Summary: Spain gets horny when he's drunk and a certain Italian is around. Uh oh.

Rated: M, for things that need to be rated as M.

Notes: My (slightly early) contribution to Valentine's Day on FFN. All the Spanish/Italian is pretty basic, so I didn't feel the need to insert translations at the bottom. And... that's it. I think I'll go crawl into a hole and die now for actually posting this, kthxbai.

The Right Hand, The Upper Hand

Spain is more than just a little tipsy when he comes from the bar that late night, and with good reason. He contributes his fair share when it comes to draining the supply of alcohol at the bars they visit, even if he's never one to beat Prussia in a drinking contest. Being Nations, Spain and his two friends have extremely high tolerance levels, and yet that never stops them from making the bartender a fortune and getting completely intoxicated.

But it's when they get completely piss-drunk that their one-track minds begin to head in different directions. France seems hell-bent on recounting every abysmal defeat his army ever suffered to the unfortunate soul on the barstool next to him, as well as ranting about several women he used to know. Prussia becomes absolutely hilarious to watch because he acts completely delirious; his reality-span can range from thinking that he's back in his old Prussian army to believing that Gilbird has died and that they must conduct a funeral.

Spain, however, is a different matter entirely. Whereas France and Prussia never remember what happened the next morning, Spain always knows because he always wakes up in the same person's bed—always. And, even better, he always remembers the important details. Because when Spain becomes completely inebriated, he begins to, let's say... loosen up his morals a bit.

This is the part where Romano comes in.

Now he stumbles through the Italian's downstairs, knocking over a lamp and some standing pieces of artwork in the process. He doesn't feel the need to actually find Romano's bedroom because he's knows, somewhere in the back of his plastered brain, that his querido will hear him and come to satisfy this need of his. But, just for good measure, he knocks over a vase with a grin and watches it break into a thousand shards on the hardwood floor.

He hears some soft footsteps behind him, and when Spain turns around, lo and behold! There's Romano. He looks a bit upset—not that this is unusual, since he vehemently protests it when Spain goes drinking—but his anger seems mellowed by the late hour.

Romano stifles a yawn. "W'cha doing so late?" He sounds rough, but his accent makes it sound like music to Spain's drunk ears. Like it always does, and especially like it does when he's extremely intoxicated, Spain's heart flip-flops in his chest upon seeing his Italian. The window curtains are open, and the pale moonlight is flooding the room and, more noteworthy, creating strange and sensual shapes on Romano's lithe body; it's bright enough to illuminate the dullness of his sleepy eyes, yet just dark enough to give him an air of romanticized mystery. The perfect combination, he thinks—it makes Spain want to pound the Italian into the hardwood floor. It's strange, how Spain is so inebriated and yet able to notice small things like that with precise clarity... But then again, he is supposed to be the Country of Passion, as France constantly reminds him with wiggled eyebrows and crude hand gestures—

Anyway. Spain didn't come to Romano's house to question trivial things or think of France; he came to get laid, fair and square. He knows Romano enjoys it as much as he does, so who is the Italian to deny Spain's right?

With that in mind, Spain doesn't remember closing the few meters between them, but he is acutely aware of the moment he lowers his head and gently brushes lips with Romano. He pulls back quickly, much too quickly for his own tastes, but he's played this game often enough to know that teasing Romano makes it all much more satisfying the next morning. But instead of reacting, Romano seems frozen in place; perhaps he is more tired than Spain realizes? So he tries again, with more force than before, and kneads the Italian's lower lip with his teeth and wraps his arms around Romano's back as he tries to coax a response. Finally, finally, after several moments of this, he gets one as the younger begins kissing back, softly and almost with hesitation. It surprises Spain, but it's a rather pleasant surprise; Romano is usually very impatient and not one to enjoy long make-out sessions. Spain thinks it a rather nice change of pace.

At the same time, however, it worries him. He forces himself to stop kissing Romano, and he looks at the Italian imploringly through his clouded eyes. "¿Estás tú enfermo?" he questions with slightly slurred speech.

The Italian blinks and looks him straight in the eyes. "No," he says simply, without explanation.

...Well, a reason behind his odd behavior would have been nice, but Spain still isn't about to complain—Romano might not have said why, but he certainly didn't imply that they couldn't continue. Just to be sure, though, he presses his forehead against Romano's. He frowns and says plainly, "You feel cold." It's true: normally heat radiates off of him, like that brilliant sun against his beautiful southern shorelines, but tonight his skin feels cool to the touch.

Romano looks taken aback. "I feel fine." And yet, he's trembling slightly, like he's lying or nervous about this affair. Wow, but the Italian seems so damned quiet compared to normal—oh well. Sex is supposedly an antihistamine (how the hell does Spain manage to remember this when he's drunk, exactly?), so it should clear up the illness that Romano pretends he doesn't have.

Since he's made a decision, Spain doesn't see a reason to hold back any more. He begins kissing the Italian fiercely, and he runs his hands through that smooth auburn hair trying to find—dammit—where is it—aha! He triumphantly wraps that wonderful erogenous curl around the fingers of his right hand, and Romano is suddenly clinging to his former boss's shoulders as his legs give out in bliss. Spain accidentally stumbles forward and presses his querido into a nearby doorway to keep the both of them from falling over, but neither of them seem to notice because Romano is moaning into Spain's mouth as he molests that curl for all its worth. The noise is a horrendously effective turn-on, and if he wasn't before then, Spain definitely becomes hard.

"Tu camiseta," he manages between heavy pants and fevered kisses. "¿Dónde está tu camiseta?"

Romano doesn't speak a word or acknowledge that he understands, choosing instead to break away and drag Spain across the expanse of the living room and down a short hall. Spain doesn't particularly remember Romano's room being in this part of the house, but he has memories of thinking this every time he comes here drunk anyway; besides, any bed is good enough for him at the moment, so long as Romano joins him.

Not a moment is wasted: before the door even hits the wall, Spain has zeroed in on the bed and all but flung Romano onto it. He pounces before the Italian can move, and it doesn't take long for him to settle comfortably inbetween his querido's legs and reestablish the heated make-out session. Still anticipating the inevitable sex, his right hand once again takes the curl, and Spain begins moving his lips downward until they settle right by the perfect curve of Romano's Adam's apple. He hears Romano crying out in passionate Italian phrases that Spain doesn't bother interpreting; all he wants and needs to hear are the wanton undertones in his Romano's melodic voice, and holy shit does it turn him on.

"Sp-Spa—ah! Spagna! Ah mio d—oooh!"

Spain involuntarily freezes at that. He pauses in his ministrations of marking Romano's neck with his teeth and growls, "What did you call me?"

"W-what?"

"Say my name," Spain commands, biting into Romano's neck so hard it nearly draws blood. "My human name," the nation orders. He doesn't know what has gotten into Romano, but the Italian has never called him "Spain" in thralls of passion: it's always been "Antonio." Always. The lack of it is extremely upsetting to him for some reason.

Romano trembles at the look in Spain's eyes, and after a moment, the Spaniard realizes how unnatural and terrifying he must suddenly seem to his querido. His expression unconsciously softens as he gently lowers his lips onto Romano's neck again, as if to kiss away the hurt he nearly caused. "Lo siento," he murmurs. He feels the Italian relax beneath his touch, and he repeats himself, "I'm sorry for that, Lovi—"

And with that, Romano freezes up with terror.

Spain, curious, pauses in his handiwork and glances up at the Italian's horrified expression. "...What?" he questions innocently. Did he do something wrong—?

But then he realizes that it isn't him that's the problem; it's the figure by the door who just turned on the lights.

"ANTONIO, you mother fucking BASTARD!" he screams at Spain.

Spain lazily turns his head and looks at Romano in the doorway before he decides, rather quickly, that the Italian's temper tantrum isn't worth paying attention to; instead he faces Romano on the bed, intending to continue what he was—

Wait.

...

This is the moment he realizes that the Italian beneath him is looking at him sheepishly, and now that the light is on Spain can see that he has paler skin belonging to Romano's northern brother and a curl located on the wrong side of his head.

...

Spain's eyes widen.

"Oh, FUCK!"

Notes: (Why can I somehow picture this happening with someone drunk I don't even.)

Let the flames begin? -.-

Edit: Seriously guys? There's exactly one person and one person only who could convince me to write a sequel for this, and so far she hasn't asked for one. So no, it's probably not happening. Sorry.