Massaia
AngolMoaChan
According to my handy dandy Italian/English dictionary, 'massaia' is like a housewife. XD
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"Lovino~I'm home!"
The warm voice of Antonio Fernandez Carriedo echoed through the wide open spaces of his cheery white-washed home, carrying through the halls of the house like a ringing bell. The Spanish nation frowned as he set his bags down by the door, shutting it behind him with his foot.
This was strange.
Usually, his young charge Romano would have come sailing at him by now, hurling insults along with his small body, and he'd have to use his matador reflexes to dodge the flying bullet he called his protectorate. That, or the house would be in absolute shreds, bookcases on the ground, dust everywhere, and Romano would be in the middle of it, fast asleep. Spain frowned and peeked outside. It was only around noon, so it wasn't siesta; meaning Romano was somewhere, in the house.
I just hope he didn't get lost trying to find the bathroom again…
Antonio padded through the villa's halls, peeking room by room. Everything was as he left it the morning before to visit France and Prussia; it was clean and undisturbed. The thought worried Spain a little. Generally, this could only mean one thing; that someone had found his little protectorate and decided to scoop him up for their own. Antonio put his hand on his chin, pondering this. Turkey was busy, off doing…whatever it was he did, and he had just seen France. So who could it be…?
Finally, he reached Romano's room. He peeked inside, ready to let out a cheery hello, when—
Oh. Oh.
Romano was sitting on his large bed, the skirts of his dress spread out before him. His face was furrowed in concentration, and his tiny hands were moving over a silky red piece of cloth. Spain recognized it almost immediately; it was the muleta he used in a bullfight the week before. The one that had a rather nasty hole in it, which had become more and more of a problem in each fight he participated in. Of course, Romano yelled at him about it for some reason, but hey, he had been using the thing since his childhood, and had never had any trouble with it before...
And suddenly, it clicked.
Romano was sewing.
Not only was he sewing, but he was doing it so that his protector wouldn't get hurt in a fight.
Spain felt himself blush; he bounded into the room and scooped Romano into his arms. "Ah! Romano! You are too cute!"
"Gah! What the hell! Get off of me!" The angry little Nation kicked and struggled, but Spain grinned, rubbing his cheek against Romano's and snuggling him into his arms.
"You were sewing up my muleta, weren't you?" he asked, holding Romano out at arms length and smiling that sweet, goofy smile of his, his green eyes shining with unmasked delight.
Romano went tomato red and looked to the side, puffing his cheeks out. "Was not."
"Buyoh~h! I knew it!" Antonio squealed, squeezing Romano in another bone-crushing hug, "I totally knew it! Y-you're so cute, I can't even stand it, Lovii~!"
Romano let out a long, heavy sigh, and for once, let his protector snuggle him. He had worked pretty hard on the damn thing, so the Spanish bastard better appreciate it. Even if it meant he had to, ugh, snuggle him.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Antonio set him down on the bed, smiling goofily and holding the muleta.
"Gracias, Lovino."
Romano looked to the side, his face terribly red. "…Prego. Bastard."
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Muleta; the red cloth used in a bullfight. I think that was obvious, but whatever.
Gracias; thank you
Prego; you're welcome—Italian
Matador—bullfighter. Also, I have a giant crush on matador Spain, so I try to work that into my fics. FUU~
I'm not happy with the ending of this, but whatever. Comments are appreciated!