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Holidaying in Spain was no longer done simply out of pleasure, but rather because England felt like it was had become a requirement. All his citizens would flock to the Spanish coast and islands every summer, partying and getting drunk and boiling like lobsters on the beaches, and it seemed only right that he used his few weeks’ holidays to join them. Besides, he’d never been averse to some good music and a lot of flowing alcohol. It was only when the crowds got too sweaty and he got too tired that he realised he was probably too old for this kind of activity, and he should stick to exploring the cities instead.
Most of the places he’d visited before over the years, many of them he’d even attempted to destroy in various battles over time. The sea ports and towns had often been useful strategic positions in his many wars with Spain, and in the centre land he remembers conflicts between almost every nation in Europe, fighting for colonies or monarchies or money or whatever petty little fallout they’d had that year.
The towns were much more beautiful in peacetime, usually filled with tourist shops selling handcrafted souvenirs and fresh Spanish food. There would always be music from buskers in the central square that filtered through the streets, as happy and sunny as the weather was, and sometimes England liked to stand and watch them as their hands trailed over the guitar neck, plucking the strings elegantly to create the most beautiful and complicated tunes. He could only hope to be so skilful at the bass one day, but he knew it wouldn’t compare to the rich sounds of the flamenco guitar that rang in his ears for days after.
It was one afternoon as he was walking through the plaza with an ice cream that was beginning to drip down his arm when he noticed the man sat by the fountain, leaning against the wall so that the spray would sprinkle over his exposed skin. England pushed his sunglasses up onto his head, squinting at the man as he took in his features. He was obviously a local, far too comfortable sprawled out on the paving stones to be just a tourist. His hair was chestnut brown and wavy, probably soft to the touch, and his smile seemed to fit perfectly on his face, as though that were the way God himself had intended the human form to be.
Christ, he was beautiful.
He was also Spain.
This was not the first time England had stumbled upon this revelation. Everybody knew that Spain was wonderfully attractive. There would always be gossip about it at the meetings, admiring how his arse looked in his tight suit trousers, the female nations batting their eyelids when they spoke to him in the hope of feeling those warm, strong hands on their skin a few hours later.
And England was one of the lucky few (well, probably not that few, but few in comparison to all the other nations) who had already felt it. Many times, even. That was the way it always seemed to go back then, falling into each other’s beds as soon as the battle was over. It was almost a tradition among the European nations, that they would share these moments together and remember them forever, be it the victories or the losses or the simple agreements. Nothing really compared these days. Life had become so much tamer.
Well, England thought, I wouldn’t mind repeating those experiences. I’m on holiday, right?
And so, being England, the plan of action was to walk up to Spain and hope that the other would figure out what he was thinking. Spain, the least perceptive person in the world.
There were a few people crowded around to listen to Spain’s guitar playing, mostly tourists with cameras strung around the necks and pale skin burnt bright pink. A few people were holding out money for him, but Spain refused it with a quick shake of the head, and mouthed that he was simply playing for the pleasure of music. Even those who weren’t standing with the crowd would turn their heads to watch as they walked by, closing their eyes to let the music sink into their bones and almost become one with the warm air.
England stood behind a young lady in a big floppy hat to watch and hopefully not be seen, listening to the trailing melodies that Spain created. It was probably one of his own songs, formed over many, many years of guitar practice, and it reminded England of salty air and sandy soles, the smell of Spain’s kitchen (olives, tomatoes, lemons), and tiny little nations cradled in his arms. How old even was this song? Surely the people around couldn’t comprehend just how important it may be, how much Spanish history was contained in each single note.
Spain finished the song with a flourish and a strum, before ducking his head with a smile at the burst of applause. Some people turned away, then, heading off to the shops or the beach or back to their families, and the girl with the floppy hat left England right in Spain’s eyeline. At first England thought he hadn’t been noticed, as Spain turned his attention to another song, this next more mournful, tearing at England’s heart.
Spain’s voice was full and rich, clear over the sounds of the guitar that he was plucking gently, softly in the background, captivating everybody in the square. England felt the flickers of memory once again, more recent, more heartfelt, and sought an answer in the shape of Spain curled over his guitar.
Serrano, me da' candela?
Y yo te dije "Gaché,
ven y tómala de mis labios
que yo fuego te daré.
As the flood of recognition washed over him, England saw Spain’s eyes flicker up, peering through his lashes to meet England’s own.
Dejaste el caballo
y lumbre te di,
y fueron dos verdes luceros de mayo
tus ojos pa' mi.
England hardly realised that he’d moved, didn’t even register his own singing until his knees hit the floor.
Ojos verdes, verdes como la albahaca
Verdes como el trigo verde
y el verde, verde limón.
Once he heard Spain’s voice join with his, deep green eyes watching him closely, England’s breath caught in his throat, and his voice drifted away. He felt the hot flush creep up his cheeks as Spain finished off the song, graciously accepted the applause of his audience, before turning to his partner.
“Inglaterra, el hombre de ojos verdes, what brings you to my country?” he asked with a smile, sliding up to England so their shoulders were pressed together.
“You know why I’m here. I’m always here in the summer,” England mumbled, painfully aware of all the people milling around them.
“Indeed you are.” Spain chuckled. “You must love me a lot.”
Before England could spit out an affronted retort, they were interrupted by a young girl, who approached them tentatively.
“Señor, are you going to play another song?”
“Of course, querida, what would you like to hear?” Spain replied enthusiastically. The girl shrugged, suddenly turning shy, and hid her face in her father’s trouser leg. The older man laughed and patted his daughter on the head, letting Spain choose the music instead.
“Well, in that case I’ll pick something that I know my dear amigo Arthur likes, hm? Ah, it’s been a long time since I listened to English music.”
“If you start playing the Macarena, I’m packing up and going home,” England grumbled light-heartedly.
“No, no, I wouldn’t. You were honestly terrible at dancing that. Although now you remind me, I need to get the footage from Gilbert.”
“Don’t you even-“
England’s reply was cut off by a few strums of the guitar, Spain getting comfortable as he tuned it and settled his fingers in position on the strings. As the melody kicked in, England’s face lit up, as the quiet noise of the fountain behind them became sea waves, the gentle conversation the shouts of the crew. Spain grinned, cueing England to start singing along.
Farewell and adieu unto you Spanish ladies
Farewell and adieu to you ladies of Spain
For it's we've received orders for to sail for old England
But we hope very soon we shall see you again.
England laughed as he sang, remembering old days when they’d been ordered back to the ships and he’d pulled himself from Spain’s embrace, shrugging on his deep red coat and pocketing a handful of coins that had been left on the side. A kiss on Spain’s cheek had been his only goodbye, the other nation always lost in a deep sleep, but England remembered it well. And oh, those times they’d been allies, fighting against France or Austria or Prussia or goodness knows who…
The more he thought about it, the more he realised that his present situation was ideal. All the benefits without the accompanying wars. Who was to say Spain no longer had that same passion he’d once boasted?
We'll rant and we'll roar like true British sailors
We'll rant and we'll roar across the salt seas
Until we strike soundings in the Channel of Old England
From Ushant to Scilly is thirty-five leagues.
The little girl clapped and cheered as the song finished, Spain’s fingers trailing over the strings letting out gentle vibrations as he grinned at England.
“It has been a long time since you sung with me, Inglaterra. You always said you preferred your own music.”
“That was my own music, idiot, a favourite of British sailors of old.”
“Ah, but it was about me, so I can claim it as my own. It is good to see that you have loved me for so many centuries.”
England spluttered but didn’t deny it.