[APH] Hold Back
Title: Hold Back
Category: Axis Powers Hetalia / Hetalia World Series
Characters/Pairings: South Italy, Spain
Genre/Rating/Warnings: general/G/none
Summary/Excerpt: Romano abstains from being mean to Spain for an entire day.
A/N: It somehow gravitated toward food. I’m sorry. ^^; Written for the aph_fluffathon. Prompt was Romano makes a genuine effort to control his temper around Spain. Spain doesn’t notice. I also realize tomato and chocolate won’t probably make the best of combinations.
Hold Back
“Why are you so angry all the time?” was the question in Romano’s head as he picked out fresh tomatoes from the wet market on the way to one of Spain’s country homes. It was a troubling query France had asked a week ago when they went for a picnic in Normandy with Veneziano and the Spaniard in point. No, he hadn’t been asking for love advice. Romano had simply been himself, irritable and loud-mouthed, to which France made a valid observation.
Staring at the red vegetable in his hand, the southern Italian begged to disagree. He wasn’t angry all the time. His anger was usually directed at either Spain or Germany (teasing for his younger brother, because he showed his love that way, the jitters around France and general ambivalence toward anyone else) within good reason, or so Romano would like to think. Germany was an ass-a scary, potato-loving, muscled ass who had Veneziano melting into a puddle of ‘Ve~’s and moronic happy every time he dropped by.
Spain was an even larger ass…
Romano returned to shapely tomato back to its pile and stopped his train of thought.
“Lovino!” Benito, the grocer, greeted jovially and picked up the discarded vegetable plus three particularly juicy looking ones and added them to Romano’s bag. “Have some extra. You look a bit down today.”
Romano smiled in slight surprise. “Thank you, Benito. I was only thinking. I’ll be sure to share some Ascolana on my way back.”
“No, you don’t have to!” the large man returned, waving his arms about as if to physically wave the offer off and chuckled. “The good Lord knows it’s always a pleasure to have you visit. Won’t you be making pasta this time?”
Romano shrugged. “Depends on Sp-Antonio.”
Benito laughed heartily. “Well alright. You’re a good boy, Romano. I’m sure Señor Antonio wouldn’t want to see you visiting with a frown, yes? Bueno, I must be keeping you. Grow tall a bit next time!”
“I will,” Romano bade the grocer goodbye and crossed the plaza toward a large ancestral home that stuck out at the end of the street.
He loved this town. The rustic feel of everything brought back memories of less turbulent eras. The townsfolk simply knew him as Lovino, the good friend of Señor Antonio, who visited often. In another generation, he might entrust their secrets to them, but for now he wanted to get to know everyone at the local market so he can buy the freshest foods.
Frowning to himself as he neared Spain’s abode, Romano found himself thinking there was indeed no reason for him to be irritable all the time. The few extra tomatoes in his bag proved as much. Considering France’s question (in all seriousness, it was a feat), Romano, with a lot of reluctance, decided to be calmer just for today and see things went from there.
So with a deep breath, he pushed the door of Spain’s country home open.
“Lovi~!” Spain greeted from the kitchen, obscenely happy Romano swore he saw flowers. “You came!”
“Of course,” Hold back the ‘bastard’. Doing swell. “You’re cooking.”
“Uwa~! You picked tomatoes!” Spain couldn’t seem to leave the kitchen and insisted on yelling from the doorway. The tiny muscle under Romano’s left eye threatened to twitch. “Come in! The foccacia’s almost done baking.”
“Hm…” It explained the comforting aroma of basil he encountered when he entered. Crossing the living room, he joined Spain in the small kitchen and placed his bag of groceries on the counter. Romano suddenly felt he wasn’t going to be able to keep his act up, realizing the sight of Spain’s face made irrational murderous impulses surge inside him. He hastened to get busy with the dirty dishes in the sink.
Hold back the ‘why the heck are these piled up here, argh, you’re really useless’. That’s the spirit.
“Those tomatoes look real tasty,” Spain sang as he straightened up from checking the oven. “How would you like me to cook them? Or we could always have them fresh.”
“Your pasta would be nice,” Romano mumbled, engrossed in his work.
“Ho~! Lovi’s giving Boss a compliment. Ah, this makes me happy!”
The Italian froze has Spain hugged him from behind with floury hands. He fought with all the forces of nature to restrain from giving the man a headbutt. And when all he could manage was a ‘Tch’, Spain pulled away, humming happily.
“I’m thinking of churros later. Or a tart. Today feels so nice, all I want to do is eat.”
Hold back the ‘just like you to be lazy, idiot’ despite Romano’s sweet temptation to do the same.
The kitchen was awfully quiet. Chop chop chop, glub glub, boiiiil and lalala te quiero amor mio bailamos~ was not was he was used to hearing. To his acute horror, Romano realized, as the garlic and onions filled the air and their herb pasta was al dente, that he couldn’t trust himself to speak without saying something that’d possibly break his self imposed meanness ban. Why.
He needed a glass of wine.
“Let’s eat!” Spain declared, dense and freaking oblivious, Romano wanted to throttle him. Even uttering ‘shit’ would immensely calm his frazzled nerves.
Their lunch date was spent in awkward silence. Spain’s traditional tomato garlic pasta was divine and the foccacia was baked to perfection. They had an 18th century vintage to luxuriously share between the two of them and there was a promise of churros after siesta time. Romano didn’t want to think their average conversations consisted of him swearing all the time. It wasn’t the best epiphanies he had.
“Hah~ this really is nice.” Spain monologued. “Y’know recently everything’s been busy and the weather is absolutely crazy. I barely have time to cook during the weekdays and aaah my economy isn’t doing so well. I wish there’d be more Saturdays like this, don’t you? Abuelita Corazon from next door is marrying off her first grandchild. They want me to be her godfather. Isn’t that amazing?”
Romano had to make the effort, if only to prove something to himself. What that was, he couldn’t figure for the life of him. “…won’t that seem weird? I mean, you were also Corazon’s godfather.”
“You’re right,” Spain sang, more fascinated than anything else. “Imagine if they took my picture and placed it beside the really old wedding pictures, I wouldn’t have aged a day! Aah, the youth.”
Hold back the ‘what…the heck. Your logic is so screwed. Are you really that dense?’. Take a deep breath.
“How time flies,” Spain continued. “It feels like yesterday you were tiny.”
Hold back the ‘yeah, with you it’s always tiny-me then now-me, isn’t it’. Romano rolled his eyes.
“Ah, but you haven’t changed. You still blush like crazy red. Like a tomato! I wonder how my plants are doing.”
Words blocked Romano’s throat and he downed the rest of his wine in one gulp. “Can we have churros now?” he asked, desperate for sugar.
Spain laughed and ruffled his hair, brushing the curl that made his body momentarily seize. Bite back the ‘bastard! Watch what you’re touching you stupid perv!’. Stay calm.
“You don’t seem like it but you do have a sweet tooth, Lovi,” the Spaniard said, picking up both their plates and carrying them to the sink. Romano followed, clearing the table of any crumbs. “Ha~ I remember the day I wondered ‘what do you like more, tomatoes or chocolate?’ and tried making a tomato-chocolate parfait.”
Hold back the ‘that tasted horrible, just so you know’ but Romano remembered having two dainty glass-fulls of it, relishing cream, awkward tang and bittersweet-ness.
As the sun steadily sank, the scent of melting chocolate filled the kitchen. Romano patiently waited for the churros to fry a golden brown, wondering how much longer he would have to restrain himself.
“The stars will be out tonight,” Spain said dreamily, lifting the ladle from the chocolate filled pot and dropping a dollop on his finger before placing it in his mouth. “Ah! It’s hot, but very good. Want me to take the guitar out tonight? Let’s sing!”
And somewhere in between picturing himself and Spain singing ballads of an era past out on his porch and removing crunchy churros from hot oil, Romano thought with great irritation and a dash of bemusement that Spain was truly a large ass.
Swearing or no swearing, Romano would always be Romano to the guy. He was a little grateful for it and that made him crack a small smile.
“Stupid, I’m not singing with you.”
For a moment, Romano thought Spain’s gaze lingered longer on his face than it should have, as if he was surprised at the first derogatory endearment of the day. It was only for a moment.
“Eeh? Why not! It’s been a while since we sang together! Or would you rather dance? I can play the flamenco.”
Romano playfully whacked him with an oven mitt and all was right with the world.
END
Category: Axis Powers Hetalia / Hetalia World Series
Characters/Pairings: South Italy, Spain
Genre/Rating/Warnings: general/G/none
Summary/Excerpt: Romano abstains from being mean to Spain for an entire day.
A/N: It somehow gravitated toward food. I’m sorry. ^^; Written for the aph_fluffathon. Prompt was Romano makes a genuine effort to control his temper around Spain. Spain doesn’t notice. I also realize tomato and chocolate won’t probably make the best of combinations.
Hold Back
“Why are you so angry all the time?” was the question in Romano’s head as he picked out fresh tomatoes from the wet market on the way to one of Spain’s country homes. It was a troubling query France had asked a week ago when they went for a picnic in Normandy with Veneziano and the Spaniard in point. No, he hadn’t been asking for love advice. Romano had simply been himself, irritable and loud-mouthed, to which France made a valid observation.
Staring at the red vegetable in his hand, the southern Italian begged to disagree. He wasn’t angry all the time. His anger was usually directed at either Spain or Germany (teasing for his younger brother, because he showed his love that way, the jitters around France and general ambivalence toward anyone else) within good reason, or so Romano would like to think. Germany was an ass-a scary, potato-loving, muscled ass who had Veneziano melting into a puddle of ‘Ve~’s and moronic happy every time he dropped by.
Spain was an even larger ass…
Romano returned to shapely tomato back to its pile and stopped his train of thought.
“Lovino!” Benito, the grocer, greeted jovially and picked up the discarded vegetable plus three particularly juicy looking ones and added them to Romano’s bag. “Have some extra. You look a bit down today.”
Romano smiled in slight surprise. “Thank you, Benito. I was only thinking. I’ll be sure to share some Ascolana on my way back.”
“No, you don’t have to!” the large man returned, waving his arms about as if to physically wave the offer off and chuckled. “The good Lord knows it’s always a pleasure to have you visit. Won’t you be making pasta this time?”
Romano shrugged. “Depends on Sp-Antonio.”
Benito laughed heartily. “Well alright. You’re a good boy, Romano. I’m sure Señor Antonio wouldn’t want to see you visiting with a frown, yes? Bueno, I must be keeping you. Grow tall a bit next time!”
“I will,” Romano bade the grocer goodbye and crossed the plaza toward a large ancestral home that stuck out at the end of the street.
He loved this town. The rustic feel of everything brought back memories of less turbulent eras. The townsfolk simply knew him as Lovino, the good friend of Señor Antonio, who visited often. In another generation, he might entrust their secrets to them, but for now he wanted to get to know everyone at the local market so he can buy the freshest foods.
Frowning to himself as he neared Spain’s abode, Romano found himself thinking there was indeed no reason for him to be irritable all the time. The few extra tomatoes in his bag proved as much. Considering France’s question (in all seriousness, it was a feat), Romano, with a lot of reluctance, decided to be calmer just for today and see things went from there.
So with a deep breath, he pushed the door of Spain’s country home open.
“Lovi~!” Spain greeted from the kitchen, obscenely happy Romano swore he saw flowers. “You came!”
“Of course,” Hold back the ‘bastard’. Doing swell. “You’re cooking.”
“Uwa~! You picked tomatoes!” Spain couldn’t seem to leave the kitchen and insisted on yelling from the doorway. The tiny muscle under Romano’s left eye threatened to twitch. “Come in! The foccacia’s almost done baking.”
“Hm…” It explained the comforting aroma of basil he encountered when he entered. Crossing the living room, he joined Spain in the small kitchen and placed his bag of groceries on the counter. Romano suddenly felt he wasn’t going to be able to keep his act up, realizing the sight of Spain’s face made irrational murderous impulses surge inside him. He hastened to get busy with the dirty dishes in the sink.
Hold back the ‘why the heck are these piled up here, argh, you’re really useless’. That’s the spirit.
“Those tomatoes look real tasty,” Spain sang as he straightened up from checking the oven. “How would you like me to cook them? Or we could always have them fresh.”
“Your pasta would be nice,” Romano mumbled, engrossed in his work.
“Ho~! Lovi’s giving Boss a compliment. Ah, this makes me happy!”
The Italian froze has Spain hugged him from behind with floury hands. He fought with all the forces of nature to restrain from giving the man a headbutt. And when all he could manage was a ‘Tch’, Spain pulled away, humming happily.
“I’m thinking of churros later. Or a tart. Today feels so nice, all I want to do is eat.”
Hold back the ‘just like you to be lazy, idiot’ despite Romano’s sweet temptation to do the same.
The kitchen was awfully quiet. Chop chop chop, glub glub, boiiiil and lalala te quiero amor mio bailamos~ was not was he was used to hearing. To his acute horror, Romano realized, as the garlic and onions filled the air and their herb pasta was al dente, that he couldn’t trust himself to speak without saying something that’d possibly break his self imposed meanness ban. Why.
He needed a glass of wine.
“Let’s eat!” Spain declared, dense and freaking oblivious, Romano wanted to throttle him. Even uttering ‘shit’ would immensely calm his frazzled nerves.
Their lunch date was spent in awkward silence. Spain’s traditional tomato garlic pasta was divine and the foccacia was baked to perfection. They had an 18th century vintage to luxuriously share between the two of them and there was a promise of churros after siesta time. Romano didn’t want to think their average conversations consisted of him swearing all the time. It wasn’t the best epiphanies he had.
“Hah~ this really is nice.” Spain monologued. “Y’know recently everything’s been busy and the weather is absolutely crazy. I barely have time to cook during the weekdays and aaah my economy isn’t doing so well. I wish there’d be more Saturdays like this, don’t you? Abuelita Corazon from next door is marrying off her first grandchild. They want me to be her godfather. Isn’t that amazing?”
Romano had to make the effort, if only to prove something to himself. What that was, he couldn’t figure for the life of him. “…won’t that seem weird? I mean, you were also Corazon’s godfather.”
“You’re right,” Spain sang, more fascinated than anything else. “Imagine if they took my picture and placed it beside the really old wedding pictures, I wouldn’t have aged a day! Aah, the youth.”
Hold back the ‘what…the heck. Your logic is so screwed. Are you really that dense?’. Take a deep breath.
“How time flies,” Spain continued. “It feels like yesterday you were tiny.”
Hold back the ‘yeah, with you it’s always tiny-me then now-me, isn’t it’. Romano rolled his eyes.
“Ah, but you haven’t changed. You still blush like crazy red. Like a tomato! I wonder how my plants are doing.”
Words blocked Romano’s throat and he downed the rest of his wine in one gulp. “Can we have churros now?” he asked, desperate for sugar.
Spain laughed and ruffled his hair, brushing the curl that made his body momentarily seize. Bite back the ‘bastard! Watch what you’re touching you stupid perv!’. Stay calm.
“You don’t seem like it but you do have a sweet tooth, Lovi,” the Spaniard said, picking up both their plates and carrying them to the sink. Romano followed, clearing the table of any crumbs. “Ha~ I remember the day I wondered ‘what do you like more, tomatoes or chocolate?’ and tried making a tomato-chocolate parfait.”
Hold back the ‘that tasted horrible, just so you know’ but Romano remembered having two dainty glass-fulls of it, relishing cream, awkward tang and bittersweet-ness.
As the sun steadily sank, the scent of melting chocolate filled the kitchen. Romano patiently waited for the churros to fry a golden brown, wondering how much longer he would have to restrain himself.
“The stars will be out tonight,” Spain said dreamily, lifting the ladle from the chocolate filled pot and dropping a dollop on his finger before placing it in his mouth. “Ah! It’s hot, but very good. Want me to take the guitar out tonight? Let’s sing!”
And somewhere in between picturing himself and Spain singing ballads of an era past out on his porch and removing crunchy churros from hot oil, Romano thought with great irritation and a dash of bemusement that Spain was truly a large ass.
Swearing or no swearing, Romano would always be Romano to the guy. He was a little grateful for it and that made him crack a small smile.
“Stupid, I’m not singing with you.”
For a moment, Romano thought Spain’s gaze lingered longer on his face than it should have, as if he was surprised at the first derogatory endearment of the day. It was only for a moment.
“Eeh? Why not! It’s been a while since we sang together! Or would you rather dance? I can play the flamenco.”
Romano playfully whacked him with an oven mitt and all was right with the world.
END