Bambino Blues

Portugal had never been the best with kids.

Not him.

The only child he'd ever had to associate himself with was his younger (and stupid) brother, Spain. Now, even though he might not look it from his oblivious and carefree nature, that boy used to be one crazy little asshole. When he first got him, all dressed up in a long-sleeved white shirt that pooled to his feet when he stood, he had seemed okay. The little fucker even smiled at him. The moment they got home, however, his smile had turned sinister, he'd open his mouth, and freaking screamed. Wailed. Started flailing in his arms until he dropped him, which only caused even more screeching.

Needless to say, they never did get along after that. From tantrums came actual hits (he would remember getting socked in the face while he slept with a tiny first for as long as he lived), and then silent plots to 'get rid' of him.

It was pretty fucking weird to receive death-threats from a two-year-old boy.

Then, next thing you know, Antonio was a teenager, less annoying, but much, much more powerful. When he moved out (to a better house, that fucker), taking more land than Portugal would have liked, it was fucking paradise to be alone in his home once more.

So he'd never had kids around after that. (Brasil didn't count since he was actually nice. And quite cute.)

And yet, he'd agreed to babysit.

Babysit a child.

Of Spain's.

Shit.

"...so call this number and this number if anything happens, sí? Oh! And help yourself to anything we have, hermano! But try not to make a mess in the kitchen because Lovi will kill me~"

"He'd kill you even if it was my fault?"

"Sí!"

"See, this is why I like Lovino."

"Ahaha~ me too!"

"Anything else before you leave, babaca?"

"He's not supposed to be up past midnight," deadpanned an annoyed voice coming from the top of the staircase. The two Iberian countries turned around to see South Italy carefully holding a smiling toddler in his arms. As he slowly made his way to them, the young boy began to squirm.

"Mamma?"

"Hmm?"

"Who?" he questioned, eyebrows furrowed as he pointed to the startled Portugal. Beside him, Spain beamed proudly.

"Him? That's Zio Alvarez. Say hi, bebè," the Italian murmured softly, surprising the man in question into dropping his jaw wide open. What the hell happened to Romano Italia, Lovino Vargas? The one who could easily make a grown man cry just from his words alone? Who knew more obscenities than the dirtiest of pirates? Who was forever grumpy and rude and just plain mean? He was the country of the freaking mafia, for goodness' sake!

Romano seemed to understand exactly what was going on in his brain, for he sent him a deep scowl that pretty much told him "You got a problem with how I treat my kid, bastard? Fuck off."

"Mijo, come say 'hi' to your tio~!" Spain excitedly reached his arms out for his son, who, to Portugal's complete amusement, only snuggled closer to his mother.

"No..."

"Hey, don't be lazy. Might as well know who you'll be stuck with for the day." Romano prodded the child gently on his back, but the only response he received was a tiny giggle. Rolling his eyes, 'Mamma' plopped down on the couch and motioned with his chin for Portugal to sit beside them. Hesitantly so, he obliged, and was immediately rewarded with an armful of nephew.

"Introduce yourself, bastard."

"Ah. O-okay. Uhm. Hola. Er, ciao. Wh-what language do you speak?" He actually got whacked in the head for that one.

"Idiot! He's a fucking baby!"

"Lovi! Language, por favor!"

"Well, what am I supposed to say? I don't remember how these things work..." Portugal shook his head and focused his attention to the tiny boy staring at him with an innocent expression.

It was really the first time he really got to look at the child.

He had long, wavy hair (a sandy color) that reached to the back of his neck. His wide eyes were of a lighter brown, gorgeous, not quite chocolate. He had a cute button nose and smooth, creamy (and very slightly tan) skin. His pink lips were agape slightly as they stared at each other, and for the first time, Portugal found that he might not mind babies all that much.

"Zio!" the boy exclaimed after a beat, pointing a chubby finger at him. For a moment, the Portuguese man thought he was going to start cooing like his brother had. He quickly shook the thought away, shuddering. Heaven forbid he end up like Spain.

"Heh. Yes. What's your name, kid?"

"Flori!"

"Flori?"

"It's actually Florian~ Flori's something Lovi likes to call him~"

"Shut up, bastard."

"Well, it's a nice name," Portugal said offhandedly and glanced at Romano, who had just risen from his seat when he realized his son did not seem to mind the new babysitter. However, seeing that his mother had moved from beside him, Florian began to whine.

"Mamma! Up!" he called, reaching his tiny arms out to the Italian. "Mamma!"

Before Romano could react, Spain was immediately by the child's side, plucking him joyfully from his brother's awkward hold. "Aww! Papá wants a hug, too~!"

"No!" complained Florian, his eyes filling with tears as his father rocked him back and forth in what he clearly hoped was a soothing way. Regardless, it was an unmitigated failure. "Mamma!"

"Gimme, stupid. You're making him cry." The moment he was in Romano's arms again, the young boy calmed almost instantly.

"As you can see, mi tesoro is a bit of a mommy's boy..." teased Spain with his everlasting smile, undeterred, despite having been pushed away by his own son.

"Can't blame him," scoffed Portugal, crossing his arms. "I wouldn't want you holding me either."

"Hermano~ Why are you so mean~?"

"...I'm mean? You got a pissy Italian pushing you around—and I mean that in the most literal way—calling you words even I've never heard of, bringing you down every time he can, and yet you call me mean?"

"Pero...Lovi's my love~"

"...touché..."

"Oi! Bastardi! I'm still here!" Romano snapped, kicking Spain in the shin for good measure as he passed him. He directed his glare to Portugal. "Either we leave now or I'm sending your brother to spend the night with you."

That got both Iberian countries' attention as soon as the words were uttered. Portugal nervously accepted the boy from the smaller man, grinning sheepishly at them both. At the same time, Spain grabbed the Florian-free Lovino by the arm, tugging them closer together until he could intertwine their fingers. "Okay, hermano~! We're going now! Remember to call~!"

"Yeah, yeah...hey, kid, wanna say good-bye to mommy and...this guy?"

"Hermano! I'm his daddy~"

"Whatever," muttered Lovino under his breath, and he reached over quickly to peck his son's forehead, a hand delicately resting against a soft cheek. "Ciao, bebè..."

"Oh! Come say bye-bye to Papá, too~!"

It took a while before the couple finally left. Florian practically glued himself to his mother before being coaxed into letting go, and by that time, Romano had suddenly become hesitant about leaving their child, even if it was only overnight. (Not that he'd ever admit in becoming even more soft.)

But, somehow, they'd managed, and now Portugal found himself staring at a very displeased baby. Already he looked nothing like the little angel that had greeted him before.

"So...Florian...what do you want to do?" he tried, offering a wary smile to the toddler. Ah, crap...how long had it been since he'd interacted with pipsquicks? "Anything?"

"Mamma?"

"No, no...your mommy's not here. Mommy will be back tomorrow morning, okay?" If he wasn't so nervous about the idea of having responsibility over this kid for an entire day, he might have laughed at the fact that he had just called Romano 'mommy'.

"Voglio Mamma!" Florian whined, pouting quite adorably at this new-found uncle. Resisting the urge to coo at the baby's cuteness, Portugal scratched the side of his head.

"Italian again?" Shit. The only languages he knew without fail were his own (Portuguese), English (he had an amazing British accent, by the way), and—regrettably—Spanish. Which he hated because it related him to dumbass Spain. The only good thing to come out of that were all the obscenities he could call his sibling.

But crap if he knew more than middle-school level Italian.

"Uh-huh!"

"Do you know Spanish, criança?"

"No! It's stupid speak!"

Grinning, he lifted the child by his armpits and rested him carefully against his hip, holding him tightly. "You sound a lot like your mom, y'know?"

Blinking innocently, Florian stuck a finger in his mouth and suckled on it. Chuckling under his breath, Portugal found himself walking over to the kitchen, Spain's warning resurfacing in his mind:

"But try not to make a mess in the kitchen because Lovi will kill me~"

Oh, yes. Revenge was absolutely sweet.

"Do you like pasta?"

Well, the kitchen had definitely seen better days.

Fuck, was Romano going to kill his air-headed husband!

They successfully got tomato sauce all over the counters, walls, and the majority of the ceiling. Pots thrown around? Check. Noodles on the ceiling? Check, and please don't ask about that one. Tomatoes? Splattered on every surface, baby.

The floor, unfortunately, was left relatively clean.

Not that he didn't try to make it otherwise. Simply put, he was not going to risk dropping the baby over a spill on the tiled floor. Especially considering the toddler had almost fallen not too long ago.

Portugal had literally only turned away for a few seconds when he heard a tiny cry of surprise. By the time he spun around again, the boy was tittering over the edge of the counter before slipping—slow-motion in the man's eyes—and quite suddenly, Portugal had found himself dropping to the hard floor with a confused baby sitting safely on his stomach.

He had the bump on his head to prove it.

But that was okay! Florian and he were both safe; because, y'know, had something happened to the baby cub, mama bear would be chasing him across Europe with a Tommy gun in a blink of an eye.

So there were soccer moms and...mafia moms.

Yup. Sounded about right.

"You've eaten a lot," commented Portugal after several minutes of watching his nephew gobble up spaghetti without fail. His red sippy-cup of apple juice—they were out of tomato—was mostly covered in sauce, as well. Florian only smiled from his perch on his custom-made highchair.

"We made a mess, huh?" the man happily continued, smirking evilly at the direction of the kitchen. He couldn't wait to see the look on Romano's face. Not to mention, the look on Spain's once his husband began to beat him senseless.

Hmm...that was something he might want to videotape...

"Mess," repeated Florian brightly, licking at his spaghetti-covered hands. Portugal found the sight quite cute—until the kid wiped his grubby paws on his shirt.

He moved to stand up and clean the boy himself before he could sully anything else. Which, unfortunately, only lead to tomato sauce stains on his own shirt.

And hair.

And face.

And pants.

Because Florian had decided that he was finished with his meal—and had dumped the rest of his plate on his uncle to prove his point.

"Shit!"

"Sh—sh—sh—"

"Oh, god, no. No, no, no, don't repeat it, don't repeat it, don't—"

"Shit~!"

"SHIT!"

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit~!"

"Florian! If you want Zio to live, you will not say that anymore!"

"Shit~!"

"Merda," groaned Portugal to himself, staring gravely into the tub currently being filled with warm water. He had decided to give the kid a bath, hoping both to keep him squeaky-clean and distract him from the new word he had just learned.

A word which he desperately hoped would not be uttered in front of his parents. At least, while he was still within shooting range.

Romano wasn't called the home of the mafia for nothing.

Deciding that the water was now ready for the young child drenched in pasta sauce, Portugal turned the faucet off and glanced back at his little charge.

Fuck, was he so cute.

Florian was on all-fours, poking happily at the fuzzy rug on the bathroom floor (still unintentionally cussing in his baby voice). He seemed to enjoy the feel of the material, as he giggled every time he swiped his hand across the surface.

Damn...why wasn't Spain this adorable when he took care of him?

"C'mon, Flori...bath time..."

Thankfully, the boy gave him no more trouble and he successfully managed to wash him fully without getting soaked (that much). Figuring now was as good as ever to wash himself, the Iberian nation stripped down to his boxers and hopped beside his nephew in the new tub-water that he had just filled. His pasta-stained clothes were thrown off to the side, forgotten for the moment. Florian obviously found his presence amusing and grabbed his floating turtle. Which, apparently, squirted as well.

"Hahaha! Zio wet!"

"I know," Portugal laughed, accepting the younger's 'attacks' amiably. Besides, there was no way in hell he was going to risk him drowning if he splashed back. He didn't want to die just yet, thank you very much.

As the little toddler continued to squirt him with 'Señor Tortuga' (the only Spanish words he'd ever speak), he couldn't help the corners of his smile from turning up as he realized why exactly Romano had gone soft.

"Flori...you like your mamãe, yeah?"

"Sì!"

"What about your papa?"

At this, Florian visibly frowned, staring unhappily at the toy turtle in his chubby hands. "No."

"No? No, what?"

"Non mi piace," he sniffled in childish Italian, crossing his arms in a very Romano-isque way.

"You don't like him?" Alright, maybe Portugal shouldn't be grinning at that fact (what kind of father would be happy to know his kid disliked him?) but he hated that Spanish douchebag, so...whatever. "Why not?"

"Loud."

"Okay, got that. Anything else? I mean, I hate the guy, but he's too much of an airhead to be a bad father..." he remarked, wondering vaguely if the boy even understood what he had said.

Florian, it seemed, was having problems finding the words to describe exactly why he wasn't very fond of his dad. "He...d-d-dough-na-ut get my juice."

"He doesn't get your juice?" repeated Portugal as he tried his hardest not to laugh at the baby's mispronunciation. "What does that mean?"

"No juice! E Papá talks funny!"

"I can understand that..."

"He hugs a lot! An'—an' turtle feel funny! Non mi piace!"

"The feel of the turtles? He lets them crawl on you? Why the fuck's he letting those monsters near his baby?"

"Mamma says that!" Florian cried brightly, grinning up at him with his cute, baby teeth. "Mamma says Papá 'bastard'!"

Blanching, Portugal raised an eyebrow at the kid and laughed nervously. "You shouldn't repeat anything your mommy says... His words aren't exactly good, see."

"I like Mamma," declared the boy with as much finality as a young child could muster. It was an 'aww!' worthy sight, actually. He'd have to admit that one.

"I can see that. I like him, too." At least, when he was being civil and not calling him a 'pomegranate-fucking bastard'. Plus, Romano was admittedly attractive. Even his scowl could be considered sexy!

Uh...

Not that he believed it to be so...

Heh. Heheheheh...

Awkward...

...turtle.

"Oh? Wow! Zio, you be new Papá!"

Cue sweat-drop. Now.

"Eh?"

"Yes! Bad Papá sleep on couch!"

"I'm guessing Mamma says that a lot, too, am I right?"

"Sì!"

They'd only gotten through snack-slash-bath time, and already Florian had added a new word to his vocabulary and promoted his terribly confused uncle to 'Papá.'

How awesome was that?

Prussia, eat your heart out.

"Do you take siestas?" Portugal yawned, shifting the baby to his other hip as he moved downstairs. They were (both) clean, changed, and ready to cause more trouble. Unfortunately, it was nearly impossible to be much of a nuisance when one was half-asleep. If he wanted to trash the house some more—not to piss of Romano, of course not; he just wanted to see his brother taken care of (and no, he did not mean that in a sexual way) like he rightfully deserved to be—then they both would have to be completely recharged and ready to go (cause mass destruction).

Florian only offered a tiny nod against his neck—poor boy was already dozing off—mumbling in a mixture of Italian and random baby-babbles.

"The couch's pretty comfy..." Portugal mused quietly, glancing around for a blanket. He found one tossed carelessly across one of the armchairs and grabbed it gingerly. Hmm...soft and fluffy...

With only one arm, he managed to situate himself on the couch on his back, a sweet baby resting on his chest. He stroked the boy's tiny hand lazily, humming some random lullaby he knew off the top of his head.

Eventually, when Florian was comfortably asleep ("Those are some pretty cute-ass snores..."), the tired nation found his own eyelids heavy and, slowly, as his voice drifted off, they began to close...

"...sleep well, bebê..."

...

"...Zio?"

Thump.

"Zio!"

Thump.

"Hnn..."

"Zio~!"

Smack!

"...guh...fuck...Spain, if that's you, I swear I'm gunn—gunna..."

"Zio! Shit, Zio, shit!"

Well, that got him to open his eyes.

Portugal barely registered the small fists beating on his chest, focusing mainly on getting the sleep out of his eyes. His vision cleared, giving him a full view of the blanket-covered Florian staring up at him curiously.

"Hey, kid..." Insert yawn here. "I see you're up already..."

"Pasta?"

"Again? Geez. You really are just like Romano..."

"Mamma?"

"Yes," Portugal grunted, lifting the boy to his shoulders and sitting him there, "but cuter and nicer."

Florian giggled at his new position (ooh, he was way up high!), tugging happily at his uncle's hair. His eyes widened as he caught sight of the small ponytail hanging loosely in front of him. Instinctively, he grabbed it.

"Ouch!"

Tug. Tug tug tug tug.

"Flori! Ow, that's Zio's hair!"

"Hahaha!"

"Yeah, funny, okay...ow! Shit!"

"Shit!"

Portugal groaned in defeat, eyes scanning the kitchen havoc for any leftover pasta. Surprisingly enough, amidst the upturned jars and wayward pots, there was almost an entire's bowl worth left.

He was getting really good with one-armed jobs (yeah, Flori was on his shoulders, but he kept a hand on the boy's leg anyway).

A few minutes later found them sitting easily on the living room's couch, food on a TV-tray he managed to find leaning against an armchair, the television on to some cartoon.

"Hola! Soy Dora! And this is my friend—Boots the monkey!"

"Fuck. More Spanish..."

Florian either didn't mind the show or was too absorbed in eating his spaghetti. Surprising...considering he did mention not liking his father's native language.

Portugal, on the other hand...

"It's over there! Can you not see the fucking key? You stupid bitch, not that! Why the fuck are you asking for my help if you're not gonna listen?"

...yeah...

"Oh! Is it this one?"

"Yes! Yes, yes! Just pick the fucking key and get on with it!"

"Wow! It worked! Good job! Thanks for helping!"

"Yeah, well, you're not fucking welcome...puta..."

He hadn't really realized what he had been doing (or saying) for the past few minutes until he glanced beside him and met the awestruck (and messy) face of his little nephew, who had obviously finished with his meal. "W-what?"

Florian then smiled, cheeks coated with sauce (again). "You like show!"

"Me? Uh...I dunno—"

"Papá likes show, too!"

"Well, of course he'd like it. He speaks Spanish."

"Bastard Papá!"

"Woah, there," grinned Portugal suddenly, pulling the baby to his lap and patting his head almost lovingly, "someone's been listening to their mommy~"

"I love Mamma!"

"That's nice...I'm sure he loves you, too. In fact, I know he does."

"Yay! Oh! E ti amo, Zio!"

Kids didn't normally make him feel happy. If he were being honest, he wasn't too fond of them.

But if he were also being honest, he'd have to admit that this one had made him the happiest yet. Even more so than any of the colonies that had brought him wealth and power centuries ago.

Florian was too sweet, too precious. He was innocent, adorable, and way too honest. He made him laugh, made him nervous and scared...and yet..

They got along so much better than he could have ever imagined.

"Heh. Eu também te amo."

"Huh?"

"Means 'I love you, too,' in Portuguese, kid."

"Ohhh. Oh, Zio! Teach?"

"You wanna learn my language? Really?"

"Sì!"

"Okay. Well, 'sì' would be 'sim.' Got it?"

"Sim~!"

"Fantastico! Now..."

"...aww, look, Lovi~! They're so cute sleeping like that~!"

"Shut up, asshole! Do you want to wake them up?"

"Ah, lo siento, lo siento, mi amor..."

There was a shuffling of feet, a few curse words as hard edges were bumped into, and then Portugal felt the warm weight atop of him disappear. He whined at the sudden loss, reaching out to pull back that comfy warmth, until a hand smacked his own.

"Idiot."

"Hnn...nice to see you, too, Romano..."

"You didn't brush his teeth, did you?"

"We were sleepy," he murmured in reply to the quiet Italian voice, which he vaguely noted was not as harsh as usual. He opened his eyes, blinking at the darkness. "Couldn't help it."

"Huh. Well, if you want him so bad, at least take him upstairs to a bed first. You know which room's yours, so go." Romano's figure was illuminated somewhat by the television set (which was left on the whole time) so he could make out the man carefully offering him the sleeping toddler in his arms. Without missing a beat, he sat up and reached over for his favorite nephew, grinning happily.

"Alright. No problemo."

"Tch. Whatever. And if you roll over him while you're sleeping, just know that I really will kill you slowly and painfully, fucker."

"Yes, Mama-Lovi," he snickered, dodging the kick Romano directed at his shin as he passed him. On his way to the staircase, he caught sight of Spain staring in horror at the kitchen, mouth hanging agape. They made eye-contact and the older man offered a one-finger salute, mouthing, "Iberian Union, cadela."

Yes, all was well. He formed a strong bond with his new nephew, proved himself a worthy babysitter, and sealed his brother's (unfortunate) fate.

Life was good.

"Mmm...M-Mamma?"

"Huh? You awake, bambino?"

"Oh! Flori! Come to Papá, mijo!"

"Aaah? No! Shit, Papá! Shit, shit!"

...

Oh...deus...

"Alvarez, you are fucking dead."

Shit.

A/N: This is one long-ass one-shot DX

So...I was playing Sims 3, and I had a Spamano file. And...I found out you could adopt.

You know where I'm going with this.

I named the kid 'Florian' because I was searching through names with Latin roots and this one reminded me of Florence, which is in Italy. Haha. Aaand, it means 'flower', which reminded me of Spain's carnations (or whatever he was making in that one episode).

I have a head!canon that Spain and Romano's child would cling onto his grumpy mama and not really like his hyper, cheery daddy. XD Plus, Lovi looks like the type to be super mean to everyone else except his own kid, who he'd be the best (softie) parent ever to. LOL.

Ah, here're some translations~

babaca - asshole (P)

pero - but (S)

mijo - my son (S)

zio - uncle (I)

tio - uncle (S)

criança - kid (P)

"Voglio Mamma!" - I want mom! (I)

mamãe - mom (P)

"Non mi piace." - I don't like. (I)

E - and (I)

Sì - yes (I) [There's a difference in the accent mark. Cuz Flori really hates Spanish ;D]

puta - bitch (S)

E ti amo - And I love you (I)

lo siento, mi amor - Sorry, my love (S)

"Iberian Union*, cadela." - "Iberian Union, bitch." (P) [*Here, Spain and Portugal lived in the same house. They weren't too happy about it, though. Porty's mentioning so Spain knows exactly what his revenge is for XD]

bambino - baby (I)