Hola, everyone! .808 here. Here is the first chapter of Forbidden Tomatoes, my first fanfiction. I do not own Hetalia Axis Powers.
(Italicized means the character's inner thoughts, by the way. I didn't really mean for this to happen, but whatever.) Enjoy!
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Spain was at a loss.
"Hey, you jerk! Where the hell is my breakfast?"
He instinctively cringed while concealing himself underneath his red and gold coverlet. That voice. The reason for his current predicament. Where in el mundo did Romano accumulate such a profanity-infused vocabulary?
"What is wrong with you? Didn't you hear me, bischero? I want food!"
Ouch. These covers were doing nothing to deafen the shrill voice of his lackey, Spain decided as he further shrank under the comforting embrace of his bedding, but perhaps he would stay warm a little while longer. After all, Romano looks so cute when he gets angry. But that voice...
Mind sufficiently back on track, Spain pondered who could have been behind his little henchman's colorful use of English and Italian slang. He mentally crossed himself off the list, for he only swore in Spanish, if he swore at all. Thank goodness Romano refuses to learn Spanish. Due to the rising strength of the English navies, the country of passion had more frequently been led into a blind rage, curses flying as fast as the cannonballs that sank his precious Armada. Yes, Spain mused, Gracias a Dios that Romano won't speak the mother tongue. Else I would have a bigger problem on my hands.
"Oi, imbécil, food! Now, dammit!"
Dios mío. Spain hit his face with a tomato-shaped pillow. I spoke too soon. He knew it was degrading to hide from one's own lackey while being insulted by said brat in one's own tongue, but Spain did not care. To hell with decorum. I'm safe here.
After a long period of plain cowardice from his boss, Romano gave up on forcing him to make breakfast, and went on a search for food on his own. He padded into the large kitchen, glancing around for possible solutions to pacify his growling stomach. The room was poorly stocked, with the deep pantry empty of foodstuffs and the granite countertops cleaned of all leftovers.
"Stupid Spain," Romano muttered. "Does he expect me to starve?" The small maid understood that money was becoming a real problem for the Spanish nation, but was it bad enough to prohibit a stocked pantry? Or was this dilemma the result of a negligent Spaniard and a hatred of grocery shopping? Romano huffed, contemplating the latter conclusion. He always did leave the groceries to Bella, but now that she is gone...
However, Romano was stopped in his reasoning at the sight of the most glorious of visions, a picture of utmost magnificence. Tomatoes. In a basket. On the table. The lackey drooled in anticipation. He stomped over to the cherry wood furniture, stumbling on his journey. No, I did not most certainly trip on this ridiculous pink frilly thing. How dare you think such things! Pushing the chairs aside, because only babies need chairs to reach the table, and I'm a man, dammit, he stretched his tiny fingers over the rim of the table. Finding the rough grain of the basket weave, he grinned gleefully and roughly pulled the tomatoes toward himself. Yet the unnecessary force of the pull became too much for the poor basket, who was unused to such treatment, and the tomatoes tumbled out of the basket, across the table, and onto the while tiled floor. Their sudden escape surprised the little child, who fell backward with a small cry and landed among the smashed red fruit.
This was perfectly fine for Romano, who now had easy access to his favorite fruit and entertainment in the form of drawing pictures with tomato juice on the tiles. For Spain, however, it was another story.
The slowly declining nation was quietly resting in bed, free from Romano's complaints and reveling in his newfound peace. Wait, since when is Romano quiet? Spain's eyes snapped open, alert and waiting for any signs of disturbance. He really did hate not being able to trust Romano, but the little henchman was always ups to some sort of trouble, making the older male's life miserable. At the sound of chairs scraping, he reluctantly peeled back his coverlet and went to make sure the child was not doing anything too destructive. That last incident with the exploding churros took some creative thinking to convince Queen Joanna to keep South Italy under his own wing. When several thumps and a yelp followed, Spain flew down the engraved banisters. Rooms of deep crimson and gold opulence became a blur as he ran to kitchen to make sure the child was still safe.
"Romano!" Spain called, throwing open the door to a vision of red. Romano lay on his stomach in the middle of the floor, his petit pink uniform now dark burgundy with tomatoes. Pudgy fingers swirled in the juice on the tiles, painting pictures from the small boys imagination; the other hand was in Romano's mouth as he licked the flavor from his skin. He kicked his feet happily, his legs clad in rose-stained tights and black boots, and softly giggled.
Spain's heart melted at the cuteness that assaulted him, but it quickly hardened as he thought of the tomatoes that had been murdered in Romano's escapade. "Romano," Spain said, voice harsh and unyielding, "what are you doing?" This was always the part Spain hated. The punishment. He really did not want to yell at his little lackey, but that was the only way Romano would ever learn to behave. Austria said he was insufferable otherwise, and he seemed to know best, but is this really the only solution?
At the realization of his Boss's presence, Romano's gaze chilled and his apparent joy utterly disappeared. He raised his head and brought his boots down on the floor with a resounding bang. "What, idiota? Can't a man eat his breakfast in peace?"
Spain sighed. There we go again with the insults. "Romano, language please. And you know how you are not supposed to be in the kitchen without supervision, especially when eating my tomatoes." At this, Romano grumbled. "Your tomatoes, my ass. Who do you think picked 'em anyway?" He then got to his feet, brushed off his soiled gown, and turned to leave the scene of the crime.
Spain gritted his teeth at his underling's impertinence. He brusquely grabbed his colony's arm and dragged him back, turning him around so the two were face to face. "Romano," Spain hissed, "I do not tolerate being spoken of in such a way. I am your superior, and you shall treat me as such. No more insults." Instead of chastising the child, the words seemed to rile him up even further.
"Who the hell are you to tell me what to do, scemo? The only person I listened to was my Nonno, and he left me for Veneziano. So let me go! Stronzo!" He struggled fruitlessly against Spain's grip, bruising his delicate skin. Spain ignored the boy's words, having had finally enough of his antics. Looks like Austria was right, after all. I had hoped it wouldn't have to come to this. "Romano, you are hereby banned from having tomatoes until this cursing comes to an end."
The boy immediately froze, then laughed. "You can't be serious," Romano said, pulling again to free himself. "Stupido, you can't just forbid me from having tomatoes."
"I can and I will," Spain forcefully stated, grabbing him by the shoulders and staring him down. "No more tomatoes, or else I will have to hit you. You don't want that, do you?" Romano looked horrified at these last words, and shook his head fiercely. Spain nodded in appreciation, releasing the child. "Good, now clean this up. I need to go to the markets again; it seems like we are out of food again."
Spain left the kitchen and went to dress himself properly for public appearance, trudging back through the vast rooms of his mansion. The sparkling jewels and gleaming tapestries that adorned his home, once filling him with cheer, almost mocked him in his guilt. He shook his head sadly, at last opening the door to his room. The red of the walls reminded him of crushed tomatoes on white tile, while the deep gold of the curtains brought forward regret of bringing tears to those wide, amber eyes. I wish I could take it all back, but how will he learn otherwise? Spain shook traitorous ideas from his mind, focusing on the task of finding appropriate clothing. If only Romano behaved like Veneziano...
Once adequately attired, the elder nation exited the threshold of his estate with downcast eyes. He had contemplated checking on the condition of his disobedient colony, but soft sobs from within the kitchen cautioned him away. While heading to the stables, Spain let out a sigh, wondering how the sun could glow so brightly when he was feeling so depressed.
Romano wondered how long the tears would continue to fall. Sitting there in a puddle of salty water, he gloomily considered that it really was not that big of deal, being punished for his language. Austria had put him to bed without dinner far too many times to count, but this time was different. Stupid Spain, making me cry like this. I didn't even cry when Nonno left, so why are these tears falling now?
Still sniffling, the Italian nation shakily got to his feet and went to find a mop. Perhaps if I clean really well this time, he won't hit me. Mop in hand, Romano began to scrub furiously at the tomato juice, but miscalculated the length of the mop handle. With a well placed thrust, the handle knocked into an open cabinet, throwing one of the ceramic dishes crashing to the floor.
"No!"Romano yelled as he watched it fall through a sheen of tears. He tried to reach out and save the dish, but was too late and only succeeded in slicing his hands on the shattered green ceramic. Dammit, don't start crying again.
"Romano! I'm home!" Spain called into the house as he returned from the market, food in hand. There was no answer. Considering Romano's earlier mood, Spain blew it off as simple childhood rebellion. Or, yet again, Romano might be in bed. It is very late after all. Spain did not mean to spend so long in town, but he needed some time to calm his temper and some little inconsolable girl needed to find her mother. Her expression had been eerily reminiscent of Romano's, so Spain had felt obligated to assist her.
Yawning sleepily, he ended up placing the groceries by the closed kitchen door, choosing to put them away after he had gotten ready for bed. Spain dragged his feet up the stairs toward his room, stopping only at Romano's room to make sure his little nation was safe from either France or the Ottoman Turks. But in peeking around the door, Spain was met with an empty bed and folded sheets. Is he still down in the kitchen? But he didn't answer. In his tired state, he decided to put the missing nation problem off until later. I'm sure he is perfectly fine, just...sleeping with the tomatoes. Of course. Hoping that mint toothpaste would help clear his foggy mind, Spain continued with his nightly ritual.
Well, the mint didn't work, but stabbing oneself in the eye with a toothbrush helped! Maybe I should do that more often. Now successfully awake, the Spaniard contentedly walked to the abandoned food, humming as he opened the kitchen door. Tomato carcasses still littered the white flooring, now with shattered ceramics as decoration. Spain's humming stopped as he took in the extent of the damage. "Romano?" But the colony was nowhere to be found. Finally choosing to ignore the mess, Spain restocked the pantry and replaced the tomatoes on the table. It was only then that he turned down to actually look at the picture that Romano had been drawing so busily.
What seemed like a small sun shined in the background, giving light to small tomato plants in the nearby field. The juice is kind of hard to make out, isn't it? Two small figures stood in the foreground, one small and the other much taller. Is that a hair curl? The two characters were picking the fruit for the tomato harvest, both looking happy in their companionship. Is that curly hair?
Spain might have fainted if not for the granite countertop that supported him. Did Romano really draw the two of them picking tomatoes? And here I was, thinking that he hated life here. Immediately forgiving the little boy of all his disobedient acts, the elder nation ran off to find him. I should've looked earlier, as soon as I noticed he was gone. What a terrible boss I turned out to be.
Spain frantically searched the dining room, ransacked the living room, and demolished the main hall. Where is he? The only place left was the attic, but Romano had always hated it there. Too many memories, he would say. Too many memories of unhappy days.
Determined to find his beloved underling, Spain carefully climbed the rickety old stairs to the dusty old storeroom. Once it had been filled with cursed Aztec gold, Spain recalled with a laugh. Now it was only filled with outdated weaponry, worthless souvenirs from conquests, or small trinkets of Romano's early childhood. The peeling walls were covered with animal skins and tribal shields from Portugal's expeditions in Africa, while paintings of early monarchs rested on the floor. In lieu of the nonexistent wealth, maps from the New World to India and beyond were scattered every which way. Even the figurehead from one of the ships of the Armada rested here as well, hopefully grasping at victory with her stone fingers. The tides turned that day, now and forever. Kingdom where the sun never sets, indeed. The sun certainly set that day, and not even the stars gave us their light. Lost in his recollections, Spain did not notice the presence of his lackey until he, quite literally, bumped into him. Luckily the boy was sound asleep, hands still grasping the handle of the mop and head buried into Spain's tomato pillow.
Little thief. Spain fondly tousled the boy's chocolate-colored hair, ever mindful of the curl. Well, I must return what was stolen. Gently cradling the small body in his arms, Spain departed from the attic, and headed to his own room. Spain took the mop and attempted to free the tomato from Romano's grasp, but the boy only let out a cry and further buried his face into the fluffy red plush. At that point, Spain allowed his colony to keep it, just depositing them both on his bed and pulling the covers overtop. He took the child's hand, kissing each bandaged finger. Then, he kissed the tears stains from the child's cheeks. And pushing back the chocolate bangs, Spain kissed the Romano's forehead as well.
Buenas noches, mi querido. Te amo, pequeñito.
By the way, this use of the Spanish language is common among many Spain Fanfics, but if you have any questions, feel free to check Google Translate. I'm sure it can help.
Don't worry, the dilemma involving Romano's filthy mouth will be addressed in later chapters. This was just a fluffy end to a fluffy chapter.
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