Anonymous said: Hmm how about some hurt & comfort with Spamano? It would be interesting to see your take on something like alcoholism, family issues, tortured past, etc... your angst is too much for my weak heart ;_;

Tortured pasts I can do.

Romano jolted awake on the couch, legs kicking out. He sat up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, looked around the dark living room. Spain had been nice enough to shut the TV off, but not enough to wake him.

Romano checked his watch and groaned. He stood and looked around, wondering which bed Spain had decided to sleep in. Fucker liked to ignore the queen and sleep in the twin, and Romano would usually end up pressed against the wall.

There were no lights on, but Romano saw well enough from the streetlight pouring through his windows. He picked his way across the living room. Saw something move from the corner of his eye.

"Fuck!" He pressed his hand to his chest. "You nearly gave me a heart attack," he hissed. He had whispered this, and for a second, he felt stupid.

Spain didn't move. He sat on the ground, back against Romano's cabinets, across from the stove. His long legs nearly stretched all the way across. The light from the window didn't quite reach his face, but Romano saw the way he slumped, how slow he breathed.

It was quiet. Romano was aware of his heartbeat in his ears, the prickle of fear across his neck.

"What are you doing?" Romano was still talking softly, and he couldn't bring himself to edge closer. "Spain?"

He drew his legs up to his chest, and Romano nearly flinched back. Maybe he was asleep, but somewhere, Romano knew Spain was watching him. He considered backing away, but he took a slow step closer.

"Spain?" His voice was barely a rasp.

"Do you think—"

And Romano jumped, because Spain's voice was hollow and loud in the house.

"We go to heaven when we die?"

Romano wished he could see Spain's face, gauge his emotion. He felt like he was throwing darts with a blindfold on. He continued forward, until he was standing over Spain. He wished Spain would say something else, but he realized he was supposed to answer.

"I do," Romano said. "We have to."

Spain held his arms out. "Italy."

Romano wasn't sure what Spain wanted, but there was something so sad about the gesture. Romano didn't think as he sank into his arms, back to his chest, facing the oven. Spain was warm, and he almost fell asleep listening to him breathe.

"I think I am a bad person."

Romano's eyes snapped open. "You're not. You're one of the best people I know."

He stared at the oven, at the tiny green clock, the time.

"Do you remember that one time I came home from abroad? You said I was being weird for weeks afterwards. I don't know the year, but…" Spain sighed. "I killed people. I know you know that."

Romano's eyes were hot. "Everyone kills people."

"But I think I enjoyed it too much. Prussia, he talks about it, sometimes. He said he enjoyed it, but there's…" Spain's arms tightened. "I don't think he means it. I think he just got caught up in things."

"You don't think you just got caught up in things?"

Spain didn't answer.

…

Romano didn't like this place. They couldn't be that far from home, but the air was dry and hot. It clung to him like a mist, and he had to rub the sweat from his forehead and bangs. Romano had no freaking idea where they were.

He hadn't even wanted to come. He shouldn't have come.

"Romano!" Spain called from above deck. His voice was loud, even through the wood. "Romano, come look!"

As soon as Romano set his feet down, his stomach rolled. He hated sailing. The sailors barely looked at him, now; more than once Romano had to shove someone away from standing on his toes. Their eyes barely settled on him.

Above deck, the air hit him like a fist. He scowled at the sun, ran a hand over his face. The world tilted, and he had to grab the railing to avoid falling to his knees. His mouth watered. His eyes swam.

"Look at the horizon."

Romano jumped. "Fuck! When did you get there?"

Spain laughed, but Romano couldn't focus on his face. "I should take you out on the ship more often, Romano! You look like you're going to be sick. Look at the horizon, and I promise you'll feel better."

The railing was the only solid thing in the world. Romano clung to it and looked out. He focused on the distant, hazy line where the sky met the water. It rocked, but his stomach settled, slowly, slowly. It was like magic.

"Feeling better?" Spain chirped.

"No."

"You look better." Spain grabbed Romano's shoulder and led him to the starboard side. "See that?" Spain pointed. "We're going to break them."

Romano frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Remember France? Well, he likes to tease me, so he's helping with a revolt. We've been sieging the city for months. But we're going to break them." Spain gripped his shoulder. "It'll be fun!"

"Uh." Romano squinted. "Do I… have to fight?"

"No, you're just my good luck charm." Spain laughed. "You just have to cheer me on, yeah? Are you feeling better?"

"I'm fine."

"Don't be like that. I need you happy. Come on." He poked Romano, once, twice. "Smile. Come on. I know you can. Romano—"

"Stop poking me!" Romano swatted at Spain's hand, but he was smiling.

…

Romano stared at the ceiling of his tent. It was quiet now. So quiet. He could hear the crickets. He kicked off the covers, curled on his side. He wished there was noise again. Anything other than this.

His heart jumped to his throat when he heard someone approaching. He scrambled up in bed, scrambled through the sheets, the dagger, the fucking dagger, it was right there —

"Romano?"

He froze, stared at the dark entrance of the tent. It felt like someone was standing on his chest. He heard Spain step in. Another weird noise, and Romano realized he must be taking off his armor.

"Are you awake?" Spain's voice was—strange. It had the same lilt, happy lift at the end, but there was something wrong with it. "I missed you."

"Why did you bring me?"

The crickets again.

"Because I thought you would have fun," Spain said. His voice was closer now, closer to Romano's bed.

"Fun? I've been stuck in this stupid tent for like, three days! I can't go outside because—" Romano wanted to cry. "Don't come near me, you're probably covered in blood. Where the hell were you?"

"I had to help!" Spain's voice was too happy. "I can't just let them decide they can do their own little thing, you know? They belong to me."

"They are you!"

There was a long silence. Romano's breathing was so loud, and he realized he was crying. He felt sick. This was wrong, wrong, wrong. When he felt Spain sit down next to him, he flinched away until he was dragged into a hug.

"Cheer up!" Spain said. "I won't bring you next time. We can keep heading south, visit somewhere new, get you something as a souvenir."

Romano could smell the revolt on him. It stank like sweat and blood—thick—hitting the back of his throat. He sat stiff in Spain's arms, trying to breathe through his mouth. It was wrong, wrong, wrong, but it was just Spain. Spain, who knew how to help seasickness.

"It's okay, Romano."

Slowly, slowly, Romano relaxed. "You just ordered people around, right?"

"Right," he said, so easy. "That's it."