The sun. The sun. The sun.
…
Dark. Stars.
Spain blinked up at them.
He had forgotten there was night.
…
The sun, again. He could feel his skin blistering. And the sand. He was on a beach.
"You're going to catch fire if you don't get out of the sun."
Spain agreed. Tried to drag himself to the shade which must, must be there. But his legs couldn't push him, and he couldn't roll over.
"The sand, idiot. Cover yourself with sand."
Spain coughed, pain through his side, his head swam.
…
"How many times do you think you've died?"
Spain's eyes snapped open. There was an endless span of stars, and he realized he must be somewhere near the sea. Smoke from cities usually darkened the sky; it was only this clear far, far away.
"Where are we?" he rasped. He winced at his own voice, tried to swallow.
"How the fuck should I know?"
Spain tried to move his head. "You're here."
Romano was sitting next to him, staring out into the distance. He was wearing something light and cool, like when they worked in the garden. Probably more comfortable than Spain. His sword dug into his hip and side.
"Yeah, so? I hate the sea. I have no fucking idea where we are." Romano pointed up, and Spain followed his finger. "Use the stars."
"No charts." God, his throat was so dry. "Water."
"Get your own water."
Spain looked over at him, but Romano had scooted a few feet back, so he had to crane his neck. Everything hurt. Ached.
Romano picked at a loose thread on his pants. "You're sunburned. You're going to hurt even more if you don't get out of the sun before morning. God knows how long you've been out here."
"I can't."
Romano rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you can." He stood and brushed his hands off. "I'm going to wait in the shade."
"Romano."
Romano walked out of Spain's field of vision. He cursed, felt pain flare through his side as he jostled. He ended up staring at the sky, trying to recognize the constellations. But his thoughts swam in time to the throb of pain in his chest.
And he was hot.
Sunburn.
"I told you," Romano called.
Spain gritted his teeth. He drew his knees up, took a deep breath, then kicked himself over onto his stomach. White flashed across his vision, and his stomach twisted with nausea. He thought he was going to die.
He didn't know how long he lay there. By the time his vision returned to him, the sky was getting lighter. He didn't want to bake in the sun, not again.
"Hey, stupid!"
Spain groaned. "Help me."
"No, you got yourself stuck out here, you can drag yourself to the shade. Come on. It's barely five feet. Come on, you lazy fucker, the sun's rising."
Spain dragged his head up. Romano was standing, arms crossed, between a forest of tree trunks. He might as well have been across the ocran. There was no way Spain could drag himself across there without passing out.
Romano sat down and crossed his legs. He patted the space next to him. "Come on, you giant baby."
"Romano, I am going to kill you," he panted.
"You have to come and get me first, don't you? You're running out of time."
"Fuck," Spain snarled.
He could only move his left arm—the muscles on his other side would scream at him when he attempted anything with his right. Spain threw his arm out ahead of him and propped himself up, dragging himself through the sand. Sweat ran into his eyes.
Sweat and tears.
Shame burned in his stomach, and he glanced up at Romano as he hauled himself forward another few inches, then looked away. Romano caught the look.
"What?"
Spain didn't answer. Another few inches, closer to the shade.
"Oh, don't give me the fucking silent treatment. Spit it out." Romano raised an eyebrow.
"What…" Spain nearly gave out. "What am I doing here?"
Romano frowned at him. "When was the last time you saw me."
"I—"
"Months. It's been fucking months." Romano looked past him, back out at the sea. "You said you were—" He cut himself off, ran a hand over his face.
Spain hauled himself forward, finally at the tree line. Finally. He let himself rest catching his breath. Romano didn't say anything else, and Spain watched him, observed the way he sat, back straight.
"England," Spain finished. "I was trying to hunt down England."
"Yeah. And he burned down your fucking ship. Because you're an idiot. And stabbed you. Because you're a fucking idiot."
Spain managed a smile. "Yeah."
"I miss you." Romano began to reach forward, and Spain leaned, desperate for contact. Romano snatched his hand away at the last second. "Come home."
Spain's mouth was so, so dry. "I can't. Not yet."
Romano's mouth twisted, and he looked away. Spain dragged himself further.
"Come with me."
"I can't, Spain."
Blackness swam at the edges of his vision. Romano looked like a heat haze. Spain dragged himself closer, realized he was bleeding from somewhere, dragged himself closer, closer.
"You can," he gasped. "You can, you can, you can. Come with me. We'll go home as soon as…" Romano seemed to be drifting further away. "As soon as he pays. We can go home, and work on the garden, and learn Spanish, Romano, Romano. He just needs to pay."
Spain fell back onto his stomach, trembling, gasping for air.
"Romano."
…
The day was hot. Spain watched it pass in fits. First bird song. Then heat, even under the shade. Then crickets.
Mosquitoes. He hadn't realized they were mosquitoes.
…
A night. Fitful sleep. Waking up to coughing up mouthfuls of blood. His side ached before he fell back asleep.
…
Romano was gone—probably hadn't even been there to begin with.
Spain had walked around the island countless times, cut into trees, drank the sweet sap until his stomach felt like it would burst. Hoped Romano would appear from a heat haze.
He wanted to go home.
He wanted to get off this island.
He wanted to hurt England.
He wanted Romano.
…
The fishermen didn't speak Spanish, but broken Italian from French. It made Spain's heart hurt.
Anonymous said: I love your writing! I've only read a few of ur stories but they are all so adorable! Anyways I wanted to suggest a prompt where Person A gets badly injured and Person B has to comfort them until help arrives. If u decide to do this one could you do Spamano?