Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

A/n1: Surprise surprise – extra early unexpected update, because I won't have time to update this story tomorrow morning. One of my friends practically invited herself to stay over today and, well, I can't exactly go update a fic when there's a friend sleeping on the floor. 'Move over, J., I need to update my fic and your lounging body is in the way, dammit.' XDDDDDDD I mean, that's just strange, right?
The reason why she stays over? Well, it's Koningsdag (King's Day) in the Netherlands tomorrow! Normally, we'd celebrate Queen's Day, but since we no longer have a Queen but a King, we now celebrate King's Day. It really is that simple.
Although my friend thinks it's a great day and wants to visit all the local flea markets and such in a big city, there actually is nothing really special about King's Day. People dress up in orange and try to sell each other cheap, worthless shit at – yes – local flea markets and such. Oh, and most people are free from work, like I am, tomorrow.
Also, there are a lot of music festivals going on in the country, and the King and his family will visit a few cities, which we can all follow on TV.
And that's… well, that's about it! Pretty boring, but oh well. I'll still be very busy this weekend, and that's okay.^^

A/n2: Let me recommend you another sweet piece of music: 'In Your Arms' from Chef'Special.
The song is dedicated to the father of the singer, who (recently) passed away. It's gentle, it's sad (but in a good, tender way), it's poppy, it's wonderful to listen to when you're home alone, lying on your couch with a hangover or just hanging around the house.
The music video is cute, too.^^ Just listen to it and try to keep yourself from smiling and crying at the same time – it's pretty hard if you pay attention to the lyrics.

~~ And Three Makes Five ~~

Chapter 47:

Every child is an artist.
Pablo Picasso
(Spanish painter, sculptor, printmaker, stage designer, poet and playwright)

Madrid was, and still in, for all means one of the most impressive, metropolitan areas of all of Europe. The many financial, economical, political, social and cultural influences make Madrid a city that… well, captures your heart and mind in the most unexpected way.

I mean, it's nothing like Barcelona. And yet, it is.

…

Um, well, let me put it this way…

Yes, Madrid's a beautiful city of course, just like Barcelona is, but… there's just a way more solemn, stern ambiance hanging in the air, streets, squares and roads of Madrid. Madrid is solemn and stern. It's not a city that shows you just how lovely siesta's or weird dinner times are – no, it's a city that works hard, day and night. It keeps its inhabitants busy with all kinds of business (economical office work, many different kinds of shops, touristic entertainment), and people that are able to live in Madrid – the very center of Madrid – are not your lazy, stereo-typical Spaniards that you might have read or heard about. Which is good, because Madrid arguably is the financial centre of Southern Europe – they don't need people that don't take things seriously here.

However, having that said, Madrid is still breathtakingly gorgeous for all who go visit the city.

In spite of all the progress the city made, and in spite of the fact that it's so very important and earnest and shit like that, it's still a historical city, with historical beauty. Madrid is booming with theatres, museums, broad plaza's and yes, there even is an awesome, detailed and very covered-and-smothered-with-art-art-and-even-more-art palace. A motherfucking palace. Wow, just what the hell? Sure, more palaces are popular, no doubt about that – but the Royal Palace of Madrid just takes the masterpiece-cake and makes something even more mouth-shuttingly amazing out of it.

It's like a cream-colored church, with little, wide towers, a disgustingly wonderful garden (the so-called Sabatini Gardens) with well-kept trimmed grass, funny artsy trees, several statues and yes, a badass pond (because we all know an impressive garden is only an impressive garden when there's a huge pond located in it). The whole thing is safely kept behind a gate that also makes everybody with a weakness for beauty weep in delight – but guess what, you can totally visit the gardens and the palace, it'll only cost you 11 euro's.

11 euro's and you could wander around in a real palace, stuffed with real art (like Da Vinci, Raphael, Caravaggio and even beauty-makers like Bosch, Tintoretto and El Greco). God, I'd fucking walk that art gallery like a maniac. That's how awesome it was, in my eyes.

But of course, not only the palace was a majestic building of pureness – the whole city was faintly ringing with it, even with all the busses, cars and loud people around us. The city streets were cramped up and kind of dangerous even, because of the many lanes. Traffic didn't seem to care that much about the fact that there lived over three million people in Madrid; they just needed to get to their destination as soon as possible and everybody should just watch himself.

But how could tourists and ordinary people watch themselves when there were spectacular buildings around them? I swear, even the most normal-looking houses in Madrid looked like miniature, ancient villa's. They looked tall, dynamic and dramatic, splashed with little/big balconies and oozed with this sturdy, almost arrogant nonchalance that made them look even cooler. And it made you, the viewer, feel very humble and small. Like a damn ant – that's what you'd feel like.

Of course, that's only when you're not a cultural barbarian or an offensive little kid that doesn't give a crap about architecture, art and historical value of a city.

And yes, sadly enough, I was surrounded by these kinds of… of simpleminded peasants for the following days, since neither Antonio nor the kids seemed to be as amazed by everything around us as I was. For fuck's sake, Antonio even thought I was having an allergic reaction when we cycled past the Royal Palace!

'It's okay, sweetie,' he said, as he watch my quivering eyes observe that gate – God, that GATE – and handed me some tissues, 'I heard many people get puffy eyes at this place. There must be some very aggressive pollen floating around in the gardens. They should put a warning sign on the gate!'

I wanted to nag at him that I would never allow a stupid, mortal sign ruin the perfectness that was the gate to the Royal Palace of Ass-Kicking and Sabatini Gardens of WHOA-ness, but then again, why should I nag, dammit, he wouldn't understand my emotions anyway, since he's an art-oblivious brute.

But that was okay – it made him who he was, and I happened to like who he was quite a bit.

\0o0/

A-anyway…

We cycled a bit further, avoiding all the busy roads – good thing Antonio knew a short-cut or two – and eventually, not too long after having gawked at the Royal Palace, we reached the destination we had aimed for: the Plaza de España, or Spain Square, an outstretched square with little gray/white triangular-esk and other creatively formed tiles, flanked by two amazing buildings: the Madrid Tower (Torre de Madrid) and the Spain Building (Edificio España) – both two of the best-known skyscrapers of Madrid.

In the centre of the plaza, there was a monument, dedicated to… yes indeed: Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra and his most popular hero, Don Quixote.

'You know,' Antonio started as we got off our bikes and unloaded the kid-box, 'they may have placed a statue of Miguel here like they knew how he looked like, but the truth is that he used to complain to me that nobody ever pictured him realistically.'

'Oh?' I blinked.

He chuckled. 'One time, when I was visiting him in Madrid, he showed me a painting made by Jáuregui – perhaps you've heard of him, he was a pretty decent Spanish painter back in those days – and asked me if he really was as gray-haired as Jáuregui had painted. I said "don't be such a granny, I think the resemblance is striking," but then Miguel said "pull the other one, Spain – I think that people will debate about whether this painting can be a considered a true likeliness to me or not later." And you know what, he was right: nowadays, people still don't think that Miguel really looked like the Miguel painted by Jáuregui - or others, for all that matters.'

I watched the kids flock around the monument, before smiling at Antonio. 'Well you've known him. What do you think? Does that painting resemble Cervantes – and what about that statue over there?'

'Hmmmmmm,' Antonio mused, pondering as he looked at the sitting stone statue of the writer, 'you know, I'm not sure. It's been so long since the last time I've seen or talked to Miguel… it might look just like him. To be honest with you, he didn't have any striking features that made his appearance very memorable, but… well, since I know Jáuregui took his work very seriously, and the sculptors that made this monument did so, too, I still think the resemblance is probably perfect.'

'Probably.'

'Probably, yes.'

I shook my head. 'I can't believe you managed to befriend famous people like Cervantes without showing an inch of interest in their work.'

'Maybe that was because I didn't care about their works as much as I cared about them, as persons – as friends. They appreciated that. It was enough for them.'

Antonio smiled, but it was a sad smile.

I bit the inside of my lower lip and thought about his words. Antonio had always been a very social person, somebody that attracted people without having to do anything for it, and he had always reluctantly cherished that quality. Even if that meant he was going to meet friends that would age and eventually die, while he himself never aged.

I mean, he watched many of his human friends die. He smiled, told them everything was fine, and watched them go to that mysterious light at the end of the tunnel.

It's no fucking wonder he was such a smiler nowadays. He smiled all of his problems and worries away, or so he would try to make me and his other immortal friends believe, and that was something that sometimes kept me awake at night.

He always smiled to comfort others – even when he himself was the one that needed comforting smiles the most.

Maybe… maybe that was the reason I smiled more often these days. Not only because I genuinely felt happier than I used to feel, but also because I knew somebody had to help Antonio recharge his happiness.

So I tugged on Antonio's sleeve and smiled at him – I didn't know whether it was a very big or sad smile, but I saw that Antonio's noticeably brightened up as he watched my face.

'You know,' I softly said, clearing my throat, 'even though I know you hide many of your true feelings and thoughts behind that damn smile of yours, I still envy it.'

He was surprised and stopped patting Alejo's head. 'You envy my smile?'

'No, it's more complicated than that, I don't mean… um,' I tried to explain as we sat down, close to the monument. 'Look, I… never was very good at communicating with people. Humans and personifications – I didn't bother becoming friends with either of them. Besides, when I was young, I was in Spain most of the time. But then again, Feliciano stayed with Austria for a long time as well, and he still somehow managed to get to know artists and other inspirational people from Italy. Like you, he befriended them, showed interest in them and enjoyed their company. Even when we got together again and moved back to Italy, he always found much more joy in befriending others, while I rather stayed back, locked away in our House, sleeping.'

'You slept?' Antonio frowned at me. 'Don't tell me you spent most of your time in Italy asleep.'

'Of course I didn't, you moron.' I sighed. 'I did important stuff, too. Lots of important stuff – but I did it all behind the curtains. I didn't dare to contact with others in that same, friendly, careless manner as Feliciano did. I wanted to keep people at a certain distance. Even when I joined Feliciano to go out somewhere and flirted with girls, I still didn't let anybody come too close. I… wanted them to like me, but I didn't want them to be with me. You understand? As a result, I don't think I've ever befriended a human, let alone a well-known Italian artist.'

'That…' Antonio gently put his hand on one of my legs, '…that's sad to hear, Lovi.'

'I'd have loved to be Da Vinci's friend.'

'I know.'

'I used to watch him work in our garden from out of my window. Feliciano was there, too, and commented on his works. I didn't know what he said, but Da Vinci laughed, and I kind of hated Feliciano right then.' I swallowed a lump. 'Shortly after that day, we were taken away. You know the rest.'

'I do know the rest. But, Lovi…' Antonio looked at me, '…it sounds like you never really tried. You seem to have decided at one point that you're not worthy of having friends, and that's just stupid. You're a very likable person. You may be shy and cranky sometimes, but there's nothing wrong with that. At least you're honest and real. I wish I was like that.'

'Fuck off – you don't want to be like that, dammit.' I swept his hand off my lap so I could lean my elbows on it. 'I'm not trying to score pity points here, I just thought I should tell you. And don't try to make me look like a saint that was too unsure to make friends – I just was a scared little fuck that didn't want to lose loved ones. But you, you had the balls to befriend people, even though you knew you were going to outlive them.'

Antonio smiled again – a lot more mysteriously this time – and pulled Matteo, who was tugging on his shoe laces and wanted attention, on his lap.

'It didn't have anything to do with "balls", Lovi. And I never started those friendships because I thought we could be good friends. It was all for my benefit – for the benefit of Spain. If I noticed a certain person was going to mean a lot for Spain, I'd befriend him and try to milk all of the good stuff out of him. Or her.'

I wanted to say something, but changed my mind and watched him polish Matteo's fogged up glasses.

'Ohhhhh, all's bluwwy…' Matteo gasped in awe, looking around him as if he was walking on the moon.

'But I'm a fool.' Matteo raised the spectacles to check if the glasses were clear enough. 'I ended up really liking the person anyway, since I just didn't care enough about the art, ideals, books or other things that kept them busy. And then they died, and I promised myself to smile. "Next time," I kept telling myself, "I'll keep myself from liking that person. It's not friendship I'm aiming for – it's profit." But you know me – I failed, time after time.'

'And you're telling me you didn't like that part of you?' I asked, puzzled. At the same time, I made sure to keep an eye on Luisa and Alejo, who were currently running after each other over the huge square. It wasn't very busy yet, so they could do as they pleased, for now.

Antonio chuckled. 'Of course I didn't like it - Lovino, I hated my emotional, human side. For your information, I was a very greedy, selfish and despicable man. I hid it all behind smiles and a naïve outlook on life, but really – I was dangerous. You know I was. Everybody knew I was. I trampled over everything without giving it a second thought and I loved it. It was all about me. Me, me and me. I loved myself and I loved all the hate, anger and greed that whirled inside of me – but the thing is, I had more humane traits as well.'

'Hm-hm.' I nodded – because I had always known he had them, even when everybody thought he hadn't. It kind of relieved me to hear he himself seemed to have been aware of his good side as well.

'I had such… such a pathetic good side, or so I used to think.' Antonio rested his head on Matteo's (who was playing with a string of his shirt, a very busy activity) and closed his eyes for a second. 'I liked spending time with people and personifications I considered important or "handy to have". But it was more than that: I wanted them to like me, be close to me, tell me they thought I was a nice guy. It lightened my day if I managed to make a friend smile. It soothed my soul whenever somebody told me they thought I was fun to be around with. I was saved from despair every time I took care of a certain mean little kid. I still treated most people and personifications like crap, but not everybody. And I was so ashamed of that. It made me realize that I was nothing more than an extremely vulnerable dictator.'

'You…!' I turned my head towards him and felt my insides hurt when he gave me another smile – this time, it was an unreadable one.

'It drove me insane, you know. Watching my friends die.' He kept leaning his chin on Matteo's head and seemingly forgot to blink. 'I wanted to use them. I ended up befriending them. And then, I lost them. Again and again. I made the same stupid mistakes over and over again. Watching so many good friends of you die… that's not healthy. Mortal men would have killed themselves over less than that, but as a country, you can't do that. Now I'm not claiming I ever was suicidal, but… you bet my inner demons were getting harder and harder for me to fight. My more humane side wanted to get out, after all. It was tired of all the hate and wanted to get rid of that dark, black evil that resided inside of me. And after my empire fell, I had at last reached the very bottom of my own living hell. I had mentally broken my own self. I could finally cry.'

'Antonio…' I mumbled. I wanted to touch him, to ease his mind, but… he had something strong radiating around himself right now. It was like he was untouchable, in the best kind of way.

'I'm still tainted, in many ways. Although my good side has ultimately won, my darker side still lives on. It's not waiting for a chance to get out of me, but it's there. Just… there. It's a part of me, and even though I fear it, I know I have to accept and like even that part of me.' He suddenly grabbed my hand and wrapped his fingers around mine. 'Like you do, did and always have done for me.'

'Do you regret it?' I blurted out, blushing because of the compliment and because of my own shamelessness. 'Befriending those humans, I mean.'

'There are a lot of things I regret, yes – but not that.' Antonio lifted his chin up from Matteo's head and shook his own. 'I don't want to regret having known my friends.'

'Yeah.' I felt silent for a second, before uttering it once more. '…yeah…'

Antonio squeezed my hand encouragingly. 'Hey, it's okay. You made mistakes by avoiding making human friends, resulting into leading a pretty sheltered life for a while, and I made mistakes by almost turning insane while doing the exact opposite. You can say that both of our lifestyles were… well, stupid ways of lifestyle.'

I snorted, I couldn't help it. 'Yeah, kind of?'

'The most important thing is that we both have learned from it. You're no longer somebody that secretly longs for attention and love, and I'm no longer somebody that… well, that…'

Antonio made this amusing facial expression which made me giggle – just a bit.

'…that secretly longs for attention and love as well?'

'Yes!' Antonio flushed and grinned. 'Exactly! Exactly. God. I wasn't even aware of it. We're the same.'

I smiled, for some reason feeling like I got a monstertruck-load of stones off my chest, and swiftly kissed his friendly, inviting lips.

Maybe... maybe we always were.

\0o0/

'Okay, you little bunch of jumping fleas,' I said, walking back and forth in front of the Cervantes-monument, 'who knows… who this is?'

I made a very stern face and pointed at the statue of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. The kids – Alejo and Luisa holding on to the legs of my pants while Antonio still carried Matteo – all made quiet 'uhhhhhh…' sounds, until Luisa gasped, as if she realized something.

'It's! It's!' she started, already wheezing from acting overly excited and flapping her arms. 'That guy! You know, papa – that one guy! From the story! The guy!'

'You mean King Midas?' I frowned and pouted. 'Hmmmm, I don't know…'

'Noooooooo,' Alejo said, rolling his eyes at Luisa, 'that's not the fat king! He's too skinny to be the fat king!'

'I KNOW!' Luisa shrieked in protest, getting red from agitation. I knew she knew who he was, but I wanted to hear her say the words.

'I'll help you,' I said after Luisa couldn't come further from some strange stuttering, 'his name rhymes with… uhm… Kon Kuichot.'

All of the kids' eyes lightened up in sweet, wonderful salvation, their mouths formed little o's and the right words were right there, right on the very tip of their tongues, and then—

'DON QUIXOTE!' somebody with a familiar, aggressive accent in his voice cried out behind us.

While Alejo, Matteo and Luisa huffed and grumbled in annoyance ('Bud I wantad to say that…'), Antonio and I exchanged a confused look and looked behind us.

Tourists.

A huge, sunburned group of tourists, armed with excited faces, sunglasses, maps, ugly T-shirts, stupid caps, big rucksacks, icecream and, of course, a camera/ hi-tech cell phone.

And in the middle of the group, America.

…

America.

…

Had he seriously come along with a group of tourists? AGAIN?

'Well? WELL?' America grinned, fisting his hands and hopping up and down a bit. 'Tell me I'm right, Mister Tour Guide! Hahahahaha!'

'God,' I stammered.

'Christ,' Antonio growled.

'Aw shucks, you guys are so nice.' America smiled and rubbed his nose, flattered. 'But come on, you know you can call me Al.'

'You're—'

'No no no, it's alright, I'll be your Him, if that makes you feel better. After all, I am America!'

Behind him, the touristic crowd started to cheer and clap for no properly explained reason.

…

But I had a faint idea it had something to do with a certain nation's name

Fucker had SO had arranged this beforehand.

Seriously, I could totally see him squatting down in a circle of strangers, muttering softly and focused as he settled this masterplan, together with his faithful love for his country and a load of cash to bribe innocent tourists into playing along.

'America ('HOORAY!'),' I managed to say while the loud, fanatic group of tourists fell apart in their hurry to circle the Cervantes-monument and push Antonio and the kids out of the way, 'what, in the name of all that's good and holy, are YOU doing here?'

America whistled. 'Wow, no need to nag, Italy's brother. And what's up with the sudden change of attitude, huh? Just a minute ago, you were all smiles and rainbows and lollipops – I even told Roy, "wow, Roy, that guy hardly ever smiles," and he was just as amazed as I was!'

'What the— who the fuck is Roy!'

'Roy! Don't tell me you don't know Roy, you know Roy – he's one of the cameo-tourists from that other fic! Just like mister De Bruin and mister Jones – oh, do I remember good old mister Jones and his English wife. Anyway, Romano, didn't you pay attention to my friends? That's no good – you're supposed to be our Tour Guide! I should complain to the company you work for later. Shame, shame, shame on you! Hahahahaha!'

With each and every "shame", America flicked my nose, his smile only getting broader and broader as my sudden bad mood intensified by the passing fucking split-second.

I swear, I was about to roar and/or kick that arrogant jerkass back to whatever rat hole he had crawled out from, when Antonio butted in – and effectively shushed me by grabbing my arms.

'America ('WHOOOHOOOO!'),' Antonio smiled, pushing me behind him, in-between our kids, 'meeting you here, in Spain, a country far, far away from America ('YEAH!')… surely this means that you have something important to share with Lovino and me… haven't you?'

Just like that, as if somebody snapped his fingers, America's expression became shockingly grave, shockingly quickly, and he casted his eyes down.

'I have.'