Romano always hated being alone in the large house. He was terrible at cleaning, and he wasn't allowed outside much, for fear of being abducted again. His lips pursed as he remembered how Turkey had attempted to kidnap him and how Spain was able to save him at the last minute. He didn't want to relive another event like that.

He chewed his mouthful of pasta perhaps a tad more forcefully than was necessary, his eyes narrowed. He wobbled slightly on his perch on a chair's arm. "Stupido," he muttered. It really shouldn't bother him that much. It wasn't like he wanted that idiot Spain's company, anyway! Spagna just cooked him stuff and reached the higher shelves and showed him where the bathrooms were for the millionth time and taught him Spanish (not like he'd ever use that shit language) and had a huge tomato garden and kept him from being bored and his voice was nice and soothing when Romano decided it was siesta time... But that was it! It wasn't like he enjoyed most of that stuff, anyway! Except maybe the cooking, bathrooms, and tomato garden parts. Scratch that, definitely those parts—he could show the fucking squirrels the goddamn bathroom next time if he could just remember where the hell it was!

He was getting tired just thinking about that bastard. He finished his pasta and flopped down on the chair, sighing. He cast drooping eyes at the clock and noted it was almost time for his siesta. He closed his eyes, deciding he was too taxed to get up and go to bed, and his last conscious thought was, Spagna better get home soon.

When he awoke, there was a red coat on top of him, a substitute for a blanket. He jerked upright, head whirling around to find the older nation. He frowned when he found him draped on the couch, as if he had given Romano his jacket and dragged himself to the shower, for his clean clothes were askew, and then just plopped down on the couch. He knew that if he asked, Spain would just smile and say that he was trying to keep an eye on him but fell asleep.

He shoved the cape off and stood up with a scowl. He marched over to the other country and inspected him. There was no visible cuts, but his arm was bandaged sloppily. Romano reminded himself to fix that later, when Spain was awake and could listen to his bitching. The blanket was pooled around Spagna's hips, so the Italian tugged it forward, glowering darkly. He wasn't doing this out of kindess, no matter what anyone said; he was just doing it so Spain would owe him! Really!

The action made Spain wake up, however, though it wasn't like he was in deep sleep; it was just a nap. He opened his eyes slowly and smiled lazily at Romano. "Buenas tardes," he greeted, noting his charge's red face. "What's wrong, mi tomate? You're as red as a tomato. Do you have a fever?"

"There's nothing wrong with me," Romano retorted viciously. He hated how he just turned absolutely fucking red and not pink like people usually do when they're blushing, because that idiot Spagna called him a goddamn tomato every chance he got. "And don't call me your tomato, bastard."

"Lo siento," Spain apologized easily. "Did you sleep well, Romanito?"

He was so seccante, calling him pet names like that, like he was allowed to! And he didn't even mean it when he said sorry! Fucking useless tomato bastard... Romano's scowl deepened. "No thanks to you," he replied unkindly. He was pretty sure it was a lie, but Spain didn't need to know that.

It didn't seem he needed to convince himself; Spain was already smiling indulgently, perhaps already detecting the untruth, or maybe he was just so full of himself that he thought that Romano must be lying. "Lo siento," he said again. "I'll try not to disturb your siesta next time."

Romano was suddenly put off; he should be the one saying that, shouldn't he? Spain had just come back all shabby, and what had Romano done? Interrupted his siesta and insulted him. "Spiacente," he declared, inexplicably embarrassed, and promised himself that he would never say the word again if he could help it. Spain's face almost made it worth it. He looked so shocked, but then it melted into a warm expression, and he coaxed Romano forward as he sat up. He pulled him into his lap and rested his chin on the child's head.

"Esta bien."

It would have been a heartwarming moment, had Romano not squirmed and complained, "Your chin is so fucking bony, let me go."

More than a handful of decades later, Romano's an adolescent. He's grown out of his bed-wetting squirrels and claiming Spain's bed when there are storms and grown into proper clothes and being even more grumpy than usual. He was lanky with awkward limbs, and he thanked the Lord that he never got any of that acne shit.

He could hear Spain and his friends from the next room. It was France and Prussia; he disliked them greatly. France was a huge pervert and Prussia had the gall to try to claim him.

"Espagne," he heard France say, "don't you think Romano is growing up nicely?" He shuddered at the lewd tone.

"He is," Spain agreed. Romano knew that he didn't catch the double meaning of France's words. "He's adorable! He helps me with the tomatoes and tries to clean every once in a while. It's encouraging to know that he's the result of my parenting."

"Yeah, isn't that a Spanish proverb?" Prussia asked off-handedly. "Something about children needing love, especially when they don't deserve it."

"Sí, sí." Spain laughed a little. "It's not that Romano doesn't deserve it, though; he's just a little difícil, and I don't think many people would have the patience to put up with it." The Italian frowned and was about to leave the room (to what? Storm in there?) when he heard, "But although he's disagreeable, I like his personality. It's one of his charm points."

"Oh?" France hummed. "A charm point? Mon chéri, only you would think so. Why, not even I would pursue such an interest."

"And he'd go after a cactus if he were so inclined," Prussia cackled. "Guess this means your pet will just have to suffer with you, Spain."

Romano's jaw clenched. They were talking as if—as if Spain was—! He was disgusted. He doubted Spain even knew what they were talking about. He was oddly flattered, though, to know Spain's opinion of him; it was obvious Spain could transform every bad trait of his into a good one by putting it in a different light. He opened the door and closed it softly before walking down the hall, telling himself Spagna was just a dirty pervert.

That night, as they were eating dinner together, Spain brought it up. "We were talking about you," he said abruptly, then stopped, as if collecting his thoughts. "When you're an independent nation, will you still depend on me in some ways?" It seemed to be a serious question, though Romano couldn't imagine why.

"Uh," the Italian said intelligently. How could he answer that? "Um. Yeah. I guess. Since you've been a country for forever and I'll probably suck at representing South Italy. And I've been here a while, so. Um. It would be weird if I didn't depend on you in any way when I become independent."

It was a horrible answer, and he was sort of scared by Spain's sad smile. "One day, you won't need me anymore," the Spaniard murmured. Taking Romano's hand in his own, he asked, "When you become independent, can I ask for one thing?" Romano's eyes were questioning as he nodded slowly. "Can I call you by your human name?"

Romano froze. Asking that... It would be like an endearment like "sweetheart." Countries didn't call another by their human name unless they were very close. South Italy honestly didn't know how to react to the question. Letting him would be so very personal, but if he refused, he would hurt Spain's feelings, and have to go through Spain's moping... He steeled himself and forced himself to reply, "Sì."

"Gracias. Really." Spain smiled and quickly brushed his lips against the Italian's knuckles before releasing the boy's hand. "You look like a tomate," he added casually, for Romano's face was indeed as red as one.

"Stai zitto!" Romano exclaimed, trying not to slap his caretaker. "Anyway, why the hell would you want to know if I was gonna depend on you?"

"Because my countries are going to leave me, and I don't want to lose you like I will lose them."

It was such a startlingly honest response that Romano was struck dumb. He hadn't even known Spain could be so... Hell, he couldn't even find the words. He didn't say anything for the rest of dinner, but when Spain made to leave, Romano tugged on his pants and told him, "Grazie." He wasn't exactly sure what he was thanking him for, but the single word left Romano's face flaming and he scuttled away before Spagna could find an answer.

Romano was independent. Italy had unified. When he stood before Spain and told him, Spain had just smiled and congratulated him, hesitated and said, "Adiós, mi amigo."

Romano couldn't help but notice the definite use of 'goodbye', so he replied, "A presto."

And he did. Rarely did he leave Spain alone for long periods of time; he made a point of stopping by every few days at the most, often staying for a day or two or just lunch and a siesta. But it wasn't like he liked him, or anything! It was just—that idiot Spain wouldn't be able to manage without him. That was all!

Feliciano teased him, sometimes. When Romano went to leave, Italy always asked, "Are you going to see Spain, grande fratello?" Romano would never answer because Feliciano was usually right.

Spain would answer the door with a smile and Romano would make him cook pasta or paella or Spain would already have food prepared. It was nearly routine for Romano to stop by without warning him, anyway. Romano wasn't sure if Spain really liked him visiting so often, but who cared? If Romano wanted to see Spain, then he'd see the bastard.

The corner of his lips twitched upward as he opened the door. "Ciao, Spagna," he greeted, closing the door behind him. He could smell the churros. "Should've made pasta, bastard." He walked into the kitchen and leaned against the doorway, looking at Spain in amusement.

"I didn't think you'd be coming today," Spain answered with a shrug. "You're always welcome here, though, Lovi." He untied his apron and pulled it off. "So what brings you here today, mi querido?"

Romano shifted uncomfortably. "Uh. I wanted to see the turtles?"

"Our babies?" Spain grinned. "Lovinito missed you." He pointed at the dining room. "He's on the table."

"I told you to name him something else." The southern Italian stalked over to the dining room table and scooped Lovinito up before returning to the kitchen. "It's like calling a fucking mouse Antonio."

"That would be cute," Spain declared, laughing as he put the bowl, silverware, and saucepan on the left side of the sink. Romano strode over to stand beside him, setting Lovinito down on the counter gently. A friendly banter was exchanged as Spain washed them and Romano dried them.

"Fucking weirdo."

"What, you wouldn't want to name something after me?"

"No, because that's fucking creepy."

"Only to you, Lovi."

"It's still creepy."

"Do you really want me to rename Lovinito?"

"... I-it's your decision, bastard."

"Knew it." Spain leaned over to nuzzle Romano's hair, the only part he could reach without Romano trying to kill him.

"What the hell—!" Romano could feel his face getting so fucking red. "Fucking bastard, get the hell off!" He nudged Spain back with his elbow. Spain backed off with a laugh. "Don't laugh!" Romano glared. "Ugh, I'll kill you."

"Yeah, yeah," Spagna laughed, handing him the last spoon. "You know you love me."

"... Fuck you."

Spanish
siesta—nap in the afternoon
buenas tardes—good afternoon/evening
mi tomate—my tomato
lo siento—I'm sorry
Romanito—nickname for Romano
esta bien—it's okay
sí—yes
difícil—difficult
gracias—thank you
adiós, mi amigo—goodbye/farewell, my friend
mi querido—my dear/darling

Italian
stupido—stupid
Spagna—Spain
seccante—annoying
spiacente—I'm sorry
sì—yes
stai zitto—shut up
grazie—thank you
a presto—see you soon
grande fratello—big brother
ciao—hello

French
Espagne—Spain
mon chéri—my dear

This is for Kathleen again. Now it's time to finish my project and do my homework. Hope you like it, Lovi!