Hey, everybody. Long time no see. This is a little project I had to do for my Spanish class - please keep in mind that I am not a native speaker of this language and I am only a beginner as far as learning it. I relied solely on my school lessons and my resources, so forgive me if those are faulty. I welcome constructive criticism, especially if you know better Spanish than I do. (For those of you even more hopeless than I, I've added my best translations of phrases you may not recognize down at the bottom.) Heck, even correct my English, if you see flaws, because I'm only human and I make mistakes.
Anyhow, I wrote this for extra credit in my Spanish class. Unfortunately, practically nobody in my school has seen Hetalia, so I turn now to my dear internet comrades who don't scorn anime. This is a story without much shipping, which is rare for me. You might see UsUk if you squint. I'm a huge UsUk shipper, but I focused on a more brotherly relationship this time, and applied a more father-son relationship for Spain and Mexico. (And yes, since there is no official Mexico character, I blended popular theory with my own.) Ultimately, the story is a compilation of the Spanish knowledge I recently gained with Hetalia characters to make it fun, so I hope you find it beneficial and amusing. Enjoy!
El primero de noviembre. Son las nueve y media de la noche.
"¿Qué pasa?" cried Antonio, hurrying to greet two friends.
They stuck out like sore thumbs amid the Hispanic crowd, who all had tanned skin and dark eyes. Instead, Alfred and Arthur were painfully pale gringos, but nonetheless they were friends of the Spaniard. Antonio drew them off to the side of the street, grinning. There were no cars around tonight: everybody wandered around on foot. The alleyways had been transformed into street markets.
"Welcome, dear Americanos."
Arthur frowned. "I don't think I need to remind you, Antonio," he said in his distinctly clipped British manner, "that I am English."
"Si, si." Antonio waved off the difference. "The point is, you do not speak the language here. Do not worry! I shall accompany you for the night."
Alfred had been looking around distractedly, but with interest. Blue eyes bright with excitement, he turned to his Spanish friend. "Dude, this is so cool!"
Antonio smiled. He was about to reply when another man joined the group. He was short and stout, his skin just a shade darker than the olive tone of the Spaniard's. His hair was coal black, combed back so that the curling ends reached midway down his neck. He sported a broad handlebar mustache, and his dark chocolate eyes twinkled. "Bienvenidos," he greeted in a gruff bass voice.
"Me no comprendo," said Alfred, causing Antonio to wince at his horrendous accent and grammar. Well, he supposed, the effort had to count for something.
Arthur shot his companion a green-eyed glare. "Don't be rude," he hissed, swatting the American lightly on the arm with a book.
The Mexican did not seem offended, only amused. Smiling, he spoke in English this time. "Welcome. You can call me Carlos. I see España brought you along to my country for the celebration." His brogue was thick, but comprehensible.
Antonio, the personification of Spain, rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Si. But, I hoped you wouldn't mind an unsaid request from your padre. America practically begged to come, and he managed to badger Inglaterra into coming along."
Alfred grinned. "Yeah, I figured it would be nice to check out what your parties are like, 'cause you are my neighbor and all, Mexico."
Carlos smiled. "I am happy to be your host."
For a moment, they were silent, listening to the brass instruments of the band. Arthur turned to the Mexican personification.
"I must say, this is impressive," he commented. "But it's not only a party. You also honor your dead on these days, don't you?"
"Si," confirmed Carlos. "But the two go together. Come, I will show you." He strode off briskly: his legs might have been short, but they were sturdy and strong, propelling him at a faster rate than the others. Even Alfred, probably one of the most fit nations, had to hurry to keep up.
The Spaniard fell into step with Arthur, a little ways behind. Green eyes flashed over to him, taking in the brilliant reds and golds of his clothing.
"Your matador outfit, I see," said the Englishman with a grim smile. He and Spain may have been rivals long ago, but he had bothered to learn what he could about the Spaniard's customs.
"And you, in your business suit as always," teased Antonio, slugging him lightly in the shoulder.
Arthur quickened his stride a little to keep closer to their guide. "So, isn't this something you don't really celebrate?"
"No, I celebrate it often!" protested Antonio. "It's just that Mexico is often more grand with his festivities. He invited me this year, and America overheard -"
"And then the two of your dragged me into it. Yes, I remember."
Antonio merely grinned and sprinted ahead. It wasn't so bad, thought the Englishman as he time to observe the happenings of the street. The brick walls and the storefronts were lined with papel picado, the cut designs fluttering as the crowd and the four nations rushed past. Dim street lights illuminated the way here, but ahead in the distance was a warm, strong orange-yellow glow. Arthur wondered what it was, but he didn't get a chance to ask before the group turned off down a wide side street. Carlos stopped and turned to face them, spreading his arms grandly. "El mercado, the market," he said. "I hope you brought your dinero."
"Why would we need to bring out dinner?" Alfred muttered in confusion. "It's a market, can't we just, like, buy food?"
Arthur rolled his eyes. "America, I think even I could tell you what el dinero is, and I was once Spain's hated enemy. The least you could do is study the language before coming here."
The American personification winced, but again Carlos took no offense, instead giving a great belly laugh. "El dinero is money," he said, lightly patting the oblivious nation's shoulder.
"Oh," said Alfred, and laughed.
Carlos turned back to weave a trail through the milling customers, Antonio right on his heels. Alfred looked back at the Englishman, pulling down his eyelid and sticking out his tongue. When the American hurried after the others, Arthur permitted himself a small, affectionate smile.
"Still so childish, after all these centuries," he murmured, thinking fondly of the Colonial Era in which he'd raised his colony from toddler to teenager. Then it had all gone so wrong, starting with the Revolutionary War. He supposed it was alright now, though: America was independent, and he was who he was. No matter his silliness, he had a good heart.
After browsing around, they regrouped on the street corner, sitting down at a table set out there. Carlos had purchased los alimentos with el mole for them all. Alfred fell in love with the sauce instantly, proclaiming through a mouthful of food that it was the best thing in the world. The Englishman would have scolded him, but he was having difficulties of his own: he found el mole, as well as the food itself, far too hot. It made his face beet red.
"Are you alright, mi amigo?" asked Antonio, slapping him on the back.
Arthur coughed, ungracefully chugging a bottle of water. With as much dignity as he could muster, he gasped, "What...is in that?"
"Other than chocolate?" mumbled Alfred. Said sweet substance was smeared all around his lips, but Arthur didn't have the will to reprimand him or toss him a napkin.
"Cinnamon and hot peppers," Carlos stated proudly. Taking in the English nation's slightly nauseated and pained look, his expression fell. "Do you not like it?"
Arthur shook his head, willing away the wariness in his green eyes. He coughed and started, "It's excellent, really, but -" He broke off, going for the water bottle again.
"Artie can't handle anything with spice," explained Alfred, snickering.
"Don't use that horrid nickname for me," the Englishman chastised weakly. Managing a smile, he apologized to the host. "Sorry, Mexico, but he's right. I think I'll settle with this." He reached for a smaller plate bearing another food item. "El pan de muertos, correct?"
Carlos beamed. "Si."
Alfred, his plate not bearing a single crumb or splash of mole anymore, stood up abruptly. "You know what, Artie? I'm gonna find something else for ya, 'cause I'm the hero!"
The Englishman took a bite of the bread, hiding a smile. "Typical America," he murmured as the outgoing nation dashed off back to the market.
Carlos chuckled. Antonio seemed lost in thought for a moment, but he bolted upright and snapped his fingers. "¿Carlos, vamos a obtener el cempasúchil?"
"Ah!" said Carlos. "Si." Still lapsing into Spanish, he told Arthur, "Espera," before hurrying away.
The Englishman furrowed his eyebrows. "Wait?" he guessed, turning to Antonio for confirmation. The Spaniard nodded and smiled, following after the Mexican.
It didn't take long to find the correct stall for the flowers. Antonio stood back, watching the Carlos speak rapidly and exchange el dinero for el cempasúchil. Pride flourished within him - he remembered raising this nation when he himself had not been so old. He had been the one to tame Mexico, and perhaps his methods back then were a bit cruel, but now their father-son relationship was a healthy one. Actually, it had become more like they were brothers, or friends, much the same as England and America. Antonio was shaken from the memory of Mexico's first words by said nation, who now held a bundle of the marigold-like flowers. Carlos smiled and handed them to him.
"Llévalas. Voy a conseguir un refresco para los Estados Unidos."
Before the Spanish-speaking nations returned, Alfred did. He sat down next to his adoptive brother and passed him a mug. "Here."
Arthur glanced at his former colony, barely thinking to wrap his hands around the drink shoved into his grasp. "You didn't have to do that, you know."
"'Course I did, 'cause I'm the hero!" declared the American for the second time.
The Englishman rolled his eyes, but took a sip of the drink. It was warm and thick, with a familiar, rich taste. Arthur made a soft, appreciative noise and took a longer drink. "It's good," he said, mildly surprised. "How much did it cost?"
"Doesn't matter," shrugged Alfred. "I'm not sure, anyways."
"Do you even know what it is?" demanded Arthur.
"I just picked whatever looked good. Couldn't really understand much the guy said."
Arthur snorted. "Idiot," he muttered, but not meanly. "You should really learn another language besides mine - which, by the way, you've completely butchered over the years."
Alfred looked slightly abashed. "Do you think you could teach me Spanish, then?"
"I don't think I'm that excellent at it. I only know basic, necessary things," the Englishman said, suddenly modest. "I'm sure Mexico could give you a lesson or two, though. You are neighbors after all."
Alfred brightened. "Alright. What's that taste like, anyway?" he asked, pointing to the mug.
"Repeat after me, America. 'What, does, that'," Arthur corrected slowly. "If you want to learn another language, you have to know your own, at least." When Alfred sulkily complied, Arthur sipped his drink and went on. "Mm, remember when you were young and there was that awful blizzard. You went out in below 0 weather and nearly suffered of frostbite. I scolded you for it, but I made you hot chocolate and sat with you by the fire until you warmed up. This reminds me of that kind of hot chocolate."
"Oh, yeah! I remember that."
"We call it el champurrado, actually," commented Antonio, leaning on the other side of the table. The Spanish-speaking nations had returned from the market.
"Here." Carlos handed the American a bottle of soda. "El refresco. I thought you might enjoy it."
This time, Alfred made an effort to repeat the name of the drink in Spanish. Carlos beamed.
"¡Vamos!" said the Mexican. "We go to el cementerio."
As they set off again, Arthur realized the Spaniard was carrying a bouquet of flowers that resembled marigold. Catching his inquisitive glance, Antonio said,
"It is el cempasúchil."
Arthur nodded. Ahead was the toasty glow he had seen before. "Candles," he said aloud, green eyes transfixed by the many orange and yellow balls of light.
Carlos looked back at him. "Las velas," he grinned.
They passed through an arched gate with ivy tangled through its mesh. In the cemetery, dozens of Mexicans milled around of knelt at graves. Some were eating at a long table nearby. Carlos reached out to brush off a dusty headstone as they went by. Antonio neatly arranged the marigold-like flowers next to a cross that leaned against the grave marker.
"La tumba," said Carlos.
"A tuba?" Alfred wrinkled his nose, confused.
"A grave," chuckled Carlos. He led them along the path, explaining as he went. "Inglaterra was right, earlier, when he said that we honor our dead on these days. But it is in celebration, not mourning. We mexicanos do not fear death, but mock it!" He pointed out several regular people at a tomb who were placing a framed photo against the headstone. "You see the portrait? That is called el retrato. We honor our familia with such things, and with meals they would enjoy."
Arthur was fascinated by everything: he'd never realized why Mexico, Spain, and other Spanish-speaking countries celebrated this. It certainly brought things to light. He supposed the cemetery was a little creepy, but it wasn't anything a proper gentleman like himself couldn't handle. Things concerning death had always interested him, anyways.
Alfred had fallen behind, glancing around nervously. If he had one phobia, it was of ghosts. He thought he saw their white shapes even now, fluttering in the moonlight, or a grinning skull next to a tombstone. When he blinked, they disappeared. A familiar British voice called his name, and for a moment ice cold terror gripped him. Had Arthur turned into a ghost?
"America! Are you frightened?"
With a sigh of relief, he realized that Arthur was still very much alive and human, standing only a few yards down the path. Alfred hurried to him, shaking his head. "Of course I'm not, bro," he scoffed. "The hero is never scared!"
Arthur looked at him sidelong, but did not press the matter. He knew Alfred's worst fear. Of course, only America would believe in such things as ghosts. But that's the way he was.
Antonio dropped back and snuck up behind them. "Do you fear...los muertos?" he asked in a spooky voice.
Alfred jumped. "Dude, not cool!"
Chuckling, Carlos joined them. "Well, I hope you have enjoyed yourselves. You are welcome to come tomorrow - our celebration lasts two days. Return to mi casa anytime you wish."
"Thank you for everything," Arthur said with a polite nod.
"It was wicked," proclaimed Alfred.
Carlos raised his eyebrows at the choice of words, very distinct American slang, but he shrugged and smiled. "Adios."
"I'll see that our gringos do not get themselves lost in the dark," grinned Antonio, taking them by their shoulders and steering them on the path. "¡Hasta luego, mi hermano!"
Arthur glanced over at his former colony. "So, America, what have you learned?"
Alfred grinned. "El dinero actually means money." He nudged the Brit's shoulder playfully. "And el champurrado puts Artie in a good mood."
"It's a start!" laughed Antonio as they exited the cemetery and left los muertos behind.
Fin
El Día de los Muertos is a Spanish/Mexican holiday on which they honor the dead with festivities, feasts, flowers, and such, if I understand correctly. In English, it's the Day of the Dead.
El primero de noviembre. Son las nueve y media de la noche.= November 1st. It is 9:30 PM.
Gringo is a Spanish term for 'foreigner'.
Bienvenidos means 'Welcome'.
España is Spain.
Inglaterra is England.
Papel picado is colorful paper with cut designs, used for decoration.
Los alimentos means food, while el mole is a Spanish type of food. It's not easy to describe, but put simply, it's a spicy chocolate sauce.
El pan de muertos is 'the bread of the dead'.
¿Carlos, vamos a obtener el cempasúchil? = Carlos, shall we get the marigolds?
Llévalas. Voy a conseguir un refresco para los Estados Unidos. = Take them. I'm going to get a soda for America.
¡Hasta luego, mi hermano! = See you later, my son!
I hope you enjoyed! Please leave me a review if you have the time. As I said, constructive criticism is welcome!