Hetalia: Counting dust motes; Spain/Romano 524 Words
Spain decides that he likes the weekends when Romano decides to visit much better than the ones when he doesn't. It's not that he doesn't see Romano enough, even on the weekends when he doesn't plan on visiting, there is always inevitably the rude awakening of Romano's fist slamming against his door early Saturday morning, demanding Spain's attention as he lets off another red-faced long winded rant about how AC Milano played the night before, or how Germany's been spending too much time with Veneziano, or how maybe his boss could stand to learn a little goddamn discretion. Not that Spain won't hear of these things anyway, but it's better to hear them Friday night, when they've had dinner and maybe a little bit of wine and it's much easier to get Romano's mind off of certain things.
And after all, it is much better to wake up Saturday morning with Romano warming his bed instead of banging down his door, even if "warming the bed" is maybe a stretch considering the way Romano's curled himself up at the bed's far edge, back turned toward Spain. He's here, though, Spain thinks to himself, shifting to rest on his side one hand reaching out to press at the curve of Romano's shoulder blade, each finger pressing into Romano's skin and drawing downward, one after the other. Romano's here and that's what counts, right?
"What the hell are you doing?" Romano grumbles, half into his pillow. Spain can feel his voice through his fingertips pressed to Romano's back.
"Mm, counting dust motes?" he says, pressing his palm flat and leaning in closer.
It's not a lie, really. There are bits of dust, lit up by the late morning sun, floating lazily through the air. He could count them. It'd probably take so long that by the time he even got close to finishing there wouldn’t be sun enough to see them anymore.
Romano half rolls over, just enough so that he can glare at Spain properly, even if it's out of one half-open sleepy eye.
"What the hell," he says before turning back over and burying his face in the pillows. "That'll take for fucking ever."
"We've got time though, right?" Spain replies with a laugh. Romano huffs.
They do have time, these days, time for counting bits of glowing dust, and time for other things. Smiling to himself, Spain slides his hand down Romano's back and curls it over his hip, turning and tugging him closer with the arm now around his waist. Romano only grunts in protest, grabbing a spare pillow and reaching back to smack it against Spain's head. Spain laughs.
"We've got time for breakfast, too," he says, nuzzling at the base of Romano's neck. Romano hits him with the pillow again.
"It's practically lunch time, moron."
"Lunch too, then."
Romano doesn't hit him for that. Instead he rolls over eyes narrowed and brows drawn together as he stares at Spain's smile for a moment before puffing his cheeks and jutting his chin up in a stubborn gesture.
"Fine," he concedes, "Then get your ass out of bed and make me lunch."
And after all, it is much better to wake up Saturday morning with Romano warming his bed instead of banging down his door, even if "warming the bed" is maybe a stretch considering the way Romano's curled himself up at the bed's far edge, back turned toward Spain. He's here, though, Spain thinks to himself, shifting to rest on his side one hand reaching out to press at the curve of Romano's shoulder blade, each finger pressing into Romano's skin and drawing downward, one after the other. Romano's here and that's what counts, right?
"What the hell are you doing?" Romano grumbles, half into his pillow. Spain can feel his voice through his fingertips pressed to Romano's back.
"Mm, counting dust motes?" he says, pressing his palm flat and leaning in closer.
It's not a lie, really. There are bits of dust, lit up by the late morning sun, floating lazily through the air. He could count them. It'd probably take so long that by the time he even got close to finishing there wouldn’t be sun enough to see them anymore.
Romano half rolls over, just enough so that he can glare at Spain properly, even if it's out of one half-open sleepy eye.
"What the hell," he says before turning back over and burying his face in the pillows. "That'll take for fucking ever."
"We've got time though, right?" Spain replies with a laugh. Romano huffs.
They do have time, these days, time for counting bits of glowing dust, and time for other things. Smiling to himself, Spain slides his hand down Romano's back and curls it over his hip, turning and tugging him closer with the arm now around his waist. Romano only grunts in protest, grabbing a spare pillow and reaching back to smack it against Spain's head. Spain laughs.
"We've got time for breakfast, too," he says, nuzzling at the base of Romano's neck. Romano hits him with the pillow again.
"It's practically lunch time, moron."
"Lunch too, then."
Romano doesn't hit him for that. Instead he rolls over eyes narrowed and brows drawn together as he stares at Spain's smile for a moment before puffing his cheeks and jutting his chin up in a stubborn gesture.
"Fine," he concedes, "Then get your ass out of bed and make me lunch."