AN: so this is an (awfully late *facepalm*) birthday gift for Shadowcatxx, 'cause she's awesome and she deserves it n_n Just a few things:
-Pheasant Island is a small island in the Bidasoa river which belongs to Spain for half a year and to France for the other half.
-In the fanfic, there are lines and words in a few languages besides English, mostly in Euskera, since Pheasant Island is administrated by the Basque Country (when it belongs to Spain), but also in Catalan, Galician and others. I've included translations at the end, indicating the language they're in.
-There are many historical references throughout the fanfic. If there's any you don't understand, don't hesitate to ask! I considered adding a few notes at the end, but then I got lazy :P
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia (yet).
Hope you like it! :)
PARTEKATUTAKO ZAINTZA
February 1st — Bidasoa River, French-Spanish border
Spain can barely control his excitement as he waits for France to show up. He keeps gazing at his watch and squinting at the horizon, impatient, occasionally bouncing from one foot to the other or walking in circles to keep warm. If Romano was there, he would hit him in the head, call him a stupid bastard and drag him under some cover. But Romano isn't there, and Spain wouldn't have moved from the spot anyway. It's a special day, after all.
It should be clarified that it isn't France who Spain is dying to see. They have been friends for a long time, and enemies for even longer; he has seen him in countless wars and peace negotiations, they have seen each other at their best and worst, they have gotten their most epic hangovers together (along with a certain albino). No, he has seen France's face so many times that he could probably draw it just from memory. What he wants to see is a much younger face he only gets to see for six months a year.
Finally, two silhouettes appear in the distance, and Spain's face lights up when he recognizes them. He starts to jump on the spot, waving at them. "¡Hola! Kaixo!" he calls. "I'm here!"
The newcomers walk faster, and soon are close enough for Spain to see their features. France looks exactly the same: same (fabulous) hair, same (fabulous) stubble, same (fabulous) blue eyes. And Pheasant Island looks even more beautiful than Spain remembered. Her puffy cheeks are coloured red because of the chilly winter wind and contrast with her sapphire-blue eyes, and her wavy, chestnut hair is longer than the last time they met.
"Aita!" she exclaims when she sees him, and lets go of France's hand so she can run to his side; then shrieks happily when Spain picks her up and starts to cover her face in kisses. "Aita, no! Stop!" she laughs, trying to push his face away.
"But I missed you," Spain pouts. "It's been six months!"
"It's always six months — you should be used to it already," France laughs, having finally reached them.
"Never!" Spain exclaims dramatically, hugging Pheasant Island tightly, pressing their cheeks together. "I'll never get used to it. Not everyone can be as cold-hearted as you."
France snorts and shakes his head. Spain knows very well that neither of them are 'cold-hearted'; quite the opposite. They're both too passionate, too loving. France misses Pheasant Island just as much as Spain does, and he acts just as dramatically when it's his turn to have her back.
Spain leaves Pheasant Island on the ground and she trots to France's side.
"Au revoir, Papa," she smiles.
France kneels by her side and gives her a tight hug. "Au revoir, mon petit," he mutters. "Be nice, oui? I'll see you again in August."
It still takes France a few more minutes to say his farewells to Pheasant Island, and he takes his time to prove that he, and not Spain, is the real drama-queen. By the time he finally stops clinging to her, Spain can no longer feel his nose, ears and fingers.
"Agur," France says to them, making them smile (despite being fluent, he rarely speaks in Euskera), and promptly turns on his heels and leaves.
"Come on, Irene," Spain says then. "Let's go before your old man freezes to death."
"It's not that cold," she giggles, but she takes his hand nonetheless and follows him.
They chat all the way to the motel, Pheasant Island happily sharing anecdotes of her time with France and Spain complaining about how boring world meetings were. She does most of the talking, though — Spain prefers to remain quiet himself and listen to her cheerful voice.
"Here we are!" Spain smiles when they finally reach the motel. He has had no choice in the last few years but to change a fancy hotel for a much lower-class motel (the crisis has struck hard), but neither of them mind too much. It's just for one night, and they're too busy catching up to care anyway.
It's late when their sleepiness begins to be too much to bear. Pheasant Island yawns in between words, and Spain nods in between stories. He resists a little longer, just enough to carry her to the bed (while being thankful for having changed into their pyjamas as soon as they have gotten to their room), and soon they're both deep asleep.
~{x}~
February 12th — Bilbao
"Zorionak, Aita!"
Spain awakes startled, all the air knocked out of his lungs when a certain little girl jumps on him to wake him up.
"Oof—"
"Come on, Aita, wake up!" she demands, bouncing on him. "It snowed! Look!"
"Okay, okay," Spain gasps breathlessly. "But stop harassing this poor old nation."
Pheasant Island complies and jumps to the floor, but soon she's pulling at Spain's hand, trying to drag him out of bed. He sits up, groaning, and barely has time to rub the sleep off his eyes before he's pulled to his feet and forced to walk to the window.
"It's very beautiful," he smiles when his gaze finally lands on Bilbao's snowy streets. "And the perfect weather for some hot chocolate and churros."
"Yes!" exclaims Pheasant Island, throwing her hands in the air in celebration.
About an hour later, after Spain has showered, gotten dressed and gone out in a freezing mission to get churros, they're calmly having breakfast in the room's small, round table. It's almost a tradition by now: every year, on Spain's birthday, they have hot chocolate and churros for breakfast; then, they exchange gifts (since Pheasant Island is always with France on her birthday, Spain decided to celebrate it with his own) and then they go for a walk around Bilbao. Sometimes, however, a meeting or some other duty gets in the way, forcing Spain to attend a few matters or even rush back to Madrid. Pheasant Island hates that and gets sad whenever it happens; and Spain hates seeing her sad, so he takes his time to hug her, assuring that he doesn't have a choice and that he'd much rather spend his birthday with her than trying to solve unsolvable problems, and promising he'll make sure they'll have the whole day for their own next year.
Thankfully, though Spain flinches in fear every time his phone rings — only to be pleasantly surprised when it's just a fellow nation wanting to wish him a happy birthday — this year they don't have any unwelcome interruptions.
Pheasant Island gives Spain a bunch of hand-made carnations and a drawing of the two of them with France. Spain gives Pheasant Island a bull plushie and a box of chocolates.
Later, they go for a stroll around Bilbao, chatting animatedly in Euskera and ignoring the chilly wind. Spain slips on the snow and falls on his butt, making Pheasant Island burst out in a fit of laughter, which turns into indignant screams when he throws a snowball at her face.
"Are we having dinner now?"
"No way. You're getting a warm bath first."
They walk into their bedroom, covered in snow from head to toes due to the snow fight that has sprouted from Spain's unfortunate fall.
Pheasant Island whines and complains ("I'm not cold!"), but Spain refuses to change his mind and prepares a nice, warm bath for her. Just as he expected, she stops complaining the moment her tired body sinks in the water.
"I'm going to order some take-away," says Spain. "You'd better be out of the water by then, or I'll eat everything on my own."
"Ados."
They are dead tired by the time dinner comes, and don't get to finish it. When Spain realizes they yawn more than chew, he decides to call it a day. After cleaning the table and putting the leftovers in the fridge, he picks up Pheasant Island, who's already more asleep than awake, and tucks her in bed.
"Did you have fun today?" she mumbles.
"Yes, of course," he smiles kindly and leans in to kiss her brow. "It was the best birthday ever."
~{x}~
February 22nd — Finisterre
"Be careful!" Spain warns her.
"Don't worry, Aita. We come here every year and I still haven't fallen."
"Until you do," he mutters, gazing at her with worry but not daring to go closer.
They're at the end of the world, Finisterre, where Earth ends. Of course, that belief died in 1492, when Spain learnt that there were, in fact, vast and rich unexplored lands beyond the ocean. Then he had grown strong and powerful and ruthless. Some had even called him a bloodthirsty monster, and they weren't exactly wrong.
But Pheasant Island doesn't know that side of him. He was still a powerful empire when she was born, but she was too young to see beyond his kind smile and cheerful voice; and by the time she started to be more aware, Spain had already been reduced to barely a shadow of what he had been.
Deep inside, Spain knows he couldn't be gladder that at least one of his many children doesn't have memories of his dark past.
"Aita!" she calls, pulling him out of his thoughts. "Aita, come here! The view is wonderful!"
"Don't stand too close to the edge," he says, walking towards her. "It's a long fall, and the sea below is merciless."
Pheasant Island sticks her tongue out at him and sits down, close enough to the edge of the cliff to see the ocean licking the rocks below, but far enough to ease Spain's worry. Soon, he sits by her side, slowly, and casts a quick, wary glance at the cliff.
"Are you scared of heights?" she asks.
"No. I'm scared of falling," he replies.
"The fall wouldn't kill you," she argues, shifting to rest her head on his side.
"No," he agrees, sliding an arm over her shoulders and hugging her. "But it would hurt like hell."
"Hmm."
They remain there for a while, enjoying the view, and like every year, Spain agrees to tell her a few stories of his adventures in the New World. The ones that can be shared with a kid without risking nightmares, at least.
It starts to rain. Spain curses loudly; Pheasant Island giggles. She's far too used to heavy rains to be fazed by that. Still, she hurries alongside Spain back to the car. Not minding the rain too much doesn't mean she's okay with getting soaked.
It's a long ride back to Santiago de Compostela, and though it rains hard for most of the trip, the sun shines again by the time they reach the city. Spain's original plan was going back to their little hotel, changing into dry clothes and spending there the rest of the day; however, after the long trip, their clothes are no longer wet, and since Pheasant Island keeps insisting that she wants to stroll around Santiago, he eventually changes his mind. Still, they stop by the hotel to leave the car and take an umbrella, a compulsory just-in-case in Galicia.
"People really travelled all across Europe to reach this place?" Pheasant Island asks, amazed, her gaze scanning the cathedral before her.
"Yes. Back in the day, the Camino de Santiago was a very important pilgrimage route, and through it came a lot of culture to my land. Nowadays, it's a hiker-favourite."
"I'd walk a lot to see this place, too. It's beautiful!"
Spain laughs, pleased. "It is wonderful," he agrees, "but I have even better cathedrals in other places."
"Well, aren't you a modest one," a well-known voice suddenly says behind him.
"João!" Spain exclaims, surprised, as he turns to face his brother, smiling brightly.
"Osaba!" Pheasant Island yells, high-pitched, and runs to hug him.
Portugal laughs and picks her up. "Hello, Irene. It's been a while." He playfully pokes her cheek and chuckles when, annoyed, she attempts to bite his finger. "Is it me or you look more beautiful each time I see you?"
"I don't look more beautiful. I am more beautiful," she replies, smug, and both brothers burst out laughing.
"If you were looking for modest people, I think you came to the wrong place," Spain says to Portugal, winking at him. "What are you doing here anyway?"
Portugal shrugs… or attempts to, since Pheasant Island has her head on his shoulders and her arms around his neck, limiting his movements. "I felt like dropping by," he answers. "I had no idea you'd be here, too."
"You like Galicia, Uncle Portugal?" Pheasant Island asks, staring at him with blue eyes wide open.
"Yes, of course, it's lovely! Not as lovely as it is a little to the south," he adds, smirking, and Spain rolls his eyes and mimics him in jest. "But it's a nice place. Besides, it's the only place in Europe where people understand me when I speak Portuguese."
"Aita says that Portuguese is an ugly dialect of Galician."
Portugal's smirk freezes on his lips and he turns his head, slowly, menacing, until his murderous gaze is focused on his brother. Spain smiles that carefree smile of his, but it twitches — he doesn't know what Portugal might do, and he knows from experience that a quarrel with his brother may prove disastrous for him.
"If you excuse me, querida," Portugal says, putting Pheasant Island back on the ground, "I have to commit fratricide."
"Now, now, irmán, calm down," Spain chuckles, nervous, raising his hands in an appeasing fashion. "We're in the middle of Santiago — we're in front of a church! You don't want to make a scene, right?"
"Take it back," Portugal warns, unfazed by Spain's words, as he approaches him cracking his knuckles.
"Nuh-uh."
"Take. It. Back."
"No."
"Last warning."
"I refuse."
And then, suddenly, Portugal leaps towards Spain, effectively surprising him, and wraps his arm around his neck, forcing him to bend forwards. Spain yelps and tries to break free, knowing what comes next, but Portugal's grasp is too tight.
"One last chance," Portugal offers, though he already knows what his brother's answer will be — he's too proud for his own good. "Take it back."
"Never!"
Portugal smirks and, without warning or mercy, starts to rub his knuckles against Spain's scalp. His brother protests and squirms, letting out both pained ¡Ay!s and choked fits of laughter. Many passers-by send curious glances to the couple of adults that are quarrelling like little kids, and some notice the little girl that claps and cheers.
"João, let go! Auch! It hurts!" yells Spain as he tries (and fails) to grab Portugal's hand to end his torture. "You over-sensitive prick! Why won't you just admit that I'm cooler than you?"
"You, cooler than me?" Portugal scoffs. "In your dreams."
"I'm bigger!"
"Size doesn't matter."
"I ruled over you once!"
"And never again."
"Your best friend is the loner of Europe!"
"Your two best friends are a perverted fuckboy and an obnoxious freak."
"That's cruel," whines Spain.
Portugal doesn't reply; he simply tortures him a little longer and then finally releases him. Spain pushes him away and pouts as he soothingly rubs his sore scalp.
"You're the worst brother ever."
"Aita! Come, let me heal you," Pheasant Island says, intervening for the first time. She pulls at Spain's shirt until he crouches next to her; then, she pats his head as she sings: "Sana, sana, culito de rana; si no se cura hoy, se curará mañana."
"Ah, I feel much better already," Spain smiles, content, and kisses her on the cheek. Then, he turns to Portugal and glares at him. "You bully."
Portugal just rolls his eyes and hits him lightly on the back of the head. "Don't be such a wuss," he says; and after a moment, he adds: "Do you want to have dinner with me? My treat."
Pheasant Island and Spain agree happily: she wants to spend more time with Uncle Portugal, and he can't refuse free food.
~{x}~
March 17th — Madrid
The moment the doorbell rings, an overwhelmingly happy Spain rushes down the stairs — almost falling in the process — and barely misses a second: as soon as he opens the door, he only spares the fraction of a moment to make sure that the one ringing is indeed Romano, and immediately pulls him into a passionate kiss. "Feliz cumpleaños, mi amor," he whispers over his lips when they part. "I'm glad you could come."
For a minute, Romano doesn't move or react; he simply stares back at him, his half-lidded amber eyes sending a loving gaze directly into Spain's bright green. But then his eyes snap fully open, and his face blushes madly, and he yells: "What the fuck do you think you're doing, bastard?!" as he pushes him away.
Spain pouts, hurt, and gives him a sad look. "I missed you," he practically whines, "and I was happy to finally have you here. Besides, it's your birthday!" He opens his arms in a clear invitation for a hug, and Romano can only resist his kicked-puppy eyes for a few seconds.
"Alright, bastard. Sorry," he mumbles as he accepts and returns the hug, burying his face on Spain's shoulder. "I missed you too." Even though he can't see it, he knows that Spain has now the brightest smile plastered on his face, and senses he's about to say something utterly cheesy and stupid.
Thankfully, he never has the chance.
"Roma! Kaixo," Pheasant Island says when she enters the hall and sees them, and Spain has to release him — and keep to himself whatever embarrassing thing he was about to say — to let them properly greet each other. "Happy birthday."
"Thanks a lot," Romano smiles. He can't help it: Pheasant Island's sincere grin (so, so similar to Spain's) makes him feel like smiling, too.
"Aita missed you a lot. He's been complaining for weeks about not having seen you in months."
Romano turns to look at Spain, a raised eyebrow and a smug smirk, and Spain shrugs.
"I start missing you the moment you walk out the door."
Oh. And here Romano thought he had gotten rid of the embarrassing, sappy comment. He blushes and looks away, trying to ignore Pheasant Island's giggles and Spain's loving stare. "Well, I'm here now," he finally manages to say. "You can stop missing me."
"Of course!" Spain exclaims, happy, pulling him into another bone-crushing hug. "Let's make the most of it, eh?"
And, despite Romano's protests and complaints, Spain and Pheasant Island drag him out for a fun day around Madrid.
It's not that Romano dislikes Madrid. Yes, it's big and loud and crowded, but it's also cheerful and welcoming and full of history. In a way, it reminds him of Rome. But Madrid has something Rome lacks, and that's one special Spaniard. Someone sappier than Romano might say "the love of his life", but Romano believes that's too sissy and would never say that — which doesn't mean he doesn't think it.
He may be thinking it as he watches Spain blabbering nonstop. Walking around Madrid is like stepping in Spain's history, and he's happy to explain why there are three consecutive streets called Padilla, Bravo and Maldonado, or what's represented in the huge statue of Plaza de España; he later insists on visiting the Prado Museum to at least take a look at Velazquez and Goya's masterpieces, and then he drags them to the Retiro Park, where he shows them the statue of the Fallen Angel ("One of the only three representations of the Devil in the world!") and casually mentions that it's at exactly 666 meters over sea level.
No, Romano most definitely doesn't dislike Madrid, nor the effect it has on his Spaniard. The only complaint he has is that Spain always insists on seeing a lot of things and drags him around without stopping to consider that not everyone is as energetic as him.
It seems like ages until Spain finally allows them to rest. They go to a nice, small restaurant, where Pheasant Island orders a children menu, Romano orders pasta, and Spain orders the cheapest dish on the menu. When it's time for dessert, a bunch of waiters burst in from the kitchen singing "Happy Birthday" and carrying a chocolate cake with a few candles. Embarrassed and beet-red, Romano sinks in his chair and mouths "I hate you" to Spain. Spain laughs, winks and mouths "I love you too", making Romano blush even redder.
"Come on, Lovi, smile a little," Spain pouts, poking his lover's puffed cheek. "Didn't you like the surprise?"
They've left the restaurant a while ago, and are now calmly strolling around Madrid. Spain walks in the middle, one hand holding Pheasant Island's and the other trying to get Romano's attention.
"Lovi…" he whines, sticking out his lower lip in an even sadder pout. Romano mumbles something he doesn't catch, and he leans in. "What was that?"
"I said it was embarrassing," Romano repeats a little louder. "Everyone was staring at us."
"I think it was very nice," Pheasant Island intervenes. "And the cake was delicious."
"Awe, thank you, sweetheart!" exclaims Spain, his pout replaced by a happy smile. Without warning, he picks her up and starts covering her face with kisses. "I'm so lucky to have you!"
Pheasant Island giggles, while at the same time squirming and trying to push Spain's face away from hers. "Aita, stop!" she laughs. "You're going to make Roma jealous!"
Spain stops at those words, blinks a few times, and then turns to Romano and asks if he's jealous.
"Of course not, you fucking idiot!"
"Ah, that's nice," he chirps. "I can do it to you too, anyway."
"Don't you dare."
Spain smiles. Despite Romano's cutting tone, he knows the limits of the prohibition. Not in public, not in front of others. But at night, in his bedroom, after Pheasant Island has gone to bed, Romano throws all his inhibitions away. He doesn't seem to have any as he sits on Spain's lap, straddling him, and kisses him with all the frustration accumulated throughout a day with very little intimacy.
"You're impatient," Spain chuckles breathlessly, pressing his lips to Romano's neck.
"And whose fault is it?" Romano growls, his fingers playing with Spain's soft hair. "You made us spend all the day out when we could've easily spent it here. And you haven't even given me a birthday present."
"I am your birthday present," Spain replies.
Romano raises an eyebrow and pushes Spain's face away from his neck so he can look him in the eye. Spain's green eyes are bright and kind, and so full of love that Romano suddenly feels dizzy.
"Really?"
Spain loves being the one in control. It's almost a need; an old habit from his empire days he hasn't gotten rid of. Despite having been a minor country for too long now, he still tries to seize control once again — and he may not succeed in politics or economy, but when he's alone with Romano, he takes all he can get.
And, despite everything, he doesn't mind letting go every once in a while and let Romano have his way. He's too much in love to care.
After having been staring at each other's eyes for a while, Romano finally smirks. He leans in for a quick kiss, and is about to say something when there's a quiet knock on the bedroom door.
"Aita?"
Sighing, Romano slides off Spain's lap and watches in resignation as he walks to the door, fixing his clothes in the process.
"What is it?" Spain asks when he opens the door to reveal a yawning Pheasant Island. She's wearing her pyjamas and carries the bull plushie Spain gave her for her birthday, and looks tired. "Had a nightmare?"
She shakes her head. "I can't sleep," she whines.
To Spain's surprise, Romano reacts before he can. Walking to their side, he gently picks her up and carries her to her bedroom, where he tucks her in bed. Then, as he strokes her hair, he tells her the story of a little girl who was sold inside a barrel of pears, and how she was brave and smart and kind, and found an incredible treasure. By the time he finishes the tale, Pheasant Island is deep asleep.
Quietly, lest she wakes up, Romano tiptoes out of the room. Spain, who has been watching since the beginning from the doorframe, pulls him into a warm hug.
"That was adorable. I think I've fallen in love with you all over again," he whispers.
Romano only smiles as he closes the door and guides them back to Spain's bedroom. The moment they enter, Spain locks the door behind them and hugs Romano from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder.
"That was lovely," he sighs as he starts rocking from side to side. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it," Romano answers, leaning back against him.
They remain like that for a few minutes, simply enjoying the other's presence, until Spain places a kiss just below Romano's ear and asks if he still wants his birthday present. Romano smirks.
Things stop being tender and innocent then, though there's still a certain loving sweetness.
There are no more interruptions for the rest of the night.
~{x}~
March 30th — Toledo
"One, two, three, duck! Good! Left, right, down! You're doing great!"
Panting, Pheasant Island takes a few steps back and raises her wooden sword. In front of her, Spain skilfully whirls his own, not a single trace of fatigue on him.
They always visit Toledo when she's living with him. Spain loves the city: so old, so full of history, of memories. And Pheasant Island loves hearing his stories. Spain tells her about Toledo in the old days, "the City of the Three Cultures" in which Christians, Muslims and Jews alike coexisted. The truth is, there were different neighbourhoods for each religion (ghettos, for whichever two were under the rule of the other) and the relation wasn't as pacific as many want to believe, but Spain always omits this. He'd rather remember the good parts. They visit the Cathedral, the Mosque and the Synagogue, walk on the medieval city walls — and then it's time for sword fights.
It started many years ago. In one of their visits, Spain was proudly talking about Toledo's swords, the best of the world — in his modest and not at all biased opinion. He was in the middle of recalling how New Zealand had once phoned and asked him to make hundreds of swords for this crazy movie project he had when Pheasant Island had interrupted him and asked if he knew how to fight with a sword.
He said yes, of course.
And she asked him to teach her.
They've never told France about this, because they're positive he'll freak out. But every year, at least a week out of the six months they have together is spent in Toledo. It's one thing they both always look forward to.
"Come on, Irene, you attack now."
Pheasant Island takes a deep breath and then runs towards Spain, wielding her wooden sword with much more skill than one would expect from a little girl. However, Spain is more experienced, and easily blocks all her blows; until she surprises him with a masterful sidestep and manages to hit his forearm. He yelps, surprised, and she lets out a triumphant exclamation; but Spain recovers quickly, and after two quick counterattacks, the tip of his sword is caressing Pheasant Island's neck.
"Don't get too confident just because you hit your opponent. The battle's not over until there's only one standing," he lectures. "But you're improving awfully fast!" he adds, smiling brightly. "At this rate, it's only a matter of time until you beat me."
Pheasant Island's frustrated expression is replaced by a happy one at those words. Laughing, she smacks Spain's sword away and leaps at him, demanding a hug that Spain is more than happy to give.
Later, in the evening, they go for a stroll on the city walls. It's a bit chilly, particularly when the wind blows, but the view of the city and its surroundings is worth it.
"Aita," Pheasant Island calls as she trots beside Spain.
"Yes?"
"Can we use real swords tomorrow?"
Spain stops abruptly and gawks at her. "Real swords?" he repeats, astounded. "As in, iron swords? Shap-edged swords? Swords that cut?"
She nods, walking to his side and pulling at his hand to make him walk again.
"But that's dangerous, sweetheart," Spain argues once he's recovered from the shock. "If we aren't careful, one of us could get very hurt."
"Then we'll be careful," she replies easily. "I look very young, but you know I'm old. There's no need to be that protective."
Spain shakes his head and looks away to hide his smile. Yes, she's centuries old, yet still a child to him. Besides, although she sometimes has some incredibly mature moments, most of the time she behaves like the little girl she is. For them, age has little to do: if they don't grow physically, they won't grow mentally. Romano, for instance, isn't much younger than Spain, yet there was a huge difference between them in both aspects when he was his charge.
"Aita?"
Pheasant Island's somewhat concerned voice pulls him out of his thoughts and back to reality. He sighs in defeat.
"Iron swords are heavy. We'll have to take it easy at the beginning. We do the warm-up with wooden swords." A pause, and then: "And not a word of this to France."
He still isn't entire sure about it, but all his worries are washed away by Pheasant Island's cheerful expression and celebratory cries.
"Don't get too excited," he laughs. "I haven't finished." He clears his throat and keeps stating his terms and conditions: "We'll always have a first-aid kit close, and won't do anything without it. We'll go back to wood the moment there's and accident. And, I must insist, not a word of this to France."
"What happens in Papa finds out?"
"I'm dead; he's in jail."
The conversation soon derives into other topics, though they don't stay long. They rush back to the hotel soon after, when Spain points out that they should take good rest before starting with proper iron swords.
As expected, they both fall deep asleep the moment their tired bodies hit the mattress.
~{x}~
April 23rd — Barcelona
La Rambla is always a busy street, but today in particular. It's hard to move between the crowd, made of locals and tourists alike, but Spain manages to advance with relative ease. Pheasant Island walks beside him, holding his hand tight to avoid getting lost in the crowd. She clutches her new book to her chest with the other arm, and from time to time she fixes the carnation tucked behind her ear to make sure she won't lose it.
Both have been gifts from Spain. Like every year, she has awoken to find them on her nightstand with a colourful card that reads: "Feliç Sant Jordi". And when she went to the kitchen for breakfast, Spain had wished her a happy Book Day.
April 23rd is a day they always spend in Barcelona, no matter what. It's a holiday in Catalonia, since Saint George is the patron of the region, and bookstores don't miss the chance to celebrate Book Day by placing stands all over the Rambla.
"If you see any book you may like, don't hesitate to tell me," Spain says to Pheasant Island when he notices she won't stop staring at the stands.
"But you already got me a book today," she argues, holding up the book for a moment to prove her point.
"There's no such thing as having too many books," he replies, winking. "And today is Book Day, so they're cheaper."
Pheasant Island smiles and starts to walk slower, looking carefully at all the stands they walk by. "Aita," she calls after a while.
"Yes?"
"Why is it Book Day today?"
"I've never told you?" he asks, frowning. The crowd is getting bigger and louder, and Spain picks her up to avoid having to shout (and to make sure she won't get lost). "On April 23rd, 1616 passed away two of the greatest literary authors the world has ever seen: Miguel de Cervantes, and" —he sighs— "William Shakespeare."
Pheasant Island giggles. Spain's instinctive dislike towards anything remotely English is never not funny. "But, Aita," she says, "last year, when I was living with Papa, England came to visit and he told me that Shakespeare died one week later than Cervantes."
Spain narrows his eyes at first, despising the thought of his archenemy getting too close to his little girl, but recovers fast and answers her question: "They did die one week apart, but both died on April 23rd." He laughs at the clear confusion on her face. "The things is," he goes on, "that England and I really, really disliked each other back then, to the point where we had different calendars. So Cervantes and Shakespeare died on different days, but on the same date."
Pheasant Island blinks a few times, processing the information received, until she finally states: "You two are weird."
Spain chuckles.
"I guess we are, yes."
Truth be told, he and England have more things in common than they're willing to admit. France always rolls his eyes at them when they complain about the other and their shared history, because they both always have the same complaints.
The asshole sank my Armada.
The git tried to invade me.
He's a back-stabbing bastard.
He's a sadistic motherfucker.
Fucking Drake.
Stupid Lezo.
I can't believe we were married once.
I can't believe we were married once.
Spain and Pheasant Island finally leave the crowd behind, having reached the end of the Rambla, and he puts her back on the ground. At her request, they keep walking until they reach the beach, and then take a nice stroll along the coast. He later insists on visiting the Sagrada Familia, which never fails to amaze him even though it's still unfinished; and later, they go all the way up to visit Park Güell.
"Gaudí was amazing," Pheasant Island says after having seen all those marvels of wavy architecture.
"Aye, he was," Spain confirms, nodding. "Good ol' Antoni…" he sighs, lost in his memories. "It's a shame he was run over by a tram."
Pheasant Island makes a disgusted face at that and is quick to change the topic.
Later, in the evening, after a nice dinner at a quiet restaurant, they're back at Spain's flat. As soon as they walk through the door, Pheasant Island rushes to the kitchen to get a glass of water to put her carnation in. It was starting to wither and it had her worried, but Spain has assured her it'll survive for a while if taken care of properly.
She takes the glass with the flower to her bedroom and leaves it on the nightstand. Spain walks in just as she finishes putting on her pyjama and gently tucks her in bed.
"Aita, can you tell me the story of Sant Jordi?" she requests, like she does every year.
Spain smiles and sits on the bed. "Of course," he says, brushing a few strands of hair off her forehead.
"A long, long time ago, a dragon nestled next to the fountain that took water to a city, thus leaving the villagers without water," he begins the tale. He has told it so many times, he's certain Pheasant Island could probably recite it from memory, but he'd be lying if he said he doesn't like telling the story to his little girl. "To get the dragon to give them water, the peoples of the town had to send a human sacrifice each day to get eaten by the dragon. One day, the person chosen was the princess, and the king could do nothing to save her. However, when the dragon was about to devour her, George appeared riding his white horse; and he slew the dragon and saved the princess!"
The actual story is much more gruesome: instead of a dragon and a brave knight in a white horse, there's war and torture and religious purge. Spain doesn't like that one. He's glad there's a kid-friendly legend he can tell Pheasant Island.
When she falls asleep, he kisses her forehead before leaving the room, quietly closing the door behind him.
~{x}~
May 12th — Valencia
"Aita."
"Yes?"
"Why do we always come to Valencia just to eat paella?"
"Because the paella from Valencia is the one and only, the real, the proper paella."
Pheasant Island frowns. "But restaurants offer paella anywhere you go," she argues.
"That's not paella. It's rice with stuff thrown in."
A sigh indicates Spain that Pheasant Island has given up on arguing with him. He's very stubborn, and when his food is involved, it's impossible to make him change his mind. It's even worse when they visit Valencia, where paella was first made. He often rants about how other places completely butcher his precious dish by adding seafood, or maybe even more heretic things. She was living with France when a British chef cooked paella with chorizo, and she clearly remembers a very upset England visiting them with a swollen eye and a broken lip.
"You can mock me for whatever you want, and I'll laugh with you," Spain often says. "But dare to insult my food… and you won't be able to hide from me."
Pheasant Island isn't sure she likes that side of him.
But when they finally sit down, a huge paella between them, and start eating, he soon forgets his complaints and happily chats with her about many things.
"Here's a fun fact," he says between mouthful and mouthful of rice: "the name 'paella' doesn't refer to the dish itself, but it's in fact the pan in which it's cooked."
"Really?" she asks, rising an eyebrow. "Then what's the dish called?"
"Arroz a la paella. But I guess we're too lazy to say the whole thing, and in the end it became known just as 'paella'," he finishes with a laugh.
Pheasant Island laughs with him.
She likes this side of him much better.
~{x}~
May 29th — Cuenca
Like Toledo, Cuenca is a city that hasn't lost its historical charm with the years. The upper part still conserves the old city walls, and very particular buildings. Pheasant Island loves visiting the cathedral: it reminds her of Notre-Dame. It is in fact modelled after Notre-Dame, though the original project was never finished.
To get there, they have to cross the bridge of San Pablo and walk by the Hanged Houses. Those are probably the greatest tourist attraction Cuenca has to offer: most of its houses are already built in seemingly impossible fashion in nearly vertical mountainsides, but the Hanged Houses take it to another level and are almost hanging on the edge of a cliff.
There's a museum inside, but they don't visit it. It's abstract art — Spain doesn't get it and Pheasant Island doesn't like it. They do admire them as the walk under and beside them, but they barely stop before they reach the cathedral. They admire it from outside for a while before going in.
"Aita," Pheasant Island calls, "why are those stained glasses different from the others?"
Spain looks to where she's pointing and snorts when his gaze lands on the colourful windows, that look nothing like what you usually see in cathedrals. "That's a fun story," he answers. "The old bridge of San Pablo was made of stone, but it was very old and they feared it would collapse. So they decided to blow it up, which was a success — save for the fact that the expansive wave blew up practically all the stained glass windows."
Pheasant Island laughs loudly, earning a few glares from other visitors. She covers her mouth with both hands in an attempt at quieting her laugh, with little success. Spain, sensing he's about to burst out laughing soon, too, picks her up and rushes out of the cathedral. Once outside, they gleefully laugh because hey, it's a pretty fun story.
"This poor cathedral has suffered a lot through history," Spain says thoughtfully once they recover. "The facade has fallen down like four times."
Pheasant Island giggles. She already knew both facts, but still cracks up every time Spain tells them. "Aita," she says after a while, pulling at the sleeve of his shirt, "can we go to the Enchanted City now?"
"Sure."
The Enchanted City is one of her favourite places in the world. It's a twenty-minute ride from Cuenca, but it's totally worth it. She can barely control her excitement when Spain parks the car and guides her to the entrance. Once they're in, it's time to let the imagination flow.
"It's hard to believe this is all natural," Spain comments as they stroll around the rocks.
Pheasant Island doesn't answer — she's too busy trying to guess what each rock looks like. She totally agrees with him, though.
The Enchanted City is merely a big area of the mountain range in which ages of erosion have moulded the rocks until giving them quite curious shapes. A seal with a ball on its nose, two bears, a turtle, a face, even a sea of stone. It's a place that reminds Spain that nature is breathtakingly powerful.
It takes them a lot of time to visit the whole place. It's not that it's particularly big; it's just that Pheasant Island stops and stares at every rock she spots, deciding what it looks like. There are "official" rocks that have a small placard nearby explaining what they supposedly look like, but Pheasant Island will pay just as much attention to all others.
"That one looks like a cockatoo," she states.
"Yes, it does," Spain agrees, following her gaze.
"It doesn't have a sign?" Pheasant Island frowns, looking around it. "It should have a sign," she frowns.
"Send an official complaint," he jokes, and she punches him (weakly).
He can joke about many things, but the Enchanted City is not one of those.
~{x}~
June 15th — Córdoba
"It's hot," Pheasant Island whines.
"You're exaggerating — it's not that bad," Spain replies, but still hands her a bottle of cold water for her to drink some.
"I'm not!" she protests after having drunk. "It's too hot!"
"Huh? But we're barely at thirty-two degrees."
Pheasant Island glares at him. "Barely?!"
"We sometimes reach forty," Spain shrugs. "It's not that bad now."
"I'm going to melt."
"It's okay, we're almost there," he assures, patting her shoulder in a supportive fashion.
He sometimes forgets she's not as used to heat as him. She's from the north, where winter is harsher and summer is milder. Visiting the south in summer isn't her piece of cake, even though she's perfectly capable of standing the heat.
The moment they reach their destination, Pheasant Island rushes inside to take shelter from the merciless sun and enjoy that particular coolness old buildings have. Spain follows her, shaking his head at her eagerness. It really isn't that hot, in his opinion. However, their disagreement is immediately forgotten when he steps inside.
If he had to make a list of his favourite buildings, this one would be in the top five.
It's a mosque.
And it's a cathedral.
At the same time.
Spain takes Pheasant Island's hand and guides her into a forest of stone columns, of red and white arches. He explains that all the columns are different because they were "imported" from churches from all around the peninsula, back when practically all the territory was under control of the Moors. He tells her that the mosque is not symmetrical because it had to be enlarged a few times because the population kept growing, and also mentions that it's the only mosque in the world that is (intentionally) not oriented towards Mecca.
Al-Andalus gave him a tough time back in the day, but Spain can't help but be grateful for the impact he had on his culture. All the art he left behind, all the architecture, the agriculture techniques, even the language. And to think that the Mosque of Córdoba isn't the best architectonic masterpiece Al-Andalus left…
Pheasant Island pokes him, pulling him out of his thoughts, and he looks at her to find her staring at some inscriptions in Arabic. He translates them without much difficulty.
"You speak Arab?" she asks, surprised.
"I learnt it a long time ago," he shrugs, resting it importance. Truth be told, it's not a language he forced himself to learn, like English (though England claims that what Spain speaks is so NOT English), but a language he simply knew more of as more and more Muslims started to live in his territories. He doesn't use it often, but has made an effort not to forget it. Some may not like it, but the Moorish influence on him is way too big to ignore.
Pheasant Island tries to prolong their visit, but they eventually run out of things to see and corners to explore and have to go back to the scorching heat outside. She whines and complains about it until Spain promises to buy her an ice-cream. Later, as they stroll around the city with their ice-cream cones in hand, she's back to her usual cheerful self and questions Spain nonstop about the days of the Reconquest. She's thrilled when he tells her about the festivity known as Moors against Christians, and makes him promise they'll go to at least one next year.
Spain agrees, but with one condition: not a word of that to France.
~{x}~
June 28th — Cádiz
Cádiz is further south than Córdoba, but being closer to the sea makes the summer heat a little more bearable. The beaches are full of people — Spaniards from all around Spain and Europeans from all around Europe — but that doesn't stop Pheasant Island from having fun.
With Spain's help, she builds a big sandcastle. It's schematic and crumbles down a little, but she's proud of it nonetheless. Then she drags him into the water, where she swims and splashes around him until she gets tired, then lies on her back and lets him drag her around, loving the gentle caress of the water on her skin.
When Spain deems they've been in the water for too long, he forces her back to the shore, where he dries her and drenches her in sunblock. He can survive with little of it, but she's way paler than him and he doesn't want to risk a sunburn. Once he's done, Pheasant Island rushes to her sandcastle's ruins (it apparently has been stepped on) and promptly rebuilds it.
She's halfway through making another when Spain kindly informs her that it's lunchtime. For a moment, she's about to protest, but then she realizes she's actually pretty hungry, and follows him without hesitation. The food in Cádiz isn't half bad.
After lunch, she's not allowed in the water again (Spain suffered once from cold shock response, and is in no way willing to let Pheasant Island go through that), so instead they take a walk along the shore.
"Do you want to go to Tarifa?" Spain offers after they've been strolling for a while.
"Yes!" Pheasant Island responds excitedly.
Said and done, they're in the car in a matter of minutes, and soon arrive in Tarifa. The little town itself isn't really remarkable — it's the sight it offers what matters.
There, from the shore, across the waters that are a blend of the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, the silhouette of the African continent can be seen. It's nothing more than a dark blur in the horizon, but it's an impressive sight nonetheless.
"Aita, the world is very big," Pheasant Island mutters, her gaze fixed on the continent at barely fifteen kilometres away.
"It is."
"Have you seen all of it?"
"Not all of it, but I have seen quite a lot."
Pheasant Island is about to say something else, but before she can voice her existential worries, another childish voice speaks instead:
"Spain! Hi!"
Startled, they turn to see a brown-haired, green-eyed kid waving at them.
"Alex!" Pheasant Island exclaims, happy, and runs to his side to give him a bone-crushing hug.
"Hello, Irene," Gibraltar laughs, blushing red when she kisses his cheek.
Spain walks to his side, too, and ruffles his hair. "Hola, Alejandro," he greets. "What are you doing here? Are you on your own?" he asks, slightly worried. He shouldn't mind about Gibraltar getting into trouble because he's technically a British territory (technically, because as far as he's concerned, Gibraltar has never stopped being Spanish) and it should be England's job to look after him; but he does care for the boy, and besides, England neglecting his role as caretaker could be a point in his favour the next time he tries to get him back.
To his utter disappointment, Gibraltar says that no, he's not alone — England is with him.
Then he points to his back, where said nation is slowly walking towards them.
Spain can barely control his laugh. England looks nothing like the well-dressed gentleman he tries to portray in world meetings. ('Tries to', yes. Spain knows very well that England still is and will always be a pirate on the inside.) The Brit is currently wearing a white tank-top and light blue shorts, cheap sunglasses and (Spain tries not to grimace) socks with sandals. He carries a plastic cup with a pinkish beverage that Spain assumes to be some sort of alcoholic mix, which he sips from time to time. When he gets closer, Spain notices that his fair skin is reddish on the shoulders and legs; and when he takes off his sunglasses to greet them, he needs all his self-control to not burst out laughing at the sun mark they've left on his face.
"Yo," England greets them when he finally reaches them. "I didn't expect to meet you here."
"I should be the one saying that," Spain replies. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm on vacation."
I can see that, Spain thinks. Usually, he'd be repulsed by the thought of England being in his territory so freely, but he doesn't mind it that much when he's in tourist mode. Tourists equal money. In fact, tourists equal the lifesaver that prevents his struggling economy from sinking. "How much did they charge you for that?" he asks, pointing to England's drink.
England takes a sip and looks at his drink, thoughtful. "More than I should be willing to pay," he finally answers. Then he takes another sip.
"Cool," Spain says, patting his back. "Go get another one later."
"Maybe I will."
"But don't get too drunk. You'll cause disturbs if you do."
"I can't promise anything."
Since they don't see each other often, they let Pheasant Island and Gibraltar play on their own in the beach, making sandcastles and going for a swim. Meanwhile, Spain and England chat over a couple of beers about nothing in particular; a chat in which Spain won't stop not-so-discretely encouraging England to keep spending money. He considers trying to convince him to give back Gibraltar, but he knows that, even if he made it, a deal made in a beach while on holidays will have no legal validity; and England will thoroughly destroy any evidence of it once he's back to normal anyway. The money he spends, however, he won't be getting back, so Spain makes sure to get all he can get.
Maybe, just maybe, he's still a pirate in the inside, too.
~{x}~
July 7th — Granada
If Pheasant Island had to choose a synonym of "going to Granada in summer", she'd say "suicide".
She's always thirsty, no matter how much she drinks, and each step she takes feels like the most terrible of tortures. Las night was so hot she could barely sleep. When they walk by a publicity stand that displays time and temperature, she glances sideways at it and groans when she sees a big '36⁰C' in bright red numbers. And it's not even the hottest hour of the day.
"What's the matter, sweetie?" Spain asks when he hears the noise of discomfort.
"Oso beroa da," she grunts in Euskera, not having it in herself to bother speaking Spanish.
"It is a bit hot, yes," Spain agrees. Noticing she's falling behind, he offers her his hand. Pheasant Island takes it and lets herself be practically dragged. "But it's not that bad!" he adds, cheerful.
"Hiltzen ari naiz," she protests.
"Don't exaggerate," he laughs. "Come on, we're almost there."
Truth be told, Spain knows that it's too hot to be moving around. If even he admits that it's hot, then it's scorching for those not used to his southern climate. (A sadistic side of him always begs him to kidnap the Nordics, Canada, and maybe even Russia; then drop them there and study how long it takes them to suffer a heatstroke.)
Unfortunately, that's the only day they're going to spend in Granada, and even though the weather invites them to drop dead in a bed and do nothing until the sun sets, Spain doesn't plan on missing another of his favourite buildings. A national treasure, even.
As they get closer to the walls of the Alhambra, Pheasant Island's whines decrease until they disappear completely. The magnificence of the citadel is enough to make her forget for a while about the heat.
"That castle is huge," she mumbles.
"You bet it is," Spain nods. "It's practically a city inside the city."
They're not going to have time to visit the whole place, Spain knows it. He needed a long time to get to know each room, each corridor, each courtyard after he finally, finally conquered Granada, putting an end to almost eight centuries of reconquest. The first night he spent there, he didn't sleep; instead, he stood up until the morning, exploring, staring in awe at the beautiful, intricate patterns on the walls. He still carries a lot of resentment towards Al-Andalus, but he's also deeply grateful to him for having left behind such a treasure. The Alhambra isn't a building — it's art.
Once they cross the ancient walls, they're greeted by an explosion of colour, of fresh air and a relaxed atmosphere. A wide grin soon shows up on Pheasant Island's face as her gaze wanders all around herself.
"It's gorgeous!" she exclaims.
"I know," Spain replies, smiling back at her. "And you haven't seen anything yet."
He guides her from one room to another, pointing out the smallest details anyone else would have missed, explaining the reasons behind the more curious things. He tells her that water is a constant in Arab art, thus the fountains and small channels that make water flow in practically every room. A compulsory stop is made in the Patio de los Leones, the most famous courtyard of the Alhambra, where a fountain with twelve lions stands.
"The sculpture looks quite simple, but the system of the fountain is actually quite complex," Spain comments.
Astounded, Pheasant Island walks around the fountain, trying to refrain from patting the lions' heads. It's only one of the many wonders she's discovering inside the Alhambra, and she suddenly regrets not having more time to fully explore it.
"Aita, did the bad guy really build this?" she finally asks, carefully studying a lion's face.
"Al-Andalus?" Spain laughs. "He did build it, but he wasn't 'the bad guy'. We just… strongly disagreed about, well, everything." He sighs. "I hated him back then, but time puts everything into perspective. When I think about it I realize that, no matter how much I wanted to believe it, I really didn't have any right to expel him. He'd been living here for centuries, after all."
Pheasant Island grabs his hand and walks away from the courtyard and into a random corridor, one they still haven't crossed. "Do you miss him?" she dares to ask after a while.
"Miss him—?" Spain repeats, taken aback, and then snorts. "Nah, I don't miss him. He didn't fully die when I finished the Reconquest, you know." He looks around himself, at the Alhambra, at a building that, like the Mosque of Córdoba, he really has nothing to do with but makes him feel proud anyway. "He left a big part of him in me," he concludes. "I can't miss him, because he never really left me."
"Is that why you kicked him out?"
"No. I kicked him out because I thought it was my duty."
"Your duty?"
"To my people and my religion. I never even felt sorry when the last king of Granada left it in tears."
"He was crying?" Pheasant Island exclaims. "In a battle?"
"It wasn't a battle," Spain smiles, though it's not his usual gleeful grin. "They surrendered. Boabdil, the young king — he was barely eighteen, if I recall correctly — cried as he left the Alhambra. Legend says his mother then told him a famous and not at all sexist line: Don't cry like a woman over what you couldn't defend like a man."
Pheasant Island snorts in something that wants to resemble a laugh.
"I'm glad we didn't have to fight, though," Spain adds, almost sounding as if he's thinking out loud. "The Alhambra is quite the fortress — it would have taken us ages to conquer it. And besides," he pats a wall decorated with wonderful patterns, "it would've been a crime to lay a single finger against this masterpiece, don't you agree?"
Pheasant Island can only nod.
~{x}~
July 31st — Bilbao
"Have you packed everything?"
"Bai."
"Do you want to see Papa again?"
"Oui!"
"Are you going to miss me?"
"… sí."
Spain smiles as he combs her hair.
"I'm going to miss you, too."
He puts away the comb and starts to skilfully braid her hair. Pheasant Island herself has asked him to do so. Both France and Spain are neat hairdressers, but while the former takes pride in it and doesn't miss a chance to show off his skills, the latter is much more laid back and will only do someone else's hair if requested (he doesn't even bother with his own).
"Aita, you have to come spend a day with us," Pheasant Island says (orders), staring at his reflection on the mirror.
"Huh? Six months with me aren't enough?" he jokes, looking back at her for a second before focusing on the braid again.
Pheasant Island sticks her tongue out at him. "It's just that I realized that I spend three more days with Papa than with you," she elaborates. "So you could come visit someday to balance it a little."
Spain frowns and stops working for a moment. "You're three days longer with France?"
She nods — or does the closest she can manage without disturbing Spain's work. "Because I spend February with you," she explains. "And February is two days shorter than a regular month."
"And the third one?"
"Out of the six months I'm with you, three have thirty-one days. Papa has four of those."
Spain's eyes open wide and his mouth forms a perfect 'O'. Immediately after, his gaze turns into a sharp glare and he mutters a barely audible sonofawhore.
"I'll talk to France about the visit thingy," he says after the sense of betrayal has cooled down a little. "You insist — he won't be able to say 'no' to you," he adds with a sly wink.
Pheasant Island giggles and assures him she will do it. "Maybe you can drop by on my birthday," she suggests. "England will be there as well, so he will let you bring Alex over."
"I don't need England's permission to take Alejandro on a trip!" he protests, offended.
"Yes you do."
"I shouldn't have to," he pouts. "Gibraltar is Spanish."
She rolls her eyes. Like France, she's tired of hearing Spain and England bickering nonstop over Gibraltar. She's good friends with him and they always have a great time when they play together, but she wishes he weren't such a controversial territory.
"Done!" Spain says then, and it takes her a moment to realize he talks about her braid. Eager to see the results, she starts to squirm on his lap, trying to find the right angle to see the back of her head on the mirror. "Easy, easy, contortionist," Spain laughs. He suddenly feels like annoying her for a while, so he grabs her and gives her a quick series of sloppy kisses on the cheek.
"Aita! No!" Pheasant Island complains between giggles. When she tries to push his head away, he playfully bites her finger before grabbing her hand, pressing it to his mouth and blowing, emitting some fart-like sounds. "Aita, that's disgusting," she groans, wiping her finger on his shirt.
"Sentitzen dut," he apologizes with a chuckle. "I couldn't help it." Now that she's not fighting, he hugs her tightly against his chest and presses a tender kiss to her forehead.
He wants to enjoy the last moments he has with her.
~{x}~
August 1st — Bidasoa River, French-Spanish border
France is already there when they arrive. The moment she sees him, Pheasant Island yells "Papa!" and runs to him, laughing and squealing when he picks her up and covers her face in kisses. Spain follows slower, almost dragging his feet, though there's a soft smile on his lips as he watches the reunion.
It's always the same.
He's happy because Pheasant Island is happy; he's sad because she's leaving.
France pats his back when he finally reaches them and he does the same. It's their official I'd-give-you-a-hug-but-I'm-holding-a-little-girl greeting.
"So, Francis," Spain says. "I realized that you're with Irene for three days longer than me."
Clearly amused, France raises an eyebrow. "Over a hundred years and you notice now?" he asks, barely holding back his laugh.
"Actually, I realized it," Pheasant Island intervenes, making France break out into chocked fits of laughter.
Offended, Spain pouts and crosses his arms. If he hasn't notices before it's because he hasn't bothered counting, that's it! He doesn't try to defend himself, though — he knows France (and Prussia, once he's told) are going to mock him forever and ever anyway.
"Whatever. I'll come visit on November 7th. You'd better have a bed for me," he tells France, waving a finger in front of his face in a warning fashion. "And you," he says to Pheasant Island, poking her nose, "be nice, yes? I'll see you in November."
"Ados!"
"Agur, ederra," he says, kissing her cheek one last time.
"Agur, Aita. See you in November!" she calls as he starts to walk away.
"Au revoir, Toni!" France shouts as well.
Spain waves at them from the distance, not turning to face them. He never wants to see France walking away with Pheasant Island; even though he knows they're not enemies, he's going to see her again, she's as happy with France as she's with him. It still stings.
Thankfully, he's not left alone.
"Hey, bastard."
"Hi, Lovi," he greets him, not as cheerfully as he usually does.
Unlike himself, Romano grabs his hand, intertwining their fingers, and kisses him deeply, not minding that they're in the middle of the street.
"Ah, I already feel better," Spain jokes when they part, which earns him a punch to the shoulder. When he stares at Romano, though, he does so lovingly and with gratitude in his eyes. Having to say goodbye to Pheasant Island was made a little more bearable since Romano started to meet him right afterwards to cheer him up. "So, where are we going?" he asks.
After six months, it feels nice not being the one in charge. He listens carefully as Romano makes a list of the plans he has in mind for the two of them, occasionally sliding in an opinion or a correction, laughing when Romano blushes because of the latter. Soon, his sadness has vanished, all his attention focused on his lover.
However, there's a teeny-tiny voice in the back of his head, whispering:
"Just until November 7th."
FIN
Translations:
Partekatutako zaintza (EUS) – shared custody
Kaixo (EUS) – hello
Aita (EUS) – dad
Agur (EUS) – goodbye
Zorionak (EUS) – happy birthday, congratulations
Ados (EUS) – okay
Osaba (EUS) – uncle
Querida (POR) – dear
Irmán (GAL) – brother
"Sana, sana, culito de rana; si no se cura hoy, se curará mañana" (SPA) – traditional Spanish song to soothe children after they hurt themselves; it translates to "Heal, heal, frog's little butt; if it doesn't heal today, it'll heal tomorrow".
Feliz cumpleaños, mi amor (SPA) – happy birthday, my love
Feliç Sant Jordi (CAT) – happy Saint George
Oso beroa da (EUS) – it's too hot
Hiltzen ari naiz (EUS) – I'm dying
Bai (EUS) – yes
Sentitzen du (EUS) – I'm sorry
Agur, ederra (EUS) – goodbye, beautiful