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These days are trapped at sunset. The colors bleed over his land, shadowing hills and dyeing everything around them. On days when he hasn’t gone out to the battlefields, he stares out the small window of his new home and watches red and gold mingle. It brings to mind the great artists of the past—Velasquez, especially, who was so proud to be his that he’d gone back through his paintings and marked them with blood red as proof.
Because it’s always sunset, he never feels fully awake nor fully asleep. Deep aches permeate through his body, and every so often there’s a sharp stab of new pain or the taste of iron on his tongue. Before, when he’d felt like this, there’d been someone to blame. (But really, he’s never felt precisely like this before.)
There are guards posted outside his door, because they don’t like it when he visits the battlefields or the blown-out buildings. Rarely, his new would-be boss comes to visit. He speaks often of crowns and glory, but Spain doesn’t have the energy to tell him how those days really were.
Today, the guards knock on the door and address him roughly—“España,” they say, “Italia has come to see you.”
Spain smiles at them, tells them he’ll be down in a moment. Mention of Italy will always bring to mind Romano first, even though he hasn’t seen his former territory in many long years. When he’d gone to Sardinia to recognize the Italian state, it was Veneziano who’d greeted him. Veneziano, who’d told him all about Cavour and Garibaldi. Veneziano, who had never blamed Spain for keeping Italy separated and dependent for so long.
When Spain had asked after Romano, Veneziano had gone awkward and talked too loudly and too fast. Spain knew he was being distracted, but he went along in any case. Soon after, he’d gotten up to leave. But as he passed through the entry hall, he’d seen a flash of a red shirt and a dark head of hair. He’d called out Romano’s name, but the other nation had not returned to see him.
Now, Spain straightens his shirt has best he can and combs back his curls with the fingers of one hand. Veneziano doesn’t visit often, but he does come regularly. He often smells of grease and coal, the remnants of days spent in his new factories. Spain is never sorry to see him.
It takes him longer than it should to find two matching shoes, to wash his face and rub the crust of sleep from his eyes. He is struck, suddenly, by the memory of his old, grand house in Madrid. It had been so empty, in recent years, but his nostalgia always called to mind a house full of people—Netherlands sulking in the corner, Belgium laughing and twirling in her skirts, and Romano distancing himself until Spain picked him up by the waist and carried him into the crowd even while he screeched his protests.
Romano had always been a child, when he lived in Spain’s house. But that made sense, didn’t it? Spain himself was still a teenager when he’d married Austria, and had aged in spurts and stalled plateaus thereafter. But Romano, who was always dependent, had never even approached adulthood while under Spain’s roof.
The last time he’d seen Romano—really seen him, as more than a flash of revolutionary color—had been the day the elder Italy had left to live in Naples again. He’d looked perhaps sixteen, still rounded in his cheeks and clumsy in his movements. When Spain had hugged him to say goodbye, he’d felt soft and small in his arms. Of course, that hadn’t lasted—Romano had pushed him away, red with anger, and muttered, “Get off, bastard, it’s not like we’re never gonna see each other again.”
But they hadn’t, had they? Romano never visited Spain, even when he’d go down to the docks to greet every Italian merchant ship. And Spain had gone to Sardinia to see the new Italian state, and Romano hadn’t wanted to see him then, either, or any other time he’d been to Italy.
He sighs away the memory has he descends his thin staircase, hooking his thumbs into his pockets. This isn’t a very grand house, and the lighting is out of date. There’s no one sitting in the entry or the small living room, so Spain makes his way to the kitchen, brown furrowed. “Veneziano…?”
“Shit,” a voice replies, sharp. “If I had a lira for every time I heard that, I wouldn’t be so fucking poor.”
And Spain can’t help but gasp, and his eyes go wide, because standing in his kitchen is Romano. At least, he thinks it must be Romano. But this person before him—half-shadowed by the setting sun—is not the round-faced adolescent he’d last seen. No, this… this man stands half-slouched against the wall, but that doesn’t hide the fact that he’s grown. His frame lithe, his limbs long. One hand is clenched at his side, the other tucked into his pocket. His dark hair falls forward over his eyes, and his lips are pursed into a frown. His chin is sharp and angled, his face thin. When he lifts his head to glare at Spain, he looks entirely unfamiliar.
“Romano?” He shakes his head, trying to reconcile this young man with the image of his childish territory. “But they said… Italia…”
Something like fury sparks in Romano’s eyes as he pushes off from the wall and throws both of his hands in the air. “Yeah, they said Italia. Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”
And that’s good enough for Spain. A smile blooms on his face, more genuine that it’s been in many long years. He’s still taller than Romano, but it’s a negligible difference now. He steps forward, arms open. “You’re here!”
Romano gives him a crooked look. “Obviously. Wait, what are you—no!”
But Spain pays him no mind as he grabs Romano around the shoulders and pulls him close, chin on top of Romano’s head as he hugs him as tightly as he’s wanted to for so long. He feels Romano reciprocate for just a moment—long fingers dig into the thin material of his shirt and he feels Romano sigh against him—but then it’s over, and the other nation is shoving him away with force.
“Christ, stop it. Get off me.” There’s heat in Romano’s voice—and his voice, his voice has changed so much, it’s deeper and there’s an edge to it—but he keeps his volume low. “I didn’t come here for that!”
Spain steps back, tries to adopt something of a serious expression. “Then what did you come here for?”
The light catches Romano’s amber eyes as he squints, turning his head away for a moment. He pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters under his breath, and Spain can almost imagine him trying to convince himself of something.
Finally: “My boss says I’m not very good at making diplomatic connections.”
It’s probably the wrong thing to do, but Spain laughs. He sees vivid red blooming across Romano’s face, even though he’s tanner than he used to be, and that just makes Spain smile even more.
“No one’s exactly courting my relations these days, Romano.” Of course, Mexico and Russia had been on one side, and Germany and Portgual and Veneziano on the other. But now that the war is rolling towards a conclusion, Spain can’t imagine that he’ll be particularly popular. And in any case, he never knew what Romano thought of the war at all.
“No, I’m not here because that asshole told me to be!” Romano’s face contorts with fury and disgust, and flicks one of his hands through the air in a thoroughly dismissive gesture. “I just—Veneziano’s so fucking good at making ‘friends.’ He’s in Germany half the time, or bringing that bastard back to my city, and I just—I can’t stand it anymore!”
Prussia has shadows in his eyes, when he visits these days on his brother’s new boss’s behalf. He brings beer with him, and he and Spain toss politics aside and get drunk side by side instead. Germany himself is polite and formal, maybe caught between sympathy for Spain’s situation and derision that a once-great empire could come to this. Spain tries not to take this too personally.
“So,” he says to Romano, trying to understand, “you came here because of Germany?”
“No!” Romano groans, throws his hands upwards. “God—are you even listening to me?”
Spain smiles softly. “I’m trying to.”
Romano covers his mouth with one hand, his now-prominent cheekbones approaching a truly astounding shade of crimson. “Like I’d ever do anything for that bastard’s benefit. I’m here to see you. Because I want to, not for anything else.”
The words warm him up from the inside, more than he’d expected. These days, he’s ignored or pulled in too many directions at once, and never with a thought to what that’s doing to him. But Romano, for all his bluster and anger and insecurity, is always honest. At least, as far as Spain’s concerned.
“Thank you.” He steps forward again, takes both of Romano’s hands in his and holds on tight. Romano’s fingers are long, his palms calloused. It takes Spain a moment to realize that these hands have worked, and worked hard. Spain furrows his brow, cocks his head to one side. “But… why now?”
Romano pulls his hands away and turns his head away, his expression obscured by shadows. For a moment, Spain can see an echo of Rome in Romano’s face, more prominently than ever before. He takes a step back before he registers the movement.
“I didn’t mean—well, I have tried to see you, before!” Spain tries to explain. “I went to your house, so many times!”
“Did you,” Romano says, voice flat. “Not like I would’ve known about that.”
“Why not?”
He huffs, flicking his hair away from his face. “I wasn’t exactly hanging out with the king for the past few decades, idiot. Some of us never got fancy new factories and a shitload of trade.”
Spain imagines Veneziano, smiling and proud of his new achievements. Spain’s people have never really latched onto the idea of industrialization, and therefore Spain finds the idea of it a little beyond him. He wonders, vaguely, if it’s his fault Romano ended up in a similar situation.
“Where did you go?” he asks softly.
Romano turns to look out the window, arms crossed over his chest. “Where does anyone go, when they’re shit poor? I caught a boat to fucking America. But even there, there’s a German around every stupid corner and the only jobs are terrible…”
He trails off, and Spain can’t see his face to read his expression. But from the way his voice dissolves into mumbles, Romano must be embarrassed. Spain doesn’t know what he should be ashamed of.
“Ugh, just forget it. I didn’t come here to talk about this, either.”
Spain steps up beside him, so that they’re both staring out the window—sunset, still. “You weren’t always in America, though. What about that first time, in Sardinia? I saw you.”
Sharp white teeth dig into Romano’s lower lip, biting down hard enough to make Spain wince in sympathy. Romano’s silent for a moment, hands clenching at his elbows. He looks—not just older, but old. There are shadows in his eyes, just like there are in Prussia’s. And Spain has shadows, too, when he bothers to look at himself in the mirror.
“The whole thing was—fucking confusing, alright? Rome was still something else, and so was Venice, and I didn’t know…”
Spain feels like he understands, somehow. He reaches out for Romano’s hand, again, and holds on tightly. “It’s alright, you know. You don’t owe me anything, I know that now. It’s just, I was a little lonely. You grew up so much, and I didn’t get to be a part of it.”
He doesn’t pull his hand away. “You didn’t miss much.”
Spain hums in response, content for a moment to hold Romano’s hand in his. If he concentrates inward, he’ll be able to feel the latest wounds in his land. He ignores them on purpose, trying to stay in this moment for as long as he can.
“Why now?”
He doesn’t realize he’s asked the question again until Romano turns and scoffs at him, pushing at his shoulder half-heartedly.
“God, why’re you always like this? Repeating yourself.” He tuts, gesturing again with one hand.
Spain smiles wanly. “I ask too many questions,” he considers. “And you aren’t asking any. Not the ones everyone else does, at least.”
“Oh, yeah? And what’re those?”
He shrugs. “How’d I let this happen, wasn’t I supposed to be strong? I’ve heard them a lot, the last few years.”
Prussia asks them often, even though there’s always naked concern in his eyes. France sneaks across the Pyrenees occasionally and draws his fingers over Spain’s skin, feeling new scars and frowning in sympathy. Mexico puts her hands on her hips and bites her lower lip, looking at him with that mix of anger and pity, never letting him see the scars he knows she now has.
But Romano, Romano doesn’t comment. His eyes are the same amber color as the sun at this time, or maybe the lighting only makes them seem that way.
“It’s not so easy, is it, Boss?” His voice is low and soft, the timbre changed but the inflections precisely as they’ve always been. “Taking care of a whole country. Fuck, I can’t even manage half.”
Spain has always admired Romano’s people, for all the ways that they remind him of his own and all the ways that they don’t. He wonders, sometimes, whether he did them any favors. If he hadn’t controlled Italy, someone else would have. At least, that’s what he told himself, what he and Austria had always said. He bows his head, thinking of everything he’s tried to control for so long, and suddenly feeling very, very tired.
Romano slips an arm around his waist, holding him steady. “Don’t you dare faint on me!” he shrieks, and for a moment his voice pitches so high that Spain can imagine a time, four hundred years ago, when he’d come home bruised and bloody and Romano had fretted over him, thinking he was unconscious. “Just—just sit down, bastard!”
The kitchen chairs are plain and straight-backed, but Spain sits down anyway when Romano pulls one out for him. He’s used to the dizzy spells, though they’ve been growing less frequent. The splitting headaches are gradually fading out, too, and so he thinks the war will soon be over. Is that a good thing, though?
“You’re still hopeless.” Romano’s brushing the hair back from Spain’s face, touch surprisingly gentle. “Shit, I had this all planned out. Exactly what it’d be like, when I saw you again.”
Spain reaches up, grips Romano’s wrist and rubs his thumb along the soft skin there. “Tell me about it?”
“You were supposed to be impressed,” he says, after a long moment’s pause. “Italia was supposed to be great—so great. And I wouldn’t need you anymore, and I wouldn’t even want to see you, but you’d know that I was—something, at least. And not just because of Veneziano. I couldn’t see you, not until I’d managed that much at least—not until I was something.”
Romano’s fingers are still trailing through his hair. It feels good, and he sighs into the sensation, eyes half-closed. “Mm.” He’s not sure what he’s trying to say.
“Stupid, huh. It never fucking works out like that. Not with anyone.”
Spain tightens his grip on Romano’s wrist, suddenly enough to make the other man gasp.
“You’ve always been something,” Spain says softly. “Romano… you’ve always been everything.”
Romano doesn’t respond for a long, still moment. Then, Spain feels moisture fall against his forehead, and knows with certainty that Romano is crying.
“I had to come back,” Romano says, gulping noisily. “To make sure my idiot brother doesn’t get himself killed, and half my country with him. And then you were—you were almost—”
“It was very bad,” Spain murmurs. In another life, he would’ve hidden the extent of things from Romano, but now that no longer seems to be the right course of action. “It was bad, and I don’t think it’s over. But I’m still here, and I’m so, so happy to see you.”
Romano sniffs, pulls his hand away from Spain’s to wipe at his tears. “Stupid bastard. You’ve gotta take care of yourself. My whole fucking life, you’ve been trying to look out for me. All that goddamn money you spent… just, forget about me for a while, alright? That’s what I came to tell you. No matter what you hear. Got it?”
The last thing he wants from Romano now is distance. He feels like he barely knows this man, but he wants to. There are so many things he wants to ask him, to show him, to know about him. Spain licks at his dry lips and sighs.
“You think there will be a war,” he says.
“It’s already started,” Romano returns. “And they’ll try and drag you into it, but you’re not gonna survive if they do. So keep your head down.”
When Spain doesn’t immediately respond, Romano pitches his voice low and says something Spain’s never heard from him before.
“Please.”
The room darkens as the sun finally descends below the horizon. “I will,” Spain says. “As long as you promise to come back.” He has to survive himself in order to keep that promise, after all.
Romano sucks in his breath, and Spain can almost feel the beat of his heart in the stillness of the room.
“I’ll do my best.”
He doesn’t say that his best is never good enough. Spain grabs his hand and holds on, trying to convey that it always has been, and always will be.