There's something wrong with him, tonight. Something strange about Prussia – arms and legs lazily spread all over the couch, while the other guys are playing silly board games – and the way he's staring at a kind of unexpected someone.
Prussia's not the pondering type; he's not one to just sit there and think – although he is occasionally sitting there and dramatically slurping on his two or three beers, but certainly not thinking.
He usually wears an America-braggart, Romano-pissed kind of expression, with some Russia-danger or France-pervert hints added to it; yet right now he just seems... interested.
Interested in that peculiar way, oddly similar to the tiny sparkle in England's eyes when he's looking at America and firmly believes this little habit of his to go unnoticed; which is, and that's some kind of irony, the exact same way America usually looks at him when England's not paying attention.
It's as if Prussia's desperately speculating on something, and there's this newly born shade in his eyes.
They're all plum-like, not really purple, not entirely red, almost human. Humanly passionate, that is – as if he were some average man, admiring something that may seem average to everyone else, but feels unique to him instead.
Oh, well. Someone's gonna have to make sure Ita-chan doesn't get kidnapped tonight, Spain muses with a small puff and the hint of a smile on his lips.
