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There were many things in life, too many things, really, that irritated Romano. He tried listing them out once for Spain but got annoyed and gave up when he couldn’t determine what offender was truly worthy of the top spot on his list. What he could say, with absolute certainty, was that at this very moment two primary contenders for that position were currently causing his blood pressure to sky rocket.
Using the bullshit excuse that that soft-hearted idiot Veneziano had invited them to partake in Il Carnevale, both Germany and his obnoxious, foul-mouthed and piss-tempered brother, Prussia, had invaded the house. All week, Romano had been forced to endure the sight of potato-loving bastards, one of whom had evil designs on his stupid, but precious, little brother; the other who had quickly determined that harassing Romano was almost as gratifying as harassing his uptight excuse for a sibling.
In short, this long term exposure to too much blond haired, blue eyed, Teutonic assholery had driven all sense of festivity and frivolity from Romano. So incensed, he’d refused to go out into Venice and partake of Carnival’s debauchery, telling Veneziano that no one in their right mind would want anything to do with his water-logged and foul smelling city. Naturally, this had driven Veneziano to tears and incited Prussia to exact revenge in the form of nonstop harassment. (Germany settled for giving Romano many disapproving looks while patting Veneziano’s shoulder as a form of comfort only a Northern European would find sufficient).
It was the second to last day of the week long party, and Romano once again found himself indulging in an epic sulk on the finely upholstered couch in Veneziano’s Grand Canal front home. Accompanied by his German lapdogs, Veneziano was preparing to leave but was seemingly unable to do so without another attempt at cajoling his brother to participate.
Using what Romano derisively thought of as his “get Germany to do my bidding” pout, Veneziano wheedled, “Won’t you come brother, please, please , please? Think of all the wine and the pretty women you are missing!”
Romano snorted, “Idiot. They’re wearing masks, who can say if they are beautiful.”
His brother was not yet deterred, “But that’s all part of the fun! The mystery, not knowing who it is that you’ve discovered on the piazza, who’s waiting for you to seduce them on some romantic bridge!”
Romano rolled his eyes and took another swig of wine, not minding over much when a few drops fell onto what was doubtless a priceless Turkish carpet.
Veneziano’s eyes began to water, his smile wavering. Apparently taking this everyday occurrence as an offense punishable by being a pain in Romano’s ass, Prussia entered the fray.
“Don’t be upset, my cute little Italy! Your brother’s only being such a jerk ‘cause he’s scared he doesn’t have the skills to seduce a paper bag let alone a hottie. He knows that he seriously lacks awesome, unlike you and me!”
Indignant enough to be roused out of his idleness, Romano fired back, “Che, shows what you know, asshole. I’m Italian. We fucking invented seduction.”
Romano was even further outraged when Prussia had the nerve to laugh uproariously at his declaration. “Hahahahahaha!!!! You!? Yeah, right! You couldn’t charm honey from a bee,” Prussia paused to double over and slap his knee, infuriating Romano to the boiling point as he continued, “Hell, who’d wanna be seduced by a cranky little shit like you? Better leave this to the real men.” As he finished his little speech, Romano was horrified to see that Prussia had the audacity to point to himself and his shithead brother.
He scrambled up from the couch, getting directly in Prussia’s ugly face, screeching, “No way are some fucking Germans better at romance than a genuine goddamned Italian!! You better get out of my sight, before I kill you for that unforgivable insult, you son of a whore.”
Sensing that situation was only going to continue to deteriorate, Germany and Veneziano made the wise decision to hustle Prussia out. As he shut the door, Veneziano called out to his irate brother, “Fratello! Don’t be angry with Prussia! He’s just never seen you in action. Hmm…come to think of it, neither have I….Oh well! I am sure that if you say you are good at seduction, you must be, even if you are kind of surly but maybe some people find that charming, like Big Brother Spain? Come with us tomorrow, brother, it’s the very last day and this is important for our nation! OK! Bye-bye!”
Now exhausted not only by his indignation but also by his brother’s nonsensical rapid-fire goodbye speech, Roman flopped back on the couch, forgoing the glass in favor of drinking straight from the bottle. As the amount of wine decreased, Romano’s thoughts grew increasingly hazy and distressed as he thought about Prussia’s incomprehensible, impossible, claim that he, Romano, one half of Italy, was incapable of seduction.
“I’m goddamned Italy! Birthplace of fucking romance and love, cradle of sonnets and opera! Just because I’ve never tried to sweep someone off their fucking feet doesn’t mean I can’t! Assholes, assuming they know what I’m capable of!” Finished with his bottle of wine, Romano stumbled towards the kitchen, intending of robbing his brother of his grappa. Leaning on the counter for support, he poured a healthy amount into an abandoned tea cup, promptly throwing it back and relishing the burn down his throat.
The liquor’s fire ignited something within him, a brilliant idea coming to mind, “I’ll show those two German asshats who’s the suavest motherfucker in Italy. It’s Carnival, and even though he’s a dimwit, Veneziano’s right….I can be whoever I want, do whatever I want. Do whomever I want. Put on the mask and go out into the night, find whoever’s waiting for me to romance them on some bridge or whatever. Ha! And when I bag someone really good, Mr. Not Even a Country Anymore will have to bow down and kiss my goddamned feet.”
Busy smirking at his own genius plan and contemplating how much more of the grappa he could have without passing out in the kitchen, Romano almost missed the vibration of his phone in his pocket. Annoyed to have his moment of mental triumph over Germanic presumptions interrupted, he thought about not answering, but decided he’d better make sure his idiot brother hadn’t been kidnapped or fallen in the canal. Squinting his eyes in the hopes of seeing only one set of text, he read:
Hola, Romano!!! How is Boss’ favorite tomato? Your brother invited me to come to the last night of Carnival’s. I really want to come and see you! I bet you look cute in a mask! You should get one that’s all red so you can look like a tomato all the time and not just when you are blushing or mad! Anyways, can I see you tomorrow? Please?! Do it for boss! <3 :)
Romano blushed and rolled his eyes. Spain was a moron. Like he’d ever wear a tomato mask. But as he read the message over again, his previous plans began to take on a whole new dimension. Something secret and deeply yearned for unfurled within his heart, pushing at his consciousness. A tiny, insistent voice, whispered, “Why not do it to Spain? Make him the object of seduction? Give yourself what you’ve always wanted? ” Romano’s sense of shyness and hardcore fear of rejection tried to push back, but that other insidious little part of him kept talking, weaving a tempting spell, “Do it. You can have Spain AND stick it to Prussia and Germany. What could be better? After all, Carnival is the time to be what you’ve always wanted to be…”
Downing another shot of grappa and shaking his head, Romano caved, telling the empty room, “Ok, ok, fine! I’ll do it!”
He flipped open his phone, pecking out a response one key at a time to avoid any drunken autocorrects:
Ciao, Spain. Fine. You can come see me tomorrow. Meet me at the Doge’s Palace, sundown. Don’t wear anything stupid.
Message sent he quickly shut-off his phone to avoid the stream of ecstatic texts he was sure to now receive. He’d never be able to pull off this little scheme if he was already annoyed. And he knew, without doubt that Spain would be there, waiting for him.
He spent the remainder of the night downing espresso and scheming in the warmth of the kitchen, until so wired and filled with manufactured confidence that he ran up the stairs, barreling into Veneziano’s bedroom without knocking.
He shouted, “Veneziano! Wake-up! I need you to loan me your city!”
Startled, his brother shrieked and jumped from the bed, “Fratello! You scared me!”
Undeterred, Romano pressed on, “And you’re scaring me with your naked ass! Put on some goddamned pants, I need to talk to you!”
Cocking his head to one-side in confusion, Veneziano distractedly asked Germany to pass him his pants.
Romano spluttered, going red in the face, yelling, “What the fuck are you doing in my brother’s bed! If I didn’t have other shit to do, you’d be a dead man!” Shooting Germany what was doubtless supposed to be a deadly glare, Romano settled for grabbing the sheet from the bed and hauling his confused brother out of the room.
He sighed, tossing the sheet at Veneziano, “Put this on, idiot. I need your help and I can’t think properly when I have to stomach the sight of German corruption on your body!”
Giggling, Veneziano complied, wrapping the sheet around himself, “So, what's up?”
Romano shuffled his feet slightly, feeling his nerves jangle from the coffee and anxiety, “I need you to give me your city for one night. There’s something I need to do. And it has to be tonight, while it’s still Il Carnivale.”
Veneziano smiled and patted his brother on the arm, “Of course! Anything for you! But first you have to take back what you said about my sweet Venice.”
Annoyed, but dependent upon his brother’s assistance, Romano begrudgingly answered, “Fine. I’m sorry I said Venice was a smelly, watery, hellhole. I can’t do what I need to do without her help.”
He considered being further annoyed when he found himself tackled into a hug, but let it go when Veneziano murmured in his ear, “Even though it carries my name, this is your city, too, brother. Your people, your celebration, your night. Just tell me what I need to do.”
Some hours later, after a nap and a few nips of liquid courage in the form of some of Veneziano’s finest prosecco, Romano stood in front of the mirror, practicing. Initially he’d felt stupid as he slid on the doublet and breeches, clothes that harkened back to a time when he didn’t even belong to himself. Such were the traditions of Carnival. There was nothing for it.
But as he admired the white silk delicately stitched in a sweeping pattern over black fabric, turning over the matching volto mask in his hands, he couldn’t help but feel transported from the banality of real life, letting the fantasy of Carnival intoxicate him as fully as the wine he poured down his throat. Much as it galled him to admit it, he could not help but think that Veneziano was right; there was something about the illicit mystery of wondering who was concealed in clothes of days gone by, hidden by a mask—Venice’s once great equalizer. Anyone could be a temptress, a Casanova, the perfect lover.
Tying on the black and white volto, leaving only the lower half of his face visible, Romano watched his reflection as he attempted a seductive grin. At first it more closely resembled that of a constipated France, which was just wasn’t fucking on. He paused, contemplating how best to proceed. His personality wasn’t soft and kind like his brother’s. Nor sunny and open like Spain’s. “No,” he calculated, “a seduction won’t work if there isn’t at something real underneath. Hmm…sweetness is out, I’d rather bow at Prussia’s feet than simper in front of that idiot Spain. I’d kiss Germany before imitating France’s disgusting behavior. What to do…”
After several moments of staring in the mirror, swigging the prosecco, Romano stilled as if hit by a lightning bolt. A slow smirk spread over his face as he let his body loosen, hips tilting in an insouciant invitation, the half-full flute dangling from his fingers dangerously close to spilling its treasures.
Satisfied, Romano straightened, throwing back the remainder of his drink, enjoying the tickle of the bubbles down his throat, leaving in search of his brother.
“Fuck everyone else. Tonight, I’ve only gotta be Italia. As if there was ever any other fucking choice."
He found Veneziano leaning on the balcony of his room, admiring the sun setting over the Grand Canal. Romano paused as entered the room, taking a moment to appreciate his brother’s contrasting outfit of white laced with black, the matching mask dangling from his fingers.
Romano called to him as he approached, “Ciao, Veneziano.”
Veneziano turned to him, favoring him with a wide happy smile, “Ciao, Romano! You look so handsome.”
“WE look handsome,” Romano returned, taking up residence next to his brother, lending his attention to the enchanting sight below.
Veneziano hummed in pleasure, unused to receiving compliments from his brother, letting the moment fall into comfortable silence. They watched as throngs of costumed revelers passed below, dressed to recall the glory days of Venice, participants in a celebration of life’s ephemeral joys. As the sun began to dip in the winter sky, setting the waters of the Grand Canal alight, Romano was transfixed.
Similarly entranced, Veneziano murmured, “Don’t tell the others, fratello, but I really do think our nation is the most beautiful.”
Under the spell of Lady Venice, Romano shocked himself and Veneziano by taking hold of his brother’s hands, bringing their foreheads together, voice thick as honey as he replied, “You and I, Italia, we are fucking magnificent!”
Veneziano rewarded this uncharacteristic display of fraternal affection with a kiss to his cheek, before shoving his brother towards the door, “Go on! The sun is about to set! Don’t worry, I have everything that you needed taken care of!”
Cursing, Romano began to run, intent on keeping his engagement for once, stopping only to throw a hasty middle finger and a wink over his shoulder in response to Veneziano’s cheeky, “Say hi to Spain for me!”
As he hurried along the canal towards the Doge’s Palace, Romano took great satisfaction in the way crowds parted for him, feeling the thrum of his people’s enjoyment and reckless abandon in the rushing of his blood. With each step he took towards his unsuspecting target, his confidence grew, pulse pounding with the excited and untamed energy of Carnival. Stopping only to procure the essential seduction supplies, namely more booze, Romano charged forward.
And then there he was, standing no more than twenty feet from him, as relaxed and irritatingly appealing as ever. Romano paused, savoring the opportunity to look at Spain with the un-guardedness that anonymity provides. Spain was leaning against the wall, lazily scanning the crowd, doubtless looking for him. He’d made the bold choice to come in a costume enticingly reminiscent of the clothes he wore when fighting to keep that bastard Ottoman Empire out of Italy. Naturally, the fool had for some reason forgone the traditional mask, though Romano couldn’t find it within himself to be too annoyed that he had unobstructed access to Spain’s obnoxiously attractive green eyes.
He sighed to himself, “So lovely and yet so oblivious,” turning away to take a healthy gulp of the Chianti he’d procured, before making the initial approach of his love campaign.
Slowly, but with clear intent, he walked towards Spain, enjoying the way the other man’s eyes traced up his legs, his chest, his mask, taking it all in with evident appreciation.
Gratified by this quick victory, Romano sidled up to Spain, leaning against the wall and purring, “Ciao, bello.”
Spain smiled, but seemed confused, replying, “Good evening! Um, do I know you?”
Romano resisted the urge to bang his head against the bricks, “So hot. So stupid.” And then another, even more wonderful plan of action began to take root in his mind. He was going to enjoy his unexpected status as mysterious stranger thoroughly.
“Don’t you?” He replied arrogantly.
Spain looked at him intently before responding, “Well, you kind of look like someone I know, but it’s so hard to tell with the mask!”
Romano gave him the sly smirk he’d perfected earlier, sliding closer, “Well, I can promise you that you want to know me.”
Spain’s eyes widened slightly, before he regained his footing, starting to answer, “Oh! If you say so, I am sure it must be true! I’m…”
Romano placed his hand over Spain’s lips, “Ah-ah, that’s against the rules. No names at Il Carnevale. Tell me, lovely, what’s a Spaniard doing here in beautiful Venice?” He pulled his hand back, noting the flush in Spain’s cheeks.
“How did you know I am Spanish?”
Romano gave a low and throaty laugh, “Someone I know very well speaks Italian with the same lack of skill that you do. Very charming, the way he butchers the language.”
Spain laughed, “You sound just like the person I am waiting for when he yells at me for my bad Italian!”
Romano pushed up from the wall, moving to stand in front of Spain, murmuring, “So you are waiting for someone. Lucky someone.”
Spain’s smile dimmed, “I’m not so sure he would think so.”
Undeterred, Romano pressed onwards, playing the intrigued stranger with relish, “I promise you, bello, he does. How could he not? I know I would think so and I’m never wrong.”
Amused and apparently flattered, if the light flush was any indication, Spain returned his gaze to Romano, who held up the corked bottle and two glasses, softly ordering Spain, “Have a drink with me.”
Eyeing the bottle, the Spaniard looked deeply tempted but hesitated, again looking out towards the crowd, eyes seeking.
Leaning forward, Romano put a hand over Spain’s shoulder, letting the other holding the wine and glasses fall to his side, cajoling in low tones, “Drink with me while you wait. It’s against the rules of my country to leave something beautiful unattended and unappreciated.” He stepped back, pulling the cork out with his teeth, pleased by the way Spain’s eyes narrowed in on his mouth.
Without giving Spain time to refuse, he poured two glasses, passing one to Spain, who gave in to his insistence, favoring the masked man with a grin, “Well, it can’t hurt, right? Wine keeps us warm on winter nights like this.”
Romano nodded in agreement, raising his glass for a toast, “To Il Carnevale. To Venice. To Italy,” he exhaled, before looking pointedly at Spain, “To romance.”
Spain clinked his glass against Romano’s, closing his eyes as he took a sip. Romano took the opportunity to study the bobbing of Spain’s throat as he swallowed. It was enough to make him need a hearty drink of his own wine to quell his racing heart. He wanted to touch him, trace his fingers from jaw to collar, but he held back. It wasn’t time yet.
Lazily, Spain opened his eyes, hmming appreciatively, “Thank you. This is very good.”
Romano smirked, placing one hand on a jutted hip as he took another sip from his glass before responding confidently, “I know.”
Spain laughed, finishing his glass and gladly accepting when Romano swept in close to pour another, “You’ve had it before then?”
This time Romano let loose a genuine smile, laced with pride, answering, “Of course. My family made this. Italy’s finest.”
Impressed, Spain replied, “Your family made this? Oh! How kind of you to share with a stranger!”
Romano moved in for the kill, “Of course I wouldn’t share it with just anyone. But, this is the city of Vivaldi and Titian, the country of Petrarch and Raphael. We must honor things of beauty.”
Impressed by his own masterful line, Romano pulled back only to be confronted with Spain’s confused expression. Idiot Spain! Undaunted by this roadblock, he knew it was time to use his trump card.
“Speaking of beauty, have you ever walked across the Bridge of Sighs?” Romano asked, gesturing towards the covered bridge crossing the canal from the Doge’s Palace.
Spain shook his head, “I’ve always wanted to go, but my friend never seemed to want to visit.”
Romano morphed his smirk into an expression of concerned pity, “Such a shame. I could take you there now, if you want. A private tour.”
“You can do that?!” Spain asked excitedly.
Romano shrugged, as if having access to one of the most popular sites in Venice on one of the most popular days of the year was nothing of particular import, “Of course. It’s my bridge, my city, my country. Everything in it belongs to me.”
Spain blinked, seemingly unsure how to respond to this bold declaration.
Romano continued, “And I’m willing to share it with you, tonight. Come with me.” He was pleased that though he was clearly intrigued by the offer, Spain didn’t immediately cave as he continued to look through the crowd for the supposedly missing Romano.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be able to watch from the Bridge of Sighs to see if your companion arrives. Trust me, following me will be the best decision you ever made,” Romano purred while turning and walking away, confident that Spain would hardly be able to resist such an offer. “Now for the real fun to begin.”
Quietly and quickly they made their way through the Doge’s Palace, Romano nodding his head in thankful acknowledgement to the men who gave them silent permission to go forward. “Veneziano definitely came through, ” Romano conceded, vaguely impressed by his brother’s ability to actually carry out a strategic plan. Germany would have wept to know what Veneziano was capable of when acting as an ally in the battle of love.
Breathless, Romano and Spain reached the Bridge of Sighs just in time to witness the final sliver of the sun fading into the Rio del Palazzo, casting the city into glittering darkness. They could hear the cheers and the music of the party that carried on below, revelers making their way into the long night. Spain propped himself against the narrow ledge, peering out of the tiny latticed window, admiring the way Venice seemed to open up before him.
Romano waited, enjoying the respite from the crowds that covered bridge provided, watching Spain from the opposite end, appreciating the way the clothes from times gone by accentuated the muscles of his long legs. He watched until the temptation to touch grew almost too great, and then finally broke the silence, “They call this the Bridge of Sighs because once, long ago, it was the final path condemned men took to their prison cells, giving the damned one last look at Venice. It was said that even these men couldn’t help but sigh at the sight of her beauty.”
Spain hmmed, continuing to look through the grated window, before answering thoughtfully, “Yes, Venice is very beautiful…but I have always found Rome to be the more beautiful.”
“Oh”. Romano’s heart skipped a beat, his breath stuttering in his chest. “Damn Spain, saying such things as if it were nothing!” He could no longer help it, no longer hold back.
In two long strides, he quickly crossed the length of the bridge between them, crowding against Spain’s warm back, holding each of Spain’s wrists in hands to trap him against the limestone wall. Blood humming in his veins, Romano murmured into Spain’s ear, “You are not supposed to be seducing me. Always breaking the rules.”
Spain stiffened and tried to move away, hurriedly explaining, “I’m sorry, you must let me go, while you are very handsome and your wine is very good, I told you I’m waiting for someone else.”
Romano tightened his grip, dropping his head onto Spain’s shoulder in exasperation. “Fuck it, the time for anonymity is over.”
Straightening and pressing against Spain fully, he whispered, “Idiot.”
When Spain stilled, Romano switched from Italian to Spanish, keeping his voice a low, warm, caress, “Bastard. Even after centuries you are too dense to recognize me.”
At this all of the tension left Spain’s body, Romano was gratified by the way he seemed to melt into what was now a lover’s embrace. Spain started to speak, the first few letters of Romano’s name spilling out before Romano bit into his earlobe, starling Spain into a hissing sigh.
“Bastard, what did I tell you earlier? There are no names this night.”
Spain nodded, tipping his head back to rest on Romano’s shoulder, smiling brightly, “Yes! I remember now! This is a lot of fun!” He dropped his voice into a more intimate register, eyes sparking with attraction, “Do you know how good you look tonight?”
Romano snorted, “Of course I do.”
Spain laughed a little, twisting in Romano’s arms to turn to face him, placing his hands on Romano’s hips, fingers splayed out slightly lower than they ought to have been. “You’re very mean not to tell me it was you! It was very hard for me to resist the advances of such a handsome stranger.”
Romano leaned in, masked cheek tucked into the hollow between Spain’s throat and shoulder, murmuring, “Of course it was.”
Spain’s fingers tightened on Romano’s hips, flexing in want, “Such confidence, my little tomato. Who knew?”
Romano nipped at his neck, growling in response, “Bastard. Didn’t I tell you this was my night, my city, my country? Everything in it belongs to me. Including you.”
Spain smiled, delighted by this unexpected possessiveness, “Including me.”
Romano broke free from Spain’s eager clutches, amused by his companion’s sudden pout. “Let’s go,” he commanded, “I’ve arranged for a gondola.”
“Won’t we be cold?” Spain queried, clearly not sold on the idea of being out on the water on a crisp February evening.
Romano held out his hand in invitation, answering with arrogant affection, “Keep me warm, then, bastard.”
And Spain did indeed keep him warm as they floated along the canals passing by crowds of partiers, legs intertwined under a heavy blanket. Spain was nuzzling happily at Romano’s neck, while Romano kept a possessive arm slung over his shoulder, keeping an eye out for the approach of the Rialto Bridge. “Veneziano had better have gotten this part right,” Romano thought eagerly.
He slid down the leather seat; bringing Spain with him, tangling a hand in the other man’s hair. Spain sighed in pleasure, whispering charmingly idiotic romantic nothings into Romano’s ear. It was at this moment that their little gondola came near the vast stretch of the Rialto. Romano scanned the throngs of people standing along the bridge, gleeful when he spotted the tell-tale hair of a certain Prussian bastard. “Thank you, brother, for making sure that asshole is here to witness my triumph!”, Romano inwardly crowed.
He waited until Prussia had spotted their boat, taking great pleasure in the fact that he took off his mask and rubbed his eyes, as if unable to process the sight of Spain wrapped tightly around a man who so closely resembled Veneziano that he couldn’t possibly be anyone else but Romano. Resisting the urge to cackle and shout his prowess to the high heavens, he settled for raising his hand in a brief single finger salute to Prussia as they passed under the bridge. Victory over the German invaders now assured, Romano once again turned his full attention to more pleasant matters.
Tilting Spain’s chin up, he demanded, “You really do think Rome is more beautiful than Venice.”
Spain smiled, eyes hooded, “Yes, very much so.”
Gratified, Romano pushed their lips together in the night’s sensuous first kiss, taking all of Spain’s pleasure as his own, reveling in the heat of Spain’s lips on his. Spain hmmed into the kiss, hands sliding down Romano’s back in a deliberate caress.
Romano broke the kiss, masked forehead touching Spain’s, sighing, “Come home with me.”
Spain kissed him again, answering, “Yes, yes, yes,” onto Romano’s eager lips.
Pulling away once more, much to Spain’s frustration, Romano went for broke, murmuring, “Go to bed with me.”
Spain smiled, slow and dirty, “You don’t even have to ask.”
Romano grumbled, “Fuck. I just did a lot of work for nothing then, bastard!”
Spain’s only response was to kiss him breathless the rest of the way home.
Later, in the shadows of his bedroom, stripped down to his pants and the mask, Romano’s confidence began to fade. When the mask came off, he was just Romano once again. The reckless arrogance ebbed away, Romano exhausted from the night’s exhilaration. To Romano’s relief, it seemed as though Spain had a moment of rare perceptive understanding, walking over to the now hesitating Romano, winding his arms around his back, fingers fiddling with the ties to the mask.
“May I?” Spain asked softly.
Embarrassed, Romano nodded, looking away as Spain gently undid the ties, letting the mask fall to the floor between them. Spain held his chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. The intensity of Spain’s hungry regard almost caused Romano to take a step back.
In an instant, Spain was all over him, lips and hands, teeth and tongue as he hotly whispered “Romano, Romano, Romano,” onto his trembling skin.
Weakly, trying not to sigh with pleasure, Romano insisted, “Bastard, stop saying my name.”
Spain gripped the back of his neck, tilting his head, “I’ve been waiting all night to say your name. To see your face,” he paused to caress the side of Romano’s face, running his tongue from the corner of his jaw to the tender expanse of his shoulder, biting down. Romano shivered with pleasure, hands clenching Spain’s hips. Spain gave him a wicked, heart stopping grin, “You’ve done so much for me tonight, my precious Romano, how about we play by my rules now?”
As Spain dropped to his knees, all Romano could do was whisper “yes,” threading his hands into Spain’s hair and letting himself be swept away in a passionate Spanish tide.
The last thing Romano saw before his eyes closed against Spain’s warm and enthusiastic onslaught was the discarded mask, winking at him from the floor. Groaning as Spain took him in ever deeper, Romano thought happily to himself, “Viva Il Carnevale!”