Spain had, for as long as Romano could remember, looked after him and protected him from all of the countries and people who wanted to do him harm. Sometimes, Spain got himself beaten up in order to protect Romano; for example, after Turkey's attempted kidnapping. Even after that bastard, France, had literally thrown a sack over Romano's head while he was outside eating pizza, Spain had protected him from the pervert. It was a tough task; France hadn't seemed to care that Romano has the body of a person just entering adolescence at the time, and had seemed bent on popping Romano's "tomato". Fucking pervert.

It wasn't as though Romano liked Spain or anything. The idea was stupid. It was the kind of bullshit Veneziano would come up with. But Romano was going to pay back his debt to Spain. He had convinced himself that Spain might otherwise call in favours if he didn't. He liked to ignore the fact that Spain wasn't like that. So shut the fuck up. Bitch.

There was little that could harm Spain. Economic depression was one thing. But Spain always managed to pull through, mostly because the fat pale people from America's and England's houses liked to vacation in Spain's home, bringing a flood of money with them every year.

Even other countries found it very difficult to hurt him. Peru was still terrified of him. England, no matter what he said, had kept his distance from Spain when the Armada had clashed with the English galleys at Gravelines, only daring to come close enough to gloat once the battle was won and Spain's fucking huge battle axe had gotten broken by a stray cannon ball. Then, Spain had thrown one of his own ships at England. Romano refused to admit how much he wished he'd seen that.

Most people thought Spain was just an idiot. OK, so they were right. But he was a strong idiot. Like America and Russia, but he didn't go around dragging cars or braining people with pipes like those two freaks. He just...used to swing that battle axe around like it was a golf club or something, with a crazy look on his face. Or so Belgium said. Romano had never seen it, and he didn't want to, so he was just going to take her word for it.

So, physically, Spain was difficult to harm.

And he was so spirited that it was hard to emotionally harm him as well. Fuck, did that bastard ever stop smiling? Even when he went psycho on Peru's ass all those years ago, he'd been grinning, according to Peru. Mexico backed him up on that, as did Bolivia, Argentina, Chile and some other old territories, so Romano believed them. Even England's rise hadn't upset him much; he'd just said that he had more time to grow tomatoes now that he didn't rule the seas anymore.

So...physically and emotionally strong. He wasn't mentally strong. Everyone knew he was a dumb fuck. But these two factors made certain that their was little that could harm him.

Unfortunately, Spain's lack of brain meant that he managed to fall prey to one of the most dangerous countries in the world.

No, not Russia. Not America. Not England. Not Germany.

No, the stupid bastard always fell prey to France. Or, rather, France's grabby, wandering hands. He always failed to realise what France was doing, and France seemed to have enough intelligence in his wine-sodden head to have cottoned on to that fact. That made Spain one of his favourite targets.

And Romano was always stuck saving the stupid bastard, who really deserved to be raped for being so fucking dumb. It was a difficult task; France seemed to pop up out of nowhere, and had molested Spain in the strangest of places. Why the fuck was Spain friends with that wino anyway? Romano couldn't understand it at all.

...

Sometimes, France would attack while Spain was tending to his tomato crop.

Spain was harvesting beautiful tomatoes, singing El Vito to himself, when France arrived with a glint in his eye, a bottle of wine, and a tube of lube poking out of his pocket.

"Bon après-midi, Espagne," he leered as Spain collected his basket of tomatoes from the floor, conveniently pointing his ass towards France as he bent over. Romano, from his position atop a bucket, would have slapped his own forehead if he hadn't held a tomato in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other.

"¡Hola, Franny!" Spain greeted brightly, turning to face his...friend, who was currently Oh hon hon hon hon!-ing to himself gleefully. Fucking creep.

"Ah, Espagne!" France sighed, resting a hand on Spain's shoulder, "It is such a beautiful day! Yet, here you are, harvesting tomatoes in the dirt! Sacre bleu! That will not do!"

As he spoke, his hand crept down Spain's back until it was resting beneath Spain's shoulder blades. He didn't move too quickly. Even Spain would notice something if he just launched straight in and went for gold.

"But this is fun!" Spain replied obliviously, "I love tomate! They're so round, and sweet, and juicy, no?"

"Round and sweet and juicy," France purred, fingers now digging into Spain's famous ass, "I think I understand,"

"Oh, you do?" Spain said with genuine delight, clapping his hands together (How could this fucking idiot breathe without assistance?), "Would you like to help, mi amigo?"

"Non, non!" France said, causing Spain's face to fall, "At least, not yet. Why don't we have a drink or two first?"

"But...mi Romanito doesn't like it when I drink," Spain explained apologetically, "¡Lo siento!"

"Ah, nevermind! I'm sure that there are other things we can do that are just as enjoyable, oui?" France smiled suggestively, his fingers now tickling the top of Spain's pants, about to plunge inside.

Clang!

He dropped to the floor. Spain blinked in confusion, turning to Romano, who was still holding a spade aloft.

"You're such a fucking retard, Spagna!" Romano growled, "Come on, we're going back inside,"

"But...what about Franny?" Spain asked with concern. France made an unhealthy gurgling sound.

"Leave the pervert there," Romano ordered, "But bring the tomatoes. If your tiny brain can understand that much,"

"I'm not stupid," Spain insisted, shifting his grasp on the basket of tomatoes that he had harvested on this occasion, "Why did you do that, mi tomate? Poor Franny! I'll have to get him some painkillers for when he wakes up!"

Not stupid? Riiiiiight.

...

He'd also been known to attack while Spain was in the bath or shower.

"I don't know why Franny is so keen on washing my back," Spain called to Romano, who was standing guard outside the bathroom door. Romano snorted. Idiot wasn't a strong enough word...

He could hear the sound of the water splashing, and Spain humming to himself and playing with his rubber tomato bath toy. It was hard to believe that this guy was as old as dirt.

"Tomorrow, I'll make you churros!" Spain continued after a beat in an extremely cheerful tone, "I know you love my churros. What about paella as well, mi tomate?"

"Don't call me that," Romano grumbled. He liked to stubbornly ignore how nice it felt that Spain wanted to do things like this for him. If he acknowledged it, he'd have to the fact that he liked Spain. So, not acknowledging it meant that he could remain in denial. Simple.

"Aww!" Spain complained, "But you've always been mi tomate, and mi Romanito!"

"It's annoying," Romano snapped, "Stop it!"

"But I don't want t- How did you get in here, Franny?"

For fuck's sake.

"I have my ways, mon ami," France's voice answered, "Now, how does this door lock?"

"Fuck!" Romano screamed, fumbling with the door handle.

"There's a slip lock above the handle," Spain answered happily, "Are you here to wash my back, Franny?"

"Oh hon hon hon hon!" France answered, "That, and more!"

Romano, in a panic, threw himself at the door. That fucking creep should have put this tenacity and cunning to use when engineering cars. Maybe then they wouldn't be piles of crap on wheels.

"You idiot! Bastard! Fuck! Son of a bitch!" Romano screamed in his native tongue, pressing his full weight against the door as France tried his best to lock it. There was a gap, which Romano forced his foot into. He was then able to wrench the door open, smashing it into France's face. Unfortunately, not only did Romano not break anything, but France also remained conscious.

"You are so cruel!" France wailed theatrically, clutching his nose with tears in his eyes, "My beautiful face!"

"Are you alright, Franny?" Spain asked worriedly, wrapping a towel around his waist as he climbed out of the bath. Blood sprang from both of France's nostrils, a dopey grin spreading across his face.

"I will be if you'll kiss it better for me," France leered.

"Oh!" Spain smiled, "I remember when I used to do that for mi Romanito when he grazed his knees and elbows crawling around my tomato patch! Come here! I'll kiss it better!"

With more blood pouring from both nostrils, France hurried towards the wet, bronze nation. Only to receive a kick in the balls, courtesy of Romano.

"How can you not tell that he's being a pervert?" Romano demanded, punching Spain in the arm for good measure. Spain rubbed the spot with a confused expression, like that of a puppy.

"He is?" Spain asked. France continued to roll around on the floor, clutching his groin.

...

When at the World Conferences, France normally tried to grope England, with limited success. But sometimes he turned his attentions on Spain instead.

"Get the bloody hell off me, you lecherous frog!" England roared, nailing France in the face with a punch that caused Russia to start giggling happily to himself, and the rest of the room to hiss in sympathy. Romano was one of the few who sniggered.

"Would you like to borrow my pick axe, comrade?" Russia offered England sweetly, playing with a terrified Lithuania's hair.

"N-No, it's quite alright," England said hastily, already tilting France's head back and applying pressure with a tissue to stem the rush of blood coming out of both nostrils.

Romano had no fucking clue how those two could call themselves friends.

"Poor Franny should know better," Spain sighed, shaking his head.

"Poor France!" Veneziano agreed tearfully, burying his face into Germany's shoulder.

"The dumbass deserves it," Romano snapped, "He can't think it's OK to go aroun-,"

"France! Get the bloody fuck off me!" England bellowed, struggling in France's hold as the perverted creep thrust a hand up his shirt and kept his arms secured behind his back, "Oh crap! Stop touching my nipples, you absolute tosser!"

This was followed by a high-pitched scream of terror and a gunshot.

"Why is it always you?" Switzerland hissed, his gun still smoking as he pointed it at France.

"I'm not sure what you mean, mon ami!" France smiled sauvely, a faint red tinge of blood glistening on his upper lip as a violated England shuddered in a corner, arms wrapped around himself. America had stopped eating burgers and was valiantly trying to comfort England, who didn't seem too responsive. Maybe France had finally broken one of his victims.

"Touch England again, and I won't shoot to miss this time," Switzerland snarled, "You're disrupting the meeting- again!"

"Of course, monsieur!" France said, waving a hand, "Of course! I will not share my love with England again during this meeting. I promise,"

England visibly relaxed. Romano took France's lack of disappointment to be a bad sign. Then, France's eyes alighted on Spain, who was jabbering away with Hungary while she pinched his cheeks and cooed at him. Romano tensed. Was there no escaping this fucker?

"In fact," France continued, "I'll move seats right away, to the other side of the table, far away from mon petit lapin. Can I sit next to you, Espagne?"

Both Hungary and Romano bristled. Hungary raised her frying pan threateningly as France smoothly slid in to the seat beside her. It was a good job that the chair wasn't too close to Spain's.

Well, it wasn't until France scooted it over until the chairs were pressed together, and France's leg was snug against the dumbass'. Spain continued to chatter at whoever would listen, until he finally noticed the blood on France's face.

"¡Mi amigo!" he gasped, as though France were missing a limb or something, "Let me help you!"

Before anyone could say anything, he had reached into his pocket and drawn out a tomato-patterned handkerchief. Licking it, he proceeded to scrub at the blood on France's face. He'd often done the same for Romano when Romano was a messy child and had gotten all kinds of food and dirt on his face. Now that Romano was older, the act seemed more like an indirect kiss. This thought had definitely occurred to France, whose face was lit up with unwholesome delight.

"All better!" Spain pronounced, ignorant to France's expression.

"I love the guy, but he can be a fucking retard," Prussia chortled quietly to that unnoticable country whose name constantly eluded the minds of everyone but Prussia. Romano agreed entirely on this issue. Spain was the fucking king of retards.

"Ah, you have certainly eased my pain, mon ami," France leered happily as Spain innocently beamed back. It was a good thing Spain was attractive...

Because the guy had to have one redeeming quality.

"I'm glad!" Spain chirped, "But you really shouldn't make England angry. Remember when he broke your jaw in 1815?"

"I fought valiantly at the Battle of Waterloo, but, in the end, that wreched pirate's tactics and lack of honour won the day!" France moaned.

"Really?" Romano snorted, "I could have sworn that he broke your jaw because you tried to put the moves on him after him and Prussia kicked your wino ass. Retard,"

"But he looked so delectable in his uniform!" France said, as though that justified his actions, "Of course, not as delectable as you did, Espagne! Your red coat looked tres beau with your bronze skin-,"

A hand on Spain's thigh. Spain blinked down at it briefly, bemused.

"With your beautiful green eyes-,"

It slid upwards as Spain's brow furrowed in confusion.

"And it hugged your body so well-,"

He shrieked in pain as Romano punched him in the balls at exactly the same time that Hungary smashed her frying pan over his head.

"Pervert!" Romano and Hungary growled in unison. Romano privately thought that, with her obsession with gays, Hungary could hardly talk, but he didn't want to cause her to hit him on the head as well, so he didn't say anything on that topic.

"You two are so cruel to poor Franny," Spain chided, dragging a moaning France to his chest and rubbing the rapidly-forming bump gently as he rocked France soothingly. Clearly, Spain seemed not to realise that the nations he'd once looked after (in a way) were now fully grown, and he therefore continued to treat them like small children. Not that France was complaining. Actually, the pervy creep seemed to be enjoying himself; he'd wrapped his arms around Spain's waist and had smirked at Romano. Romano spluttered in rage.

"Fuck you, Spagna, you dick!" he returned, "I hope he rapes you in the ass with a wine bottle!"

"Sacre bleu!" France gasped, hand on heart, "I would never do such a thing! To ruin such perfection...No, I won't imagine it!"

"Nobody thought that you would!" Spain soothed, kissing the tender bump left in France's stylish curls (No, Romano was not jealous, so shut the fuck up. Now). There were snorts from the listening nations, who seemed to disagree entirely with Spain's words. "Do you hurt anywhere else?"

"Oui. It hurts very much, and I was hoping that you would consent to kissing it better...," France trailed off seductively. England banged his head on the table out of sheer exasperation, while America tried to comfort him and Germany stormed out of the meeting, having given up. Rapidly jabbered Italian, interspersed with many a "Ve!~", told Romano that Veneziano had followed.

"Si," Spain agreed, nodding fervently without noticing the trickle of nations leaving the room, "Of course I will. Show me where you hurt!"

France was unconscious before he had even unzipped his fly. The imprint of Romano's stylish Italian shoe was left on the side of his face.

"Stop trying, France," Austria sniffed, adjusting his glassed, "I was married to him, and we did nothing of a sexual nature together. I therefore doubt that he will be receptive to your advances,"

"Pfft!" Prussia snorted, "Of course he wouldn't fuck you! You're too boring!"

Taking personal affront to this remark, Austria rapidly responded, and, soon, there was another battle going on, into which Hungary soon waded with her frying pan, and, to Romano's surprise, the nameless country defended Prussia with a hockey stick.

"Was I supposed to sleep with Austria, just because we were married?" Spain asked nobody in particular as the mystery country succeeded in wrestling Hungary's frying pan from her hands with his hockey stick.

"Of course," Austria answered over Prussia's cheers, "There are certain duties that are expected of one's spouse,"

Spain was silent for a moment, apparently digesting this information. Romano tried to tell himself that he wasn't smug about the lack of sex that had occurred between Spain and Austria, but...he wasn't very successful. He consoled himself that he was pleased only because that the mental images were fucking disgusting, and involved horrifying uses for piano wire. Urgh, he was going to have to scrub his brain out with bleach after that.

"You're so funny, Austria!" Spain laughed, so abruptly that Romano jumped, "Why would I sleep with somebody I didn't love?"

Nobody could come up with a response to this.

Not even Romano, who was privately surprised at Spain's sexual restraint, because it was so well-hidden. With the way that Spain swivelled his satin-wrapped hips while dancing one of his various Spanish dances, Romano would have thought that what time he had when he wasn't eating and harvesting tomatoes or bothering Romano would have been spent flirting with beautiful Spanish women. It was strange...but, to everybody around him, Spain appeared annoyingly seductive without even trying. But it now looked as though he wasn't aware of his considerable physical charms (Romano only pointed out the fact that Spain had physical charms because he had eyes, thank you fucking much), and actually spent his available time working, as he'd claimed for years. Romano almost felt bad for thinking that the dumbass had been lying to him.

Almost.

"Do you love me, Espagne?" France asked from the ground.

Romano kicked him in the face again.

...

France was especially grabby when he caught Spain dancing.

Why the fuck did the jive have to include fucking weird moves like pelvic thrusts? Was that dance invented specifically to piss Romano off or something? And he didn't even know why Spain was doing that dance anyways, since it wasn't Spanish. Then again, neither were many of the dances he seemed to be good at...

Did he have to wear such tight pants when he...?

Oh fuck...there had to be a rule against this!

"Come on, Lovi!" Spain whined, grabbing Romano's hands and yanking him into the middle of the ballroom, "I can't dance the jive without a partner! Aww! You're so cute when you blush!"

"Dammit, bastard!" Romano growled (growled, not squeaked, no matter what Spain said!), "Stop being so fucking creepy and paedo-ish all the time!"

Spain tilted his head to the side, looking like a lost kitten.

"But...you're grown up, now, Lovi," he pointed out, "How is dancing with you paedo-ish?"

"I-It just is, OK?" Romano stammered back. He was willing to admit that he had stammered this time. He obviously wouldn't have if Spain hadn't been playing with his fingers absentmindedly as they talked. Fucking weirdo.

"Please, Lovi?" Spain wheedled, "Just once. If I don't exercise, I'll get fat, and then nobody will like me anymore!"

The sheer look of horror on his face was quite funny.

"Idiot," Romano snapped, "You eat nothing but tomatoes! How the fuck are you going to get fucking fat from that?"

"I also eat a lot of carbohydrates, and churros!" Spain insisted, "Although Franny says that he loves the way that they give my derrière extra padding...but I don't even know what that means!"

Romano could probably fry tomatoes on his fucking face by now. And Spain didn't seem to understand why it was so wrong that France had said such a thing. Romano was starting to think that France, devious, insatiable France, was only friends with Spain because Spain was extremely attractive and extremely fucking dumb, making him easy prey. Romano had previously considered that maybe France did like Spain a little, in a friendly kind of way, but it was looking less and less likely the more that Romano had to beat off France, whose sole objective seemed to be getting into Spain's pants.

This...taking advantage of Spain bothered Romano more than it should have.

"You should stop hanging around with him," he said quietly, "He's no good for you,"

His seriousness and the lack of insults in that sentence seemed to sober Spain up.

"¿Qué?" he asked, "Why? What's wrong with Franny?"

"Yes, Romano, what is wrong with me?" France interjected, strolling into the room as though he owned it. Spain's expression immediately brightened.

"¡Buenas tardes!" he grinned, "Me and Lovi were just doing some dancing,"

"What isn't wrong with that fucking creep?" Romano demanded, ignoring France's presence entirely as he punched Spain in the arm to get his attention again. France had the audacity to appear affronted

"Aww, Romano, don't be so mean!" Spain chided, stroking Romano's hair and accidentally catching that big curl of hair that Romano had told him he wasn't allowed to touch!

"Chigiii!" Romano shrieked, red-faced with embarrassment (not arousal!) as he shoved Spain away from him...

...And straight into France's grasp.

"Bonjour," France cooed happily, his arms wrapped around Spain's waist. They were nose-to-nose, and chest-to-chest, with Spain's startled green eyes staring into France's eyes with confusion. Romano wanted to beat France's head in with Spain's favourite battle axe.

"Oh! Did you want to dance with me, since Lovi won't?" Spain finally asked France (who still hadn't let do, dammit!) with a broad grin, clearly under the impression that he had figured out what France wanted.

Fucking idiot.

"It would be a pleasure to dance with you, Espagne," France purred, running his hands up and down Spain's back, dipping lower and lower each time...

"I've changed my mind!" Romano blurted out in a panic, "I'll dance with you, bastard!"

Spain let go of a crestfallen France immediately, almost trembling with delight as he rushed over to Romano.

"Really?" Spain asked, his expression so fucking happy that Romano struggled not to smile back.

"Yeah," Romano grunted, looking away and ignoring how hot his face felt, "He probably sucks at dancing anyway,"

"You can't dance either," Spain reminded him.

"Y-Yeah!" Romano stuttered, "But at least I won't try to grope you and shit like that perv over there!"

"Be that as it may," France sniffed, doing a spectacular impression of Austria at his snobbiest, "At least his feet would survive a dance with moi!"

"Are you calling me clumsy?" Romano demanded hotly.

"Why yes," France smirked, "Yes I am!"

The nerve of that snail eater! Romano cast his gaze around, looking for a weapon with which to beat the fucker senseless, but Spain, to his surprise, decided to defend him.

"Francia," Spain interjected seriously, "It's not Romano's fault that he's clumsy. You always get so upset when Inglaterra makes fun of your military record, because it's something you're self-conscious about. Romano's self-conscious about being clumsy. Try to put yourself in his position,"

Silence. Then...

"Did you just say something intelligent?" Romano asked, dazed and also...a little touched. Not that he'd admit that voluntarily.

"Besides," Spain continued, grinning once more (Thank fuck for that, because a serious Spain was creepy!), "Lovi is so cute when he's blushing and tripping over things!"

He hugged Romano close, cooing over Romano's red cheeks, while Romano tried to push him away. But Spain was fucking strong, and didn't budge, no matter how much Romano shrieked at him to let go. It didn't help that the idiot smelled like tomatoes, grass and churros; Romano was a slave to his stomach, and the smell was tempting. He actually had the strange urge to lick that bronze collarbone, just to see if it tasted like it smelled.

He knew he shouldn't have sat three seats away from the Netherlands at the meeting; that stoner's smoke had probably drifted to him and was fucking with his mind.

"Are we going to dance or not?" Romano finally yelped, still struggling against Spain's grasp.

"Of course, of course!" Spain said, giving Romano one last squeeze (Romano gasped for breath) then letting go.

Spain was, of course, a very good dancer. Argentina still wasn't talking to Spain because Spain had danced a better tango than him- its creator!- a few years back. Even so, Romano didn't expect to find dancing with Spain to be so...enjoyable. Although Romano acted as though he was pissed off, and accidentally crushed Spain's toes often, as France had predicted, it wasn't that bad.

"Now twirl, Lovi!" Spain instructed.

"I'm fucking twirling," Romano snapped back, stumbling slightly as he came out of a rotation, only to be shoved into another one by the tireless country he was dancing with, "I'm twirling like a fucking ballerina!"

"You'd look so cute in a tutu!" Spain mused happily.

Romano was not blushing. It was just hot in that ballroom, dammit.

He did not notice the odd expression on France's face. It was a look of wistfulness, swirled in with pride and pleasure. It would have been nice, awfully nice, to feel Spain's hot flesh underneath his practiced fingers, to lick and suck at his bronze throat, to clutch at his backside and strong thighs, to taste the sun on his tongue...

It would have been nice indeed. But France was not one to get in the way of love. He could not ruin this just because Spain was an absolutely beautiful specimen of the male form. His dedication to filling the world with romance and amore would not allow him to.

Besides, he could always help Hungary plant cameras in Spain's house and enjoy himself that way. And England was still unattached...

"Au revoir," he called, not confident that Spain or Romano would hear him, "I am off to chez Angleterre!"

Romano pitied England.

...

One day, France suddenly stopped molesting Spain. And that made Romano uneasy.

"Francia!" Romano barked, interrupting the world conference, to Germany's despair. The meeting had been going so well too...

Romano wasn't about to sit down and shut up. Not when he was pissing off that potato eater, and was about to get answers. He'd been paranoid for weeks, expecting France to pop up and drag Spain to a secluded place in order to rape the moron before he knew what was happening.

Romano's nerves were shot. France had not snuck into Spain's bedroom, had not grabbed Spain's ass, had not even leered at Spain, for 18 days. This was not normal. The snail bastard was obviously planning something. And Romano was going to find out what, before he had a mental breakdown and put a hit out on France.

"Oui, Romano?" France asked with confusion that had to be fake.

"Why have you not tried to rape Spagna in so long?" he demanded, his accent becoming more pronounced as he became more harried.

"Rape?" France asked, "You can't rape the willing- Romano, please take that gun out of my face!"

"Lovi, don't shoot Franny!" Spain pleaded, pulling Romano's arm and gun out of France's nervous face. Romano reluctantly obeyed. It was hard to interrogate somebody who was bleeding all over the carpet. And...well, it was nice carpet, and this meeting was being held in Italy, so it would be his people who would be paying for the damages.

"Well?" he asked. He heard Switzerland mutter something about being the only one allowed to bring guns into the conference room.

"Because I refuse to get in the way of amore!" France declared dramatically, producing a rose from...somewhere and offering it to Spain, who took it with a smile.

"What do you mean?" Romano spat, tired of these riddles.

"I could not possibly ignite the passion in Espagne that you do!" France said, adding, in bad taste, "Although I am probably a far superior lover," as an afterthought.

"What the fuck do you mean?" Romano shrieked, throwing a pen at France's head, "And I am not shit in bed!"

"Ve~, Fratello, how can you know that if you haven't been with anyone?" Veneziano interjected innocently, promptly hiding behind an increasingly frustrated Germany with a wail of terror when Romano turned on him instead. Prussia was on the floor, pounding his fists into the carpet in glee.

"Romano's a freaking virgin!" he crowed. Soon, many of the other nations were laughing along with him. Romano's ears felt hot. He was so humiliated that he didn't even shrug Spain's arm off when it wrapped around him comfortingly, instead trying to hide his burning cheeks in Spain's shoulder.

Fucking Veneziano!

"I think it's good that Romano's still a virgin!" Spain said fiercely, "It shows that he has standards and morals, unlike the rest of you!"

Everybody quieted.

"Says the guy who pillaged his way across South America!" Prussia declared.

"Haha, Prussia, you're so funny!" Spain returned with a tight smile, seemingly emitting a dangerous aura, "You'd be even funnier with my axe in your head! Hahaha!"

He dissolved into hysterical, mad laughter, as though it really was that funny. Latvia whimpered. The other nations shifted in their seats uncomfortably.

"Prusse!" France warned out of the corner of his mouth with a wide nervous grin and twitching brow, "Don't make him angry! You know how he can get, especially when somebody upsets Romano!"

"Let's get back on topic, please," Germany said, getting things back under control as usual as he sent Spain wary glances. So this was the Spain who had nearly killed France with a bull at the Battle of Garigliano.

Interesting.

Well, at least this scary personality flip had silenced everyone. Even Russia was holding his pipe in front of himself protectively.

"Ooh, ooh!" Spain called enthusiastically, smile bright and innocent as he knocked a coffee cup off the table while waving his arm, "Can we talk about trade agreements now? I want to send Lovi and Feli some more of my tomatoes soon!~"

Oh. So he was back to normal now.

"Does he do that often?" Germany asked Prussia worriedly.

"Ja," Prussia shrugged, "Well, kind of. He used to do it more, but now he only really does it when somebody upsets Romano,"

"You knew this, and you still antagonised him?"

Prussia stared at him without comprehension, not seeing the problem.

"Nevermind," Germany sighed.

Romano, meanwhile, had recovered somewhat, and was pushing the Spanish idiot's arm off his shoulders, yelling at him for invading his personal space. He had completely forgotten why he had interrupted this meeting in the first place. It was only when he was lying in Spain's bed that night (His own room was drafty and cold, so fuck you all!) that he realised...France had never told him what he had meant.

Wino bastard, Romano grumbled in his mind.

After that, France left Spain well enough alone, and began to molest England with single-minded zeal. That poor tea-drinking bastard.

...

Finite!

Er...what to say, what to say?

Well, for starters, this fic started out rather well, but it ended rather...crap. I don't know. The quality of the writing plummetted somewhere in the middle. I'm sorry, poor readers.

Still, if you like it, please review and tell me that it's not as crappy as it appears.

Adeiu!

Adieu?

Adeiu?

Oh, I don't know. It's one of them...I haven't done French since Year 9!

:D