AN: I needed to write some Spamano to get it out of my system so I can go back to writing the awully slow burn in Tight Rope :) So I wrote this. I don't even know what it's supposed to be. Fluffy? Fun? Sweet? Sexy? A little bit of everything? Who knows? Not me ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Now, before starting with the story, a clarification: the story is set in two time periods, present day and 17th century (the peak of the Spanish Empire). When it's set in the latter, Romano is older than in canon; I'd say fifteen-ish in human years.

And that's it, hope you like it! n_n

EDIT: purenguyening not only suggested a new title (bloody titles are my Achilles heel :'D) but also drew me a lovely fanart that you can (and should) check out. Link on my profile ;)

RABBIT OF HAPPINESS

Looking back, I'm not sure what drove me to Spain that night.

I think I might have had a nightmare, and maybe Belgium (though that wasn't her name back then) wasn't around to comfort me. Perhaps I was feeling lonely and wanted one of Spain's strong hugs, which were suffocating and a breath of fresh air at the same time.

Maybe I just wanted to be with him because I had finally accepted that he did care a lot about me — about me, and not about my resources or whatever made other European superpowers set their eyes on me.

Either way, it was late in the night when I found myself at his bedroom's door, nervously fidgeting with my clothes. I remember thinking that the bastard would surely be deep asleep, that he wouldn't hear me and I'd have to leave emptyhanded.

I knocked on the door, the sound reverberating in the dark corridor, and much to my surprise, Spain opened the door only seconds later.

"Who the f—" he started to curse as he emerged, but fell quiet when his gaze landed on me, his frown deepening in confusion before relaxing into a warmer expression. "Ah, Romano. What is it?"

I didn't answer right away, choosing to look at him instead. He was still wearing his day clothes, although reduced to the bare minimum: a loose button-up shirt and dark trousers, plus some mud-stained boots that had left a trail on the floor. His long hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, and there were heavy bags under his eyes. Behind him, I could see the faint light of the candles on his desk, illuminating piles of paper.

"You're overworking yourself again," I finally said.

He blinked as he processed my words; then smiled.

Spain always has a smile for me. Even back then, when just the mention of his name made Europe quiver, when the mere sight of his coat of arms made France and England shit their pants, when he wielded a halberd twice my height as if it were an extension of his arm — even then, he always had smiles to spare when I was around. It took me much longer than I'm proud to admit to realize that he needed me as much as I needed him; that I kept him sane when half of the world was under his control and the other half was his enemy.

"I think I am, yes," he admitted easily. "It's a good thing I have you here to worry over me, then," he added, his grin widening.

I don't remember, but I'm certain I blushed. Spain has always been good at that, making me blush.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" he asked then.

I might have shrugged again, or I might have told him. Either way, he invited me in and we ended up on his bed, him sat against the headboard and me cuddled on his lap. I tucked my head in the crook of his neck and he buried his fingers in my hair, massaging my scalp.

And I'd never felt more loved or wanted than right then, when Spain forgot about his paperwork without a second thought just to hold and comfort me.

I called his name softly; he hummed in reply.

"I like it here with you," I confessed in a murmur. I took his free hand with mine and toyed with it, tracing the lines on his palm and intertwining our fingers.

"You do?" He laughed, pleased. He must have known already, but I think that may have been the first time I admitted it so openly. "Good to know."

"I do." I slid the tip of my finger over a callous on his hand, the result of decades of wielding his halberd. I'd lost count of the times he'd done it just to protect me. "So… Don't abandon me, okay?" I mumbled. "I don't want to be alone again."

He pressed me tighter against himself and kissed my hair. "I won't. And I'll fight anyone who tries to take you away from me."

"Anyone?"

"Anyone."

"Even France?"

"Especially France."

I chuckled.

Deep down, I'd always been afraid that Spain would wake up one day and realize that I was more trouble than good. That I was not worth defending from France and Turkey; that he was wasting his efforts with me.

Trouble child, I'd picture him saying, with a far colder voice than I had ever heard him use around me. You're useless. Worthless. Get lost.

It might have killed me, had he ever pushed me away like that.

"I love having you here, Roma," he whispered against my hair. "Don't you ever doubt that."

That was the first time that I thought I loved him.

I meant it in a far different way than I do now (although, in hindsight, I think I might have already been crushing on him back then, so long ago), but it was still just as true. I loved him for being there, for looking after me, for protecting me from far greater enemies than I could have taken on my own. I loved him for his kind smiles and cheerful demeanour, and for his cheeky winks when he let me get away with stuff I wasn't supposed to do.

I loved him for looking at me and seeing me, and not a small kingdom with good natural resources and a strategic location to be exploited.

"Are you crying?" he mumbled.

"No," I replied, drying the tears off my eyes.

"Ah, I must have imagined it."

"Spain."

"Yes?"

And for a moment there, I nearly told him. However, just thinking about letting the words leave my lips was making my whole face heat up, and I genuinely feared my head might explode if I said it aloud.

He was waiting.

I panicked.

"Spain," I repeated once, then twice. And then I frowned. "Why does everyone call you that? It's not your name."

He pulled apart to stare at me in confusion, clearly taken aback by my odd question. "It's not my name, no," he answered after a beat. "Although, to be honest, I've been called so many things lately I'm not even sure what my name is anymore," he laughed.

"Spain, though…" he went on, looking thoughtful. "It's a nice name to be known by."

"But why do they call you that?" I insisted. "Where did it come from?"

"It evolved from Hispania. That's what your grandpa used to call me."

"Nonno named you?" The thought made me smile. My grandfather had been the one to call me Romano; I suppose I liked the idea of him having named Spain, too. It made me feel closer, connected to him.

But, "No, not really," Spain answered. "The Phoenicians already called me I-span-ya when Rome took me in."

"I-span-ya," I repeated, tasting the sound of it on my tongue. "What's it mean?"

I felt him tense a fraction of a second before he replied: "I don't know." Too quickly for it to be true.

"Liar," I called him out. "What does I-span-ya mean?"

"I don't know!"

"You do! Come on, tell me."

I pouted at him and he sighed, giving in.

"Alright… But don't laugh."

"I won't."

"I-span-ya…" He cleared his throat. "It means, um… Land of Rabbits."

I laughed.

I tried to hold it back, I really did. But upon hearing the reveal, I couldn't help but snort out a laugh, and his betrayed expression cracked whatever self-control I might have had.

Still on his lap, I bent over, clutching my abdomen as I laughed loud and unapologetically. He tried to hush me, saying that I was going to wake up everyone in the palace (bullshit), and the mortified tone of his voice only made me laugh harder. My breathing had grown so irregular that I choked on my own saliva, which made me break into a coughing fit.

Not even that stopped my laughter.

Spain was (understandably) offended and embarrassed, but can you really blame me? I'd just discovered that the mighty Spanish Empire was named after goddamn bunnies!

"Roma…" he whined.

"R-R-Rabbit—" I wheezed, wiping some tears off my cheeks. "Land of rabbits—"

"Roma!"

I legit don't know for how long I laughed at his expense. I do remember that he cut it off by smacking me in the face with a pillow, and that he ashamedly asked me not to tell anyone. I promised I wouldn't.

And, honest to God, I've kept that promise for over three hundred years.

(It was the first thing I told him when we met for the first time after he got out of the dictatorship that had kept him shut away for nearly forty years. He broke down in laughter and sobs at the same time and hugged me tighter than anyone had since I'd last been under his care.

Then he said he'd missed me, and I told him I loved him.

This time, I did mean it in a romantic way. And he freaked out a bit, at first, but it wasn't long until we got together for good, finding a certain kind of bliss that countries like us rarely get to experience.)

I carry the memory from that night with me in vivid detail. It comes to me from time to time, sometimes at the most uncalled for occasions, and sometimes because something triggers it.

Coming into Spain's house to find him playing with Toro belongs to the latter.

Don't be fooled: Toro is not a bull, but a fluffy, black bunny named after one. It was an anniversary gift by yours truly, and although Spain acted insulted when I gave it to him, he's grown to love Toro dearly… as proven by the fact that I've caught him laying on his back on the floor, smiling like a dumbass to a very unimpressed Toro, who's sprawled on Spain's chest, chewing on some lettuce.

"Hey, rabbit-boy," I greet him.

"Lovi!" he exclaims, and carefully puts Toro back on the floor so he can rise to his feet and come hug me. "I'm so glad you're here!"

"Hmm?" I let him kiss me before staring at him. He looks suspiciously cheerier than usual. "What are you plotting."

His dreamy green eyes gleam in mischief, yet he still tries to fool me. "Me? Nothing."

"Nothing, really?" I grab the front of his shirt and pull him closer.

"Well…" He presses a butterfly kiss to my lips, then moves to the sensitive spot below my ear, his arms wrapping around my waist. "I may or may not be planning something for April Fool's," he confesses. His teeth grace my skin and I shudder. "Actually… Do you want a preview?"

"No I don't," I manage to sigh.

"Yes you do."

And, just like that, he pulls away from me and disappears into his bedroom, claiming it'll only take him a minute, and I'm tempted to run after him to smack him for leaving me like this. Bloody bastard…

I drop myself on the couch and watch Toro hop around the living room. I've told Spain many times that he should get a cage, lest the rabbit escapes, but he's far too kind to keep a caged animal. I could get him a tiger and he'd still let it loose in the house. That's Spain to you: dangerously dancing on the edge between kind-heartedness and dumbassery.

It feels like an eternity until I finally hear him leaving his bedroom, calling my name in the process.

"Alright, you stupid rabbit," I grumble, standing up. "This had better be—" My gaze falls on him and I stop — stop talking, stop moving, stop breathing, way too distracted by his clothing… or lack of one. "—good," I finish with a quiet voice.

The first thing that catches my eye are the big rabbit ears on his head. I stare at them for a moment, my thoughts a blend of "You did not" and "Unfairly sexy moron", and then my gaze travels lower. There's a bowtie around the neck of his shirt, which wouldn't be too bad if not for the teeny-tiny detail that there's no shirt, save for the neck and the cuffs.

I'm biting my lip now as I run my gaze down his broad chest and well-defined abs and fuck it all, I'm practically salivating at the sight of him. He's surprisingly well-built for a man who considers repose to be the greatest state of matter (and by matter, he means himself).

Finally, my eyes land on the very, very short apron tied around his waist (is he wearing anything under it? I don't think he is) and the final touch of a fluffy rabbit tail, and every rational thought leaves my head.

White noise.

I hear his laugh, although distant, and I'm vaguely aware that he's taken a couple of steps towards me. At this point, I'm torn between waiting for him to come or pouncing on him myself.

"Like what you see?" he asks, smug, his voice half bringing me back to my senses.

"No," I lie, and I couldn't have been more obvious if I'd tried.

He leans closer; his breath is warm on my lips when he whispers: "Liar." Then his tongue is on my chin, licking up a trail of spite, and I can't believe I was actually drooling.

I want to protest, but the moment I part my lips his tongue pushes into my mouth, hot and bold, and before I know it he's lifting me up by my thighs and shoving me against the wall. I groan into his mouth at the impact, but it's more in appreciation than in complaint. I'm a hopeless romantic deep inside, but I live for the times when he goes rough on me.

His lips leave mine to tease my neck instead, making me gasp. I wrap myself around him, burying my fingers on his hair and clasping my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. (That's when I notice that we both have a bit of a situation down south, and I might scream if he takes his sweet time before taking care of that.) My free hand roams over his body, feeling every muscle within reach — his bicep, his neck, his pecs — because hey, if he's wearing so little, I might as well take advantage.

He bites me; I moan his name.

I'm about to lose it and start begging (he'd love that, the bastard) when, suddenly, he flinches, nearly dropping me, and his head jolts up.

"Toni?" I pant. There are many expressions on his face: he's shocked, startled… mortified? "What's wrong?"

He shuts his eyes tight and hides his face into my neck, accidentally hitting me in the face with his rabbit ears. I want to complain, but stop myself when I hear his voice, quiet and very unlike himself: "Please don't look down."

Of course, my first instinct is to do exactly that: I look down.

I have to push the ears out of the way and make it past the distractions his bare skin offers, but it all proves worth it when my gaze lands on his feet and I'm delighted by the sight of Toro humping Spain's leg.

There goes the mood.

I break out in laughter, clinging to Spain for support, and hearing him whine my name only makes me laugh harder. I laugh as he eases me back to my feet, I laugh as I slide against the wall and into the floor, I laugh when Spain grabs Toro by the fur of his neck and takes him to the kitchen, scolding him.

By the time he comes back, my abdomen is sore and I'm out of breath, yet I can't help but keep chuckling. Sat on the floor, I look up at him — he's so utterly red it's adorable — and give him the most charming smile I can conjure, given the circumstances.

"You're never letting me forget this, are you?" he sighs, already accepting his sentence.

"Never ever," I confirm, grinning up at him. We're reached by the faint sound of Toro scratching the kitchen door, begging to be left out, and I nearly crack up again. "I think you should take those clothes off."

"Should I, now?" He rests a hand on his hip, cocking it to the side into the bitchiest pose I've ever seen on him. "Don't be a coward—take them off yourself."

I manage a breathless laugh. "It's not like there's a lot of work to do." I reach for him, silently asking him to help me up, and he does so willingly, pulling me up on my feet and into a kiss. And the mood from before might have been brutally killed off by Toro, but it doesn't take us long to create a new one, more tender yet just as passionate.

All these years and loving him never gets harder.

Well…

Some things do get hard. ;)

AN: Yes, that winking face at the end was absolutely necessary xDD

Do you know what this fandom needs more of? A strong, confident Romano who's not scared of loving Spain. And a Spain that approaches dating his former protegee with a little caution. Let's give thsese boys the healthy relationship they deserve! :D And give me the reviews I'm craving‼ :D :D :D

PS. I looked up the ethymology of "Italy" and turns out it means "bull". Spain is JEALOUS~