I do not own Hetalia
When I wake up, the dream isn't done
The wooden ceiling of his cabin was the one that greeted him when he opened his eyes. Even though the door was closed, he could smell the ocean and hear the sound of the waves outside.
It was yet another day at the sea. Spain sighed and got dressed, then exited his room to the deck.
The sail was blown by the wind, and it reminded him so much of his white linen curtain back at home, swaying in the wind. The sound of the waves strangely reminded him of the sound of the tomato leaves rustling in the garden and the rustle of his paper work stacked on the desk. The wooden floor almost looked like his house's white tiles in his eyes.
But the wind was still the same. The bright blue sky above him was still the same too. They would always be the same.
And then a cabin boy passed by him, his dark hair flew along with his movement, a strand stood stubbornly on his head, and he disappeared to the kitchen below. Spain froze, only for a mere second, but it felt longer.
He almost thought the cabin boy was him.
Is Romano still waiting?
Does he eat right?
Do the maids take care of him well?
Is he lonely?
And when Spain closed his eyes and inhaled, he could smell to fresh tomatoes, and he could almost feel the boy's weight on him. How he missed the violent greeting, the kicks and punches, and the insults thrown at him.
"Captain! We see something! I think that's the New World!"
And he was harshly snapped back to reality, with the smell of the sea and the sound of waves, with the fluttering sail and in his mighty ship.
"Give the scope to me!"
And the seagulls cried above him, in the same wide, bright blue sky.
I want to see your face and know I made it home.
/
If nothing is true, what more can I do?
It was already night, but he was still awake. He had spent daytime staying by the window, gaze stayed on the road in front of the house, only left when he needed to go to the restroom and to eat. He had spent the afternoon on a chair in the dining room, knees pulled onto his chest, head resting on them. When the sky got dark and the night came, he buried his face in his arms.
Romano had been waiting. He was still waiting.
"When will you be back?" he muttered, inaudible beneath his arms.
It's been days already.
"Why do you always go if when you came back you are always covered in bruises?" Bloodied and exhausted.
"Why don't you just stay home?" With me.
He straightened and stretched, arms thrown behind and legs brushed softly against the kitchen wooden floor.
I'm growing slightly everyday, you know.
He put his arms on the dining table in front of him, and rested his head against them, face turned to a worried scowl.
Soon enough, I will have to be independent.
His legs brushed against the comfortable coldness of the floor, nails played on it.
And we will have to say goodbye.
His eyes felt heavy, but he didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to if he was going to wake up in the house without Spain.
Go home, bastard.
Slowly but surely, he fell asleep, despite all his thoughts and worries.
Home to me. Before I have to leave you, this time for good.
I am still painting flowers for you
A/N:
A very short tribute to the song Painting Flowers by All Time Low I made in a whim.
I wanted to portray how Spain missed his home and how Romano was always waiting, but I guess I kinda failed.
And I apologize for any OOC-ness and grammatical errors (it seems that I apologize for them very often O-O).
Thank you for reading! :D