Notes: I took inspiration for this from the film 500 Days of Summer - if you haven't seen it, please go and watch it! I don't normally do chick flicks, but it was very good. Ahh, I don't use human names in fanfiction really, so...suspension of disbelief, please :)

Unedited version can be found upon my livejournal. Username: Romanoma

Three Hundred and Sixty Five Days
Part 1

Thirty-Eight: 00:10

"Oh...oh fuck...fuck-"

Spain had no idea Lady Fortune was smiling so graciously upon him that morning, perhaps as broadly as Spain was trying not to smile as he watched the way Romano's hips moved, practised and fluid and fast, faster, faster, faster, every moment rolling closer to orgasm. A little bead of sweat cautiously wound down his neck, pooling in his collar, overflowing, continuing down his muscular torso and disappearing into the delicious little dip of his belly button where Spain's eyes were now fixed, wishing he could lap it all up like a thirsty dog.

He was leaving purple pawprints on his hips, but he couldn't bring himself to let go in case it broke the spell, spoilt the passion like an eighties power ballad paused. Heart thud-thudding in his ears the way it always did when he'd had too much San Miguel, he bent his knees, just for more contact, pressing the top of his thighs flat to Romano's fleshy arse, feeling it spreading obscenely around them. Not thrown even for a second, Romano leaned forward, pressing palms flat to Spain's chest, colour moist olive with exertion. His nails dug into the muscular bridge of his shoulders to ground himself and Spain gripped his hips tighter, dragged him down, forward, up, down, forward, up, down.

"J-Jesus, coming...coming!" Spain cried, a swift buck of his hips sending Romano off balance, arms winding around him, squeezing him close to his chest. He could feel Romano's frantic, fluttering pulse against the cool tip of his nose and smiled, mouth swift to his neck to kiss and taste and nip as he exploded, heat trickling down his spine like a fuel injection to his hips. Romano could only hold on and moan, teeth sinking into Spain's neck as he tumbled over with him.

Minutes later - Spain memorising everything he could, the sound of their breathing slowing, the way Romano's nose wrinkled against his chest, the tickling sensation of sweat cooling on his upper lip, the weight of Romano on his chest, the satisfying stickiness fastening them by their bellies, on and on and on - Romano lifted his head, rearranged his legs and lifted off, flopping alongside in the cooler bit of the sheets. Spain cooed in disappointment. Nonetheless, he didn't complain, smiling sleepily, satiated.

"You were amazing," he said softly, hand lifting to brush damp hair from his new lover's eyes. He winced when he was slapped aside, wondering what he'd done, but then Romano was smirking, head propped on his elbow, looking coy and sultry and sexy and cute all at once. Spain couldn't help being charmed all over again.

"You weren't bad yourself, bastard. Why didn't you tell me you're a fucking stud?" Romano said, fingers tracing the angle of his collarbone, dipping into the triangular hollow. "Fuck, if I wasn't exhausted, I'd want another round."

Spain flushed. "Do you really think I'm a stud? That's a good thing, isn't it? Being a stud?"

Romano laughed. Spain felt it vibrate in his chest, in his heart, warm and lucid, but instead of simply answering, Romano flicked his forehead. Spain massaged the spot with the heel of his hand, still smiling. A flick was nicer than a pinch and was definitely nicer than a punch to his forearm. "So um...do you want to go to sleep now or talk or...do you want a drink? Or a shower! Or a nice bath~"

Drifting off into the fantasy of bathing with the man he had been obsessing over for thirty-eight days since he caught sight of him drinking a caramel ice latte outside Carluccio's, Spain failed to notice that Romano was already drifting off to sleep. But when he did notice, he could only smile, shimmying under the sheets and curling a protective arm around his middle, quick to follow him into dreams.

Romano was gone the following morning, but a bright pink post-it note was stuck to Spain's forehead. In lazy Italian scrawl, it read:

Meet me for lunch. I'll text the address - don't be fucking late.
I made breakfast - leftovers in the fridge. Ciao, bastard

Thirty: 13:46

Prussia couldn't stand sitting still, even if it provided him the opportunity to watch scantily dressed young things strolling by with their bosoms high and their t-shirts low. He didn't know how Spain had talked him into this, something to do with a promise to buy all of his drinks for a month, the words swallowed by Spain's excited, undecipherable babbling. Spain hadn't even bought the coffee he was currently stirring and somehow had ended up paying for the iced Madeira cake his companion was in the midst of scoffing while he eyed passersby.

Huffing, Prussia waved a hand in front of Spain's face. "Oi, how much longer do I have to wait here while you act like a total creeper. This is my third coffee. All the caffeine in my body is gonna' explode out of the top of my head if I don't put it to good use," he said, dropping his hand when Spain waved dismissively.

"He'll be here. Any minute now and I'll see him, I swear. I can feel it," Spain explained, cake crumbs forming miniature mountains on his lap.

"Just wait with me a little longer. My plan won't work without you, so just a little longer, okay?"

Prussia rolled his eyes, cursing France's unavailability to take part in one of Spain's many escapades, plus his ability to convince him of his stupidity, like talking someone suicidal down off a bridge.

They were awaiting a man Prussia wasn't one hundred percent convinced even existed, a man Spain had talked about none-stop since the moment he clapped eyes on him, a man Spain knew nothing about beyond his flawless taste in clothes and leg-melting smile. Nearly three weeks ago, Spain was sitting in the exact spot he was sitting in now, leafing through an abandoned free newspaper. He was only looking at the pictures, drawing moustaches and bunny rabbits wherever he deemed appropriate and giggling to himself.

He saw his shoes first, toes tip-tapping the curved and curling leg of the iron table he had just sat himself at, jet black shoes, stylish shoes, the kind of shoes you can see your reflection in, not dirty lace sneakers like Spain's were, threads coming loose and soles bit-by-bit giving way to large feet. Pristine black leather - Spain assumed they were leather - not too big, not too small, black socks peeking from beneath pressed and hiked black trousers, a lazy hand in his pocket, ice-white shirt not nearly tight enough for Spain's liking, Oakley sunglasses (Spain knew they were Oakley because France bought him a pair once, but he stepped on them a week later when he was drunk) and a smile that could charm the bloomers off Queen Victoria.

And then he spoke, voice like syrup in hot coffee as he slid he sunglasses into his hair. "Hey pretty girl, could I possibly have a caramel latte and a cannoli, please? Only if those beautiful hands of yours are making it though."

The waitress devoured the compliments, flushing. When the man smiled, Spain's heart hit the roof of his mouth.

Prussia checked his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. "Spain, I've got shit to do. West wanted me to feed the dogs 'cause he's on the late shift tonight, ain't he? He goes batshit if I forget. I ain't got time for you and your imaginary crush."

Spain was nonplussed. "Just tell him it's my fault, I don't mind. Don't be a meanie, Po, I'd do all this for you."

Prussia snorted. Like hell he would. The last time Spain had done him any favours he had ended up locked in a police cell all night missing all of his clothes except for a single shoe. To this day no one could explain how his wrist had become handcuffed to his ankle.

"Oh...oh! There he is! Theretherethere- don't look!" Spain yanked Prussia's arm as his head turned to look, not entirely conspicuously cupping the side of his own head to watch the man approaching out of the corner of his eyes. He was carrying a large black folder under one arm and had a satchel swung across his shoulders, promptly dumping it by a table and tiredly flopping into a seat. A moment later he produced his phone, one of those fancy types Spain could never quite get the hang of using, pressed a few buttons and lifted it to his ear.

"So he does exist at least," Prussia said, interest perked. Spain wasn't listening anyway, eyes absorbing every visible inch of him from the unusual curl of hair bobbing lazily atop his head to the slither of ankle revealed beneath the hem of his trousers, tan this time, straight creases following the length of each shin. On his feet were red espadrilles to match his red shirt, no tie, but a silver cross nestled in his collar.

Taking a few moments longer to admire him, he turned to Prussia, expression serious. "Okay, remember the plan?"

"Yes, I remember the stupid bloody plan. This isn't going to work and I'm going to end up looking like a total dickhead," Prussia complained, grumpily propping his head on his hand. "France is better at this poncy theatrical crap. Why can't you just go over there like a normal human being and ask the guy out. It's the perfect time and place for-ah. Oh. Hm."

Spain's heart sank through the floor. A stunning creature in red had just arrived, bending to kiss the man's cheek before taking the seat beside him, entwining their fingers. Her free hand swept dark curls off her shoulder. Prussia reached over to pat Spain's arm. "Sorry man, guess this one's straight as a poker. Better luck next time. Can we go now?"

Prussia's lack of sensitivity wasn't unusual. The guilt he always felt when Spain gave him that look wasn't either. "Christ Spain, don't start that. He's on a date for God's sake. They're holding hands. What are you expecting to do?"

It took a lot to defeat Spain, especially when his mind was set on something he wanted. And he had never wanted anything more in his life than to take this beautiful Italian stranger on a date, just one date, that was all he was asking for, hands inwardly clasped and signalling to the heavens.

"How do I look?"

Prussia sighed irritably. "Desperate."

"Prussia!" Spain whined, kicking him under the table. "This is a matter of life and death! This could be my one true love here!"

"Not unless that broad is hiding a dick under her dress," Prussia laughed, awkwardly rubbing his shin.

Spain huffed. "Just because he's having lunch with a lady, that doesn't mean he's courting her."

Prussia's nose wrinkled with comical intensity. "'Courting'? What the fuck century are you living in?" He got to his feet a moment later, taking a final swift slurp of his coffee. "Look, I've gotta go, man. Good luck and all, but I don't think you're gonna be banging the beauty this time. Catchya at France's tomorrow, yeah? Don't do anything fucking moronic."

Spain waved him off, head propped on his hand, ducking around Prussia when he briefly blocked the view of his object of affection. Eyes fixed on Him now; tracing circles on her palm, up to her wrist, twisting a stylish Rolex around her wrist; reaching up to brush a delicate curl behind her ear; over her cheek and down her other arm. Spain imagined himself in her position best he could, glaring when He leaned in to whisper in her ear, straining to listen as if he could possibly hear.

She stood a moment later, bending to press a kiss to His cheek. Only seconds after, she was gone, and Spain breathed a sigh of relief, smiling softly, imagining himself alone with Him now, all sweet, fleeting touches and silly endearments and eyes meeting and long, adoring looks filled with heat and passion and intensity and-

"Oi! What the fuck are you staring at?"

Spain jumped, torn from his daydream by the man two tables across, his glare fierce. He'd pulled his sunglasses from his hair, folding them between the buttons of his shirt. Faced with such ferocity, Spain did what he did best. He smiled, broadly, charmingly, and waved; carried on waving when the man rose from his seat and strode over, slamming his portfolio down on the table, waves of coffee crashing over the side of Spain's mug.

"What. The fuck. Are you staring at?"

Spain's smile remained. "Well...you, actually." His flush was so sudden that Spain thought for a moment he was ill. Then he was stammering and spluttering, words stuck in the traffic jam of brain, voicebox, tongue. "You're really cute. Sorry, I couldn't help staring."

"W-what the-" He began, looking around as if the whole world was watching. "W-who the- F-fuck...you...it...w-what..."

"Ha, you look like a cute tomato. Hey, can I take you out for a drink?"

Sixty-Eight: 11: 33

"Much as I consider myself a connoisseur of all things romantic, don't you think you are going a little bit overboard here, my sweet little cherry?" France was saying, following Spain from shop to shop, offering his insight every time Spain pointed at an item and cried 'what about that?' The list started with a tomato-shaped charm (dismissed as 'tacky') and so far ended with a pink and red tie (dismissed as 'garish'). "Are the two of you even what they call 'official'?"

Spain was busy nosing through a rack of shirts, pulling one out, shaking his head and putting it back. "Of course we're official," he answered as if France had just asked him if the sky is blue.

"So you've asked him if he wants to be your boyfriend, then?" France said, wrinkling his nose in what could only be described as disgust at the next shirt Spain presented, eyes lighting up. He slumped, hanging it up again and abandoning the rest, moving on to peruse the watches instead.

"Well, no, but I think it's pretty obvious by now," Spain said, pressing his nose to the glass cabinet. He winced at the price of the sparkly watch with the leather strap. "We've been out-" He paused to count on his fingers, "twenty-three and a half times since our first date."

"What was the half...?"

"Oh, he ate some bad mussels at Dominic's and threw up over me so I took him home and put him to bed. After he was done throwing up, anyway. He must've eaten loads that day. I've never seen anyone projectile vomit like that before."

France made a face like he'd smelt something bad. "Lovely."

"We're definitely going out, anyway. Why else would I be buying him a one-month anniversary gift? I already got him a card, so now I just need the perfect present," Spain said. "He's pretty hard to buy for though. He's kinda finicky."

France sighed. "If you really insist on doing this, then buy a present that means something, not some random tat. Something commemorative to remind him of something you did together. Or...I don't know, have something engraved with the date you first went out."

Spain paused, turned and dragged France into his arms. "Perfect! France, you're a genius!" he cried, attracting the attention of a few other customers. Letting go, he bounced on his toes, fists clenched. "But...but what can I get engraved?"

France rolled his eyes.

Romano stared at the box Spain had placed in his hand. He 'd barely made it through the door before it had been put there, now standing in the hallway to Spain's flat, looking for all the world like there might be a black scorpion hiding inside.

"Go on, open it!" Spain laughed, nudging Romano's hand.

Romano swallowed. Spain was practically shaking with excitement, Romano carefully tugging the end of the ribbon, letting it fall around his hand and then wiggling the black lid off the box to reveal a silver chain, a dog tag attached to the end of it. "What's this for?" he asked, Spain's excitement faltering for only a second. He pulled the chain free, letting it dangle for a moment before lowering it to Romano's palm.

"See these dates?" he said, pointing to two small inscriptions. "That's the date we first started going out and that one underneath is the date of our first month anniversary - today! The rest is for any other special dates like...like, I don't know, our first year anniversary or um...y'know, that kind of thing."

Spain's lips started to twitch the longer the following silence went on until his smile fell altogether. Romano looked like someone had just punched him in the stomach, right under the ribcage, right in that squishy bit between lungs and stomach. He was pale too and Romano was rarely pale, cheeks always flushed with a healthy bit of red. "Why..." he began, fingers closing around the tag. "Why the fuck did you buy this?"

Spain's brow knitted. "For our first month anniversary..." he said softly, cautiously, not so confident anymore. His swallowed nervously, an unsettling ache bubbling in the pit of his belly. "We started going out a month today and I thought it'd be nice to-"

"Since when are we going out?" Romano demanded, shoving the tag back into the box and the box back into Spain's hand. Spain could only stare at it. "When did I agree to that?"

It was Spain's turn to look like he'd been punched, only it felt like someone had thumped him in the centre of his chest wearing a gauntlet of spikes. "I...I just thought-"

"Well you fucking thought wrong, didn't you? I don't remember you asking me out and I certainly don't remember saying 'yes'."

"But it's been a month and...and we've seen each other nearly every day and we've made love twenty-six times so..."

"So what? That...t-that automatically makes us an item, does it?"

"Roma, don't get mad."

"Don't tell me what to do! And don't fucking call me that!" Romano was frantically tugging his jacket back on, eyes on the floor. "What the fuck is wrong with you? We fuck a few times and that means we're going out? What the hell fantasy world are you living in, Spain? We're not going out. I'm not your boyfriend."

Spain's lip trembled. "W-where are you going?"

"I'm not staying here." Romano had put his hand on the latch when Spain grabbed his arm, shoving him back against the door, kissing him desperately, hoping Romano would understand his feelings a little better for it. For a split second only, Romano returned it, whimper caught in the back of his throat before he shoved him away. Spain heard the sound of Romano slapping him before he felt the sobering sting, stumbling back in surprise. It gave Romano all the time he needed to make his exit, leaving Spain staring, dumbstruck, at the empty space he'd left behind in his doorway and in his heart.

Eighty: 22:24

"What the fuck, Spain? What the fuck!"

Romano was pacing in front of the sofa, clutching his phone. The suit jacket he'd been wearing was crumpled on the other side of the room where he'd hurled it, his shirt untucked in his rush up the stairs, hair tousled from the moment Spain had tried to kiss him into calming down. "You wanna explain that? I'd love to fucking hear it!"

Spain was leaning against the closed living room door, staring at the ceiling, waiting for Romano's tantrum to fizzle out. His head was pounding with thoughts and alcohol and he was in no mood for another one of these arguments, the kind that left him with a hand-shaped mark on his cheek and a cold, empty bed. This wasn't his fault. No way could it be his fault.

"It was an innocent kiss, Roma. How much have you had to drink?"

"An 'innocent kiss'? I saw you, Spain, waiting until my God damn back was turned to put the moves on him! What happened before I came in, huh? Was that a goodbye kiss?"

Sighing, Spain slid to his arse, raking fingers through his hair, watching the tips of his shoes as he wiggled his toes. Romano had made him buy a pair of formal black boots for occasions and it felt like his feet had been encased in a layer of concrete all evening. "Roma, I wouldn't hurt you like that. He was upset, we talked a bit while you were busy with Belgium and I hugged him and kissed his cheek afterwards, which was when you came in. There's nothing sordid about it."

"'Busy with Bel'? Is that why you did it, because I was paying more attention to Belgium than I was to you?" Romano growled, his pacing pausing. He was breathing hard, tears precarious on the edges of his eyelashes. Spain said nothing, digging knuckles into his eyes.

"Well?"

"Well, you were, Romano. Paying Bel a lot of attention, I mean."

Romano reeled, clutching his phone tighter. "So that...so...so that is the reas-"

"No, it's not the fucking reason, Romano!" Spain yelled, hands falling. His anger deflated like a balloon a moment later, expression imploring. "I don't know what else I can tell you beyond the truth, cariño. Why can't you just trust me?"

"When have you ever given me a reason to 'just trust' you?"

"When have I ever not! It's not my fault you won't talk to me!"

Romano faltered, wracking his brain for that reason, the turning cogs finding nothing. He turned away, shoving his thumbnail between his teeth, glaring at Dali's Windmills strung up crooked above the bookshelf. Spain's eyes softened. He rose to his feet, approaching with caution, neither punched nor pushed away when his arms wound around Romano's middle, nose nuzzling through his hair to the back of his neck, pressing a kiss to the top of his spine. Feeling his defeated shiver, Spain smiled softly. "I'm only interested in Romano. Always Roma forever. Please believe me. Please."

The tension holding Romano's limbs taught sank through his toes, but despite the merry dance in his mind for placating him, Spain knew this wasn't an end to the matter. Still, he was tired and his feet were hurting and his head was aching and all he really wanted was to climb into the shower, slide into bed with his beloved and forget this evening had ever happened.

"Mmm, you smell so nice," Spain sighed, shuffling close after climbing into his modest sized wooden-framed double, swathed in soft sheets and an unnecessary volume of pillows, most of which were on the floor. Romano's skin was sticky with heat, damp hair drying into natural curls. Entirely naked, his legs were half twisted in the sheets, one arm trapped beneath a recently flipped pillow, trying to cool himself off. Spain admired him for a few seconds before he could no longer resist, reaching to brush fingertips along his side, amused when muscles twitched in ticklish glee. Romano made a noise of complaint, rolling onto his front.

"Don't. Too hot," he moaned, closing his eyes. His legs shifted apart all the same, Spain's fingers drawing meaningful patterns at the curve of his rear. Lifting up, he pressed a kiss to his shoulder then rested his chin there, smiling.

"Do you want me to get the fan down from the attic?" Fingers continued lower, hand shifting flat to smooth his palm over a plush cheek. "It's only a little one, but it might help you to sleep better."

A grunt. Spain laughed, squeezing his arse slowly. "Mind if we make love first? You look so sexy, I can't help myself."

"M'tired, Spain," Romano said, sounding it. "And don't say 'make love', you fucking fruit."

"I'll be quick..."

Romano snorted. Spain laughed again. "I will! Please~ please, please, please."

An unintelligible noise followed, Romano twisting to look at him, ensuring Spain knew that he was most definitely doing him a favour by humouring him. His annoyance was met with a kiss, Spain knowing he'd won this time, already reaching for the lube on the bedside table. Romano jumped when a generous amount was dribbled over his cheeks, sliding like honey over his thighs.

"Y'could've fucking warmed it up fir-aah...ah...f-fuck..."

Spain grinned, two fingers buried inside him with delicious ease, already moving, coating, stroking, taking great pleasure in silky heat tightening around him. "So, are we friends again now?" he whispered, using their position to his advantage, slowing his fingers and pressing down; manipulative, yes, but a useful tool against someone with a temper like Romano's, his body locking up with need and want and tension, ready for and willing to do absolutely anything. Lips met skin, soft and fleeting and warm, tender like all of Spain's touches; then teeth and tongue, sudden and rough, marking jaw, neck, shoulder, eager moans encouraging harder bites, deeper fingers.

"If...if you never speak to my brother again," Romano said quietly, voice strained. He was propped on his elbows now, head hanging between his arms, hips lifting slowly. His hair was frantic with curls, wild and unkempt, just one of the many things Spain found so adorable about him, somewhere in the middle of the endless, extending list.

Spain paused. "Don't say things like that, Roma."

"I'm serious, Spain." The bed creaked when Romano shifted, pushing Spain's hand away to roll onto his side, looking at him levelly. His voice was calm and low, still laced with lust. "If you care about me..."

"Romano," Spain said, shaking his head. "I know you don't mean that. You wouldn't be that mean."

"Wouldn't I?" Romano shot, flopping onto his front. "I saw the looks you were giving him."

"What looks, Romano?" Spain growled, turning onto his back, irritated to have tripped into this argument all over again. "He's my gorgeous boyfriend's little brother. He's cute, yeah, but that's as far as it goes. I'm not gonna' ignore the kid just because you say so and I know you're probably gonna' accuse me and yell at me, but that's just the way it has to be. Grown-ups don't ignore people for no good reason."

Wrenching the sheets over his shoulder, Spain rolled onto his side with his back to Romano, reaching to flick off the bedside lamp, no longer in the mood. He could feel Romano's eyes on him, could practically hear the cogs turning in his mind, but he said nothing else. Spain didn't know what was worse; his silence but for the sheets shuffling as he settled into bed, or the yelling he had been expecting.

Thirty-Seven: 19:18

"Seriously? Fucking Dali? That's the best you've got?" Romano - Romano, Romano, Romano, that was his name, Romano L. Vargas, 24, assistant gallery director, thoroughbred Italian, 5'8", killer wardrobe, wears Jean Paul Gautier Le Male, hates oranges, loves cats, is feisty, passionate, utterly, entirely breathtaking Romano - was saying, haughtily parading his wine in front of Spain's face. "Come on, that's such a fucking cliche. Did you just type 'famous painters' into Google and pull that one out first or is it just because he's Spanish. Jesus."

Spain smiled serenely, swiping a bead of condensation from the rim of his San Miguel and sucking it into his mouth, mumbling around his finger, "I like Dali. I could look at his paintings for hours and hours. They're so...colourful."

Romano scoffed. "'Colourful'? Fuck that. There's more to Dali's work than just colour. He was a creepy motherfucker, so what does that say about you?" It wasn't said with any malice, Romano smiling widely, looking over the menu in front of him, tongue sliding over his lower lip. Spain watched in rapt fascination until it darted back inside.

La Cucina was Spain's favourite bar-restaurant, nestled between an old-time theatre always full of those pretentious types with their skinny cigarettes and ash-stained glasses, and a music store always parading the same old instruments in the window, gathering dust and memories. Spain frequented it of course (he only lived a few streets away), but seemed to be the only patron. It made him wonder how the place managed to stay afloat, though he enjoyed the quiet, the opportunity to nestle a guitar in his lap and strum in peace, inventing love-addled little tunes, dreaming up fantasies of singing them to his lover someday.

"I don't know, what do you think it says about me?" Spain answered, reaching across the table, fingertips following the hard bumps of Romano's knuckles. He wasn't offended when Romano snatched his hand away, cheeks alight with colour, both hands retreating to the relative safety of his lap where he started to tear his serviette into long, rectangular strips.

"I-I think it says you're...you're..." He shrugged, eyes lifting to meet Spain's, twinkling. "You're different."

"Different?"

Romano sighed, his smile a little distant. "Different."

"Is that a good thing?" Spain asked, hand still where it had fallen post-caress as if waiting for Romano's to return. They drummed impatiently on the tabletop before finding the half-melted candle in the centre, submerging his middle finger and lifting, enjoying the sensation of hot wax like hot kisses. First the burn, then the pleasure.

"I suppose it is, yeah," he answered. "Different makes someone unpredictable. I like unpredictable."

Spain was suddenly aware of a bare toe creeping up the inside of his ankle, brushing over the bone and higher, sliding into the leg of creased jeans. He carried on smiling, glancing down as if he could see through the table, wanting to check what he thought was happening was genuinely happening, but judging by Romano's cock-eyed smirk, it was definitely happening.

"So um... who was that girl you were with?" he continued as if nothing was happening, not the delightfully tickly sensation of skin upon skin or the tingles giggling as they trickled into his groin.

"Hm?"

"That girl in the red dress the day I asked you out. Who was she?"

"Oh, Regina?" Romano answered as if Spain would suddenly recollect knowing her. His toe slid higher, fingers entwining under his chin as he leaned forward. "Why do you want to know? You jealous?"

"Yes."

Romano stared at him for a moment, then his gaze fell to the candle and Spain's hand covered in blobs of cooling wax. He shifted his gaze a few inches left to Spain's half-eaten, messily buttered bread roll and sat back again, hands returning to his ragged serviette "She's my granddad's new assistant. That was her first day so I said I'd take her to lunch. I'm showing her around this weekend because she's new to the city."

"Ah, so it wasn't a date?" Spain asked. Marginally less flustered, Romano met his gaze again.

"What would you have said if it had been a date?"

Spain smiled slowly, reaching across the table to catch the lock of hair falling from behind Romano's ear. Fingertips caught the line of his jaw, sweeping his hair back into place, lingering for longer than necessary, rough edge of his thumb smoothing circles over a hot cheek. "I would have wooed you until you forgot all about everyone else," he said softly, thumb drifting to Romano's ever-so-red lips dying to be kissed, tracing the plump path from one corner to the other. He exhaled slowly. "Do you know how beautiful you are?"

It was like an alarm ripping the sleeping from wonderful dreams, Romano jerking away, all of his limbs tugged back into his bubble of personal space. Spain mourned the loss of contact, confused by the change of atmosphere. "Don't say stupid shit, bastard. I don't need to hear fucking platitudes, I'm not a girl."

"B-bas...p-platit... Romano, that's not...did I say something wrong?" he asked worriedly, trying to reach for something, anything, hand outstretched to encourage Romano back to him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. Forgive me?"

Romano huffed, shrugging. "I fucking forgive you, idiot."

Spain made a pleased noise, smile returning, glad Romano's anger was short-lived. But for the remainder of the evening, his lovely little toes never shifted from his shoes; his fingers never crossed the halfway point of the table; his eyes barely even lifted to meet Spain's while he chattered. He was worried he'd ruined everything until later in the evening, after driving them back to his place so Romano could pick up the coat he'd left there, Romano - still standing in the open doorway to his flat - dragged him down by his hair and kissed him full on the mouth.

Like he'd had an electric shock to the base of his spine, Spain leapt into action, kicking the door shut. He slammed Romano into it - briefly paused to apologise - clawing for purchase to kiss him frantically, wanting this, needing this. Hands explored every available inch of him, memorising the texture of his hair, the sweet, unplaceable scent it left on his fingers, the way his lashes fluttered when Spain's fingers caught the unmistakeable bump of a nipple and then recklessly fingered it.

Romano made a series of guttural noises, predatory almost, a feral cat about to strike. The sounds rippled inside Spain's chest, made him hot all the way down to his toes. A pointed fang dragged over the juncture of his jaw, tongue leaving a hot wet trail to his collar, Spain all the while thoroughly examining every inch of him, fingers following the glockenspiel bumps of Romano's ribs to hips swelling over the waistband of his trousers, down to his thighs which, in one impossibly easy movement, were hoisted around Spain's middle.

Romano pulled away to gasp, glancing down at the position, shoulder blades aching. "Are you gonna' fuck me or not, bastard?" he growled, voice ragged with arousal.

Spain felt a pang in his chest, the word not one he associated with affection. Hoisting Romano higher, Spain lifted them both away from the door and staggered to his bedroom, falling to the bed with Romano in his arms.

"Have...have you done this before?" Spain whispered for no reason other than it seemed right to. He could see Romano's blush even in the fading light. "It's okay if you haven't. I'll be careful."

"I-I'm not a virgin, dammit," Romano answered, though his eyes wouldn't meet Spain's. Spain had no reason to doubt him (though the fact made him a little sad), but he was careful none the less, preparing him slowly until Romano was a withering mess. The moment they were connected, Spain felt the overwhelming echo deep in his heart, his soul soaring, singing. It was all so perfect, even as Romano rolled them over, riding him slow and hard, muttering to himself in sweet, hushed Italian.

When he looked down, caught Spain's eye and gave him a Cheshire grin, it was the end for Spain.

He was in love.

Eighty : 19:30

Spain yelped when Romano cracked him across the backside with the flat of his palm. "You look sexy," he whispered in his ear, tugging his lobe with his teeth. "Even if I do say so myself."

Spain had been admiring Romano's handiwork in the mirror. It was a novelty having someone dress him, especially someone with the impeccable taste Romano was blessed with. He rubbed his arse, grinning. It wasn't like he was going to disagree; he knew he was a looker after all, he just wasn't the sort to flaunt it, preferring to loaf around in baggy jeans, tangled hair and lacklustre socks. Romano, as usual, looked perfectly groomed in dark grey slacks, polished brown boots and a white shirt, Swarovski cufflinks neatly pinching his sleeves. He'd sidestepped his usual aftershave for a spritz of Hugo Boss Orange (Spain liked it because of the name, as well as the smell. He had a penchant for being called 'boss' in bed), hair swept behind his ears with two fingertips-worth of Fudge hair clay.

"You ready to go?" he asked, shoving Spain aside so he could adjust his collar in the hall mirror. He'd forgone a tie, first three buttons left undone. Spain hadn't been able to keep his eyes off the teasing dip of his collar since he got dressed.

He nodded, holding his hand out for Romano to take. Only a little hurt when it was ignored, he followed Romano out to the car, sliding into the passenger seat, immediately fiddling with the radio to find his favourite station. His hand was smacked when Romano slid into the driver's seat. "I've told you before about changing my God damn station. I'm not listening to your trashy pop music," he said, despite leaving the station on for the entirety of the drive to his brother's place.

"Romano, you made it!"

Spain looked over the man jogging down the path to a house not entirely dissimilar to Romano's, surprised by how much he resembled his lover; a little thinner, perhaps, and a little less weathered. He smiled when the man gathered Romano in his arms, laughed when Romano rolled his eyes and awkwardly patted his back. "Course we fucking made it, I said we would," he answered, hands on his brother's forearms holding him back. He nodded at Spain. "This is him. Say hello."

"Hi! I'm Italy!" he announced, taking a step forward. Romano yanked him back by the belt.

"No hugging, I already told you," he growled. Italy smiled sheepishly, instead holding out his hand.

"It's good to finally meet you. Romano's told me all about you."

Spain positively beamed, loosely shaking Italy's hand. "Has he really?" He looked over at his lover. "Did you really? That's so cute of you, Roma. Thank you."

Romano's cheeks burst with colour. "S-shut up,it's not a big deal, I just got sick of him bugging me with questions, that's all!" he cried, throwing his arms in the air. He was stomping inside the house a second after, shoving past a blond gentleman waiting patiently by the front door and vanishing. Spain dozily smiled after him, sighing.

"Come on in and help yourself to food and drink!" Italy said on his way inside. He offered the man by the door a smile, Spain noticing the way it faltered when the smile was met with a curt nod. Continuing inside, Spain said a further few hellos to faces he didn't know, gave a nod and a charming grin here and there, wondering where Romano had gone. Italy pushed a glass of Peroni into his hands when he wandered into the kitchen, apologising for not getting San Miguel, and was off again, buzzing from guest to guest like a honey bee from flower to flower.

Left alone, Spain absently wandered around the place, feeling lost. He started a conversation with one of Romano's cousins, a pretty young girl sitting at the dining room table with a Nintendo DS on her lap, but she soon got bored of his musings about her 'grumpy older cousin' and retreated to the garden. Alone again, Spain helped himself to the food laid out on a trestle table by the patio doors, disappointed when he came to the bottom of his bottle.

With something to do, he went searching for the recycling bin, carefully sliding it amongst the precarious pyramid of cans and bottles before being collared by a very drunk Italian lady in her mid-fifties dressed like she was stuck in the 1920s. Twice she tried to kiss him before Spain managed to make his exit, apologising profusely to her and walking away as quickly as his legs would carry him.

Tired of being alone, he poked his head into every room, asking every person who caught his gaze if they knew where Romano was. Sick of hearing him pine, a tiny little boy with a toy dinosaur in his hands snapped, "he's upstairs, stop asking!"

Spain nodded, heading into the hall. He paused at the bottom of the stairs when he caught sight of Romano, an empty glass of wine between his feet and a pretty blonde in a green floral dress perched next to him on the top step. He was smiling, laughing, their fingers tightly entwined. For a long time Spain stood and watched the way Romano's eyes searched every inch of her face, the way they wrinkled at the corners when he laughed, the way they drooped when she whispered something in his ear. Blood pounded in his ears, the noise and the chatter drowned by the static sound of jealousy in his head.

He couldn't watch anymore, the way Romano's thumb smoothed across the back of her hand, the way he licked his lips while she spoke, the way they nearly brushed the skin of her cheek when he leaned in to speak.

Fists clenched, he raged through the house, heading for the kitchen where he knew he would find more alcohol. Grabbing the first bottle he saw, he downed half in one go and the following half upon the second gulp, slamming the bottle on the side. Head spinning, he leaned against the fridge, taking long, deep breaths. Fingers flexing at his side, he lifted them to his tie, loosening it.

"O-oh, sorry, I didn't know anyone was in here."

Spain looked up, Italy standing in the doorway. He looked distressed, despite his forced smile. "Are you okay, Ita?" Spain asked, standing properly. Italy laughed softly. Then he erupted, eyes starting to stream. Spain moved instinctively, gathering him up, pressing Italy's cheek to his chest. "Hey, hey, you shouldn't be crying at your own birthday party, shhh."

"I-it...i-it's just...h-he..." Italy began, fingers curling in Spain's shirt. "H-he doesn't want me. I love him, Spain and he doesn't w-want me."

"Who doesn't?" Spain asked softly, idly stroking his hair. "Who wouldn't want you? You're so cute!"

Italy pulled away from him, looking a little embarrassed. Wiping his eyes on his sleeves, he shrugged, trying his very hardest to smile. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't've done that. We only just met!" He laughed weakly. "Don't...don't tell Romano about this, okay? He'll only get pissed off again and then he won't talk to me for weeks and -oops! Ah, sorry, he's always telling me I ramble. I suppose I do a bit, don't I?"

Spain smiled sympathetically. "I won't say anything. If you want to talk, I'll happily listen." Anything to distract him from the fingers tightening around his heart and the anger pooling in his gut. "I know we've only just met, but you can trust me. Just ask Romano! Not that he really tells me very much for him to learn to trust me, ha...haha. Hey, who's that blond girl he's sitting with, by the way?"

A little wide-eyed, Italy replied, "Probably Belgium." He wiped his eyes again. "She's super nice. She's always been a good friend to Romano. He doesn't open up to many people."

"Oh. Okay." Spain forced a broad smile, leaning down to press a kiss to Italy's cheek. "Whoever it is, he'll figure out how you feel and he'll love you back, I'm-"

"What the fuck is this?"

Both of them jumped, turning to face Romano, his hand still on the door handle. Italy's words about keeping this to himself resonated in his ears, so he said the first thing that came to mind. "Ah...nothing, cariño."

Definitely a wrong answer.

Romano's lips pursed. He knew a lie when he heard one, eyes narrowing at his little brother.

"We're leaving."

Seventy-Five: 09:27

Spain had been staring listlessly at a half-sculpted rabbit for the best part of an hour, chisel providing a dangerous headrest, handle snug under his chin, blade digging into the wood of his crafting table. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this miserable, eyes shifting to the phone in front of him, willing it to light up with a message or a call from the man that had teased his heart with sweet words and sweeter kisses. He wanted nothing more than to crawl under his bed and hide the way he used to when he was a kid. His mama would always find him, comfort him, cuddle him, tell him everything would be absolutely fine in the end.

Anyone watching would think Spain a lunatic when he smiled dozily. Letting the chisel fall to the safety of the table, he reached for his phone, knowing his mama's number off-by-heart.

"Sweetheart~ it's so good to hear from you," she cried, her voice warm and sugary. "Are you okay? I got your flowers, thank you so much. Such a lovely boy."

"Ah, I'm glad, mama," Spain said, comforted by the sound of her voice alone. "Listen, I need some advice if you've got time to talk."

She laughed softly. Spain could hear the smile in her voice when she spoke, realising then how desperately he missed her. "I've always got time to talk to you, España, you know that. What's wrong?"

Spain took a deep breath, pulling the half-sculpted rabbit closer. Holding his phone between shoulder and ear, he picked up a smaller chisel and carried on where he'd left off, distracted enough from his problems to work.

"Mama, I've met someone," he admitted, brushing a layer of sawdust from the table. "I'm in love with him. He's so completely perfect. He makes my heart ache."

She squealed. Spain could almost see her bouncing up and down on the window seat in her bedroom and waving over his papa to listen in. "Oh, I'm so happy for you! Tell your mama all about him!"

"Ah, there's so much I could tell you. He's cute and he's charming and he gets all embarrassed and shy whenever I pay him a compliment, though sometimes he gets kind of mad, but not all the time," Spain explained, picking up a small piece of sandpaper, smoothing it firmly over a curved ear. "He's just... He's passionate. He's so sweet one minute and flying off the handle the next. I can't keep up sometimes, y'know? And he just...he drives me crazy!"

"So, what's the problem, sweetheart?"

Spain laughed weakly. "I don't know. I upset him, I think. A lot. Ha...haha..." He trailed off, blowing some more sawdust from the well of the rabbit's ear, blinking furiously when some hit his eyes. "I got him a one month anniversary present and he got really angry about it. He said he's not my boyfriend and then he left and now he won't answer my calls or texts. It's been a week, mama. What should I do?"

"Well, you know where he lives don't you?" she replied softly. "Go and see him. Say you're not going away until he lets you in. Ah, how romantic~"

"Do you think that will work?"

"Your papa used to do that all the time! And look at us now," she said, tone nostalgic. She laughed then, voice distant and girlish, "Oh don't give me that look, you loved it when I played hard to get."

"Is that papa?"

"It is~"

"Say hi to him for me."

"España says hello, love!"

A man's voice called 'hello, mijito!' Spain smiled, pleased to hear his parents' voices. "So, you think I should go to his place? Should I serenade him?"

"Hmm, don't serenade him, you might disturb his neighbours and get him into trouble."

"Okay, mama," Spain said, breathing in deeply. "Thank you. Can I come and see you soon? I miss you both."

"You can come and see us whenever you like. Love you~"

"Love you mama! Papa, too! Speak soon!" Spain said. His heart already felt lighter as he hung up, his determination to win Romano back renewed. He smiled as he dropped his phone back into his pocket, already working on what he was going to say in his head. Not entirely trusting himself to remember it all, he grabbed his notebook from the side of the table and quickly started scribbling bullet points to remind himself. When he was done, he finished sculpting the little rabbit, dusted it off and carefully placed it in a box with a layer of bubble wrap, ready to posted.

Spain rarely felt a stint in confidence. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he had felt uncomfortable or nervous about anything, which was why, upon pulling up outside Romano's house that evening, he lingered in his car, tapping the steering wheel, trying to gear himself up to walk up the short driveway and ring the doorbell. Romano's Fiat Punto was on the drive (a white 09 with the stripes of the Italian flag zipping up over the bonnet, the roof and down to the boot - so, that meant he was in. Or had gone for a walk. Spain didn't know which he preferred.

He wondered if Romano had noticed him outside, if he was trying to ignore him, if he had slipped out the back door and run for the hills. The latter in mind, he took a deep breath and climbed out, closing the door, locking the car and striding purposefully to the front door. Only faltering once on his journey to the doorbell, he firmly pressed the button, then shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking on his heels.

Spain looked around while he waited, noticing for the first time that the doormat beneath his feet read 'F*** Off'. He laughed. He'd never seen it before, usually too busy staring into Romano's eyes or at his retreating arse or kissing him messily, eager to get them both indoors to fuck him senseless. Taking a step back, he took in all of the other things he'd missed, like the hanging basket beside the living room window, the neatly tended to front garden, the freshly painted front door. The windowsills matched, powder blue, pristine. The whole house was pristine, painted cream, decal petals winding around the windows, ivy-like from a distance. It was...it was pretty. Spain couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it before, all the effort Romano must have gone to to keep it looking this way, this old town house aching with history.

He jumped when the door swung open, there standing Romano, shirt half untucked, shoeless, sockless, t-shirt on backwards. Spain looked him over twice before he met his eyes, eyes that wouldn't meet his. Everything Spain wanted to say was forgotten, gathering Romano into his arms when he staggered forwards, holding him tight to his chest. Large, gentle hands soothed him, quiet endearments comforted him, reassuring Romano that everything - everything - would be alright, he was there now, he would always be there for him, always.

Romano made a strangled noise, fingers knotting into the back of his shirt. "P-please don't leave me," he begged, burying his nose beneath his chin. "I'm s-sorry. I didn't mean to- p-please don't leave me."

Spain sighed against his hair, then inhaled, reminding himself of that addictive scent, taking it all in, wanting to feel it in his veins. Protectiveness surged in his belly. "What's the matter, cariño? Who hurt you?"

"N-no-one, dammit, i-it's nothing, just shut up and come inside," Romano stammered, taking Spain's hand to pull him indoors, cheeks red.

Romano sat him down in the living room before disappearing to get coffee for them both. Spain had a sneaking suspicion Romano's had a good lug of brandy in it, but he kept the thought to himself, watching him swig and swig and swig until he'd drained the cup. When the room fell quiet, Spain reached across to brush his cheek, softly saying, "Roma, tell me what's-"

"Nothing's wrong! It's fine. I'm fine, everything is fine," he said quickly, refilling his cup. His hands were shaking. "There's absolutely nothing to talk about so just drop it because I'm fine, okay? Everything is great."

"It's not though, is it? You're upset," Spain continued gently, shifting nearer. His hand smoothed up and down Romano's thigh, hoping it was comforting at the very least.

Romano closed his eyes, taking three slow, deep breaths. Calmly he leaned over to place his cup down, sitting back, grasping Spain's fingers and squeezing reverently once, twice, as if gearing himself up. In the next moment he was kissing and biting warm skin, tugging Spain's clothes, fingers sliding over his firm abdomen, yanking his belt from the security of their loops, wrenching open his jeans to reach what was inside. Spain broke their kiss to giggle, grasping Romano's wrists, panting and confused. "Ro-"

"Please. Please," Romano begged. Spain met his gaze, trying with every ounce of brainpower he had to read his mind. When that failed, he gave in to him, dragging him forward to kiss him, arms wrapping around him to hold him tight and secure, wishing he could translate the feelings in his heart into a language Romano would understand.

Afterwards, when Romano had fallen asleep squished between Spain's body and the back of the sofa, legs still akimbo his waist, Spain cleaned him, dressed him and pulled a throw up to his shoulders. Leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips, he made himself comfortable on the seat opposite and patiently waited for Romano to wake up.

End of Part 1~