[Fic Fill] Monday is a Wash Day
TITLE: Monday is a Wash Day
AUTHOR: deixis_dyad
RECIPIENT:cutthroatpixie
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Belgium, Romano, Spain (Romano <--> Spain)
RATING: PG-13 for language
NOTES: Many thanks to the lovely, the epic, the just plain fabulousinuyashacooks, who beta’d this for me. I also took a few liberties with the prompt; I hope my recipient doesn't mind!
SUMMARY: Belgium and Romano’s gossip about Spain goes in a direction Romano would rather avoid.
Monday is a Wash Day
1641: Castle of Cardona, Catalonia
Laughter echoes through the halls of the castle. The sky this morning could not be bluer, with only the occasional white cotton wisp of cloud floating by, the shadows of which darken the grass, the dust road of the Spanish countryside downhill, where the farmers lead their cattle to market. The sounds of the country fall on deaf ears of diplomats strolling down the open stone pavilion of the castle, dressed in their best velvet, their lace collars slightly yellowed with sweat. They laugh gaily, encouraged by the guffaws of a young man at the center of their party. He is decked extravagantly with gold from the New World. It’s been efficiently pandered, monopolized. The jewelry does not suit its owner, not perfectly, but that matters not when it serves so well as a show of power. His pendants jangle and sway to the cadence of his gait and loud, unashamed laughter heaving his chest up and down. The other men can only follow.
“Por supuesto,” the Nation of Spain laughs, leading the rest.
As they turn a corner, the sounds of their laughter fade into hollow echoes bouncing off the arched stone, the columns, the cool floor. The floor that scrapes against Italia Romano’s knobby knees as he crouches, a servant of the house unseen, as he scrubs half-heartedly brush against rock, bucket by his side. He watches Spain every day as he entertains, walking the same paths of the castle, always predictable until he moves court to another part of the country. And then Romano starts memorizing all over again.
He straightens from his position as the last sounds of Spain’s laughter finally fade, straightens the kerchief on his head that he thinks he’s outgrown by now, and rests his hands on his thighs.
A few seconds later he realizes his breeches are soaked through with soapy water and his indignation begets a new round of noise in the hall.
The spare pair of breeches are much too tight and short for Romano, and they have patches where his knees would have been a few decades ago. He sits on the steps of a courtyard which is flat and dry and brown and silent, playing with a piece of thread he dragged out of the exposed seams of his spares for lack of anything better to do.
Well, he could technically finish the chores Spain assigned to him, but why waste the energy?
“Ça va, Romano?”
A loud voice from the opposite end of the courtyard snaps Romano’s attention away from the thread and sends the birds previously roosted on the roof scattering off. It’s Belgium, a laundry basket swung over her hip. Hopefully a laundry basket with breeches that fit him.
Flustered, Romano quickly discards the string and straightens up, brushing the collected dirt from his apron. Belgium smiles sweetly and taps him on the nose once.
“Sulking again, child? I should have known,” she chides, her voice kind, benevolent. Romano scowls and rubs his nose with the back of his sleeve.
“ ‘M not sulking,” he mumbles. His toes shuffle on top of one another, dirt rubbing off on the tops.
Belgium laughs and leans in a little, her generous bosom swaying to her movements: “Does somebody need un pequeño beso?”
Romano starts and his face gets hot: “N-no, dammit… not a kiss- not from you!” Which is when his voice decides to crack.
To his horror, Belgium laughs again, and he cries, “No, no, ah, I didn’t mean it like that!” When she continues to giggle, Romano despairs, face on fire. “Belgium, stop it!” he wails, crossing his arms over his chest tightly.
She finally stops and pats him across his right ear. “Of course you didn’t. Petit Romano, growing up so fast. I remember when you barely reached my knee!” She gives him one final pat on the cheek and walks back to the laundry line, leaving Romano standing awkwardly on the stairs. He finally opts to sit back down.
“So, Romano,” Belgium’s voice rings out, not so far away, “Anyone else you thinking of kissing?”
Romano coughs and splutters and feels his face grow hot all over again and tries really, really hard not to think of who would be calling him a little tomate right now.
He answers: “No.”
Belgium peeks out from behind the sheet she’s hanging up and shrugs.
“Just wondering,” she bends over the laundry basket, “You are at that age. And Spain’s been wondering, too.”
Romano reflexively shoots up: “C-Che cazzo, he has not!” Spain could not possibly consider him older, yet. He has yet to give him a coat or hat. And he never bids Romano a nice day like he does with Belgium or Netherlands, or any of the other adults. But he sweeps that aside.
“Oh yes he has,” Belgium replies, “Especially since your brother’s been receiving attentions recently.”
“He’s been what?”
Belgium pauses stock-still in her movements. “Oh! Oh, no, not from Spain!” she laughs, “They’ve been from… well. There’s no nice way to put this, is there. He’s been getting attentions from France, actually.”
Romano’s eyes feels like they’re about to burst from their sockets.
“What’s more,” Belgium’s voice hushes a little, as if anticipating a particularly juicy piece of gossip, “You’d be getting the same treatment, too, if Spain hadn’t been looking after you so closely.”
“I - I would be… Cristo…” Romano signs the cross over himself, breathing heavily. It is almost too unbearable to think about.
“You know, Spain told me he’s perfected his,” -- and here Belgium gestures grandly--“ ‘Torro Death Grip’ on France for you.”
“His what--?”
“You’d have to ask him yourself,” Belgium replies delicately.
Romano swallows a few more times and attempts to ignore his fearful, nervous thoughts of Veneziano’s imperiled virtue. “Who does Spain think he is, anyway? Protecting me. He doesn’t owe me anything!”
“Hm. Well I think - and this is just my thoughts, mind you - that Spain protects you ‘cause he wants to. You know. Do that sort of thing.” Belgium struggles a little bit to pin down a lighter piece of cloth.
She turns to face him when she finishes, smiling brightly: “What do you think, sturdy theory?”
Romano frowns: “Not at all.”
Belgium folds another shirt over the line (Romano wonders if and when his breeches will be hung up and dried). “It’s true; he does treat you with more kindness than the rest of us.”
Romano doesn’t know how to answer to that; is he really treated better than the rest? Does Spain favor him? Why does Spain favor him? He kicks a stray pebble to the ground.
“And he is also handsome, eh?”
The earth suddenly seems to be tilting at an alarming degree, and very quickly too, so Romano just as quickly smacks his hand into the wall to steady himself.
“W-what,” he gasps, recovering, “What did you say?”
“Spain is a handsome man,” Belgium restates as if talking about the weather or harvests or a particular shade of green. “Do you not think so?”
Streaks of dirt carelessly line Romano’s stockings after he has finished steadying himself. The tilting business seems to be over with, but he can’t be sure of anything right now. He keeps his hand on the wall for safety.
“How can you ask me that question?” he demands, “When I’m a man?”
Of course, his voice breaks there, too.
As Romano coughs out the kinks in his throat, Belgium smiles: “You are also a Nation, or will be one, anyway. So, what say you?”
He feels like Belgium is being somewhat too enthusiastic about this, but he can’t avoid the question any longer. So he bites his lips and draws his shoulders in. It should not be this hard to answer Belgium’s silly questions, her harmless intentions, but -- but, here he is...
“I suppose.” Romano pronounces every syllable exactly, as if each of them is being forced out of his mouth. It’s purely aesthetic, Romano reminds himself frenetically, not - not like that, no, no no nono, not like that. He is surprised and a little embarrassed when he finds his right hand fiddling with the cross around his neck.
Belgium, on the other hand, takes this in complete stride: “You see? You have good taste, child. I think you’ll make a good Nation, when the time comes, huh?” She laughs prettily as she shakes out some linens.
Romano bites his lower lip: “Well, then maybe I don’t want to be a Nation!” He pouts a little, for effect.
“I don’t know, maybe you will. You want to be a servant all your life?” she replies, a little tartly for Romano’s tastes. He shrugs halfway and doesn’t bother to conceal his eyes rolling a bit. No, of course he doesn’t want to work for the rest of his life… but being under someone - namely, Spain - is the only thing he knows, the only way of life he can remember.
“So,” she continues, “What in particular do you find attractive about Spain, huh? Personally I like the way his hair falls, but everyone’s different.”
Romano starts. “Che?”
“Something you particularly like about him,” Belgium goads playfully, “Come now, there must be something.”
The sky is certainly blue today, Romano notices, and it’s probably very complimentary to his face because Romano knows, he knows he is reddening again. He looks heavenward for some form of divine intervention, a freak storm, the Second Coming, anything.
God is apparently very busy at the moment because nothing happens.
“Uhm, well,” Romano shuffles around, hands behind his back, “Uh, Spain, he’s got very, um… his eyes are very… green.”
Belgium rests her hands on top of the line and frowns: “Green?”
“Yes,” replies Romano with conviction: “Green.”
She continues to stare at him quizzically, but he is out of deep water, he thinks. Until Belgium takes a deep breath and then Romano knows he has to throw something else in.
“He’s, um, got nice skin, too. Yeah,” he offers before she can speak. She nods.
Well, it’s the truth. Spain does have nice skin.
Aesthetically speaking, of course.
His backside is also nice to look at, but hell if Romano is going to say that.
Belgium whistles a tune Romano is unfamiliar with as she pulls out his breeches, finally, to hang up on the line.
“ Miei pantaloni!” he cries, pressing them up to his face, almost as a show of gratitude to God.
Belgium smiles. “Romano, they aren’t dry yet,” she reminds him gently.
“I know.” He breaks away from them.
As Belgium hangs them on the line and begins to take the laundry basket back, Romano twists his apron in his hands and calls out: “Belgium!”
She turns around: “What is it, cher?”
He blushes and twists harder: “Y-you won’t tell anyone about this, right? About what we talked about, I mean!”
Romano thinks he sees her giggling again, but she raises her head quick enough.
“Not a soul!” she calls, and gives him a thumbs-up before retreating into the opposite hall.
“Are those new?” Spain asks, pointing at Romano’s breeches. Romano rolls his eyes, blushes a little because Spain noticed.
“Depends on your definition of ‘new’. But, sure,” he replies in a huff, continuing with his sweeping.
Spain leans back in his chair and seems to be surveying Romano’s progress from what he can tell in the corner of his eye. He will not look at Spain because - well, that’s too easy. Besides, the bastard will only press on if he’s encouraged by a look, Romano reasons.
“Someone’s turning a little red!” Spain observes cheerfully.
Romano clenches his teeth: “Someone will hit you over the head with his broom if you don’t shut up, damn it.”
Spain has the tenacity to laugh at the threat, and Romano almost makes good of it before deciding that it is simply not worth it to hit Spain with a broom. He’ll wait for divine intervention. It’s coming, he’s certain.
It had better be coming, Romano thinks angrily as he punctuates a particularly large sweep.
“Romanito!” Spain calls in a singsong voice, “You look just like a little tomate!” Predictable. Spain is always predictable. Romano hears a que lindo! from Spain’s direction as well, which is the point where he stomps over to the desk and whacks the back of Spain’s chair with the broom, stamping it with dust.
“What’s the big idea, eh?” Romano cries, hitting the chair with his broom over and over: “What’re you saying those things for, huh?” He continues to protest even as Spain leaves his seat and closes his hands over Romano’s shoulders.
“My, Romanito,” Spain smiles lazily, “You are getting my chair very dirty. It’s an antique, you know.”
Romano splutters: “I - I don’t care if it’s an antique, damn it, I just… “
“Belgium told me something interesting today.”
There is a tense pause before Romano can catch up with what Spain just said. He recovers quickly because Spain is changing the subject. Why doesn’t he ever listen to Romano?
And Spain keeps smiling: “She told me you fancied someone at court!”
Romano doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even know if he heard Spain correctly because Spain is still smiling and there’s something in his eyes and Romano - Romano just wants to sink into the ground right now and never come out.
Spain pats him on both shoulders: “I should have known this was coming! I always did sense something from you.”
Frozen, Romano is frozen on the spot and he might have let the broom slip from his grasp, but he’s really not sure. He has to concentrate on Spain.
Spain grins: “It’s Milan, isn’t it?”
Romano blinks: “Ch-che?”
“Milan!” Spain ploughs on, and winks: “You like her, don’t you?”
He then blinks and looks down again: “Are those breeches really new?”
“Y-yes!” Romano replies angrily, his voice breaking for about the fifth time that day. He still has no idea what Spain is talking about or why his hands are still on Romano’s shoulders, and damn if things are going to stay like this. He shakes them off a little roughly and quickly picks up the broom from the floor. Any further actions, such as smacking the broom into Spain’s face, are effectively stopped when Spain throws his arms around Romano and squeezes.
“I am so happy for you! Romanito, you are practically a grown-up!” he cries, probably literally. Romano can certainly imagine Spain crying tears of joy from his squished position against Spain’s right collarbone. He stays there, listlessly, until he hears Spain’s voice again.
“Romanito?” he asks tentatively from somewhere above Romano’s head, “Should I let go of you, now?”
“Of course you can let go of me!” Romano bursts out, flailing his arms to push himself away, “Che cazzo!”
Spain only replies with a noncommittal sound before tugging gently on the side of Romano’s kerchief.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “I think this is a bit too small for you now, isn’t it?” He tugs it off so quickly that Romano has barely any time to react; all he feels is coolness around his head from the fresh air kept off it for so long. Spain holds up his kerchief and waves it in front of Romano: “Don’t you think?”
Romano’s first reaction is to thank him. His second, more prevalent reaction is to get angry.
He makes to swipe it from Spain’s grip: “That’s mine, damn it, what right do you have -“ But Spain eludes him, hand reaching increasingly higher, and out of Romano’s range.
Romano is tired of struggling to reach his kerchief and yelling at Spain, so he gives up. Nose turned away, he makes to march out of the room, when he hears Spain’s voice from behind him.
“You look more like an adult without it,” he says.
Romano stops in his tracks: “I… do?” He is cautious. He has learned not to take much of what Spain says seriously.
Spain replies: “Si.”
For a moment, they are both silent.
And then Spain speaks up again: “Are you sure those are new breeches, because I swear they look just like the old-“
“For the love of God!” Romano groans, face burning. Through the doorway, his fingers close around the handle, begin to pull.
Spain calls out to him, for the first time, to have a nice day.
And Romano, for the first time, doesn’t slam the door.
--
Footnotes to be added when this gets posted to my journal! I hope everyone enjoys!! <3
AUTHOR: deixis_dyad
RECIPIENT:cutthroatpixie
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Belgium, Romano, Spain (Romano <--> Spain)
RATING: PG-13 for language
NOTES: Many thanks to the lovely, the epic, the just plain fabulousinuyashacooks, who beta’d this for me. I also took a few liberties with the prompt; I hope my recipient doesn't mind!
SUMMARY: Belgium and Romano’s gossip about Spain goes in a direction Romano would rather avoid.
Monday is a Wash Day
1641: Castle of Cardona, Catalonia
Laughter echoes through the halls of the castle. The sky this morning could not be bluer, with only the occasional white cotton wisp of cloud floating by, the shadows of which darken the grass, the dust road of the Spanish countryside downhill, where the farmers lead their cattle to market. The sounds of the country fall on deaf ears of diplomats strolling down the open stone pavilion of the castle, dressed in their best velvet, their lace collars slightly yellowed with sweat. They laugh gaily, encouraged by the guffaws of a young man at the center of their party. He is decked extravagantly with gold from the New World. It’s been efficiently pandered, monopolized. The jewelry does not suit its owner, not perfectly, but that matters not when it serves so well as a show of power. His pendants jangle and sway to the cadence of his gait and loud, unashamed laughter heaving his chest up and down. The other men can only follow.
“Por supuesto,” the Nation of Spain laughs, leading the rest.
As they turn a corner, the sounds of their laughter fade into hollow echoes bouncing off the arched stone, the columns, the cool floor. The floor that scrapes against Italia Romano’s knobby knees as he crouches, a servant of the house unseen, as he scrubs half-heartedly brush against rock, bucket by his side. He watches Spain every day as he entertains, walking the same paths of the castle, always predictable until he moves court to another part of the country. And then Romano starts memorizing all over again.
He straightens from his position as the last sounds of Spain’s laughter finally fade, straightens the kerchief on his head that he thinks he’s outgrown by now, and rests his hands on his thighs.
A few seconds later he realizes his breeches are soaked through with soapy water and his indignation begets a new round of noise in the hall.
The spare pair of breeches are much too tight and short for Romano, and they have patches where his knees would have been a few decades ago. He sits on the steps of a courtyard which is flat and dry and brown and silent, playing with a piece of thread he dragged out of the exposed seams of his spares for lack of anything better to do.
Well, he could technically finish the chores Spain assigned to him, but why waste the energy?
“Ça va, Romano?”
A loud voice from the opposite end of the courtyard snaps Romano’s attention away from the thread and sends the birds previously roosted on the roof scattering off. It’s Belgium, a laundry basket swung over her hip. Hopefully a laundry basket with breeches that fit him.
Flustered, Romano quickly discards the string and straightens up, brushing the collected dirt from his apron. Belgium smiles sweetly and taps him on the nose once.
“Sulking again, child? I should have known,” she chides, her voice kind, benevolent. Romano scowls and rubs his nose with the back of his sleeve.
“ ‘M not sulking,” he mumbles. His toes shuffle on top of one another, dirt rubbing off on the tops.
Belgium laughs and leans in a little, her generous bosom swaying to her movements: “Does somebody need un pequeño beso?”
Romano starts and his face gets hot: “N-no, dammit… not a kiss- not from you!” Which is when his voice decides to crack.
To his horror, Belgium laughs again, and he cries, “No, no, ah, I didn’t mean it like that!” When she continues to giggle, Romano despairs, face on fire. “Belgium, stop it!” he wails, crossing his arms over his chest tightly.
She finally stops and pats him across his right ear. “Of course you didn’t. Petit Romano, growing up so fast. I remember when you barely reached my knee!” She gives him one final pat on the cheek and walks back to the laundry line, leaving Romano standing awkwardly on the stairs. He finally opts to sit back down.
“So, Romano,” Belgium’s voice rings out, not so far away, “Anyone else you thinking of kissing?”
Romano coughs and splutters and feels his face grow hot all over again and tries really, really hard not to think of who would be calling him a little tomate right now.
He answers: “No.”
Belgium peeks out from behind the sheet she’s hanging up and shrugs.
“Just wondering,” she bends over the laundry basket, “You are at that age. And Spain’s been wondering, too.”
Romano reflexively shoots up: “C-Che cazzo, he has not!” Spain could not possibly consider him older, yet. He has yet to give him a coat or hat. And he never bids Romano a nice day like he does with Belgium or Netherlands, or any of the other adults. But he sweeps that aside.
“Oh yes he has,” Belgium replies, “Especially since your brother’s been receiving attentions recently.”
“He’s been what?”
Belgium pauses stock-still in her movements. “Oh! Oh, no, not from Spain!” she laughs, “They’ve been from… well. There’s no nice way to put this, is there. He’s been getting attentions from France, actually.”
Romano’s eyes feels like they’re about to burst from their sockets.
“What’s more,” Belgium’s voice hushes a little, as if anticipating a particularly juicy piece of gossip, “You’d be getting the same treatment, too, if Spain hadn’t been looking after you so closely.”
“I - I would be… Cristo…” Romano signs the cross over himself, breathing heavily. It is almost too unbearable to think about.
“You know, Spain told me he’s perfected his,” -- and here Belgium gestures grandly--“ ‘Torro Death Grip’ on France for you.”
“His what--?”
“You’d have to ask him yourself,” Belgium replies delicately.
Romano swallows a few more times and attempts to ignore his fearful, nervous thoughts of Veneziano’s imperiled virtue. “Who does Spain think he is, anyway? Protecting me. He doesn’t owe me anything!”
“Hm. Well I think - and this is just my thoughts, mind you - that Spain protects you ‘cause he wants to. You know. Do that sort of thing.” Belgium struggles a little bit to pin down a lighter piece of cloth.
She turns to face him when she finishes, smiling brightly: “What do you think, sturdy theory?”
Romano frowns: “Not at all.”
Belgium folds another shirt over the line (Romano wonders if and when his breeches will be hung up and dried). “It’s true; he does treat you with more kindness than the rest of us.”
Romano doesn’t know how to answer to that; is he really treated better than the rest? Does Spain favor him? Why does Spain favor him? He kicks a stray pebble to the ground.
“And he is also handsome, eh?”
The earth suddenly seems to be tilting at an alarming degree, and very quickly too, so Romano just as quickly smacks his hand into the wall to steady himself.
“W-what,” he gasps, recovering, “What did you say?”
“Spain is a handsome man,” Belgium restates as if talking about the weather or harvests or a particular shade of green. “Do you not think so?”
Streaks of dirt carelessly line Romano’s stockings after he has finished steadying himself. The tilting business seems to be over with, but he can’t be sure of anything right now. He keeps his hand on the wall for safety.
“How can you ask me that question?” he demands, “When I’m a man?”
Of course, his voice breaks there, too.
As Romano coughs out the kinks in his throat, Belgium smiles: “You are also a Nation, or will be one, anyway. So, what say you?”
He feels like Belgium is being somewhat too enthusiastic about this, but he can’t avoid the question any longer. So he bites his lips and draws his shoulders in. It should not be this hard to answer Belgium’s silly questions, her harmless intentions, but -- but, here he is...
“I suppose.” Romano pronounces every syllable exactly, as if each of them is being forced out of his mouth. It’s purely aesthetic, Romano reminds himself frenetically, not - not like that, no, no no nono, not like that. He is surprised and a little embarrassed when he finds his right hand fiddling with the cross around his neck.
Belgium, on the other hand, takes this in complete stride: “You see? You have good taste, child. I think you’ll make a good Nation, when the time comes, huh?” She laughs prettily as she shakes out some linens.
Romano bites his lower lip: “Well, then maybe I don’t want to be a Nation!” He pouts a little, for effect.
“I don’t know, maybe you will. You want to be a servant all your life?” she replies, a little tartly for Romano’s tastes. He shrugs halfway and doesn’t bother to conceal his eyes rolling a bit. No, of course he doesn’t want to work for the rest of his life… but being under someone - namely, Spain - is the only thing he knows, the only way of life he can remember.
“So,” she continues, “What in particular do you find attractive about Spain, huh? Personally I like the way his hair falls, but everyone’s different.”
Romano starts. “Che?”
“Something you particularly like about him,” Belgium goads playfully, “Come now, there must be something.”
The sky is certainly blue today, Romano notices, and it’s probably very complimentary to his face because Romano knows, he knows he is reddening again. He looks heavenward for some form of divine intervention, a freak storm, the Second Coming, anything.
God is apparently very busy at the moment because nothing happens.
“Uhm, well,” Romano shuffles around, hands behind his back, “Uh, Spain, he’s got very, um… his eyes are very… green.”
Belgium rests her hands on top of the line and frowns: “Green?”
“Yes,” replies Romano with conviction: “Green.”
She continues to stare at him quizzically, but he is out of deep water, he thinks. Until Belgium takes a deep breath and then Romano knows he has to throw something else in.
“He’s, um, got nice skin, too. Yeah,” he offers before she can speak. She nods.
Well, it’s the truth. Spain does have nice skin.
Aesthetically speaking, of course.
His backside is also nice to look at, but hell if Romano is going to say that.
Belgium whistles a tune Romano is unfamiliar with as she pulls out his breeches, finally, to hang up on the line.
“ Miei pantaloni!” he cries, pressing them up to his face, almost as a show of gratitude to God.
Belgium smiles. “Romano, they aren’t dry yet,” she reminds him gently.
“I know.” He breaks away from them.
As Belgium hangs them on the line and begins to take the laundry basket back, Romano twists his apron in his hands and calls out: “Belgium!”
She turns around: “What is it, cher?”
He blushes and twists harder: “Y-you won’t tell anyone about this, right? About what we talked about, I mean!”
Romano thinks he sees her giggling again, but she raises her head quick enough.
“Not a soul!” she calls, and gives him a thumbs-up before retreating into the opposite hall.
“Are those new?” Spain asks, pointing at Romano’s breeches. Romano rolls his eyes, blushes a little because Spain noticed.
“Depends on your definition of ‘new’. But, sure,” he replies in a huff, continuing with his sweeping.
Spain leans back in his chair and seems to be surveying Romano’s progress from what he can tell in the corner of his eye. He will not look at Spain because - well, that’s too easy. Besides, the bastard will only press on if he’s encouraged by a look, Romano reasons.
“Someone’s turning a little red!” Spain observes cheerfully.
Romano clenches his teeth: “Someone will hit you over the head with his broom if you don’t shut up, damn it.”
Spain has the tenacity to laugh at the threat, and Romano almost makes good of it before deciding that it is simply not worth it to hit Spain with a broom. He’ll wait for divine intervention. It’s coming, he’s certain.
It had better be coming, Romano thinks angrily as he punctuates a particularly large sweep.
“Romanito!” Spain calls in a singsong voice, “You look just like a little tomate!” Predictable. Spain is always predictable. Romano hears a que lindo! from Spain’s direction as well, which is the point where he stomps over to the desk and whacks the back of Spain’s chair with the broom, stamping it with dust.
“What’s the big idea, eh?” Romano cries, hitting the chair with his broom over and over: “What’re you saying those things for, huh?” He continues to protest even as Spain leaves his seat and closes his hands over Romano’s shoulders.
“My, Romanito,” Spain smiles lazily, “You are getting my chair very dirty. It’s an antique, you know.”
Romano splutters: “I - I don’t care if it’s an antique, damn it, I just… “
“Belgium told me something interesting today.”
There is a tense pause before Romano can catch up with what Spain just said. He recovers quickly because Spain is changing the subject. Why doesn’t he ever listen to Romano?
And Spain keeps smiling: “She told me you fancied someone at court!”
Romano doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even know if he heard Spain correctly because Spain is still smiling and there’s something in his eyes and Romano - Romano just wants to sink into the ground right now and never come out.
Spain pats him on both shoulders: “I should have known this was coming! I always did sense something from you.”
Frozen, Romano is frozen on the spot and he might have let the broom slip from his grasp, but he’s really not sure. He has to concentrate on Spain.
Spain grins: “It’s Milan, isn’t it?”
Romano blinks: “Ch-che?”
“Milan!” Spain ploughs on, and winks: “You like her, don’t you?”
He then blinks and looks down again: “Are those breeches really new?”
“Y-yes!” Romano replies angrily, his voice breaking for about the fifth time that day. He still has no idea what Spain is talking about or why his hands are still on Romano’s shoulders, and damn if things are going to stay like this. He shakes them off a little roughly and quickly picks up the broom from the floor. Any further actions, such as smacking the broom into Spain’s face, are effectively stopped when Spain throws his arms around Romano and squeezes.
“I am so happy for you! Romanito, you are practically a grown-up!” he cries, probably literally. Romano can certainly imagine Spain crying tears of joy from his squished position against Spain’s right collarbone. He stays there, listlessly, until he hears Spain’s voice again.
“Romanito?” he asks tentatively from somewhere above Romano’s head, “Should I let go of you, now?”
“Of course you can let go of me!” Romano bursts out, flailing his arms to push himself away, “Che cazzo!”
Spain only replies with a noncommittal sound before tugging gently on the side of Romano’s kerchief.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “I think this is a bit too small for you now, isn’t it?” He tugs it off so quickly that Romano has barely any time to react; all he feels is coolness around his head from the fresh air kept off it for so long. Spain holds up his kerchief and waves it in front of Romano: “Don’t you think?”
Romano’s first reaction is to thank him. His second, more prevalent reaction is to get angry.
He makes to swipe it from Spain’s grip: “That’s mine, damn it, what right do you have -“ But Spain eludes him, hand reaching increasingly higher, and out of Romano’s range.
Romano is tired of struggling to reach his kerchief and yelling at Spain, so he gives up. Nose turned away, he makes to march out of the room, when he hears Spain’s voice from behind him.
“You look more like an adult without it,” he says.
Romano stops in his tracks: “I… do?” He is cautious. He has learned not to take much of what Spain says seriously.
Spain replies: “Si.”
For a moment, they are both silent.
And then Spain speaks up again: “Are you sure those are new breeches, because I swear they look just like the old-“
“For the love of God!” Romano groans, face burning. Through the doorway, his fingers close around the handle, begin to pull.
Spain calls out to him, for the first time, to have a nice day.
And Romano, for the first time, doesn’t slam the door.
--
Footnotes to be added when this gets posted to my journal! I hope everyone enjoys!! <3