Rompere
Disclaimer: If Axis Powers Hetalia were mine, I wouldn’t need to write fanfics. If any of these songs were mine, I wouldn’t be writing fanfics.
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Minimal fluff 09!
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Rompere
Spain cared first. When Romano opened his eyes after leaving Austria’s house, it was Spain’s warm green ones that looked down at him. It was Spain who carried him around the expansive house when his little legs got tired. It was Spain who tucked him in at night and Spain that changed the blankets to flannel at winter aired the pillows because Romano couldn’t reach the clothesline. It was Spain who came when Romano called and Spain who took the abuse when Romano was feeling particularly frustrated. It was Spain who went off to fight for house and home and Spain who came back victorious, absolutely shining in triumph and justice.
It was Spain who bandaged his cuts and bruises when he fell, and Spain who wiped the tears away.
It was Spain who taught him what he needed to know about nationhood, the nation that helped him make good decisions for his people.
It was Spain who explained why he always felt strange and why he was shooting up in height and why his voice cracked at the most unfortunate times.
It was Spain who sat with him at night during the painful growth spurts, Spain who held him close when the numbing pain in his joints reminded him he was still growing.
It was Spain who first taught him about sex, and how to perform it properly, and how to do it safely so both participants were okay.
It was Spain who continued sleeping in the same bed with him even when it was getting too awkward to do so, who whispered, “Good night, sweetheart,” before they fell asleep, strictly in the platonic sense.
(Because, Romano reasoned, Spain was like family; he could never be a lover, right?)
Yes, Spain cared first, acted as a surrogate father, a surrogate brother, a friend, confident. It was Spain who made him feel good, during a time when he was subject to things that would make an ordinary person feel like trash. Spain, who told him he was doing it right when he was doing things wrong; Spain, who told him he would not be mad even when Romano knew he would; Spain, who always gave a helping hand and a friendly smile or a hug or a kiss on the forehead.
And said, always, “Leave it up to the Boss!” because it was right to do so.
--
France confessed first, the one to say, with the right amount of hesitation to appear genuine, “How do you say this, Romano, help me out…ti amo…I love you, Romano. I utterly adore you.” The same France who Romano thought was a woman the first time they met, the older nation swirling around Spain’s foyer in a wide dress. The same France who had only reacted in slight jealousy to see that his best friend had gotten Romano, when he had bothered Austria to get jurisdiction of the budding nation. The same France, who had offered to take Romano when the boy complained of the size of Spain’s house.
It was France who flounced around the house when he visited, smelling of roses and dropping rose petals that Romano had to sweep up when Spain sent his friends home.
It was France, who explained to Romano the various meanings of roses, why red and pink meant different things and yellow meant one thing and purple meant something else. Who watched and explained and got in the way as Romano cleaned.
It was France who taught him how to be a true romantic (because let’s face it, he was a growing boy and growing boys want to hear these things, especially if Spain isn’t telling him them because they’re too dirty). France, who was so enthusiastic and described so vividly that Romano’s face was completely red by the time the older nation was done and hadn’t realized.
It was France, who watched him grow with less and less talk and more and more watching.
It was France, who had a child he watched get snatched away by that bastard England (this was a consensus between the three friends), who had doted on his colony until he was gone. France, who Spain had consoled and kept over until the nation got over his sorrow and set his sights elsewhere.
It was France, who took out his frustration by picking fights with England to see his old colony.
It was France, who mourned alone, licking his wounds and lamenting quietly to himself as Romano watched him in the shadows of the laundry room.
It was France, who was one of Spain’s best friends, who was always around as a drinking buddy or an educated flirt who taught his friends how to pick up chicks or just one of the adults that Romano considered part of the background, present so much that he was just as familiar as Spain.
It was France, who had been with him when Spain went off to settle a border dispute, who offered again to accept the little half nation under his wing. It was France, who watched gently as Romano grew from the little toddler in the maid outfit to a child who followed Spain around to a teenager who grew independent and wandered through the house alone. It was France who watched Romano as the boy hung out the laundry one sunny afternoon and popped the confession out as one might whip up his wallet.
“I love you Romano,” and suddenly France was no longer everything Romano thought he was. He was now a suitor, a person of interest, who loved and wanted to be loved, who instilled the idea that baffled the charge until Spain came back and things like that could be easily shoved away for darker days.
France, who confessed first, who Romano no longer saw as one of the other adults, one who supervised him. France, now had the look of longing and sweetness that that pulled at your heartstrings and made you forgive him if he sighed the name of another in your presence. It was France who made Romano curious, but cautious, of the world outside Spain’s sphere.
A simple “I love you” crippled everything Romano thought he knew and broke everything he thought he wouldn’t want and left him cloudy-headed with the pieces.
--
Prussia kissed him first, pulled him into a dark corner and stole the virginity of his mouth with fierce bites and wild enthusiasm. It had always been Prussia, the one that brought the storms and the fire that flowed in the blood of all three members of the trio. It was Prussia, who talked smack and didn’t give a shit even if he was bleeding to death, he would spit in your face anyway. It was Prussia, who was that kind of in-your-face type of guy, who fought for what he wanted, or stole it if he couldn’t get it in a fight.
It was Prussia who dragged weapons around, cackling evilly as he left trails of blood that Romano could never seem to scrub out of the floors. It was Prussia who had threatened him as a first impression; go to bed when Spain says, or Mister Sword was going to hurt him. It was Prussia that made Romano run and hide until Spain assured him his albino friend was kidding and swords wouldn’t go around killing people. Often.
It was Prussia who commanded a presence even if he didn’t know what to do with it. Prussia, who itched for a fight and would make up an excuse for it if there was nothing to complain about.
It was Prussia who whined that Spain was too friendly and France was too trivial, that a conquest across Europe was what would get their blood running. It was Prussia who always looked like the world was his for the taking, with his hungry eyes and maniacal smile.
It was Prussia who suggested Spain stop making Romano wear those silly dresses because they weren’t ‘awesome’, especially for a growing boy.
It was Prussia who offered his services as teacher of awesome and Romano politely declined. It was Prussia who taught him all the swear words in existence. It was Prussia who explained to him the meanings of words Romano had heard Spain murmur under his breath so he could tell his caretaker off when Spain used them again.
It was Prussia who taught him how to fight, how to defend himself and to show no mercy.
It was Prussia who shouted with him when Romano was taken in a fit of an angry mood swing brought on by hormones and puberty.
It was Prussia who ogled him when he came to visit Spain after not dropping by for a while. It was Prussia who asked him if he was really Romano, the snot-nosed brat who he liked to mess around with. It was Prussia who Romano heard in discussion with Spain when the two thought he wasn’t listening, Prussia who asked how Spain could keep his hands off such work of beauty.
It was Prussia who watched him with the same animalistic quality he used to have when talking about conquests.
It was Prussia that grabbed him and pressed him against the wall and kissed him fiercely, and it was Prussia who touched him in ways he didn’t know could excite him like that, who set up a conquest for himself of Romano’s mouth, delving into the cracks and threatening acting on wet fantasies as Romano caught his breath, his hands clutched on the albino’s collar. It was Prussia who acknowledged his lust and desire and flung himself on Romano like no tomorrow.
He said, “I want you, Romano,” and Romano kissed him again, wanting to feel the exhilaration of someone’s lips on his again, like flying or falling, whichever felt better.
--
“You’re a teenager,” France said, “and you’re a boy, so you know what I’m thinking.”
Romano hadn’t opened his mouth to ask or mention, just was dusting the room as France sat and watched him. Shooting the blonde a dirty look, Romano turned back to his chore, which he was performing much better after Spain took out his guitar and strummed a tune. Not to mention he was older and taller and could reach places he couldn’t before. “I don’t want to hear what you’re thinking,” he scoffed.
“Of course you don’t. You want me to act on them, don’t you?”
Romano flushed. “Don’t be perverted,” he snapped, pointing the feather duster at France threateningly.
“I never said I was thinking dirty thoughts. You put the words in my mouth.” France chuckled and eased himself out of the chair, practically sauntering up to Romano, who stood defiant across the room with feather duster in hand. “This is why I say you should be my colony, Romano. You waste your talents with Spain.”
“Better than a pervert like you,” Romano shot back. His lips twisted into a grimace as France took his hand, easing the feather duster and potential weapon out of his hand and onto the nearby table.
“Come, child,” France urged, carefully wrapping Romano’s smaller hand in his, comforting and reassuring. “Let me take care of you.” Leading Romano to the chair, France smiled easily as he gently pushed the boy into the seat. Leaning down to kiss the frown away, France cocked his head coyly. “Let big brother show you how it’s done.”
“Is that what you tell everyone?” Romano retorted, still looking disgruntled although he wasn’t turning away from any of the ministrations. He tried to look upset, but it was hard when someone was kissing you so well. “I bet England’s heard that for ages,” he managed.
“England,” France scoffed. “Don’t be jealous. He’s nothing like you, Romano.”
“Hmph!” A smirk tickled the edge of France’s mouth. “I won’t spread my legs for you,” Romano insisted, clamping his thighs together and staring challengingly at the older nation. France only chuckled, and ran a hand down Romano’s jaw, cooing at the beauty in front of him and licking his lips.
“You say that,” France said sultrily, running a hand up Romano’s thigh and the teen silently cursed as his legs flung apart faster than petals caught in a whirring blade. “But your body tells me differently.”
“Fuck you,” Romano muttered shakily, turning away as his face turned red. France leaned in, breathing the light tomato scent on Romano’s skin as he plunged further, enjoying the squeal he produced.
“Gladly, sweetheart. All you have to do is ask.”
--
It was dark, just as anything Prussia was involved in was. Romano realized ruefully the sheets he felt on his back were the very ones he washed only yesterday before the insignificant thought left his mind. Prussia attacked his mouth again, kissing greedily.
For being in Spain’s house, Romano didn’t know where the dark haired nation had gone to, and France had gone back home to take care of some troubles brewing there. For now, Romano had to concentrate on the moment, the one that a hallway molestation and a shedding of clothing had led to. He had since gotten used to exposing everything to anyone else. Romano felt Prussia’s tongue trail a path down his jaw and hissed when the albino bit his neck, feeling a hint of discomfort.
“There, there,” Prussia whispered huskily. “I know what I’m doing.” Romano bit back a gasp as he felt a hand on his length, clamping his lips together to prevent any sound coming out as Prussia touched him.
“Go on,” Prussia urged, nudging his lips, red from biting. “Call out. Call my name.”
Romano inhaled sharply as he felt a pool of warmth collect in his stomach and explode simultaneously. Prussia’s mouth had found a nipple and Romano squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to react.
“So, this curl of yours…this mysterious curl…” Prussia breathed a puff of warm air and Romano cursed.
“Ah…fuck, don’t…” But, of course, the moment you tell someone to stop, they never do. Romano yelped as he felt a finger enter him and Prussia licked the curious curl.
“Prussia…fucking…just…do it!”
He cried out shamelessly as Prussia thrust into him, smelling the warm air of lust and sweat. The stars in the sky swam out of the sky and to his eyes as Prussia crushed his lips against his, the animalistic attraction too great to ignore. The albino chuckled, in the triumphant way he always did, laughing despite the tears that sprang to Romano’s eyes.
“Come on, baby, I didn’t hurt you now did I?”
Romano opened his mouth to reply but pleasure overrode the response and he moaned, music to Prussia’s ears.
--
“I’m such a whore.”
Spain glanced at him from beside him, watching his charge cry into his knees in the sheets. “Don’t say that.”
“But I am,” Romano insisted, wishing he could be alone. “I sleep with France but only because he considers me a substitute for Canada, who England marked for his own. Prussia just wants a quick fuck when he comes to your house.” There was no replacing the venom in his voice, but there was also fleeting innocence, the kind that begs to be forgiven.
“I want you for more than sex,” Spain assured, feeling slightly hypocritical as he considered how they got into bed in the first place, staring at the reddening hickey on Romano’s neck. He reaches and pulls Romano closer, so the boy’s head tilts toward him and a salty tear falls on the conquistador’s cheek. “I want you for you.”
“That doesn’t erase the fact of what I am in his house!” A tool for pleasure. A body that satisfies. “And it makes me worse that I don’t mind it.” Romano’s eyes were wet, everything around him to Spain’s eyes misty. “I’m such a horrible person. I don’t deserve to be a nation.”
“Shh, Romano. It was just once. Don’t beat yourself up for what you did with my friends. I’ll tell them to leave you alone. It won’t happen again.”
Romano didn’t have the heart to tell him it didn’t only happen once with Prussia. He didn’t want to say that when France touches him, he wants more and will initiate it if necessary. His complete worthlessness makes Romano feel like lying down and dying if Spain would allow it.
“Don’t cry anymore,” Spain says, soothingly and pleading. His heart is divided, Romano thinks. A part of him yearns for France’s attention, a part of him screams for Prussia’s contact, and yet another part curls up happily as Spain cups his cheek and pulls him in for a kiss. And the smallest part, the quietest part, lingered and aimed for the sky, to be free of this life. “What kind of Boss would I be if I let you suffer?”
“You can’t help me,” Romano whispered, kissing Spain to make the empty reassurances go away. “No one can.”
--
France was gone, running back when England let Canada go, poking up in the Americas. Prussia was gone, splitting ways to make himself powerful. And Spain was gone too, eventually.
Romano was broken.
“You need to heal, brother,” Feliciano said, sitting at his brother’s side. “Get away from all this. You can do it. You can pick up the pieces again.” Feliciano never asked, never pried, only was there when the tears fell and lent a brother a shoulder. “There are people who want to see you better.”
“I don’t deserve it,” Romano murmured. “Everyone loves you…you can control the people better than I can.”
“Don’t say that! I won’t listen to you!” Feliciano seized his brother’s face and pulled it so their foreheads touched. “Now I don’t want to hear this shit from you, Romano! Okay?” The use of such profanity didn’t suit Feliciano’s kind mouth. “You will go, and you will get better. I don’t care what you have to do. I will guard your door, I promise. No one will get in without my consent. Now heal up or I’ll burn your tomatoes to the ground!”
It had been hard, but so had the fall. The Mediterranean beckoned. He built himself a house with Feliciano and stayed in bed, staring as the breeze ruffled the curtain. Get thee to a nunnery! never sounded so true (but Romano still hated England). And bit by bit, the glue was coming back together and Romano could sleep again without the nightmares coming back and the self-depreciating ego crumbled. He was himself. He was Romano, he was South Italy.
He could heal himself, just like he thought he could never do. The time where Feliciano smiled, truly smiled again came and went and Romano could face the night without breaking away.
He did not have conflicting dreams, and he felt refreshed, so no need for this day to be unhappy. Romano opened his eyes to the sounds of the sea and saw Spain sitting next to him, watching him warmly.
It was in his nature to run, as it was also instilled in his brother, but in bed, there was no where to go. Romano sunk into the sheets, pulling the white up to his mouth. Spain quickly composed himself.
“I just came to see how you were, Romano! Don’t be afraid. I won’t do anything.”
“What are you here for?” Romano asked warily, wondering how Feliciano let him in.
“Don’t be mad. I just came to apologize.” Spain slumped, looking defeated. “I did not do a good job protecting you when you were younger.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Romano whispered, clutching at the sheets. He no longer thought about such things. “I’ve healed and I’ve gotten past that. Don’t talk about it. Dammit, don’t say anything about it!”
“Romano…” Spain reached over to stroke his hair and hesitated as Romano shrank back. Taking a chance, he rested a hand on the brown locks and took it a good sign that Romano melted into his touch. “You were always the most important thing to me. I didn’t want to do things you didn’t want to do yourself. But we were young. We were wrong. Time’s taught us that much.”
“Please don’t talk about it anymore.”
“Romano.” Spain shifted and stood slightly. “Don’t leave me out. I want to stay with you. Even if I haven’t been so spotless in the past.” Pausing, as if to draw breath, he leaned down, waiting before their lips made contact. “I’m sorry, if I could redo it all again, I would…”
“Goddammit, Spain, I told you…” Romano closed his eyes, as if he had meant to do it all this time as Spain kissed him, silencing the air around them. There was always something about Spain that didn’t make him feel ashamed like he did with France or dirty like Prussia. He had not minded them before, but now he wasn’t a child anymore. He knew how he felt and where he stood.
“My heart was broken,” Romano murmured as Spain hovered over him, seeing the conquistador side gone, replaced by stark maturity. He clutched the sheets as if they could help him speak. “My body was broken. Everything…every part of me was shattered and scattered. I was lost.”
Spain studied him carefully, weighing what to say. “Sometimes,” he said, sinking back into his seat and his hand found Romano’s, “things have to get worse before they can get better. And when they get better, you won’t ever have to go through them again.”
Romano closed his eyes, pretending that nothing had ever happen that had shaken him up like this. But Spain’s warm hand held him firm to the now, to the peace that he found. He would find the self from the ashes that could deal with all this. He could sift and sift, because ashes were not never ending. He would be reborn, reconciled, forgiven.
“I’d like that.
Owari