Work Text:
July 12, 1835
Madrid
The morning sun stretched across the living room, warming the vibrant patterns of the rug. Spain sat on the edge of the velvet divan, his fingers trembling as he broke the wax seal on a letter that had spent the last month tossed in the hold of a transatlantic packet ship. He had pushed the casualty reports to the very edge of the table, turning his back on the war to focus on the messy, charcoal-smudged script of a man half a world away.
“I had to write to someone before I lost my mind,” the letter began. Spain could almost hear Romano’s voice through the paper, written in the frantic shorthand of someone trying to outrun the rhythmic thud of New York’s relentless machinery.
"I'm glad it was me," Spain murmured. He leaned his head back against the cushion, a small smile tugging at his lips as he read on.
“The sky here is an insult, Nino. It’s all cloudy. The water—it’s hideous! It’s not like our sea. There is no blue in it, no life! It’s this miserable, churning gray, like a bowl of dirty dishwater that goes on forever. I spend all day on these docks and I feel like the color is being sucked right out of my skin.”
Spain closed his eyes, imagining Romano standing amidst the soot of the harbor. "He probably makes the whole city look dull just by being in it,” he whispered, his thumb tracing the jagged ink.
He flipped the parchment over. The script grew more jagged at the end. “And this America guy is relentless. He doesn't understand that a man needs a moment to breathe! Every time I think I can sit down for a second, he’s there with that stupid grin, talking about the future. My hands are calloused and my back is screaming.”
Spain’s heart ached with a sharp, protective longing. He reached for the quill on the side table, dipping it into the inkwell with a hand that wouldn't stay still. He ignored the casualty reports, his eyes fixed only on the empty space of the page.
"Mi querido Romano," he began, the nib scratching loudly in the quiet room. "Your letter arrived with the scent of the sea, though from what you tell me, it is a sea I wouldn't recognize. To think of you standing under a sky so dull makes my own chest tight."
He looked out at the sun hitting the rug, trying to find the words to tether Romano back to him.
"I can see you there, scowling at the gray water. If the sky there is an insult, let this letter be a reminder of the one we share. It is still bright here, Lovi. The jasmine is blooming outside the window and I am keeping a seat for you in the living room."
His gaze flicked to the mounting debts and the bank draft sitting nearby. The warmth in his expression flickered into something more desperate.
"Remember it’s just for now," he added, his handwriting growing tighter. "I won't let that place swallow you. I’ll send you money, cariño. Whatever I can scrape from the treasury, I’ll send it. I don't care about the accounts or what the ministers scream at me in the mornings. I care about you."
He was halfway through a sentence about the light in Madrid when the heavy thud of the oak door broke his focus. Spain jumped, his hand jerking and leaving a dark blot of ink across the page.
Portugal didn't knock; he simply entered, his eyes immediately landing on the open letter and the bank draft Spain had begun to fill out. He stood there in his dark frock coat, looking at the letter with a look of cold, clinical disapproval.
"You know," Portugal remarked. "For a man whose borders are currently an open wound, you spend a remarkable amount of time serenading the Atlantic with the state’s gold."
Spain jumped, spinning around with a hand pressed to his heart.
"João! Dios, you scared the life out of me!" He let out a whiney huff, his shoulders drooping. "You should’ve said you were coming over. A little warning wouldn't kill you. I would have prepared something."
Portugal didn't move. He stood in the center of the room, the sunlight catching the sharp glint in his ocean green eyes. He tilted his head toward the letter, his eyes scanning the bold, desperate lines of Spain’s handwriting. A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"I couldn't help but take a glimpse," Portugal remarked, his tone dripping with mock curiosity. "The treasury for the little Italian? Tell me, Toninho... have you two ever actually...?"
Spain froze. He stared at Portugal, a deep, vivid crimson flooding his cheeks. He opened his mouth to retort, but only a silent, flustered stammer came out.
Portugal’s smirk widened. "I’ll take that as a yes."
"I—it's not—" Spain finally groaned, throwing his hands up and pacing toward the window. "Is that why you’re here? To gossip? I have a war going on, in case you hadn't noticed!"
"It’s a civil war, Antonio. We all have them," Portugal said, his voice flat as he strolled further into the room. He stopped by the mantelpiece, idly tapping a vase as if checking for dust. "I would know. Dethroning Miguel was a necessity, not a drama. You’re letting this Basque business drag on when it’s really just a management problem."
"A management problem?" Spain turned, his eyes flashing. "It’s my people’s blood on the ground. You think just because you settled your throne, mine is easy?"
Portugal’s expression shifted, the sarcasm dropping away. He moved closer, closing the distance until the tension between them filled the space.
"I’m just saying you’re exhausted, Toninho," Portugal muttered.
He reached out, his hand sliding under the side of Spain’s jaw to tilt his head slightly, forcing him to look up. Spain’s breath hitched, but he stayed rooted to the spot, his eyes locked on Portugal’s.
"And when you’re exhausted, you make mistakes," Portugal said, slow and clear, as if explaining a simple map to a child. His thumb traced the bone of Spain's cheek as he glanced toward the letter on the desk. "Like promising treasuries to a lover instead of paying your generals. You’re trying to save everyone, Antonio, and you’re going to end up with nothing but a well-written letter and an empty house."
Portugal’s fingers slid upward to catch a stray lock of hair at Spain's temple, smoothing it back with a quiet, tired familiarity.
"Arthur is watching, and he doesn't have my patience," he continued, his digits tracing a slow, subconscious circle against Spain’s scalp. "I'm here because if I don't help you finish this, he’s going to help you in a way that neither of us will like. And you know how he gets when he decides he has to fix things."
For a moment, the room was perfectly still. Spain looked at him, his own hand twitching as if to reach out.
The heavy silence between them was broken by a soft knock. A servant —an older woman— entered, carrying a silver tray laden with the afternoon merienda: thick, dark chocolate in small ceramic cups and a plate of golden bizcochos. She set the tray down on the low table between them, her eyes darting from Spain to Portugal. A small, tired smile touched her face.
"It is always so strange when the Portuguese Crown visits," she murmured, adjusting the napkins. "Forgive me, señores, but even after all these years... you still look so much alike. Like two brothers from the same mother."
Spain’s smile stayed bright, almost radiant, as he looked at her.
"Oh, Lola, don't say that! He’ll start thinking he can pass for a Spaniard," he chirped, his voice bubbling with warmth.
"In any case I would be the handsome one,” Portugal laughed. Then he gave a short, polite nod, as he reached for his cup. “Thank you."
As the Iberians sat down to enjoy the afternoon meal, Spain reached out and touched her arm gently.
"Thanks for the chocolate. Go rest a bit. The heat is getting terrible, isn't it?”
As the door clicked shut, Spain’s shoulders dropped. He hated that centuries of pulling apart hadn't erased the way their bones seemed cast from the same mold. He hated how it felt like he was looking at a more successful version of himself.
Portugal looked at the tray, then back at Spain, his expression drifting into that look of mild, weary amusement he usually reserved for watching toddlers or particularly slow mules.
"I’m surprised you still have staff, Toninho," Portugal remarked, picking up a bizcocho and turning it over in his hand as if inspecting it for structural integrity. "Between the mess in the north and your... transatlantic charitable impulses, I’d have thought you’d be sweeping your own floors by now. Or has your treasury finally become a magical bottomless pit? If so, do share the secret. My own pockets aren't exactly overflowing."
Spain looked out at the sun-drenched balcony, his voice small and uncharacteristically honest.
"I barely pay them lately. Most stay because they have nowhere else to go. And I... I keep them because the house is too big, João. If it were just me, the quiet would be... it would be too much."
Portugal broke the bizcocho with a sharp snap, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged room.
"Well, at least you’re consistent. You always did have the pathological fear of your own thoughts," he said, his tone almost light. He dipped the cake into the chocolate with practiced ease. "I suppose that’s why you’re so desperate to keep that little girl on the throne. It’s not about the Liberal cause, is it? You just want someone in the palace who’s loud enough to keep the silence away."
Portugal popped the chocolate-soaked cake into his mouth, looking perfectly pleased with himself, oblivious to the way his words had just sliced through Spain’s remaining composure.
Spain’s head snapped around. He stared at Portugal, his chest heaving with sudden gasps. The mention of little Isabel and the implication that his loyalty to her was just another symptom of his loneliness hit a nerve.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Spain whispered, his voice trembling with a genuine, dark heat.
Spain’s voice didn't carry the pitch of his usual childish whining. It was much colder, much heavier.
"You come in here to mock my open wounds, but you and that pirate are the ones pulling the sutures loose. You call yourselves my allies, but you’re just waiting for the fever to take me so you can divide the inheritance."
"Oh, just like you and France tried to do to me?” Portugal didn't flinch, though the corners of his mouth tightened. “We’re the only reason you aren't a Carlist footnote, Spain. My troops are the only ones holding your northern gates."
"You aren't saving me, Portugal! You’re putting me in a cage!" Spain stood up, the floor tiles cold beneath his feet. "I know the price of your assistance. I see the trade deals England is shoving down my throat while I’m too busy bleeding to read the fine print. You’re helping me survive just so you can turn me into a client state. You’re making sure I’m never strong enough to stand without your hand on my shoulder again."
Portugal’s posture stiffened, his eyes flashing with a momentary, sharp recognition that he quickly tried to bury under a sneer. He opened his mouth to deliver a dismissive remark about his Spain’s lack of gratitude, but the words died in his throat.
"I thought that last night in Vitoria meant something. I really did. I thought we were finally on the right track," Spain said, his voice breaking despite his fury. "I know I’ve been terrible to you, with all of the invasions and the centuries of me being... what I was. But I thought that night was the start of something real. When you held me, when you told me you couldn't hate me even when you tried... I believed you."
He took another step closer, forcing Portugal to look up at him, refusing to let him retreat into his feigned boredom.
"But I see now. You only saw that night as revenge, didn't you? A way to finally have me beneath you, to see me crawl and beg for a forgiveness you never intended to actually give."
Spain’s eyes were glistening, but he didn't look away. "Was it just about the power, Portugal? To finally be the one looking down at me? To watch the Kingdom of Spain weep in your lap so you could feel like the bigger one for once? You didn't want to forgive me. You wanted to own my guilt."
Portugal’s hand, resting on the back of a velvet chair, began to shake. He looked at Spain.
"Antonio—"
"I’m sorry for the pain I’ve inflicted on you over the years," Spain interrupted, his voice raw. "I’ve told you that a thousand times and I’ll say it until my last breath. I was a monster to you when we were married. I was greedy and I was cruel. I will live regretting those years for the rest of my life, and it’s only fair that I do. But I loved you in the only broken way I knew how. And that night in the tent... I thought you were showing me a better way to love back."
He gestured vaguely toward the north, toward the invisible lines where they were both technically fighting for the same queen, the same liberal cause.
"But you’re still playing the same game. You’ve turned my struggle into a British boardroom meeting. If you wanted me to suffer, João, you didn't need to invite the Royal Navy to stabilize my waters. You could have just told me you hated me that night. It would have hurt less than whatever this is."
Portugal stared at him intensely. He looked like he wanted to strike Spain for the accusation or perhaps pull him into another desperate embrace. But instead, he stayed rooted to the spot, his mouth a hard line.
"You're making a lot of assumptions," Portugal finally rasped, his voice lacking its previous bite.
"Am I?" Spain laughed, a short, bitter sound. "Then tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you aren't enjoying the safety of being the good neighbor while I drown in this chaos. Tell me that night in the tent was about us, and not just about you finally feeling like the one in control because you have England’s shadow standing behind you."
The silence stretched. Portugal stared at a guitar that rested on the wall as if the wood itself could offer him an escape from Spain’s gaze.
The heavy thud of the oak door broke the tension. A young messenger, flushed from a hard ride, hurried into the room. He didn't look at the maps or the discarded guitar; his eyes were fixed on the guest. He held out a leather dispatch folder, sealed with an unmistakable red wax.
"For the Kingdom of Portugal," the messenger panted. "Urgent dispatch from Lord Kirkland. It arrived by the English packet in Lisbon and was forwarded by your embassy here."
Portugal stood from the cushion and took the folder with a sharp motion. His hands, which had been trembling moments ago, were now steady with the cold muscle memory of a diplomat. He broke the seal, his eyes scanning the elegant, aggressive handwriting of the British Prime Minister.
The paper crinkled in the quiet room. Spain watched him, his jaw set, the fury in his eyes replaced by a weary, knowing cynicism.
Portugal’s expression didn't change as he read, but the air in the room seemed to sharpen. The letter was a reminder of the Quadruple Alliance that bound them together. It contained suggestions for the movement of Portuguese troops along the Ebro and a subtle, polite demand for a new trade tariff that would essentially hand the port of Bilbao’s future over to British merchants.
"What does he say?" Spain asked, his voice flat.
Portugal didn't look up from the page. "He is concerned about the pace of our progress in the north. He thinks my divisions should be more... proactive in securing the trade routes while your civil war drags on."
Spain let out a short, hollow laugh. He walked to the divan and picked up his guitar, running a thumb over the polished wood.
"Proactive. That’s a beautiful word for it. It means he’s tired of waiting for me to find my footing and wants you to start measuring the casket."
Portugal finally looked up, the dispatch crumpled slightly in his grip. He looked at the paper, then at Spain and for a second, the disgust on his face wasn't directed at him. It was directed at the ink on the page. He tossed the folder onto the table, right on top of the map of the Carlist strongholds.
"He expects a reply by morning," Portugal said, his voice returning to that dry, dismissive rasp. "He wants to know if I can manage you or if he needs to send more ships to the Basque coast to do it himself."
The silence grew heavy, filled only with the mechanical ticking of a clock and the distant, rhythmic sound of a carriage on the cobblestones. Portugal finally looked up, his expression smooth and vacant.
"The British Navy is already positioned off the coast of Bilbao," Portugal said, his voice as dry and thin as the paper in his hand. "They aren't going to wait for your pride to catch up with reality, Antonio. If I don't move my divisions into the Ebro by the end of the month, Arthur will consider it a breach of treaty. You should sign the commercial agreements he sent. It’s the only way to keep him from taking the ports by force."
Spain stared at him. Portugal wasn't even pretending to be his kin anymore; he was merely acting as the England’s most efficient messenger, standing in the middle of the peninsula they shared like a stranger.
"You really don't care, do you?" Spain whispered, his voice trembling. "You come into my house and tell me to give up my life's work as if you’re suggesting I change my coat. You know those agreements will kill my merchants in Barcelona. You're handing him the keys to my cellar because you're too afraid to tell him no."
Portugal adjusted his cufflink, his eyes sliding back to the telegram.
"I am telling you how to survive. You’ll waste it on that Italian boy anyways! Sentiment is a luxury you can't afford right now."
Spain felt a wave of nausea. The memory of the tent, of Portugal's lips against his and the promise that they were safe together felt like a fever dream—a cruel trick played on someone who was too desperate for a family.
"Leave."
The word was quiet, but it cut through the room’s stillness like a blade.
Portugal paused, his hand hovering over the mahogany desk. He looked up, his brow furrowing slightly in a parody of confusion.
"Antonio, we have to draft a response to—"
"I said leave, Portugal."
He looked at Portugal with a profound, weary exhaustion.
"Take your telegram, take your proactive advice and get out of my sight. If I’m going to be measured for a casket, I’d rather not have the carpenter sitting in my living room acting like he’s doing me a favor."
Portugal stared at him for a long beat, his jaw tightening.
"Very well," Portugal said, his voice a sharp, clinical rasp. He snatched the dispatch folder from the table. "I’ll tell Arthur you’re being difficult. But don't come crying to the border when the British start collecting their debts. I won't be able to help you then."
He turned on his heel, his boots clicking a rhythmic, heartless beat against the tiles as he walked toward the door, leaving Spain alone in the fading gold of the afternoon.
The golden light had long since abandoned the room, leaving the tiles cold beneath Spain as he slumped against the wall. He reached for the quill again, the wood slick with the sweat of his palm.
"Portugal was here," Spain whispered to the shadows of the room. He let out a shaky, sad laugh, his quill scratching a fresh, desperate line across the parchment. “You were right to leave. You were so right to get away from all of us.”
There was a long, heavy silence. No barrage of insults followed the scratching of the pen. There was only the imagined pulse of the Atlantic, a reminder of the vast, cold distance between the bustling streets of New York and the crumbling pride of Madrid.
Spain leaned his head against the cool wall, staring at the wet ink. He tried to conjure the memory of Romano’s last letter, the one where he’d called Spain a pain in the ass and a fool but promised he loved him. He clung to that memory like a lifeline, the only thing that felt real in a world that only asked for territory or concessions.
"When you read this, don't be angry," Spain scribbled at the very bottom, his hand losing its strength as the darkness finally swallowed the last of the sunlight. "Tell me about the gray water again. Write me anything. Just don't leave me sitting here in the quiet."