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It’s not unusual for Romano to forget his phone within the crevices of his home, lost to dining room tables and kitchen counter nooks and plush sofa cushions, buried beneath one too many letters he refuses to discard, hidden behind a vase with which he never could part, even if it had long since lost its practicality and now only stands as a testament to the dust that can accumulate over the centuries.
He’s sentimental by nature, always has been—to his detriment, he knows, something he also steadfastly ignores—and so it is not unusual for him to find a certain level of solace and reprieve outside of his cluttered, museum-envied house, adrift and anchored within the winding vines of his garden, blissfully encompassed in a lively silence only vineyards and hand-grown tomatoes could provide.
None of this is unusual and has instead been his routine for daysweeksmonthsyearsdecadeslongerlongerlonger, because he is, at his core, a creature of habit. And so, when another morning breezes into the world and he finds himself long-since awake and already nestled deep within the serpentine paths of his garden, eyes dutifully tracking each fruit and berry and dewdrop on his leaves, face slowly warmed by a sun with which he has become so deeply acquainted, pockets empty of phones and times and anything that isn’t partially covered in soil and earth, it is routine, comfortable, natural.
Things only begin to become unusual when Romano steps back into his house, digs his phone from whatever corner it had been banished to for the morning, and discovers a voice memo from hours ago—not long after he had made a home for himself amongst the tranquility of his greenery, awash in life that expects little from him, demanding nothing and only asking that he care for it, respect it, love it.
>Spagna: 05:04 · 18/08/2022
(▶ 🔘──────── 0:03:49)
It’s not the message that’s unusual—attention from Spain is often and abundant, a constant in his life that predates his own (now) contented relationship with his brother, so to see a message waiting from him is normal, expected, if not a little pleasing. What catches Romano’s eye is that, for the first time, it is a voice message, not a text or email or even—when Spain is feeling particularly nostalgic and lamenting for a time with less technology and more soul, whatever that means—a letter. It’s a voice message, almost four minutes long, and it’s odd enough that Romano can’t help clicking his tongue as he presses play.
“Ah, buenos días, Romano—it’s early, ¿no? But I know you’re awake. I would have called, but…hm.”
Spain’s voice is soft, ragged with sleep and the last vestiges of something dreamlike, smooth in the way only he can be, humming laughs into a phone at just past five in the morning. In the background, Romano can hear the dulcet plucking of guitar strings, a tune he doesn’t recognize, a melody as sweet and delicate as the daybreak, just a little too somber for his liking, and he wonders what Spain is doing awake so early, what he’s doing fiddling with a guitar and murmuring half-words into a voice memo at all.
The voice on the phone breaks into a chuckle, and for a fleeting moment Romano can picture him, sitting at his darkened balcony beneath an inky sky, fingers fluttering across a guitar Spain would rather die than part with, forever fond of creating noise where none exists. Spain always was discontent, Romano knows, to be left alone with his thoughts after one too many glasses of wine and the heavy weight of silence on his shoulders.
With a scoff, Romano shakes his head, dropping his phone onto his kitchen counter to continue playing while he washes his hands. How stupid, he thinks, and he doesn’t wait for the water to warm before scrubbing just a little too hard against his palms.
“Bueno, I know you wouldn’t have answered. I’m sure you’re busy; you’re always busy in the morning—ah, such a hard worker! Boss is proud of you!”
Romano doesn’t resist the urge to roll his eyes, scowling at his phone despite knowing no one is there to see. It’s the principle of the matter, and that’s all Romano cares about.
Spain goes quiet for a moment. Romano can hear his breathing, light and steady before it’s drowned out by more plucking, more strings, a song that could almost double as a lullaby if he were in bed, something he could imagine Spain humming to himself on the nights where he gets just a little too restless, a little too lonely, a little too lost in the dark corners of a villa that’s too large for one person.
Not that Spain would ever say so, not that Romano would ever push him to.
His eyes flick over the remaining time on the memo, and he waits.
“Ah, you’ll have to forgive me, Roma. I don’t have much to say. Es muy temprano, ¿sabes? But…”
Spain’s voice fades again, and Romano thinks it’s strange to hear him sound so…subdued, despondent, almost melancholic in a way that doesn’t suit him, has never suited him, not that Romano would tell him so. Still, it’s disconcerting, always this side of unnerving to hear that bright voice tinged with something low, made thoughtful and preoccupied by memories older than this generation of his people, only ever acknowledged with gentle acoustic lullabies and too-full-hearted wishes on shooting stars in the dead of night.
Even still, Romano silently leans against his counter and waits.
“Would you let me play for you, Roma? I know you would if you were here, but, well… This will have to do, ¿no?”
Spain stops speaking after that, voice dropping into half-mumbled lisps that catch on the microphone, soft, whispered plosives that float from the speaker into the early morning rays basking Romano’s kitchen in gold. It’s a sad song, whatever it is, if it even has a name—likely not, Romano thinks, half-wondering and fully-knowing that Spain never did plan his songs out in advance, always preferring to let the music come to him, come from him, spontaneous and free in a way Nations could never be.
Briefly, frustratedly, Romano almost feels guilty for not being there to listen to Spain play in person, to see the look on his face and tsk at him until he smiles again, long-buried and always-resurfacing regrets brushed away with fresh food and Romano’s always eager and willing ability to complain about anything and everything that crosses his mind, drowning the silence Spain hates so much with something easier, inane, familiar. It’s a ridiculous feeling, one that serves no purpose and shouldn’t even be entertained—if Spain can’t deal with long nights and oppressive silences by now, then there’s not much anyone can say or do at this point to help, let alone Romano of all people—but, still…
As the memo winds down and the song peters out into lonely twinkling, twanging notes, Romano can vaguely hear Spain trilling nonsense words that sound garbled beneath the tinny speaker of his phone, far away and faded like he’s unaware that he’s actually speaking. Romano can discern a few words in between the lingering notes that flutter through his kitchen, some vestige of a love song that hasn’t been popular in well over a decade, maybe two, not that that’s particularly surprising; Spain always did have trouble letting go of his past, too closely entwined with the music and art of his people to ever fully let go of the bits that made him somber, nostalgic, emotional.
There’s a soft laugh before the audio cuts out, something faint and whispered that almost gets lost beneath the rustling on the other end of the line, but it sounds more like the Spain he knows, close enough to resemble his endless, boundless optimism that Romano doesn’t feel guilty for not immediately responding. There’s no reason for him to feel guilty, no audience or jury who will make him feel shamefaced and sheepish for not dropping everything and calling the person he is sure will answer, and he knows Spain sent this to him to listen to at his leisure with no plea to respond if he doesn’t want to.
He has time, he thinks. No one is waiting for him.
Despite that, though, Romano can’t help but scowl at the bitter taste in the back of his throat. With a pensive frown, he presses the play button again, letting that solemn, doleful voice wash over him and his kitchen and his sunrise, fingers wet with water as he rinses the bundle of grapes he had plucked from his vineyard earlier that morning.
“Ah, buenos días, Romano–”
He wonders if Spain ever went to sleep.
It’s not new, Spain’s weird, constant need to touch. He’s always been like that, longer than Romano can remember and too stubborn and relentless to pay much heed to Romano’s growling, hissing displeasure and admonishments.
Spain has always been physical. Romano has always been…not.
It’s not a thing, not any sort of big deal. So what if he’s a little touch-starved, a little too attuned to those around him, how close they are to him, how much space exists between him and Spain up until the moment where Spain will—inevitably—throw a companionable arm over his shoulder? Intimacy is different for their kind—harder, too charged and loaded for casual connection—so he can’t be blamed for being starved, always hyper-aware with no outlet and too much pride to change.
It’s still not a big deal; cose che capitano, things will settle themselves somehow.
But that doesn’t make it easy.
There are times, sometimes in meetings, sometimes when they’re out, usually when they’re at one of their homes—Romano’s, more often than not, if only because he refuses to leave his garden for long periods of time, or so he says—where Spain will pass behind him, will let a hand run the length of Romano’s shoulders with a beaming smile and an offer to grab a pen, the check, a bottle of wine, and Romano has to pretend as if he doesn’t feel every single molecule in his body, as if the imprint of Spain’s fingers pressing on the seam of his shirt doesn’t choke the breath out of his lungs.
Romano never says anything, never even acknowledges the touch, and Spain always laughs and walks away, none the wiser and wholly fucking maddening.
Bastard.
And it’s not like it’s Romano’s fault, not really. How could it be, considering the only other person who touches him so consistently and without reservation is his brother, and even that has lessened drastically since they stopped living together. Veneziano is forever a beacon of physical contact and warm skin pressed delicately against Romano’s cheek at first opportunity, always happy to hug and smile and nuzzle their foreheads together like he was a cat frantic to be picked for adoption. Which is fine—it’s irritating and annoying and always this side of too loud, but it’s fine. It’s famiglia, so it’s fine. Tolerable.
Expected.
But Spain isn’t– He’s not– Whatever Spain is, is different. He’s different, louder almost, but in a disparate way, with a softer voice and brighter eyes that always watch him way too intently, like they’re desperate to remember everything, hold all of it close, keep all of it permanent, like he’s trying to make up for something, like he’s running from something. Everything, maybe.
And Romano, contrary to what he knows many other Nations think about him, is a good Catholic. He has his vices, they all do—no one can withstand their shaky existence and turbulent immortality without picking up one or two or ten just to cope, to get through the daysweeksmonthsyearsdecadeslongerlongerfuckinglonger—but he isn’t–
He’s a good fucking Catholic, grazie mille, who goes to church and knows his scripture and sits with the Pope whenever he’s called upon. He doesn’t sleep around or bed absurd amounts of women—and on the days when he does go home with someone—not to his house, never to his house—he always confesses accordingly and takes his penance with no complaint, like a good fucking Catholic.
But still.
One dalliance a decade does not a touch-starved cure make, and Romano has been running on fumes and familial kindness for longer than his country has been unified, Spain’s bizarre attention and uncanny affinity notwithstanding. He can hardly be blamed for blustering and floundering when he feels the calloused pad of Spain’s finger glide smoothly up the back of his neck, settling itself into something that resembles a gentle massage but could also pass for the match that seemingly lights Romano’s entire fucking being on fire.
It’s different, and Romano doesn’t understand why. He’s not really sure he wants to, either.
They’re in Brussels for the Euro Summit, an ever-recurring headache that never seems to fix their problems, but that does seem to keep them from the brink of disaster, somehow.
Romano waves Veneziano away to go do…something that involves food and unsightly Germans, content to get to his hotel and crack open a bottle of wine in the sanctity of his own space. The silence is appealing, an opportunity to dodge the crowds and gain his mental bearings before steeling himself for a barrage of meetings and presentations that stimulate no one and drain everyone, and he’s excited to settle himself down onto his little balcony and have a desperately needed and much deserved cigarette.
He’s only just checked into his hotel and stepped his foot in the door when Spain bursts from behind him, ushering him into his hotel room with a trilling laugh and a hand that grabs his luggage a little too easily, propping it up against the wall with the ease of someone who has done that way too many times, even when told to be careful with that, you jerk, don’t just throw my stuff around!
Spain happily makes himself at home within Romano’s hotel room, overly eager to toe his shoes off and slam his balcony door open, letting in the air and general street chatter from below.
Separately, privately, that was always something Romano found interesting about Spain: his need for air, his inability to tolerate being in enclosed rooms for prolonged periods of time without itching to get his hands on a window, a door, anything that will allow for a breeze or sliver of gentle wind. It wasn’t necessarily a bad realization, and he never felt entitled enough to ask, but it was…interesting. Just interesting.
With a beleaguered sigh, Romano kicks his own shoes off and unwinds the tie from his neck, too exhausted to do much else apart from drape it over a chair and unbutton the top of his dress shirt so he could actually relax. He startles slightly when Spain laughs, much closer than he was expecting, eyes bright and dancing as they beam down at him—and why was he always so close?
“Your shirt,” Spain hums, miming with his hand something that indicates there’s an imperfection with his collar, a sin in and of itself as far as Romano is concerned.
Romano blinks at him with furrowed brows, looking down futilely at his own shirt before craning his head to check the mirror. He feels increasingly frazzled the more Spain stands there staring at him, green eyes glittering like they were in on a joke Romano hasn’t heard, grin bright and easy and a lot like the cat that ate the canary and then came back for seconds. He doesn’t really know what to do with that look, is more than used to Spain’s undivided attention, but isn’t used to Spain smiling down at him like he knows something Romano doesn’t, like he’s sitting on a secret and is only just holding himself back from telling.
He frowns, hands coming up to adjust whatever it is Spain is referring to, and he almost jumps out of his skin when he feels rough fingers meet his, brushing him away before they settle themselves on his collar.
“It’s rumpled,” Spain says amiably, dazzlingly. “Here, no te preocupes.” He chuckles as he says it, deft fingers winding their way across the top of Romano’s collar and subtly adjusting the fabric at the base of his neck.
There’s some kind of retort sitting on the tip of Romano’s tongue, but fuck if he can make his mouth work properly to say it. He feels the easy warmth of Spain’s skin pressing lightly against his nape, sunny and hot like the balm of Mediterranean summers spent on the coast, breathing in sea foam breezes and running to avoid the burning of heels on baking sand. Spain always did run warm, with heated hands and scorching smiles, and Romano doesn’t even realize when his eyes slip shut, eyelashes fluttering as Spain fiddles with his shirt, basking in hot sun and gentle familiarity.
There’s a breath that gets caught somewhere in Romano’s throat, lost and choked as he feels the rough pads of Spain’s fingers dance the line of his clavicle as they settle the fabric there, and the tightening in his chest startles him enough that his eyes shoot open, wide and alarmed and immediately meeting curious, curious green.
Spain pauses, fumbling, hands leaving Romano to instead run through his own hair as he laughs something stilted. Romano tries not to miss the heat, and he hates how difficult it is, how difficult it really shouldn’t be.
Bastard. What a total, unmitigated bastard.
“Ah, uh—oh! I brought wine, you know, the one you like from the bodega near my house? Ven, let’s drink and order room service!”
Whatever hesitation Spain had a moment ago is lost when he snags Romano by the elbow and all but drags him to the small table situated on the balcony, a little metal thing with looping designs and just enough space for two people to sit and drink into the long hours of the night. Romano can feel the scorch of Spain’s palm burn through the fabric of his blazer, but he lets himself be led to the two chairs outside, lets himself be pushed down by eager hands, lets Spain order for him without even knowing what it is they’re getting, and when Spain breezes back inside to get the wine, Romano still feels warm, warm, warm.
Okay. Okay, so maybe it is a thing. Maybe there is– Maybe it’s sort of–
Romano irritably clicks his tongue, gaze sweeping furiously over the street below him, and fine, okay? Fine. Maybe it is a fucking thing, and maybe that fucking thing makes him want to stand naked in the Sahara because that would somehow be colder than how his skin feels when Spain places a hand on his shoulder, and maybe he has no fucking idea how to handle any of this, because it’s Spain, idiot Spain who is always fucking smiling and who never leaves him alone, and Romano is– He can’t just–
There’s a knock on his door, and he hears Spain open it with that damn amicable glee, voice bright like he’s best friends with the entire world, and it’s only a moment later when a plate is placed in front of him, steaming and savory and not as good as Italian food, but a strong contender for distant second. Spain beams at him, settling himself into the chair across the table, hand reaching out to fill Romano’s wine glass, and when Spain winks at him, amused and alive beneath fresh air and starry skies, Romano feels warm for a different reason.
Bastard.
>Spagna: 19:23 · 29/10/2022
(▶ 🔘──────── 0:01:17)
The waves sound nice tonight, don’t you think?
>Me: 19:30 · 29/10/2022
They’re waves. They sound the same as every other night.
>Spagna: 19:31 · 29/10/2022
Cálmate, Romano. Cálmate y disfruta de las olas.
It’s one of the rare days they meet at Spain’s house instead of Romano’s, one of the days where Romano is agreeable enough to be persuaded to leave his lush greenery and travel all the way out to Cádiz.
Spain welcomes him with open arms and a smile that looks too relieved to be anything less than disquieting, but Romano only huffs as warm, strong arms wrap around his shoulders, face heating something spectacular as he tolerates it for all of three seconds before he brushes past Spain and into the main foyer—because really, Spain acts like it’s been years since they’ve seen each other and not a month.
One of the “rules” of Spain’s house—if they can even be called rules, like they’re not just Spain’s particular way of avoiding the rushing, unrelenting speed of time, and maybe something else Romano can see flash across Spain’s face every now and again, particularly after he’s had too much wine and more than enough solitude—is no technology if it can be avoided.
And Spain could always find a way to avoid it.
Romano doesn’t really mind it all that much, is usually happy to shut his phone off and toss it into the messy oblivion that is his suitcase, more than content to let his brother handle matters for the few days he spends in hiding within Andalusian breezes and a villa that has always felt more like home than his own brother’s house did—not that he’d ever say so aloud, God forbid.
Spain always has every window open, drapes pulled back wide and doors agape as far as they’ll go, and tonight he drags Romano onto the grand terrace overlooking the ocean, forever his own sun beneath the constellations of Carina, Cetus, Ara, hands hotter than the core of the Earth when they touch skin that goes too long without contact, that blushes scarlet beneath time-worn fingers and the shine of emerald green.
Spain ushers him into a swinging hammock chair that overlooks the currents, easy and delighted as he settles himself at Romano’s side, unbothered and oblivious as their thighs brush together, as Spain leans back and lets his knee knock gently against Romano’s own.
Romano tries to find it in him to mind. He’s furious when he doesn’t, even more so when he ducks his head and lets their arms press together.
A traitorous, humiliating thought crosses his mind, and he wonders, briefly and for way longer than he really should, if being nestled so closely to Spain, feeling the warm muscle of his arm, the tense movement of his thigh as he slowly rocks their chair, will give him a sunburn. It’s absurd, idiotic on every level, and Romano feels stupid for even acknowledging it. He scoffs to himself and raises his wine glass to his mouth, steadfastly ignoring the way Spain turns to face him.
“You should visit more often.”
Romano raises an eyebrow, lips paused over his glass as he catches Spain’s eye. “I visit plenty.”
Spain hums, head leaned back against the plush pillow that cushions the chair, and Romano…pauses.
He’s seen that look on Spain’s face before—they’ve all had that look, at one point or another, something melancholic and despondent that pulls them from their modern day and into someplace darker, somewhere long gone and unreachable but that has teeth regardless, always hungry for their attention and ruthless with its demand for appeasement, blood money in the form of regrets and contrition. Romano has had his fair share of those moments, eyes cast out over a tinted window to watch the sunrise, blinking after a few moments only to realize he can now see Cassiopeia glimmering in the sky. It’s an inevitability for their kind, usual, painful and bitter, but expected.
It’s odd to see it cross Spain’s face, makes Romano’s stomach roll and twist to watch the haze that settles itself over Spain’s eyes, usually lively and twinkling but are now somber and far away, unfocused as they lose themselves in something far beyond anything Romano could touch.
Even still, for reasons beyond him, he tries anyway.
With a sigh, Romano also leans his head back, gaze flicking between stars and clouds and a dark horizon that blends with the sea into a scape of navy blue and Andalusian black. “But,” he murmurs, voice soft and low and regretful enough that Spain blinks, cheek pressed to his shoulder as he watches Romano curiously, “maybe I can make time to come out here more. Not– I still have my garden, asshole, don’t get too excited! But I can try to visit more—if I have time!”
Romano has half a mind to snap at him again, voice this close to dropping into a blustering hiss and demanding Spain get that soppy, over-eager look off his face, but the urge gets lost somewhere in the recesses of Romano’s lungs, throat too tight and dry to feed Spain to the demons that lurk deep within them all, desperate and dying for a hand in the darkness. Romano was never very good at being that hand, but…
But it was difficult to ignore the pleasant flush of warmth that floods his chest at the way Spain smiles at him, eyes mercurial with their tendency to get lost in the dredges of history but that are desperate to stay here, be here, to watch Romano drink red wine and stare out over rolling indigo waves.
Spain snags his hand, forefinger light as it presses against Romano’s palm, thumb burning a line into the crease of Romano’s wrist, and Romano can feel himself settling, ruffled feathers and indignant denial flaming out into something easier to swallow but that keeps him nettled regardless, as he was wont to be beneath attention he never could quite decipher.
They sit on the chair for longer than Romano can count, Spain’s gentle, easy movements keeping them rocking softly in the sea salt scented breeze, and for a moment, for just a moment, he can hear the indelible tendrils of the past that keep Spain so captive beneath them, voices of history’s corners whispering from the shadows, conversations of war and loss and the fall of an empire that Spain never did get over, gold and glory haunting the tip of his tongue in the same way his fingers would flit over the strings of his guitar. When he feels the squeeze of hesitant fingers against his palm, all Romano can hear is the lapping of water across baked-beige sand and the soft hum of a song Romano remembers hearing somewhere, once upon a time.
Spain’s voice peters out after a few minutes, fades into the air around them as naturally as if he breathed the coastline winds from his own lungs, and Romano already misses it, the soft, dozy timbre of trilling Spanish lisps and half-murmured nonsense that toes the line between song and half-construed melody.
“Do another,” Romano says, before he really realizes what it is he’s saying, but when Spain turns those sunny eyes onto him, smile lazy and contented, he can’t find it in himself to mind.
Spain goes silent for a moment before he sucks in a sigh, and he gets all of nine notes into his next song before Romano smacks a hand into his sternum, face furiously indignant beneath a booming laugh and completely unapologetic placations.
“Don’t sing your fucking national anthem!” Romano huffs, but his voice has no heat when it’s so clearly mixed with suffocating amusement, and Romano wonders if Spain knows his laugh could reconstruct universes and set the worlds of vast into alignment.
What a stupid thought, he thinks, and he doesn’t take it back.
“Vale, Roma, vale.” His words are tinged with fluttering laughs and something desperate to keep the desolation at bay, and after a moment, he looks at Romano with probing eyes and a pleased, knowing smile. “I have one. Try and guess it, yeah?”
He doesn’t wait for Romano to answer, instead leaning his head back again to stare up at the stars as he hums. It’s slow, whatever it is, and soft—the beginnings of some kind of lullaby mixed with something sweet and gentle.
It scares Romano sometimes, when he thinks about the fact that if he had just one more glass of wine, if he let himself sit beneath eyes of emerald and unrestrained adoration for an hour too long, he would let everything slip, would choke on the emotion that has been rolling in his chest for the past century, maybe two, building and rocking into something wholly encompassing and overwhelming, destructive in its ability to ruin everything they have between them, whatever that is, whatever this is.
He never lets himself slip, but sometimes he wonders what would happen if he did, what would happen if maybe, just maybe, he let those words that sit so painfully at the back of his throat come forward, if he let himself burn beneath Andalusian flamenco and Aragonese sunsets.
It’s quiet when Spain speaks again, voice pitched soft beneath the blanket of stars above them, like it’s something delicate. Maybe it is. “Roma? Did you guess?”
Romano hums a question, eyes half-lidded as he lets Spain rock them back and forth, comforted by the movement of his thigh against Romano’s, by the feeling of Spain’s arm against his, the way his hair smells like citrus and carnations. “Huh?”
Spain’s chest moves when he chuckles, and Romano can feel the rumble of it with how close they are, would let his head rest against it if he were any braver, but cowardice is as cowardice does, and so he contents himself to basking in the warmth of Spain’s pleased, dreamy laughter.
“I’ll do it again, ¿sí? So try and guess.”
“Sure, whatever.”
There’s a pressure on Romano’s hand, a finger pressing delicately into his palm, a thumb tracing the ridge of his wrist, dancing small circles above his veins, and he falls asleep to Spanish love ballads and long-lost lullabies, whispered and hummed beneath a velvet black sky, eagerly awaiting the comfort of an Iberian dawn.
Yeah, Romano thinks. Maybe.
Romano will keep it a secret for as long as he lives, will forever hold it deep within the confines of his chest and away from prying eyes until the day he fades from this Earth, and longer, even, if he is able—but he plays Spain’s sad, mournful voice memo from all those months back almost every morning, basking in the peace that comes with mumbled half-words and a guitar that twinkles like the constellations of old.
>Spagna: 22:39 · 02/01/2023
(▶ 🔘──────── 0:15:03)
Finished this last night. ¿Te gusta?
>Me: 22:41 · 02/01/2023
15 minutes? Are you serious?
>Spagna: 22:42 · 02/01/2023
Jajaja I know it’s long, lo siento. You don’t have to listen to it if you’re busy, no te preocupes.
>Me: 22:42 · 02/01/2023
Shut the fuck up. I’m already playing it.
>Spagna: 22:43 · 02/01/2023
:)
>Me: 22:50 · 02/01/2023
It’s…good.
>Spagna: 22:50 · 02/01/2023
Just good? Qué aburrido.
>Me: 22:53 · 02/01/2023
Quit fishing for compliments. It’s really good, happy?
>Spagna: 22:54 · 02/01/2023
As long as you mean it, I will always be happy.
>Spagna: 22:57 · 02/01/2023
Would you let me send you others sometime?
>Me: 22:59 · 02/01/2023
Do whatever you want. I can’t promise I’ll have time to listen to them, you know I’m busy.
>Spagna: 23:00 · 02/01/2023
Claro, claro, lo entiendo. I hope you’ll find time anyway, Roma. It would mean a lot to me, y’know? :)
>Spagna: 23:11 · 02/01/2023
(▶ 🔘──────── 0:00:08)
>Me: 23:12 · 02/01/2023
Yeah, yeah. Buonanotte to you too.
Hidden beneath the golden rays of his cluttered kitchen, witnessed by only the artifacts of antiquity with which he could never find it within himself to discard, he creates a playlist of all the songs Spain sends him—starting with the forlorn memo from the August before, full of mumbled non-sequiturs and fumbled plosives, and ending with the finished version Spain had sent him at the beginning of January, a sweet, heart-constricting melody of acoustic love songs that flowed perfectly into a lullaby that had long since faded from public memory, now known only to the whispered winds of days gone.
And now, also to Romano and the secret folder he keeps within his phone, labeled only by a guitar and a warm feeling near his heart.
When he closes his eyes, he can still feel the thrumming press of Spain’s fingers against his wrist, one singular finger running gently along the center of his palm.
He lets himself burn.
Time as it is moves differently for them: it flows easily and quickly from one day to one decade, obscured and obfuscated by the memories of centuries mixing with modern day monotony and the relentless pressure of a ticking clock that hovers precariously over them all, an ever-present reminder that immortality is not a guarantee, nor is it a gift.
Relationships shift as easily as the dunes, splintering like fault lines and blending like eruptions from once-thought-dormant volcanoes that come alive in the blink of an eye, angry and spitting and furious and so, so vibrant. It’s the nature of beings who can never escape each other, only hoping they can find some semblance of peace to settle the bitter taste of never-forgotten betrayal and rivalry, something desperate and yearning to soothe the ache of perilous, intemperate want. Want for love, want for blood—sometimes, Romano wonders if those aren’t the same.
He can’t pinpoint when things change between them, knows only that their dynamic has been a nebulous thing for close to six hundred years at this point, and to mark when exactly their dynamic trickled from one aspect to another would be like pulling the heritage from his people, like separating him from the history bestowed upon him by his grandfather, as it is with all of them, forever and always bleeding into one another the longer the clock keeps ticking, ticking, ticking.
Still, Romano feels himself flash back to a starlit terrace swathed in the music of the ocean, the warmth of Spanish skin pressing against his arm, his leg, wrapping easily and adoringly around his wrist, fingers thrumming the inside of his palm as if he were a guitar being played, made melodious under a song he could not hear.
A blink, and Romano considers the soft brush of calloused fingers dancing the line of his nape, soft pads adjusting his shirt and settling the fabric of his being with the practiced hands of someone skilled in the art of placation, thumb tucking the chain of his cross necklace beneath the buttons of his shirt.
A breath, and Romano remembers, if he really, really lets himself, the way they had met again all that time ago, war-ravaged and shaking and two separate entities, no longer bound by monarchy and imperial rule, instead standing disconnected, disparate, autonomous. Independent. It had been odd, at the time, to see Spain again—Romano had wondered if Spain would be angry with him, furious and vitriolic like he knew Spain could be when his power was threatened, broken, lost.
Spain had looked smaller to him, then. Or maybe that’s just what war does to them all.
Spain had hugged him, a movement of steady, bandaged arms around a torso that breathes life to its own united people, and Romano had been surprised to find there was no anger there, only cold acceptance and a sorrow that felt palpable even to him, a tangible presence in the room that nipped at his heels and that had convinced him to allow Spain to tilt his head down to place a kiss to his hairline. He pretended not to notice Spain’s hands were shaking. His, he knows, were shaking, too.
Looking back, it doesn’t seem surprising at all, but their lives were always seen through hindsight, a playback of events that lead to ghosts in their hallways, dancing behind the flowing drapes of open windows.
January tips into February, and February melds into March. Days become months, and the seasons pass as they always do, a cacophony of color that settles from the height of summer to the early days of autumn. Spain convinces him to escape to Seville for the weekend, an appreciated excuse to dodge the endless stream of paperwork and governmental meetings that burden their lives.
They go to a live music bar owned by a family Spain has known for generations, a small venue with scattered tables and seats surrounding a dance floor that presses bodily against a stage, and Romano lets himself sip sweet vino de naranja beneath flashing lights of tinted maroon and cordovan. Spain is a steady, solid presence at his side, and Romano can feel the way he taps his foot against the floor, can feel how Spain tracks the music by the flex of his thigh and the shift of rustling jeans against the fabric of his slacks.
At one point, between beats and within the shifting of dancers and patrons on the floor, Spain leans into him, whispering something into his ear that ends in a rosy laugh and an olive stolen from his plate. Romano watches the curve of Spain’s mouth as he grins, eyes alight and heady beneath flashing lights and thrumming bass. He hears nothing that leaves Spain’s lips, can only just differentiate the rasp of his accent over the music, voice—both his and Spain’s, most likely—lost to loud chatter and clinking cheers and the consistent, steady thump of drums and guitar and shoes across the floor.
Spain watches him curiously, like he’s waiting for something—an answer, maybe, or acknowledgment—and his smile goes small and soft when he leans in again, lips brushing the shell of Romano’s ear in a way that shoots a shiver down the line of his spine, enough to make Romano feel drunk off one glass of wine and that damned smell of cigar and oleander. “Do you want to go?”
Romano starts to shake his head no before he pauses, eyes catching Spain’s and watching as Spain watches him right back, bright and buoyant and so alive surrounded by throngs of tourists and loud music, lips wet with Alhambra Tradicional and food stolen from Romano’s fork. Spain tilts his head, waiting, and after a moment, Romano nods, dizzy and incoherent and so fucking warm, delirious and choking with the knowledge that it’s not the bar making him sweat.
Spain flags their waiter and pays for their drinks, unhesitant as he places a hand just above the small of Romano’s back, guiding him out of the crowded masses and back to fresh air and the winding roads of a bygone age carried to present. He’s laughing, as he usually is, and the moment they turn the corner, Spain’s hands are off him, brought instead to his own mouth as he rubs his palms together.
“It was warm in there, ¿no? I almost feel cold now!” Spain’s voice carries across the streets on their way back to the hotel, loud enough to scare away wayward ghosts; hearing it, Romano can’t help the lingering sensation that he was missing something crucial in the curious shine of Spain’s eyes. “Are you cold?”
Romano only feels cold in the space above the small of his back, where the shape of a hand seared its way onto his skin like the branding of fire and something too personal to name. He stays silent, eyes down as he listens to Spain hum, and he burns.
>Spagna: 00:01 · 25/12/2023
(▶ 🔘──────── 0:07:33)
¡Feliz Navidad, Roma!
>Me: 00:03 · 25/12/2023
Buon Natale, Spagna.
Romano spends the new year at his brother’s house, sipping champagne and listening to the delighted cheers from the streets below. When the countdown hits zero and the crowds erupt into booming applause and windswept screams of jubilation, he can only close his eyes and snort a laugh at the giggling, sparkling kiss Veneziano smacks to his cheek.
Romano rolls his eyes and presses his own into the soft of his brother’s face, and together they knock back flutes of bubbles that become bottles of old red, curling in on each other as they whisper memories of someone long since past, but whom they could never forget, with a booming voice and thunderous laugh, who made them feel small, small, small.
When Veneziano’s voice drifts into soft snores and snuffled breaths, Romano closes his eyes and prays, sending well wishes to the man with warm hands and green eyes, with a guitar that twinkles like the stars and a house haunted with abandonment and regret and something untouchably, harrowingly broken.
He prays for Spain to sleep.
Spain plasters himself to Romano’s back the moment he steps off the train, laugh almost loud enough to echo across the walls of the station, as fresh as the crash of waves on an unending shoreline. He wraps an arm around Romano’s shoulders, hand snagging the bag from Romano’s arm and throwing it across his, instead.
Romano hisses an admonishment, a reminder for the nth time to stop throwing my fucking stuff around, damn it!, but Spain only winks at him, a blinding constellation in a sea of nebulous void, and Romano knows he will feel the weight of Spain’s arm on him for the rest of his night, for the rest of his life.
“Ah, Romano, you made it! I’m so happy you decided to come out with us! Será divertido, ¡lo prometo!”
Spain takes him from the station to France’s Parisian apartment, arm thrown over his shoulders the entire time, and Romano wonders how he doesn’t melt beneath it, how his skin doesn’t burn and flame under the consistent, searing pressure of unrelenting steadfastness and the desperate, aching yearning to be needed.
They meet France and Prussia at a nondescript bar on a nondescript corner on a nondescript street that Romano cannot find it in himself to like but will tolerate, if only to keep that gnawing, hollow emptiness out of Spain’s voice for one more night, to keep his eyes bright and alive, free from hazy sorrow and soul-deep laments that will plague their kind for eternity, for longer, forever. It’s a misery he will endure, echoes of a prayer whispered at the early hours of the morning on New Year’s Day flashing across his mind, a hope to God that Spain finds peace, finds rest, finds sleep.
“Oh, little Italy is here! I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever show!” France’s smile is teasing and pointed, eyes half-lidded above an almost empty glass of Bordeaux. Romano scowls on instinct, face heating when France only laughs and pushes a shot of Triple Sec in front of him. “Try it,” he says with a wink. “You’ll like it.”
Romano looks from France to Prussia to Spain to the shot, and when all he sees are waiting eyes and a familiar expression holding too much hope and excitement to disappoint, he sighs, shoulders slumping and defeated, and downs it.
The three of them cheer something loud and obnoxious, but Romano swallows his bitter indignation and blustering umbrage, thinking only of melancholy murmurs drowned out by Andalusian seas.
I’ll kill him for this, Romano thinks. Fucking bastard.
It takes three hours and four bars before he teeters to his breaking point, tongue red and bleeding from how hard he has been biting it tonight. They wind up on the back patio of some jazz club, France and Spain locked in some kind of debate that Romano couldn’t give less of a damn about if he tried. He takes a drag of his cigarette, eyes tracking the rose-gold cityscape illuminated around them, and he startles when Prussia knocks an elbow into his, grin just this side of knowing, enough to get Romano defensive and hesitant without even a word.
“What?” Romano snaps when Prussia just keeps staring, watching him with red eyes that note the way Spain’s arm keeps brushing against his just a little too closely. He bristles, face flushing, mouth open to say–
Say what, he doesn’t know. Something, anything to dispel, disarm, distract. To hide from the fact that he can count Spain’s breaths from the shift of his arms and the rise of his shoulders, that he cannot remember a single word that was said tonight, but he knows the familiar furl of Spain’s lisp and has been allowing it to roll him from drink to drink, content to smoke and sip and breathe in the discordant hum of bickering friends and tipsy slurs and a celebratory night out that falls well beyond the line of unruly.
Prussia chuckles, scratchy and low, hand coming down to pat Romano’s shoulder once, twice. “Good for you, Romano,” he says, grin widening when Romano only blinks at him, eyebrows furrowed and confused, more drunk and lost than he is willing to admit.
He only looks away when his entire body jolts, every cell in him going hot in a million different ways under a million different stars when Spain drops a hand to his thigh, thumb stroking the fabric of his pants with open, unguarded affection and too much love for Romano to swallow this late at night, mouth sweet and flavored with too much alcohol and the hope that the ghosts keep themselves occupied for one night more, just so this man could find time to smile without restraint.
Romano’s eyes meet Spain’s, meet curious and green and all-consuming.
From across the table, France and Prussia smile.
Romano takes another shot.
Bastard.
Romano loses track of the time, too far gone on French liquor and Spanish cigars, head ringing with loud laughter and a flash of something red winking at him knowingly, happily, kindly. He has memories of someone carrying him back to an apartment, warm hands helping him unbutton his shirt to change into something softer, gentler, of a lilting voice whispering sweet lullabies into his ear as he mumbles nonsense about the oceans, the constellations, about green eyes that should feel no sadness, only made for laughter and shine.
When Romano flops into bed, the covers somehow miraculously tucking themselves in around him, he lets his eyes close, humming a soft sigh as he breathes.
“I like it when you touch me,” he says, and when the rustling next to him goes dead silent, he sleeps.
>Me: 06:38 · 12/02/2024
My boss called. Had to catch the early train home.
>Me: 06:39 · 12/02/2024
Buon compleanno, Spagna.
>Spagna: 13:27 · 12/02/2024
Will I see you again soon?
He is a coward. Always was, always will be.
Sitting between winding vines and the suffocating smell of tilled earth and plush soil, Romano listens to a fluttering guitar and hummed love songs.
He prays that Spain isn’t lonely.
>Spagna: 03:41 · 01/05/2024
(▶ 🔘──────── 0:04:23)
They see each other at a Eurogroup meeting—three months after their previous outing, three months since the last time they spoke—and Romano hates himself for the way he ducks behind Veneziano the second Spain catches his eye. He swallows the bile and putrid sense of betrayal that crawls up his throat when sparkling green eyes dim to something somber and hurt, ocean-chapped lips mouthing his name so softly he wonders if Spain had said it at all.
He avoids Spain for the entire day, each time having to choke back a mass of guilt and longing so thick he wonders if it will kill him, thinks maybe it would if he was able to die, if he was allowed. He studiously and desperately evades the eyes he knows are on him, looking just about anywhere else, and when his phone vibrates, he does not check it, pretends the only thing that exists is the notepad in front of him, for once eager to distill himself beneath the bubbling chatter of his brother’s reckless, captivating enthusiasm.
It’s when the day is over and he’s just packed his bags to return home that Spain catches him—quite literally—when Romano accidentally barrels into him on his way out the door. Spain wraps a steadying arm around his waist, and Romano knows without even needing to look, because all he can feel is warm and balm and summer, all he can smell is citrus and cigars and the faint scent of Spanish bluebells.
“Romano,” Spain breathes, and it feels like choking, like something cloying within Romano’s lungs, and he doesn’t know how to do this, how to exist beneath eyes that stare at him like he is something holy, how to stare back when he knows his own face looks something sacrilegious, scared and enamored and burning.
“I–” he starts, then stops, because he what? Is a coward? Is so terrified of romantic rejection from a man who already looks at him like the first ray of daybreak glistening across rolling ocean waves and an endless horizon that he was willing to shun and hide and deflect just to escape the pain of dismissal? Is even more afraid of what it would mean if he wasn’t rejected, if Spain does love him, does want him, because then that would mean those ghosts haunting the darkened corners of Spain’s house would finally need to be addressed, as if some of them don’t hold the echo of Romano’s feet running across the floor, happy and laughing until they, too, disappeared, like everyone else Spain had ever known?
“Romano.” Spain is staring down at him with something hard behind his eyes, determined and headstrong in a way only a bullheaded mule could be. His face is forlorn and sad and so eagerly hopeful that Romano thinks it should be considered cruel and unusual punishment, like it’s begging for an answer he already knows he will get, but wants to ask anyway, if only to hear the confirmation.
Romano wants to snap at him to leave, to go, to move out of the way so Romano can do what he does best and run, but his voice gets lost when Spain squeezes his waist, one calloused finger coming up to brush the underside of Romano’s chin.
“Come home with me,” he says, and Romano melts.
Romano changes his ticket to one that reads Seville, and he flushes beneath the knowing, sparkling smile his brother gives him.
“Enjoy yourself, fratello.” Veneziano winks at him, pressing a soft kiss to the swell of his cheek, and Romano doesn’t have the energy in him to put up a fight. He reluctantly shrugs off the hug and waves away the request to text when he arrives safely, and with a final breath, he steps outside to where Spain is waiting, handsome and firm and drowning in shadows starved for blood and repentance.
“¿Listo?”
No. “Yeah, whatever, my brother says he’ll handle my stuff for a few days.”
Spain nods, smiles, and together they make their way to the station, to Seville, to Cádiz, to a house with open windows and billowing curtains and corners the sun does not reach.
Spain, for once, is silent, and he keeps their fingers intertwined the entire time, never once letting go.
“Would you let me kiss you?”
Romano startles, almost dropping the spatula he’s using. “Wha– Where the fuck did that come from, bastard? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
Spain ignores him, leaning casually against the opposing wall of the kitchen, shoulder pressed easily to hand-painted ceramic and faded yellow tile. His arms are crossed over his chest as he watches Romano cook for them in his kitchen, and Romano knows that if he doesn’t force himself to turn away from that sight in the next minute, their breakfast will burn.
“Would you let me kiss you, Roma?” Spain isn’t smiling, only watching, strands of his curls, ruffled from the open breeze coming in from the terrace, falling across his forehead and catching on his eyelashes.
Romano freezes, mouth opening and closing around a voice lodged somewhere in the back of his throat, hidden behind centuries of built up bravado and deep-seated insecurity and—for once—the desperate, anguished need to be known.
He watches Spain watch him, eyes half-lidded and intense as they burn a hole into Romano’s face, and the entirety of his body feels warm.
Fuck it, he thinks. I’ve humiliated myself in front of him before. What’s one more time?
With practiced ease and trembling hands, Romano flicks off the stove. Spain watches with a curious expression, eyebrow raised in question as Romano walks up to him, and Romano can see, if he tries hard enough, the outlines of sleepless nights beneath Spain’s eyes, a heavy fatigue that comes from heartbreak and terror and the fear that one day the darkness will swallow him whole and spit nothing back.
He shouldn’t look like that. He wasn’t made to look like that.
It’s not a stupid thought, Romano tells himself, and he swears that one day he will tell Spain all the truths he has been keeping within the confines of his chest, harbored between ancient ribs and carnation petals and the strumming of a guitar that shouldn’t sound so mournful when playing love songs, cradled within hands that have only ever made Romano feel adored.
Until that day, he contents himself with reaching up to brush the dark beneath Spain’s warm, tired eyes, wishing beside himself that he could rub the exhaustion from them and take it as his own. Spain blinks down at him, still quiet, still watching, and there is a shine there that Romano would do anything to keep, to fan the flames of, to bring life back to a body that is meant to feel celebration and joy and the beat of a song no one else can hear.
Fuck it, he thinks. Fuck it.
He leans himself into the heat of Spain’s space, feels the warmth and crackle of Spain’s breath across his lips, how Spain’s arms fall to his waist, and he prays that Spain can feel all the things Romano cannot make himself say, how he has kept every recording and song Spain has sent him, kept them close and memorized each mumbled word and plucked string, how he knows about Spain’s hatred of being alone, scared of a silence that haunts his every waking hour, even more terrified of what the dark crevices of his home whisper to him at night, and he prays Spain understands.
A searing hand settles behind Romano’s neck, thumb softly tracing the line of his ear, and it scares him how genuinely he wants this, how much he wants Spain’s hands in his hair, tracing the line of his spine as they sleep bathed in salty ocean breeze and lazy morning sunlight. He wants Spain’s stupid, ridiculous, mumbled singing, words with no meaning mixed with songs of old, ballads lost to time and poetry flashing behind eyes that are so good at putting heat to a beat.
And that’s fine, because Romano is good at being scared, has turned fear into an art form and will use it to hide all the ways in which Spain could ruin him if he wanted to. That’s fine.
In the meantime, Romano will curl himself into the space of Spain’s chest and kiss the sorrow from his lungs until all that is left is the smoke of heady cigars and the taste of hand-grown tomatoes. He’s happy to take Spain’s hand in his and lead him to that damned swinging hammock chair, baptize him in the gold of rising sun and the awe of watching Romano drop to his knees between Spain’s legs.
Well, if Romano can’t use his mouth to say the words, he will use it for other things, other ways in which he can make Spain understand. And it’s fine. It is truly, wondrously fine.
“Here?” Spain asks, chokes, voice knocked breathless as he stares down at Romano from his place seated on plush cushions and his back to a house he hasn’t considered a home in a long, long time.
“You like it here,” is all Romano says, and that is enough for Spain to get it, maybe not all of it, but enough of it, enough to understand the hand Romano is reaching out to him in the metaphorical abyss where he has existed for much longer than he realized.
Spain helps him unbutton his pants, remains pliant and amenable beneath hands that settle on his thighs, and when Romano gets his mouth on him, his eyes go hazy for other reasons, for the right reasons, glassy and misted and here, alive, hands gentle as they thread through Romano’s hair and stroke the corners of his lips, the bridge of his nose, leaving lines of fire and heat and comfort across the planes of Romano’s face.
Spain sings nonsense to him, words of affirmation and praise that shoot up Romano’s spine and bloom across the empty crevices of his chest, and he lets his eyes flutter when Spain rakes his fingertips along his scalp, running the backs of his fingers across Romano’s cheek as if he were something precious, something lovely and delicate on his knees between Spain’s legs, throat made ragged when he swallows Spain down entirely.
“Roma,” Spain sighs. “Roma.”
His name sounds like a song, and it’s absurd how sappy the notion is, how pathetically wanting and nauseatingly sentimental that thought is given his current position, but he lets himself indulge within the sanctity of his own mind, face flushing scarlet red the more Spain trills his name, the more his breath catches and his thighs tense.
When Spain comes, Romano keeps his eyes open, watching like a man damned to see the way Spain’s mouth drops open, how his name looks falling from gasping breath, what Spain’s eyes look like, how his chest staccatos with uneven gasps and the pleasure that comes from lips that kiss their way up his stomach, how he looks when he’s flushed and devastatingly gorgeous, a mess made properly ravished.
Spain blinks down at him after he leans back, and Romano knows he looks inordinately smug, thinks that he has reason to be, all things considered. Spain takes one look at him and chuckles a broken, hoarse laugh, hands reaching to pull Romano into his lap, humming when he tastes himself on soft, red lips. “Roma, what do you–?”
Romano lets himself smile, getting his own hands in chestnut curls that feel as soft as he always thought they would. “Take me to bed, Spagna.”
And they can burn together.
Romano always did think Spain looked holy bathed in sunlight.
When Romano wakes, it’s already night, the sun long since gone past an endless midnight horizon. The moon beams down on him, bright and blindingly white in its home of sparkling, boundless void and empty space, intermingled with constellations Romano has spent his entire life staring up at, growing up with, whispering his secrets to.
Beside him, Spain is leaning against the headboard, naked save for the sheet curled around his waist and the guitar perched on his lap, and when Romano looks up at him, he is already smiling, already humming, hands miming along a melody to something Romano cannot hear.
He’s beautiful at night, too. It’s a thought that comes unbidden, and Romano does not brush it away, only lets it settle into his bones and tug a smile to his lips.
He feels the press of Spain’s thigh against his waist, allows himself to arch beneath the line Spain draws along the length of his spine, and when Romano nestles himself into the curve of Spain’s shoulder, Spain winks at him, bright and blazing, fingers plucking the twinkling strings of a newly created love song.
Spain starts to sing, and the ghosts are quiet.