Disclaimer: Hetalia still isn't mine. Unfortunately, all this summer work is. (I'm so dead.)
A/N: Hai y'all! I know I've been updating a TON lately, but I've had a TON of free time, and a really bad work ethic lately. (This summer work is going to kill me. Seriously. I will die by paper cut, if nothing else.) And um... here! This is probably the last chapter I'm going to be able to get up for a while (and I mean it this time XD) so... yeah. I think I owed you guys a lot of quick updates for all that waiting you did in May/June, so these few chapters should make up for it, yeah? :D So... enjoy!
\(^.^)/ - Spain.
Well, there were two "sides" to the should-be-minor event that was me walking into Spain's house.
A bad one, and a worse one.
The bad one was that he had fucking redecorated, even since that recent memory I'd had a while back, the one about the rugs. Now everything was sort of shaped the same, but it was also... in a completely different location.
For example, whereas before Spain's television had been against the wall about ten feet away from the door to the right of you when you entered, now it was against the wall on the left. But it was the wall across from the kitchen, not the one parallel to the door.
See, now you're probably confused. I'll just put this in the worse category and go over it after I complain some more. Spain has a fucking confusing house, dammit.
So anyway. Also in the bad category was the fact that I had no idea how the fuck I was supposed to act around Austria. I mean, from what I remembered, I'd just attempted to get independence from the bastard.
That didn't exactly make us best friends.
Or any kind of friends at all.
Or even acquaintances, dammit.
Oh shut up.
Long rant short, I was fucking confused about how to act around Austria at first.
Then I decided to be my usual, rude self.
Problem solved.
Now (mainly because I forget what the fuck I was planning on ranting about next, but shut the fuck up, because nobody asked you) onto the "worse."
Russia was there after all.
And so was Belgium.
That was actually good news, because she was like an older sister to me. I needed an older sister to protect me from all these idiots. I was already an amnesiac, dammit.
(I don't fucking care if that's not the right word for it, dammit!)
...I also wondered briefly if I still called her Bella now, or I'd given that up... but quickly decided she was my Bella and I was her Roma, and that wouldn't have changed, even over 152 years.
("Roma, oh you poor dear!" she'd cried when I first stepped through the door, launching herself at me, and locking her thin -but misleadingly strong- arms around my neck. "Oh, baby-doll, are you alright?" she demanded, even while she was crushing me in her grip. I told her I'd be better if I could breathe, and she released me, but kept my good arm locked in hers for the next half an hour while periodically cooing over me or smothering my face with sisterly/motherly kisses.)
But when Bella was with Hungary, and they both decided to pull small cameras from disturbing locations on their persons and film Spain with me, Prussia with Canada and France with England, shit got awkward.
According to a warning from Canada I'd gotten before Bella/Hungary assaulted me with said cameras, that happened a lot.
And I knew Canada wasn't the type to lie.
And Bella with her cat-like smile was.
Hence why Bella was in the worse category.
And then there was the moved furniture. Yeah. That was screwing with me, big time.
See, Spain has a very, very large house. You wouldn't think it, just from seeing the side entrance, but that's because we -the colonies... er, I guess I should say FORMER colonies and Spain- always went in through the "side" entrance.
That's because the main entrance is (1) fucking huge, (2) really easy to get dirty, (3) really hard to clean, and (4) really long and we're all lazy asses who don't want to walk that far.
It's your typical ballroom sort of entrance- the two sets of curved stairs with the metal-worked banisters, the polished marble floors, and the awkward-as-fuck tables around the walls that really should look out of place but never do.
And don't forget the antique Spanish vases on the awkward tables.
Can't forget those.
I know I can't anyway.
I broke enough of them when I was younger.
So we -the former colonies- go in the side entrance.
Spain has two driveways anyway.
One tiny-ass little gravel one for us, and one huge-ass brick one for guests and fancy people and shit.
Shit, I'm getting off track again.
Anyway.
Well... The side entrance looks more like your average living room.
You walk through the door, and the first thing you see is another hallway, leading to the dining room. There's only about two feet of wall from the door/hallway to the LEFT adjacent wall, and that awkward space was where the television was now stationed. It also just happened to be placed strategically across from the kitchen, so that whoever was in the kitchen could plausibly see/hear the television from where they were.
It was a fucking big television too. I see Spain upgraded. What was this, a 52" plasma? What the fuck...?
To the right of the "side" door (versus front door or back door) was the... well I don't want to say lobby, but it's not quite a living room... -sitting room?- that was between me and the kitchen.
There were two matching couches and two chairs. (One white couch with black pillows, one black couch with white pillows, and two black and white checkered armchairs.) Surprisingly stylish, for Spain. Everything in the sitting room was black and white, and modern to boot.
Bravo, Spain.
...fuck, where had I even been going with this in the first place...?
I give up.
My mind is still all fucked up from that last piece of memory I had on the ride over.
Screw descriptions.
Spain remodeled.
There you go.
\(^.^)/ - Spain.
Well, after a half an hour or so, (Feliciano peed his pants when he saw Russia, and I guess he had to go change... then peed them again when he realized Russia wasn't going anywhere anytime soon... and again when Spain asked him to get Russia a drink... a lot of changes of pants were needed, okay?) everyone was gathered around the living room, chatting animatedly (Hungary)/rudely (America/Prussia)/snootily (Austria)/quietly (Canada) with one another.
And I plopped myself in a chair in a corner and refused to get up again. Listening to them all was enough stimulation in itself.
Gesu Cristo, was I confused.
What was all this about a Euro crisis they all kept referring to? France mentioned it when he was chatting with Canada, although I think he was just trying to scrape up a pity-fuck or something. And then Prussia sat next to Canada and that discussion quickly changed to one about a soufflé recipe France insisted Canada should borrow.
England was talking to the Netherlands (what the fuck was he doing here anyway...? Maybe he was Bella's ride or something?) about Spain's economic issues over the past few years... Spain had had economy problems lately? Was he alright? Why didn't he look sick?
And when Bella finally stopped coddling me over my memory-loss, (and Hungary stopped looking at me like I was a piece of meat,) I watched Bella start a conversation with Spain (effectively stopping him from coming over to where I was sitting) about the 2012 London Olympics.
...I didn't care so much about the 2012 London Olympics.
In fact, I didn't care at all.
I'm sure Italy kicked ass, as usual.
(...shut up.)
What I cared about was the fact that Spain was talking to Bella awkwardly.
Very, very awkwardly.
I observed the pair of them sharply, trying to figure out what the tension was between them, but with little success.
...because right then all I had was either that one of them had stolen the other's lover, (Nope, don't think Bella would ever steal me... and I haven't known her to date... did that change in the last 152 years?) or they were exes. (Bella? And Spain? Psht.)
And neither of those options made any logical sense, because Spain and Bella were like... best friends.
Or brother and sister.
Or...
Mother and... father...
To... me...
...
FUCK.
Shit, it's not true!
I refuse to believe it!
Spain would never have...
Would he?
And Bella, she couldn't have...
Could she?
Fuck, but it might have happened...
I'd have to ask someone later.
And now to my fucking brilliant coping tactic: observing the nearest slightly interesting object.
And that "slightly interesting" object happened to be America... staring at me from across the room.
Why...?
I didn't even know what to think... I mean really, he looked constipated or something. And then he started twitching his head to one side, and I just frowned at him, silently wondering how the fuck HE got to be a superpower.
And then he started winking at me, and I decided it was time for me to get lost in the random hallways of Spain's house before he -or France- tried something they would regret later.
I rose from my chair, noticing Spain's desperate glance in my direction but not going towards him. I started into the kitchen, before ducking into a small cupboard that was tucked under the stairs leading up to the second floor.
I knew there was a passage hidden in the back from my colony days, and that would take me all the way to the closet beside the south bathroom- in other words, completely around the sitting room, and out past the dining room, where nobody (except maybe Bella or the Netherlands) would think to look for me after watching me leave the room from the direction of the kitchen.
I popped the hatch open and slid inside, before carefully replacing the cork-like material so that all the kitchen's light was impossible for me to see. I pulled out my phone and clicked the lock button, instantly lighting up the slim space with the red light that issued from my background picture of a tomato.
It was a lot smaller than I remembered it being.
(Did it shrink, or did I grow again?)
And a lot darker.
(Busted light bulbs... huh, I should replace those. My phone is only so bright.)
And a lot cob-webbier.
(I really fucking hope those aren't spider webs. I fucking hate spiders.)
And a lot dirtier.
(Who cleans this space? They ought to be fired. Che cazzo.)
Holy shit, did Spain clean in here at all?
...
Hell, did he even realize this little hallway existed?
Wait... maybe he hadn't realized it was here... after all, this was Spain we were talking about...
"Fuck, Italy Romano, wait up!" America's voice called out loudly from somewhere close behind me, and I flinched, grinding my teeth together.
"How did you even fit through that door?" I demanded, spinning on my heel to face him, and flashing my cellphone's light directly in his eyes. "And shut up, do you want everyone to hear us? Why are you here anyway?"
He looked rather absurd, I noted, as I just watched him attempt to squeeze through the tiny passageway to catch up to me.
His shoulders brushed both walls, they were so wide, and he had to crouch to keep his head from hitting the ceiling. His glasses were reflecting the red light from my phone back at me, and I began to wonder if he wasn't beginning to resemble some strange version of Prussia or something. Ugh. Scary thought. America the Prussia. Jeez, world domination would be his. I hope no one ever tells him he's a bit like Prussia.
...off-track again.
Why the fuck is he taking so long to answer?
"Ah... too many questions," he frowned, scratching his head. "I fit through the door by breaking it a little bit more, no I don't want anyone to hear us, and I'm here because I need to ask you something! Happy?"
"No, not if you broke the door, bastard, because then Spain will notice and try to fix it, and figure out this place exists." I turned away from him and continued back down the hallway, partially to see if he'd keep following me, and partially to see if he'd get stuck eventually. "What do you really want?"
"Well, I just told you, didn't I?" America snapped. "I want to ask you something!"
"First, you just said that, second, I don't trust you," I rattled off, counting on my fingers as well for good measure, "Third, you're an idiot, and fourth you just followed me into a cupboard and are continuing to follow me as I go you-don't-even-know-where, once again demonstrating not only your lack of self-preservation instincts but intelligence as well."
"Wha...?" he spluttered, "I don't... Can you stop being so freaking difficult?" he whined. "I just wanted to ask you a question!"
"Well ask it, idiota, I've been waiting!" I snapped, as I reached the door to the closet I had hoped was still there.
I tried waiting for him to say something before going through, but he took too fucking long and I gave up.
(I do that a lot, in case you hadn't noticed. Giving up: it's a specialty of mine.)
I didn't step into a closet, rather, a bathroom. In fact, what looked like a carbon copy of the bathroom I knew to exist next door to this "closet," but larger by half. And now there was a shower in here too. Right next to me. The big kind with the enormous frosted glass bubble around it and a door somewhere in the middle of that.
...Spain extended the bathroom into the closet that used to be here? Are you serious...? I can't even...
"Alright..." America said, sounding just as disconcerted by the appearance of the bathroom as I felt. "Well... uh... I forgot. Hey, this is a nice shower! I wish I had one this nice..."
"Again- shut UP, bastardo! Unless you want everyone to find us!" I hissed, walking over to the toilet and perching on the lid.
"OH! Us! That's it!" he crowed, stumbling away from the wall-panel door and stopping just in front of me.
I guess his foot hit the corner of the door or something though, because it swung closed with a click and I couldn't even tell it was there anymore. But then he shoved his face just in front of mine and blocked me from escaping by holding me between the wall and himself, and I grew extremely disconcerted extremely quickly.
"B-Bastard, what are you..." I stammered.
"Look, Italy Romano. You have amnesia. Right?" I nodded nervously, not liking where this was going. "And you're cute enough- don't you want to broaden your horizons? I mean, wouldn't you like to try dating someone other than Spain?"
"WHAT? I-" I started to shout, but America covered my mouth with his hand and continued.
"Shh, I know you're flustered that I'm asking. I would be too! after all, I am the hero!" he laughed at his own 'joke' before continuing. "See, here's the thing, Italy Romano... don't you think Spain will want to move on, now that you can't even remember all the hard work he put into being in a relationship with you, and getting close enough to you to make you trust him enough to stop hitting him every five minutes? Or... five seconds?"
He removed his hand, but not until after I bit him, and I took a huge gulp of air before speaking. "What? Spain would never..."
I paused and thought about it (and completely ignored him,) while he continued to rant about his good qualities.
Spain wouldn't leave me because I didn't remember us... would he?
I mean... I'm his "little tomato"... right?
He... he would want to help me get better, help me remember...
Because through all my experience with Spain, (minus 152 years,) he's never been one to give up when it comes to anything concerning me.
...right?
I still wasn't certain about Spain, but I knew that America's ranting was beginning to throw me off.
What the hell was he talking about now?
"...and all the Italian immigrants I have in America... Don't you want a better bond with your people?" he was saying, and I realized he was looking desperate all of a sudden.
"No, bastard," I snapped, effectively startling him and cutting him off. "And if that were reason for a relationship, I'm pretty sure you would have been in one with Mexico a long time ago. What do you really want? Because it's sure as fuck not me."
"Shit, you are good," he cursed, running a hand through his hair and sighing. "Alright, you got me. I want you to pretend we're dating so I can make Iggy jealous as hell!"
"...you want to make England jealous." I repeated.
"Yeah!" he beamed. "Dude, I've seen enough romantic movies- you can't compete with a lover with a medical problem. They have the sympathy advantage!"
...
I love how he talks about these things like they're real.
...
Wait... medical problem?
Hey!
"Fuck, I do not have a medical problem, I-"
"Will you do it?" he begged, literally getting down on his knees and shooting what he must have thought looked like a kicked-puppy look at me. "Please, Italy Romano? I'm desperate! And you can make Spain jealous of you, just in case he doesn't actually want to be in a relationship with you, and then he'll want you back! And I'll get Iggy because he'll be furious I'm with you!"
"What the fucking flying fuck?" I exclaimed. "Spain already wants me to be in a relationship with him again! He called me his amor! I don't need your fucking plan! And- and even if I did, I would NOT sink that low!"
...okay, maybe I would...
But he doesn't need to know that, dammit!
"Aw, fuck," he moped, slumping to the floor with a dejected sigh. He took off his glasses and cleaned them on the edge of his shirt, and then rubbed something out of his eye with the back of his wrist. "I was... really hoping you'd be a pal and help me with this..."
"No." I deadpanned.
Standing, I stepped over him and right out of the bathroom, and practically right into France's arms.
And then I screamed.
\(^.^)/ - Spain!
"Ah, bonjour, Romano," France sighed, opening his arms to let me scramble away from him when I started struggling.
He was gonna rape me, then I was gonna die inside, and I would lose my vi- did I already lose that? Shit, I'd have to ask Spain. But then I'd tell Spain, and Spain would kill France, and-
...
Wait, what?
France... let me go?
"Fuckface?" I asked suspiciously, just to be sure it was actually him.
(You never know, dammit, maybe it was Canada! Or Switzerland! Or Poland! There are a lot of fuckers with long blond hair around Europe, okay?)
"Hmm," he grimaced weakly. "As you so charmingly call me, oui."
Oui.
Oh, he was France the fuckface alright.
Now...
Not that I care... because I don't...
But... he didn't look like HIM very much anymore. And to think... he'd looked a lot like himself just a few hours ago, at the hospital. For the obvious reason that he was himself. You know... the French fuckface look. Shining wavy golden hair, fucking perfect complexion, sparkly blue eyes.
But now he looked...
Unhealthy.
His hair looked a little stringier. Less wavy.
His eyes had no sparkle to them. There were light bags forming below them.
His skin was obtaining a more deathly pallor.
...fuck, he looked sick.
Really sick.
I... I kinda felt bad for the fucker.
But how did it get this bad after just the few hours I'd been around him?
And then America's shitty sense of timing kicked in, and he also walked out of the bathroom. And froze when he realized France was there.
"Ahaha, h-hey, that was the coolest shower ever, y-you were right, Romano!" America laughed nervously. And then, as though he'd just realized France was there at all, added, "Oh, hi France, what are you doing here?"
"Trying to use the bathroom, AmerĂque," France sighed, rubbing a hand absently against his temples.
"O-Oh," America's forced smile seemed to fall right off his face when he realized just how awful France looked, and he stepped out of the other nation's way quickly.
France flashed us both a trembling smile, before clutching his stomach, and stumbling into the bathroom. He lurched over the toilet bowl, and noisily lost the contents of his stomach.
"Oh," I breathed, watching him for a few seconds, my own stomach twisting uncomfortably at the sight before me.
America closed the door quietly, giving France his privacy, before walking off quickly, his eyes downcast.
I followed his lead, shooting just one backward glance towards the bathroom door, through which the retching sounds still echoed.
My stomach was twisting in a knot of guilt, and I felt obligated to tell England where his boyfriend was, at the very least.
I cut through the dining room and reentered the sitting room, only to find almost everyone in the same places as before. I'd thought that little escapade with America would have taken longer than it did... I guess not, though.
Then again that could be because these boring shits never stop talking.
The latter sounds more likely.
And... I would have gone right over to England, to tell him about France, but Spain practically assaulted me as soon as I walked through the door.
\(^.^)/ - Spain!
"Lovi! Don't just wander off like that!" he exclaimed, hugging me tightly to his chest. "I was so worried! I saw you leave earlier, but you took so long, I thought maybe you had had another episode like the one in the van, and passed out somewhere! And you know how big my house is, it would have taken forever to find you!"
"Che palle, get off!" I exclaimed, struggling to be free of his grip. "I'm fine, dammit. I just had to... use the bathroom. Stop acting like my mother!"
"Ve, but Lovi, Big Brother Spain is like your mother, right? I mean, he did raise you, after all!" Feli chirped from the black couch where he was sitting with Bella and Hungary.
"I'm not going there now," I scowled, even as Spain released me to stroke his chin, clearly deep in thought about the matter.
I scanned the room, searching for England, and I found him by the kitchen door, chatting nervously with Russia about something.
I pulled my other wrist from Spain's hand and started in that direction while Spain interrogated Feli on whether or not he thought Spain had made a good mother for me.
England looked confused, but also relieved, when I pulled him away from Russia and into the kitchen, using a string of unintelligible Italian curse words as an excuse for his absence. He said nothing as I pulled him out the other kitchen door and down a long hallway I knew to be the quickest way to the bathroom I'd left France in.
"Er... What's all this about, Romano?" he asked hesitantly, not stopping me from pulling him down the hallway, but not making it any easier either.
"Your boyfriend looks like shit," I said, and observed the startled look that came over his features, "He went into the bathroom when I was coming out, and normally I wouldn't care, but he didn't try to rape me, and then he started throwing up."
"He started what?" England exclaimed, green eyes growing to the size of saucers. "Bloody hell, where is he?"
Oh, so now he picks up the pace, I snorted mentally as a very concerned England reversed our places, and became the one tugging me down the hallway, so much that I had to hurry just to keep up with him.
Now... I know you're probably confused as to why I'm helping these bastards at all... (so am I, trust me,) and it's really none of your business... (seriously, it's not...) but it's because I really felt bad for the fuckface.
I mean, I'm no fan of his.
Not by a long shot.
You all know this.
But when a nation is brought down by something like this, by something that can cause them to be sick like a human, you sympathize.
Because everyone's been through economic troubles before, everyone gets it.
And it sucks, you know?
And... even though I probably have a reputation for being the biggest little bastard of a country, I have a heart too, (apparently, contrary to popular belief,) and I hate to see another nation try to deal with a sickness like that on his or her own.
I led England through the dining room and then one more hallway, and directed him towards the door to the bathroom France had been in before.
The blond nation distractedly nodded a thanks before slipping into the bathroom, and crouching beside the French nation still hunched over the toilet. I just watched the pair of them as England helped hold France's hair out of his face, trying it back with an elastic, and then flushing the completely disgusting contents of the toilet away so the Frenchman could throw up again. Quiet, tender words were exchanged, and England pulled France close to him, humming comfortingly.
Well, shit, now I feel like a lonely bastard.
\(^.^)/ - Spain.
I wandered slowly back towards the sitting room, taking spontaneous twists and turns but still keeping track of how to return to that particular room.
I was busy thinking about Spain and I, how that all would... work out.
He would want me back, I just knew it.
America was wrong.
Spain wouldn't leave me just because I couldn't remember all we'd had.
Whether or not I was ready to try our relationship again was a completely different story.
And... England and France... Gesu, that's what I wanted.
...
No not a threesome, you perverted dipshit!
I... I wanted someone to care for me like England did for France, and vice versa.
Did Spain do that?
Would he do that if I asked him to?
Would he do it if I didn't?
Was it different from France and England's relationship, because I used to be his colony?
I almost bumped into Russia once I was very near to the sitting room again, but he just smiled cheerfully -murderously?- at me and asked where he was (I simply told him he was lost, dammit) before he accompanied me back to the sitting room (and the exit- the Russian bastard could leave, please and thank you).
He didn't try talking to me again, and I sure as fuck wasn't about to talk to him, so it worked out well that he was accompanying me back to the sitting room. And I probably would have wandered around for a lot longer if I hadn't stumbled into him, so I guess it was sort of a good thing.
By the time I (and my creepy-ass-mother-fucking-become-one-with-me-da Russian companion) reached the sitting room again, (because it had probably been almost half an hour since I left England with France,) almost everyone was gone.
The only ones left were Spain, Feli, America, England and France, the latter draped over his British boyfriend's shoulder for support.
Spain was worrying over France's current state, and Feliciano was trying to enthuse about racing with America, but the bespectacled nation kept glancing over at France and England from time to time, a sour expression on his face.
"Goodbye, Italy Romano," Russia said, smiling at me as he started for the door. "Do have a drink of wine later, you look incredibly stressed out, da?"
"Uh..." I said, blinking several times in my confusion. "Da? Er, I-I mean... sure...?"
He waved, smiling at me as he exited the house, and I heard a little squeal and a scurrying sound I knew would be Feli running off to go change his pants- again. I sighed, turning to watch my little brother dart into the kitchen, dark wet spot on his pants and all, before turning to America to politely tell him to get the fuck out as well.
...would you look at that, I'm being a polite host.
Holy shit.
What's gotten into me?
"Italy Romano, I really hope you consider what we discussed earlier today," America said, pointedly glancing at France and England again.
"No." I snapped, all polite-host-ness (oh shut UP already dammit) fading instantly. "Get out."
"Ahaha, right-o!" he laughed loudly, as if I'd just made a joke, when he noticed England and France were done talking to Spain. "I'll see you around, 'Mano. Can I call you 'Mano? Yeah? Well, thanks anyway!"
I just stared after him as he headed out onto the gravel drive, and then flipped him the bird for good measure. Spain chuckled, and when I turned to arch a cynical eyebrow at him, I instead came face to face with England.
"Thank you, Romano," he said sincerely, extending his free hand for me to shake. I took it gingerly and shook, nodding an awkward sort of 'of course' answer. "I probably wouldn't have found him if not for you. I know you don't like him, but..."
"I get it, tea-bastard," I sighed, removing my hand from his. "Just go on. It's fine. Go... take care of your wine-bastard."
He smiled a little and nodded, before helping the Frenchman out the door and down the drive.
Spain shut the door with a decisive click, before leaning against it and exhaling deeply. "Well that was fun, right Lovi?" he asked hopefully.
"No," I deadpanned, before hesitating at the upset look on his features. "But... it was OK."
"Alright, Lovi," he sighed. "Oh, by the way, Bella and the Netherlands will be staying here too... the Netherlands didn't put enough gas in his car and they can't drive home."
"Brilliant," I murmured, still thoroughly brought-down after witnessing France and England's fluff-fest in the bathroom.
"Everything okay, Lovi?" Spain asked concernedly, placing a hand on my shoulder.
"Yeah, everything's fine, tomato bastard," I lied, faking a smile and heading into the kitchen for a glass of wine, per Russia's suggestion. I fucking needed it right about now.
\(^.^)/ - Spain.
A/N: A little short(er than the last two, anyway), a tad bit filler-y (random walk with Russia at the end = enormous filler, but I had to have that there for reasons to be revealed next chapter), and a lot introductory. (Hooray side-plots!)
NOW! I have another task for you guys. No poll this time, because it's a pain in the ass for me to check it and I'm a lazy bitch who loves hoarding reviews. (XD Jk. Lazy bitch, yes, review-hoarding, no. I want all my reviews to be voluntary!) So: Romerica was hinted at in this chapter. (Lol derp America, I love him so much.) Now, I could begin some Romerica in the next chapter (Romano decides Spain might not still want to be with him, since he's so down lately, and Romano takes America up on his offer) OR save that for later, and instead just write an awkward chapter with more memory clips! Yay, memory clips!
Your choice, guys, because I seriously don't think I'll be writing while I'm in San Fran. Romerica with a side of jealous Spain and Iggy or awkward Spamano with memories in between. And uh... I'm thinking there will be a little something-something involved with the first that might make Spain mad.
(XD... I hate plot bunnies so much. I was NEVER going this direction with this story when I planned it all out. I hate my plot bunnies. SO much. So very, very much.)