A/N: A Hetalia Oneshot fanfic featuring the lovely pair of Spamano! Hope you like it, I try to please ;-;
Disclaimer: HOW MANY TIMES MUST I BE PUT THROUGH THIS TORTURE! *sobs* I don't own Hetalia... *sobs again*
Romano had his own logic, which to him, "made perfect sense, dammit." Here was a little of it:
Italy's boyfriend was a potato bastard. France was a wine bastard. Prussia was the potato bastard's brother, so that made him a potato bastard as well. America was annoying as fuck and a complete idiot as well, and England was just a British tea-sipping grandpa with caterpillars for eyebrows he couldn't care less about.
And Spain... Spain... Spain was a damn tomato bastard that didn't know when to shut up. He hated him... hated... him... Dammit...
Of course he hated him! Every time Spain saw him, he would scoop him up into a hug that lasted for 10 seconds, gushing random shit about "Lovi this and Lovi that and Lovi's so gaddamn cute" all the fuckin' time, and he hated it! And then Spain would only laugh when Romano screamed obscenities at him for a minute straight after squirming his way out of his hold, and gush at his red face.
"Aw Lovi~! You look like a little tomato! My tomato!" he said, smiling brightly.
Romano would only blush- wait, not blush, he didn't blush, dammit, it was only the goddamn excitement in his blood rushing to his face, even more, and proceed to try and beat the shit out of that grinning tomato bastard. But every time, he couldn't really put all his strength into it... dammit. He was just too tired, dammit. Missed his siesta because of the damn tomato bastard.
Holidays sucked, too. Halloween was a pain in the ass, because every year Antonio would always try to get them to dress as two tomatoes.
"Aw! But Lovi, you'll look even cuter in this tomato outfit with your red face- lookit! It's turning red right no- OW!" That year, Spain had gone home whimpering with a sore butt and a red mark on his cheek.
"Damn tomato bastard." Romano mumbled, and his cheeks wouldn't return to a color within human imagination for the next few hours.
Christmas was ok, he supposed, even though he nearly got caught under the mistletoe with him. His heart was beating so fast, he thought it would practically rip off his fucking chest at any moment. Spain had seemed thrilled, but not until Romano had started yelling again.
"DAMMIT! Get the hell away from me, tomato-shitter!" he screamed, backing away.
"B-But, Lovi..." Spain whined, actually looking hurt that time. 'Oh my god' Romano thought, panicking. The tomato bastard had actually look hurt. At his insult. He actually felt pretty guilty. What the fuck had this tomato bastard done to him...
"U-Uh! L-look! I-I'm late to a goddamn fucking meeting with some hot shot celebrity with fuck-tons of money and tomatoes, so I have to go!" he quickly blurted out, ripping open the door.
"R-Really? Oh, ok." Spain said, some of his usual happy-go-lucky tone returning to his voice. Romano sighed in relief. It came in handy, Spain having a shitload of dust and sunshine for brains.
As he was rushing home, he had some serious time to think. Not the type of thinking where it usually went like, "France, that damn wine bastard, always trying to capture my balls, or Spain's, and then that potato bastard, he dare think to make out with my fratello, especially when I'm in the room, yada yada yada.." No, it was actual, serious thinking.
'Why does that Spain always get me so worked up? Why do his smiles and hugs always make me light up with joy and make me feel so goddamn fluffy as if a unicorn just fed me its rainbow shit or something? Why do I want to get closer to him, and hug him back..." Of course, the first time he ever did serious thinking without using the word bastard at least once time took a toll on his brain and he just ended up screaming out to the word all the curses he knew. (That took about 30 minutes and he had to run away at the end because the police arrived and did not look happy.)
It was the beginning of February, the month of pink and red and bitches everywhere, being all shit fuck lovey dovey with chocolate, (A/N:I'm single, don't kill me) when Romano realized something; HE WAS IN LOVE WITH SPAIN. WITH ANTONIO. WITH THE GODDAMN TOMATO BASTARD.
He was in the middle of a world meeting staring at Spain cutting out a crap ton of paper hearts when he realized it, and his world came crushing down. He flipped a table, shoved scissors in France's mouth, threatened to cut off Germany's balls if he didn't get away from Italy, and stormed out after dumping glitter on himself.
"GO FUCKING GET LOVEY-DOVEY, ASSHOLES!" he yelled, flipping the bird on them. "I'M SINGLE, SO I DON'T NEED NO SHIT FROM YOU! FUCK OFF!"
No one dared go in a 3 mile radius of him for the rest of the day. He didn't care. He was too busy stomping his way back home and eating every tomato in sight. Even the ones Germany had touched. (He was pretty sure he was going to die from eating them, but after all, this is an angry Romano, he didn't give a shit.)
He also spent that day thinking. Again.
"Goddamn Spain... Valentine's Day, only one day away..." he mumbled, chomping down on a tomato. He had spilled tomato juice all over the bed, and it looked like he just pissed up a fucking tsunami or something, but he was too busy thinking. "I love him, dammit... I'm in fucking love with him... And it's going to be Valentine's Day tomorrow..." For once in his life, Romano was going to let out his true feelings.
In the past, it had always been, 'Gah! Spain hugged you again! Kick his damn balls! Argh! Spain called you his little tomato twice! Give him a motherfucking headbutt to his sorry ass.' His logic hadn't really (had NEVER, actually) been the best, (or anywhere near sane), but now he was going to confess to Spain tomorrow. Now he just needed to think of how to do it. "Well, fuck." he thought out loud, and reached for his laptop.
Going to the search bar, he typed in,"How to confess to a tomato bastard who you fucking love on Valentine's Day without giving a long speech full of sappy crap and the shit about how much you love them and want to spend every fucking second of your life with them." (A/N: Once again, I'm single, don't shoot me ;-;)
After a few minutes of scrolling and a few "fucks" and "shits" here and there, he finally came to a conclusion:
He'd write Spain a fucking poem.
...
It took all goddamn night, 17 pencils, 22 erasers, 312 tomatoes, and approximately 4,295 swears between 631 languages for Romano to finally be satisfied. (Which was a first.)
He read it to himself:
Roses are red, violets are blue
Even though you're a goddamn tomato bastard,
I fucking love you.
Nodding, he folded it up, took a shower and changed, wrung out all the tomato juice from his bed sheets, and went over to Spain's house.
...
Damn fucking asswipe shithole crap... He'd never been more nervous.. After a few seconds, he rang the doorbell. 'I feel like shitting in my pants. This was one of the worst ideas ever, but I already rang the bitching doorbell. He better accept my feelings, dammit.'
That was another piece of logic of Romano's. Accept his feelings without question, he was always right.
..
When Spain had heard the doorbell and answered it, he certainly did not expect Lovi to be standing there, looking all cute with his red blush and stutters, holding out a piece of folded paper to him, and then screaming "HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY, YOU DUMBASS FUCKTARD!" Nevertheless, it was cute as fuck.
And then when he had read the poem, nothing had ever made him so filled with joy.
Roses are red, violets are blue
Even though you're a goddamn tomato bastard,
I fucking love you.
He thought he was going to die, though a different reason than Romano's. He was about to die of happiness and love and all that "mushy shit" Romano called it. Romano was about to die from all the tomatoes he had eaten last night and nervousness. Still, Spain had grabbed his head, and crushed his lips onto his, sweeping him inside and slamming the door shut with his foot.
Romano had never felt so good. Here he was, making out with Spain against his door. His poem worked, Valentine's Day had actually worked out, and by his logic:
Write a poem, give it to Spain, and have Spain reciprocate his feelings.
Of course, now that they were moving towards the bedroom where they would spend the rest of the evening enjoying themselves, Romano let go of his logic and relied on instincts of love instead.
Lips never once leaving eachothers, articles of clothing had been removed, one by one, until they were close to eachother, lying on the bed, kissing over and over, heated skin sliding over another's, touching and feeling what had needed to be touched for so long.
Yes, Romano's logic was definitely the best.
THE END
A/N: SO THERE! DONE! Not sure if it was actually good, but I hoped you guys like it! I'm single, so I felt extremely lonely while typing this ;_; I'm also supposed to be doing homework, and it's like 9 pm over here, so I don't know how that's gonna work out... well, until later! Favorites and reviews appreciated and loved XD
:3
Author-chan~