01 - Holding hands
Romano looked at the way Spain's hands moved as he cooked. He was saying something about work and how much he was dying for vacations soon, but his voice drowned out against the clattering of pots and spoons. And the firm way he held everything. When he saw the way the light from the setting sun fell on his tanned skin, Romano could almost feel those hands over his skin.
"Roma? Are you alright?" asked Spain, leaning over him.
"O-of course I'm alright, dammit!"
"Really?"
Romano glared, and Spain smiled. He put a hand on his head and ruffled his hair. There were very small laugh lines around his eyes. Were they always there? Romano grabbed Spain's hand and pulled it down. They were rough and hardened by unending years of work, and battle.
"Yes," said Romano, but he didn't let go of him, and clasped Spain's hand with both of his own. "Now don't move, bastard."