Spanglish
AN: Oh, you guys… can anyone tell me why I do this to myself? Why do I write fanfiction in multiple languages? I'm not sure if this fic is even readable… but I can't help myself. This will make more sense if you've taken the rudiments of Spanish (or perhaps seen QUE HORA ES?,) but I've tried to make it as comprehendible as possible. There will be more notes at the bottom—translations and all, for those of you who don't live in my head XD (so if you don't understand, feel free to scroll down to the bottom! I want you to get my bad jokes XP.) I hope you guys enjoy the ride!
Disc: Hetalia still belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya... *sigh* Alas.
America is proud of his "fluent Spanglish."
Plenty of nations have tried to correct this—what with America's ever-growing Hispanic population, a good-faith effort at learning their language would go a long way in proving to the world that the man is willing to compromise, at least once in a while—but they have met with little success.
America just doesn't like learning language. He's bad enough with his native tongue, or at least England thinks so, and he'd much rather be drawing comic books or figuring out new ways of marketing the same shitty products in new, more attractive ways or developing a new flavor of Coke than struggling with linguistic particles and conjugations and stupid things like putting gender endings on nouns. He thinks his Spanish is perfectly fine, because even though all the Spanish-speaking nations huff at him and roll their eyes when he speaks, they understand well enough. So what if Cuba calls him a punta behind his back? Everybody knows that America's arma is mucho mucho more larga than Cuba's. (I mean, look at Florida. Totally bigger than Cuba. He's just jealous. America can't help it that he's ridiculously well-endowed. He tried to console Cuba—"At least I'm humble about it," he'd said, clapping Cuba on the back. "Maybe you'll get bigger someday?" He'd even tried the old, "it's not how big it is, it's what you do with it," but Cuba had only glowered at him and muttered a few threatening somethings that had to do with Cuban cigars and sandwiches. Which had just made America hungry. Cuba was so rude.)
"Cómo estás, America?" Spain asks one morning as he strolls lazily into America's office. It's mid-morning already, but Spain looks like he's just gotten up, well-rested and not twitching with caffeine the way America is. There's still a little crust around his eyes, too, and his hair is all rumpled. America wishes he had time to sleep like that.
"Oh, bien, bien, Spain. Siempre bien!" America answers without looking up at the man, typing furiously at his keyboard with fingers that could only be powered by three cups of Joe and the Diet Coke he's just started sipping on, because it's 11:03 and that's plenty late enough to switch to soda. "Cómo estás?"
"Ah… estoy bien tambien, pero cansado…" Spain yawns languidly, stretching his arms over his head.
America wrinkles his nose, but continues typing, switching fluidly from his word document to Google translate. He hates it when Spain comes over and tries to speak Spanish at him—his sister Mexico has at least accepted that he'll probably never speak Spanish properly, and she makes sure to use only the rudiments of the language around him, and even then, she speaks very slowly. He appreciates that. Really, shouldn't everyone know by now that he speaks American, dammit?
"Oh. Lo siento, España. You should go to bed earlier." He knows all about Spain and his wild parties. He's like a less hyper North Italy, sleeping in the afternoon and having dinner at eight or nine, and then doing whatever odd Iberian nations do until all hours of the night. Probably hanging out with Portugal, who America hasn't seen for quite a while—Spain probably ate him or something, stuffed him in a taco and had him with Tabasco sauce. Or maybe America was right all along and Portugal was really just Spain's exceptionally talkative appendix. Both are equally likely, and America narrows his eyes to tease out the truth as he stares at the man across from him.
"Ah, but it's nice to relax at night, America. You look like you need it," Spain says simply, in that loosey-goosey way of his. His flailing is much less enthusiastic than Italy's (or even England's,) his arms waving more like palm trees in an ocean breeze than like a tornado full of caffeinated centipedes. Just looking at him is soothing and reminds America of long summer days on the beach and tanned skin and tequila, and he'd really rather not devote too much time to those kinds of thoughts.
America pops his neck and rolls his shoulders. He does need to take a rest, but he's not going to tell Spain that. He just nods and goes back to typing—his boss wants this report at the end of the day, urrrgh, and since it's not about anything even remotely heroic, he has no desire to do it. Why does his boss want to know about corn subsidies again? His time should totally be devoted to something more awesome, like going on expeditions to the moon and taste-testing new hamburger recipes.
"I was hanging out with the Italies last night, and North Italy told me that he'd heard from Mexico who learned it from Belize who heard Cuba grumbling about how he was going to nuke you if you didn't learn how to speak proper Spanish."
Rolling his eyes, America promptly discards the information from his brain. "He doesn't even have nukes anymore. I totally revoked his nuke-holding privileges. He's just not cool enough to have them."
"No se, America, but you should really consider it. It would be bad if you got nuked just because you were being stubborn and racist."
"What? I am totally not racist!" America growls, whirling around in his chair so that Spain receives the full effect of his angry face. "This is the land of the free! Racism's totally not allowed!"
"Oh, America, I disagree. Hay muchos racistas in América! Está en todas partes!"
"Blah, blah, blah," Ameria growls, covering his ears to block out the Spaniard's obvious lies. "You should just go away, Spain. I'd much rather talk to Brazil about this."
Spain rolls his eyes, resting his palms on America's desk and leaning forward. "Brasil speaks Portuguese. Spain comes from España, no? Why not learn from the best teacher there is?"
"No way you're the best teacher! Your español es muy terrible! You and your lithps! Tuth thapatoth… Tuth thapatoth ethtán tan sucios como un cerdo!"
Spain blinks once, then blinks once more, with outrage. "I don't sound like that at all, América! No hablo como una mariposa! Tu eres muy tonto! This is the proper way of speaking Spanish!"
When Spain actually looks hurt, America halts his linguistic assault, his expression as well as his tone softening. "Oh. Lo siento, España," he murmurs, and for once, his accent sounds perfect, soft and fluent. Spain has the passing thought that America probably rehearses apologies in nearly every language, seeing as how he's always offending someone or other, but somehow, that doesn't dilute the sentiment behind the sincere words. Spain looks up at the blond for a moment, sighing irritably as he felt his anger melting away.
"If you'd just let me teach you, people wouldn't think you were so bull-headed."
America grins, leaning back in his chair. "But I am, Spain. Everyone knows that I have una cabeza de toro."
Spain can't help but laugh. "Ah, verdad, América. But you have your good points too… even if you're muy estupido." Spain moves around America's desk, placing his hands on the man's shoulders. "Come on, América. Take una siesta, and I'll give you a lesson."
"But I don't have time to nap," America whines, almost looking nervous as Spain steps closer.
"Shh, America. Having una siesta doesn't always mean napping." The words feel like spice on his tongue, and Spain suddenly feels that the simple lesson Romano growled (well, yipped, really) at him to teach has become much more than that. What it has become, he's not quite sure yet—and not sure he wants to know, either.
The man glances up at him through his glasses, but the lure of a short break—and the reassuring warmth of the man's strong hands on his shoulders—is too tempting to ignore. "Okay. Teach me, Profesor," America says with a grin, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair.
Squeezing and massaging the flesh under his fingers, Spain begins with an easy, "Hola. Buenos días."
"Heh. I know all this stuff, Spain."
"Conversación is the most important thing for you to learn, América. So relax and let's talk."
The man seems much less inclined to complain this time, as the Spaniard's hands worked at the tension in his muscles. "Buenos días, España. Como estas?"
"Ah, bien. Y tu?"
"Ah… getting better by the minute, España. It's been muy estresante these days. Cuba's just the latest in a string of threats, you know? No one likes me lately." Spain doesn't look at America's face, but he can hear the pout in the man's voice. He knows that for all America's stupidity and arrogance, the man does have good intentions—and he does care if everyone hates him. He's not sure America's realized that fact himself, though, idiot that he is.
"It's okay," Spain reassures, his hands slipping down to rub at the man's arms. "They'll come 'round. Comunicación is the first step."
"Yeah?" America murmurs, opening his eyes briefly to glance back at the man who hovers above him.
"Don't you mean si?"
"Yeah… si," America whispers, his eyes fluttering softly shut as he leans into Spain's hands, arching his neck and shoulders to give the man more skin to soothe. Spain knows that America is stupid and arrogant and completely incorrigible, but when his golden lashes stand half-mast over his cornflower blue eyes, Spain also has to admit that the man is kind of irresistible. While America's eyes flutter shut, Spain takes the opportunity to lean in and brush his mouth against the blond's nape, eliciting a sound of surprise from the man in the chair. When he shifts so his lips can graze the artery in America's neck, he feels the heartbeat beneath, speeding up in excitement and probably fear.
"Here, America… let me teach you about la lengua de España," he sensually hisses, twisting the chair around so he can lean down and press his tongue against the seam of America's mouth.
"Mmph!" America makes a sound, but hands that might've protested soon enough descend upon Spain's back and pull him closer, and Spain scratches another tick into his mental victory tally.
When he pulled back to catch his breath, he pants, "Tu eres… muy guapo," he murmurs, sounding almost surprised at the discovery. He's never noticed it before, what with the cloud of stupid always hovering around the other man; stupid tends to obscure sexiness.
America smirks at him and pulls him back in for another kiss, stroking his fingers along Spain's chin as he swipes his tongue across the other's lips. "So, España… do you think I'm… muchos guapos?" America hisses in a way that he surely thought was muy picante.
Groaning, Spain extricates himself from the blond and stomps away. "Estupido! Tu no comprendes nada!
"Espero! Españaaaaaa!" America calls as he left, flailing his arms around. "No te vayas! Nooooooo!" America gurgles, flailing around in his chair. "I don't want my siesta to be over!"
And that was how Spain decided he wasn't cut out to be a teacher, at least not to stupid Americans who employed improper adjective forms in their attempts at seduction. South Italy's subjects and verbs always agreed, and his adjectives always had the proper endings—he knew intimately la lengua de España.
Translations OMG:
Punta: bitch
Arma: means weapon or gun; but of course, the slang means penis.
Cómo estás: how are you?
Bien, bien, siempre bien!: Good, good, always good!
Estoy bien tambien, pero cansado…: I'm good too, but tired.
Lo siento, España: I'm sorry, Spain.
Hay muchos racistas in América! Está en todas partes!: There is lots of racism in America! It's everywhere!
Your español es muy terrible!... Tuth thapatoth… Tuth thapatoth ethtán tan sucios como un cerdo!: Your Spanish is very terrible! Your shoes… your shoes are dirty like a pig! (Spoken with a lisp XD). Spaniards, of course, don't actually all have lisps- but to America, who's used to hearing South American Spanish, that's how it sounds. Also, America is kind of a douche XD.
No hablo como una mariposa! Tu eres muy tonto!: I don't talk like a gay man! You're really stupid!
una cabeza de toro: a head of bull... which is bad Spanish.
verdad: true
una siesta: a break, often a nap. Napping is popular in Spain XD.
muy estresante: very stressful
la lengua de España: the language of Spain… the punch line here is that lengua means both language and tongue :P.
Tu eres… muy guapo: You are… very handsome.
Muchos guapos: is terrible and grammatically incorrect; it literally means many handsomes… so obviously, it's pretty horrifying XD. So I use the phrase often, oh ho ho. Antonio es muchos guapos.
Muy picante: very spicy.
Estupido! Tu no comprendes nada!: Idiot! You don't understand anything!
Espero! España! No te vayas!: Wait! Spain! Don't go!
AN: I hope you enjoyed (and understood!) A big thanks goes to my roommate (and resident Spanish minor) for language help (and for making me giggle about las lenguas XD). Also, thanks to Spanish for being sexy :P. And of course, the biggest thanks to all of you who've read this far! Don't forget to review :D!