Summer With Spain
By xxkoffeexx
Disclaimer: I don't own APH.
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Week Two
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At about two in the morning, Monaco got a phone call.
She fumbled in the dark hotel room for the phone and answered with a very sleepy, "Hello?" Almost immediately she had to pull the plastic object away from her ear as a loud and familiar gabble of French blared through the phone. It also sounded suspiciously slurred. "…Brother?"
"Thank God you're in your room," he bawled emotionally. "If you'd been kidnapped or forced to spend the night with that bastard Spain, I would have flown over there and burned all of his tomatoes and neutered him—"
"Brother," Monaco fought a yawn, cutting him off. "It's two in the morning."
"So it is," he said calmly. "And why are you answering the phone instead of partying away your youth at some risqué nightclub? Hmm? I thought I told you to enjoy yourself over there. I knew that country bumpkin wouldn't be a decent tour guide…"
"...Brother, you are drunk." She didn't want to admit that she'd declined Spain's very polite offer to experience the nightlife, and that every day Monaco had tucked herself safely in her hotel room before midnight. "Get some sleep," she added gently, "I will call you in the morning. Or rather, in several hours."
"Is Spain treating you well?" he suddenly asked in a sharp tone. She blinked in surprise.
"Yes, he is."
"Is he attacking you with hugs or calling you cute every hour?" France demanded.
"Of course not. Brother, what are—"
"How dare he!" She winced and pulled the phone away again as her very angry and very drunk brother shrieked again, "How dare that uncouth bastard not find you cute! Who does he think he is? I will gut him where he stands! The blackguard! The commoner! The insolent tomato-breeding—"
"Goodnight Brother." And Monaco hung up.
She laid back down on the comfortable pillow and tried to ignore her brother's words. He was already difficult enough to take seriously when he was sober. He was downright infuriating when drunk.
Or perhaps he was infuriatingly correct? She suddenly wished she hadn't turned down Spain's offer to show her the nightlife. Not because her brother wanted her to "enjoy" herself, but because she wanted to spend more time with Spain. The reason she had not accepted his offer was because she didn't want to impose on his hospitality any more than necessary.
Maybe Spain did not find her cute. Maybe he didn't want to spend more time with her. These thoughts were more scary than she ever thought possible, and her brother's words echoed in her mind twofold.
Monaco got up and disconnected the phone.
Then she fell asleep.
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There were shelves upon shelves of books. Books of many languages, books of many genres. Books, books, and books. The libraries in Spain were not very different from the libraries in Monaco.
Monaco was in paradise.
Her companion… not so much. As she eagerly walked through the aisles, tracing her gloved fingers lightly over the spines of hardcover books, Spain trailed behind at a more sedate pace, hands in his pockets. He seemed a little out of place in the somber library, out of the sunshine and bustling crowds of people.
She pulled her eyes away from the shelves to glance back at him, feeling guilty for making him take her to the nearest library. He had been nice when she asked, of course, even though the older nation admitted he was not much of a reader. Her brother's (drunken) words repeated in her head like a broken record player, driving the guilt in deeper.
Monaco abruptly turned around and told him calmly, "You can leave me here, if you want. I don't want to force you to stay if you'd rather be somewhere else."
Spain blinked. "Why would I want to be somewhere else?"
"Because you do not like the library."
"I didn't say that."
She was taken aback. "But… you said you're not much of a reader."
He gave her a sheepish grin. "Yeah, but I like the atmosphere." He swept his arm in gesture, "There's books about me everywhere. People come here to read about me. It's kind of like an ego-booster, you know?" A short laugh.
Monaco nodded slowly, never having thought about it that way. She was a scholar and a bookworm, and she read about other nations too. And of course she had her own private library at home. Her love for reading was equaled to that of her passion for ballet. She had even put on one of her elegant, warm dresses for the occasion, despite the summer heat outside.
"Some of the pictures of me are pretty horrible though," he suddenly added. "They give me a beard every time."
Monaco suppressed a giggle and returned to perusing the shelves. "Then I promise not to laugh if I find such a picture," she promised solemnly.
"Good," he smiled.
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A couple hours later found Monaco in a narrow aisle, searching for the fifteenth edition of Don Quixote. Spain had disappeared an hour ago, saying something about finding him in the sports section.
Upon finding the fifteenth edition, she smiled and reached up for it—only to realize it was too high up. After glancing around to make sure nobody was around, the blond nation attempted a few lady-like jumps, but her gloved fingers didn't even brush the shelf where it rested.
As she frowned at the remote book, Monaco was reminded of a scene in one of the teenage romance novels America had given her as a gift (she'd read it because she was a bibliophile, not because she enjoyed it) in which a young heroine was also having difficulty grabbing her desired book. America claimed such romance novels were educational for young ladies, but she begged to differ. How did reading about unrealistic romantic encounters and handsome men with remarkable timing teach her anything practical in life?
It wasn't as if Spain was going to suddenly sense her distress and come running from who knew where. And it wasn't like Monaco was in any distress anyway.
She searched for a stool or chair and found it at one of the study tables. Carrying the wooden chair carefully, the blond set it below the desired book and proceeded to climb on top of it. The additional height brought her eye level with Don Quixote, and with a sense of triumph she retrieved it easily. Just as she was going to hop down, a title of another spine caught her eye, and the scholar couldn't resist grabbing it as well. Then yet another title, just to the left of the chair, grabbed her attention. Monaco was pleased to find so many books of interest on her shelf. Without thinking of her particular position, she leaned out to claim the book, holding the other two with her right arm.
"Be careful."
She started and nearly lost her balance. "Spain!" The young man was standing a few feet away, watching her with interest. She wondered how long he'd been there without her noticing.
"You know, it's illegal to move chairs in the library."
Her eyes widened and she hurried to step off the chair. It wasn't until she heard his familiar chuckle that she paused and realized he was playing with her again. "Don't be ridiculous," she sniffed, and then held out her books to him. "If you are not too busy, do you mind holding onto these until I have finished?"
"Of course." He smiled directly up at her, green eyes warm. She nearly dropped the books in her fluster.
As she scanned the shelf for more potential books, Monaco tried to ignore his presence behind her as well as his comments about her choice in reading material. It was dangerous enough balancing on a movable chair without being distracted by the man she might like more than a friend. After two more books, she turned to drop down from her perch and found Spain holding out a hand for her.
Monaco found this eerily similar to one of the scenes in America's romance novels, and the irony of it made her smile abruptly. "Thank you." She took it gracefully and stepped off the chair, holding her skirts so they didn't get caught. When he didn't let go of her gloved hand immediately, she glanced up. He was gazing at her with an odd expression on his face. "Is something wrong?" she asked curiously.
His green eyes flickered and he commented, "You should smile like that more." She blushed that he noticed.
"Why is that?" He let her take half the books, and then picked up the chair.
"Because you don't look as serious. Or formal."
Monaco followed him out of the aisle, feeling slightly disappointed. "Formality can be a virtue," she informed him haughtily.
He grinned over his shoulder. "Not between friends."
"But even friends need a degree of-"
"Just smile, Monaco."
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"Señorita!"
It was very late, almost midnight, and Monaco was walking to her hotel.
Of course there would be a few rowdy and drunk young men hanging around the shadows at the alleyways. Spain was full of people just like Monaco, just like every other nation in the world, and the nightlife was remarkably similar to those she glimpsed at her brother's home.
Men, she decided after a young Spaniard whistled loudly after her, had at least one thing in common, regardless of nationality and language.
Testosterone.
More calls. More laughter.
Monaco would have felt very uncomfortable in her plain skirt and blouse, clicking in her low heels down the dark streets at night, if it weren't for one thing.
"What are they saying?" she asked, trying to decipher some drunken Spanish phrases.
Spain smiled grimly under the streetlights. "You don't want to know."
She frowned. It was a learning process for the scholar, and she wasn't afraid of gaining knowledge. Learning the country's language was one of the best ways to be accustomed to the culture. But when her taller companion moved subtly closer to her, his green eyes narrowing dangerously at the snickering group, she decided it was better to hold off on education for now.
"Take my arm," he suddenly suggested. Monaco gave him a worried look.
"Will they...?"
He shrugged, letting her slip a hand around his elbow in a gentlemanly manner. "They'll probably move on to an easier target." At her disapproving expression, he hastily clarified, "Just to flirt. This is a pretty safe town."
She glanced pointedly at their linked arms. He tossed her a grin.
"Just being a proper tour guide, Monaco. Got to treat the pretty foreigner nicely, right?"
"Is that what they called me?"
He seemed flustered. "No."
Monaco kept silent until they arrived at the hotel, where they said goodnight and parted. As soon as she was safely inside, she let a very girlish smile bloom on her face.
He thought she was pretty.
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It was the last day of her visit.
Monaco was introduced to the famous Spanish paintings of Picasso, Goya, and many others at the Prado Museum in Madrid. After staring at a painting of what appeared to be a pasta rock (it was an unknown Italian painter, but the theme was eerily familiar to somebody she knew), Spain showed her the architecture of old buildings modeled from Gaudi's genius.
"Barcelona has more of his architecture," he explained as they walked down the narrow, unpaved street between faded apartments. "The Sagrada Familia cathedral, for instance."
Monaco nodded, having admired it when they visited the city last week. "The cathedral is one of the most frequently visited places by tourists," she recited from an article she read a few years ago. "Recently there have been concern over the AVE constructing a train underneath the main part of the cathedral."
He sighed, leading them down another narrow street. "Yeah, there's that." Spain glanced up at the sky, a slight frown creasing his brows. "I think it's going to rain soon."
She blinked. The sky was as clear as it had been during her stay. But he probably knew more about the weather here than anybody else. Either that or he was very obviously changing the subject. "Should we head back?" she inquired anyway.
"Nah," he said, "It probably won't rain for a few hours. We still have time." Then he brightened and asked, "Do you want to see my gardens? All the vegetable we eat come straight from our own soil."
Monaco agreed, and they decided to walk because he claimed it was not very far. As they headed out of the city and towards the farmlands, he talked about how he grew up farming. It was growing a little chilly for her white sundress (a gift from France on one of his many shopping excursions) but as long as it didn't rain she could bear it. At least it wasn't blistering hot like the first week, she thought.
About ten minutes later, it began to rain.
"Damn," Spain laughed, not looking put out in the slightest.
Monaco peered through her glasses to find shelter, but there was not a single building in sight. Then she spied a crop of thick trees up ahead. "Over there," she pointed. He peered at the trees and nodded.
"Great." He suddenly grinned at her. "I'll race ya."
The younger nation had to roll her eyes, even if it wasn't considered elegant. "Don't be ridiculous." Then she hitched her dress and ran. He blinked after her.
"Hey!"
He caught up quickly and overtook her, but Monaco tugged the back of his shirt, hanging on stubbornly until they reached the trees. They took a moment to catch their breaths, laughing and panting under the dry branches.
"Cheater," Spain said, recovering first. "You have more France in you than I thought."
"A gentleman always lets the lady win," she declared with a toss of her wet braid. He laughed again and they began to take care of their wet clothes, lapsing into silence as the rain poured steadily.
Monaco took off her glasses, wondering where to dry it. She turned to her companion, who had already removed his necktie and was unbuttoning his khaki uniform, and asked hesitantly, "Do you have a dry cloth on you?"
"A dry cloth? I don't think—" He turned to her and abruptly cut off. Despite her slightly blurry vision, Monaco could see his green eyes widen and he swallowed visibly. "Uh, I don't think so. Sorry."
"That's alright." She frowned at her glasses and then lifted the hem of her dress, wiping the wet lens with the damp material unsuccessfully. "I suppose the rain will—"
"Shit."
Monaco blinked at him. While she might not be super fluent in English, she had picked up some words from her brother, and his mutter just now was definitely not polite. "What's wrong?" she queried.
He was avoiding her eye for some reason. "No, nothing." His tanned skin seemed flushed.
How odd. The blond wondered if he was hiding something from her and trying to be considerate about it. With a mental shrug, she reached for her hair ribbons and proceeded to untangle her wet hair, carefully combing the curled tresses with her fingers. She was engrossed in her task for a minute, until she realized her companion was strangely silent. Monaco glanced at him curiously.
He was staring at her fixedly, shirt left unbuttoned and his chest exposed. Her cold cheeks promptly reddened. "Um…" she began uncomfortably.
"Do you mind if I take my shirt off?" His voice was casual, but the intensity of his gaze didn't leave her.
The female nation nodded and turned away politely, a little grateful that he'd warned her instead of just stripping like some other male nations would do without hesitation. Like her brother.
"And will you wear it?"
Monaco began to nod again and then stopped. He had slipped off his belt and removed the khaki shirt, and she blushed at the sight of his bare torso. "Oh no, I'm quite fine," she said hurriedly, trying not to remember a similar scene she'd read from America's stupid romance novels. "I'm not cold at all, Spain. Really. Please keep it."
He paused. "Thanks, but I think you need it more than me." She saw his green eyes trail briefly over her form, and looked down as well. To her mortification, the white sundress had become slightly see-through and did not hide what she was wearing underneath. By the time she'd flushed and looked back up at him, Spain was holding out his damp but very solid shirt.
Monaco took it without protest. The sleeves, though rolled up, were a little long but the length sufficiently covered her sundress. It also smelled quite nice when she inhaled shyly.
There was an awkward silence.
"So," he said lightly.
"Mm," she agreed.
Spain gave her a dry smile. "We're probably stuck here for a while." He sounded apologetic.
Monaco didn't look at him. "...I don't mind."
The rain poured.
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The night of her last day in Spain, she had a dream.
There was a casino in the middle of the same bullfighting arena that they'd gone to the week before. The casino looked remarkably similar to the Monte Carlo back at home, although Monaco had never gone inside herself. The sun was hot, the bulls were somehow grazing docilely amongst the card tables, and Berlioz' Symphonie fantastique streamed from the sound system.
In the middle of it all, amid bright slot machines inside her private library, Monaco danced the flamenco.
Her scarlet skirts whooshed with every twirl, bare arms raised above her head. She didn't wear glasses, and her hair was full of tomato-red flowers. As she spun and stomped to an invisible guitar, her skin began to burn uncomfortably from the heat of her sweat. Her heart thudded painfully, her every breath labored, and as she spun in a dizzying circle she caught a glimpse of green eyes, tanned skin, and a smile so warm it made her want to cry.
Was this what it was like to be in love? Monaco thought.
She continued to spin.
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When Monaco woke up, she realized she was incredibly sick.
She was lying in her hotel bed, the curtains drawn to the sun and her body aching from a fever. It was because of yesterday, she realized groggily. When the rain finally stopped, she had to wait until Spain dropped her off at the hotel before taking a hot bath. She hadn't bothered taking any medicine, even though her head ached and her body felt tired.
The blond sat up and clumsily put on her glasses—the metal felt cold and foreign on her flushed skin. She flinched when her sensitive limbs made contact with the cooler air beyond the covers, but she stubbornly moved out of bed.
It was time for her to go home.
The door opened. She turned her head just as Spain walked in. He was carrying a plastic bag, but she was more bothered by the card key in his hand. "Where did you get that?" Monaco attempted to say sharply, but it came out weak and dazed, much to her annoyance.
He ignored her question and instead frowned at her. "What are you doing?" He sounded displeased and she wondered bemusedly if this was his hotel room. It would explain the card key. And it meant she was intruding.
"I apologize," she heard herself say, moving to grab her half-packed suitcase and pink jacket. Wasn't her toothbrush still in the bathroom? That meant this was her room. Monaco was irritated by her confusion. "I should have checked out at ten-thirty this morning, but I wasn't feeling very well and—"
He said something exasperatedly in Spanish.
"Pardon?" She blinked in confusion. Then she tripped over her shoes.
Spain was there, steadying her much more closely than he had the other day. "You can just stay right here," he said as he steered her to the bed, "until you stop being so damn formal."
That wasn't going to happen anytime soon, she thought. "Brother is expecting me—"
"France told me to keep you in bed," he interrupted frankly, pushing her down on the comfortable mattress. "If I let you even try to get on a train, he promised to gut me where I stand and set fire to all my tomato plantations."
Monaco sighed. "I'm sorry. He's being ridiculous."
"You're being ridiculous," Spain replied, pulling the covers over her. He slipped off her glasses without warning and placed them on the nightstand, and then sat on the edge of the bed.
"I need to check out at-"
"I've already taken care of it. You can stay for as long as you like." Then he paused. "Actually, I'm kind of glad you got sick."
She made out his slightly flushed skin. "Excuse me?"
"Okay, that was wrong," he amended, running a hand through his hair nervously. "I don't mind if you stay longer. Or forever, even. But then I think France would really declare war, and I really can't afford that right now." Then he muttered under his breath, "He'll kill me anyway for ogling you."
The fever made it difficult to think; it took her three tries before she could find an appropriate reply. "Oh," she said.
He chuckled, not quite meeting her eyes. "You're probably sick of staying here. Romano used to complain about how much it rained, and then you really got sick and I practically had to threaten these people to give me the key…" Spain trailed off. "I'm not making any sense."
Monaco shook her head. "No… I understand. I feel the same way." When his eyes snapped up to stare at her, she blushed.
"You do? Really?" She nodded shyly. He broke into a happy grin that made her forget to breathe for a second. "Then you'll stay for the rest of summer with me? I still have a lot of places I want to take you, and there's plenty more summer festivals to attend." He paused, then added, "But no libraries." Monaco smiled slightly.
"And no bullfights."
He nodded, pleased. "You'll stay?"
She hesitated. "Brother might not be... happy if he finds out."
"Nah, he approves."
"Really?"
Spain leaned forward, propping an elbow next to her head as he smiled down at her. "It's not like he can stop us, Monaco. And if you're happy, then I don't see why he wouldn't approve."
She thought for a moment, already dismissing what her brother might say in light of Spain's simple words. His proximity was distracting, to say the least, and her feverish mind didn't really help her concentration. His vivid eyes and easy smile, which seemed so charming and innocent before, suddenly became a dangerous hazard to her emotional stability and normally rational head. Monaco frowned at this rather unfair trade-off, feeling like a heroine in one of America's (admittedly useful) romance novels and certainly not enjoying the experience. Even if the handsome hero was Spain.
"You even braid your hair when you sleep." His voice broke her out of her muddled thoughts, and Monaco became aware of his hand stroking her long hair softly. She swallowed, wishing she could drink some water.
"It's easier to manage," she explained, feeling ridiculously shy all of the sudden.
He looked earnestly at her for a moment or two, during which time Monaco felt herself grow warmer and warmer under his scrutiny. "I really want to kiss you," he said bluntly. "But that's probably not such a good idea, huh?" He was logically referring to her fever. She blushed again.
"Of course." Monaco hid her disappointment quite well.
He turned around and grabbed the plastic bag, which he rummaged through quickly. "Here, I bought some medicine. I wasn't sure which was the best, so I bought a lot—" Packages and boxes of various medication tumbled on the mattress, and Monaco sat up slightly. "I also brought some tomatoes, fresh from the garden. They're the best medicine of all," he informed her proudly.
She recalled he was the reason the Italy brothers were so unhealthily obsessed with tomatoes. She also remembered France's promise to neuter her host if he got too friendly with her, and she cleared her throat. "Thank you, Spain. I'm sorry for making you go through all this trouble." He opened his mouth but she hurriedly continued, "You don't need to stay with me. I'm sure you're busy enough as it is, and I can take care of—"
She squeaked faintly when he planted both hands on either side of her head, his face hovering dangerously close to hers. Monaco pressed back into the pillow, staring back at those vivid green eyes that proved detrimental to her rationale. Instinct urged her to kick him where it hurt the most, but the rest of her remained curiously still, anticipating a kiss that she'd secretly dreamed of ever since the evening they first danced.
The kiss didn't come. Instead, the older nation grinned at her.
"You won't be getting rid of me that easily."
Monaco realized he was teasing her. Again. Her eyes narrowed, all fuzzy feelings induced by those vivid eyes and charming smile gone and replaced by annoyance. "I could always call my brother," she challenged.
"But you won't."
His cheerful confidence made it hard to stay annoyed at him for long. "You're right," she conceded thoughtfully.
Spain was bemused, and then quite smug at her admittance. Before he could pull away from the bed, however, she reached out a hand and touched his face, her fingertips lightly trailing down to the side of his neck at a slow pace. His skin was very warm against her cool fingers, reminding her of the sun in Spain. The heroine in one of her romance novels had done this particular gesture to seduce the hero, with great success, and it seemed to be working on Spain as well. A part of her was horrified by her boldness. A larger part was inwardly pleased by his reaction to her touch.
Sure enough, Spain swallowed and forced out casually, "Monaco?"
She smiled sweetly at him, fever and satisfaction pushing all propriety out the window.
"I don't need my brother to deal with you."
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Somewhere in France
Waiting in the train station, France glanced at his watch again, blue eyes impatient.
"That damn Spain. He said she'd be only two hours late."
Little did he know.
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END
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A/N: I wanted to write about Spain and Monaco. What resulted was two barely-chapters of undeniable fluff. But that's what I wanted. That's what everybody secretly wants, I guess.
There was not so much cultural or historical facts in this one, as I wanted to focus more on their relationship. As I said in the previous chapter, if there's anything awkward or wrong with any of the historical or cultural facts I do throw in, I apologize.
Also, America probably reads teenage romance novels on rainy days. I bet.
Thanks for reading. I enjoyed writing this very much.