This is a very strange one-shot that I came across on my computer the other day, and thought that I'd update. The piece of music is real, it's a lovely composition, look it up on youtube The pairing's a bit odd, and it's in no way historically accurate.
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
Arthur Kirkland had never minded the rain. The steady fall of droplets was a sound that soothed his ears, and his carefully tended garden thrived on the water. Perhaps that was why England's weather was considered so awful by the other nations. On this particular day, a wild and windy one in early December, the rain had sent Francis and Alfred scurrying home early from the cricket game the three men had attended. Arthur stayed until the last ball had been bowled, letting the rain soak into his shirt and coat his eyelids, then walked home through the almost deserted streets. Now he stood on his doorstep, smiling up at the desolate grey sky. Days like this always made him feel closer, somehow, to his nation. They reminded him that despite his bitter past, despite the fall of his once-might Empire and the betrayal of his colonies, he was still someone. The world might have forgotten him, but the bleak winters' sky had not.
Arthur shook his head slightly, sending a shower of water droplets onto the carpet, as he pushed open his front door. The house was warm, dark and comforting. A little too warm, actually, considering there was no one here to light the fires. Arthur frowned to himself as he pulled off his boots and jacket, and carefully placed them in the coat cupboard. Was that singing he could hear? Sure enough, as he moved down the hallway towards the living room, the noise became louder and clearer. A man's voice, deep and rich, crooning words that were foreign to Arthur's tired ears. "Vuelva a casa, mi dulce. Vuelva a casa a mí." Arthur strode into the living room, his expression as stormy as the weather, "Spain?"
Antonio Carriedo was lying on Arthur's sofa, smiling gently up at the Englishman with half-lidded green eyes. His chocolate brown curls were dry, which meant he must have been there some time. A fire burned merrily in the grate, and an acoustic guitar rested on the Spaniard's lap. "What the hell are you doing here?" Arthur demanded. Antonio blinked, apparently taken aback, and shifted his body to sit upright. "Aren't you pleased to see me?" he asked, sounding a little hurt. Arthur ran his fingers through his damp hair. Why on earth was Spain here? They weren't exactly close friends. Not any more… "I'm sorry," Arthur said with a sigh, "I- I was rude. Would you like a cup of tea?"
Antonio grinned as if Arthur had perfectly fulfilled his expectations. "No," he said, his voice somewhat teasing, "The last time I drank that stuff I was almost sick." Arthur opened his mouth to defend his favourite beverage, but the Spanish man cut him off. "Anyway, I didn't come here to drink tea. I came here to see you." Now it was Arthur's turn to blink in surprise. It had been many, many years since he had seen Antonio in any situation other than in a boardroom. "Spain," he said slowly, "What on earth do you mean?"
Antonio strummed a few chords absent-mindedly on the guitar and smiled softly at the Englishman. "Last night," he said eventually, "I was at home, making dinner, listening to the radio. I wasn't really paying attention to the music. But then a song came on that I recognised. It was some French orchestra, playing Elgar's Salut d'Amour… do you remember?" Arthur swallowed down the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat, and whispered, "Love's Greeting. How could I forget?" A memory swam to the front of his mind, as clear as if it were only yesterday. Two men in evening wear, one dark, one fair, dancing around a ballroom and laughing as if they were the only people who mattered in the whole world. Antonio smiled sadly. "So I thought," he continued, "It was about time I paid you a visit."
He suddenly jumped up from the sofa, placing the guitar carelessly down on the carpet, and dashed over to Arthur's slightly dusty record player. Antonio smiled, eyelids closed, as the opening strains of the famous piece rang out in the dark sitting room. Then he turned back to the Englishman with a playful, outstretched hand. Arthur stared at it for a few moments, then up at its owner's face. The Spaniard's green eyes were sparkling with something like joy. Wordlessly, Arthur took the tanned hand, and let himself be pulled into a dance.
As the Spanish man led him around the room, the walls seemed to shimmer and fall away. All Arthur could hear was the sweet, melancholy pairing of the piano and violin, effortlessly complimenting each other in every way. All he could see was Antonio's elegant, smiling face. The man's hand was warm upon his waist, and suddenly they were back in 1874, two of the strongest nations in the world, locked in endless harmony as they danced around that empty ballroom. The strains of the instruments fell gently away. Arthur didn't realise his eyes were shut until he opened them, and saw Antonio's own, tantalisingly close. The Spaniard's lips were centimetres away when Arthur whispered, "Antonio. What about Lovino? And… and Francis?" Then, before he could protest any further, they were kissing.
It was a warm, sweet, achingly familiar kiss, and with Spain's lips upon his own Arthur finally understood. Lovino and Francis didn't matter, because they weren't here to witness this. They couldn't have understood, anyway. Antonio wasn't looking for a relationship. He simply wanted to remind Arthur of the beautiful friendship and the beautiful love that they had once shared. Spain was the first to pull away. He smiled softly at the English man and released his hold on his waist and hand. Arthur smiled back, memories of bloody wars, ripe fields of tomatoes and endless heady nights flooding into his mind. "Thankyou, Antonio," he murmured. Spain picked up his guitar, shrugged on the jacket hung over the back of the sofa, and gently ruffled Arthur's hair. "Any time," he replied, and a few minutes later England heard the distinctive click of the front door closing.
Arthur sighed to himself and sat down heavily on the sofa. He could still taste Antonio upon his lips, and the warmth from the fire was reminiscent of the comforting heat of a Spanish summer's day. Soon, the strains of Elgar's masterpiece filled his ears once more. Perhaps he would make paella tonight. In honour of a very special friend.