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Romano peered over the rims of his Persol sunglasses, letting his worn paperback flop forwards onto his bare chest, skin slightly tacky with sweat and sun cream. The hot Italian sun had burned away every trace of cloud in the sky, leaving it wide and blue and so bright it had him squinting down at the glittering blue waters of the Gulf of Naples.
Spain was just about to launch himself off the rugged edge of one of the many large boulders that lined the coastline; he’d garnered an audience - a gaggle of children clustered nervously to watch nearby. Romano tossed the book carelessly to the towel beneath him and sat up on his elbows, shirt slipping off one shoulder to pool in the crook of one arm.
Spain glanced over at him as he got into position and seemed surprised to see Romano watching; he flashed him a grin, sunny and devastating, then dove in with no hesitation. For a split second, time seemed to freeze; the curve of Spain’s body midair, a shower of glittering water droplets as a wave crashed against the rocks, the whirl of seagulls in the sky above them.
Then sound and sight came rushing back in as Romano drew in a sharp breath, a cheer going up from the crowd of children as Spain hit the water in a perfect dive. Rolling his eyes, he flopped backwards onto the towel, snatching Spain’s stupid hat to cover his face, shoving the paperback away irritably when its pages, flapping in the sea breeze, brushed incessantly against his elbow.
He could hear Spain chatting genially in his lightly-accented Italian as he pulled himself up and out of the water, the voices of the group of children rising up around him, high-pitched with excitement. “Grazie, grazie, guaglio! Siete molto gentili.” He laughed as two boys started speaking over each other to try and get him to teach them how to dive, too.
Romano shifted the brim of the hat a fraction just in time to watch Spain run his hands through his wet hair to sweep it off his face. Swallowing heavily, he let the hat fall back into place and drew one knee up. In the meantime, Spain continued, “Scusatemi, il mio compagno mi aspetta, quindi devo andare! Ciao!” The children let out a chorus of complaints as he left, and Romano stared stubbornly up at the worn weave of the inside of the hat as he heard Spain’s footsteps coming closer; wet feet on bare rock.
A shadow fell over him, barely visible through the pinprick holes in the top of the hat. He heard Spain huff out a laugh, then all of a sudden the hat was swept up and off his face, leaving Romano squinting like an angry cat in the sun up at Spain. A few drops of water spattered the collar of Romano’s shirt, a couple the hot skin of his neck and he scowled, brushing them away imperiously with the back of his hand before directing his ire up at where Spain stood leaning over him.
“Watch it, asshole,” he grumbled, shielding his eyes with one hand as he glared up at Spain who just grinned happily at him in response.
“We’re at the beach, Roma; a little sea water won’t hurt you.” He put the hat on his own head and bent down to grab a towel, running it roughshod over his arms and thighs to get rid of the worst of the water. “Besides, you should have just come in with me,” he paused, towel over his shoulders and flashed a wink down at Romano who flushed and turned his face away.
“If I’d wanted to go swimming I’d’ve taken us somewhere calmer; there’s no way in hell I’m going in that death trap,” he grumbled, jutting his chin in the direction of the shoreline and as if on cue, another huge wave smacked against the rocks with a roar. “Us normal people just keep well out of the water and enjoy watching it from a distance.”
Spain chucked again and flung himself down carelessly on his own towel spread out on the rocks; a deep orange to the sunny yellow of Romano’s. “I might not have set foot on a pirate ship for a few centuries, but I guess my love of the sea is as strong as ever!” He dug around in the beach bag he’d insisted on carting from the house and pulled out his battered water flask, the lid dented in places and the dark green surface half scratched-off to reveal the shiny stainless steel surface underneath.
Romano drew both his knees up and rested one cheek on them, watching shamelessly as Spain tipped his head back to take a long draught, Adam's apple bobbing in the long column of his throat as he swallowed. The golden chain of Spain’s crucifix glinted where it nestled in the curve of his collarbone; bright against his warm, brown skin. During the summer months, Spain spent most of his time outdoors; his normally lightly-tanned complexion gradually darkening as the months went by.
Wiping his mouth with the back of one hand, Spain held the water bottle out to Romano, who took it from him without hesitation; fitting his mouth exactly to the place Spain had taken a drink from. The water was cool where it filled his mouth and spilled down his throat; he suddenly realised the depth of his thirst and by the time he came up for air it was with a little gasp. Spain sat watching him, eyes a little dark where they flicked down to the wet of Romano’s mouth and Romano thrust the flask back at him before he could say a word.
“Don’t get any ideas bastardo, we’re in public,” he leant back on both hands and raised an imperious eyebrow. Spain twisted the lid of the flask back on, the old seal protesting with a squeak and tossed it back into the depths of his bag, then reached behind his neck to unclasp the chain of his crucifix and slip the ring he’d hung on there for safekeeping off.
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, querido,” he teased, slipping the ring back onto his left hand before fiddling with the chain again at the back of his neck to re-clasp it. “I’m just admiring my husband just like any normal man would do having married someone so handsome.” He winked, then tipped his head forward to try and get a better angle for the clasp to catch and avoid snagging it in his sea-dampened curls.
Romano rolled his eyes, a smug little smile fighting at the corners of his mouth and looked down at his own ring, rubbing his thumb over its shiny surface. Spain made an unhappy little noise where he was still struggling to reclasp his necklace, and Romano clicked his tongue, rising up on his knees to help him. “Give it here; you’ll drop it or break the clasp or something and I don’t wanna deal with your sulking.”
Spain dropped his hands obediently. “My Roma is always so kind to me,” he said warmly, reaching one hand out to stroke the warm skin of Romano’s thigh where he knelt behind him. “Every morning I wake up and think I got so lucky that he agreed to marry me.”
Romano’s cheeks flushed traitorously at the combination of Spain’s wandering hands and sweet words, hands fumbling a little as he slipped the clasp of the necklace back together, fussing with it to make sure it sat perfectly centred. He let his hands rest on Spain’s shoulders, skin smooth under his hands, and bent down to press his lips to the back of his neck, nose pressing into the damp curls of his hair still briny with sea water.
Spain inhaled roughly beneath him, hand tightening instinctively on Romano’s thigh. Romano let his lips linger, eyes closed, breathing in the sun-warm scent of his husband, letting the sounds of the waves crashing, faint sounds of children playing and the hard rocks beneath his knees fade away until it was just the two of them.
It had scared him, at first, the depth of feeling he had for Spain even after so many centuries; making him feel like he wasn’t tethered to the earth. Now, it grounded him; kept him solidly in his body even on days when he felt like vanishing. It didn't matter how many decades passed, the love Romano felt for Spain was constant and bottomless and he was secure in the knowledge that Spain felt the same.
Spain turned his head, hand sliding up Romano’s thigh to splay at the base of his spine, warm where it slipped under the hem of his shirt, bare skin on bare skin. Romano shivered, hand clenching into the solid muscle of Spain’s shoulder a little harder with one hand, swaying forwards a little into the familiar lines of Spain’s body.
“Amor de mi vida,” Spain murmured lowly against the flushed skin of Romano’s cheek, face tilted up towards him. Helplessly, Romano leaned down to meet him, pressing his lips to the corner of Spain’s mouth, the bow of his upper lip, until Spain pressed up into him a little more and slotted their lips together, swallowing the tiny gasp it drew from Romano’s mouth.
For a few long, blissful seconds, nothing in the world existed except for the brush of Spain’s hair across Romano’s cheek, the firm muscle of Spain’s shoulders under his hands and the velvet press of their lips as they kissed. Romano sighed out through his nose, feeling Spain twist around even further and reach up to run the pad of his thumb across the flushed apple of Romano’s cheek, making soft noises into Romano’s mouth.
Romano let one hand slide over the curve of Spain’s shoulder and down his chest, feeling the steady thump thump thump of his heart under his palm, his own fluttering like a hummingbird in his chest. Spain pulled back a little, eyes half-lidded and gaze dancing all across Romano’s face like he couldn’t choose where to look. Romano made the decision for him, pressing that same hand to the side of Spain’s face, fingers brushing his hairline, and pulled him into another kiss despite his knees beginning to protest at kneeling on hard rock for so long.
Spain groaned a little brokenly into the press of Romano’s mouth; opened for him when Romano pressed his tongue against the seam of his lips, like every atom of his being was magnetised to Romano’s true north.
“Sei tutto per me,” Romano whispered between kisses, hand sliding further into Spain’s hair and thumb stroking the soft skin behind his ear. “Ti amero sempre.”
“Siempre y siempre,” Spain breathed back, pressing his lips gently to the corner of Romano’s mouth, the freckled bridge of his nose, the tender skin of his eyelids. He cracked his eyes open, vibrant green in his ageless, handsome face and smiled, a quiet, devastating thing that made Romano’s breath catch in his throat.
A scream and splash broke the sanctity of their little bubble; one of the kids from earlier had cannonballed into the water and the rest of the group let up a huge cheer as he resurfaced, brown hair slicked almost black against his skull and grinning ear to ear.
“Signore, signore!” He called over to Spain as two of his friends bent down to help pull him out of the water. “Mi hai visto tuffarmi!?” The rest of his friends clustered around him, chattering in amazement. Spain cleared his throat roughly and Romano drew back slightly, sitting down next to Spain instead of kneeling beside him. After a beat, he reached out and took Spain’s hand, smiling a little in satisfaction at the gentle clink of their rings meeting.
Spain flashed a smile down at him, squeezing Romano’s hand, then turned to call back across to his captive audience.
“Sei stato bravissiomo, campione. Bravo!” He called across to them, smiling fondly as they burst into excited cheers for their friend and waved as they scattered back to their parents.
The sun was beginning to dip in the sky and a warm breeze stirred the pages of Romano's book where he'd discarded it earlier. He looked up from where he'd been twisting Spain's wedding ring around his finger to see Spain staring at him with a besotted smile on his face and flushed abruptly.
“What're you smiling like that for, cazzo,” he snapped, trying to disentangle his hand from Spain's and cursing when Spain merely tightened his grip.
“I have a lot to smile about: I’m in one of the most beautiful places on earth with the most beautiful man on earth,” he raised Romano’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to his ring finger, right over where his ring sat. Letting his lips linger on its burnished surface, he flicked his gaze up to Romano’s. “Bello e impossibile,” he said, teasingly.
Romano snatched his hand back, flush deepening, and swatted at Spain’s shoulder as he started laughing at him. “Ma sei scemo o cosa?” He grumbled, but couldn’t stop the grin from taking over his own face. “I’m hungry, asshole; let’s go home.” He leant back behind him to reach for his book, tossing it into the depths of Spain’s bag.
Spain pushed himself to his feet and jammed his feet back into his worn sandals before holding out a hand to help Romano up. Rolling his eyes, Romano curled his fingers into Spain’s open palm, then stifled a yelp as Spain pulled him up to standing all at once, wrapping his other arm firmly around his waist. Romano’s free hand came up reflexively to brace against Spain’s chest, hand pressed against the sun-warmed crucifix.
Before he could even get a word out, Spain dipped him backwards and kissed the breath out of him, licking into Romano’s mouth hungrily. Romano kissed him back just as fiercely, clutching at the salt-tacky skin of Spain’s chest with one hand and lacing their fingers together where Spain still held his the other. Spain pulled back with a gasp, Romano chasing his mouth, and pressed their foreheads together while he tried to get himself under control.
“The things you do to me, corazón,” he murmured. Romano smacked his shoulder weakly with a huff.
“You started it!” He gasped, panting a little into the space between their mouths, treacherous heart pounding in his chest.
“Sí, sí, es verdad,” Spain replied a little ruefully, letting Romano stand up straight and fixing his collar where it was folded in on itself. “I'll try and control myself.”
Romano snorted, reaching down to bundle up their towels and held them out to Spain, who stuffed them in his bag obediently, both of them spilling out over the side like a sunset.
“Let's go, stronzo - dinner isn't going to make itself.” He slipped his own sandals back on and started back up the makeshift staircase, Spain close behind him with one hand warm at his waist to stop him from tripping. The oleander that lined the street were a riot of colour, blooming bright pink over glossy green leaves, air thick and sweet with their fragrance.
“And what would my Romanito like to eat?” He swapped the bag to his left shoulder and reached out to take Romano's hand with his right, letting their clasped hands swing between them as they left the shoreline. “Boss is at your service.” He nudged Romano with one shoulder playfully.
“Pasta allo Scarpariello,” Romano said almost instantly. “Those cherry tomatoes you've been slaving away over in the garden finally look like they might actually amount to something. But we also have about a million aubergines so you can figure out something to do with those before they go over. I'll handle the pasta.” He flicked his gaze over to Spain and nudged him back. “Married to a Neapolitan and still hopeless at making pasta - my nonno must be rolling in his-” he paused and tilted his head thoughtfully “Well, rolling in his wherever he is.”
Spain snorted out a boyish laugh, eyes crinkling at the edges and mouth split open in a wide grin. The seawater had sent his already-curly hair even wilder, streaks of gold glinting where the sun had touched it. The shirt he'd thrown on carelessly over his bare chest flapped gently in the light evening breeze, pale blue against tanned skin. Romano let himself drink him in, hand held firmly in Spain's and wedding ring on his finger.
Spain noticed him staring and smiled at him, shifting the bag on his shoulder. “¿Que pasa, mi amor?” He asked voice gentle and pitched low in the quiet. Romano shrugged helplessly, not even bothering to fight his own smile.
“Nothing, just thinking about you, us,” he turned away to tilt his head up at the sky, contentment radiating from every pore. “The lifetime of dishes you're gonna have to do,” He cracked one eye open and looked back over at Spain cheekily.
Spain shook his head. “Maybe my Roma can let me teach him how to do the dishes in exchange for him teaching me how to make pasta?” He swung their joined hands between them happily. “I did promise to provide a minimum of three meals a day with pasta being a prerequisite afterall.”
“We'll see; the one time I let you near my pasta you turned it into paella!” Not that Romano was going to admit the fideuà had tasted delicious - it was the principle of the thing!
Naturally his husband saw right through him. “Ah but Roma, you cleared your plate and even asked for more; I don't think that's a sign that you hated my cooking.” He winked at Romano who rolled his eyes, knowing he'd been found out.
“Anyway, maybe in my magnanimity I might be generous and let you learn. But don't think this gets you out of dish duty!” He raised a finger threateningly.
“Ah, such generosity!” Spain replied, pressing his hand to his chest.
The nondescript white gate that marked the entrance to the ground of Romano's summer home came into view, tucked away behind an aging lemon tree. Romano fished around in his pocket for the key as Spain reached up to pick a lemon from the boughs above them, citrus motes bursting into the air as he twisted the fruit away from the branch.
The key slid into the lock a little reluctantly, but with the usual jiggle to the left, it popped open, the narrow path to the house snaking up into the hill in front of them. The solar lights had come on, bathing the worn stones in a gentle amber glow and lighting up the daisies that lined the pathway.
Spain dropped his stolen lemon into his bag and Romano stepped back to let him in first, tilting his cheek up to receive the kiss Spain pressed to it as he passed.
As he turned back from locking the gate behind them, Spain was there waiting for him, hand outstretched, wedding ring sparkling golden in the evening light. Romano's heart did the funny little jump it had always done when Spain looked at him like that.
Romano didn't hesitate, stepping forward to put his hand into Spain's and let him pull him up the path and into forever.