I've been writing a lot of stories for my friends lately, and this is one of them! Personally, I enjoy writing for others, because it motivates me and it help me learn how to write on a schedule teaches me how to deal with deadlines.

And just a few notes: This is AU-ish, and its set in the past, but Romano is 17 and Spain is 20

My writing of The Ottoman Empire (Young Turkey) is FAIL! My sincerest apologies! I had not time to look up his character so i just gave him a generic evil persona (DON'T SHOOT ME! I just really needed a villan, and my sister was like "Why not use Turkey?")

So... Um... I hope you like it?

"Romano!" Spain tore out the back door, "Romano, wait!"

"Stay the fuck away from me!" The Italian screeched, his voice become hoarse from overuse. He continued to run towards the woods. He had to get away, he needed time to think.

"Por favor Romano, I didn't mean it!"

He kept his back to the Spaniard, "Leave me alone!"

The older brunette froze. When he saw that the boy would not turn back he let out a soft sigh and returned to the house. "¡Estupido!" He punched the wall closest to him, swearing loudly at himself.

Why did that have to happen?

Why did he have to say that?

He sat down in a nearby chair and threw his head into his hands. That was not supposed to happen. That should not have happened.

They had another fight. Fights had become unusually common lately, much to the Spaniard's dismay. Normally it took a lot to rattle him, but that Italian knew how to get under his skin. Yes he thought the boy was adorable and yes the boy was practically his entire world, but that did not change Romano's harsh nature. Something had changed. Something had changed, resulting in their fights and Spain hated it. He hated it more than anything. He hated to see his little tomato upset, screaming at the top of his lungs, but most of all he hated to see himself yelling back, matching the Italian's fury.

Today a line had been crossed.

He should not have said that. That one thing, that one single thing that he knew would send Romano storming out and he had said it.

How could he have been so stupid? !

Romano—his little Romano—had just ran away from him. There was no way that the boy couldn't hate him. Why on earth did he have to say that? !

The argument had been quiet fierce, with much more fire than any they've had in the past. Spain was fairly certain that the entire hemisphere heard their screams. It was brutal, they were violently shouting at each other in their native tongues, insults and complaints flying fast and furious. He should have just kept quiet and let Romano throw his tantrum. If he had just let the boy let off steam, this wouldn't have happened.

Today had not been one of Spain's better days, he was tired from his work in the fields and the fact that the sky was swathed in dark clouds did not help at all. It was said that the Spaniard's mood correlated directly with the weather, and that rumor held some true. The usually cheerful brunette had grown sullen, and immediately flared up when Romano provoked him.

And so that harsh argument began. Back and forth and back and forth, growing in volume and intensity. Romano attacked, Spain countered, and a deadly battle of wits ensued. At one point, the Spaniard finally, finally snapped. He uttered those fatal words. He did not shout, but stated then with a deadly calm:

"Cometí un error en escojiendo tú."

I made a mistake in choosing you.

Immediately he regretted saying that. He didn't mean to, he didn't—

But he did.

He knew that would wound Romano more than any other insult, more that any blow, be it verbal or physical (Spain would never dare hit him but was the Italian was very quick to come to blows). To say that... It was... The Spaniard swore at himself once more. He absolutely abhorred himself. Why did he say it? Why, why, why? !

A long time ago, when he had first met that poor child and his brother, he and Austria were each given custody of one. Spain could have had little Italy if he had fought for it, but no... He had settled for Romano.

He had found the boy sobbing to himself one day, and when pressed Romano screamed about how he was worthless and how his younger brother had bested him in everything. He swore that he was only with Spain because no one else wanted him. The older man comforted the child—only ten at the time—and said that he was not there because he was unwanted, but because Spain chose him.

That was over seven years ago...

Spain chose him, yet Spain had just said that he had made a mistake in doing so. He knew that would hurt Romano and he said it. He knew that would drive Romano away and he still said it. The brunette shook his head weakly. That was wrong—so, so wrong ...He shouldn't have gotten so angry, he shouldn't have let Romano upset him. He would consider himself the luckiest man in the world if the boy even came home tonight.

He hadn't meant it. Saying that was the true mistake.

But apologies would change nothing. Certainly the boy now hated him, and that would the end of it.

xxxx

Romano angrily trudged through the undergrowth. He paused for a moment, checking to see if he was being followed. Upon seeing no one he hastily pushed forward, trying to make up for lost time.

Of course no one was following.

No one cared enough to follow.

The realization made the young Italian stop, replacing his fury with a paralyzing sort of loneliness. Slowly he sunk into a sitting position, with his knees curled into his chest and his arms firmly locked around them. The loneliness suddenly imploded into a devastating sort of sadness, the kind that would cause even the most hardened soul to break into tears. Sobs wracked his body as he desperately, desperately tried to hang on.

Why did that have to happen?

Why did he have to start that fight?

He swore quietly under his breath. He brought this unto himself, this was his fault. It wouldn't have happened if he didn't start the damn fight.

He always knew that Spain had hated him. He always knew that he was resented and disliked by the others. First there was Grandpa Rome, choosing Italy over him—who was named after the old empire—to travel the world. Italy was the one to receive the gift of the Renaissance, not Romano. Italy was the one who became talented in the many arts of literature, paint, fabric and food, while Romano was forgotten. When asked about it they would deny it, but Romano knew they scorned his very existence. Everyone he knew preferred his little brother over him, because Italy was sweet and innocent whereas Romano was sharp and bitter.

He was nothing but a burden.

When he and his brother were conquered in war, Austria was quick to claim Italy, leaving Romano completely on his own. The abandoned child was shuffled around from one place to another, eventually being sent to Spain because he was so difficult to deal with. The Spaniard had accepted him with open arms, but Romano knew he was resented. He would have preferred to have Italy, just as everyone else did. But that bastard proved to be kind to him, assuring that he was wanted...

Assuring that he was chosen...

It had been a mistake; it had always been a mistake to believe what others say. People are selfish and cruel... All they'll do is stab others in the back. He had been the mistake... He always knew that Spain would—

No, it wasn't Spain's fault... He was a good man. If he had truly hated Romano he would have passed the boy off to another nation long ago... Probably France. A shiver of fear ran down the Italian's spine at the thought of sharing a house with the creepy Frenchman. Spain did not hate Romano initially; something had happened to make that change.

He made that change.

Why did he have to be such a disagreeable person? All he ever did was drive everyone away. He didn't want to be alone, but he was afraid to let anyone come too close. After a childhood of being shoved away, Romano grew to shove back.

Spain had gotten too close.

Or rather, Romano had let himself get too close to Spain.

The boy was—for the lack of a better word—confused when it came to Spain. The man was his caretaker, and that was it, right?

Right? !

Romano was afraid of letting himself feeling anything more towards the brunette. To feel something like that... It was wrong... Right?

Was that why all the fights started?

Was Romano intentionally pushing the Spaniard away?

So... So it was his fault... The tears continued to fall freely as the Italian curled up into a ball, wishing to hide himself away from the world. Childish, that's what he was. Childish and selfish and weak. Nobody wanted him. Nobody cared. The one person who came even close to caring now hated him. Romano closed his eyes tightly amidst his sorrow.

He just wanted to disappear.

xxxx

Romano didn't know when he had fallen asleep, but it was well into the night when he awoke. During his dreams an idea began to take shape. He was going to run away from Spain. Romano decided that he would go somewhere where he wouldn't be able to bother anyone else ever again.

But that involved going back home...

Where Spain was...

But it was nighttime. He had to be asleep. Romano stood up carefully, his joints sore from being locked in place for so long. He dusted himself off and quickly set out. Thankfully he hadn't journeyed too far into the woods, or it would have been impossible for him to find his way back. He would go in, grab whatever he could carry on his back and just go someplace far away. Nobody else would have to deal with him then, and nobody else would hate him. The house came into view and the Italian froze.

The back door was still open?

Though Spain was a seemingly carefree man, he was not one to leave his home open during the later hours. Like any sensible nation, he feared attack during the most vulnerable moments of darkness. To see that door open...

Panic clutched at his chest as he approached. What was going on? Should he go in? Should he run? Was Spain okay? Carefully, oh so carefully Romano peeked inside.

His heart stopped.

Spain was sleeping in a chair in the far corner of the room, a fitful expression on his face. What frightened the Italian was the sight of a figure with its sword raised. A scimitar.

Very sharp.

Very lethal.

Very close to Spain.

Too close.

Not really knowing what he was doing, Romano stepped fully into the doorway, and asked the first question that came to his mind.

"Who the hell are you? !"

The mysterious figure paused and slowly turned around. In the semi-darkness Romano could faintly make out an ornate white robe, a headdress and a white mask.

The Ottoman Empire? !

The man chuckled darkly, "Well, what do we have here?" He took a step towards the defenseless Italian. "Looks like it's my lucky night, I get to end my rival and take his colony..." Another step, "What fun."

Romano's entire body seized up. He couldn't move. He could barely breathe. The masked man drew close, and observed the young brunette's shivers of fear, "Tch..." A look of disappointment spread across the older man's features, "On second thought, I don't think I want a colony that acts so weak, even if he is a descendant of the great Rome." A tanned hand reached out and grabbed Romano's chin, "How strange... Others speak of Northern Italy with such desire..." The Ottoman Empire turned the boy's face in the moonlight, observing it like it was an interesting curio, "But I see nothing special here..."

Romano became enraged at the statement. He pulled away sharply and smacked the taller man's hand away, "Listen bastard, I am the personification of Southern Italy!" Hazel eyes glared at the Ottoman's mask, "I am Romano of Rome, and you will address me as such!"

The Empire let out a feral growl as he grabbed the Italian by the throat and slammed him against the wall, "Impudent brat!" His face then relaxed, "Well then if you are not North, then you will make fine bait for him... But first," His grip tightened, "I must teach you to respect your superiors!"

Romano tried to break free, gasping for breath. He looked and saw that through all of this, Spain was still sound asleep, "D-Dammit... Wake u-up you b-bastard! ...W-Wake up!"

No response.

"He can't hear you..." The Ottoman clenched his hand even tighter. "No one can help poor little South..." Masked eyes glinted darkly, mocking the Italian. Spiders began to crawl at the edges of his vision, and the world began to blur. He took one last strangled gasp for air and screamed with all his might.

"ESPAÑA!"

He plunged into a hazy darkness, blind and deaf to everything.

He might as well been dead.

xxxx

There was a long period of silence. Then a scuffle, a shout. The clang of metal. Romano was grabbed sharply and dragged. Thrown against something flat and hard. He winced as he struggled to breath, which he found strangely easy at the moment. Wasn't he just being choked? With each inhale his situation became a bit clearer. He could hear voices.

"...Must you be so difficult? Put that silly thing down and hand over the boy. Maybe then I'll let you die with some dignity."

"¡Nunca!" Spain came into focus; he was standing in front of Romano... And he was wielding a candelabrum? Ah, yes, now that Romano thought about it that was the same one that had always sat next to the brunette's favorite chair. Spain carried the candleholder much like he would an axe—his weapon of choice.

The Empire's voice became smug, "There's no point in fighting, I'll just conquer little South anyway!"

The Spaniard became disturbingly still at those words. He took a step back towards Romano. Green eyes blazed as they bored into those of his enemy.

"Touch him and I'll kill you."

A deadly aura flowed from the normally sunny man, causing Romano to flinch and shrink back against the wall.

This man was terrifying.

The smugness wiped itself from the Ottoman's face and was replaced with anger, "We'll see about that..." He lashed out with his sword, slicing in a downward arc. Spain easily blocked, using the head of the candelabra much like he would an axe blade. A furious exchange of metal commenced, but it was clear that the Ottoman Empire had the upper hand. Spain didn't have a chance with his makeshift weapon. Normally his axe would have been perched by the fireplace but today it had been moved to the kitchen for its weekly polishing. Spain was obsessed with keeping his equipment in peak condition, and with good reasoning. A sharp blade or dull blade had the tendency to mean life or death when it came to any of the Spaniard's battles. Romano started at the deadly duel happening in front of him. If there was no room to slip by and get the axe himself...

Then he had to create a diversion so Spain could.

Carefully he sidled over to the corner by the fireplace where one other weapon was kept. It was a spear with a white sheet attached to it. The same height as its owner, Romano grabbed his makeshift white flag and waited. Neither of the older men took any notice of the Italian's change in position. Spain wasn't fairings well with his candelabra, the weight was oddly distributed compared to his axe, and the strangely shaped stand prevented him from getting a solid grip. But still he fought. To stop now was certain death, and not just his but Romano's as well. The Empire raised his sword once more, and the young Italian saw his chance. Nimbly he slipped between the combatants and flung his weapon so that the shaft caught the Ottoman's blade.

Spain grabbed his charge's shoulder, "What do you think you're doing? !"

"I can handle him! Go get your axe!"

"But Roma—!"

"Go, dammit!"

The hand left his shoulder as The Ottoman Empire tried to redirect his attack towards the Spaniard. Romano blocked once again as Spain rammed the candelabrum into his enemy's side, causing him to stumbled back. With a clatter the candleholder was dropped to the ground and Spain dashed to retrieve his true weapon.

"I'm going to admit, I'm surprised that you're fighting back." The scimitar glinted in the moonlight as it bounced off the pole of the spear, a continuous and absolute reminder of what was at stake. The Ottoman smirked, "You could just surrender... I might even let your precious Spain live."

The Italian remained silent. The reality was finally crashing down onto him: he was fighting on of the great empires of the world on his own. By himself. He tried to fight off the urge to tremble. If he opened his mouth he risked revealing the true depth of his terror.

The Ottoman didn't even seem to be trying to effectively strike his tiny adversary. Carelessly he slashed at the boy, curious to see what he could counter. Suddenly he grew bored with Romano's pathetic attempt at defense and quickly disarmed him. The spear was flung out of sight and the boy was left open for attack. The front of his shirt was grabbed and the sword was poised to stab. "Maybe I won't need you to capture North... Perhaps your death will be enough for me to receive the Great Rome's inheritance..." He smirked, "You are the one of Rome after all, certainly you must hold the key to his fortune."

The Italian's heart thundered in his chest. He was about to die, he was certain of that. But... this man confused him, "H-How much do you know about nonno anyway?"

"Only that he left an entire empire to his two bastard grandsons who have no spine—" The Ottoman would have said more, but a lighting flash of silver forced him to shove the Italian away. With sound that could only be akin to thunder the axe-head impaled itself into the floor. Spain wretched his weapon out of the ground and slowly turned to face the old Empire. All the hatred and anger in the world paled in comparison to the multitude of fury written on the brunette's face.

"What did I just say about touching mi chiquito?" He slipped gracefully into a fighter's stance before rushing forward with inhumane speed. And so the war continued with the two circling and striking like cobras. Never had Romano seen Spain so wild, so violent, so fierce.

Despite his fury and feral display of power, the Ottoman proved to be a shade more skillful as fatigue began to weigh down the Spaniard's limbs. Every so often Spain's composure would slip, showing worry and strain.

He was losing.

That... Was not possible.

Romano, in a split second, decided that he would not stand idle. He was going to help... Somehow. He frantically scanned the floor, trying to locate his spear. Try as he may, the Italian could not find his weapon. While his attention was diverted from the duel, there was a clatter and a loud thud, making him to look up.

What the—? !

Spain was knocked backward; he was on the floor, his axe a couple of feet away. The tip of a scimitar was level with his throat.

N-no...

This was not—

It couldn't—

The Ottoman Empire smiled wickedly, enjoying the fact that he had brought his rival to the brink of destruction.

It can't!

Spain's eyes flicked to the side, capturing Romano's hazel ones. "I'm sorry," Those green eyes whispered.

"So, so sorry..."

The blade's grip was shifted, prepare to slash—

"NO!" Romance could not believe that such a pained noise could arise from his throat. Without really thinking he rushed at the Empire, screeching his signature, "Chigi!" About halfway through he realized that his attack would be rather ineffective, but at least it would give Spain a chance to recover.

Two willing strikes in a battle and no surrenders... That had to be some kind of record.

The Spaniard scrambled to his feet just as the Ottoman rammed the pommel of his weapon into Romano's stomach. With his other hand the older empire grabbed a fistful of the boy's hair, anchoring him to that spot. The Italian let out a shout and then a whimper as he stared up at his captor. Any and all courage deserted the young brunette at that moment and was replaced by an immense sense of helplessness. The older man made a frustrated noise, "I should have just killed you when I had the chance..." Masked eyes hardened, showing no emotion, "Farewell, One of Rome."

Romano was shoved violently to the side and thrown to the floor. That was it, he was bleeding, and he was going to die. He screwed his eyes shut and blindly felt his shoulder and side.

It throbbed from the impact, but it was dry.

There was... No blood?

Slowly he opened his eyes and saw Spain standing where he was moments ago. The Spaniard was clutching his chest with one hand, and he was breathing heavily. What was he...? His shirt was... Torn? A large dark spot was forming across his front. He staggered a step back, gritting his teeth together. Romano's eyes widened as he realized what had happened.

Spain had pushed him out of the way.

And he... He had gotten slashed...

The Spaniard continued to back up, his face seared with pain. He pressed up against the wall, trying to bunch his shirt to staunch the bleeding. The Ottoman Empire let out a small chuckle.

And that was when Romano snapped.

Blind rage coursed throughout the Italian's body. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to rip the old empire limb from limb. Was this how Spain felt when he saw Romano bring threatened? Was this the feeling that made the Spaniard so frightening? His hand bumped against something, and Spain's axe filled his vision.

Out of the corner of his eye Romano saw The Ottoman Empire take several steps towards Spain. His sword was raised once more.

"GET AWAY FROM HIM!" Romano grabbed the axe—how did Spain carry that thing and make it look so easy? ! It was heavy as hell! And he lunged at the Ottoman for a third time. The attack finally connected, striking his arm and opening a river of scarlet upon that white robe. The older man swore aloud in his native tongue; nothing was severed, but Romano doubted that the brunette would be using that arm anytime this century, "Get the fuck out." The Italian snarled while standing with the axe, poised to strike again if needed. The Ottoman Empire simply stared at him, "GET OUT!" The older man clutched his wound and slowly made his way towards the exit, shrugging in defeat. He looked back to take one last look at his rival. Spain had sunk to a sitting position, slumped against the wall. Despite the obvious pain he was in, he still found strength so send a murderous glare at his enemy.

The old empire chuckled once more as he turned around, "He'll be dead by morning."

"And you'll be by sundown."

The statement caught the Ottoman off guard. He stared at the Italian incredulously, "Is... That a threat?"

Romano stood tall, his hazel eyes darkening with a solemn vow, "That's a promise, you bastard."

The empire let out another chuckle, "We'll see, Romano of Rome, we shall see..." The boy remained rooted to the floor until the Ottoman was out of sight. At that moment Romano cast the axe aside and all but sprinted to Spain's side. The floor was already becoming damp with blood, filling the Italian with dread. Mentally preparing himself for the worst he gently pulled Spain's shirt open at the tear to take a look. The wound was about nine inches long across the Spaniard's chest with red spilling to the floor in multiple rivulets. Romano gagged at the sight; he was going to treat this? He had little to no medical experience! A feeling of inadequacy washed over him. If Italy were here, he'd know what to do. Even if he was a coward, he would know how to keep Spain alive.

He looked up to meet stunned green eyes. Frustration and anger exploded within the Italian. In attempt to release his sudden rush of fury he cracked the back of his hand across the Spaniard's face. The frustration imploded, leaving only anger and terror, "What were you thinking? ! What the hell were you thinking? ! Were you even thinking at all? !"

Spain stared at him in blank shock before narrowing his eyes, "I think I saved your life!" He tugged weakly at his shirt again in order to cover the wound.

Romano smacked his hand away, "I'll handle that!" He quickly got up and ran to the kitchen, returning with a small knife. Deftly he cut the shirt off of the older man, and wadded it up. "U-Um..." He pressed the ball of cloth into Spain's hands, "You should apply pressure to it, and..." What should he do next? The Italian state futilely at his caretaker. Was it just him, or did that man look paler?

Spain winced as he tried to shift against the wall. His little Italian was staring at the blood tinged shirt with a completely lost expression. He tried to give the boy an encouraging smile, but it turned into a grimace of pain. He let out a small sigh. There was no point in being angry with him. "I'm sorry for... For earlier..." He leaned his head back against the wall. If he ever was going to apologize, now seemed like the best time.

Romano was snapped back to reality, "Wha...?" He then knew that Spain was referring to the fight they had earlier. "No... You were right," He began to stand up; "I am a mistake."

Spain winced again, had the boy really interpreted it like that? He grabbed the boy's arm, "You are the best mistake of my life," The Spaniard's words were firm, trying to make his charge understand "I wouldn't trade you for the world."

The Italian paused for a moment, and then flushed a light pink when he realized what the older man had said. He lightly smacked his caretaker on the arm, "Don't get sappy with me, you bastard!" He stood up, "H-Has the bleeding stopped yet?"

Most of the wadded shirt was wet by that point, "A little," Spain replied, "But I think we'll need some new bandages..." Weariness slowly began to creep into the Spaniard's body, but he refused it make it known.

Romano swore under his breath, it was still bleeding? ! He stood up. What now? He desperately tried to think of something, some useful bit of information that Italy had taught him, He recalled a moment when he was little, no more than seven. He had fallen and had gotten a sizable scrap on his arm. He remembers screaming various profanities as his younger brother pressed a wet cloth to the wound.

"Ve... Please don't be mad! I-If I don't clean it, i-it might get infected!"

Cleaned.

Romano stood up and ran out the back door, there was a well a few yards away. Quickly he threw the bucket down and was forced to wait while it filled.

Smiling softly, Spain attempted to stand up as well, the shirt was thoroughly soaked with blood. He would dig out his first aid kit and find some fresh bandages. He pushed himself up and took a few steps.

Big mistake.

The room spun around him, forcing him to his knees. Pain stabbed him in the chest once more and the world went dark.

After five minutes, Romano finally carried the half-filled bucket of water into the house. "Damn well... Not deep enough to fill the damn bucket all the way..." He set it down, "Hey bastard, where do you keep the—" He turned to see Spain face down on the floor. "Shit!" The Spaniard definitely was several shades paler and a small but rather frightening pool of blood had begun to form around him. Romano quickly moved to flip the older man on his back. "...Dammit!" He shook Spaniard roughly. "Wake up!" He slapped the brunette a couple times, "Wake up, wake up, wake up!" Green eyes blinked open slowly, "What happened? !"

"...I stood up... Then I fell..." He paused for a moment, "My face hurts..."

Romano suddenly became aware of his pant-legs becoming damp. He was kneeling in Spain's blood. The Italian balked at the sight, and tightly shut his eyes. "Wh-Where do you keep the bandages...?" He tried to focus on that and tried not to think about Spain bleeding out in front of him, but that quickly proved useless as Romano realized that he needed the bandages to treat the Spaniard who was bleeding out in front of him. The older brunette gave directions and his charge set off, but not before pressing the bloody shirt back to the wound, "Keep pressure on it!"

He ran out of the room and down the hall, returning with a small burlap sack and a few rags. Inside was a large roll of bandages and a small blade, along with a spool of strange, almost wire-like thread, a curved needle, and a small bottle of alcohol. He saw that Spain had his eyes closed, and he was taking slow, calculated breaths. "D-Does it hurt?" The question sounded so childish falling from the Italian's lips.

"...S'not that bad..."

The look on the Spaniard's face was more than enough to tell Romano that he was being lied to. He grabbed the bucket of water and dipped in into the water, wringing it out. Then he poured a few drops of alcohol onto the rag to thoroughly clean the wound. Carefully he began to dab at the torn flesh. Spain let out a loud hiss of pain, and ground his teeth together in protest. "I'm sorry..." The younger brunette whispered. "Me dispiace..." Reluctantly he began to closely inspect the injury. The slash was too deep to say it was shallow yet too shallow to say it was deep. He wiped off the spilled blood on Spain's chest then wadded up a length of bandage like he did the shirt earlier and pressed it firmly to the wound. "Okay... W-we need to try moving, I won't be able to t-treat you if you're lying in a puddle..." Of your own blood. Those words sounded so wrong coming from Romano. If anything, Spain would be the one taking care of the Italian. He went and grabbed a towel and laid it on the floor a few feet away. "On the count of three, I want you to roll over, okay?" The older man nodded weakly in response.

Weakly...

Spain being weak... The notion was unfathomable...

Tears pricked at the corners of Roman's eyes—no, he would not let them fall. It was his turn to be brave. He couldn't just turn and surrender, he would never be able to live with himself if he did.

"O-Okay... Uno... Due... Tre!" Onto the towel the Spaniard rolled.

"I'm fine... Don't worry," Spain cut him off before the younger brunette could ask if he was okay. Again his face betrayed his words.

Romano tried cleaning the wound once more, his thoughts plagued by the suffering man before him. "Please don't lie to me... Just... Just tell me the truth..."

Disregarding that statement Spain commented, "...Bleedin' slowed up more..."

"But you've lost a lot of blood..." The Italian let out a small sniff. "Why? You didn't have to save me... You are the Kingdom of Spain, and I'm just a territory, dammit!" Bitter tears began to stain the boy's cheeks and he reapplied the bandages. "You have so much to live for! Why would you try and sacrifice yourself for someone like me? !" His voice was anger and confused and a hysterical sob escaped him. "Why? !" He needed to know the truth.

The older man let out a soft chuckle and shakily reached up a hand to cup the young brunette's face, with his thumb rubbing small circles into the boy's face, "Fusoso... soso... so~" It was the silly noise that the Spaniard would chant whenever Romano was upset. "Fuso... so..." His eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment and he took a deep breath. "...You're safe... That's all that matters to me..." Slowly he let his hand fall to his side.

"N-No!" The Italian shook his head furiously, "It shouldn't!" The exhaustion present in those green eyes prompted one final question, a question that the boy did not want to ask, but he needed to know. "...You're dying, aren't you?"

The resounding silence was enough of an answer.

"You can't..." Romano began to panic, his chest rising and falling rapidly, "Dammit Spain!"

Spain let out long sigh, "...I'm fightin' it... And I don't plan on givin' up..." His eyes closed once more, "...But... M'tired..."

"No!" A fierce convection rang in the younger brunette's voice. "You are not allowed to fall asleep! You said you were going to fight it!" He decided to lift up the bandages to check the bleeding, but gentle, work worn hands covered his own.

"Don't bother..." Spain smiled, "Qué será, será... What will be, will be..." His eyes opened to look at Romano, "You'll... be okay."

Romano shook his head again, unable to say the words anymore. No, he wouldn't. He wouldn't last a day without Spain by his side. They sat for several minutes in silence, but eventually Romano found the will to speak, "Promise me..." He grabbed the Spaniard's chin, forcing him to look into those hazel eyes, "Promise me you'll wake up in the morning, do you hear me? ! I want you to promise me you'll wake up!"

There was another long pause, "...Te prometo..."

I promise you.

Romano relaxed slightly at the words, "Then you can go to sleep."

"...Stay... with me... okay?"

"I will..." Until the very end.

"Buenas... Noches..." Spain, unable to hold on any longer closed his eyes and slipped into complete unconsciousness.

The younger brunette voice shook with his tears that followed, "Buonanotte..." He carefully brushed a few stray hairs out of the older man's face. Romano placed his head against the Spaniard's chest, listening to his heartbeat. It was still there, and for the five minutes he laid there it showed no signs of slowing.

Spain was still fighting.

Finally, Romano had decided that it was time to change the bandages—er, wad of bandage—once more. He peeled it off the wound, noticing that it wasn't drenched red like the others. Spain did say that the bleeding had slowed, but Romano hadn't been able to see how much—

It had finally stopped.

A small glimmer of hope blossomed within the Italian's chest. Quickly, but with as much care and caution as possible, he washed the wound again; trying to make sure his eyes weren't playing a cruel joke on him. Some blood oozed lazily to the surface, but it was nothing compared to the crimson wave of the initial slash. Romano examined the injury to see if there was anything else he could do. The wound was rather wide in the center, and with a jolt the young brunette realized that it would need stiches if it was ever going to heal.

Sewing it up would probably lessen the chances of infection too.

Romano took a deep, steadying breath. He could do this; he had mended torn shirts and repaired holes in both Spain's and his own clothes plenty of times. There couldn't be that much of a difference... Right? Slowly, almost methodically the Italian retrieved the needle and thread from the burlap bag, mentally preparing himself for the task at hand. He drew a considerable length of thread from the spool and spent nearly three minutes struggling with the needle. He doused both in water and alcohol to ensure that they were clean and he brought the tip of the curved needle to the end of the slash. It hovered there for several long moments.

He couldn't do it.

Cloth was one thing, a human's skin—Spain's skin—was a different matter entirely.

He couldn't do it.

But he had to.

Romano swallowed the bile that threatened to rise in his throat and steeled himself as he plunged the needle in, using the curve to follow through on the other side of the cut; he repeated the action, forming the first loop. Spain gave no reaction whatsoever, prompting the Italian to lay his head against the older man's chest again.

Still beating strong.

He timed his stitching with the Spaniard's breathing. Inhale, insert, exhale, loop. He spaced the stiches so that they were each about a centimeter apart. It was a long and harrowing process, each stich had to bee deep enough to that it wouldn't tear the skin when Spain moved, but far enough apart so that it allowed movement. The entire time the constant fear that the Spaniard would suddenly wake up in the middle of it haunted Romano. He had seen enough pain on that face for a lifetime. Ultimately the task was finished, though Romano felt that—knew that Italy could have done a better job. He looked toward the still open back door, and could see the faintest amount of light gathering amongst the tops of the trees and the horizon.

The Ottoman Empire's last words suddenly echoed in his mind, and he found himself frantically checking Spain's pulse, his heartbeat, his breathing. The Italian breathed a sigh of relief as he received a positive sign from each. He stood up and finally closed the door, hurried to Spain's bedroom. He yanked the comforter off of the bed and dashed back to the older brunette, checking his vitals once more. Everything was still stable. He washed the line of stiches one last time before gently propping Spain up and wrapping the bandage around his torso. With that taken care of he was laid back down and Romano threw the blanket over him. The boy hesitated only a moment before curling up beside his caretaker, his head resting on the man's chest. Romano made one final plea.

"Whatever you do... Don't leave me here alone..."

He closed his eyes and was lulled to sleep by the beating of Spain's heart.

xxxx

The light of the late afternoon eventually roused the Italian into waking. He opened his eyes to see the rather plain looking upholstery of a couch. A blanket was covering him, but it was quickly thrown off as Romano jolted himself into a sitting position.

Wait...

Had it all just been... A dream?

He stood up and stretched, yawning as he did so, he opened his eyes once more—

The room was in chaos, the candelabrum was tossed carelessly on the floor, a bucket of water had been tipped over, its contents spilling over a towel and burlap sack. The tell-tale bloodstains were everywhere. After taking that sight in only one question flashed within the boy's mind:

...Where the hell was Spain? !

Romano tore through the house, desperately calling the man's name. Damn that Spaniard for having such a large home! The young brunette's search quickly escalated to hysteria. Where could he have gone? Did the Ottoman Empire come back and finish him off? At long last he found the man slumped against the wall in one of the hallways. "Spain!" Some colored had returned to him, but he still looked pale. Romano shook him a few times, "C'mon, wake up... You promised you'd wake up!"

Green eyes blinked open sluggishly, confirming life.

Spain was alive.

He was alive.

Words could not describe Romano's happiness.

But there were other matters to deal with first, "What the fuck are you doing in the hall? !"

Spain stared at him, trying to comprehend the question, "No tengo una camisa..." He pointed to his bare, yet bandaged chest for emphasis.

"I know you don't have a shirt," The Italian growled, "Now get your ass to the couch and I'll get you one!" He watched the Spaniard round the corner, and listened carefully in case there was a sudden thud. He grabbed the first shirt he saw out of Spain's closet and found the Spaniard easing himself onto the couch as he entered the living room. "I swear to God if you've ripped any of your stiches—"

"Stiches? !" The older man cut him off, looking down to stare at his chest. "You stitched me up?"

"That's not important, you bastard!" Romano shouted, "Just... Stay there!" He tossed the shirt at the older brunette and ran back into the kitchen and retrieved some cleaning supplies and a bowl of tomatoes. He stomped backed into the living room. "Eat." He commanded as he thrust the bowl into Spain's hands. After quickly checking the older brunette's injury and rewrapping he set himself to work. Spain watched with a strange kind of fascination as Romano attacked the mess. Never had the Italian been so aggressive in his work. Truth was, the boy wanted to erase it all. He did not wan a single reminder of the events of last night, and he managed to scrub them all away.

All except for the large groove in the floor where Spain had slammed his axe down in order to save Romano. He ran his hand over it once, and made a mental note to buy a rug the next time Spain and he went out.

"Romano..."

He turned to face the source of the voice and saw Spain with his arms outstretched. For once the fiery brunette went into those arms willingly, and leaned against the older man's chest, being mindful of his injury. "You were so brave..."

The Italian stared at him like he was mad, "I was so scared that I was going to lose you..." He immediately regretted saying that a flushed a bright pink.

Spain laughed softly, "Hey, don't get sappy with me, mi querido,"

Romano folded his arms and looked away, trying to hide his embarrassment. His voice was barely above a whisper, "Don't say thing you don't mean..." He wasn't dear to anyone...

Spain was confused for a second, "What happened, mi chiquito?"

It took Romano a moment to realize that the Spaniard wasn't just asking about one specific thing, he was asking about everything. The fights, their anger, their reasons, themselves. He also realized in that moment that it was pointless to be so confused about his feelings. He just came this close to losing the one person in the world that he could trust wholeheartedly. Hazel eyes met vibrant green, and Romano finally had an answer.

"Something changed, and I felt something that I didn't want to feel... And I was scared of it..." He gave Spain a small half-smile, "But, now I'm not scared anymore." He blushed again and suddenly frowned.

"What's wrong?"

"I..." He trailed off and looked away from the Spaniard, "I can't say it..."

The older brunette gave him an amused look "Why not?"

"It's embarrassing!"

"Well, you don't have to if you don't want to..." Spain softly replied, and as if he couldn't help it, he brushed his lips against the Italian's cheek.

Romano's eyes widened in shock, "B-Bastard!" He blushed again.

"Aww... You look so cute when you blush!" This prompted a darkening of said blush.

Romano folded his arms and muttered something under his breath.

"Hmm...? What was that?"

"I said if you're going to kiss me at least do it right!" The Italian snapped.

The Spaniard happily complied, bringing the younger man in for a soft, chaste meeting of lips that expressed everything. They separated after several moments. A smile was exchanged, and Romano went back to tending Spain's injury.

The words didn't need to be said, for the love had been there the entire time. Perhaps not visible, but deep down, where only the heart can see.

*Dodges Shrapnel* Hopefully the plot made up for the rest of the story's fail-ness?

WELL, if you didn't find this horrible, I'd really appreciate it if you'd review!

Thanks for reading!