Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia!
Yay, another Spain/Russia, fall in love with them and give me my fix, goddammit! Dx
In a less aggressive note: my writing style is growing rather bizarre... I wonder why? Also, I wasn't quite sure what I was trying to achieve with this fic so it came out completely random! I'm sorry, alright? I was just roaming in a forest listening to a song 'where is my heart' and though of Spain misplacing his and then about how Russia's keeps popping out of his chest. That's it.
What I'm trying to say is: Enjoy! :D
It was perhaps quite a dramatic things to say, but the end was definitely near. Nearing. Like France in all his subtleness. Everyone agreed.
For as nice a day as it was, for sarcasm that is, with autumn weather raining down cold and harsh, blowing enough wind to make any umbrella snap in multiple places and thus making them useless which they had been to begin with since the water had taken a liking to the horizontal approach, someone managed to bring the gloom of the weather inside their widely spread four walls as well.
To be honest, not many of them were in an especially jolly mood to begin with, no thank you to the English weather doing its magic outside, long airplane flights left behind and faces they did not want to see because of personal grudges, but it was their right to sulk and snap because of these things. Because behavior like that was written in their personalities in which they represented themselves everyday of their too long lives.
So what right did Spain have to appear into a meeting with a wrinkle between his brows, a frown on his face and teeth gritted like he hated the world? Spain was always smiling and happy. He never minded the rain no matter the angle it poured on him. He didn't hate the faces he hated because that took too much energy and it was siesta time soon anyway, so why bother?
But there he was, displeased with everything around him, not sporting even a hint of a smile as he marched on and sat on his chair like putting his ass on it was the worst punishment the piece of furniture deserved.
His show of aggression was so raw and out of the blue that the weather throwing a tantrum outside had to do a lot better to outdo that of Spain's.
"Mon Dieu," France dared to speak from beside Spain, minding his adventurous hands from entering Spain's territory just this once. "And here I thought there was a storm roaming outside."
"Shut up," Spain gritted out, his voice filled with venomous things as he glared –glared!- at his neighbor.
"Shush now, Antonio. No need to be so hostile!" Somewhere in the buzz of the background, France could hear his bravery being admired, and his masochistic tendencies being pitied. He paid no mind to them, not at all, because his gentle touch of a big brother had just been rejected by Spain who only rejected a minority of his advances.
"All I want to know is how that wrinkle got there." And when he said 'there', he ran his finger all the way from Spain's forehead to the tip of his nose. As a result, it had almost been bitten off.
"I'm sure you want to know." The sarcasm oozed, hurtful and out of character as those angry green eyes kept on despising him. "Sure, I'll tell you."
"It was wonderful Francis, it was," Spain began, sighing out sadness and fondness and resentment all at the same time, leaning his poor head filled with unpleasantries to rest on his hand as he did so. "The best fiesta I've ever experienced! I ate good and I socialized and oh, did I dance."
Of course he had danced, Spain always danced. France couldn't say if Spain had made dance or if dance had made Spain, but they were one entity and not even tomatoes could come in their way.
"And the sangria was holy water, I tell you. I remember a lot of empty bottles, but there were a lot of people so surely I hadn't emptied them all. Still, things got a bit hazy after that but I kept on dancing and having the time of my life." He continued, turning to look at France.
"And it has been a long life."
"It has," France had no choice but to agree.
"So then, in the end I found myself at home, exhausted Francis, because it had been an intense night. I was still high on dance and sangria so I did something stupid and went to sleep. And in the morning..." All the anger in Spain had melted, turning into misery as he reeled further into the memory of the source of his foul mood.
"I lost my heart, Francis!" He finally admitted, bitter tears turning into rivers.
All France could do was raise a perfectly trimmed eyebrow at that. "Isn't that love? Are you in love? Is that it?" He asked a lot, because no matter how hard he thought, he had lost his heart plenty of times and the only reason he'd be upset about it was because of everyone's continuous refusals to be engaged in intercourse with him.
"No, no, I misplaced it," Spain corrected him, expression now more worried than anything. "It was so frantic in its beating and I was ever so tired, so I took it out to cool down and went to sleep, see? And in the morning, I couldn't find it anymore!"
"Cats love to eat hearts," Greece spoke from beside the panicking Spain, stroking a cat that looked as drowsy as its petter.
"A cat ate my heart! Dios mio, Francis! What do I do!"
While France did appreciate Spain's hands on him, he could have done without all the shaking he was going through because of it. His hair a mess and point of view a bit shaky, he pried the Spaniard off him less gently than he usually would. "I'm sure it's fine-"
"What am I without a heart? I stored most of my passion in there!" Spain wailed, bringing his rejected hands to cover his face. "Look at the frowning mess that I've become. This is not me, not me at all!"
In front of the room, Germany was standing up, looking at France expectantly to put an end to the drama so that business could begin. France, in return, gave him a look that suggested Germany himself could do something about the unusual situation if he so wished. Germany then took a good look at Spain again, sighed and sat back down to wait.
"Um," someone mumbled from behind them, a pressing aura making France less than enthusiastic to have a look at what loomed not a meter away from them. "If Spain has lost his heart, then maybe he can borrow mine until he finds his own."
Russia was smiling all innocent if not for the iron pipe he held in his iron grip. It did not make France want to trust him, but his mouth was too slow in moving, because Spain was already on it.
"Huh? Don't you need it yourself?"
"Not really," Russia said, still smiling as he pulled the beating organ from the depths of his winter jacket, placing it in Spain's hands before any polite refusals could be made. "Just make sure to return it, though. It's not very nice to be called heartless."
Spain took a while to stare at the heart, before slowly giving his first smile of the day to Russia. "No, it's not," he could agree.
With a small nod, Russia returned to his seat, Germany raised to his feet to begin the meeting and Spain, unbuttoning a few buttons from his earth colored dress shirt, placed the heart inside his chest.
Next day the weather was less rain, more mist. It was impossible to see more than ten meters before everything just melted into the murky white that had swallowed the city. It mattered little, though, because obviously the fog was unable to creep inside.
That is, until Spain appeared, carrying the haze in his eyes. The sight was odd, because as prone as he was to spacing out, there was always a hint that the daydream was a happy one. Now he was just a walking nightmare.
Gloom, misery and doom, Spain ignored all else and made his way to Russia, sitting down at the lunch table that everyone else had grown keen to avoid.
"Hello," Russia greeted him simply, continuing to bite down on his food like it deserved more attention than Spain.
"It's horrible, Russia," Spain began instead of a greeting, the dark bags underneath his eyes telling that sleeping was not something he had been doing last night. "I've never felt this lonely before."
There was no reply, just chew and swallow, chew and swallow. Although more in character with a heart in place, Spain was still not feeling like himself, and so he frowned. "You have over a hundred million within you, I don't understand."
Chew and swallow. "And no one to be with." Swallow.
The frown got deeper, more because of the effort of thought than it did from irritation. "But that is lonely, isn't it?" Spain asked, leaning a bit closer to the other.
"I can't really tell," Russia smiled at him. "What does your heart say?"
To be honest, his heart had said a lot of things. It told him to love and dance and laugh and live. It wasn't like his spirit that had once managed to hush the beating in his chest and made him a monster that did nothing but take, conquer and hunger. Yes, he had been angry once, ruthless and without a heart. That's why he had learned to listen to it so closely, and oh, had it spoken.
But this was not his heart, and while it spoke, the words were only quiet pleas to not leave it alone. They made him want to cry.
Without much thinking about it, Spain leaned even closer and wrapped his arms around the huge figure beside him, squeezing firm like it could help him release the ache in his chest. "This is what it tells me to do."
Russia chew. And then he swallowed.
The next morning the sun was shining through the poorly washed windows, filling all indoors with its bright light and strange shadows. And knives. It was not something that Spain could understand, but knives kept on flying in his direction from behind corners and doors.
After the twentieth that he barely managed to avoid being hit by, Belarus peeked her head from behind an oddly raunchy statue, hissing at him to "Stop dodging!"
"But surely I'll die if I don't," Spain told her in return, jumping to the side as the twenty first came flying his way.
"That's what you deserve for stealing my brother's heart!" She accused, stepping more into view in her anger.
"No, no! I didn't steal it, he just lent it to me!" And it was the truth too in Spain's long list of taking things that weren't exactly his and prettying the nasty words that followed to suit his conscience better.
"And what's keeping you from never returning it?" Growling, she tried to pat through her dress for more sharp objects to throw. To Spain's relief, it seemed like she had run out of them.
"Why would I do that?" It wasn't like his museums were particularly interested in Russian hearts that kept on beating on their own for thousands of years. Then again, humans could find the strangest of things interesting so Spain couldn't really say. Oh, and it was wrong to just take someone's heart, that too...
"Because that's exactly what I would do if given the chance to even just hold it once," she told him, unashamed and confident with her words. It made Spain place a protective hand against his chest and take a step backwards.
"Well I'm not you," he said stubbornly, trying lessen the growing want to keep the heart to himself after all.
"And that heart in your chest is less yours than it is mine." The pleasant sound of high heels filled the hallway when she started to take calm and composed steps towards him, distant memories reminding Spain that although the Belorussian might have ran out of knives to throw, the heel of a stiletto pressed against his Adam's apple was more a weapon than anything actually made for that purpose could ever be.
The only option he found was to run, because that was what his heart screamed for him to do, and dammit if he wasn't good at listening to its voice.
His hands are rather big, Spain's mind wandered along with his hand that had take a hold of Russia's. Quite huge, actually. And pleasant. Though that might've been the heart speaking, considering how comforting Spain found it to be leaning close to the other.
So comforting in fact, that he had taken Russia with him when England had kicked all nations out of his premises the minute enough nonsense had been discussed.
"Come with me so that we can look for it together," Spain had said, ready to bribe with promises of nice weather and fields of sunflowers, but getting a small and shy nod before he had the chance to.
And on a plane they were, flying to Spain which was an odd thing to think because Spain was Spain and they were flying towards him which was kind of frightening, because packed with immortality as he was, he wasn't sure if even he could survive a plane landing on him.
"Is that why you're holding my hand?" Russia asked with childlike curiosity, making Spain realize that he had just voiced his irrational fears without the consent of his better judgment. Not that he was ashamed, of course. The scenario was as possible as people flying impossibly high just so that they could breathe nonexistent air and touch the moon.
"Because you're scared of flying?" The question was specified.
"I'm not afraid of flying in general," Spain sulked, leaning his head to rest on Russia's shoulder just because he knew it would be comfortable that way. "It's just that flying towards myself is a thought that I can't manage."
Russia blinked, remaining unresponsive to all the physical contact that was going on. "I can't keep up with the way you think. First I'll try to comprehend how you managed to misplace your heart, then maybe I'll think about what you just said."
"Fair enough," Spain nodded. "Can I get a hug?"
"And what would you do with one?"
Spain just shrugged, proceeding to give one but never receiving anything in return.
"If I was me, and me was a drunk with his heart in his hands, where would I put it to cool down?"
Russia seemed to have trouble trying to imagine he was a drunken Spain with an overly excited heart, so instead of trying to step into those shoes, he looked around the house curiously. The residence had already been turned upside down after a frantic search the morning before the meeting, but Spain remained optimistic that there were still plenty of places to look from. If not plenty, then at least one beating corner in his house would do.
"You have such silly clothes in this painting," he heard the other comment his fashion sense that he had sported over three hundred years ago.
"What are you talking about? I found it rather flattering," Spain defended his past self, coming to stand beside Russia to stare at the painting.
"Indeed?" Somehow Russia sounded more amused than convinced, but Spain didn't take it to heart. Which reminded him that it was still lost and alone, needing to be found.
And then came the thought, that what if he never was going to find it ever again. Eventually he would have to return Russia's heart and then he'd just be a heartless Spain who did not find any joy in dancing unless the dance floor was carpeted with corpses, who drank his sangria out of a golden goblet and to whom the world as he knew it was not nearly enough.
He didn't want that. He wanted to nap for a living and to live for dancing. Spain wanted to be Antonio whose mind might be a mess but whose heart was definitely in the right place.
"Spain?" He could hear someone call for him in the distance that wasn't much a distance at all, because Russia stood right next to him as he spoke and broke the train of thought. "A fashion hazard his not something to cry about, now is it?"
Spain blinked a couple of times, slowly growing aware how wet his cheeks felt. If he licked his lips he could taste salt on them and really, the sobs escaping him were the hugest hint of his mental break down.
"It's gone! And I'll be someone I'm not for the rest of my life and I don't want that!" He wailed, suddenly feeling like gravity had a stronger grip on him and fell on his knees by the force of it.
"Oh, well that and tears make much more sense," Russia nodded, crouching down in front of Spain. "You southerners can be so dramatic. Here." Offering him the end of his scarf, Russia smiled like an amused child.
Nodding a bit, Spain accepted the scarf, wiping only his tears on it, thinking that Russia wouldn't appreciate his snot all over it.
"So then, I was thinking," the Russian began, staring at the walls painted in fading orange. "Your country is rather hot no matter where you go, so I can't think of many places to make anything cool down."
"What are you trying to say?" Spain swallowed some goo that the tears had brought with them.
Russia was quiet for a while, only to build up the tension, Spain was sure –and he had called southerners dramatic!- then turning to look at him with a smile on his face. "Did you check the fridge?"
"Oh my God! It's here! Russia, it's here in the fridge! Ooh, my very own heart how I missed you~!" Spain sang as he opened the door and found what he had been so desperately looking for.
Russia stayed silent at the doorway to the kitchen, looking at Spain dance around. He thought that maybe he should have felt happy for the other but mostly his chest just felt empty.
"Ah, it's a bit cold, oh my," noticed Spain, advanced science telling him that if a meaty thing spent over three days in a fridge, then it was bound have cooled down. Not letting science slow him down, Spain started to unbutton his shirt, going all the way to get rid of it completely and let it drop on the ground before taking out the borrowed heart and replacing it with his own.
With defeated eyes, Russia half expected to see his heart being carelessly tossed aside since it was no longer needed, but instead Spain kept his hold firm on it as he traipsed towards Russia, smile brighter than it had been for days.
Without any warning, Spain reached out for him, tossed the ends of his scarf out of the way and went straight to work on the mechanism that kept his jacket shut to keep winter's cold hands off his body. The boldness of the Spaniard made him jolt, go rigid and back against a wall with a safe row of kolkolkols leaking through his teeth.
Spain only managed to look confused a bit before taking a step to gain back the lack of distance he just had had in his hands. "Just stay still," he commanded with a cheery tone, not trained to understand what a Baltic would call a sign of danger. "I'm just making sure I don't misplace anything this time."
And so he tugged and pulled and unbuttoned until Russia's chest was as bare as his blushing cheeks. Carefully, Spain looked at the heart in his hand one more time, before placing it where it belonged, kissing the chest with a smile after the deed had been done.
Even in all his panic at being exposed, Russia could not miss the strong jolt of happiness that ran through his body the moment his heart made its first beat inside him. It was like pure white joy was being bumped into his veins and his hand was not quick enough to cover his mouth before the laughing began.
"W-what is this feeling?" He breathed out, his attempts to stop laughing only making him sound like he was choking.
Spain smiled sheepishly at him. "I must've been overjoyed just now," he said. "I do that sometimes."
With deep, calming breaths, Russia managed to master the joy instead of being its slave, and looked at Spain who still lacked the mind to back away. So he seized the opportunity and quickly captured the man by wrapping him in his arms and the depths of his winter jacket, making them come skin to skin and leave the world outside to mind its own business.
"What's this then?" Spain asked curiously, all the while trying to adjust his own arms to fit the rules of a mutual hug.
"Just found something I don't want to misplace," Russia shrugged, ignoring the sound that escaped Spain the moment he found out exactly where he kept the iron pipe when it wasn't on his hand, letting his senses inhale the Spaniard in his arms instead.
"Indeed?" Spain chuckled, voice filled with playful humor.
"Indeed," Russia agreed and decided that a kiss would not be a bad payment at all for a borrowed heart.
Comment and criticize? :D