Author's note: This took me a good two days to get done. I've been toying with this idea a lot – what I love most to see in mature fics is a particular aspect of the setting that is stretched and exaggerated more than any other element; naturally, I've found very few. Every other mature fic sounds exactly the same after a while, if you get to thinking. Originally, this was supposed to be written in Spanish, but as I've tried something new, I decided English would be better for now.

All that could be heard for miles was the gentle scrape of a wooden spoon against a worn metal pot. The kitchen window of the third-story apartment was open in prayer that perhaps the slightest tease of cooling wind might come and spare the Spaniard the summer heat of his region; but the tomato-patterned curtains did not stir. The streets below were abandoned. The air was not humid - just dry. The only fluid that moved about the room was silence. This of course was to be expected, for it was siesta time in Sevilla and Antonio was merely eating lunch late. Why, it was three in the afternoon! It would be suicide to stroll about in weather such as this in midsummer. His white cotton shirt already hung open and loose on sun-kissed frame. At the roots of his bronze-streaked locks, beads of sweat had begun to form. He placed his now empty pot in the sink to free an arm to enable him to wipe it away. When he dropped the cooking spoon within it after, he swore he saw a handprint from his perspiring palms. Spain took a white-painted plate that sat on the counter beside him and moved away from the open window to sit at the small table only meters away. The sweet scent of the red carnations had turned sickeningly so with the heat and had begun to wilt, much to his dismay. They had been a well-wishing gift from Francis, as Spain's economy had been poor during the Second World War. Thankfully, he had been on the mend. Antonio even thought that he would perhaps be able to make the next world conference. The plate was set down with a soft sound that only made the apartment seem emptier. He took his silver fork and stirred the cocido within it. The enticing scent of well-cooked meat, both fowl and beef, arose with the steam that danced in the air. He sent a silent and rapid prayer to God for the food, then another to Allah as his mother had always done. The food heated his core far more than necessary and he felt himself break into more of a sweat than he had been in previously. As a personal preference, he had decided upon making the cocido like the citizens of Madrid would have; perhaps he merely missed the city. Ignoring the transpiration and thoughts of Madrid, he moved on from chicken to eating the beans, and from there to chorizo, carrots, and ternera. As always, his favorite two ingredients were saved for last; tocino, a pig fat to used as butter on bread and morcilla, a rich sausage of fried blood. France could say what he wanted to when it came to Spain's food, for to him, the common dish was a traditional delicacy and he was greatly appreciative that he had something to eat.

When at last he had finished, all that could be seen was breadcrumbs and streaks of whatever beans remained on the hand-painted dish. This too, like his curtains, was decorated with tomatoes and other assorted vegetables. He again uttered a prayer to Allah, and then stretched his arms. He was full to the point that he no longer felt comfortable; after wiping down the dish and getting himself a sip of water, he trudged to the hall on the side of the kitchen, then further shuffled down the corridor to the door that led to his room. Absently, he tossed open the window, still in hope of a stray breeze that had lost its was from the mountains. He flipped a switch on his bedside table, then turned down a dial and soon the sound of a gently strumming guitar and a smooth humming voice pursued the quiet loneliness away. It was nothing like live music; but there was a certain comforting feel of the music, as though it was interwoven in the air and blanketed itself over the hush. Free from it now, Antonio now felt comfortable enough to slide off his pants and collapse on his bed sheets from exhaustion. He blinked once, and then shut his eyes as sleep claimed him.

Spain awoke to the sound of a persistent ring in his apartment door. At first, nothing permeated his drowsy mind; in this state, for some hope that it would be turned off and stopped, he stumbled to the front door and buzzed whoever was ringing in then unlocked his door so that they may come in. He sat at the table with the carnations, blinking sleep away when through his blurred vision; he caught a glimpse of the person calling upon him. It was easy to tell that they had the physique of a man. There was pale skin, almost like moonshine; but that was impossible, for the sun had not yet set. His hair was short and summery, the color of golden wheat and strawberries. His eyes much like the sea where shining and intense, though made meek by rectangular glasses. It was this that gave his identity away, though the other had not been hiding it.

"¿Suecia?" Spain questioned with a mild degree of incredulity, "What are you doing here?" His own spring eyes swept over the man and observed that he had been doing quite fairly since the war ended, though he looked rather tired. Cutting off the man's reply, Antonio added, "Here, have a seat," and gesticulated to the seat opposite him. Again before Sweden could comment, the brunette interjected, "Why are you out during siesta? You aren't used to such heat - you could get a stroke or dehydration! You should know better, mi amigo," he castigated the other, though merely out of concern for his well-being. The blond nodded, accepting the criticism and recognizing it as worry. "I will get you some water - come, answer my question of why you came at this time, Suecia," he said, arising from his seat and searching for a clean glass. "Do you want anything to eat?" he questioned as the other opened his mouth to speak; then his face flushed as he figured out why the other had not replied and he hushed himself. The open mouth curved into a grin, then laughter as Sweden finally was allowed a word in edgewise.

"I came to see how you were doing," he murmured at last. "And," he reached down to a small bouquet of flowers, "give you these." Spain smiled, delighted, and took the seemingly fresh-cut wildflowers. There were no meadows nearby, the Spaniard knew; Sweden merely had a gift for preserving the lives of such delicate fauna. He found a small vase to set them in then handed the other a glass of water, which quickly disappeared down the other's throat. "Thank you," he said, slightly breathless from drinking so quickly. Alarmed by such behavior, Spain approached the other cautiously.

"Mi amigo," he addressed the other, "are you all right?" He laid a tanned hand against the reddening forehead of his friend. The man's typically cool skin was now warmer than Spain's hand. "Suecia!" he exclaimed in an accusatory tone, "Your temperature is too warm! And no wonder," he plowed on despite the other's protests, "just look at what you are wearing!" Appearing much more refined than Spain at that moment, Sweden was dressed in dark slacks, a navy button down, and his usual dark coat, while Antonio still wore nothing aside from his underwear and an unbuttoned shirt. He shook his head, exasperated, and undid the buttons on Sweden's coat and let it rest on a hanger. He took away his tie as well, and let the top two buttons fall away from each other. "You really mustn't dress like this when it's so hot," he chastised. "And don't look at me like that," he continued, feeling the irritated gaze bore into his back, "you know very well that you are in danger of dehydration." His green eyes searched for Sweden's blue and he gripped both of the other's hands in his own. "I was worried for a moment," he admitted sincerely as their eyes met. As a further confession, when Sweden said nothing for a long while, he added, "I've missed seeing you regularly, amigo." He released the blond's hands, as a sweat more from nerves than heat formed. There once was a time when Antonio was young and more naïve - at the age of perhaps two hundred years, his ambassador to Sweden had fallen for the queen of the realm. They had been introduced then and became fast friends. Often, Spain accompanied the ambassador on his trips to Sweden so that he may see his dear friend. Perhaps a century after the ambassador's and queen's deaths, however, they had seen each other much less frequently and their friendship had withered away like the red carnations on Spain's table, to the point where, in the end, it was alive, but barely.

Antonio stood from where he crouched at Sweden's feet and moved away from his chair, getting an abruptly uncomfortable feeling stirring in the pit of his gut. He took the glass from the table and began washing it out then invited, "If you'd like to take a siesta and wait for the heat to ease, you are welcome to, amigo." The very word meaning 'friend', while his own language from birth, tasted foreign on his tongue and caused it to tie up. From behind him, there was a squeal as Sweden stood, then the slow, drum-like beat of Sweden's boots approaching the brunette from behind.

"Nej," he replied politely, "but thank you." He reached over then to take the cup from Spain's wet hands. "Sleep," he encouraged, "I will wash, then go." His heart turned heavy as the dry, hot air as the glass was taken away, but he made no protest; Antonio only uttered his thanks, then hurried back over to the bed. He succumbed to the drowsiness once again, this time willing sleep onward to take him so that he may forget that the encounter ever happened. He focused his ears on the softly playing radio that still sounded in the warm air; but he could not help but hear just beyond the wall, rushing water from the sink. He envisioned the fresh, clear crystals sliding rapidly, bead by bead, off of Sweden's pale hands. Then he would turn off the water and wipe his hands down on the towel. Rather than hearing the opening and closing of the front door, however, Spain heard footsteps coming his way. On the bedside table, there was a soft sound of a vase being placed and the scent of blossoms wafted upwards towards Antonio; Sweden must have brought the flowers over from where the brunette had forgotten them on the counter. He wondered a moment if that was all he had come here to do; then from over him, a minute wave of body heat flowed over him and on his forehead a set of parched lips left a docile kiss. Astounded by it, Antonio felt his eyes fly open; his shock was reflected in Sweden's intense, cerulean eyes. Promptly, the man doubled back and stuttered,

"I-I am sorry, I thought you were asleep. That is to say, it was all I was going to - I would not have gone farther..." His profuse repentance faded away as background noise; a non-stop ring had replaced it as Spain steadily inched up to a sitting position on his bed. By pure instinct, he allowed his hands to reach up to Sweden's face and pull him down to a passionate kiss, cutting off all words or sounds of protest entirely. All thought had been erased from his mind as true intuition snaked its way into his being and took over any illusion of control he once had possessed. From the radio, a trumpet leaked into the heavy atmosphere, spinning itself a grand tune. Spain allowed Sweden to crawl on top of him on the bed; and as he did so, the room's heat rose several degrees. He held the blond so close; the skin of their dry, chapped lips hooked on one another; and they could not be separated. Antonio's long, guitarrista's fingers worked with a sense of urgency as he stripped Sweden of his dangerously dark button-down. When at last he was presented with the man's smooth, pale chest, he used his calloused pads to trace the supple muscles, leaving trails of tiny scratches, then used what little strength he had to push the man over and sit atop him. Their sweat was swiftly evaporating into the arid climate and a cloud of steam enveloped them in the now humid room. He leaned down to crash his cracked lips against Sweden's and this time dragged his tongue along his lower lip, silently imploring the blond to open his mouth; Spain was well rewarded when the other submitted to him hastily. The brunette swiped his dry tongue through the other's equally desiccant cavern, polishing his teeth, testing his limits in the back of his throat, then at last twisting and dragging them together. Like an ocean, salted water secreted from their bodies seeped in languidly through the corners of their mouths, blessing them with some level of moisture. Their scorched throats were soon in need of the dehydrated swelter the air provided them; and they broke apart, each pant filled with the searing atmosphere. The lust for contact had anything but left them and Antonio, still seated on Sweden, began a grinding rhythm against the other. The heat soon cascaded into the low centers of their stomachs; the blond's pants had become an uncomfortable obstacle. With delirium teasing the edges of his mind, the Spaniard struggled to remove the other's trousers, then underwear, leaving his member standing erect and exposed before his jade eyes. The blond's voice, husky and deep, broke through the heavy breaths and gently fabricked guitar music and whispered,

"It's too dry, Spanien. We can't," he protested feebly, his voice foreign sounding after so long of the lull. The man's heart was in the right place; he merely did not desire to see Spain or himself be harmed from the afternoon's unforgiving heat; and with no form of liquid other than their own sweat, it would be easy to physically harm the far more delicate Mediterranean on account of roughness. The tanned one, however, did not heed him. Stretching his arms over to the bedside table, he snatched from beside the radio a bottle of olive oil; for there was nothing else to be used as a form of lubricant.

"'Antonio'," he breathed out, correcting the other's error. "And you are Berwald," he stated matter of factly, though now the sound was distorted on account of him taking the oil's stopper between his teeth to uncap it. The bottle was only half-full; the fluid swirled around, but none spilled, even with the brunette's careless method of opening it. He poured much of it in his hands, ensuring that they were well smeared with the liquid, and then massaged the organ so that it was slick with the residue. Far too impatient to await the passion, Antonio slid his own underwear off and lowered himself, unprepared, on to Berwald. His breath hitched high in his throat as he reached a sense of fulfillment unlike anything he would dare to feel before. Again, he forced himself to lift his hips and lower them; after a moment's recovery of the shock, the Swede began to move with the other, often meeting him halfway coming down. It took all of his restraint not to moan; the brunette, however, cried out freely. With each pound into him, Spain's dehydrated mind throbbed, as did his virgin body. The heat, the unbearable heat had been inflamed further with their proximity to the point that the dripping sweat and surrounding steam had begun to emit what seemed a fiery glow. The boiling friction was enough to counter the pain of being entered while in the rough; and Antonio expected the whole experience to remain this way. He was bewildered when with a sudden lucky thrust of the hips; the blond struck something deep inside him that he never would have guessed was present. It was in this moment; he gathered with what little of his heat-distraught mind, two people could truly exist as one. He had barely discerned from his own mouth, a scream that carried one simple name and plea:

"Berwald! ¡Por favor!" He collapsed on the other's chest, the sweat falling from him like rain. His wavy tendrils were now made straight and were weighed down by it. Gripping his hair tightly, Spain found that the Swede's hair remained perfectly in place, as if the perspiration were a hair product. His face was flushed and distorted; he too had felt with clarity the effect of located Spain's prostate. The two of them together doubled their pace, Sweden now knowing exactly where to hit the golden-skinned man above him. Berwald's silence was broken, though his words were lost and incoherent, softly mingling with the crooning from the radio. Antonio, identifying an opportunity, sealed his own open mouth on the blond's, their stinging lips now moist from one another's fluids.

It took not much longer for Spain to spill his seed over the both of them, with a screech much like his first. For a moment, the heat in that room reached a deadly degree; then the sticky liquid covered them had them further heated and drenched in seconds; hastily, the brunette pasted himself to Berwald as the semen solidified between the two. The pleasure and contentment rolling from the Spaniard was as palpable as the humidity. In a few thrusts more, Sweden followed suit and ejected himself within the other. He too reached the state of life-threatening danger from heat; but it quickly passed. He allowed his final moan to resonate throughout the room.

"Tonio!" he had howled directly into the other's ear. Spain took no notice; he was enraptured with the utter bliss that possessed him as, in waves of warmth, Berwald filled him to the brim. For a long moment, he moved not; and it was just the two of them, sodden and nude, with an unclear song woven into the background. Then, with a jovial edge, Antonio replied to him,

"Easy, cariño. There is no need to yell - I'm still here." He rolled himself off of the other, flinching slightly. His muscles were already contracting to an uncomfortable position and he had the knowledge that the following day would not be pleasant. His jaded eyes found Sweden's for only a second; but in that time, all that was needed to be said was conveyed.

"I'll stay," he affirmed, though it really wasn't necessary; the devotion in his azure eyes was apparent enough. After all, the gentle man had come all that way from the north to give him native wildflowers as a mere wish for good health. Antonio allowed his eyes close; he took one last dusty breath, then, with evening's first breeze clearing the air of the humidity, he drifted to sleep in Berwald's arms.

Translations, clarifications, definitions, nightmares, dreams, and aspirations:

Sweden/Spain – Historically canon. Can't be bothered to explain at the moment, but if you're curious, go ahead and ask or look on my profile.

"Suecia" – Spanish – Sweden

"Siesta" – Spanish – Nap: Siesta time takes place around 3 to 4 pm, during the hottest hour of the day. In summer, in southern Spain, it's like freaking suicide to go walking about during this time.

"Sevilla" – Spanish – Seville

"Guitarrista" – Spanish – Someone who plays the flamenco guitar.

Cocido – Spanish – A traditional dish made with a crap ton of meat. Usually various parts of pig and some chicken, along with carrots and beans. If you want more info on the dish, just ask, I could go on and on, but I'm too lazy right now.

Chorizo, ternera, morcilla, tocino – Spanish – Chorizo is a freaking delicious sausage. Ternera is beef-stuff, kind of stringy is I recall correctly. Morcilla is (I kid you not) literally fried pig's blood. My host mother in Granada was shocked when I said I liked it. In Madrid, it's delicious. Tocino, contrary to what seems to be popular belief, is not bacon. They don't really have bacon in Spain. No, it is pig fat used for bread. All of these meats are ingredients in cocido.

God and Allah: Woohoo, history lesson. It is my headcanon that Spain's father was Castilla y León and his mother was whatever was left over, which had a really large Muslim population. My exact, exact headcanon is that Spain was raised Catholic and Muslim and therefore takes after both traditions.

"Mi amigo" – Spanish – My friend

"Por favor" – Spanish – Please

"Cariño" – Spanish – Affection, but can be used as a nickname, similar to calling someone 'sweetheart' or 'dear' in English

"Nej" – Swedish – No

"Spanien" – Swedish – Spain

1950's setting – Ask. Has to do with the historical period of Swedish-Spanish relations more than anything else, and hey, let's admit it, men dressed in a far more desirable and sexy manner in the '50's.

Thanks so much for reading and especially for giving my pairing a chance! I greatly appreciate it. I worked hard on this fic, but I still feel that it appears rushed. I worry about making it too long and drawn out, however. Feedback is greatly appreciated, as this is my first fiction of a mature nature and I would love to hear how my pacing was.