AN: Aiyah, so it's been a while...I've actually written like a shitload of Hetalia fics but NEVER FINISHED THEM DB -crai-

I know this is short, and I had...other stuff attached, but my friends keep going "JUST POST WHAT YOU HAVE, GOD" and I'm always like "BUT I HAVEN'T FINISHED THE CHAPTER DAMMIT" and then they slap me, sooooo...whatever. My face is more precious now that I have a chicken man. |D

Yeah. Multi-chap. I know, right? 8'D Will be Spamano...and I hope I can actually keep writing this, hurr...enjoy.

EDIT: Has been lengthened.


tarantism: an alleged and possibly deadly envenomation consistent with mass psychogenic illness.

a dancing disease.

Shit. This was bad.

No, no, it wasn't as bad as –


okay, no, it was.

Seriously. Shit. Jesus, why did the fucking toilet seat cover have to be so loud when he dropped it?

Lovino clenched his fists to stop them from trembling as he crouched on the seat. It didn't work. As usual. But it was okay, really, because he had locked himself in one of the stalls in the men's bathroom, called his sister to come and get him ("Ve, should I bring Ludwi –" "NO." "But he can help – !" "No means no, Feli! There's no fucking way I'm letting the potato-bastard anywhere near me!" ) and all he could do now was wait for her text saying that she was outside so that he could get the fuck out of this place. Nothing bad would happen to him, nothing was going to blow up in his face, and most importantly, no one would ever fucking know that Lovino Vargas had just had a fit in the middle of the dairy section at the grocery store.

He shuddered as his arm twitched uncontrollably, hitting the side of the stall with a muted thump. Next would be his legs, convulsing of their own free will until he fell off the toilet seat if he hadn't braced himself against the walls first. It was the most disgusting, despicable thing he'd ever known, the thing he hated most about himself. And Feliciana couldn't get here quick enough.

As the next series of shivers hit him, he heard the door swing open and someone (presumably a man. Ha ha) walked in, whistling a bright tune and sounding as corny as something out of an eighties sitcom. Not that he watched eighties sitcoms, dammit. You know. Only sometimes. It was fucking boring staying indoors all day and the TV had nothing else on, geez. Not like he had actually enjoyed them, or something equally pansy and gay. Fuck no.

He inwardly cursed the man for coming in, biting his lip and clutching his shaking arms close to his body. If he flailed out and hit something, the man would know something was up. He would ask what was wrong; unless he was an unbelievable dickface who just didn't care, which Lovino really, really hoped he was; and the Italian would have nothing to say. "I dropped something," might be a good answer, but the only thing he had to drop was his Blackberry, which he was definitely not letting anywhere near that disgusting, sodden, toilet-paper-covered floor, and his Armani wallet, which he also –

Which was not in his coat pocket.

Shit! Where the fu – oh. Oh, Holy Mother of Christ, of all the places he had to have an attack

No, wait, it was in his pants pocket. Alright then. He still wasn't going to drop it on that fucking floor.

Using one hand to grip his hair and the other to brace against his leg, the Italian waited, teeth gritted, for the man to leave.

Fucking grocery stores. He was never setting foot in one again.

Lovino remembered now. Dairy isle, cheeses. He had been scowling at the refrigerated shelves, bemoaning the fact that his grandfather was setting up an alliance with that Swiss weirdo with the huge sister complex, resulting in him having to actually buy cheese since his own idiot sister was off with her, ugh, fiancé.

He'd been seriously contemplating the thought of setting fire the entire place because where the fuck was the fondue, dammit, when he'd felt the tingling in his fingertips – and then it came so suddenly he barely had time to put the cheddar wedge he'd been considering back on the shelf before his body took over jerkily, much to his unbelieving horror. Lovino had dragged himself, somehow, to the bathroom, every pair of curious eyes a burning imprint on his skin, humiliation swallowing him and making itself known in every hitched breath, every uncontrollable twist of his limbs. God, he was such an idiot, thinking – actually thinking that he could handle this. Thinking that the problem was gone after just two weeks. Thinking that the doctors had actually diagnosed him properly this time. A choked gasp escaped from his mouth – no, it was not a sob, dammit, he was not crying over this – as he burst into the men's room and staggered into a stall, fumbling to click the lock in place before standing there, still except for the occasional spasms that shook up his legs.

And then the phone had suddenly appeared in his hand and he was dialling, fighting to keep his voice steady as his sister's voice grew increasingly louder and more concerned, and then, of course, the inevitable toilet seat that came crashing down, and, and now –

A flush, more happy whistling, and Lovino finally let out a sigh of relief. At least one of his problems was gone, or at least in the middle of leaving. The tap squeaked to life, and the Italian's hands decided to choose that moment to ignore his efforts to still them, slamming violently into the wall of the stall.

He let out an uncontrollable yelp, pain exploding in his knuckles. His legs jerked, forming their own terrible dance, and he slipped sideways off the seat at the sudden movement, landing hard on the despicably wet tiles amidst flailing limbs.

The whistling stopped mid-tune.


It had been something of a slow day for Antonio, but then again, he didn't mind taking things slow. More pressure from his aunt, as usual, but he couldn't care less and waved off her nagging by saying something about going to the grocery store for tomatoes – which was complete and utter bullshit, of course – everyone knew the Carriedo household had an overabundance of the plant in their ah, backyard, so to speak. Most likely he'd end up buying his own products at the store, they were that famous.

Still, it definitely wasn't tomatoes that had paid for the shiny red Ferrari parked out the front of the manor. Antonio had often wondered whether it would be the smartest option to drive the glaringly sexy beast down a normal street, let alone leave it in the dirty old parking lot next to tired-looking Accords and Camrys as he went to stock up on fruit-vegetable-things he didn't even need. Then again, he didn't think anyone would really dare; he was, after all, a Carriedo. In any case, no one had done anything yet, and the car was definitely the last of his worries these days.

Things like that didn't really bother him often.

So in all cheerfulness, Antonio had walked into the grocery store in search of his tomates hermosos, content to maybe buy some ingredients for making churros as well in an attempt to appease his aunt. Nothing else.

As it so happened, the need to go to the bathroom led to a rather interesting encounter.

Antonio paused in the act of turning the tap off at the loud commotion coming from one of the stalls and the string of curses that followed. A few beats of silence, and then the tapping and thudding started up again – and if he strained his ears, he could hear a soft whimper with each bang.

Well. This could easily be an awkward situation.

It wasn't exactly curiosity that made him do it. Okay, that was a complete lie – curiosity was really the only reason why he bothered to stop in the first place. People didn't usually make...that kind of noise in public restrooms. It sounded like whoever was in there was repeatedly kicking the sides of the stall, or else just stomping really, really hard.

And, well. Since when did the Antonio Fernandez Carriedo turn down a chance for an, ah, adventure, so to speak?

Cautiously, he stalked towards the closed door as the thuds lulled, heavy breathing the only sound in the bathroom. Huh, it had stopped, but...

Antonio smiled brightly at nothing in particular and knocked. "Is there something wrong?"

"No!" Lovino hissed, hating the way his voice cracked slightly. Ugh. There was a wet patch spreading across his jeans already, and it was gross. He stood gingerly, rubbing his head where it had knocked against the cistern as he'd slid onto the ground. "N-nothing's wrong, just go away."

"Really?" The voice sounded unusually cheerful for someone who was trying to seem worried. "I heard some loud noises, are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm okay. I, um. Fell. Off the toilet seat. Yeah." Lovino winced at his hesitant excuse. "Because I, uh. Dropped this..." He rifled through his pocket quickly, unwilling to use either of the aforementioned items as a reason. "...this, uh, coin. Yeah, this coin."

There was a silence wherein the Italian mentally smacked himself numerous times whilst screaming profanities in his native tongue in an attempt to diffuse the obviousness of his stupidity. What the fuck was that? Who in their right mind would believe that kind of bullshi

"Oh, okay!" The man's voice, if possible, seemed to grow even happier. What. The fuck. It had actually worked? It continued on in a bright, senseless gush of words. "I guess I'll wait out here, then, just in case you drop something else and need my help!"

Lovino almost choked on his own spit. No. No. His problem was supposed to leave, not hang around to be some obnoxious retard. Some obnoxiously cheerful retard who was obviously taking a jab at his idiocy. Goddamn sarcasm. "No, I don't think I need your help. I think you can leave. I really think so." He was unable to keep the annoyance out of his tone in the last sentence – good, maybe that'd repel the freak outside.

"But what if something else happens? It would be better if someone were here, si?"

Ugh, so insistent. And smooth, almost lilting with the deep accent – but no, what the hell was he thinking? No. He was definitely not checking out some random guy's voice while in a public restroom. He didn't even like guys. Yeah, he totally never checked out the cute pizza delivery dudes that frequented those stupid German bastards when they weren't stuffing themselves with wurst. Jesus. Like Feliciana (or him – not that he'd want to. Psht.) couldn't make them much nicer, healthier, authentic Italian food. Assholes.

"No need, really," he tried. "There's...really, no..."

"I'm Antonio, by the way!" he continued mindlessly, seeming to lean against the door with a soft thump. "I really like tomatoes, do you like tomatoes? Tomatoes are Hermosa. And so delicious, si?"

...Okay, this man was either seriously high or seriously gay. And Spanish. Probably all three.

"I grow them in my metaphorical backyard. Heh, I just learnt that word yesterday! It's a funny word, metaphorical; don't you think so, uh...hey, I don't know your name. What's your name?"

"I'm not going to fucking tell you my name, bastardo!" he practically snarled, collapsing back on the seat. Oh, hell, he was stuck with an absolute psycho. In a public restroom. Where he'd just had a fit. And of course he had to repeat it. Those kinds of traumatic things were hard to take in, God. "I don't care about your stupid tomatoes either! They're disgusting!"

That was a lie. Of spontaneous proportions. Lovino loved tomatoes – especially the ones in this particular grocery store. He'd been planning to stock up as soon as he'd finished with the Mr Trigger-happy's solid milk supply. Carrida or something; was that the name of the brand? Did tomatoes even have a brand? Whatever, this Spanish asshole was not going to know.

"That's not true!" the man whined. There was a light thump, and he stared in vehemence and the door that was obviously being leaned on. What the fuck, like it was his right to be here. Which it was, technically, since it was a public restroom and all, but Lovino didn't want him here, okay!

"Whatever! Just…" He scrubbed at his face, growling as he considered the situation. Okay. So...he could easily say that nothing was wrong, apart from like, clumsiness that bordered on abject stupidity over a coin; yeah, totally. "You don't have to stay, nothing's wrong. Go get some tomatoes or something." He could just walk out now. Yes. Yes, he could. He reached over the closed seat for the flush button.


Ohdearheavensyes, it was Feliciana, wasn't it, his sister was here, and yes, he could finally get out of here! Stupid bastard just had to leave and he could get out of here in dignity and no one would know

Beep. "Argh, mio dio, I'm coming, coming…"

Wait. What.

"What?" The man growled, and it was such a dangerously pleasant growl, one that sent unthinking shivers trembling down his spine. And – Lovino felt like slapping himself – when had his ringtone been so gay-sounding? Nuh-uh, there was no way his sister had changed it back to the one he'd used back when he was still a lame-ass kid – it had been cool in those days, Jesus. "You really can't handle it on your own? Fine, I'm coming now." Deep, dangerous and angry. And still a growl. Lovino took a deep breath just as the snap of a shutting phone sounded and his attention was jolted back to the faceless Spaniard behind the door. Shit, no, he still wasn't checking out the man's voice. He really wasn't.

"I have to go now, stranger!" It was back to chirpy, not even a strained undertone disturbing the rich tune. Lovino swore he'd learn how to do that…someday. It would be useful in future grocery-store-esque situations, when he was trying to calm Feliciana down over the phone even while his limbs were throwing themselves against the walls. "Careful not to drop anything else! You don't want to fall again…"

"I'll be fine, thank you," he ground out. Was he still going on about this? The Italian glared at the whitewashed door, sorely tempted to just kick it open and deal whoever the fuck was out there with lasting damage to their face. And he would make sure to specifically target their voice box. Hah, see if you can sound sexy and Spanish now, bastardo!

"Ah, then adios! I might see you if you come around to this grocery store more often. I hear they sell the most delicious tomatoes, si! You should try them. They probably aren't as disgusting as you think." The laugh infuriated Lovino more than anything – so what if he hated tomatoes (not). Why was this asshole trying to force it down his throat, huh? He didn't like to think about that – didn't like to think about his grandfather and his ideals – even if it was just tomatoes and even if it was just a stranger, and even though he'd just had a fit in the middle of the dairy fucking isle, he…shit.

Shit, no. He'd gone too far. Stupid train of thoughts. This was not happening. He was not thinking about this, he wasn't –

The man began to whistle again. It drilled into his ears, the light sound of footsteps clacking away on hard tiles drawing him out of…whatever that was. It wasn't anything, he insisted to himself, hand inching towards the flush button as the door to the men's room swung shut, cutting the cheerful tune off and leaving him alone on a toilet seat. Not anything, just a weirdo with a Spanish accent who had said something that had made Lovino think of something else.

Yeah, no – buzz – was that his phone?

…Yes, it was his phone, yes! Finally; he didn't even care if Feli had dragged her stupid German potato along, just as long as he could get out of here; Lovino fished his Blackberry out, eyes flicking in relief to the screen, mouth stretched in a grin of wicked rapture, where he saw flashing in bright colours –

Your phone is on less than ten percent battery.

oh, fuck.

AN: ...the ending was typed up in like ten minutes. -sob- Expect more, but not soon...