From London To Madrid (EngSpa Week 2k17)

Shelter

Two years, eight months, three days.

Spain is keeping count. Somehow, even through the pain he feels with every step he takes, he's keeping count. His people have been tearing each other apart for two years, eight months, and three days.

He's just so tired. He can't keep tearing himself between his people like this. He doesn't know what he needs to do, he just knows he needs it to stop. Grave after grave after grave, he grows weary of burying his people, his friends.

Spain doesn't like the color red anymore. He's seen it too much, felt it too much, hot like anger and a phantom on his skin even after he scrubs it off. He wakes, often, in a cold sweat, body aching with imaginary wounds. He doesn't ever remember his dreams - nightmares - anymore, but he knows they're bad.

The emotions always linger with him for long after he forgets; anger, agony, grief. He's not sure he wants to remember.

Two years, eight months, four days.

--

"Look at what you've become, Antonio," a familiar voice lilts, but Spain doesn't quite recognize the words he's using, "I don't think I've ever seen someone look so lost in their own home before. All that blood looks good on you; really brings out your eyes."

Spain blinks slowly at him. Hazel eyes fix on him, cold. No, Spain recognizes him. He smiles, tightly, weak.

"Veneziano," he laughs softly, lowering himself slowly to the floor and leaning heavily against the wall, "come to brag? How is Romano?"

Veneziano folds his arms over his chest, gaze sweeping over Spain. Spain knows how he looks, blood splotched and covered in ragged bandages, disheveled and dirty, eyes sunken and bloodshot, lips dry.

"Romano is still part of the rebellion. I don't know how he's doing," Veneziano informs him, sharply, oddly.

This isn't Veneziano. This is a brainwashed man, conformed to the ideas of the crook who leads his nation. This is the man whose country is aiding one side of his people, the Nationalists, alongside a Nazi Germany. Spain struggles to drag one knee up and drapes a badly bleeding arm over it.

"What happened to you, Feliciano?" He asks softly, searching for a spark of that cheerful kid he once knew.

"You're not going to survive this war," Veneziano tells him, avoiding the question entirely, but Spain sees the way his shoulders ripple with tension.

Spain just laughs. "If I were concerned about that, Veneziano, I'd have brought it up months ago," he informs him, dragging himself up, slowly, to his full height, "I'm old, Veneziano. I've seen it all. War, death, murder... Some things never change."

It's only when Veneziano, frustrated, sweeps out of the room that Spain allows himself to feel the weight on his shoulders again.

--

Once the dust settles, Spain walks among the bodies of his people. He closes his eyes as he steps around the mangled, bloody corpses, remembering them, trying desperately to ignore the caws of the scavenger birds as they circle threateningly overhead.

"Antonio," comes a voice, and suddenly everything is steady all at once.

Green meets green.

"Arthur," he breathes.

His shoulders tremble, and despite the blood he's half covered in, England practically cradles him as Spain cries for his people at last.

--

"I just want this senseless fighting to end," Spain tells him, later, staring at the ceiling.

England's fingers comb through Spain's tangled hair, slowly, relaxing. Spain's mind is clear for once, grounded by England's presence. This man is his tether here, his only shelter in the turmoil of this civil war.