Disclaimer: All and any Hetalia series character names belong to Hidekaz Himaruya, Bob Shirohata (and so on). No OC's are included within this work, indicating that nothing is claimed or owned by the author, Quarter 'till Class. No copyright infringement is intended. Plagiarism is theft so is prohibited. Do not copy or create a reproduction of this work in any language without express written authorization of the author, Quarter 'till Class. Thank you. Please enjoy.
Spain/Antonio x Italy/Romano/Lovino
Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, weaponry, blood.
A/N: So, a Spamano fic was requested. I ship it...therefore I write it. I guess this could get a bit confusing...so let me explain. Basically, during the Italian-Wars, Spain succeeded against the French in the Battle of Bicocca, ridding Italy of Swiss and French positions. France was already allied with the Ottoman Empire, but relations ran thin and the Empire did not assist in the battle. France pretty much gave up attempting to take Italy after, though they did give lesser attempts.
Later, Ottoman troops were expanding into (North Italy's) Genoa's waters the French invasion, and walked the Norther border as well. The Republic of Venice approached the Spanish Empire for help. Spain, having control of most of Mezzogiorno (South Italy), intervened. This is basically a Hetalia-ized version of their diplomatic meeting. Also, briefly mentioned: Turkey/Sadik x Egypt/Gupta.
Chapter One: The Chore of Diplomacy
1536 - A treaty of alliance between the Ottoman Empire and France is set into play.
By the near end of the year, Ottoman fleets are poised in both the coast of Genoa and Sicilian waters, ready to strike with their land forces.
There is a rigidness in the eyes of the Spanish Empire. An almost unmerciful disdain, narrowed and oddly consistent. Sadik has spoken to Antonio in the past, through the seemingly tedious chore of diplomacy, and only now is the expression of grievous indifference somewhat faltered. It's far more crucial and less threatening. He hesitates, torn on questioning the change in demeanor. For now he would hold his tongue.
"Your territories continue to increase. Spain does not wish to consider you a threat, Ottoman." Antonio holds a tone of uncertainty. He dons a look that points direct accusation and suspicion as usual, though today it was not as fierce. Sadik smiles, posing nonchalant. Careless.
Within his empire he had never seen Spain lack the necessary hostility. It was always a direct and swift meeting, focused more on their openly disapproved issues than the actual diplomacy. The Ottoman's Sultan seemed fond enough of Spain's King and Queen, though the representative himself was rather unruly. Antonio often spoke his mind, much opposite of a proper diplomat. Their debates are constantly heated, the chances of written treaties narrow with every defensive response. Sadik had never approved of his verbal approach; today they both spoke civilly.
"Threat? Due to expansion alone? Your attempt to conquer the Mediterranean is already lost, Antonio, your business dominates the Americas."
"I'm aware...my concerns are within Europe. Your empire nears the Eastern border of the Italian Republic. I suggest keeping distance, considering your recent division of Hungary. Am I correct in thinking that Austria would wage war to prevent further control? Better yet, involve the Germans?" His expression does not falter. In fact it seems dangerous with his tone. He is not tense...simply acute.
Sadik can't help himself but to torment his elder, as why he is hated. He leans back, unconcerned, and grins. Clasping his hands behind his head he seeps a faux joviality, more convincing in expensive attire. He expels a sense of superiority, though mostly unintentional. Sadik is an ass. And always has been.
"You act paranoid," he declares. "I doubt we would reach further into Western Europe. Our resources remain towards overwhelming Greece. You should have no concerns regarding our expansion...especially of a country that you battle for with the Francs."
Spain remains unconvinced. His lip quirks.
"You hold France as your ally. Why go against their interests?"
The Turk sniffs, a servant quick to approach and offer her services. She is dismissed immediately, a look of undeserved indignation sent at her retreating back.
"We are in agreement that the Ottoman Empire should not broaden any father into European territory. We are still facing recovery from our most recent gain, and France has yet to aid us in economic rebound. We simply choose not to invade each other. Francis and I are far from allys." He explains, nearly cordial despite their relationship. He seems so lenient, as always. Hands folded, mask pristine. Unconcerned.
Spain fumes over his act.
"¡No me traiciones, Ottoman! The Republic of Venice, and Italy as a whole, are not of potential to your underlings. Set foot on their lands, or involve them, and I will ensure that we respond to their distress without hesitation." He slams a fist to the table, serious, opposite to the man before him. His calm demeanor is suddenly bruised, though not terribly.
Sadik smirks, humored. "Your tongue still baffles me. I do not speak your language."
"Disperse your men from the waters of Sicily." Antonio points a stiff finger to the map, distinguishing the isle. He never averts his glower of mistrust, inviting a physical dispute of some kind. Sadik found it difficult to not challenge him, as per usual.
Oddly enough, Spain was genuinely tame compared to prior visits. Far less violent and rigorous with his weapons. The man liked his artillery, usually that of a sword or ax, and had made it custom to unsheathe his carried arm in hopes of a physical resolution. And he was often brash...selfish, unpleasant and purposely rude. Perhaps he had complications with facing another empire. But now he only stood as defensive and demanding, rather than crude and uncivil. Antonio sat before him with a purpose that did not involve his own lands, and appealed to the Ottoman for something selfless. A very strange change of heart, though rugged and misplaced.
He is devious in thinking that the Italian boy is his reason for reform.
"Relax, Antonio." He offers the other man a reluctant grin, shrugging off the stare of immense distaste.
"You declare yourself as Spain, but I manage to sense that your loyalties lay in Italy. That's no good." He sighs dramatically, taunting him. "I cannot make a decision, you should know that. I will deliver your complaints to the Sultan this evening before your leave. Your demands are reasonable. We would not want to disrupt the King and Queen, either."
"I do not need an excuse. The Spanish Empire shadows your own, Sadik." Yes, it was massive in comparison, but was placed on the clear other end of the earth. In lands that require weeks of travel to deliver one (much less several) companies to the Mediterranean borders. Spain would stand no chance.
"Usually you are far more hostile. Never so direct, or demanding...but far more unpleasant. The boy who represents the Northern half is your reason for this outburst, isn't he? The one who lived on your lands before his adulthood?" He snorts, half-joking, awaiting some kind of solid, averting response.
"Partially. It is also in the better interest of Spain. We have territories still within Italy."
Sadik laughs, acting delighted.
"Right." Sarcasm. "Nonetheless, my previous attempts at conquest were foiled by both the Southern and his brother. Those children inherit their grandfather's vigor. Accompanying their violence, both are backed by three Republics, multiple Dutchys and God himself. I have no desire in taking Italy." He crosses his legs, suddenly reserved. Nearly disappointed.
"Violence?"
"They are merciless. You raised him close to that of a savage." He teases, slightly irked at his defeat.
"Says a man who slaughtered two mothers within the Mediterranean. Greece was devastated by the loss of their representative. And if I am not mistaken, Egypt battled you raw before you killed her, allowing her son to stand as a witness."
The mood changes. Spain aims below the belt, feeling nearly tormented at the Ottoman's sarcasm. The smile is slapped off of Sadik's face, and slowly reaches over his own. Diplomacy is useless at this point.
"Do not threaten the Empire with my own guilt, tool. I did what was asked of me." He felt a heated dislike in his observations...in that truth. He feels his posture grow unfeelingly rigid as he speaks in a low tone of warning. He would not be lessened by an inferior country.
"Weakening a nation by pillaging her lands and killing her people? Decimating her armies and defenses, and finally murdering her in the Ancient's most fragile and weakened state? A good strategy. Not at all necessary."
"I do not require justification from the likes of a Spaniard."
That phrase angered him...it was abhorrent to say. Antonio's grip on the arms of his chair intensifies. The pinch of his knuckles are bleached white with tension, shoulders suddenly set firm. But he manages to retake his calm, exhaling a hushed breath of irritation. The very floor he sat over was not his own territory, but rather a force far superior within the Mediterranean. Only within the Mediterranean. Should Sadik ever extend to the Americas, he would be decimated by numbers alone.
"I ask on behalf of the rumors spread by our kind." His tone in dangerous as he speaks, but manages to instill derisive insult. "Have you bed her son yet?'
Gupta. No, such a nation-no...an empire would not tolerate such shaming slander to neither himself nor his extensions. It demanded punishment.
But Spain would not bother to mention the rumors of Heracles. Damaged. Far too young. His goal is achieved, basking in the stunned and heavy silence of his ally. The Ottoman is enraged, as obvious on his face. His tongue is stained red, the blood of his tolerance tasting bitter. He snarls, unruly.
Sadik's control is diminished by mere words. He snaps. "Says a man who eyes what may as well be his offspring!"
His hands are fisted, slammed stiff against the table before them. His face suddenly burns with the humiliation and rage that boiled his blood. He forces direct eye contact, glaring holes of despise and concealed shame towards this supposed ally. Spain holds the same reaction, livid and embarrassed. His skin seeming raw with its color, expression relentless in showing his blatant disrespect and offense.
"Leave Romano out of it!"
Their insults, as brash and unwelcome as they seemed, were both disturbingly true. And the followed silence is a painful one.
The Ottoman sighs, shifting in his seat, adjusting his position as host. He stands, listless, and seems forgiving in his eyes and demeanor. Antonio questions his sincerity, fully unconvinced. He breaths, despite his judgment. Did he defend Romano from the war...or from a meager insult? Spain does not know, and curses beneath his breath, suddenly cross with himself. He swallows as Sadik speaks.
"We are here for the topic of diplomacy. I do not belittle you and your efforts of occupation, nor the decisions of your own monarchs. Let us move past this."
He says it, knowing full that neither will apologize. His is the Ottoman Empire; he does not apologize. And Spain is firm, as always. Nations are not meant to apologize...nor are they meant to hold a grudge. Not as an individual, no. Within their government, perhaps. But Sadik, six hundred years from now, will not hold this meeting to heart. Neither will Antonio. It would be unwise and foolish. There is no point in elongated despise; only current and necessary hatred is accepted. Only opposition to opinions cause disputes among their kind.
Imagine, denying an ally because of something long past and over. Stupid.
Spain retreats his hostility.
"I will hold my tongue, then," he admits.
A silence ensues, thick and restless and unnerving. He thinks of Lovino...perhaps he will manage to see a brief smile of gratitude. It has been some time since he's seen Lovi smile. Not since he had invited him back, welcoming him despite his decision to move into his own territory. Such an adult now. Responsible, but bitter, and envious, and crude. He seemed to have grown drastically in recent years, mimicking his providence. He had always seen Romano as his little boy...until recently. And now he was destined to rot in hell over something horribly taboo. Perhaps he'd see Sadik there.
The Empire remains quiet until the tension is risen and the redness of the Spaniard's skin is diluted to that odd tone of his natives. He waits until that look of conflict is slowly lifted, and that expression of heavy guilt is pushed aside. He wonders, only briefly, why Mezzogiorno would cause him regret. Sadik attempts to lighten the air, feeling responsible.
"On that note, I'd forgotten to congratulate you the last time we'd met. The Battle of Bicocc, was it? Slaughtering the Italian's offense, despite their control beneath France, is truly and accomplishment. You forced the Swiss to retreat and also managed complete collapse of the French position. Impressive. I doubt Francis is very keen of you and your success."
Antonio refuses to acknowledge the fact that that battle was near twenty years prior. Sadik has a very poor concept of time, and always has. Though, he supposes, with their lifespans, twenty years mimics that of a single month. It seems just recently that Francis had been forced out of Venice. In fact, the pervert still acts sore.
"You praise your allies defeat?" He asks out of surprise, not distaste.
"The Ottoman Empire is often looked to in a time of need. even after the last few years, France still requires resources, weapons, and time to recover. As they say, we are the shoulder to cry on. We benefit from their loss."
"Hear me, then. Leave the Italian peninsula untouched, and remove your ships from their territories. The King will also benefit in protecting Italy, so we will not hesitate to respond to their needs."
"I will do my best to object, if the idea should ever arise. If I am commanded to kill or take Lovino and Feliciano, know that I will. Otherwise, we will not set foot on the lands of the Republic of Venice, nor Mezzogiorno. We hold no current interest."
"Then it is settled."
They stand and shake hands, a very European gesture adopted with grace.
"Tell me...the French controlled the Northern half, but still fight you for the Southern. The Republic of Venice is of north decent and concern. If this is for little Lovino, then I'm forced to ask why the territories of Veneziano beckon your involvement."
"Romano does not have the military power necessary to hold defense for his brother. Nor did Feliciano have the ability to fight without an ally. Romano asked me, bargaining his exports and attempts at independence for the defense of his better half."
"Hm." He thinks on it, a hand at his mask. "Go then. We've settled our dispute, more amiably than usual. I doubt you'd want to stay with my lands."
"Everything worthwhile here revolves around the scenery and the sweets. Nothing more." The insults are still tactful, yet direct. He smirks, criticizing such an awful accent.
"Heh, the sweets?" Sadik smiles, knowingly. "Few things are better than Lokum."
Key:
Mezzogiorno - South Italy.
¡No me traiciones! - Spanish translation of 'do not cross me, or do not betray me'.
Lokum - Commonly refereed to as Turkish Delight! Yumm.
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