TURNABOUT
Part Two: Inversione/Inversión
la-russophile
» Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
» Rating: M
» On Going(WIP)/One-off/Series: WIP
» Classification(s): Humor, Romance
» Warnings: Violence, Language, Sexual Situations
» Pairing(s): S. Italy/Spain - I saw this pairing condensed to 'Spamano' and very nearly died laughing.
» Summary: Reason number two why one should never let Francis anywhere near one's impressionable significant other, although in this case it might be summed up differently: do not take any advice, period, from pervy, beardy Frenchmen.


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In the shady bar of a little cantina somewhere in the south of Spain, three men lay slumped across the stools in various poses of utter languor. The ancient blackened oak doors were flung open to the dusty street, but the air remained still and thick, like golden syrup, and even the flies were too sluggish to buzz. Gilbert watched one crawl across the wood two inches from his nose and couldn't summon the energy to so much as blow at it.

Antonio, slumped backwards onto the counter from his seat behind the bar, started counting the flowers in the tin ceiling tiles for the fourth time. There had been twenty-three on his first count, but on the second and third there had only been twenty-two. Where had the other one gone?

Francis draped over his stool supported only by the bar and wall, looking as though a stiff prod might send him oozing to the floor. "Hot, non?" he said to no one in particular. Gilbert grunted. Antonio realized that he'd counted a bell the first time and slowly blinked, satisfied.

"Are you three barboni going to just sit around all day?" Lovino asked from the kitchen door. His heavy scowl was lost on the three, absorbed as they were in their own laziness. Antonio gave him an affable wave, and the angry Italian threw his soup spoon at him. It bounced off his forehead and clattered to the floor behind the long bar, and the angry Italian flounced back into the kitchen with a venomous, "Make sure you pick that up!"

"Ow... why does he hate me?" Antonio mumbled.

"Because you are constantly provoking him, cher," Francis answered him.

"What with all the curl-pulling," Gilbert agreed sleepily.

"But if I stop that, he won't talk to me at all!" he pouted.

"You'd be surprised." Francis stretched languidly and closed his eyes against the strong sunlight. "Espagne, just put your hands behind your back and promise not to touch him. Offer to let him touch you. Even if he only punches you, it's a start."

At that moment, the three became aware of something speeding towards them from the opposite end of the street. Gilbert and Antonio watched idly as it resolved itself into Northern Italy, who launched himself at Francis with a cry of "I did it, France-nii-san!"

"Good for you," Francis squeezed out, choking under the pressure of Feliciano's ferocious grip. "Quoi, exactement?"

"Doistu will never forget me now! He won't ever forget, because we did the fu-"

A hand that may as well have been made of iron clamped itself over the Italian's mouth, and a suddenly looming Ludwig suggested with all possible mildness, "Perhaps you should go help your brother with lunch, Italien."

"Eh, but Doistu-"

"He's probably cooking the pasta wrong. He spends too much time at Spanien's house."

"Noooo, the PASTA!"

Feliciano ran off, and Francis allowed a slow grinning leer to spread across his face. "Dooonc, mon cher Allemande, what did Feliciano do that you won't ever forget?"

Gilbert started to giggle, his head still on the table. Antonio, always slow on the uptake, tilted his upside-down head quizzically.

"WHAT?" Lovino screeched, from the depths of the kitchen. "You did the WHAT with that potato-bastard?"

"Congratulations!" Gilbert poked his brother in the arm a few times, seemingly the most he could manage. Ludwig just muttered something dark and reached behind the bar for a stein, pouring himself an extremely large beer.

"Oh," said Antonio brightly. "You slept with Feliciano!"

"I do not want to talk about it," Ludwig stated icily.

"Perverts! Perverts, all of you! Feli, don't let him fucking touch you!"

"But I can touch him, right, Lovi?"

Ludwig scowled. Francis considered him with raised eyebrows, and then smiled deviously and said sweetly, "See, Antonio? I give great romantic advice." Ludwig winced, and drank.

Lovino came storming out of the kitchen, tearing off his apron and chucking it into Antonio's face. "I'm done here! If no one but you lazy asses is going to show up, Feliciano can take care of it! I'm going home!"

Francis glanced at Antonio, waggling his brows, and when the nation only stared blankly back gave him a shove with his foot and pointed.

"Ay, sí." Antonio slipped off the stool and in one smooth movement lept over the bar, landing lightly in the dust of the road. He went trotting after the Italian, with a "Heeeeey, Lovi..."

"You do realize that not-touching is the exact opposite of your usual M.O.?" Gilbert asked, sounding half-dead with boredom. "Do you really think it will work?"

"Eh, who can say?" said Francis, with a certain smugness that indicated that of anyone, he could say. "My advice got Ludwig Feliciano, didn't it?" He laughed nastily. Ludwig chose that moment to escape to the kitchen with his second full stein.

"Mmmm," Gilbert said noncommittally into his tankerd. Maybe he could try it with Austria.


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There is another chapter coming… I didn't rate it M for Lovino's barboni comment.