They wake up the next morning tangled up in sheets, a green blanket thrown carelessly around their legs. Veneziano is the first to crack an eye open, birds just beginning to chirp outside their apartment, and he finds himself looking down at Romano with a tired little smile. He has never been one for mornings, neither of them have. Waking up is a pleasure that is best enjoyed slowly— a vostro comodo. At your leisure, at your convenience. With a soft sigh, he drops off his elbow to lay with his chest against Romano's back, hooking a leg around the still drowsing Italian. It is a nice morning, all things considered. There is just a little bit of warm sunlight coming into the room, falling across his bed partner's hair in such a way as to make it gleam. Veneziano has always been one for art, so duly admires the colours that emerge.
Eventually, though, he begins to press open mouthed kisses to Romano's shoulders, leaving a column of them down his back and finally nuzzling his cold nose against the base of the other's spine. It earns him a yelp, and a disgruntled head twisting around to look at him with sleepy eyes and a furrowed brow. But neither of them talk, Veneziano simply smiles innocently and heads back up so that he can give a proper good-morning kiss while Romano's head is still turned towards him. And, despite the earlier grumpiness, he is delighted that he is happy to return it, even going to far to tangle a hand in Veneziano's own lighter coloured hair, and rolling over so that they are chest to chest— albeit a few inches apart.
Veneziano likes it when Romano is happy, because contrary to popular opinion, he is only grumpy when made to be around people that he doesn't like. Even that can be remedied sometimes, with enough coffee and cannoli, he is cordial to Germany and Spain, of all people. As long as they stay relatively quiet.
Oh, but Romano's broken the kiss now, eyes flushed and dark, and with the other like this, Veneziano is only too eager to oblige. They say passion runs in Italian blood, well, perhaps it does. He laughs breathlessly when he rolls on top of Romano, leaning down to kiss him again and remember the time they had to stop and take a shower, courtesy of him accidentally tickling the shorter. But he intends to make no such mistake this time, because the Italian looks absolutely beautiful like this, and sometimes Veneziano does wonder whether Romano has ever been some sort of god. No doubt the people of Rome, at least, would have worshipped him back in their time. And now, now that the old ones are gone, Veneziano is perfectly happy to take their place.
(Romano arches up against the cool hand that suddenly sneaks under the covers, a long breath coming from his mouth, and there is no reason why Veneziano cannot smile. So he does, wide and blinding, brown-gold eyes glinting as he begins again).