Author's Note: Yes, another World Cup fic. Just throwing my two cents in here.
Also, had to be a total jerk and completely destroy all of my line breaks TAT. So for anyone who has read my past fics I'm sorry if there's any confusion there, especially on Gravity. I will eventually re-upload those fics with NEW line breaks that hopefully wont take away from me, but it may not be for a while. So be patient! And I'm sorry, its not my fault!
When Spain finally dragged himself back to his house it was well past midnight. His whole body felt sore; his feet hurt from standing and dancing so much, his back hurt from being clapped so many times, and his cheeks hurt from the smile that still had not left his face. But it was a good sore. The kind of sore you felt right down to your bones when you had just made history.
After that goal had been scored, after the extra time met its match and ended, he had found himself swarmed by nations from all over. France and Prussia both tackled him to the ground, grinning like excited fools. Which they probably all were. But right then it didn't matter, what with everyone so happy. Even Holland had decided to ignore him instead of beating the shit out of him so that was a good thing too! Yet through all of the celebrations and general joy, there had been one nation he hadn't seen. One he was really hoping to, but it wasn't that surprising that he didn't show up.
His little Romano had never been a social person. Spain could remember back in the colony days when Romano would always eat by himself unless forced to do otherwise. But Roma was still Roma, and Spain adored him all the same! He just hoped that his old henchman was waiting for him. Surely Romano would want to congratulate his old boss. And maybe they could… Spain blushed, which wasn't helping his already adrenalin-high heartbeat. No, Roma didn't feel like that about him like that he was sure! Positively sure. Oh, but wouldn't it be nice if he did
He sighed deeply, the blush on his cheeks subsiding as he neared his door. It wasn't good to think about things that made him sad. His team had just won the World Cup! He had every reason to be happy. And that feeling bubbled up inside of him as he opened the door to his home, "Roma "
No answer. Once again he sighed but put on a happy face because, honestly, who wouldn't be happy But as he stepped into the living room a speeding ball of Italian rage tackled him to the ground.
"R-Roma " So Romano was there after all, "Why do you look so mad at me And why did you tackle Boss That hurt!"
"Shut up jackass!" Romano grabbed his shirt, pulling him up to his scowling face, "Do you know how many times you missed !"
"Well, I wasn't playing Romano, so technically I didn't-"
"You know what I mean idiot!" Romano seemed really angry this time. And he didn't even do anything!
"Roma…" he gave his best kicked-puppy look, "I couldn't help it! You saw how much the Dutch team was…was…" For maybe the first time in his life, something clicked for Spain, "…Were you rooting for me Romano "
The resulting blush on the Italian's face could bring down mountains with its cuteness, at least according to one certain Spaniard's vision, "I…! I…! Of course I wasn't bastard!" Quick as, well, an escaping Italian Romano shot up, crossing his arms and flashing him a scowl, "All that adrenalin must have gone to your head! There is no way that I would ever- Hey, what the hell are you doing?"
As Romano stood up Spain had caught the briefest flash of red. And he just had to investigate. Crouching on his knees he tried to lift Romano's shirt.
"Just checking something Roma. I'll only be a second!"
If possible Romano blushed even harder and he attempted to slap the invading hand away, "Wh-what the hell? Get away from me you bastard pervert!"
But the Word-Cup-winning Spaniard was not to be deterred. As fast as he could he worked his way around Romano's defenses and lifted his shirt-
To reveal a jersey. A red jersey. A Spanish red jersey.
His whole face brightened, and he drifted his gaze up to Romano who looked like he was mentally cursing either Spain or himself, "Oh, Roma~!"
"Sh-shut up you b-bastard! It doesn't mean anything dammit!"
Romano's cries fell on deaf ears as Spain cuddled him. He was even happier then he had been an hour ago… two hours ago… happier then he was when he saw that ball go through the goal and hit the net.
Because his knew now that his team had scored that goal. And they had done it white his little Roma was rooting for him.
Maybe it was the fresh wave of adrenalin rushing through his veins, maybe it was his heart beating like a rolling crowd inside his chest. Or maybe it was the sight of Romano wearing the bright red colors of Spain, his colors. Whatever it was, sooner then later he found himself lip-to-lip with Romano, engaging him in a passionate kiss.
It was perfect, not too forceful or two soft. Romano tasted like heat, tomatoes and sun; it was all of his wildest dreams coming alive to tango across every one of his senses. He worked over Romano's lips for at least twenty five seconds before he realized two things. One, Romano wasn't pushing him away or calling him a bastard. Two, Romano was actually kissing back. Testing the waters he put a hand on Romano's back, pulling them even closer. Romano kept kissing him, and on more then one occasion Spain could feel their tongues dancing together, if only for a moment or two.
When the need for air become apparent Spain pulled back, still holding Romano close, "R-Roma I-!"
Romano grabbed his shirt, scowling more then ever, "If you don't do that again I'm going to snap your goddamned neck!" And once again their lips were tangling together in an awkward rush of passion and desperation and joy. While Spain rubbed slow circles into Romano's back and his Italian deepened this kiss so that there was more then just a fleeting taste of the other's tongue, there was only one coherent thought running through his extremely enthralled mind.
I should win the World Cup more often…