Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than Romano owns real estate on Antigua.

Summary: Romano pulls some strings and gets himself a free vacation with Spain, but it's riddled with annoyances.

Pairing: Spain x Romano

Rating: M (very implied pseudo-sex, terrible writing, lengthy, unbeta-ed, shoot me please)

Hawksbill

Stepping off of a plane after over seven hours of non-stop flying (with Spain, ugh) to face an immediate, stifling heat is not Romano's idea of fun.

He also doesn't appreciate the fact that they have to walk down those ridiculous rolling staircase things or the fact that customs are in an open building that is similarly hot and humid compared to the outside. Sure, the ladies checking luggage and working customs are pretty and clean and smiling and happy and inviting, but that doesn't exactly play into the scenario when he's supposed to be on a dreadful 'couple's vacation' with his – Romano gags at the thought even as it passes through his mind – boyfriend.

He looks over at his – ugh – lover, who is, true to his nature, wearing a pair of comically oversized sunglasses (perched uselessly on his head, of course), a hideously tacky tropical shirt, repulsively baggy shorts and a pair of cheap sandals. His tousled hair is messier than usual from all of the "sleeping" he did on the flight – sleeping, yeah right. Spain snores in his sleep. Not loudly, but he does. (Don't ask Romano how he knows that, he'll deny having the knowledge.) Romano is certain that Spain was only pretending to be asleep so he could lean against him and contaminate his nice clothes with idiocy.

What a total bastard.

"It was really nice of America to let us stay in his summer home here, wasn't it, Romano?" He's… bubbling. He's actually bubbling with happiness. What a freak.

The Italian shudders and wonders why he does nice things for idiots like Spain. God knows that Spain doesn't deserve the fruits of his labour.

Not that he works hard to do nice things for Spain.

"Yeah, whatever… goddamn, can you hurry up and get the fucking bags? I'm being boiled alive, here."

"Okay, Romano~!"

Of course, in Romano-speak, doing "nice things" for idiots like Spain entails something like showing up at America's doorstep with a few of his Mafia at three in the morning on Friday the 13th, a brief knock on the door while he and his acquaintances are covered in bed sheets and a promise that he will skin England in the middle of the night and send his ghost to force-feed the American horribly burnt scones for the rest of his life should he fail to acquiesce to their demands.

And, of course, the only solution to prevent such a fate would be to hand over the keys to his outrageously nice house in Jumby Bay for the spring and never speak of the meeting again.

Considering the fact that the American was almost scarily easy to manipulate (especially since he didn't know which country was manipulating him), Spain was almost scarily easy to please (just the words "plane ride" made his eyes brighten and his imaginary tail start wagging) and the Italian was scarily… scary (when provoked, damn it; you can't be a womanizer just by being scary!), the whole transaction was really very easy to visualize, plan and complete (thanks completely to luck and very happy coincidences).

After filling out the paperwork required (and definitely not while pointedly avoiding eagle-eyed Antigua, who he'd accidentally stood up on a date a few years ago after a World Conference and they'd not since talked), Romano manages to wave down a cab after much complaining and pulling Spain from this place to the next.

Well, if you can call it a cab. It's more like a black, seven to nine person van with - air conditioning; fuck yes – a rather talkative driver and not-as-clear-as-Spain-and-his-digital-camera-would-like windows. Romano tells the driver where they're going and zones out, watching as bright blue skies and orange tiles and white mosaics and magenta flowers that look like they're made of paper blur into some sort of blorangwhigenta color behind his eyelids.

Spain shakes him awake at their stop – had he really fallen asleep in under three minutes? – and Romano tips the driver. He doesn't normally tip people for doing their fucking jobs which they should be getting paid to do by their employers (meaning the people who were employing them and should rightfully be paying them a wage instead of asking visitors to dip into their vacation money), but he figures that any poor sap who has to work in this heat every day and listen to people like Spain should be able to go down to the store and buy his girlfriend something nice like… a coconut.

Whatever is considered something nice in Antigua.

…though he's fairly certain that if he'd tried to show up to his date with Antigua with a coconut as a gift, he'd get his skull bashed in by the vibrant young woman.

Romano has Spain unload the luggage onto the ground while he dutifully scouts out the horizon for the ferry to the small resort island. A small white crest is coming toward them, white and blue and looking so inviting compared to humid heat, which has come back to its job of dutifully smothering Romano. The petite vessel looks almost like it's made of plastic or some other cheap and sinkable substance as it docks; the Italian is wary of setting foot into it, but Spain loads the luggage on easily like some sort of lumbering pack mule.

Hmph, he has the lumbering part down already.

Romano sits down on one of the plastic-looking benches, staring at the luggage which looks like it wants nothing more than to become fish food and then the craft starts moving and it makes the most ridiculous revving sound that Romano has ever heard, and he'd heard Spain's drunken attempts at imitating a motorcycle. His fingers curl around the bench and he holds on tight; Spain is shaking his shoulder because "Romano, Romano! We can stand up in the front of the boat and feel the sea breeze," and wouldn't that be a wonderful start to their vacation, with salty spray layering his face and caking into his silk shirt and frizzing his hair out on the very first day?

"No, I'm going to watch the bags."

And Spain makes those stupid sad eyes and sits down next to Romano and the Italian starts squirming uncomfortably because Spain is never sad and he finds himself sitting up at the front of the shiny plastic white boat anyway, Spain leaning dangerously over the edge of the rail and chattering excitedly and taking pictures and I wonder how long it would take him to drown if I pushed him over…

They make it across with little to no hassle. The bags make it across, but Romano warily eyes the British couple who had been on the ferry with them – he hadn't thought to notice them until he'd realized that their bags had been left with those two and what if they stole something?

He pushes the thought from his mind because now that needy Spaniard is tugging on his arm and when did he get all of the baggage onto the dock, but hey, it doesn't really matter as long as Romano doesn't have to carry it.

Because Romano is doing all of the difficult trans-continental paperwork and making sure that they don't go to fucking jail or something. Spain can do a little heavy lifting; it wouldn't kill him to put on a little more muscle.

Though he certainly doesn't need it.

Shaking the thought from his mind, Romano signs some forms to allow them to rent a golf cart – a golf cart, Jesus Christ. Spain could drive for all he cared; if Romano couldn't speed down the street, he didn't even want to be the one behind the wheel.

So Romano sits beside the driver's seat for once, crossing his arms and grumbling about sissy machinery and how fucking hot it is and can Spain please hurry his stupid ass up and get them the hell out of here?

So the Spaniard finally stops chit-chatting with one of the island greeters about scuba-diving (which was useless from the get-go, like hell is Romano going to put on one of those repulsive body suits) and loads the suitcases onto the back – a sort of pickup-truck-meets-golf-cart-and-has-repulsive-inbred-babies sort of thing; a boxy, steel contraption that looked as though it would hurt to touch resting where a second row of seats would come standard on most others.

Romano won't have to worry about the steel boxy contraption of doom, though; because he won't be lifting a fucking finger for this vacation. No, he is going to sit back and enjoy the muggy heat and the spicy food and the irritating British tourists—

Fuck. Why are they here again?

Spain finally backs out with what had to be the most grating sound that Romano has ever heard, bar none. He would gladly listen to France singing about "le très bien moi" at the semi-obligatory after-conference karaoke parties for the rest of his life if he never had to hear this sound again.

Romano just hopes that it will all be over when they find America's ridiculous property – "named Freedom," the trembling nation had offered in the presence of his ghostly visitors that fateful night – so he can find the nearest bed, crawl on top of it and sleep for a good week to get rid of this fucking jet lag.

...~...

As it happens, Romano gets none of his wishes. His – ugh – boyfriend takes about an hour to figure out the fact that the brakes are wimpy, so he goes at half of the speed that he should be going. Oh, and Spain stops to photograph hermit crabs and other such nonsense for another good two hours after that, babbling like the deranged lunatic he is about the beauty of the wildlife and isn't Romano so happy to be somewhere so nice and calm?

Yes, but right now he would much rather be nice and calm in the comfort of a nice, clean bed. Not to mention that the back of their pickup-truck-golf-cart-bastard-child had started squeaking in the back under the weight of the luggage.

After taking a photo of probably the fiftieth lizard that they've seen on the island already, Spain pipes up with, "So, where exactly is America's summer home?"

Romano should have tried to bring his gun on board just on the off chance that it would be overlooked and he would have the chance to shoot himself in the head right now.

...~...

They nearly die when Spain tries to drive down the (driveway? Path?) long, squiggly stone path-type thing that leads to a tiled, shaded (thank fucking God) courtyard of some sort. Some sort of green, mossy foliage peeps up between the tiles and there's a two-car(t?) garage with one of those tennis balls suspended from the ceiling; the kind of thing that is supposed to prevent stupid drivers from crashing their carts into the back of the tiny space.

He can tell from a badly-done paintjob covering a noticeable dent that it didn't stop a certain reckless driver from crashing, and he really should be less surprised. It hadn't helped Spain back at home, either.

Romano finally pushes Spain out of the driver's seat and onto mossy orange tiles, pulling the cart into the garage. Sighing from his – stop using that word - boyfriend's – eurgh – lack of courage when it comes to parking, he shimmies out of the tiny garage and into the courtyard, which seems to be lacking a certain flair that the owner always managed to work into his buildings. It seems… almost Spanish, if he's honest with himself. It contains some sort of oddly fitting fountain and all of the matching orange shingles are covered in those papery, magenta flowers that he hates. Looking through the open kitchen, Romano can see into a nearby harbor; as well as a somewhat scary infinity-edge pool. Well-cared for potted plants surround the manmade body of water, and as he trots around to its end he notices a set of wooden steps leading down to what appears to be a private section of beach.

America, the showy motherfucker.

But, he thinks, wouldn't America have something much more absurd than this?

He suddenly gets the sickening feeling that America wasn't the only one to design this estate, and who does he know who enjoys islands and horticulture and ships and nice weather and tottery old golf carts and gloating over Spanish spoils and tea—?

He tries to stop thinking about it, but the knowledge that America and England likely spend a lot of vacation time here makes him want to throw up a little.

Striding into the kitchen and ignoring Spain's oblivious admiration of the surroundings, he rifles through drawers until he finds labeled keys ("Why does everything have to be fucking labeled?") – Red Room, White Room and (Romano rolls his eyes) Blue Room. There are a few other keys – Study, Master Bedroom, Library (who the fuck comes to the tropics to read?), Darkroom, and another key with the letters XXX nearly blacked out and – and, in the tiniest handwriting the Italian had ever seen – the scribbled message of "you absolute wanker" alongside the remaining room on the title card (Romano doesn't even want to know. He'd rather hide that key under the rug indefinitely than even think about it, honestly) – but they won't really be needing those facilities since Spain will want to be a total idiot and run out to the beach all day and get horribly sunburnt and whine and Romano will have to deal with it and why the fuck are we here again—

Romano thrusts the key to the Red Room into the lock and turns it rather harshly, throwing it open and leaving it that way. He flops onto the nearest bed, making a sound that is half-groan, half-scream. Quite a nasty combination. Although each of the rooms has two beds, Romano insists that Spain stay in the Blue Room; partially because Spain is a pervert and partially because Romano has a condition that keeps his eyes glued to well-muscled, oblivious and tanned Spaniards.

At least Romano realizes that he has a problem.

Shit.

He rests his eyes and makes some sort of constant whining sound against the slightly irritating, cottony fabric of the covers before forcing himself to stand back up – Spain had delivered Romano's luggage to just inside of the door, finally doing something fucking right for once – and sort out what would go where. He was slightly aggravated now that he knew that England had a part in designing the premises: rather than having some expensive, elaborate and likely overpowering air conditioning system that is typical (and grudgingly appreciated) of America, the separate rooms only have ceiling fans with extremely slow rotation periods. Fitting the atmosphere, perhaps, but it's too fucking hot to appreciate the atmosphere without proper air conditioning.

The doors have slats that can open and close (so Spain can't spy on him, perfect) and there is a set of dark, wooden drawers. There's some sort of mosquito coil in a clay dish on the bureau, he decides to put the matches there so he'll remember to light it later that night. He decides to do the same for Spain before they leave (not because he cares, but it would be better than being forced to rub Cortisone onto Spain's very much enflamed wounds the next day).

Whatever.

He looks through the rest of the room; tastefully shielded light fixtures, a bathroom that is lacking a shower with a big, glass door leading to… a wall? Romano frowns and opens the door, scowling when he realizes that there are multiple locks on the damned doors. So he pulls stoppers and unlocks locks until he gets the right combination, stepping outside.

"Oh, fuck no."

It's an outdoor shower. No no no no no. He is not going to take his cooling showers out in this heat with fucking… lizards ogling his body.

No. No. Not going to happen.

Romano growls and slams the door, causing the glass in the door to reverberate dangerously. Fuck this. Fuck it all. He changes into a pair of shorts that would be suitable for warm weather and a light cotton shirt, sighing and stepping into the courtyard. Spain seems to have thrown his things into his room haphazardly and is about halfway into the fountain trying to take a picture of yet another lizard. Romano doesn't really see the appeal of the scaly little bastards, but whatever.

"Spain, we're leaving. Now. I'm driving," he's already heading for the inbred golf cart as he says this, Spain whines.

"Awww, Romano! Come on, the lizard…!"

Romano returns to Spain and pulls him into the garage by the ear, only letting go when the Spaniard has stopped crying and is finally sitting in his seat, pouting and looking through the pictures he's collected on his camera.

Romano backs out and Spain can only utter a frightened "Dios mio," before they're zipping back around that ridiculously swervy path back out to the main… road-thing.

"We're here, you can stop fucking cowering."

Romano had only run into one palm tree, Spain is definitely overreacting.

"Pasture Bay… or so it says."

What is with this place and naming everything? Romano understands naming a beach or a restaurant, but come on. Freedom? Red, White and Blue rooms? Those are ridiculous names! Romano has been looking at the map (a watercoloury thing, very adorable and very much not Romano's style), and there's a private estate on the island named Bananaquit. What the fuck is a bananaquit?

He clambers out of the driver's seat (irritated for some reason, unsurprisingly) and starts yanking Spain after him. Spain is shocked dumb (also unsurprisingly) from witnessing Romano's ability to get from one place to the next without taking pictures of one million and one different scaled demons, but he quickly finds something on the beach that makes his eyes brighten up and his mouth start working again.

He bounds through the long beach grass and picks up something larger than a fist and shining an opaque pink on the inside.

"Romano, it's a perfect conch shell!"

The shell is shoved into Romano's hands and he stares at it, a little surprised and unsure whether he should throw it at Spain's head or try to break it in his hands so he can watch Spain's stupid smile turn into a stupid frown. He decides on neither, simply staring at the Spaniard.

"Your point?"

Spain blinks as if expecting better of the Italian. "If you hold it to your ear, you can hear the ocean! I just tried."

Romano can only sigh. "Of course you heard the ocean, it's right there," he extends a finger toward the waves lapping at rough sand to illustrate his point. Spain visibly deflates.

"…right… oh!"

He runs away from Romano upon seeing a piece of sea glass and essentially begins collecting shells, pieces of coral and strangely colored rocks. He starts chatting over his shoulder about how his favorite cabin boy in the Armada's flagship had used to collect odds and ends from shores and make jewelry from it, selling necklaces and bracelets to sweet young girls when they'd make port. Romano rolls his eyes and sits in what looks like a lawn chair under a weather-beaten straw umbrella; long since abandoned, watching Spain run along.

Eventually, Spain decides to discard a bunch of his clothes and makes Romano hold them (much to his protesting, Spain running around half naked looking like a tanned Adonis on the beach in the afternoon sun is not good for Romano's condition, damn it!), so Romano watches his clothes for him. But mostly, he's ignoring the clothes and watching Spain.

He does have a condition, after all.

No, seriously.

Romano's eyes follow the tanned figure, watching Spain's (rippling, glorious) abs contract whenever he bends over. Every so often (whenever Spain's large hands get full), he returns back under the straw umbrella with the abandoned plastic lawn chair and drops off shells and coral and pebbles with Romano.

Romano distractedly looks between sexy abs and the pile of shells. A lot of the shells have holes in them, and so do some of the pieces of coral. He inspects a spiral shell more closely; it's a very pretty one, white with tiny brown markings and—

…that shell isn't moving, is it?

It's definitely moving.

"S-Spain," he squeaks and turns his head back, shrinking back in the lawn chair. Spain jogs back over and the crucifix around his neck bouncing against his pecs is definitely not entrancing and Romano needs to stop looking and oh yeah, the phantom shell. "The shell. Over there. It's m-moving."

Spain takes a look. And then he laughs, the absolute bastard. "It's just a hermit crab, Lovinito~!" He picks the thing up by its tiny shell and holds it in front of Romano's face. "I bet it's more scared of you than you are of it, even!"

Romano smacks it away and, hey, he just allowed a land and water-dwelling creature to fly before it died. That has to be a first. Spain, however, does not see Romano as a benevolent granter-of-flight, giving a poor hermit crab one last exhilarating ride before it meets with the pearly white gates (which are more than likely made of actual pearls in sea creature Heaven).

No, Spain whines about his treatment of the animal (it was just self-defense, that thing had curled back into its shell like it was getting ready to attack!) and goes searching for its remains in the sparse brush clumps to the unexplored side of the umbrella. Either he forgets about the hermit crab or he decides that it's alive, because he continues exploring that side while Romano sleeps.

…well, he tries to sleep, anyway. But he keeps having nightmares about giant hermit crabs snipping his toes off and then throwing him; so he gives up on sleeping and sits up, pulling his knees to his chest and wiggling his toes.

Not because he's afraid they've been snipped off or anything.

Someone tell me why the fuck I'm putting up with this, again?

Spain has wandered off, so Romano feigns ignorance of the tiny tracks in the sand that seem to have surrounded the plastic chair and leaps off in search of him, definitely not clutching the Spaniard's clothes to his chest in fear, of course not.

Italians fear many things, but crabs are not among the numbers.

Well, not the animal kind of crabs.

Anyway.

He follows the footprints far toward the end of the beach only to notice Spain jogging toward him, looking particularly excited.

"Romano," he tries to whisper, but it comes out as a sort of whisper-yell. It's a more unpleasant combination than Romano's earlier groan-scream; the sounds don't go together as well. "Follow me, follow me!"

Romano rolls his eyes and follows as Spain turns on his heels and starts back down the beach, noticing the sand start to get softer and less broken shells and what appear to be lovely, strange skid marks leading up from the ocean—

What.

Romano follows the marks – faded quite a bit, actually - up the beach to what appears to be a big… rock.

He blinks.

"Oh, shit. The hermit crabs are growing?"

Spain forces his hand over Romano's mouth to shut him up – Romano bites his palm because it's covered in sand and tastes like saltwater and just ew, okay? Spain responds by pressing harder and pulling Romano back against his chest and – no, this is not kinky, Romano is not turned on by being silenced and controlled and pressed up against tanned, washboard abs, not at all—

"Lovi," Spain whispers in his ear, pulling his hand away from the Italian's mouth. Romano shivers. "…she's a hawksbill…"

Blink.

Blink again.

"What."

Spain seems to think about something (shocker) for a few moments before taking Romano's wrist and pulling him toward the greenish rock-thing. Spain takes his camera from the other, taking pictures from a million different angles; none with flash.

"…Spain, I said 'What,' and I intend to have you answer me."

Spain points at the turtle. "She's a turtle. She's a girl." Romano rolls his eyes; yes, if you call it a she, that makes it a girl. Thank you for the lesson in pronouns, Spain. "She's a hawksbill turtle. And she's laying eggs."

…oh, right. This is why they're here.

Now, Romano hadn't been doing any research or anything. No, that stuff was for pansies who care about their – eurgh - significant others. No, Romano had just on an off-chance heard from someone, somewhere that America had a house on a resort island just a little east of Antigua which happened to be known for their hawksbill turtle nesting beaches. And that house was empty for most of the working year. And that America was busy during the spring when the turtles would start nesting.

And Spain loves turtles.

Fuck. I'm in deep.

Romano crosses his arms as the sun starts going down, tapping his foot in the sand. The waves are starting to lap up near his feet, so he moves up the beach a bit, irritated.

"Spain, I know you want to shoot some sort of weird, perverted turtle-porn or something, but we have to go home."

Not home-home, but here-home. America's place. The hideout. Whatever you were going to call it. Spain isn't amused by what Romano is implying, and he frowns.

"It's not turtle porn, Lovinito... we're witnessing something beautiful~!"

Romano snorts. It's a giant, greenish-brown thing trying to lay its sticky eggs filled with its less giant (but still pretty huge) greenish-brown babies in the sand.

Beautiful. Yeah.

Right.

…it's actually kind of, you know, gross. Considering the fact that Spain is basically disturbing an endangered species of turtle while it's trying to preserve its species in peace. "Preserving its species" is very kind terminology considering the sight that Romano is witnessing.

He starts wondering why, again, he decided to come on this vacation, to this island. Romano reasons that it's because he's gone soft in the heart and mushy in the brain; nobody would willingly bend over backwards to ensure that his or her significant other was this happy.

Shit, why does he bother trying? Spain would have been just as happy if Romano had made dinner for once or brought him a dandelion or something. But his face is glowing almost orange in the glow of the sunset, and he has this entranced, reverent look on his face as he starts taking less pictures and spending more time just crouching in front of the turtle, seeming to look past its protruding beak to look it straight in the eyes.

There are few times when Spain looks like he's truly happy. Sure, he's usually happy, but it's just in his nature to overreact to just about everything. But Romano has known Spain for a long time, he's known many expressions, just about all of them by now, he thinks. He knows the "I'm-not-really-fine-but-I'm-pretending-for-your-sake-so-don't-question-me" smiles and the "something-is-really-upsetting-me-and-it-would-really-help-if-you-weren't-cruel-to-me-right-now" frowns from his childhood, the "I-really-wish-you'd-visit-more-often-but-it's-not-going-to-happen-so-I'll-enjoy-you-while-I-have-you" grins from his recent years.

In the span of time that they've been together, he's gathered some of his favourites, though he won't admit it aloud – the "I-really-don't-know-how-I-lived-without-you" smiles usually accompanied with a less-crushing-than-usual hug from behind and the "if-you-don't-strip-right-now-I-swear-to-God-that-I'll-tear-your-clothes-off-myself" look that tends to smoulder in Spain's eyes after a nice dinner with red wine or an accidental innuendo or if he stretches a certain way or if Romano is simply being a bit too Romano-esque.

The Italian had found out the hard way that Spain was actually frighteningly good at tearing cloth apart when he was faced with the prospect having more Romano to look at.

He had also been surprised to find that the only thing he liked more than wearing his fancy silk shirts was having Spain rip them to shreds; their glassy, opaque buttons flying everywhere and rolling under the carpets.

Regardless, the appearance of Spain's face right now is making Romano's something in his stomach do flips. This is the sort of face that Spain makes when his eyes are closed in the middle of the storage room that Romano isn't supposed to know that he has, filled from bottom to top with hidden spoils from his years heading the armada, holding a feathered trifold close to his chest. It's the face that kept Romano from complaining of boredom at Mass when Spain was most committed to Catholicism, his entire face shining with devotion.

It makes Romano swallow past something in his throat and come up from behind, touching a hand to Spain's shoulder. "I think… we should leave her alone, now," he hears himself saying; and it's almost like they aren't his words.

He hates the way Spain effects him sometimes.

Spain just looks up at him and nods in agreement, standing and taking his clothes from the Italian's arms.

...~...

The drive back to Freedom is quiet, Romano thinking about his partner while Spain thinks about God knows what. Romano is pretty sure that it's not wildlife this time, because Spain's camera doesn't leave its home in the pocket of baggy, beige shorts.

They pull into the courtyard and brake before the fountain, not bothering to put the cart away. Spain pauses noticeably before leaving to the Blue Room, and before long Romano is lighting the mosquito coil in his room. This reminds him to do the same for Spain, so he sneaks over, a little less placid than he had been on the trip back.

The water is running outside, so Spain is taking a shower in the dark – it must be strange, Romano thinks. As he's lighting the coil (or trying to, whenever he strikes a match the cross breeze from the open doors seems to cancel it out), Spain comes out of the bathroom, flashing a small, sincere smile at Romano as he towels his hair off. The Italian ignores how the look effects him and finally figures out a method that should work – striking the match and then shoving it through one of the various holes in the bottom of the clay dish.

The green helix catches fire and starts burning down, and Romano feels tanned arms circle his waist from behind as Spain rests his head against his shoulder, damp locks brushing against his cheek and leaving thin traces of water. Romano just stiffens, trying to find a way out before Spain says—

"Stay with me tonight, Lovino?"

—Romano's heart skips a beat and he leans back against the chest that is slowly drenching his shirt, because he's never been able to say no when Spain asks like this.

So instead of protesting as he usually does, he lets Spain pick him up, kissing his neck and asking him please, just don't leave and Romano can only close his eyes to promise that he won't, because how is he supposed to speak?

Spain can go two ways when he's in this solemn, gentle kind of mood. Usually, he just kisses Romano a few times; lingering, chaste kisses peppering his cheeks and neck; then he pulls his ex-charge close to his chest and they warm each other through the night, never moving past gentle caresses.

But Romano knows that Spain's mood is not taking him in that direction when Spain sits him on the nearest bed and begins undoing Romano's shirt; Romano's own arms lightly slung over Spain's shoulders as his lover presses soft, damp lips to his neck and chest.

No, Spain is in one of his rare moods when he is so pleased with Romano that he forgets to be boisterous. It's even more rare for this mood to result in sex, but Romano likes it when Spain gets like this because he's quiet and subdued, so Romano is allowed to be quiet and subdued, too. He doesn't have to yell at Spain about his childish behavior because, for once, he isn't acting like a child.

But really, Romano loves it when Spain acts this way. Romano doesn't have to do anything but let go, and Spain just murmurs all of the things that he loves about his sweet Italian between kisses. These are the things that he loves to hear – specific details that prove that Spain is paying attention to him, that he isn't just dismissing everything he does as "cute" and frittering away his mind up in the clouds.

"I love the way that your nose scrunches up when you're embarrassed," he whispers as he kisses Romano's scrunched-up nose, getting a small smile. He knows that he can read Spain perfectly, but sometimes he forgets that Spain can read him just as well.

Romano would rather have well-worn pages than stay untouched and clean, so the reassurance that Spain is always watching him, noticing him and cataloguing every little thing that he does makes him almost want to cry from happiness, from shame, from invasion of privacy.

"I love how your ears turn red when you're angry with yourself, Lovinito," Spain croons as he kisses each ear, letting Romano pull him a little closer, "and I love how sometimes you smile while you're reading and you don't realize that you're doing it until you catch me staring."

Romano is the one to break the cycle of kisses and complements, nudging Spain's jaw wordlessly with his nose, turning dark green eyes to stare into his own. He closes his eyes and lets fingers slip into cool, chocolate curls with a gentleness that is mostly foreign to him; moving his other hand from Spain's back to his own calloused one, uncurling his fist to let their fingers fit together seamlessly.

Spain breaks away once every few moments to mumble his adoration against Romano's lips until the younger of them begins to answer with admiration of his own until the words start to fade away and his mind becomes misty with something he can't name, won't name; something that turns two people into a single couple.

"I love the way that you get when you've hurt my feelings and you suddenly get affectionate."

"I like the way that you never take me seriously even when I'm being serious, but I don't really mind as long as you don't stop smiling like an idiot."

Spain kisses him deeply until he feels that he can't breathe, doesn't need to breathe, could go without ever breathing again as long as he doesn't have to stop breathing in the masculine, earthy scent that clings to his skin and hangs around him like glass beads suspended in the air.

Romano can never seem to remember what happens on these nights after this point; usually he blacks out at the end and all he can remember is seeing white behind his eyes and whispered Spanish praise; the scent of soap with a faint undertone of sex. He doesn't mind being unable to remember because he always wakes up with a tanned body holding him close and that lean chest curved just right against his back; a crucifix pressed lightly between his shoulder blades - feeling a dull ache throughout his body, but mostly feeling completely satisfied and muzzy and as though he'll never move again, but in a good way.

He wakes up the next morning with that gentle, familiar ache in his lower back and a devoted (if calm) Spain pressed against him, gently nibbling his ear and humming to himself. He seems to sense that his lover is stirring, because he softly presses a kiss to Romano's cheek and lets a "Te amo" hang in the air, smiling against that same neck when the Italian shifts slightly and covers Spain's larger hands with his own.

He doesn't speak – he can't return the sentiment verbally. But Spain doesn't need words to feel, so he simply gives another kiss to Romano's skin and pulls him a fraction closer until Romano can feel a pleasant warmth coiling in his stomach, unwavering and comfortable.

He's not sure if he'll ever be able to say it, but he knows that he feels it and he knows that Spain knows that he feels it; and as far as he cares, that's all that they need.

This is why we're here.

xxxEnd

So… this monster is just a little over 6000 words long. I know that's not really a lot, but I feel like most of it is short and choppy but I'm about to fall asleep and I was going to do sex but then I got self-conscious and almost died while attempting to emulate all of my favorite writers at once and I just fizzled and blah.

So yeah. Jumby Bay! It's where I've been for the past two-ish weeks, and it's far, far, far nicer here than Romano describes. He's just… bitchy as always.

ANYWAY, there's a quarterly paper in Jumby Bay, and it was talking about the hawksbill and green turtle nesting season from last year and how it's turned out this year so far. Anyway, a rare green turtle was founded amidst the nesters and everybody was really surprised – lots of photos. But there is this girl in one photo who my sisters and I just can't stop making fun of because she just does not seem to understand what all of the fuss is about. Hands on her hips, rolling her eyes, the whole shebang. But I looked at this article and was like "Turtles." So yeah.

(And [since you care so much,] a bananaquit is a black and white and yellow bird indigenous to areas with warm climates, preferring to be loud and obnoxious high up in palm trees while people are trying to eat mac and cheese while they write fanfiction, kthxbai.)