Chapter Text
March, 1937
Romano was tired. And hungry. And not a little bit scared, though none of these things were particularly unexpected of a normally lazy and indulgent man who finds himself smack in the middle of some godforsaken field outside of Madrid on the verge of spring with a bunch of frightening men and their even more frightening guns. He tried to keep warm by comforting himself with thinking up creative ways of cursing that asshole Mussolini and this joke of a “Corps of Volunteer Troops,” while also trying to maintain a careful distance from the rest of members of the expeditionary force that Il Duce had sent into Spain to aid Franco’s Nationalists in their godforsaken Civil War.
On any other day, Romano would have been inclined to tell Italy’s dear leader to go fuck himself, but when he saw this opportunity to actually get into Spain, he swallowed down every last bit of pride he had (quite a lot) and forced its replacement with what courage he possessed (a far lesser amount). This was important. There were things that had to be said, had to be done, before the whole world went to complete shit as Romano feared it would.
And so Romano was grudgingly tolerating sitting on the ground, wearing a dirty uniform like some kind of commoner, desperately trying to summon the will he possessed to take the next step: temporary desertion. In order to get where he wanted to be, Romano knew that he would have to escape unnoticed from camp, make his way through a beleaguered Madrid…and then the hardest task of all, getting Spain to answer to the door when he came knocking.
“Screw that!” Romano scolded himself, figuring false bravado was better than none at all, “I didn’t put up with this army bullshit to quit here.”
Fortunately for Romano, while he may not have been skilled in other military arts, he was quite adept at sneaking around and running away. Crossing himself for safety and luck, he made his way towards the latrines, as nonchalantly as possible, before ducking the only mildly attentive gaze of the guard and beginning his slow, methodical trek towards Madrid in the darkness. To keep from panicking over legitimate fears of being shot either as a deserter by his own people or as an enemy by Spain’s Republican forces, Romano forced his mind to recall the events of the last time he came to Spain like this, unexpected in the night.
He struggled to recall how many decades it had been as he crouched low to avoid the sweeping search lights, at least 60 years, maybe 70. It happened in the heady, chaotic days following the aftermath of the unification of Italy, when the fighting had finally finished, and Romano had been intoxicated with power and the grand feeling of finally, finally, being a nation unoccupied by another. He’d believed himself to be untouchable, ready to prove his prowess to anyone, and by anyone, his intentions ran solely to Spain. Romano went charging unannounced into Spain, high on his own sense of self-importance, storming into the house he had once pretended to clean as if he owned it. He found Spain in the wine cellar, took great pleasure in the way Spain’s green eyes went impossibly wide in shock and the true happy smile that spread across his face.
He remembered that he’d arrogantly demanded some of Spain’s best wine to celebrate, boasting, “Because I’m my own goddamned man now!”
Spain, of course, obliged him as he always did, prattling on about how happy he was for Romano and Veneziano, and how glad he was that Romano had come all this way to share the news with him.
“That’s not what I came here for,” Romano had interrupted before sauntering across the room and peering up into Spain’s eyes, which were narrowing in understanding far more quickly than they usually did when Romano threw a curve ball at him. “It figures that Spain would only use his brain cells in matters like these”, Romano inwardly taunted the man he was now pressing himself against.
“What did you here for then?” Spain murmured.
“Fuck the verbal foreplay,” Romano spat in return before climbing Spain like a tree, kissing him wildly, with all the fervor of a deeply insecure man facing an unrequited love that he couldn’t even bring himself to admit to in the first place.
At first Spain responded with a passion to match Romano’s, moaning and whispering nonsense like “so long, so long,” and “yes, finally,” which served to both confuse and further arouse Romano. But after several minutes of this heated encounter up against the wall, much to Romano’s dismay, Spain started to slow down, to be more gentle, his hands making long, caressing strokes down Romano’s back and thighs, kisses that lingered, like a lover’s might.
This was not what Romano wanted. That night, he wanted to prove to Spain that he was strong, to be taken seriously, no longer the brat in the girl’s clothes pushing a mop. He was Italy, now.
He bit down on Spain’s lip making him gasp, forcing his attention.
While he may not have been able to remember the year, or the wine they drank, or what he was wearing, Romano remembered the next part with perfect clarity. As he stood outside of the building where Spain was being kept, pausing to catch his breath and slow his heartbeat, he played back the painful memory.
He’d looked Spain directly in the eyes, one hand pulling roughly at his hair, ordering him, “Call me Italia.”
Spain had smiled softly, fondly, stroking his fingers down Romano’s face, choosing what Romano believed at the time to be the worst possible answer, “Ah, but to me you will always be my cute little Romano!”
Humiliated and enraged by what Romano believed to be a total lack of respect for his nation, his masculinity, Romano promptly shoved Spain away, head-butting him violently. He turned and fled up the stairs, ashamed and still half-hard, cursing, “Fuck you, you arrogant bastard! I’m not your goddamned anything anymore!”
Spain had tried to chase after him, shouting apologies and pleading with him to come back, but Romano always was good at running away.
He’d let his hurt feelings stew for years and years, tossing any letter from Spain unopened into a box in his closet, convinced that the asshole clearly would never see him as anything other than a weak subordinate to be coddled. It was only when, decades later, Veneziano having decided to either snoop or spring clean, discovered the letters and being a disrespectful little shit with no sense of privacy, read them all. Veneziano immediately went crying to Romano, pleading Spain’s case, explaining what had happened, how Big Brother had so clearly misunderstood what Spain was trying to say. That Spain missed him. Cared for him. Maybe even loved him.
It took several more years for this argument to start to seep through the cracks in the walls around Romano’s heart. Unfortunately, as is frequently the way of the world, by the time Romano felt brave enough to try again, to go and be as contrite as he was capable of being, to explain himself to Spain, Europe had fallen into chaos and Spain was being torn apart by a bloody Civil War.