Disclaimer: HETALIA ISN'T MINE! NOR IS SPAIN OR ROMANO.

Like every Saturday morning, Romano woke up with the soft rays of the sun brushing against his face. They carefully pried his eyes open, telling him his sleep hours were over, and that a new refreshed day was waiting for him. The Italian blinked a few times, trying to rid of the sleep that had collected in his eyes. His soft amber eyes looked upon the world, and he muttered a little morning grunt. Lazily and unwilling, he shoved the covers off his body, kicking the sheets down with his feet.

The nation with the curl on his head sat up, and took a second to wake up before he slid off the bed. After showering and dressing, he moved down to the kitchen, where a certain Spaniard awaited him. The taller and older nation smiled happily as he hummed some annoying Spanish tune. His bright green orbs for eyes sparkled as the food in the skillet was tossed expertly.

"What's for breakfast, bastard?" Romano mumbled.

He placed himself on a kitchen stool. He knew the answer. It was always an egg omelet sprinkled with chopped up fried tomatoes. A few green peppers tossed on top. It was actually a ritual the two had on Saturday mornings. Romano coming down from the bedroom, asking what was for breakfast, and Spain telling him, "Tomato omelet, mi tomate!" In response, Romano would of course retort, "Don't call me that, bastard!"

This little ritual was never broken, and it was never questioned. It was just one of those things where something in your life was so perfect, you would do anything to protect the happiness and innocence.

The Spaniard tossed the omelet again, a small hissing noise sounding after the other side of the omelet made contact with the buttery skillet. Romano waited for the already known answer. Instead, Spain simply threw in a small portion of corn kernels. Romano's heart leapt just the slightest. Corn was never added into their Saturday breakfasts. Romano's gaze quickly scanned the kitchen counter. The mixing bowl…the whisk…some more empty ingredient bowls…

Romano's eyes widened. No. That couldn't be.

There couldn't be no tomatoes!

He did one last thorough observation of the counter. His eyes did not deceive him.

"Damn it, Spain!" Romano burst, "Where the hell are the tomatoes?"

"Eh?" the happy nation cocked his head.

"The fucking tomatoes, bastard! For the omelet! Did you seriously forget to put them in!" Romano cried, yanking the refrigerator door open. He couldn't believe this…Spain had forgotten to put some damn tomatoes into the omelet mixture.

Inside the refrigerator, there were always tomatoes. They usually sat right in the middle of the jumble of foods, bright and red, in a basket. They were usually were carefully set so no other food crammed against them, as if the vegetables had a throne of their own. But, to the poor Italian's dismay, today was anything but usual.

There were no fucking tomatoes. Slightly alarmed, Romano shoved away any other food stuffed into the fridge, scouring for his beloved favorite food. Tomatoes…tomatoes….tomatoes…

Where were the damn tomatoes?

Turns out, there were none.

"Spain! What the fuck! Why aren't there any tomatoes in here, bastard?" Romano raged, slamming the door shut. The kitchen vibrated slightly from the force. Spain cringed at the yelp from his lover.

"Ai…Lovi~! Don't scream so loud…" Spain sighed. He then turned his head a bit to the right to get a better look at the flushed South Italy before him. He chuckled, "You look like a little cherry, Lovi~!"

Romano's flushed cheeks of rage paled almost instantaneously. Wait-what? Had he heard right? He wasn't being called a tomato? Slowly, Romano walked over to the cook, who was now placing the omelets on a plate, the spatula still in his hands. Romano hesitated, but his arms slowly curled around the waste area of his Spaniard.

"Are-are you okay…?" Romano stuttered.

"Of course, Romano! Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well-well you're not fucking making tomato omelets for one…and…and there's no tomatoes in the fridge-and you called me a-"

The words got stuck in his throat. Where were the tomatoes, damn it…?

"Oh Lovi~! I don't like tomatoes, remember?" Spain confirmed happily, "I think they taste bad…and they're hard to eat. Not only that but they're too red. And though I like red, I believe you can have too much of a good thing, sí?"

These statements left the Italian speechless! Horrified! …Hurt… He wanted to squeeze Spain tighter, to make sure it was still Spain he held onto. But instead, his entire figure recoiled. Spain noticed the loss of contact, and turned around. He was chewing on one of the omelets.

"Eh? What's the matter, Lovi?"

Spain took a step over to Romano, and placed a lingering kiss on his forehead.

"Wh-what's wrong with me?" Romano spat, "You don't fucking like tomatoes! That's wrong with me!"

His eyes stung. Damn it! Was he seriously going to cry over this? His words didn't come out as forceful as he wanted them, but what came out would have to do.

No more tomatoes…no more tomatoes? No more damn tomatoes!

This was unheard of in Spain. It couldn't be true! No. That couldn't have been said by his Spain.

"But I already told you. I don't like them," Spain replied simply, "As I said, they taste horrible."

No more tomatoes…in Romano's eyes…meant that there was no more Spain. It meant that the person he had shyly fell in love with wasn't there anymore. It meant he had been replaced. Even if the rest of him was the same, the fact he detested tomatoes made Spain a totally different person. It…it was as bad as Romano without a hair curl… England without eyebrows… Switzerland without guns… Greece disliking cats… Russia without vodka!

They just wouldn't be the same without them!

Romano stared back at the strange doppelganger before him, and he felt his face flush up again.

"What…what kind of twisted game are you playing at, damn it!" Romano cried.

"Lovino…what are you getting so upset about? I didn't know you were bipolar or something…" Spain said quietly.

"Me! Bipolar? Who was the one who couldn't live without tomatoes for the last six hundred years and then one day he hated them?" the Italian spat back.

Bright green eyes observed and carefully examined the teary nation before him. He frowned slightly, upset about his lover's anger and pain. He wanted to hug him tightly, murmur into his hair, and tell him everything was okay. But he couldn't quite do that when he wasn't sure what his little Lovi was raging on about. Tears were glistening in the corners of Romano's eyes now, and both of them were becoming quite uncomfortable with the growing silence. Romano couldn't take this anymore. He couldn't. He might as well leave the Spaniard and go back home!

Damn this guy was thick…

"I can't take you anymore!" Romano yelled, rushing out of the kitchen.

Spain was left at the counter, befuddled and confused, on what had just happened. Why was Romano so moody about him not liking tomatoes? The Spaniard continued to eat the tomato-less omelets, which were freezing cold by now.

Romano woke up with the soft rays of the sun brushing against his face… The soft rays of the sun slowly pried his eyes open… He closed his eyes again, wanting just a few more minutes of sleep if possible… He felt his face was warm…and he was trying to figure out if he was sick… His head hurt slightly, but it wasn't too incredibly bad. Also…he felt a strange wet sensation near his eyes, and they seemed crusted together. His eyes felt puffy as well, and he had a strange sensation he had been crying.

Oh shit.

Romano sprang up, his conscious fully alert and ready. He totally skipped showering and dressing, determined to race down the stairs. He didn't even detour to the bathroom to clean his eyes up. To the kitchen he rushed, his bare feet padding against the soft carpet of the house. As he neared the kitchen, his mind raced.

What the fuck was that?

A dream? Yesterday? Was today even Saturday?

His feet hit cool tile with numerous 'pat, pat, pat' sounds, and he heard the familiar clanking of cooking utensils. He heard the familiar happy voice humming, the familiar smells and the familiar sounds. Romano looked to see Spain, flipping a yellow omelet in the skillet. Spain looked up from his work as he finished flipping, and smiled broadly. His eyes shut and his grin wide. His warm brown hair curly and messy, and his beautifully sun-kissed skin glowing. The stupid Spaniard even wore that apron made by Prussia.

"Ah! Lovi~! You're up!" Spain cooed.

South Italy's heart jumped. Why was he breathing so hard?

"What the hell are we having for breakfast!" the Italian cried just a bit too loudly.

"Ah ... ¿Tiene que ser tan fuerte?" Spain questioned.

"I don't give a shit, please answer the question!" Romano said again.

"Oh! We're having tomato omelets of course! Don't act so alarmed…"

Romano choked down a sob, and slammed his figure against the other's. He buried his face into Spain's chest, taking in his familiar Spanish scent of spices. He murmured something and squeezed slightly tighter. Most likely, he was now hiding the now furious red blush coating his flushed cheeks. Spain was slightly surprised with this reaction, but without hesitation, he hugged back.

"Aww~! Te quiero tambien, Lovi~!" he purred.

He leaned down and kissed Romano's silky rusty-colored hair.

"Iloveyou," Romano's voice said, muffled by Spain's chest. Slowly, Romano's head rose. Spain's at first perky smile, morphed into more of a soft, sentimental smile. His eyes turned a slightly darker hue, and they were filled to the brim with passion. He noted the fresh tears of his lover, and he was somehow able to separate them from the dried tears.

"Mi tomate…" Spain smiled.

Expecting a full blow to the stomach with one of Romano's fists or knees, Spain instead found himself facing a smiling Italian. Instead of trying to hide his blush, the Italian hesitantly let it show.

"Me gusta ser tu tomate veces…bastardo…" Lovino said simply.

He didn't dare speak of the horrible dream he had, instead, he decided to surrender to one morning of being completely exposed to the Spaniard. Allowing the man to cuddle him and call him red vegetables. He watched, relieved, as Spain took another tomato out of the basket in the fridge and dice it up to toss into the skillet. He sat, tucked under Spain's arm, as they munched on their tomato omelet breakfast. The tomatoes were still there…

After all…if there were tomatoes…there was Spain.

Translations:

Mi tomate = my tomato
Tiene que ser tan fuerte = why must you be so loud?
Te quiero tambien! = I love you too!
Me gusta ser tu tomate veces...bastardo... = i like being your tomato sometimes...bastard...

Okayyy~ so here's another Spamano. Yes i freaking know tomatoes are called fruits now. BUT I LIKE THEM AS VEGETABLES. okay? okay! I'm learning Spanish so i'm glad one of my fav characters is Spain. helps me touch up on it. btw. it's not that good in the middle because i had to stop one day then come back to it the next. i'm better off writing if i at least finish the first draft in one day. but that didn't happen. haha so i had this idea a few nights ago, and wanted to post it right away. i love it when you get inspiration, it adds energy to your energy level. especially if you're in an art/writer block. OTL btw! it's done! Review PORFAVOR! Gracias!