He has a presentation in the morning. He’s been preparing for it all day. He’s tired. Spain is a giant collection of perversions and moral failings.
They’re the only flimsy justifications Romano has to hold on to, to explain why he’s let Spain in under the hot water with him. To explain why he kept the shower door open for a little bit longer than he absolutely needed to. But Romano holds onto his flimsy justifications anyway, the same way he holds onto his wallet and his validated-only-if-he-has-to bus tickets (it’s a useful thing, being able to tell which citizen is a ticket collector in disguise). But clinging to something tightly doesn’t mean it’s true, and Romano is a little less than tired as he lets Spain run sure fingers through his hair, mindfully working around that one strand.
If Spain wants to baby him, fine. Fine. Romano knows full well that he is capable of doling out more than enough punishment if Spain thinks that washing Romano’s hair in the shower (plenty of soap, both hands, slow circles, roots to tips) equates to some display of power. Of ownership. Of being The Boss, and if Spain thinks Romano’s a dependent little boy in a dress again, Romano will shove Spain’s skull against the faucet and leave.
Spain doesn’t think any of these things as he carefully brings Romano’s head forward, as he massages the suds out of Romano’s hair, as he makes sure to keep the water out of Romano’s eyes. His intentions are nothing but stupid (not pure, exactly, but definitely stupid), because Romano can wash himself, thank you, he’s been doing it for centuries. But.
But it feels nice.
And Romano knows Spain knows all of that, even the part where Romano is tempted to shove him back against the hot tiles and storm off (he won’t. He only likes having the option. It infuriates him that Spain knows about that too). And even though he knows it, Spain continues to do as he pleases, turning off the water and reaching his arm out into the cold air for a towel, because this is something for him. And because Romano knows the options are there for him, safely waiting in the wings, paths he’ll never take but could have, he goes along with it.
Spain doesn’t do it very often, and Romano does it even less often back. But there’s something about being cared for, and something else about caring for, that catches Romano’s breath enough to silence even his token protests when Spain leads him out of the shower. The towel is warm and soft, and so are Spain’s motions. And since Spain’s helping him, that means he gets to watch Spain drip all over the floor for five minutes and harp at him about making a mess later. It’s really win-win, which is why Romano always starts smiling right around the time Spain stands to pat his hair dry. Spain never sees the smiles with the towel in the way, which would be perfectly fine with Romano, except he knows Spain knows about them anyway, in that annoying way of his (seeing the details, never the picture, moron).
Once they’re dry they move towards the sink. Spain opens the medicine cabinet. Romano used to draw the line at Spain brushing his teeth because really? But then one night Spain had asked him if he was tired, and all of a sudden there had been mint instead of an answer rolling off Romano’s tongue, and despite his better judgment Romano had gotten used to it. He still doesn’t know what is so appealing about cleaning his teeth, but Spain’s reflection in their mirror always looks so full of concentration while he’s doing it that Romano keeps his questions to himself (‘He probably just likes putting things in my mouth,’ Romano thinks, ‘pervert,’ and the wave of self-righteousness restores his balance).
Nights Like These [1/2]
They’re the only flimsy justifications Romano has to hold on to, to explain why he’s let Spain in under the hot water with him. To explain why he kept the shower door open for a little bit longer than he absolutely needed to. But Romano holds onto his flimsy justifications anyway, the same way he holds onto his wallet and his validated-only-if-he-has-to bus tickets (it’s a useful thing, being able to tell which citizen is a ticket collector in disguise). But clinging to something tightly doesn’t mean it’s true, and Romano is a little less than tired as he lets Spain run sure fingers through his hair, mindfully working around that one strand.
If Spain wants to baby him, fine. Fine. Romano knows full well that he is capable of doling out more than enough punishment if Spain thinks that washing Romano’s hair in the shower (plenty of soap, both hands, slow circles, roots to tips) equates to some display of power. Of ownership. Of being The Boss, and if Spain thinks Romano’s a dependent little boy in a dress again, Romano will shove Spain’s skull against the faucet and leave.
Spain doesn’t think any of these things as he carefully brings Romano’s head forward, as he massages the suds out of Romano’s hair, as he makes sure to keep the water out of Romano’s eyes. His intentions are nothing but stupid (not pure, exactly, but definitely stupid), because Romano can wash himself, thank you, he’s been doing it for centuries. But.
But it feels nice.
And Romano knows Spain knows all of that, even the part where Romano is tempted to shove him back against the hot tiles and storm off (he won’t. He only likes having the option. It infuriates him that Spain knows about that too). And even though he knows it, Spain continues to do as he pleases, turning off the water and reaching his arm out into the cold air for a towel, because this is something for him. And because Romano knows the options are there for him, safely waiting in the wings, paths he’ll never take but could have, he goes along with it.
Spain doesn’t do it very often, and Romano does it even less often back. But there’s something about being cared for, and something else about caring for, that catches Romano’s breath enough to silence even his token protests when Spain leads him out of the shower. The towel is warm and soft, and so are Spain’s motions. And since Spain’s helping him, that means he gets to watch Spain drip all over the floor for five minutes and harp at him about making a mess later. It’s really win-win, which is why Romano always starts smiling right around the time Spain stands to pat his hair dry. Spain never sees the smiles with the towel in the way, which would be perfectly fine with Romano, except he knows Spain knows about them anyway, in that annoying way of his (seeing the details, never the picture, moron).
Once they’re dry they move towards the sink. Spain opens the medicine cabinet. Romano used to draw the line at Spain brushing his teeth because really? But then one night Spain had asked him if he was tired, and all of a sudden there had been mint instead of an answer rolling off Romano’s tongue, and despite his better judgment Romano had gotten used to it. He still doesn’t know what is so appealing about cleaning his teeth, but Spain’s reflection in their mirror always looks so full of concentration while he’s doing it that Romano keeps his questions to himself (‘He probably just likes putting things in my mouth,’ Romano thinks, ‘pervert,’ and the wave of self-righteousness restores his balance).