Shakspeare may be English, but he's sappy enough for Espana, no?
Love me some Spamano. Am annoyed that I can't figure out how to do accents and tildes on the Spanish, because it looks funny without.
"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" Antonio's voice was lilting and soft in Lovino's hair. The Spaniard held the little Italian, not tightly, and rested on his forehead. "Thou art more lovely and more temperate."
"Shut up, tomato-bastard," said Lovino, but his heart wasn't in it.
"Why?" asked Antonio, not letting Lovino escape the embrace.
"I hate your fake praise," grumbled Lovino, trying to sound as truthful as possible. He pushed against Antonio's shoulders, but the Spaniard instead pulled him closer. Lovino's cheek fell against Antonio's chest.
"I can recite you the other," he offered, voice rumbling into Lovino's captured head. "The one - 'my mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground'?" Lovino hummed, annoyed.
"I don't like that one either," he grouched. Antonio's laugh shook his chest and filled Lovino's stomach with sugary butterflies.
"What do you want, little tomate? You do not want to be a goddess, but you do not want to be a mortal either. You must choose." Lovino made a harrumph noise and Antonio did that wonderful laugh again.
"I don't like the mortal one because the meter is weird," he said belligerently. Still Antonio chuckled.
"Well, tomate? Which will I say?" Lovino sighed, feigning exasperation.
"The summer's day," he mumbled. Antonio took hold of his shoulders and held him a little away, resting their foreheads together. The tip of his nose touched the bridge of Lovino's, and the Spaniard's hazel-green eyes sparkled with love that was pure.
"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate . . ."