Hello, everybody! It's been... a while since I last uploaded anything here.

This is the piece I made for the Hetalia World Stars Fan Anthology. You can find the whole thing on the tumblr account: hws-anthology Please, check it out!

The title is, of course, from Hozier's "Like real people do". This fic has a little reflection on the nature of nations & their differences with humans, but this is mostly a mix between some pining, some banter and a touch of fluff.

I hope you like it~~

July, 1851

Near London

This is quite a common scene. England, oil lamp in hand, taking a minute in front of the door of his storage before finally going in.

It hasn't been a busy day by any measurable metric, no reunions or diplomats, no urgent matters to attend to. No events to distract himself with. He has finished reading the papers—twice over, for that matter—, and although the bookmark inside his copy of David Copperfield is near the end, he's not in the right mind space to read the remaining pages. It's not as if he has no idea of how the story goes; he read it while it was being serialised. So him going into this room—this series of connected rooms, if one has to be precise—doesn't come as a surprise. There's no other place to come but here.

He used to be forced to cram his mementos up in the tiny storage room he was given at the royal palace: books, maps, portraits and trinkets of all kinds, one on top of another in a way that made it impossible to enjoy them, to properly stop and reminisce. Now, however, he has a nice manor all for himself in the countryside, near enough to London to be able to timely go if he's wanted, far enough to avoid the noise and pollution of the capital. Being the only one living here, besides the service, he can display whatever he wants from his collection in the parlours, corridors and rooms. He still keeps part of the most important things down here, though, in a much bigger storage room than before, behind not one, but two locks. He's not actually afraid of someone stealing them; a great number of these chambers' contents wouldn't have any kind of value to anyone that isn't him besides being a mere curiosity. Each and every one of these trinkets is part of himself, however, and England can't just simply give up the power of deciding who gets to see through that window and who doesn't.

The tiny stairs that go underground and the double lock means he's the one who has to clean these chambers from time to time, but he doesn't mind. Navigating through his memories is akin to going on an adventure, no matter if he has a clean duster in his hand instead of a sword or a musket. It can be as—or even more—dangerous, too. Of course, he doesn't clean everything in one go; it would be too tedious and too time consuming, even if he didn't do more reminiscing than actually cleaning. That's one of the reasons why he ends up down here so often.

The other reason, well. It doesn't even need being said.

He isn't sure of how much has passed when he decides today's session is over. He just wants to dust off one of the multiple shelves that cover the walls, one of the closest to the stairs. He starts to gently clean the spines, reading its titles when possible. Some of them are almost illegible despite his best efforts to take care of them. Time doesn't forgive anything between those walls—even he isn't spared, despite his countenance being the same than when these books were first published.

The light of his lamp makes the gold foil embellishments in one of the spines glint, and catches his eye like moonlight glistening in a pond in the middle of the woods. He should be going, he tells himself, but his hand is already picking it up from the shelf, almost as if beckoned. The cover is made of black leather, only perturbed by the traces of the passing of time. No one thought of writing its title where it would be more visible, it seems. With furrowed eyebrows, he opens it, the spine faintly rustling between his fingers, despite how carefully he's handling it. The twinkling light of the lamp makes the shadows dance around the black letters that make out the title.

He ruefully smiles.

This book, now he knows, is a collection of poems of Garcilaso de la Vega; it's clear that it was a present from Spain, even when he can't remember when he got it. It's far from being the only gifted book on his shelves, but the way the leather looks and feels reveals he's had it for a long time. Since 1612, possibly, since that's what the date underneath the title says. It's no wonder the pages rustle.

So much has happened since the day Spain gave it to him, even if it was on a later date. Neither them, nor the world are the same as they were two centuries ago. Now it's England—alongside his siblings, but they're not here to complain if he takes the whole credit—who is on top of the world, it's England whose flag flutters in the winds of lands all across the globe.

He isn't sure if he has read this book at all; he can't recall Spain asking about it either. Perhaps he has forgotten, like England himself does with half of the things he keeps in here. That's why he can't bring himself to throw anything away, no matter how trivial or bittersweet the memory it carries might be. He wants to be able to remember as much as he can, at least when perusing these chambers. They tell more about himself than History books ever will.

Although, he has to admit, that is on purpose. History books are written by humans, after all, and aren't about him. These gifts, and trophies and mementos, however? These are stories. For England himself, and other nations, if and when he invites them here.

With a sigh, he moves from the shelf, the book again in its place but still lingering on his mind. He can't fully let it go, although he doesn't quite feel adventurous enough to interpret poetry written in the Spanish of two hundred years ago.

Next to the door at the bottom of the stairs, he stops for a second to perform the last part of the ritual he goes through in every visit to the storage. The charms he has hung here to keep the fair folk from going into the room—and messing with whatever shiny or interesting thing they might find in there—look new, imperturbable. It's difficult to assess whether they actually work, or if the reason their apparitions have become scarcer each passing day is a different one. Nowadays, the world has become narrower, limited, smaller. Measurable. There's no room for wonder and mystery anymore, not in the same way as before. England himself knows he doesn't believe in the supernatural as strongly as before. Perhaps the magical creatures are still there, like in the old times, and he just can't see them that often any longer. Perhaps industrialization is poison to their kind and that's why their numbers are dwindling, their presence disappearing from city and countryside alike. In the end, he guesses, it doesn't matter.

That doesn't mean he's going to stop hanging these charms around, either.

He lifts his hand to lightly graze them with his knuckles, and as if caused by that small movement, he hears something falling at his back.

Since he went through this part of the chambers earlier, he soon notices that the fabric covering one of the paintings on the ground has mysteriously fallen, pooling around it. With a mere look, it's easy to identify that, like the book, this was a gift from Spain—unlike the poetry, he remembers receiving this. It dates from a century ago, sometime after the Peninsular War. Three figures occupy the majority of the canvas: a depiction of Napoleon, hair made up of snakes, and Spain and England themselves, facing him. The artist, whoever they were—he can't remember, if he ever knew—clearly didn't have any of them pose when painting. England even doubts they had seen either of them in the flesh prior to picking up the brush. The little hair visible under the helmet and crown is of the right shade, and so are the eyes, but altogether it looks more like one of those allegorical paintings about Love, or War, or Justice, than a portrait trying to accurately represent beings that do exist. He looks at the painted Spain, and can't help but think where a couple of brushstrokes would make him look more like himself. Here, to make his jaw stronger; there, to better depict the profile of his nose. Even when, like the artist, he doesn't have the model before his eyes, it doesn't matter; he knows Spain's features well.

Too well, perhaps.

England wonders if Spain did the same when the painting was presented before him, if when he looks at his own copy thinks that England's brows are not bushy enough. Then he realizes what a stupid thought that is. Spain probably has this portrait lost somewhere in his storage and not on his walls, probably has forgotten that he sent it to him. Like he, now he's more than sure, has forgotten the poetry book whose presence, when he's standing next to another present from the same giver, is even harder to ignore.

With a huff, England covers the painting again. There's no way the fabric could have fallen by itself, so maybe those charms are not that successful; no other sound, no movement gives away that he's nothing but alone down here, though. Is this a message? A reminder? Just a prank, a coincidence? He'll definitely have to ask his siblings about supernatural creatures next time they're together; they have always been more connected to magic than he ever was. Whether this was intentional or not, however, now there's a nagging feeling inside him that won't leave him alone.

When he finally goes up the stairs and returns to the mortal world, having spent more time down here than he planned, the poetry book is firmly held under his arm.

"Milord, if you would excuse me," Charlotte, one of the maids, calls with a curtsy as soon as he's out of the basement.

She tries to hide it behind a polite smile, but she undoubtedly looks tired, like she has been trying to find him everywhere, at no avail. England wonders, while locking the door, how much time she's been waiting for him here. Everything would have been quicker if she had looked for him in the underground chambers, but one of the first things any new member of the service gets told is that they're not allowed down there—even when the butler has a copy of the keys, just in case.

"Yes, Charlotte?" he asks, turning to face her.

"Someone's here to pay you a visit."

"Someone…?"

But as soon as the word leaves his lips, he knows. Before he hears steps, and the unexpected guest appears in the corridor, he knows.

England's mouth twitches in a gesture that resembles a smile but doesn't get all the way there. Of bloody course. Who else would it be but him, a dashing smile on his lips and dark clothes that highlight the colour of his eyes, so similar to his own.

And England might not believe in magic that much these days, but he can't help thinking this isn't a coincidence anymore, that he—or his creatures—has, somehow summoned, Spain. The black leather book burns in his hand.

"I don't believe I was expecting you soon." There aren't any treaties to sign, no state weddings or funerals to attend. "What are you doing here?"

He tries not to sound angry at Spain being here, because he isn't, but doesn't want to sound too happy either. It gets more difficult to deny he is feeling that.

"Oh, I wanted to visit the Great Exhibition you're boasting about! It's been a while since I last was in London, so I thought this would be the perfect time to come back."

The Great Exhibition. Of course. England nods, trying to assuage a disappointment he shouldn't feel in the first place.

"I'm eager to know what you think about the Exhibition. Fancy discussing it over a cup of tea?"

Spain slightly wrinkles his nose, probably unaware of the gesture, but ends up agreeing. His dislike for tea is known, although England isn't sure if he's just simply not fond of the taste or if it's because of something else. He's not going to ask, in any case, since he has to pretend he doesn't care enough to make that question in the first place.

"We'll be having the tea at the green parlour, Charlotte," he indicates.

The maid bows and disappears towards the kitchen. The tiredness of before has vanished; she looks renewed after having a much more concrete task to perform. Perhaps she's trying to impress Spain too with her efficiency, since he's the first guest she has to attend to since working here. England can't really complain, either way. It will make him look better.

Spain spares a glance to the locked door behind England, but doesn't comment anything. It's easy to guess what's on the other side, and any of them knows better than to try to pay a visit to their "collections" without invitation. The rest of the things he has on display at the manor, now, that's a very different case. Spain has never been to this house before, so he stops before almost every item they come across on their way to the parlour. England makes his best effort to look not that affected by the praise, with a limited success. He leaves the lamp behind on a little table, but keeps the book, still burning against his skin.

"You look very handsome," Spain says, once they finally arrive at their destination.

Among the delicate green porcelain vases and ornaments that give this room its name, there hangs a large painting. The latest one of his collection, mere months old. England and Queen Victoria, side by side. She seems older than him by several years, but they could easily be mistaken for husband and wife, if the viewer didn't know who they were.

Despite having it in such a prominent place, England isn't fond of the portrait. Unlike the painting downstairs, he did pose for this one, and there's something in the way the artist has painted his eyes that makes him uneasy. It might be the light, the colours, the brushstrokes, something else. But they definitely don't appear completely human. He's used to gaze into eyes like those, whether in a mirror or when dealing with another nation, something so trivial he forgets almost all of the time. It's quite different, though, when a human manages to catch that glint, that glimpse into their souls.

Or whatever they have inside; England is pretty sure that, even if they were supposed to have souls at one point in their lives, he no longer has his.

What he isn't sure of, though, is what kind of representation is better; this, or the one in his storage rooms.

"Have you forgotten how to take a compliment?" Spain jokes, and England realises he must have seemed embarrassed at his comment, spacing out like that.

"Just handsome? I look regal," he finally answers back, although he knows it's too late. "But I believe you're not here to comment about my choice of décor. What are your thoughts on the Great Exhibition?" He gracefully points at two opposed wing chairs, with a tea table set between them both.

Spain sits on the one on the left, leaving the one that doesn't face the painting for him. Before he can answer, though, Charlotte brings a tray with the tea and an assortment of pastries and tarts. Her hand is slightly trembling when putting everything on the table, but England pays her no mind. She started to work here two weeks ago, and she's still a little afraid of him. No, afraid is not the right word. Wary, perhaps. She's wary of him. Maybe she'll always be and will only get better at hiding it. He can well imagine how nervous she must be now that he's not the only one she has to serve. Even when he hasn't called Spain by any name, the way they treat each other can only mean he's a personification too.

"Thank you, Charlotte, everything looks delicious and smells equally delectable." Spain dazzlingly smiles and the maid blushes.

She makes another curtsy and leaves, almost tripping on her way out. England can't decide whether it is because she's still nervous or flustered. He knows firsthand the devastating effects Spain's smile can have; he just has learnt how to be immune to them.

He likes to think he is, at least.

England warms up his hands with the cup. This is one of his finest sets, of delicate china with golden and green motifs that matches the parlour's decoration, and reminds himself to congratulate Charlotte later, even in passing, for making such a good call. Why have it at all, if not to boast about it when guests like Spain are here?

He clears his throat.

"So, you were saying…"

"I haven't gone to the Exhibition yet, to be honest," Spain admits while looking absentmindedly at the pastries. "I plan on visiting tomorrow."

"Why are you here, then?"

"I'm not here on official business; I would feel bad using the embassy because of a whim."

England knits his frown.

"So you thought you could just appear at my front door and sleep in here? This isn't an inn."

"I know." His smile grows wider. "I wasn't planning on paying."

He almost laughs. Despite the small sips of tea he's taking, Spain seems happy, relaxed. So sure that he's going to let him stay that, for a moment, England is tempted to try kicking him out of his house to see what would happen. The moment doesn't last, though; he can only fool himself up to a point and he can't deny that having Spain here makes something inside of him twirl. "Curiosity", he wants to call it.

"You're lucky I'm in such good humour today. I'll tell the butler to prepare you a room."

"Ah, don't worry about that! I can sleep here," he points to his seat. "I just wanted to make sure I would be sleeping somewhere where it didn't rain on me every other hour."

"You can't seriously come to my house and expect me to let you sleep like that," England scoffs, offended. "That wouldn't be very gentlemanly of me."

"It wouldn't be the first time you treat me ungentlemanly."

Despite the words, Spain doesn't look angry, and his smile isn't aggressive or sarcastic, either. England narrows his eyes, trying to guess what he's exactly talking about. Different memories come to him and intermingle, like the steam from the tea, some more pleasant than others.

"As far as I am aware, we're not currently at war, so you don't have to worry about that right now," he says, after clearing his throat. "In any case, I won't let you sleep on a chair when there are so many bedrooms that could be put to use."

He doesn't say "You're almost the first one to sleep here". He doesn't say "I don't receive a lot of visitors at this house". Spain must hear the words, though, because his smile dims a little, a cloud passing over the sun in an otherwise clear sky. A certain degree of loneliness is something he can relate to. Every nation does.

"It is a lovely house," he says. "If you were a little more charming, I'm sure you would be swarming with guests."

It's a lie, but England doesn't know if Spain is merely trying to tease him or if he actually believes it.

"It seems I'm charming enough to make you visit."

"Yes. Because the rest of your country is even worse," he says with such an honest tone that, despite himself, England can't hold his laugh this time. "English pastries are as delicious as always, though," Spain keeps going, before picking up another scone. "It doesn't compensate for the rest of your cuisine, but they never let me down."

"Next time I see him, I'll tell France you said my sweets are better than his." He ignores the other comment about his gastronomy.

"I didn't say that!"

"He won't know."

Spain tightens his lips for an instant, but soon enough his usual pleasant smile is back. Like England said, they're not at war. They aren't together for discussing official business, either, this almost feels like they're just two friends having a chat around a cup of tea. Two normal friends.

It can't last long, of course.

He calls for Charlotte and tells her to prepare dinner for two in the dining room and have one of the guest bedchambers ready for Spain later. When she picks up the tray this time, her hand is less shaky.

The parlour is a nice place to wait until food is ready, but he's sure Spain would like to see the rest of the house, so he guides him through more corridors and more rooms, and the interest of his visitor never wanes. After the tour, they end up in the reading room, where his David Copperfield copy still waits, unfinished, next to his preferred seat. Spain slightly grazes the spines of the books he has here, probably not even paying that much attention to its titles, before looking back at him.

"You've been carrying that one all the time," he comments, pointing at the black leather book with his chin. "Is it good?"

For a second, England thinks it's a trick question, and that Spain knows what it is, despite the bare cover. But even when he finds that the Southern country is not as easy to read as one might think at a first glance, he isn't that good at pretending. His curiosity feels genuine.

"I don't know," he admits. "I came across it while cleaning and I have no memory of ever reading it before. You'll probably have a better idea than me in that regard."

He hands Spain the book, whose confusion disappears as soon as he turns the first page, his gaze softening.

"Ah," he says, quietly. "It's been a while since I've read these poems. We don't write like this anymore, it makes me feel nostalgic..."

He looks at the words as if he could drink them up, and go back to the time when they were printed.

"But are they good?" England asks, while taking his seat. He feels lighter, now that the book is out of reach, and heavier, at the same time. His fingertips tingle with anticipation for something yet unknown.

"I like Garcilaso's work, but maybe I can read one of the sonnets and you can be the judge of that. Choose a number." Spain seems to sense his hesitation, since he adds: "The language has changed mostly in spelling only, but I can translate it anyways, if you want."

"Wouldn't the message get lost, then?"

"If the poem can still convey the same feelings, even in another language, that must mean it is good, don't you agree? Choose a number."

"Five," he says, before thinking too much about it.

Spain's face lights up before even checking the page. Whatever time has passed since he last read these sonnets, they must have made a great impression to remember them so well, at least this one. He reads the poem for himself for a little, mumbling words that sound like neither English nor Spanish, until he seems happy enough with his interpretation. He clears his throat and recites:

"Your face is written in my soul, and when
I want to write about you, you alone
Become the writer, I but read the line;
I watch you where you still watch me, within.

This state I am and I always will be in.
For though my soul imprints a half-design
Of what I see in you, the good unknown
Is taken on a trusting regimen.

What was I born for if not to adore you?
My ills have shaped you to the bent they give.
I love you by a daily act of soul.

All that I have I must confess I owe you.
For you I came to life, for you I live,
For you I'd die, and do die, after all.

The last verse lingers between them, like a ghost, or a half forgotten memory. Spain closes the book and patiently awaits his judgement. He was right, the words might not be the same as those that Garcilaso wrote centuries ago, but he can feel them nevertheless.

England doesn't say "Are the other sonnets like this?". He doesn't say "Why did you give these to me, all those years ago?". He remembers being beckoned to pick up the book, when Spain was probably already waiting for him at the house, and he feels his hand burn again.

He nods, while discreetly rubbing his palm against the upholstery of the seat. The sensation doesn't go away.

"It is a good poem," he declares, then. "It's… so human."

Because, yes, nations also feel love, and pain, and rage, and bitterness, and pride. Their own, and the amalgamation of feelings from their inhabitants. In a way, they feel more than a regular person. In a way, they feel less as well. They can't get consumed by grief like a human would do. They can't die because of love, even metaphorically. They keep going on no matter what they're feeling inside, because their lives are not in their hands and they can't offer them to somebody else just like that. Only humans can. So he hopes Spain understands what he means and doesn't think he's just saying these words because he doesn't want to express his other thoughts.

"I think that's why I like it so much," Spain says, while handing him the book back and England knows he does. "Although he definitely wasn't the first and won't be the last poet to write about love. They really like writing about that, no matter the time, or the place."

Spain seems to stop for a moment, lost in thought. England wonders if he's pondering about the circumstances in which the book ended up here. If he, unlike him, does remember why he gave him that as a present. If, knowing all the things that would transpire between their nations since that nebulous and remote day, he would still do it.

He, of course, doesn't ask about any of it. It's awful enough to have those stray ideas, those questions, bothering him in the privacy of his mind. Bringing them up would be mortifying, even when he knows Spain would answer honestly, without any kind of mockery.

Probably.

"There are several collections of poems behind your back," he points at the shelves, before the silence stretches out too much. "They're not all about love, but you can suit yourself until dinner is ready."

Spain doesn't need to be told twice to start perusing the books and choose one or two to fill their wait with. England picks up David Copperfield again, although he half reads, half talks with Spain about Literature and writers. Apart from the times it's clear they've personally met people long dead, someone listening would think, again, that they're just a couple of friends, not that different to the rest of living souls under that roof. They don't mention human nature again, not then, and not during dinner either.

Later, once dessert has been finished and they have even had a small sip of sherry—which Spain, of course, refuses to call anything else than "Jerez"—he accompanies his guest to his bedroom. Despite knowing he can stay awake for longer than him, Spain looks more than ready to go to sleep. He hasn't told him when he arrived at London or how, but it must have been a tiresome journey nevertheless.

"Which time should I tell the service to get things prepared for tomorrow?" he asks from the door frame while Spain goes through his things. He didn't see him carrying them around until then, so likely Charlotte or another member of the service took care of them while they were waiting for him to leave the underground chambers.

"You know I don't like getting up too early. But I don't know how long it will take us to watch the Exhibition, and we have to get there in the first place, so I'll leave it to you."

"Us?" he repeats, and even when he can't see Spain's face well from here, he feels that his next smile is the brightest one yet.

"Since I'm about to mostly see the wonders of the great British Empire, I guessed I wouldn't have a better guide showing me around than the man himself."

England doesn't agree, and he doesn't say no, either. There's no need for words because they both know he will be more than pleased to do so. He doesn't like that Spain would know that, however, so he simply wishes him goodnight before looking for his butler to make the proper arrangements for the next day.

When he goes to his own room, Garcilaso's book is once again firmly held in his hand.

{o}

The next morning is radiant—as radiant as a morning in 19th Century London can be—and England is sure not even Spain could complain about the weather. If his guest notices the Sun on his skin, however, the thought doesn't escape his mouth; he seems more than enthralled by the view of the Crystal Palace, glittering among the trees like a fairytale castle, when their carriage drops them in Hyde Park.

"It's beautiful..." Spain says, admiration clear in his voice, and it's hard to tell what shines brighter, if the glass structure or his eyes.

"Wait to see how the light reflects inside," he answers, leading him towards the main entrance, where a small crowd is already gathering despite the early hour.

England tries to be a gentleman, offering to pay for their tickets, but manners are no match to Spain's stubbornness, so he has to concede his defeat and let the other nation buy them.

"I thought you'd be less than inclined to give my country any money," he says, once properly inside the elephantine building.

"I don't mind you having my money if I'm the one handing it. Having it stolen is another matter," Spain retorts with a pointed look, but his eyes quickly dart elsewhere, too many marvels to gaze upon to focus on him. "And two shillings is almost nothing in any case. Unless it's actually more money than I think? It seems so little for... this."

He points at the large fountain ahead of them, the vegetation growing inside the enormous glass and cast-iron structure, the marble statues scattered in between the pavilions, the displays themselves. It's almost impossible to not feel small and overwhelmed here, to know where to go.

"When the Exhibition opened, the entry was more expensive. But the price has lowered since then, so more people can enjoy it."

Spain nods approvingly before getting closer to the fountain, taking in the colours, sounds and smells. England actually is only familiar with the ticket pricing because the papers; in none of the times he's been here—the inauguration, and in some of Queen Victoria's later visits—has he paid anything. And, thanks to Spain, this occasion is no different.

But it is a very different occasion, at the same time.

He has never come to the Great Exhibition without an entourage of people, people who know who he is. Now, the only person aware of his identity, of his nature, is Spain, who isn't here on a diplomatic or official visit either. So they can pretend, and blend in with the rest of the visitors. No appearances to keep up for the sake of rulers and politicians, no timetable or plan to follow in order to achieve some goals that are only partially theirs. Everyone is too dazed, too busy, to look at them and see that particular glint in their eyes. And though England is quite proud of being the representation of this fine nation, of the people surrounding them, he more than welcomes the anonymity. The change in Spain's gesture is subtle, because he's more carefree and happy that he will ever be, and still England can discern that he also feels liberated by the lack of responsibilities and expectations.

"Would you like to see your pavilion first? It's right there, next to Portugal's," England offers, pointing right. He guesses it's as good as a starting point as any other.

Spain's face lights up, and he knows he has made the right decision.

"I remember reading part of the list of exhibits they were going to import for the event, but I wonder how everything looks on display."

Because they didn't have as many industrial and technological items as other nations, Spain's pavilion is not one of the largest ones. Switzerland's, right in front of it, was probably more than twice its size. Spain seems satisfied anyways, while walking around, watching both the exhibits and the people looking at them. He stops before a case with several Toledo steel swords and a halberd that seems more ancient than anything surrounding it. It looks like it has seen battle, too, its edge not as pristine and perfect as the blades', a little dented here and there.

"Is it yours?" England asks.

He doesn't recognise this specific halberd, but some of the fading scars he bears under his elegant ensemble are from similar ones. Spain gives him a sidelong glance, and England knows he's thinking about them too. He wonders if he remembers where they are.

"It was collecting dust in my storage, so when I learned they were sending some Toledo steel weapons, I lent it to them."

England takes that in. He hasn't contributed anything to his own pavilions. The organisation was more interested in flaunting the British colonies' products, his new machinery, what his industry is able to create right now or will be in the near future. Even the Medieval Court exhibit has been created without his help. He could have thought of something, probably, but now it's too late and he doesn't really regret it. He understands why Spain has done what he's done; apart from the historical value—that only he and the people in charge of that display are aware of—the halberd is quite a sight, gilt and engraved. Magnificent and still deadly. However, in his case, he believes whatever his people can offer is better suited for this event than anything found inside his manor. Once again, the Great Exhibition is History, and back at home there are just stories. A lot of the items, like Garcilaso's poetry book, couldn't even be displayed at his pavilion.

After Spain has looked at his exhibits long enough, pointing out some details here and there to him, they start to wander around. Since England has seen everything more than once, he follows Spain wherever his excitement and enthusiasm leads him, following no discernible order. He soon learns that, unlike the majority of the crowd that visits the Crystal Palace, he's not that interested in things like the Koh-i-Noor diamond, although he does see it. He stares at the hydraulic press, the giant telescope, the American grain reaper. His face almost shines when examining the musical instruments, the locomotives, the crafted items from all across the globe. Upstairs, he spends quite some time looking at the surgical tools and medicines, even though nations don't need them nearly as much as humans do. They can't simply die of cholera or blood loss due to a poorly performed operation.

"They've come so far..." Spain later comments, ambling through the stained glass gallery. "Who would have thought about half of these creations a century ago, two centuries ago? The ways in which their lives can be changed and improved?"

England doesn't fully share Spain's optimistic view. Under the translucent roof there is technology designed to make everyday life easier, yes, like Singer's sewing machine or a more productive printing press. There are also exhibits like Colt's, displaying his revolvers. Advanced weapons did certainly make some things easier too, but he doubts Spain is including them in his words.

"And yet," Spain keeps saying while he stops besides the railing that oversees the ground floor, now busier than when they first entered, "centuries pass and they're still the same."

England follows Spain's gaze to a young couple, clearly in love—despite societal conventions regarding public display of affection—enjoying their time together at the Exhibition. So enamoured it's easy to conjure the image of the man reading his lover the same sonnet Spain read him yesterday, and fully meaning it. His heart slightly aches at that last part, but he makes the feeling go away before it can take root. Even here, in the not that tiny bubble of the Crystal Palace, where for a time they can pretend to be normal people, he can't make that mistake. And not only because any public affection, being two men, would be more problematic than that of the couple he has almost lost sight of.

He watches them until they've definitely blended in among the crowds, and then he turns back to Spain, to ask him if he wants to continue the visit, almost over by now.

Spain is looking back at him, probably has for a while, an intense expression on his face that, this time, England doesn't know how to decipher. The Sun, filtered through the stained glass, makes colours dance around them like fairies would do; and, for a brief, passing moment, he feels as if inside a dream. The echoing conversations, the thousands of feet traversing the Crystal Palace, the whirring and clanking of machinery—all seems to fade in that split second, only silence and the coloured light floating between them.

Spain's lips slightly part, a word almost visible at the tip of his tongue. Something sparks in his emerald eyes.

Then, he closes his mouth again, and the tiny movement is just enough to shatter the dream into a million pieces. England is at once suddenly aware of how loud everything around them is and yet, nothing is as deafening as his own heartbeat.

"Shall we continue?" he says, gracefully pointing towards the gallery ahead.

He's proud of how steady his voice sounds, as if those simple three words hadn't had to painfully crawl all the way up from his chest. Spain blinks a couple of times, that spark still lingering for a few more beats, and then nods, his usual smile back in full force. He's as passionate and excited for the things they've yet to see on the upper floor as he was before that brief and quiet moment, as if it hadn't happened. The way in which his shoulders tense, however, says otherwise. England doesn't comment on it, though, and even when it seemed impossible at first, at some point his heartbeat returns to a normal pace.

Before they leave, Spain goes through the Italian exhibits once more. England can read—in the fondness of his eyes, the softened and wistful smile across his lips when he walks around the sculptures, vases and mosaic tables—that he could share countless details, anecdotes, about what's on display that he, with a more limited experience with the Italian siblings, isn't aware of. But he didn't say that much in that regard the first time around, and he doesn't do it now either. Those are not stories for him, unless freely offered—in the same way Spain didn't ask about what's behind the locked door to his underground chambers, he lets his companion peruse the display in silence and listens to whatever he does say, without pushing.

They buy some refreshments from a vendor outside the Crystal Palace, the prices quite more expensive than they should just because the proximity to the Exhibition, but England doesn't complain too much when Spain lets him pay this time.

He refuses to just sit on the grass, and they didn't think of bringing a piece of fabric with them, so they stroll through Hyde Park in search of an isolated bench where they can peacefully enjoy their meal. They're not the only ones with that idea, thanks to the fair weather, so they have to walk for a while, but none of them seem to care. There are still plenty of things to talk about the exhibits they've left behind, which machines they think will come after those ones or which new creations could appear in a future second Great Exhibition.

When they find a suitable bench, aptly situated under a large Spanish chestnut tree and far from everybody else, Spain is admitting—although a little begrudgingly—that he believes France's pavilion is the most beautifully displayed. Something that England, of bloody course, can't concede, even if it was true.

Which definitely isn't.

They eat in companionable silence, listening to the rustling of leaves and chirping of birds above. A gentle breeze rustles their hair, and England wishes he could capture this instant, this peaceful feeling, in a bottle. Keep it forever on one of his storage's shelves alongside his other memories. He can't, so he tries to enjoy it while it lasts.

He doesn't ask "When are you leaving?", because he already knows the answer. Even if Spain has gotten an actual permission to come to London and isn't here because of his stubbornness alone, he'll be soon expected somewhere else, his presence as a representation needed.

"Why didn't you come to inauguration?" he asks instead. "It was not an event just for them; other nations were here too."

He vividly remembers how busy the days leading to May 1st were, how both the foreign dignitaries and representatives, and the nations that had arrived before that date wanted to make sure their exhibits were as attractive and flattering as they could be, if not more. America ordered slight adjustments to the giant bald eagle and several flags display presiding over the East side of the building until satisfied, even when none of the changes was noticeable to England. But he knew better than to argue with him, so he had let him be and focused on his own Nave. Other nations had come after the doors were properly open to the public.

"I could have. I believe my ambassador was present." Spain briefly looks up, at the clear sky, before turning to him, a smile dancing on his lips. "But I very much prefer my current company."

He sound so earnest, so sincere, and England is taken so by surprise that, against his best efforts, his cheeks betray him. He turns and clears his throat, trying to hide the slight blush. His mind starts thinking of a quick retort, something witty, but the moment passes and Spain doesn't wait for an answer.

"You know, Arthur." His voice softens when saying his name, with that absolutely wrong pronunciation of his. England wonders if he's aware of the change, if it's on purpose. If he knows the effect it has on him, even after so many years. "I actually lied before."

This time, despite the thoughts running wild inside his head, he's ready.

"When you told me France's is the best pavilion? It's alright; you can admit mine's the greatest. It was designed to be."

Spain lets out a snort of laughter, more amused than annoyed.

"No, he definitely has a better aesthetic taste. But don't tell him that or he will start believing it too much."

"He already does." England argues, and by the way Spain's lips twitch, he doesn't completely disagree.

"No," the Southern nation continues, "I was talking about what I said yesterday. Me visiting because it's been a while since I was in London and the Exhibition was the perfect reason to come back." He then pauses, and England can hear his heart again, filling that brief silence. "Well, it's not a lie that I haven't been here recently. But the Exhibition wasn't a partial excuse to visit London."

It was to visit you, Spain doesn't add, perhaps out of pride. England feels the words, nevertheless, pounding inside his ribcage alongside his pulse.

Sometimes, it can be difficult to ascertain when Spain is just being charming, actually courting somebody or simply playing around.

No mistake can be made when his eyes glow like embers, almost burning. That glint more noticeable than ever. A look that could inspire a writer, a dozen.

"I thought you were only at my house because the rest of my country is 'even less charming'," England teases, managing to keep his composure.

He's been out of balance since Spain appeared, but now, now that the cards are on the table, he at least knows the game they're playing. He's not revealing that much if the other does it first.

"That last part is completely true." While he sounds almost offended, Spain's hand closes the gap between them, but not entirely, his fingers barely touching his. An open invitation, but one it wouldn't be hard to reject, if needed. "And I really wanted to visit the Exhibition! So I can leave now, before it starts to rain. I'll never trust your weather," he finishes with a rueful smile.

Spain doesn't say "Let's pretend to be like them for a little longer". He doesn't say "Ask me to stay".

"There are some more sonnets at home I would like to hear you read," England almost whispers, taking his hand.

He doesn't check if they're still alone—he doesn't even care. The world has stopped existing around them.

And when they kiss, under the Spanish chestnut tree, it's easy to believe in magic again.

The painting on England's storage is based on "Unión de Inglaterra y España contra Napoleón", by an anonymous author. I didn't know of its existence until I stumbled across it in the Museum of Romanticism in Madrid, and I immediately knew I had to include it in this story. You can check it here: photos/museoromanticismo/7703889710

The translation of Garcilaso's poem that I used is Edwin Morgan's. Here's the original version in Spanish, if you're curious: .

And lastly, shoutout to archive dot org for having a copy of the official catalogue of the Great Exhibition, it was very interesting to read about Spain's exhibits in this event.

PS.-Reminder that you can also find me under the name "SallyK" on Archive of our own!