Gift for psychoxbreaker
Title: Protective
Author: lillialyce
Recipient: psychoxbreaker
Character(s) or Pairing(s): young!Romano and Spain
Word Count: 2,673
Rating: G
Warnings: vague descriptions of injuries
Summary: Spain always protects Romano from wars and danger (and France). Sometimes, when it’s not obvious, Romano does the same for Spain.
“I don’t know how you got Romano here, but he’s coming back home with me.” Spain seemed genuinely angry, and Romano felt his face turn red. Shit, this was embarrassing. He couldn’t meet Spain’s gaze. Was he was angry at Romano? Was he disappointed? Fuck, fuck, fuck.
It wasn’t like Romano had wanted to end up in this predicament. He didn’t like being near France any more than Spain wanted him to be in France’s arms-it felt all gross and slimy and if France didn’t have a weapon on him Romano would’ve kicked him ages ago and run for his life.
But Spain had made Romano angry. And sometimes when Romano was angry, he did things. Things he maybe sometimes possibly regretted.
Spain couldn’t just leave after coming back home for only a few days. Not that Romano cared that Spain had been hurt: he just didn’t want that bastard going anywhere Romano didn’t approve of.
France laughed his creepy pervert laugh, and Romano shivered. Fuck, he really wanted out of this. (He wanted to be back home where Spain would hug him and give him food and, and-)
“You’re getting weaker, Spain. Years ago, you wouldn’t have let me get this close to Romano.”
Spain chuckled, and his voice sounded cold and scary and this wasn’t the Spain Romano was used to, not really. “Years ago, you weren’t resorting to such petty tactics to get your hands on him.”
Romano frowned. Spain had never mentioned that France had wanted to take Romano (and he was sort of surprised Spain hadn’t given him up, considering all the shit Romano caused). Spain never told Romano anything, especially when the physical south of Italy was involved.
Spain had always shielded him from those battles. He’d always protected him from having to fight.
“Little Romano came with me willingly, Spain. What does that say about your so-called kingdom?”
One moment Spain was standing still, talking to France like they were close friends in a petty argument, and, in the next, Romano felt himself drop out of France’s arms and collide with the ground.
Fuck, at least they could’ve been gentle about it!
It just sort of happened, maybe when Spain had jumped up out of nowhere and caused them to fall in a tangled heap of give me back Romano or there will be hell to pay. Romano rolled out of the way as Spain and France both jumped up. There were some curses, a lot of shuffling, and then a sharp, growing pain in Romano’s side at the exact moment he heard their weapons clang against one another.
Ohh! He felt so little on the ground, trying not to interfere. Romano scampered from the fight (and he couldn’t bring himself to look at Spain and France, he’d done something stupid and made Spain fight unnecessarily), sucking in a breath because holy fucking shit it was hurting him to move like this, he needed to stop.
His heart was pounding too fast, and Romano didn’t want to look, didn’t want to look, didn’t, oh shit, was that blood fuck, fuck, he had to look, he had to. . .
There was an open cut on his side, a large one actually, not too deep that it couldn’t be fixed but deep enough that Romano couldn’t look at it for too long without feeling nauseous. He could hear the clanging of weapons (which hopefully meant Spain was winning, since France was a stupid bastard and even though Spain was a dumb bastard, too, France was worse), and Romano was tempted to cry out for Spain to help him.
Spain always helped him when he got hurt. Spain would drop everything he was doing if Romano got so much as a paper cut. And Romano always made sure to point out that it was Spain’s fault for any of his injuries, since Romano obviously never did anything on his own.
Romano hissed as he turned away from Spain and France’s fight, his eyes stinging with tears. It fucking hurt!
But. No. He could handle himself for now. Spain was busy. Spain didn’t need to fuss over Romano when it had been Romano who’d gotten himself into this situation.
(He just. . . he didn’t understand how he’d been cut. . .)
Spain always protected Romano from these situations. And Romano had been reckless and let France (stupid, disgusting France) take him.
Sucking in a breath, Romano glanced around for something to use as a bandage. He was about to give up when he noticed France’s horse was standing a moderate distance from the field they were in. On the horse’s back had to be something Romano could use.
Making his way across the field was a lot more painful than Romano thought it would have been, and grabbing one of France’s changes of clothes to use as a bandage hurt more than it should have.
He wasn’t even sure how he’d gotten hurt in the first place. Who had swung a weapon at him? How had this even happened?
It almost. . . It sort of reminded him of the time when he’d been picking tomatoes with Spain, and just as he’d been reaching for the tomato at the top of the vine, a sudden pain had blossomed at his side, just where he’d been cut now. And after he’d called for Spain and made a huge deal out of how much it fucking hurt, he’d been shocked to find that there hadn’t been any injury on his body at all.
“This isn’t over!” Spain’s voice. “I just need to take Romano home!”
Romano finished his makeshift bandage (using something that was hopefully really expensive for France) just in time for Spain and France to finish their brawl. The wrap was done clumsily, since usually Belgium tended to Spain when he was injured, and Romano didn’t know what he was doing. The cloth was wrapped around his waist just a little too tightly, but he couldn’t worry about that now. At least his shirt was dark enough that any bloodstains weren’t obvious.
“Are you okay?” Spain was at his side in seconds, cupping Romano’s chin in his hands. “Did France do anything to you? Are you hurt anywhere?”
“I. . .” Romano couldn’t look into Spain’s eyes when they were that concerned, not when Romano felt like he’d caused all this. Not exactly sure what to say, Romano slapped Spain’s hand away. “You idiot! You let France get you!”
“What?”
“Your face, bastard! And, and the rest of you!”
Romano wasn’t going to say anything about his own injury. It was just a scratch, nothing big compared to what Spain was dealing with. It was nothing.
Spain was sporting a black eye and maybe broken ribs and scratches and bruises everywhere, so who was Romano to complain about his cut, anyway? It was just a little, baby injury. It stung a little, but it was nothing to complain about. Romano didn’t want Spain (the stupid bastard, getting himself into a war while fighting another war, only an idiot would do something so stupid) fussing over him when there was still fighting.
Spain touched his cheek gently, eyes widening at the sight of the blood on his fingers. “I didn’t even notice.” He laughed a little, extending his hand for Romano to grab. “It’s nothing if it means Romano is safe. France didn’t hurt you, right? You’re okay?”
“Stupid. . .” He swatted Spain’s hand away, holding back a grimace when he felt his side sting. “I’m fine.” He hoped blood wouldn’t stain the cloth bound around his body. He hoped Spain wouldn’t notice. “Are we going home now?”
Spain nodded, glancing back at France to make sure he was still down. Romano turned back, too, smirking at France’s injured face.
“Let’s go.”
He and Spain started walking, since Spain seemed to know where he was going. Romano thought maybe they were near France’s house. Neither of them said much for a while.
But what was Romano supposed to say? That he’d been angry? Upset? Hurt? France had just showed up out of nowhere, and he’d had food and promises and Romano had just wanted to catch up with Spain and talk to him, they hadn’t really been able to spend much time together before Spain’d had to leave again.
N-not that Romano liked spending time with Spain, exactly. Spain had decent food. And Romano was hungry a lot.
“When were you going to tell me that you were fighting for me, jerk?” Romano demanded.
Spain seemed taken aback for a few seconds (good, the bastard deserved it), but then he just smiled and ruffled Romano’s hair fondly. Romano felt his face grow warm at Spain’s touch, and he closed his eyes and let himself grow too comfortable too quickly. They both were silent for a while, safe near each other.
It was like the fight had never happened and Romano had never been injured.
“What did France tell you?” Spain asked at last.
“It doesn’t matter what he said! Why do I have to hear things from him before I hear them from you?” Romano hated seeming like he didn’t know things, like he was stupid. And he’d felt that way when France had been talking to him.
Didn’t Spain trust him?
He hoped that those feelings hadn’t carried into his words; he only wanted Spain to hear that he was angry. “Didn’t you say I was getting older? I’m not a stupid little kid, dammit!” Well, he was physically twelve, so he was still pretty young, but still. Twelve was something.
“Romano. . .” Spain stopped walking. His voice seemed distant, and he rubbed at a bruise on his arm. “You’re. . . I’m. . . I’m getting older, too.”
Romano frowned, kept himself from saying anything else (anything stupid or embarrassing). He didn’t know whether to look at Spain or at the ground; his mind just kept racing back to the night after he’d gotten hurt plucking tomatoes from the vine, when he’d realized that maybe, maybe his injury had to do with the peninsula, with Italy.
Romano hadn’t felt any pain for his land before. Grandpa Rome had been the representation of Italy. Then Austria, then Spain. Never Romano. And Spain had always been sure to keep Romano unaware of the troubles occurring in Italy. Spain sort of had the right, considering he took on the brunt of the work in maintaining the land and fighting the wars.
It didn’t make sense for it to be a land-related issue, though. Spain wasn’t going to let Romano become an independent country anytime soon.
Still, Romano had always had that nagging thought at the back of his mind.
If Spain really was getting older or even weaker (Romano had never thought of it; he always saw Spain as this untouchable jerk boss), then, was that why Romano had been hurt? Was that why he’d ached so randomly in the field? Was something occurring south on the peninsula?
Was that why he’d been cut when Spain’s weapon clashed with France’s, even when Romano had not been in the way?
“I’m getting older as you get older. And even if I don’t tell you everything, it’s not because of you, I just want to keep you from having to do all this.” Spain gestured around him, as though it explained everything.
It didn’t. Because Spain was an idiot who didn’t trust Romano enough to tell him anything even though Romano was trustworthy. It wasn’t like he wanted Spain to fight for him or get hurt for him. He never told the bastard to do anything! So it was all Spain’s fault, once again.
As usual.
“You’re protecting me,” Romano stated flatly. His face felt warm, his heart was racing, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to hear.
“I don’t mean to make you feel like a little kid, even if you are my cute little Romano.”
It was, Romano realized, the first time he was feeling pain as a country and not just as a person (and he could name countless times where the squirrels in Spain’s house knocked over bookshelves so Romano would get hurt). What was happening to the land was affecting Romano for the first time in a long time.
Spain wasn’t taking the full brunt of the work anymore. He was getting older, weaker.
Romano saw Spain as many things. He was a terrible boss, an annoying person, someone who hugged too much and laughed when he shouldn’t have. But he wasn’t weak. He’d never been weak.
Spain was a world power. He was a kingdom where the sun always shined. He wasn’t. . . this.
Romano wouldn’t let him become whatever it was he was receding to. He wasn’t going to lose his idiot boss until he chose to.
“Y-you know.” Romano coughed a little, tried to think of something to say. The pain in his side ached and he just wanted Spain to carry him and then take care of him. Romano never had to take care of himself before, and if something were going to happen to Italy in the near future, he wouldn’t know what to do, how to survive without Spain.
Spain turned to look at Romano, and his eyes seemed so sad and distant and Romano was angry with himself for considering making Spain hurt more. It wasn’t the time, now. Maybe later. (Maybe never.) He didn’t want Spain to see how scared he was, and he didn’t want Spain to be scared, too.
(How much had Spain been shielding from him? How many battles had Spain gone through that Romano had never even heard? Spain’s bruises couldn’t have been from this fight. How much did Romano not know?)
“I can’t always do this, I can’t keep fighting.” Romano bit his lip because Spain wasn’t supposed to be sad; he was supposed to keep smiling and annoying everyone. “I’m never going to let you go.” And Spain’s face was so powerful, so passionate, that Romano shoved aside his discomfort and-
“I,” Romano swallowed, “I don’t think you’re too bad. A-as a boss, I mean.” His face was really warm and was it always so hot and it wasn’t necessary for Spain to be staring at him like this, he should stop. Fuck, this wasn’t what he wanted to say, he couldn’t say this, what was he thinking? “So I d-don’t, I don’t. . . hate you exactly.”
Spain’s smile was slow at first, but then it was wide and bright and it almost made Romano forget that his face was burning and his side felt like it was splitting open and his heart began to race at the look on Spain’s face (maybe he would try to be a little nicer, a little more often, if it made Spain react like this-n-not that he liked seeing the bastard happy, or anything). “That means a lot, Roma!”
And suddenly Spain was picking up Romano for a hug and Romano sucked in a pained breath (ohfuckohfuckohfuckstopstopstop) and tried to smile back but it probably looked like a grimace. Dear fucking God, it hurt! Taking a breath made him feel like his body was going to explode. But Spain probably hurt, too. “Shut up, stupid. I do hate you. You’re a dumbass who hugs people for no fucking reason!”
“Roma, Roma, Roma. . .” The bastard was laughing.
Romano shoved at Spain (how was Spain not in pain at that moment: he was hurt, too) and tried to ignore the light, bubbling feeling inside him that came because of Spain’s happy reaction. “Let me go, jerk!”
“Never!” Spain hugged Romano tighter, and, with Romano still in his arms, he started to walk again.
Romano sighed. He didn’t have the energy to get out of Spain’s arms. And he didn’t want to walk if Spain was going to carry him.
(He’d give Spain hell once they were back home again.)
Author: lillialyce
Recipient: psychoxbreaker
Character(s) or Pairing(s): young!Romano and Spain
Word Count: 2,673
Rating: G
Warnings: vague descriptions of injuries
Summary: Spain always protects Romano from wars and danger (and France). Sometimes, when it’s not obvious, Romano does the same for Spain.
“I don’t know how you got Romano here, but he’s coming back home with me.” Spain seemed genuinely angry, and Romano felt his face turn red. Shit, this was embarrassing. He couldn’t meet Spain’s gaze. Was he was angry at Romano? Was he disappointed? Fuck, fuck, fuck.
It wasn’t like Romano had wanted to end up in this predicament. He didn’t like being near France any more than Spain wanted him to be in France’s arms-it felt all gross and slimy and if France didn’t have a weapon on him Romano would’ve kicked him ages ago and run for his life.
But Spain had made Romano angry. And sometimes when Romano was angry, he did things. Things he maybe sometimes possibly regretted.
Spain couldn’t just leave after coming back home for only a few days. Not that Romano cared that Spain had been hurt: he just didn’t want that bastard going anywhere Romano didn’t approve of.
France laughed his creepy pervert laugh, and Romano shivered. Fuck, he really wanted out of this. (He wanted to be back home where Spain would hug him and give him food and, and-)
“You’re getting weaker, Spain. Years ago, you wouldn’t have let me get this close to Romano.”
Spain chuckled, and his voice sounded cold and scary and this wasn’t the Spain Romano was used to, not really. “Years ago, you weren’t resorting to such petty tactics to get your hands on him.”
Romano frowned. Spain had never mentioned that France had wanted to take Romano (and he was sort of surprised Spain hadn’t given him up, considering all the shit Romano caused). Spain never told Romano anything, especially when the physical south of Italy was involved.
Spain had always shielded him from those battles. He’d always protected him from having to fight.
“Little Romano came with me willingly, Spain. What does that say about your so-called kingdom?”
One moment Spain was standing still, talking to France like they were close friends in a petty argument, and, in the next, Romano felt himself drop out of France’s arms and collide with the ground.
Fuck, at least they could’ve been gentle about it!
It just sort of happened, maybe when Spain had jumped up out of nowhere and caused them to fall in a tangled heap of give me back Romano or there will be hell to pay. Romano rolled out of the way as Spain and France both jumped up. There were some curses, a lot of shuffling, and then a sharp, growing pain in Romano’s side at the exact moment he heard their weapons clang against one another.
Ohh! He felt so little on the ground, trying not to interfere. Romano scampered from the fight (and he couldn’t bring himself to look at Spain and France, he’d done something stupid and made Spain fight unnecessarily), sucking in a breath because holy fucking shit it was hurting him to move like this, he needed to stop.
His heart was pounding too fast, and Romano didn’t want to look, didn’t want to look, didn’t, oh shit, was that blood fuck, fuck, he had to look, he had to. . .
There was an open cut on his side, a large one actually, not too deep that it couldn’t be fixed but deep enough that Romano couldn’t look at it for too long without feeling nauseous. He could hear the clanging of weapons (which hopefully meant Spain was winning, since France was a stupid bastard and even though Spain was a dumb bastard, too, France was worse), and Romano was tempted to cry out for Spain to help him.
Spain always helped him when he got hurt. Spain would drop everything he was doing if Romano got so much as a paper cut. And Romano always made sure to point out that it was Spain’s fault for any of his injuries, since Romano obviously never did anything on his own.
Romano hissed as he turned away from Spain and France’s fight, his eyes stinging with tears. It fucking hurt!
But. No. He could handle himself for now. Spain was busy. Spain didn’t need to fuss over Romano when it had been Romano who’d gotten himself into this situation.
(He just. . . he didn’t understand how he’d been cut. . .)
Spain always protected Romano from these situations. And Romano had been reckless and let France (stupid, disgusting France) take him.
Sucking in a breath, Romano glanced around for something to use as a bandage. He was about to give up when he noticed France’s horse was standing a moderate distance from the field they were in. On the horse’s back had to be something Romano could use.
Making his way across the field was a lot more painful than Romano thought it would have been, and grabbing one of France’s changes of clothes to use as a bandage hurt more than it should have.
He wasn’t even sure how he’d gotten hurt in the first place. Who had swung a weapon at him? How had this even happened?
It almost. . . It sort of reminded him of the time when he’d been picking tomatoes with Spain, and just as he’d been reaching for the tomato at the top of the vine, a sudden pain had blossomed at his side, just where he’d been cut now. And after he’d called for Spain and made a huge deal out of how much it fucking hurt, he’d been shocked to find that there hadn’t been any injury on his body at all.
“This isn’t over!” Spain’s voice. “I just need to take Romano home!”
Romano finished his makeshift bandage (using something that was hopefully really expensive for France) just in time for Spain and France to finish their brawl. The wrap was done clumsily, since usually Belgium tended to Spain when he was injured, and Romano didn’t know what he was doing. The cloth was wrapped around his waist just a little too tightly, but he couldn’t worry about that now. At least his shirt was dark enough that any bloodstains weren’t obvious.
“Are you okay?” Spain was at his side in seconds, cupping Romano’s chin in his hands. “Did France do anything to you? Are you hurt anywhere?”
“I. . .” Romano couldn’t look into Spain’s eyes when they were that concerned, not when Romano felt like he’d caused all this. Not exactly sure what to say, Romano slapped Spain’s hand away. “You idiot! You let France get you!”
“What?”
“Your face, bastard! And, and the rest of you!”
Romano wasn’t going to say anything about his own injury. It was just a scratch, nothing big compared to what Spain was dealing with. It was nothing.
Spain was sporting a black eye and maybe broken ribs and scratches and bruises everywhere, so who was Romano to complain about his cut, anyway? It was just a little, baby injury. It stung a little, but it was nothing to complain about. Romano didn’t want Spain (the stupid bastard, getting himself into a war while fighting another war, only an idiot would do something so stupid) fussing over him when there was still fighting.
Spain touched his cheek gently, eyes widening at the sight of the blood on his fingers. “I didn’t even notice.” He laughed a little, extending his hand for Romano to grab. “It’s nothing if it means Romano is safe. France didn’t hurt you, right? You’re okay?”
“Stupid. . .” He swatted Spain’s hand away, holding back a grimace when he felt his side sting. “I’m fine.” He hoped blood wouldn’t stain the cloth bound around his body. He hoped Spain wouldn’t notice. “Are we going home now?”
Spain nodded, glancing back at France to make sure he was still down. Romano turned back, too, smirking at France’s injured face.
“Let’s go.”
He and Spain started walking, since Spain seemed to know where he was going. Romano thought maybe they were near France’s house. Neither of them said much for a while.
But what was Romano supposed to say? That he’d been angry? Upset? Hurt? France had just showed up out of nowhere, and he’d had food and promises and Romano had just wanted to catch up with Spain and talk to him, they hadn’t really been able to spend much time together before Spain’d had to leave again.
N-not that Romano liked spending time with Spain, exactly. Spain had decent food. And Romano was hungry a lot.
“When were you going to tell me that you were fighting for me, jerk?” Romano demanded.
Spain seemed taken aback for a few seconds (good, the bastard deserved it), but then he just smiled and ruffled Romano’s hair fondly. Romano felt his face grow warm at Spain’s touch, and he closed his eyes and let himself grow too comfortable too quickly. They both were silent for a while, safe near each other.
It was like the fight had never happened and Romano had never been injured.
“What did France tell you?” Spain asked at last.
“It doesn’t matter what he said! Why do I have to hear things from him before I hear them from you?” Romano hated seeming like he didn’t know things, like he was stupid. And he’d felt that way when France had been talking to him.
Didn’t Spain trust him?
He hoped that those feelings hadn’t carried into his words; he only wanted Spain to hear that he was angry. “Didn’t you say I was getting older? I’m not a stupid little kid, dammit!” Well, he was physically twelve, so he was still pretty young, but still. Twelve was something.
“Romano. . .” Spain stopped walking. His voice seemed distant, and he rubbed at a bruise on his arm. “You’re. . . I’m. . . I’m getting older, too.”
Romano frowned, kept himself from saying anything else (anything stupid or embarrassing). He didn’t know whether to look at Spain or at the ground; his mind just kept racing back to the night after he’d gotten hurt plucking tomatoes from the vine, when he’d realized that maybe, maybe his injury had to do with the peninsula, with Italy.
Romano hadn’t felt any pain for his land before. Grandpa Rome had been the representation of Italy. Then Austria, then Spain. Never Romano. And Spain had always been sure to keep Romano unaware of the troubles occurring in Italy. Spain sort of had the right, considering he took on the brunt of the work in maintaining the land and fighting the wars.
It didn’t make sense for it to be a land-related issue, though. Spain wasn’t going to let Romano become an independent country anytime soon.
Still, Romano had always had that nagging thought at the back of his mind.
If Spain really was getting older or even weaker (Romano had never thought of it; he always saw Spain as this untouchable jerk boss), then, was that why Romano had been hurt? Was that why he’d ached so randomly in the field? Was something occurring south on the peninsula?
Was that why he’d been cut when Spain’s weapon clashed with France’s, even when Romano had not been in the way?
“I’m getting older as you get older. And even if I don’t tell you everything, it’s not because of you, I just want to keep you from having to do all this.” Spain gestured around him, as though it explained everything.
It didn’t. Because Spain was an idiot who didn’t trust Romano enough to tell him anything even though Romano was trustworthy. It wasn’t like he wanted Spain to fight for him or get hurt for him. He never told the bastard to do anything! So it was all Spain’s fault, once again.
As usual.
“You’re protecting me,” Romano stated flatly. His face felt warm, his heart was racing, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to hear.
“I don’t mean to make you feel like a little kid, even if you are my cute little Romano.”
It was, Romano realized, the first time he was feeling pain as a country and not just as a person (and he could name countless times where the squirrels in Spain’s house knocked over bookshelves so Romano would get hurt). What was happening to the land was affecting Romano for the first time in a long time.
Spain wasn’t taking the full brunt of the work anymore. He was getting older, weaker.
Romano saw Spain as many things. He was a terrible boss, an annoying person, someone who hugged too much and laughed when he shouldn’t have. But he wasn’t weak. He’d never been weak.
Spain was a world power. He was a kingdom where the sun always shined. He wasn’t. . . this.
Romano wouldn’t let him become whatever it was he was receding to. He wasn’t going to lose his idiot boss until he chose to.
“Y-you know.” Romano coughed a little, tried to think of something to say. The pain in his side ached and he just wanted Spain to carry him and then take care of him. Romano never had to take care of himself before, and if something were going to happen to Italy in the near future, he wouldn’t know what to do, how to survive without Spain.
Spain turned to look at Romano, and his eyes seemed so sad and distant and Romano was angry with himself for considering making Spain hurt more. It wasn’t the time, now. Maybe later. (Maybe never.) He didn’t want Spain to see how scared he was, and he didn’t want Spain to be scared, too.
(How much had Spain been shielding from him? How many battles had Spain gone through that Romano had never even heard? Spain’s bruises couldn’t have been from this fight. How much did Romano not know?)
“I can’t always do this, I can’t keep fighting.” Romano bit his lip because Spain wasn’t supposed to be sad; he was supposed to keep smiling and annoying everyone. “I’m never going to let you go.” And Spain’s face was so powerful, so passionate, that Romano shoved aside his discomfort and-
“I,” Romano swallowed, “I don’t think you’re too bad. A-as a boss, I mean.” His face was really warm and was it always so hot and it wasn’t necessary for Spain to be staring at him like this, he should stop. Fuck, this wasn’t what he wanted to say, he couldn’t say this, what was he thinking? “So I d-don’t, I don’t. . . hate you exactly.”
Spain’s smile was slow at first, but then it was wide and bright and it almost made Romano forget that his face was burning and his side felt like it was splitting open and his heart began to race at the look on Spain’s face (maybe he would try to be a little nicer, a little more often, if it made Spain react like this-n-not that he liked seeing the bastard happy, or anything). “That means a lot, Roma!”
And suddenly Spain was picking up Romano for a hug and Romano sucked in a pained breath (ohfuckohfuckohfuckstopstopstop) and tried to smile back but it probably looked like a grimace. Dear fucking God, it hurt! Taking a breath made him feel like his body was going to explode. But Spain probably hurt, too. “Shut up, stupid. I do hate you. You’re a dumbass who hugs people for no fucking reason!”
“Roma, Roma, Roma. . .” The bastard was laughing.
Romano shoved at Spain (how was Spain not in pain at that moment: he was hurt, too) and tried to ignore the light, bubbling feeling inside him that came because of Spain’s happy reaction. “Let me go, jerk!”
“Never!” Spain hugged Romano tighter, and, with Romano still in his arms, he started to walk again.
Romano sighed. He didn’t have the energy to get out of Spain’s arms. And he didn’t want to walk if Spain was going to carry him.
(He’d give Spain hell once they were back home again.)