Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: Spain, South Italy (mentions of Austria, England, and North Italy)
Pairing: Spain/South Italy
Summary: The day Romano left Spain's house for good.
Notes: I still don't know how to write them. And attempted to not make this campy, but. Well. Whatever. I'll probably rewrite it some time in the future.
Edited as of January 12, 2010, for grammar and spelling.
“So this is it, then?” Spain asked.
It was more of a rhetorical question than anything else. The words, delivered lightly, left Spain smiling widely, just as he always did. Maybe, Romano thought absently, he was less cheerful than usual. Or maybe he was just seeing things. Though perhaps a bit less cheerful than usual, Romano still had to squash the urge to punch the idiot in the face, if only to give his shaking hands something to do.
In a situation like this, that smile only seemed out of place and empty, like the times Spain stumbled home, bloody and bruised, and claimed there was no reason to worry. (And it wasn’t as if Romano ever worried about him.)
“Yeah,” he said instead of punching him, looking away towards the sea. It was a warm day, and the wind licked at their hair, blowing against it and whipping it behind them. He could feel Spain’s eyes on him before he, too, turned towards the water, inhaling the sea breeze.
“It’ll be strange,” Spain said, more to himself. Romano stiffened and glared at him.
“Don’t say such stupid things,” he muttered, eyes shifting to the ground beneath their feet, feeling something burning at the back of his eyes but refusing to acknowledge it.
“Austria will take care of you,” Spain mused, and the words were supposed to sound reassuring. He looked off into the middle distance, his lips hinting at a fond smile. “You’ll be able to stay with your brother now, ya know?”
“Whatever,” Romano muttered, looking away because he couldn’t look at that face. He knew it’d be good to be able to keep an eye on his brother, but he didn’t want to admit Spain was right. Or that, more than anything, he’d been dreading the end of the war, and this treaty. He hated goodbyes.
Not because he’d miss Spain or anything, though. Spain’s house was annoying and dirty and stupid, just like Spain himself. But at least he was comfortable here. He’d been living here a while, it was a pain in the ass to have to up and move. It was the Spanish bastard, nothing but a stupid, dopey annoyance. If anything, he should be thrilled to finally be out from under his stupid care. Finally Romano’s days of being doted on and sparkled at were over. Finally, he’d be free of this man’s annoying personality.
Somehow, it didn’t sit as well with him as he thought it would.
“Will you miss me?” Spain asked with a wide grin, which activated Romano’s knee-jerk reaction to, well, kick Spain in the knee. So he did. “Ouch! Romanoooo! I’ve already gotten beat up enough by England, you know!”
“At least you’re not lying about that now,” Romano muttered to himself, glaring and crossing his arms. Defensive, protective. “Saying you were okay even when bleeding all over. Tch, you’re such an annoying pain.”
Romano wanted to punch him in the face again. He looked up at Spain, glared and felt his cheeks puff out in anger. His heart was beating but he wanted to ignore it, tried to ignore it. He had to look away.
He took a few steps away, crossing his arms and turning his face towards the wind. Closing his eyes, he tried to calm himself down, to keep his hands from shaking and his words from wavering whenever he spoke. Why was this upsetting him as much as it was?
He heard Spain approaching him before he felt him, one hand grazing over his elbow. Romano jerked his arms away, and glared over his shoulder at Spain, who laughed again until it looked as if he were about to cry.
“I’ll miss you,” Spain offered, grinning his dopey, loopy smile and looking positively stupid, with that dumbass smile splitting across a bruised face—bruises and cuts from the war. Romano restrained the urge to kick him again (and just barely managed) and glared at him through his fringe.
“Whatever,” he muttered, curling into himself even more and looking away again with a blush. He wasn’t blushing because he was embarrassed, damn it, only because he was angry. And because it was warm, with the stupid sun shining on him so much. “Idiot.”
“So not cute,” Spain sighed to himself and tilted his head back to look at the sky.
Romano frowned and bit his lip. His fingers curled around his sides, gripping himself. He glared some more, felt like he’d never stop glaring as long as he lived near Spain. Felt as if he were about to collapse—because he was tired, not for anything dumb like feelings of regret and fear. Damn it.
“I guess I should be leaving soon,” Romano offered once the prolonged silence between the two of them had stretched out too long. He shifted, awkward.
He turned towards the other nation and found that Spain was already looking at him, seeking out his eyes. The green eyes bored into him, staring, unwavering. His bruised face seemed tense, as if he was doing his very best not to burst into tears. Romano bit back the “buck up, bastard” that spread to his lips, because he found that he didn’t want to admit to what he was seeing. He didn’t want to admit that such a look could ever occupy the Spaniard’s face. Spain’s body was tense, stiff, and he looked at Romano with such longing that the Italian nearly looked away again. But he stood, rooted to the spot as Spain bit his lip, looked as if he were about to say something, then thought better of it.
“Hey…” Romano began.
Suddenly, Spain grabbed his wrist and pulled him forward rather sharply. Romano stumbled forward, and the curses and insults waiting on his tongue quickly died away when Spain hugged him tightly, pinning his arms to his side and molding him to his own body. He rested his chin on Romano’s shoulder, one hand curling and pressing against his back and the other hand tangling in his hair and molding against the back of his skull. He held tight, refusing to let go even though Romano (half-heartedly) struggled to get away.
“H-hey, you bastard, what the hell do you think you’re—”
“You’ve been in my house for over three hundred years,” Spain mused to himself, and Romano couldn’t figure out what his face must look like now, buried against his shoulder, words softly drifting to his ear in a whisper. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know. Spain turned his head, breathing against Romano’s neck, his round nose grazing over the skin and making Romano suppress a shiver and revive his attempts at struggling. “My house will seem very empty after this.”
“Shut up,” Romano barked, face red and looking up at the ceiling as he tried to unpin his arms and push the Spaniard away. “I’m happy to finally get out of here, you damn bastard. I hate it here, after all.”
The hold on him tightened and he felt Spain’s attempts at evening his breathing. For one terrifying moment Romano thought that Spain really was going to cry, and he wasn’t sure if he could even begin to handle that. He struggled, but Spain was stronger, holding firm. He felt the inhale and exhale of breath against his skin and he clenched his eyes shut, feeling himself turn red, starting at his neck and working its way up to his forehead, even to the tips of his ears.
Spain pulled back, smiled at him silently.
He realized, dimly, that Spain was cupping his cheek, stroking the side of his face and the dip of his jaw almost tenderly, his smile soft and expressive.
Romano batted the hand away and looked off, face glowing red and eyebrows furrowing in anger. “What the hell? Don’t touch me, damn it!”
Spain laughed. “Sorry. I just won’t be able to do this for a while, so…”
Romano glanced at him, sidelong and frowning deeply, face drooped in annoyance (and possibly agony—he’d never admit it).
“It’s not like I’m leaving forever, you bastard.”
“But it just won’t be the same to know that my cute Romano isn’t sleeping next door to me,” Spain admitted with a completely overdramatic sigh.
Romano shoved against him. “Shut up!”
Spain stumbled back, rubbing the back of his neck and laughing, closing his eyes and swallowing the feeling of unhappiness that bubbled across his face. He seriously looked like he was going to cry—God damn him.
Spain captured his hand and drew it to his mouth, kissing very softly along his knuckles. Romano stared, surprised, and his hand curled into a fist. But instead of punching Spain when he drew his hand back, as was the original plan, his hand ended up awkwardly resting on the back of Spain’s head, and he frowned deeply. He pressed his knuckles against the back of the moron’s neck, nails digging into his palm and knuckles turning white. Blushing, he looked away, anywhere but at him.
“Promise to take care of yourself,” Spain said, cheerfully enough.
Romano glared at him. “Hmph.”
“And visit me if you get the chance, okay?” His expression was soft again, and he turned his head so that Romano’s fingers grazed over his cheek.
“Hmph,” Romano said again, still not looking at him and pulling his hand back to cradle it against his chest. “Whatever.”
Spain laughed, and drew Romano into a tight hug again, holding him close and refusing to let go even when Romano started to struggle.
When Romano left Spain’s house, it took his entire strength not to turn around and look at Spain, because he had a feeling that when he did, he wouldn’t be able to get the idiot to stop crying—or to let go of him.
It wasn’t like he, himself, would have troubles leaving or anything.
- The War of Spanish Succession led to Spain losing most of its territories to Austria, England, and a few others. Romano included. Italy itself was split up into many different territories and handed over to at least three different countries, but it seems that the more archetypical southern Italian areas were given to Austria, thus that’s the house Romano’s soaring off to.
- Treaty of Urecht outlined the undertaking of Spain’s colonies.