HETALIA BELONGS TO HIDEKAZ HIMARUYA

Spain would say: "Ah, France! Winning England in anything is a duty to me, but winning you…, you don't know how much of a pleasure it is!"

And France would reply: "Oh, I lost a soccer match against you…Excuse me while I go cry in a corner about not excelling at kicking a ball around like you and only being the seventh world economy…"

Spain would frown and bark: "Leave my trucks alone, I'm warning you!"

And France would reply, louder, so he wouldn't be eclipsed by him: "And you stop selling your shitty vegetables so cheap!"

Spain would tell everyone he knew: "If I lost the voting today at the Council it's because of that prick."

And France, having heard of that, would smile and say: "I am just protecting my interests, like any other country in this world."

Spain would wrap an arm around France and tell him: "Congrats, France, for your last position this year! I had a great nap while you were singing!"

And France, his face red with anger, would try counterattack: "You don't understand! Neither you nor anyone in this stupid continent has taste!"

Spain, some days, would simply say to him: "I hate you. Everybody hates you."

And France would lovingly look at him into the eyes to reply: "I know, I despise you all as well, but you…, eh, why bother?"

Yes, why bother about someone as childish as Spain was?

That is, until he heard the news.

«A flood disaster which has mostly affected Valencia», «over 220 casualties», «dozens are missing», «thousands of families have lost everything», «towns buried in mud»

And saw the images on the television and social media. Dear Lord...

And couldn't get it off his head.

He went to talk to his boss immediately.

"Spain's government has not asked for international help for the moment." He shrugged.

Perhaps he didn't really need it, but, still…

The situation was even worse on site. It had been a big one indeed. This looked like a war scenario, with all the streets clogged with debris and piles of vehicles. Some buildings had collapsed or had been demolished for safety. Mud covered everything, making it difficult to walk, and the stench was starting to become unbearable. People were trying to do away with it with their faces covered with masks, with brooms and everything they had—which wasn't much. They were wearing their usual clothes, their sport shoes. All of them were bathed in mud.

That was why he didn't recognize Spain when he found him. It was his green eyes, too green to be human.

He rose his face from the dirt and looked at him with surprise.

"…You're here?" His voice sounded sticky, surely because of his lungs filled with dirty water—the common sequel of these kind of disasters.

"What? Can't you see me? Are you blind?"

Spain didn't reply. He didn't stop pushing the mud with the broom, either. France looked around.

"…Where's the Army, or the Police?"

Spain shrugged.

"They should be here…This is a work for soldiers, not civilians."

All response from Spain was shrugging. And France understood from the look on his face that a lot of people had been disappointing him lately.

"In that case, it's your lucky day…I came with some firefighters."

"Ah."

"…Do you have a spare broom?"

Spain finally rose his eyes at him. He looked at him for a second and saw that he had not come with his Vuitton or Cartier—just comfortable, plain sportswear. His long, blond hair is in a high ponytail. This one didn't just come to have some pictures taken.

He felt like he was going to cry but not now, not now…, later…, there was so much to do…

"I think someone around here can give you a shovel." Spain finally replied.

There was no time to waste on such things.

Well, there was one thing they could do and they did it: pat each other's back.

Funny how Spain felt a strange sensation of warmth with that tiny gesture.

In memory of all the people who have lost their lives, family and homes—and in homage to the thousands of people who have come to the rescue from all parts of Spain and the world.