Title: Wind
Pairing/Characters: Spain/Romano
Summary: Spain hates working during the hottest time of day, but some things make it all worth it.

Spain hates working in the hot sun a midsummer day always brings, but Spain also hates not having fresh tomatoes for when Romano is feeling in a good enough mood to make him pasta and homemade tomato sauce for lunch, so Spain puts on a wide-brimmed hat, grabs his favourite basket, and goes outside to gather up a few ripe tomatoes for their meal.

The sun beats down on him as he passes through the fields, trying to find the very best tomatoes for Romano. If the tomatoes he picks are too ripe or not ripe enough or bruise in any way, shape, or form, Romano won't want them. Spain wants Romano to want them, though, wants him to want them on his first try, or else Spain is going to have to go out into the fields again and Spain would much rather sit in his living room and eat until it was time to sleep.

Forty-five minutes and a few of the best tomatoes he's ever seen in, Spain feels a soft, very concentrated breeze on the back of his neck, and he almost thinks it's just the wind, but then he realises the wind doesn't only blow on him without rustling the tomato plants, he turns around to find Romano holding up a small handfan. "I told you to pick some tomatoes," Romano says, shift the fan to blow on Spain's sweating face. "Not inspect every damn plant in your field."

Spain grins at Romano and wipes some of the sweat from his brow, thankful for the artificial breeze blowing through his bangs. "I wanted to make sure I got the best ones!"

Romano looks over the row of plants they're standing by and swiftly picks a couple tomatoes with the hand not holding the fan. He tosses them into the basket, and then another two, and then another, and soon the basket is filled with more than enough tomatoes for the sauce he's going to make.

"The tomatoes in your dumb field are fine enough to be feeding you, Spain."

It's an insult, sort of, maybe. Kind of. But Spain doesn't hear any complaints about the tomatoes, not the ones he picked or the ones Romano carelessly tossed into the basket, and he only hears a few minor (yet still pretty loud) complaints about his technique when Spain makes some bread to go along with their pasta, so Spain considers it all an afternoon well spent.