"Hey Spagna?" Romano rolled from his back onto his stomach, propping his chin on his hands as he gazed up at Spain from his position on the floor.

"Sí? What is it, Romanito?" the Spaniard asked in response, setting down the book that he had been reading to look down at his former province.

Romano's emerald eyes met Spain's jade ones and the younger boy's eyes seemed serious, and the angry crease that usually took up residence between his brows was smoothed out, one brow raised slightly in a quizzical quirk. All in all, it was not a normal expression for the normally angry Romano, and it reminded Spain forcefully of when Romano had been a tiny newborn, before he knew enough to be so angry all the time. And Spain, though he would never admit it, couldn't help but miss those times, the very brief period of Romano's life when the Italian had smiled as often as his younger brother did now.

Romano crossed his ankles in the air lazily, using one hand to tap a pencil against the sketchbook on the floor in front of him. "Would you kill to save a life?"

Spain's breath seemed to catch in his throat on every alternate inhale, and all he could hear was his heart beat in his ears. His jade eyes were narrowed and focused, his gaze running down the sleeve of his favorite off white dress shirt, over the tanned skin of his hand, over the cold, gleaming metal of the gun that he clenched in his sweating hand, across the hostile, empty room to the that bastard, that gilipollas that had his Romano. The man had belonged to the Mafia for a long time, but had snapped under the pressure and taken Romano hostage. He had one hand clenched in Romano's hair, forcing the Italian to stay on his knees on the ground, and the man's face was smooth, expressionless, as though he were simply drinking a cup of tea or reading the newspaper, as though he wasn't standing with a gun pressed to the temple of his own nation representative, and the man who meant the world to Spain. Though his arm shook with fatigue and the pain in his muscles from keeping it extended for so long, the normally happy Spaniard did not dare to move the gun one centimeter from its level position, aimed right between the eyes of Romano's captor.

It was a deadly game.

On one hand, Spain knew that if he didn't pull the trigger, and if he didn't pull the trigger soon, then that man would, and his Romano, his little Romanito, would be murdered in cold blood right before his eyes. Despite this huge, vital piece of information, Spain still hesitated. He had promised, promised Romano, promised himself, that he would not be a murderer anymore. He never wanted to return to the days of being a pirate, when his hands had been soiled with blood that wasn't all his own, when thousands of murders rested heavily on his shoulders, almost killing him.

Spain's jade eyes flickered to Romano. The other nation was forced on his knees, wrists tied together and his fingers clasped together as though he were praying. His face, normally a beautiful Mediterranean tan, was pale and wet with tears. His emerald eyes were so wide that a ring of white could be seen all around them, and swollen and red rimmed. He was gagged by a balled up cloth kept in his mouth by a length of fabric wound around his head, and his breath was labored from crying and being forced to breath through a stuffed up nose, chest heaving with the effort of drawing air. Spain was beginning to worry that his former province would suffocate. Romano barely seemed to register the icy metal of the gun barrel pressed against his temple, locks of his dark red hair in his captor's brutal grip.

He was too afraid to even blink. He knew what had to be done. In a second that seemed to last an eternity, he exhaled, sending a prayer to any and every god that his aim would be true, and his tanned, rough padded finger squeezed the trigger, releasing the bullet to fly through the air, too fast to follow, towards its target. The man seemed to crumple and fall in slow motion.

Spain was running forward before the man's body had even hit the ground, throwing the gun aside and arms stretched out to Romano. He dropped to his knees and used a pocket knife to saw through the fabric gag, allowing Romano to spit the rag on the ground and take a great, shuddering breath.

Romano let his body fall against Spain, sobbing sobs that made his entire body tremble, face buried in Spain's shoulder as the older nation cut the binds on Romano's wrists with shaking hands before dropping the knife and wrapping his strong arms around Romano, crying as well, but trying to soothe him.

"You b-b-b-bastard!" Romano sobbed unrestrained, hugging Spain tightly. "I k-knew you'd s-s-save me!"

"Why do you ask such a strange question, Love?" Spain asked, shifting his weight on the couch and looking into Romano's insistent green eyes.

"Don't call me that, bastard…" Romano said instantly, making Spain grin. "And just answer the damned question already!" He said, letting out an irritated "che" sound under his breath.

"Hm…" Spain hummed thoughtfully, picking up a slice of tomato from the plate on the table next to him and popping it in his mouth, chewing slowly as he thought. Then the Spaniard swallowed, a smile spreading on his face, white teeth contrasting with his tanned skin.

"Well?" Asked Romano.

"No." Spain said surely. "But I would kill to save yours."