This was inspired as I was flipping through a book on Spanish grammar mechanics that my mom gave me the other day. The book had examples of common mistakes students might make that might seem okay to us in theory (for example, estoy embarasada looks like "I'm embarrassed," right?), but could make things awkward or uncomfortable when it's misinterpreted in this way and spoken to a native speaker (estoy embarasada actually means "I'm pregnant"). Then I imagined Romano making these kinds of mistakes in front of an easily-confused Spain, consulted my friends, and came to the conclusion that this had to be done.
Two-shot of the same "incident," if you will, with this chapter in Romano's point-of-view and the next one in Spain's. Reading both chapters is recommended to fully understand what's going on. At the bottom there will be English translations of what Romano/Spain were really saying, as opposed to what Romano interpreted. Enjoy!
EDIT: Now that the Spain chapter is up, you can read from either perspective first without altering the experience. The story should work when read either way.
The Right Words
Lovino's Perspective
Let me set one thing straight, okay: I'm not a fucking romantic. I don't read shitty gay vampire fluff and gush over soap operas and think through the process of meeting my "true love" someday like some kind of girl, complete with riding off into the sunset on a hot Spanish bu—a noble steed, damn it, because that's dumb and unrealistic and just not me.
Got that?
Good.
I'm also not the most friendly nation out there. I'm a cruel bastard, cruel to everyone I meet or have known for years, cruel even when it comes to the man that I lo—err, don't entirely hate.
…
Right.
But yeah. I'm mean. Not just kid-stealing-your-lunch-money mean, but borderline malevolent sometimes. I torment my impossibly gay younger brother (God, why is he so gay?) and his potato bastard lover (goddamn German) and that moron who's putting like an old lady in front of my car (I hope you go deaf from my loudass horn, bitch). I don't give a shit about anyone, and nobody gives a shit about me. And that's just the way I like it! I don't care what anyone thinks! Not anyone!
…Quit looking at me like that. It's creepy.
…
Okay, so maybe I kind of wonder what one person thinks, but just because I've dealt with the bastard for so long that it's hard not to imagine what the hell he thinks of me, damn it. Not that I care.
Only… I do care. A lot. M-more than I should.
Because, I guess… even under all these fucking cusswords and frowns and rude gestures… th-there's a heart there. It's small and shriveled, damn it, but it's there.
… I… He showed me it was there…
But not intentionally. Fuck no. That bastard doesn't know intentional jack.
I probably shouldn't complain about my brother's (unbelievably flamboyant, what the fuck) gayness. I'm gay too. Most nations are, because most nations are men, men who for the most part want to live and love and seek a partner who can stay by their side for centuries to come. That's just the logical thing to do! If we were all straight, we'd be damned to a short relationship with a (pretty much certainly) human lover who'd grow old and die before our eyes while we stay young and live for decades longer. Tell me that wouldn't suck! That's also taking into account that there are what, only six female countries in a world of over one hundred sixty of us? Cut us some slack, here; we work with what we're given.
For the longest time I told myself that I was straight, and that I should only flirt with ladies for the thrill of the chase and not for a permanent love because in country terms, all humans are flings, and that the Spanish bastard I lived with was just being stupid and childish whenever he said I looked like a tomato or pinched my cheeks or h-hugged me or… h-held me tight whenever there was thunder… and whispered in my ear that everything was all right… and that he was there and… and then… I could sleep.
…
Shut up. Thunder is a manly thing to be afraid of, damn it.
…
It took me a long time to finally figure out I loved the bastard. Longer than it probably should have because I was being too stubborn and cantankerous and me, but… I-I guess everything finally made sense. Like how every dumb or c-caring word he said would make me feel lightheaded, how I never wanted to see him lose the happy and sweet and loving and oh lord that sounds so gay glow in his dark green eyes…
And… and how I couldn't live without him. It's only when he's by my side that I can feel my (pitiful, stupid) heart drumming, and as soon as he leaves my chest is sore like someone ripped it out, just to see me in pain.
…
Did I just imply that I feel he is my heart?
That's… that's…
…
Ugh.
For one of the most unromantic personified nations on earth, I sure am hopelessly devoted to him. To the country of passion, and every smile he's given me and every sincere sparkle in his eye. I… l-love Spain. Antonio. M… My Antonio.
And it's about time I showed him, damn it.
~ The Right Words ~
So how exactly was I going to do that?
Unlike my little brother (screw you, Feliciano), I wasn't blessed with any of the artistic aspects of our nation. He can draw, paint, and sing, and I have a feeling that he used some of those ass-kicking Italian traits to win over Mr. Potato Head. While I can cook (an Italian isn't Italian if they can't cook, damn it), Antonio blasphemously isn't a fan of my country's cuisine. Makes me wonder how the fuck I fell in love with him in the first place.
A-anyway, I decided I'd try Plan B – helping him around his house. The other day, out of the fucking goodness in my heart, I went outside to pick some tomatoes with him and he was g-grinning at me with his brilliant, toothy, mind-blowing smile and I… I didn't pay attention to what I was doing… and I s-squashed a tomato in my hands. Hard.
I yelled at Antonio for distracting me and stormed inside, leaving a depressive Spaniard gazing sadly after me.
I'm such a fucking charmer. Seriously. There aren't enough o's in "smoooooooth."
…That was sarcasm, by the way.
So today I'm going to try Plan C – making him feel appreciated. E-even though my first attempt at this plan failed epically when I tried to thank him and stuttered so much that Antonio laughed and called me an "adorable little tomato" (how the fuck am I a tomato?). I kicked him in the shins for that. So now I bet you're wondering what the hell I planned after that backfired so insanely. Well, I'll tell you. I'm going to show him I have learned some Spanish after all!
That's right. The overly-simplistic, Latin-based language of Spain. Which, by the way, I know nothing of besides bésame, and no matter how much I want to say that, I'm not going to such girly heights to get his attention, d-damn it.
But when I was a younger country, Antonio always tried to teach me some conversational Spanish. So… so maybe, if I spoke to him in Spanish instead of whatever-the-fuck common language we countries speak, he'd notice that I "cared" enough to learn something. F-for him.
…Gay. Gay gay gay gay gay.
At least if things go well, I can use that as a stepping stone for when I finally grow a goddamn spine and tell him I love him. And if things don't, he'll probably find it funny or cute or something and be on his merry way. It's a win—not-lose situation.
…
Here's to be too optimistic and hope, I guess.
~ The Right Words ~
Went to the library and checked out a book on Spanish grammar and rules para niños, as well as a little dictionary. I browsed through the first few pages and felt like laughing. Spanish is too fucking easy! But even if it's a cheesy Italian rip-off (Italian came first, damn it!), it's Antonio's language and an important aspect of his culture. I should respect it!
Shit, that's going to be tough.
…B-but it'll be worth it.
Okay. I'll have to call him over here, but I'll have to do so in my forcefully manly way because I'm so not polite and I might as well be consistent personality-wise in any language I speak. I picked out a few words that would work, literally meaning "I want you here" but should mean "get your ass here right now" the way I'll say it. The "right now" part is always implied, damn it.
With that set up, I should pick an easy conversation topic. What do people talk about when they have nothing to say?
…
Of course! The weather!
It's summertime up here, and damn me if it isn't the hottest time of the year. I looked up the Spanish word for "hot" and added that to my little mental toolbox of Spanish shit.
After ten more minutes of reviewing the basics, I felt ready to begin.
So I did.
~ The Right Words ~
I was probably going a little too fast down the stairs, fast enough that I almost knocked over Antonio's painting of a sleeping turtle, but I couldn't possibly care less. My blood felt like it was on fucking fire, whipping through me with a burning confidence I never knew I had.
It was scary.
But also kind of exciting.
I was ready. Ready to show Antonio that I c-cared, that I can do things right.
Racing through the kitchen, I found the huge sliding backdoor leading to the garden and looked to see if he was there. Sure enough, the adorab—stupidly oblivious bastard was out there, tending to the plants and wearing his dumbass straw hat that, for some reason, he thought looked stylish.
The horror.
…S-still, it was kind of nice just standing here, watching him work like that just before the sun set on a hot summer night. You could tell how much pride he took in his plants, from the roses to the marigolds to (of course) the tomatoes, just by watching how c-careful he was with every movement. He always smiled while he gardened. It almost made me want to smile, too…
Damn it! Focus, Lovino!
I shook my head, mentally slapping myself awake. I had to remember my goal. Keep your mind on track, you retarded yet fiendishly cunning bastard!
That made sense. Don't pretend it didn't.
…
Shut the hell up.
My eyes followed his hands as they picked up a tomato from his basket. He lifted it to his mouth, taking a bite. I heard a soft crunching noise as his teeth breached the fruit, juice sliding down his chin. I swallowed, feeling the blood rush to my face as I gathered my nerves. B-but it's not like I was inwardly babbling at myself to calm the hell down over and over and over again like some panicking girl who had been expecting a date to arrive and just heard the doorbell ring.
Really. Not at all.
Okay, maybe a little.
…Okay, maybe a lot.
Finally, I bit my lip, telling myself it was now or never, and blared, "¡Antonio, te quiero así!"
Almost immediately, he spat out his tomato and his head snapped to face me, eyes confused and curious and shocked as he stared at—no, fucking studied my Italian majesty.
Oh yes. This could work.
…
…
W-what was taking him so long to answer, anyway?
~ The Right Words ~
It felt like an eternity until he finally spoke.
"What?"
I scoffed. I should have known it would take him this long to connect the dots, the bastard. Still speaking his native tongue, I retorted, "Me oíste." You heard me.
A concerned look came across his face. Antonio put down his tomatoes (d-don't leave them out in the sun, you ass!) and paced quickly over to where I hovered in the middle of the backdoor. His glittering green eyes (damn, why do they have to sparkle like that?) were glossed with worry as he took off one of his gloves and placed a hand on my forehead l-like I was some kind of sick child. I gasped a little. My face was probably glowing from that gay incandescent blush I had plastered across my cheeks. B-but I frowned at him, defying his sweet touch.
"Lovi, ¿estás bien?" Antonio asked, this time responding in Spanish like I thought he would in the first place.
That means "how are you," right? Yes! Now I can talk about the weather! In Spanish!
Like a mafia boss, motherfucker!
Exaggeratedly fanning my face (just to make sure the dumbass could understand what I was about to tell him), I panted, "Estoy muy caliente, Antonio."
…
Holy shit.
Was the bastard actually blushing back at me like some scared virgin?
…
Damn. I was good.
…
Fuck. I was worried.
"T-Tonio," I huffed, my cheeks still bright red, "quit staring at me, you dumbass."
He blinked as if he was waking up after a long siesta, an unusually relieved sigh escaping his lips. His eyes smiled almost more than his mouth did as he yanked (when the hell did he learn how to yank things?) off his god-awful hat and placed it on a hook. "Lo siento," he apologized.
…W-woah there. He's getting awfully clo—
"R… ¿realmente tienes ganas, Lovi?"
Do I have desires? What kind of fucking question was that?
Antonio pulled me in a close hug, so close that there were few to no spaces between our bodies anymore. A foreign pressure began build in my stomach. In spite of the heat radiating between us, I felt myself shivering. W-what did I do to make him act like this? To… to hold me like this? Almost like he…
…Like he loved me too…
After a short pause, I replied, "S-supongo, sí." I suppose, yes.
"¿De quién?" Of who?
…
B… Bésame.
N-no matter how gay that sounds, even if that makes no fucking sense as a goddamn answer, that's what I would have said if I could speak… but with all this contact, under this loving stare, I couldn't do it.
But by the feel of his tender, electrifying lips against mine moments later, Antonio could tell what I was saying, even when I was saying nothing at all.
Translation time!
Te quiero así means "I love you as you are." The Spanish word querer can mean "to love" or "to want" depending on the circumstance. What Romano was going for was te quiero aquí, which means "I want you here." Aquí and así are often mistaken for each other among students learning the language.
Estoy caliente means "I'm hot," but not in the way Romano interpreted it. Estoy caliente is used to imply a sexual heat, so a more appropriate translation is "I'm turned on." What Romano was trying to say was tengo calor, which literally means "I have heat," but is used to say you're physically warm or hot.
Tienes ganas means "you have desires," and that's how Romano literally takes it when Spain asks him that question. However, he didn't recall that it should be tienes ganas de (infinitive), which would mean "you desire to (insert verb here)." In its infinitive form, to say tener ganas without the de and subsequent infinitive roughly means "to (romantically) desire someone."
I'll post up the Spain version of this situation as soon as I can. Reviews are always loved. Thanks for reading!
