Stories Far Less Told

A/N: A spain and romano chapter for you guys! Warnings for Spamano if you're not exactly into that. Unless you hadn't got the idea then this fic is going to be an anthology of different stories that all happen in the same time line, and all in a very 'canon' approach. I'm not claiming that this fic is canon but all the events are part of my 'headcanon'. So enjoy~ If any of you have any suggestions as to what characters you'd like to see in later chapters then feel free to drop a message~!

1943

It's October in Madrid, and it's raining.

When the rain falls here, it brings the city to a standstill. The Spanish here would rather seek the warmth and dryness of the indoors than to become sodden with the dark weather of winter. The same approach had been used with much of the current affairs. Lovino doubted he'd ever seen the streets of Madrid so quiet.

It's not home. Lovino doubted he could ever call this squalid little flat Antonio's home. The room is damp, and smells odd. There's a distinct sound of dripping into a tin bucket and all else is quiet, he hasn't even put the wireless on, the meter has probably timed out. The south Italian moved quietly throughout the small space, grimacing at the moth eaten furniture and pealing wallpaper. The room is sparsely laid out; a couple of armchairs, table, a couple of spindly little things that looked like they'd break if you sat on them, a kitchen – the washing up hasn't been done, not that the Sicilian can see how you'd find much motivation to do it in such accommodation- and a door that lead through to a small messy double bedroom.

He can smell smoke in the air, an ash tray by the bed is littered with disused the sticks of tobacco, for a second Lovino feels home return to him, the smell of the Spaniard after he'd been to one of his many war meetings, stinking of the stuff, until a particularly wet chill brushes past him and he realises the balcony door is wide open.

He approaches, slipping past the sodden cotton curtains that blow in the breeze. He moves silently, the way he's used to when he is about to say something he doesn't want, but the Spaniard beats him to it, the Spaniard gets there first.

"I know why you're here..."

It's not Spanish that rolls off his tongue, but Italian. It sent an odd chill down Lovino's spine. He swallowed; he had a job to do after all.

"I've been sent by the armed forces of the Axis alliance to request your assistance in the second great war, if you-"

"So formal, Lovino..." He turned, leant against the balcony with a cigarette in his fingers, how it kept alight in the rain amazed him, yet there it was. "Is that the way you greet an old friend...?"

How long had the Spaniard been stood out there? He was soaked to the skin, an old sand coloured shirt clinging tight to him as the water ran freely in streams from his sodden hair. Lovino shifted, holding his rimmed cap closer over his head as he stepped on to the balcony, grimacing at the rain.

The last time they had met had been, awkward to say the least. Italian troops marched forward into the Spanish mainland, aiming to assist the fascist regime. Feliciano had sent him, just like this time, he said he could help to get the idiot out of the mess he had created for himself, and with the Italian's new found and independent military power, Lovino was only too happy to go along and help the Spaniard kick the asses of those who were causing a problem for him. It had given him a great thrill when he'd had the opportunity to wipe the smirk off that Frenchman's face and sending him running back to the British who in time, also realised how they just couldn't win against the might of Italia ... and you know, the rest of the countries that backed the fascist side.

The thing that made it awkward exactly was more of the fact that he hadn't seen the idiot or spoken properly to him since he'd left, and his visit had been strictly on business. When Lovino was there the only real time he got to spend with the Spaniard was side by side in battle. The Italian had seen an entirely different side to him then, one that he only realised how cracked it was on reflection now, away from the adrenaline rush of war.

"I... I am meant to be here on business."

"Of course."

Silence fell over the two again as Antonio looked out on to the drenched and silent streets, inhaling deeply on his cigarette and holding the smoke. His response to Lovino had been quick, perhaps with a hint of bitterness, the Italian considered it as the bitterness a father would feel towards a child who had disowned him. After all, the Spaniard had every right to think of him as that, they hadn't properly talked since he had been handed over, but things had been complicated. Between being passed from country to country, Lovino had made efforts again and again for his independence, eventually after a long and tiresome effort, gaining it too, and then before the brothers had even managed to settle they'd been thrust into wars and alliances they didn't entirely want.

Besides, it wouldn't have been in the best of taste for Lovino to see his former caretaker anyway. He hadn't just lost Lovino back then, but almost the entirety of his European empire, to people he had once called allies and his most hated enemies. On the grapevine, Lovino had heard that this was the spark that marked the beginning of his total decline; he'd lost almost everything since. All those wonderful countries he'd come home and babble on about endlessly, with that irritating sparkle in his eye, like a child who had been given a surprise, they were all gone. If Lovino had gone back to Antonio then, rubbing his independence in his face like that, well... Despite everything the Italian had ever done or said, he knew where to draw the line.

The silence seemed to be getting to Antonio, who was frowning and letting the smoke out of his mouth in a shuddery breath as he glared at the street. He stubbed out his cigarette on the iron railing, despite how much of it there was left and flicked it away as he pushed himself up, still not looking at Lovino even when he moved to walk past him back into the apartment.

"I'm not joining."

Lovino spun around, watching Antonio as he walked back through the apartment, leaving his room to go through to the living space. Over the rain he heard the click of a gas cooker and the crunch of a can being opened. The words sunk in eventually, stinging the Italian as he moved through to the kitchen, scowling at the man who was now emptying a tin of something into a pan.

"What do you mean you're not fucking joining?"

"I mean what I said, Lovi. What is there to misunderstand?"

It wasn't the fact that Antonio still decided to use his idiotic pet name that irritated the Italian this time, but the bluntness of his speech. His tone was of a man who had already set his mind on what he was going to do, moreover his tone was like someone who had just up and decided they weren't going to do business, that was all there was to it, there was no emotional ties or desires to help at all. It was as if Antonio just didn't care, and that just hit Lovino straight where it hurt.

"But you owe us!"

"I owe a lot of people." Antonio laughed, reaching up to the cupboard as he stirred the brown gloop in the pan.

"And you think that's justification for you not helping us?" Lovino scoffed, folding his arms, narrowing his eyes when the Spaniard still didn't turn to face him. "I don't care if this is what you do to everyone who helps you! Y-you should help us!"

Antonio pulled a small bottle from the cupboard, setting it down as he continued to stir for a few minutes, letting it stew just like Lovino was presently. "I know. But I'm not going to."

"Wh-" Lovino blinked, staring at his ex-carer in disbelief. "Why the fuck not? Tch. You're not still fucking hurt over the fact you lost me are you? Come on you can't even look me in the fucking eye and it wasn't even my damn fault! You should have done better to keep me on your side, should have been more fucking careful as to who you picked fucking fights with."

He'd expected to get a rise out of that, to get Antonio to snap at him and yell at him, and generally act the way he was used to seeing Antonio act. But he didn't. He continued to stir the pot until the gloop bubbled and was brought to boil, before pouring it onto a plate. It looked disgusting, smelt disgusting and it probably tasted disgusting. Antonio turned, taking the plate, a glass of water and the small bottle labelled 'Aspirin' to the table. The Italian stared, watching as Antonio scooped up some of the food and took two of the tablets, swallowing them down with some of the god awful looking food and a shudder, he then took a long gulp of water and looked up at Lovino, dead in the eye.

"It's not what you think, Lovino." He sighed, continuing to eat the food. "This has nothing to do with you, or Germany, or even the Allies."

Lovino's frown set further as he pulled up a chair and sat opposite the Spaniard, staring at him.

"We've known that this would happen for a while. We all knew that Germany was pushing his luck against the previous treaty and that... eventually, he would seek out our help." Antonio sighed again; he did a lot of that lately. "I cannot afford to be in this war, to be involved in what is going to happen. I'm not joining. And I'm sure if your next move is to ask Franco himself he'll still turn you away."

Antonio looked weary, he hadn't brushed his hair in a while and moved sluggishly, like a man who did little but try to sleep these days. He should probably change out of his wet clothes, Lovino noted subconsciously, shaking the thought from his head as the Spaniard continued.

"Franco has decided that it's in mine... in Spain's best interests that we stay out of this war. Unless we were given certain... promises that I'm sure even el Führer grande himself would not bend to... Lo siento, Lovi." He smiled a little sadly, before putting his fork down, grimacing at the unfinished meal and getting up to go back into his room.

Lovino was left a little shell shocked in the living space; staring at the space Antonio had been sat. That was that, the final words for now. Antonio wasn't joining the war. He was disappointed, but couldn't exactly place why. Sure it bugged him that he'd made all that effort to help in the civil war, but it wasn't exactly the kind of disappointment that hung with wasted resources, it was almost as if he didn't really mind so much about that. So why was he so ...?

"Tch."

Lovino rose from his chair, replacing the cap onto his head and adjusting his uniform, prepared to leave now his business was done. He made his way towards the door, aiming to leave Spain as quickly as possible and occupy himself with other things to distract from the empty feeling.

He caught a glimpse just as he passed the door through to the bedroom.

Antonio was changing out of the damp shirt taking a drag from another cigarette – where he got so many when Franco was rationing so strictly both surprised him and caused him to suspect that Antonio was sacrificing his food supply for them – shedding it like a second skin as he threw it off blindly and reached for a towel to dry off his hair, suspenders hanging loosely by his hips. When the Italian caught himself watching his cheeks reddened.

What happened next, Lovino wasn't entirely certain of. All the Italian knew was that Antonio looked up at him and suddenly he was next to him, looking straight into those pools of green. 300 years of pubescent tension he had long forgotten resurfaced and he was staring at the Spaniard as if he may never see him again. Those eyes stared back at him with a small trace of confusion, and maybe... worry? The eyes darted away and Lovino followed them, catching a glimpse of what it was that Antonio had to take the aspirin for.

"Dio... Antonio, what did you do?"

The mood was broken as Lovino stared at the large sore looking burn that seared over the spaniard's right shoulder and down his chest. It was an undressed wound, looking like it had been left to just heal over time. The frowning Italian found his hand reach out to brush over the sore skin, extracting a hiss from his ex-carer.

"The Bombings..."

"I haven't read about anything."

"Haha... No, these are old..."

Lovino frowned further, staring at the burn, which became apparent it was a series of burns not just one. If they were old then they were taking a long time to heal, so for a nation, this meant that the issues with his people and the 'wounds' caused by the destruction had not healed.

"You're still having problems, aren't you?"

"We're all having problems..." The Spaniard shrugged as if it was nothing.

"Antonio..." Lovino scolded.

"Lovino."

They shared a look, staring for a long time. The Italian's hand still barely touching the skin, a small piece of contact between the two. There was unnerving silence, not at all aiding to the tension that built and built between the two. Lovino could feel his breath catching in his throat, why was he even still standing there? What was he doing? Why didn't he just excuse himself and leave?

He didn't know.

What he did know is that they were definitely kissing now.

Lovino's hands had flown for the Spaniard's hair and Antonio, in turn, had gripped the Italian's back as their lips smashed together with brute force, just like a sprung elastic band. They were all over one another, not really thinking about what they were doing, just letting the spur of the moment carry them off, even in to their potential destruction. But that didn't matter for them, not right now, right now all that mattered was the tension that was being released between the two of them.

Their night was a quick, hurried, satisfying blur, a heated fuck on the bed, among one another's clothes and the bed sheets. Their hands were all over one another, Lovino atop the elder, worried about Antonio's injuries and wellbeing even in their heated state. When they came down from their fast fuelled state of bliss they both quickly fell into sleep, or at least Lovino presumed so, his eyes sliding shut before he had the chance to check the other's had too.

He left quietly early the next morning, slipping into his crinkled uniform. He'd spent a good 20 minutes sat at the edge of the bed, rubbing his temples. He was trying hard to get to grips with what had happened the night before. They'd had sex. The man who was his old guardian, raised him since he was little, been there for his highs and lows during that period of time, and the only parent figure who had stuck around, put up with him as a person rather than keep him for his land... and they'd just had sex after practically not talking for 150 years.

How was he supposed to face that?

It wasn't like it had been an emotional rollercoaster; there had been no confessions of feelings, or epiphanies. It was just sex. Nothing but no strings attached, tension relieving, but amazing sex.

He had to get out of there.

Slipping from the sorry apartment and out onto the dripping dimly lit streets, the Italian did what Italian's do best and ran from the building that most definitely wasn't Antonio's home.

To be continued...