Chapter 1

There were several things about himself that Lovino Vargas would rather not admit to, and being an obnoxious drunk was one of them. He hated how he so easily fell into the clutches of alcohol, as it only reminded him of that old bastard England and that perverted bastard France. That potato bastard Prussia was really bad too. Lovino shook the other, older, countries from his mind easily but cursed aloud, knowing that the task of forgetting about them was aided by the bottle of cold Italian wine, the good stuff, clutched in his hands. He took another swig and stumbled out onto the balcony of the penthouse apartment he shared with the tomato bastard Spain.

Lovino had been waiting since exactly nine thirty-four A.M. for Antonio Carriedo to return home, and it was now eleven-o-eight P.M. The Italian nation growled at the clock flashing at the top of the building across the street, shivering in the cold. It was always like the Spanish bastard to keep him waiting. He hiccuped and downed the rest of the wine; at that point he didn't care that some of the drink had dribbled down his chin and now stained his once perfectly white shirt. With another trip over his feet, Lovino gripped the top of the balcony railing, staring angrily out at nothing while his thoughts strayed back to his Spanish lover.

Sure he loved Antonio and all, but the guy was a total ditz. On more than one occasion, he'd slipped in the bathroom, broken glasses and plates, tripped over his shoelaces (and sometimes his own feet), burned himself on the stove, was totally oblivious to everything around him... it was a wonder he wasn't dead yet. Lovino scrunched his nose at the thought. Had Antonio ever been worth something more than the retard he was at the present moment? They were still nations, but surely Antonio hadn't gone through centuries as a complete idiot. The Italian sighed and stared up at the smog-coated sky, miraculously seeing a glowing dot in the navy blue sky. He waited for it to blink and move, sure it was an airplane, but when it made no such move, he hummed, amazed that he could see a star in this city. Wasn't there something Feliciano was always going on about, about seeing the first star in the sky and making a wish on it? It was ridiculous, but Lovino couldn't help but stare at the celestial phenomenon and hope that there was some way he could be assured that Spain wasn't a total ass-brain.

A deep drunken yawn wrenched itself from his chest and he set the empty wine bottle on the cement floor beneath him, too far gone to actually bother carrying it to the garbage can. When he had successfully shut the balcony door behind himself and wobbled into his and Antonio's bedroom, he immediately stripped himself of his clothes and fell down on top of the covers, bubbly sleep pulling him into dreams of pasta, Antonio, tomatoes, and Antonio covered in tomatoes. His dreams followed him until the next morning, when the sun began to shine down on him and the waves lapped at his bare feet.

Holy EFF what am I doing? Don't worry, I'll have like two chapters of The Third Time out this week.

I've noticed there isn't much, or anything really, of pirate!Spain, and since my Lovino has a bit of a Spain fetish, I decided to write this for her :'3 I love you, querido!

This won't be totally long, since I'm working on The Third Time still, and am currently writing out my USUK western, but I do hope you enjoy it!

Thank you very much for reading! Reviews are appreciated, not demanded, and flames will be used to stoke the fire of Mrs. Lovett's oven. I don't own Hetalia, and all copyright privileges, excluding the plot of this story, belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.