Headnotes: This story was written over a year ago; I worked on it from March of 2011 to May of 2011, which I remember well because I remember showing it off to my friends while waiting in line for Fanime of that year. Even now, it remains my favourite work, despite all its flaws, simply because I just worked so hard on it and I think it managed to come out quite close to how I'd fantasized it, as well as displaying many things I just really like about the characters and the way I feel about their relationship to the fandom, the good and the bad.

It started off as a Spamano story, but by the end of it there was less romance and more character study, especially for Romano. Romano South Italy is one of my (it's Hetalia, there are many, many) favourite characters, and speculating on his thoughts and emotions, and the little details of his personality, is something that brings me no end of enjoyment. I hope you will like this fic as much as I do.

Warnings: Arson, implied murder, implied jaywalking. Romano drops the f-bomb far more often than I would.

Important: This fic references the Hetalia Character Songs, which is a music single series that came out in the 2009-2011 years. If you don't know about them, go check them out! They're really good!

There were eight singles in total, one for each of the Axis Powers and Allied Forces, and each character sang two songs; except Italy (Veneziano), who sang only one song, and gave his other song to Romano. Romano's song, The Delicious Tomato Song, is often thought to be the catchiest character song of them all. It's impossible to not sing along to!

The character songs were a big thing when they came out, especially in Japan, and at one point people made fan songs for Spain. There has since been an official character song released for Spain, but this fic references a fan-made one.

OKAY SO ENOUGH YAKKING, I'M SO LONG-WINDED, LET'S GET ON TO THE STORY! ENJOY!

The Poison Dance

In which, to Romano's dismay, Spain discovers the Delicious Tomato song and listens to it.

"Ah, Spain-san, there was a matter that I wished to discuss with you."

Spain glanced down the hall toward the timid voice. It came from the small nation he hadn't personally spoken with often, but everyone in Europe knew his name; smiling nervously, he pushed himself off the stretch of wall beside a thick, soundproof door and followed Japan's beckoning hand.

"What's up?"

The little man clutched what looked to be a privately burned CD in his arm, and his eyebrows had trouble deciding between furrowing in concern or raising in admiration. "May I presume to understand that you have not participated or planned to participate in a creation of an image song?" he eventually managed. Spain wished he could look into the man's eyes.

"What're you saying? This wouldn't happen to be some kinda legal trouble, is it?" His throat decided that letting out a nervous laugh would be a good social decision at this time. "Am I owing you money?"

Japan quickly shook his head, flustered. "Not at all! I apologize for the confusion, the fault was mine for bad choice in wording." His words trembled under the weight of casual speech with a stranger. "I-I meant to ask, you were not responsible for this, were you?"

He bowed while extending the CD to Spain with both hands. Spain raised an eyebrow. A few seconds of silence later, Japan continued, "N-n-not that I am criticizing at all if you are, in fact the quality of voice is quite impressive, but as the partial director of the Hetalia Image Songs series it has fallen within my responsibility to ask. . ."

"H-hey now, um, calm down, what's going on?" Becoming uncomfortable with staring down at the back of Japan's head, Spain hurriedly plucked the CD from Japan's hands and turned it over. "Is that my face on the cover?"

After which Japan tried to explain to Spain the idea of Hetalia Image Songs, and Spain tried to persuade Japan to use more realistic language to communicate with him.

.

"Don't any of you have something to report?"

"D-don't talk to me that way! Is that your house burning down over there right now, tell me, is it? If I say I don't have anything to tell you then I'm not going to have anything to tell you, am I?" The hysterical young woman gave Romano a hefty shove, sending him back against the remains of her fence. A large group of police ran in and hurriedly restrained her, but Romano raged grudgingly at the fact that none of them looked him in the eyes while they did. Two other shocked young ladies and one stricken young man hovered around the pile.

"Either you tell me what happened here or you're under arrest! An eight-generation house doesn't just spontaneously burn down, you–!" Romano bit his tongue, realizing with horror that he had almost mistreated a woman. Even if her background was now pretty suspicious, it would still be crossing the line.

"We. . . spoke with the fire fighters, sir," one of the policemen said, staring determinedly at the woman's shoes. "They. . . they suspect perhaps an over-boiled kettle over paper, or perhaps a carelessly lit match. . . sir." The man never looked away from the quite fashionable set of white pumps, now dotted over with soot, but flinched anyway; the force of Romano's glare was a physical sensation.

He knew, and Romano knew, and a large part of the group with him and a few of the firefighters knew, why the fire probably started. But they were all too scared to say it. Romano's clenched fists shook with rage and terror.

And his cell phone rang.

He pulled the machine out of his pocket and made to smash it to the ground, but eventually thought better of it and answered the call. "I'm damned busy, what the fuck do you want?"

"Please, South Italy, how busy can you possibly be if I am having an afternoon free?"

The plastic of the phone creaked under the pressure of Romano's fist. "France. I hope you're bleeding from the neck."

"Of course, of course," France mumbled vacantly from the other end of the line, clearly not taking Romano's bad mood seriously. Romano growled warningly into the phone. "If you are so short on time as you claim then, I will jump straight to the end. Were you by any chance around Japan recently, and stealing others' friends out of recording studios?"

"Go die in a fi– go to hell!"

"Because I was so certain when I walked into the room that I was being faithfully waited for by my longtime neighbor and accomplice, as you know, who we call by the name of Spain."

At this point, Romano shoved his finger down hard on the red button and mercilessly thrust the device back into his pocket.

"Anyone else need me for the sole purpose of asking me about Spain?" he screamed at the world in general. "Want me to tell my brother something? Or are you speaking to me to mistake me for someone else?"

"Hang on," said a voice behind him, in English. "What's all this then? I didn't come here for vacation to be a target of the mafia!"

Everyone cringed. Livid, Romano turned slowly to give his evil eye to a cowering tourist who had just come by, probably to the bed and breakfast down the road. The tourist backed away from Romano, pointing a shaking finger at him. "I-i-if you lay a finger on me, my wife will tear this whole town to pieces! Sh-she's an American lawyer, you know! You won't stand a chance!"

"What the fuck did you call me,"Romano screamed. Tears rolled down his face. The tourist took one look at them and fled, running aimlessly into a dead-end street.

He felt a gloved hand land gently on his shoulder, and he shook it off. "He was just an ignorant tourist," the policeman tried to say.

"But it's not just him," Romano growled. "It's all of you. All of this. Forget this." He started to run too, bitterly taking pains to run the opposite direction the tourist had.

He passed a little boy, standing by the ruined fence and squinting at the cinders of the old mansion. The boy's face was a mess of tears and phlegm. "Papa! Where's Papa? What happened to him? Why won't someone tell me!"

The young man cast a brief glance over to the little boy, then looked away. The two young ladies bit their lips and closed their eyes. The woman in the white shoes continued to struggle against the sturdy grip of the policemen, her handcuffs rattling; she acted as though she heard nothing, but her mascara was trailing down her cheeks.

.

Romano felt considerably better with his face covered in half-melted gelato. He brushed the crumbs of leftover cone onto the bench and his now-wrinkled suit and licked at his face. A pair of cute girls nearby saw him and hurried away, whispering to each other, but he was feeling decidedly less warm toward women at the moment and decided he couldn't care less.

He palmed his phone in his hand and glared at it halfheartedly. That bastard France, making assumptions. Thinking he was so responsible, thinking Romano didn't have real things to do. Yes, Romano thought, it's easy to take the afternoon off. You're right. I don't have to douse burning houses and question suspicious citizens and break up families. I don't have to chase after moral-less, murdering bastards who couldn't care less if I crumbled to nothing. It's not like it's my job.

His fingers trembled with responsibility from leaving the scene the way it was. He sat on them.

"I'm free for the rest of the day!" he shouted into the general public, though he found it a little hard with his hands under his butt. "I'm gonna go to a big party! And hang out with cute girls! Who wants to invite me?"

A group of boys had come by the bench, and a mother with her daughter and puppy out for a walk. They hurried away.

"That's what I thought, dipshits," he grumbled to his shoes. They were covered in soot and mud and other gross stuff, damn it. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, hating the way his cheeks ballooned automatically, and thought of France and Spain and his stupid dumb brother; France and Spain were doing some kind of party this morning, naturally without him, and who even knew what Veneziano was up to. Probably something to do with-

His phone was ringing again; startled, Romano answered the call without thinking. "Who is this?"

He had time to remember about caller ID and get embarrassed about it before he lost his chance. "Veh, Romano? Where are you right now? I looked in your room and you weren't there."

Romano's brows drew together and crumpled fiercely, before he lost the heart for it and let it all out in a sigh. He couldn't stay angry at his brother, especially for no good reason. "I've been busy all day, Veneziano. I was handling something down in–"

"Yes, veh, could you stop what it is you're doing and come home, then? Spain came by not long ago and I'm leaving soon, so you should come deal with him."

"You're leaving? Why?"

"What do you mean? I was invited to a party, so I'm going."

"Who invited you?" Romano's voice darkened with warning, but Veneziano's remained cool as before.

"You know. Germany, Prussia, Austria, stop. Before you say anything, Romano, and I know you were going to, I haven't spoken to Austria for a long time and he wanted to go to a nice restaurant together, veh."

Romano could almost feel the top of his skull blowing off for a volcanic eruption. "You all the time with those potato heads!"

"Romano!"

"You're so irresponsible when you're with them, like leaving a house and making me go back to it for you-"

"Romano, I'm telling you for your own good, veh, it's your Spain I want you to go home to. I'm going to go visit the man who raised me, and his housemates, and I know what I'm doing, veh." The beep as Veneziano hung up was cold as ice.

Romano yelled at the phone anyway. "Who the hell said my Spain?" He seethed impotently for a minute. "And stop saying 'veh,' it's the twenty-first century!" he added as an afterthought.

He let out another sigh and headed home. It was impossible to stay angry at his brother.

.

Cold sweat beaded out on Romano's forehead when he reached Rome. He found himself thinking about idiotic things, such as the abysmal state of his hair and the wrinkles all over his suit, which oh no, there were crumbs on the trousers, weren't there? And his shoes, they're ruined, he'll change them when he walks through the door-

Then he came to his senses. Who cares what Romano South Italy looks like. The only one who will see him now is some idiot who's seen him naked and covered in pee, so it's worthless at this point.

That was when you were a kid, a small part of him retorted. For that matter, you were practically a baby. That's different from now.

Now see here, he told that small part of him, if you're going to keep doing that I'm going to turn around and go right back. Veneziano's fancy dinner could probably use some spying.

This time no part of him responded, and he strode to the door and fumbled with his keys, the whole time realizing how crazy he was being, arguing with himself. "No, that's normal," he said aloud, voice trembling, "for people like me anyway. At least I'm not warring with myself."

That didn't cheer him up. He scowled and pushed into the house. "Spain!"

His voice echoed off the walls; when he threw his ruined shoes off his feet and onto the hall (Veneziano can clean it up later, that'd teach him), they rattled across the house.

He sniffed the air suspiciously. There wasn't anything Spanish coming from the kitchen. For that matter, there wasn't any polenta or pasta, either; Veneziano must have been out most of the day.

Was Veneziano lying? Did Spain never come at all, and Romano return to an empty house? A quick glance around the house found a guitar leaning against the living room sofa, and a lumpy bag on the armrest with various things spilling out of it. No, Spain had come alright.

That relief he's feeling is because he's had far too rotten a day to come home to nothing, and not for other foolish reasons.

He shakes his head; not in the kitchen, not in the living room, and since there had still been no response to the man's name Romano would have to guess that Spain was outside; the tomato field?

Yes. After Romano rushed back to the hall to grab his muddy shoes to wear out to the fields and shrugged them back on outside, he could see the man's large form among the tomato stalks.

"Spain!" he called out again, remembering too late to add annoyance and irritation to his voice. He ran toward the fields, toward that white speck with the thick, tanned arms.

He had earphones in his ears, the stupid idiot, but even so he heard the cry; he turned around, bewildered, and took the buds out of his ears, his face breaking out into a smile that rolled back the clouds.

"Romano!" He opened up his arms, as though expecting someone to jump into them. Romano prepared his forehead.

.

"You didn't butt me as hard as usual today," Spain said dreamily as they re-entered the house. "Eeyagh, I can't see anything."

"You'd be able to see if you didn't spend all day in the sun, idiot," Romano called over his shoulder on the way to the kitchen. "I had a bad day today. I can butt you again if you want."

"Mmm," Spain replied vaguely. The earphones were back in his ears, and his head was nodding and shaking back and forth in an entirely foolish way that looked extremely fun. "Hey, Romano-"

"What are you doing here today, anyway? You didn't say anything." Romano bit his lip in time to stop himself saying the house is a mess or I would have stayed home.

"Mmm. Didn't plan on it either. Sorry!" Spain laughed easily through Romano's annoyed growl and plodded on. "Actually, I was going to spend today at Japan's recording studio with France. He was recording his Hetalia Image Song today, you know."

Oh yeah, Romano thought, the cheese-eater did call about that, didn't he. "France called earlier saying you were gone when he left. What happened?"

"Haha, France called you? Oooh, and you were busy, too. I bet you yelled at him so much!" Spain laughed for way too long at that, and Romano felt himself going red because it was true. "Actually, I was waiting for him outside the studio for a long time - I couldn't hear anything and it was pretty boring - and then Japan called me over to talk about some CD one of his people made, about me. Can you imagine?" Spain's hand went up to his head to scratch sheepishly. "It was really good, too! I was really flattered."

"That still doesn't explain anything about why you're here instead of out drinking with that wine-bastard."

Spain took the earphones out again, collecting them in his hands, and unhooked a string that he had been wearing around his neck. There was a flash drive at the end of it, covered in fancy buttons, and the earphones were plugged into it; this he showed to Romano. "Well, for it to make sense Japan tried to explain to me about those Hetalia Character Songs. You know that guy speaks so stuffy all the time? I was kinda nervous talking to him! So he lent me this."

He proffered the flash drive to Romano again, and Romano took it, turning the device over; it had a little display screen, where the title rolled across. He squinted at the Japanese words, trying to recall from sixty years ago how to read them and what they meant. Spain went on: "He said he put all the currently published character songs on there, and that I could listen to them as much as I want! Did you know Japan has some himself? Germany and England did some, too!"

Romano finally figured out what the words meant. His body went cold.

"There's this one that's my favourite, though," Spain continued sheepishly, unaware of Romano's change in mood. "I feel bad because he leant me all those songs to listen to, but this one is so catchy I can listen to it all day! I've had it on repeat for the past hour and I just love it more and more!"

"G-g-god damn that Japan–!" Romano squeaked, face reddening again at impressive speed. "S-Spain, you– you bastard–!"

Spain still looked sheepish– no, that was wrong; he was looking apologetic, wasn't he? He damn well knewwhose song he was gushing over. And he was completely shameless, unrepentant about it. "Your singing voice is so beautiful, Romano."

Romano wanted to point out that the ugly noise issuing from his throat right then was likely proving that statement untrue, but couldn't bring himself to do so because there was an ugly noise issuing from his throat and he was having problems actually speaking. Finally, he settled on grumbling, "That Namikawa guy helped."

"Shy like always, Romano! It was still you who sang it."

"Wh-what's that got to do with anything, anyway!" Romano pushed the drive back into Spain's arms, or rather his chest as Spain hadn't reacted fast enough and fumbled to catch it before it fell. "I asked you why you're here, not about what new idiotic thing you're obsessing over that you'll forget about in a few days."

"I was telling you," Spain called in a hurt voice as Romano rolled up his sleeves and mindlessly took a bag of flour out of the pantry. "It was, I'd heard all these songs and wanted to know what you thought of them–"

"You know I worked on one, right?" A lot of the flour had landed in the mixing bowl as Romano had intended, but quite a lot of it had also powdered his arms and face and suit. "Isn't it pretty easy to guess what I–"

"–and I noticed a familiar kind of tempo and wanted ta pick your brain about it–"

"–after the day I've had, do you even think I'd be in anymood to want to see your stupid face and talk about those stupid things you like to talk about–"

"–and some days when I talk to you on the phone, you sound like you're stretched so thin and maybe I thought you could do with something relaxing–"

"–not that you ever pay attention to what comes out of my mouth–"

"–not that you ever pay attention to the things I tell you–"

They both stopped talking, in the way that two racing horses stop when they crash into the same cliff face. Romano whipped around to face Spain's sullen form blocking up the doorway of the kitchen, sending a cloud of flour all around him.

In the dead awkward silence that followed, with nothing more interesting to occupy him, the flour dust finally caught up to Romano's sinuses and he sneezed loudly.

"To your health," Spain mumbled automatically, then turned his face away, studying a nearby banana hook with uncommonly great interest.

Romano batted flour from his face, then wet a rag and wiped himself off with it. When wiping his suit, the wet flour mixed with the mud and soot which was on the suit before and the vague kitchen grease from the rag and became a truly disgusting piece of clothing; hissing, Romano tossed the rag into the sink and pulled the suit off, and after a moment's consideration followed it with his filthy tie, leaving them on a pile on the floor.

He glared down miserably at the pile, then glanced hesitantly at Spain out of the corner of his eye. Spain had not moved.

"You talked right over me! Did you even care what I think?" Romano threw out desperately, repeating the same tired, meaningless sorts of things he says often, trying to return things to the way they always were.

Spain's pupils darted over to fix unnervingly on the tip of Romano's nose and stayed; otherwise, Spain stood still as though carved of marble. Nice going, said that cheeky part of Romano from inside his head. You've paused way too long to pretend that conversation is still going.

Romano shuffled around, kicking his pile of clothes, feeling the weight of Spain's stare on his nose. He thought, Now that I think about it, Spain was talking first, wasn't he.

"I mean, remember who I am!" Romano continued, as though they were in the middle of an entirely different conversation altogether. "It's– it's not like it's a big difference, for me, if people don't listen to me!"

Spain's expression hardened; his lips drew into a tight line. He finally moved his body, shifting to face Romano slowly and reaching up an arm to support himself on the door frame.

Romano gathered up his pile of filthy clothes and darted for the new opening just as Spain finally reopened his mouth.

"Hey–"

"I'm going to my room to change," Romano muttered. He retreated up the stairs.

.

After a good shower and a fresh, much more casual change of clothes, Romano felt slightly less humiliated. A few more minutes in front of a mirror and two hair brushes and three combs, and the heady fury still left over from the accumulations of the day began to steam out from his head, leaving behind only a great sense of shame and exhaustion.

He looked over the dark bags under his eyes, reached toward some of his (manly) concealer makeup, and thought better of it. It's still just Spain, he reminded himself grumpily.

He stood in front of his mirror, snappily dressed in one of the most subtly flattering T-shirts and artfully cut jeans that he owned, and wrung his hands. At this point, he couldn't convince himself that he had any other excuse to not head back down.

"Maybe he's gone," he grumbled. The possibility did not please him.

As he neared the bottom steps, he could hear Spain's voice echoing through the quiet house, and he relaxed. Romano toed quietly toward the sofa Spain was sitting in, guitar resting on his lap. He would occasionally grip the neck in frustration.

". . . to do, no, but that doesn't change the fact that you made assumptions like that so fast. What? No, that's not related. Do you know the first thing about how he spends his free time? He is not an accessory or a pet, France. Why didn't you just call my phone?"

Spain did not exactly sound angry, but there was a strain of tetchiness to his tone that stupid France was probably ignoring. Romano bit his lip, quietly moving his foot backward and toeing back toward the stairs; no, wait, that's a stupid idea, he just came down from there, why should he go back up. . . maybe he should clean up that mess in the kitchen. . .

In his indecision, he tripped over his feet and fell against a small table that had been holding a vase of flowers. He knew vaguely in this head that he should be diving for them, but he was too dazed and confused from so many things happening so quickly that the vase and flowers were in wet pieces all over his feet before he'd realized what had happened.

Spain whipped his head around, closing his phone with an audible snap, and rushed over. "Shit! Romano, don't move your feet!"

"The hell, idiot, you don't need to tell me- tch!" Romano winced and looked down at his foot; he'd moved it without thinking and stepped on one of the vase pieces. Why hadn't he remembered to put on his shoes? He lifted the injured foot, studying the minimal bits of blood trickling from the new wound.

Carefully, he started to put his foot down in a safer area, but Spain stopped him again. "Wait, just hold it there, I'll take care of it-"

"This isn't your house, you bastard, I can clean up my own messes!"

Romano expected Spain to go on fussing, but Spain's expression stopped again as before and he moved back, crossing his arms, looking away.

Romano bit his lip again, then thought better of it and settled for furrowing his brow. He looked back down at the mess of shards. Suddenly, it seemed like a much better idea to let Spain clean up the mess for him or carry him out of it as though he were a baby. He gave a grunt of resignation and simply stepped out of the mess as though it were nothing; he felt new wounds open up on his feet and dared himself to complain about them.

To his shame, Spain was most definitely watching his bleeding feet. "There, you did it all by yourself. Do you feel happier for it?"

Romano held his head up high. "Yes," he said. No, he thought.

"Alright." Spain sighed and shook his head. "I don't like to feel tense around you, Romano."

Romano shifted his weight from foot to foot, conscious about the fact that he and his brother normally wore shoes in this part of the house. Exactly how clean are the soles of their shoes? How clean are the streets of Rome? Romano raised himself to his toes.

He couldn't think of anything else to think about, so his face turned red for lack of distraction. "Don't be stupid," he grumbled down the front of his shirt, "a touchy-feely guy like you will relax like dope if you clean up my feet for me. So go do it."

When he chanced to look back at Spain to see why he was still there, he was met with that familiar, wonderfully sweet smile. The great knot inside his stomach finally loosened.

.

While Spain was off filling a basin with warm water and looking for bandage rolls, Romano sat on the sofa next to Spain's guitar and bag and looked for things to amuse himself with so he wouldn't be thinking about the feeling of being carried over Spain's shoulder.

Well, he had to go over the shoulder, that way his feet don't have to touch the ground and anyway at least Spain didn't try to carry him like a fresh bride. Romano had been completely afraid of that happening, because it seemed exactly like the sort of thing Spain would do. He was afraid of that happening, damn it, and now he's disappointed that he mounted all that fear only to be proved wrong.

But he was trying to get his mind off of that feeling, not back on to it, so he picked up the flash drive that Spain had left on top of his bag and turned it over in his hands.

The display was still showing his song; he scowled and hit the button to make it play the next. The same song only started over from the beginning, and Romano growled, face heating up again. So Spain hadn't been lying when he said he listened to it on repeat!

This was embarrassing, damn, damn! Romano fumbled around at the buttons, not sure which one was which beyond the basic square-triangle-pause symbols. Eventually, he seemed to have programmed the player to another song, and he put the earphones in to listen.

". . . tobikome una SIESTA, nekoron da nara soku da CIELO. . ."

Romano's eyebrows shot up, and he refocused his ears to understand the lyrics.

". . . why not close your eyes and try dreaming yourself away? if you do, it's just like paradise. . ."

"Since when did you make a song?" Romano tried to make himself sound annoyed or embarrassed, but he couldn't stop the fond laughter he was feeling from sneaking into his words. He laughed even harder at the big chorus and sang it out himself. "Amo sieeeesta!"

"You like it, Romano? It's a pretty good song, isn't it?"

Romano ripped the buds out of his ears and slammed the drive guiltily back on top of Spain's bag where he'd found it. Spain laughed at that too, and slipped the warm basin under Romano's feet when they shot up in shock. Romano had just enough foresight to not slam them back down and create a huge mess everywhere. "Why didn't you tell me you sang something?"

Spain shook his head. "I didn't. Remember what I said earlier?"

Besides that thing we said together that was so stupid and awkward? Romano thought. No. Something about being in Japan with France.

Spain lifted one of Romano's feet and wiped lightly at it with a cloth. "I guess you don't. I told you about Japan coming over to talk to me about a CD his people had made. The reason he wanted to see me about it was because they'd done it in my name, you know?"

Romano felt kind of bad. Spain really had said something about that, now that he thought back. "It's a pretty good song," he offered.

"Yeah, pretty good." Spain looked absently at the flash drive as he spoke, skimming over the hiragana on the display without even trying to understand their meaning. "You upset the order, man. I'll have to listen to them all again to find yours now."

Romano tried to will the blood from his face; failing that, he tried to will the blood from his ears. "Then you should listen to the other ones. You'll get a headache just listening to one song over and over anyway, idiot."

"Not that one," Spain chirped, so quickly that he really seemed to mean it. "Alcohol, it'll sting. Do you even know how catchy your song is, Romano? You can't feel gloomy listening to it!"

"Ow!"

"I said it would sting."

"It's just you. You don't feel gloomy anyway, you're just stubborn and don't think about listening to the other songs. Ow!"

Spain shook his head. "I listened to it again earlier, and it cheered me enough to decide to stay."

Romano had a gut reaction to Spain deciding to stay at his house, and brutally subdued it because it was entirely inappropriate in this context. He sucked on his lips while Spain reached for the bandage roll.

"Oh!"

"What?"

Spain ran a finger down the sole of Romano's foot, causing Romano to squirm slightly. "The cuts have healed already. That's amazing, Romano!"

Romano grunted. "I guess I walk on shards a lot." He tested his foot by placing it on the floor, then stomping it; good as new. "Usually nobody puts medicine on it for me."

"Doesn't your brother help you?" Spain frowned slightly.

"No. He has his own problems to deal with. I don't need someone to help me," Romano added testily.

"That's not what I meant," said Spain. "I know you don't need someone, but it's nice to have someone, right?"

Romano waited patiently for Spain to put everything away without thinking about those words or finding any significance in their meaning at all.

Spain moved through the rooms of Italy's house smoothly, humming to himself and rapping on the occasional stretch of wall. There was a very consistent rhythm to it; dmp-dm dmp-dm, dmp-dm dmp-dm, dmp-dm dmp-dm dmptmdmdm.

"That's antique wood you're smashing up," Romano called out halfheartedly.

dmp-dm dmp-dm tmdmdm-tmdmdm tmdmdmtmdmdm-dmp

From a distant room (laundry?), Romano could just make out what sounded like "¡Ole!"

"It's going to crack," Romano added. "Veneziano will skin you alive!"

"But it's so catchy!"

". . . Hey, was that my tomato song?" Romano growled. And here he was thinking it was only-!

"What else could it have been?" Spain re-entered the living room at a skip, a jump in which his shoes mysteriously went missing mid-air, and a melodramatic slide across the floor to land histrionically before the sofa in a completely tasteless pose. "Something-something three-two-beat three-two-beat, toma-toma-tomato! Doesn't it go like that?"

Romano made a point of not commenting on Spain's flashy entrance because it would only encourage him. "Well-spotted, dumbass, but any thousand tarantella songs also go like that. It's not exactly rare."

Spain snapped very loudly, causing Romano to jump. "That's it!" Spain said, as though he had solved some great mystery, "that's why it sounded familiar! I had meant to ask you about it." He looked at Romano meaningfully, and Romano sighed, resigning himself to explaining.

"Of course I wrote my song to it. It's supposed to be about me, it's a song specifically about I-I–. . .Italy. What's more Italian than tarantella?"

Spain nodded slowly, a finger pressed into his temple. "That's the dancing that started from back. . ." He smiled. "Back when you first moved in with me, right?"

"It's not funny," Romano growled, aiming a slow punch in Spain's general direction. "They're called 'tarantulas' for a reason. Having you running all over the place bossing people around didn't help with the stress we already had to fight the spider poison!"

It seemed Spain decided to dance instead of listen; he was quietly humming the song while tapping his feet. "Definitely a song style for dancing," he said, beaming. "Fast and exciting." He tapped his feet rhythmically, his toes moving with purposeful speed.

Romano winced at the rhythmic dissonance; sure enough, after a few measures Spain stomped on his own foot. "You can't dance flamenco with it! They're so different– uff!" Romano shot out of the sofa and pushed Spain aside to make room. "Look, try one like this; hop to one side, no, with the other foot– Vedi, Spain!"

Spain threw his hands up in humorous surrender and plopped down on the sofa, amused and interested. Romano huffed hard, hoping his face would cool down again, and flicked his head to get hair out of his face. He counted off the beats and then moved his feet.

It wasn't real tarantella, not this one by himself, but the feeling of his feet in the air and little steps in the floor took everything else in the world and tossed it out. Just dance, and dance well, and don't screw up or fall down because you'll look damn stupid.

Life is hard enough when you have to remember where your feet should go; doing it right should be good enough for everything else. It is.

Then he heard some strangled notes; he stopped, realizing he was panting and sweating and his face was still red but it didn't matter, and caught his breath while Spain sheepishly picked out the Tomato Song on his guitar.

"It was a shame to see you dancing without the music," he said. When Romano continued to seem skeptical, he shrugged. "Try it. Count off again."

". . .FIVE-six-SEVEN-eight."

Contrary to the seconds before where Spain could barely figure out the melody, the tune that came from his guitar now was fast and complex and accurate. It took the original melody, adapted for single-acoustic-guitar, with some tasteless Spanish flair every so often, and became an auditory instruction that hard-wired directly to Romano's spine without consulting his brain first.

He repeated the beginning steps from before, and a few measures in had thrown the pretense of demonstration out the window and moved on, cycling his arms, spinning, jumping, kicking his feet like they were in flaming shoes.

Before he knew it, there was no more song. He had a brief feeling of running down a road to discover he was standing in the air, then he collapsed, his limbs arranged in a formation which defied the grace he had just exhibited.

This was the part in his relationship with Spain that he said something spiteful, but all he could think of was "I hope the wood in this floor doesn't turn moldy, but you'll pay to fix it if it does."

Spain put his guitar down and clapped wildly. "Gods mine, Romano, that was amazing! It was unbelievable! It was the best thing I've ever seen! You looked so awesome! Wow!"

When Romano regained enough energy, he picked himself off the floor. He winced and peeled at his shirt to unstick it from himself; he'd just put it on, too.

Spain's eyes were shining; he looked at Romano as a devout priest might look at the sudden incarnation of his God. He was still sputtering words of admiration and praise; Romano was a master of grace, Romano was energy given form, Romano was what was right in the world.

Romano snorted; at least he knew Spain wasn't just giving flat compliments to be nice. Then he grabbed the fool by the hand and dragged him off the sofa.

"Paid attention that time, did you?" Romano smirked. "Now you do it too. Side-step, side-step, side-step, side-step."

Spain wobbled from side to side, then seemed to recalibrate and stabilized. "What will we do for music if I'm here too?" he asked.

"Damn it, Spain, we can just sing the lyrics! It's a song with lyrics, you bastard!" Romano found himself roaring with laughter. It was all so okay.

"Buono tomato, buono tomato, buono buono ooh! tomato!" Spain started off, giving a spirited kick at "ooh!".

Romano shook his head, laughing even harder. "Namikawa," he muttered, as though it was the name of a dog that, while having tracked dirty paw prints all over the floor, was still ridiculously cute and lovable for having done so. Then he grabbed Spain's hand and spun him in a great circle. "Buon pomodoro, buon pomodoro; buono buono ooh! pomodoro!"

Spain grinned. "Oh! I get it. Bueno tomate, bueno tomate, bueno bueno ooh! tomate!"

"Ci vediamo!"

"Ah, Romano!"

"Mi-na-mi I-ta-li-a! Hmph!"

Spain skipped a step from laughing; Romano caught him and spun their circle the other direction, managing a miniscule weave. They exchanged amused glances, and Romano raised his eyebrows; it was Spain's turn.

Spain appeared to brainstorm a moment and then nodded. "Buon Romano. Bueno Romano. You're the very best, Romano!" Romano nearly missed a step and caught himself in time. "Cologne in your hair and mud on your clothes, Roma-Roma-Romano!"

"God damn it, quit targetting me like always!" It was the happiest Romano had ever felt whacking Spain in the head.

Spain took the opportunity to take Romano's hand and twirl himself under his arm, setting their circle back in the other direction. "If only the world could see us now."

"Heh, what happened to singing the music?"

"Especially you, Romano." At the next twirl, Spain moved himself in front of Romano and then stopped, his feet planting firmly into the floor to minimize disappointed protests from his legs. "I don't think you do this enough. You should do it more. Every week. Every day."

Romano willed his body to stop dancing and stood firmly like Spain. They were face to face, and for once their faces were both the same shade. "You think I have the time to fritter every day on doing pointless hobbies?"

"No, Romano." Spain grasped Romano's shoulders and stared seriously into Romano's eyes. "You have too much poison in your life. You let others hold you down with their expectations and stereotypes. You hold yourself down with your lack of confidence. It needs to come out. Dance the poison out, Romano."

Romano could still feel his lungs stinging. "I did," he protested. "Just now. I danced so hard no fucking spider would stand a chance."

"And don't you feel so much better?"

.

"And how has, mm, Puccini been? Has he written any new operas lately?" Austria hazarded. He pretended to dab at his mouth with his napkin so he could hide more of his face without seeming rude.

"Veh, Puccini died nearly a hundred years ago." Veneziano found himself looking back to his fork constantly, despite conscious attempts to keep his gaze focused on someone's eyes.

"Ah. Of course, of course. Silly of me." Austria seemed now to be making a shot at dabbing his cheeks as well as his eyes. "My word, has it already been so long?"

"It's been longer, veh."

Faced with another dreadful lull in the tepid dinner conversation, Austria turned to Germany. "So, it's coming close to that time again. Have you started making plans?"

From the seat beside Veneziano, Germany sprang to sudden attention. "Ah? Yes? Oh! November. Um. Yes. Of course." He coughed loudly and turned his face away. "There will be a celebration, of course. We were thinking small this year, though it seems my brother has a strange sense of scale when blank party invitations are placed before him."

Across the table, Prussia put down the forkful of salad he had been teasing through the past half-hour. "Hey, the postal guy brought a lot of them back! What's it to you if I wanted to see what Poland and Liszt would look like side-by-side? Don't tell me you never thought it!"

"Those invitations do not grow on trees, Brother!"

"Hey, I even went to the trouble of inviting your precious Italy for you, so you wouldn't have to do it. I'm always thinking of you, West!" Prussia reached across the table to pat Germany's cheek. Austria could nearly see the steam coming out of Germany's ears.

"I-I-I would have gotten to it eventually and you know how I told you–"

"If we all waited for you to do it Italy would feel lonely for having missed the party altogether!"

Veneziano couldn't decide between shrinking to the side, where he would fall out of his chair, or shrinking under the table, where his face might accidentally catch on old gum.

Then his cell phone rang.

Veneziano answered it feverishly. "Hello who is this?" he rambled, remembering too late about Caller ID and kicking himself inside for it.

"Oi, Veneziano. Spain and I are coming over to crash your dinner. So shove in some extra chairs and stuff. What restaurant are you eating in?"

"Romano!" Veneziano squeaked. He could feel Germany's whole body wince at the name. Austria slumped over, hand on his forehead.

"And don't even think about saying I can't come because I damn well will come whether you like it or not! Now what goddamn restaurant are you in?"

Veneziano looked at his team of German companions with growing fear, already picturing the disaster that could befall the evening at his brother's Germantagonizing arrival.

Prussia was peering at Germany from the corner of his eyes; Germany had slumped down into a ball of defeat. Austria's lips were pursed; there would be no more small talk from him for a while.

Veneziano took a deep breath. "It's a small but classy shop by the border called The Wilted Flower. It's right in that street with the twirly lamps, remember from years ago? You can't miss it."

"Right. Prepare to be hijacked, you jackasses! Hahahaha! Um, tell the potato head that I said. that." The beep as Romano hung up could have scorched Veneziano's ear.

Veneziano stared at the phone, readying a great big huff to direct at it; then he looked at his companions, all staring down at their food, Austria's napkin somewhere on his lap, and let it out in a gentle sigh. It was impossible to stay angry at his brother.

.

"Buono tomato, buono tomato, buono buono OOH tomato! ONE TWO THREE FOUR!"

The pumped fists into the air with a big jump and then stomped the landing. Romano's cheeks felt sore, but he didn't care.

"Long walk to the border, huh?" Spain said.

"Told you we should've driven." Romano elbowed Spain lightly.

"Last time we did that I fell off and you ran over me!" For some reason this statement was hilarious. They guffawed.

"Yes, and then you tipped a finger into the nearby fountain, and the whole town bought water bottles for weeks afterward. Tsk. Shame on you."

The smile slid off Spain's face. Romano stepped forward to stand in front of Spain.

There was a boy sitting on the fence; except for his clothes, which were quieter and less fashionable, and his hair, which was a darker brown, the boy looked the spitting image of Romano. Romano growled deep in his throat, heart filling up with hate.

"You."

The boy waggled a finger and winked all-too charismatically. "Me. That is to say, you."

"You burnt down a house today, you filthy piece of shit."

"Me?" The boy's face was the picture of surprised, false-accused innocence. "No, couldn't be. The family living inside, they were good friends of mine. I always warned them about good fire safety. Couldn't have been me."

Spain started to reply, but Romano clamped a hand over his mouth. "How many times have I told you to go hang yourself?"

"Many times. I did listen to you. I've tried to kill myself lots of times."

"Trying to kill me is not the same as trying to kill yourself, you bile-covered tapeworm!"

"Is it?"

Veins throbbed in Romano's forehead while he fought for a response which would express the extent of his hatred. He dug through his head for words descriptive enough and found none to do the job.

Buon Romano. Bueno Romano. You're the very best, Romano!

Romano took a deep breath, then let it back out slowly. He stood up straight. He unclenched his fists. He looked straight into the eyes of the boy.

And then he smiled.

"No, it's not. I'm me. You're just you. And someday you will be gone, and I will still be here."

A change came across the boy; he no longer shone, his colouring faded a little, and he looked that much less like Romano. He had long ago trained fear out of his face, but the constipated expression it had was close enough. He opened his mouth, shut it again; opened his mouth, shut it again.

Romano grabbed Spain's hand and spun him down the road, kicking his feet up high to catch up. Soon the boy was invisible through the fog of kicked-up dust, and Romano waved a mocking good-bye toward its direction.

"Ci vediamo, da Romano! South Italy, motherfucker!"

Tailnotes: It's difficult to do a web-based bibliography on this site, but I'll do my best. Delete the spaces, replace the parentheses, et cetera.

The tarantella rhythm: en. wikipedia (dot org) / wiki / File: Tarantella_dance_pattern. png

Special thanks to jjblue1 on LiveJournal, and her LJ community aph_jj_fa, for the Italian lyrics to the Tomato Song.

Certain character designs also inspired by jjblue1's work. She is wonderful and you should definitely check her stuff out. To those who may have problems understanding the ending, the character design was: aph-jj-fa. livejournal (dot com) / 8435. html

That seems to be it! I hope you enjoyed the story as much as I did! Peace out. –BAM–