UNEXPECTED IDIOCY

In the heat of summer, in a dark room, in two matching uncomfortable plastic chairs, two men had scooted close together, too close for comfort, and appeared to be in a heated discussion. But to tell the truth, it sounded more like an argument than otherwise. One of the men possessed an inhumanly bushy pair of eyebrows; the other possessed equally eye-catching blond hair that reached down to his shoulders. They were a very animated pair, although they were by no means friends. At least by appearances.

The two whispered under their breath—a very urgent conversation.

"You stupid git. This isn't going to work if they KNOW what's going on."

"Mais mon cher, who said they were going to know? Things can be secret dans l'amour..."

"Don't look at me with that damn face and tell me what you're planning! Or I'm never talking to you again, frog—"

"Oh, you and your idle threats, Arthur. Remind me why you're here again..."

The man called Arthur suddenly blushed a deep, unmanly red and was grateful for the darkness. "Y-you're NOT going to mention that, Francis, you—you bloody little—" he spluttered. "You know I'm tired of seeing their damn sexual tension at all the world meetings—"

"Bien sûr, bien sûr," drawled Francis in obvious sarcasm. "We'll talk about your request later, oui."

"AGH!"

"Quoi—"

"You bloody frog!"

"Cher ami, I am very far from green and covered in red liquid right now (in fact, I am beautiful). It must simply be the darkness getting to your eyes. Oh, mon pauvre petit Arthur... Don't worry, as soon as we finish this business we'll be out of here. Worry not, Monsieur Sourcils!"

"I hate you." Arthur introduced his face to the table; it was a none-too-friendly encounter. "So what the hell are we doing anyway?"

A gleam came into Francis' eye, visible even in the near-stifling darkness. The Frenchman leaned forward (eliciting a very panicked reaction from Arthur's end) and began detailing his diabolical plans.

"All right, so this is how it works... at the next world meeting..."

Lovino Fucking Vargas was having a Very Unpleasantly Shitty Day.

Of course, he had known some regular Shitty Days (lots of them), and Extremely Unpleasantly Shitty Days, and even some Do Not Fucking Go There Shitty Days (which were best not mentioned, on pain of death). Today was still a bad day, though. And why, you ask?

Because Lovino Fucking Vargas was single.

No, wait! Fuck! Screw that, the correct terminology was "alone and without company." Professional and detached and utterly meaningless, that was the shit. Much like his own life on days like this, when the sun came up too early and it just so happened to be a dumb world meeting day to which, of course, his boss had forced him to go.

Lovino had long since arrived at the meeting hall, but spent most of his time loitering in the lobby instead of going upstairs. When his watch beeped and he saw that he was five minutes from being late, he leapt up the stairs two at a time. If only something had happened to that damn stairwell—then he'd have a valid excuse to ditch and go back home. World meetings were all but useless; no one got anything productive done, and all Lovino could expect, anyway, were arguments upon arguments.

He was happy to say that he often participated in some of them, passionately and with Italian zeal.

Whatever that was supposed to mean.

There was only one thing—or person—he was looking forward to seeing, because this one person made everything much more bearable, and that was Antonio.

Antonio Fernández Carriedo, the Spaniard just across the block, country-wise.

The conference room was, as he'd expected, incredibly crowded and noisy even as he stepped in, gracing them all with his badass presence. No one quieted down, though—such fucking disrespect!—and Lovino silently went to find himself a seat, squeezing in between his very jumpy brother Feliciano and the stoic Potato Bastard Ludwig Beilschmidt.

"Fratello!" Feliciano cried, obviously very happy to see him and also very disappointed upon being separated from his German bodyguard. But it was necessary—they were too fucking cheerful together. They did not belong together. The sad truth, that was. And thus someone was needed to make sure nothing out of the ordinary could happen between them.

Lovino Vargas, cockblock extraordinaire, had arrived on the scene.

But the scene was still incomplete. The Italian's eyes darted around the room, seeking out a familiar face with messy brown hair and green eyes, but found none. He frowned and looked harder, even scoured the area around a certain annoying Frenchman and the Potato Bastard Number Two, unofficially known as Gilbert (why he crashed these meetings every time was one of the world's unsolved mysteries). But there was no aggravating, cheerful Spaniard in sight.

And something was different today. Normally the two assholes would be up and about, looking for hapless countries to jump and scare just for the heck of it. They did that all the time. But today they were quiet and their faces were the most dolorous he had ever seen.

Something was wrong here.

Ten seconds later, Lovino was beginning to get desperate.

So he got up (reluctantly sacrificing his brother to that horrid potato bastard), yanked Francis' hair to stop him from feeling Arthur up, and hissed, "What the hell did you do with Antonio?"

Not that he was worried, of course. Sexy—cough—stupid Spaniards could take care of themselves well enough (and that made a lot of sense)! And it wasn't as though Lovino actually had a good reason to ask after the man's well-being—no, not at all.

But the look Francis gave him was much more knowing than he would have preferred. In fact it simply reeked of "I know exactly what you're thinking, you like that bastard." Lovino wasn't going to stand for any of that, no sir.

"I fucking asked you a question. Answer it," he growled, and Francis complied, but only after a long, drawn-out moment.

It seemed everyone was out to piss Lovino off today.

To his surprise the Frenchman sighed—a long, drawn-out sigh. He looked like he had grown gray hairs overnight; or maybe that was just his old age.

"I'm afraid... Monsieur Espagne isn't quite well at the moment..."

"WHAT!?" shouted the Italian, barely raising the attention of the other brawling nations. "What the hell do you mean? He was fine a few days ago when I called him and he called back and—fuck—never mind. What's wrong with him!?"

Francis shook his head. "He... he fell sick. You know how his economy is, and such... It was bad enough that he couldn't come here today, the poor man..."

Lovino felt like he might explode.

This couldn't be.

This couldn't be happening.

Not happy-go-lucky, funny, goofy, stupid Antonio.

"Tell me where he is," he said in a low, dangerous voice. "Tell me right now."

"I—" Francis was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a voice clearing (it just so happened to be Russia) and fell silent. "I'll tell you later, mon cher. Just wait, oui?"

And so an infuriatingly worried Lovino passed the rest of the meeting in moody, tortured silence.

Where the fuck could the man be? And why hadn't he told Lovino he was sick? Dio, he was going to kill the tomato bastard when he saw him—not literally, but whatever. How could he even think for a moment that other people wouldn't find out and worry—get angry? Dammit.

Antonio was so going to get hell from him for this...

Then at last, mercifully, Russia called an end to the meeting. Lovino promptly leapt from his seat and barreled into Francis right before he could leave the room.

"Tell me," he repeated.

Solemnly Francis took out a piece of paper and scribbled on it, before pressing it into Lovino's hand, along with a small, cold, hard something.

"Here."

"Huh?" said a very confused Lovino, staring at the object in his hand. "How the fuck do you have his key?"

Francis shrugged. "We exchange them all the time. It's something amis do."

The Italian stared at it some more, and then stared at the Frenchman.

Less than a minute later he had bolted through the door. The sound of his footsteps could be heard echoing across the hallway and down to the stairs.

In his rush, Lovino had not seen Francis nudge Arthur significantly, nor did he hear the latter man's reluctant little grumble.

"You promised, oui," said Francis cheerfully, pausing to text a certain someone.

The Englishman sighed.

"All right."

It was amazingly cold outside (after all, it was Russia), and it was snowing rather hard; but he had a coat and he was running like lightning. And his increasingly worried thoughts had pushed all else out of his mind. Lovino stumbled through the snow-covered streets, passing dangerous-looking Russians and dangerously unfamiliar Russian street signs, referring to Francis' directions with some difficulty and much frustration. The Frenchman needed to stop writing like a girl. And this entire place needed to stop being a maze and just let a fucking Italian find his fucking Spaniard.

At length, still trying to find his way, Lovino began to get the nagging feeling that someone was following him. Slowing down to a brisk walk, he stopped to scan his surroundings in a shop window. Some distance behind him was a short, suspicious-looking man dressed in black, with his hat pulled down, who had also stopped to observe the buildings.

Lovino suddenly had a strong hunch.

He seized his opportunity when a small group of tourists passed by, and slipped in among them before darting around the corner and down the next street. An apartment complex loomed above him, the numbers now familiar—they were the same as those Francis had written for him.

With more than a little trepidation Lovino went inside and stepped into the elevator.

First floor...

Third floor...

Fifth floor.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened.

He looked at the paper again. Room 5C, it was. C for Carriedo, Lovino thought, and he would have snorted with laughter, except the urgency of the situation stopped him. Very slowly he made his way down the corridor and paused before the third room. His hand hovered over the door for a moment; then he knocked.

"A-Antonio? Are you in there?"

There was a short silence, and then a familiar voice sounded.

"Lovi...? That's you, isn't it...? I-I didn't know you were coming..."

Oh God, he sounded so weak... Lovino's heart suddenly ached; all the angry things he had planned to say had vanished into thin air, and he had to lean against the door for support.

"Don't get up. I have a key... the French bastard gave it to me. I'm coming in, all right?"

Without waiting for a reply he turned the key in the doorknob and went inside.

The room was dark; Antonio hadn't bothered to turn on the lights, and Lovino did so now. But it didn't help much; he could still barely see as it was. Everything was quiet, too quiet, and the air was almost stifling. The Italian trembled with something resembling fright and worry. What exactly had made the Spaniard so sick that he'd had to retreat into darkness and solitude? It couldn't be anything too serious. It just couldn't be. Lovino's heart pounded harder as he slowly took a step forward, and then another, toward the bedroom where Antonio was.

"Antonio? Are you... are you all right?"

Suddenly a click sounded behind him and he turned sharply—just in time to see the dark-clothed man from earlier push the door shut.

"Hey!" shouted the Italian and leapt to the door, grabbing the doorknob and twisting it.

The door wouldn't open.

The man had somehow locked him inside.

"What the fuck!? What are you—let me out!" He pounded on the door, but to no avail. There came a grating noise from outside: the man had dragged out a chair and barricaded the entrance.

"You fucking asshole!" Lovino hissed. "I don't know who the hell you are, but once I get out there I'll rip your head off!"

There was a low, unrecognizable laugh from the man, and then Lovino could hear him get up and walk away. But not for long—the man suddenly seemed to trip, and he hit the ground with a thud.

"Bloody hell!"

Lovino froze.

That voice.

He knew that voice.

He could recognize it anywhere.

"ARTHUR!"

"—No, Lovino, this is just a figment of your imagination. You're only hearing things, love—"

"It was you! What the actual fuck—get me OUT of here! I'm going to cut off your balls, I swear—"

"I don't think you'll be doing that anytime soon," laughed the Englishman. "Have fun with your Spaniard."

And he walked off, leaving a very helpless, furious, trapped Lovino to stew over his bad luck. The Italian cursed some more and banged futilely on the door.

That would make one more man on his already very long black list.

"L-Lovi? What's wrong?"

Shit.

He'd almost forgotten about Antonio.

"Nothing," he muttered, as Arthur could be bothered with later. Then, taking a deep breath, he went into the room before he could stop himself.

His heart nearly broke when he saw the Spaniard.

Antonio lay on the bed in a sad state. His hair was unkempt, those green eyes of his looked utterly exhausted, and he could barely muster a grin—a forlorn little shadow of his usually sunny smiles.

"Lovi... i-it's nice to see you again."

"Antonio," he whispered, and rushed over to the bed. Very softly he put a hand on the Spaniard's forehead. "What the hell happened to you?"

A small, weak laugh.

"I... I guess I just caught a cold," Antonio said quietly. "It's not much... I'll be all right..."

"You stupid bastard. Why didn't you take better care of yourself, dammit? And why didn't you fucking tell me?"

"... I didn't want you to worry..."

Antonio struggled to sit up, and Lovino hurriedly helped him lean against his pillows. But he was still frustrated.

"I told you not to work so hard, you idiot."

"Lo siento... I won't anymore."

Antonio reached forward and patted his hand lightly.

The touch was gentle, but unexpected. Lovino almost jerked back in shock, and he could feel his face warm for some inexplicable reason. Suddenly leaving the room seemed in order, especially since staying would mean looking directly into those unnervingly beautiful green eyes.

"I—I'll get you something, sì?" he said hurriedly, and made to get up, but Antonio's hand closed around his and stopped him.

"It's all right... I only need you," he whispered, and the Italian was fucking grateful for the dimness, because he could swear his face had turned red as a tomato.

"Are you sure?"

"Sí, of course."

They sat in silence for several minutes, Lovino feeling the warmth of Antonio's hand and stubbornly refusing to meet the Spaniard's eyes. He was comfortable—but he wouldn't admit it, not for a million euros.

"... Lovi, can you do something for me?" Antonio asked suddenly.

The Italian was finally forced to look at him.

"Sì, what is it?"

"... Can you..."

There was a pause. Lovino quickly grew impatient.

"What, Antonio?"

"... Kiss me?"

The Italian's heart stopped short for the longest moment as he stared at the Spaniard.

He had not just said that.

He had not.

There was no way, absolutely no way.

No fucking way.

"Che!?"

"I heard kisses make sick people feel better, so... can you kiss me, Lovi?"

Antonio's eyes were rather pleading, and right when he saw them Lovino knew he was a goner.

He couldn't do this.

He couldn't.

No—

Very slowly he leaned closer, aiming for the Spaniard's cheek. Yes, that was probably what he meant anyway—the guy barely knew how to woo anyone; in fact, people tried wooing him instead (and met with Italian wrath).

Lovino tried to breathe.

Just a little closer, he would touch that cute little cheek for a split second, and then it would all be over...

But of course Antonio had not had that in mind.

The Italian was one nanometer away from his face when the Spaniard turned, his lips lightly brushing Lovino's.

Instantly Lovino panicked and tried to pull away, but Antonio reached out and stopped him and didn't break the kiss. It was soft and rather pleasant, but Lovino's heart hammered and he felt like he might pass out at any second. Still, it seemed like forever before they separated.

Antonio regarded him happily.

"Gracias, Lovi... I feel better already!"

Lovino stared at him, speechless.

A moment ago the Spaniard had still looked awfully tired and unhappy and not well in the least. Now he was simply glowing, his eyes shining with laughter and that familiar cheerful smile taking over his face again.

He didn't look sick at all.

And suddenly it dawned on Lovino.

"You tricked me!" he shrieked, launching himself at Antonio. "What the hell! You and Francis and Arthur—you were all in on this together, weren't you!? You're such—such idiots—mmph!"

To his surprise he found Antonio on top of him, silencing him with another kiss. The Spaniard grinned mischievously.

"It was all in good fun, though, don't you agree, Lovi?"

"Fuck you," growled the still-irate Italian.

"That would be great, sì~!"

"You're such an ass."

"Well, I'm your ass—wait, that doesn't make sense. How can I be your ass? Loviiii—" whined Antonio. "If I'm your ass, then I have to touch myself when you tell me to touch your ass! That's not fun—!"

"You really are sick," muttered Lovino matter-of-factly, before pulling him down for another, long-awaited kiss.

In a house far across the city of Moscow, two men sat in darkness, listening to a tape recorder play out certain dialogues between a certain Italian and Spaniard.

One of them laughed triumphantly.

"Looks like everything worked out, eh, mon cher?"

The other raised his bushy eyebrows.

"Like hell it did. And I'm still expecting something from you, you frog."

"Oh! Our date, you mean."

"Shut up."

"Not a date? Then a healthy little dose of amour from the beautiful moi?"

"Sh-shut the hell up, you git—"

"—So, how about it? Your place or mine?"

"... Mine."

FIN

Translations (French unless otherwise indicated parce que je parle français ohonhon~)

Mais mon cher - but my dear

Dans l'amour - in love

Bien sûr - of course

Quoi - what

Cher ami - dear friend

Mon pauvre petit Arthur - my poor little Arthur

Monsieur Sourcils - Mister Eyebrows

Fratello (Italian) - Brother

Monsieur Espagne - Mister Spain

Mon cher - my dear

Oui - yes

Amis - friends

Lo siento (Spanish) - I'm sorry

Che (Italian) - what

Gracias (Spanish) - thank you