Anonymous said : I wish you would write a fic where Spain and Romano are just getting to see each other again after WW2 and it's really emotional because it's been so long.

It wasn't dead, liked he had imagined it to be.

Sure, there was the abandoned, skeletal remains of vineyards, poles sticking into the air with nothing but weeds at the base. The barns with missing rooftops, shingles crunching underfoot. Burned out tanks, abandoned carts on the side of the dirt road, long since picked cleaned by scavengers.

But it was lush and green, even if it was crabgrass. The wind was cool and clear this early into summer, and each hill Antonio crested revealed even more farmland beyond.

Antonio knew he had found Lovino's farm when he stumbled upon a cow grazing. Antonio patted her hide as he passed, following her path through the grass until he found Lovino, ripping out weeds with his hands.

"Lovino?" Antonio said.

Lovino jolted away from his work, staring up at Antonio.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Antonio blinked and looked around. "I, ah—"

Lovino stood. "No, seriously, what the fuck are you doing? You think I need this? You think I need you?"

Antonio held up his hands in surrender. "I misunderstood."

Lovino scoffed. "I left you in the middle of the night, gave you no town to find me at, and sailed off the next morning. You couldn't pick up, oh, I don't know, any context clues? Use some common sense?"

Oh. "Oh."

"Yeah, oh seems like an understatement. You don't think I would have written you if I wanted to talk to you?" Lovino's face was sunburned, and he was thinner than the last time Antonio had seen him. Tired, too.

"You can't read," Antonio began.

Lovino's eyes widened and his eyes snapped to the weeds at Antonio's feet. "I could have figured it out. I'm not an idiot…" He glanced up. "I can't do this, Antonio. Not right now, not ever. Never again."

"I'm here to work!" Antonio smiled. "No, really, I am. The bar went—well, it's out of businesses, and I've heard things are going well in Italy and I—I can work, I'm not afraid to. Are you weeding? I can weed."

Antonio crouched and began to tug at the weeds, and he managed to pull out one before Lovino was squatting next to him. Lovino grabbed Antonio's wrist with rough fingers.

"You don't know how to weed." Lovino tossed Antonio's hand away like it had burned him. "You're leaving the roots in; the fucking things will grow back. You're not a farmer."

Antonio's knee brushed against Lovino's. Lovino stood.

"Go to town, Antonio. Go north. There's no work here."

Antonio patted the ground. "Well, I'm on the farm, and I'd like to work on the farm, so I think that makes me a farmer."

"No, it makes you an idiot."

Antonio shrugged. "So I've been told."

"I can't pay you."

Antonio shrugged again. "I'm working for room and board."

Lovino rolled his eyes, but there, in the corner of his mouth, was a smile. "Like I have food."

"You have a cow."

Lovino ran a hand over his face and looked around his field. He wasn't wearing any gloves, and from where Antonio was sitting, he could see the scrapes and bruises, the blisters on his palms, caked in mud though they were. Lovino finally looked back at him.

"We can't kill Sofia. Alright, asshole, you can stay. But you're not sleeping in my house, and you do what I tell you when I tell you. Don't expect food, don't expect much sleep." Lovino sat next to Antonio. "You dig the dirt away from the roots, then pull. Make sure you get everything or they'll grow back."

"Yes, sir." Antonio smiled. "I've missed you."

Lovino grunted. "Get to work."

…

The boat was the biggest thing Antonio had ever seen. It towered over the city, a fortress of gun and metal. Every time it rolled into port, it brought the stench of gunpower with it.

Still, a customer was a customer.

Antonio balanced the sign on his lap, writing out the night's specials. Cigarettes with an S, beer in English, he knew it was close enough to the Italian, gin in Spanish, even though the word was shorter in Italian.

A man walked over, still in uniform. "You speak Italian? You sell cigarettes?" he asked haltingly in Spanish.

Antonio looked up and smiled. "I speak enough Italian." He pulled out his own pack and offered one. "Here."

The sailor grabbed one without hesitation, lighting it up immediately. "Where'd you learn Italian?"

Antonio shrugged. "Around. It's useful to get people to come. There are a lot of common words."

The Italian nodded. "Where'd you learn to write?"

"My father. He wanted me to be educated." At the Italian's confusion: "Wanted me to go to school. But I pick it up from here or there. I know some Yiddish, too."

"What's Yiddish?"

Antonio casually wrote the prices on the board. "The Jews speak it."

The Italian nodded. "Do you own the bar?"

"I won half of it gambling." Antonio rested his chin in his hand. "Lots of questions. You're not a spy, are you?"

"A what?"

"I don't know the word in Italian. The secret police?"

The Italian laughed. "No, I'm a sailor. I won't arrest you. I just wanted a cigarette."

Antonio smiled. "You have a nice laugh." The Italian's face immediately grew stormy. "You should come by and have a drink tonight. It'll be busy, but I can talk. I'm Antonio."

"Lovino."

Lovino held his hand out, and Antonio shook it. The Italian's hand was sweaty, and Antonio saw his fingers tremble when he took his hand back.

"Will I see you tonight?"

Lovino shrugged. "No."

…

Antonio was perched precariously on the roof of the barn, hammering back all the shingles he had found scattered around. Lovino had told him to use two per shingle, but there was a storm brewing overhead, and Antonio was pretty sure he was going to be hammering them back into place tomorrow.

Antonio sat up and stretched his shoulders. It was darker than Antonio had realized—later than he had realized. Where was Lovino?

He looked around, seeing over the tops of the overgrown olive trees he was usually submerged in. There, on the dirt road, three figures and a cow. Antonio hoped for good news, but why would Lovino bring them back to the farm?

Antonio swung his legs off the roof and lowered himself off, hanging on by the tips of his fingers, and then landed neatly. He brought the hammer, jogging in the direction of the figures. The olive trees rustled in the breeze, and Antonio heard the soft pats of raindrops on the leaves, the smell of rain.

Antonio slowed when he heard voices.

"Fuck off," Lovino snapped.

"Give us the cow, Vargas."

"Look, I'll get you the money in two months at the latest. Once she gets pregnant again, I can milk her and sell it, or just give you the milk, but—"

There was a sound of scuffling. Someone fell; Antonio heard the impact of him on the ground, the sharp exhale of breath. Sofia mooed.

Antonio burst out of the tree line, took in Lovino on the ground, and ran at the nearest man. The man held up a hand, but Antonio struck low on the thigh. The man crumpled to the ground, muscles cramping at the sudden impact.

"Jesus Christ!" the other man jerked away. "Who the hell are you?"

Antonio smiled. "I'm Antonio."

Lovino scrambled to his knees and held his hands up. "Antonio, sweet Mother put the hammer down!" Blood dripped from his nose onto his shirt.

Antonio lowered the hammer.

The second man was helping the first up. "You have two months, Vargas!" he yelled over his shoulder, hauling his friend down the road.

Antonio watched them until they disappeared from view around a bend in the road. Just like that, it was done. Obviously not ones for a fair fight. Most bullies weren't.

Lovino stayed on the ground, face in his hands. "My God," he breathed, "I need someone to knock up my cow."

Antonio crouched next to him. "Are you alright?" He took Lovino's hands away from his nose, trying to assess the damage.

Lovino shoved Antonio's hands away. "I'm fine. I didn't—I didn't think they were going to punch me. Caught me off guard, is all." He wiped away some blood and looked at his hand. "Jesus." His voice shook.

"Who were they?" Antonio stood and offered his hand.

Lovino took it and Antonio helped him up. "No one. Well, they… They own the fucking farm. It's my grandfather's but they…" Lovino sighed. "Claimed it was theirs and I had to buy it back from them. Or, well."

Antonio looked down the road after the men. "Are they from here?"

"No," Lovino spat. "The north."

"I could tell from their accent." Antonio fetched Sofia's rope. "We could kill them."

"No." Lovino cleared his throat. "No, that's… No. No point. It'd just cause us more trouble down the road. Or, well, me. I'm the one who…" He blew air through his lips.

They walked slowly back to the house, Sofia occasionally shaking her head to clear the raindrops from her ears. Lovino tilted his head up for the rain to wash away the blood.

"I only used two nails," Antonio said.

Lovino looked over at him. "What?"

"For the shingles." Antonio pointed at the barn. "Like you said. We still ran out, but it'll keep out the rain well enough."

"Oh. Yes. Yes, thank you." Lovino sucked in air through his teeth. "You… You don't have to sleep in the barn. Anymore."

Antonio grinned.

"At least until it stops raining," Lovino added quickly.

"Of course."

…

Antonio was too drunk to see the clock. Tell what time it was. Both. He poured another shot for Lovino, one for himself.

"What's a farm like?" he slurred.

Lovino grinned. "A what?"

"You know. The… plants."

Lovino laughed. "Hot. Hard work." He said something in Italian Antonio didn't know. "Cows."

"Saw cows again."

"Cows."

Antonio closed his eyes. "What a glorious word. Beautiful. No one speaks Italian like the Italians."

"I'll say. I'm so sick of hearing you Spaniards fuck it up." Lovino leaned forward, eyes unfocused. "Though, I guess yours isn't terrible. Not the worst I've heard."

"I could teach you Spanish, you know." Antonio took another sip of his drink, grimacing. "It's practically the same, except for the big words. And small words."

Lovino snorted when he laughed. "Not the same."

The bar was practically empty this late. A few patrons were passed out. A few drunkenly gambling, speaking in different languages. The candles burned low. Lovino's eyes were the brightest things in the gloom.

Antonio shifted, his fingers brushing against Lovino's, casually. Ever so casually. Lovino glanced down, eyebrow raised.

"Come back tomorrow," Antonio whispered, leaning closer. "I'll teach you some Spanish."

…

Antonio's eyes opened to the dark. He blinked a couple of times, trying to figure what time it was. He rolled to his left to ask Lovino if he was up.

There was a gentle sob.

"Lovino?"

The sound immediately stopped.

"Lovino, are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine." Much to Lovino's credit, his voice was steady. "Go back to sleep. You have another few hours to sleep."

Antonio sat up. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just, stupid—fucking—just nothing, okay? I just…" There was a sharp intake of breath, hitching.

Antonio stood, slowly, and shuffled over to Lovino's bed. He sat down slowly. Lovino was silent from the other end of the bed.

"They used to pick them off in the water," Lovino whimpered. "If we sank a boat. They would… they'd swim and yell up at us. We used to shoot at them." His voice became muffled. "I'm going to hell."

"No, Lovino—"

"I am! I'm already in hell! I'm in debt to—to—even my fucking brother left! My only family left in the entire world left me! The war haunts me everywhere I go! Even in my head! Especially in my fucking head!" He coughed while he sobbed. "And you! Every time I look at you I—I'm going to hell!"

Antonio lunged forward and pulled Lovino into a hug. Lovino stiffened in his arms, started to pull away, and then gave in, pushing his face into the crook of Antonio's neck. Lovino smelled like old sweat and hay. His hands on Antonio felt rough.

"You could see their blood in the water," Lovino said into Antonio's neck. "Bodies float when they're dead. I see them."

…

Lovino was drunk with Antonio in the back room. It was noon. Lovino didn't seem like he had any mind to stop drinking any time soon.

Antonio watched him, sitting opposite in the ground. Lovino had taken off the top of his uniform and had it wrapped around his waist. Bottles surrounded him like a shrine. His face was sunburned, and he swayed whenever he stood to get another drink—his sea legs.

"Lovino," Antonio said. "Why are you here?"

Lovino looked at him, eyes unfocused. "We're not supposed to. Spain is neutral."

"I mean…" Antonio searched for the words. "Why are you in the military?"

"Oh." Lovino took a sip. "I was drafted."

"Why didn't you run away?"

Lovino looked away and shrugged. "I don't know. I was afraid. They… There was this other boy. In my village. He tried to run for the Resistance. They shot him in the square." Lovino stared at the bottle in his hand.

Antonio crawled across the floor to sit next to Lovino. Their arms pressed against one another, their sides. Antonio could hear his heartbeat in his ears, watched Lovino's profile, the blush creeping up his neck.

"My brother," Lovino said, "he was so mad. But only because my grandfather was. He didn't understand everything, I don't think. After all, what could I do? I can't fight off all of Italy because… Well, just because."

"What was your brother's name?"

"Feliciano." Lovino's mouth softened from its hard line. "I miss him. He ran away after I was drafted. I haven't heard from him since."

"Did…" Antonio looked at the door, unsure of who was listening.

"Maybe." Lovino shrugged one shoulder.

Antonio rested his hand on Lovino's wrist. Their legs touched. "My father is a tradesman. He traded to the Axis, so I left my house and came here. I like it, I like the coast. I like the people."

Lovino looked at him. "Do you like me?"

Some historical stuff:

Italy's Navy was one of its most successful military branches in WWII.

Spain originally tried to join the Axis Powers, but was denied. It became neutral when the Allies began to turn the tide of the war. However, it traded regularly with the Axis, and maintained normal trading with the Allies.

It's not inconceivable that Spain would allow an Italian warship to dock in its waters, especially early in the war. At least, that's what I'm saying for this story lol.

After the war, Italy actually had one of the fastest growing economies in Europe… if you lived in the northern part of the country. There was a mass migration of people from the rural, southern areas to the cities.

If you continued to try and farm the land, good luck competing against the huge, aristocratic farms. Most small farms were no longer self-sufficient, and debt plagued the venture. Most farmers became laborers for larger farms.