Summer With Spain
By xxkoffeexx
Disclaimer: I don't own APH.
Summary: At the urging of her brother, Monaco decides to visit their neighbor to the west.
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Week One
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A thin sheen of sweat coated her upper lip, tempting Monaco to wipe it off with her long, pink sleeve. The sun was merciless, beating down on her uncovered head with every passing second. But she was wearing a slight layer of makeup today, and it wouldn't be proper for a lady to go about wiping her face in public. She had a country to represent and a reputation to uphold.
She was also not alone.
"The tourists usually come in droves from Northern Europe," he was saying in accented English, pitching his voice so she could hear him over the noise of the crowded street. He bent slightly towards her ear to tease, "You came at the hottest part of the year."
Monaco eyed her companion's loose shirt and pants with a longing expression. He seemed completely unaffected by the summer heat, almost thriving in it. "I am aware," she muttered, also in English.
"What?"
"Yes, I know," she said louder, trying to stand straight under the sweltering heat of her pink cotton and silk dress. He turned his head and took in her annoyed flush, the limp blond braid and her ridiculously stuffy dress.
"Hot, are you?" Spain said casually.
The flush reddened. "I am quite warm," Monaco admitted, adjusting her glasses out of habit and wishing for a parasol or a nice cool shady tree.
"What?"
It was too loud. She wondered for the third time why they were standing next to the public market under the unforgiving heat of the sun when there were perfectly nice cafés a few yards away. Reminding herself that she was in the presence of an older nation, she kept her tone polite and respectful.
"I said I am quite—"
"I heard you," he cut in easily, shooting her an amused smile. "It was just a joke. No need to be so stiff, Monaco. You're only here to visit for a couple weeks, so let's just skip the formalities and get you out of that dress, yeah?"
Monaco would have liked to suffer a heat stroke from the blood rushing to her face. Did all Spaniards cut to the chase like this, she wondered faintly, or was every man like her brother?
Spain saw her wide eyes and blinked. "Oh, er, I meant—would you like to change into something cooler?"
Embarrassment made her voice a little sharp. "I'm afraid I don't have anything cooler." That much was true: she'd packed her best wardrobe, well aware of the conservative tradition in this country. Much to her chagrin, nearly every single tourist and native was wearing casual clothes appropriate for the summer weather. Nobody else wore formal skirts except for her.
He gave her a bemused look. "You're going to shop, aren't you?"
"I'm not here to shop. I came here to observe and learn the culture—"
"Not in that dress you aren't," he pointed out bluntly. She pressed her lips, irritated that he'd interrupted her again and that he was right. He gave her a friendly smile and coaxed, "Come on, Monaco, relax and have some fun. It's only for two weeks. And your brother wanted you to enjoy yourself, didn't he?"
France certainly threatened (again) to take over the House of Grimaldi if she didn't come back with her hair "undone" and her glasses "left behind" or something along those lines. She decided not to repeat this to her companion and instead released a small sigh, glancing at several women laughing in their refreshing shorts and t-shirts. Her pink collar slowly felt like it was choking her.
He saw her resignation and chuckled lightly, gesturing towards the clothes shops.
"Welcome to Spain."
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The first week they visited the major cities—Madrid, Barcelona, Valencia, Seville—as well as a few smaller cities where the local food was praised exuberantly. The fish delicacies were quite nice, almost (almost, she conceded) as nice as Monaco's. The Valencian paella, similar to France's poêle, was one of the most delicious things Monaco had ever tasted.
Spain was pleased when she enjoyed the food, and then handed her a simple looking dish. "Patatas Bravas," he said earnestly in way of explanation when she glanced at him dubiously. "You'll like it."
"Potatoes?" She wondered what the red sauce was, and then found out.
He was already handing her a glass of ice water, struggling to keep a straight face as he assured her, "Romano fell for it too. Don't worry, you get used to the spiciness."
She didn't stop drinking until the tall glass was almost empty and her tongue was still burning. Monaco gave him her severest glare, though it was hard to keep it when he was trying so hard not to laugh for her sake. She'd learned almost painfully these past few days just how playful the older nation could be (the incident at the beach, for instance, was an embarrassing disaster that was never to be mentioned again) and how much it contrasted her reserved nature.
Yes, she spoke like an old lady. Yes, he was older than her. And yes, she tended to worry about everything and anything. He was so talkative and oblivious sometimes that it made her want to give him a light smack and a kick or two.
But every time she vowed to stay angry at him, it never lasted, much to her chagrin. He was too cheerful.
Instead, she smiled grimly and stabbed a potato with her fork. "Your turn," she said in a pleasant tone, glasses flashing ominously.
To her dismay, he flashed a grin back. Before she could pull away he caught her wrist gently and guided the bite to his mouth. He swallowed the sauce without a single flinch and seemed to relish her facial expression.
"I'm Spanish ," he told her with a touch of smugness. "Nothing's too spicy for me."
I'll show you spicy, she thought huffily, wishing to shove his face in his precious patatas. Wipe that smug grin off his face and then see who was smiling—Monaco spared a short moment of horror at her un-lady-like thoughts, and then gave up. Perhaps South Italy's complaints had been affecting her more than she thought.
"Have you tried Japanese wasabi?" she asked him.
He pulled a face. "Japan's food?"
Her brother once took her to a Japanese sushi restaurant for her birthday, and her experience with the harmless-seeming green paste was not very fun to say the least.
Monaco kept her face blank and said primly, "You should ask Japan for some of his wasabi the next time you see him. He might hesitate to give it to you, but you must insist that I recommended it. He will let you taste it then."
In spite of his earlier reaction, Spain looked intrigued. "Really?"
"If he tries to say you won't like it, then he is lying. I never tasted anything like it."
He was thoughtful. "Then I think I'll ask him."
She smiled.
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"Have you ever seen a bullfight?"
Monaco paused, fingers deftly redoing her braid that had come loose in the excitement of the festival. "Bullfight? No, I have not." She had to almost shout as a loud din rose in the street, threatening to swallow her voice.
They were in Malaga attending the Fiesta de Verano, or party of the summer, and indeed it was one of the most colorful and robust festivals Monaco had been to so far during her stay. Fish, cheese and sweet red wine permeated the street air, and tourists and natives alike wore traditional Spanish costumes, bright and dazzling like the blue sky.
She had declined the wine, but the exhilaration wafting from the crowd and the thrill after seeing an amazing performance of "Malagueña" made her blood hum pleasantly. There was to be outdoor dance performances, called sevillanas, later on in the afternoon, and Monaco was secretly looking forward to it. Belgium had once narrated, in French, all about the beautiful flamenco dancers in Spain, and ever since then she'd been enchanted.
Spain was practically bursting with energy, the song of his nation and the excitement of his people thrumming an invisible rhythm through his veins. "There's a good fight starting right now," he was saying as she continued braiding her hair. "We can still get good seats. Come on, let's go!"
"Wait," she protested, not quite sure if she wanted to see a bullfight even if it was considered a tradition. Her brother sometimes talked of it, and based on some of his stories ("His femoral artery was torn, sadly—") she was not very eager to witness the event. "My hair is not ready."
He glanced back at her and then smiled warmly. "You look beautiful, Monaco."
That was not what she meant, but he led her through the crowd before she could object further. Her painstakingly-neat braid came undone within seconds and she resigned herself to a simple ponytail as soon as they reached the plaza.
Before going in, Spain paused.
"We don't have to watch if you don't want."
Monaco shook her head, puzzled by his sudden change in behavior. "I will watch. It's tradition, is it not?"
An unreadable expression crossed his face, but he nodded.
They sat in an overcrowded stadium on concrete seats and a blistering sun overhead. Soon there was the trumpet sound, the band music, and then the man in flashy gold ("El Matador," her companion enthusiastically informed her) was dancing with the very angry bull.
The crowd shouted and cheered with every pass, every brush with death, and Monaco watched with horrified fascination as the bull was taunted, stabbed, and led merrily around the arena.
Spain himself was sitting on the edge of his seat, cheering when a particularly dangerous move was performed, shouting along with the crowd in his native tongue. He seemed to reflect the mood of the people, which Monaco understood very well, being a country herself. Her country's joy was her joy, its pain her own, and its sadness her tears.
Finally, the matador re-entered the scene to deliver the final blow to a very exhausted bull. Spain was sitting calmly in his seat, but he did not take his eyes away from the ring as he spoke to her.
"People think the color red enrages the bull, but the bull is actually colorblind."
"Then why is it red?"
He shrugged. "It was supposed to mask the blood. Now it's tradition."
Despite his casual tone she saw his green eyes darken and a faint smile stretched his lips. He looked like he was thoroughly enjoying himself, and Monaco was struck by the reminder that this man was, however young and friendly he seemed, one of the most powerful nations in the world. And at one point in history, he was the most powerful in the world.
Various historical facts swept through her well-educated mind, one of them standing out clearly and fiercely like a red flag.
Conquistador.
Although the sun was warm, Monaco felt a slight shiver trace down her spine. She forced herself to look back at the arena, just as the matador thrust his sword into the bull.
Monaco shut her eyes tightly. She didn't realize her hand had clutched Spain's arm until she felt his muscles shift, and she peeked up to see the bull dead and the triumphant matador standing alone. The crowd cheered wildly, shouting phrases she couldn't understand even if she could distinguish them.
Then it was over, and Spain was standing with an unreadable expression on his face. She thought he looked a mixture of sympathetic and guilty as he held out his hand.
"Do all your people enjoy it?" she asked.
He shook his head, "Not everyone. There was a time when we… when I… never mind." He cast her a sidelong look and said, "At least you didn't watch the Encierro."
"What is that?"
"The Running of the Bulls."
"Ah." Monaco didn't even want to know. She merely took his proffered hand gracefully, accepting his subtle apology even though there was nothing to apologize for.
This time he smiled in his usual happy manner, and remarked brightly, "Let's go to the dance, shall we?"
She agreed fervently.
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After dinner, they followed the crowds to an outdoor sevillana.
The flamenco dancer captivated the audience's attention to the center of the makeshift stage. Her skirt was long and ruffled, swishing arcs with a flick of the wrist, revealing bare legs and stomping heels. Slender arms curved over her poised head, moving along with the rise and fall of the singer's voice, and she twirled after the guitar's melody.
Monaco was absolutely entranced by the dance, barely paying attention to the translations Spain would murmur into her ear. She was, despite all her propriety, an artist. The art of dance and music was Monaco's pride, as well as the legacy that Princess Grace left behind, and the dancer in her yearned to move with the music.
She didn't notice her companion glance at her whenever she smiled in delight.
Later, when the dance was over and she was still mesmerized, Spain asked, "Would you like to dance?"
She was startled. "I am not wearing the dress—"
"Not flamenco," he teased, already picking up her unresisting hand. "Just dance like everybody else."
Everybody else, she saw, consisted of mostly tourists and old couples freely moving to the guitar strums. She adjusted her glasses to hide her unease. "I am a ballerina," she told him firmly, her blue eyes not quite meeting his.
"And I am not," he returned cheerfully, pulling her to the dance floor. "It's okay. Don't think. Just follow me."
Hesitating slightly, she obeyed and placed her hand lightly on his shoulder. He put his hand on the curve of her waist and clasped their joined hands firmly, leading them to the song's rhythm. The warmth of his hand on her waist and the proximity of his body made her chest thud slightly faster, matching the beat of the dance.
She glanced up shyly and met vivid green eyes smiling down at her.
And they danced, Monaco and Spain.
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A/N: I'm not quite sure why I chose this pair. Maybe because hardly anybody tries to write Monaco? These two are just not as popular, I guess. But I go for the unnoticed, unpopular ones. If I butchered Monaco and Spain's characters, then I'm sorry.
Also, I've never personally been to Spain or Monaco. Everything I wrote was based on my friends' stories supplemented with research and my own imagination. So if there's stuff that are awkward or just plain wrong… I'm sorry. I did it unintentionally.