Au: Spamano. They both work at rival bakeries.
Disclaimer : I do not own Hetalia, sadly. Many tears.
Ugh I hope you guys like this because I think the idea of them being rival bakers is so adorable and Romano is such a little peapod help.
A Happy Little Light:
Lovino is in a bad mood.
The important thing to remember is that Lovino is not always in a bad mood. Often, he's in a good mood, like when his brother calls on the shop sometimes; or when he finds tomatoes at the market; or when he's alone in the kitchen, baking at 2 am, after having drunk enough wine to not really care that there's flour everywhere.
Right now is not one of those times. And it has everything to do with the bakery across the street.
It's morning. The streets of Altamura are empty at this hour, most civilians still abed. The streets are cobbled in most places, and they wind up and down through the city. Altamura is one of the oldest cities in Southern Italy, and on mornings like these, when the sky is a pale, pale blue, you can feel its history in the air.
Lovino loves this town. Born and raised here, this is his home. He loves the way the air smells during a storm, wind blown in from the Mediterranean; the way the marketplaces fills with people at mid-day and all you hear is laughter and singing. He even loves the way the political murals are splashed secretly in the alleys, and where, in the deepest parts of town, some of the buildings still have bullet holes from the second World War. It is not an entirely happy city - almost like an old dog, you can find tired sadness around some corners, napping with the dust and spiders. But it's mostly balanced out by the children playing soccer in the streets.
He owns a bakery on Via Libertá. It's small, and has a faded red awning. The door is green and the paint is flaking in a couple places. But that's okay. This was his father's bakery, and his grandfather's bakery; this bakery is as special as a family member to him. Before dawn, he rises and fires up his oven, shapes the loaves rising overnight, and places them in the oven with a large wooden paddle. And when they're done, he removes them as gently as he would carry a child, and stacks them on the shelves behind the counter. He repeats this day after day after day, but he doesn't get tired of it because the wood smoke and ciabatta and espresso practically runs in his blood.
This morning is special. Lovino balances a crate of tomatoes on his hip as he digs in his wallet for some euros for the produce delivery man. He's been up since four, and the bakery oven is already fired up, baking this morning's first batch of bread. Pulling out a few bills as payment, he balances the tomatoes on his shoulder, along with a half-flat of basil and some heads of radicchio, and heads for the bakery door. The Italian struggles to nudge the door open, trying with his elbow and then his hip, but he can't get it open. Resigning himself to setting his things down, he's about to put the lettuce on the ground when he feels a weight lifted off his shoulders - the tomatoes? - as a tanned arm reaches past him to twist the knob.
Lovino turns around, and is almost blinded by light. It's not coming from the sun, but the man in front of him. He holds the crate of tomatoes in one hand and ruffles his curly, dark hair with the other. His affable grin shines with a happy little light. The stranger's eyes crinkle, and he says, "I think you could use a little help," before toeing open the door to Lovino's bakery and waltzing inside. Lovino's eyebrows quirk in irritation as he sees the man prance inside like he owns the place. Casually, he follows the stranger into the back room - who does he think he is, marching about other people's stores? - and sets the basil on a counter off to the side. Only then do the two pause to study each other.
The Italian looks the newcomer over - he's tall and slender, but the thin material of his longsleeve betray his deceptively lissome build; those shoulders and that waist are strong. His hair is dark and curly, like the bittersweet chocolate Lovino fills the cornettos with. And his eyes - his eyes are as something else entirely that are distracting Lovino from the task at hand.
"I like your bakery."
The comment startles Lovino. "What?"
"I said, I like your bakery. It feels warm inside, like a home. This is a happy place." The man speaks Italian with a curious accent. "I'm Antonio. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo."
Oh. So he's Spanish. Explains the accent. Lovino is growing more vexed by the minute. This bizarrely cheerful, Spanish man has just waltzed into his shop like he owns it, and thinks Lovino needs to know his middle name? His eyebrow twitches again.
"Lovino. Lovino Vargas." It slips out, a matter of habit. Oh well. It doesn't do to be rude early in the morning.
"Pleased to meet you, Lovino," Antonio says, and Lovino has the strange feeling that he actually means it. The Spaniard snags a tomato from the box, polishes it on his shirt sleeve, and takes a bite before Lovino can protest. With a wave, he starts toward the door. "Ciao, Lovi." There's tomato juice on his fingers.
Lovino is now severely irked. The bizarrely cheerful, attractive Spaniard has just barged into his shop, dropped his middle name in the first few minutes, stolen a tomato, and given Lovino a nickname. The Italian clicks his tongue and turns away from the door. He has no time for pretty men with sunshine smiles and tomato lips.
A/N: I hope you like the first chapter, guys! There will be lots more to come! Reviews give me life so please oblige a poor soul like me.