Vivir

AngolMoaChan

Some character notes: This references the 2004 attacks in Madrid. I left a link in my lj, if you're interested.

The bomb goes off in Madrid, and it rocks Spain's world.

Terrorism, the breath on everyone's lips nowadays, had come to strike him, his country, his people. A massive explosion on the Cercaínas, his own commuter train—four bombs. Thousands hurt.

He can feel the blossoming pain in his body already; blood fills his mouth and he falls to his knees, coughing, coughing, the chaos spreading all around him. The air smells of smoke and fire and gasoline, of death and destruction personified, and the acrid smoke is blinding him now, as he can hear women screaming and children crying all around him and—

A start. He sits straight up, clutching the blankets, a cold sweat pouring from his brow. It's okay. It's just a dream.

It is dark in his house, the wind lifting his brown hair as it dances across the room through his open windows. Everything is peacefully still, and Spain lets out a long, achy sigh of relief. He lifts the covers slightly, looking underneath him.

It's still there.

The bruise, achy and brown and old, splays out across the lower half of his abdomen and sinks into the hem of his boxers. He sighs and pulls the white duvet back over his figure, stark contrast against dark skin.

It's been five years since the bombing of his capital, and Spain, the great conquistador, has yet to fully heal.

"Hey, Spain?"

Spain looks up, mildly startled by the voice. It's Romano, South Italy, leaning against the doorframe and looking rather embarrassed. It's not unusual that the young country stayed the night--he does so often, in fact—but normally it's in his own room, with the door locked.

A small smile crosses Spain's face. "Yes, Romano?"

"…are you…okay? I heard you screaming, and I thought…" Romano trails off weakly, a crimson blush now coating his tan cheeks, and Spain smiles.

"…Al vivo la hogaza y al muerto, la mortaja."

"What?"

"It's…it's nothing." Spain pats the bed before him, a tender smile on his face, and Romano rolls his eyes. "Stay? ¿Por favor?"

"…I-it's not because I want to or anything," clarifies the angry little Italian, sitting down on the small bed, "It's only because you're such a clingy bastard."

Spain's smile grows as he places his arms around Romano, inhaling his scent—pasta and tomatoes and everything that's good in his world—and sighs.

Listening to Romano's soft breathing as he sleeps, Spain vows silently, lips moving against his neck, to protect him. To protect what he loves.

"Live for the living, not for the dead…" he muses, closing his green eyes, "Live indeed."

Conquistador: Spanish conqueror of lands.

Al vivo la hogaza y al muerto, la mortaja: basically, "Live for the living, not for the dead." I'm pretty sure this is right, although my Spanish sucks big time. XD