AN: I should be studying; I did this instead. I'm not sorry. English is not my first language; if you spot any mistake, I apologize :P
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, neither the politicians listed in this fanfic. I do own the severe mental disorder that forced me to write this.
The fun side of politics
15th of December, 2015. 10:46, Brussels. On my way to a European Union meeting that starts at 10:00. I'm late –as usual– and I know, I just fucking know that Germany is so done with me being late that I'm not going to avoid being scolded. What a shame that my puppy eyes don't work with him… Where was the damn meeting again? Room A1 or H6? Thankfully, a sign catches my eye: "EU MEETING: ROOM B15". Okay, that one's close. I sprint through the corridors and up the stairs, and only stop when I find myself before the door. I take a moment to recover my breath, fix my tie and comb my hair; then, I open the door and enter, already yelling an apology:
"Hi! I'm so sorry I'm… late?"
The room is empty. Surprised, I look around. Could it be…? Am I so late that the meeting is over? If that were the case, I really wouldn't mind –truth be told, it's annoying to have Germany constantly reminding me how bad my economy is– but I'll be getting a huge reprimand back home.
"Look at that, it actually worked!" a familiar voice exclaims behind me.
I turn and see France, waving at me with a triumphant smile in his face. He's accompanied by Prussia, who's muttering something about his plan being too awesome to fail, as well as Italy, Romano, Hungary, Belgium, England and the Netherlands.
"Huh? What worked?" I asked, visually confused.
"It was Gilbert's idea," Francis explains. "We told you that the meeting was at ten, but it actually is at eleven thirty."
"What? Why?" I shoot a betrayed look at Gilbert.
"Because you're always late, you wanker!" England yells, irritated. "This way, you came in early."
I'm literally speechless. Those assholes told me that the meeting was one hour and a half before it actually is to make sure I'd be here on time? Okay, I know I'm not the most punctual person of the world, but this… this is excessive! I'm pissed, and I'd scream at them and leave if it weren't because my Lovi is here and I know he doesn't like me when I'm angry –I'm 99.99% sure that Francis knows it and is responsible for him being here. The asshole knows me a bit too well–.
"It's almost 10:50," Belgium informs. "We have around forty minutes to waste."
I could be sleeping at my hotel room right now, I think. Although I don't say it out-loud, because I know that either the Netherlands or England –or both– are going to mock me. So I just sigh loudly to let them know that yes, I'm still mad at them, and follow Belgium as she guides us to the cafeteria.
~{x}~
I manage to sit beside Romano, who apparently has been tricked into coming early too. Francis, Gilbert, you're my best friends and I love you, but I fear you're about to suffer the combined rage of the Italian mafia and the Spanish tercios.
"Come on, to make it up to you two, I'll pay for your breakfast."
… okay, Francis is saved. Gilbert, on the other hand, is going to be banned from Mallorca for who knows how long.
It's around eleven when we begin to eat breakfast, silent at first, until Francis and Arthur begin to bicker about god knows what. This is so boring. To think that I could be waking up at this moment…
"Hey, Toni, how are your oncoming elections going?" Gilbert asks.
I groan. Politics is the last topic I want to talk about right now. But soon everyone's attention is on me and I have no choice but to answer.
"Fine." My short reply doesn't seem to please them, so I'm forced to elaborate a little. "It's… interesting, to say the least."
And it really is. New, young parties have been born; they claim they'll change politics, that they're what I need to leave behind corruption and many other problems that are shaking me. I'm old enough to know that this is the kind of stuff that goes down in history.
"I've heard you have some rather good-looking politicians," Belgium suddenly says, wiggling her eyebrows up and down.
I can't help but laugh at that. "And what did you expect?" I reply. "I mean, look at me!" I straighten and try to adopt a casual pose, as if I were a model in some sort of perfume commercial.
Emma giggles and Vincent rolls his eyes; Lovino kicks me under the table. Right, he hates when I flirt with other people, even though he knows I don't mean it. I squeeze his hand to reassure him that I only care about him; he pouts.
"Ve~ I want to see your politicians!" Italy exclaims.
I want to say no, but he's looking at me with those huge puppy eyes, and Belgium and Hungary join him and say they want to see them too, so in the end I sigh, pull out my laptop and open Google. The others soon pay attention: Romano because he has been trapped between me and Emma and thus has no other option; Prussia because he'll later use this as an excuse to talk with Elizaveta; France because we're talking about pretty people and, of course, nobody is prettier than Francis Bonnefoi; and England and the Netherlands… well, because they may find some good material to later make fun of me.
"Okay, so this old man here is Mariano Rajoy," I begin my presentation. "I think you all already know him, as he's been my president for the last four years."
"He's not pretty– at all."
"No, but he's funny because he's so dumb," Romano says with a devilish smirk.
That's sadly true. I can't count all the times he's said something stupid or an utter nonsense. Spain has plenty of Spaniards. Well, don't you say. Spaniards are very Spanish and much Spanish. Very grammar. Much president. A plate is a plate and a glass is a glass. I really can't argue against that logic. It's the neighbour who chooses the mayor and it's the mayor the one who's wanted by the neighbour the mayor. Uh– what?
I could go on, but then I'll have to explain why I'm trying to hold back both my laughter and my tears, so I decide against it.
"Isn't that they guy who has half his party under suspicion of corruption?" the Netherlands asks.
"Vincent, why do you always end up talking about money?"
"Don't change topic!"
"Really, Vincent, that can't be healthy."
"Answer my question!"
"I raised you better than this, Vincent."
"Oh, just shut up," he groans and gives up.
I give him an innocent smile, while deep inside I congratulate myself for having effectively avoided the question. Because, you know, it's not easy to admit that one of your oldest political parties, the one that's currently governing, is corrupt from top to bottom.
"Well, let's move on to the next one… Ah! This is Pedro Sánchez."
I can actually feel pupils getting dilated and breaths being sucked. They can't be blamed, he is a handsome man.
"Now, this is what I bargained for!" Elizaveta exclaims, almost snatching my laptop.
"I hope you realize that politicians ought to have other traits more important than looks," England points out, being a dick, as usual.
I just shrug, as I don't feel like starting an argument with him –that's what France is for–.
"Is he dumb like the other?" Vincent asks.
"Ah, not really… Although his old tweets are very funny," I chuckle.
Emma asks about the other politicians, so I take my laptop back from Hungary's claws and type the next name:
"This is Pablo Iglesias, el Coletas," I inform. "He's one of the new guys." I actually like him: he seems to be one that can actually change politics for good. Although his ponytail, his dislike towards neckties, and the fact that his right-hand looks like he's fifteen have prompted a lot of both jokes and discredit campaigns.
"I like his hair," Francis mumbles. "It's so wavy… Say, Toni, do you think he would tell me what shampoo he uses?"
"Sorry, Francis, that's classified," I chuckle. Still, I promise myself that I'll ask Pablo the next time I see him. Why lie, I'm curious too.
"I like his hair too, but…" Emma sighs. "Pedro was way more handsome."
"So what? I'm more awesome than the both of them together!"
I don't even need to look to know that Elizaveta has hit Gilbert. Before a war breaks out, I quickly move on to the next one:
"This one here is Albert Rivera."
England raises an eyebrow. "He has a weird face."
"You don't have any right to complain about that, caterpillar-eyebrows," Romano mumbles by my side. Thankfully, I'm the only who hears him and I manage to hold back my laughter. France, on the other hand, is way louder:
"As if yours weren't weird, you loner."
"What the bloody hell did you just say, damn frog?!"
Ah, Arthur, the so well-mannered gentleman.
"I said that you have such an ugly mug!"
Ah, Francis, the king of compliments.
"Can you please leave your lovers' quarrels for later?"
Ah, Vincent, I could kiss you right now.
England blushes red from both anger and embarrassment, and for a moment I think he's about to stand up and leave. He doesn't, though, because that would be like letting Francis win and that's something his pride would never stand.
"So," I cough, "may I continue?"
"Yes, yes!" Italy chirps. "We were talking about Alberto!"
"Albert," I correct, laughing. "He's Catalan." I don't think I have anything to add. He's new too, and I'm still trying to decide whether I like him or not.
"Is that it?" Hungary asks, sounding a bit disappointed.
"Well, those were the four main parties, but I have this one guy…" I answer as I begin to type. "There it is! Alberto Garzón."
"Awe~ He's so cute!" Belgium says, looking at the screen with interest.
Yeah, I guess he is cute. Although I like him much more because he's the most decent one. And, sadly, the least voted. Sometimes I can't understand my own people.
"And… that's everything. I don't know what you were expecting, really."
"Can we see Pedro again?" Hungary asks.
"Sure," I answer as I begin to type his name.
"Non, put Pablo!" France demands.
Suddenly, everyone is screaming either 'Pedro' or 'Pablo'; and since I'm still a bit sleepy and Lovino's hand on my leg startles me –he's been pushed by Emma, who was trying to stop Vincent from punching Francis–, I end up typing 'Peblo'.
And then everyone freezes.
"People are going crazy over #Peblo: a fictional love story between Pablo Iglesias and Pedro Sánchez," Feliciano reads the first link out-loud.
… What. The. Fuck. Before I can react, Elizaveta clicks on the link, that turns out to be a Buzzfeed article. Since not all of them speak Spanish fluently, I decide to translate the article while I read it.
"The 7th of December, during the debate, many Spaniards used the social media to comment live what was happening." I can't believe it. This whole thing began eight days ago and I'm only finding out now? "Among all those, there were many who noticed how the candidate from PSOE, Pedro Sánchez, and the candidate from Podemos, Pablo Iglesias, stared at each other."
"I must say they're actually looking at each other in a loving way," Francis says, studying the pictures attached.
"Plenty of those decided to ship Sánchez and Iglesias," I keep reading, "and thus Peblo was born."
I scroll down. Many tweets have been added, and we all look at them, dumbfounded.
"Maybe 'No te pongas nervioso' will be our always," Romano reads. "I don't get it."
"During the debate, Pablo Iglesias said that a lot," I explain. Back then I had found it kind of fun; now the whole thing is surreal. "No te pongas nervioso; don't get nervous."
"Some people have a lot of free time," Vincent sighs. He tries to act nonchalant, but I can see he's actually interested.
"Keep scrolling!" Emma urges me.
I comply and read one last line:
"Since here, social media like Tumblr and Twitter went crazy over their new favourite couple."
I freeze. One thing is having Twitter joking about something. Another completely different thing is getting Tumblr involved. And, just as I feared, I scroll some more and…
"There's fanart and fanfiction!" Elizaveta screeches.
Oh. My. God.
~{x}~
I'm not even sure how it's happened, but we've ended up in both Twitter and Tumblr. The tag '#Peblo' has way too many tweets and posts– hell, someone has even made a Twitter account exclusively for it! Also, as we have soon realized, Peblo didn't seem to be enough: now practically every politician is being shipped!
I'm completely surrounded by the others, who keep telling me to scroll down, no, wait, scroll up a sec, oh no, my bad, I thought I had seen something else, hey, can we read that fanfic? I must admit that some fanart and edits are really good and funny; some other, including all the fanfiction, should be R-rated. At some point we've stumbled upon a 50 shades of Grey parody; thankfully, none of them seemed to realize and I could quickly leave it behind.
"I'm so glad now I have something to do in my spare time," Hungary whispers, smiling and looking at the screen with a weird glint in her eyes.
"Oi, Toni, how come you didn't know about this?" Romano asks me.
I shrug as I click on a video that turns out to be a fake trailer of a movie about Peblo. I think I should fund this idea; perhaps Amenábar will agree to direct it. Then we see a really cute fanart and Emma, Feli and I let out a long: "aaawww."
"Spain, um, I don't mean to interrupt your fangirling, but, eh…" England says, and I stop scrolling to look at him. "You realize they're your politicians and you're going to have to work with them in the future, right?"
For a moment I just stay there, his words echoing in my mind. And then I feel a smile growing in my lips. England frowns, but soon his huge eyebrows shoot up and his mouth forms a perfect 'o'. My smile is a huge grin by the time he tries to speak, but I interrupt before he can say anything:
"That means I can play Cupid and make my OTP become canon!"
"That's not-!"
"What's wro-!?"
Arthur and Vincent's screams are covered by the cheers coming from Emma, Elizaveta and Feli. Francis and Gilbert promise they'll help in all they can –Francis because he knows it'll annoy Arthur and Gilbert because he hopes it'll give him a chance with Elizaveta–.
"What about you, Lovi?" I ask. "Won't I get some encouraging words from you?"
I'm not expecting a kind reply because, come on, it's Lovino we're talking about, but I still hadn't thought he'd actually jump in his chair and yell:
"Bastard!"
I'm about to ask what I have done wrong this time when I hear a loud voice and realize that, for once, the bastard isn't me.
"What are you all doing here!?"
"Ve~ Ciao, Luddy!" says Italy, waving his hand.
"Germany… The meeting!" England screams.
We all check the time in sync: 12:07. And the meeting started at 11:30. Germany is looking at us with a deep frown, arms crossed and a foot tapping the floor.
"I already expected Spain to be late," he says, and I make a face. "But you, England?"
"Ah, actually, you see…" England seems to be terribly embarrassed and can barely link two words together.
"Don't get mad, Lud!" yells Prussia.
"How am I supposed to not get mad if you're here wasting your time while you should be upstairs discussing important matters?"
"Ah, but you see, Ludwig dear," says Elizaveta with a playful smile, "we were discussing important matters."
I decide that it's my turn to say something. I stand up and walk to where Ludwig is; when I walk by Francis, he whispers in my ear: "No te pongas nervioso," and I need all my self-control to not burst out laughing.
"Don't get mad, Ludwig," I say as I reach him, and I throw and arm around his shoulders. "You know I'm having elections in five days, right? We were talking about it, politics and stuff, got carried away and didn't realize the time until you arrived."
That's not a lie, is it? It's just… an incomplete truth.
…
God, I'm starting to sound like my politicians.
"Is that right?" Ludwig eyes all of us. He's no longer about to explode, but I'm sure he doesn't fully believes us.
Everyone quickly nods and Germany just sighs. I think he only believes us because England and the Netherlands are here; otherwise, he probably would have checked my search history –I shiver at the mere thought–.
"Alright then. Pick up your stuff and come to the meeting. The others are already there."
Once Ludwig leaves, we look at each other in silence and quietly agree to keep it between us… and a vast amount of Spaniards, of course.
We walk up the stairs in silence, except for Francis, who's talking to Arthur and trying to cheer him up. Of course Eyebrows is feeling down, it's going to be the first time ever he arrives late at a meeting. I'm walking by Lovino, trying to figure out how I'm going to act when I meet Pedro or Pablo again. I wonder if they know about this. If I tell them, will they use it to gain voters? That would be worth seeing.
We're close to the room where the meeting is held when, out of the blue, Elizaveta lets out a shriek.
"GUYS!"
Everyone looks at her, surprised, and she turns her mobile phone so that we can see the screen. It's Pedro's Wikipedia page.
"Guys, HE'S MARRIED!"
AN: haha yes, all of this is true. Just check: that Buzzfeed article does exist (it's in Spanish, though), and search 'Peblo' in Twitter or Tumblr... if you dare~
Anyway, thanks for reading, and reviews are appreciated :3