Incredibly short, but I wanted to put into writing a little piece about how every Romano is Spain's favourite Romano.


Favourite

Morning-Romano was one of Spain's favourite Romanos.

There was something about that bird-nest hair before it was brushed, and pristine, and perfect. In Spain's eyes, wild, untamed locks, with a single errant curl standing defiantly out from the tangles suited him. It suited him as perfectly well as his tidy, styled-with-a-casual-slightly-sweeping-fringe-hair did.

There was something about his sleep-flushed cheeks too. It was not the (incredibly cute, cute, cuuuuute) tomato coloured blush that coated his cheeks when he was angry, or upset, or insulted, or embarrassed, or shy, or any of the degrees in between. Rather, it was a soft pink, barely noticeable to anything but the most discerning eye. It dusted his cheeks pleasantly, adding a gorgeous splash of subtle colour to his already gorgeous olive skin.

There was most definitely something about his unguarded expression, too dozy to snap into his usual blustery façade. In those first lazy minutes after waking up, his eyes were always soft with undisguised contentment, shadowed by luxurious dark lashes. He rarely smiled, but there was always a definite lift to the corners of his eyes that said more than enough.

There was absolutely something in the way that he would stumble out of bed, garbling about showers and coffee and breakfast, an ador—

"Oi! What the Hell are you staring at, creep?" Romano frowns, looking vaguely disgusted.

Spain smiles. "You," he says, straightforward as ever.

"Urgh. Whatever," Romano rolls his eyes, far too used to the idiot to argue. Instead he folds his arms, puffing his cheeks out. Spain can't help but notice that his cheeks are a delightful tomato-red.

It makes him grin.

This Romano is one Spain's favourite Romanos too.