THE FUCK IS THIS
The rain had just begun to come down when they reached the café. Spain wore no gloves or hat, only a dark coat with a busted seam at the left shoulder and a bright smile on his face as he unlocked the front door for them. Monaco could feel how cold his hand was through the suede around her own, but said nothing about it, only squeezed his fingers a little tighter.
“Hmm?” Spain paused just as he was about to pull the door open, head turning and eyes settling on her. He looked like he was expecting an “I love you“ at any moment, but he really should’ve known by now that it was never coming. Monaco looked away and pushed her glasses further up her nose.
“Nothing,” she told him indifferently, and he just kept beaming at her for a second or two before pushing the door open. A brass bell above them jangled with empty cheerfulness, Monaco was led inside the café.
The place was his the way he was hers: whenever he needed a distraction.
Even before the lights could flick on, the smell of cheap coffee and stale cigarettes seemed to assault her, though Monaco found it in her not to react. The door shut with another ring of the bell, and then Spain was shrugging out of his coat and hanging it on a hook on the wall.
“Whaddya think? You like it?” His eyes were sparkling and his cheeks had a touch of color from the cold outside. He seemed almost breathless in his excitement. Monaco pulled her thin gloves off finger by finger as she scanned the dining room, taking in everything as she tried to find the right words for what she was seeing.
The café was tiny, with flimsy tables covered in red paper tablecloths pushed against the walls, perhaps only a dozen in all but still far too many for such a small space. The chairs around them were mismatched and unattractive, crammed in between the tables to the point that just about anyone would likely have considerable trouble finding their way into one. A counter of flaking faux marble and a refrigerated display case covered in greasy handprints sat across the room from the entrance. The swinging door leading back to the kitchen was chipped along the bottom and edge, having weathered more than its fair share of abuse over the years.
Monaco, to put it bluntly, was appalled.
“It is…quite charming,” she said with a forced little smile, setting her gloves and handbag down onto the nearest of the tables. It wobbled. Spain had yet to figure out that “quite charming” was her catch-all phrase that meant she had nothing positive to say about the topic at hand. (A list of things Monaco had found “quite charming,” were he ever to compile one, might include his car, his good china, the wallpaper in his bedroom, and that yellow shirt he’d bought with her after much deliberation in the summer.)
He laughed, and the laugh sounded almost relieved as he ran a hand through his dark hair, sending thick curls springing back into place, still a bit damp from the freezing rain outside.
“It’s probably not as swanky as you’re used to, but the food’s pretty good and it’s not expensive, which is great nowadays, y‘know?” He looked at her expectantly, his hand slowly moving down the side of his neck and over a little purple bruise he wouldn’t notice until someone else did.
“You could see it that way, yes,” Monaco said, consciously aware of the effort it took her to remove her coat. Taking it off meant staying here. Staying here and accepting that this was the best Spain could do and that Spain was the best she could do.
Her shoes made loud noises on the linoleum (oh heavens, linoleum, the floor in the café was linoleum) as she turned to get a better look at the row of big potted plants against the front window, absently draping her coat over the back of a chair. They were the only thing there lacking dents or scratches, possibly because they simply couldn’t be dented or scratched, but they’d clearly seen better days. She wondered how often Spain even came here.
“--starving. D’you want anything special for breakfast?” Monaco’s attention was ripped away from the plants lined up like suspects against the streaky glass. Outside, the streetlights began to flicker off.
“Whatever you will be eating is fine with me,” she replied evenly. Spain’s smile dimmed for a moment, as if he’d been expecting to receive a task to complete for her, a test to pass, something that would allow him to finally win her over for good and for real.
But soon that grin was back and wider than ever, and Spain swooped forward and caught Monaco’s lips with his own just as she began sinking into one of the mismatched chairs. A funny little sound caught in her throat, her eyelashes fluttering in surprise behind her glasses as he tipped her face up with a gentle palm on each of her cheeks.
“A surprise, then,” he declared softly, bumping their noses together. Monaco swallowed, a bit too startled to manage much else, staring cross-eyed at Spain’s face. She could feel her heart thudding rapidly in her chest, an anxiety attack already looming on the horizon. Those warm hands slipped away from her then, and Spain turned away toward the door to the kitchen, an unexpected, floaty grace to his movements. There was lipstick on his mouth now. “Surprises are always fun, right? Right? Everyone loves surprises.”
“...C-Certainly,” Monaco agreed, her eyebrows knitting together in that disdainful little way they did when anything unexpected happened. She tugged at her skirt, pulling it down where it had inched up her thighs.
“I’ll make you something special,“ Spain announced as he snapped on a TV mounted high on the wall. But he was already through the swinging door before Monaco could say anything else, leaving her alone in the cramped dining room of his café with only a pounding heart and a jabbering newscaster as company.
Slumping a little in her seat, she already felt drained. This was why she didn’t spend as much time with Spain as he always wanted her to. He was reckless and so smothering, knocking her knees out from under her and sweeping her up in his arms before she could object, dashing off with her into exhilaration and then coddling her incessantly when he’d worn her out. In an age of boredom and stagnation, Spain was her breath of fresh air, reminding Monaco with all his might that she was still alive and needed to carry on as such. He would throw everything he had at her, anything to get her to love and scream and laugh, and just barely tolerating all of it seemed like the most she could do.
Deep down, though, Monaco knew she did more than tolerate it.
Week after week, month after month, against her better judgment, she continued to pick up the phone and allow herself to be caught up in his whirlwind of affections and gently guided to his bed. He was a thrill and an exasperation, both at once. Just that much seemed to be enough for Spain, and so they continued, never progressing and yet never halting, the whole endeavor a delightfully exhausting waste of time for Monaco and quite clearly something more for Spain.
She would let him take her breath away, and in return he offered up his heart.
Monaco sighed, reaching forward to straighten the salt and pepper shakers on the table, the little packets of sugar, the dispenser of paper napkins, the yellowing plastic ashtray. It wasn’t long before she’d pulled that ashtray back a bit closer to herself, though, a slender cigarette held between equally slender fingers. The café looked no less shabby through a thin cloud of smoke, possibly even more so. Not that it mattered; her opinion of the place couldn’t deteriorate much further. She couldn’t see why Spain acted so proud of it, or why he dug her out of bed so early in the morning to bring her here. Everyone had some things about themselves that need not be shared, no matter how in love with someone they are, and this place was clearly one of them.
In a burst of loud noises and radiant smiles, Spain burst through that chipped swinging door. He was wearing a yellow apron now, and there was something white slung over his arm, and a big steaming tray of what Monaco assumed was their breakfast held high in the air. She watched him approach her table, politely blowing a mouthful of smoke away from him as he set the tray down.
“Ay, ay, Mónaco, not yeeeeeet,” Spain urged in the most gentle, mothering voice she’d ever heard as he plucked the cigarette from her fingers and stubbed it out for her. She made an indignant sound, but forced herself to smile for him anyway.
“When, if I may ask?” Monaco inquired, eyes lingering on the ashtray even as Spain moved it to a different table. Her voice sounded softly teasing and good-natured, soothingly deceptive; to get angry with him was pointless, though, as was the case with any and all unpleasant emotions. He never responded to them, so why bother revealing them?
Dish after dish of startlingly robust china was set on the table before Monaco, and she had a feeling these plates were the same ones Spain had originally opened the café with. Finally, the smell of their breakfast reached her through her smoke.
“Later,“ Spain replied offhandedly, setting the tray aside. “But first...” Whatever was draped over his arm was suddenly being flapped before her like a bullfighter’s cape. She flinched a bit. “--This!”
It was a t-shirt, white with black text across the chest. ¿Por qué no te callas? it read rather accusingly. Monaco eyed it almost warily, but the expectant look on Spain’s face was the same as when they’d first walked in.
“Well?” he prodded, giving the oversized shirt a little wiggle. “It’s cool, right? My king liked it a lot, y‘know!”
“I...” Monaco could swear her mouth was hanging open a bit as she groped for the right words. She’d used ‘quite charming’ just a few minutes ago, so she couldn’t very well fall back on it again, but this shirt of Spain’s really was ‘quite charming’ material. She shook her head slowly, raising her eyebrows and mouthing a few mute syllables of dazedness. How old was that joke, and why was Spain still telling it?
“...Of course,” she finally managed to get out, that dishonest smile creeping back to her lips as she reached forward to feel the fabric. It was coarse, almost stiff. “So...merciless. I am sure President Chavez will think twice before criticizing you again.” She looked up over her glasses at him.
“But what is it for?”
“It’s for you!” Spain said instantly, leaning down and wrapping an arm around Monaco so he could plant a firm kiss on her forehead. She stiffened in his grip.
“O-Oh, well, you do not have to...” Her hand left the fabric immediately. The last thing she needed was a cheap, ugly, and worst of all, insulting t-shirt laying around her house, something she couldn’t rid herself of because she felt too guilty to throw it away.
“I wanted to, though,” Spain told her with a smile, dropping the shirt into her hands. Monaco stared reproachfully down at it as he took a seat across the table. “Besides, I have plenty of ‘em here.” He picked up a churro from the plate in front of him and dunked it into his cup of what looked to be coffee.
“Is that so...?” Monaco asked faintly, looking between Spain and the shirt for a few moments before deciding that she’d like to eat as well. “What for?” came out a bit more conversationally, the garment she wanted nothing to do with set down onto the chair beside her. Maybe she could conveniently forget it when they left...
“Promotional gifts,” came the reply between bites of fried dough. Monaco was startled to find the sip of coffee she took wasn’t even coffee in the slightest, but hot chocolate bearing more of a resemblance to chocolate pudding than anything else. “--No, you dip in that,” Spain instructed, almost aside, reaching across the table and sticking the end of a churro into her cup.
He held it out to her then, right up in front of her face, close enough for her to lean forward and take a bite. For a moment, Monaco considered just closing her eyes and allowing herself to be fed, but a drop of chocolate fell down onto the paper tablecloth in front of her, and she took the churro from Spain’s hand so she could nibble at it on her own. A tender moment wasn’t worth a trip to the dry cleaner’s.
Green eyes flickered downward at her silent refusal, but Monaco was already pretending it hadn’t happened.
“Do you give many away?” she asked. She wasn’t entirely interested in those shirts, but she was even less interested in one of Spain’s silence-filling monologues. He could talk for the both of them, if he wanted to, and he occasionally did.
“Not really!” Spain replied immediately, and with more energy than a response in the negative warranted. “Just a few every month.” He continued munching away at his churros. “They’re kind of expensive to make, see, so we give away one on the fifth of the month to the fifth customer of the day, and one on the tenth to the tenth, and again on the fifteenth. It all works out pretty nice!”
“But that’s only three days,” Monaco pointed out. Having given up on drinking it, she’d begun eating her hot chocolate with a spoon. “I’m assuming you do the same on the twentieth, and so on?”
Spain laughed, crunching up a napkin and swiping it across his mouth. His napkins never made it to his lap, Monaco noticed. She couldn’t help hoping one would someday, even just accidentally. But she could never bring herself to correct his behavior.
“Nope! Haven’t had that many customers since we started doing it!” The scratched spoon was partway to Monaco’s mouth then, but upon hearing that, its journey was halted. “Sometimes we don’t even make it to fifteen, to tell the truth.”
She...hadn’t been expecting this place to have so few customers. Not by a long shot. It was obvious that Spain was having a bit of trouble financially these days, but for that to be manifested so clearly in one little café made it clear just how dire his situation really was.
This place wasn’t falling apart because Spain was lazy or careless; he legitimately couldn’t afford to fix it up. Unhurriedly, Monaco continued to eat, trying not to draw attention to how surprising that revelation was to her. She suddenly felt guilty for expecting more of Spain, for being disappointed in him when he didn’t live up to those expectations, and for believing that any of her silly standards mattered at all.
“That’s--” she began, intending to say something sympathetic and comforting, maybe even apologetic, but the words never made it out of her mouth.
“--It‘s okay, it’s less money spent on the shirts, after all!” Spain announced with another laugh. Monaco forced a chuckle of her own, but it came out bitter; leave it to Spain to see the bright side of everything, even if that bright side wasn’t actually bright at all.
“If they are so expensive,” Monaco said, the gears in her head already turning, albeit slowly right now. “It may be best not to give them away at all. They could be doing the business more harm than good.”
Upon receiving this advice, the look on Spain’s face suggested she’d just informed him of something akin to a proverbial “bun in her oven,” complete with an accompanying breathless laugh and a wipe at his eyes with that crumpled paper napkin.
“But they’re so funny!” he reminded Monaco, as if their humor somehow made up for the fact that he was apparently getting further into the red with each shirt he gave away. She weakly returned Spain’s grin, then dabbed at her lips with her own napkin; the paper came away with little plum-colored stains. If Spain had a problem, he wasn’t doing anybody any good by being unrealistic about it.
“That still will not bring you any profit. You should try to make up for them in any way possible, if you truly insist on continuing with them,” she said as gently as she could, but she knew it had sounded cold.
It was then, however, that Spain reached across the table again, gently stroking her cheek with the backs of his fingers as he continued to laugh.
“Mónaco,” he giggled, the look in his eyes warm and affectionate even as he slowly shook his head. “It’s okay. Not everything can be about...profits and all that.” His smile grew wider just as her eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Some things are just for fun. Really, you’ve gotta relax, you’re taking things too seriously again.”
For a moment, Monaco just stared across the table, not knowing what to say.
But Spain had done it again; he’d caught her off guard, made her trip and lose her composure, made her heart pound and her cheeks turn red, all while he just looked on adoringly. Five-hundred years had passed and he was still Boss Spain, always in control of her even when she herself wasn’t. She wondered if he knew what he was even capable of doing to her.
Suddenly Monaco began to feel quite self-conscious, and she averted her eyes, casting them down onto the mess of empty plates between them. There were ads for Camel cigarettes stamped on each one, something she hadn’t noticed beforehand but wasn’t surprised to see now. It was pointless of her to try to tell Spain what to do, especially with something that was none of her concern in the first place. Half the time, she couldn’t even get him to keep his hands to himself in public, let alone put an end to something he’d been doing enthusiastically for years. It was ridiculous of her for even trying.
“You’re not mad now...right?” came Spain’s voice. His fingers softly pinched her cheek, and Monaco was jolted back out of her thoughts, meeting his gaze once more. She blinked a few times as she scrambled to gather her thoughts.
“Wha-- No,” she blurted out. Really, she wasn’t mad at all. She was something, but she wasn’t mad. “I was just thinking.” Finally, Spain’s hand withdrew, and he began stacking their dishes on top of one another and standing to return them to the tray he‘d brought them out on. A nervous laugh escaped Monaco as she clumsily gathered up her silverware. “You’re right, though. I take things too seriously. I should not have said anything about that at all, it‘s none of my business. I am in no place to be giving you financial advi--”
“Mónaco.” Spain had the table cleared by the time he spoke again, moving closer to where she was sitting so he could lean over and pull her into a hug. This time she didn‘t resist. “It’s okay,” he repeated softly, his voice low in her ear. “It doesn’t matter.”
Everything was always okay with Spain. Nothing ever mattered. Slights were instantly forgiven and problems easily ignored. He saw what he wanted to see, turning windmills into giants and convenient lust into true love. He was happy when he should have been anything but happy.
Slowly, distractedly, Monaco tightened her arms around him, leaning forward into his warmth as her eyelids drooped. Maybe she really was taking things too seriously. But it was so hard for her not to, especially since it seemed like Spain didn’t take anything seriously. His business was practically falling apart around him and all he was doing was moving Monaco’s hair out of the way and kissing at the side of her neck. She couldn’t imagine what he thought was going to happen to this place if he couldn’t even discuss its future rationally.
Monaco’s head tipped absently to the side, her braid falling back over her shoulder. Spain’s lips were so soft against her skin, tickling her and making her squirm. He was murmuring something over and over into the crook of her neck --her name, she realized after a few moments. It was his way of asking for something, usually sex, but occasionally something else, without actually putting the words together. Monaco’s eyes fell on the refrigerated display case across the café, full of dusty bottles of juice and slices of cake, before she actually remembered where she was and what she‘d just been talking about.
“Not here,” came her faint response, muffled by Spain’s shoulder against her mouth. The entire front wall of the café was a street-level window, and with those glaring fluorescent lights overhead, any passerby out in the early morning gloom could see everything they were doing. Besides, she had too many other things on her mind.
Spain kept right at it, though, nuzzling her neck without a care in the world.
“Espagne. Not here,” Monaco repeated, louder this time. Her cheeks grew pinker with every passing second. She drew back away from him slightly, trying to get him to look her in the eye. Their gazes didn’t actually meet, but from the way he suddenly started giggling and buried his face in her shoulder, it was obvious they were on different wavelengths. Immediately, she felt quite silly indeed.
“Nooooo,” Spain laughed into her blouse, leaning forward onto her as he reached down and retrieved the t-shirt from the chair beside her.
Finally, he let her go, straightening up and holding the shirt by both sleeves so she could see the entire thing again. It was no less cheap-looking than it was before, but somehow Monaco’s hostility toward it had lessened a little. She still held a rather intense dislike for it, but ‘hatred’ was no longer how she’d describe her feelings regarding it.
“I wanted you to put it on,” he told her, his smile wide and gentle. He wiggled the shirt again, as if that would magically increase its appeal. Monaco just stared at it, willing away that little cloud of embarrassment floating around her as best she could. It was always hard to anticipate when Spain was in the mood, but she’d never denied him when he wasn’t even asking before.
“You...want me to wear that?” she tried to clarify. “In here...right now?” That same apprehension about people outside being able to see her doing something she’d rather not let them see her do swirled back to life, pushing any preexisting shame onto the backburner.
“Well, yeah,” Spain said, the brightness in his tone building as he spoke. “Maybe if people outside see such a pretty girl in here wearing our shirt, they’ll wanna come in, too!” Monaco eyed him skeptically. Didn’t he just tell her he didn’t care about this place? That it didn’t matter?
“But there’s nobody outside to see it,” Monaco reasoned, contrary to her own worries. She even made a show of turning to look out the window; no one was there, of course. It was still too early, not even six yet.
“Great!” Spain laughed, handing her the shirt before he turned to pick up their tray of dirty dishes. “Then you have nothing to be embarrassed about!” Slowly, she frowned at him, one delicate eyebrow raising up. “You can change in the bathroom. It’s just around the corner there...”
She watched a triumphant grin break out on Spain’s face as he backed himself through that swinging door. He was someone who couldn’t pick up on the most obvious sarcasm if it hit him in the face, and yet he realized he’d have to use some kind of sneaky little trick to get Monaco to wear something like a mass-produced t-shirt in public. It wasn’t a very good trick, but it was still horribly clever for Spain.
Monaco sighed; if he’d gone to all that work thinking up a plan to get her into that thing (and it was quite obvious that he had), she’d might as well humor him. After all, he probably hadn’t seen too many people wearing the shirt, considering how few he’d gotten to give away, and he really did seem to think it was hilarious...
Reluctantly, Monaco rose to her feet, quietly slipping off to the restroom to change into her little gift.
* * *
Spain still hadn’t returned by the time Monaco exited the stuffy ladies’ room, her blouse folded neatly in her hands and the scratchy t-shirt in its place, so she could only assume he was washing their breakfast dishes. She had to admit that that was a bit strange, since he never did the dishes at home right away, preferring instead to busy the two of them with just about anything else.
Red-soled shoes still jarringly loud against the linoleum, Monaco wandered slowly around the café. She straightened the mismatched chairs whenever she felt the urge to, and even wiped a handprint off the front of that display case full of dusty cake. Detestable as this place was, she could envision it as rather pleasant after a little bit of work.
Unhurriedly, she found her way behind the counter at the back of the dining room, pacing beneath the wall-mounted menu as she waited for Spain to reappear. A refrigerator droned menacingly behind her, a giant red monster with the Coca-Cola logo printed all over it and a mock glass bottle for a handle. Leaning a hip against the counter, Monaco regarded it disdainfully. Yes, that would be the first thing to go, she fantasized, that and those Camel ad dishes--
“Sorry, the sink was clogging up agai--” came Spain’s voice rather startlingly from the doorway to the kitchen; Monaco whipped around just in time to see his face light up as he realized she had put on that t-shirt of his. “Ay, Dios mio, Mónaco, you look cuter than I thought you would!” With almost frightening speed, Spain was on her, his arms snaking around and pulling her close, somehow also forcing one of her hips to dig painfully into the side of the counter.
“At least one of us thinks so,” she choked out, her face pressed firmly into the chest of his yellow apron. Monaco’s head was spinning in surprise, and it took her a few moments to regain herself even after Spain had relaxed his hold on her. His arms settled around her waist and guided her to lean against him, her back pressed against his front.
“No, you do, you really do!” he urged, and then kissed the top of her head. She could feel him nuzzling his cheek against her hair. “It might not be Gucci & Pucci or whoever, but it’s still really cute!”
“It’s just Gucci...” Monaco corrected weakly, looking down at the line of text across her breasts, just the tops of the letters visible to her. They still looked accusing. She frowned and glanced up. Monaco could see herself and Spain reflected in the big window at the front of the café, and she hoped no one was planning on walking by until they’d separated from their current embrace. It wouldn’t do to be seen like that in the first place, and it’d probably drive off any potential customers if they thought they’d have to endure the employees’ PDA parade throughout breakfast, but somehow she couldn‘t force herself to tell Spain to let her go.
“Him, too,” he cooed into her ear, hugging her a little tighter. Monaco sighed in defeat, leaning back against Spain
FUCK
“Hmm?” Spain paused just as he was about to pull the door open, head turning and eyes settling on her. He looked like he was expecting an “I love you“ at any moment, but he really should’ve known by now that it was never coming. Monaco looked away and pushed her glasses further up her nose.
“Nothing,” she told him indifferently, and he just kept beaming at her for a second or two before pushing the door open. A brass bell above them jangled with empty cheerfulness, Monaco was led inside the café.
The place was his the way he was hers: whenever he needed a distraction.
Even before the lights could flick on, the smell of cheap coffee and stale cigarettes seemed to assault her, though Monaco found it in her not to react. The door shut with another ring of the bell, and then Spain was shrugging out of his coat and hanging it on a hook on the wall.
“Whaddya think? You like it?” His eyes were sparkling and his cheeks had a touch of color from the cold outside. He seemed almost breathless in his excitement. Monaco pulled her thin gloves off finger by finger as she scanned the dining room, taking in everything as she tried to find the right words for what she was seeing.
The café was tiny, with flimsy tables covered in red paper tablecloths pushed against the walls, perhaps only a dozen in all but still far too many for such a small space. The chairs around them were mismatched and unattractive, crammed in between the tables to the point that just about anyone would likely have considerable trouble finding their way into one. A counter of flaking faux marble and a refrigerated display case covered in greasy handprints sat across the room from the entrance. The swinging door leading back to the kitchen was chipped along the bottom and edge, having weathered more than its fair share of abuse over the years.
Monaco, to put it bluntly, was appalled.
“It is…quite charming,” she said with a forced little smile, setting her gloves and handbag down onto the nearest of the tables. It wobbled. Spain had yet to figure out that “quite charming” was her catch-all phrase that meant she had nothing positive to say about the topic at hand. (A list of things Monaco had found “quite charming,” were he ever to compile one, might include his car, his good china, the wallpaper in his bedroom, and that yellow shirt he’d bought with her after much deliberation in the summer.)
He laughed, and the laugh sounded almost relieved as he ran a hand through his dark hair, sending thick curls springing back into place, still a bit damp from the freezing rain outside.
“It’s probably not as swanky as you’re used to, but the food’s pretty good and it’s not expensive, which is great nowadays, y‘know?” He looked at her expectantly, his hand slowly moving down the side of his neck and over a little purple bruise he wouldn’t notice until someone else did.
“You could see it that way, yes,” Monaco said, consciously aware of the effort it took her to remove her coat. Taking it off meant staying here. Staying here and accepting that this was the best Spain could do and that Spain was the best she could do.
Her shoes made loud noises on the linoleum (oh heavens, linoleum, the floor in the café was linoleum) as she turned to get a better look at the row of big potted plants against the front window, absently draping her coat over the back of a chair. They were the only thing there lacking dents or scratches, possibly because they simply couldn’t be dented or scratched, but they’d clearly seen better days. She wondered how often Spain even came here.
“--starving. D’you want anything special for breakfast?” Monaco’s attention was ripped away from the plants lined up like suspects against the streaky glass. Outside, the streetlights began to flicker off.
“Whatever you will be eating is fine with me,” she replied evenly. Spain’s smile dimmed for a moment, as if he’d been expecting to receive a task to complete for her, a test to pass, something that would allow him to finally win her over for good and for real.
But soon that grin was back and wider than ever, and Spain swooped forward and caught Monaco’s lips with his own just as she began sinking into one of the mismatched chairs. A funny little sound caught in her throat, her eyelashes fluttering in surprise behind her glasses as he tipped her face up with a gentle palm on each of her cheeks.
“A surprise, then,” he declared softly, bumping their noses together. Monaco swallowed, a bit too startled to manage much else, staring cross-eyed at Spain’s face. She could feel her heart thudding rapidly in her chest, an anxiety attack already looming on the horizon. Those warm hands slipped away from her then, and Spain turned away toward the door to the kitchen, an unexpected, floaty grace to his movements. There was lipstick on his mouth now. “Surprises are always fun, right? Right? Everyone loves surprises.”
“...C-Certainly,” Monaco agreed, her eyebrows knitting together in that disdainful little way they did when anything unexpected happened. She tugged at her skirt, pulling it down where it had inched up her thighs.
“I’ll make you something special,“ Spain announced as he snapped on a TV mounted high on the wall. But he was already through the swinging door before Monaco could say anything else, leaving her alone in the cramped dining room of his café with only a pounding heart and a jabbering newscaster as company.
Slumping a little in her seat, she already felt drained. This was why she didn’t spend as much time with Spain as he always wanted her to. He was reckless and so smothering, knocking her knees out from under her and sweeping her up in his arms before she could object, dashing off with her into exhilaration and then coddling her incessantly when he’d worn her out. In an age of boredom and stagnation, Spain was her breath of fresh air, reminding Monaco with all his might that she was still alive and needed to carry on as such. He would throw everything he had at her, anything to get her to love and scream and laugh, and just barely tolerating all of it seemed like the most she could do.
Deep down, though, Monaco knew she did more than tolerate it.
Week after week, month after month, against her better judgment, she continued to pick up the phone and allow herself to be caught up in his whirlwind of affections and gently guided to his bed. He was a thrill and an exasperation, both at once. Just that much seemed to be enough for Spain, and so they continued, never progressing and yet never halting, the whole endeavor a delightfully exhausting waste of time for Monaco and quite clearly something more for Spain.
She would let him take her breath away, and in return he offered up his heart.
Monaco sighed, reaching forward to straighten the salt and pepper shakers on the table, the little packets of sugar, the dispenser of paper napkins, the yellowing plastic ashtray. It wasn’t long before she’d pulled that ashtray back a bit closer to herself, though, a slender cigarette held between equally slender fingers. The café looked no less shabby through a thin cloud of smoke, possibly even more so. Not that it mattered; her opinion of the place couldn’t deteriorate much further. She couldn’t see why Spain acted so proud of it, or why he dug her out of bed so early in the morning to bring her here. Everyone had some things about themselves that need not be shared, no matter how in love with someone they are, and this place was clearly one of them.
In a burst of loud noises and radiant smiles, Spain burst through that chipped swinging door. He was wearing a yellow apron now, and there was something white slung over his arm, and a big steaming tray of what Monaco assumed was their breakfast held high in the air. She watched him approach her table, politely blowing a mouthful of smoke away from him as he set the tray down.
“Ay, ay, Mónaco, not yeeeeeet,” Spain urged in the most gentle, mothering voice she’d ever heard as he plucked the cigarette from her fingers and stubbed it out for her. She made an indignant sound, but forced herself to smile for him anyway.
“When, if I may ask?” Monaco inquired, eyes lingering on the ashtray even as Spain moved it to a different table. Her voice sounded softly teasing and good-natured, soothingly deceptive; to get angry with him was pointless, though, as was the case with any and all unpleasant emotions. He never responded to them, so why bother revealing them?
Dish after dish of startlingly robust china was set on the table before Monaco, and she had a feeling these plates were the same ones Spain had originally opened the café with. Finally, the smell of their breakfast reached her through her smoke.
“Later,“ Spain replied offhandedly, setting the tray aside. “But first...” Whatever was draped over his arm was suddenly being flapped before her like a bullfighter’s cape. She flinched a bit. “--This!”
It was a t-shirt, white with black text across the chest. ¿Por qué no te callas? it read rather accusingly. Monaco eyed it almost warily, but the expectant look on Spain’s face was the same as when they’d first walked in.
“Well?” he prodded, giving the oversized shirt a little wiggle. “It’s cool, right? My king liked it a lot, y‘know!”
“I...” Monaco could swear her mouth was hanging open a bit as she groped for the right words. She’d used ‘quite charming’ just a few minutes ago, so she couldn’t very well fall back on it again, but this shirt of Spain’s really was ‘quite charming’ material. She shook her head slowly, raising her eyebrows and mouthing a few mute syllables of dazedness. How old was that joke, and why was Spain still telling it?
“...Of course,” she finally managed to get out, that dishonest smile creeping back to her lips as she reached forward to feel the fabric. It was coarse, almost stiff. “So...merciless. I am sure President Chavez will think twice before criticizing you again.” She looked up over her glasses at him.
“But what is it for?”
“It’s for you!” Spain said instantly, leaning down and wrapping an arm around Monaco so he could plant a firm kiss on her forehead. She stiffened in his grip.
“O-Oh, well, you do not have to...” Her hand left the fabric immediately. The last thing she needed was a cheap, ugly, and worst of all, insulting t-shirt laying around her house, something she couldn’t rid herself of because she felt too guilty to throw it away.
“I wanted to, though,” Spain told her with a smile, dropping the shirt into her hands. Monaco stared reproachfully down at it as he took a seat across the table. “Besides, I have plenty of ‘em here.” He picked up a churro from the plate in front of him and dunked it into his cup of what looked to be coffee.
“Is that so...?” Monaco asked faintly, looking between Spain and the shirt for a few moments before deciding that she’d like to eat as well. “What for?” came out a bit more conversationally, the garment she wanted nothing to do with set down onto the chair beside her. Maybe she could conveniently forget it when they left...
“Promotional gifts,” came the reply between bites of fried dough. Monaco was startled to find the sip of coffee she took wasn’t even coffee in the slightest, but hot chocolate bearing more of a resemblance to chocolate pudding than anything else. “--No, you dip in that,” Spain instructed, almost aside, reaching across the table and sticking the end of a churro into her cup.
He held it out to her then, right up in front of her face, close enough for her to lean forward and take a bite. For a moment, Monaco considered just closing her eyes and allowing herself to be fed, but a drop of chocolate fell down onto the paper tablecloth in front of her, and she took the churro from Spain’s hand so she could nibble at it on her own. A tender moment wasn’t worth a trip to the dry cleaner’s.
Green eyes flickered downward at her silent refusal, but Monaco was already pretending it hadn’t happened.
“Do you give many away?” she asked. She wasn’t entirely interested in those shirts, but she was even less interested in one of Spain’s silence-filling monologues. He could talk for the both of them, if he wanted to, and he occasionally did.
“Not really!” Spain replied immediately, and with more energy than a response in the negative warranted. “Just a few every month.” He continued munching away at his churros. “They’re kind of expensive to make, see, so we give away one on the fifth of the month to the fifth customer of the day, and one on the tenth to the tenth, and again on the fifteenth. It all works out pretty nice!”
“But that’s only three days,” Monaco pointed out. Having given up on drinking it, she’d begun eating her hot chocolate with a spoon. “I’m assuming you do the same on the twentieth, and so on?”
Spain laughed, crunching up a napkin and swiping it across his mouth. His napkins never made it to his lap, Monaco noticed. She couldn’t help hoping one would someday, even just accidentally. But she could never bring herself to correct his behavior.
“Nope! Haven’t had that many customers since we started doing it!” The scratched spoon was partway to Monaco’s mouth then, but upon hearing that, its journey was halted. “Sometimes we don’t even make it to fifteen, to tell the truth.”
She...hadn’t been expecting this place to have so few customers. Not by a long shot. It was obvious that Spain was having a bit of trouble financially these days, but for that to be manifested so clearly in one little café made it clear just how dire his situation really was.
This place wasn’t falling apart because Spain was lazy or careless; he legitimately couldn’t afford to fix it up. Unhurriedly, Monaco continued to eat, trying not to draw attention to how surprising that revelation was to her. She suddenly felt guilty for expecting more of Spain, for being disappointed in him when he didn’t live up to those expectations, and for believing that any of her silly standards mattered at all.
“That’s--” she began, intending to say something sympathetic and comforting, maybe even apologetic, but the words never made it out of her mouth.
“--It‘s okay, it’s less money spent on the shirts, after all!” Spain announced with another laugh. Monaco forced a chuckle of her own, but it came out bitter; leave it to Spain to see the bright side of everything, even if that bright side wasn’t actually bright at all.
“If they are so expensive,” Monaco said, the gears in her head already turning, albeit slowly right now. “It may be best not to give them away at all. They could be doing the business more harm than good.”
Upon receiving this advice, the look on Spain’s face suggested she’d just informed him of something akin to a proverbial “bun in her oven,” complete with an accompanying breathless laugh and a wipe at his eyes with that crumpled paper napkin.
“But they’re so funny!” he reminded Monaco, as if their humor somehow made up for the fact that he was apparently getting further into the red with each shirt he gave away. She weakly returned Spain’s grin, then dabbed at her lips with her own napkin; the paper came away with little plum-colored stains. If Spain had a problem, he wasn’t doing anybody any good by being unrealistic about it.
“That still will not bring you any profit. You should try to make up for them in any way possible, if you truly insist on continuing with them,” she said as gently as she could, but she knew it had sounded cold.
It was then, however, that Spain reached across the table again, gently stroking her cheek with the backs of his fingers as he continued to laugh.
“Mónaco,” he giggled, the look in his eyes warm and affectionate even as he slowly shook his head. “It’s okay. Not everything can be about...profits and all that.” His smile grew wider just as her eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Some things are just for fun. Really, you’ve gotta relax, you’re taking things too seriously again.”
For a moment, Monaco just stared across the table, not knowing what to say.
But Spain had done it again; he’d caught her off guard, made her trip and lose her composure, made her heart pound and her cheeks turn red, all while he just looked on adoringly. Five-hundred years had passed and he was still Boss Spain, always in control of her even when she herself wasn’t. She wondered if he knew what he was even capable of doing to her.
Suddenly Monaco began to feel quite self-conscious, and she averted her eyes, casting them down onto the mess of empty plates between them. There were ads for Camel cigarettes stamped on each one, something she hadn’t noticed beforehand but wasn’t surprised to see now. It was pointless of her to try to tell Spain what to do, especially with something that was none of her concern in the first place. Half the time, she couldn’t even get him to keep his hands to himself in public, let alone put an end to something he’d been doing enthusiastically for years. It was ridiculous of her for even trying.
“You’re not mad now...right?” came Spain’s voice. His fingers softly pinched her cheek, and Monaco was jolted back out of her thoughts, meeting his gaze once more. She blinked a few times as she scrambled to gather her thoughts.
“Wha-- No,” she blurted out. Really, she wasn’t mad at all. She was something, but she wasn’t mad. “I was just thinking.” Finally, Spain’s hand withdrew, and he began stacking their dishes on top of one another and standing to return them to the tray he‘d brought them out on. A nervous laugh escaped Monaco as she clumsily gathered up her silverware. “You’re right, though. I take things too seriously. I should not have said anything about that at all, it‘s none of my business. I am in no place to be giving you financial advi--”
“Mónaco.” Spain had the table cleared by the time he spoke again, moving closer to where she was sitting so he could lean over and pull her into a hug. This time she didn‘t resist. “It’s okay,” he repeated softly, his voice low in her ear. “It doesn’t matter.”
Everything was always okay with Spain. Nothing ever mattered. Slights were instantly forgiven and problems easily ignored. He saw what he wanted to see, turning windmills into giants and convenient lust into true love. He was happy when he should have been anything but happy.
Slowly, distractedly, Monaco tightened her arms around him, leaning forward into his warmth as her eyelids drooped. Maybe she really was taking things too seriously. But it was so hard for her not to, especially since it seemed like Spain didn’t take anything seriously. His business was practically falling apart around him and all he was doing was moving Monaco’s hair out of the way and kissing at the side of her neck. She couldn’t imagine what he thought was going to happen to this place if he couldn’t even discuss its future rationally.
Monaco’s head tipped absently to the side, her braid falling back over her shoulder. Spain’s lips were so soft against her skin, tickling her and making her squirm. He was murmuring something over and over into the crook of her neck --her name, she realized after a few moments. It was his way of asking for something, usually sex, but occasionally something else, without actually putting the words together. Monaco’s eyes fell on the refrigerated display case across the café, full of dusty bottles of juice and slices of cake, before she actually remembered where she was and what she‘d just been talking about.
“Not here,” came her faint response, muffled by Spain’s shoulder against her mouth. The entire front wall of the café was a street-level window, and with those glaring fluorescent lights overhead, any passerby out in the early morning gloom could see everything they were doing. Besides, she had too many other things on her mind.
Spain kept right at it, though, nuzzling her neck without a care in the world.
“Espagne. Not here,” Monaco repeated, louder this time. Her cheeks grew pinker with every passing second. She drew back away from him slightly, trying to get him to look her in the eye. Their gazes didn’t actually meet, but from the way he suddenly started giggling and buried his face in her shoulder, it was obvious they were on different wavelengths. Immediately, she felt quite silly indeed.
“Nooooo,” Spain laughed into her blouse, leaning forward onto her as he reached down and retrieved the t-shirt from the chair beside her.
Finally, he let her go, straightening up and holding the shirt by both sleeves so she could see the entire thing again. It was no less cheap-looking than it was before, but somehow Monaco’s hostility toward it had lessened a little. She still held a rather intense dislike for it, but ‘hatred’ was no longer how she’d describe her feelings regarding it.
“I wanted you to put it on,” he told her, his smile wide and gentle. He wiggled the shirt again, as if that would magically increase its appeal. Monaco just stared at it, willing away that little cloud of embarrassment floating around her as best she could. It was always hard to anticipate when Spain was in the mood, but she’d never denied him when he wasn’t even asking before.
“You...want me to wear that?” she tried to clarify. “In here...right now?” That same apprehension about people outside being able to see her doing something she’d rather not let them see her do swirled back to life, pushing any preexisting shame onto the backburner.
“Well, yeah,” Spain said, the brightness in his tone building as he spoke. “Maybe if people outside see such a pretty girl in here wearing our shirt, they’ll wanna come in, too!” Monaco eyed him skeptically. Didn’t he just tell her he didn’t care about this place? That it didn’t matter?
“But there’s nobody outside to see it,” Monaco reasoned, contrary to her own worries. She even made a show of turning to look out the window; no one was there, of course. It was still too early, not even six yet.
“Great!” Spain laughed, handing her the shirt before he turned to pick up their tray of dirty dishes. “Then you have nothing to be embarrassed about!” Slowly, she frowned at him, one delicate eyebrow raising up. “You can change in the bathroom. It’s just around the corner there...”
She watched a triumphant grin break out on Spain’s face as he backed himself through that swinging door. He was someone who couldn’t pick up on the most obvious sarcasm if it hit him in the face, and yet he realized he’d have to use some kind of sneaky little trick to get Monaco to wear something like a mass-produced t-shirt in public. It wasn’t a very good trick, but it was still horribly clever for Spain.
Monaco sighed; if he’d gone to all that work thinking up a plan to get her into that thing (and it was quite obvious that he had), she’d might as well humor him. After all, he probably hadn’t seen too many people wearing the shirt, considering how few he’d gotten to give away, and he really did seem to think it was hilarious...
Reluctantly, Monaco rose to her feet, quietly slipping off to the restroom to change into her little gift.
* * *
Spain still hadn’t returned by the time Monaco exited the stuffy ladies’ room, her blouse folded neatly in her hands and the scratchy t-shirt in its place, so she could only assume he was washing their breakfast dishes. She had to admit that that was a bit strange, since he never did the dishes at home right away, preferring instead to busy the two of them with just about anything else.
Red-soled shoes still jarringly loud against the linoleum, Monaco wandered slowly around the café. She straightened the mismatched chairs whenever she felt the urge to, and even wiped a handprint off the front of that display case full of dusty cake. Detestable as this place was, she could envision it as rather pleasant after a little bit of work.
Unhurriedly, she found her way behind the counter at the back of the dining room, pacing beneath the wall-mounted menu as she waited for Spain to reappear. A refrigerator droned menacingly behind her, a giant red monster with the Coca-Cola logo printed all over it and a mock glass bottle for a handle. Leaning a hip against the counter, Monaco regarded it disdainfully. Yes, that would be the first thing to go, she fantasized, that and those Camel ad dishes--
“Sorry, the sink was clogging up agai--” came Spain’s voice rather startlingly from the doorway to the kitchen; Monaco whipped around just in time to see his face light up as he realized she had put on that t-shirt of his. “Ay, Dios mio, Mónaco, you look cuter than I thought you would!” With almost frightening speed, Spain was on her, his arms snaking around and pulling her close, somehow also forcing one of her hips to dig painfully into the side of the counter.
“At least one of us thinks so,” she choked out, her face pressed firmly into the chest of his yellow apron. Monaco’s head was spinning in surprise, and it took her a few moments to regain herself even after Spain had relaxed his hold on her. His arms settled around her waist and guided her to lean against him, her back pressed against his front.
“No, you do, you really do!” he urged, and then kissed the top of her head. She could feel him nuzzling his cheek against her hair. “It might not be Gucci & Pucci or whoever, but it’s still really cute!”
“It’s just Gucci...” Monaco corrected weakly, looking down at the line of text across her breasts, just the tops of the letters visible to her. They still looked accusing. She frowned and glanced up. Monaco could see herself and Spain reflected in the big window at the front of the café, and she hoped no one was planning on walking by until they’d separated from their current embrace. It wouldn’t do to be seen like that in the first place, and it’d probably drive off any potential customers if they thought they’d have to endure the employees’ PDA parade throughout breakfast, but somehow she couldn‘t force herself to tell Spain to let her go.
“Him, too,” he cooed into her ear, hugging her a little tighter. Monaco sighed in defeat, leaning back against Spain
FUCK