Summary: She does not want gold. Conquistador!Spain/Belgium.
Disclaimer: I don't own.
Author's Note: Via osmosis, I became motivated to write Spain and Belgium after reading onetwosevennine's Hetalia fics. Also, this short oneshot is chock full of mistakes because I finished writing a physics history paper and I feel lazy. Or that might be my excuse.
The summer sun is warm on her uplifted face and bathes her hair with golden wine. She grasps for an eternity of happiness and instead clutches a fistful of tender grass. Sitting on the grass five feet away, he notices, and smiles dazzlingly. He calls her something in his language that she recognizes but does not believe is true.
"Bella," she repeats on her tongue, slow and dry. It does not sound beautiful.
He laughs and scoots closer. His green eyes are darker than the grass in her fingers. They are darker than her eyes. Just a shade or two, she thinks.
"Bella," he sings. It is beautiful like music in spring and she feels happy.
Her brother doesn't like him, but she thinks this nation is the right one. There will be no more wars while she is living in his house. There will always be sunshine and laughter and fistfuls of green grass and her name rolling off his tongue like wild, sweet honey.
A drop of moisture hits her skin, followed by another. It begins to rain. He yelps and quickly pulls her up, then runs toward the shelter of trees without bothering to release her hand. Their hair and clothes are wet. "Bella," she spits out under the branches, looking down at her damp skirt huffily.
"Bella," he agrees solemnly.
He catches her eye and they burst out laughing, the noise cutting through the rainstorm.
"You have a beautiful neck," he observes one lazy afternoon.
She is trying to pull her short hair up into a chignon, something France had once taught her, but it is slipping through her fingers like supple grass. She is thankful Romano is playing outside as he smiles at her admiringly because her blush is terribly awkward.
"I had beautiful ears yesterday," she remarks playfully, brushing her hair with a wooden comb. "What happened to that?"
"They are still beautiful, of course. But today, I realized you have a beautiful neck. I would like to adorn it with a beautiful necklace."
She suspects he is a little drunk from the wine at lunch. "You said beautiful three times too many."
"Usted es bella."
Suddenly, he is standing behind her and warm fingers are pressing the back of her neck, tracing invisible lines down the top of her spine. She freezes, the brush in midair, but he doesn't seem to notice his breath is on her ear, hot enough to burn.
"Gold," he says calmly. "It will be a gold necklace. I promise."
She feels uneasy in her stomach because lately Spain has been a little obsessed with gold and colonies, and perhaps her brother was right about revolting, but that disappears when she turns and sees his beautiful smile. She smiles back at him.
"That would be lovely," she says.
Romano has finally drift into a fitful sleep when she hears the front door open. He is home late again, probably returned from waging yet another bloody war, and her heart sinks in dread. She quickly leaves the bedroom and shuts it silently behind her, hurrying to her own bedroom just as heavy footsteps reach the hallway.
His tone is pleasant but it causes her to shiver in the warmth of the night. The desire to turn and flee is overruled by rationality, because she does not want to make him angry.
So she stops and turns slightly, offering a tired smile. "Welcome home. Romano just went to sleep."
Then she nearly steps backward because his clothes are positively reeking with exhaustion and death, and the expression in those dark green eyes are almost unrecognizable with feverish hunger. She chokes back a sob because this is not her Spain who smells of grass and all that filthy gold is corrupting him and she loathes the politics, the Church, the greedy barbarians who are taking away his beautiful smile from her—
"I brought something for you," he says, stepping forward.
The heavy clunking of his boots makes her heart pound faster. "What is it?" She clasps her hands tightly to keep them from shaking. Who knows what he would do if he sensed her fear?
He is near enough that she can smell him. Gunpowder. Dirt. Metal. Death.
Now he is only a step away and she cannot look into his eyes. He holds out a hand and something gleams in the dim candlelight. She looks down at the delicate gold necklace and flinches.
Spain glances down and smiles, "Ah, don't worry. It's not my blood."
And that is even more disturbing. The metallic smell had come from the blood staining his hands, his clothes, his hair. She stares at the shimmering necklace on his bloody hand and feels nauseated. Her hands are icy cold and damp. She wants to run away but her feet will not budge.
She does not want to touch him.
But he has no qualms about touching her. Spain closes the remaining gap between them and silently puts the necklace on, arms circling her until she thinks she cannot escape him. She stares down at his boots as his fingers work on the clasp, each brush of his skin burning jolts down her body. When he moves closer until her body is flush against him, his hands pressing her spine so she can feel his heat seeping through her thin nightgown, he murmurs into her hair.
His hold on her tightens almost possessively.
He means the gold. Not her.
Forever shatters and she realizes it will never return.
—and they run under the tree and laugh happily, raindrops flying from their clothes. He places his shirt on her, smiling beautifully, and vows in another language that he will protect her, take care of her, cherish her for all eternity.
She smiles up at him and believes with all her heart. Eternity. They will be forever.
The rain stops and a rainbow appears.