If you were to ask him, Spain would tell you that Romano is a difficult child. Not that he minds; he loves to spoil 'his little Roma'. And Romano loves the attention, even if he refuses to admit it.
Spain would tell you about how Roma swears, and shouts, "But he's all bark and no bite, don't worry!" He'd tell you about how he demanded a kiss from Belgium, but became embarrassed when she actually kissed him. "He looked like a tomato!" he'd say, laughing.
He'd tell you about his clumsiness, and laziness. How he refuses to learn Spanish, or follow any orders given to him. How his cleaning always ends up creating an even bigger mass than he was supposed to be cleaning. How he sleeps all night and siestas all day. How he demands food, especially tomatoes, or how a slice of pizza would seem to materialize in him chubby little hands.
But there's one thing he won't tell you. And he won't tell you, because he can't tell you, because he doesn't know.
When Spain comes home, battered and bruised from war, he'll collapse in the hallway. His refusal to hire maids or any other form of staff should mean that he's left there, unconscious, until his natural healing abilities force him to wake and clean himself up.
What Spain doesn't notice, as his journey home is always a blur, is that he always wakes up in his bed, every last wound thoroughly cleaned and carefully bandaged, every broken or dislocated bone rest and wrapped up tight, every bruise kissed better by a worried child's trembling lips. He doesn't know how Romano drags him through the mansion, how the pink-clad child scurries about, fetching water and bandages. He doesn't remember the chocolate eyes, filled with worry and despair that a child's eyes should never hold, raking up and down his body. He doesn't remember chubby hands adjusting his limbs, tiny fingers feeling his veins for a pulse, soft tomato-laced lips brushing his tender, damaged skin. He doesn't know that Romano sits by his bed, watching him, checking his vital signs regularly. He doesn't hear the silly songs and stories that his unconscious body is told, in a varying mixture of English, Italian and Spanish.
He thinks that it's either France or Prussia who fixes him up. Or maybe Austria. Possibly even Hungary. It never crosses his mind that it could be his lazy little underling.
Romano doesn't mind that his happy-go-lucky boss doesn't know. Besides, if he knew, "The bastard might expect me to do actual work. I wanna siesta, dammit!"
And so, Spain will never know about the little Italian angel who fixes him when he's hurt
A/N: I seriously don't know where this came from
I don't own Hetalia, or much else really. I'm a peasant.
-Laurel Silver