This is late, but it was also my favourite chapter to write.

I'm not sorry.


Chapter Eight:

Lunch had been fantastic, but that didn't mean Romano enjoyed a moment of it. Spain didn't notice the Italian glower that was directed at him throughout the whole meal, and so Romano decided to head home. The plan was to punish Spain by leaving in a mood, but as soon as he stepped inside his own house, Romano realised just who was going to be more annoyed.

Veneziano didn't question his older brother's sour mood – apparently it was very easy to presume Spain had just pissed Romano off again – but he did attempt to cheer him up by making his favourite dinner. It didn't do much good.

Of course, Spain wasn't much better – despite what Romano might have thought.

As soon as Romano left, Spain spent the next hour hugging a pillow and feeling unbelievably giddy, and then another two hours attempting to work out why the Italian had left in such a hurry.

The result was two low, yet unbelievably happy, countries.

For the following week, Romano and Spain barely talked – unless you count the usual thrice daily texts Spain sent the Italian, and the thrice daily 'Whatever' sent in reply. Luckily, a world meeting was due; otherwise they may have never worked up the guts to face one another again.

And so, Spain found himself wandering into the meeting room with a stomach swirling with nerves and excitement.

He was somewhat later than most – though that was only because he'd met up with Belgium and Netherlands before heading over. Countries were dotted around the large room; chatting (or arguing) in groups, sitting at the table doing their own paperwork. The room was bustling with activity, and as Belgium said something to him, Spain's eyes swept the surroundings for the one face he wanted to see.

Romano was already sitting at his place: Veneziano on one side, talking to Germany with wild arm motions; and Seborga on the other, talking (or flirting) to Monaco and Lichtenstein who stood behind him.

Giving a smile that Romano didn't seem to pick up on, Spain sat in the seat opposite. The Italian lifted his eyes for a moment to meet Spain's, but quickly looked away pretending that Veneziano was trying to talk to him. Spain chuckled lightly, and was soon distracted himself when France appeared and started talking about his and England's 'make-up'. It quickly started an argument as England arrived and (in his exact words) 'smashed any bloody make-up we had, Frog', before France was banned from sitting in his usual seat next to the British Isles and had to go ask to switch with Seborga.

As America took control of the meeting (not that it was his turn to), Spain found himself shooting glances across to Romano every few moments. The Italian clearly noticed – it wasn't hard to miss how tense he was becoming, nor the pout that was growing larger as time passed – but he made an effort to keep his unblinking eyes fixated on the front of the room. Sighing to himself, Spain decided perhaps he should at least remove his gaze to save Romano from any more discomfort.

He'd only been half-listening to America for a couple of minutes when he suddenly felt something touching his ankle. Freezing, Spain focused on trying to work out what it was without giving away there was something going on. That was easier said than done, as he soon recognised something like a foot was working its way up his leg.

His breath hitched slightly as he glanced over at the fidgeting Italian opposite him. Romano didn't look over, but he certainly looked nervous about… something… Spain felt his stomach twist in excitement; it couldn't really be Romano's foot on his leg… could it?

Having to force himself to stop staring at the Italian with a gaping mouth, Spain turned his attention to the papers on the desk in front of him – knowing he couldn't keep a straight face right now, even if he did look back over at America. Not with a foot, that may or may not belong to the person who held Spain's affections, slowly travelling unbelievably seductively up his leg. Damn, his cheeks were turning hot. He hoped his blush wasn't too obvious – you know, since every country was sitting in this room right now.

Gulping, Spain felt the foot resting a little too close to–

not too close anymore…

His body squirmed a little as the foot pushed down lightly, and he had to cover his face with a hand – there was no way he could keep such a passive expression when Romano was doing this. Tilting his head up just enough that he could glance over at the Italian, Spain bit his lip. Romano was frowning deeply, as usual, but there was a hint of something else in his eyes that the Spaniard was confident no one else would spot. He was definitely blushing – not as obliviously as Spain probably was, but it was there.

The Italian's eyes darted around awkwardly; snapping from his hands, to the front of the room, and then over to Spain. He didn't know where to look, which was fair enough with the current situation – after all, who would have thought that Romano would be so bold. Certainly not Spain.

A strained breath spilled from Spain's throat against his will – why did Romano's foot seem so skilled at this? – and the country quickly dropped his head again in case someone looked over. His fist clenched on the table as another shiver of pleasure ran through his body. This was the worst place, there were way too many people, and Spain was the sort of person who wore his emotions on his sleeve.

He didn't even think about actively pushing the foot away, of course.

As the exhilaration built and built, Spain couldn't help but steal another glance at the ever-fidgeting Italian. Romano looked over this time, and his eyes widened when they realised Spain was staring back at him. Their eyes locked; Spain's darkening with the feel of the foot moving against him, and Romano's widening at the expression plastered across the other country's face.

"Let's take a break, yeah?" someone called near the front of the room. A chorus of thankful agreement rang as some already started to stand.

The foot had barely moved away from Spain when he jumped to his feet and hurried out of the room, shooting Romano a forceful look to silently order the Italian to follow. He paused as he stepped outside of the meeting room doors, and waited until Romano's perfect figure stepped out as well. Well, it seemed Spain had looked serious enough to make even his grumpy underling listen. Spain's grabbed him by the arm (to which Romano yelled something along the lines of 'that hurts, bastard!') and hauled him along the hallway – ignoring the confused glances others were shooting them.

Reaching for a random door after they were out of sight of the meeting room, Spain dragged Romano inside and slammed the door shut behind them. His trousers were extremely uncomfortable right now thanks to a certain Italian, and he was in no mood to dance around words and feelings like usual. Instead, he grabbed Romano by the shoulders, pushing him against the nearest table and crushed their lips together.

He could feel the Italian's shock, hear muffled protests, but then felt his body slowly easing, relaxing against Spain's hold until the kiss was returned. Spain's fingers immediately un-tucked Romano's shirt, pushing his hands against the warmth of his skin and scratching at it in a hot desperation. The kiss was all tongue, all passion, and Romano gave just as much as Spain did.

Breaking their lips apart, only to hear a strangled gasp for air from Romano, Spain moved his lips to the Italian's neck and began to bite.

"Fucking hell, how long have you been hard?" Romano grumbled as he tugged Spain closer. "I knew there was something up with you earlier."

Spain chuckled as he kissed the marks he'd just made. Running a hand through Romano's hair, he trailed his lips up to bring their lips together again for a moment. "Well, if you're going to be so bold as to do such lewd things to me in a meeting, of course I'm going to turn out like this."

"Lewd things?" Romano breathed as Spain caught his lips once more. "I was just looking at you, you weird fucker."

"Oh, of course," Spain grinned, rolling his hips against the Italian suggestively. "I'll pretend the foot never happened."

"Oi, wait a minute!" Romano's hands gripped at Spain's shoulders and shoved him away. The Italian's expression was… worrying, to say the least. "What the hell are you talking about?"

What was that feeling in Spain's stomach? Oh, dread.

"The foot! You were playing footsie…! But with… not with my foot!"

Romano's cheeks reddened. But not with embarrassment. "I didn't play footsie with anyone."

The dread was starting to build now.

Spain opened his mouth, only to close it again when nothing came out. His mind raced in confusion as he stared into Romano's all-too-serious (and pissed) eyes. The mood seemed to shatter around them – showering down like shards of glass that only prodded more dread into Spain's poor stomach.

"It… wasn't… your foot?" Spain finally asked.

The rage was painfully obvious on the Italian's face. "No, it wasn't my fucking foot!" He pushed away from the edge of the table, gave Spain a sufficiently hard punch in the ribs, and marched out of the room. Spain was left staring at the open door, listening to the fading sound of Italian curses.

It took him a few moments to collect himself (and for his body to calm down enough that he could actually leave), and then Spain was wandering back towards the meeting room in a horrible daze. So many arguments reached his ears when he stepped back into the meeting, that he couldn't tell if it was still break time or not. Romano was back in his seat; staring at his lap with a foul grimace as Belgium tried to talk to him.

An arm snaked around Spain's shoulder. "And why are you looking so down, Espagne?"

France smile felt much too bright for Spain's mood, and he tried to wriggle away, only to have France's arms wrap around him tighter. "I would have thought you just got yourself a bit of… affection." He wiggled his eyebrows.

"W-why do you say that?" Spain asked, becoming strangely uncomfortable in this situation; which was odd, since France's actions usually unnerved others, not Spain.

The Frenchman leaned closer, moving his lips right against Spain's ears. "Little Romano didn't seem against helping you out with your problem earlier."

The dread was back. No, not dread, not this time. Something else…

"France?"

"Mhmm?"

"You were sitting in Seborga's seat, today, huh?"

"Oui! England was a little too moody."

Not dread…

"Don't tell me…" Spain turned his head around to stare right at France's prideful grin. "You…"

France winked. "I figured neither you nor the little Italian would have the confidence to do anything!"

Ah, it was rage.