Mio Sole. Chapter 2. Spamano

Rating: T+ again…I think…

Summary: ok so Spain takes Romano home and he falls asleep and Spain kinda reflect on their relationship and Romano + Veneziano….and stuff. (Read it ppl that'll have all the info you need to know XD lol.)



"O Romano, mi amor, you looks so cute," Spain said brushing Romano's hair out from his face as he slept on the bed. Spain had carried the crying man to his room and tucked him into his crimson and gold sheets. After considerable weeping Romano finally fell asleep.

Spain bent down and smelled the strong scent of Romano's hair. He was using a new shampoo, his hair smelled of tangerines instead of mangos as it had before. Spain had smelled Romano's hair enough times to notice the small difference. It took all his strength not to jump onto the bed next to Romano and smell the deep incense of his hair all night, to not brush his lips against Romano's skin. Spain knew if he began kissing any part of Romano's body, he wouldn't be able to stop until he had covered every inch, no, centimeter, of his lean body.

Instead, Spain sat at the side of the bed in a chair he pulled from the desk in the corner. He gently touched his fingertips to Romano's as he slept.

"No! non andare. Lo non voglio essere solo! Veneziano!*" Romano muttered in his sleep clutching at the pillow and shaking.

"Romano. Romano. Mi amor. You needn't be so strong. If you just tell Veneziano what you feel, then…," Spain whispered in Romano's ear in an attempt to raid into his subconscious.

Spain stayed with Romano until he ceased shaking and returned to a serene sleep. Spain left the bedroom and entered the kitchen. Romano had painted it a bright green. Was it just coincidence that the green was the same color as Spain's eyes? Spain often asked that same question to himself whenever he entered the kitchen, but no matter what words he chose he couldn't acquire the adequate words to ask Romano without revealing his true thoughts.

He grabbed a tomato and began eating it like an apple over the sink. The bright yellow seeds, that were meant to carry on the next generations, plopped into the sink with every bite. They slowly worked themselves down the drain. Spain often liked to dream that those seeds would somehow work themselves into a river and manage to grow somewhere.

Spain always liked to dream, even if his fantasies were highly unlikely.

His suit was beginning to strangle him, and make his warm beyond what he could stand. So he entered the room where Romano slept and carefully pulled some clothes from the drawers. In the dark he couldn't even tell where his hands were in the pitch darkness. He carefully slipped from the room and into the adjoining bathroom.

When he flicked on the light he noticed that the shirt he had picked up was a pastel pink and the pants a deep yellow-olive. These were Romano's usual attire. He had been in the wrong drawer. Spain was about to go return the clothes when the thought came to him.

These were Romano's clothes.

Spain took the clothes in hand and took a long smell from them. The color smelled like Romano's cologne, and the rest like the detergent he often used. Spain hugged the shirt tight as he sat on the toilet-lid. He wanted to take in every ounce of cotton softness. The seamless look of every stitch. Even the gentle shimmer from all the faux-marble buttons. Spain knew these components would be harder to detect if the wriggling man were inside them. Yet, Spain still wished Romano was filling his arms.

"Something's been plaguing Romano recently," Spain thought cautiously, "I wonder if it's Veneziano. No, I know its Veneziano. Romano hasn't seen his own brother in years. I don't think he's seen, or even talked to him for that matter, since Austria took him away."

Spain removed himself from his suit and walked around in his boxers. Romano wasn't going to wake up soon so he walked into the bedroom and carefully felt his way around the dark room. After returning the clothes and attaining his own comfortable tank-top and shorts he brushed his fingers past Romano's forehead and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek.

"Mi Amor," he purred nearly silently, "I want you to be happy."

Once in his usual array of white tank-top and khaki pants, he made himself comfortable on the large green-striped couch. He surveyed the bookshelf from the couch, but found it full of gardening-tip books, and mafia-dramas. The usual.

However, a single white binder popped out to Spain's eye.  He removed himself from the couch and wandered over to the shelf. There was no title on the crease. Spain removed the book and on the first page there was a picture of three people. A rather large man, an orange haired toddler and a brighter-orange haired baby. With a shock Spain identified these as Rome, Italy and his own little Romano. Images of Romano looking into this book with his usual thin smile flooded Spain's mind.

These were Romano's most precious memories.

Spain placed the book back without turning into any more precious memories. Instead, he strode over to the phone and lifted the receiver. He paused a moment before the cluster of numbers returned to him and he hurriedly punched them in.

Seven rings then the other line clicked.

"Hello?" the voice sounded.

"Hello, Veneziano. This is Spain. Listen, can we talk?"





Translation:

*No, don't go. I don't want to be alone! Veneziano!