For SpaMano week !

Day 2 : Accidents

"Mother—" Romano slammed on the horn. "Do you see this asshole! He must be fucking drunk or something, the mother fucker!"

Spain tried to bite back his grin. "What a fucker."

Romano shot a look at him. "You keep your fucking mouth shut. Don't you fucking smile at me like that. This—look at him!" Romano pointed. "Did you see that?! He needs a fucking breathalyzer test, let me fucking tell you!"

Spain nodded. "Of course he does."

"Mother fucking fuck." Romano checked his watch; Spain knew he had never gotten used to clocks in car dashboards. "We're going to be late for your flight. Shit. I hate when you fly out on a Monday."

Spain shrugged. "More time watching you swear, which is my favorite thing in the world."

This time, it was Romano who couldn't keep the smile off his face. "Fuck off."

Spain wiggled his fingers. "You love it."

"You have a fucked up kink for my anger, that's what you have." Romano shook his head. "Look at this guy. Would you look at—fuck." Romano slammed on his breaks.

There was a bomb.

And a lurch.

Things seemed very slow for a while. Spain's stomach felt light, and there was a strange noise that reminded him of the Margaretville blender Romano owned, that they had made drinks in Saturday night. Spain blinked, heard the heartbeat in his ears.

They were in the air. Spain saw the ground under them, the lines. There was glass. Why was there glass?

Spain's head was pressed against his chest. His teeth rattled against one another.

The world sped up, suddenly.

Everything spun, there was a crunch, his head, back and forth, back and forth, the seatbelt digging into his chest, the breath knocked out of him, something hitting him in the face, white, and Spain thought he had died again.

There was an amount of time—Spain's head was spinning. He blinked, like that would help. He tasted blood; it had been a long time since he tasted blood.

"Italy?"

Nothing.

Something in Spain screamed.

"Italy?!"

Adrenaline shot through Spain, and he shook his head, pain flaring across his eyes. He was upside down, the car roof brushing against his head. First was the airbag, which was easy enough to push away. Then, he reached down, bore some weight down to relieve the strain of the seatbelt.

He reached down with one hand and released the buckle.

He fell heavily, and his head buzzed, vision blurry. It took him ten breaths—he counted, trying to remain calm—to regain his sight.

Nothing felt broken, but he had fought in wars, he knew what adrenaline did. He looked around. The easiest way out…

There was a hole on the driver's side. Right through the glass.

The nausea hit Spain like a wave.

It was the best way out, and Spain dragged himself through the hole. He didn't let himself think, worked on getting through the hole, not cutting himself. Breathing.

Free, and he sat up, looked around at the world that seemed too bright. He looked around, heard beat, beating, beating.

It nearly stopped when he saw the body.

"Romano?" Spain croaked.

Nothing, painful nothing.

"Italy!" Spain felt himself scrambling over the asphalt. "Italy!"

Spain reached the body and felt fear crash over his body, nausea, the breath leave him again.

"Oh, God," Spain whimpered, reaching out and touching Romano lightly on the shoulder. "Oh, my poor Italy, my poor little Italy, can you hear me, Italy, baby, please. Please, talk to me, you can even curse at me, Italy."

There were lacerations across Romano's face. Spain couldn't see how bad it was, not with all the blood, all the gore. Skid marks down Romano's arms, his hands a mangled jumble of bone and flesh.

Everything was bending at the wrong angle on Romano's body.

Spain felt his breath hitching.

A wire connected, and Spain switched his attention to his surroundings. There, against the guardrail, the car, the man who had been driving it.

Spain snarled and dragged himself standing, stalking towards the man. "You fucker, you fucking mother fucker, you killed him, you made—"

"I don't speak Spanish," the man was saying.

"I'm going to kill you!" Spain screamed, grabbing the man's shirt and shaking him. "I'm going to bash your head against the ground! I'm—"

Hands pulled Spain away, words spoken in Italian that made Spain want to cry. He crawled back to Romano, cradled his head in his arm, tried to pet his hair but stopped when scalp came away in his fingers, rocked him back and forth.

"Sir."

Spain blinked and looked up, vision blurry. "What?"

"Sir, I need to examine your friend." The EMT crouched down in front of Spain. "I just need to see him."

"He's not dead," Spain rasped.

The EMT's face was stony. "We can't be sure of that until I see him. Come, let my friend over there examine you."

She touched his arm, and Spain relented, let himself be led to another EMT who wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. They had him sit in the back of the ambulance, shined a light in his eyes.

"Can you tell me what the date is today?"

Spain batted away the flashlight. "You need to listen to me, he's not dead. His name is Lovino Vargas, and—"

"Sir—"

"You will listen to me," Spain hissed, standing. "You will put him on a stretcher and bring him to the emergency room, and you will fix him." Spain's hands shook. "Or I'll kill you."

"Abelie," the first EMT called, "he has a pulse. He has a fucking pulse."

They grabbed a stretcher and placed Romano on it, grabbing the oxygen, yelling stats to one another, words Spain didn't know in Italian, even after all these years.

He sat in the ambulance and watched them. They placed a tube in Romano's chest, the oxygen, pads on his chest, constantly checking the pulse, shining a light, just as they had done to Spain—

"No eyeball left side."

Spain put his face in his hands.

The blood soaked through the bandages, and they worked on Romano's face, and Spain could see the full extent of the damage. The whole left side of Romano's skull seemed caved in, impossible, impossible. Spain could see Romano's cheek bone, his teeth.

"Brain swelling likely," the EMT said into a radio, "possible hemorrhaging, need to relieve pressure as soon as possible."

It was the last Spain heard of Romano for twelve hours.

…

Camila knocked on Spain's door gently. "Sir?"

Spain glanced up from his paperwork. "If the boss complains again, tell him the doctors cleared me of the concussion yesterday. Fit as a fiddle, fastest recovery of a—"

"It's Lovino."

Spain stared at her.

She smiled, softly. "Line three."

Spain's hand shook as he picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Holy shit, that guy was the worst driver in the world, what the fuck."

Spain let out a laugh, tears springing to his eyes. "I know, I thought I was going to kill him. I almost did, if someone hadn't stopped me." Spain closed his eyes. "God, it's so good to hear your voice. I've missed you so much."

Romano sounded like he was eating something. "Yeah, I think three months is the longest I've ever been… healing? What would you call it?"

Spain laughed, rubbing the tears out of his eyes. "I don't know. I was worried you…" Spain took a shuddering breath. "I was worried you wouldn't wake up."

There was a crackle of static over the line. "Oh, well, that's a dumb thing to worry about. Fuck, England had his head chopped off and he came back. A little car crash isn't a fucking thing to me."

Spain shook his head, smiling. "I know, but… You should have seen yourself."

"Yeah, well, I couldn't let my idiot brother run this country by himself. He's a fucking idiot."

"You sound cheerful."

"Oh my God, Spain, you have no idea the crazy drugs they have me on. I'm fucking, I'm so high right now."

Spain laughed. "I'm going to be on the next flight over."

"Okay, cool, I fucking miss you."

…

Romano was eating pudding when Spain walked in. He looked up at Spain, blinked a couple of times.

"This pudding is fucking ridiculously."

There were pink scars covering most of Romano's face, but it was healthy skin. He wore an eyepatch, and his fingers were clumsy and awkward around the spoon, arms thin. There was pudding all over his face, but none on his clothes.

His hair was almost back to its original length.

Romano frowned at him. "Stop crying."

"I'm sorry."

Spain threw his bags down and crawled into the bed with him, grabbing him and kissing him, feeling the warmth and the solid, solid skin under his fingers. Romano let out squawks, but was more focused on the pudding.

"Hey, do you know when my eye will grow back?"

Spain hugged him. "I love you so fucking much."

"Hey, I fucking love you!"