Title: Linguine with Tomatoes and Romano
Pairing: Spain/Romano
Rating: PG

Spain awoke one warm, summer evening to a loud rumbling in his stomach. He stretched out his arms in a yawn, muscles stiff from sleep twisting and cracking as he did so, a content grin on his face. His siesta had lasted far longer than he'd meant it to, but he didn't mind, because it had been filled with soft sheets and sweet dreams about all his most favourite things (tomatoes and Romano and sunshine and Romano and eating tomatoes with Romano and picking tomatoes out in the sun... with Romano... and and and).

His stomach cut off his wandering thoughts with another loud growl. Obviously the dream tomatoes weren't enough to satisfy it! With one last stretch to get a crick out of his back, Spain slowly slid off his bed, grabbed his boxers off the floor, and began making his way to the kitchen for a much needed meal.

Unfortunately, upon further inspection, Spain realised he had forgotten to go grocery shopping (that's what he was supposed to do after siesta!) and though his cupboard was a mess of boxes and containers and a few things that didn't really belong in there, his fridge was mostly empty, as was the basket that was typically filled with delicious, ripe tomatoes.

"I can go pick some tomatoes quick," he said to himself, continuing to dig through the disaster that was his food cupboard (so that was where his old watch had gone...) in search of something to go with the tomatoes. Eventually, he happened upon a blue box of linguine. There was a brief moment of confusion as he wondered why in the world it was there, since it wasn't the kind Romano usually ate, and he was the only one who would put pasta into Spain's cupboard, but then he remembered the incident that had brought the box into his home.

Romano burst through Spain's front door, face red with rage, mouth turned down into his usual scowl. "That dumb fucker, who does he think he is?"

"Nice to see you too, Lovi," Spain called from where he was standing in his kitchen. "Did you come over for lunch?"

"N-no! What?! I don't want to eat lunch with you, I came over here to-- learn how to lock your door!" he shouted, closing said door behind him and marching into the kitchen. Upon entering the room, he slammed a small white FedEx box filled even smaller blue boxes down onto the table before sitting in a chair and crossing his arms. With rage. So much cute, adorable rage, Spain just couldn't contain himself, actually.

"What's the box for?" he asked, moving from his place at the stove to squish Romano just a bit for having such a darling little tomato face. Before Romano could answer (or punch him and tell him to get the fuck off, which was far more likely), he noticed what was in the box. "Hm, pasta?"

"This shit can't even call itself pasta," Romano mumbled, glaring at the offending objects. "America sent it over as a 'birthday present'."

"Wasn't your birthday last month?"

"He forgot that me and Veneziano have the same birthday and then he got confused and called me at two in the morning to ask how people who aren't twins could have the same birthday-- not the point!" Romano glared at Spain, as if this was somehow all his fault. "It's made in fucking Iowa, this is not fucking worthy of being called pasta. Who knows what sort of weird shit America put in it."

"Looks normal to me," Spain said, picking up one of the boxes to inspect the noodles inside.

"Everything looks normal to you," Romano responded, smacking Spain's hand away from the rest of the boxes. "You're a freak."

Romano had ended up staying for lunch. And dinner. And breakfast the next morning, and by the time he'd left, the boy had completely forgotten about the pasta America had sent to him.

"It doesn't look too bad," Spain commented to himself, looking the box over for the cooking directions. He knew how to cook pasta, of course, he made it for Romano all the time, but maybe this pasta had different directions or something, and that was why Romano found it so offensive! Since it really didn't look that much different from the kind Romano usually made, that must have been it.

Before he could find the directions, however, something else caught his eye. A "recommended recipe" was on the back of the box, complete with a delicious looking picture of the linguine noodles wrapped around chunks of red, juicy tomato. Atop the picture were the words "Linguine with Cherry Tomatoes and Romano".

"Romano?" The box wanted him to eat the pasta with Romano, that was so cute! "I should go find him, then!"

It was a good thing he hadn't actually read the instructions, as there was really nothing more horrible than being told to "grate the Romano", really.

---

Romano awoke one warm, summer evening to the dulcet tones of some moron banging on his front door.

"G'way," he mumbled, rolling over and pressing a pillow over his ears, hoping to dampen the sound enough to fall back to sleep.

The knocking stopped, and Romano assumed the pillow was doing its job. The only thing it was drowning out, though, was the sound of whoever had been knocking turning a key in the lock and entering the house.

"Romano~!"

"Oh great." Romano sat up and got out of bed, stomping out of his room to go kill Spain for waking him up at... eight in the evening. He was really tired, okay?! "You stupid bastard, what are you doing in my house?"

"I came to eat pasta with you!" Spain replied, as if that explained everything.

"I didn't make any pasta, especially not for you." Romano grabbed Spain's shoulders and spun him around. "Now get out, I was trying to sleep," he added, starting to push the other man back down the hallway.

"No no, I brought the pasta," Spain insisted, letting himself be pushed nonetheless. "It told me to come eat it with you!"

Romano paused.

Spain turned back around to face him.

Romano noticed the blue cardboard box clasped in Spain's hands for the first time.

"Did you hit your head or something?" Romano asked slowly, looking Spain over for any tell-tale bumps. "Fever? Drunk? Pasta can't talk, you idiot."

"Of course it can't, that would be silly," Spain replied with a laugh. "Then it might tell you not to eat it and that would just be weird, wouldn't it? You're trying to eat some pasta, and it's just pleading with you to let it go and--"

"Spain."

"What?"

"What told you to come eat pasta with me, then?"

"Hm? Oh! The box, the box told me!" He held up the box to Romano's face, far too close for him to actually be able to read anything. "See?"

Romano snatched the box from Spain and held it at a proper distance for reading. "Linguine with..." he trailed off, after reading the full title of the recipe.

"See, see?" Spain repeated. "It wants me to eat the pasta with you! I know you said you didn't want it, but it doesn't really look that bad, and I brought some tomatoes too, they're down in your kitchen--"

"Romano is a cheese, Spain. This is a recipe for linguine with tomatoes and romano cheese." Romano rolled his eyes and handed the box back to Spain, who was now looking at him with a confused expression.

"Romano, you're not a chee--"

"I'm not even going to let you finish that sentence. It's stupid, even for you."

"But you're no--"

"No. Shut up."

Spain stood there, in silence, for another moment, staring at the box with a perplexed expression on his face. "So... we're not eating the pasta together, then?"

"Oh, fuck it." Romano threw his hands up in defeat. "Throw that away, I'll make you some goddamned pasta."

---

Spain grinned as Romano set a steaming plate of linguine (real linguine, Romano kept saying), tomatoes, and cheese in front of him. He immediately began to dig in, his hunger once again making itself known with a loud grumble from his stomach. He'd been in such a hurry to get to Romano's house, he'd forgotten how hungry he was!

"I am going to your house and getting rid of all that stupid American 'pasta'," Romano said after the two of them had been eating in relative silence for awhile. "Who knows what other stupid ideas it might give you."