It was your typical summer day in the sunshine kingdom, Spain; hot, dry, and so long. It was as if the God that he was currently cursing at was laughing at the feisty Italian's words, making seconds stretch into minutes, minutes stretching into hours, hours stretching into— you get the deal. It was only, what, around eleven PM? And already, Lovino Vargas wanted to take a siesta! Of course, he had not earned the right to yet, so he would keep working alongside his Spanish co-worker, Antonio Fernández Carriedo. After all, everybody knows that siestas are always better after you work hard.
"Ehi, bastardo," he snapped at the dopey Spaniard, "don't you start spacing out on me this early!" He snapped his fingers in front of the others' face, a frown growing on his face. No response. None of the usual happy attacks,' that he had for some stupid reason, no random dance moves, no breaking out into that weird laugh of his.
"…" After a few moments of silence, Lovino put down his basket of tomatoes, one hand gripping onto his straw hat, the other curled into a fist to show the spagnolo who his true babbo was. He'd teach him a lesson or two! First lesson: do not ignore a Southerner! Especially since he was un italiano vero! Sai dove la gente fuggire? Italia, and that was exactly where this Vargas brother was going to kick his ass if he didn't respond! He had connections with the mafia in Sicily, AND in Sardinia too; he would make him regret ignoring him. He had been ignored most of his life; by his nonno, the Roman, who had only raised him long enough to name him, teach him the basics, and then push him aside to make room for his fratello. That idiota, Feliciano! He was even dopier than Antonio, weak when it came to anything and everything, including fighting, and completely useless without pasta. His favorite was farfalle; why, you may ask?
Because it looked like a motherfucking butterfly. God, Feliciano was just… so…
"… so cute!" Antonio chimed up, finally out of his dazed stage. Lovino's foot went into a 'spasm,' and he cussed as he knocked over the basket of tomatoes 'by accident,' walking away and leaving Antonio to pick up the mess. He knew he idiot couldn't read his mind, but he was right. Feliciano was cute. So fucking cute that all he wanted to do was take a rusty, five meter long pasta fork and shove it up his cute little bu–
"I'll be back later!" he called out to the confused Spaniard, who inquired, "where ya goin', Lovi?" With a heavy, exasperated sigh, he turned back to look at Antonio with one of his looks. Speaking very slowly through gritted teeth, he said, "I have to go. What, do you want to follow me to the bathroom, bastard?" The brunette turned and rushed away from the fields in a hurry, since he knew that if he gave him the opportunity, Antonio would follow him. What a fucking creep.
The brown-haired Spaniard shrugged to himself, returning his gaze to the fallen tomatoes. He sighed, and started picking them up, rubbing at each one of the fruits with the hem of his shirt. All he had done was say that he looked cute, what was wrong with that? Maybe he didn't want attention… that had to be it! Antonio smiled dreamily. His little Italian was just like one of those little turtles, hiding in his little shell to protect himself, and snapping at whoever tried to get him out~