Thanks for your lovely reviews~ Aha, I didn't really read through this part. I was a bit tired of looking at it to be honest, so I hope it's alright :) Love you all!

Three Hundred and Sixty-Five Days

Part 4

Eighty-Two: 20:36

"So, Romano, tell me about yourself."

France was on a particular charm offensive the day Romano finally agreed to meet him. Upon his insistence, Spain had arranged two separate rendezvous, one with France, one with Prussia. Not wishing to overwhelm Romano (or have him experience the full impact of the 'Bad Friends Trio' - as they were dubbed during their riotous university days), Spain explained that it would be much nicer to get to know his best friends on a much more one-to-one basis. This loosely translated into 'Romano will never speak to me again if he experiences both of them at the same time', but Romano didn't need to know that.

"You look lovely," Spain had said, greeting Romano at the doors to Bar 21. His smile didn't carry his usual fervour and it did nothing to put Romano at ease, scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face, hands buried in the pockets of a thigh-length, steel grey coat. Spain's eyes drifted to where his hands disappeared, wondering if there was a weapon in there just in case Romano took a dislike to his smooth-tongued friend... Shuddering, he held out his arm, telling his imagination to please calm down.

His arm was curtly rejected.

"Let's just get this over with," Romano growled, pulling down his scarf. He reminded Spain of a bank robber, leading his imagination down a twisting path teeming with sex in vaults and romanticized adventures of debauchery until Romano snapped his fingers in his face. He reminded his imagination to store that for later. "Don't you dare zone out on me. I'm not staying long, remember, I've got things to do for tomorrow. "

Spain nodded enthusiastically, cheeks pink as he opened the door. "You really do look lovely," he continued when Romano breezed past, the scent of his aftershave smoothing Spain's lips into a dozy smile. Long fingers brushed the back of his coat just beneath his shoulders, admiring the material, soft and warm. "Is this new? It suits you."

Romano didn't reply, but his cheeks were pink. Gracefully sliding the coat from his shoulders, he handed it to a gentleman standing with a false, placid smile on his face and then turned to Spain, untangling his scarf. "Where is he then?" he demanded, standing on his toes to see over an ocean of heads. They were all yuppies, picture like a black and white portrait of the 1960s, jet-black jackets and ice-white shirts and then a tie painted rainbow to remind everyone they still had a 'fun side' behind the business jargon and serpent smiles.

Imitating Romano's stance, Spain smiled and waved, pointing. Warmth spread up his arm when he took Romano's hand, laughing at his displeased grunt when he entwined their fingers and weaved between zebra stripe business people to reach the bar where France was elegantly poised, Blackberry in one hand, pinot grigio in the other.

"I'm an art director," Romano answered, pulling a card from his pocket. He slid it across the table like he was offering a Poker chip to bet with, Spain busy ordering Romano's next drink and trying to explain to the barman precisely what measurements were required. "You probably know the place, it's pretty famous."

France picked the card up, holding it between finger and thumb like a camera. "Hmm, I know it. Spain, darling, you didn't tell me you're dating a Vargas."

Spain looked over, popping the olive on the side of his glass into his mouth. "Oh, didn't I? Should I have?" he asked, smiling, olive like a growth in his cheek. France laughed, brushing a lock of his fringe aside and turning back to Romano.

"Yes, you should have. There are a few pieces in this gallery I've had my eye on for a long time," he said, slipping the card into his wallet. "Don't suppose you're willing to cut me a deal as your boyfriend's best friend? I can send a lot of custom your way."

Romano's nose wrinkled. "Maybe," he answered, playing with a cocktail umbrella one-handed. Spain plucked it out of his fingers, dropping it into his drink with a pleased hum then chewing and swallowing the olive. "I'll have to see what my granddad has to say about it. He's pretty picky about who we have on the books."

"But Roma, I thought you were in charge of all that stuff. You said you don't need your granddad's help with anything and that he's an interfering old man with too much time on his hands so you-"

"Thank you, Spain," Romano interrupted, glaring. Embarrassed to have been caught out, he forced a smile, shrugging nonchalantly. "Sorry, we're just quite stringent with our clients. I wouldn't want you to be disappointed."

France shrugged in return, nonplussed. "So," he said, swiftly changing the topic of conversation to something much more exciting. "What made you finally say yes to being official with my dearest friend?"

Spain was about to open his mouth to tell France to kindly not mention that when they were interrupted. "Aw, man, you guys are already here! Where's my drink, bastards? Wait, am I late? Oh, is this him?"

All three of them turned to see the third member of the musketeers standing with his arms folded, no effort made in his attire; scruffy jeans and a black t-shirt that made him look ready to go on stage as part of Metallica. "Prussia, what the hell are you doing here?" Spain said, exasperated. "I told you nextweek you were meeting Romano."

"Eh, you did?" Prussia said, raking fingers through his hair. He grinned secretively. "Guess I got my dates mixed up. Well, I'm here now anyway, so I might as well stay for the party! Hi, I'm Prussia." He held his hand out, Romano gingerly taking it to shake, then wiping his hand on his trousers, nose wrinkled. "So, who's getting me a drink then?"

France obliged, ordering a smallbeer, much to Prussia's chagrin. "Half? What do I look like, a teenage boy?" he complained, squinting at the glass.

"We're not here to get wasted, we're here to get to know Romano," France pointed out, nodding at him. Spain nodded in return, curling an arm around Romano's. He was swiftly shaken off. "And Romano was just about to tell me all about what made him fall so hopelessly in love with our wonderful, wonderful Spain."

One-Hundred and Seven: 18:10

Spain felt sick. With every station zipping by, the twisting, nauseous crawling in his belly grew like insects swallowing him from the inside out. He hadn't realised until he stepped out of the house that the smooth, tight jeans lovingly hugging his backside and the Ferrari red shirt clinging to impossible contours weren't entirely for Romano's benefit. His aftershave was; Romano's favourite scent on him - Bulgari Aqua, only second to his natural musk, but everything else was a fifty-fifty split between his boyfriend and his ex-lover and that glaringly obvious fact made Spain feel even worse.

When he reached the right station, his fingers hovered over the 'send' button on his decade old contraption, message reading 'I missed my station. I think I'm lost. Don't worry, I'll find it eventually x x x'. He didn't send it, sucking in a breath and nipping between the doors as they were closing, the station warden giving him a filthy look for his daring. Scrolling to the directions Romano had sent him, he ascended the stairs from the underground and turned left to catch the bus leading out of the city.

Romano's parent's house was postcard perfect. Smothered in ivy and a pretty petticoat of flowers, it was - as Romano had explained - a building that had been in his family for generations, an old converted watermill, the wheel still creaking and turning like the centuries had rewound. Spain could almost smell the warming scent of bread baking, see floury footprints leading to and from the achingly old, wooden outhouse. A flood of nostalgia caught him off guard, the yearning to see his family again intensifying.

Hearing the excited rise and fall of voices, Spain poked his head around the side of the place, spotting a gathering of people through the open gate. Pasting a smile across his face, he headed along the path, praying Rome hadn't yet arrived, eyes taking in the large trestle table of food, the stone gazebo, the children chasing one another around the swings.

The moment he stepped across the threshold, he was swiftly surrounded by a gaggle of females, all eager to find out more about Romano's boyfriend, said in whispers, followed by giggles. Eased by their company, they were eager to be charmed by him, though it wasn't his intention when he complimented and flattered and smiled that knee-quivering smile. "So, where is Romano?" he asked eventually in a millisecond pause, peering around eagerly. When his eyes settled on a tall gentleman with dark curls and a broad back, his breath hitched, heart thud-thudding in his chest. But then he turned and Spain saw the resemblance to Romano, realising with a fond smile that this must be his father.

"Mister Vargas!" he cried, waving enthusiastically. The women parted, gossiping and pointing upon his retreat. The man scanned faces immediately in his view before finding Spain, his smile liquid smooth and easy.

"You must be Spain," he said, holding out his hand as Spain drew close enough. Spain took it, shaking loosely. "It's good to finally meet you. My name is Napoli."

Spain nodded. Weathered but mature in his looks, he was very obviously Romano's father, sharing the same shade of deep auburn hair, the same hazel eyes, the same lop-sided smile Spain had tumbled in love with. "I've heard a lot about you, sir. I can see where Roma gets his looks from!" he cried, utterly, painfully sincere.

Napoli laughed. It sounded so much like Romano's that he warmed to him instantly, the familiarity of him soothing and inviting. "Romano told me how charming you are; I see he wasn't lying about that much. That must be how you managed to break down the 'walls' as everyone calls them," he said, filling a glass with wine and handing it to Spain. "I have to say, I'm impressed. I haven't seen Romano this happy since...ah,well-" He trailed off, shrugging helplessly.

There was very little Romano had revealed about his past, even when questioned about it. He didn't keep photos around and didn't talk about anyone Spain didn't already know. Spain always felt like there was this enormous part of Romano's life that he would never be privy to and he had to admit, that hurt.

"Romano is just inside helping his mother - or trying to, she doesn't like interference from anyone when she's in the kitchen so best stay away from there for the time being, eh?"

One-by-one (every one of the older relatives exclaiming 'isn't he handsome!' or 'Romano's done well' or 'isn't he a lovely man') Napoli introduced Spain to every member of the family from aunts and uncles to nieces and nephews, half-brothers and half-sisters to adopted children and step-parents. Spain only felt such a sense of belonging with his own family, quick to feel welcomed and wanted. By the time Romano appeared, Spain had already become honourary babysitter for the children, Romano's youngest cousin Isernia comfortably sprawled across his lap, face smothered with chocolate. She was excitedly telling Spain all about her collection of dolls, listing them by name, Spain nodding along with interest.

"Isernia," Romano said, voice firm but gentle. Spain's heart fluttered at the sight of him, outfit more relaxed than usual, simple jeans and a t-shirt, flip-flops on his feet and sunglasses hooked over his collar. Evidence of a cooking mishap was splattered over jeans. "Get down from there and wash your hands and face before we sit down for dinner."

Isernia smiled dozily, bouncing on Spain's knees. "I'm comf'ible!" she announced, swinging her legs. Romano was about to insist when she cried, "Are you an' Uncle Spain doing naughty 'fings together?"

Romano's cheeks exploded with colour. Bending, he lifted Isernia under the arms and set her down on the ground, giving her a gentle push towards the house. "Wash up, now," he ordered, voice no-nonsense hard. "Otherwise, no dessert, understand? Go on."

Pouting, she headed inside. When she paused to wave and offer Spain a cheeky grin, Romano shooed her indoors. He shrieked when he was then dragged onto Spain's lap in her place, arms curling around his middle. "Your family is so, damn, cute," Spain whispered in his ear, then pressing quick kisses up and down his neck. The matter of Romano's grandfather had been forgotten, the delicious treat in his lap more than enough to distract. "But none of them are as cute as you are. I missed you."

"Get offme, damn bastard," Romano complained, wriggling rather futilely. "Everyone can see!"

"Everyone can see your boyfriend cuddlingyou? How terrible!" Spain gasped. "Someone alert the police! Avert your eyes, children! I'm cuddling my boyfriend! I can't help myself! Stay ba- ack-!"

Spain spluttered when Romano elbowed him in the ribs, quickly clambering to his feet, flustered. Not unused to it, Spain laughed, tugging him down by the hand to press a breathless kiss to his lips. "You were late," Romano mumbled against them. "I told you not to be late. You're alwayslate."

Spain resisted the urge to remind Romano that he was usually late because of him, nudging his nose with his own. "Sorry, carino, I missed the train before. I'm here now though!" he said, Romano rolling his eyes and standing up right. "I better introduce you to mamma before we sit down for dinner otherwise she'll end up in a mood. She already thinks I'm trying to hide you from her like you're some big damn secret."

"Oh, am I your dirty little secret?" Spain sang, grinning. Romano flicked his forehead.

"You're neither dirty, little, nor a secret," he answered, folding his arms haughtily. Spain's expression swiftly morphed, trickling filth and naughty promises.

"Would you like me to be dirty?"

Romano's cheeks exploded with heat all over again. It was like Spain hadn't said anything crude when he was smacked on the cheek and ordered not to be such a 'damn pervert', then dragged unceremoniously towards the kitchen. It turned out Romano's mother, Firenze, Flo, wasn't the dragon she had been made out to be, but just a sweet, generous, loving lady with a great passion for throwing parties. Spain she instantly liked, kissing both cheeks, scrutinising him, firing questions at him one after another. Spain answered easily and simply, features soft, expression sincere. Just like everyone else, she quickly fell in love.

Obviously satisfied when she charged Spain with the very important dish of lasagne,he took great care bringing it to the trestle table set up in the garden, flushing happily at Romano's family's cheers. It wasn't until he set it down in the centre that he noticed Rome sitting in front of him, the dish nearly slipping from his fingers, thudding to the table. Glasses shivered, cutlery tinkled and the family let out a sigh of relief for the safety of the shining glory of dinner, all laughing softly afterwards for Spain's clumsiness.

"Almost," Rome said, smiling nonchalantly at Spain as if there was no history there, no young love, no pain. Spain swallowed, hands trembling, palms sticky. The back of his neck prickled with heat like teasing fingers.

"Bastard, watch what you're doing!" Romano cried behind him, bustling him aside to place a bowl of salad beside the dish. So laden with food, the table was starting to sink into the grass. "Just sit down, I'll do everything else."

Spain sat in the nearest free seat, concentrating on rearranging his cutlery, crockery, wine glass, napkin, cutlery again, until Romano flopped next to him looking for all the world like he had been labouring like an Egyptian slave. He poured himself a large glass of white wine, drank half and refilled it, then sank back with a sigh, smiling at his family.

Spain tried not to look in Rome's direction. It was difficult not to when he held the attention of the whole family, telling stories, animated and charming and exactly how Spain remembered him, from the way his eyes crinkled at the corners to the way he tapped his nose before he laughed merrily. He didn't hear half of what Romano was saying to him and poked and prodded his food, slicing it into pieces, pushing it from one side of his plate to the other. He drank plenty, however, glass after glass after glass until he had to rub his eyes to focus, swaying and numb.

"You've had far too much to drink," he heard Romano say irritably. Spain had no idea what time it was when he noticed it was dark and the table was clear. "Why the fuck did you get so drunk? You're meant to be making a good impression on my family, you know?"

He didn't sound particularly angry, but Spain was several miles past inebriated, leaning on Romano when he stood so he didn't fall face-first to the floor. A strong arm curled around his middle; Spain giggled and hiccuped, nuzzling Romano's cheek. "Papa says you can sleep in the spare room with me," he continued, flicking lights off on the way upstairs. Spain nodded dozily, only caring that a warm bed was waiting for him.

One Hundred and Eight: 00:08

Spain had been staring at an unfamiliar ceiling for half an hour, resisting the urge to crawl to the bathroom and curl up on the cold floor. Ten minutes later, he finally dragged himself from the pleasing warmth of his lover, bypassing the bathroom in favour of trudging downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of water to quench his desert mouth.

There sat Rome at the table, iced glass of brandy in his hand, newspaper spread open in front of him. For a moment Spain wondered if he had jumped backwards in time, lonely and cold in bed while Rome worked downstairs into the early hours of the morning, crawling back into bed by four to cuddle and drift to sleep before morning sex and work all over again. Rome was every inch his usual self, smiling in greeting, waving the bottle of brandy in his direction. "Night cap?" he said softly, Spain looking between him and the bottle.

He would have been a liar to deny he didn't consider it, even for a moment. Instead he grabbed a glass off the side and filled it with water. "I don't think that's a very good idea," he answered simply, sipping. Rome lowered the bottle to the table again.

"No, you're probably right," he replied, smile faltering. "Sorry. I suppose I just wanted to catch up..."

"Why?" Spain asked, lifting his glass. "You didn't contact me once all this time. I understand why, really I do, but don't try to make me believe you're genuinely interested in catching up with me when we've met again purely by chance. You already made your opinions clear the other day."

Rome sighed heavily, smile falling altogether. "I'm sorry, I panicked," he said quietly, pushing his glass between his hands. He certainly looked sorry, eyes following the path of his glass. It was familiar to Spain, a gesture indicating a plea for forgiveness. "You were the last person I expected Romano to turn up with that night. Spain, he's...he's not as strong as he pretends to be sometimes. I was scared. I didn't want him to be hurt again, not so soon. Not by something like this."

Spain pulled out a chair, lowering himself to it. The wood felt hot against his bare thighs. "'Again'?" he said, stern, keeping his feet beneath his seat and his hands in his lap. Rome leaned forward on his elbows, curiosity in his eyes, swinging like the tick-tock of an old pendulum.

"He hasn't told you?" he said breathily, cocking his head.

Spain pursed his lips. "Told me what?"

Rome sat back, waving. Almost awkward, he shifted in his seat, crossing his legs at the ankle. "Look kid, I'd love to tell you, but it's not up to me. Romano will tell you in his own time, I'm sure."

"Tell me."

"If he doesn't trust you enough yet then-" Rome barely blinked when Spain's fist slammed against the table. He picked up his glass, ice clacking as he tipped it to his lips, unaffected by Spain's roll of anger.

"Don't you fucking dare," he growled, eyes narrowing. He jabbed a finger in the air. "Don't you dare pass comment on our relationship. Romano doestrust me. I know he does. He's just shy. He doesn't like to talk about his feelings because it makes him feel vulnerable, but I know he definitely trusts me."

Rome forced a smile. "Then you've achieved something most of us never have," he said, regret in his voice. The old clock in the hallway chimed half past twelve. "If he really does trust you, then you have nothing to worry about. Romano will talk to you eventually, no doubt."

Spain huffed, getting to his feet. "Yes," he said, sweeping towards the door, glass in hand. Rome's head lolled to his shoulder in order to watch him leave. "He does trust me and he willtell me when he's ready."

Eighty Four: 22:18

Spain trusted Romano. Honestly, he had a few reasons not to, but he gave him the benefit of the doubt regardless and he smiled and nodded when he said he was taking Belgium to dinner. He didn't remark on the fact that Romano was paying for everything. He didn't complain about the fact Romano had bought her a pair of very pretty diamond earrings. He didn't even frown when Romano said he might stay at hers for the night if they were out late. No; instead he smiled and nodded, despite the fact Romano had never bought him dinner, had never bought him a gift, and was potentially staying in the home of a woman he was maybe a tiny, weeny bit jealous of.

Petite, curvy and blonde Spain was not. Belgium was a pretty young gem he couldn't possibly compete with. Plus, Romano was very, very protective of her, not to mention her brother. Netherlands attendance was a fact Romano had neglected to mention until he was walking out the door, Spain never having the opportunity to react accordingly to the information until a good thirty seconds later, by which time it was too late to protest.

Perhaps he wouldn't have been so bothered if the day before he hadn't declared his undying love for Romano. Then again, perhaps he was expecting too much when he assumed Romano would want to spend the night in with him drinking wine and watching silly, romantic films. He even had dinner planned out; Romano's favourite pizza (spinach, ricotta and a sprinkle of basil) and an orange and lemon panacotta for dessert, complimented by a good red wine, coffees and maybe even a bit of fooling around on the sofa.

Spain stared longingly out of the living room window, watching cars zipping by. Neither of his texts had been replied to. He wondered what they were getting up to, what they were talking about. Were they talking about him? Was Netherlands telling Romano all kinds of lies about him?

Wringing his hands, he stepped back from the window to pace up and down. Maybe Netherlands was listing every last youthful act of debauchery that he knew about. He'd already made the mistake of admitting he used to partake of the occasional drug (and he still wasn't sure what Romano's opinion was on the matter, considering it hadn't been mentioned since), so Romano could have been asking all manner of questions.

Dialing him, he quickly hung up again when he heard a key in the front door, Romano stepping in a moment later. Spain winced when the door was slammed, bracing himself for an argument. His heart thudded almost as loudly as the approaching footsteps, mind frantically wading through a muddy pile of excuses and reasons and explanations for any of his past behaviour. It was France's fault. It was Prussia's idea. I was really drunk. They told me it was Talcum Powder. I don't even remember doing that. That's a lie. I got knocked out by a rugby ball. I was only 18. I was only 19...

"Spain?" Romano called sharply, throwing his coat across the arm of the sofa the moment he stepped through the door. "Get me a coffee."

Spain nodded quickly, eager to appease Romano as much as possible prior to the shouting he could sense beyond the threshold. He made the most perfect cup of coffee he was capable of making, fluffing up the cushions on the sofa after putting the cup down on the table beside it, three biscotti as welcome companions. "Do you want anything else?" He didn't dare ask how dinner went. "Hot water bottle? Painkillers? Your book? Your laptop?"

"What? No," Romano replied, sinking into a seat with a weary sigh. "Fucking sit down will you, you're giving me a headache."

With the obedience of a dog, he sat, eyes trailing over his lover, taking in his posture, his expression, the sound of his breathing. When his eyes fell to his hands he noticed the grazes across Romano's knuckles, quickly plucking his hand free of his lap to inspect. "What's this? What happened?" he questioned, thumb brushing the bony bumps. Romano hissed, snatching the limb back.

"Nothing fucking happened, bastard, leave me alone," he said half-heartedly, fidgeting. He leaned forward to pick up his cup of coffee, sipping noisily.

"Romano, you're bleeding," Spain stated, getting to his feet. "Let me get the first aid box."

Romano allowed him that much, tiredly rubbing his eyes. When his hand was pulled to Spain's leg he sighed again, fingers twitching. "It's honestly nothing I've not had before, idiot," he said quietly, watching Spain smoothing anti-septic cream over each graze in turn. Next came the gauze and a fresh bandage, all done in silence but for the ticking clock in the hallway. After inspecting his work, Romano dropped his hand to his lap. "Thanks."

Spain beamed, wondering if Romano was maybe a little less mad at him than he had been. Taking a small risk, he scooted nearer so their thighs were pressed tighter, smiling nervously. When Romano entwined their fingers, he jumped. "What, bastard, I'm not gonna' fucking hit you, Jesus," Romano said stroppily. Spain could have sworn he detected the tiniest sliver of hurt in his voice, squeezing his hand reassuringly and apologetically.

Patiently waiting for him to explain how he had come to injure himself, he swung his knee back and forth, humming hoping to be soothing. Romano's fingers were cold, so he nestled them between his palms, blowing warm air between them from time to time.

"I punched Netherlands."

Spain turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. "Why?"

Romano huffed, pulling his hand free so he could fold his arms. He looked like a teenager caught doing something he shouldn't. "He was being a dick. He was asking for it," Romano answered simply, unfolding his arms to pick up his coffee again. "I don't wanna' discuss it anymore, I'm too tired."

"O...kay?" Spain replied, half wanting to push for more information, half relieved not to be the target of Romano's anger. He didn't look over when Romano flicked the television on, happy to watch his lover instead. His hair was starting to curl the way it always did at the end of the day. Reaching up to play with it was a gamble worth making when Romano sank lower in his seat, head rolling to Spain's shoulder. "So," Spain began, arm awkwardly twisted to twirl copper locks around his fingers. "Did Belgium like the earrings you got for her?"

Romano made a noise of affirmation. "Put them on straight away. She looked stunning, as usual."

Spain's smile was a little crooked. "Yeah? She's very attractive."

"She is."

"Roma?"

"Hmmm?"

"I wanted to ask you something about Belgium..." Spain could feel his slow,warm breath against his neck, tickly fingers exploring the dip of his collarbone. With a pleased shiver he sat upright again, surprised when eager lips covered his, quick fingers tugging his shirt up and over his head.

"What do you want to ask?" Romano whispered, sprinkling wet kisses up his neck to his ear.

"I...nnn, yeah, right there," Spain sighed, sinking. "I just...I'm curious because you and her are...o-oh, that's good..."

Winding both arms around Romano, he dragged him flush against his side, all thoughts of Belgium floating dazedly to the stars. All that mattered was Romano; Romano kissing him, undressing him, urging him onto his back, nipping, tickling, loving, enjoying him like his favourite flavour of gelato. Charming seducer he was, clever nails and lips and tongue, tainting, claiming, writing love all over his skin.

Being made love to by him was knowing him. Romano was a master of hiding, the king of running from his feelings and everyone else's, but here and now, buried in Spain's body, there was no hiding and there was no running. Spain could feel every inch of him tremble. The fingers curling in his hair, gripping his thighs, panting half-kisses and shivering smiles; there were his feelings as plain as day.

Thunder and lightening, hot and sudden and wild. Caught in the typhoon that was Romano, Spain was always spinning.

23:47

"What did you want to ask me about Belgium?" Romano said tiredly, comfortably squished between Spain's body and the back of the sofa. His injured hand was pressed between them, Spain's cradling it. Mostly asleep, he cracked open an eye and smiled.

"Doesn't matter," he answered, cuddling closer. Romano grumbled. "I already know the answer."

TBC