There were three smashed plates on the floor when Spain came home from grocery shopping in the city. He had left his new charge Romano, a "gift" from Austria =, instructions to wash the dishes from breakfast. He set the bags down and looked around warily. The rest of the plates he could tell had been washed and put away. The broken china had all been swept up into a pile in the middle of the floor. The most alarming thing, however, was the blood. There was blood on the edge of the sink, blood on the broom handle and blood on the edge of one of the shards of the dishes and a trail of blood leading out of the room. "Romano must have cut his hand on one of the sharp edges," Spain surmised as he followed the trail of blood drops out of the kitchen and down the hall into the bathroom.
He could hear muffled sobs coming from behind the door. Gingerly, he pushed it open to reveal a sobbing Romano sitting against the bath tub, cradling a fairly badly bleeding right hand against his chest and fumbling with a roll of bandages with his left. Immediately, Spain rushed forward and took the bandages, crouching down to help Romano. Romano said, "Fuck off tomato freak," but he didn't pull his hand away has Spain took it gingerly so he could wrap it. Once the bandage was secured, Spain pulled the younger nation into a hug and gently kissed the top of his head. "You should have fucking left me the hell alone," Romano sniffed, but he leaned in and lay his head on Spain's shoulder, letting the older nation comfort him. Spain sighed. He'd just gotten his first taste of living with the destructive, fowl-mouthed, paradox that was known as Italia Romano.