A Rainy Day (Hetalia [Spamano])

Chapter 3: Straight On Till Morning

"Romano!"

Spain crossed the bedroom in three quick, frantic strides. He dumped the medicine bottles onto the bed and searched the room for any signs of the Italian.

When he cast his eyes to the floor right next to the bed, his gaze landed on a quivering, curled-up lump on the ground that was unmistakably his missing patient. Spain stepped around the bed frame and fell down beside Romano. Immediately his hands reached for the Italian's back, ready for when Lovino needed the support.

But it never came.

"Roma, speak to me," Spain said, voice strained. He was growing ever more distraught. "Tell me what's wrong."

It was now he noticed the spilled cup of water on the floor beside Romano. It didn't seem like the cold water had helped much.

"Let's get you up," Antonio suggested. It was the best course of action to take, since he wasn't all too sure about what, exactly, he was supposed to be doing.

The Spaniard tried to lift Romano, but the Italian seemed glued to the floor, like gravity was more concentrated here and his overall mass had increased times ten. Romano's head was cast down, so Spain couldn't see his face that well, but the beads of sweat lining his face was prominent.

Spain was too quick to assume things would get better with Romano's waking. His fever came back with a vengeance.

"Hot . . . so hot," Romano mumbled incoherently. "Hot. I'm burning . . ."

Antonio swept his head back and brushed the bangs away from his face. He was startled to find how much Romano's eyes had dulled, how empty they seemed compared to a few moments ago, when he'd just woken. They were half-open and collapsing steadily.

"Romano," Spain said. "Romano, can you hear me?"

"Spain?" Romano's head jerked briefly in recognition, but afterwards he went back to mumbling unintelligently, his lips parting only slightly to let the whispers through: "Hot . . . I'm boiling, can't breathe . . ."

Spain leaned the Italian back onto the bed frame and undid a few buttons of his shirt. He started fanning Romano with a nearby book he grabbed from the nightstand, hoping it would help cool him down.

"Don't give up on me, Roma. Fight it. You need to fight it."

"Spain?" Romano asked again. "Have I . . ." The rest of his words were lost.

"What is it?" the Spaniard encouraged. He needed to keep him talking.

"Have I ever . . . told you how much you look like Gramps?"

Spain momentarily ceased movement. He stopped fanning, his book and hand poised in midair.

"I miss him." Romano's empty eyes became distant and sad. "I never say so . . . but I miss him so much. Whenever I look at you, I see him."

Antonio felt his throat constrict. "Romano—"

"You remind me of him too. Always so . . . happy."

"Stop talking," Antonio said, taking a wet cloth and wiping Romano's forehead. "Save your strength."

"Don't disappear on me like he did, Spain . . . Promise me that."

The Spaniard smiled dispiritedly, a sad, pained smile. "I would never, ever think of doing that to you."

Romano's posture relaxed, almost like in relief. But his face was as stoney as ever.

Then the Italian suddenly gasped, and he lurched forward, clutching at his chest.