Title: I Am Not Yours and You Are Not Mine
Characters/Pairings: Spain/the Philippines
Rating: K+
Summary: A dance at France's birthday ball reminds Philippines that nothing is the same between Spain and herself anymore.
Warning: OC, angst, and writing the word 'Philippines' without any 'the' preceding it |D
AN: because I'm a masochist who loves pairing my home country with her abusive colonizer for 333 years OTL.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
Philippines sat by the bar, watching the other nations on the dance floor lazily. There was America and England, waltzing awkwardly near the middle of the floor. Then there was France, dancing with Vietnam while running his hand up and down her back in a suggestive manner. From the corner of her eye, Philippines could see Hong Kong, asking Taiwan to dance with him in proper gentleman fashion while China pretended not to watch them, obviously frowning at Hong Kong's British manners.
Philippines sipped her wine, bored. It was already well into the night, and she had already danced with almost everyone worth dancing with. Everyone except-
She gulped her wine quickly, as if the resulting burning sensation in her throat would drown the offensive thought, the forbidden desire from her mind.
"Clara?"
She choked, almost spitting out her drink. She knew instinctively whose voice was calling her even without turning around.
Still she turned and looked, both hoping and not hoping that she was correct (as if it was even possible to do so).
Her instinct was correct; Spain stood there, his green eyes filled with concern.
Immediately he was beside her, patting her back gently.
"Are you alright?" he asked, worried. "I saw you sitting alone here so I decided to approach you but then you suddenly started choking and-"
"Yes, yes, I'm fine." Philippines replied, waving off his hand and his concern.
Spain grinned at her. "So what is a beautiful lady like you doing all alone on a night like this?"
"Stop flattering me, Antonio." She replied, slapping his arm playfully.
They remained there for quite a while, Spain standing in front of the bar while Philippines sipped her almost empty drink. She had to admit that it felt awkward, this silence, and she grappled for something, anything to break it.
"So…" Philippines started, as the last notes of the waltz died down and a much livelier tune took its place.
"The tango." Spain murmured.
"The tango?" Philippines muttered in disbelief. "Why would there be a tango in a French ball?"
Spain shrugged. "It's France birthday so if he wants a tango then he can have it."
He smiled and held out a hand towards Philippines. "May I have this dance mi Filipinas? It is a shame that you have danced with everyone else but me."
"I am not yours anymore, Antonio." She replied, taking his hand.
Spain pulled her towards the middle of the dance floor. He placed one hand on her back, their fingers clasped together.
They danced to the fast rhythm of the music, moving side to side, backward and forward, their legs touching but barely.
They spun around, her dark chocolate eyes never leaving his bright emerald ones. And then she dipped backwards, her long hair, flowing, touching the floor.
He pulled her up again, closer to him, until their faces almost touched, so close that she could feel his heart together with her own, beating rapidly, breathlessly, in unison.
They had danced like this before, she could still remember. They spun around under the moonlit sky, with only the waves as their music. Bare feet moving over powder sand as he whispered in her ear, "This is a dance of passion, of love." Then he lowered her, her heart racing as she dipped backward.
He pulled her up again, closer until their faces almost touched, so close that she only had to bend forward, just a little, to kiss his lips.
But she waited, like a proper lady should do.
And he did not fail her, kissed her under the moonlit sky, with the waves as their music, powder sand underneath their feet.
They stopped, breathless, as the last notes of the tango died down, his hand still on her back, their fingers still clasped together.
Spain leaned forward, closer and Philippines instinctively closed her eyes.
"You are right, Clara."
She opened her eyes quickly, too quickly she belatedly realized, hoping that none of her surprise (and disappointment, was she feeling disappointment?) was written on her face.
He smiled at her, a smile that did not reach his eyes or his voice.
"You are not mine anymore."
And then he left her, as the opening notes of the next song started to play, with nothing but the memory of his lingering touch.
end
Some Notes:
1. Clara is my name for the Philippines
2. mi Filipinas: my Philippines
ahahaha~ idk where this came from. I've been really wanting to write a Spain/Piri fic since...forever so yeah OTL. I know nothing about tango so forgive any mistakes orz.