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The door clicks shut behind them and Spain moves against Romano, making the other country step backwards, staring up at Spain. Spain smiles at him and carefully sits him down onto the bed. They stare at one another a moment before Spain leans down, eyes hooding.
“Romano…” Spain murmurs and leans forward to kiss him properly on the mouth, his hands smoothing back the Italian’s shirt. They kiss, Romano’s lips moving carefully against Spain’s own, and when Spain opens his mouth to him, Romano willingly explores. Spain grips Romano’s shoulders, leaning over him and feeling his knees buckle.
Romano’s hands grip Spain’s waist, gripping at the sharp curve of his hip, palming the hipbone and memorizing the way he feels beneath his hands. Their tongues tangle and Romano’s eyelids flutter a moment before falling shut properly. He surges forward, kissing him hard and fast. Needy.
Spain pushes against Romano’s shoulders, making him lie on his back on the sheets. He murmurs the other’s name. Romano doesn’t respond but merely arches into him, eyes clenched shut and a groan working past his lips, only to be swallowed by Spain’s mouth.
The sheets rustle beneath them as Spain’s diligent hands work away Romano’s clothing, and Romano’s eager hands move to rip away Spain’s clothing. Romano’s blushing, so Spain lifts the blanket to drape it over them, for some kind of cruel semblance of modesty.
Romano groans as a hand grazes over his inner thigh, drifting closer and closer. “Bastard…”
“I know,” Spain whispers quietly as his lips find the dip of his jaw and slide down his neck. A hand smoothes over his chest, exploring while holding him down to the bed, palms flat against his skin. He shifts between Romano’s legs, drifting and draping over him, protecting him while pleasing him.
“Shit…” Romano gasps. “This…”
His eyes betray him. Underneath the passion and the pleasure, there is guilt and fear. Spain knows that his own eyes must mirror that look.
“I know,” he repeats. He closes his eyes and whispers, “Lord have mercy.”
Romano’s hand pulls down Spain’s chest and curls around the cross hanging from the chain. He tugs, and Spain obligingly dips his head, watching as Romano brings the cross to his lips. Black hair falls in his eyes but he watches Romano with a heavy look, feeling his heart clench in his guilt at seeing the look of such longing and such pain in Romano’s eyes. The Italian whispers something that Spain does not quite catch.
Spain curls around him, draws him close while wrapping one arm around him. His free hand drifts between the space shared between them, fingers grazing over the head of Romano’s length and brushing from tip to root, cupping him and stroking him and making the Italian moan just the way that Spain likes.
Romano pants, eyes hooded and smoldering.
He lifts a shaking hand, but instead of touching Spain, smoothing along the lines of his body, Romano instead crosses himself, panting, staring up at Spain and murmuring in Latin.
“De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine.”
Spain’s eyes fall shut and he listens to the ancient words pierce his heart with guilt and shame and fear. God is not smiling down on them, not now. He grovels in his shame, hating himself for loving the sound of Romano’s voice and longing to hold him close. The shame, the guilt, the fear. It boils over in his heart.
And yet he cannot pull his hands away from Romano, who responds so passionately to his every ministration. He dips his head and presses his lips against Romano’s neck and listens and feels the hum of his words as the other spoke.
“Domine, exaudi vocem meam,” he gasps to the air, eyes wide and staring up towards God as Spain presses his open mouth against the curve of Romano’s neck. “Fiant aures tuae intendentes, in vocem deprecationis meae.”
Spain shifts, running his mouth and lips over Romano’s feverish and responsive skin, passing down his neck, over his collarbone, down his chest and over his stomach, mouthing along the lines of his muscles. He kisses his belly button and follows the line of hair downwards. His eyebrows knit together and his lips quirk downwards in a frown as he feels the weight of his sin combating with the lightness of his pleasure and his love.
Romano’s prayer becomes more desperate, and he gasps, “Si iniquitates observaveris, Domine. Domine, quis sustinebit?”
“Romano,” Spain whispers and mouths the words against Romano’s stomach, speaking the words in time with Romano’s prayer, and knowing that his heart would not be saved. The cross hangs heavy around his neck. “Romano…”
“S-shut up,” Romano moans, breathless, “Don’t interrupt.”
Spain’s mouth closes in around him and he swallows as much of Romano as he can and Romano chokes on the next words of his prayer:
“Q-quia apud te propitiatio est et propter legem tuam sustinui te, Domine!”
Spain clenches his eyes shut as his heart clenches in his chest and he pivots his hands, pressing over Romano’s bony hips and keeping him there. He whispers the Latin with Romano.
Together, they say: “Sustinuit anima mea in verbo eius speravit anima mea in Domino.”
“Do you think that God will listen?” Spain asks him as he spills oil on his hand and pumps himself up and down, watching the way that Romano arches and waits for him. He slips inside of the other, slowly and almost painfully and it’s burning—burning like the pits of Hell.
Romano’s legs spread and he cries out, hand fisting around Spain’s cross as his other hands curls into a fist to strike across Spain’s face. Tears collect in the corners of Romano’s eyes and he looks so lost and forsaken as he drowns in his guilt.
His arms curl around Spain and keep him close when the other country contemplates pulling away from him.
“Romano…” he whispers. He doesn’t say the words he wants to say—to love you is a sin. And I do not care. He can’t say that.
“A custodia matutina usque ad noctem, speret Israel in Domino. Quia apud Dominum misericordia et copiosa apud eum redemptio.”
“Mm,” Spain agrees, and kisses the tears from Romano’s eyes, lips lingering over the other man’s clenched eyelids. “In the end, I wonder if we will be forgiven?”
“Stop interrupting,” Romano hisses and sounds more fearful than annoyed. He arches upwards and presses his mouth against Spain’s for a moment before pulling back with, “Et ipse redimet Israel, ex omnibus iniquitatibus eius.”
Spain sets a rhythm, moving against Romano as Romano presses to meet him halfway. They fall into a steady tempo of cadences and crescendos, all the while Romano’s voice growing louder in volume and rising an octave as he draws closer and closer to what he is afraid of reaching but strives for with all his might.
He has to tear his eyes away from Spain and settle on the cross hanging between them.
“Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto!”
“I wonder what it will be like in hell,” Spain whispers in Romano’s ear. “No matter how merciful our God may be…”
Romano cries out as he comes dangerously close to finding his peak. He pants out some profanities and insults to Spain, but Spain has long since learned to identify those curses as blessings from the Italian’s mouth. His hands cup the back of Romano’s head and bring him close.
“Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper,” Spain tells Romano, and Romano’s eyes flutter before falling shut. Spain whispers to Romano’s mouth, lips grazing over lips, “Et in saecula saeculorum.”
Spain slams into the spot deep inside Romano and he arches up, crying out, “Amen!”