This is a request fic for A s t e r on TinierMe. Thank you for the commission, and I hope I don't disappoint you. :]

There were things that Spain was afraid of admitting. He was afraid of admitting that part of the reason he still fought bulls was to bring back the times of empires long past. He was afraid of admitting that even though Franco was most often recalled as a bitter memory, there were things, good things, that he couldn't forget about the man. He was afraid of admitting that England had defeated him in the past, and that he could probably defeat him again, even today. He was afraid of admitting that sometimes, he wasn't as clueless as he liked to let on, because it was easier to avoid being hurt that way. But no matter how many things there were that he didn't admit, or that he kept hidden, or that he lied about, there were other things that he felt he could scream from the top of a mountain for the whole world to hear.

He grinned at the younger man sleeping beside him, thinking that such an action would earn him no less than a head-butt and many threats of death, but he didn't particularly care, because if there was one thing he would never be afraid to admit, it was that he loved Lovino Vargas.

Romano was beautiful in every sense of the word. His skin, his hair, his eyes, his smile... Not that his smile was seen very often, but Spain thought that it's rarity just added to the charm. There was even something beautiful about his personality, though he knew that many would argue otherwise. Not even he could put a finger on exactly what, but he guessed that he liked Romano's fire, something that burned always underneath the surface, behind a façade of stubbornness and cowardice—he had learned to always expect more, because there was never an end to Romano, at least not one that he would ever reach. He believed, sometimes, that he could look into the other's eyes and drown, and he would be perfectly happy doing it.

He reached out towards his sleeping partner and brushed a stray lock of hair from his cheek, resisting the urge to tug the protruding curl that always caught his eye (he had finally learned the effects of that strand of hair after a particularly dreadful encounter that involved France, Romano and himself which, needless to say, didn't end very well for the Frenchman) and leaned in to gently brush his lips affectionately against the other's forehead.

Lovino, Lovino... When did it begin? There must have been a time he'd started to fall in love, sometime between setting his eyes on his "servant" in his house when the seas were still his and laying in this bed with what he liked to think of as the best thing that had ever happened to him. He thought that the beginning was purely platonic—of course it had been, he loved Romano dearly and was under the impression that he must have been the cutest thing, but he had never loved him like he did now. Somewhere along the line, however, it had begun to change. When?

He remembered that he'd denied it at times (just how long ago was that? you could only keep track of time for so long before it all blended together), because there was no way he could be falling for someone who was a son—a brother—to him, and the thought frightened him and disgusted him at times, but he'd become aware that countries were different, somehow. They never remained a son forever, and Spain himself had seen enough to realize that, although the revelation had come later rather than sooner.

Romano stirred, but he didn't bother pulling away and drew the younger man closer instead, sighing contentedly as he buried his nose into the Italian's hair and wrapped an arm around his waist. A quiet growl of annoyance reached Spain's ears, and he knew that Romano was being drawn slowly towards consciousness, both from his actions and from the sunlight outside that was beginning slowly to pour in through the curtains. The other would probably be fully aware in another minute, but as of the moment, he seemed content in his drowsy state and buried his head into Spain's shoulder, attempting to ward off the impending state of wakefulness.

"Dammit, bastard," he muttered into the Spaniard's skin, speech slightly slurred from sleep, and shivered the slightest bit. "It's cold..." and Spain just laughed in response, pulling him closer and wrapping the blankets tighter around them both, deciding not to point out that it may have to do with the Italian's lack of shirt, and clothing otherwise.

"Good morning, Lovi," he sang at the other, much too cheerily for seven in the morning, and ignored the protesting "shut up, let me sleep."

He refused to back down, their plans for the day clearly in mind, and nudged the Italian insistently. "Come on," he coaxed his partner, smiling even though he knew Romano couldn't see. "It's already seven," but another growl was all he got in reply. Spain supposed that he didn't mind much. He was content, as it was, to have the Italian in his arms and passive for once, and he'd enjoy it while it lasted, because Romano had never been the type to cuddle and he found it almost strange how the two of them, so opposite in nature, had ended up together. But he didn't regret it at all.

Romano shifted again, and Spain knew for sure that the other was awake when he pushed the Spaniard off of him and flipped onto his back, yawning and stretching his slender arms over his head. The light shining weakly through the curtains hit him just right, and Spain couldn't help but allow himself to be mesmerized by the sight, as he had been countless times before. The Italian was lean, with a body that spoke of quick reactions and precise aim, angular in contrast to the softness of his brother, and despite that, Spain would never consider trading him, not after his first attempt. He felt lucky, so lucky that Romano was his and his alone.

The Italian glanced over and caught Spain's gaze, frowning a bit upon discovering that he was being watched. "Tch," he pouted. "Are you just going to keep staring like an idiot or go make me breakfast?"

Spain blinked and laughed a little. "So not cute," he objected, but both of them knew that it held as much heart as Romano's complaint. Though reluctant to leave the warmth of the blankets (not to mention his lover), he pushed himself up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for his discarded top and a pair of boxers, and slipped on both articles of clothing. Just as he shrugged the shirt over his shoulders, however, his wrist was grabbed by a slightly tanned hand (though the skin was never quite as dark as his own).

He looked over his shoulder questioningly at the Italian, who had moved closer as he dressed and was refusing to meet his eyes. "Lovi, wha—?" Spain asked, puzzled, but the younger cut him off before he could finish.

Romano tugged him in and met the Spaniard's his mouth with his own, lips soft against the other's, if a bit bitter from sleep, and Spain's eyes widened in surprise as he made a startled noise from the back of his throat, before they slid shut as he allowed himself to melt into the kiss, lips curving into a smile. It was brief and nothing short of innocent, yet he still found himself enjoying it as he instinctually responded, leaning into the other and brushing a hand affectionately through his partner's hair.

But just as suddenly as he had initiated, Romano broke away and flopped down onto the bed again, turning quickly to his other side in order to hide the hot blush rising to his cheeks. "Don't burn anything," were his only words.

Slightly disappointed at the loss of contact and Romano's lack of confidence in his cooking skills, Spain pouted a bit as he sat back up. "I never do," he replied, the smallest hint of a whine in his voice, but the other just grunted in response, pulling the blankets tighter around himself, and grumbling something about "stupid tomato-bastard." Spain heaved a small sigh, knowing that he wouldn't be getting any more affection out of the Italian anytime soon, but he couldn't help leaning down to place a small kiss on his partner's head. "Got it, got it," he said, smiling amusedly, and gave Romano's hair a fond ruffle before pushing himself off of the bed, briefly lamenting the loss of comfort.

At the doorway, however, he paused briefly and threw a glance over at the figure resting beneath the mound of blankets. He contemplated the white sheets a moment in the slowly brightening light of the room, and felt a familiar wave of feeling surge over him, leaving him feeling warm and content and at somehow at peace, regardless of what had been and what was to come. He wasn't naive enough to believe that love could change the world, but there were moments when he thought that he could believe. "Lovi," he called softly, and received an annoyed answer of: "what?" from the pile of blankets.

Spain smiled.

"I love you, Lovi," he said, and it was true, so very true, and that, he'd never be afraid of admitting.