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He's in his garden when Italy comes. There's dirt on his hands, and he knows it will smear if he wipes the sweat from his brow. Italy leans against the fence, says, "Hey," and Spain wipes his forehead. It's the elder brother.
"What are you doing here?" he asks, sitting back on his heels. The knees of his trousers are covered in dirt, too, and he brushes at them until he realizes he's just making it all worse. He pats his knees instead, imagines the dirt grinding into the weave.
"Nothing," Italy says sharply, and Spain smiles, smiles at the plants around him. The tomatoes are looking good this year. He thinks he might give some to Italy-- the younger brother, the one who smiles more. Maybe this Italy, too, if he'll take them. There are too many tomatoes for just Spain, but-- But maybe that's the way things go, when you grow up and grow old and the house grows too big and too quiet.
"My tomatoes are looking good," he says, because if he wants to give tomatoes to Italy, he should start hinting at it now. Poke and prod and just say enough that three or four months from now, Italy will think it's his idea, will take the tomatoes with that selfish frown that's almost a smile and makes Spain think the past was almost good enough. Almost, but not quite.
"Who cares about your stupid tomatoes?" Italy snaps, but he's looking at the tomatoes carefully, and Spain has to hide his smile. Pulls another weed. Dirt under his fingernails. Ideas are always the best when they're not yours.
"Do you want a drink?" he asks as he pushes himself to his feet. His knees crack, and his back, too. His shoulder hurts, and he has to press his knuckles into the corner of his neck and his shoulder, rotate his arm slowly. He feels old, older than everyone around him. "Coffee, or maybe tea?"
Italy snorts, but he's walking along the edge of the fence, trailing his hand over the side. Spain kicks the dead weeds to the side, mutters, "Need to burn them," to himself, and follows Italy on his side of the fence. He wonders, if he were to reach out and grab Italy's hand, if Italy would push him away.
"France was here a few days ago," he says, "and left some wine. Maybe you would--"
"Coffee." Italy waits for Spain to push open the gate, then pushes past Spain. He opens the door with a shove, and he's already halfway down the hall by the time Spain gets into the house. Spain catches the door with his elbow, pushes it closed, and slides his hands into his pockets. He hates getting dirt in his house, hates mud dragged along the wall. He hates coming in the front door.
"Where's your kitchen?" Italy asks testily. "Your house is too damned big."
"It does seem big, doesn't it?" Spain asks back, looking up. The ceiling seems higher than before, and the walls farther away. It sounds quieter, too, and Italy's breathing is loud and harsh. Maybe it's echoing through the house, up into the rafters and down into the cellars. Out to all the doors that Spain tries to keep closed, but never can. The house is too big. "To your left--
"I didn't know you were coming today," he continues. "I would've made you something to eat."
"I don't like your food." Italy sounds distracted, is looking around the hallway like he's waiting for someone. Spain passes too close, knocks shoulders with him, and when he walks to the kitchen, he can hear Italy following him, swearing under his breath.
He washes his hands, boils water in an old kettle. When the kettle is screaming, he wraps a towel around his hand, reaches for the kettle.
"There's a man in my house."
Spain fumbles with the kettle, feels the metal burn the length of his wrist. He moves the kettle to the side, breathes twice. "Who is it?"
"I don't know," Italy says, and he sounds miserable. Sounds like he did a couple hundred years ago, when he used to live in Spain's house and wet the bed, when he used to come home crying with dirt on his cheeks and blood under his fingernails. "He came from England's house."
"And?" Spain pours the water over the coffee grounds, watches the water stream, a dirty color, into the cup. When the cup's a thumb-width from being full, he sets the kettle back on the stove. When he's leaning over the table, turning the cup in front of Italy, the kettle starts to scream again. Soon, he'll need to get more wood to keep the fire going.
"He's dying." Italy frowns at the coffee, reaches for the sugar-pot. He can't reach it, fingertips in air, so Spain pushes it closer. Leans harder against the table.
"Where's your brother?" he asks, but he's pretty sure he knows. Pretty sure he's always known, because he's old, he's watched other countries grow and die, and fight and kiss and make up just to stab each other in the back again. He's died, or almost died, or thought of dying, too many times to be young, and so now he's old, and he kneels in his garden, like he used to kneel in Mass, and he grows his tomatoes, plump and red. "Isn't he at your house?"
"He's at Austria's house," Italy says, spooning too much sugar into his coffee. The spoon's bowl tilts, grains of sugar spilling. Another spoon of sugar, and Italy stirs it. The coffee sloshes a little, splatters against the inside of the cup. "He's never there when someone comes to die."
Spain is lifting the kettle from the stove again when Italy says, "He coughs at night. I can't sleep then."
Italy drinks the coffee quickly, his face pale and his lips clenched tight. Spain wonders if his mouth is burning. Dips a spoon into the cup, then lifts it. Presses the bowl of the spoon against his lips. It burns.
A couple hundred years ago, Spain thinks, he could probably have picked Italy up, set him on his shoulder. Laughed it off when Italy pulled his hair or kicked his shin, could've done something to make things a little better. Now, though, he feels too old. Italy looks old, too, nearly as tall as him, and twice as angry. Spain never could do right by him.
"You can stay here tonight," he says, because something needs to be said. Italy's staring at the edge of the table, his mouth set, and maybe he'll kick and yell like he did when he was a kid, maybe he'll throw a temper tantrum and go running out of the house. Or maybe he'll just sit there, like there's nowhere for him to go, anyway, and that's the thought that turns Spain's stomach. "There's a room--"
It's the same room Italy slept in when he used to live in Spain's house. It's a little dusty, but all the house is a little dusty now. Spain pushes the windows open, the hinges straining, and the sunlight streams in, too bright. Italy looks at the bed for a long moment, then pulls at the duvet. When it hits the floor, a cloud of dust goes up, and Spain smiles.
"It's been a while," he says, and Italy interrupts, says harshly, "It's fine."
And maybe it is. Italy's sitting on the edge of the bed when Spain leaves the room, dragging his feet a bit. There are tracks in the faint dust on the floor. The door screams like the windows, hinges rusting after how-many years. The house, though, feels a little fuller, feels like it echoes a little less. The ceilings, when Spain leans back against the door and looks up, seem a little closer. It feels a little more like a home, maybe.
Spain looks at his fingers, at the mud and flecks of blood beneath his fingernails. He stretches out his fingers, closes his hands in fists. He can hear Italy muttering to himself behind the door, and it all feels so familiar. Maybe it's easier this way, when they're both older, and all the world is older. And men dying in empty houses aren't so bad, when it means that there will be someone drinking coffee in the kitchen when Spain comes in from his garden.
He stretches his fingers again, then pops his knuckles. He can feel himself smiling, like the old men who smile at everything, even the funeral masses. Maybe, really, it won't be so bad.