Of Hide-and-Seeks [Hetalia / Spamano Story]

5

A few minutes had passed since Spain had taken off and Romano still found himself standing at the very same spot in the kitchen, listening intensively but catching nothing except for the rhythmic ticking of the clock and the boisterous throbbing behind his ribs. Both his breathing and his heart rate had sped up, as if his vital signs were attempting to flee the scene, too. Studying the brick wall beside him with a dolorous yet rabid stare, Romano longed to squeeze himself into the fine cracks that Spain's fist had created there, just until his heart had hushed and Romano would no longer be hounded by the uneasy question of whether Spain had become too weak to punch a hole into a wall or if he had simply held back. The Italian dearly hoped for the latter; they needed Spain's strength to tear down the rigid walls of lies surrounding them. Romano alone wouldn't be able to fight them through the labyrinth. He wasn't even able to have a reasonable conversation with Spain. All Romano had done was scream and swear and allow his wrath full bent...

"Damn you...!" he cursed forlornly. He had known ab initio that if he'd actually have the guts to unravel Spain's secret, a bitter end would be as sure as eggs being eggs. Continuing to play pretend hadn't been an option, though. Not when Spain's health and their relationship were at stake. Romano was daunted nonetheless because the idiot of a Spaniard refused to let him in, and Romano couldn't exactly blame him for that. He had never been an excellent soldier, had never developed great attack or defense skills. Not even on a diplomatic level could Romano shine. Otherwise, he wouldn't be standing here all alone. Why, just why, was he such a failure? What if he truly didn't have it in him to help Spain, and Spain just wanted to spare them the trouble and disappointment resulting from Romano's fruitless attempts?

The longer Romano thought about it, the more plausible his presumption became until he was totally confident that there couldn't be any other explanation for Spain's shielding. It was truly that simple, and having to accept this evoked a burning sensation in Romano's eyes.

In the ghostly silence of the house, the unremitting tick-tock of the clock sounded like big raindrops splattering on a well's water surface, and the antique walls radiated an invulnerability Romano envied. It was ironic, considering that the wall had gotten hit whereas he had been on the receiving end of a love confession. Yet, he was the one who had to wipe his stinging eyes with the back of his hand to prevent the birth of tears. Why couldn't Spain just come back inside, close his arms around Romano a little too long and too tight, and say that he was sorry? That from now on, he'd stop lying and start changing his eating behavior? If he really loved Romano, then why would he rather stick to his misery than enjoy three meals a day and a nap with pasta in Romano's company? Was a shared future with Romano not even worth a try?

"Come back, you bastard!" 'Come back and tell me what the hell is wrong with you and what we can do about it! Or have at least the balls to tell me I'm not strong enough to help you get through this...!' Romano's distraught gaze remained glued to the door until his upwelling tears threatened to distort the still life and his flight instinct kicked in. Without a concrete goal or plan, he stormed into the guestroom aka his old room, which was unbelievably shambolic for a room nobody lived in. On the floor, right in front of the bed, lay Romano's opened suitcase, spilling wrinkled clothing on the carpet and the chair under the window. Three hangers with elegant Armani shirts blocked the dark wardrobe's grips while two worn shirts and a pair of classic cloth pants had flocked together on the unmade bed, covering the rest of the dirty clothes Romano hadn't cared to put into the laundry basket. His pair of shiny brogue shoes stuck out under the bed while another pair of light leather shoes stood randomly by the door. Across the desk Romano hadn't occupied while working, his briefcase, his phone's charging cable, and his headphones were strewn. For some reason unknown to the Italian, a used glass and an empty plate could also be spotted on the desk panel, which had been spick and span yesterday, but was now covered in crumbs and dried soda splashes. Not even the curtains were properly closed or the desk chair neatly placed. In other words: everything was a complete mess. Not only Romano's room but also the kitchen and the living room where he had at least tried to be somewhat tidy.