A glint of metal caught Romano's eye.
Cleaning, he had been distracted by just about anything. A displaced turtle figurine was on its back by an end table coated with an insufferable blanket of grime and filth. The broom was giving him blisters, so he just dropped it, moving towards the glint of metal. It grew larger as he progressed down the long hallway, dust growing greater and greater. Jesus Christ, did no one ever clean in this huge fucking house?
Romano opened the door, sneezing once at all of the particles floating around. He heard a short 'Bless you, Romano!' from the vent that lead to the living room downstairs. 'Dumbass, why don't you just come up here and give me a tissue?' Romano thought bitterly, turning on a light to see the metal piece better. Maybe Spain had left money on the floor! Oh, awesome! Now, he could add this to his bail money to get out of this hell hole!
What he found… surprised him.
Poor little Romano was awestruck by the large slab of metal, half of it hidden by a white tarp. He scuffled over to it, lifting the tarp back. That large slab of deadly looking metal was connected to a pole, a red and yellow ribbon wrapped around the rod. His eyes grew wider, his breathing deepened to heavy pants, sweat beads trickled down his little forehead and cheeks. It took him awhile to realize that this was an axe. And not just any axe, a battle axe. Some dark looking spots splattered the blade of the axe. Romano couldn't help but notice that the same matter was all over the hardwood floor as well, coated in yet another layer of grime.
Romano took an experimental sniff of the axe as it rested upright on a chest. He sneezed, hearing another 'Bless you, Romano!' from downstairs. This time, he didn't curse out the man in his mind, he wanted his comfort! Romano poked it, and the axe slid towards him, lethal edge giving a cut to his exposed arm. It clattered to the floor, rumbling the room. Afraid that the floor might cave in on itself, Romano howled and sobbed, running from the room with the light on and the axe on the floor.
Spain, who had heard the loud clatter, was upstairs in a flash, calling his name worriedly. Romano tripped on a misplaced floor board, giving up on moving any further as his arm bled out.
The loud footsteps where coming closer to his earsplitting cries, hands invaded his armpits and yanked up, a torso suddenly shoved its way into Romano's face.
"Oh, Romano!" The torso cried, staring at the semi-large cut on his arm. "What were you playing with?"
Snot and tears stained the Spaniard's clean starched shirt, but it didn't matter at the moment. He couldn't speak quite yet, the axe had cut his fragile skin deep enough you could see his small muscles if you pulled his broken skin back. Romano's cries just wouldn't stop, so Spain held him so close you could swear he might break the kid's ribs if he held on tighter. He worked his way back to the room lit by a single bulb on the ceiling. Romano cried harder when he felt the overwhelming dust floating around even when he was safe in Spain's shirt.
"Ay, Dios Mio…" He whispered, clutching Romano tighter. He stared at the fallen axe on the floor, fresh blood—Romano's blood on it's blade. Romano's blood was lighter than the others. Spain'd like to think that it was lit by his innocence, his absence of the knowledge that there were wars out there. That people were dying everyday. That every day was just another day to relax and eat tomatoes under the Spanish sunset.
Obviously, things like that were what Spain dreamed of when he himself was a child. That was very long ago. So long even Rome was a teen.
"Romano…" He whispered his name like the boy was dead, although his shrill sobs filled the room. "Romano." He whispered to himself, crying a little himself. "Romano, don't ever grow up. Don't ever leave Boss alone, Romano." He said a bit louder, bending down to wipe the blood off the axe and place it higher on the shelves, making sure that nothing could knock it over.
Romano started to hiccup through his sobs, and Spain took that the sign of him calming down a little. He turned off the light, walked from the room and locked the door. He could never let his boy spill any of his precious light blood again.