Chapter Text
In those spare moments when the entire house goes still, Romano thinks about other boys. Not like that! He thinks about how other boys must grow up in their houses of stone, and wood, and… and not like that! Romano doesn’t think about things like that, because Romano is a good boy, and his thoughts are as pure as a snowy field. And, much as he feels towards snowy fields, he hates his thoughts. Snowy fields are stupid, and cold, and they make your lower half wet all over when you have to run through them, and Romano hates it, although his thoughts aren’t like that at all, not one bit. No, Romano’s thoughts aren’t cold or wet, and they certainly aren’t stupid, but they are still frozen, frigid February snow in the mountain passes, slipping down into his boots and he hates them all the same.
Except Romano’s a man now, not a boy. Boys are beneath him. Yeah, right benea— not like that!
Dammit. Dammit, Romano is a young man, and his cuffs and boots are fashionable, and when he thinks about other boys in the quiet of the night, he thinks about what it would have been like to grow up as one of them. To have been treated like an heir, not a maid. To have a mother and a father, not a Boss.
Not a Spain.
Romano devotes hours and hours of his time to thinking about what it would have been like not to have had a Spain. That life would have been a lot less frightening, for sure, Romano thinks as the wind scrapes through the trees outside his window. There would have been no threat of a cheek-pinching at any moment. There still is that threat, even now, even though Romano has grown up into a fully-fledged man, well, young man, with a fancy cape to rest around his shoulders and his own sword. These days Spain still wanders by the gardens while Romano delegates the cleaning to the human maids, lazing his way through the summer sunshine. And right when Romano is especially busy giving orders, Spain dares to grab him by the shoulders and whip his body around for a reminder of the horrors of the fifteen hundreds, and Romano’s cheeks stay red for days.
Days!
His fucking face is ruined for days, all because Spain is an idiot with no self-restraint, and as soon as he is able to Romano is going to get the hell out of Spain’s house, and that will show him. And when Romano is back home, back with his people, he will make speeches about how he finds mothers and fathers so much better than Spains, and everyone will listen to him and they’ll all agree. Just one look at Spain would make them agree, Romano knows, and he thinks about that every night.
Spain’s eyes aren’t trustworthy, for one, they’re the eyes of someone who will cheat you and steal you from your house, and they make your head hurt when you look at them for too long. They’re the eyes of a monster who goes away for too long, and eats Romano’s portion of the dessert even when Romano makes the cook promise that the whole cake belongs to Sicily, and he doesn’t even say he’s sorry when he’s done licking the cream from the corner of his mouth.
His fucking mouth.
Romano hates Spain’s mouth too.
His fucking mouth gives orders, dumb ones like, “Don’t go in that room, I don’t want the things in there to break,” or, “Don’t lie,” or the absolute worst: “Keep yourself pure.”
Pure?
Pure?!
Who the fuck is Spain to say something like that to Romano! Romano is a fucking saint, he’s twice a saint, he’s the whole goddamned angelic choir, and he’s a good boy. Man. Young man. Romano is a good young protectorate, and he’ll be an even better young nation soon, he can feel it in his limbs, and he doesn’t need somebody like Spain telling him to be pure. Romano goes to twice as many masses as Spain does, since Spain is only ever home for one or two of them anyway, and vespers too, and even the early ones sometimes, since all the bishops say nice things to him and the vicars give him sweets. Not that Romano can still be bought with sweets, that’s the mark of a child, a boy, but he appreciates their obvious deference to the proper order of things. They coddle Romano much more than they try and kiss Spain’s ass, not that Romano ever thinks anything about Spain’s ass ever even in metaphor it’s not like that, which means they know who’s more important to God in the long run. Although they kiss up to the Papal States most of all, and Romano thinks the Papal States is a dirty old perverted bastard.
But at least the priests and the monks get the important part right, and that’s the part where Romano has more purity in his little finger than Spain has in all of his lands. If anyone should be lecturing on keeping pure, it’s Romano to Spain, because Spain’s entire body is a sin.
Lands.
Spain’s entire land is a realm of sin, except for the part where Romano lives, and for the part with the maids who are pretty and nice to him; except for those parts, Spain’s land is made entirely of vice and sin, and not even something like Romano’s pardon could save him.
“Save me?” Spain says, always, when he catches Romano muttering to himself. Sweeping. When he catches Romano sweeping like the brave and fucking heroic young protectorate Romano is. “First I should save the floors from you.”
And then Romano headbutts him. Always.
But.
When Romano reflects on other boys at night, when his thoughts invariably shift to Spain, he thinks about why Spain would say something like that. Is it… a compliment? Does Spain think Romano’s managed to get himself a lover—
That is to say!
Th-that Romano’s finally chosen a lover from the many women who throw themselves at his feet?! That Romano’s spent all night inside a woman’s chamber, o-or, or kissed her underneath the trees outside Spain’s study window, where all the knights used to take their lady loves back when Romano hadn’t been tall enough for boots or cuffs?
Romano feels a rush of pride at that thought, against himself. He swells with it, and it makes his face hot and red, just like when Spain touches his cheeks and grabs them and rubs them back and forth until Romano can’t stand it anymore. And, instead of making him angry, those thoughts only make Romano swell more and more for reasons he completely does not understand. But then his thoughts, which he hates, take another mad carriage turn and he wonders whether Spain thinks Romano needs to be told because he’s too stupid to remember it himself. That he’s some kind of vile sinner, and that thought does make Romano angry, every time he thinks it, without exception.
“I’m not,” he mutters to himself in the night, “I’m not.” The chant is almost taken up by the woodwork in his room, for as often as the furniture pieces hear it they know it by heart. “It’s Spain who’s dirty, not me. It’s Spain. It’s Spain’s eyes, always watching me, and Spain’s mouth, always telling me to do things, and Spain’s arms, always dragging me around, and his hands, always pinching me, and his chest, always holding me when I don’t want to be held.”
Men don’t ever want to be held! Except, apparently, for Spain, who holds Romano whenever he is able, even when Romano is covered in muck he’s been too busy to wash off. Except that’s probably because Spain’s too dumb to notice things like that, the dirt and the stains, because he wasn’t the one blessed with brains. Spain was blessed with other things, like his eyes and his mouth and.
And his arms.
And his hands.
And his chest.
And in the night, when Romano is alone with the stillness of the house, he thinks about how no one needs to talk to him about purity because this is all Spain’s fault. Not Romano’s. It’s Spain’s fault how Romano’s hands drift under the covers, and it’s Spain’s fault the squirrels keep coming —not like that!— to visit even though Romano has a sword now, and boots and cuffs, and he can fight them off if he pleases. It’s just that he doesn’t please.
Well. He does, but. But!
But exactly like that.