Lovino had never been one that liked surprises. In fact, he DESPISED them. The only thing he despised more than surprises was Germany. But who couldn't despise that wurst-loving potato bastard?

The morning had started off normal; Lovino woke up at around ten, ate at ten forty and slept in the noon. But then came his obligations as half of a country, which involved stacks of paperwork and phone calls. And if there was one thing that took first place on his list of things he really hated doing, it would be talking to douche bags that don't give two bits about his people. All they were interested in was public relations and the opinion of most communities they could win votes from. Lovino really hated assholes like them, and he believed that he could spend his time doing more useful things.

Like having siestas.

So when he received a personal call on his cell phone from a certain French nation, he was tempted to smash the gadget into the floorboards. Not only because he was fed up with talking to people, but because France just happened to be a bastard. A French, wine drinking bastard. Hell, their wine can't match up to our Italian standard wine. But he couldn't do what he had deeply wished to; this was the first call he had from an actual nation since five months ago [his brother did not count]. It could have been important.

Practicing the breathing exercises he had learnt from Japan during his trip to Osaka, Lovino inhaled deeply, then exhaled deeply. He repeated the process several times before he regained his composure, and then he pressed the answer button on his Smartphone.

"Pronto," he murmured into the voice piece. A creepy chuckle came from the other side of the line, and it sent Lovino shivers.

"Hello Romano~! Just wanted to let you know that I'll be stopping by your house, since it is rude to drop in without doing so, according to those boring lectures Angleterre gives me sometimes," he said promptly, a casual tone added to his heavily accented English. Lovino wondered why after so many years of living, the English language was still so foreign to him.

"Like hell you are, testa di cazzo. I have work and shit I have to finish, so piss off," was what the Italian responded with, and quickly hung up on the Frenchman. He then turned off his cell phone, not wanting to be interrupted, while he signed papers and read official documents.

Yes, his job was so motivational.

In his study, which was coloured a mahogany brown for the walls and a chestnut brown for the floorboards, he relentlessly worked and signed and stamped, until his hands were sore. Lovino hated his study for one main reason; the colours were visually disturbing to him. His boss knew how much Lovino liked hues and shades, which was why he made the office so mundane; it kept the Italian from getting distracting. Organizing the paperwork into neat stacks on the second desk next to his own, he fumbled with some books on the shelf until he found one that he hid from all visitors behind the chemistry textbooks. Because no one looked there, after all, it was chemistry.

Stroking the leather of the book's cover, he undid the clutches that secured the edge of the books frame and forced it to open. Like a leaf bending to the will of the wind, the strings unfastened and Lovino opened the book to regain the memories that he knew would never leave his mindset. The "book" was more of a scrapbook, with photos and captions in the most random of places. And most of the photos were of Lovino when he lived with Spain, their faces bright and happy from the tomatoes they would constantly eat together under the sun. Some pictures were of the summers when they would fish in the river nearby Spain's main mansion, others were of the winter when they lazed around the beach the entire day, only going home when they were truly hungry. Times like that made Lovino want to turn back time, back to that certain memory of him and his caretaker. But he had to admit that some of the experiences he had with Spain weren't pleasant.

Like the time he tried to trade Lovino in exchange for his brother. It hurt him so much that he didn't know what to do; Lovino knew he was useless and talentless compared to his younger brother. He knew that people preferred Feliciano over him and that they'd be happy if he would have just left. One would expect for Lovino to hate his younger twin, but that never crossed the boy's mind. He was extremely protective of his sibling and wouldn't let anyone get near him if there was a chance they could hurt the naïve boy.

Everyone except for Germany. Lovino scrunched his face in disgust as he thought of the man of whom had earnt his brother's undying trust. The man who had protected his brother whenever he could. The man who did Lovino's job for him. He and Feliciano used to share a house in Rome—being the two Italies, that is—but one day the older twin decided that he had had enough. Although he didn't directly tell his sibling why he left to live in his house in Southern Italy, the other man had understood enough. Between bringing Germany home for "surprise" visits, to just staying over at the German's house for weeks, Feliciano understood that Lovino needed seclusion. He understood that that was the way his older brother did things, and the only person that could fix him wasn't himself, but rather a particular Spanish nation.

So Lovino left the main house and settled down in Sicily, enjoying the calming ocean breeze that swept over his home early in the morning. He had grown accustomed to the locals and the towns in the area, and had become rather fond of his new way of life. When he put aside his tiring work that he hated with a passion, to the constant phone calls he would receive from his brother on certain days of the week, life had been peaceful and quaint for him. It was just what Lovino needed.

No more spending long days, reminiscing on the times he had shared with Spain, for those were long gone now. He knew that Spain was a busy nation, just like himself, and that he probably had more important things to do than see his former colony. But it had been nearly a century since the last time they saw each other, mainly because Lovino never went to world meetings, and it made the Italian wondered how the Spaniard was doing. Not like he cared or anything; curiosity just overcame him at times. Yes, that was definitely it, Lovino constantly told himself. He would have asked France since the nation was Spain's best friend, but… that didn't seem like a good idea.

Stowing the book away in its original spot, Lovino straightened his tie and walked towards the kitchen to make an espresso, when he spotted someone with shoulder length blonde hair sitting on his couch. Vaffanculo.

"What do you want, wine bastard?" he growled at the Frenchman, and he intensified his glare when he noticed Francis suspicious grin, one that rivaled a Cheshire's smile.

"Why, I'm just here to talk, mon petit Romano~!" Lovino just rolled his eyes in exasperation as he gave a heavy sigh.

"Okay then, start talking," the shorter man ordered, eyeing France with expectations that he knew the Frenchman could never meet. The wild look in his eyes said otherwise.

"You know of this scavenger hunt event America and England are in charge of, right?"

"Yeah, I thought everyone knew," Lovino stated in monotone, his hazel eyes never leaving France's blue ones, though he'd like nothing more than to do just that.

"Well, everyone except Antonio, it seems. The poor thing is looking for a partner as we speak, but none seem to heed his invitations. Such a tragedy, I tell myself, but then I remember that he has one little friend left that he hasn't asked." The Italian didn't understand where the Frenchman was going with this, and didn't care, but he continued to listen, examining the apparent leer on the other nation's face.

"Romano, would you like to be mon ami's partner?" he asked, closing in on the wide eyed boy. France had an amused look on his face as he observed the smaller man's facial expressions, and the way he flushed red from ear to ear. Ah, such a cute little snack~! But I must hold back for Antoine, or else it will complicate things… Still, what a good catch~!

In Lovino's head was a warring internal conflict that made his brain hurt as he winced in pain. What had that meant? Did he really want to see Spain again? And would Spain even want to see him? Question after question piled up until they seemed to make mountains in his conscience. And the most stressful inquiry of all: After so many years apart, did either of them change? Trying to pull himself together, he cleared his throat and maintained eye contact with a grinning France.

"If that tomato bastard wanted me as a partner, wouldn't he have asked already? I mean, wouldn't he have approached me a long time ago if he even wanted to contact me?" Lovino asked in a shaking voice, holding his tears back. "I'm not going to visit him if he doesn't even want to see me, alright? Because that's…. its pointless and a complete waste of time." He flinched when a hand met his shoulder, rubbing it slightly. Expecting to see a perverted France glancing his way, he was shocked when a solemn expression remained on the Frenchman.

"Romano, you want to meet Antoine, don't you?" he asked, gazing eagerly into the shorter man's eyes. Lovino gulped, expecting to snap a smart comeback. But instead he couldn't find his voice, and knew that he didn't need words to show how he felt. So he nodded, hating the fact that he had just confessed one of his deep secrets to France of all people. Said nation smiled gently, seating the two of them on the couch and gazing up at the ceiling in exhaustion. They both want the same thing, and yet they won't see each other. I'm sure their reasons are the same as well. Then he smirked. Good thing big brother is here to help~!

The other man seated next to him was still fuming with embarrassment, trying to overcome the sudden flow of emotions coursing through his body. I want to see Spain. I want to see Spain. And I want him to see me too.

Just like those years before, when I was merely a child, hungry for attention, and still attached to the bastard. That was so many years ago, but it seems my desires haven't changed, and I was only denying it. Why?

I still want to see him, and yet…

What stops me from doing so? These feelings… Is one of them fear?

What am I afraid of?

Lovino pondered for several minutes while France left to use the restroom, but deep down, he knew.

I am afraid… of rejection. I am afraid that he won't want the new me, the older me, and that he will refuse to ever meet me again. After all, I've become somewhat of a sour sport, even I can accept that. Perhaps after years of thinking it over, Spain has decided that I was never worth the trouble. And maybe I wasn't. No, I know that I'm not anything special, and I certainly didn't deserve the attention he gave me. But he didn't care. Spain didn't care about my flaws in character and action, and would pursue me until I gave in to him. After awhile, I gladly did so. No one had ever cared so much for me in that way, and that's when I knew; Spain wasn't just anyone. To me he had become… he had become…

Lovino thought back to the day when he had bid his former caretaker farewell; it had a sunny and warm summer's light. Usually, they would have gone fishing around noon, but not this time. He remembered the look in Spain's eyes as he held the younger boy tightly, and Lovino knew that he was holding in tears. The fact that the Spaniard would cry for him made the parting harder than he originally thought. Then there was that hesitant but gentle kiss, which moved the Italian's inner core emotionally and made him want to stay in the older man's arms forever.

The emotion that unfolded his heart left him to draw one conclusion; that he had fallen in love with his caretaker. He had fallen in love with the man whom had raised him better than his own grandfather. That fateful parting, along with his alarming discovery, made Lovino yearn for the Spaniard each passing day. Even when he had finally got along with everyone in his new home, he would have traded it all just to wake up in Spain's tomato garden once more, and to have seen that beaming smile greeting him.

It is said that the heart grows fonder with separation and time. Is my love for Spain still intact? Do I still love him? Or has my love simply changed in form? Perhaps now it is only platonic; maybe I never really loved him like I thought I did. After all, I was young and in-experienced with all sorts of shit.

Despite thinking so negatively, the ray of hope Lovino kept believed that maybe, just maybe, it was the real deal. Not family related love, no, it was the kind that you could only give to the one person that you decided to spend eternity with. And being a nation, that wasn't as hard as it sounded. Suddenly, a notion developed in Lovino's mind, and it made him shiver with displeasure and anxiety.

I think this is love that I feel, along with my fear and tension. But what do I do with it? I can't simply walk onto his doorstep and declare that I have had these feelings since the day I left him! Dammit! My love is so pointless, and I'm sure that I can never show or tell him; doing so would be a fruitless effort. Hell, the fact that I've accepted this crap is a miracle. Maybe I should just pretend that this never happened and move on with my day-to-day life style. Maybe it won't hurt as much, because a little bit of pain is okay with me; it's for the sake of our relationship.

Relationship? What relationship? A voice rung in his head, sounding something like Grandpa Rome's. It was using a mocking tone and made Lovino grimace at the sound; he hated when he thought of his deceased Nonno.

"Shut up," he muttered to himself, hoping no one was around to hear him talking to himself. That was just a way of making the voices in his head go away, though, and no one but Feliciano knew that.

If you really loved your beloved, mi piccolino, you would risk it all for them. You know what they say: no pain, no gain! I suppose in your case you'd be suffering either way, but whatever, it's not like I care.

Lovino groaned as the voice faded away, because from every viewpoint possible, what had been stated was absolutely correct. "You never know 'till you try," as Feliciano had always said to Lovino whenever he refused to do something because he thought he would fail. As France walked into the room again, back from his suspiciously long bathroom session, he noticed that the air around the Italian had become lighter and passionate. He just couldn't explain the change in words.

"Alright, wine bastard, you better answer all my questions truthfully, or God help you I will bust a cap in your ass," he deadpanned, never losing his stoic mask. Fearful of what was to come, the Frenchman nodded in silence. Lovino maliciously grinned, sending a shiver up the other man's spine. He enjoyed making France uncomfortable, and relished his frightful expression. Grabbing his keys and wallet, he motioned for the older man to come forward, and said man complied with his shaking form. What does Romano want? He seems different from earlier… Perhaps he had a revelation?

"What is it that you want to know?" France asked, maintaining straight posture despite his uncomfortable thoughts. He knew that Romano had associated himself with the mafia once or twice—heck, maybe even all the damn time—and was eager to drive home as soon as possible. Lovino narrowed his eyes, frowning a bit before awkwardly coughing, a shy smile creeping to his lips.

"Tell me where exactly Spain lives now."

Ah, France to the rescue [sort of]. YEah, this chapter is probably the longest so far, but... I like long chapters, so I'll probably have a GOOD long one soon... or something. I feel like this one wrote itself, though, maybe because of the fact that it is just internal rambling to oneself... but I can't help but feel bad for throwing in bits & pieces that seem so out of character...

Oh weelll~! Time to write the next chapter~!