Summary: Spain thought of Romano. Spamano.

A/N: FML, everything I write turns out horrible. I have so many plot bunnies, but when I try to write them down, they don't come out right! I need a muse. Sob. So, you have this shitty... Thing. Yeah. Sorry.

Spain wasn't sure when, exactly, his feelings for Romano had changed. He just knew that it had, and frankly, it scared him. He had raised him to near adulthood. He had physically aged less than a decade in the time it took for Romano to become an adult. Wasn't it sort of wrong to be in love with him?

When he was with South Italy, though, he didn't have those sorts of thoughts. He was giddy every time his former charge looked at him, and his mouth hurt from smiling so much, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't help how his heart skipped a beat every time Romano was willingly within a foot of him, or how he yearned to hold him, to kiss him.

He was, after all, the country of passion.

However, when it was late at night and he was alone in his spacious bed, tears pricked his eyes and he pushed his face into his fluffy pillows, trying desperately not to think. He always did, though, and it made his heart hurt. He knew that he was dwelling so much on it because he himself thought it was terrible, and if he accepted it, it wouldn't be so painful. He couldn't, though.

How could Romano ever forgive him for feeling that way?

Spain pried himself off his pillows and turned sideways, trying to breathe evenly. Slowly, the creases on his forehead smoothed out, and his mouth became more lax, no longer the line it was when he was holding back tears.

Just think of Lovi.

Romano was really beautiful, the Spaniard reflected. His hair was a nice shade of brown and his hazel eyes were striking, at times appearing green or amber. He was always pretty, but he was absolutely stunning when he graced the world with a smile.

The Italian's smiles were the best. It could light up an entire town. His grins were few and far between, but it was always worth it, even when it was merely a quirk of the lips. His entire face lit up, and the world seemed a hundred times better than it was when he wore that near-perpetual scowl.

His eyes were expressive, truly the windows to his soul. Even when he was shouting at Spain to get the hell out, you fucking tomato bastard, his eyes pleaded him to stay. When he was verbally saying, "Shut the fuck up," his eyes said, "You're embarrassing me."

His voice was an enchanting baritone. Spain could listen to it for eternity and never get tired of it. His voice was akin to an angel's, the nation reckoned, for how else could it be so pleasing?

He inhaled, held it, and exhaled.

He felt better.