His words sting with the very bitter slap of reality and accusation. This had been a game to Spain since the beginning, and he refused to tolerate it any longer.
Antonio was a very selfish man. Kind, and respectable...but selfish, nonetheless. What he wanted he obtained in any reasonable or unreasonable fashion, whether it be behind the King's back or beneath his nose. With or without solid permission. Antonio was never denied his goals. It was a rare, and scary occurrence. Lovino had only witnessed It once, overwhelmed at a young age by the sheer acrimony.
But the tone changes as Toni's proven guilty, by some meek representative no less. (He probably hadn't even noticed him in the throne room.) He seems livid at this point. That vivacious smile was dissolved as quickly as a bastard child, and Romano admits to missing it light up the air. He liked Spain happy, despite his usually nonchalant denial of such a ridiculous accusation. But under the heat of Toni's aggression, it seems obvious that he would prefer his good mood.
"You chose Francis over me!" He states it as though a crime. Setting a stiff hand to his own chest in referencing all of Spain. His countenance is hurt. He looks betrayed and torn and completely useless. It was an odd change.
"Because we're tired of your control!" He admits it out of irritation and pain. His hands shake unceremoniously beside him. He can feel his teeth grind at the confession he's been making so blatantly obvious. Lovino feels sick.
And Antonio's expression is truly devastated, though partially understanding. His lip seems to curl at the blunt slap of realization crossing his cheeks. He swallows, and both take time to ease the spread tension.
"Romanito, I raised you. I taught you everything." It comes out in a slur of accents and disbelief. "How...how could you do this to me?"
That face. Broken, devastated, hurt and forlorn. Everything about Antonio often beckoned sympathy. From his chipper attitude that was rarely penetrated by negativity, to the often inattentive and oblivious personality he held. But Romano knew better. He saw that serious side, usually ending in consequence or rage. He acknowledged the more sharp and realistic side of Antonio simply because it was there, and it was rarely seen outside of war. Almost a secondary ego, alert and far more serious.
"No. How could you do this to me, bastardo!" He retaliates badly, turning the victimization upon himself rather than his benefactor. In turn the response in violent.
A fist slams to the side of the house, hand reddened and splintered against unpainted wood and stone. Antonio seems taller. Much teller, suddenly. But he's upset (beyond it) and expresses distaste and intolerance for the very first time in many years.
"When you wet the bed I tolerated it! When you punched me out of spite I dealt with it! When you broke antiques I considered it nada de preocuparse sobre! I brushed everything off for you! I protected you! ¡Yo te crié! Helped you! I was there for you, not France! ¡No Francis o Austria o cualquier persona! ¡Era yo!"
His words jumble into three different languages, ranging from his native tongue to Italian to English. He grabs his sleeve, and Lovi find himself sure enough to pull away. This was not some teenage rebellion. This was not spite or bitter attitude: it was necessity and anguish. It was an attempt at escape, despite his years of indolent acceptance spent lounging as though free on Spanish land. He's old enough to realize oppression, kind or not. He simply considers himself lucky to have not been abused or tormented. Not like others before him. Peru or Brazil.
"That was your choice not mine! I was rotten and horrible because that's the way I am, idiot! Don't yell at me for your mistakes!"
And it clicks, for Spain, but only momentarily. Only briefly does he realize his actions and reasoning for the countless years aiding Romano and his stubborn demeanor. but is subsides as quick as his acceptance had come, only long enough to make a valid argument.
"Why do you think I did all of this, Romano? Why does anyone live out of their own way for another person? Why would I take care of you for years?"
Good questions elude him, because Lovino finds himself discontent and wrought with desperation. He would rather not answer, and instead walks away. There's an internal conflict that he cannot describe, stirred by aches and slow realization. He did not love that man. And that man did not love him. Not in the sense that Antonio seems to imply. Romano leaves, denying it until he reaches the nearest coast, contemplating leaving his own soil.
Spain feels discontent despite his economic thrive.
They did not speak until a year after.
Key:
ligón - Flirt
le roi, il a assuré - French for 'The King, he assured.'
Mezzogiorno - South Italy.
¡nada de preocuparse sobre! - Spanish translation of 'nothign to worry about'.
¡No Francis o Austria o cualquier persona! Era yo! - Not Francis, or Austria, or anyone else. It was me!
Love you all! Updates will continue being steady!