Guys...two reviews last chapter. And one was from my Real Life friend and therefore doesn't technically count. (still love you though) Sad face. Extreme sad face.
Thanks for all the faves and alerts though. And the lovely reviews that I did receive. But...review!
Antonio Falls into a Lake of Red
Music.
Dancing.
Laughter.
There is fast and continuous guitar melody resonating throughout the room, reverberating against the walls and bouncing back at him. His ears ring with strumming, the sound of strings creaking and fingers sliding from one fret to another.
Bueno.
Tambourines sound and there's a consistent drum beat. The combination of instruments is making it seem like the floor and the room and everything in it are shaking. The beat resonates in his chest and the bells jingle through his ears and around his brain and the cacophony of music wraps him in a thick and comfortable blanket.
Bueno.
There's the ceaseless sound of feet hitting the floor, shoes dancing across as legs swirl and lift and drop and fly upwards and bodies fly around the room. Long skirts drag along the floor and swish like the sound of a strong wind, followed by the tap tap of high heels and the tinkling, bubbling laughter.
Fiesta.
Antonio grins, clapping his hands along to the beat and tapping his foot against the floor. The shouts and the yells and the excited words in Spanish as people spin and twirl and dip and sashay all around the room send an exicited and proud trill through him.
Like being home.
The tanned skin and curly dark hair and rolled Rs are numerous, but just as many are those with blonde, red, light hair, blue eyes, pale skin, laughing, stumbling along, trying to match the beat.
He smiles.
These people, they came for experience for exotic.
These people came for salsa and tango and for a night of passion.
They came for Spain.
The tempo quickens and the dance floor is a flurry of skirts and frilled shirts and roses and sweet paella in the air. With the mix of foreigners the dancing is not smooth and sleek but it is fast and alive and everyone is smiling and joined with one another in one moving mass that is gliding to the beat.
This is the Kingdom of Passion. This is what people think of when they think of Spain. Lively guitar, salsa, passion.
"First time here, amigo?"
Antonio tears his gaze away from the flurry of activity on the dance floor. The music and the movement still reverbrate in his ears, and his mind is still in the passion even as he turns to the side and acknowledges the woman who has come up beside him.
"Ah, no it's not," he answers cheerfully, "I come here whenever I can!"
The woman tilts her head to the side. She looks comfortable in the environment, both with her Spanish attire and rolling lisp that gave away her home town as Madrid. Antonio feels a thrill of kinship go up his spine, and his smile widens.
"Oh, It's just the way you were watching the dancing," continues the woman, "You look enthralled by it, I thought for sure this must be your first time here."
Antonio shakes his head, still smiling. Sunshiney Spain smile.
"No matter how many times I come here, it's still amazing," he says wistfully, turning his gaze back to the dance floor, eyes sparkling and smile turning into a full-on grin.
The lady chuckles and nods. "I understand what you mean. That's the Kingdom of Passion for you. This is what's Spain's all about."
Antonio stiffens.
What Spain's all about.
The rich red of a dress and a carnation and a tomato and salsa and
It smells like blood.
Everything smells like blood.
The satin sheets, the fine, silk clothing, the bangles of gold, the necklaces and amulets of precious jewels, the bags upon bags of coins, and the body slumped in the corner.
Metallic. Coppery. Salty.
Blood.
Pushing against his boots, wave after wave, lapping up past the expensive leather and to the expensive trousers. The dark maroon colour of his pants stained darker, darker then the red of his jacket, of his hat, of his hands.
No.
No?
Nothing's redder than my hands.
The chamber is decorated lavishly, every known extravagance and priceless treasure is here. The silk curtains and sheets, the tapestries, the fine clothing, the gold, jewels, amulets, medallions, pendants, piles of priceless chalices and goblets. Plates of that same precious metal, sparkling diamonds and sapphires and rubies. Paintings and art hung meticulously. Some foreign animal chained in the corner, and in the other corner, a girl.
He sits on a chair, a chair covered in a deep golden cloth and with a plush cushion stuffed with the feathers of rare and exotic birds. It's soft. It's nice. He likes sitting in it. He likes everything. He like the ways the jewels twinkle, the gold shines, the wine sparkles.
Sparkle. Sparkle.
He loves it.
Andthesmelldoesn't-
These riches are all his. The riches of Spain. Of someone who has taken and taken and plundered and milked the new world dry of its riches and freedom. Everything is his. Everything will be his. The axe leaning against his throne is redredred all around the blade and it will stay red for as long as he needs to hack away at natives and insurgents and anyone who stands between him and treasure.
The treasure of gold.
The treasure of jewels.
The treasure of land.
The treasure of slaves and a whole new people for the taking(slaughter).
And this girl, this girl cowering in the corner. Some country somewhere that is now a colony, a territory, a new treasure of Spain. His to take. His to beat into submission. His to strip bare of riches and wealth and individuality until she is his and only his and everything she has is his and only his.
Conquistador.
And everything is stained red and the floor is slick with red and there is blood on his hands that fit comfortably like a glove that will never come off.
The girl raises her head. Dark skin, dark eyes glaring angrily. He smiles. Mirthless. Merciless. The glove of blood molds easily around the handle of the axe and as he swings it down towards her legs she defiantly opens her bloodstained mouth and says-
-"Would you like to dance, senor?"
Antonio stares at the woman standing in front of him. Her breasts are hanging out of her low cut red salsa dress with roses going down the side and along the neck line. Her dark hair cascading down her shoulder and curling in front of her face, stopping just short of a flirtatious smile.
"It's fine to watch, but it's more fun to join in, si?" she continues, extending her hand out to him. Antonio stares at it. The soft, uncalloused palm. Light coloured. No tinge of red. No crimson hue.
Not like his.
He pulls his hands behind his back.
"No thank you," he declines politely, "I'm fine sitting here."
The smile is still on his face-
-the smile is always on my face-
-but the tone of his voice has soured the tiniest bit and the happy sheen to his eyes is just a bit strained. The woman looks put out, and she retracts her hand with a frown before turning around in something of an offended matter.
"You shouldn't have an attitude like that around here," she sniffs, "In Espana everyone trades a frown for a smile and is always carefree and happy. Always dancing, and appreciating life. It's the same here, senor."
And then she's gone, flouncing away to rejoin the crowd on the dance floor and to meld herself into the beat and the music.
In Espana everyone is carefree, happy, dancing, and appreciating life.
In Espana everyone is power hungry, god-fearing and have a sense of bloodlust that puts England and Prussia both to shame.
Was.
Was?
Was…that…was Spain. Was.
But the land has moved on. The people have moved on. Everything has changed and now the ceaseless sun that shines over the land is not harsh, painful and stifling but warm and welcoming and full of life.
Sunshiney Spain.
Bloodstained Spain.
The Empire where the sun never sets.
Because once upon a time, Spain ruled Europe. He ruled it. The first one, the first out of all them to have everything. Everyone remembers the British Empire. The one that controlled almost a third of the globe at the point, but he wasn't the first. He wasn't the first one to take Europe and to discover America and to have that power.
Spain was the first world power.
The first one to hold everything in the palm of his hand. To taste the bitter fall and tears and blood of his conquests. Those he's defeated.
At this time, everything is his. Everyone is his. Parts of France, Germany, Belgium, Luxemburg, Netherlands, North Africa, Italy….
And the Americas. The New World, which belongs solely to him.
Countries have risen and countries have fallen. Nations take and nations give and nations change and nations disappear. The life is a chaotic circle of conflict and greed. There is always war. Always conquest.
But Spain is the first to have such absolute conquest. Absolute control in so many places. To stretch so far beyond its own expanded borders and to swim in treasure so beautiful and so valuable and it's all his.
The blood and the tears of the children. What is it to him? Wild, barbaric countries unused to the European way. Unused to the taking and the plundering and the this is mine now. You are mine now. There is no choice. There is no alternative. I want you you are mine your land is mine your treasure is mine you are mine.
Nation-children crying. Crying.
He kills them. Usually with the battle axe. Blood splashes on his face, his clothing, his boots. It coats his hands like it coats his treasure. Child blood.
And he will kill them and hurt them again and again until they learn. They learn.
They are conquered. They are his. Spain owns them and Spain will own everything because there is gold and there is land and there are resources and everything will fall beneath him and if it doesn't then it will be wiped away. Until everything is under his flag there will be a ceaseless flow of blood. The smell is everywhere.
The smell that clings, that follows, that is a conquistador.
The New World is his playground. The natives and the nation-children who scream and run but have no choice but to yield beneath him. Because treasure is what he seeks and treasure is what he'll get.
Europe is more serious, is more deadly. The others, they want it. They want it. The smell of blood and power that clings to him they want it. The title of Empire is his first and his alone and now they all want it. They're all setting sail for the new world they're all fighting and trying to expand but Europe is his and the new World is his and everything is his and no one can take what belongs to him because he wants treasure and the world is his treasure and he will relinquish nothing until he has taken everything and milked it dry.
Conquest after conquest after conquest after conquest.
It feels so good. Spain is a country that has been a mish mash of this and that and has been conquered and rebuilt into whatever those who conquered him wished him to be. Has been two separate kingdoms melded into one, trying to force ideas and people to mesh under one King. Has been taken and changed and taken and changed again and again.
But now he is united. Now he is strong. Now he is the one doing the taken.
Plundering.
Murdering.
Claiming.
Pillaging.
Hurting.
Hurting.
Hurting everyone.
Destroying everyone.
Everyone?
Everyone.
Not everyone.
That's true. There is a child whose blood has not yet stained his axe. A child who hasn't been mutilated and chopped and beaten until they bow their head and cower before him and offer him their riches and themselves and everything they have. There is a child who he has not touched. Not taught the meaning of the word 'conquered'.
Why?
This stupid child who swears and curses and doesn't understand his place. This stupid child who doesn't do as he's told. This stupid child who thinks he can order Spain around. Who thinks he can tell him what to do. Who thinks he can talk back to his Boss.
If ever there was a child that needed to be put in their place, it was this one. If ever there was a child who needed to feel the sensation of their head slowly being removed with a dull blade, inch by inch, it was this one.
But the child remains untouched.
Why?
A European nation. A hated rival. Now conquered and his to do with as he pleases. A stupid little boy with ridiculously chubby cheeks who eats tomatoes (just like Spain) and who makes the most adorable pout faces ever-
Wait.
What?
Spain was a child once. He was young. He was as innocent as nation-children could be. He liked dancing. He liked running around. He liked being outside in the sunshine.
But then he came and she came and they came and they took and they ripped and they lost and then others took and ripped and lost to others who took more and hurt more and changed more.
And then it was Spain's turns to take and the innocent nation-child is long dead.
Dead?
Or maybe not.
Was beaten to death.
Not dead. Sleeping. Pushed aside.
Because what the children of the New World could never do, this irritable Italian can do. What their tears could not stir, his pouts can stir.
An amused smile, a slight chuckle. A shared tomato. A closeness that Spain does not have with other nations he's conquered.
Maybe it's because the boy is not pleading for his life. Is not crying at the injustice. Is complaining and pouting but not trying to resist. It may just be cowardice, uselessness, an unwillingness to fight. But the boy does not seem scared.
Spain does not need to do anything for people to be scared of him. He smells like blood. His clothing is stained in blood. His hands are stained in blood. Look at him and you will know fear, know death.
This boy is either stupid or blind but it's refreshing all the same. It's nice. Being feared is nice. Having everything is nice. But returning home and not being feared. Of having a single tomato instead of bags of gold. And a little boy who won't cower in a corner or plead for mercy but will curse and turn away haughtily instead.
For some reason that Spain's not sure of, that is much nicer.
But war is continuing and he is tugged and pushed at from all sides. Territories are lost to France and the Dutch and the English infringe on his New World. Nations are falling and crumbling left and right, but he will remain strong. He will not relinquish his title as World Power, as Empire, as the top of the world. He will not be destroyed.
Spain is the first to reach the top. Maybe reaching the top means he will never fall again. His Empire and wealth might be threatened, but nothing can destroy him again. Nothing can send him plummeting off his pedestal.
Nothing can-
"Espagna! Where are you?"
Nothing will-
"I know you're home, bastardo! Come out!"
Nothing-
"Found you jackass! What-,"
Destroy-
"…..Spain? What…what are you doing? Who…what…"
Backtalk. Insurgents. He won't take it from his colonies. He never would. A single glare that has spirit and he would beat them within an inch of their life.
So having his New World colonies try to gang up on him and attack him when he gets home is unforgiveable.
He's not thinking of Romano as he punishes them. He's just doing his duty as Conquistador. The handle of his axe is used more than the blade. He wants the pain to last. To truly hurt. A girl has choked on her own blood and is lying eyes wide in the corner. A pair of boys are writhing in pain. Legs broken on one. Arms broken on the other. The eldest among them had her head smashed in. She has since come back, so he'll have to kill her again. Just to make sure the lesson came across. She's the oldest. She probably started it. She has to take responsibility.
The axe goes above his head and then it's down on her head.
And there is blood and bone and all sorts of things lapping at his feet. He is covered in blood and smells like blood and everything is redredred.
The nation-children are dead. They will be back soon. He may punish them again. They still have spirit. He has to crush it. Has to make sure they know who is Boss. Who is their master. Who-
"…Spain?"
And then there's a weird chill that shoots up his spine.
"What….are…you…"
For some reason, it feels an awful lot like fear.
It can't be.
It is.
Why are you here?
To find you.
Go back to your room.
How can he?
You can't see this.
Why not? It's what you are, isn't it? Senor Conquistador.
Yes, but-
But what? The only one you've been lying to is him. You showed him a side of you that you weren't. Will never be. Spain is not kind. Spain does not laugh easily. Spain does not find his colonies 'cute'. It's a lie. It's a lie. It's a lie. The boy has been lied to and this is you and now he is seeing the man who he thought actually cared for him. The man who will chop off his head with an axe just like he did that girl's.
Romano is crying.
Not tears of frustration, not fake tears. Not cowardly tears.
Tears of fear and heartbreak and absolute horror and terror and tears that he neverevernever wanted to see coursing down those cheeks.
What kind of Conquistador pinches his conquest's cheeks because they're 'cute'?
In the hallway behind the child is a mirror. With the door open Spain can see himself clearly. The red jacket. The red hat. The red pants. The red shirt. The pants were golden in colour. The hat was white. The shirt was white. Only the jacket was red before. And his hands are dripping and his face has a red handprint from when the girl had frantically tried to stop him from taking her.
His eyes are flinty, cold, bloodthirsty. His mouth hangs open as he heaves for breath. His hair is a sweaty curly bloody mess.
This is Spain.
This is Conquistador.
This is what he is and what he has never shown the boy.
The boy.
Romano.
Outside. Walking in the sun that does not seem blistering and hot but it warm and friendly now. Picking tomatoes and napping under trees and doing things that Spain has not done since he was young and innocent. Curling up in a bed that he has never shared with another. Laughing. Laughing and smiling. Always smiling.
Spain with Romano.
He likes that Spain.
He's just realized that he likes that Spain.
He's just realized that he hates the smell of blood.
He's just realized that his axe is too heavy for him to lift.
He's just realized that he can still hear the screams of all the nation-children he's ever killed.
He's just realized the screams make him feel sick.
He's just realized that Romano can smell the blood.
He's just realized that Romano can see the axe.
He's just realized that Romano can see the mutilated bodies.
Romano can see the Spain that Spain is. The Spain that is not Romano's Spain.
He's just realized that Romano is going to hate him. That there will be no more tomatoes and naps and sleeping together. That the Spain that is Romano's Spain will never be again. That the Spain that has Romano will never be again.
He's just realized that it's very possible for a world power and an empire to fall.
Onto his knees, into a lake of blood, with his axe clattering to the ground at his side.
/
"Hey! Bastardo, wait up dammit!"
Antonio pauses and turns his head over his shoulder, a wide smile blooming on his face as he hears a familiar voice behind him.
"Lovi~! I didn't see you there!" he chirps cheerfully, turning around completely. The other man scowls, folding his arms across his chest in his standard position of displeasure.
"The wine bastard and the albino bastard said you'd be in that Spanish dance club," he said sourly, "And I take all that time to grab a fucking cab and get there and you've already left! Inconsiderate idiot."
Antonio's smile becomes sheepish as Lovino moves to stand beside him, pout still pronounced and eyes towards the ground.
So cute. Always so cute.
"Sorry Lovi, but you could have texted me," reminds Antonio gently, continuing to walk with the Italian at his side. Lovino makes an angry noise and turns his head away, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
"My phone broke. I tripped and it fell out of my pocket…stupid cheap thing," he grumbles, an embarrassed blush on his face.
Ah, Lovino. Always so clumsy.
"So bastard," continues Lovino, looking up and turning his gaze towards the Spaniard, "What exactly made you leave that salsa club. You can usually stay in those things until the sun rises."
Antonio's body stiffens for a moment before he shrugs and continues walking. "Ah~ I don't know, Lovi. I just wasn't feeling it."
"Finally realized that those American knock-offs can't compare to the real thing?" sneers the Italian, pulling his hands out of his pocket and placing them behind his head. Antonio pouts slightly, looking down at Lovino with a frown. "Everyone's being so mean to America lately. Since the recession," he sighs, "It's not nice."
Lovino raises an eyebrow, looking mostly indifferent. "Mean? I don't think they're being mean. I think that they're contemplating a reality that seems to be fast approaching. The kid's gonna fall. And soon."
"You really think so?" replies Antonio, a worried look on his face, "You think it's inevitable?"
"The country is in shit," says Lovino bluntly, "And not just with the recession. Those Al Qaeda creeps are up his ass. Seriously. Some deep shit is going to hit the fan soon, and America's not going to come out of it well. It's as simple as that."
Antonio winces and his gaze falls to the ground. "So you really think there's no hope?" he says in a quiet voice, "That he's going to be destroyed?"
"America's gonna fall," says Lovino firmly, eyes ahead. "No doubt."
"And Alfred?"
Lovino pauses and once again turns his gaze towards the older man.
"I know you like him," says the boy somewhat quietly, "Despite the war and him taking colonies from you and shit, you like him. Fuck if I know why, but I know that you're possibly the only one besides the eyebrow bastard and the polar bear guy who don't want to see him fall. But it's a part of us. Falling. It sucks, but it is. Our countries are destroyed, and we're destroyed. The two sides of us might fall at different times, but they always fall."
The Italian turns his gaze back to the front, stuffing his hands back into his pocket as he shivers slightly in the night air.
"It fucking sucks, but it's what happens. You can't stop it."
Silence falls between the two men, and there is nothing but the sound of shoes hitting the pavement and the faint sound of cars in the background.
Then Antonio laughs.
Lovino looks up in surprise. "The hell are you laughing at you bastard?"
"Lovi, you're too pessimistic~," chirps the Spaniard with a smile, "But you're right. Nations always fall. At some point, they always do."
Lovino's eyebrow twitches slightly and he places his hands on his hips. "And why exactly are you laughing?"
"Everyone falls," continues Antonio, "But it can be okay. Falling doesn't mean complete destruction. Not always. Not sometimes."
"You don't make any fucking sense. You know that bastard?" grumbles Lovino, shaking his head. Antonio continues to smile.
"It's okay if you fall," he says, softer this time, "As long as you have someone to catch you."
Because the Empire of Spain did fall. Spain was beaten up and destroyed. It happened. Inevitable, it happened.
And when Antonio thought he had lost Romano, he fell.
But Romano caught him.
Romano ran towards him and wrapped his arms around his neck and got blood all over his dress and hands and face as he clung to the man covered in the gore of his fellow denizens of the Spanish Empire. He was crying, but he was crying into Antonio's shoulder. And letting Antonio cry into his.
Antonio fell and his heart cracked and ached, but it wasn't destroyed. His wonderful precious Romano didn't leave him and he got the chance to cultivate and become the Spain that was Romano's Spain. To leave the blood-tinged blood smelling Conquistador behind.
Antonio.
Sunshiney Spain.
When the Conquistador fell, Antonio came back. Nation-child Antonio came back.
Not destroyed.
/
Siesta time.
There was something oh so nice about a nap right in between a hectic morning and a sure to be even more hectic afternoon. Antonio loves this momentary lull in the days activities. Loves having the opportunity to sit and relax. He leans back, eyes shut and breathing deep and calm.
"Hey! Antonio!"
The Spaniard winces slightly before cracking one eye open. After a moment, he smiles and waves happily at the man approaching him, sitting up against the tree he's leaning against.
"Hola Alfred!" he calls cheerfully, looking up as the younger man reaches him and falls back against the tree.
"Man, it's hot out isn't it? It was so nice last night!" complains Alfred, fanning himself and pulling his shirt up to let air blow onto his shirt. "I wish there was a little breeze or something."
Antonio shrugs and smiles, that constant smile, like the sun that beats down on them.
"It gets hotter than this in my home," he says with a laugh, running a hand through his hair. Alfred blows air out of his mouth, pushing his bangs away from his face. "But you're used to it! Alaska lulls me into a false sense of security every year! It sucks!" The boy thumps down onto the ground beside the Spaniard, sitting under the shade beside the man.
As the young nation continues to complain and bemoan the heat, Antonio watches him carefully, leaning against the tree with half-lidded eyes.
Ah, America.
America is a lot like Spain, Antonio thinks. Not just with the hot weather, but with the personality that is associated it with it as well. Alfred is Sunshiney as well. All smiles and laughter and good-naturedness. He's a nice boy.
Such a nice boy.
Why is that again?
Hm?
Why is he such a nice boy? Why do you like him so much? Why don't you want him to be-
Because he's nice. And he reminds me of sunshine. And I got tomatoes from America originally.
Really? That's why?
Simple, si? People say I'm a country bumpkin. But it's true. That's why.
You don't need to be reminded of sunshine. You and you're country are nothing but sunshine.
But my sunrises are red and my sunsets are red. His sunshine is sunshine that isn't stained with blood.
He's not a complete child. He's seen war.
But he's not a monster. And that's something that no other nation can say.
But he's not without sin. He shouldn't be exempt from being brought to his knees.
I like being in a country where the sun is golden and happy and not staining the horizon red.
So you like him because he is what you want to be. What you will never have, Senor Conquistador.
…Shut up.
I really like this chapter. Though I'm kind of upset about the semi-sappy ending. I didn't mean to, honest. Blame Spamano being my OTP.
I also don't know why Spain likes America. It just seemed right. *shrugs*
I don't know too much about Spanish and South American history, but I haven't heard good things about the way Spain treated its colonies down there.
And uh...yeah. Please, please review!