[Fanfiction] The Golden Goose, Part 3/3
Title: The Golden Goose, Part 3/3
Artist/Author: Theos99
Character/Pairing: Spain/Romano, hints of Germany/Italy, one-sided Prussia/Hungary
Rating: PG-13 (mostly for Romano's mouth)
Summary: The last day of the contest for the hand of the fair Princess Romano and nothing is impossible if Russia is your fairy godmother.
...guh. just finished this chapter today in one writing period.
turned out longer (about twice as long as previous chapters) than i thought it would (because I was also replanning upcoming Hetalia fairy tale fics), but here goes:
Disclaimer: Hetalia characters are not owned by me.
Notes: This is based on the story of the golden goose. And all the genders of the characters are still the same.
Pairings: SpainxRomano, hints of GermanyxItaly and one-sided PrussiaxHungary
The Golden Goose (Part Three)
(evening, Romano’s room)
Romano closed the curtains of his windows and sighed.
It had been a long day.
Reaching down to pick up a tomato, Romano tried to muster up his customary (and perpetual) irritation towards the world.
Those goddamn bastards. They can’t even cook up a decent tomato dish. Don’t they even -
Romano placed the tomato back into the basket. It was no use. He couldn’t get that stu Spain out of his mind.
He was just like his brother, going off after another dumbass. It was hard being an Italian - especially a Vargas - in love.
But he wasn’t his brother, and for all of his Italian looks and Vargas fashion (no matter how reluctantly he wore it), Romano knew that he wasn’t cue or cuddly enough to be likable.
Feliciano probably could have made Spain fall in love with him. Romano wasn’t stupid; he had heard Prussia talking to the green-eyed man about “getting tricked” by Romano having the distinction of being Feliciano’s twin. He had left (quietly) before he could hear the Spaniard’s answer, but he knew what it would be. Everyone - even their own father Rome - had said it.
“Why can’t he be cute like Feliciano?”
Romano had enough goddamn respect not to throw a hissy fit about his. He could fucking shoot apples and eggplants out of the garden from his tower room (curse those tomato-leeching plants!). He didn’t get dragged off or forced to clean fireplaces like Feli did. When that loser, Turkey, tried to get Romano to wash his laundry for him, the kidnapper had ended up with his best bedsheets (taken from his guest room where Romano was locked in) ripped up and twisted into the Italian’s escape rope. Romano smirked. Serve that mask-wearing creep right for underestimating his skills.
And Feli probably would have just used them for his trademark white flags or aprons (he blamed Hungary for his brother’s obsession with those abominations).
Shaking his head slightly, Romano forced those thoughts out of his head. What was he thinking, becoming all jealous of Feliciano like that? And all over one stupid suitor who probably didn’t like him anyways.
It wasn’t worth it.
But if that was true, why did he suddenly feel like crying?
Wrenching his mind away from these thoughts, the Italian pulled the bedcovers over his head. Rome was insisting on another early day to get ready for the evening ball tomorrow.
Stupid Germany. This all had to be his fault somehow.
HETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIA
(morning, inn where Spain and Prussia are staying)
Stepping through the doorway into his room, Spain wandered over to the bed and collapsed on it.
It had been a tiring evening. While his new fairy godmother was very kind (Ivan kept asking if he could become closer to him - wasn’t that nice? He wanted to become friends with Antonio!), the Russian had made a lot of strange comments that confused the Spaniard (what did “kolkolkol” mean anyways?). The fairy godmother had also given Spain (after Antonio explained his problem with Lovino) a magical object that he couldn’t understand what to do with.
“-ey!”
But, Spain thought, fists clenching in determination, he wouldn’t give up, not when he had acquired such a precious and heartfelt gift! Russia had seemed sincere when he wished him good luck on getting closer to Lovino (the taller man also said that his own dream* could finally come true with it - Antonio hoped that the nice Russian would obtain one to become friends with all the people he wanted to**).
“Antonio, don’t ignore the awes-”
He must think up of a way to make Princess Romano laugh from it by midnight!
“Would you look at that? Romano’s parading around outside in lingerie! Of course, he still isn’t as awesome as I am -”
What?
Before his mind had fully processed Prussia’s words, Spain found himself standing beside the window, peering eagerly outside. A few moments later (after confirming that there were no scantily-dressed Italians in the streets), Spain sighed and turned around to face his friend.
Prussia smirked at him. “You have so got it bad, lover-boy!”
“So,” The red-eyed man continued, still grinning predatorily, “what were you doing all night? Finally got some with that spit-fire?”
“I went to see my fairy godmother, but she wasn’t there.” Spain said, frowning a little as he recalled the Britannia Angel’s absence. It was odd that the angel would miss out on helping her charges; no matter how much the fairy godmother complained and grouched, she really did care about all of them and wouldn’t have missed a summons unless something had happened...
“But,” straightened Spain, his face brightening, “Ivan was there and he gave me this!”
Taking the Russian’s gift out of his pocket, the Spaniard presented it with a flourish to his friend.
“So what’s it’s supposed to do?” Prussia eyed the proffered item dubiously. Using a gift from a substitute fairy godmother? That sounded suspicious, but it was a beautiful golden color...hey, wasn’t this a -
“Well,” Spain said, rubbing his head sheepishly, “Ivan told me that if anyone touches me when I’m holding it without my permission, whatever they use to touch me with will be stuck to me. And anyone else who touches either one of us will be stuck to whoever they touch. But I don’t know how I will be able to win the fair hand of Princess Romano with it...”
Prussia stood quietly by and let Spain ramble on. The albino could hear a choir of angels singing the halleluiah chorus in the background.
Feliciano was right. There was a God (his name was Ivan)!
Quickly reaching out to grab hold of the Spaniard’s sleeve, Prussia drawled, “Don’t worry about a thing, Tony, I’ve got just the idea. But - ” he said, holding a hand out to stop Antonio from hugging him in excitement, “I do have to make one phone call.”
Spain smiled happily as the albino hurried out of the room. He knew that Prussia was an amazing, awesome friend (the albino had even told him!), but this was beyond anything that anyone (except, of course, Lovi) could have done for Spain.
(downstairs, in the telephone room of the inn)
Prussia drummed his fingers impatiently on the wooden surface of the desk. Come on, he thought, pick it up, pick it up -
“Ciao?” (1)
Bingo.
“Hey, Feli!”
“Gilbert~~! Do you need to speak to Ludwig?”
“Nah, not now. I’ll talk to West later. Is Hungary there?”
“Yes - (a short pause) but she says that she wouldn’t talk to you even if you were the only...um...(short pause)...person left in existence.”
Prussia grinned.
“Just tell her that your brother’s getting married, and he’s willing to wear a dress for it.”
(distant squealing from the telephone)
“What? Oh...Gilbert, Hungary-neesan wants me to tell you that she’s heading over there, and she’s bringing dresses for him so he doesn’t have to worry about that...”
Hook, line, and sinker. There was no doubt about it, Prussia was made of AWESOME!
“and...um...Gilbert?”
“Yeah?”
“I...well...how did you get Lovi to agree to wear a dress? He’s very stubborn and he hates (Feliciano sounded rather distressed at the idea) dresses...”
“Well let’s just say that my old buddy Tony can be very persuasive when he wants to,” Prussia grinned, pushing back his chair and placing his boot (and dirt) clad feet on top of the desk. He ignored the disapproving glares the other inn guests shot him.
“They must really be in love, ve!”
“Completely besotted.”
It was so perfect that Gilbert wanted to cry.
HETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIA
(11:50 pm, near the pasta section of the refreshments table, ballroom of palace)
So that was it.
That bastard wasn’t even coming.
Fuck. What was he thinking, anyways? It served him right, hoping that asshole would show up. What was he expecting, Spain to sweep him off his feet? Drag him onto the dance floor? Pull out another plate of heavenly pasta? Hug him? Ki -
There was a sound of a throat being cleared behind him. Romano refused to turn around; it was probably just another stupid suitor trying to get him to dance or doing stupid tricks to make him laugh.
“Romano.”
Oh. So it was the old man.
“I know that Spain didn’t show up, but perhaps you would like to - (a pause) Are you crying?”
“Of course not, damn it! I’m just tired and pissed off because a certain asshole made me skip my siesta today to get ready for this goddamn, dumbass ball!”
He wasn’t crying, there was just dust in his eyes from all these idiots kicking up all that dead human skin off of the ground! Romano was about to blow a fuse, and when he did, there would be dead people lying on the floor -
He was just fucking tired of fighting the world.
“Well,” Romano started, caught off guard by the gentle, compassionate tone in the king’s voice, “I suppose that the ball has gone off long enough.” A hand patted his shoulder gently - damnit! He was not crying, not crying!
Raising his voice so everyone could hear him, the King of Vargas began, “I would like to - ”
He never got to finish his sentence, because just then the ballroom doors burst open.
A dead silence fell over everyone in the room as the strangest band of people strode in.
Well, not really strode in, because it seemed as if the entire group was dancing the bunny hop, except that instead of holding each other’s waists, everyone seemed to be clinging to the person in front of them in strange (and very awkward) places. There was even an albino man near the front of the enormous line of people with his hands attached to the lower back area of a red-faced girl. Since her hands were stuck to the Spaniard in front of her, the brunette was kicking at him every few hops; she seemed to have very good aim - the white-haired man was sporting quite a few bruises (and judging from the twisted grimace on his face, she had probably inflicted more permanent damage to him elsewhere).
But Romano, once the initial shock of the spectacle had passed, found himself locking gazes with Spain. The Spaniard, seeing him looking at him, smiled that warm smile of his and waved the golden tomato he was cradling carefully in his hands at him.
Romano must have been stuck in that stuffy, hot ballroom for way too long.
The pasta probably had experimental chemicals in it.
And the golden tomato was most likely spelled to make Romano lose his mind.
Because just when Spain (still bouncing in place) stopped a few feet away from him, Romano smiled.
It wasn’t a large grin, or even a normal-sized one. In fact, it was rather small - just a slight upturning of his lips. It wasn’t even accompanied by laughter of any kind.
But somehow, it was more beautiful than all of those smiles would have been.
HETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIAHETALIA
(morning, mafia headquarters family meeting room in palace)
“It’ll have to have frills and lace and oh - of course it has to be pink!”
“For the last time, I AM NOT WEARING A DRESS!”
“But Lovi~! You would look so cute in it!”
“SHUT UP! If you want a dress so badly, go wear one yourself! And where’s Prussia? If that pervert looks in on me I’ll - Spain! You’re supposed to protect me! Go make sure he doesn’t break in or something!”
Spain’s eyebrows furrowed slightly. His friend had been stuck in the hospital for some time after the golden tomato spell had been released (the Spaniard had been glad that Prussia was able to think up of a use for it - he couldn’t figure out what Ivan had intended the tomato to be used for originally. After all, why would Ivan have wanted to stick people together like that?), by the courtesy of Hungary’s portable frying pan.
“I think he’s still in the hospital, but - ”
“Go make sure that he doesn’t break out of there, then! The security there isn’t exactly top-notch, you know - ”
“You shouldn’t be concerned about him getting out of there; he hasn’t quite recovered the use of his legs or arms yet, you see,” Hungary beamed a dazzling smile at the two men.
When the atmosphere was a little less menacing (it was so thick even Antonio picked up on a bit of it), Spain ventured, cautiously, “Will he be alright?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she smirked, her eyes flashing darkly, “If he’s as awesome as he says he is, he’ll recover. Eventually.” She flounced out of the room, calling back over her shoulder that she was going to ask Feliciano to send them some more fabric.
As the door shut behind her, a sudden lull surged over the two remaining occupants in the room.
Romano broke the silence, throwing a half-hearted glare in his betrothed’s direction. “You know, you didn’t actually pass the third test. You only made me sm - (that was close; Romano had almost mentioned the “s” word) you didn’t make me laugh, you cheating bastard!”
Spain blinked, considering Lovino’s words. “I suppose I didn’t,” he mused, rubbing his chin in slight puzzlement.
“Damn right you didn’t, shithead.”
Romano crossed his arms, pouting and trying to direct a vitriolic glare at the Spaniard. The effect was ruined when Spain suddenly lifted the protesting Italian into his lap.
“Well, I guess I have the rest of our lives to try, don’t I?” Spain smiled, reaching down to cover Romano’s lips with his.
Notes:
*Ivan’s ultimate dream is for everyone to become one with Russia
**Spain is assuming that Ivan just wants more friends.
(1) Ciao - Italian for hello