APH: Love of a Lifetime [I]
Title: Love of a Lifetime [I]
Characters/Pairings: Spain, Portugal, Al-Andalus (Moorish Iberia), England, America, France, Turkey. Various pairings.
Rating: PG-13 to R
Warning: Mentions of sex in some prompts.
Summary: Five prompts from lover100.
001.Beginnings.
They had a mother once, even if he can no longer remember her beyond the warmth of her skin and the scent of her hair, pure sea air and sunshine. She died a long time ago, he recalls, long before Grecia settled on their shores and Carthage soon followed her. They only stayed long enough to call them Iberia, to ply their wares from their shores and left when Rome had come barging in. 'Them' being his brother and himself of course, because no one had ever referred to them by anything else. Iberia was a name they could hardly share. And so the eldest of the pair, who had always been proud and independent, brushed the encounter aside and continued to look after his baby brother, a cheerful child who was a pleasure to spend time with, if not a bit thick-headed.
He fought Rome every step of the way, but the man was huge, and only laughed, gathered him and his brother into his powerful arms and exclaimed,
"How great you are, little Lusitania!" It was a joke he thought, because Rome did not even look bruised, but it was a name, and no one had ever been able to tell the difference between them before. Hispania he called his brother, and though he wouldn't have called it love, there was something just as satisfying about recognition. And he did make them great, just like he promised, and they prospered. They grew. And when Rome fell Germania took his place and Lusitania thought to himself, how impossible it is to love when everyone who comes close always leaves you in the end.
002.Middles.
When he looks back he realizes that for all he has tried to differentiate himself from his brother, they have shared a great many things. Namely their first love. He had come to them in an invasion from a nation they had never heard of, dressed in exotic finery and smelling like spices when he made himself at home in their house, dark haired and even darker eyed and beautiful. Al-Andalus he called himself, and he had many names as they eventually found out, and an Empire that stretched further than they had ever travelled, to nations he dubbed Africa, Asia. He was kind and cruel, a destroyer and a creator. Lusitania watched in horror and awe as he tore down everything he and Hispania had built up over Rome's rule, Germania's people and their religion. He hated him, hated that he couldn't do anything about him, that he was grinding his heel into everything they had endured and worked hard upon.
But he brought something else with him too. Something that struck Lusitania deep inside his core. He had brought his language, his culture. Intimacy. Names. "Jibrail," Al-Andalus, called out to him from the confines of his observatory; commanding, but as sweet as the silk he was draped in. "Fetch Tanios. Today you are going to learn about the stars."
Lusitania forgot to breathe for all of a second. "Yes sir," he managed to say, and then after a long awkward pause, "Hārūn. Sir."
Al-Andalus laughed. "By Allah," he exclaimed, "You say it as though it were poison to your tongue, boy."
Lusitania blushed, stammered, and rushed off to find his brother. Perhaps not poison he thought, but he was unused to the dedication, the devotion. The way such a name gave him an identity, not just as a fledging nation, but as an individual and a representative of his people. It left a knot in his stomach.
He wondered how long it would last this time.
003.Ends.
It's been over five hundred years of oppression now and he just wants it to end. His brother had always been the sentimental one, and that was why he was still with him up north while he was here, in Lisbon, watching a storm roll overhead and adjusting his armor with grim determination. Hārūn may not have been there in person but he was going to take back the city and he was going to become independent. He would create his own Empire then he decided, and he would be great, greater than Rome ever thought he could be and certainly much more than Al-Andalus thought him capable of.
He had found he was quite fed up with relying on other nations for recognition.
A soldier sidled up to him. His face was puckered as though he wasn't quite sure how he should speak. "Sir," he began, and Lisutania, (no he really wasn't that anymore was he?) looked up. "The reinforcements are here."
He raised his eyebrows. "Reinforcements?" he repeated, frowning. "I called for no such thing. Under whose command?"
The legionary shrugged somewhat helplessly. "The British sir," he replied, then added, "From the Isles in the far north. Their leader is here and he wishes to speak with you before meeting with His Majesty."
"I know where Britain is, thank you," Lusitania said irritably. "What I want to know is what those uncultured northerners are doing here in Lisbon." He swept out of the tent.
And came face-to-face with eyes greener than the hills. And good lord, he thought vaguely, just look at those eyebrows. The stranger stared back at him in similar awe. It was as though something had passed between them, and they recognized each other for what they were, far from mortal men leading their troops to battle.
"Jibrail?" the stranger inquired, and his voice was still that of an adolescent, even though he was dressed in full knight's armor. Lusitania scowled openly.
"Gabriel," he corrected, because he was no longer going to carry that name that bastard had given him. He was governed by no Moor or their kingdom.
"Arthur Kirkland," the Englishman introduced himself in turn, and he had a very crisp way of going about things he thought, raising an eyebrow. "I heard from your bishop that you were conducting a siege against your Islamic oppressors."
Lusitania gave him a once-over. He didn't fail to notice the stranger's cheeks colour as he did so. "Got lost on your way to the Holy Land?" he quipped, causing the man, no boy, in front of him to splutter.
"Look if you don't want our bleedin' services just say the word. I've got two hundred ships full of lads looking for a fight and the storm is preventing us from making headway to Jerusalem, but if you're going to be a wanker about it - "
"Thank you," Lusitania said, cutting him off. He smiled. "I suppose God does want me to win back my homeland after all. I would be glad to accept your aid, Inglaterra." The Englishman turned, if possible, even redder. He seemed like the easily excitable type.
"Y-Yes well, that's..." he floundered. "Think nothing of it, ah - "
Lusitania's smiled broadened. "Portugal," he said proudly. "That is my kingdom. You may call me that if you wish."
It helped that he felt all the more better for saying it, for it was a name he had given himself, and it was hard he realized somewhat reminiscently, for a nation to love other nations when it had no love, no pride, for itself.
004.Firsts.
He stands at the foot of the bed, half-undressed, fine silk and cotton pooling at his feet as he discards his clothes with actions more mechanical than seductive. Because they were his clothes, his nation and his Iberia and he could dress them up any way he pleased. Portugal was old enough now that the idea rankled him in a way he could not quite place, but not old enough for a number of things yet he thought, stepping out of the pile and sliding jerkily on to the feather mattress. His hair falls over his shoulder, long curls curving into his chest and all over he is skinny, coltish, not quite grown.
His guardian, by contrast, is a grown man, sculpted and tan and lying on his side just an arm's length away. His smile is indulgent, heat radiating from his skin as he scratches at his stubbled chin and gives Portugal a leering, knowing look. He sits with his back to him and draws his legs together, lips pressed in a stubborn line. Al-Andalus chuckles a little and smoothes his hand down the length of his spine, across the curve of his buttocks. He fingers the cleft. Portugal suppresses a shiver.
"You're sure this is what you want?" the older nation says, and it's not a question, not really, because he only ever asks for propriety's sake and it's all a guise anyway. He sits up a little and shifts; dips his palm between slender thighs and fondles. Portugal curls his toes and tries to stop his knees from locking together.
"I wouldn't be here if I didn't you perverted old man," he says darkly and Al-Andalus only laughs, ragged and soft against the curve of his throat. He takes Portugal into his lap and ghosts lips over the shell of his ear, rocks against his behind.
"Rome's great Iberian Bacchus," the Moorish nation breathes; doesn't waste time parting Portugal's arse with his fingers and rubbing them against his entrance. Something heavy sticks hard in Portugal's throat. "How beautiful you are. Doing exactly what you were made for."
I was made for more than this, Portugal doesn't say, and makes no sound when the older nation moves again and sets him on his hands and knees. His slips his fingers inside him, harsh and raw, and Portugal knows he took Spain in much the same way yesterday. Will probably do so again tomorrow if he doesn't manage to catch his attention first.
The first time Portugal had sex was for power, however backward he managed to obtain it. Love did not even factor into the equation. Yet it lingered there, in the back of his mind, and so he closed his eyes and crushed it.
005.Friends.
He's not really surprised anymore when the world meetings end in disaster. Though by that point Portugal has rather zoned out himself, head in his hands as he doodles on the corner of the week's mission statement; and England's boy is such an amusement, the thinks, running through all their problems as though they were things only heroes can solve, but he was young once too so Portugal forgives him. He staunchly ignores his brother being throttled by England on his left, and how France is trying to slip his hands between them on England's other side and really, this is what happens when they're made to sit regionally.
"Gabi!" Spain is wheezing over England's snarls of 'Get your fucking hands off of me you bloody frog!' He flails in Portugal's general direction. "Gabi, dios mio, call your crazy husband off!"
"Merda, Tonio," Portugal says tonelessly and draws a fish over the title page. "What have I told you about playing nice?"
He peers through his fingers at the table's other occupants; notices how Romano is sitting stubbornly between his younger brother and Germany, much to Veneciano's complaints and Germany's mounting headache.
"Ve~ But, brother!"
"No buts, Feliciano! You need a chaperone around this potato bastard! Famiglia comes first!"
Meu deus, he must have learnt that from Antonio, Portugal thinks wryly. Lord only knows he hadn't been allowed to sit next to England in all the time they've had these meetings thanks to his brother's own stubborness and wild ideas that he was 'protecting his honour'.
America comes around to the European side of the table when he sees that England is no longer paying attention to him. Suddenly the scuffle breaking out next to him becomes even more violent as the younger nation manhandles himself into the fray, saying gleefully "England, England! You'll never guess what awesome thing I just came up with - "
"Good god America, not now!"
Turkey and Greece were bickering again. Or rather, Turkey was starting a fight and Greece was trying to ignore him. Only this time they seemed to have dragged Japan into it, and Portugal had known Kiku long enough to see that the Asian nation is completely flummoxed at how to break this up, or if he did know how, he was just far too polite to do anything about it.
"Goddamn brat! Look at me when I'm talkin' to you! You tryin' to start something?!"
"The only one trying to start something here is you," Greece replied flatly, promptly turning his back to his neighbour. "Japan and I were talking. You're just getting in the way."
"Ah, no...It's not really a big deal Heracles-san," Kiku protested but Turkey had already stood up and slammed his hand down hard enough that the sound echoed across the entire table.
"By Allah, I ain't hangin' around this fuckin' circus any longer!" He whirled around and glared down the other end of the table. "Oi, Jibrail! Going out for some raki, you comin'?"
The miniature war that had been raging next to Portugal until that point immediately fell silent in complete surprise. Portugal sighed. Well, he reasoned, it could only have lasted so long anyway. The documents in front of him were turning into a whole school of paper fish besides. He drew another one in and didn't look up.
"Only if you're buying, mouro."
Turkey was already halfway round the table by then. Greece was giving Portugal a pitying look behind his back. "Whatever, Jibrail. Get your arse up and let's go. You're comin' back to my place."
Portugal had to stifle a laugh at the look that crossed England's face and came back to camp there. But he smiled as he got languidly to his feet and stretched.
"You're utterly charming meu amigo, has anyone ever told you that?"
"Only every time you hand my arse to me you mood-swingin' son of a bitch," the other man replied with a shit-eating grin, planting kisses on both of Portugal's cheeks. He slipped his hand casually into his back pocket. "Let's get the hell out of here."
America's blue eyes were saucers. "No way," he breathed. "No way. You guys are dating? Hey England, why didn't you tell me they were - "
"That's because they're not you stupid wanker!" England snapped. There was an utterly thunderous scowl on his face, one that was quick to zero in on the space between Turkey's hand and Portugal's behind, or lack thereof. "Sadiq, if you would be so kind as to..."
His implication flew right over the man's head because Turkey only laughed boisterously and tugged Portugal closer. "No need to get your underwear in a bunch, Ingiltere. I always take good care of your wife."
Spain had paled in the way he always tended to do whenever conversation moved into the realm of his older brother in regards to anything sexual. "Could you not, you know...take such good care of him at all?" he asked weakly. "Por favor."
Portugal rolled his eyes. "Tonio we've been over this a hundred times..." Spain shot his brother a defensive look.
"I know Gabi, I know. But you, well...it's not like you've - before..." He looked meaningfully between England and Turkey.
"Ah mon amour, do not worry," France gloated, fluttering his fingers as though shooing them outside. "Your big brother will cover for you. Go and have your passionate affair and take my blessing with you. Au revoir!"
"I don't know what that fruity French bastard is on about but I'm out of here," Turkey muttered next to Portugal's ear and turned him so they were heading out the door. "Fucking Europeans. Crazy, the lot of you."
"Noted and ignoring that," Portugal replied, covering his mouth with hand to stop himself grinning and shaking his head as the sound of England thrashing France and his 'bloody idiotic statements' against the meeting table followed them.
He'd have to explain Turkish customs to him later. Although, Portugal thought, raising an eyebrow as he glanced behind him, he was pretty sure he couldn't come up with anything to explain why Turkey was groping his rump to begin with.
He took it into stride anyway.
A/N:
1.) The Iberian Peninsula was conquered many times over the centuries, so I imagine it would be a lot harder for Spain and Portugal to remember their mother (Iberia) than many other nations. Mama Greece came to them first, then Carthage, who lost them to Rome. Then when Rome fell Germania took over. Finally they were conquered by the Moors, who called their part of the Peninsula Al-Andalus and stayed with them until the Reconquista, wherein Spain and Portugal claimed back their land and finally became their own independent nations.
2.) Al-Andalus was a facade of the old Islamic Empire. He invaded Spain and Portugal and stayed with them for over 800 years, until they could no longer take clashing with him over his different religion and cultures. I imagined him to be this cultured, worldly Far Eastern man whom they both simultaneously loved and hated until the hate grew too much and they expelled him from their lands. In my headcanon he also gave them human names, which they'd never had before because their names as nations had always been changing and no one ever thought to give them any, or to tell them apart.
3.) The Siege of Lisbon (1147). Portugal meets England for the first time. X) I've always seen Portugal as older than Spain, but they look scarily similar to each other, almost like twins. They were always regarded as one nation and so Portugal took pains to differentiate himself from his brother. Also as his hate for Al-Andalus grew, so did the name he gave him, so he changed it to Gabriel (which is the Christian version of Jibrail), and always gets annoyed if he isn't referred to as such.
4.) See above. XD Portugal was always fiercer than his brother in the days of old Iberia, even Rome said so, so I can imagine him trying to get one up on his oppressors, even if means giving his virginity in exchange for a little power.
5.) Portugal and Turkey were rivals in the 16th century. They had huge dick-showing contests all over the Indian Ocean because of it (see: Turkish-Portuguese wars). Naturally I don't doubt this was due to some UST and England not putting out to Portugal lol. They've fooled around some and established diplomatic relations in 1848. They're pretty much buddies these days, with Portugal being one of the nations backing Turkey's membership in the EU. Also, Turkish people are very hands-on. Men are known to kiss each other on the cheek and put their arms around each other and even hold hands, but that doesn't mean they're gay. Just that they're close friends. XDDD Though yes, the butt-touching is actually quite sexual on Turkey's part lol. But I imagine he still likes Portugal haha. I'd like to write more about their strange relationship. |D
Characters/Pairings: Spain, Portugal, Al-Andalus (Moorish Iberia), England, America, France, Turkey. Various pairings.
Rating: PG-13 to R
Warning: Mentions of sex in some prompts.
Summary: Five prompts from lover100.
001.Beginnings.
They had a mother once, even if he can no longer remember her beyond the warmth of her skin and the scent of her hair, pure sea air and sunshine. She died a long time ago, he recalls, long before Grecia settled on their shores and Carthage soon followed her. They only stayed long enough to call them Iberia, to ply their wares from their shores and left when Rome had come barging in. 'Them' being his brother and himself of course, because no one had ever referred to them by anything else. Iberia was a name they could hardly share. And so the eldest of the pair, who had always been proud and independent, brushed the encounter aside and continued to look after his baby brother, a cheerful child who was a pleasure to spend time with, if not a bit thick-headed.
He fought Rome every step of the way, but the man was huge, and only laughed, gathered him and his brother into his powerful arms and exclaimed,
"How great you are, little Lusitania!" It was a joke he thought, because Rome did not even look bruised, but it was a name, and no one had ever been able to tell the difference between them before. Hispania he called his brother, and though he wouldn't have called it love, there was something just as satisfying about recognition. And he did make them great, just like he promised, and they prospered. They grew. And when Rome fell Germania took his place and Lusitania thought to himself, how impossible it is to love when everyone who comes close always leaves you in the end.
002.Middles.
When he looks back he realizes that for all he has tried to differentiate himself from his brother, they have shared a great many things. Namely their first love. He had come to them in an invasion from a nation they had never heard of, dressed in exotic finery and smelling like spices when he made himself at home in their house, dark haired and even darker eyed and beautiful. Al-Andalus he called himself, and he had many names as they eventually found out, and an Empire that stretched further than they had ever travelled, to nations he dubbed Africa, Asia. He was kind and cruel, a destroyer and a creator. Lusitania watched in horror and awe as he tore down everything he and Hispania had built up over Rome's rule, Germania's people and their religion. He hated him, hated that he couldn't do anything about him, that he was grinding his heel into everything they had endured and worked hard upon.
But he brought something else with him too. Something that struck Lusitania deep inside his core. He had brought his language, his culture. Intimacy. Names. "Jibrail," Al-Andalus, called out to him from the confines of his observatory; commanding, but as sweet as the silk he was draped in. "Fetch Tanios. Today you are going to learn about the stars."
Lusitania forgot to breathe for all of a second. "Yes sir," he managed to say, and then after a long awkward pause, "Hārūn. Sir."
Al-Andalus laughed. "By Allah," he exclaimed, "You say it as though it were poison to your tongue, boy."
Lusitania blushed, stammered, and rushed off to find his brother. Perhaps not poison he thought, but he was unused to the dedication, the devotion. The way such a name gave him an identity, not just as a fledging nation, but as an individual and a representative of his people. It left a knot in his stomach.
He wondered how long it would last this time.
003.Ends.
It's been over five hundred years of oppression now and he just wants it to end. His brother had always been the sentimental one, and that was why he was still with him up north while he was here, in Lisbon, watching a storm roll overhead and adjusting his armor with grim determination. Hārūn may not have been there in person but he was going to take back the city and he was going to become independent. He would create his own Empire then he decided, and he would be great, greater than Rome ever thought he could be and certainly much more than Al-Andalus thought him capable of.
He had found he was quite fed up with relying on other nations for recognition.
A soldier sidled up to him. His face was puckered as though he wasn't quite sure how he should speak. "Sir," he began, and Lisutania, (no he really wasn't that anymore was he?) looked up. "The reinforcements are here."
He raised his eyebrows. "Reinforcements?" he repeated, frowning. "I called for no such thing. Under whose command?"
The legionary shrugged somewhat helplessly. "The British sir," he replied, then added, "From the Isles in the far north. Their leader is here and he wishes to speak with you before meeting with His Majesty."
"I know where Britain is, thank you," Lusitania said irritably. "What I want to know is what those uncultured northerners are doing here in Lisbon." He swept out of the tent.
And came face-to-face with eyes greener than the hills. And good lord, he thought vaguely, just look at those eyebrows. The stranger stared back at him in similar awe. It was as though something had passed between them, and they recognized each other for what they were, far from mortal men leading their troops to battle.
"Jibrail?" the stranger inquired, and his voice was still that of an adolescent, even though he was dressed in full knight's armor. Lusitania scowled openly.
"Gabriel," he corrected, because he was no longer going to carry that name that bastard had given him. He was governed by no Moor or their kingdom.
"Arthur Kirkland," the Englishman introduced himself in turn, and he had a very crisp way of going about things he thought, raising an eyebrow. "I heard from your bishop that you were conducting a siege against your Islamic oppressors."
Lusitania gave him a once-over. He didn't fail to notice the stranger's cheeks colour as he did so. "Got lost on your way to the Holy Land?" he quipped, causing the man, no boy, in front of him to splutter.
"Look if you don't want our bleedin' services just say the word. I've got two hundred ships full of lads looking for a fight and the storm is preventing us from making headway to Jerusalem, but if you're going to be a wanker about it - "
"Thank you," Lusitania said, cutting him off. He smiled. "I suppose God does want me to win back my homeland after all. I would be glad to accept your aid, Inglaterra." The Englishman turned, if possible, even redder. He seemed like the easily excitable type.
"Y-Yes well, that's..." he floundered. "Think nothing of it, ah - "
Lusitania's smiled broadened. "Portugal," he said proudly. "That is my kingdom. You may call me that if you wish."
It helped that he felt all the more better for saying it, for it was a name he had given himself, and it was hard he realized somewhat reminiscently, for a nation to love other nations when it had no love, no pride, for itself.
004.Firsts.
He stands at the foot of the bed, half-undressed, fine silk and cotton pooling at his feet as he discards his clothes with actions more mechanical than seductive. Because they were his clothes, his nation and his Iberia and he could dress them up any way he pleased. Portugal was old enough now that the idea rankled him in a way he could not quite place, but not old enough for a number of things yet he thought, stepping out of the pile and sliding jerkily on to the feather mattress. His hair falls over his shoulder, long curls curving into his chest and all over he is skinny, coltish, not quite grown.
His guardian, by contrast, is a grown man, sculpted and tan and lying on his side just an arm's length away. His smile is indulgent, heat radiating from his skin as he scratches at his stubbled chin and gives Portugal a leering, knowing look. He sits with his back to him and draws his legs together, lips pressed in a stubborn line. Al-Andalus chuckles a little and smoothes his hand down the length of his spine, across the curve of his buttocks. He fingers the cleft. Portugal suppresses a shiver.
"You're sure this is what you want?" the older nation says, and it's not a question, not really, because he only ever asks for propriety's sake and it's all a guise anyway. He sits up a little and shifts; dips his palm between slender thighs and fondles. Portugal curls his toes and tries to stop his knees from locking together.
"I wouldn't be here if I didn't you perverted old man," he says darkly and Al-Andalus only laughs, ragged and soft against the curve of his throat. He takes Portugal into his lap and ghosts lips over the shell of his ear, rocks against his behind.
"Rome's great Iberian Bacchus," the Moorish nation breathes; doesn't waste time parting Portugal's arse with his fingers and rubbing them against his entrance. Something heavy sticks hard in Portugal's throat. "How beautiful you are. Doing exactly what you were made for."
I was made for more than this, Portugal doesn't say, and makes no sound when the older nation moves again and sets him on his hands and knees. His slips his fingers inside him, harsh and raw, and Portugal knows he took Spain in much the same way yesterday. Will probably do so again tomorrow if he doesn't manage to catch his attention first.
The first time Portugal had sex was for power, however backward he managed to obtain it. Love did not even factor into the equation. Yet it lingered there, in the back of his mind, and so he closed his eyes and crushed it.
005.Friends.
He's not really surprised anymore when the world meetings end in disaster. Though by that point Portugal has rather zoned out himself, head in his hands as he doodles on the corner of the week's mission statement; and England's boy is such an amusement, the thinks, running through all their problems as though they were things only heroes can solve, but he was young once too so Portugal forgives him. He staunchly ignores his brother being throttled by England on his left, and how France is trying to slip his hands between them on England's other side and really, this is what happens when they're made to sit regionally.
"Gabi!" Spain is wheezing over England's snarls of 'Get your fucking hands off of me you bloody frog!' He flails in Portugal's general direction. "Gabi, dios mio, call your crazy husband off!"
"Merda, Tonio," Portugal says tonelessly and draws a fish over the title page. "What have I told you about playing nice?"
He peers through his fingers at the table's other occupants; notices how Romano is sitting stubbornly between his younger brother and Germany, much to Veneciano's complaints and Germany's mounting headache.
"Ve~ But, brother!"
"No buts, Feliciano! You need a chaperone around this potato bastard! Famiglia comes first!"
Meu deus, he must have learnt that from Antonio, Portugal thinks wryly. Lord only knows he hadn't been allowed to sit next to England in all the time they've had these meetings thanks to his brother's own stubborness and wild ideas that he was 'protecting his honour'.
America comes around to the European side of the table when he sees that England is no longer paying attention to him. Suddenly the scuffle breaking out next to him becomes even more violent as the younger nation manhandles himself into the fray, saying gleefully "England, England! You'll never guess what awesome thing I just came up with - "
"Good god America, not now!"
Turkey and Greece were bickering again. Or rather, Turkey was starting a fight and Greece was trying to ignore him. Only this time they seemed to have dragged Japan into it, and Portugal had known Kiku long enough to see that the Asian nation is completely flummoxed at how to break this up, or if he did know how, he was just far too polite to do anything about it.
"Goddamn brat! Look at me when I'm talkin' to you! You tryin' to start something?!"
"The only one trying to start something here is you," Greece replied flatly, promptly turning his back to his neighbour. "Japan and I were talking. You're just getting in the way."
"Ah, no...It's not really a big deal Heracles-san," Kiku protested but Turkey had already stood up and slammed his hand down hard enough that the sound echoed across the entire table.
"By Allah, I ain't hangin' around this fuckin' circus any longer!" He whirled around and glared down the other end of the table. "Oi, Jibrail! Going out for some raki, you comin'?"
The miniature war that had been raging next to Portugal until that point immediately fell silent in complete surprise. Portugal sighed. Well, he reasoned, it could only have lasted so long anyway. The documents in front of him were turning into a whole school of paper fish besides. He drew another one in and didn't look up.
"Only if you're buying, mouro."
Turkey was already halfway round the table by then. Greece was giving Portugal a pitying look behind his back. "Whatever, Jibrail. Get your arse up and let's go. You're comin' back to my place."
Portugal had to stifle a laugh at the look that crossed England's face and came back to camp there. But he smiled as he got languidly to his feet and stretched.
"You're utterly charming meu amigo, has anyone ever told you that?"
"Only every time you hand my arse to me you mood-swingin' son of a bitch," the other man replied with a shit-eating grin, planting kisses on both of Portugal's cheeks. He slipped his hand casually into his back pocket. "Let's get the hell out of here."
America's blue eyes were saucers. "No way," he breathed. "No way. You guys are dating? Hey England, why didn't you tell me they were - "
"That's because they're not you stupid wanker!" England snapped. There was an utterly thunderous scowl on his face, one that was quick to zero in on the space between Turkey's hand and Portugal's behind, or lack thereof. "Sadiq, if you would be so kind as to..."
His implication flew right over the man's head because Turkey only laughed boisterously and tugged Portugal closer. "No need to get your underwear in a bunch, Ingiltere. I always take good care of your wife."
Spain had paled in the way he always tended to do whenever conversation moved into the realm of his older brother in regards to anything sexual. "Could you not, you know...take such good care of him at all?" he asked weakly. "Por favor."
Portugal rolled his eyes. "Tonio we've been over this a hundred times..." Spain shot his brother a defensive look.
"I know Gabi, I know. But you, well...it's not like you've - before..." He looked meaningfully between England and Turkey.
"Ah mon amour, do not worry," France gloated, fluttering his fingers as though shooing them outside. "Your big brother will cover for you. Go and have your passionate affair and take my blessing with you. Au revoir!"
"I don't know what that fruity French bastard is on about but I'm out of here," Turkey muttered next to Portugal's ear and turned him so they were heading out the door. "Fucking Europeans. Crazy, the lot of you."
"Noted and ignoring that," Portugal replied, covering his mouth with hand to stop himself grinning and shaking his head as the sound of England thrashing France and his 'bloody idiotic statements' against the meeting table followed them.
He'd have to explain Turkish customs to him later. Although, Portugal thought, raising an eyebrow as he glanced behind him, he was pretty sure he couldn't come up with anything to explain why Turkey was groping his rump to begin with.
He took it into stride anyway.
A/N:
1.) The Iberian Peninsula was conquered many times over the centuries, so I imagine it would be a lot harder for Spain and Portugal to remember their mother (Iberia) than many other nations. Mama Greece came to them first, then Carthage, who lost them to Rome. Then when Rome fell Germania took over. Finally they were conquered by the Moors, who called their part of the Peninsula Al-Andalus and stayed with them until the Reconquista, wherein Spain and Portugal claimed back their land and finally became their own independent nations.
2.) Al-Andalus was a facade of the old Islamic Empire. He invaded Spain and Portugal and stayed with them for over 800 years, until they could no longer take clashing with him over his different religion and cultures. I imagined him to be this cultured, worldly Far Eastern man whom they both simultaneously loved and hated until the hate grew too much and they expelled him from their lands. In my headcanon he also gave them human names, which they'd never had before because their names as nations had always been changing and no one ever thought to give them any, or to tell them apart.
3.) The Siege of Lisbon (1147). Portugal meets England for the first time. X) I've always seen Portugal as older than Spain, but they look scarily similar to each other, almost like twins. They were always regarded as one nation and so Portugal took pains to differentiate himself from his brother. Also as his hate for Al-Andalus grew, so did the name he gave him, so he changed it to Gabriel (which is the Christian version of Jibrail), and always gets annoyed if he isn't referred to as such.
4.) See above. XD Portugal was always fiercer than his brother in the days of old Iberia, even Rome said so, so I can imagine him trying to get one up on his oppressors, even if means giving his virginity in exchange for a little power.
5.) Portugal and Turkey were rivals in the 16th century. They had huge dick-showing contests all over the Indian Ocean because of it (see: Turkish-Portuguese wars). Naturally I don't doubt this was due to some UST and England not putting out to Portugal lol. They've fooled around some and established diplomatic relations in 1848. They're pretty much buddies these days, with Portugal being one of the nations backing Turkey's membership in the EU. Also, Turkish people are very hands-on. Men are known to kiss each other on the cheek and put their arms around each other and even hold hands, but that doesn't mean they're gay. Just that they're close friends. XDDD Though yes, the butt-touching is actually quite sexual on Turkey's part lol. But I imagine he still likes Portugal haha. I'd like to write more about their strange relationship. |D