At first, he had hated the man- that goofball with his silly smiles and his cheery voice and his smothering affection…His high expectations. No one had ever asked Romano for much. The young Italian had become pretty laid back from his lack of responsibility, and even when Spain had asked him to do the simplest of chores, Romano could honestly respond, “I don’t know how.” Of course his own personal laziness and defiant nature had played into it, though he preferred to hide behind convenient excuses. But Spain had wanted a lot out of him. And despite Romano’s initial reluctance, he was surprised to find that, at times, he actually wanted to make an effort to give it to him.
“Why should I care if that bastard is happy?” he had asked himself sometimes. All the Spaniard ever did was boss him around- clean this, wash that, take out the garbage, do the laundry, pick some tomatoes…Romano had never wanted to give into him at first. He had formed a list of automatic responses- “I don’t feel like it!” “Not now!” “I’ll do it later!” “I’m busy!” “I can’t…Don’t know how.” But Spain had always kept asking. He had never given up on the hope that Romano might serve him better someday, though the boy had never understood why. What made even less sense is why he continued to protect his charge when anyone would have told him Romano was useless. He remembered the conversation Spain had had with his boss after rescuing him from Turkey. She had been so upset with him for starting a war that they barely had the means to fight in.
“Why didn’t you just hand him over? He could have finally been of some use! Did you think of what Turkey guy might have paid?! While we’re in debt…”
“But I couldn’t! Romano is my special-!”
Spain would never stop defending him, no matter what anyone said. Romano remembered trying to wrap his head around the fact that someone had actually wanted him. That he was important to his Boss, worth something to him. “Special.”
After that, he had found it a lot harder to hate Spain, though he still put up a tough front. Aggression had always been his natural defense, and there was no kicking that habit. But Spain had seen a softer side to him already, and once in a while, when Romano let his guard down, he’d experience it again. Trust was hard-earned, but not impossible between them. During all those years, Spain had never stopped trying to get closer to him, and though their relationship was hard for some countries to understand, those that knew them best saw a bond built on the Spainard’s unconditional love and the Italian’s unyielding stubbornness. Romano’s reluctance to disarm himself had turned into determination to hold onto the only person that truly loved and accepted him.
But it hadn’t lasted.
Romano sniffed and cursed as the tears he had been fighting back all night finally escaped down his cheeks. At least no one could see him like this. Since the break-up, he had done his best to suppress his pain. It had been his choice, after all. It was better to be away from Spain than to be with him and watch him dote on his brother instead. But it still hurt…and all that bottled up emotion was coming close to overwhelming him. What he hated the most was that he still cared about the bastard. He still wanted to be near him, and he hated himself for that unwavering desire and the control it had over him. Let him have Veneziano! Since he likes his company so much better anyways. Bastard, bastard, bastard…You promised.
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Truth Be Told 12/?
(Anonymous) 2010-09-07 04:38 pm (UTC)(link)“Why should I care if that bastard is happy?” he had asked himself sometimes. All the Spaniard ever did was boss him around- clean this, wash that, take out the garbage, do the laundry, pick some tomatoes…Romano had never wanted to give into him at first. He had formed a list of automatic responses- “I don’t feel like it!” “Not now!” “I’ll do it later!” “I’m busy!” “I can’t…Don’t know how.” But Spain had always kept asking. He had never given up on the hope that Romano might serve him better someday, though the boy had never understood why. What made even less sense is why he continued to protect his charge when anyone would have told him Romano was useless. He remembered the conversation Spain had had with his boss after rescuing him from Turkey. She had been so upset with him for starting a war that they barely had the means to fight in.
“Why didn’t you just hand him over? He could have finally been of some use! Did you think of what Turkey guy might have paid?! While we’re in debt…”
“But I couldn’t! Romano is my special-!”
Spain would never stop defending him, no matter what anyone said. Romano remembered trying to wrap his head around the fact that someone had actually wanted him. That he was important to his Boss, worth something to him. “Special.”
After that, he had found it a lot harder to hate Spain, though he still put up a tough front. Aggression had always been his natural defense, and there was no kicking that habit. But Spain had seen a softer side to him already, and once in a while, when Romano let his guard down, he’d experience it again. Trust was hard-earned, but not impossible between them. During all those years, Spain had never stopped trying to get closer to him, and though their relationship was hard for some countries to understand, those that knew them best saw a bond built on the Spainard’s unconditional love and the Italian’s unyielding stubbornness. Romano’s reluctance to disarm himself had turned into determination to hold onto the only person that truly loved and accepted him.
But it hadn’t lasted.
Romano sniffed and cursed as the tears he had been fighting back all night finally escaped down his cheeks. At least no one could see him like this. Since the break-up, he had done his best to suppress his pain. It had been his choice, after all. It was better to be away from Spain than to be with him and watch him dote on his brother instead. But it still hurt…and all that bottled up emotion was coming close to overwhelming him. What he hated the most was that he still cared about the bastard. He still wanted to be near him, and he hated himself for that unwavering desire and the control it had over him. Let him have Veneziano! Since he likes his company so much better anyways. Bastard, bastard, bastard…You promised.