APH: Love of a Lifetime [II]
Title: Love of a Lifetime [II]
Characters/Pairings: England, Portugal, Spain, South Italy, Turkey, America, various pairings.
Rating: R
Warning: Mentions of a threesome pairing in one prompt. Implied sex.
Summary: Love in all its shapes and forms, both fantastic and fail. Based on various prompts.
Part 1
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1. Honeymoon
His first thought on the matter is that Portugal is naked. He’s stripped and lying on his belly amongst the sheets and he’s smiling, tender and soft and hugging a pillow under his chin whilst he undresses England with his eyes. After that he finds it quite impossible to have any second thoughts on the matter, other than to swallow hard and sit back in the chair at the foot of the bed because he doesn’t trust his knees to hold out on him. Portugal’s eyes laugh at him from under dark curls and he looks so comfortable that England isn’t quite sure where to begin.
“Are you coming to bed, meu caro?” Gabriel teases, propping his face up in his hands. “You’re not getting cold feet, I hope. It’s a little late for that.” He laughs and stretches in the sheets and looks thoroughly appealing as he rolls on his back and offers his hands to Arthur, beckoning him closer. He seems so comfortable in his own skin that for a moment, England wonders at how many lovers Portugal has had before this. It strikes him that he never thought to ask. Rome had been fond of touching but France had been the first nation he had given himself over to and that had been an absolute disaster. Well. Francis wasn’t Gabriel but that was beside the point. He didn’t want to screw up with Portugal over something as ridiculous as sexual prowess. Prowess which he lacked. Though he didn’t think Portugal would laugh, there was a first time for everything.
Oh, god.
“You’re awfully eager,” he observes and slides out of his seat to join Portugal on the bed, taking off his boots as he went until he was down to his tunic and leggings. He lay down on his side next to the Iberian nation and started tracing his fingers across the sun-kissed skin and into Portugal’s hair, petting him with careful deliberation.
“You’re not?” Portugal remarks lazily and arches, his palm sliding down England’s back when he leans in to drop kisses against his neck. He pulls him up by his collar and smirks in his face, dragging Arthur down on top of him to kiss. “Quickly now, Inglaterra. Before my brother comes to his senses and tries to break down my door with a battering ram.”
England kisses him back, cups Portugal’s face in his hands and runs his mouth over his throat as his mind whirls. He wonders how fast Gabriel expects things to escalate, though by then Portugal is already grinding up slowly against him, kissing his nose and pushing his hair out of his face, looking pleased and flushed and increasingly aroused. He hopes he doesn’t expect to be satisfied within minutes because he really doesn’t know where to put his hands as it is, and looking at him like that wasn’t really helping any.
He suddenly dreaded what Portugal expected. How did he like to be kissed? Where were all his tender spots? Did he like it fast or slow and would he be terribly offended if England got it wrong? Portugal was from the same fold as France after all, and he’d seen the way he carried on. The wine freak still did crude impressions sometimes just to get on his nerves.
Portugal slides his hand under his tunic. England squirms and drags his foot against the bed. He wonders how he’ll compete. Portugal pulls it up off his head and rakes his nails gently down his chest. England shuffles and moans and lies on his side wondering at his experience. But Portugal is too close and he’s too light-headed so when he shuffles back and Portugal crawls after him he just keeps doing it in the hope he will stop and give him some air. He doesn’t. So by the time Portugal pushes him down with his hand and climbs on top they’ve already circumnavigated the bed. He whispers hot and low in England’s ear, promising, pleading, wanting and for the life of him he doesn’t know how to live up to that. He panics.
“Port -”
“Inglaterra,” Gabriel murmurs and leans in while Arthur rears back and really, it shouldn’t be surprising when they run out of mattress, but then England topples arse over tit off the edge and Portugal falls on top of him. They lie there in surprised silence on the floor, staring at each other with the sensual mood shattered and England doesn’t know what’s worse; this or the time Portugal had rubbed ointment on his back and nuzzled the back of his neck, after which he’d had to bolt from the room sporting a rather noticeable erection.
The coverlet lazily slips off the side and falls on them. Portugal stares at him. And England covers his eyes with his forearms and groans and decides to throw himself off the balcony to save them both from embarrassment. Gabriel huffs. He does this a few more times before he gives in and snorts, and before long he’s outright laughing, just like England imagined he would.
“Gab, I can explain -” he says wearily and doesn’t even know how to begin telling Portugal how worth it he is, that he’s not ready to be hormonal and teenage over this and fuck their chances. He grimaces when Portugal pulls his arms away from his face. But Gabriel is smiling. He’s smiling like it’s his goddamn wedding day and England is so taken aback he just gapes at him.
“Oh Inglaterra,” he breathes, and nuzzles his nose against England’s cheek. “If you just wanted to cuddle you only had to say so.” They do, and he hides his face against Portugal’s chest because he doesn’t trust himself to look at him without going as red as the cross on his flag. He can still feel Portugal’s smile against his hair.
“You don’t mind?” he ventures warily. Portugal holds him closer.
“It’s not so much the sex as it is the company,” he admits and when he rolls on the bed with England in his arms, kissing all over his reddened cheeks he suddenly wants to be everything Portugal expects from him. And more.
“Besides,” Portugal says from under him and brings him down for a long, slow kiss. “It’s not as if you’re going anywhere. We have all the time in the world.”
It is both a blatant demand and a promise and England wants more than anything to believe it.
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A few nights after the Windsor Treaty (1386) was signed, Portugal and England tried to consolidate their relationship. With disastrous results. They wouldn't try again for another 300 years orz.
2. Happy additions
When Turkey turns up at his doorstep it is mostly a knee-jerk reaction coupled by centuries of the bastard turning up in places he least suspects that makes Portugal glare at him and demand,
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“You can pretend all you like that you ain’t happy to see me melek, but I know you better,” the Turk grins, and shifts a bundle under his arm. “I need a favour.” Portugal rolls his eyes.
“And what makes you think I’m going to -” he begins and pauses when he gets a good look at what the Turk is holding. His eyes widen and simultaneously narrow. “Oh, no. Oh no, no, no. You’re not serious. You wouldn’t dare. You can’t expect me to drop everything and -”
Turkey sighs impatiently. “Look Jibrail I don’t have any goddamn time for this right now. The G20 Summit is in a few hours and I have to get to your English husband’s place ASAP.” He subsequently shoves a frowning child he’s holding out under the armpits in Portugal’s face. The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus frowns back at him. “The brat won’t take him and I don’t trust that shifty bastard to not try anything when he’s alone either. Just hold on to him for a bit, would ya?” Portugal scowls.
“Do I look like a babysitter to you?” he demands and throws his hands up. Someone tugs on his sleeve. He looks down to find Sealand looking up at him imploringly.
“Hey Port, do you have any of those egg tarts left? “ Portugal sighs, deflates and pinches the bridge of his nose. He turns his back on Turkey’s growing smirk and ushers the boy back into the house with a pat on the head.
“Go ask Espanha, there’s a good boy. He should be lurking out the back as usual and he raids my pantries often enough to know where everything is anyway.” The boy grins.
“Wicked! You’re the best, Port. So much cooler than that jerk England at any rate.” He disappears around the corner. Portugal purses his lips and whirls around again, looking mulishly at Turkey, who gives him a look of complete innocence.
“Don’t say it,” Portugal growls. Turkey shrugged, hefted the child in his hands up higher and gave him a pointed look. “…Okay, fine, I’m a glorified babysitter. Go and have fun at your meeting or whatever it is you world powers do these days. But you owe me.” And he holds his arms out reluctantly for the largely unrecognized nation. Turkey’s grin widens.
“Allah Portekiz, you’re a lifesaver,” he says and drops the child into the crook of Portugal’s arm. TRNC gives him a look of almost certain betrayal. Turkey ruffles his hair. “Don’t make that face, kiddo. I’ll be back before you know it, I promise. So behave for my melek okay?”
Portugal scowls. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that ridiculous -”
The Turk pulls him in for a searing kiss that honestly, Portugal thought, bore no repeating in front of children. “How about I make it up to you tonight?” he offers. Portugal stares at him.
“I’m not looking after your kid for sexual favours,” he started to hiss, but Turkey just kisses him again. He considers the persuasion. England had pretty much done the same thing when he had dragged Sealand over and had promised Portugal dates and kisses and all sorts of romantic things that had sent his heart aflutter. He pushed Turkey away with his free hand.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, feeling more than a little bit used, and shuts the door in his face. He sets TRNC on the floor and sends him off after Sealand, and thank god the kid understands English, because Portugal couldn’t speak Turkish for the life of him and he was not about to start. His brother pokes his head around the corner, adjusting a crooked tie and wearing Portugal’s best suit. He glares at him. The effect bounces right off, as usual.
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay with two kids running around Gabi?” he asks and Portugal scoffs, leaning against the doorframe.
“We’ve both had to juggle handfuls of colonies in the past, Tonio. What’s a couple of unrecognized nations?” The sound of breaking porcelain echoes from the kitchen. Portugal’s knuckles whiten against the doorknob. Spain opens his mouth. “Don’t say it,” his brother said tightly. “Now get out of my house. And you’d better do a good job of representing the rest of us at the summit because I want my suit back in the exact condition you stole it.”
Spain grins. “You know I could always send for the Canary Islands or Ceuta if you need help. Or you could ask Azores and Madeira to -”
“I’m not running a daycare centre,” Portugal says flatly and ushers him out. He runs his hand over his face. It’s been years since he had to take care of children but there was no harm to it, right? They were good kids.
Another crash comes from inside the house. Sealand swears something awful in English that he no doubt learned from Arthur. TRNC says something he can’t fully hear, but it makes the other boy squawk,
“What?! You are not more recognised than me! I have a king and everything!”
There was a pause. Then,
“What do you mean that doesn’t count?!”
Portugal sighs as he goes after them and tries not to miss his days of Empire.
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TRNC is more recognized that Sealand for the sole fact that his papa Turkey recognizes him as a nation. I think it was mentioned in the Trading Cards, but because of this, the two of them are rivals. XD Though Spain is not part of the G20 he was invited to come and play with the cool kids by France during the 2008 summit.
3.Children
It is only typical that Spain should arrive during the most difficult part of the day. Granted he had only been next door to begin with but Portugal, for the most part, was still mystified as to how his brother managed to bypass every lock and bolt he had put in place. And what was worse was that he had arrived with enough children to fill a dozen baskets or so in tow. They cling to his back, sit on his shoulders, swing on his arms and curl their fists into his clothes and everywhere he looks Portugal is seeing young, round-faced colonies stuck to his glowing brother like tiny burrs.
“Hola!” Spain calls out cheerfully and waves his hand, effectively lifting one of his colonies off the ground as he did so. Portugal stared at him, Brazil under one arm and Macau under the other, and a moment ago they were tearing into each other over who would get to have the last of the sweets and he had been trying to pry them apart, but now they slackened in his grip, both turning wide eyes on Spain. Cape Verde looked on from the stool she had propped by the stove to stir tonight’s dinner. Her hand was pressed tightly over her mouth and Portugal was almost certain that she was laughing. He doesn’t blame her; he’s never seen his brother look so ridiculous, and that was really saying a lot. He hears quiet snickers from the rest of his colonies.
Portugal gives his brother a helpless glowering. “What on earth?” is all he manages to say, and doesn’t ask how Spain managed to get into his house again, because some things were better left unsaid. His brother looks over his kids and pouts, making a sound of discontent.
“Ahh, hermano it’s not fair. Why do you have so many pretty chicas?” He winks at the girls, who nudge each other and continue giggling amongst themselves. Portugal sincerely hopes they are laughing at him and are not taken in by his cheerful charm. That would be the last thing he needed; his colonies having a crush on his Spanish, empire-stealing brother. He suddenly wished he had more boys.
“What are you doing here, Tonio?” he sighed, and hefted his youngest boys up off their feet and into his arms. Macau gave Spain a frighteningly frosty look that had them all pause momentarily to see if he might lunge out and bite his brother’s hands off, but then the little Asian nation lost interest and turned his head into Portugal’s shoulder, pressing his nose against his collarbone. They all relaxed.
“I just wanted to visit, that’s all. I should be allowed to visit my favourite brother right?” Spain replied and grinned. Portugal rolled his eyes and did not mention that he was Spain’s only brother, both fortunately and unfortunately. “And, look! Look. I named my kids, just like you did.”
“I hope it’s not something stupid for your sake,” Portugal replied and shook his head. Brazil had tucked his head under his chin and was peering under his lashes at the pretty blonde child sitting on Spain’s shoulders. They seemed to be engaged in some kind of staring contest. Brazil ruined the stillness of the moment by grinning at the boy, who promptly glared at him and in a move that reminded Portugal strikingly of Romano, puffed his cheeks and looked away. Brazil stuck his tongue out at him. Portugal pinched his ear between his thumb and forefinger.
“Manners,” he chided warningly. “Or I’ll wash your mouth with soap.” The child made a face at him and sulked. Spain laughed.
“Aww Gabi, look. He’s just like you when you were little.” Portugal snorted.
“Hardly,” he said. “At least you and I had some sense of propriety. This one used to eat his own kind before I got to him.” He gestured at the boy in his arms, who went from moping to smiling beatifically at Spain as though Portugal had just payed him a compliment. He briefly wondered if there would be any benefits of teaching sarcasm to the child. England seemed to have made an art out of it.
“You used to go head-hunting with Irlanda, I don’t see how that’s -”
“Just say what you came here to say and leave. Please,” Portugal said sharply, not liking how the children had perked up at that. They were the civilized adults here; there was no need to go into that embarrassing pre-pubescent nonsense. Spain shrugged.
“Okay, okay. Get this. You named Brasil for his brazilwood, right? And Cabo Verde for being so green?” He beamed at Portugal and paused for what his brother thought was an attempt at a dramatic effect before gesturing at his colonies dramatically, “Well then you’ll love this. Venezuela.” He patted the knee of the boy Brazil had been staring at, “Argentina.” And he went on, “This is Uruguay. And Peru. This one’s Chile, that’s Colombia, and this is Panama and Equador!”
And that wasn’t even all of them, Portugal thought, looking at his brother’s brood with raised eyebrows. He waited for Spain to continue, but he just gave him an expectant look. Portugal blinked back at him. The silence stretched between them. Finally he ventured, “…but what are their names?”
Spain gave him an equally blank look. “Those are their names!” he protested, scrunching up his nose and eyeing his brother as though he were the weird one. “Doesn’t she look just like our little Feli?” he lifted Venezuela up under the armpits and pouted at Portugal. “And this is the one with all the silver,” he added, glancing up at Argentina, who gave him a mulish sort of scoff in response. “What else was I supposed to call him?”
“What indeed,” Portugal muttered. “Leandro, don’t stare at Tio Antonio,” he said over his shoulder, not deterring Guinea-Bissau in the slightest. “It’s not his fault he’s moronic.”
“Hey!”
Portugal gave him a withering look. “Vitória be a dear and get your brothers and sisters ready for dinner,” he said and Cape Verde nodded, herding a wide-eyed Mozambique and Angola back towards the table. He raised an eyebrow at Spain. “You can’t seriously be thinking of calling them that their whole lives, can you?” he wanted to know.
Spain scowled a little. “That’s easy for you to say, hermano,” he shot back. “I have more of them than you do, you know. This way, it keeps things simple and -”
“How are they supposed to address themselves to the people that wander in and out of your house?” he demanded. “You don’t go around calling yourself Espanha in front of your court, do you?”
“Well no, but…”
“People will start asking questions eventually Toni, you can’t keep spinning stories or insist they have wild imaginations forever - stay still menino,” Portugal said sharply, shifting from foot to foot to heave Brazil up higher into his arms. He had started to squirm, already bored with the conversation.
Spain blinked. “Why not?” in such a blatantly surprised manner that Portugal made a frustrated noise in his throat and turned to tell him off, proper.
“Because -” he stressed the word, but his brother just shook his head and shrugged.
“They’re only colonies, hermano.”
Portugal found that it was now his turn to stare. “They’re children.” Spain scratched the back of his neck, once more lifting one of the little ones dangling on his arms off the floor. He looked uncomfortable.
“Well yeah,” he began. “We were once too, you know. That’s normal for nations their age. But that doesn’t mean they are. You know…like human children. Don’t look at me like that hermano.” He sighed when Portugal narrowed his eyes disbelievingly at him.
“Espanha,” he said shortly, “I don’t think you understand. We feed them; we clothe them and educate them. We look after their best interests. We take care of them just like others took care of us.” He frowned. “How is that any different from looking after a child?”
“Oh it differs in a lot of ways,” Spain said cheerfully, his arms tightening marginally around his colonies. “You remember what it was like growing up, don’t you? They have gold they fashion into pagan idols that they worship as they plunder our people and spread disease and if we don’t crush them into submission they’ll -”
“That’s enough!” Portugal said sharply, and was struck by the way his own voice cracked at the end as the darkness thickened and deepened, then ultimately faded from his brother’s green eyes. He sucked in a slow breath, aware that all the colonies were watching them now in blatant fascination. “That’s enough,” he said again and glared at his brother. “This is not like before, do you hear me? That will never happen again, and this…this is nothing like that time. This is for their own good. We have a responsibility to them, to our people, and to the crown.”
Spain smiled mildly. “Well of course they are all of those things,” he said. “But don’t be mistaken, hermano. Giving something a name denotes attachment. You don’t want to end up like Hārūn, do you?”
“Get out,” Portugal said lowly, his heart pounding against his chest. “How could you even say - get out of my house irmão. Go before I throw you out the door.”
His brother shrugged expansively. “Your loss,” he sighed. “They’re just colonies, hermano.” He paused as he went out the door, dragging his brood behind him like accessories he had won; territories in both name and appearance. But it was his next words that would haunt him in the centuries to come.
“You ought to remember that, before it becomes too hard to let go.”
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Hārūn is the name of Al-Andalus, the Islamic ruler of Spain and Portugal, whom the brothers spent a good 800 years trying to get off their land. This was based on a discussion I had where Spain was too lazy to give all his colonies human names, so he just stuck with unoriginal titles. Just like how Venezuela means "Little Venice" and Argentina means "that place with all the silver" orz. Or something like. As for Portugal not wanting to let go...that's based off his struggles in the 20th century, where he spent most of it fighting to keep his Empire and her colonies. Also, yandere!Spain is BAMF. <3
4.Illness
The entire household is eerily quiet, to the point where it chills Gabriel to the bone. The air is hot, stifling almost, yet he rubs his hands together to spread the warmth. Arthur’s cigarette tin lies heavy and comforting in his right pocket; he keeps forgetting to give it back to him. Or to restock the case before he gives it back. He wets his lips against the paper of the tobacco stick, smoke curling around his head like a grotesque halo as he breathes with his eyes closed, fist curled tight around the door handle behind him, keeping it shut. The girls’ room is down the hall; he’d locked it this morning, making himself deaf to their quiet protests and walking away from their sobs, their pleads, their fever bright eyes. He distantly hears someone upending their bellies for perhaps the third time that day, now nothing but dry retching and drops his head back against the door. He thinks it might have been Vitoria that time.
The miasma of sickness permeates every hallway. It is cold and sterile and smells like a living death, slow and agonizing in its misery. But there is nothing for it but to ride out the plague. Only Rui had thus far been saved from its spell, and Gabriel made certain to keep him at the far end of the house whenever he could manage. The little Asian nation had complained, protesting loudly and inquiring about his siblings, but he had been stern. The humidity only seemed to make the illness linger; Dene had been feverish for days, Ines to the point of hallucinations. He did not understand why they were contracting it so quickly, but every day there was crying, mourning and weeping, and he watched the smoke thicken outside the window, the wheelbarrows pass piled high with bloated corpses being taken to the pits to be burned at once.
It was like being in the 14th century all over again.
“Why are you still standing out here?” He looks down. Luciano clings to the shirttails of one of the servants, rubbing his nose raw on his ruined sleeve. The question is dull in its curiosity; the boy can barely stand on his own feet and his eyes are swollen, cheeks pale, all cheer diminished. It is a pitiful sight. Gabriel sighs.
“Are you done?” he asks, and takes the boy’s proffered hand. Luciano stumbles into him, weak and exhausted and hot to the touch. Gabriel sucks in the tobacco smoke and breathes through his nose; it smells a damn sight better than the medicinal herbs that he’s had every one of his colonies rubbed down with. He lifts the child into his arms. “You’d better get the oatmeal,” he tells the servant, who bows and leaves them.
Arthur had been very kind in sending the grain over and he would have given anything for his company right now, for someone else to share the misery with. Leandro had already thrown up on him twice in this week alone, and Luciano had taken to scratching at his sores because they itched so much. He had cried when they bled and Gabriel had snapped at him and threatened to tie him down to the bed if he did not stop. He’d wrapped the boy’s hands in strips of cotton to prevent him from trying again, but the sores he had managed to worry would no doubt scar.
“Next time,” he tells his charge, turning around to open the door he had been leaning against, “when I tell you to go to the bathroom, you go.”
“But I didn’t need to go then,” Luciano argues, whines really, and rubs his nose all over Gabriel’s shoulder, getting mucus everywhere. He laments over yet another shirt he will have to burn once this nightmare is over with and shuts the door behind him with his heel. Leandro is huddled up in the corner shivering, his arms curled tight against his body. Sweat drips down his cheek. Gabriel gives him a long look as he passes, at Rui’s pristine bedding, untouched for weeks now and strange in its emptiness. Luciano’s bed is by the window, perfect he had learnt, for watching the trees, the stars, and consequently for sneaking out at night when he thought no one was looking. Now it was closed, sealed shut to prevent the stench from the fires coming in and making their lungs even worse than what they were.
He tucks Luciano against the crook of his arm and pulls the covers back. He lays the boy down. “I want to go outside,” he says petulantly, and gives Gabriel a hard, accusing look as though the whole mess was his fault. The problem was, in some part, he knew it was. He ignores the feeling and draws the covers back up.
“You’ll catch your death,” he replies, and puts out his cigarette in the tray on the boy’s bedside. “The longer you lie still the faster you’ll get better. I thought we talked about this.”
“Yeah we talked about it,” Luciano reminds him and curls back up like his brother next to him. “Three weeks ago. What’s taking so long? I hate this.” He looks close to tears again. Gabriel refrains from pinching the bridge of his nose.
“The illness has to run its course,” he says stiffly. “And you are not helping by running around the house annoying the servants and distressing your sisters -”
“But being sick is boring!” the boy protests. “I feel awful, and I think they do too. They’re always crying and you do nothing but hover around the hallways smoking that smelly stuff and pacing just because you’re the only one who isn’t sick, and you never visit and…”
Gabriel snaps. “What would you have me do?” he demands, and does not feel at all vindictive when Luciano shrinks back, mouth pursed and eyes mulish. “I am not God, Luciano. I do not decide who lives and dies, who contracts the disease and who is lucky enough to avoid it. People are dying out there and you had better be goddamn grateful that you’re not one of them.”
“They’re my people!” he says suddenly in a voice too hoarse to be a shout and too weak to do anything but glare daggers at Gabriel. “They’re my people and my family and they’re dying from a strange sickness you brought from across the sea! It’s all your fault!” He hiccups then, biting his lower lip as tears roll down his flushed face. “It’s all your fault!”
The words are like a knife, and for one wild moment Gabriel considers wrenching the boy out of bed and caning him, the illness be damned. Instead he stays his hand halfway, clenching into the sheets and when Luciano leans over, eyeing him warily, he bolts up and back, the chair scraping the floor. He does not look back at the boy, whose mouth drops half-open as if to call out to him, and almost scares the poor servant outside half to death, the packet of oatmeal and water for the tub in his hands.
Gabriel eyes him vaguely for a moment, as though wondering why he’s even standing there to begin with. “Give the boys their bath,” he says at last, tone flat and leaving no room for argument. “Then bundle them up and put them back to bed.”
He elbows past the man without waiting for a reply, down the hall and around the corner, Luciano’s distant call of “Gabi -” fading with him.
He finds a spot out of the way of the staff, the sounds; palms half-curled over his ears and his legs drawn close to his chest. He sits under the staircase, in the dark, and listens to the silence.
It had been centuries since he himself had taken ill, since the Great Plague had swept through Europe, poisoning them all in their beds. People had dropped dead like flies then too, ill on a sickness spread by vermin from the far eastern corners of the world. But this, this was different. Smallpox was a common illness; he never would have guessed it would spread like this, and so quickly. He had been in his late teens when the plague had reached Europe, so the experience was not one he could easily forget.
The sound of an old door creaking open, the dank, cool darkness of a cellar and the stifling silence, the weight of the pitch blackness crushing down on him until he had been blind to all his senses, and when he had regained himself long enough to demand his release, he had found the entire household dead and rotting upon his doorstep beyond. The buboes had swelled against the skin until the ached and seared with the pain through the haze of the fever and death had been inevitable. At least everyone had thought so; surely that had been the end of the world.
And outside, he realized, the world was ending all over again. For people who had not experienced it the first time.
Gabriel curled his hand over his wrist. He lights another cigarette for his nerves, fingers lingering over the engravings on the case as it snaps shut. The marks of the plague had long faded from everything but his memory.
He thinks of Arthur. He thinks of his people, his colonies; his children, who were upstairs right now coughing their lungs out and fading with each passing day. He closes his eyes.
He prays.
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The Black Death devastated Europe during the 14th century, killing millions of people. The disease was spread by rats that stowed away on ships bound from Asia. Contrary to that, Portugal gave many of his colonies, namely Brazil, a number of European illnesses, such as smallpox, when he colonised their shores. ....and in return they gave him syphillis orz. XD;
5. Bloodlines
The arrangement works out pretty well, he thinks. At least until Spain finds out. America learns this the hard way when he finds his own front door nearly coming back to smack him in the face as Portugal’s brother dives through it, looking outraged and aghast and about as far from laid back as he had ever seen him.
“Gabiiii!” He shouts and tears down the corridor before America can fully register what’s going on and wonder if this counts as an invasion. “Gabi, you promised! How could you!” There is another loud bang as he takes the stairs two at a time and he can only listen, completely baffled as Spain wrenches open his bedroom door and strides in.
Romano comes in off the veranda then, looking completely disgruntled. He gives America a look and wrinkles his nose a little. “Hooking up with the boss’s brother,” he says frankly. “I knew you had balls, but Christ.”
America raises his eyebrows. “But I didn’t -”
“Don’t bother lying you bastard. Feliciano told us all about it.” Fuck, gossip travelled through Europe like the plague. “I thought that jerk France was bad, but here you are bedding a married man -”
America was getting rather fed up with everyone treating England’s alliance to Portugal as a six hundred year old nuptial agreement and was just about to say so because it was seven in the fucking morning and it was too early for this but then there was a scream from upstairs and the house exploded in a cacophony of multilingual horror.
Portugal sounded furious. “Pelo amor de deus! What the fuck are you doing here, Tonio?!”
Spain was just mortified. “What the hell Gabi, what the hell?! Why is Inglaterra here too?”
It doesn’t help that England was yelling “Get out you bloody Spanish bastard!” either.
“Gabi, por favor! You’re lying in a bed of sin!”
“For your information Antonio I’m lying in a bed of high thread-count Egyptian cotton and was having a marvellous time of it until you came along and pulled it off!”
America could practically hear Spain flailing. “Does your Boss know about this?!”
…and Portugal turning his nose up at him. “You’ve got a lot of nerve getting high and mighty with me! I know what you do with France and that Prussian idiot!”
Romano’s eyes widened. His cheeks were bright red. “You bastard!” he exclaimed and then he was taking off upstairs too. “What the hell have you been up to?!”
Spain made a pained noise. “Lovi, don’t listen to him! It was a long time ago and it wasn’t like that! This is not about me!”
“God and the Queen!” England sounded on the verge of having an aneurysm. “Who else have you brought with you!? America!”
He stayed where he was. No way was he going up there and getting involved in what looked to be like another European war. Of course, this seemed to be too much for England’s sanity to bear, because five minutes later he was heard stomping out of the room and coming down the stairs in his dressing gown, looking harassed and utterly pink in the face as Spain went on,
“It’s bad enough you’re married to that English pirate, but you’re having America on the side too?!”
Portugal responded hotly, “Espanha so help me if you don’t get out of this room right now I’ll kick your arse right back to Madrid!”
Then Romano added his two cents, “You cheating son of a bitch!” which was followed by a thud that vaguely sounded like his foot in Spain’s ribs.
America was intrigued. “Are they always like this?” he asked, following England as he swept past into the kitchen. The British man snorted.
“This is nothing. You should have seen how bloody long it took me to get into an alliance with Port in the first place the way Spain dogs his every move.”
“Lovi, what are you doing? You’re supposed to be supporting me!”
“I can’t believe you, Antonio! Did you ever see me imposing on your time with Gilbert and Francis?”
“You’re just upset because they invited you to join in, Gabi!”
“Spain you bastard, what the hell is wrong with you?!”
America whistled, and grinned. “Must be awesome having such a lively family,” he said, just as what sounded like both Portugal and Southern Italy decking the Spanish nation drifted downstairs.
“Quite,” England replied with no small amount of sarcasm, and set about making a pot of tea.
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Ahahaha okay. This has nothing to do with history. I just wanted to write England/Portugal/America because it's one of my experimental OT3s. <3 Spain does not approve, but that's nothing new.
6. Pent Up Frustrations
He doesn’t know how they can even begin calling it a relationship but it is one, no matter what anyone said otherwise. They kiss and touch each other with gentle reverent fingers and when England drops his forehead against Portugal’s and invites him up to his rooms for the night, well, he finds it hard to refuse. It’s his stubborn sense of hope that keeps him going really, because tonight they could, they might finally - well it couldn’t go on forever could it?
When he undresses and crawls into bed, England follows; manoeuvres himself on top of Portugal and draws his curls away from his forehead, searches his face with his eyes and kisses him slow and deep. Portugal sighs, clings, grips his tunic and begs without words - tonight, let it be tonight. The heat coils, then breaks as England pulls away, and he’s flushed all the way to his toes; can’t even look Portugal in the eye as he murmurs “Good night” and retreats to his side of the bed. He curls up with his back facing him and Portugal groans into his pillow, pulls it over his head and tries not to make any more sound than that.
This is not what lovers did. But this is their relationship. Portugal is willing to wait. He’s been waiting for a near two hundred years now. He pulls his own limbs closer to him and stares into the darkness, listens to England’s breathing behind him and tries not to go insane with want. He’ll head for the Indies tomorrow, and he hopes that the Ottoman Empire will be there. He could use the distraction.
And when he comes home nothing will have changed, but all the same he’ll press his folded hands against his lips and pray, “Let it be tonight.”
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After screwing up their first attempt to have sex, England remained too tsundere to ever go below the belt with Portugal, much to the latter's chagrin. So he took his frustrations out on the Ottoman Empire by battling him for sovereignty of the Indian Ocean. They wouldn't have sex again until Portugal introduced tea to the English court. XD
7. Waiting For You
When he had first started to sit by the docks the women had looked at him strangely. They of course, had come to be in the company of fellow widows and wives left behind while their husbands were at sea, so they could not fathom what a young, able-bodied man was trying to accomplish by doing the same. He sang sometimes, beautiful melodies that made their hearts ache, but he would just smile to himself and scratch his nose with the feather of his quill, jotting down notes amongst sheets of parchment, curled at the edges from the sea salt. He was in a world of his own they sometimes thought, but he was well-dressed and seemed highly educated, and so they did not question him. For weeks they did not approach him, thinking that he would go away when he grew bored, but he did not. And so they wondered until they could no longer stand not knowing.
“Senhor, why do you come here every day?” one of the elder widows asked at last. The man did not look up from his work, but his smile crooked a little in one corner as though amused.
“The same reason you do madame,” he said serenely and set a stack of letters on the bench next to him. The women were surprised.
“For your lover to return from across the sea perhaps?” one of the younger ones joked, and when the man glanced up at them they saw the twinkle in his hazel eyes.
“Yes,” he replied fondly. “Something like that.” They wondered if their husbands ever thought of them while they were away; wondered if they ever seemed to glow like the one sitting before their eyes, as though love were a treasure, a miracle in itself. It was almost too poetic to imagine.
“You’ve been waiting all this time?” another wanted to know, touched by the romance the man seemed to possess. There was something old and nostalgic about the way he laughed, as though wise beyond his years. But that was impossible; he didn’t look a day over his early twenties.
“I’ve been waiting for a very long time,” the man said thoughtfully, turning his head as another ship pulled into the harbour. His eyes lit up. “And I think I finally get it. Love, that is.” The foreign vessel drew up alongside the dock, union jack fluttering in the breeze. The young man got to his feet. “If you would excuse me senhoras.” They watched him take off towards the port at a run. The widow chuckled to herself.
“Ah, to be a young man in love,” she sighed. And, questions answered, they turned away to talk about other business, and so did not see the young man reunite with an English sea captain, who promptly exclaimed some colourful British curse as he was accosted and the momentum caused them both to topple into the harbour with a resounding splash. They broke to the surface; Portugal’s smile could have lit up an entire hall.
“Welcome back Inglaterra,” he whispered, and kissed him, sea water, salt and all.
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Idk I just like imagining Port waiting for England's ship to pull into the harbour. After all, it's said that saudade partly originated from the longing sailor's wives felt waiting for their husbands to come home from sea. XD
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A/N: I had so many of these drabble-like fics waiting in the wings I decided to just post them all in one go and to hell with it. Now I can stop worrying about them. BD
Characters/Pairings: England, Portugal, Spain, South Italy, Turkey, America, various pairings.
Rating: R
Warning: Mentions of a threesome pairing in one prompt. Implied sex.
Summary: Love in all its shapes and forms, both fantastic and fail. Based on various prompts.
Part 1
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1. Honeymoon
His first thought on the matter is that Portugal is naked. He’s stripped and lying on his belly amongst the sheets and he’s smiling, tender and soft and hugging a pillow under his chin whilst he undresses England with his eyes. After that he finds it quite impossible to have any second thoughts on the matter, other than to swallow hard and sit back in the chair at the foot of the bed because he doesn’t trust his knees to hold out on him. Portugal’s eyes laugh at him from under dark curls and he looks so comfortable that England isn’t quite sure where to begin.
“Are you coming to bed, meu caro?” Gabriel teases, propping his face up in his hands. “You’re not getting cold feet, I hope. It’s a little late for that.” He laughs and stretches in the sheets and looks thoroughly appealing as he rolls on his back and offers his hands to Arthur, beckoning him closer. He seems so comfortable in his own skin that for a moment, England wonders at how many lovers Portugal has had before this. It strikes him that he never thought to ask. Rome had been fond of touching but France had been the first nation he had given himself over to and that had been an absolute disaster. Well. Francis wasn’t Gabriel but that was beside the point. He didn’t want to screw up with Portugal over something as ridiculous as sexual prowess. Prowess which he lacked. Though he didn’t think Portugal would laugh, there was a first time for everything.
Oh, god.
“You’re awfully eager,” he observes and slides out of his seat to join Portugal on the bed, taking off his boots as he went until he was down to his tunic and leggings. He lay down on his side next to the Iberian nation and started tracing his fingers across the sun-kissed skin and into Portugal’s hair, petting him with careful deliberation.
“You’re not?” Portugal remarks lazily and arches, his palm sliding down England’s back when he leans in to drop kisses against his neck. He pulls him up by his collar and smirks in his face, dragging Arthur down on top of him to kiss. “Quickly now, Inglaterra. Before my brother comes to his senses and tries to break down my door with a battering ram.”
England kisses him back, cups Portugal’s face in his hands and runs his mouth over his throat as his mind whirls. He wonders how fast Gabriel expects things to escalate, though by then Portugal is already grinding up slowly against him, kissing his nose and pushing his hair out of his face, looking pleased and flushed and increasingly aroused. He hopes he doesn’t expect to be satisfied within minutes because he really doesn’t know where to put his hands as it is, and looking at him like that wasn’t really helping any.
He suddenly dreaded what Portugal expected. How did he like to be kissed? Where were all his tender spots? Did he like it fast or slow and would he be terribly offended if England got it wrong? Portugal was from the same fold as France after all, and he’d seen the way he carried on. The wine freak still did crude impressions sometimes just to get on his nerves.
Portugal slides his hand under his tunic. England squirms and drags his foot against the bed. He wonders how he’ll compete. Portugal pulls it up off his head and rakes his nails gently down his chest. England shuffles and moans and lies on his side wondering at his experience. But Portugal is too close and he’s too light-headed so when he shuffles back and Portugal crawls after him he just keeps doing it in the hope he will stop and give him some air. He doesn’t. So by the time Portugal pushes him down with his hand and climbs on top they’ve already circumnavigated the bed. He whispers hot and low in England’s ear, promising, pleading, wanting and for the life of him he doesn’t know how to live up to that. He panics.
“Port -”
“Inglaterra,” Gabriel murmurs and leans in while Arthur rears back and really, it shouldn’t be surprising when they run out of mattress, but then England topples arse over tit off the edge and Portugal falls on top of him. They lie there in surprised silence on the floor, staring at each other with the sensual mood shattered and England doesn’t know what’s worse; this or the time Portugal had rubbed ointment on his back and nuzzled the back of his neck, after which he’d had to bolt from the room sporting a rather noticeable erection.
The coverlet lazily slips off the side and falls on them. Portugal stares at him. And England covers his eyes with his forearms and groans and decides to throw himself off the balcony to save them both from embarrassment. Gabriel huffs. He does this a few more times before he gives in and snorts, and before long he’s outright laughing, just like England imagined he would.
“Gab, I can explain -” he says wearily and doesn’t even know how to begin telling Portugal how worth it he is, that he’s not ready to be hormonal and teenage over this and fuck their chances. He grimaces when Portugal pulls his arms away from his face. But Gabriel is smiling. He’s smiling like it’s his goddamn wedding day and England is so taken aback he just gapes at him.
“Oh Inglaterra,” he breathes, and nuzzles his nose against England’s cheek. “If you just wanted to cuddle you only had to say so.” They do, and he hides his face against Portugal’s chest because he doesn’t trust himself to look at him without going as red as the cross on his flag. He can still feel Portugal’s smile against his hair.
“You don’t mind?” he ventures warily. Portugal holds him closer.
“It’s not so much the sex as it is the company,” he admits and when he rolls on the bed with England in his arms, kissing all over his reddened cheeks he suddenly wants to be everything Portugal expects from him. And more.
“Besides,” Portugal says from under him and brings him down for a long, slow kiss. “It’s not as if you’re going anywhere. We have all the time in the world.”
It is both a blatant demand and a promise and England wants more than anything to believe it.
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A few nights after the Windsor Treaty (1386) was signed, Portugal and England tried to consolidate their relationship. With disastrous results. They wouldn't try again for another 300 years orz.
2. Happy additions
When Turkey turns up at his doorstep it is mostly a knee-jerk reaction coupled by centuries of the bastard turning up in places he least suspects that makes Portugal glare at him and demand,
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“You can pretend all you like that you ain’t happy to see me melek, but I know you better,” the Turk grins, and shifts a bundle under his arm. “I need a favour.” Portugal rolls his eyes.
“And what makes you think I’m going to -” he begins and pauses when he gets a good look at what the Turk is holding. His eyes widen and simultaneously narrow. “Oh, no. Oh no, no, no. You’re not serious. You wouldn’t dare. You can’t expect me to drop everything and -”
Turkey sighs impatiently. “Look Jibrail I don’t have any goddamn time for this right now. The G20 Summit is in a few hours and I have to get to your English husband’s place ASAP.” He subsequently shoves a frowning child he’s holding out under the armpits in Portugal’s face. The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus frowns back at him. “The brat won’t take him and I don’t trust that shifty bastard to not try anything when he’s alone either. Just hold on to him for a bit, would ya?” Portugal scowls.
“Do I look like a babysitter to you?” he demands and throws his hands up. Someone tugs on his sleeve. He looks down to find Sealand looking up at him imploringly.
“Hey Port, do you have any of those egg tarts left? “ Portugal sighs, deflates and pinches the bridge of his nose. He turns his back on Turkey’s growing smirk and ushers the boy back into the house with a pat on the head.
“Go ask Espanha, there’s a good boy. He should be lurking out the back as usual and he raids my pantries often enough to know where everything is anyway.” The boy grins.
“Wicked! You’re the best, Port. So much cooler than that jerk England at any rate.” He disappears around the corner. Portugal purses his lips and whirls around again, looking mulishly at Turkey, who gives him a look of complete innocence.
“Don’t say it,” Portugal growls. Turkey shrugged, hefted the child in his hands up higher and gave him a pointed look. “…Okay, fine, I’m a glorified babysitter. Go and have fun at your meeting or whatever it is you world powers do these days. But you owe me.” And he holds his arms out reluctantly for the largely unrecognized nation. Turkey’s grin widens.
“Allah Portekiz, you’re a lifesaver,” he says and drops the child into the crook of Portugal’s arm. TRNC gives him a look of almost certain betrayal. Turkey ruffles his hair. “Don’t make that face, kiddo. I’ll be back before you know it, I promise. So behave for my melek okay?”
Portugal scowls. “How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that ridiculous -”
The Turk pulls him in for a searing kiss that honestly, Portugal thought, bore no repeating in front of children. “How about I make it up to you tonight?” he offers. Portugal stares at him.
“I’m not looking after your kid for sexual favours,” he started to hiss, but Turkey just kisses him again. He considers the persuasion. England had pretty much done the same thing when he had dragged Sealand over and had promised Portugal dates and kisses and all sorts of romantic things that had sent his heart aflutter. He pushed Turkey away with his free hand.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, feeling more than a little bit used, and shuts the door in his face. He sets TRNC on the floor and sends him off after Sealand, and thank god the kid understands English, because Portugal couldn’t speak Turkish for the life of him and he was not about to start. His brother pokes his head around the corner, adjusting a crooked tie and wearing Portugal’s best suit. He glares at him. The effect bounces right off, as usual.
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay with two kids running around Gabi?” he asks and Portugal scoffs, leaning against the doorframe.
“We’ve both had to juggle handfuls of colonies in the past, Tonio. What’s a couple of unrecognized nations?” The sound of breaking porcelain echoes from the kitchen. Portugal’s knuckles whiten against the doorknob. Spain opens his mouth. “Don’t say it,” his brother said tightly. “Now get out of my house. And you’d better do a good job of representing the rest of us at the summit because I want my suit back in the exact condition you stole it.”
Spain grins. “You know I could always send for the Canary Islands or Ceuta if you need help. Or you could ask Azores and Madeira to -”
“I’m not running a daycare centre,” Portugal says flatly and ushers him out. He runs his hand over his face. It’s been years since he had to take care of children but there was no harm to it, right? They were good kids.
Another crash comes from inside the house. Sealand swears something awful in English that he no doubt learned from Arthur. TRNC says something he can’t fully hear, but it makes the other boy squawk,
“What?! You are not more recognised than me! I have a king and everything!”
There was a pause. Then,
“What do you mean that doesn’t count?!”
Portugal sighs as he goes after them and tries not to miss his days of Empire.
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TRNC is more recognized that Sealand for the sole fact that his papa Turkey recognizes him as a nation. I think it was mentioned in the Trading Cards, but because of this, the two of them are rivals. XD Though Spain is not part of the G20 he was invited to come and play with the cool kids by France during the 2008 summit.
3.Children
It is only typical that Spain should arrive during the most difficult part of the day. Granted he had only been next door to begin with but Portugal, for the most part, was still mystified as to how his brother managed to bypass every lock and bolt he had put in place. And what was worse was that he had arrived with enough children to fill a dozen baskets or so in tow. They cling to his back, sit on his shoulders, swing on his arms and curl their fists into his clothes and everywhere he looks Portugal is seeing young, round-faced colonies stuck to his glowing brother like tiny burrs.
“Hola!” Spain calls out cheerfully and waves his hand, effectively lifting one of his colonies off the ground as he did so. Portugal stared at him, Brazil under one arm and Macau under the other, and a moment ago they were tearing into each other over who would get to have the last of the sweets and he had been trying to pry them apart, but now they slackened in his grip, both turning wide eyes on Spain. Cape Verde looked on from the stool she had propped by the stove to stir tonight’s dinner. Her hand was pressed tightly over her mouth and Portugal was almost certain that she was laughing. He doesn’t blame her; he’s never seen his brother look so ridiculous, and that was really saying a lot. He hears quiet snickers from the rest of his colonies.
Portugal gives his brother a helpless glowering. “What on earth?” is all he manages to say, and doesn’t ask how Spain managed to get into his house again, because some things were better left unsaid. His brother looks over his kids and pouts, making a sound of discontent.
“Ahh, hermano it’s not fair. Why do you have so many pretty chicas?” He winks at the girls, who nudge each other and continue giggling amongst themselves. Portugal sincerely hopes they are laughing at him and are not taken in by his cheerful charm. That would be the last thing he needed; his colonies having a crush on his Spanish, empire-stealing brother. He suddenly wished he had more boys.
“What are you doing here, Tonio?” he sighed, and hefted his youngest boys up off their feet and into his arms. Macau gave Spain a frighteningly frosty look that had them all pause momentarily to see if he might lunge out and bite his brother’s hands off, but then the little Asian nation lost interest and turned his head into Portugal’s shoulder, pressing his nose against his collarbone. They all relaxed.
“I just wanted to visit, that’s all. I should be allowed to visit my favourite brother right?” Spain replied and grinned. Portugal rolled his eyes and did not mention that he was Spain’s only brother, both fortunately and unfortunately. “And, look! Look. I named my kids, just like you did.”
“I hope it’s not something stupid for your sake,” Portugal replied and shook his head. Brazil had tucked his head under his chin and was peering under his lashes at the pretty blonde child sitting on Spain’s shoulders. They seemed to be engaged in some kind of staring contest. Brazil ruined the stillness of the moment by grinning at the boy, who promptly glared at him and in a move that reminded Portugal strikingly of Romano, puffed his cheeks and looked away. Brazil stuck his tongue out at him. Portugal pinched his ear between his thumb and forefinger.
“Manners,” he chided warningly. “Or I’ll wash your mouth with soap.” The child made a face at him and sulked. Spain laughed.
“Aww Gabi, look. He’s just like you when you were little.” Portugal snorted.
“Hardly,” he said. “At least you and I had some sense of propriety. This one used to eat his own kind before I got to him.” He gestured at the boy in his arms, who went from moping to smiling beatifically at Spain as though Portugal had just payed him a compliment. He briefly wondered if there would be any benefits of teaching sarcasm to the child. England seemed to have made an art out of it.
“You used to go head-hunting with Irlanda, I don’t see how that’s -”
“Just say what you came here to say and leave. Please,” Portugal said sharply, not liking how the children had perked up at that. They were the civilized adults here; there was no need to go into that embarrassing pre-pubescent nonsense. Spain shrugged.
“Okay, okay. Get this. You named Brasil for his brazilwood, right? And Cabo Verde for being so green?” He beamed at Portugal and paused for what his brother thought was an attempt at a dramatic effect before gesturing at his colonies dramatically, “Well then you’ll love this. Venezuela.” He patted the knee of the boy Brazil had been staring at, “Argentina.” And he went on, “This is Uruguay. And Peru. This one’s Chile, that’s Colombia, and this is Panama and Equador!”
And that wasn’t even all of them, Portugal thought, looking at his brother’s brood with raised eyebrows. He waited for Spain to continue, but he just gave him an expectant look. Portugal blinked back at him. The silence stretched between them. Finally he ventured, “…but what are their names?”
Spain gave him an equally blank look. “Those are their names!” he protested, scrunching up his nose and eyeing his brother as though he were the weird one. “Doesn’t she look just like our little Feli?” he lifted Venezuela up under the armpits and pouted at Portugal. “And this is the one with all the silver,” he added, glancing up at Argentina, who gave him a mulish sort of scoff in response. “What else was I supposed to call him?”
“What indeed,” Portugal muttered. “Leandro, don’t stare at Tio Antonio,” he said over his shoulder, not deterring Guinea-Bissau in the slightest. “It’s not his fault he’s moronic.”
“Hey!”
Portugal gave him a withering look. “Vitória be a dear and get your brothers and sisters ready for dinner,” he said and Cape Verde nodded, herding a wide-eyed Mozambique and Angola back towards the table. He raised an eyebrow at Spain. “You can’t seriously be thinking of calling them that their whole lives, can you?” he wanted to know.
Spain scowled a little. “That’s easy for you to say, hermano,” he shot back. “I have more of them than you do, you know. This way, it keeps things simple and -”
“How are they supposed to address themselves to the people that wander in and out of your house?” he demanded. “You don’t go around calling yourself Espanha in front of your court, do you?”
“Well no, but…”
“People will start asking questions eventually Toni, you can’t keep spinning stories or insist they have wild imaginations forever - stay still menino,” Portugal said sharply, shifting from foot to foot to heave Brazil up higher into his arms. He had started to squirm, already bored with the conversation.
Spain blinked. “Why not?” in such a blatantly surprised manner that Portugal made a frustrated noise in his throat and turned to tell him off, proper.
“Because -” he stressed the word, but his brother just shook his head and shrugged.
“They’re only colonies, hermano.”
Portugal found that it was now his turn to stare. “They’re children.” Spain scratched the back of his neck, once more lifting one of the little ones dangling on his arms off the floor. He looked uncomfortable.
“Well yeah,” he began. “We were once too, you know. That’s normal for nations their age. But that doesn’t mean they are. You know…like human children. Don’t look at me like that hermano.” He sighed when Portugal narrowed his eyes disbelievingly at him.
“Espanha,” he said shortly, “I don’t think you understand. We feed them; we clothe them and educate them. We look after their best interests. We take care of them just like others took care of us.” He frowned. “How is that any different from looking after a child?”
“Oh it differs in a lot of ways,” Spain said cheerfully, his arms tightening marginally around his colonies. “You remember what it was like growing up, don’t you? They have gold they fashion into pagan idols that they worship as they plunder our people and spread disease and if we don’t crush them into submission they’ll -”
“That’s enough!” Portugal said sharply, and was struck by the way his own voice cracked at the end as the darkness thickened and deepened, then ultimately faded from his brother’s green eyes. He sucked in a slow breath, aware that all the colonies were watching them now in blatant fascination. “That’s enough,” he said again and glared at his brother. “This is not like before, do you hear me? That will never happen again, and this…this is nothing like that time. This is for their own good. We have a responsibility to them, to our people, and to the crown.”
Spain smiled mildly. “Well of course they are all of those things,” he said. “But don’t be mistaken, hermano. Giving something a name denotes attachment. You don’t want to end up like Hārūn, do you?”
“Get out,” Portugal said lowly, his heart pounding against his chest. “How could you even say - get out of my house irmão. Go before I throw you out the door.”
His brother shrugged expansively. “Your loss,” he sighed. “They’re just colonies, hermano.” He paused as he went out the door, dragging his brood behind him like accessories he had won; territories in both name and appearance. But it was his next words that would haunt him in the centuries to come.
“You ought to remember that, before it becomes too hard to let go.”
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Hārūn is the name of Al-Andalus, the Islamic ruler of Spain and Portugal, whom the brothers spent a good 800 years trying to get off their land. This was based on a discussion I had where Spain was too lazy to give all his colonies human names, so he just stuck with unoriginal titles. Just like how Venezuela means "Little Venice" and Argentina means "that place with all the silver" orz. Or something like. As for Portugal not wanting to let go...that's based off his struggles in the 20th century, where he spent most of it fighting to keep his Empire and her colonies. Also, yandere!Spain is BAMF. <3
4.Illness
The entire household is eerily quiet, to the point where it chills Gabriel to the bone. The air is hot, stifling almost, yet he rubs his hands together to spread the warmth. Arthur’s cigarette tin lies heavy and comforting in his right pocket; he keeps forgetting to give it back to him. Or to restock the case before he gives it back. He wets his lips against the paper of the tobacco stick, smoke curling around his head like a grotesque halo as he breathes with his eyes closed, fist curled tight around the door handle behind him, keeping it shut. The girls’ room is down the hall; he’d locked it this morning, making himself deaf to their quiet protests and walking away from their sobs, their pleads, their fever bright eyes. He distantly hears someone upending their bellies for perhaps the third time that day, now nothing but dry retching and drops his head back against the door. He thinks it might have been Vitoria that time.
The miasma of sickness permeates every hallway. It is cold and sterile and smells like a living death, slow and agonizing in its misery. But there is nothing for it but to ride out the plague. Only Rui had thus far been saved from its spell, and Gabriel made certain to keep him at the far end of the house whenever he could manage. The little Asian nation had complained, protesting loudly and inquiring about his siblings, but he had been stern. The humidity only seemed to make the illness linger; Dene had been feverish for days, Ines to the point of hallucinations. He did not understand why they were contracting it so quickly, but every day there was crying, mourning and weeping, and he watched the smoke thicken outside the window, the wheelbarrows pass piled high with bloated corpses being taken to the pits to be burned at once.
It was like being in the 14th century all over again.
“Why are you still standing out here?” He looks down. Luciano clings to the shirttails of one of the servants, rubbing his nose raw on his ruined sleeve. The question is dull in its curiosity; the boy can barely stand on his own feet and his eyes are swollen, cheeks pale, all cheer diminished. It is a pitiful sight. Gabriel sighs.
“Are you done?” he asks, and takes the boy’s proffered hand. Luciano stumbles into him, weak and exhausted and hot to the touch. Gabriel sucks in the tobacco smoke and breathes through his nose; it smells a damn sight better than the medicinal herbs that he’s had every one of his colonies rubbed down with. He lifts the child into his arms. “You’d better get the oatmeal,” he tells the servant, who bows and leaves them.
Arthur had been very kind in sending the grain over and he would have given anything for his company right now, for someone else to share the misery with. Leandro had already thrown up on him twice in this week alone, and Luciano had taken to scratching at his sores because they itched so much. He had cried when they bled and Gabriel had snapped at him and threatened to tie him down to the bed if he did not stop. He’d wrapped the boy’s hands in strips of cotton to prevent him from trying again, but the sores he had managed to worry would no doubt scar.
“Next time,” he tells his charge, turning around to open the door he had been leaning against, “when I tell you to go to the bathroom, you go.”
“But I didn’t need to go then,” Luciano argues, whines really, and rubs his nose all over Gabriel’s shoulder, getting mucus everywhere. He laments over yet another shirt he will have to burn once this nightmare is over with and shuts the door behind him with his heel. Leandro is huddled up in the corner shivering, his arms curled tight against his body. Sweat drips down his cheek. Gabriel gives him a long look as he passes, at Rui’s pristine bedding, untouched for weeks now and strange in its emptiness. Luciano’s bed is by the window, perfect he had learnt, for watching the trees, the stars, and consequently for sneaking out at night when he thought no one was looking. Now it was closed, sealed shut to prevent the stench from the fires coming in and making their lungs even worse than what they were.
He tucks Luciano against the crook of his arm and pulls the covers back. He lays the boy down. “I want to go outside,” he says petulantly, and gives Gabriel a hard, accusing look as though the whole mess was his fault. The problem was, in some part, he knew it was. He ignores the feeling and draws the covers back up.
“You’ll catch your death,” he replies, and puts out his cigarette in the tray on the boy’s bedside. “The longer you lie still the faster you’ll get better. I thought we talked about this.”
“Yeah we talked about it,” Luciano reminds him and curls back up like his brother next to him. “Three weeks ago. What’s taking so long? I hate this.” He looks close to tears again. Gabriel refrains from pinching the bridge of his nose.
“The illness has to run its course,” he says stiffly. “And you are not helping by running around the house annoying the servants and distressing your sisters -”
“But being sick is boring!” the boy protests. “I feel awful, and I think they do too. They’re always crying and you do nothing but hover around the hallways smoking that smelly stuff and pacing just because you’re the only one who isn’t sick, and you never visit and…”
Gabriel snaps. “What would you have me do?” he demands, and does not feel at all vindictive when Luciano shrinks back, mouth pursed and eyes mulish. “I am not God, Luciano. I do not decide who lives and dies, who contracts the disease and who is lucky enough to avoid it. People are dying out there and you had better be goddamn grateful that you’re not one of them.”
“They’re my people!” he says suddenly in a voice too hoarse to be a shout and too weak to do anything but glare daggers at Gabriel. “They’re my people and my family and they’re dying from a strange sickness you brought from across the sea! It’s all your fault!” He hiccups then, biting his lower lip as tears roll down his flushed face. “It’s all your fault!”
The words are like a knife, and for one wild moment Gabriel considers wrenching the boy out of bed and caning him, the illness be damned. Instead he stays his hand halfway, clenching into the sheets and when Luciano leans over, eyeing him warily, he bolts up and back, the chair scraping the floor. He does not look back at the boy, whose mouth drops half-open as if to call out to him, and almost scares the poor servant outside half to death, the packet of oatmeal and water for the tub in his hands.
Gabriel eyes him vaguely for a moment, as though wondering why he’s even standing there to begin with. “Give the boys their bath,” he says at last, tone flat and leaving no room for argument. “Then bundle them up and put them back to bed.”
He elbows past the man without waiting for a reply, down the hall and around the corner, Luciano’s distant call of “Gabi -” fading with him.
He finds a spot out of the way of the staff, the sounds; palms half-curled over his ears and his legs drawn close to his chest. He sits under the staircase, in the dark, and listens to the silence.
It had been centuries since he himself had taken ill, since the Great Plague had swept through Europe, poisoning them all in their beds. People had dropped dead like flies then too, ill on a sickness spread by vermin from the far eastern corners of the world. But this, this was different. Smallpox was a common illness; he never would have guessed it would spread like this, and so quickly. He had been in his late teens when the plague had reached Europe, so the experience was not one he could easily forget.
The sound of an old door creaking open, the dank, cool darkness of a cellar and the stifling silence, the weight of the pitch blackness crushing down on him until he had been blind to all his senses, and when he had regained himself long enough to demand his release, he had found the entire household dead and rotting upon his doorstep beyond. The buboes had swelled against the skin until the ached and seared with the pain through the haze of the fever and death had been inevitable. At least everyone had thought so; surely that had been the end of the world.
And outside, he realized, the world was ending all over again. For people who had not experienced it the first time.
Gabriel curled his hand over his wrist. He lights another cigarette for his nerves, fingers lingering over the engravings on the case as it snaps shut. The marks of the plague had long faded from everything but his memory.
He thinks of Arthur. He thinks of his people, his colonies; his children, who were upstairs right now coughing their lungs out and fading with each passing day. He closes his eyes.
He prays.
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The Black Death devastated Europe during the 14th century, killing millions of people. The disease was spread by rats that stowed away on ships bound from Asia. Contrary to that, Portugal gave many of his colonies, namely Brazil, a number of European illnesses, such as smallpox, when he colonised their shores. ....and in return they gave him syphillis orz. XD;
5. Bloodlines
The arrangement works out pretty well, he thinks. At least until Spain finds out. America learns this the hard way when he finds his own front door nearly coming back to smack him in the face as Portugal’s brother dives through it, looking outraged and aghast and about as far from laid back as he had ever seen him.
“Gabiiii!” He shouts and tears down the corridor before America can fully register what’s going on and wonder if this counts as an invasion. “Gabi, you promised! How could you!” There is another loud bang as he takes the stairs two at a time and he can only listen, completely baffled as Spain wrenches open his bedroom door and strides in.
Romano comes in off the veranda then, looking completely disgruntled. He gives America a look and wrinkles his nose a little. “Hooking up with the boss’s brother,” he says frankly. “I knew you had balls, but Christ.”
America raises his eyebrows. “But I didn’t -”
“Don’t bother lying you bastard. Feliciano told us all about it.” Fuck, gossip travelled through Europe like the plague. “I thought that jerk France was bad, but here you are bedding a married man -”
America was getting rather fed up with everyone treating England’s alliance to Portugal as a six hundred year old nuptial agreement and was just about to say so because it was seven in the fucking morning and it was too early for this but then there was a scream from upstairs and the house exploded in a cacophony of multilingual horror.
Portugal sounded furious. “Pelo amor de deus! What the fuck are you doing here, Tonio?!”
Spain was just mortified. “What the hell Gabi, what the hell?! Why is Inglaterra here too?”
It doesn’t help that England was yelling “Get out you bloody Spanish bastard!” either.
“Gabi, por favor! You’re lying in a bed of sin!”
“For your information Antonio I’m lying in a bed of high thread-count Egyptian cotton and was having a marvellous time of it until you came along and pulled it off!”
America could practically hear Spain flailing. “Does your Boss know about this?!”
…and Portugal turning his nose up at him. “You’ve got a lot of nerve getting high and mighty with me! I know what you do with France and that Prussian idiot!”
Romano’s eyes widened. His cheeks were bright red. “You bastard!” he exclaimed and then he was taking off upstairs too. “What the hell have you been up to?!”
Spain made a pained noise. “Lovi, don’t listen to him! It was a long time ago and it wasn’t like that! This is not about me!”
“God and the Queen!” England sounded on the verge of having an aneurysm. “Who else have you brought with you!? America!”
He stayed where he was. No way was he going up there and getting involved in what looked to be like another European war. Of course, this seemed to be too much for England’s sanity to bear, because five minutes later he was heard stomping out of the room and coming down the stairs in his dressing gown, looking harassed and utterly pink in the face as Spain went on,
“It’s bad enough you’re married to that English pirate, but you’re having America on the side too?!”
Portugal responded hotly, “Espanha so help me if you don’t get out of this room right now I’ll kick your arse right back to Madrid!”
Then Romano added his two cents, “You cheating son of a bitch!” which was followed by a thud that vaguely sounded like his foot in Spain’s ribs.
America was intrigued. “Are they always like this?” he asked, following England as he swept past into the kitchen. The British man snorted.
“This is nothing. You should have seen how bloody long it took me to get into an alliance with Port in the first place the way Spain dogs his every move.”
“Lovi, what are you doing? You’re supposed to be supporting me!”
“I can’t believe you, Antonio! Did you ever see me imposing on your time with Gilbert and Francis?”
“You’re just upset because they invited you to join in, Gabi!”
“Spain you bastard, what the hell is wrong with you?!”
America whistled, and grinned. “Must be awesome having such a lively family,” he said, just as what sounded like both Portugal and Southern Italy decking the Spanish nation drifted downstairs.
“Quite,” England replied with no small amount of sarcasm, and set about making a pot of tea.
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Ahahaha okay. This has nothing to do with history. I just wanted to write England/Portugal/America because it's one of my experimental OT3s. <3 Spain does not approve, but that's nothing new.
6. Pent Up Frustrations
He doesn’t know how they can even begin calling it a relationship but it is one, no matter what anyone said otherwise. They kiss and touch each other with gentle reverent fingers and when England drops his forehead against Portugal’s and invites him up to his rooms for the night, well, he finds it hard to refuse. It’s his stubborn sense of hope that keeps him going really, because tonight they could, they might finally - well it couldn’t go on forever could it?
When he undresses and crawls into bed, England follows; manoeuvres himself on top of Portugal and draws his curls away from his forehead, searches his face with his eyes and kisses him slow and deep. Portugal sighs, clings, grips his tunic and begs without words - tonight, let it be tonight. The heat coils, then breaks as England pulls away, and he’s flushed all the way to his toes; can’t even look Portugal in the eye as he murmurs “Good night” and retreats to his side of the bed. He curls up with his back facing him and Portugal groans into his pillow, pulls it over his head and tries not to make any more sound than that.
This is not what lovers did. But this is their relationship. Portugal is willing to wait. He’s been waiting for a near two hundred years now. He pulls his own limbs closer to him and stares into the darkness, listens to England’s breathing behind him and tries not to go insane with want. He’ll head for the Indies tomorrow, and he hopes that the Ottoman Empire will be there. He could use the distraction.
And when he comes home nothing will have changed, but all the same he’ll press his folded hands against his lips and pray, “Let it be tonight.”
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After screwing up their first attempt to have sex, England remained too tsundere to ever go below the belt with Portugal, much to the latter's chagrin. So he took his frustrations out on the Ottoman Empire by battling him for sovereignty of the Indian Ocean. They wouldn't have sex again until Portugal introduced tea to the English court. XD
7. Waiting For You
When he had first started to sit by the docks the women had looked at him strangely. They of course, had come to be in the company of fellow widows and wives left behind while their husbands were at sea, so they could not fathom what a young, able-bodied man was trying to accomplish by doing the same. He sang sometimes, beautiful melodies that made their hearts ache, but he would just smile to himself and scratch his nose with the feather of his quill, jotting down notes amongst sheets of parchment, curled at the edges from the sea salt. He was in a world of his own they sometimes thought, but he was well-dressed and seemed highly educated, and so they did not question him. For weeks they did not approach him, thinking that he would go away when he grew bored, but he did not. And so they wondered until they could no longer stand not knowing.
“Senhor, why do you come here every day?” one of the elder widows asked at last. The man did not look up from his work, but his smile crooked a little in one corner as though amused.
“The same reason you do madame,” he said serenely and set a stack of letters on the bench next to him. The women were surprised.
“For your lover to return from across the sea perhaps?” one of the younger ones joked, and when the man glanced up at them they saw the twinkle in his hazel eyes.
“Yes,” he replied fondly. “Something like that.” They wondered if their husbands ever thought of them while they were away; wondered if they ever seemed to glow like the one sitting before their eyes, as though love were a treasure, a miracle in itself. It was almost too poetic to imagine.
“You’ve been waiting all this time?” another wanted to know, touched by the romance the man seemed to possess. There was something old and nostalgic about the way he laughed, as though wise beyond his years. But that was impossible; he didn’t look a day over his early twenties.
“I’ve been waiting for a very long time,” the man said thoughtfully, turning his head as another ship pulled into the harbour. His eyes lit up. “And I think I finally get it. Love, that is.” The foreign vessel drew up alongside the dock, union jack fluttering in the breeze. The young man got to his feet. “If you would excuse me senhoras.” They watched him take off towards the port at a run. The widow chuckled to herself.
“Ah, to be a young man in love,” she sighed. And, questions answered, they turned away to talk about other business, and so did not see the young man reunite with an English sea captain, who promptly exclaimed some colourful British curse as he was accosted and the momentum caused them both to topple into the harbour with a resounding splash. They broke to the surface; Portugal’s smile could have lit up an entire hall.
“Welcome back Inglaterra,” he whispered, and kissed him, sea water, salt and all.
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Idk I just like imagining Port waiting for England's ship to pull into the harbour. After all, it's said that saudade partly originated from the longing sailor's wives felt waiting for their husbands to come home from sea. XD
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A/N: I had so many of these drabble-like fics waiting in the wings I decided to just post them all in one go and to hell with it. Now I can stop worrying about them. BD