AUTHOR'S NOTE: It's at the bottom~ ^^
"Romano! Oi, Romano! Mi tomate!" Spain was relentless in gaining his servant's attention. Unfortunately, Romano wasn't in the mood for Spain's child-like behavior tonight and wasn't responding to the Spaniard's attempts.
Pouting in defeat, the personification of Spain crossed his arms and looked to the floor. Only for a minute though, because Spain wouldn't be Spain if he gave up on Romano so easily. Or rather at all.
"Hey Romano!" Spain exclaimed as his efforts began again. Romano let out a groan of annoyance and was tempted to chop his hand off instead of the tomatoes. "Qué estás haciendo?"
"I've said it before you idiot, either speak damn Italian or English cause I have no idea what you're saying bastard!" Romano shouted with a tighter grip of the knife. However, one look at the pout Spain had on his face (again) and he melt like the pushover he is, not that he'd ever admit it. "I'm making a salad." Romano grumbled under his breath as a light blush dusted across his cheeks and nose."
"Un ensalada?" Spain asked with an adorable tilt of his head, not the Romano thought so . . . "Porque?" Romano didn't reply, seeing as he didn't know what was being asked. "Why are you making un ensalada?" Spain rephrased, though he couldn't help but let a little bit of Spanish slip in.
"It's something America was trying to eat to be healthy." Romano mumbled under his breath. Sure enough, America was amazingly eating a salad at the last World Conference, but only because England was practically shoving the greens down his throat.
"Really? Why are you trying to eat healthy?" Spain asked curiously. Romano blushed in what seemed to be anger (but really who would know with the Southern Italian).
"N-none of your damn pomodoro bastardo business!" Romano shouted out in embarrassment, stringing as many curses together as he can. He turned back around sharply and resumed chopping the vegetables with a renewed fire.
"Aw!" Spain whined as he wrapped his arms around Romano's waist from behind and rest his chin on the angry Italian's right shoulder. Rubbing his cheek against Romano in a way that can only be described as cat-like, the Spaniard cooed over his colony. "You look so adorable Romanito! Como un pequeño tomato! Like a little tomato!" Spain cried, adding the translation of his first sentence knowing full well that the Italian would yell at him otherwise.
Romano paused in chopping the healthy delicacies and twitched his left eye in annoyance. The bright red blushed that covered his face (did make him look like a tomato) seemed to multiply in color, if that was even possible. He gritted his teeth and only said two words in reply before thonking Spain on the head and walking away.
"Damn bastard!"
(Later that night)
Romano was lying down of his back staring at his room's ceiling. Blinking in the darkness, he turned his head to the window. Sunrise hasn't begun yet. It's still midnight or so. Turning back to the ceiling, he scowled in deep thought. 'Damn Spain' Romano thought to himself as he recalled the last World Conference. Lifting his shirt, he poked his stomach and scowled deeper as it jiggled.
"Futtuto bastardo!" Romano shouted out in anger. "He has absolutely no right to comment on Feliciano's weight and compared it to mine!" And with that last comment and curse, Romano turn on his side furiously and fruitlessly tried to sleep.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is my first ever Spamano fic. Was originally going to be a one-shot but I changed my mind . . . Anyways, reviews make me happy ^^ And this is simply the prologue.
Oh, and Futtuto means fucking. At least that's what Google translator says. And bastardo is kind of obvious: bastard. And pomodoro is tomato.
