Fever

It was hot. Romano could feign boredom with the best of them, leaning against the ad-sprawled barrier with an expression of casual disinterest, rolling his eyes should a particular green-eyed glance flick his way. The atmosphere was electric; World Cup 2010 was drawing closer and closer, the nations battling through friendly football matches to scope one another out. England and Germany paid special attention to one another, glares shooting with as much ferocity as their feet, North Italy wobbling after Germany with an elated grin.

Though Romano was trying his best to hide it, his interest lay elsewhere (what did he have to worry about when it came to football?), watching the soft pad-pad of a pair of tatty trainers that had spent their life in a dusty cupboard, only seeing the light of day at occasions like this one. Sprouting from them was a pair of lithe, sandalwood legs, firm Adonis muscles dappled with fine hair. Romano wet his lips, eyes smoothing up, up, up to straining, flexing thighs half hidden inside black shorts. Untied tassels bounced obscenely atop the bulge of his groin, Romano only just managing to drag his eyes away. He had to retain the facade. He didn't want to show his support. He didn't want to wile away hours in the hot sunshine, sweat prickling his forehead, waiting for the whole event to end so he could go home and drown himself in a cold shower. Yet there he was.

There he was, making the most of it.

"Romano! Roma~! Watch. Watch me!" Spain cried, animatedly waving as he ran. He was dribbling with disgusting ease, edging closer and closer and closer to the goal. Romano ignored his enthusiasm, examining his fingernails for dirt instead. He looked up when there was a resounding cheer. Having missed the first goal, he was a little disappointed and he huffed, leaning on the railings as Spain jogged up to him with a grin to cheer the dead. Romano, making a futile attempt at retreat, found once chubby cheeks in Spain's tender grasp, tugging him forwards to plant a kiss the ladies would be jealous of right on his lips, humming-bird tongue sneaking between. Lingering, Spain only drew away when Romano whimpered, Spain's small smile silky sweet. Foreheads pressed together, Romano's fingers knotted in Spain's damp football shirt, Spain whispering with every ounce of gratitude and appreciation, "Gracias por ser mi amuleto de la suerte , Romano*."

Romano's heart raged like an angry bull against an ivory cage, Spain offering a final peck to his lips before he was off again, waving apologetically to his awaiting team and the opposition hurling friendly insults and abuse. Flustered and embarrassed, Romano sank into the seat behind him, crossing his legs with a groan. "Bastard," he muttered to himself, folding his arms. "Bastard, bastard, bastard."

Kiss-bruised lips tasted faintly salty, but mostly of the fresh, peppery, earthy essence that was Spain, all rustic energy and excitement. He was back into the game now, all throwaway grins and camaraderie shoves, every once in a while pausing to wave at his favourite, who only ever rolled his eyes and then dragged them away. They shyly flickered back every time.

Romano had eaten his way through six bowls of gelato by the time the match ended. Bored (and guilty), he grumbled to himself as the players congratulated themselves on a good game, Spain included, who was patting North Italy's head. When he cupped his head in his hands and whispered in his ear in much the same way he had done to Romano earlier, the stirring of jealousy forced his legs into motion, not towards the scene to yell and scream and accuse Spain of all and sundry, but away from the field towards the exit, fists clenching at his sides as he stomped. He would leave him there; he would leave him there to get cosy with his brother instead, to cuddle and nuzzle and kiss him instead; to undress him and touch him and take him to bed instead

Halfway there, Romano paused. When did he become this possessive, he wondered, turning on his heels to march back to the field. Spain was his as much as he was Spain's - though he was loathe to ever admit that - and no one would be taking him away, not after everything, not even his little brother so innocent and naive in his ways.

The field was deserted, almost barren with the fierce heat of the sun, as though no one had played there for years and years. Disconcerted, Romano headed for the locker rooms instead, expecting to find them filled with laughter and chatter and-

"S-Spain? Spain, are in here you bastard?" Romano called. His voice echoed; the locker room was empty, eerie, all white-washed walls that were damp and warm, a place that seemed like it had been empty for years, stuck in time. Romano didn't know what to make of it, cruising the lines of benches and lockers, warily peering around at the end of aisles. There was neither sight nor sound except his hesitant footsteps and gathering breath. "Oi, Spain? You better not have left me here..." he continued, eyes settling on the shower cubicles at the other end, wisps of steam sneakily drifting free. Feeling a distinct wave of relief, he huffed and made his way down there, discovering when he arrived that the showers were as empty as the rest of the room.

Irritated, he puffed his wilting curl out of his eyes and returned to the main area. "I'm gonna' kill, you-"

Romano grunted in surprise, the next moment finding himself squashed face first against a pleasantly cool locker. He whimpered, familiar fingers roaming inside his shirt, tweaking and pinching and squeezing delicate, tender areas of delicious, dark flesh. Romano's futile attempt at freeing himself was met with a whine that had him rolling his eyes, Spain ready to kiss and caress and charm until Romano couldn't possibly resist. Irritatingly good at the latter, Spain dragged a pointed fang along the quivering, sensitive nerve in Romano's neck, all at once sinking his teeth into skin, grasping slender hips and rolling his own against a trembling rump.

"Need you," Spain whispered, yanking the hem of his designer shirt all the way out of his trousers to slide one hand along the goosepimpled expanse of Romano's back arching catlike against nimble and clever fingers. His other hand roughly twisted Romano to meet his lips, snatching them, clinging, kisses filled with wet heat and electricity. Spain smelt of dewy grass and the musk of sweat, his heartbeat thick against Romano's spine. Thudding vibrations sent signals straight to his groin. In a single moment Romano was tussled like a ragdoll, spun and shoved backwards while Spain got to his knees and unfastened sensually slung slacks, ignoring them as they fell helplessly to the floor. Romano had no time to protest, finding himself devoured in one mouthful, his hands pinned at his sides the moment he raised them to knot in damp, wild hair.

It annoyed Romano, but his complaints were lost amongst a litany of moans. A straining violin string ready to snap, Romano bucked and buckled, Spain briefly shifting to hoist his withering love upright again. Ravenous, he slid free, snatching Romano's elbow to force him to his front again - the lockers clattered in irritation - capturing each wrist in the embrace of one hand. Two fingers begged entry at his lips and Romano suckled like a hungry lamb, bleating when they thrust inside him with delightful accuracy. He slipped against warming, damp metal, cock pinched between hard and cruel and soft and kind, weeping for attention.

Undone when Spain thrust inside him, he fell limp, exhausted, fingers curling against the doors, nails digging half moons into his palms. Teeth and tongue ravaged his neck, lapped at the sweat clinging to fine hair. With a pained wail, Romano felt the string snap and came, Spain's hips shifting with increased fervour for the wonderous tightening around him. One arm curled about his waist to hold him upright, the other roaming and reaching, exploring every niche and nook. "So cute. So cute!" he cried, now embracing Romano like his favourite toy, dragging him back everytime their bodies parted. A barely audible grunt was his final signal, Romano feeling warmth spread through him and trickling free.

They sagged. Spain nudged Romano's ear, whispering meaningless sentiments. "You look so cute like that, Roma," he said with a little more strength, drawing away to look him over; a reddened, dampened rear and quivering legs. Romano glowered.

"You need a shower," he growled, rearranging his half buttoned shirt around his shoulders. Spain gave him a look as though it was the greatest idea he had ever heard.

"Why don't you shower wi-"

"No," Romano interrupted pointedly, bending to drag his trousers up. Spain licked his lips.

"Aaaw, Romano," he whined, curling around him again, drawing Romano tight against his front. It was allowed for a while, Romano too tired to do much about the affection. His limbs were tingling, as though the feeling was just now returning to them. Well, at least he knew now that Spain wasn't take his little brother to bed; at least now he knew who he really did belong to, Spain confirming his possession of him with the beginnings of a toothy bruise on his shoulder.

A few minutes passed, the two of them standing together in gathering steam, the air thick and hot and sweet.

"Hey," Spain whispered finally, swinging Romano's hips as he struggled to fasten his trousers. "I scored!"

Romano groaned.

*Thank you for being my lucky charm, Romano [or there about, idk, I don't speak Spanish :D]