They always had unspoken rules. Things between them that were just understood. Things that had stories.

When they hung out, Spain never got upset when Francis would leave him for a pretty girl. Spain never got upset when he woke up to Francis in his house. He never got upset with France.

Ever.

No one understood why.

Everyone thought he should leave him behind.

That Francis wasn't a good friend.

They didn't understand the things Francis did behind the scenes.

Antonio would come in the house, angry, in one of his moods the ones that made people tremble in fear, the ones that were reminiscent of how he used to be. He would come in angry, looking for a fight, and when most people would give him one, or that people would run from, France would take it. He would let Spain hit him, he would let Spain hurt him, spit at him, insult him. He knew it wasn't his best friend with the permanent smile anymore. He knew it was who he used to be. He would let him beat on France. He would let him shove him against walls and have his way with him. And he would never tell Antonio.

But he knew. He knew when he would wake up next to Francis and he had bruises and wounds.

Francis let him do things no one would ever tolerate, and he did it a lot. But Francis knew that if it was anyone else, he would take it on someone else who couldn't handle it. He might've taken it out on Romano, or Belgium, or any number of people.

Spain would never forget that.

That Francis took all that pain, all the abuse from Antonio.
He never complained.
He never guilted Antonio.

So when people asked why they were friends, Spain would just smile and say "He's a good friend."