DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

SPANISH GOLD

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please excuse the incredibly historically-inaccurate use of modern language (insofar as dialogue and description), as well as my taking liberties with some character names & relationships. Please note that Spanish Gold is meant to be a side-story of Fortune's Favour and is set in the same time-period.

ALWAYS practise safe sex.

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

SPAIN — Antonio Fernàndez Carriedo

ROMANO — Lovino Vargas

ITALY — Feliciano Vargas

ROME — Roma Vargas

ENGLAND — Arthur Kirkland

FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi

AMERICA — Alfred

CANADA — Mathew

PROLOGUE

COAST OF SPAIN

1739

It was early-morning and bright yellow sunlight filtered in through the diamond-shaped windowpanes, bathing the captain's bed in summer's hot kiss. It licked the young Spaniard's eyelids as he stirred, sighing in wakefulness. He shifted in the single-bed, lying half-naked atop the cotton sheet, and snuggled closer to the slight-figured body next to him. It was warm and comfortable; he felt peaceful. He buried his nose in silky, curling hair that smelled like white-roses, and leaned closer into—

Antonio's emerald-green eyes snapped open in shock.

A beautiful Italian boy was hugging the Spaniard's naked stomach, his slender legs tangled with Antonio's. He was wearing Antonio's threadbare shirt, which was too big for him. It hung off him, exposing the unblemished skin of his shoulders and collarbone; it slipped up as he shifted, revealing a dangerous amount of thigh. Antonio swallowed, suddenly very awake. The boy muttered incoherently in his sleep, his head pillowed on Antonio's chest. The sunlight bathed him like an ecclesiastic motif, making his chocolate-brown hair shine and his skin look gold: he looked like a Roman god. "Mm, Toni..." he murmured sleepily, lips pressed gently to Antonio's skin. His lips were velvety-soft and his breath was hot. His long eyelashes looked like an artist's brushstrokes on his cheeks, quivering as he came slowly back to consciousness. Sighing deeply he opened his eyes, revealing cat-like hazel irises that blinked curiously up at the Spanish captain.

"Lovi, why are you in my bed?"

Lovino pushed himself onto his elbows, fumbling back. "I, uh— I just got cold!" he lied. Too close to the edge, he lost his balance and tumbled to the floor: "Ach—!" The Italian's cheeks blushed tomato-red in embarrassment as he rubbed his backside. Antonio chuckled. "D-don't laugh, you bastardo! If it bothers you then you should've just woken me up!" he snapped, eyes downcast.

As Antonio studied the fidgeting boy he couldn't help but feel a surge of tenderness, which he swallowed. It's not a bother, he thought. And that was exactly the problem. I shouldn't be feeling this way. Lovino was the eldest son and heir of Antonio's Italian foster-family. They had been raised in the same household together; Antonio could even remember when Lovino was born. I was ten-years-old, I held him as a baby. Cute, but so disagreeable compared to Feliciano. Now he's— Antonio inhaled, holding his breath. His eyes watched the boy crawl to his feet, swaying as the ship rocked. Lovino had always been a clumsy boy, needing—but refusing—assistance. Antonio was the only one aside from Feliciano whom Lovino let into his personal-space; the only one allowed to help him. Antonio didn't know why, but he didn't complain. It made him feel special, which was dangerous. I shouldn't be feeling this way!

Even so, he reached for Lovino as the boy climbed back into bed. "It's too early to be awake," he grumbled (he was not a morning-person; he valued his sleep).

I shouldn't indulge him, Antonio knew, pulling the sheet up over Lovino's sun-kissed shoulders. His fingers lingered, toying with an errant curl. I shouldn't delight in your touch, so naive and gentle and—

"Stop it," Lovino muttered, slapping at Antonio's hand. He was already half-asleep, breathing rhythmically.

Lovino had always been quick to anger and quicker to surrender, so non-confrontational in the end. He was the sixteen-year-old scion of an old and noble Italian legacy, pride was in his blood. Sharp-tongued, he would argue rather than do something he considered beneath his station (though Antonio blamed his lack of ambition on laziness more often than not). Stereotypical of Italians, he was hot-blooded and didn't attempt to hide his emotions: he was explosive, but incredibly sensitive. Behind his foul attitude and defense, Lovino was a tender-hearted boy who loved more passionately than anyone Antonio knew. It was what he loved most about him: his unyielding devotion.

The person most favoured by Lovino's loyalty was Feliciano, his younger brother, whom he always protected. The only other person was— me.

Antonio sighed helplessly and hung his head. How did this even happen to me? he wondered. This wasn't supposed to happen. I was supposed to leave Italy behind forever—all of it. He glanced down at Lovino's sleeping face. He looked young and vulnerable and Antonio fought the urge to touch him, afraid of the consequences. It had been nearly four years since he had found the Italian boy stowed-away in his cabin: four years of constant stress.

You're not even supposed to be here, Lovino. It would be so much easier if you weren't.