Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
True to her word, Theresa spent most of the morning at the spa. After several wonderful hours of pampering she back to the suite, where she called the agent she and Alfred shared, deciding which interview requests to accept and which to decline, and which public appearances would bring them the most exposure. She followed that up with a few quick business calls, confirming their shooting schedule for the next week and so on, and then with rather more social calls that were actually business calls in disguise (as most social calls were in her line of work); promising that she and Alfred would be attending certain parties and key events; socialising and catching up and gossiping.
Then, because keeping up the front of friendliness while talking to the stuck-up, ignorant, sexist (even the women!) assholes that made up ninety-five percent of the powerset in the entertainment industry gave her migraines, she decided to go down to the bar and have a drink. Besides, it was hours yet before Alfred had said his meeting would end. She pulled her hair back and put on a pair of sunglasses to lessen the chances that she would be recognised, and headed down to the hotel bar for a little pick-me-up.
It wasn't busy, which wasn't surprising. There would only be a few customers at this hour. After the apathetic bartender mixed her drink, Theresa settled at a little table in the far corner, where she could see everything without attracting too much attention. After all, people-watching was a constant practice of any actor worth their salt; what better way to learn how to be one? Any shlub off the street could play a character, but it took a real actor to turn a character into a person.
Besides, it was relaxing.
She was just becoming engrossed in watching an elderly couple near the window when a disturbance at the bar caught her attention. A young man at the counter was berating the bartender in Italian— despite the bartender's clear lack of understanding or interest— and his voice and tone was...not exactly familiar, but she was sure she recognized it from somewhere. The dissatisfied, irascible Italian growl was pinging something in her memory.
"...don't touch it, bastard!" The young man, whose back was to her, was saying furiously, "Leave it alone! I'm watching that, understand, stupid?"
The bartender, though not able to understand his words, was able to understand that the strange, angry man yelled and gestured furiously at him everytime he reached for the dial of the television hanging over the bar, decided that he didn't particularly care what was on the television anyway, and let it be. He returned to the counter, and the man subsided into barely audible grumbling. Theresa sipped her drink and stared thoughtfully at his back, confident that her dark glasses would disguise her interest as she tried to figure out what her mind was trying to tell her. Had she met him before? He didn't look immediately familiar, not from the back, anyway. She didn't currently work with any Italians...perhaps she'd met him during her modeling days? Most of the Italian models she'd worked with were taller, though. Perhaps a designer? He was dressed marvelously stylishly (she had to get the name of his tailor); but professionally, too, like a businessman or an executive. He clearly wasn't here on vacation; not only did his manner of dress indicate a business-related reason for his presence, but he was very obviously not enjoying himself in any way, despite being in the French Riviera on a beautiful, sunny day, in a five-star hotel and — oh. Oh! That one Italian! From the phone call, Alfred's phone, the one who called a while back to yell at Alfred, perhaps this was him? It seemed probable. After all, there was the meeting in the hotel right now, Alfred was there, and it was consistent with the clothes and attitude; and now that she replayed the memory in her head the voice did sound the same, or at least very similar...but if he was here for the meeting, why wasn't he at the meeting? Was it because Alfred was there? Had something happened between him and Alfred? Had he gone to the meeting, and left early?
"Hey, bastard, get me another one." The subject of her curiousity demanded, lifting his empty glass. The bartender, who'd been busy staring languidly into space and wishing he had a cigarette, glanced his way, recognizing the lifted glass as a universal symbol for 'more of the same', and pondered briefly whether it was worth leaving his comfortable spot lounging artistically against the counter to acquiesce, especially since there was obviously no tip in the offing. He glanced at the customer's face, and seemed to decide that, on the whole, he preferred to keep all his appendages on his person, and drifted over to mix the drink as requested. "Un Americano, monsieur." He murmured disinterestedly, presenting the finished drink.
"IT'S NOT AN AMERICANO!" The Italian snapped as he grabbed it; but it was too late, the bartender was already wandering off, heedless to his displeasure. "It's Milano-Torino, you stupid French bastard. It's Italian, from Italy, you got that!" He called after him, and subsided to grumble into his drink. "It has nothing to do with that asshole or his people. Stupid fucking American ruins everything."
Well, that sounded promising. Her index finger tapped the side of her glass as she thought. Should she go and try to find out if he was the person she suspected he was, and if so, what had happened between him and Alfred? Of course, this was all conjecture. It was possible, it seemed likely, but that didn't mean it was true. He could just be an Italian here on unrelated business who stopped in to the hotel for a drink after an unsuccessful business deal, or something along those lines. The voice sounded similar to the one she remembered, but perhaps it was just a coincidence. But if it was the same person, she was terribly curious— about how he felt about Alfred, their history together, and perhaps he could give her clues as to what Alfred did before she'd met him. But if he wasn't, it would be terribly awkward, and a wasted effort. But what if he was the person from Alfred's past, and he left and she lost her chance? She worried the inside of her lip, weighing curiosity against caution.
Theresa was a woman, and an actress. Caution didn't stand a chance. But how should she approach him? Her eyes narrowed behind her glasses as she considered her options.
"Dammiiiit, I shouldn't have come." The young man moaned, tossing back most of his not-Americano in one swallow, and glanced up at the television as he lowered his glass. "Ah— the new episode." He said, with rather more interest in his voice.
Theresa glanced to the screen, curious to see what had changed his demeanour. A preview for Forever is Not Long Enough? That was interesting. But was he a fan, or was he just watching it because he was bored? If he was a fan, it complicated things. What if he recognized her?
She glanced around to make sure no-one was watching, and sunk down in her seat, grabbing her purse. She pulled out a compact mirror and spat on her napkin, swiping furiously at her makeup. Checking the results in the mirror, she frowned. Stupid water-resistant, longer-lasting makeup! Carefully dipping part of her napkin into her drink, she tried again. There we go, much better. She reapplied new makeup as quickly as she dared, using different shades and little tricks to slightly alter her appearance, making her lips look a little thinner, her mouth a little wider, softening her cheekbones a little; and nodded, satisfied. She not only looked different than when she came in (not that a man would notice, in her experience), but also different from Catalina. That and the sunglasses should keep her from being recognized, she decided (she hoped, actually, but it was a very confident hope).
She picked up her glass and purse and made her way to the bar, formulating a plan to initiate contact.
As it happened, he beat her to it, glancing over his shoulder as she approached, eyes lighting up.
And then he smiled, and her heart skipped a beat.
"Vaya sirena más guapa que acaba de salir del mar." He said smoothly, lifting his glass in a gesture of admiration, eyes sparkling devilishly; and she was caught off-guard when she started to blush in response. Okay, so he was handsome (...dammit, he was gorgeous), but she was used to attractive men! She was around them all the time! She was a professional. She worked with a particularly beautiful specimen every day, in fact (although Alfred didn't exactly count after she'd gotten to know him— he was too much like a little brother to her now). Though she had to admit that she hadn't seen a smile as nice as this one in a while.
That wicked little sparkle in his eye and sexy, bad-boy smile wasn't helping, either.
"Encantado. Lovino Vargas," he held out his hand in introduction, "soy un ladrón, y estoy aquí para robar tu corazón."
"T-Terese Alva de Córdoba." She said, reverting to a pseudonym, and was horrified to hear herself giggle. No! She wasn't a hormonal little preteen! She had control! It wasn't even an original line! (Although really his delivery was spectacular, if only Alfred were here to pick up some tips...)
His smile widened, and he winked, and her blush deepened. Quickly she looked away, taking a gulp of her cocktail to help compose herself. The liquid burning its way down her throat gave her a moment to pull herself together. Professional, she was a professional. She looked back and smiled a little shyly (she'd pretend to be a university student on holiday, girlish and naive; men ate that stuff up). "¿H-hablas español?" She asked, gesturing towards him and letting a little of her surprise show through, because it was a natural reaction when coming across an (incredibly hot, no, don't think about that, she was here for Alfred) Italian in France who spoke Spanish. So fluently, too, not even a trace of an accent.
He smiled as if she'd said something amusing. "Sí, bella. Hablo español." Glancing at her nearly-empty glass, he gestured to the seat next to him, arching an eyebrow invitingly. "¿Puedo comprarte una bebida?"
(and then the author got tired of typing the little slanty things over the letters and trying to remember how to conjugate and decline in Spanish, and getting confused over genders, and decided to 'translate' the rest of the conversation for the English-speaking crowd, the lazy bastard.)
"I'm not sure if I should let you, Mister Vargas." Theresa teased lightly, sliding onto the stool. "It sounds a little dangerous, no? Gaining a drink, but losing my heart— that's a high price to pay for a cocktail, don't you think?"
"Hm, how about a kiss for the drink," he proposed with a roguish smile as he leaned closer, "and my heart for yours. That's fair, no?"
She let herself giggle again (it was in character now), and bit her lip as she pretended to think about it. "How about, a kiss on the cheek for the first drink, and one on the lips for the second?" She offered shyly.
"Ah, Miss Córdoba, you make offers like that and I'll be buying you drinks all night." He laughed, gesturing for the bartender to refill her glass. As the man wandered over her companion leaned on the bar and sipped his own drink, looking her over with an admiring gleam in his eye (she couldn't help preening a little under his gaze). "Tell me, why do you hide your beautiful eyes behind those glasses?"
"Oh," she touched them as if she had forgotten she was wearing them, and smiled, feigning self-consciousness. "Forgive me, I don't mean to be rude. I just came from an eye exam, you see, and the doctor suggested I wear sunglasses for a few hours to protect my eyes."
"Then it's good that you've done so." He approved. "Heaven forbid anything should happen to something so lovely as your eyes."
"You haven't even seen my eyes," she pointed out, smiling. "How can you be so sure they're lovely?"
"If they belong to you, they're lovely." He said decisively, as if it was a matter beyond doubt. "There can be no question."
"It looks like my drink is ready," she accepted the glass from the bartender, and cast a coy smile at her companion, "would you like your kiss now, or later?" To her considerable surprise and delight he blushed, dropping his gaze and fiddling nervously with his glass.
"L-later is fine." He muttered, staring into his glass. Her smile widened, and she fought back a laugh. The young man was blushing as badly as Alfred did whenever she tried to talk to him about sex scenes, and she'd only offered to kiss him. So really was actually quite an innocent boy behind his brash facade, hmm? Suddenly she wanted to pinch his cheeks and tease him mercilessly.
"Are you sure?" She asked innocently, leaning a little closer. "Because I can kiss you now, if you'd like."
"Ah," his blush deepened, and his eyes grew wide as he began to stutter. "Ah, um...um, th-that's okay. I-I'm, I'm not ready yet."
"If you're sure." She smiled sweetly, tilting her head. "Just let me know when you're ready."
"O-okay."
Ah, she wanted to tease him so badly, but she bit back the urge. He looked like he'd run away and hide if she teased him too much further, and that would make it difficult to get any information out of him, and she wanted to find out if he knew her little Alfred. And suddenly, she had an idea just how to do that. Quickly, she rifled through her purse as though looking for something. "Oh, dear. This is a little embarrassing, but do you have a phone I can borrow for just a moment? I left mine in my room."
"Ah, of course." He nodded briefly, blush slowly fading, and pulled it from his pocket, handing it over.
"Thank you. I can be so silly sometimes." She smiled self-depreciatingly, and quickly scrolled through his address book, looking for — and there was Alfred's number. Bingo. She pretended to dial a number and listen to it ring for several moments, and then handed it back. "No answer. I'll try again later. Thanks for letting me borrow it."
"N-no problem." He answered, slipping it back into his pocket.
"So, Mister Vargas, what brings you to the Riviera?" She sipped her drink, and sent him a smile over the rim. "Are you here for business, or pleasure?"
"I'm...here on business."
"Oh?" She asked interestedly, and appeared to remember something. "Oh— I overheard someone talking about a business meeting in this hotel, are you here for that?"
"...Yes." He answered reluctantly, toying with his glass again.
"But, isn't it going on right now?" She pointed out, curiously. "Shouldn't you be there, instead of here?"
"Nah, my stupid little brother is there, he can take care of it." He waved dismissively, taking a drink. "Everybody likes him better anyway."
"That can't be true," she protested. "You're so sweet and nice! I'm sure everybody who meets you loves you."
He blushed, looking away. "Yeah, well, they don't."
"Then, they're very stupid people. I think you're very nice." She smiled, laying a hand on his shoulder. "But, even if your brother is there to take care of business, you're still the older brother, no? And you came all this way." She paused, asking gently, "Is there perhaps another reason you're sitting down here with me, instead of up in that room where the meeting is going on?"
His brows furrowed, and he hunched over his drink, pursing his lips in an odd little frown. "...There's someone there I don't want to see." He admitted, and took a drink.
Ah-ha. "Oh? Someone you work with?"
"No." He scowled, face flushing in irritation this time as his finger tightened on his glass. "I'm never working with that asshole again."
"Oh, why's that?"
"A lot of reasons. But mostly because the last time I worked with him, he completely humiliated me." He gestured emphatically. "Stabbed me right in the back the minute I had it turned."
"Oh, my. He did?" She laid the innocence on thick, deeply curious. That didn't sound like Alfred. Maybe he was talking about Alfred's creepy uncle. "That's terrible. Is he French? Is that why you don't like France?"
"What? No, he's an American." His lip curled disgustedly on the word, and he added under his breath, "I don't like France because that pervert's a disgusting pervert."
"American?" She repeated, affecting surprise. Maybe it was Alfred then. It seemed unbelievable that Alfred could be malicious, but this young man didn't seem to be lying. What could have happened? "I wouldn't have expected that from an American. I have a friend who works with an American, and she says that he's usually very nice. He can be a little dense sometimes, but he's sweet."
"Oh, yeah, he comes off all innocent." The young man nodded, frowning. "And you start to think hey, sure he's kind of an idiot, but maybe he's kind of alright. He can't read the atmosphere at all, but hey, neither can my brother." He tossed back the rest of his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he added sourly, "And then he turns out to be an asshole, just like everyone else."
Theresa took a sip of her drink to cover her frown. Up until the backstabbing part, that sounded very much like Alfred. Maybe there'd been a misunderstanding, or something. She looked thoughtfully at the young man, who was staring morosely into his empty glass, and gestured for the bartender to refill his drink. "So, what happened, exactly?" She inquired gently, leaning onto the bar with an expression of sympathetic interest. "Between you and this American."
He looked away. "I don't wanna talk about it."
Well, she could tell that wasn't true. "Come on," she coaxed, and lay her hand on his arm again, squeezing gently. "You can tell me. It might help if you talk about it. "
"Well..." He pursed his lips in a show of reluctance, but glanced at her to see if she'd really listen. "It's a long story." She leaned on her elbow, chin in hand, to indicate her interest, and gave him an encouraging little smile, waiting patiently as he took his now-full drink and sipped it to steel his nerves. He set the glass down, fidgeting as he began. "...It was a long time ago."
"I'd just come back to work after a long time away. Things had been...bad...for a long time, and I'd ...given up. I mean, I tried at first, but nothing I did seemed to make any difference. No matter how hard I worked, or what I tried, things just kept getting worse, and there was nothing I could do about it. So for a long time I... stopped trying." He shifted in his seat, and looked away. "And then, well...things started getting better. Stabilizing. And after a while, I thought...m-maybe, maybe I should give it a try again.
"It was that bastard's fault; always going on and on about how everyone has the power to change the world and anyone can make dreams come true, and how if you just try you can do anything, that kind of bullshit. Maybe it's the way he says it, like he actually believes it...like it can't possibly not be true." He stopped and rubbed his his face, continuing frustratedly, "And even though you know he's an idiot and a moron, if you listen to him too long you start to believe it, you start to think...maybe it's true. Maybe I can do it, maybe I really can make a difference. I can do it if I try, right?
"So, I tried. And at first it went good, I was getting shit done, getting noticed. Everything was going great." He took a drink. "Then there was this deal. A big deal. A really big deal. If it went through, it was going to be great. It was going to be the biggest thing I'd done in a long, long time.
"So, I contact the bastard, and we get together to get things started. And I worked my ass off. For a year I work with this asshole, takin' him out to eat, business meetings, conference calls, fuck, I even went to a couple of his baseball games. The works. At least once a week we get together on this thing. And all this time, we're working out the details. Smoothing things out. By the time we were finished, it was a thing of beauty. It was going to be great; for me, for my people, for all of us. I was proud of it. It was good. Really good. And I'd done it. Well, me an' him."
"And then all we had left to do was sign it. We set a date, he was going to bring the paperwork, and we'd both sign it, and we'd have a little celebration, just the two of us. Of course, there was going to be a big official party later, too, cause it was a damn good deal, for both of us." His cocktail enjoyed some personal attention for a moment. "So the big day comes, and I'm sitting there waiting for the idiot to show up. And I wait, and I wait, and I wait. For three hours I wait."
"Don't tell me he never showed up." Theresa said incredulously.
"He never showed up." He said bitterly. "And do you know why he didn't show up?"
"...Why?"
"Because he'd already gotten my brother to sign the paperwork."
"No." Theresa gasped in consternation, covering her mouth. "He didn't."
"He did. And nobody fucking bothered to tell me! My boss, my brother, the bastard, nobody. And I'm fucking sitting there waiting, thinking that finally, finally I've done something I can be proud of, finally I'll get the recognition I deserve, and nobody bothered to tell me." He slumped in his seat. "Fucking bastards. For a fucking year I busted my ass, and my brother gets all the credit. As fucking usual."
"I can't believe he did that." Theresa said, incredulous on his behalf. "Why would he do that? That's terrible!"
"'Cause he's an asshole." Lovino Vargas' voice was muffled, his face hidden in arms folded on the bar. "Probably likes my stupid little brother better, just like everyone else."
"I'm sure that's not true." Theresa said comfortingly, patting his back. "I can't imagine anyone not liking you."
"Tell that to the rest of the world." He muttered, and lifted his head. "You know what the worst part is? I actually started to like the bastard. I thought that maybe...maybe we were starting to be friends." He snorted, digging the heel of his palm into his eye. "Shows what the fuck I know."
"Did he ever try and explain himself?" Theresa pried gently. "Or apologize?"
"No." Lovino Vargas answered morosely, reaching for his drink. "He called a couple times, acting like nothing had happened. Left messages asking if I wanted to hang out, shit like that, like he hadn't fucking humiliated me in front of everyone."
Theresa made a sympathetic sound. "I'm so sorry. No wonder you don't want to go to the meeting. If I were you I'd never want to see him again."
"That's right." He agreed. "He's a bastard."
"He is." Theresa agreed, feeling indignant on his behalf. When she got a hold of Alfred... She sipped her cocktail, thinking, and cast a sidelong glance at Lovino Vargas, who was leaning his chin in his hand, slouching dejectedly against the bar. And yet...he'd kept Alfred's number, and had dreams about him. Hm. And he'd showed interest in Forever is Not Long Enough, earlier...if he was a fan, surely he knew Alfred was in it? Surely he recognised him? Unless he wasn't a fan.
Well, that should be easy enough to figure out.
"Let's talk about something else." She lowered her drink, smiling encouragingly. "Something nice. Like..." she pretended to think. "Oh! Did you see the latest episode of Forever is Not Long Enough?"
"Ah, you're a fan?" He straightened, brows raising.
"I usually work, but I watch it when I can." She admitted shyly, playing with the ends of her hair. "I missed most of last week, so I'm a little behind, but I caught most of yesterday's episode." Which was true, she and Alfred had watched it on the flight over.
"It was great, right?" He stated, eyes brightening eagerly. "Did you see the part where Amando fought off all of Juan's guards and snuck into the manor?"
"Oh, yes!" She said, matching his excitement. "And then he grabbed all the papers showing what Juan was planning?"
"Yes!" He grinned, gesturing excitedly. "And then he takes off his shirt and uses it to slide down the cable, and lands on the captain of the guard's stallion—"
"And gallops off to stop Catalina's wedding!" Theresa finished with him, giggling. "It was very exciting, wasn't it?"
"It was great!" He threw his arms in the air. "I can't wait 'til Monday, when he'll finally stop that bastard once-and-for-all."
"You think he'll be able to do it?" Theresa pretended to be doubtful. "I mean, Amando's very good, but Juan's one of the best swordsmen in the land."
"Pffft." Lovino Vargas waved dismissively. "Amando's going to wipe the floor with that asshole."
"If you say so." Theresa hid her smile behind her glass.
"I do." He stated confidently. "Did you see the episode where..."
America tried not to sigh, casting a wistful glance to the other side of the conference table. The room had been divided into two sections shortly after the meeting started: the other side, where Japan, Germany, England and Russia sat (along with Lithuania), engaging in 'serious' business, and this side, where he was stuck with Prussia, Belgium, France, North Italy and Spain answering questions about Forever is Not Long Enough. Spain had fallen asleep about half an hour ago, half-sprawled on the table; and even though that meant America and England had to keep a close eye on France to make sure he didn't molest the sleeping nation it was kind of a relief, 'cause he seemed to be in a bad mood today. For some reason, Spain seemed upset about something he'd done (even more than usual, although he wasn't sure what'd been this time). Everyone else on this side, though, was having a great time asking him question after question.
"...when she enters the room at the start of the ball Catalina was wearing a white dress, but in the next scene when she's dancing with Count Navarre she's clearly wearing a red dress."
"Wow, Prussia, you're so observant!" Veneziano admired. "I never noticed all these things!"
"It's nothin', Italy." Prussia preened, clearly pleased with the praise. "I guess I'm just good at payin' attention, hahaha!"
"Ve~, you are!"
"So how 'bout it, America?" Prussia prodded. "What's the deal, there?"
America bit back another sigh. Prussia had asked tons of these kind of questions. "Well, the official reason is that she left the room right after the ball started to change dresses, because the Baroness was wearing a white dress and she didn't want to show up her guest by wearing something similar; but the real reason is that one of the stagehands tripped and spilled coffee all over the bodice after the first scene." Prussia cackled, writing it down, and Veneziano gasped in dismay.
"No, it was such a nice dress!"
"It was a nice dress." America agreed, one side of his mouth curving up in amusement. Theresa had been pissed. "It was double-sided satin."
"Oh, no!"
"I have a question~." France languidly raised the hand he'd been petting Spain's hair with (hair was considered a safe zone). "Will there be—"
"France, I can't answer questions about what's going to happen, I told you that." America said, a little impatiently. "I'm only going to answer questions about episodes that have already aired."
"Spoilsport." France pouted, folding his arms.
"Okay, guys," America held up his hands, smiling apologetically, "this really has been great, and I like talking about the show, but can we wrap it up, please? I have some business I need to get done before the meeting's over, and we're running out of time." Actually, they had a couple of hours yet, and the only real business he had was a project proposal he wanted to get some input on before unveiling it at the next world meeting, but still.
"Yeah, sure, okay. I hear ya, America." Prussia agreed, digging around under the table. "I just have some things for you to sign first."
"Sign?" America's brows furrowed. "Like what?"
"Like these!" Prussia slammed a duffel onto the table, unzipping it and dumping it out to reveal a treasure trove of Forever is Not Long Enough collectibles. He grabbed a carefully packaged tube from the top of the pile, uncapping one end and pulling out a scroll of glossy paper, unrolling it across the tabletop. "I'm going to sell these online, and I can get a lot more for them if they're autographed!"
"Wow, Prussia; where did you get this poster?" America asked, impressed, as he stood and accepted the gel pen Prussia pressed into his hand. "It's super-limited edition." He stared at the large poster of Amando spread out on the conference table, shaking his head. Of the three different posters he'd posed for (Theresa had posed for five), this one showed the most skin, one of the reasons it had been so exclusive; it was considered a little too 'provocative' to sell in stores. "I thought only the founding members of my fanclub got this poster."
"I have my ways, kesesese~." Prussia smirked, leaning on the table next to the poster to watch the golden signature come forth. "Make it out to 'My greatest fan'. And put a little heart after the signature, okay? That way I can charge extra."
"M'kay." America uncapped the pen and bent over the poster. "You want me to sign it as 'Amando', or Alfred Jones?"
"Waitwaitwait," Prussia's hand shot out, closing over America's before the pen could touch the poster surface. "Wait! Don't write 'To my greatest fan'. Make it one of Amando's lines from the show, uh..." He paused to think, eyes roving the room. "Ah! That one scene, remember: where Amando and Catalina were trapped in the abandoned mine together after Amando had pushed her out of the way when it caved in—"
"—And he was pinned under the rocks and that really big shoring beam and had that really bad head wound and he thought he was going to die so he confessed his feelings!" Veneziano finished excitedly, clasping his hands together.
"And then when they were rescued and Catalina visited him in Brother Parador's hospital, he pretended he didn't remember." Belgium sighed sadly.
"Ve~, he was pretending?" Veneziano asked, dismayed. "But, I thought he forgot because of his head wound!"
"No, didn't you see that look he gave her when she left?" Belgium shook her head. "He was only pretending to have forgotten, Veneziano. He didn't want her to know he remembered."
"But, but, why?" Veneziano questioned, confused. "If he remembered, why would he lie to her?"
"For many reasons. Because he did not think she could love him back;" France counted off, "and because they cannot be together because she is the daughter of a lord of the realm and he is but a simple stable boy they found on the beach; and because she was being romantically pursued by Juan at the time, who had her father's approval; and last but not least because he was trying not to involve himself because he's come to Spain for his own reasons that have yet to be explained..." He paused, and glanced at America.
"I told you, I can't tell you." America repeated patiently, for what seemed like the thousandth time in the last several hours. "I can answer questions about stuff that already happened, but I'm not supposed to talk about things that haven't been revealed yet."
"Che." France sniffed, clearly disapproving of this information control, and turned back to Veneziano. "Anyway, whatever reasons he's had for coming to Spain seem to make him reluctant to involve himself personally with anyone. So in essence, he lied to Catalina to protect her."
America rolled his eyes. It was fucking stupid if you asked him. Who cared if Catalina was higher class or whatever? Amando shoulda just been honest about it and told her how he felt. Then they would have gotten together a long time ago, and been happy. But no, Amando had to make everything complicated.
"That was way back near the beginning of the season, though." Prussia pointed out. "There's really no denying they love each other now. He just broke out of prison to stop her wedding to Juan, for fuck's sake."
"That's true." Veneziano brightened. "He won't be able to pretend he doesn't love her, now!"
America smiled wryly. In his experience, they could find a way to explain anything away in a soap opera, especially if it meant it'd stretch out the storyline. "So," he turned to Prussia, "you want me to write the confession from the mine collapse, right? In Spanish, or...?"
"Yeah, do it in Spanish." Prussia confirmed. "It's more authentic that way."
"'Kay." America stuck out his tongue in concentration as he wrote.
"It's so romantic." Veneziano sighed, leaning on the table on the other side of America to watch. "That was a beautiful scene, America!"
"Thanks." America shot him a quick smile. "Glad you liked it, Italy."
"I loved it! I cried and cried." Veneziano informed him. "You should tell the writers they did a very good job!"
"Actually, I made it up on the spot." America said absently as he wrote. "All the lines in that scene were ad-libbed. We didn't have a script for it, since it wasn't in the original version of that episode. It was added in later, 'cause the studio wanted Amando to be a bigger part of the series, so we had to go back and film a lot of extra scenes to throw in, and there wasn't time to knock up scripts for all of it, so the director put us in the mine and told us to run with it. I think it turned out pretty good."
"You made it up?" France blinked. "You ad-libbed Amando's confession, America? Without any help?"
"Yep. In fact, in the first twenty-eight episodes of this season most of the scenes with Amando were ad-libbed." America paused. "Amando' or 'Alfred Jones'?"
"Alfred Jones." Prussia craned his head to see, and America nudged him out of the way so he could finish the signature. "And don't forget the heart!"
"Yeah, yeah."
"I must confess, I'm impressed." France remarked offhandedly, running his fingers through Spain's hair. "I didn't think you had a romantic bone in your body, America."
"Just because I don't grope everything that moves," America straightened, capping the pen. "Doesn't mean I can't be romantic. There ya go, Prussia. All good?"
"That's great." Prussia picked up the poster, viewing the signature with satisfaction. "I'll be able to get twice as much for it now. Don't put that pen away," he added, rolling up the poster and setting it aside, pulling out a handful of pictures. "I've got more things for you to sign." America sighed, uncapping the pen again.
"That confession was very romantic." Belgium curled a lock of her hair and tilted her head, smiling curiously. "Was it inspired by your feelings towards Theresa Álvarez?"
"What do you mean?" America asked, working his way through autographing a small stack of portraits.
"Ve~, are you in love with the actress that plays Catalina, America?" Veneziano asked eagerly.
"Haha, what?" America looked up with an incredulous grin. "No. Theresa's awesome, but we're just good friends."
"Oh." Veneziano deflated a little, and then smiled philosophically. "Well, it's good to have friends!"
"So you and Theresa aren't romantically involved in any way?" Belgium pressed.
"Nope." America straightened again, handing Prussia the stack of portraits. "Just good friends."
"What about the lovely miss Álvarez?" France queried from where he sat petting his friend. "Has she expressed any romantic interest in you?"
"Hahah, Theresa?" America snorted, amused. "No way. I'm pretty sure she thinks of me like a brother."
"'Pretty sure'?" France siezed on the phrase. "You're not completely sure?"
"Well, she's never said it in so many words, but I'm mostly sure, yeah."
"And she's never shown any interest in you at all?" France leaned on the table, curious. "Never kissed you, or touched you in a way that expressed any romantic intentions?"
"Other than what's necessary for work, no." America gave him an odd look. "Why do you keep asking if we're involved? Is it so hard to believe we're just friends?"
"When you look at her like that and say things like 'If I had but one moment of life from birth to death, and could spend the whole of it gazing into your eyes, I would count myself a thousand times blessed', and then tell us that you made it up on the spot, then yes, America, it is hard to believe."
"I didn't actually ad-lib that one." America wrinkled his nose. He hadn't improvised that scene, and hadn't been particularly satisfied with it. "What's your point?"
"Regardless." France huffed, rolling his eyes. "My point, is that improvised or not, I don't believe that you of all people could behave in such a fashion, and say such things, and not have feelings for the person you're saying them to."
America gave him a dry look. "It's called 'acting'." He deadpanned.
"You're not that good of an actor." France shot back.
"Fuck you." America flipped him off.
"I do think you're a good actor," Belgium said reasonably, "but, you do have to admit your scenes with Miss Álvarez are very passionate. It's difficult to imagine there's nothing between you two but friendship."
America exhaled frustratedly through his nose, running a hand through his hair. "Fine." He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes, and his posture changed. He turned his head, and opened his eyes slowly, fixing Veneziano, who stood watching curiously, with a steady gaze. Slowly, one side of his mouth curved up, and he huffed a laugh, a breathless little sound of awe. "God, you have beautiful eyes." Veneziano blushed, and smiled, fidgeting slightly.
"Thank you!"
America shook his head slightly, still wearing that awed little smile, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing, as if it was too good to be true. "They glow, you know." He said lowly, almost reverently. "Like fireflies on a moonless night in midsummer, mysterious and ethereal." Veneziano stared at him, frozen to the spot. America's brows drew together, and he lifted a hand, slowly, to caress the side of North Italy's face with his fingertips, arcing over a brow, pausing at his temple next to the delicate skin of wide brown eyes, and he frowned thoughtfully. "Your spirit shines through them." America murmured, as though the words were being pulled from somewhere deep inside him, and he was unable to hold them back. "Like a beacon, bright and beautiful and shining, drawing me in." He stared intently into Veneziano's eyes for a moment, and then slid his hand to cup the base of Veneziano's head, drawing him closer, blue eyes smouldering under lowered lashes."If I had but one moment of life from birth to death, and could spend the whole of it gazing into your eyes, I would count myself a thousand times blessed."
"O-oh." Veneziano's cheeks flushed and his lips parted, his hands finding America's chest as he lifted his chin. America lowered his own face to meet him, intending to pull back at the last second, just like in the original scene— and was abruptly jerked back. He looked over his shoulder to see Germany staring at him coldly.
"What do you think you're doing, America?"
"Dammit, West, you're ruining the scene!" Prussia flailed, as Veneziano 'Ve~'d disappointedly.
"I must agree, Germany, you're completely disrupting the atmosphere." France shook his head, and Belgium made a sound of equally disappointed agreement, nodding.
"What?" Germany frowned, confused and a little bewildered, looking back and forth between America, whose jacket collar he gripped, and the others, who were staring at him with disapproval and disappointment. He became only more confused when America's demeanour changed suddenly, and the nation in his grip chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. America turned smoothly, catching the hand on his collar in his, and pried it loose. "Were you jealous?" He asked, low and amused.
"I, I..." Germany said, caught off guard, as much by the question as the way America was looking at him, eyes intent and hungry and dark in a way that caused the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. America hummed, low in his throat, and stepped closer, matching every step a nervous Germany took back with a step forward, until the taller blond was almost backed into the table, and America slid an arm around Germany's waist, pulling him close.
"Were you jealous?" He repeated deliberately, almost dangerously, as he lifted Germany's hand, and without breaking eye contact, America turned his head slightly to draw his lips across the soft skin of Germany's hand, from wrist to knuckle. Germany sucked in a sharp breath, eyes flickering, completely thrown.
"I— What are you—" He attempted, but his voice, already shaking, died completely in his throat as America mouthed his knuckles with soft, open-mouthed kisses, the corners of his lips turned up in a wolfish smile, eyes gleaming darkly as they watched him beneath lowered lashes.
Germany had no idea what was going on. America's teeth grazed the sensitive skin covering the crest of bone, a gesture that seemed to say 'I have fangs, but I'm not using them— for now', and America lifted his head, wolfish smile still stretching his lips, and lifted Germany onto the table. Surprised, Germany fell back, bracing his hands behind him, staring with rapidly widening eyes as America leaned over him predatorially. "Can't you see that it's you I want? Since the moment we met you have held me captive." He purred, slowly running his hands up Germany's sides. "And when I touch them, when I'm with them, it's only because I'm seeking in them even a shadow of the warmth and fire that burns within you." He lifted a hand to caress the side of Germany's face, lowering his face to stop a hair's breadth from Germany's, almost whispering, low and intent, across his lips. "There's a fire in you that I long to touch, to taste, to feel it hot on my tongue and burning beneath my fingertips. You burn like the sun, and like the sun, when I look at you I'm blinded to anything else. You fill my senses, and I want to burn, to mix my fire with yours and let them mingle until it consumes us both, until there is nothing left but fire." He paused, staring intently into Germany's eyes, stroking his thumb across Germany's lips, down to his chin, and turned Germany's face to the side, and, sliding his other hand up Germany's thigh, he lowered his lips to his ear, murmuring huskily, passionately, "Burn with me."
Then he braced both hands on either side of Germany, pushing himself back up to hover over him, and smiled. "There, see? You don't feel anything, right?"
"W, what?" Confused and thrown and completely off-balance, Germany turned his face forward again, eyes flickering as he tried to get his breathing under control. "I, uh —"
"See?" America smiled triumphantly at the others. "We don't feel anything for each other. It's acting!"
"Very well, you've made your point." France acknowledged, leaning his chin in hand and smirking a little.
"That was very good, America!" Veneziano praised, smiling delightedly. "You can keep burning, if you'd like."
Prussia was too busy cackling to make a contribution.
"It was very nice, America." Belgium agreed, grinning. "I didn't recognize the scene, did you make it up?"
"You didn't?" America's brows rose, and he looked around at the others for confirmation. "It hasn't aired yet?"
"Nope." Veneziano shook his head.
"Oh." America winced, smiling sheepishly. "Well, I guess you guys just got a spoiler, then. Special treat, just for you."
"So it seems as though there will be sex scenes in the future." France's smirk widened. "At least one, no?"
"Sorry, no more spoilers. You'll have to watch to see." America shook his head, and turned back to Germany. "Thanks for helping me out, Germany. You did a really good job!"
"You're...welcome, America." Germany nodded a little shakily, still trying to get a grip. "If you're done, can I..." He gestured to indicated that he wanted to get off the table.
"Oh, yeah." America pushed himself off the table and stood, reaching out a hand to help Germany up. The nation wavered a bit once he was standing, a little unsteady on his legs. "Steady there. You alright?"
"Ah, yes." Germany nodded, pulling himself together. "I'm fine. Just a little...confused. What just happened?"
"America just turned you into a girl for two minutes and twenty-five seconds, West." Prussia snickered, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "I wish I had my camera on me, kesesese~!"
"I was demonstrating to everyone that when I'm playing a character, it's the character's thoughts and feelings they're seeing, not mine." America explained, and turned to Veneziano. "With you, I was Amando, expressing how he feels about Catalina."
"I..see." Germany nodded, and cleared his throat. "And, uh...who were you with me?"
"Sorry, man." America chuckled, slapping him companionably on the shoulder. "You'll have to watch to see!"
"America was acting out scenes from Forever is Not Long Enough, Germany!" Veneziano explained for him. "He was playing Amando, and you and I were Catalina!"
"I see." Germany said again. After a moment's thought he turned to his brother. "This is the show you've been so interested in lately?"
"Yep!" Prussia grinned, slapping his brother's back. "You should watch it with us, West!"
"Perhaps I will." Germany conceded. "This 'Amando' character, he plays a big part?"
"He's one of the main characters!" Veneziano confirmed. "He's in every show!"
"You'll love it, West!" Prussia's grin reached epic proportions. "I run a couple websites about it, I'll show them to you when we get home. We can have a marathon to catch you up on all the old episodes!"
"Oh, I want to come!" Veneziano begged. "Can I come, too?"
"Of course, little Italy! You and South are always welcome at our house!" Prussia beamed, throwing out his chest. "We can all watch it together!"
"I don't think brother will want to come," Veneziano admitted, "but I do, ve~."
"Well, you can ask him." Prussia said magnanimously.
"Sounds like fun, guys." America interrupted. "And I'm happy you all like the show, but if that's all, can we get down to business, now? I'd like to get some things done before the meeting's over."
"Yeah, yeah, sure." Prussia nodded, pulling a notebook out of his pocket once more. "Right after I run some things past you. I have some ideas I think would be great in the show. How do you feel about...guest appearances?"
America sighed, casting another longing glance over to the other side of the room.
"...and he's brave, and strong, too. There's nothing he can't do." He lowered his drink, and leaned his chin in his hand, sighing deeply. "There's no-one else like him, you know?"
"You just can't help falling in love with him." Theresa pretended to agree, watching him carefully. She already had a pretty clear idea of how Lovino Vargas felt about the character he'd spent the last two hours extolling the actions and virtues of, but she was having fun baiting him, too.
"Yeah." He agreed, and then flushed, straightening. "I mean, not me, b-but, other people would fall for a guy like that. Like him. A-Amando."
"Of course." She nodded seriously, and hid her smile in a sip of her drink. "I wonder if the actor that plays him is as likeable."
"Hell no." Lovino Vargas scowled. "That bastard's nothing like Amando."
"Oh?" She feigned surprise. "Really? How do you know? Have you met him?"
"I, I just know." He stammered, looking away. "He's nothing but a jerk."
"That's too bad." She hummed disappointedly. "Well, at least we have Amando to admire. He's not a jerk at all."
"That's right." He agreed emphatically. "They're nothing alike."
"Well," she teased, grinning, "they're alike in one way. They're both very handsome, don't you think?" She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing as his face twisted up with the internal struggle her comment provoked. He clearly wanted to deny that Alfred was handsome, but couldn't conscion saying a word against Amando. He was saved from having to do either when the little wristwatch she wore chimed an alarm. "Oh, I didn't realise it was so late!" She exclaimed in real dismay, glancing at it. Alfred's meeting would be ending soon, and she didn't want him to find her down here with Mister Vargas. That could ruin everything. She stood, gathering her things together. "I have to go. It was so nice to meet you, Mister Vargas. Thank you for a lovely afternoon." She paused, and on a whim, opened up her purse and pulled out her dayplanner, writing down some information on a blank page. "This is my email address." She informed him as she wrote. "My cell phone is my work phone, so I can't give you my number, but I'd love to keep in contact." She smiled, tearing out the page and handing it to him. "Feel free to email me whenever you'd like. We can talk more about the show, and Amando, and things like that."
"O-oh, okay." He accepted it with a small blush, looking a little surprised. "I, uh...thanks."
She slung her purse over her shoulder, and leaned forward, planting a kiss on his cheek. "For the drink," Theresa told him, as his eyes grew wide and his face flamed red, and that made it impossible to resist pressing another kiss to his other cheek. "And that's for your company." She smiled, wiggling her fingers in farewell as she turned to go, leaving a combusting Italian at the bar.
Theresa hoped Alfred's meeting wasn't going to run late. As soon as he got back to the suite, they had some things to discuss.
AN: This chapter did not want to eennnnd. I had to cut it short because man. Also, parts of it (you know which) were super-embarrassing to write, so embarrassing that I could not reread them to edit them. I got sakerat to read part of them for me and she said it was okay, but if you see anything wrong with it let me know, okay? I'll fix it, even if it melts me in embarrassment and I have to go hide in the closet for a while after 'til I cool down.
I had some relevant author's notes but I'm kind of burnt out now and cannot recall them at the moment. If I remember them and they were actually important I shall stuff them at either end of the next chapter.
Bonne vie!