[Fic Fill] Splat!
Title: Splat!
Author: sir_blinky
Recipient: inuzenko
Characters/Pairings: Ensemble cast, pairings include USUK, GerIta, Spamano, LietPol, Canada/Ukraine, minor OCs included
Rating: T for language
Summary: Spain invites Romano to the La Tomatina for a full hour of tomato-slinging fun. But when the other nations catch wind of the plan, they invite themselves. Hijinks ensue.
iSpain hurries to keep up as Lovino walks away from him. “Hey, hey, Lovino! Lovinooooo,” he calls, gently pulling at the other’s shoulder. Lovino grits his teeth and pointedly ignores Spain as he walks. They are out of tomatoes, damn it, and he has to go to the supermarket to buy them. The fact that he completely coincidentally met Spain out on the streets does not matter, and it shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. But the fact of the matter is that he has a Spain magnet attached to him, as this is the eighth time that he’s run into the bastard this week, and it’s only Thursday.
“Aw, come on! Don’t ignore me, Lovino. Don’t you like me?” If voices had faces, Spain’s would be a begging little puppy. Lovino exhales in exasperation and does not look back. But it doesn’t really matter anyway, since he’s slowed down just enough for Spain to jump on him and drag him back.
He chokes momentarily at the sudden appearance of an arm around his neck. “Hey! Let- let go of me! Sp- Antonio!” Lovino gasps as he’s pulled back, out of the crowd. A few passersby turn to stare at the Spaniard dragging away a swearing Italian man, but they quickly turn away when he turns to smile at them. When a man like that smiles at you, you don’t want to be within five kilometers of him. So, Spain manages to get Lovino out of the crowd not unnoticed, but certainly without much fuss.
“What are you doing?” Lovino demands, but Spain just glances about with shifty eyes (a look that does not suit him at all) before shoving a bunch of brochures and flyers into Lovino’s arms.
“Here! Read those! And don’t forget, it’s August 25th this year, Lovino!”
And with that, Spain just grins and strolls out of the dark alley that he brought them to, maybe even humming an old tune that Lovino does not want to admit he remembers. For a moment, the Italian remains slack-jawed, but he quickly manages to gather his wits about him. He’s about to yell out to Spain, ask him what this is, but Spain just stops and looks back.
“You’d better come, okay Lovino? It’s not going to be fun if you don’t come with me.” And he says it so cheerfully, so persuasively, so subtly pleadingly that Lovino has no choice but to grit his teeth and force a, “Fine,” through his lips.
The buoyant look on Spain’s face already makes him regret agreeing.
ii.“Eh, what are these?” Feliciano asks, when Lovino comes back home with a translucent plastic bag full of tomatoes in one hand, a bunch of brightly colored papers in the other. His older brother grumbles incoherently and sets the groceries on the counter of the kitchen, dropping the set of brochures on the desk along the way. Feliciano bounds over and picks up the first one, which is bright orange and slightly crumpled from where Lovino creased it in his frustration.
“Are these from Spain?” North Italy asks, and receives a short curse as a response. Yes, he thinks, so these are from Spain. He idly peruses the material, since it probably isn’t meant for him if Romano brought it back, but he is curious anyway.
After a few minutes, his signature grin begins to form.
“Eh, Lovino! This sounds like fun! Are you going? Can I come?” And he realizes this: “I have to go tell Germany! Wait for me, Lovino! I’m going to tell Germany and we can book the plane tickets when we’re done! Three seats, business class, right? Don’t do anything without me, Lovino!” And Feliciano drops the flyer and rushes to the phone, hands quickly dialing Germany’s number.
In response, all Lovino can do is to grimace.
iii.Germany calmly sets the plates down on the table. Prussia licks his lips when he sees what dinner is, and eagerly picks up his knife and fork. But before he can tear into the sausages, Germany interrupts him: “Do you think you could stay at Austria’s house for a while?”
Prussia raises an eyebrow and sets down the silverware. “Hm? Anything special going on? You gonna bring that pasta blob over and fuck him senseless or something?”
Germany frowns and tries to cover his growing blush by coughing into his hand. “Not really.” He recalls the phone call from earlier. “Italy’s just invited me to go with him and his brother to Spain’s house. He mentioned something about a tomato festival.” At that, Prussia’s other eyebrow goes to join its twin. A smirk begins to slide up his face. “I think he called it something like the Tomatina.”
“You mean that thing where people just go batshit crazy and throw overripe tomatoes at each other for an hour?” Germany frowns at his brother’s choice of words, but nods anyway. Prussia’s smile bares his teeth. “Then fuck staying at Austria’s house! I’m going!” He emphasizes the last word by banging his fist on the wooden table. The plates clatter. Their beer mugs tremble, ripples flickering through the liquid.
Germany blinks and stares at Prussia for a moment or two, and then sighs. He can already feel the headache that will inevitably come.
iv.As Germany would later find out, Prussia had called France and Hungary, France to invite him too, Hungary to brag. France dragged England along, and wherever England went, America followed. From there, a domino effect began. Canada would come, and Cuba, of course. If Canada was going, he would always shyly invite Ukraine, which meant Russia and Belarus would invite themselves too. Russia going means that he drags China, and therefore the rest of Asia, along with him. Belarus going means Lithuania following like a sickeningly sweet and polite puppy, which means Estonia and Latvia and Poland will go as well. Estonia invites Finland, who drags Sweden and Sealand along for some family bonding. Denmark finds out, and everything starts going even worse.
There are some times when he dreads the invention of cell phones and e-mails.
v.“Those are my peanuts! Give them ba~ck!” Sealand stretches both his arms out, trying to grab the latest of the seventeen packs of peanuts that the three micronations have polished off between them. “I got them first so give them back, Wy!” The girl who occupies the aisle seat dangles them far from Sealand’s reach, sticking her tongue out at him.
“No way; you already had eight packs! I only had four so I should have more!”
Seborga, sitting in between them, winces. “Um, guys?” he ventures. “Could you, um, not shout so loud? We’re on the plane and…” He starts to lower his voice even more, “there are, uh, people watching us so could you… um… be not so loud, maybe?”
They ignore him. He sighs and slinks down further into his seat, trying futilely to ignore his two bickering friends.
From the seats next to them, Cyprus stares at them longingly as he himself tries to ignore Greece and Turkey slinging curses at each other. Thankfully, at least he has Egypt to shield himself; the African nation merely sighs and immerses himself in the outdated plane magazine.
vi.“Why won’t he let me in the pilot’s seat?” America asks, clinging onto England’s arm. “I wanna fly the plane; I am so totally qualified for it! I helped invent these things so I should get to fly them, right? A jet like this is no problem for a hero like me! Come on, Iggy, tell them to let me fly the plane!”
“Get off me!” England shakes his arm, trying to dislodge America. It is all to no avail, though, as America’s grip is too strong. “You’re not allowed to fly any passenger planes anymore after what you did the last one!”
“But it was only one loop-de-loop! How was I supposed to know?”
“You’re banned from flying planes, so get over it,” England growls, finally managing to shake him off. “Now shut up; I’m trying to read.” He flips open his well-worn copy of Cardenio and doesn’t speak again for an hour.
vii.They’ve managed to ruin two seats and spill at least four cans of soda onto the floor by the time the plane lands. It’s Tuesday evening, and they have just enough time to make it to the hotel they usually book for World Summits before night falls.
The bus ride, Norway thinks, is much worse than the plane.
It is cramped and hot. Spain is no place to be in the middle of August, and he knows that the other Northern nations agree. The host himself is busy with preparations, so the others don’t bother to call him to confirm if their hotel is ready or not. So, just to be on the safe side, they take the nice and long scenic route.
Oh, how he wishes they hadn’t.
viii.“Oh, I’m sorry! Yes, your rooms are ready but I’m afraid that you’ll have to get used to some new arrangements. You see, we’re really booked full and there have been so many reservations in the past few weeks that things got a little messed up and I am really, really sorry! Three people to a room, all unisex unless you’re married! And, well, nobody’s married so I hope this is okay! Here are your keys!”
The receptionist is completely oblivious to the hundred separate death glares aimed at her.
ix.Cuba tries his hardest not to whimper. “Oh fuck,” he says. “How did I get stuck with you two?”
Korea raises an eyebrow at him. Russia just smiles. And after exactly four and a half seconds, they launch back into their argument.
“China’s breasts are one with me!”
“No! They belong to me! They originated in me!”
“But they will become one with me later on!”
“No they won’t!”
“Yes they will!”
x.“So... um... It’s nice to meet you two…” Hong Kong stares. Egypt stares. And suddenly, Estonia feels very, very alone.
xi.The next morning is welcomed by many burst eardrums, sore backs, and groans. The nations quickly gulp down breakfast in the hotel’s subpar dining room, and pack into the bus again for the trip into Buñol. It is nine in the morning, and the ride is at least an hour and a half. England reasons that they’ll probably have fifteen minutes to meet with Spain once they’re in town, but after that, it’s a free for all.
Today is even worse than yesterday. With Feliciano, Prussia, Korea, all the micronations and some of the younger ones excited, there’s too much pent up energy in the little rickety vehicle. From his position somewhere near the front, he can hear moans for pasta, joyous squealing, gossip about every single thing, and worst of all, singing. American singing.
He takes a deep, deep breath and tries to keep calm because America is pressed right up to his ear, and he can hear every single breath that the other nation takes. He tells himself that the redness in his face is from the blasted heat in the sardine can on wheels.
Of course, France, who can see full well what is going on, begs to differ.
xii.“Mr. Carriedo!” Spain looks up as he hears his human name, and smiles as the butcher bustles over to him. “I’m sorry! I know you’re busy but have you happened to see the stack of plastic I’ve placed here? If I don’t find it, then I don’t think that my shop will ever recover from this.” The man laughs nervously, and rubs the back of his head with his hand.
“Ah! I think it’s behind those boxes, Mr. Durante. Have you looked there?”
“Oh, I haven’t. Thank you, Mr. Carriedo.” The man smiles at him and nods in thanks. He scurries over and lets out a cry of triumph as he finds his plastics. The butcher flashes another grin, and goes off to cover his shop. They only have an hour, after all. And there’s a lot of work to do.
xiii.They finally spill out of the bus, grateful for the fresh air. The windows were stuck and Japan doesn’t think that he can spend another moment in the bus. He tumbles out and gasps in relief, sucking in the fragrant air from outside. Well, fragrant isn’t exactly the right word. Pungent is more like it. Tomatoes and sweat. Wonderful.
“This is so awesome!” Korea exclaims, jumping up and down. “Do we really get to splatter people with tomatoes?”
“Don’t forget the part where you get splattered,” Vietnam chimes in. She walks up to them, Thailand and Taiwan right behind her. Hong Kong follows at a more sedate pace, and normally, China would be next to him, but today, the eldest of the nations among them is busy trying to avoid Russia and Belarus.
“So, this is Buñol…” he muses. It is a beautiful town, but it is already teeming with tourists and locals alike. This festival must be extremely popular. He’s read up a bit on it, and the fact that it’s been more than sixty years since it started… Tradition is really a thing to be admired.
He then grabs his camera, and starts snapping.
xiv.“Germany! Germany!”
The nation addressed turns, and he sees a rush of brown-haired Italian rush towards him. He does not even have time to sigh before Feliciano has slung both his arms around his neck. “Germany! We have to go meet Spain now! So let’s go, let’s go! But wait; I have to get Lovino first, or else he’s going to get cranky.” Feliciano smiles happily. “So wait for me, okay?”
“I am not cranky,” Lovino mutters as he stalks to them, his hands shoved in his pockets. He doesn’t look at either his brother or Germany. “And I don’t want to see Spain, so you can just leave me alone.”
“Aw, but Lovino, we have to go! Spain’s going to be sad if we don’t go to see him, and it’s rude not to help.”
“So what if the bastard’s sad?” Lovino asks. “I don’t care. And he doesn’t need us to help anyway. He’s doing fine on his own.” He jerks his head to where Spain is in the middle of speaking with a few tourists. The easy way that he laughs and smiles is already evident, even from this distance. Germany raises an eyebrow, and Feliciano just watches, a thoughtful look on his face.
All of a sudden, he lights up.
“Ah! You’re jealous, aren’t you?”
“What?! No! That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. There’s no way I could ever be jealous.”
Feliciano hums, and then nods. “Okay then. Me and Germany are going to go with the others, but you make sure to talk to Spain! You shouldn’t be cranky today; it’s a very nice morning. And the town is so beautiful! Enjoy yourself, Lovino!”
And then Feliciano has dragged Germany away, already blabbering on and on about how fun this is going to be. Lovino glances at their backs, the way that his brother easily holds Germany’s hand in his, the way that he smiles and treasures the taller nation. And then his gaze darts back to where Spain was, but he is gone now.
It is a warm morning, almost the middle of the day, but it is a little cold inside.
xv.Twelve p.m., and everyone is ready. A few more seconds, and then-
“Hah!”
America grins in triumph as England sputters, because there is suddenly a large splat of red tomato on his shirt. England stares at the splattered fruit, and then back up at America, who is laughing like a maniac. “America,” he growls, fists clenching. America sticks his tongue out at England and runs.
“Take that, old man!” he yells behind him, and ducks into the crowd of people. He can almost hear England’s curses from here. He can’t keep his snickers contained as he runs, and he doesn’t think that it matters much anyway, because everybody around him is shrieking and laughing and this is amazing and awesome and-
He stops abruptly as he runs into full view of Russia. The large nation has a large grin on his face. “Hello America,” he says cheerfully, smile not dropping.
America begins to get nervous. Nothing god ever comes when Russia smiles like that. “Hey Russia!” That is the moment where he notices the line of nations, all familiar faces, behind Russia. “Hey Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, North Korea, Cuba, Pakistan… Palestine… Belarus… Um… I’ll be going now, bye!”
And he runs away.
“Hah!” Iraq barks. “Run like the little coward you are, America!” He lobs a few tomatoes after him for emphasis, and with America’s shrieks as a guide, the group of nations begins chasing after him. “Come back here!” Iraq roars. “Hold still and fight!”
“Iggy! Save me!” And America dives behind England, just as everyone has let loose their largest round of projectiles yet.
It’s almost impossible to tell that there’s England under all that tomato.
“America…” England raises a hand to wipe off his face. He brushes off the apology that Russia and Pakistan give him, and turns to the spectacled nation. “You are so-“
“Aah!!” And America runs again. “Canada! France! Save me! I’m the hero! You always have to help the hero! HELP ME!!”
xvi.Canada winces, because this is definitely a lot stickier than snowball fights. He stands next to Cuba, who is dragging a crate of tomatoes behind him. People occasionally stop to pick out some larger, squishier fruits and lob them at passing strangers, mostly tourists with plastic cameras hanging from their necks. This is chaos. But, at least that in this writhing mass of tomatoes and people, everyone is at least as invisible as he is.
“Oi, Canada,” Cuba says, turning his head back just a little bit. “You just gonna stand there or are you gonna go and play?”
“Ah, I’m coming!” So Canada reaches down into the crate and pulls out a tomato. He stares at it thoughtfully for a moment, before mashing it and grinning at Cuba’s back. Well, he shouldn’t mind too much, right?
But before he can throw it, somebody beats him to the punch. Three tomatoes hit Cuba in the chest, and the dark-skinned nation lets out a shocked gasp as he is stopped in his tracks. Some juice has splattered onto his chin, and is slowly soaking into his collar, untouched up till now. “What the hell was that?” Cuba demands, wiping his eyes.
Canada looks up in surprise, and catches three figures all standing close by each other. The Netherlands, Prussia, and France. It is around that time when the spectacled nation starts laughing nervously, because he thinks he can figure out what happened. France catches him laughing, and offers him a questioning look.
“Hey! What did you do that for?” Cuba demands of the trio. France turns from his silent questioning to look to Cuba.
“Is anything the problem?” he asks, an eyebrow raised.
“Don’t you play dumb with me!” Cuba glares at the three of them, and war seems decided in that instant. Prussia smirks, and Canada thinks that it is almost a crime that Prussia’s teeth aren’t sharpened and glimmering. The Netherlands still looks utterly bored, even as he starts tossing tomatoes all around him. France just squawks as Cuba throws his first handful at him, and dances out of the way.
Canada watches the four of them in their fight, and sighs.
“Tired?” a friendly voice asks from behind him. Canada jumps and whirls around, and lets out a sigh of relief when it is only Ukraine. The female nation is covered in tomatoes, and Canada tries his best to ignore the fact that she is wearing a white shirt. Ukraine gives him a small grin. “It must be hard to have those four hovering near you all the time.”
“It’s not so bad,” Canada says, shrugging.
She taps her chin, and then her eyes light up. “Want to come with me for a while? I think I saw some place that had an ice cream booth outside. Maybe after this is over, we can go there for a bit?” she offers. Canada beams.
“That sounds like fun. If you don’t mind, of course,” he adds hastily. “I wouldn’t want to impede, or anything like that.”
“No, no,” Ukraine says with a smile. “It’s fine. I don’t actually have anything to do either.” So she walks up to Canada and links arms, conveniently not mentioning the fact that it was she who threw those first few tomatoes at Cuba.
xvii.The hour passes. And suddenly, everything stops. People stop throwing the squelchy tomatoes and begin washing up. Some people are off to the washrooms to clean themselves off as best as possible, though the stains will most likely never come out of their clothes, no matter how much bleach and soap they use.
Poland laughs anyway, because that was totally awesome even if his shirt is completely ruined and won’t be wearable at all for the rest of his life. Though, he does have to get this gunk out of his hair…
“Hey, Liet!” he calls out, raising an arm. His friend turns, and tilts his head, a questioning look on his face. As he talks, he walks over to Lithuania and grabs his arm, dragging him into the crowded bathroom. “You so have to help me out here! There’s tomato in my hair and it’s starting to dry and it feels icky and you have to get it out! Come on, Liet! Hurry up, pick up the pace! God, you’re so slow sometimes!”
It is all Lithuania can do to sigh and shake his head, a smile on his lips. Poland will be Poland, after all.
When they reach the entrance to the room, Poland pouts when he sees the mass of people inside. Lithuania notices the look and asks, “Is something wrong, Poland?” His companion doesn’t answer immediately, and takes a few moments to think.
“Well,” he drawls, “I was hoping for somewhere a bit more… private.”
Lithuania blanches.
xviii.“I can’t believe that you attacked me,” America whines, still following England. “You just-“
“Look!” England snaps. “I’m sorry, but I was pissed off, okay? I didn’t want to be covered in tomato.”
“Then why did you even come? We’re supposed to get covered in tomato.”
“I only came because you and France made me come! I didn’t want to go but you two idiots forced me to come.” And England knows that isn’t entirely true. And America knows as well. Contrary to popular belief, he isn’t completely oblivious. So America falls silent for a while, and looks down at the ground. England stops walking, and just stares ahead. And after a while, England sighs, and turns back.
“I’m sorry, America. I was just angry then. I didn’t mean to-“
“Nah, it’s fine.” America smiles. “You were under a lot of stress anyway, and I-“
“It was still wrong of me to-“
“We’re not going to get anywhere if we keep interrupting each other,” America cuts in, his smile widening. England has to bite back a chuckle, though he doesn’t stop his own smile from forming.
“Hypocrite,” he mutters. He pauses for a while, as if considering an idea. “After we get cleaned up, do you want to go out for a hamburger?”
“Are you kidding?” America exclaims. “But you hate burgers! Even though they’re the most awesome food ever but you still hate them because you have your stupid ol’ magic stuff that doesn’t work anyway and-“
England grins and pats America on the back. “No, I’m not kidding. But we have to get cleaned up first, okay? I think there’s a place around here where we can borrow somebody’s hose and garden for a while. After that, we go out for lunch. How does that sound?”
“That sounds awesome! Let’s go!”
xix.“So, Germany, how was it?” Feliciano asks, clinging onto Germany’s arm and leaning against his shoulder. Germany coughs at the contact, feeling warm skin press against him under cool and wet cloth. “It’s my first time doing something like this too, so it’s okay. I thought it was a lot of fun! What about you?”
“It- It was very enjoyable,” Germany replies, a little stiffly. Feliciano knows that it’s how he normally responds, so he just nods. “I liked it very much.”
“I’m glad you think so! Come on, we have to go thank Spain! He’s the one who put this all together!” Feliciano bounces back and starts walking over, calling out, “Antonio! Antonio!” Germany manages a small smile at how energetic the Italian still is, even after a straight hour of flinging fruit about. They wander about for five more minutes, searching for the head of brown hair and green eyes. Germany begins to think that it is becoming useless, but then Feliciano abruptly stops.
“Hm? Is something wrong, Feliciano?” Germany asks.
Feliciano purses his lips, but then he turns around with his trademark grin. “I think we should thank him later, or tomorrow. Spain deserves a little time like this. I don’t think that he’s talked with Lovino for a while”
Germany glances over Feliciano’s head, and sees Spain and Lovino standing together. Spain is grinning broadly as he always does, and Lovino still has that special look of indignation when Spain reaches out to ruffle his hair. He manages to quirk a grin. “Yes, I think we should.” He hesitates for a little, as if unsure whether it is proper to suggest this: “Maybe we should also have some time to ourselves?”
Feliciano beams at him. “I would love that! Come on, Germany; I know this place near Buñol that serves really great spaghetti!”
Germany smiles as he is once again dragged away by Feliciano. Yes, he thinks. I am lucky.
xx.“You’re a bastard.”
Those are the first words that Lovino says to Spain when he sees him. Spain cheerfully turns around, and he lets out a small sound that may or may not be a squeal as he hugs the Italian. Lovino chokes at the unexpected contact. “Lovi! You came!”
There is a distinct blush on Lovino’s cheeks as he grumbles, “Of course I did.”
“That makes me really happy, you know,” Spain says, letting go of the shorter nation. “So, did you like it? I’ve been trying to get you to come for ages, and I haven’t seen you ever since I invited you. Did you enjoy yourself? Or did you get hurt and I’ll have to kiss it better again?”
Lovino thwaps Spain on the shoulder, but that does nothing to remove the grin on his face. When he sees that his usual tactic (read: violence) isn’t working, he switches to a half-hearted glare and crosses his arms. “Why would you even care anyway?” he asks, too softly for Spain to hear. Or so he thinks.
Spain briefly looks hurt, but he wipes that expression from his face and takes Lovino’s hand in his. “I care.”
“Hm. You were off talking with Prussia and France anyway.”
“Aw, are you j-“
“I am not jealous!”
Spain laughs. “Okay, okay. But, yeah, Prussia and France are my friends. And I’m happy that they came, and everyone else too. But if I wanted them to come, I would have invited them myself.” He smiles a little as he uses one hand to lightly flick at Lovino’s nose. “I invited you, Lovi.”
Lovino scowls as he yanks his hand away to rub at his nose. “Don’t frown,” Spain admonishes lightly. “You should smile. You look better when you smile.”
“Don’t say stupid things like that!” Lovino says, turning away because soon, Spain won’t be able to tell his face from the mess of tomatoes that litters the ground. “And besides, I always say no. Why do you even bother to invite me?” Spain laughs again, but grasps Lovino’s chin and turns the Italian’s face back to him.
“Why shouldn’t I say the truth? You do look beautiful. I invite you because I want to be happy with you.” His grin becomes softer, gentler. “And I want to be happy with you because you are a person who I care about.” As he whispers those last few words, he leans down a little bit, and kisses Lovino on the forehead. Lovino’s skin is warm and soft beneath his lips.
Lovino bites his lower lip and looks down. “Don’t say stupid things like that,” he repeats, and then looks back up into Spain’s green eyes. “If you want to say it, then say it.” His eyes dart away for a few seconds, but then he meets Spain’s gaze with strength that surprises the both of them. “Say it, because I feel the same way about you.”
Spain is taken aback for a moment. A heartbeat passes between them, but then Spain closes his eyes and smiles tenderly. He pulls Lovino into a hug, and whispers into his ear, “I love you.”
It is such a warm afternoon.
Author: sir_blinky
Recipient: inuzenko
Characters/Pairings: Ensemble cast, pairings include USUK, GerIta, Spamano, LietPol, Canada/Ukraine, minor OCs included
Rating: T for language
Summary: Spain invites Romano to the La Tomatina for a full hour of tomato-slinging fun. But when the other nations catch wind of the plan, they invite themselves. Hijinks ensue.
iSpain hurries to keep up as Lovino walks away from him. “Hey, hey, Lovino! Lovinooooo,” he calls, gently pulling at the other’s shoulder. Lovino grits his teeth and pointedly ignores Spain as he walks. They are out of tomatoes, damn it, and he has to go to the supermarket to buy them. The fact that he completely coincidentally met Spain out on the streets does not matter, and it shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. But the fact of the matter is that he has a Spain magnet attached to him, as this is the eighth time that he’s run into the bastard this week, and it’s only Thursday.
“Aw, come on! Don’t ignore me, Lovino. Don’t you like me?” If voices had faces, Spain’s would be a begging little puppy. Lovino exhales in exasperation and does not look back. But it doesn’t really matter anyway, since he’s slowed down just enough for Spain to jump on him and drag him back.
He chokes momentarily at the sudden appearance of an arm around his neck. “Hey! Let- let go of me! Sp- Antonio!” Lovino gasps as he’s pulled back, out of the crowd. A few passersby turn to stare at the Spaniard dragging away a swearing Italian man, but they quickly turn away when he turns to smile at them. When a man like that smiles at you, you don’t want to be within five kilometers of him. So, Spain manages to get Lovino out of the crowd not unnoticed, but certainly without much fuss.
“What are you doing?” Lovino demands, but Spain just glances about with shifty eyes (a look that does not suit him at all) before shoving a bunch of brochures and flyers into Lovino’s arms.
“Here! Read those! And don’t forget, it’s August 25th this year, Lovino!”
And with that, Spain just grins and strolls out of the dark alley that he brought them to, maybe even humming an old tune that Lovino does not want to admit he remembers. For a moment, the Italian remains slack-jawed, but he quickly manages to gather his wits about him. He’s about to yell out to Spain, ask him what this is, but Spain just stops and looks back.
“You’d better come, okay Lovino? It’s not going to be fun if you don’t come with me.” And he says it so cheerfully, so persuasively, so subtly pleadingly that Lovino has no choice but to grit his teeth and force a, “Fine,” through his lips.
The buoyant look on Spain’s face already makes him regret agreeing.
ii.“Eh, what are these?” Feliciano asks, when Lovino comes back home with a translucent plastic bag full of tomatoes in one hand, a bunch of brightly colored papers in the other. His older brother grumbles incoherently and sets the groceries on the counter of the kitchen, dropping the set of brochures on the desk along the way. Feliciano bounds over and picks up the first one, which is bright orange and slightly crumpled from where Lovino creased it in his frustration.
“Are these from Spain?” North Italy asks, and receives a short curse as a response. Yes, he thinks, so these are from Spain. He idly peruses the material, since it probably isn’t meant for him if Romano brought it back, but he is curious anyway.
After a few minutes, his signature grin begins to form.
“Eh, Lovino! This sounds like fun! Are you going? Can I come?” And he realizes this: “I have to go tell Germany! Wait for me, Lovino! I’m going to tell Germany and we can book the plane tickets when we’re done! Three seats, business class, right? Don’t do anything without me, Lovino!” And Feliciano drops the flyer and rushes to the phone, hands quickly dialing Germany’s number.
In response, all Lovino can do is to grimace.
iii.Germany calmly sets the plates down on the table. Prussia licks his lips when he sees what dinner is, and eagerly picks up his knife and fork. But before he can tear into the sausages, Germany interrupts him: “Do you think you could stay at Austria’s house for a while?”
Prussia raises an eyebrow and sets down the silverware. “Hm? Anything special going on? You gonna bring that pasta blob over and fuck him senseless or something?”
Germany frowns and tries to cover his growing blush by coughing into his hand. “Not really.” He recalls the phone call from earlier. “Italy’s just invited me to go with him and his brother to Spain’s house. He mentioned something about a tomato festival.” At that, Prussia’s other eyebrow goes to join its twin. A smirk begins to slide up his face. “I think he called it something like the Tomatina.”
“You mean that thing where people just go batshit crazy and throw overripe tomatoes at each other for an hour?” Germany frowns at his brother’s choice of words, but nods anyway. Prussia’s smile bares his teeth. “Then fuck staying at Austria’s house! I’m going!” He emphasizes the last word by banging his fist on the wooden table. The plates clatter. Their beer mugs tremble, ripples flickering through the liquid.
Germany blinks and stares at Prussia for a moment or two, and then sighs. He can already feel the headache that will inevitably come.
iv.As Germany would later find out, Prussia had called France and Hungary, France to invite him too, Hungary to brag. France dragged England along, and wherever England went, America followed. From there, a domino effect began. Canada would come, and Cuba, of course. If Canada was going, he would always shyly invite Ukraine, which meant Russia and Belarus would invite themselves too. Russia going means that he drags China, and therefore the rest of Asia, along with him. Belarus going means Lithuania following like a sickeningly sweet and polite puppy, which means Estonia and Latvia and Poland will go as well. Estonia invites Finland, who drags Sweden and Sealand along for some family bonding. Denmark finds out, and everything starts going even worse.
There are some times when he dreads the invention of cell phones and e-mails.
v.“Those are my peanuts! Give them ba~ck!” Sealand stretches both his arms out, trying to grab the latest of the seventeen packs of peanuts that the three micronations have polished off between them. “I got them first so give them back, Wy!” The girl who occupies the aisle seat dangles them far from Sealand’s reach, sticking her tongue out at him.
“No way; you already had eight packs! I only had four so I should have more!”
Seborga, sitting in between them, winces. “Um, guys?” he ventures. “Could you, um, not shout so loud? We’re on the plane and…” He starts to lower his voice even more, “there are, uh, people watching us so could you… um… be not so loud, maybe?”
They ignore him. He sighs and slinks down further into his seat, trying futilely to ignore his two bickering friends.
From the seats next to them, Cyprus stares at them longingly as he himself tries to ignore Greece and Turkey slinging curses at each other. Thankfully, at least he has Egypt to shield himself; the African nation merely sighs and immerses himself in the outdated plane magazine.
vi.“Why won’t he let me in the pilot’s seat?” America asks, clinging onto England’s arm. “I wanna fly the plane; I am so totally qualified for it! I helped invent these things so I should get to fly them, right? A jet like this is no problem for a hero like me! Come on, Iggy, tell them to let me fly the plane!”
“Get off me!” England shakes his arm, trying to dislodge America. It is all to no avail, though, as America’s grip is too strong. “You’re not allowed to fly any passenger planes anymore after what you did the last one!”
“But it was only one loop-de-loop! How was I supposed to know?”
“You’re banned from flying planes, so get over it,” England growls, finally managing to shake him off. “Now shut up; I’m trying to read.” He flips open his well-worn copy of Cardenio and doesn’t speak again for an hour.
vii.They’ve managed to ruin two seats and spill at least four cans of soda onto the floor by the time the plane lands. It’s Tuesday evening, and they have just enough time to make it to the hotel they usually book for World Summits before night falls.
The bus ride, Norway thinks, is much worse than the plane.
It is cramped and hot. Spain is no place to be in the middle of August, and he knows that the other Northern nations agree. The host himself is busy with preparations, so the others don’t bother to call him to confirm if their hotel is ready or not. So, just to be on the safe side, they take the nice and long scenic route.
Oh, how he wishes they hadn’t.
viii.“Oh, I’m sorry! Yes, your rooms are ready but I’m afraid that you’ll have to get used to some new arrangements. You see, we’re really booked full and there have been so many reservations in the past few weeks that things got a little messed up and I am really, really sorry! Three people to a room, all unisex unless you’re married! And, well, nobody’s married so I hope this is okay! Here are your keys!”
The receptionist is completely oblivious to the hundred separate death glares aimed at her.
ix.Cuba tries his hardest not to whimper. “Oh fuck,” he says. “How did I get stuck with you two?”
Korea raises an eyebrow at him. Russia just smiles. And after exactly four and a half seconds, they launch back into their argument.
“China’s breasts are one with me!”
“No! They belong to me! They originated in me!”
“But they will become one with me later on!”
“No they won’t!”
“Yes they will!”
x.“So... um... It’s nice to meet you two…” Hong Kong stares. Egypt stares. And suddenly, Estonia feels very, very alone.
xi.The next morning is welcomed by many burst eardrums, sore backs, and groans. The nations quickly gulp down breakfast in the hotel’s subpar dining room, and pack into the bus again for the trip into Buñol. It is nine in the morning, and the ride is at least an hour and a half. England reasons that they’ll probably have fifteen minutes to meet with Spain once they’re in town, but after that, it’s a free for all.
Today is even worse than yesterday. With Feliciano, Prussia, Korea, all the micronations and some of the younger ones excited, there’s too much pent up energy in the little rickety vehicle. From his position somewhere near the front, he can hear moans for pasta, joyous squealing, gossip about every single thing, and worst of all, singing. American singing.
He takes a deep, deep breath and tries to keep calm because America is pressed right up to his ear, and he can hear every single breath that the other nation takes. He tells himself that the redness in his face is from the blasted heat in the sardine can on wheels.
Of course, France, who can see full well what is going on, begs to differ.
xii.“Mr. Carriedo!” Spain looks up as he hears his human name, and smiles as the butcher bustles over to him. “I’m sorry! I know you’re busy but have you happened to see the stack of plastic I’ve placed here? If I don’t find it, then I don’t think that my shop will ever recover from this.” The man laughs nervously, and rubs the back of his head with his hand.
“Ah! I think it’s behind those boxes, Mr. Durante. Have you looked there?”
“Oh, I haven’t. Thank you, Mr. Carriedo.” The man smiles at him and nods in thanks. He scurries over and lets out a cry of triumph as he finds his plastics. The butcher flashes another grin, and goes off to cover his shop. They only have an hour, after all. And there’s a lot of work to do.
xiii.They finally spill out of the bus, grateful for the fresh air. The windows were stuck and Japan doesn’t think that he can spend another moment in the bus. He tumbles out and gasps in relief, sucking in the fragrant air from outside. Well, fragrant isn’t exactly the right word. Pungent is more like it. Tomatoes and sweat. Wonderful.
“This is so awesome!” Korea exclaims, jumping up and down. “Do we really get to splatter people with tomatoes?”
“Don’t forget the part where you get splattered,” Vietnam chimes in. She walks up to them, Thailand and Taiwan right behind her. Hong Kong follows at a more sedate pace, and normally, China would be next to him, but today, the eldest of the nations among them is busy trying to avoid Russia and Belarus.
“So, this is Buñol…” he muses. It is a beautiful town, but it is already teeming with tourists and locals alike. This festival must be extremely popular. He’s read up a bit on it, and the fact that it’s been more than sixty years since it started… Tradition is really a thing to be admired.
He then grabs his camera, and starts snapping.
xiv.“Germany! Germany!”
The nation addressed turns, and he sees a rush of brown-haired Italian rush towards him. He does not even have time to sigh before Feliciano has slung both his arms around his neck. “Germany! We have to go meet Spain now! So let’s go, let’s go! But wait; I have to get Lovino first, or else he’s going to get cranky.” Feliciano smiles happily. “So wait for me, okay?”
“I am not cranky,” Lovino mutters as he stalks to them, his hands shoved in his pockets. He doesn’t look at either his brother or Germany. “And I don’t want to see Spain, so you can just leave me alone.”
“Aw, but Lovino, we have to go! Spain’s going to be sad if we don’t go to see him, and it’s rude not to help.”
“So what if the bastard’s sad?” Lovino asks. “I don’t care. And he doesn’t need us to help anyway. He’s doing fine on his own.” He jerks his head to where Spain is in the middle of speaking with a few tourists. The easy way that he laughs and smiles is already evident, even from this distance. Germany raises an eyebrow, and Feliciano just watches, a thoughtful look on his face.
All of a sudden, he lights up.
“Ah! You’re jealous, aren’t you?”
“What?! No! That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. There’s no way I could ever be jealous.”
Feliciano hums, and then nods. “Okay then. Me and Germany are going to go with the others, but you make sure to talk to Spain! You shouldn’t be cranky today; it’s a very nice morning. And the town is so beautiful! Enjoy yourself, Lovino!”
And then Feliciano has dragged Germany away, already blabbering on and on about how fun this is going to be. Lovino glances at their backs, the way that his brother easily holds Germany’s hand in his, the way that he smiles and treasures the taller nation. And then his gaze darts back to where Spain was, but he is gone now.
It is a warm morning, almost the middle of the day, but it is a little cold inside.
xv.Twelve p.m., and everyone is ready. A few more seconds, and then-
“Hah!”
America grins in triumph as England sputters, because there is suddenly a large splat of red tomato on his shirt. England stares at the splattered fruit, and then back up at America, who is laughing like a maniac. “America,” he growls, fists clenching. America sticks his tongue out at England and runs.
“Take that, old man!” he yells behind him, and ducks into the crowd of people. He can almost hear England’s curses from here. He can’t keep his snickers contained as he runs, and he doesn’t think that it matters much anyway, because everybody around him is shrieking and laughing and this is amazing and awesome and-
He stops abruptly as he runs into full view of Russia. The large nation has a large grin on his face. “Hello America,” he says cheerfully, smile not dropping.
America begins to get nervous. Nothing god ever comes when Russia smiles like that. “Hey Russia!” That is the moment where he notices the line of nations, all familiar faces, behind Russia. “Hey Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, North Korea, Cuba, Pakistan… Palestine… Belarus… Um… I’ll be going now, bye!”
And he runs away.
“Hah!” Iraq barks. “Run like the little coward you are, America!” He lobs a few tomatoes after him for emphasis, and with America’s shrieks as a guide, the group of nations begins chasing after him. “Come back here!” Iraq roars. “Hold still and fight!”
“Iggy! Save me!” And America dives behind England, just as everyone has let loose their largest round of projectiles yet.
It’s almost impossible to tell that there’s England under all that tomato.
“America…” England raises a hand to wipe off his face. He brushes off the apology that Russia and Pakistan give him, and turns to the spectacled nation. “You are so-“
“Aah!!” And America runs again. “Canada! France! Save me! I’m the hero! You always have to help the hero! HELP ME!!”
xvi.Canada winces, because this is definitely a lot stickier than snowball fights. He stands next to Cuba, who is dragging a crate of tomatoes behind him. People occasionally stop to pick out some larger, squishier fruits and lob them at passing strangers, mostly tourists with plastic cameras hanging from their necks. This is chaos. But, at least that in this writhing mass of tomatoes and people, everyone is at least as invisible as he is.
“Oi, Canada,” Cuba says, turning his head back just a little bit. “You just gonna stand there or are you gonna go and play?”
“Ah, I’m coming!” So Canada reaches down into the crate and pulls out a tomato. He stares at it thoughtfully for a moment, before mashing it and grinning at Cuba’s back. Well, he shouldn’t mind too much, right?
But before he can throw it, somebody beats him to the punch. Three tomatoes hit Cuba in the chest, and the dark-skinned nation lets out a shocked gasp as he is stopped in his tracks. Some juice has splattered onto his chin, and is slowly soaking into his collar, untouched up till now. “What the hell was that?” Cuba demands, wiping his eyes.
Canada looks up in surprise, and catches three figures all standing close by each other. The Netherlands, Prussia, and France. It is around that time when the spectacled nation starts laughing nervously, because he thinks he can figure out what happened. France catches him laughing, and offers him a questioning look.
“Hey! What did you do that for?” Cuba demands of the trio. France turns from his silent questioning to look to Cuba.
“Is anything the problem?” he asks, an eyebrow raised.
“Don’t you play dumb with me!” Cuba glares at the three of them, and war seems decided in that instant. Prussia smirks, and Canada thinks that it is almost a crime that Prussia’s teeth aren’t sharpened and glimmering. The Netherlands still looks utterly bored, even as he starts tossing tomatoes all around him. France just squawks as Cuba throws his first handful at him, and dances out of the way.
Canada watches the four of them in their fight, and sighs.
“Tired?” a friendly voice asks from behind him. Canada jumps and whirls around, and lets out a sigh of relief when it is only Ukraine. The female nation is covered in tomatoes, and Canada tries his best to ignore the fact that she is wearing a white shirt. Ukraine gives him a small grin. “It must be hard to have those four hovering near you all the time.”
“It’s not so bad,” Canada says, shrugging.
She taps her chin, and then her eyes light up. “Want to come with me for a while? I think I saw some place that had an ice cream booth outside. Maybe after this is over, we can go there for a bit?” she offers. Canada beams.
“That sounds like fun. If you don’t mind, of course,” he adds hastily. “I wouldn’t want to impede, or anything like that.”
“No, no,” Ukraine says with a smile. “It’s fine. I don’t actually have anything to do either.” So she walks up to Canada and links arms, conveniently not mentioning the fact that it was she who threw those first few tomatoes at Cuba.
xvii.The hour passes. And suddenly, everything stops. People stop throwing the squelchy tomatoes and begin washing up. Some people are off to the washrooms to clean themselves off as best as possible, though the stains will most likely never come out of their clothes, no matter how much bleach and soap they use.
Poland laughs anyway, because that was totally awesome even if his shirt is completely ruined and won’t be wearable at all for the rest of his life. Though, he does have to get this gunk out of his hair…
“Hey, Liet!” he calls out, raising an arm. His friend turns, and tilts his head, a questioning look on his face. As he talks, he walks over to Lithuania and grabs his arm, dragging him into the crowded bathroom. “You so have to help me out here! There’s tomato in my hair and it’s starting to dry and it feels icky and you have to get it out! Come on, Liet! Hurry up, pick up the pace! God, you’re so slow sometimes!”
It is all Lithuania can do to sigh and shake his head, a smile on his lips. Poland will be Poland, after all.
When they reach the entrance to the room, Poland pouts when he sees the mass of people inside. Lithuania notices the look and asks, “Is something wrong, Poland?” His companion doesn’t answer immediately, and takes a few moments to think.
“Well,” he drawls, “I was hoping for somewhere a bit more… private.”
Lithuania blanches.
xviii.“I can’t believe that you attacked me,” America whines, still following England. “You just-“
“Look!” England snaps. “I’m sorry, but I was pissed off, okay? I didn’t want to be covered in tomato.”
“Then why did you even come? We’re supposed to get covered in tomato.”
“I only came because you and France made me come! I didn’t want to go but you two idiots forced me to come.” And England knows that isn’t entirely true. And America knows as well. Contrary to popular belief, he isn’t completely oblivious. So America falls silent for a while, and looks down at the ground. England stops walking, and just stares ahead. And after a while, England sighs, and turns back.
“I’m sorry, America. I was just angry then. I didn’t mean to-“
“Nah, it’s fine.” America smiles. “You were under a lot of stress anyway, and I-“
“It was still wrong of me to-“
“We’re not going to get anywhere if we keep interrupting each other,” America cuts in, his smile widening. England has to bite back a chuckle, though he doesn’t stop his own smile from forming.
“Hypocrite,” he mutters. He pauses for a while, as if considering an idea. “After we get cleaned up, do you want to go out for a hamburger?”
“Are you kidding?” America exclaims. “But you hate burgers! Even though they’re the most awesome food ever but you still hate them because you have your stupid ol’ magic stuff that doesn’t work anyway and-“
England grins and pats America on the back. “No, I’m not kidding. But we have to get cleaned up first, okay? I think there’s a place around here where we can borrow somebody’s hose and garden for a while. After that, we go out for lunch. How does that sound?”
“That sounds awesome! Let’s go!”
xix.“So, Germany, how was it?” Feliciano asks, clinging onto Germany’s arm and leaning against his shoulder. Germany coughs at the contact, feeling warm skin press against him under cool and wet cloth. “It’s my first time doing something like this too, so it’s okay. I thought it was a lot of fun! What about you?”
“It- It was very enjoyable,” Germany replies, a little stiffly. Feliciano knows that it’s how he normally responds, so he just nods. “I liked it very much.”
“I’m glad you think so! Come on, we have to go thank Spain! He’s the one who put this all together!” Feliciano bounces back and starts walking over, calling out, “Antonio! Antonio!” Germany manages a small smile at how energetic the Italian still is, even after a straight hour of flinging fruit about. They wander about for five more minutes, searching for the head of brown hair and green eyes. Germany begins to think that it is becoming useless, but then Feliciano abruptly stops.
“Hm? Is something wrong, Feliciano?” Germany asks.
Feliciano purses his lips, but then he turns around with his trademark grin. “I think we should thank him later, or tomorrow. Spain deserves a little time like this. I don’t think that he’s talked with Lovino for a while”
Germany glances over Feliciano’s head, and sees Spain and Lovino standing together. Spain is grinning broadly as he always does, and Lovino still has that special look of indignation when Spain reaches out to ruffle his hair. He manages to quirk a grin. “Yes, I think we should.” He hesitates for a little, as if unsure whether it is proper to suggest this: “Maybe we should also have some time to ourselves?”
Feliciano beams at him. “I would love that! Come on, Germany; I know this place near Buñol that serves really great spaghetti!”
Germany smiles as he is once again dragged away by Feliciano. Yes, he thinks. I am lucky.
xx.“You’re a bastard.”
Those are the first words that Lovino says to Spain when he sees him. Spain cheerfully turns around, and he lets out a small sound that may or may not be a squeal as he hugs the Italian. Lovino chokes at the unexpected contact. “Lovi! You came!”
There is a distinct blush on Lovino’s cheeks as he grumbles, “Of course I did.”
“That makes me really happy, you know,” Spain says, letting go of the shorter nation. “So, did you like it? I’ve been trying to get you to come for ages, and I haven’t seen you ever since I invited you. Did you enjoy yourself? Or did you get hurt and I’ll have to kiss it better again?”
Lovino thwaps Spain on the shoulder, but that does nothing to remove the grin on his face. When he sees that his usual tactic (read: violence) isn’t working, he switches to a half-hearted glare and crosses his arms. “Why would you even care anyway?” he asks, too softly for Spain to hear. Or so he thinks.
Spain briefly looks hurt, but he wipes that expression from his face and takes Lovino’s hand in his. “I care.”
“Hm. You were off talking with Prussia and France anyway.”
“Aw, are you j-“
“I am not jealous!”
Spain laughs. “Okay, okay. But, yeah, Prussia and France are my friends. And I’m happy that they came, and everyone else too. But if I wanted them to come, I would have invited them myself.” He smiles a little as he uses one hand to lightly flick at Lovino’s nose. “I invited you, Lovi.”
Lovino scowls as he yanks his hand away to rub at his nose. “Don’t frown,” Spain admonishes lightly. “You should smile. You look better when you smile.”
“Don’t say stupid things like that!” Lovino says, turning away because soon, Spain won’t be able to tell his face from the mess of tomatoes that litters the ground. “And besides, I always say no. Why do you even bother to invite me?” Spain laughs again, but grasps Lovino’s chin and turns the Italian’s face back to him.
“Why shouldn’t I say the truth? You do look beautiful. I invite you because I want to be happy with you.” His grin becomes softer, gentler. “And I want to be happy with you because you are a person who I care about.” As he whispers those last few words, he leans down a little bit, and kisses Lovino on the forehead. Lovino’s skin is warm and soft beneath his lips.
Lovino bites his lower lip and looks down. “Don’t say stupid things like that,” he repeats, and then looks back up into Spain’s green eyes. “If you want to say it, then say it.” His eyes dart away for a few seconds, but then he meets Spain’s gaze with strength that surprises the both of them. “Say it, because I feel the same way about you.”
Spain is taken aback for a moment. A heartbeat passes between them, but then Spain closes his eyes and smiles tenderly. He pulls Lovino into a hug, and whispers into his ear, “I love you.”
It is such a warm afternoon.