Afterglow [Hetalia Fanfiction - SpaMano]

Amber meets emerald in a moment described by the dawn – a radiant beam of light filled with promise amidst the incapacitating darkness; your chance encounter is an unforeseen prelude of enigma and fantasy.

Eyes squinting against the glaring rays of the majestic sun, you attempt to make out the silhouette before you. "Hola," the man waves pleasantly to you, an innocent smile gracing his features.

The man looks young – no more than seventeen years old at most, but his height seemed to surpass his age. The tall figure steps forward, only crouching down to meet your gaze. "Your shoelaces are untied. Do you need some help, niñito?" His green irises reflect a caring expression filled with such sincerity you have never been faced with before.

You shake your head.

No. You do not need his help. The assistance of others, as you believe, will only contribute to the uselessness of your existence. You live by this. It is the philosophy with which you have held on to for all your life.

Refusing to show any weakness, you turn your back against the man and crouch down to reach your feet. Clumsily, your fingers fumble with the laces, struggling as you tie your first knot. Five more tries until you deem your attempts futile.

Fallen leaves of autumn crunch; the man draws near, approaching you step by step. You recede, wary of the stranger's presence.

"Damn it, you bastard. Go away." Your dark voice is a stark contrast to the man's cheery tone. "I don't want your help," you loudly protest. Your words pile up like bricks, forming a wall – a barrier between you both. You grip the laces once more, your hands shaking ever so slightly from both frustration and fear.

"Come now, niñito. Don't say that. It's not all that hard," he says; his voice laden thick with a Spanish accent. He continues to move towards you, ignoring your words. He kneels by your feet to attend to the task, incessantly chattering away in an attempt to maintain a conversation. You pay no attention to the Spaniard as he rambles on – lest for the words "Antonio Fernandez-Carriedo," so that you would no longer need to continue addressing the man as a stranger.

"¿Y tú?" he gestures to you, possibly asking for your name in return.

"Go away," you say once more. "Leave. J-just leave...m-me...a-a-alone," you stammer. The tone of your voice is desperate now. It is pleading – no, practically begging – for the Spaniard to leave. He is persistent, however, and pays no heed to your words.

"Could it be that you're lost, little boy? ¡Dios mío! Your family must be worried. Where is your home, niñito? Let me take you there."

What "family?" You think scornfully. You only have relatives, whose bonds you share are purely defined by blood, money and law. Completely void of any love and emotion. Surely, the man was not referring to them. They are not your "family." They have failed in the very essence of being your "family." Those relatives you have mean nothing to you, as you – too – mean nothing to them.

You say nothing, eyes averting the man's gaze. There is no "home" in which you belong to. You remember the piercing stares cast your way; filled with such disdain and disappointment, as you face perpetual judgment and comparison against your brother. It had always been him – your younger brother – that they liked more; sweet little Feli who was adored, favoured, and loved by so many. He was so perfect in their eyes; it was sickening.

In this cold, cruel earth, you are alone. You are a child –a useless child, as most would refer to you – thriving in solitude. A young nation bound by walls of protection. This is the only way you can keep yourself from getting any more hurt and scarred than you already are; for you to keep from being a bother to people, and for you to keep from being left behind.

You hang your head low, staring at the jumble of auburn hues on the cobblestone path. You shake your head, hoping to shoo the man away. Once more, he refuses to leave your side.

"If you'd like, you can home with me, niñito." He smiles as he says this to you, leaving no room for protests and complaints to be mouthed. "A boss like me could use a cute little henchman like you!"

And almost immediately, he takes your hand in his; the colour of olives cradling pale alabaster.

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Yellow against red; your eyes ogle the cherry-red object hanging off the green plant stems. It is strange and you cannot help but stare, scrutinizing its every detail.

With practiced ease, the Spaniard inspects the object, before plucking it off the green stems. "Here," he says, holding the fruit in your direction.

"Come?" you ask him, uncertain of what to do.

"A tomato for mi tomate," he smiles and gestures for you to stretch out your hands.

He hands you the tomato as you catch it with your two palms. You raise the fruit, bringing it closer to your mouth as you take a bite, its juice filling your mouth with a pleasantly surprising flavour.

"Do you like it, mi tomate? It's good, right? Would you like another one?"

"Buono," you say almost nonchalantly, in an attempt to hide your enthusiasm; but you cannot hide the brightness of your eyes as curiosity overcomes your amber orbs. Nor can you refuse the second offer he gives you either.

You wonder how this man can be so carefree. There was no merit for him to reach out to you, a useless child incapable of doing anything. Why was he being so kind? Could he have been after your grandfather's inheritance? You may have been part of a nation – the very personification of it, to be exact – but you held no advantage over your younger brother, who was far more prosperous.

"Ro-R-Romano," you say, stumbling on your words. "M-my name's Lovino Vargas, but people call me Romano." Another gulp. "S-so, you don't have to, uh, call me a damned tomato anymore." It is a stupid reason; a lame excuse for your introduction; but you think that at least by giving him your name, you can finally pay the man back for his hospitality.

He laughs - a bright, cheery, calming laugh. "It's a nice name, Roma," he ruffles your head in response to this, chuckling once more at your behaviour. The resonance of his happy voice sounds wonderful, ringing harmoniously in your ears.

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You are burning, burning. A searing heat spreads throughout your body, merciless as the fever takes its course. Your hand shakes, twitching uncontrollably as the tremors of your past return, the chorea overpowering your frail physique.

The world is spinning in your eyes, and you can do nothing to control it. Your knees grow weak and falter.

You are falling, falling – a crash – a collapsed heap on the cold marble floor. Your body is shaking, trembling; and every convulsion racks your small frame with such pain and agony that a child like you cannot bear.

No.

A shuffle of footsteps is heard from the floor above yours. Your eyes widen in horror as you hear the footsteps grow louder – and quicker – the elder nation searching the house to find you.

Oh god, no.

You bite your lip to hold back a scream; the red liquid leaking out from your lips is far different from the tomato juice you have grown so accustomed to. The sickening taste of metal floods your mouth. You blink rapidly, eyes fighting back tears that threatened to fall. The lump in your throat is painful and suffocating, but you do not – cannot – cry.

"C-Cazzo," you mutter a curse, heavily panting as you struggle for air. You must leave. Anywhere is fine. There is not a place which you must run to, but rather, a place you must run from. So long as you get away, it will be fine. Away from the man, before he sees the vile creature that is you.

With laboured breaths, you try to crawl from your place in order to hide – struggling as your hands continue to shake; every fibre of your body echoing betrayal.

The door bursts open and a frantic Spaniard rushes into the room. "Roma! What happened, I heard a sound and the-" He stops abruptly.

"Roma?"

Please, please, please no.

The Spaniard meets your gaze; eyes filled not with disgust or contempt, but with worry and concern. He takes a hesitant step forward, and another, before rushing quickly to your side.

It is the crippling fear of abandonment and rejection that paralyzes you, rendering you unable to do anything else against the tremors of your disease. You clamp your eyes shut; whether it's from the shame of being discovered or from the pain of your aching body, you don't know. You don't want him to see you. Not like this. You cannot show him this...this...this ungodly state you are in. It is revolting, repulsive; hideous.

It is weakness.

The man lifts you, carefully, so as not to break you and your oh so fragile little frame. Your stressed body, now beaten with fatigue, is taken by surprise. You scream – a loud, shrill, ear-piercing shriek of anguish – as the pain escalates. You are powerless against the illness.

The episode rages on, and the torture reaches its peak. You howl –another sordid cacophony of vulnerability. You want to apologize for burdening the man, but you do not trust yourself enough to be heard. Your throat is parched dry, and for certain, your voice will sound broken; words only materializing as sounds choking on air. It is painful and erratic –breathing that is – but you cannot silence the bellows of your torment.

There are no scathing words that are uttered that night; no judgment asserted. Spain says nothing; only holding you close. Cradling your petite form in strong arms, he chases away your nightmares until they are lost in the depths of the dawn.

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"Dance with me, mi pequeño Roma," Spain says, latching the stylus of the gramophone onto the disc.

The overture begins to play as a festive rhythm fills the room. He holds you steadily, counting softly as his footsteps lead you to follow the beat of the music. Song after song, the two of you continue to dance; keeping at pace with the rapidity of the tempo.

You are dizzy and breathless, but you continue still; the beat of the Tarantella pumping through your core. One last step and the dance ends; you wheeze, your deprived lungs imploring oxygen. Minutes pass as your shaky hands still with ease.

"See, mi amigo? I knew it would work," Spain proudly exclaims, lifting your hands as he held them high, boasting the success of his theory. He pats your shoulder before exiting the room in search of refreshments for the both of you.

You heave a sigh, mixed with both relief and exasperation. The gratitude you have for him and his cure is overwhelming; but so is the guilt that you bear – the knowledge of your incompetency to pay him back for this favour. Nothing good would come from treating you like this. You had nothing to return – nothing to compensate for the man's deeds.

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"Hey, Austria...trade Ita-chan with me, won't you? Even for just a day; por favor? It's so hard to manage the house with mi Romanito you know."

Your eyes widen with fear as you overhear the Spaniard's words. Of course. You think bitterly. Of course he would throw you away. He has no need for you; a child – a mere useless, incompetent, little child – who has been nothing more than a bother to him.

The bond that you share is brittle and frail, fleeting with the passage of time you spent together. His kindness withers away from fatigue; patience wearing thin from the number of your mistakes and the idiocy of your actions. No matter how hard you try, your efforts alone can never be enough.

You can never be good enough.

And it scares you. The thought of returning to the cold, cold streets; the absence of his warmth you had grown so fondly of. Nothing could be worse in the eyes of a child.

"No. Please. I don't want to go."

You try to say, but your voice is far too broken to be coherent, and the man is too far away to listen. Your arms stretch out in an attempt to grab hold of him but it is too late, and his departing figure is quickly fading in the distance. He is gone, abandoning you in the frosty, bitter cold of the streets.

You shake, trembling from the maelstrom of emotions rushing through your mind. Your throat feels constricted, a painful lump forming as tears pool at the corners of your eyes. You choke out a sob; a pathetic gasp for air, and it almost feels like the convulsions are returning and the disease is seeping back into your system.

You wake up with a start, eyes red and bloodshot. Hesitantly, you turn your head to the left; towards the silhouette of the sleeping Spaniard beside you.

"Hm, Roma?" He mumbles in a sleepy daze. "What's wrong? Tell boss." He casts a pillow aside, patting the space in between your forms; gesturing you to scoot closer to him.

The warmth he displays is inviting – tempting even, as he beckons you to come closer at his will – and it takes all your strength to push it away. But no. You do not want to pester the man with your problems; you've already bothered him enough.

You say nothing, only mustering a shake of your head to refuse his offer.

"Suit yourself, mi tomate. Just go back to sleep yeah, Lovi?" He ruffles your head as he says this, before leaving you once more as he drifts away to the sweet lull of sleep.

You pull your knees close, burying your face in your arms. The night envelops your soul as its shadows, like a cloak, wrap and coil themselves around your tortured mind; robbing you of light and reason. Slowly, you feel your sanity crumbling away, both body and soul falling prey to the visions that plague your mind.

The tremors may have ended, but the nightmares do not stop.

They never stop.

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A mistake.

The sound of porcelain clashing with the cold marble floor echoes throughout the house. It is not this noise that scares you, however. It is the deafening silence that follows immediately afterwards.

"I'm sorry," you say; your voice is barely audible.

The man looks at you in askance before turning his gaze to the plates – now shards of brittle china– scattered on the kitchen floor. A hand is raised in response.

You flinch, anticipating the rough impact of a palm grazing your cheek. The passage of time is slow, you think – so so agonizingly slow – as you do nothing but wait. You close your eyes, clamping them tightly shut in fear of what happens next. You await the consequence of your actions; your punishment for this crime – sin – that you have so carelessly committed.

And it does come, swifter and earlier than you expect. But the touch of his hand bears no blame against you. It is soft and gentle – a featherweight caress of sincerity and kindness.

The guilt is overbearing and you just can't take it anymore. You break; feelings far beyond your control spilling over relentlessly.

"Mi dispiace. Lo siento. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," you manage to blurt out as your words scramble in an almost-incoherent disarray. You are bawling, rambling apologies one after another.

And he is hugging you and holding you and mumbling to you words of acceptance, forgiveness, and compassion in a mesh of sentences so loosely connected. "Shh, it's okay. It's okay," Spain coos in your ear; his voice soft and forgiving. "Boss is here now, little Roma. It's alright, I'm here.".

You continue to wail, "I'm sorry – Please don't hate me – I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry." Your mind is tired and you plummet, succumbing to the dark abyss of your worries. "P-please don't throw me away," you whimper; voice cracked and broken. It is a quiet plea, timid and hesitant, but certain of the need of the elder's presence. "Please don't th-"

"Nobody's throwing anyone away, Lovi. I forgive you."

The words are hushed and barely above a whisper; but nonetheless they are there. Spoken with such sincerity and honesty that is alien to you – so foreign and different. It is striking. His words, so bright, brilliant, and powerful, almost effortlessly shatter your walls– the barrier which you have so carefully built over the years of your existence now crumbling down in ruins– and you are rendered powerless against the man and his warmth.

Almost desperately, you clutch the fabric of Spain's shirt, as you crumple – weak in his arms. Your tiny fists cling onto his large back, seeking comfort and reassurance in the mercy of his hold. His kindness and warmth – the warmth that you have craved and longed for in so long – is overpowering. Your strength impedes and ebbs away– leaving you exposed; a nation unshielded and defenceless. The tears well up from within you, threatening to surge. Your resolve is broken and you can do nothing but yield to their will.

And at long last, you give in to his warmth – and let the rain fall.