Archive of Our Own

His nationhood has always been something that Romano has never questioned. He had always known he was different, had always been told he was valuable from the minute he opened his eyes to see his grandfather towering over him. For the first few centuries of his life, it was the countless battles and wars and treaties that he was constantly in the middle of that painfully taught him of that worth, terrorizing his people and breaking his grandfather’s former empire to bite-sized pieces that left him occupied and exhausted. He didn't have time to ponder over the mystery of his existence, whether he was simply a physical manifestation of a culture or a symbol that represented a government or military power. He was too busy with the weight of annexation and occupation, being traded between empires and warring nations while doing everything in his power to keep himself from falling apart to waste his few precious moments of peace with stupid questions that didn't need answers.

Keeping his people stable, focusing on rebuilding what was lost, was far too important.

Reuniting with his brother after the War of Spanish Succession was… bittersweet. Being near Veneziano brought a mountain of foul-tasting resentment with the memories of their late grandfather, and he spent the first half a century in that unfamiliar manor hiding away and dealing with the uncomfortable pull of Spanish and Austrian tensions over his territories. He shut Veneziano out at first, not wanting to bother with getting close to him when he was just as likely to be picked up and whisked away somewhere else within a moment’s notice. Spain had promised he’d be back to get him, to take him back home -- and Romano would be a liar if he said that wasn’t something he focused on almost obsessively when he was first placed into Austria’s care.

His negative feelings towards his brother softened up closer to the end of the 18th century, realizing that Spain’s empire was slowly crumbling away and that it left Romano trapped in Austria’s home. Even though interactions between them were awkward, Veneziano’s presence eased the discomfort he was constantly suffering, making him feel less scattered and more, well, whole. It only made sense that the first whisperings of their unification came to them from their people in the following years, fueled by Romano’s animosity towards the Hapsburgs and Veneziano’s growing restlessness the longer he remained confined to a home that held memories it seemed he wanted to forget. 

It was difficult to agree upon things at first. His little brother didn’t want to revolt, desperate to stay out of the fighting while holding onto a fondness for Austria and his home that Romano couldn’t wrap his mind around. When Romano would press him for details, Veneziano would just repeat how he was waiting for someone to come back to him, and he wouldn’t elaborate further even though Romano knew he was keeping something from him. 

His brother’s reluctance aside, Romano just wanted to be free -- he was tired of being seen as land made to collect, a living trophy of the fallen Roman Empire to gawk at and show off. He hated being reprimanded by Austria for acting out, but he despised the pity that Germanic bastard would give him even more as he did it -- like he understood how Romano was feeling but wasn’t allowed to do anything about it, as if it wasn’t his fucking empire that was keeping him trapped in a home that wasn’t his and had stolen him away from another that he’d grown to at least tolerate.

(When Romano was feeling particularly battered and worn down, he’d even admit he missed Spain’s home. He missed the coastline, the smell of the Mediterranean while he stood on the shores facing inward toward Naples where his heart was drawn. He missed the taste of ripe tomatoes gathered in the garden of Spain’s house, the feeling of the summer sun on his cheeks while he dug his toes in the sand -- and he would never admit this out loud in a million fucking years, but… he missed Spain. Romano missed the comfort and reassurance Spain gave him when he was feeling low, especially now that he was doomed to suffer Austria’s cold glares and snide remarks for any mistake or slip.)

Veneziano came around eventually after hearing far too many stories of vicious acts of bloodshed occurring to their people in their fight for freedom and seeing Romano constantly punished for his rebellion. He seemed to have given up on waiting for his mystery person, a look in his soft brown eyes that Romano could really only describe as heartbreak -- but now with the both of them ready, it was finally time for their move. His people and his brother’s people became their people -- and their people were ready for one Italy.

Romano stood with pride alongside his brother as their revolutionary leaders pinned a tricolor cockade to his breast, and for the first time in his life he took the fate of his existence, his home and his people, into his own hands.

When the unification actually went through, however, Romano was once again faced with the short end of the stick -- as things normally went when it came to things that involved both him and his brother. Their people became the Northerners and the Southerners once again, and he was seen as the lesser half of their now unified nation as he suffered an economic toll so harsh he could barely hold himself together. It was so terrible that he was terrified he wouldn’t survive it and he’d disappear just like their grandfather. After all, there was now one Italy with two representatives -- maybe culling him was necessary for its survival?

Romano’s pride wouldn’t stand for that. He was the older brother, he was the one who was here first -- he refused to lose to his brother again. If he wasn’t meant to survive the unification, he’d find some way to drag Veneziano down with him out of spite alone. Survival became his main focus once more, an instinct he’s become accustomed to falling back on time and time again, and all his attention went into staying alive and keeping his people as safe and stable as he could manage.

It took time and a lot of fighting between them, but eventually Romano could feel himself start to settle. It wasn’t pretty: he had far too many shouting matches with Veneziano while they learned the ins and outs of being their own nation, including one particularly horrific one that ended with them trading blows. Romano left for America shortly after that, following his people in their escape from the poverty stricken South, and the guilt from that final confrontation lingered when they were apart. Once the depression hit and Romano returned home, they sat down and discussed things, swore to do better with one another, and finally things began to ease. 

Things weren’t perfect, but they at least weren’t constantly at each other’s throats anymore. While Romano never nurtured the wealthy economy his brother controlled, he could at least finally begin to appreciate what it felt like to be his own nation: the lightness of his body, the freedom to live in a home that he could call his own (even if he had to share it with Veneziano.) Unfortunately, the extra breathing room he has now leaves time for his mind to wander through all the questions he’s never had time to dwell on, and now he isn’t sure exactly who -- or what -- he really is. 

Veneziano isn't exactly helping his troubles. While they had agreed to join in the Great War because it would finally sever the last ties Austria had over them, Romano had been surprised to find out how they had been recruited for the second without even being consulted. This boss was… less than ideal compared to some of the former ones Romano has had to tolerate. Il Duce rarely spoke with him, treating Veneziano as the only one who represented their lands -- and Romano knows about how some of the Northerners look upon his people and it makes his blood boil, but he’s rarely had to deal with someone who does is so blatantly, so unapologetically to his face.

However, Il Duce got what he wanted when he wanted -- his cruelty made sure of that -- so in turn Romano swallowed his pride and went along with whatever Veneziano agreed with, no matter how many times it led to him biting his tongue so hard he tasted blood. His brother didn’t see the hesitations he had, far too enamored with the potato bastard to even listen when Romano tried to speak with him privately about things, so he left Veneziano to handle things with the war while he focused on support.

Except… he’s becoming more and more disillusioned every day. He’s tired of the fighting, he’s tired of the death -- and most of all, he’s getting fucking tired of watching Il Duce worship the ground Veneziano walks on while Romano is the one putting all the effort into holding their nation together.

But that’s just the thing: he’s still South Italia -- if his government wants all of this, wants the war and the fighting and the fascism… shouldn’t he want it too? Isn’t that who -- or what -- he is? (Or what he’s supposed to be?) The questions he’s avoided for years have suddenly been thrust on his shoulders in a dizzying and uncomfortable rush, complicated feelings having dragged him into a spiral of existential dread and confusion that he can barely parse through. He’s desperate for answers and he has no idea who can give them to him. 

Romano doesn’t want to go to Veneziano for this. He knows their boss is paranoid of dissenters -- he’s been feeling the pain of the Italians who have been standing against him ever since he came into power, and he doesn’t trust him not to interrogate his brother if he gets any indication that Romano’s loyalty is in question. (Romano is already disliked enough: his boss doesn’t need to be given any reasons to scorn him more.)

If he can’t turn to his brother… then there’s only one other nation he can go to that could possibly understand what he’s feeling.

Spain.

The idea brings him an unbelievable amount of anxiety. Romano hasn’t really spoken much to Spain since the Risorgimento -- aside from personally being too busy coping with the negative aftereffects, he hasn’t been able to get rid of the ugly knot that forms in his chest any time he remembers the years following their unification where Spain had refused to acknowledge their independence. 

Still… they haven’t exactly been unfriendly with each other. Spain still sent him letters when he was feeling well enough, having been given a break from the political unrest that’s been crippling him for decades, but they haven’t had a face to face meeting in a very long time -- and any invitations from Spain to meet him at his home have gone unanswered. Romano just doesn’t know if he could handle it.

Still, he needs someone to vent these thoughts to, and his limited pool of allies in this war doesn’t leave him many options: Spain is seemingly the perfect choice. He’s neutral, loyalties leaning towards the Axis -- Romano can hide his true motives by traveling under the guise of trying to recruit him onto their side even though he knows Spain will say no. Not only is he broke, but he’s busy dealing with the fallout of his own civil war: he doesn’t have the time nor resources to be sending their way. 

Of course, Romano can do without the financial support -- he needs the peace of mind if he’s going to continue being involved in this conflict. He dismisses an escort, pleased when they allow him to travel alone, and then Romano makes his way back to the house he hasn’t stepped foot in for over two hundred years.

As he makes his way up the winding path, Romano can’t help but think the house looks smaller than he remembers. The path up to the front door is more worn down, the flagstones he remembers being installed aged and cracked in more than a few places. Aside from the expected damage caused by weather and time, the house seems unchanged: same creamy stucco exterior and low-pitched roof, some particularly bold vines crawling up the south facing side and curling around the small windows. Somehow, it seems to have survived the worst that the civil war had to offer -- Romano isn't even sure how that's possible.

He has the passing thought that walking up this path feels more like he’s returning home rather than visiting, and it makes guilt he’s been nursing another chance to spring to the forefront of his mind. It makes him hesitate, boots coming to a sudden halt as he’s bombarded with second thoughts, but then he shakes it away. He needs to do this. With a thick swallow and a deep frown, Romano simply avoids feeling another swell of melancholy by averting his eyes to the ground before he continues his slow approach towards the structure looming over him.

The door swings outward before Romano even makes it onto the porch, before he has a chance to lay a hand on it -- before he’s ready to see him -- and he freezes instantly. A lump forms in his throat as Spain steps out from behind it to greet him, a welcoming smile plastered on his face.

He appears just like his house: unchanged aside from the age that’s settled over him, but his eyes are different. Spain looks tired, the unrest in him showing clear on his face in the dark circles under his eyes and the bruises littering his skin. Romano catches a glimpse of the bandaging that’s been done around his torso under his shirt before Spain absentmindedly adjusts his collar to hide it away. It's an uncomfortably familiar sight hearkening to the final day Romano spent in this house.

The knife of guilt in Romano's gut twists more deeply. What is he doing here?

Despite Spain’s thinness, the exhaustion set deep in his peridot greens, his smile twists larger, brighter as he steps forward to greet him eagerly. 

“Roma! It’s so good to see you!” he says cheerfully, grasping him by the shoulders to give him a once over. “You seem to be doing so well. Boss is happy.” Romano doesn’t answer, voice trapped in his throat, but Spain doesn’t acknowledge his silence. He simply kisses his cheeks before he wraps his arms around Romano in a hug before Romano has time to tell him not to -- but now that he’s embracing him he couldn’t possibly push him away. It’s impossible to ignore how tightly Spain holds him, his shoulders trembling as he breathes out a ragged sigh. “It's been… so long.”

His voice holds no condemnation, no maliciousness -- like it’s not Romano’s fault that it’s been such a long time since they had seen each other face to face. Like Romano can’t hear the tears threatening Spain’s composure when he speaks or feel his body shaking around him. 

Like he isn’t upset about all of this.

Spain’s always been too patient with him. 

Remorse roars in Romano’s ears and he forces himself to swallow again as he returns the hug a little awkwardly, shoulders stiff and jaw clenched tight. If this were years ago, when Romano was still confused about his feelings and nearly everything about being touched by Spain would trigger a reaction in him, he would have squirmed his way out of Spain’s arms as quickly as he could in order to send a barrage of insults to fight off his embarrassment. Now that he’s older and more emotionally stable, having come to terms that this stupid crush was much more permanent than he would have liked, he begrudgingly holds his tongue and allows Spain the touch he desires.

A smaller part of him tied to the cross hanging around his throat muses that tolerating Spain’s lengthy embrace is his penance for avoiding him for so many years, and it makes his stubborn annoyance soften. While Romano may not be the perfect Catholic, he always follows through with his penances when seeking absolution for his sins.

Still, as much as he wants to give Spain everything he wants, Romano isn’t an infinitely patient person. As the seconds go by and Spain doesn’t move, face buried in Romano’s shoulder, he can feel his tolerance for physical touch burning away. It’s so long that Romano’s discomfort finally outweighs his self-restraint, the curses crawling up his chest that he forces himself to be mindful of. “Alright, it hasn’t been that long,” he mutters, patting Spain’s shoulder in a gesture to release him. “Let go, bastard.”

Spain stiffens and for a fraction of a second Romano is concerned that he’s already said something wrong -- that he was too harsh too quickly -- but then Spain releases a soft laugh that sounds too much like a sigh as he pulls away. He doesn’t let go of Romano completely, hands remaining on his shoulders as he fixes Romano with a gentle smile, dark curls sweeping across his brow as he shakes his head.

“Forgive me, Roma, I lost myself a little there. Here, let me get your things!” His touch finally disappears as he grabs Romano’s suitcase and disappears into the empty house, continuing to talk as he walks away -- but Romano isn’t listening. He’s too busy desperately holding back his own sigh of disappointment when the feeling of Spain’s warm hands lifts away from his shoulders, leaving them colder than they were before.

He wishes he wasn’t such a fucking coward.

Romano takes a moment to pull himself together, commanding his emotions to stay buried where he’s kept them for more than a century before he follows after his host. Spain is still babbling nonsense, shouting across the house as he heads up the stairs to throw Romano’s suitcase into one of the guest rooms. “Dinner’s almost ready -- I’m making cocido! I’m sorry it’s nothing fancy, but… well, I’m sure you know it’s difficult to find much around here right now.”

“It’s fine.” 

In all honesty, Romano could fucking care less about food right now -- but if he said that aloud Spain would know there’s something wrong with him and dig for an answer before Romano is ready to bring it up himself. He needs to approach this topic at his own pace; he’s already using every ounce of strength he has not to turn tail and run away like the coward he is, pretending he never came here in the first place. 

He just needs to relax, and find an opportunity to speak when it's appropriate.

It’s not until after dinner is over that Romano slips away to the balcony that looks over the courtyard for a cigarette. Spain doesn’t say anything if he notices him leaving, too busy washing the dishes and humming with a content smile on his face. Romano takes a long drag before he leans over the railing, staring hard at the empty courtyard below them as he breathes out his smoke. The nicotine is a helping hand to his anxieties, washing over his frayed nerves in a comforting blanket as he sorts through his complicated feelings. 

He gets a few minutes to himself before Romano hears Spain step outside behind him, coming to stand beside him with a gentle sigh. They’re quiet for a bit, enjoying the comfortable air of the night sky, and then Spain says something that makes Romano’s heart stutter.

“What’s on your mind, Roma?”

Romano glances at him without moving his head. Spain is smiling at him, something kind but knowing in his green eyes, and it makes Romano’s face flush. Even though he came here specifically to talk about his worries, suddenly he’s on the defensive.

“What are you talking about?” he asks. Spain’s smile widens a fraction, eyes glittering in amusement: he can see right through his front. Romano has to look away and down towards the courtyard, his stubbornness getting the best of him and unable to stop himself from deflecting. “I obviously just came to visit you because you wouldn’t shut up about it in your letters. Since I finally got a break from my boss, I figured I’d come just to get you to stop complaining.”

As always, Spain doesn’t call him out and plays along. “Is that so?” he hums, lacing his fingers together as he leans over the railing himself. “How is Il Duce doing?”

Romano’s frown turns into a scowl. “I wouldn’t fucking know -- the bastard doesn’t tell me anything.”

Spain laughs, tone light. “Are you not getting along?”

“He thinks I’m a barbaric, uncivilized savage,” Romano snaps before he can stop himself, words far more heated than he had intended. Spain's smile instantly drops, expression becoming a little turbulent before concern floods his expression -- and with that single gentle look suddenly all of Romano's frustrations are tumbling from his lips. “He only talks to my stupid little brother, and Veneziano’s too fucking busy gallavanting off with Germans, wrapped up in becoming the next ‘Great Power', to even notice the suffering our people are going through at home.” He clenches his jaw, bitter tone souring further. “I’m the only thing keeping the country from falling apart. It’s like all the fucking work we put into unifying doesn’t matter to him anymore.”

A silence grips them for a moment, uncomfortably heavy. Spain says nothing for a long time, mouth pressed into a hard line, but then his voice comes out in a low murmur.

“I’m sorry I can’t do anything to help. I wish… I could ease some of that burden for you.”

Romano plays off his trembling heart with an indifferent snort. “Stop it. I know shit is tough here too -- I’m not expecting anything from you.” He shakes his head, and then against his better judgment, he murmurs, “Your… company is enough right now.”

Spain grows still and once again, Romano is worried he’s said something wrong and he’s revealed too much, but then Spain sighs out contentedly as he leans into his side, pressing his cheek into Romano’s shoulder. “Thank you for visiting, Roma. I’m glad you’re here.”

He’s not upset. Romano feels himself relax and he nods as he takes another drag of his cigarette, holding himself back from returning the gentle gesture and keeping himself upright. They stand together in the quiet for a bit, but after a little bit Spain hums and lifts his head.

“Why are you doing this?”

Romano turns to look at him, heart clenching when Spain fixes him with a cool expression. “Doing what?” he asks. Spain doesn’t flinch, expression strangely blank and waiting.

“Fighting in the war. Why are you doing it?”

Romano blinks, and then suddenly his blood is running cold and he’s very, very aware that Spain has already figured out the reasons that have led him to visiting. He’s always been frustratingly sharp when it comes to Romano's troubles. Romano swallows. “Because… I’m supposed to?”

With a thoughtful hum, Spain looks away, green eyes sweeping the empty courtyard below them. “Is that what you think?” he murmurs, and his casual tone makes irritation flutter in Romano’s gut. Spain is playing a dumb game with him, and he’s not in the fucking mood for it -- he came here for answers, not jokes. He takes another drag of his cigarette and snorts humorlessly, blowing smoke from his nose.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You’re making no sense, jackass.”

Spain pipes up again. “Do you want to fight in this war?”

“No.” Romano doesn’t even need to think, the answer coming out of his mouth immediately, but then shame instantly courses through his veins, flooding his cheeks with searing chagrin. He swears. “Fuck. I mean -- I don’t know. I don’t think I do, but it’s what the boss wants, so… I’ll do it.”

Spain frowns at his answer, brow pinching. “I didn’t ask what your boss wanted. I’m asking you what you want.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Romano spits, shooting Spain a glare. “Isn’t that what we are?”

Spain’s frown deepens and he cocks his head to the side, green eyes flickering with something Romano can’t recognize. “What do you mean by that?” he asks, and Romano groans, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes to combat a growing headache as his frustrations start to boil over.

“Spain, don’t… don’t ask me that. I don’t know.”

Spain’s firm voice still presses, calm but serious. “Why can’t I ask that?”

“Because I don’t fucking know what I am!” Romano finally shouts. He whips his hands away from his face. “I have no fucking idea what I’m supposed to be! I know I’m a nation and that humans are willing to murder each other in order to conquer me, but what does that fucking mean?! If I am South Italia, if I can feel every ounce of suffering my people are experiencing, can feel each one when they’re born and when they die -- then why do I not want to follow the directions those same people are giving me?!” He goes to take another desperate drag when realizes his cigarette is reduced to ash, and with a growl he aggressively smashes it into the ashtray before turning away to pace across the balcony. “I don’t know what I am, Spain. If I’m a piece of land, why didn’t I disappear once the unification went into effect?! If I’m a symbol of the government, then why the fuck do I exist if they won't even talk to me?!”

“Romano, stop,” Spain pleads, following after him. He grips Romano by the shoulders to stop his pacing, turning him around to face him, and his serious expression softens when Romano listens to him, halting in the middle of his stride. He cups Romano's cheek, hushing him with a weak smile. “It’s okay, Roma. Cálmate. You don’t need to have all the answers.”

Romano feels the familiar burn of tears searing his throat, his frustration turning down the route to tears once again and it only makes him angrier. Fuck, he hates being such a crybaby. “I don’t understand what I’m supposed to be -- what we are supposed to be,” he whispers, voice trembling. He reaches up to clutch at Spain's wrist tightly. “It doesn’t make any fucking sense and I’m just… so fucking tired of all this.”

Spain sighs and pulls him into another hug. “You aren’t the only one who feels like this. We all go through this identity crisis at some point in our lives,” he admits, voice a low murmur. He strokes the back of Romano's head gently. “You’re right: it doesn’t make sense. I don’t think… many of us understand it fully.”

Romano snorts bitterly against his shoulder. “Great, so you don't even fucking know.”

“I didn’t say that,” Spain retorts with a small chuckle, and then he falls silent again. There's a long pause where they don't speak, but then Spain’s voice rumbles quietly, barely above a whisper. “Let’s… take this conversation inside, Roma. It’s getting chilly out.”

Romano almost opens his mouth to say he doesn’t know what Spain is talking about, that the temperature is actually pretty mild and he’d like to stay outside to smoke another cigarette, but when he raises his eyes to meets Spain’s gaze he realizes the comment was purposeful: Spain doesn't want to have a conversation like this in the open, regardless if they're alone or not. His heart trembles a little bit at the darkness in Spain’s expression, and he finds himself nodding, filing into the house as Spain closes the balcony doors behind him. Spain wordlessly gestures for Romano to head into the study with a smile, making a detour to retrieve a wine bottle and a pair of glasses from the kitchen. 

Romano doesn’t even have to think when he walks down the hall towards the heart of the house, his mind occupied by the upcoming conversation he’s unprepared for -- once again coming to the realization that he knows this house better than his own. When he comes upon the door that leads to Spain's study, however, he hesitates. He was never allowed inside this room when he was smaller, the single instance he had being the day Spain told him he was being sent away. Romano remembers it like it was yesterday: so vivid he can almost smell the medicine that dressed Spain’s wounds and feel the texture of the bandages that Romano had wrapped around his chest. 

He has to shake off the disconcerting memory before he loses himself in it, and once he pulls himself together he pushes open the door to step inside.

The room is a cluttered mess, not unlike Romano's own room back at home. Spain’s always hated parting with things and he has the habit of bonding with objects, so the walls and shelves are littered with valuable historical items he’s never had the heart to get rid of that would make any museum weep with joy. Romano observes from a distance, coming to a stop in the middle of the room while watching his feet so he doesn’t fall victim to his clumsiness and end up tripping. In doing so, he catches sight of something that looks like the shape of old bloodstains in the carpet, set so deep that no amount of scrubbing could remove them.

He feels his stomach sour, another painful deluge of memories of his final day in this home sucking him down: Spain’s rasping while he spoke in a gentle voice no matter how much Romano screamed, Romano drowning in the smell of blood and disappointment as the family he had built up was being torn away from him once again.

Spain appears behind him before Romano is lost too deeply in his regrets of the past, tearing him from his thoughts as he shuts the door behind him with his foot. He chuckles at Romano’s lost expression when he finds him lingering at the center of the room. “You’re allowed to sit down, Roma,” he teases, lowering the tray with their wine glasses and bottle onto the small table resting between two chairs. “You’re not going to break anything -- I haven’t given you a broom.” 

Romano flushes hotly, taking an indignant seat in the chair closest to himself. “Shut up,” he snaps, rolling his eyes as Spain laughs again. Romano crosses his arms and watches as the Spaniard takes his own seat before uncorking the bottle and pouring two heavy helpings of red wine in each of the glasses. He takes the glass delicately from Spain’s hands when he holds it out towards him. “Grazie.”

“De nada.” A fond smile rises to Spain's lips. “Anything to make you more comfortable, Roma.”

The look that Spain is giving him is making his flushing cheeks deepen into a darker crimson, and Romano has to avert his eyes to the table as he hides his mouth behind the rim of his glass. He realizes with a sickening, guilty rush that he’s been so focused on his own worries that he hasn’t even bothered to ask how Spain has been doing all night. He swallows, and after a small sip of wine he clears his throat. “How… how are you feeling?”

Spain tilts his head to the side, almost appearing confused, but then his lips quirk up into a brilliant smile. “I’m doing very well, thank you for asking!”

Romano frowns. It's obvious he's lying: the purple crescent bruises blooming underneath his eyes is enough of a giveaway that Spain is far from alright, and that’s ignoring the rest of the wounds littering his body that show the state of his people. Romano looks down at the half-empty bottle of wine, frown turning into a scowl. “Don't lie to me,” he mutters. “No one in Europe is okay right now -- especially not you.”

Spain chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m not lying,” he says softly, and his tone causes Romano’s eyes to dart back up. His heart trembles when he finds Spain looking at him with a tender expression, green irises wholly honest. “I’m not thinking about the war or anything like that right now. I’m just… very happy you're here with me, Romano. I missed you.”

Fuck. Romano has trouble swallowing his wine when the affectionate words and Spain's expression leave his chest and head a fluttery, overwhelming rush, the cursed flush to his cheeks returning with a vengeance so quickly he almost feels a little dizzy. Spain seems amused at his wordlessness, lips turning up the longer Romano just stares at him. Finally, Romano forces himself to look at the floor as he holds his wine glass a little closer to himself. He doesn’t say anything, and Spain doesn’t mind his silence.

“What made you change your mind?” he asks, and Romano lifts his gaze up to give him a puzzled frown. Spain smiles patiently. “You haven't visited since before your unification -- why did you decide to come now?”

Romano has to stop himself from pointing out he hasn't been here since he was sent away -- once again, he feels the familiar and sickening prod of guilt in his gut. He hesitates for a long moment, swirling his glass of maroon liquid around as he fidgets anxiously. “I… I needed to talk to someone. I don’t have anyone else.” He doesn't meet Spain's gaze. “No one else would understand.”

“Not even your brother?”

The bitter laugh he releases is out of his control. “Especially not Veneziano. He dragged us into this war because he’s fucking obsessed with the Germans -- I’m not about to risk my neck by telling him I never wanted this in the first place.” He makes a face, lowering his voice even though he knows they’re alone. “I… know what Il Duce can do, and I know who and what he’s allied with. I don't have a death wish.”

Spain is quiet for a few seconds before he lets out a quiet breath. “And you came to discuss this with me… knowing the outcome of my civil war?” Romano’s heart stutters and he looks up to find Spain looking at him strangely, eyes glazed over with a frightening expression that reminds Romano of the way he was back then: with his armada and his conquistadors. Despite his expression, Spain’s tone remains neutral. “The things we are discussing could be very dangerous if either of our bosses heard about it.”

For a brief moment, Romano wonders if he's made a mistake in coming here -- that the influence Spain’s boss has over him will lead him down a long and painful road -- but then he looks at Spain's marred skin, his bandaged body. He frowns. “You wouldn't hurt me,” he says matter-of-factly. When Spain’s eyes widen in shock, sucking in a breath like the wind has been knocked from his chest, Romano feels his courage buckle. He has to look away as the flush returns to his cheeks. “At least… not intentionally.”

“T-That’s--” Spain has to cut himself off when he breaks into a coughing fit, needing to set down his wine glass so he doesn’t spill any of it. His voice is terribly strained when he pulls himself together long enough to speak. He starts by letting out a short and humorless laugh. “That's… a dangerous thought, Romano. We don't exactly have a choice who we hurt sometimes.”

Romano looks back up, raising his chin in challenge. “Am I wrong, though?”

Spain's expression is difficult to read, staring hard at Romano with his lips pulled into a tight line. He says nothing for a long moment, and then he looks away. “I already have hurt you, Roma,” he whispers. “In fact, I owe you an apology -- to both you and your brother.” Those green eyes flicker up momentarily, lips stretching in a faint smile. “About… my behavior during your Risorgimento.”

Stomach lurching in sudden anxiety, Romano hides it with a snort as he takes another sip of his wine. “Yes, you do. That eyebrow bastard recognized us before you did.” 

Spain winces. “Sí, he did.” He folds his hands in his lap as he dips his head down. “I… have no excuses, Romano. It was… exceptionally difficult for me to accept it when you two decided to unify and fight for your independence. I wasn’t ready to fight you -- hell, I don’t think I’d have ever been ready. Everything I had was slipping through my fingers, and losing you on top of everything else made it all so much harder to bear. ” He groans, dropping his head into his hands. “When Isa refused to recognize you, I let myself get carried away in my anger, and I followed her lead. I wasn’t thinking about your feelings at all. I just… I wanted everything to go back to the way it used to be.”

Romano frowns, discomfort churning in his gut. He sets his wine down as well. “Spain… that isn’t possible anymore.”

He’s startled when Spain barks out another bitter laugh, not lifting his head from hands. “Christ, Romano, you think I don’t know that?! I couldn’t do anything against you when I was sent out to deal with the Italian patriots. I saw you on the other side of the battlefield and I froze.” His fingers twist into his hair, shaking his head as he laughs humorlessly. “I, in my entire existence, have never fucking done that against anyone -- not once. Not against Ned, not against England -- not even against your grandfather. I saw the look on your face, and I….” he trails off with a heavy sigh, and then his voice grows very still and quiet. “I saw you didn’t need me anymore, and everything just… stopped. I just couldn’t do it anymore.”

Romano just stares at him with his fists clenched in his lap, tongue reduced to ash. He wants to be angry but he finds that familiar emotion lost in a sea of confusion and discomfort instead. He swallows thickly, trying to find his words, and before he realizes it he’s leaning back on his defensive stubbornness, bristling. “I’m not going to apologize for the Risorgimento,” he says flatly, hating how his voice cracks when he’s trying to sound cold.

“I would never ask you to,” Spain murmurs, barely above a breath. “You did what was best for your people, and you stood up against everything to lead them to a free, unified Italy.” He finally raises his head from his hands, a melancholy smile on his face. “I couldn’t be more proud of you, Romano.”

The praise would normally comfort him, make his heart swell with pride and lift his spirits. Right now, it just makes him more conflicted. “That’s just it, Spain -- I don’t know if it was the right thing to do,” he blurts, and Spain’s brow furrows. Romano looks down at his lap shamefully, trying to subdue the shaking in his hands. “I’ve never felt so fucking lost in my life. Everything I thought I knew about myself is unraveling, and I don’t even know if there’s anyone who can give me the answers I’m looking for.”

Spain gives him a slow nod. “It’s… not a topic that comes up very often in conversation,” he says hesitantly. He pauses for a moment, eyes darkening in thought, before he chuckles. “I mean… it’s not a particularly good idea to admit to people with the ability to conquer you that you’re having an identity crisis.”

“So you’ve never talked about this before with anyone?” Romano asks, hoping he doesn’t sound as disappointed as he feels. Spain shakes his head, reaching forward for his wine.

“Austria and I have discussed the complexities of our existence before,” he says. He tilts his head to the side, lips pursed. “I think France and I have talked about it once or twice too. A long time ago -- before either of us were empires and your grandfather was still around. I don’t really remember what we ended up coming up with for an answer, but I doubt it’ll help you with your troubles now. Things work a lot differently now than they did back then.” He looks up. “Is there something specific you wanted to know?”

Romano is quiet as he thinks, waiting for Spain to take another swallow of wine before he decides on his first question. “Do I make any decisions on my own? Or am I just being puppeteered by my people?”

Spain frowns. “Of course you have free-will, Romano. You decided to come here and see me, right? Do you think your people are the ones that decided that for you?”

“But I thought we’re subjected to the whims of our bosses,” Romano argues, and Spain hums.

“We… are compelled to do what our people want us to do. Usually, that just so happens to coincide with what the boss wants as well,” he explains. He focuses his gaze on Romano, giving him a stern expression. “However, just because we’re compelled to doesn’t mean we’re forced to. At the end of the day, we still have the ability to make our own decisions.”

Romano grimaces and drains the rest of his wine. He hasn’t even set his glass down before Spain leans forward to fill it again. “I don’t really feel like I have a choice with Il Duce,” he mutters, and Spain freezes in place. His fingers clench around the neck of the wine bottle where he’s lifted it from the tray, the haze of conflict returning to his green eyes as he stares at nothing for a moment, but then he makes an attempt to shake it away. He lowers his voice.

“Sometimes… they don’t give us one,” he breathes, his eyes still far away as he tilts the bottle to start pouring. He’s quiet for a long moment, lips twisting into a frown the longer he’s lost in his thoughts -- and Romano has to lurch forward to force the wine bottle back up before the glass starts overflowing. Spain blinks, eyes focusing as he looks down at his near mess. “Oh. Lo siento, Roma.”

Romano doesn’t pull away, gently taking the bottle away from him and setting it back down where it was before. Spain’s hands are shaking again, and it only makes the concern gripping Romano by the throat squeeze harder. “I’m going to ask you this again, bastard, and this time you aren’t going to fucking lie to me,” he growls, and he hates how Spain doesn’t react to his tone, staring at him blankly. “Are you okay, Spain?”

Something wild and panicked appears in Spain’s eyes and he opens his mouth to speak, then he snaps it shut as he averts his gaze. It’s a long time before he responds, a terribly fake and fragile smile rising to his face that Romano wants to slap off. “I’m okay, Romano,” he says weakly. “I promise.”

He finally snaps. “Stop fucking lying to me!” Romano shouts, throwing Spain’s hands away as he leaps to his feet. “I’m not stupid, Antonio -- I fucking know what’s going on here! I know what that bastard Caudillo is doing to you, and I know that my boss and my people fucking helped him do it! You should be furious with me! You should be yelling at me, screaming at me -- telling me to get out of your sight!” Spain does nothing, staring at him with wide eyes and Romano lets out a furious shout, whirling around to slam his fist into the back of the chair. “Why aren’t you fucking angry about this?!”

“You don’t think I’m angry?” Spain finally croaks out, his voice trembling -- and there’s the rage Romano was trying to draw out. He stands from his chair slowly, expression dark as he gestures to himself with shaking hands. “You don’t think I feel the suffering of every Spaniard that’s been culled in the name of protecting the Nationalists?” He leans forward, gripping Romano’s shoulders painfully, but his anger quickly melts into desperation. “I’m not like you, Romano -- I don’t have the strength to disagree!”

Romano blinks, his anger faltering. “What does that mean?” he asks, and his heart clenches when Spain lets out a sigh that sounds more like a sob, leaning forward to drop his face into Romano’s shoulder.

“Do you want to know what I think we are?” he asks quietly, clutching onto Romano’s jacket like a lifeline, and Romano gives him a slow and careful nod. “We aren’t a tool for our governments to use for order. While we are deeply connected to the places we call home, we aren’t just pieces of land meant to be conquered.” He pulls one hand away from Romano’s shoulder and presses it gently against Romano’s chest over his heart -- and Romano’s breath hitches, turning into a statue beneath him. Spain doesn’t say whether he notices the reaction or not, continuing with a soft tone. “We are beings that represent a people, a culture, but we’re more than that. We hold the spirit of those people within us. Their hopes, their determination.” He releases a breathless laugh. “We are at our most powerful when their spirits are strong, Romano. Do you remember how you felt during your Risorgimento? ”

He does -- Romano had never felt so powerful in his entire life.

“The will of the people is what guides our feelings, and that’s why our strength comes from them,” Spain whispers. His hand drops from Romano’s chest, stance going slack and leaning hard into Romano’s frame as he shudders in grief. “With each passing day, Caudillo rounds up more Spaniards that he deems unfit for his regime and puts them to death -- and I’m stuck here, wasting away and trying to hold myself together because I feel all of it. I've never felt so powerless, my brain feels like it's splitting apart all the time, and I’m… I’m so tired, Romano.”

Romano is unable to move. The anger he felt toward Spain’s perceived indifference has evaporated, leaving behind all the guilt and self-loathing in his chest he was trying to hide. His heart aches terribly at how weak and small Spain feels leaning into him, and his throat tightens when he feels the tears Spain’s struggling to hold back fall onto his shoulders. He raises his arms to wrap around the Spaniard tightly, weaving his fingers through Spain’s dark curls to cradle his head closer as he soothes him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“I don’t blame you, Roma,” Spain says weakly against his collarbone -- and God dammit, Romano is supposed to be the one comforting him right now.

“Shut up, idiota,” Romano retorts. “I carry blame for this. That’s just a fact.”

“But--”

“No,” Romano interrupts. He holds Spain more tightly, and he’s satisfied when Spain doesn’t fight him, staying limp. “Whether I like it or not, I am directly responsible for Italia’s actions. No matter how much I fucking hate him, my boss is still tied to me.”

“Your people,” Spain counters, “were on both sides of my civil war, Romano.” His voice grows quiet. “The ones fighting against the Nationalists… they had something they’d say to one another: 'Oggi in Spagna, domani in Italia'.”

Today in Spain, tomorrow in Italy. Romano clenches his jaw, the words striking him in the heart in a swell of… something dangerous. His mind has been stuck on a particular statement Spain had made earlier: I’m not like you -- I don’t have the strength to disagree. It clashes with the Italian slogan in his brain, but the noise brings Romano a moment of cold, bitter clarity.

He’s unhappy because his people are unhappy. It’s not just the Southerners he feels either -- Romano can feel the dissonance in the entirety of their peninsula, even in his brother’s territories. It’s more faint, a dull ache rather than the sharp pain he normally feels, but it’s still there. They’re scared and tired and angry just like he is -- and even though they’re generations apart, Romano has been in this situation with his people before. It’s the one thing he’s been doing his entire life, the one thing he’s always been able to manage when things around him were falling apart: focus all his attention on his people. Make them feel safe again. Rebuild what’s been lost.

His voice is strangely still when he speaks next, nerves absent from his tone. “You told me that we are compelled to follow the desires of our people, right?” Spain gives him a small nod against his shoulder, and Romano breathes in deeply. “Do you think our people always have their best interests at heart?”

Spain stills for a moment, deep in thought. Finally, he murmurs, “I think that it's our purpose to decide that for them.”

Romano nods, and his resolve is set. He knows what he needs to do now. “Okay. I understand.”

Spain stiffens in his hold, noticing the finality in his tone, and then he pulls away to look at Romano in the face, alarm bright in his green eyes. “Romano,” he begins quietly, fingers clenching around his upper arms. “What are you planning on doing?”

Romano holds his gaze without flinching. “If you know what’s best for you, then you won’t ask me that.” That earlier panicked expression reappears on Spain’s face, but Romano cuts him off before he can protest. “There’s nothing you can say that’ll stop me, Spain. If I don’t fight for my people, then no one will. I’ve been doing it my whole life.” He scowls. “If I have to drag Veneziano with me, kicking and screaming, I’ll do it. I’m not going to let him destroy himself like this.”

Spain doesn’t look satisfied with the answer, about to complain anyway, but then he squeezes his eyes shut in sign of reluctant acceptance. He cups Romano’s face, leaning in to leave a kiss to the crown of his head before he presses their foreheads together. He breathes out a long and shaky sigh.

“Promise me you’ll come home, Lovino,” he whispers, and hearing his name coming from Spain’s mouth in such a way makes Romano feel like he’s been struck by lightning. His already racing heart picks up the pace when he feels Spain trail his thumb across his cheekbone. “Promise me, por favor. Don’t disappear.”

“I should be telling you that, idiota,” Romano retorts, reaching up to take Spain by the wrists to remove his hands from his face. Spain doesn't let him, stubbornly holding him more tightly as he pulls away to look at him, and Romano hesitates. Spain is watching him closely, expression pleading as his hands tremble against his skin -- and Romano feels his resolve falter.

For just a moment, being held here by the object of his affections, Romano wonders if it’d be worth it if he gave into his feelings and just confessed everything to Spain right now. How easy it would be to lean forward and kiss him until his lips were numb, press him into the chair while trailing kisses down his chin and over his Adam’s apple while Romano reached down to undo his belt --

Romano forcibly cuts his thoughts short, sucking in an involuntary breath despite himself. No, he cannot do that -- is he fucking insane? Spain’s brow furrows in confusion at his outburst, green eyes bright with worry, and Romano burns hot with embarrassment when he realizes there’s no way he can explain himself. He shakes his head to dismiss him, raising his hands up to place around the other nation’s in order to give them a small squeeze.

Easy, Vargas. You’ve been holding onto these feelings for decades; what’s the harm of a few more?

He raises his honey-hazel gaze back up to meet Spain’s green, giving a small nod. “ I promise, Antonio. I’ll come back when this is all over.”

Spain looks at him for a long moment before he sighs in exhaustion, leaning forward to press his cheek to Romano’s temple as he places his hand over Romano’s heart again. “Dios esté contigo cuando vayas,” he murmurs, an echo of what Romano would tell him centuries ago when he’d leave for his months-long trips to the New World. They strike a place in Romano’s heart that’s already raw with grief and regret -- he’s suddenly reminded of the blood stains on the carpet. He isn’t left with a moment of reflection before Spain’s shoulders grow stiff, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “Just… stay with me tonight, Lovino. Please. Let me pretend everything is alright for one more night.”

Romano nods. As if he could say no to that.