Title: We Sing, We Dance, We Eat Tomatoes
Pairings: SPAMANO, UKUS, CanPru, GerIta, Rome/Germania, some Edelweiss, some Bad Touch Trio, some SpaBel, some Turkey/Romano, a bit of Spain/Netherlands, and potential FRussia, Hungary/Ukraine, and Belarus/Lichtenstein as the story goes on, as well as a bunch of other possible minor pairings (PoLiet, SuFin, DenNor, Korea/China, ThaiViet, GiriPan, etc.), oh and a bunch of people randomly paired with France, because he's France
Nyo'd Characters: fem!Italy (Felicia), fem!Germany (Louise), fem!America (Amelia), fem!Prussia (Gillian), and possibly male!Belarus
Genres: Romance & Humor (do I ever write anything else, honestly?)
AU: all humans, takes place in Philadelphia around now
Summary: When Lovino Vargas takes in a starving guitar player called the Curbside Prophet from the streets of Philadelphia, he isn't expecting the man to tolerate him for more than a couple weeks, much less fall in love with him.
Updates: I'll try for once a week. Probably on Fridays. (Try being the key word there …)
Length: 50 chapters, around 4,000 words each, give or take a couple thousand (unless of course Jason Mraz writes more songs by the time I finish, in which case I will scream for a little bit, then re-write half of my plot)
About the Jason Mraz Thing: This fanfiction is inspired entirely by the songs of (amazing) singer, poet, guitarist, and philosopher Jason Mraz, who, in my opinion, is basically Spain (only American, and not as hot.) Each chapter is based around one song in particular, with a plot and theme based on that song, and lyrics from the song serving as page breaks, and Antonio will sing the song at some point during the chapter. So, basically, the entire story is a series of fifty songfics with an interwoven plot. You certainly don't have to be familiar with all of Jason Mraz's songs to like this story – you don't even have to like them – but it helps. A lot. At least, try to listen to the songs for each chapter while you're reading that chapter. :)
Dissing of the Claims: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. Get used to that sentence, because I'm not going to say it again. Sorry, Himaruya. I don't own Jason Mraz (or any of his lyrics) either.
A/N: So, I've been working on this story off and on for over a year, now, and was starting to think I'd never actually post it (partly because I've been getting into other, non-Hetalia fandoms lately – shame on me, I know, but AVENGERS, and DOCTOR WHO, and SHERLOCK, and TUMBLR, and argh.) BUT for the holidays this year, since I'm broke, I'm giving all of my friends fanfic requests and my friend Hannah (or ChibiAnimeFreak, as she's known here) requested that I start posting this. And writing it again. So here we are.
(By the way, Hannah's also beta'ing this, because she's awesome. You should go check her stories out. She has an actually finished Spamano high school AU that's indescribably cute.)
ANYWAY, WITHOUT FURTHER ADO … THE STORY ITSELF!
WE SING, WE DANCE, WE EAT TOMATOES
1. Sunshine Song (Prologue)
Sometimes the sun shines on other people's houses and not mine,
Sometimes the clouds paint the sky all gray and it takes away my summertime,
Somehow the sun keeps shining upon you while I struggle to get mine,
If there's a light in everybody, send out your ray of sunshine.
Mamá,
You hate me now.
No, don't try to deny it. You've screamed that I'm an abomination of nature enough times for me to get the message.
I guess it makes sense. After all, I did do something completely against your beliefs. They used to be my beliefs, too, but … I don't know any more.
I suppose it never occurred to you that I'm not ashamed of what happened. Why should I be ashamed of the most wonderful experience I've ever had in my entire life?
This is the part where you laugh at me for being young and stupid. Well, guess what? I am young and stupid, and proud of it.
I'm going to keep being young and stupid - just you watch.
I used to love you, Mamá, really. I used to look up to you, as though you were the sun and I was only a little planet, lucky to catch a few chance rays of warmth. You used to be my hero.
I suppose you never thought about that when you treated me like a piece of garbage.
Thank you, Mamá.
You helped me to realize I don't need you to be my sun. I can be my own.
She spits on me. He won't even look at me. They snicker as I pass by. You hate me.
There is nothing left for me here.
Oh, well. Your loss.
I've got a backpack, a guitar, a hundred bucks, and my own talents. That's all I need to find my happiness.
Good luck finding yours.
Adios, Mamá.
The boy who was your son.
Antonio Fernandez Carriedo taped the letter to his mother's wine cooler. That way, she'd be sure to see it when she woke up in the morning.
He took one last look around the apartment that held three years of memories he'd rather forget. They were bottled up, stored in the discarded pizza boxes, the empty beer bottles, the faded couch cushions, the blank walls, the table stained with more than just tomato juice.
They were the ties keeping him here. He stared at the memories - at the faces, the names, the experiences. He stared at them until he could see past them. Until he could see that the strings he had once believed to be iron cables, unbreakable by even the strongest of men, were truly nothing but tiny threads, able to be pulled apart with the tiniest tug.
Antonio slipped his backpack over his shoulder, picked up his old guitar, and headed out into the morning.
He made sure to close the door quietly behind him - his mother was sleeping off a hangover, after all. Wouldn't want to wake her.
"Adios," he whispered, smiling as though at a private joke.
Snip. Snip. Snip-snip. Snip-snip-snip-snip-snip.
It was raining outside - but just barely. The sun was rising; it would be king of the sky in a few hours.
How fitting, he thought.
I wanna walk the same roads as everybody else, through the trees and past the gates,
Gettin' high on heavenly breezes, makin' new friends along the way.
I won't ask much of nobody, I'm just here to sing a song,
And make my mistakes look gracious, and learn some lessons from my wrongs.
"So, what the hell is it this time?
"Do you … D-do you …"
"Come on, spit it out. I don't have all day."
"D-d-do you still … still like me?"
"Oh, Lovino, I always knew you were stupid, but I never realized you were this stupid."
"Wh-what?"
"I never liked you. Honestly, how could anyone like you, you little freak? You make people feel worse about themselves just by being around."
"Then … then why …"
"Why did I pretend? Isn't it obvious? To get into your sister's pants."
"… Oh."
"Yeah, now you get it, you moron. Felicia is everything you aren't – cute, peppy, not cursing and pissed off for no good reason all the fucking time, and a total babe."
"But … She's taken."
"You think I don't know that? You think I'm not cursing your father for not beating the lesbian out of her?"
"Well, no, but …"
"But why didn't I break up with you when she started dating that German bitch? See, you're so stupid, I can even predict what you're going to say next. Loser."
"Um, but why?"
"Well, you see, my friend and I had this bet going, on how long it would take you to figure it out. I lost - thought it would only take you a couple of months. Clearly, I thought you were smarter than you actually are, and that you had a better sense of your total worthlessness as a person … If you can even be called a person …"
It was raining outside. Lovino Romano Vargas could hear it pounding on the roof of his bedroom in time to the pounding of his fists on his pillow.
He was cursing anything and everything he could think of: the rain, his bed, his friends, his family, the bastard who had pretended to like him, the world full of bastards just like that one, himself for not realizing it sooner … himself for letting what had just happened happen … his pride in himself … his confidence … his bravery … himself, in general.
"You make people feel worse about themselves just by being around."
Well, there's a simple solution to that, Lovino told himself, stop being around. Stop letting them be around you. Stop … Stop … Stop …
You aren't good enough. You'll never be good enough.
You'll never be as good as Felicia.
Stop trying.
It's useless.
Nobody will ever love you for who you are, Lovino. There's nothing in you worth loving. There's nothing in you except anger and pain, hatred and fear.
So, stop it.
Stop loving. Stop feeling. Stop looking.
"Just STOP!" he screamed into his tear-soaked pillow, feeling as though he had nothing left to live for.
"Stop," he whispered, feeling as though he had nothing left to feel.
"Stop … Stop … Stop …"
There was a knock on Lovino's door. "Fratello," called the voice of the sweetest girl in the world, "are you okay? I heard you screaming, ve …"
"Go away," Lovino replied weakly, his voice muffled by his pillow. He didn't want to talk to anyone right now - he had to practice not feeling anything - least of all the person who had inadvertently caused his problem.
"But, Fratello, I can tell you're hurting, ve, and I don't want you to go through it alone~," the girl said.
"Just get the fuck away from me," he shouted, suddenly angrier than he'd even been in his entire life. How dare she try to help heal a hurt she had caused?
"I fucking hate you, Felicia," he almost screamed at her, letting all of his insecurities and fears out to penetrate the closed door and pound down upon the one person he had never been able to blame before.
The door creaked open and a flaming read head of hair appeared hesitantly in its wake, followed by a worried, but sympathetic expression - because of course she knew he didn't mean it.
Lovino felt the mattress sink a little as she sat down beside him. He couldn't bear to look at her, or let her (or anyone) see him in such pain, so he buried his head beneath his blankets the way a turtle hides from danger in its shell.
"I know what happened with you and Sadiq," Felicia said softly, her voice so kind and beautiful, no wonder Sadiq wanted her and not him.
Her brother didn't respond.
"It's not your fault, Fratello," she continued. "I know you're going to believe it's your fault, but it isn't."
"Isn't it?" Lovino asked meekly, still not looking up. "I mean, this wouldn't have happened if I wasn't such a … such a fucking terrible person."
"But you aren't a terrible person!" Felicia protested, shocked by her brother's sudden outburst of self-deprecation.
"Yes, I am," he argued, a sob audible in his voice. "I'm stupid and ugly and I'm always angry at every-damn-fucking-thing ... Mama said I'd never be happy, and he said I made people feel worse just by being around. I'm starting to think maybe they were right."
Lovino hated confessing his insecurities like this. He'd heard it said that one always felt better after "letting it all out", but, for him, that didn't seem to work at all. In fact, the opposite, was true – the Italian felt as though, having drained all of the bad from himself, he had no way to find good to replace the space the bad had left.
He felt as though he was caught in the rainstorm outside, with no umbrella, no knowledge of where to find shelter, and no hope of the sunlight ever appearing again.
Lovino suddenly realized that his sister was talking - she had been, perhaps, for a while.
"… and you are a good person, Lovino. You're kind and generous and funny and you can always make me smile -"
"It's pretty easy to make you smile, Sorella," he interrupted Felicia, his voice hard and bitter.
"Yeah, but you can always do it, ve~!" she reiterated, determined to make her brother see sense. "You're an amazing person, and anyone who can't see it is stupid, and anyone who tries to hurt you for it is a … a … a meanie poopy-head!"
Lovino tried to argue, but she wouldn't let him.
"And, someday, someone will come along who sees and loves you for the beautiful person that you are, and you'll learn how to become that true self and love that person, and live happily ever after, ve ve ve~!"
"Yeah, happily-ever-afters, fairy-tale endings, perfect lives," Lovino muttered, so quietly Felicia could barely hear him. "Wish I had one of those. I could sell it for a fucking fortune."
"They aren't as uncommon as you'd think," Felicia replied.
Lovino rolled his eyes at this, and was clearly thinking of a good comeback, but he wasn't crying any more, and his depression seemed to be greatly relieved from earlier, as though a weight bound to his back wasn't as heavy as it used to be.
Considering her work there to be done, the Italian girl tiptoed out of the room, leaving her brother alone to ponder what she'd said, and wallow in his marginally-less-miserable misery.
But she didn't get out quickly enough, because she could still hear his painful ultimatum:
"Easy for you to say, Felicia - at age fifteen, you've already got one. But me? For people like me, fairy-tale endings are just that: fairy tales. Something we read about and dream about but never actually get."
You should look as good as your outlook, would you mind if I took some time,
To soak up your light, your beautiful light, you've got a paradise inside.
I get hungry for love and thirsty for life, and much too full on the pain,
When I look to the sky to help me, and sometimes it looks like rain.
One of the most amazing things about the human race is that we chose our own destinies.
You can blame fate, genetics, God, or some other "higher power" all you want, but the truth Is that you are responsible for yourself. Neither your successes nor your failures would happen if not for your decisions.
Life is a road that you must travel without a GPS - or even a map. Where does it lead?
Well, that's up to you.
One rainy morning, two boys decided to abandon the paths they were traveling - one for a path that seemed freer and the other for a path that seemed safer.
They would be long paths, full of potholes, speed bumps, and muddy ditches. And they would be winding paths, with so many twists and turns that anyone not paying close attention while driving along them would get seriously carsick.
But those paths, with a certain combination of turns, smiles, and kind actions, could converge to lead those two boys to the one thing both of them were searching for:
A happy ending.
A person to travel their roads with.
Sunshine.
If this little light of mine combined with yours today,
How many watts could we illuminate, how many villages could we save?
My umbrella's tired of the weather wearing me down,
But look at me now.
A/N: There are few things I love more than a review. (Even if it's a bad one. COME AT ME BRO. B-|)