Title: Love of a Lifetime [III]
Characters/Pairings: England/Portugal, Spain/South Italy, Turkey, Macau, China, Brazil/Argentina, France/Scotland, various pairings.
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Language, mentions of sex.
Summary: Love in all its shapes and forms, both fantastic and fail. Based on various prompts.
Part 1 Part 2 --------------------------------------------------
1. Angst
"You could have stopped them!" Scotland snarled, as France ducked away from him, twisting his fingers together in a rare display of agitation. "She was one of yours too - she loved you, why couldn't you have..."
"And what?" France demanded, "Get into a war with the English? What's done has been done, mon grand. Let it go. There's nothing you could have done."
Scotland was silent for a very long time, bar the harsh rattle of his breathing and the stink of alcohol. France looked away. "I've done it," he said at last, "I've done it, I've gone to bloody wars for you from the moment you said 'jump'. Why is that not enough?" He reached out for the other nation's shoulder, but France pulled back, his eyes on the floor. Scotland dropped his hand.
"I love you," he whispered, and France desperately pretended not to hear it; was not ready to hear it because that would imply that all of this was something more than he was ready to give. "I love you," Scotland said again, his voice cracking on an angry snarl, "Why is that never enough?"
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To think she would sign him away like this, like his was a kingdom not even worth ruling and oh, France had changed her. Christ, the way she looked at Scotland even though she was one of his own...
...no, he thought. No, she was not his. He knew where her heart truly lay and yet, France did not want her either. She would die, a queen without a country, and all he had to show for it was an alliance with a brother he hated (all for a religion he had no faith in) and the breakdown of a relationship that was no more real than it had been three hundred years ago, despite all he had ever put into it.
It was 1587, and when Scotland came to say goodbye France did not even look at him.
Even now, with quill to parchment, this sham alliance torn in two, it wasn’t enough.
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In 1560, after more than 250 years, formal treaties between Scotland and France were officially ended by the Treaty of Edinburgh.
2. AU
He understood now why lesser men had quit before getting in too deep.
"James!" Francis called out from his parlour, and he caught him sitting on an elaborate stool in front of his mirrors, tying his hair back with a ribbon. "James dear, would you fetch my shoes?"
He sighed, "As you wish my lord," and went to open the wardrobe. "Would the black ones suffice?"
"Don't be ridiculous," the young noble laughed, derisive and amusedly, his chin propped in his hand as though waiting to fail James on a test of some sort. "It doesn't go. No, I think it shall be brown leather tonight."
...He had five different pairs of shoes in brown leather, for fuck's sake.
"The ones with the heel?" he ventured warily, and Francis clucked his tongue impatiently.
"Oh my dear," he sighed and looked to heaven for patience. "Well don't just sit there gawping, bring them all over and we'll sort it out." He crossed his long legs with deliberate slowness, arching his foot and wiggling his toes. "You'll have to learn this by heart sometime."
He had nice feet. Really nice feet; which was not something James could really judge on for that matter as he did not usually pay attention to nobles' feet but, well. The picture was becoming clearer now. Why Francis Bonnefoy couldn't seem to keep a manservant for long.
James cleared his throat. "...As you wish."
3. Crack!fic Plot
It was a very pretty brooch, and France could not imagine what it had been doing at the bottom of Scotland's drawer, wedged into a corner next to his socks. The two hearts joined together under a crown, tempered in silver, made it look old enough to be an antique, so it would be a pity he thought, if no one wore it after all this time. It was with this in mind that he pinned it to his lapel and gone to the EU meeting.
What he hadn't been expecting was for England to go purple in the face upon seeing it, spluttering words that were only vaguely Anglo-Saxon and giving France such a frightfully ugly look that he had half-wondered if he was going to have a conniption.
"You - and he... when the bloody hell did you - "
"That is none of your concern Angleterre," he replied flatly, for lack of grasping anything closer to understanding the situation and the delight in the fact that this only seemed to make England even closer to an aneurysm.
Scotland had gone similarly red when he had made it back home that evening, though he looked so surprised that France wondered if there was something in the water of the Channel. "Where did you get that?"
"I found it," he said, frowning. "If it's going to be a problem..." Scotland coughed. He scratched the back of his head. He blushed. France stared at him. "What on earth...?"
"It's nothing," the other nation assured him. "I just wasn't expecting you to...well I didn't think you'd ever," he shook his head, trailing off. He gathered France into his arms and kissed his temple. "Love you," he whispered, and it was so sincere that he just gave up thinking about it and held him.
It wasn't until a week later, finding himself at Gretna Green standing over the anvil of a very perplexed looking blacksmith with Scotland grinning so wide and his entire family bringing up the rear, imploring him to "Think of the Union!" that France learnt exactly what a Luckenbooth brooch was. Merde.
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Luckenbooth Brooch - pretty brooches of entwined hearts traditionally given in Scotland to a man's sweetheart upon their betrothal. They became popular under Mary, Queen of Scots, who is said to have received one either from her French husband as a wedding gift, King Francis II, or later Lord Darnley (the story varies orz)
5. First Time
"What's wrong?" France asked, peering up at him with those long sodding lashes and those bloody blue eyes. The frown that twisted his mouth now was anything but angelic though. He rubbed up against Scotland's thigh. "Are you getting cold feet?"
"I'm getting cold everything," Scotland muttered, in an attempt to joke so his heart would stop hammering. It was cold in the castle at this time of year. He shifted, pressed himself flat over France in order to conserve heat. "...You're really pretty," he offered lamely, and wanted to kick himself soon after saying it when France's eyebrows shot up.
But then he kissed the corner of Scotland's mouth and tugged playfully his braids, but his face had long gone from red to flaming regardless. "Have you ever...?" he trailed off. Scotland's shoulders hunched together. He looked sidelong.
"...Not with another...you know," he muttered. France looked amused. He petted Scotland's hair between his fingers.
"A nation?" he asked, "Or did you mean another boy?"
Other boys weren't half as attractive as France was, but Scotland couldn't bring himself to say that either. As it was he just murmured, "Both," in a small voice.
"I'll guide you," France offered, and his hands were gentle when they cupped Scotland's face again and kissed him on the lips. It turned out to be one of the most pleasant 'firsts' he would experience in his lifetime.
The way you look tonight
"Fils de pute!" France snarled, and his breath was still catching, loud in the night with only the Seine flowing beneath them. "C’est des conneries! I - "
"Easy," Scotland said, in what was probably meant to be a soothing tone but came off as rather breathless himself, though for much different reasons. France's eyes came off sharply blue in the lamplight, and the right one was starting to swell into a rather beautiful bruise. "Deep breaths. I think that's enough for one night."
France 'hmph'ed at him, his immaculate hair now sticking up in odd, awry angles. He was scowling over his knuckles and flexing them; no doubt they were sore after coming into repetitive contact with England's jaw. His own looked rather worse for wear and his new dress shirt was half-ripped at the seams.
Scotland knew he'd be hearing about THAT soon enough, so as it was he didn't offer his condolences (though it had been hideously overpriced for being of such shit quality regardless) but instead offered the half-drunk beer bottle he had snatched from France's hand before he had had the chance to club England over the head with it. He got another one of those scowls for his trouble.
"I'm not..." he started to argue in a voice that was bordering on indignant, and in the end Scotland just pressed it over his swollen eye, grabbed his wrist and made him hold it in place. France yelped, and hissed and glowered at Scotland with his good eye but the bottle was still chilled and he'd had enough experience with his own to know what worked in a pinch. "Aie, Écosse - "
"You're fine," Scotland announced and bent at the knees to lift France up in his arms and seat him properly on the railing, where he could get a proper look at him under the light. France went stiff as he did so, and his fingers dug deep into Scotland's back as he did so to make up for the other hand, which was still holding the beer bottle to his black eye.
Scotland didn't protest; it would have been a fine end to the evening, he thought, if France were to go and fall into his own river. He smoothed his hand over the creases in France's trousers, up over his thigh and slowly over his hip as the other nation's frown deepened, until it became little more than a sulk. It made him smile.
"You know I was betting on you right?" he asked, and moved to inspect his knuckles, which were smooth and raw and warm to the touch. He brushed his thumb over them and France snorted rather unculturedly, blowing disarrayed blonde curls out of his face. He looked a little worse for wear in the light, but otherwise still in one piece.
"Merci," he said a little dryly and sighed again. He shifted and ran his tongue over his split lip. "...aie," he said again, softer this time before going on, "though I had thought that was a given." He raised an eyebrow and moved to press the bottle to his mouth.
Scotland raked him over appreciatively with his eyes. "You're probably ruined for kissing tonight," he ventured and traced circles on France's knee, "but that was fucking hot." And as France's other eyebrow shot up he shrugged. "Don't look at me like that, bloody hell. You look good angry. Especially when you're angry at England."
France gave him a long, hard look. "Sometimes I worry about you, mon grand," he said at last but he shifted again, brushed his fingers through Scotland's untamed hair and splayed his fingers over his nape. "But I suppose it's just as well; I'll have to throw this shirt out tonight anyway." He moved the bottle back to his eye, rivulets of moisture catching on his flushed skin and rolling down towards his chin.
"Wasn't paying attention to the shirt," Scotland replied and leaned over to lick it off. He pressed his lips to France's throat, which shuddered when he half-laughed, half-sighed again.
"Of course not," he murmured and curled his fingers into the fine hair at the base of Scotland's neck. "I do so love re-living the middle ages." He didn't have to look to know he was rolling his eyes. "Fistfights with Angleterre not withstanding."
"Felt damn good though didn't it?" Scotland said with a wicked grin and when France smirked a little in response, his split lip cracked again and started bleeding, stark red against the bruises and a hint of colour in the light.
"Oui," he replied, mouth curving upwards as Scotland gingerly cupped his face in his hands and kissed him regardless of his apparently being 'ruined' for it. It stung. But he smiled. "I think it was worth it."
1. Angst
When strong fingers had grabbed, bruising, at his throat, he did not flinch. He did not cry when he had been torn from his mother, his brother. And he stood tall when the earth shook and the sea he had loved so much swept over his city, cracking open his heart so that it would bleed all over the cobblestones.
But when the Islamic Empire had kissed his forehead, his chuckle hoarse with dry humour of a dying man, when he had dug nails into his jaw and smiled at him, he had felt cold. "You will be many things in this lifetime," the old nation had whispered, "my dearest, beautiful Jibril. You will be proud and arrogant; for a time you will even be feared. But you will never be loved."
And for a time his words had been like a dull knife, pushing and insistent but he had ignored them staunchly because that was all they seemed, mere words, and he thought he had avoided them.
When Portugal was a child, in the years before he had become his own country he would have been scornful of the human emotion they called 'love'. Love was fleeting, love would fade. He told himself he would not be concerned if he never found it. Five hundred years on he found himself sitting in a smoky conference room in Lisbon, hunched over in his military uniform with his hair shorn up around his ears as the delegates signed an alliance he wanted nothing to do with, for a man he had thought he had loved.
England did not even look at him when the formalities were over, no more than to murmer, "Thank you Port," before he was gone again. Just like five hundred years were nothing. And somewhere deep inside his heart, that uncaring, stubborn arrogant child gave in to the urge to cry.
2. AU (Mer!Portugal hahaha)
Arthur did not know how he had let his brothers drag him to this - this freak show. It was filthy, the people that attended it even more so, and he had to cover his nose and mouth with a hankerchief just to walk around the cages and the creatures, the people inside them, all glaring out at him with glassy, jewel-bright eyes. It was unnerving.
"And you haven't even seen the Fiji Mermaid yet," James said with a grin. "That one's a real looker. Can't tell if it's real or they're just pulling our legs."
Darren snorted. "I'm telling you, it's just some guy in a fish suit. And he's no doubt mad, to be going around shirtless and wet in this weather." He tugged his coat tighter around him for emphasis. To which James had called him soft, and they had argued, and Arthur had thrown up his hands and followed them into the circus tent just to get them to shut up about it.
He didn't know how Darren could have thought it wasn't real, because the Fiji Mermaid had to have perhaps been the most beautiful creature Arthur had ever seen (bar the fact that it ought to have also been a maid). Even though its dark curling hair was matted, and the creature's long red tail swept the water underneath its seat agitatedly, its skin glowed with the health of the sun, and olive green eyes bored into his soul so hard that he had to look away again.
The creature smiled. It lowered itself into the murky water of its tank and dove under, until it was right up in Arthur's face again. He balked. It pursed its lips at him coyly, it what could have only been a kiss, and when it opened its mouth to sing he was so struck by the haunting melody that already ships run aground on the rocks came to his mind. And all because of this delightful creature, with its eyes and its smile and its songs -
He hadn't realized he was drowning until strong hands on either side had to lift him out of the water, and Arthur was so dazed he could not remember climbing into the tank either. He coughed up the vile, unclean water as the circus hands dropped him at his brothers feet. He looked up in alarm through his wet fringe.
The siren's smile looked innocent enough, at least until it became a grin.
The Macau Handover (1999)
"I won't go."
Portugal ran a hand through his hair. "Macau..." The boy looked at him pointedly. He sighed. "Rodrigo, it's not that I - " he broke off and pressed his lips together, because he did, he did want to keep him, but he couldn't, the world was quite frankly fed up with empire and well, if England could let it go then so could he. He took a breath.
"It's been done," he said at last. "The negotiations have been finalized."
Macau looked a sight, the oriental robes his brother had insisted he wear for the ceremony in stark contrast with his short, flyaway hair. He opened his mouth to protest. "I don't want - "
"You have to," Portugal told him, unused to this in so many ways because he didn't want to go and he didn't know how to handle that, "Rodrigo," he said sharply when Macau's expression morphed into betrayal, "please. This is for the best. This is where you belong. With your brother."
"That means nothing and you know it," the small Asian nation muttered darkly, shoulders tensing before dropping, making his entire posture sag. "I don't want to stay with ge-ge," he said petulantly, "I want to stay with you."
"It's been 422 years, I would have thought you'd put up with me enough," Portugal quipped, trying to make light of the situation, but Macau just snorted.
"Ge-ge didn't even care that I existed until you came along," he said flatly and seemed to hunch up in his robes even further, mouth turning down hard at the corners. "I'd still be a poky little fishing village on the coast if you hadn't..."
"Macau," the former empire said softly, as the boy scrubbed furiously at his eyes. "Go."
The Chinese delegates had filed out on the opposite end of the stage at the approach of dawn but still China stood there, watching with a small frown and immeasurable patience as Hong Kong stood to his side, expressionless.
"You need someone to take care of you," the boy insisted. "You don't fare well by yourself, I know you don't, you get lonely easily and then you become more open to Spain's ridiculous ideas and it all goes downhill from there." Portugal raised an eyebrow.
"I'll be fine," he said, "I always am. Please don't make this harder than it already is." He twisted his fingers together absently and looked to the side. "You shouldn't keep them waiting. That's not how I raised you."
He was nearly winded when Macau hugged him around the waist, and he had been clinging all night, so much so that the Portuguese officials had needed to literally pry him off so China could complete the ceremony. It reminded Portugal vividly of times long past, of a little boy with a long queue who had clung to his legs because that was all he could reach. A little boy who had been pawned off by his brother for silver.
Portugal smoothed his thumbs over his cheeks now, and was surprised enough to find tears there that his stomach did an odd little jolt. "Don't cry," he whispered. "Please don't cry. We'll see each other again, I promise. Goodbye isn't forever, you know that."
Macau trembled then, seemed to grit his teeth and come to some sort of resolve even as his fingers dug creases in Portugal's sleeves. "...I love you, papa."
"Sweet boy," Portugal murmured around the lump in his throat, and pressed his lips firmly to Macau's forehead so the words would not overcome him. "My sweet, loyal boy. I am going to miss you."
"Rui," China said suddenly, seemingly coming to the end of his rope. He had his arms crossed in his sleeves. "It is time to go, aru." Macau glanced at him. He looked back at Portugal.
"Go," his (soon-to-be-former) guardian told him, holding him close enough to press his nose to his hair before pulling back and gripping the boy's shoulder's at arm's length. "Be good."
"I'll make you proud." Macau squeezed his hands, looked up at him, and then he was gone, his back to Portugal as he followed his brother and Hong Kong outside. His fellow autonomous region put a hand on his back to steady him, no doubt in an attempt at comfort.
Portugal felt the last bit of his empire crumbling away as he did so, like the last rock on the foundation of an old Roman temple. It was a bitter ending, but it had all the makings of a new beginning.
He sucked in a breath until he was sure he couldn't hold it, and when he let it all out again he found himself smiling.
There was a lot to be proud of.
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Rodrigo is Macau's Port name, whereas Rui is his Chinese name, but you probably already gathered that. He was the first European colony in Asia as well as the last. Hong Kong was transferred back in 1997. Macau wasn't transferred back until December 1999 (though Portugal offered to hand him over in the 70s, China for some reason, declined until the very end of the century orz.)
Turkey/Portugal - foot fetish
Turkey ran his hand down a tanned flank, rubbed the raised bump of an old spear wound cutting across the length of thigh and continued, mapping the curve of a leg until his fingers grasp at the ankle. He lifted it to his lips and kissed the instep, ran his tongue along the sole. Toes curl and he gets a heel clipping him in the chin for his ministrations.
“You’re disgusting,” Portugal says flatly, but doesn’t make any move to from where he’s sprawled out nude on the bed, lying amongst silken pillows. His other leg is quick to draw up at the knee, pulled in close to his body so the other man wouldn’t get any ideas with it.
Sadiq snorted. “You’ve been lying in bed the whole morning, Portekiz,” he retorts, and massages Gabriel’s foot with his thumb. “It’s fine.” Portugal made a faint sound of contentment and arched; shifts rather becomingly in the sheets. Turkey grins and lowers his head to swirl his tongue over his toes. This time the other nation growled.
“I will kick you in the head Turquia, so help me,” he informed him darkly, and then tries and fails to suppress a funny little ‘oooh’ sound when Turkey lifts his leg a little higher over the crook of his elbow and sucks at the patch of skin under his knee.
“Bet your English husband never did this, eh?” He can feel the predatory grin against his inner thigh without looking down to see it. Portugal rolled his eyes. He pushed his other foot hard against Turkey’s broad shoulder, shoved once, and left it there.
“Your bringing up Inglaterra in this bed never ceases to further endear me towards you Adnan bey,” he said sarcastically, running his hand through his dark curly hair as he looks pointedly at the drapery above his head, now with both legs propped against the Turk, ankles hooked loosely over his back. He takes no notice of the provocative nature of the position, but instead feels his body bend in half as Turkey leaned over to trail biting kisses down his neck. Portugal grunted.
“At least he didn’t have a foot fetish.”
Sadiq pulled back to frown at him. “You’re not turned on in the least, are you?” he accused, somewhere between amused, offended and put out.
Portugal ran his bare feet over the musculature of the former Ottoman Empire’s back, traced the scars with his toes and showed no signs of arousal whatsoever. He leaned back with his arms crossed behind his head and wriggled around to get comfortable again. “Not even slightly,” he replied, and does not even try to sound apologetic. “But you may carry on being my personal masseuse if you’re that hard pressed to have your hands on me.”
Turkey wisely did not bring England up again.
…At least not until the next week. And then every other week that followed.
It annoyed the hell out of Portugal but he couldn’t help that he was competitive by nature.
The Golden One (A preview of Spain and Romano raising Argentina)
1.
He grasped the small chubby fingers in his own, pressing them gently to his forehead, “In nomine Patris,” and his chest,” et Filii,” as he crossed both the child and himself, “et Spiritus Sancti.”
“Amen!” Argentina exclaimed cheerfully, bouncing on his lap so hard that Romano nearly dropped him. He tightened his arm around the toddler’s waist.
“Amen,” he repeated monotonously and wiped sweat off his forehead. The midday sun was already high in the sky and that aside the humidity was stifling. He closed his prayer book and used it to fan himself. Argentina stuck his rosary beads into his mouth and sucked on them but it was too hot to chide him for it. He wondered how much longer Spain would make him sit out here, with the child, no doubt until one of them collapsed of heatstroke.
He leaned back in his chair and grumbled, touched his fingers to the base of the little boy’s neck. Argentina’s hair was soft and downy, fanning blonde at the tips and darkening near the crown of his head. It was curious for a child promptly named silver to have been so gold, but then again that’s what had delighted Spain about the idea the most.
And yet this child was not like England’s America. Long ago, when Romano himself had been but a child he remembered how France had been dragged to the gates of Rome hissing and snarling and utterly barbaric, but the way in which his grandfather’s people had been fascinated, women touching his golden curls and subsequently caking their hair in everything from sulphur to saffron, sitting out in the sun in much the same way Romano was doing now and hoping they would eventually have a head of beautiful Gallic blonde hair to show for the ordeal.
The African servants (people of Portugal’s children sold to his brother for a share in the gold of the New World) were used to the routine by now, and would come every morning after Argentina’s bath to apply a solution of caustic soda over his wet hair until the child was veritably plastered in it and Romano’s nose burned with the sharp smell of chemicals.
They at least, were careful, because the last time Spain had saw fit to bleach Romano’s hair, the pain when it touched his skin had been excruciating, had burned and scarred the back of his neck. It itched sometimes, when he thought too hard about how Spain had only laughed good-naturedly when he had screamed at him and had the lightened hair shorn off. He hadn’t seen what the problem was.
Romano did not speak to him for months and in the end the empire did not apologize, but had patted him on the head and remarked that his hair was not such a bad colour after all, so would he please stop sulking and come to dinner?
And he had, but not before his mouth had outrun his brain and he hissed, “I am not like you, you bastard. I am not ashamed.”
Spain looked curious, and his smile had tightened the corners of his mouth momentarily before he seemed to get some sort of hold of himself and ask, “What do you mean, Lovi?”
“You know fucking well what I mean,” he growled, raking his fingers back through his hair, Spain’s eyes following the movement, “and you know what? That’s fine if you and Portugal are going through some problems but leave me the hell out of it.”
He knew he wasn’t like Veneciano, and a brief Arabic occupation in times gone past had only served to further change that, but Spain and his brother were different; they had gone through centuries of it, had the blood infused in their veins, darkening their hair and skin and eyes until it hadn’t, they had fought back, and now they were both trying to scrub themselves clean of it as though that might do some good. It hadn’t; and even now images of the Inquisition, deportation and expulsion, and the grinning masked face of the Ottoman Empire as he welcomed the outcasts with open arms made Romano shiver.
He knew Spain did not like his Moorish heritage, Portugal even less so. Neither had ever expressed such in words, but Romano thought that their actions served to speak loudly enough. Spain’s smile had just grown, though not enough to reach his eyes, and he had run his fingers tenderly through Romano’s hair and the small faded scar at the back of his neck, but he did not speak, so Romano had swallowed his temper and it was never brought up again.
Then Argentina had been born.
Though “born” wasn’t exactly the word per se, considering the child had more or less sprung forth from the ether when Romano had taken one of the servants and found him in the vegetable patch; a squalling pink-faced baby with Spain’s eyes and brown hair very reminiscent of Veneciano’s.
His guardian had lit up at the prospect of adding another colony to his brood; one who looked more and more like him with each passing day.
“Ah, but he looks like his mama,” Spain cooed, in one of the rare instances he was home long enough to wander the house, let alone pick up the child and hold him in his lap. His smile was getting increasingly unreadable, though there was lament in his sigh when he patted Argentina’s head and said, “Now if only he was blonde like Belgium or her brother, then he’d be perfect. Don’t you think so, Lovi?”
“I think you’re talking out of your arse,” Romano replied eloquently, picking at his dinner and giving the other nation a flat look. “So he’s got brown hair, big deal. What can you do?”
“Hmm,” Spain hummed, and Romano had been surprised to see he was actually thinking it over. “Well I’ve been seeing your people do it for centuries so, I think... yes, yes that would be perfect.” He grinned, holding Argentina up in his arms and inspecting him in the light. “We’ll see what Inglaterra has to say after that.”
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Roman ladies envied the beautiful blonde tresses of the barbaric Gauls that were captured and brought into the city. So when they were not shaving their heads and wearing their hair as wigs they were trying to imitate the colour through any means possible orz.
Hair dye wasn't exactly the safest thing back then...yeah, Spain's going through a "gold, glory, God GOLD" stage right now orz. And is kind of ashamed of his Moorish heritage at the same time. The same with Portugal. They would vehemently deny that Al-Andalus left any sort of lasting impression on them, though genetic studies say otherwise. Romano too, according to Himaruya, has Arabic blood due to his own brief
run-in with the Moors. Whereas Veneciano has German blood.
Argentina isn't a natural blonde, didn't you know? :|a /shot
Brazil/Argenina - First Introductions
He did not know why the boy had bothered following him if all he was going to do was ask stupid questions.
“Go away already!” Argentina snapped, whirling on the little terror with his eyebrows drawn down and his mouth pulled into the dark scowl that he had learnt from watching South Italy, but when he did there was no one there. He blinked and narrowed his eyes.
The trees rustled from above. “Why do you look like that?” his hindrance asked curiously, dark head suddenly popping out from the foliage, upside down and right up in Argentina’s face. He stumbled back in alarm.
“How did you - stop following me!” he told him and tried to push past without another word. The other boy’s arms dropped in front of him, blocking his escape. His legs were firmly curled around one of the sturdier tree branches.
“Why don’t you look like your people?” he insisted, brown eyes wide and trained on Argentina’s pale face with curiosity. “You…well you look like Gabi and his lot. But not like my sisters. You know,” he lowered his voice into what he probably thought was a conspiratorial whisper, “the ones from across the sea.”
Argentina snorted. “I know very well where they’re from, thank you,” he said irritably. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” The other boy beamed at him.
“Nah,” he replied easily. “Not until dinnertime. Marjani made it perfectly clear she wanted me out of the house so I wouldn’t go sticking my fingers in everything. Can you believe her? Girls,” he huffed the word and shrugged his shoulders, looking at Argentina imploringly. He frowned back. “What about you? Do you have any sisters?”
“Cousins,” Argentina replied somewhat stiffly, liking this boy and the way he was trying to talk his ear off less and less. “Or…brothers, I suppose. Boys.”
“What, really?” the other boy said interestedly. “Are you sure? Because the other one that looks a lot like you is really pretty, and she sparkles and -”
“Sparkles,” Argentina repeated flatly. “Right. I’m sure Uruguay will be thrilled to hear that. Will you leave me alone now? I have to get home, you…” he trailed off.
“Brazil,” the other boy supplied helpfully and stuck out a grimy, dirt-streaked hand. Argentina just stared at it. He shrugged and retracted the gesture. “Or, Luciano. You know, whatever floats your boat.”
“I would have thought having one name would be hard enough for you,” Argentina snipped, his patience already gone. “What kind of a name is Luciano?”
This time it was Brazil’s turn to frown. “It’s Latin,” he said importantly, “Gabi called it poetry. And for your information it means light. What kind of a name is Argentina?” he demanded, and the other colony bristled.
“It’s better Latin than yours,” he shot back. “Argentum, ever heard of it? It means silver.” He took a step back and smirked triumphantly at confusion replaced the irritation on Brazil’s face.
“That’s it? He calls you that?” he said disbelievingly. “He goes around calling you silver? What an idiot.”
That wasn’t the response he had been expecting. Argentina’s temper flared. “Don’t talk about him like that!” he snapped, his hands balling into fists defensively.
Brazil wrinkled his nose. "Why?" he jeered, egging him on in the way only children could, "Going to cry to your mama about it? It's not like he's one of us, man...you'd think he was your father or something, but who would even want that creep as a - "
And when Argentina swung his fist, he caught him in the eye. He had spat at Brazil's feet and ran, disappearing into the bushes and leaving a wide-eyed boy in his wake. Brazil later told Portugal he hadn't been watching where he was going and had run headlong into a tree knot. Hence the black eye.
He hadn't seemed convinced but that was his story and he was sticking to it. He found he wasn't so much angry as he was sorry for that boy he had met out near the borderlands. He was obviously delusional.
What did that wannabe think he was anyway?
A couple of hours later, Argentina returned to the house with dirt all over his new clothes and leaves in his hair, but had stuck his chin out bravely when South Italy had started to swear up and down at the state of him at length. That night he cleaned himself up and sat on the porch with his arms clasped around his knees and waited mulishly for the torchlight of the conquistadors to emerge from the valley; for Spain's smile to appear amongst the throng, gold and slaves and conquered lands cradled in his arms.
What did that half-blood know anyway?
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Modern!Argentina's ancestry is largely Spanish/Italian. Hardly any natives in sight. So it's no small wonder that he fancies himself European orz. Brazil in comparison has a much wider mix and variety of people and cultures in terms of ancestry.
Also more of Spain being the dad-who's-never-there because this is the stuff I live for orz.
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A/N: More drabbles and previews and short fic that was in the wings and needed to be all put into one neat post orz.