HETALIA BELONGS TO HIDEKAZ HIMARUYA
Spain would look at him with a smile and tell him: "Y'know, gabacho...I really don't like you."
And France would smile back at him and reply: "Like I cared about your opinion."
Surely he thought he wished that bull would leave him like a rug. France himself thought he would be glad to see him fail in front of such large public, after he found his name on the poster of that bullfighting show. He actually bought a ticket, and for one of the best seats, too. To be there to see it, and also because the profit would be entirely for children with cancer.
But when Spain got on his knees to greet the bull, a massive black beast, a puerta gayola, a very uncomfortable feeling installed inside of his chest.
Just the thrill, he told himself.
The bull attacked, Spain showed him his cape, getting an 'olé' from the spectators. He had to bite his tongue not to join them. He didn't want him to think he was doing something he approved. As if Spain was going to hear him.
He didn't like him, either. Spain liked to act like the victim but he hadn't been an angel to him in the past, either. All the things he did to him, he didn't regret them—he needed someone to take him down a peg or two.
Darn, did those tight trousers made him a sweet butt...
He shook his head, tried to remember all those little and big things. But he remembered all indeed. Including the good stuff. Because there was a time when they loved each other sincerely. Back when they were small, and were both Rome's provinces, then fell under the hands of the Goths, they were like brothers, always together, always scheming, goofing around, pretend fighting...
As Spain stabbed the bull with two banderillas and blood started running down the bull's back, France wondered at what moment did all the games end and they started doing real harm to one another.
Spain had gotten too close, the bull pushed him. One of its horns grazed his face, leaving a bleeding scratch. The public let out an exclamation. France's heart skipped a beat.
Spain gritted his teeth. He seemed to be alright, though, and kept on fighting. France pressed his knees, desperately needing something to grasp, something to do with his hands.
His poor face! He may have been an idiot, but he was handsome!
A face he had known for a long time...Of someone he had actually loved...
He would be alright...He wished he was...He kept fighting, moving gracely, like he didn't care ending up like a coat rack..., like he didn't care making him suffer.
Sure they had had their quarrels, but he didn't want him dead or hurt...Not even back then...He left him no choice but to do all those things...He never actually wanted that...France had to admit...he had been a fool, thinking that he would enjoy this...
Two more banderillas. The public clapped. France clung onto his pride and resisted joining them.
Spain turned his eyes at the grandstand, looking at all the faces surrounding him. He gazed a little longer in his direction, and France had the feeling that he was looking at him, that he knew he was there...He most probably felt it, didn't he? He hoped he didn't get the wrong idea...He would get unbearable...
The bull didn't seem tired at all, in spite of the fight or the blood loss. In fact, it seemed very, very angry, and charged mercilessly. Spain avoided its horns by an inch.
And France found himself doing something he hadn't done in a long time: join his hands and move his lips in a silent prayer.
Noble little bull, have mercy...Among that embroidery he's got my heart...
THE END