Prompt: Touch.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

The air was heavy with summer heat, and lazy old fan in the corner wasn't doing much to make the room any cooler, though Spain realized belatedly that might have been because of the two bodies between which he was sandwiched. Prussia's hand was draped over his chest, the albino's face buried in Spain's chest as he snored against his skin. France was flanking Spain's other side, his head laying on Spain's shoulder, the stubble on his chin a tickling a little.

With the one free hand that was not pinned to his side by Prussia's weight, Spain reached for the hand at his chest and ran his finger pads over Prussia's wrist, flipping it over and stroking his palm. Prussia's skin, Spain remembered, was always calloused. Centuries of rough training wore away at the flesh and the haughty albino was proud of his "awesome manly" flesh, so he never did a thing to fix it. A smile tugged at Spain's lips as he remembered the feel of these same hands tugging at his waist, fisting in his hair, gripping his thighs harshly as they moved together-

Prussia gave an extra loud snore, and Spain held back a laugh, bringing the other's palm to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss to the callouses. Prussia didn't awaken, but once Spain released his hand it slid back tightly around his waist once again, burying his nose deeper in his skin.

Looking away from Prussia, Spain turned his head softly to look at France as best he could in his position. He slipped his hand down in the space between their bodies and grabbed France's hand in his own tenderly, stroking his hand with his thumb.

If Prussia's hands were war-torn and masculine, France's were skillful and smooth. His fingers weren't completely soft, even though they felt like they were at first touch. As Spain pressed his fingers over France's, he could feel the tough interior that was hidden by the flawless skin; fingers shaped by years of gripping paintbrushes, chef's knives, foil handles, lovers...

Suddenly, gently, Spain impulsively placed France's hand over Prussia's, and started to wonder what their touches felt like to each other. Did France feel the nicks on Prussia's fingers and know they came from a tousle with a wild boar, nearly four centuries ago? Did Prussia recognize the gash on France's knuckles; did he remember at all that it was he who gave it to France?

Sighing contently, Spain placed his hand on top. His own skin, he could feel, was rough from his habit of gardening without gloves, and there were a few stray burns, left over from his Inquisition, that refused to fade away. But just as he was about to wonder what they thought of him, Spain shook his head. No, it wasn't something for him to name-

"Espagne...? France's thick, sleep heavy voice cut through his thoughts, and Spain looked down to see half open cerulean eyes try to focus on him.

"Nada, Francia." He whispers, and after a moment he adds, "Te quiero."

He knows that France heard him when a hum causes his chest to vibrate, but soon enough the blond's gentle breathing all but disappears under the sound of Prussia's snores. A few moments later, it is these same sounds and the warmth that surrounds him that finally lulls Spain to sleep as well.

End

A/N: I didn't realize the coincidence that I was using the Bad Touch Trio for a fic with the prompt "touch" until I was nearly finished with it. *fails*

I hope you enjoyed it~