- 079. Rejected
Babies can't pick favorites. Babies don't choose favorites.
Lovino frowned, more sour than usual, busied himself with the food he was half-mindedly preparing.
Alba loves me just as much as she does Spain.
He pressed his socked toes into the cold tile floor, popping them; something a more observant person would see as a bad omen. Lovi always did so when he was upset.
But still, the infant never ate when her mama was the one holding the spoon, didn't settle down until Spain had shown his (stupid, stupid) face, whined at whatever Lovino wanted to dress her in... She never wanted to play with him and rarely sent a smile meant solely for mama.
Any right-minded mother would be hurting. Lovino glanced down at his gently swelling stomach, nearly unseen under his shirt.
You love me more than him, right?
071. Peaceful
Lovino lies back against the arm of the couch; his legs are propped up and Nico is a tiny, warm weight against his thighs, sound asleep and cooing gently.
Aside from that the house is more-or-less silent, and a glance at the clock promises another half hour of peace and uninterrupted quiet. It's siesta time and Spain, along with the rest of the children, are upstairs sleeping, for the time being completely out of his hair.
Lovino is in one of his moods, one where he might almost grin openly, hum something, kiss Spain unbidden. His heart is lighter than it has been in a long, long time.
"La mia sole, show your eyes for mama?" Lovino whispers gently, running a hand over his son's ruddy face, rubbing the palm of his fleshy little hand; he grips, strong, vital, stubborn. Like any son of his should be.
Absently, Romano begins singing some old Roman song, gentle, because the constant noise Nico makes is too tempting not to. His reward is a peek of those green nation's eyes; worth much more than anything his grandpa had ever given him.
