"So, you happy?" Spain asked, setting down the bowl of chips on the coffee table and sitting on the couch.

"About what?" Romano snatched the beer that Spain handed him and snapped the top off.

Both countries were fairly relaxed these days, as they were mainly staying out of wars lately and the soccer season was over. Spain was visiting Romano's house because the Italian was complaining that he didn't have anything to wear to America's party.

That was completely the absolute and only reason that he did. Ever.

"Your brother of course!" Spain had that dumb smile on his face, as always, when he turned the television on so that they could watch a stupid movie he had brought over from England's place (how he managed that, Romano would never know).

Romano snarled and took a gulp of his drink. "That potato-muncher better look after him properly or I'll-" Spain noticed his friend was holding his bottle very tightly, so he gently put his hand on the others and lowered them to the table before it got covered in beer.

They spent the next hour and a half watching Sliding Doors, Romano continuously making fun of everything they said and Spain making futile attempts to defend it.

When the credits finally rolled, Spain patted Romano's knee and stood up, heading out of the room. "I'll make us some proper dinner now, okay? You can't go living on junk food forever!"

"That's only because you never make it for me anymore, idiot!" He did make his own amazing food, he was Italy after all, but he only ate sugary things when Spain came over, because why cook when you had someone around to do it for you? It wasn't like Spanish cuisine was delicious either, absolutely not. IT was just for convenience.

"Well okay, dear, I'll come over everyday and make it for you if you want!"

"Don't you fucking dare, asshole!" Romano shouted over his shoulder and then turned back to the TV, where the credits were still going down.

He makes it sound like we're married, Romano grumbled in his own mind, quickly followed by an If only and an I didn't think that.

Why would he want to be married to that guy? He had a nice ass, obviously, but that wasn't a valid reason to be wed!

The doorbell rung just before Romano could get too far into his marriage crisis.

"Can you get that please, sweetie?" Spain laughed.

"Don't call me that!" Romano sighed and got up to get the door. If it was anybody like Turkey...

It was a mailman, holding a small wooden box.

"I have a delivery for a Mr. South Italy?" His voice was slightly accented, but Romano couldn't quite place it. Nevertheless, it was suspicious. He narrowed his eyes.

"You're not a girl."

The postman blinked in confusion. "Uh, um, excuse me?"

"You're not a woman. Everybody around here only sends females to deal with me." Romano's eyes widened suddenly as he finally recognized the accent. "You're English!"
The man thrust the box into the country's hands. "Sorry sir, here's your package sir, have a nice day!" he almost shouted and sprinted away before anything could happen.

Romano scowled at his retreating back. What sort of stunt was Britain pulling this time? How can he still have a grudge against Spain? Their pirate days ended like a million years ago.

But this was addressed to him, not Spain. That just made it even stranger.

He closed the door and walked towards the kitchen, opening the box as he went.

Inside was a small pile of paper. He picked the one on top before stopping in his tracks when he read the title, scripted in neat, English handwriting.

A record of every one of The Kingdom Of Spain's attacks from 1559 to 1814.

Spain was still in the kitchen, humming some songs he had learnt while touring his beloved South Italy- his beautiful, wonderful and positively adorable Romano.

He was so happy whenever Romano asked him over. It meant that he still wanted them to be friends, even after he had moved out. Spain felt quite a bit more than just friendship, though.

But Romano wouldn't, couldn't possibly think of him in the same way. That much was obvious, by the way he flirted with girls and froze whenever Spain touched him. So, he settled for making him dinner and collecting tomatoes and trying to find nice clothes for him to wear. Which was okay! As long as he was close to him, that was all Spain needed.

He heard the doorbell ring, asked Romano to answer it, then heard him talking with the mailman (man? That was strange, they hated coming to this house), the door slam, silence, and then a sudden crash.

"Hey, Romano! What's wro-" Spain had turned around to go to help, but found a white-faced Romano already standing at the kitchen door, leaning against the frame with one hand and tightly clutching a piece of paper in the other.

"Romano! You're all white, are you-"

"Twenty second of February, 1744," Romano interrupted, now looking at the paper he was trying hard to strangle a few seconds earlier.

"Wha-"

"The largest sea battle of the Austrian Succession had taken place," Romano continued, and Spain stopped in his tracks, memories of floating dead bodies and blood-stained water flooding through his mind. It was a little over the least he had seen in his life, but one death was still definitely too much.

"Off the coast of Toulon, France. The Spanish and French navys fought against the British Mediterranean fleet to deliver troops and supplies to the Spanish military in Italy. 291 causalities, 663 wounded, 700 of those under Spanish claim. Named the Battle Of Toulon." Romano quickly looked up at Spain's face. It showed no signs of remorse, just remembrance. He supposed, due to these records, two hundred people dead at his hands was nothing. The Spaniard shook his head and took a step towards him.

"Oh god Romano, no-"

"Eighth of February, 1743. The Spanish army of 13,000 men lay in wait at Bologna for the Austrian army of 11,000. A heavy fight ensued, resulting in 2,152 deaths and 1,977 injured or captured, from both sides. Named the Battle of Campo Santo." Romano still couldn't believe these. He was waiting for Spain to laugh, to say it was another hoax by that dickhead England, tease him for getting so worked up by it and then serve dinner and everything would be fine. But he just stood there, looking as frozen as Romano felt, and didn't say anything as Romano kept reading.

"Battle of Velletri, August 12, 1744. 4,000 dead, 4,000 captured. Battle of Piacenza, 1746. 16,400 dead, captured or wounded. Rocroi, 19,000. 14,000. 6,400. Spain." He finally looked him in the eyes and stopped reading from it altogether. He didn't even want to look at it anymore, he had had enough. "1559 to 1814. These... these are the dates..." he could hardly choke it out. "These were the dates that I lived at your house."

"Romano-" Spain started, but the other country cut him off.

"I-I'm not a kid anymore. All those times you left, you went to war, I know that. But these? They're only three hundred years worth."

Spain looked extremely worried, like some hideous secret he had been keeping had suddenly been open to the world. But this hideous secret already was- just not to Romano.

"Romano, you know we've all done it. Some have done a lot worse and you know that."

"We have? What, like England? He took over the entire goddamn world, but that makes sense because he's a fucking asshole! He has no goddamn feelings. But you? You're a nice person and everybody loves you and nobody cares that you killed thousands of people."

"I didn't want to kill them!" Spain said through gritted teeth. Fuck, this was probably the angriest he'd gotten in years.

"Then why did you?"

"You know how our bosses are."

"That's no excuse!" Romano raised his voice. "All of these people could have survived if you just didn't follow one goddamn order!"

"I couldn't not do it!"

"WHY?"

"Because I did it for you!"

Romano paused at that, but quickly grimaced. "So they died because of me?"

"I didn't mean it like tha-"

"It doesn't matter what you meant, it's the truth, isn't it? You slaughtered them just so you could keep my inheritance from Grandpa!"

"That's not true."

"It is! This entire time, when I lived with you, when I lived with Austria, even now, isn't it? All you want is that! You don't give two FUCKS about me!"

"I don't give two fucks about your inheritance!" Romano couldn't think of anything more to say, so Spain went on. "I know you always lived in the shadow of your brother, Romano, but you, yourself, not your inheritance or skills or your land or anything like that, I mean you. I care about you and you only. I-in fact..." Spain trailed off and closed his eyes. If there was anytime to do it, it was now. "I know it's wrong, but I've decided that if your brother can do it, so can we." He took a deep breath. Been waiting 500 years for this moment, can't fuck it up now.

"I don't just care for you, Romano. I love you."

"That's not true."

Spain opened his eyes quickly. He was expecting Romano to stay silent, or run away or even hit him. But he was glaring at him, just as angry as before.

"You don't love me. You can't love me. Everybody loves you and Veneziano. But not me, you just. Fucking. Can't."
Spain watched as the tears ran down the other mans face, and he shook his head. "No. Romano. Romano that isn't true." And before they could say anything more, he strode over and pulled him into a tight hug, placing his mouth near Romano's ear.

"Lovino," Spain whispered, and Romano gasped. His human name? None of the countries used each others human names unless it was something extremely personal. Belgium never called either of them by their human names, hell, Romano didn't even call his own brother by his. It was used to symbolize that they were human, and humans had feelings. Like...

"I love you, Lovino Vargas. I've always loved you and I always will, until the sun blows up and nobody exists but even then I will still, always and forever, love you."
Romano turned bright red. What was this guy saying? How could he love him this wasn't possible he needed to get away and hide and eat pasta and forget this entire thing.

"F-fine. Antonio. You bastard." He found himself saying against his will, and he hissed and clutched at the Spaniards clothing, turning a brighter red if that was even possible.

Spain, no, Antonio, pulled his head back and giggled at Lovino's face. "You're bright red! just like a tomato!"

"Sh-shut up! Bastard!" Lovino frowned before grabbing Antonio's collar and pulling him down to clash their lips together. Antonio widened his eyes in surprise before settling into it and holding them both close, because this was perfect and wonderful and goddammit the food was burning.

Now England had another mess to deal with. The video camera that Flying Mint Bunny had used to record those two's display was shattered at the floor next to the wall England had thrown it at.

How the fuck had that happened? Everything was going perfectly! He was sure that brat Romano was going to run out of the house at any minute, and then Spain- god he hated Spain. He should have known the imbecile was going to do something dramatic like that. Why didn't he do something to make him not love Romano anymore instead? But then that wouldn't work, he thought, thinking back to when the Spaniard had confessed. He said he had always loved him, and always would. Why couldn't I have someone like that?

Romano was a lucky little shit.

England sighed and leaned back in his chair. It looked like he was going to have to get some help, if he wanted these plans to actually get anywhere.

He ran through all the countries he knew, thinking of which ones could help him. France? Nope. Country of love, he'd downright refuse to do anything that stopped it. Seychelles? She was a good friend, but she was far too nice to do something like this. Russia? God, he didn't want to kill them.

Then his mind landed on one person who would be absolutely perfect. Even if they weren't friends at all, they were basically in the same boat, of course he would help!

England went out and bought beer, so that this plan wouldn't go wrong. He bought flowers because it was tradition, and he seriously considered bringing scones until he remembered how everybody had reacted to them last time, and then knocked at the door of the person who was formerly known as the Kingdom of Prussia.