Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia

Pairing: Spamano

Genre: fluff

Rating: light R

Disclaimer: APH belongs to Himaruya, and the countries factually belong to themselves. Or their bosses and the people that live there, rather.

Summary: Ah, mornings like this… Mornings when he buries his face in pillows that smells of tomatoes and musk and that spicy scent that is just Spain's. It's on mornings like this that Romano can actually admit, he doesn't mind the Spaniard.

A/n: For NoNeedToCallMeSir's birthday. Buon Compleanno, carissima! *abbraccia*


Ah, mornings like this… Mornings when the warm beginning sun drips through the slats of the shutters like melted butter, the room dim and the sound of birdsong filling the air. Mornings when both of them are only half wrapped by a cool cotton sheet and they still feel pleasantly fuzzy from the night before, warm and together. Mornings when he stirs like a sleepy cat and buries his face in pillows that smells of tomatoes and musk and that spicy scent that is just Spain's. It's on mornings like this that Romano can actually admit, he doesn't mind the Spaniard.

He doesn't mind slowly opening his eyes and sneaking looks across the bed. He doesn't mind seeing a caramel-skinned hand curled gently around his wrist, in lax possession of him. He doesn't mind seeing a sleep-easy face, free of worries (well, even more free of worries than usual, given Spain is a happy-go-lucky idiot), earthen curls flopped against a pristine white pillow and light, serene breathing the only sound.

Romano bites his lip, trying not to imagine all the things they've done the night before (and failing spectacularly), and blushes like a Catholic schoolgirl. He shifts and still feels comfortably sated, a pleasant tingle travelling through him as he remembers all the touches and the kisses and the warm, heated words…

Then he buries his face in the sheets (sheets that smell of love-making and him and Spain – God above, how embarrassing) and groans gently, but by then it's be too late. His mind is on overdrive, and he shifts uncomfortably, and he hears a slight, breathy chuckle from across the other side of the bed.

"W-what are you laughing at, asshole?" he demands, and he glances up into those deep green pools that are staring at him so lazily, and so affectionately, he just blushes even deeper and mutters curses in three different dialects under his breath.

Spain then reaches over, his hand leaving Romano's wrist to expose it to cool air, and tucks the Italian's smooth, glossy brown hair back behind his ear.

"Buenas dias, mi amor." Is the predictable answer. And for once, just for once, Romano lets it pass. Maybe the corners of his mouth are twitching. Or is it just a trick of the early light, teasing and quick to change? But he's certainly snuggling closer, burying his face in a warm, strong shoulder covered in faded scars. Spain laughs and winds his arm around his Italian, spreading his fingers across the nape of his neck and peppering the top of his head with the lightest of kisses.

That's when, with a drowsy, diabolical grin, he gently tugs that one, stubborn curl with his lips, and Romano gasps. His lover pulls back, glares at him with narrowed eyes, and shoves him away. Spain just laughs, rolling over to reveal a tanned, muscular chest and a lean stomach, silver crucifix stark against his dark skin, his arms thrown haphazardly above his head.

"Something wrong, mi querido?" he asks teasingly. Romano manages to ignore him for all of five seconds (his record is fifteen, he hasn't beaten it in five years and it's unlikely he ever will) before rolling his eyes.

"Nothing's wrong, coglione," he says self-righteously. "Buongiorno," he adds, for good measure. Spain smiles a warm, happy smile, and reaches out for Romano. And how can Romano resist? Although he'll lie to himself and say he takes a lot of coaxing, he's actually there straight away, pressing himself against the Spaniard who (surprise surprise) is half-aroused and trying his damnedest to get Romano down the same path.

It starts slow. Feather-light, teasing kisses, subtly unsubtle hands wandering wherever they wish. Then Romano gets annoyed with it and pulls Spain into a rough, hungry kiss, all tongue and nipping teeth. That's when Spain growls his approval of lazy morning sex and rolls them over, grinding against the other with a slow, methodical movement that Romano's come to always want more of.

At this point, Romano reaches a hand down, nipping his way down Spain's neck just to hear the other's heady groans, and wraps his fingers around Spain's arousal. Spain smirks to himself and follows Romano's lead (it's very sexy when Romano takes the initiative, oh, yes indeed), taking the other nation in one hand and pulling him into a needy kiss with the other.

It doesn't take either that long to come in the mornings. Spain will, beyond a doubt, come first, whispering silly words in Spanish in Romano's ear, words Romano secretly adores to have spoken to him. Romano comes next, mild groans falling from his lips. And they both fall limp, satiated and content just to back in the afterglow. Spain nuzzles into Romano's neck, almost purring like one of the narcoleptic Greek's cats, for a moment, and then takes Romano's fingers to lick them idly. That makes Romano blush once more, swallowing slightly. Spain gives him the heated-eye look, the one with lowered eyelashes and a crafty smirk. Romano wishes he could turn away and actually keep looking away, but his eyes are then drawn to the way Spain licks his own fingers as they were a fucking banquet, or something (and he admires Spain's acting skills, because, with all of the tomatoes they both eat, neither of them taste very good), and he groans again, a mixture of exasperation and weak arousal.

Spain then chuckles, a quick, mirthful rumble, and kisses the other, long, slow and completely, utterly loving. And Romano's arms just wrap around Spain (of their own accord, he swears), pull him closer, and the Spaniard rolls over and rests his head on Romano's chest. The Italian complains a little about Spain's hair tickling his nose, but he doesn't care really. He likes burying his nose in those dark curls and breathing the other nation in, all spicy and hot and a whole other pile of other, delicious scents he just can't name. He's no wordsmith, after all.

They lay like that for however long they can. Romano plays with Spain's crucifix, warming the centuries-old silver with his fingers' games. It doesn't bother him anymore, really. Once, the sight of it would have made him freeze up, shaken with guilt and remorse and he'd have to run to the church and beg the priest for forgiveness. He's gotten well over that stage, the both of them are glad to acknowledge. Now… Now it's even sexy, the way it contrast with the warm tan of Spain's skin.

Spain winds his fingers in Romano's, raising them to his lips and kissing his knuckles one by one.

"Hmmm… te amo," he murmurs hotly. Romano bites his lip, and nervously grinds up his courage.

"Anch'io," he mutters in return, and he can feel Spain's smile against his fingertips and hear it in the low hum that comes from his throat.

Yes, it's mornings like this that Romano admits to Spain, their bedroom and himself, that he actually loves the Spaniard.