Valencia, Spain; July 1924
Warm air rests over the rolling hills of farmland and fluffy cotton clouds drift across the blue sky. The rich earth crunches and shifts under Belgium's boots as she walks past olive trees to the rows of tomato plants deeper in the garden. A straw hat shields her from the heat and a wicker basket hangs from her arm, laden with lunch food for a man who has gone missing amongst his plants.
Only fifteen minutes ago, Belgium had spotted him near the cottage fence, tending to his farm tools. She had returned to her bubbling pot on the stove, satisfied that lunch was almost ready and he was close by. But in that short time he'd vanished, which was not a surprise. These days, Spain often wandered the fields absent-mindedly; not even her calls could reach him when he was lost in dreamland.
Belgium finds him crouched among the tomato plants, naturally. He is smiling to himself, turning the fruit over in his dirty hands. All his clothes are messy, streaked with soil and it's barely past noon. He's been working hard.
"I think I know what that smile means," she says as she approaches.
"Oh!" Spain gasps. "I didn't hear you coming."
Belgium giggles. "That's because you're fixated on your tomatoes! It's lunchtime already."
Spain laughs and rubs the back of his head, a bit of the soil brushing into his curly hair. "Sorry! I must have lost track of the time."
Belgium plops herself down in the dirt next to him. Her summer dress is a working one; if it gets a little dusty, it doesn't matter. She leans in to gaze at the leafy plants. They appear perfectly green and sturdy.
"By your expression," she muses, glancing at Spain, "I'm guessing that you'll have a good harvest this season."
"I hope so," Spain sighs. He sits next to her on the ground, pressing their shoulders together. "Some good luck would be fantastic right now."
His smile is radiant as always… But there are dark bags under his eyes and his sun-kissed skin is slightly paler than it was before The Great War. Belgium bites her lip.
"You look tired," she murmurs.
"I am," he admits. "But these trips to the farm fields bring me peace." He means it. The spark in his chartreuse eyes prove it a hundred times over; the worries of city-life are banished here, in the quiet hills.
Belgium removes the towel covering their food and Spain whistles delightfully. Inside rests a glass jar that's filled to the brim with potato and leek soup alongside fresh bread rolls, baked just this morning. She unscrews the jar's lid and fills a tin cup with the warm, creamy liquid before handing it to Spain. He slurps it immediately.
"Hey now," she cries. "I brought us spoons!"
"I couldn't wait!" he chuckles as she thrusts a utensil into his palm. He obeys and uses the spoon to gulp down his lunch. Obviously, he's hungry. He hasn't eaten since sunrise. At least, he seems to like her cooking. A small flicker of happiness blossoms in Belgium's chest and she watches him with a smile.
They munch on their food together, sitting side-by-side. Belgium rests her head on Spain's shoulder and embraces the light tickle of his dark hair on her forehead. Perhaps she could give him a haircut tomorrow morning, when he's too tired to refuse. Then again, his fluffy bird's nest is weirdly charming… in a rural sort of way.
Spain nuzzles her hair and teases her a little by asking where the waffles are. She laughs and prods his cheek with the end of her spoon.
When they finish, Belgium packs up their dishes and stands, brushing some of the dirt from her skirt. "Are you coming inside for a break?" she asks.
"I just had my break," Spain states. "And it was delicious!"
A frown crosses Belgium's lips. "You shouldn't work too hard. I know that things are… difficult now." She hesitates because they came here to get away from it all and there are too many concerns to mention in one breath. There's Spain's new leader, the workers struggling in poverty, the coup just last year… "You should keep your strength, just in case. Okay?"
Spain listens, his gaze drifting over her face. Then, he grins.
"This isn't work for me, darling. It's leisure."
Belgium huffs, her hands going to her hips. Spain raises his arms in surrender. "But if it troubles you, I swear I'll return to the cottage before sunset!"
"Do you promise?"
His smile brightens. "With all my heart."
Belgium sighs. Her will always fails before that gorgeous face. She places her straw hat on his head and bends down to kiss him. His chapped lips glide against hers, their noses brushing, the scent of earth whirling through the air and a hint of potato soup on his tongue.
She whispers, "I'll hold you to your word."
Then, she rises and takes her basket. Spain stares lovingly, chin in his palm and beaming at her as she goes. And while making her way back to the house, Belgium hears a lively cheer from the fields. Heat fills her cheeks and she waves to him over her shoulder.
These rolling Spanish hills are like a home, she thinks. Safe, pastoral, and warm. What more could one ask for?
End