23Title: Watercolors
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: The usual: I own nothing, nor do I make any profit from anything herein.
AN: I am back. Life tried to keep us apart, dear readers... but I put an end to her. This will be the 'last chapter,' however, I am considering updating it with Spamerica one-shots of what happens after. Unfortunately, I've been away from the story for so long that I had trouble getting back into it; but I do keep getting ideas and imagining scenes that would make wonderful one-shots, in my opinion.
He is being punished. That is the only explanation that the American can come up with to explain his current predicament. Whatever cosmic power(s) are in play, are clearly punishing him for the various transgressions he has racked up over the centuries. It is the only reasonable conclusion. If not, then he wouldn't be standing in a hall in the United Nations Headquarters while France fusses over him like some mother making sure her son is presentable before a first date. The worst part is that they aren't alone in the hallway either. Most had the decency to pass by and snicker amusedly over the American's torturous circumstance. Some, however, stop and stare. America had resisted his cruel fate at first, after all, he is a full grown man… well, he does have the body of a teenager so maybe not a fully grown man, but he is definitely a strong, independent nation. One that can shake the very foundations of the world, and has on occasion. He shouldn't have to deal with this.
However, eventually he decided that the only manly path was to proudly take and accept what Fate/Karma/Whatever had in store for him. It certainly had nothing to do with having flashbacks of himself in similar situations with England and remembering that making a scene, more often than not, attracts even more unwanted attention. Noticing the truly happy and fond expression on France's face while attempting to 'fix' the American's hair didn't persuade him either. He is just accepting his divine punishment like a man.
Azure eyes narrow fiercely at brown. Hong Kong has been standing to the side, watching as France slowly destroys America's dignity and pride with his same, blank expression that most have trouble reading. America, however, knows. He knows that the unassuming brunette is taking great joy in watching. The American can feel it. It's all around him. Hong Kong is taking some sort of sick pleasure from watching a fellow national avatar be slowly tortured. Sick bastard!
The North American's eyes widen momentarily. He watches in horror as the stoic Asian avatar slowly produces a smart phone and proceeds to raise it up in the telltale motion of taking a picture or filming video. America quickly adopts a fierce glare and narrows his eyes at the device in Hong Kong's hands.
"Burn, Burn, Burn, Burn…" America thinks to himself as he focuses his glare solely on the smartphone in the hopes that he will suddenly manifest psychokinetic powers and cause it to burst into flames or melt… or something equally awesome. He would normally focus his attention on the individual operating the phone, but America knows that Hong Kong's sick pleasure from watching older nations torture the younger nations is most likely from China's communist influence. Hong Kong can't help it, so the phone must die instead.
The American's focus is broken suddenly when he feels a moistness and pressure on his cheek. It almost feels as if someone has licked their finger, or thumb, and then proceeded to wipe his face with it. America's expression takes on a more horrified look before turning to face the French nation that had recently taken it upon himself to actually act like an older brother around the American these past few days.
"Oh, my God. Now there's two of them," America manages to say in an indignant, exasperated exclamation as he takes in his surroundings. As before, France is still trying to tame the American's uncooperative golden mop... The younger blond takes some small pleasure in knowing that at least some part of himself is still attempting to resist European oppression while he cannot. However, China has seemingly appeared out of thin air and is attempting to rub the Americans face raw until there is nothing but bone left. America attempts to say something snide to the Asian nation that is inserting himself in affairs that aren't his own, but the two older nations appear to be completely ignoring everything around them but the task at hand. What that task is exactly, America doesn't know, but he has to momentarily appreciate the focus they both exude.
"Uh, China? What are you doing?" America asks as said Asian nation slightly sticks his tongue out in concentration as he continues to rub at the younger nation's cheek.
"It looks like you have paint on your face," China replies casually with a childish smirk that lets the American know that there really isn't anything on his face and that China is in a 'rare', playful mood that hardly sees the light of day in present company. After a few seconds of vigorous rubbing, the Chinese man withdraws his hand, and with a satisfied nod proclaims, "There."
"I assume that today is the day," China says out loud, to no one in particular as he begins to appraise the younger nation's attire. The younger nation shifts uncomfortably and plays with the large piece of cardboard tubbing, housing the neatly rolled up painting he intends to give to Spain. It's slightly unnerving to be 'stared at' while wearing clothing one isn't entirely used to. France had insisted on dressing the American since, according to France, the avatar of their people seems completely unable to channel the various fashionable influences that they have contributed to the world. America refused initially, he is perfectly capable of dressing himself and being fashionable… when he wants to be. Unfortunately, this then led to an overly dramatized monologue about New York fashion, the plight of the fashionable American citizens not being represented by their nation, and how what you wear literally speaks volumes; literally. The younger blonde soon mistakenly agreed to the European's 'request' thinking it would spare him the rest of the speech. He was wrong; so very wrong. China abruptly turns towards France while extending an open hand to the American, gesturing towards all of the younger nation while disapprovingly saying, "Does it have to be so form fitting?"
"Button up that collar," the eldest of the three demands as he less than gently jabs the American's sternum, causing the younger blonde to take a step back. "This isn't some sleazy booty call."
America lets out an amused snort. For some reason, 'sleazy booty call' unexpectedly coming out of the self-proclaimed, oldest nation on Earth is far more entertaining than it should be. It's most likely the accent America surmises.
"Sleazy?" France questions and proceeds to level China with a pitying look while maintaining an air of superiority. It reminds the American of some European noble looking down, in insincere concern, on the plight of the poor, ignorant masses of the common folk. "Only one button is left undone. If it were fully buttoned, then it would say, 'business only' and would require a jacket. Then we'd be left with a boring business suit and tie. He'd just blend in with all the mundane grey, black, and blue blobs that move through this building and drown it in an oppressive atmosphere of drab, mediocrity."
"No," France continues as he fully appraises the American's attire. An admiral blue, collared dress shirt; slightly, and purposefully wrinkled with the first button undone. Revealing the dip where clavicle and sternum connect; providing a small, yet tantalizing expanse of skin for appreciating watchers. After all, if you've got it, flaunt it… but don't bring all the weapons in your arsenal fully to bare; where would the fun be in that? The rest of the outfit is rather basic, brown leather dress shoes, a leather belt and a pair of khaki's. America's best asset is his smile and expressive face, which is why attention must be drawn to that area. Sporting glasses with slightly thicker frames than usual, along with a stylishly messy mop that looks like it can't decide whether or not to break free, or stay in the barely acceptable, kempt business appearance forced upon it; attention will definitely be focused on the young blonde's face. France gives a pleased nod and smile before adding, "This says, 'adorable lost puppy, looking for loving home.' Which is exactly what is needed."
The older blonde turns to give the Asian nation that dared to insult his fashion decisions a harsh glare that bordered on qualifying for a full blown declaration of war. America watches in mild amusement as China levels an equally terrifying glare of his own. As the two 'elder' nation's begin to squabble in a heated debate about acceptable fashion in the work place, the blue eyed American seizes on the opportunity presented to him by Lady Luck to 'get the hell out of Dodge.' Karma must have felt that America had suffered enough and brought the Chinese avatar to free him from his tormentor. Though, the American has to briefly wonder what France or China most have done to generate a karmic response in which the two are pitted against each other in an arena that is arguably one of the most boring in existence; work place fashion.
"Thank you for the help, France; but I need to get going," America says while he turns with a wave and walks briskly away before the older nations can realize that they're being bailed on. The North American maintains his pace until he rounds a corner and notices that he doesn't have that feeling of being watched or followed. "Phew."
Slowing down to a more normal, walking pace, America taps the side of his leg with the cardboard tube protecting his latest gift for a certain viridian eyed Spaniard that has been occupying all of his thoughts. Briefly, America entertains the notion that the tube is a fancy walking cane and strolls through the hall, pretending to be some fancy Victorian era lord, walking through the streets of London. Which, in America's mind looks something akin to a set piece belonging in a Tim Burton film. Eventual the young, blonde avatar manages to pull his head out of the clouds and remembers that not only is he in another international meeting with Spain, but they have all been dismissed for a lunch break. Of course, this means that the North American must embark on another mission to deliver a painting.
America, brings the protective container closer towards himself, protectively. Normally, he would be concocting some sort of means to remain unnoticed, but France has managed to talk the American into gifting the painting in person. It's not like the azure eyed blonde had intended to deliver it anonymously anyway. The moment anyone spots the watercolor, they'll immediately know who created it. What France had to do was convince him to actually give the work of art, instead of keeping it shoved in some corner of his storage room, never to see the light of day. However, the older European nation had eventually come up with a 'Romantic' idea of how the events should unfold. A confession of love, declared through art, in front of the entire world. It was both an equally interesting and terrifying speech. Interesting, in that France had gotten so passionate about the whole vision he was creating in his head; that the older nation appeared to be lost in his own little world. It briefly made the American wonder if that is what he himself looks like when others accuse him of doing something similar.
What made it utterly terrifying was that America wasn't, and still isn't, quite sure how he feels about his newest watercolor. He is proud of how it turned out. Whatever Muse had struck him had stayed with him throughout the entire process and helped him to create a masterpiece that he will probably have difficulty ever matching in the future. Yet, the work of art frightens him, and gives him pause whenever he gazes upon it. He can't help but feel as if he has somehow managed to tear a piece of his very soul away and paint it upon a canvas. The painting revealed apart of himself that he had not entirely realized or accepted. Emotions and feelings towards another person that he had not fully confronted prior. His painting invokes a feeling that the North American has trouble describing, but the watercolor makes him feel overwhelmed, naked, and exposed… and France not only wants him to give it away to someone, who might possibly reject it, but do so in front of an audience. An audience that, at times, can display a cruelty and apathy that can only be achieved through living the innumerable horrors and tragedies that come with near immortality.
"Where is he," America says to himself as he nervously fidgets with the gift he is carrying. Mindlessly, he rubs his fingers against it, finding a small groove in the surface. He pauses momentarily as he tries to recall where Spain had gone to during the lunch break. The first half of their meeting had been divided up into regional meetings, so America had yet to see the Spaniard. It was made worse that France had literally pounced on him as he exited the door from his conference room and dragged him to lunch. The American couldn't help sense that the older blonde was trying to keep an eye on him and make sure that he wouldn't 'chicken out'. It mildly offended America. He is no chicken; once he agrees to something, he sees it through. It's the honorable, manly thing to do.
America is also appreciative of the older nation's actions, though. France, either intentional or unintentionally, had managed to distract America from his more negative side and provided much needed relief and support. Well, appreciative until the train of thought chugging away through his mind eventually leads the American to after lunch, when the Frenchman began to fuss over his hair to the amusement of everyone present… except for himself, of course. A shiver runs down the blonde's spine as he quickly attempts to forget that most harrowing event.
After a few moments of walking that appears more like nervous pacing, the American checks his smartphone. He notes that there is only ten or so more minutes left of their break. The best place to find Spain, the American decides, is the area in, or around the General Assembly. He pauses briefly, to steel himself. To sort through the swirling torrent of emotions battering his nerves. Despite his many reservations, and doubts about what may come, America decides that more than anything, he just wants someone to love. Someone to support and weather the ravages of time with, even if for but a fleeting moment. For whatever reason, his heart is set on a single individual. Although, anyone could reasonably suffice, the young nation can't see himself with anyone else; and with a decidedly determined look, marches on.
OoOoOoO
Spain holds his hand out to the side; letting it brush against the textured wallpaper of the hallway as he walks through the headquarters of whatever international forum he and his kind are attending this day. Normally, such an action would be accompanied by a bored, or exasperated expression; reminiscent of a child forced to wait in a doctor's office without any toys to entertain them. However, a small smile graces the Spaniard's features. Lately, these meetings with his kind, once a largely dull and uninteresting affair, have turned into a rather unexpected source of joy for the Mediterranean man. There are mainly two reasons for this change. The first are the gifts Spain receives after the lunch break of each meeting he has attended since his spat with Romano and England.
The Spaniard turns his gaze upward while he raises his head slightly to the side as he recalls the memory of the day he first started receiving the post-card sized works of art. The first time he saw the sketch of the kitten, Spain didn't think all that much of it. In fact, the viridian eyed nation didn't think much of anything at all that day. It was like being crushed by an oppressive gloom that shut down the ability to think, leaving only a swirling mass of sorrow and anger and every 'negative' emotion one could name. It was suffocating and left no room for anything else. However, the sketch of the small kitten playing with the tomato had caused something to stir within him. A very tiny, minuscule part of him felt 'something'. As to what that 'something' was, Spain's not sure, but it seemed to be a spark; a tiny pinprick of an ember fluttering in the raging darkness of his mind.
The gift turned out to be more than a singular event. Every day thereafter, during meetings with his kind, he would receive another work of art. Always something cute and/or fun. Something that would feed the tiny ember growing within him. Eventually the darkness consuming his mind was pushed back enough that the Spaniard was able to function again… able to think and to realize that this was just one moment in a long and numerous list of tragedies and dark spots in his long life that he needed to accept and move on from.
A small amused snort erupts from the Spaniard as his mind quickly diverts to several of the rumors running about the sketches and paintings that he has received these past couple of months. Specifically, the ones claiming that they're elaborate threats on his life with hidden symbolism in the imagery foretelling the details of his demise. They were mostly amusing, and the Mediterranean male has to marvel on the creativity it most take to imagine such a conspiracy. He has even been given a detailed report with the supposed evidence of the perceived plot against him by a concerned party. It is oddly entertaining. Mainly because Spain can tell from the paintings that the artist isn't out to harm him. The works of art are always so light hearted and warm, and they seem to radiate compassion and concern… and a great deal of fun. He can't help but feel that the artist is a gentle and playful sort of person. Much like an energetic puppy.
Spain rounds a corner as his thoughts are filled with adorable puppies yapping about and doing what it is that makes everyone coo uncontrollably at the little balls of fluff. Eventually, his mind jumps from these thoughts and on to the second reason these international meetings have been rather wonderful lately. Recently, the United States of America has taken to following the older nation around and appearing to generally appreciate and enjoy the Spaniard's company. It makes the Spanish avatar feel a sense of pride and worthiness… The American, usually a constant fountain of noise pollution, genuinely appears to listen to what the viridian eyed nation has to say. Usually, their kind (himself included) are far too wrapped up in themselves. It's not necessarily a bad thing; they each have thousands, or in some cases, millions or even billions of lives that they must worry about… But it is a truly wonderful feeling to have a nation like America, manage to pull themselves away from the innumerable troubles that must plague a world super power with a population of over three hundred million citizens, and ask Spain something so seemingly mundane as, "How are you?" with such a genuine expression.
It makes him a bit giddy that out of all the 'older' nations in the world, the American would rather read 'Don Quixote' instead of 'Hamlet' or 'Romance of the Three Kingdoms'. Sometimes, it really just makes the Spaniard want to jump up and rub that fact in their faces. Especially a certain island nation that shall not be named. He wouldn't mind taking a hardcover copy of America's new favorite book and literally rubbing it into the former British Empire's face.
The thought of said nation causes Spain to narrow his eyes as irritation begins to manifest and slowly push out the pleasant thoughts that were filling his mind mere moments ago. Fortunately, the Mediterranean nation manages to reach the lobby. The interior design of the room, full of national avatars, and their various government aides, is a bit dated. The coloring and architecture grab the Spaniard's attention away from his negative thoughts and clearly state to all present that this particular headquarters was either constructed, or remodeled during the 1980's.
Rather suddenly, Spain's eyes land upon a familiar golden mop and cowlick. America appears to be searching for someone. The determined, yet slightly anxious expression on his face causes the Spaniard to smile. America looks just like a child expected to do some task on their own for the first time, and all though nervous, puts up a brave and determined front. It is really quite adorable and Spain suddenly gets the urge to rush up to the North American and smother him in a hug.
The urge, and subsequent imagined scene, cause Spain to momentarily contemplate the expressiveness of the blonde American. He has always known that America is a very expressive and passionate nation. Not only has he seen it first hand, but it is something that is discussed quite often amongst their kind. What Spain hadn't realized, until rather recently, is exactly how expressive America is. It is rather amazing how much the American gives away; it's like the younger nation has managed to create an entirely new system of sign language primarily using facial expressions. What many would consider to be a single, generic smile, Spain now knows are actually several different smiles whose differences are so subtle, they are mistaken for a single expression. Happy, annoyed, daydreaming, dreading, confused, sad, and so much more all masked behind a blinding smile. A smile that Spain can read while others cannot.
The Spaniard is pulled from his musing by a pair of azure blue eyes. It seems that Spain himself is the person the young nation has been looking for with such an adorable, lost puppy expression. That realization causes a wave of happiness to wash over the Spaniard, who simply just rolls with the feeling. Allowing it to take shape on its own without much thought into where it is coming from. He gives a smile and short wave as the American makes his way to the Mediterranean male.
"Spain," America says as he finishes his approach and stands in front of the older nation. Spain shifts his gaze to the top of the American's head and briefly notices that the two are roughly the same height, before taking in the blonde's appearance. His hair is a bit messy, and he's rather confident that the America is wearing new glasses. The frames are slightly thicker and the Spanish avatar is struck with thought that it all just looks laid back and, of course, utterly adorable. His appraisal of the North American is cut short when America levels him with a look that causes the Spaniard to momentarily forget to breathe. It's a determined look that has something else indescribable behind it. Something that causes the brunette's heart to unexplainably, skip a beat. As the feeling passes, he watches on patiently (and with an amused grin) as the American starts to speak, only to cut himself off and start again. Clearly, he has something he wants to say, but either can't figure out how best to word it… or is nervous. Most likely both. Eventually, the wheat blonde nation closes his mouth and thrusts an object towards the Spaniard. "This is for you."
Spain looks at what is being presented to him. A piece of cardboard tubing with two plastic caps at each end. Slowly, the gears in the Spaniard's mind begins to turn as he realizes that such a container is usually employed to carry and protect certain paper and canvas items. Things like photos, and posters… and paintings. He accepts the object from the American. The instant his hands feel touch the brown paper sides, his heart begins to pound in his ears. He spares the American a quick glance before returning his gaze to the container in his hands. Neither nation seems currently capable of speaking. Carefully, the Spaniard uncaps one end and reaches two fingers into the opening to gently fish out an object that looks suspicious like a rolled up wall poster.
Spain sets the tubing on the ground by his feet before giving the American another glance. He notes that the younger nation appears anxious and is aimlessly fidgeting with a fold in the fabric of his shirt. The brunette feels like he should say something, anything really, but before the thought even has time to finish, the Spaniard's gaze is turned to the rolled sheet of heavy paper in his hand. Anticipation and excitement bubble to the surface as Spain slowly unfurls the object in his hand. As he does, a watercolor painting unveils itself before the Mediterranean male.
When the full scene painted on the canvas is finally revealed, Spain suddenly feels as if he has been punched in the gut. His eyes immediately land on the painted form of America and notices the fond, longing gaze he is casting towards Spain's own, sleeping form on the other side of the painting. Suddenly, every piece of art that the Spaniard has received these past several months flashes through his mind as the realization that America is the secret artist, hits him. Spain continues to gaze at the painting of America turned towards his own sleeping form and can't help but feel overwhelmed. Never before had he really felt so much emotion coming from a stationary work of art. Although the Spaniard has always wanted someone to spend the long and often, lonely life his kind lead; he had always figured it'd be with someone else. He's never even considered the American before.
Yet, as the feeling of being overwhelmed subsides, the Spaniard can't help but look back at the time he has spent together with American during their meetings. All the eagerness, the genuine smiles, awkward adorableness… the blushing. They were no longer simply 'cute'. Suddenly they were all becoming adorable in a different way. A way which causes the Spaniard's cheeks to burn as the beating of his heart causes a numbing, tingling sensation to radiate across his body. The painting, and past actions, now viewed in a different light, all say that America clearly wants to be something more to the viridian eyed nation.
The world drops away as Spain continues to stare at the painting. His eyes move across the canvas as he tries to figure out if he is willing to allow the American a place in his heart. Slowly, he manages to collect his thoughts, which had been blown about like leaves in a swirling tempest. A slight grin appears on the Spanish nation's face as he remembers how all the paintings he had received, and the time spent with America had made him feel. They made him happy. America's actions made him happy, and as simple a reason it may be to decide to be with someone, it was enough for Spain.
As he begins to calm down, the world slowly returns to focus. He briefly manages to hear someone asking him a question. His focus sharpens and he catches the last bits of a sentence that sound like '… time to decide'. Eventually, it registers in the Spaniard's mind that the one talking is America. It isn't until the American, most likely discouraged by the lack of a response, hesitantly turns to walk away, that Spain completely comes to. On impulse, he shifts the painting to one hand, while suddenly reaching out with the other and grabs America's arm to prevent him from leaving. He has to give the young nation his answer. The blonde American stops and turns, a look of surprise, and hope on his face. The Spaniard can't help but find it terribly endearing. As he establishes eye contact with the azure eyed blonde, Spain can't quite think of how to adequately say what he needs to say. Instead, he releases the American's arm and grabs his hand, entwining their fingers and giving a reassuring squeeze. He accompanies it with a truly happy and genuine smile. On that hasn't graced the world in a long time.
Spain gives an amused chuckle as the American appears to be stunned, but quickly recovers and dons an excited, and incredibly eager expression as he returns the Spaniard's gesture with a smile, and squeeze of his own.
"Cute!" Spain says out loud as he can't help but imagine America with puppy ears and wagging tail. However, an ominous feeling soon washes over the Spaniard as he suddenly feels as if the eyes of the world are on him. The dead silence makes the feeling all the more unnerving as a shadow looms over Spain and the American. Spain's happy expression slowly falls as he shifts his focus to the source of the shadow.
Standing before them, radiating a hostile aura, is England wearing the expression of an overbearing mother-in-law that promises years of untold horror to the one stealing their baby away. Spain scrunches his face into a contemplative expression as he surveys the room, taking in the audience that has gathered around them at a distance. He shifts his gaze to America, then to their linked hands and back to the Englishman with the unflattering expression on his face.
"This feels really familiar."