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exileart · 2 months ago

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EngPort Week Day 4 - Brothers in Arms @engportevents

It hit Arthur, then, as he stood across Gabriel within their own circles of heavenly fire, that they were both orphans now.

Gabriel still looked tense and too pale, with dark shadows under his eyes from the many sleepless nights filled with nightmares. Arthur should know. Since the incident, he found every reason to stay close to his best friend for both their comfort. The Madrid Affair, that was what they were calling that incident now. It seemed such a trite name for something that had claimed the lives of more than half the shadowhunters in that institute, including Gabriel and Antonio’s parents.

Antonio was also there now, chosen by Gabriel as his witness to their bonding. The younger boy stood at Gabriel’s side of the room just as Francis stood at Arthur’s side. Alasdair had been his first choice as witness, but with his brother injured from that same incident and his other brothers busy with their duties, Francis had to step up. He was family too anyway, even if only by marriage.

As they stepped into the center circle, the flames licking at their feet, Arthur’s gaze was drawn to Gabriel’s hand. He held his stele in a white-knuckled grip, and Arthur could not help but remember how he had to pry a bloodied seraph blade from a similar tight hold when the two brothers had first arrived through the portal from Madrid.

Arthur raised his gaze, meeting Gabriel’s eyes. There was a plea in those eyes, some unspoken thing, and a stubborn set to his jaw, a peek of his teeth as he bit on his lip. Arthur did not falter, staying resolute and firm. Both his brother and Francis have already tried to dissuade him from this course, but the only one that mattered was there in front of him.

He did not want either Gabriel or Antonio to be sent away to another institute, one far away from anyone they know. Francis had said that they could find another way, but that was not certain. The very issue that his brother and Francis had raised is the entire reason this must be done.

No one in the Clave would dare to tear a parabatai pair asunder.

They would swear this oath, and Arthur would proudly wear the mark that Gabriel would give him for the rest of their lives. They raised their arms and held it against each other. The words from the oath pass through their lips easily, well practiced long before this ceremony, starting from when the idea, mad as it was, first came to Arthur.

“...If aught but death part thee and me,” they finished, and finally, a small smile graced Gabriel’s lips.

Gabriel tugged the hem of his shirt up and turned, allowing Arthur to mark him on his back, the parabatai rune right over where his heart would be. When he was done, Arthur did the same, exposing his side where he wished for the mark to be, the black rune stark upon his pale skin. After he was done, Gabriel trailed his fingers over the mark with a solemn expression, something like disbelief and awe passing briefly over his fine features.

And just like that, it was done. They were fifteen, orphans both, and they were bound together forever.

“That’s it, Arthur,” Gabriel said as the flames died down, a wry smile on his lips. “You can’t return me now.”

Arthur laughed, startled by his words. “You git,” he said, elbowing Gabriel’s side. “I wouldn’t want to anyway.”

Arthur cursed as his arrow missed the thrashing demon. He was already notching his next arrow and running to a better position on the catwalk, his steps echoing in the empty space of the old theater. Through his bond with Gabriel, he could feel the other’s grim determination just as there was a burst of light on the ruined stage below.

Arthur paused, his arrow trained on the scene, but the demon’s shadowy form was difficult to pin down, especially now that Gabriel wove around. His parabatai held a sword in one hand and his seraph blade in another.

Arthur’s breath caught in his throat, his heart stuttering in his chest as he watched the fight below in worry. Gabriel fought with the same deadly grace as the angel he was named after, every step and every strike like the steps of a dance.

By the angel, he was beautiful.

“Now, Arthur!” Gabriel shouted as he pinned the demon to the ruined wood of the stage with his sword and jumped away. Arthur released the arrow, smiling as it hit true, the screech of the dying demon ringing in his ears. He blew out the breath he was holding as he stood. Gabriel approached the stage to retrieve his sword, and as he watched, Arthur noticed a flicker of movement as he did so.

“Wait!” Arthur shouted too late. The demon’s corpse had not yet vanished as it should have. It was not yet dead, and it struck Gabriel, tossing him to a nearby pillar.

“Gabriel!” Arthur called out, both to his parabatai and to awaken his seraph blade with the same name. He dropped his bow onto the catwalk as he jumped down, his blade slamming onto the remains of the demons below. This time, he watched as it disappeared back to whatever hell it came from.

Gabriel groaned and stood up. “That was stupid of me,” he said with a grimace as he approached Arthur. He never quite reached him before falling back, and Arthur rushed to catch him. Gabriel was breathing heavily, one hand pressed to his side, and Arthur thought that he could almost feel his pain like an echo.

“Let me see,” Arthur said. When he pulled Gabriel’s hand away from his side, his fingers came away covered in red blood and black ichor. Arthur pulled Gabriel’s shirt up, his blood running cold at the sight of the deep gash on his stomach.

“Arthur,” Gabriel whispered, his face pale.

Arthur reached for his stele, his hand surprisingly steady as he drew one iratze after another on Gabriel’s skin. It should work. It must work. With the black ichor already seeping into Gabriel’s wound, Arthur wasn’t certain if the Silent Brothers could get to their institute quickly enough. With each iratze that vanished into Gabriel’s skin, Arthur grew more and more frustrated, putting more and more power into each one, drawing into their bond.

The bond between parabatais was supposed to make the marks they give each other stronger, didn't they? Let this work, he prayed fervently with each failed rune. Gabriel was…he wasn’t certain what he felt for Gabriel these days, something unspoken, something terrible and forbidden, but he cannot lose him. Not like this. Not out of some stupid mistake.

“Arthur,” Gabriel repeated, and he reached out to grip Arthur’s wrist, stopping him from drawing another rune. There was an unspoken plea in his eyes, that terrible thing between them. “Arthur, stop. You cannot do anything.”

“To hell with that!” Arthur snarled. “You can’t just give up.”

“I’m not,” Gabriel said. “We need to go back to the Institute.”

“Well, I–” Arthur stopped and stared at his parabatai’s stomach. His stomach swooped as he watched the skin slowly knit itself back together. It was unmistakable. It was, should be, impossible, no matter Arthur’s determination.

Gabriel had noticed as well, and he dropped his hold on Arthur’s wrist. Arthur watched him swallow once, twice, with several emotions flitting over his face. Gabriel’s hand shook as he touched the wound, now barely more than a scratch. “We cannot speak of this, Arthur.”

Arthur felt a flash of anger, and he gave him a mirthless laugh. “Just like our mission in Lisbon, yeah?”

Gabriel looked at him in irritation. “You know what this means,” he said. “You know why we can't.”

“This is bloody stupid!” Arthur threw his hands up and stood. “Why can’t you just–”

“You were the one who asked me to be your parabatai,” Gabriel pointed out through gritted teeth as he stood as well, still shaky, pulling down his shirt over the once fatal wound.

Arthur recoiled from the tone of accusation and scowled, pulling at his hair in frustration as he looked away from the other man. Ten years ago, when he had asked Gabriel to be his parabatai, he had thought that there was no way he would regret it. There was no one else he wanted to spend his entire life fighting with. Gabriel was his best friend from the moment they first met at the academy in Idris. There was no one else he would trust to be his parabatai.

How was he to know that he would commit the grave sin of falling in love with him? How was Arthur to know back then that Gabriel would feel the same way?

He could not blame Gabriel though, even though they would have no problem had Arthur’s unspoken, terrible love had been unrequited. In the end, his parabatai was right. Francis had been right when he’d warned him. This had been Arthur’s idea, and now, he was paying the price for the arrogance of thinking that he knew what he wanted at fifteen.

“We cannot deny this forever, Gabe,” Arthur whispered, the anger leaving him, his shoulders slumped. He closed his eyes and thought of that last mission in Lisbon, of the kiss that they shared, that moment when Arthur realized he was not alone in his sin. “Not if it has gone this far already.”

“It might pass,” Gabriel replied, and Arthur didn’t think he believed his own words. “People fall out of love all the time. We just have to bide our time until then. Otherwise, we—”

The law is hard, but it is the law. That was the tenet that the Clave lived by. Arthur has abided by that Law his entire life and knew just how hard it could be when it finally came down upon you. Gabriel was fooling himself if he thought they could just buy themselves time.

But Gabriel would also not leave with him, would not choose him, no matter the entreaties Arthur has made. Arthur wanted to rage, to shake him until Gabriel saw sense. Arthur wanted to kiss him, something they did not dare do again since that first and last time in Lisbon. He wanted to take Gabriel’s face between his hands, to run his fingers over every curve and scar, over the dark runes that marked them both, especially the one that bound them forever as parabatais.

Arthur wanted everything from him, and he could tell through their bond, no matter how much Gabriel wanted to deny it, that he felt the same way.

Arthur hoped to reassure him by telling him that he was right, that it would pass and that they would be alright, that they could return to how it had all been before Lisbon. But the lie stuck like ash in his mouth, and there was only silence as he returned his stele to its place in his vambrace.

“You should clean up, the ichor especially” he told Gabriel, who watched him warily. There was a part of Arthur that did want to go back to how things were between them, to the days where he could comfortably have his parabatai with him without all the added tension. “We don’t want anyone in the institute to be suspicious. I’ll go fetch my bow from upstairs.”

#hetalia #aph england #hws england #aph portugal #hws portugal #engport #porteng #engportweekevent #shadowhunter au #art with fic #yeah the story is sort of based on Jules and Emma in the book

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styx-lethe · 10 months ago

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I did a long time ago couple scetches of engport wedding rings and now I found some time and inspiration to remake and colour them, so here they are.

The upper one is the one England wears and the lower one is what Portugal wears.

I have a headcanon that when they got married, they made their weddings rings with elements of their own culture, so they can always wear a piece of eachother when they are apart.

(of course they dont wear them in battle, so they wear just simpple gold rings then)

The upper ring that Portugal made for England has portuguese tile designs and a sea green gem. (My hc of Portugals eye colour)

The lower ring that England made for Portugal has typical celtic jewelry sympols.

(Triquetra/celtic knot the symbol of eternity/the symbol of the tripple Goddess/each corner represents land, sea and sky, also known as the never ending knot)

(The hands known as Claddagh, while they are moustly known as irish, but they are also found in old english rings. They symbolise love and when worn in specific way and hand they mean different things, if the heart or in this case waterdroplet is pointing in and on the left hand means that the wearer is married, if the heart is pointing out it means that the wearer is engaged, if the heart is pointing out, but in the right hand it means that the wearer is in a relationship and if pointed out the wearer is single. It doesn't seem like that there are a specific finger that it must be worn.)

The gem in the waterdroplet is an emerald.(Englands eye colour)

(Btw if it was not obivious Portugal wears his ring on the left hand and the waterdroplet is pointing in)

Also I have been little nervous to replog back and thank the people who have reploged and complimented my previous artworks, so I will do it now. Thank you all for the welcome and compliments, they have absolutly made my day beter and given me more courage to post more stuff, so thank you so much (:

#aph portugal #hws portugal #aph england #hws england #engport #porteng #Lethe's designs

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balladofthewhitehorse · 10 months ago

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Bittersweet for engport!

Night had drawn its mantle close, stars hewn across a dusky sky as England collapsed in the grass. He carded his hand through his hair (ignoring the way that his palm trembled, as clumsy as a newly born lamb), a sob bubbling in the depths of his chest. He’d not cried since…England frowned, this foreign sensation hard to put to name; It bore down on his soul like the weight of the sea (laying at the bottom of the trench, as gravity pulled on his limbs; Held him fast to the cold seabed, and told England that he was never going to rise evermore). It was a beautiful, cold night - and England felt himself slipping off the edge of the world; Melting into the embrace of dewy grass and the worms that twisted beneath, into chalk, tumbling like a cliff rushing into the sea.

Rodent. A squeaking, scurrying thing that crept along the hems of the map and gnawed at the paper; That was how Portugal had described him, with eyes like cold steel. England scoffed resentfully, some small measure of pride putting fire to his voice where some softer part of him shivered with the indignity of it all. It wasn’t fair. Warm lips and the heat of whiskey in his chest, hands closing over hands as they lay together in the dark bedroom; Nobody was here to take this moment away from England as Portugal lifted his belly, bent low and knelt before him, drinking him in. Yet, with his breath still warm and hair ruffled, Portugal had looked him in the eyes and told him that they couldn’t do it again. ‘’Why not-’’ Hissed England, a sinking feeling in the pit of his belly. ‘’-What’s your problem?’’ He felt untouchable - and consequence was just some distant island on the horizon, a thing of dreams and of impossibility, something far away. Untouchable

‘’We can’t.’’ Portugal had replied stiffly, awkward. ‘’I don’t-’’ England snarled softly, leaning back in his chair like a young king. ‘’Why the fuck not-?’’Assumption filled his throat; A swarm of desperate reasoning buzzed in his ears, England’s eyes darting back and forth across the room. Dizzied by the smell of perfume cloying the air, he grasped for Portugal’s hand and stumbled clumsily, knocking his waist against the corner of the desk with muttered cursing. Many things came racing to his head - most of all that Portugal had found someone else, that there was some keener mercenary that would do his bidding - and England lunged forward with a gout of fire in his chest. His eyes burned like black iron, freshly forged, and his palms felt sweaty; As if he’d been holding a hammer, trembling before a forge. ‘’Portugal, I-’’ He felt his face twist in disgust (the stained glass cast splinters of colour across the floor - England wondered what those multicoloured saints thought of him now, dirty hands pressed palm to palm). ‘’-I love you. There. You made me say it.’’ The words tasted of bile and old spirits, of something that he would hack up onto the floor of a tavern at those dusky, blue hours that turned the world so crooked and strange. There, England thought resentfully as he stared at Portugal. Now say it back to me, fear welled inside him as Portugal stared back coolly.

‘’...Not now. Later’’

His friend had whispered, but it had made England deaf all the same.

It still hurt thinking about it now. A promise had lingered between them, the dog’s bone held before its nose (master’s hand a closed fist, Portugal’s heart a closed fist just the same). Want ached in his chest, England sighing as he rested his head in the wet grass; They hadn’t spoken for months since - and the weight of his words sat as a lumpen stone in his rib-cage, his tongue tracing the shapes of that single, short sentence over and over, until England began to fear that it might be burned into the roof of his mouth ever since. Later was a thirsty man’s oasis, and he wondered how much longer he might be able to sustain himself upon it; Until Portugal’s silence broke, and England could lean back into the comfortable certainty that his affections weren’t for nothing. He knew that his friend had not said no - Portugal’s eyes had flashed strangely after England’s confession (splinters of ice that betrayed something warmer). His friend would tell him someday - and although England’s pride was wounded, his sword was Portugal’s until the end.

#hws england #hws portugal #engport #porteng

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franzoarts · 11 months ago

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Engport- Comic, a gif to a old friend.

"You're my cup of tea"

"You are tea-rrific"

#hetalia fanart #aph portugal #engport #hetalia #hws portugal #aph england #hws england #england x portugal

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maivalkov · 2 years ago

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👀👀👀👀👀

Please tell us more about Blunderland, Green, The tennant of flat 23, Change and Espinela, please? 😳🥺

Absolutely~ ;3

Blunderland

Just before the day of forced celebration—the coronation of the unknown king—Arthur’s closest companion is stolen away. Gone like the towns reduced to ashes at the borders, or those torn apart on account of treason.

And so it begins, his unwanted journey. No more garden tea parties or jokes by the fire, poking fun at the royal family; the Hearts. Off he goes through a land people seldom call home, hoping to find answers and his friend, alive. (EngSpa, side NedPort. Fantasy au/my take on a wonderland wracked by paranoia and the consequences of love and old wars >:D)

Green

So this is it, Abel accepted. Today, I’m going to die.

Seventeen years of age, miles away from home, and so many metres beneath the water’s surface, Abel was waiting for the end to come. He’d been sold on seafaring early, having long admired his Boatswain uncle, and this was the thanks he’d received. A pirate attack on his thirteenth voyage, and an unmarked, watery grave.

(NedPort, side EngSpa. Another maiva special of merfolk and curses)

The Tenant of Flat 23

Through kindness and pity for the sweet building owner, João takes an errand off her plate: a coffee delivery to flat 23, the abode just above his own, which plays home to a hermit/urban legend who João has yet to meet in all his years of tenancy.

It’s a simple favour, no harm done, João thinks, but simple things have a way of leaving their mark. A single cup of coffee means more, becomes more; it serves as the beginning, the catalyst for change. It binds him to the nuisance lurking up high, and of course—whether they like it or not—'23' is now indebted to him. (NedPort. Two guys tolerate one another until feelings happen.)

Change

Antonio just wants to buy dinner. João is anything but useful.

Upon being banished to the supermarket’s biscuit aisle, a place where Antonio hopes he won’t cause any trouble, João finds someone else likewise shunned and scolded.

His newfound company is rough around the edges, prone to terrible jokes and can’t reach the top shelf. In that respect they’ve got plenty in common, and maybe—just maybe—João’s found something more than food to take home. (EngPort, side Frain. A silly love story set in a supermarket.)

Espinela

Thanks to the kingdom’s Golden Child decree, all first-born children—Prince João included—are forbidden to inherit a thing. They’re expected to be silent, accepting of their status, until such time that they are married away, or—in the case of poorer families—sold to a wealthy home or business for work.

As a son of the king he is lucky, certainly, but it doesn’t stop João fighting back. Suitor after suitor is scared or turned away, until a letter arrives bearing a strange seal; the mark of kingdom many thought make-believe.

It is a kingdom of magic, of which João’s land has none, where they say coins grow on trees and flowers sing in the wind. It is a kingdom of such intrigue and riches that the offer of marriage is quickly agreed.

It is the kingdom young João admired in books, and home to a prince—his soon-to-be spouse—who is likewise unhappy about his fate.

(NedPort, with potential side EngSpa. Aka two princes wind up engaged against their wishes and, if I do ever write this, you will be joining me for the slowest of slow burns to ever slow burn as I gently push their faces together to smooch and encourage they get along.)

#You managed to pick many of the wips I've written a fair bit for #And therefore closest to actually being published on AO3 sometime in the future #Thank you for the ask cake 💖

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theuselesshistoryweeb · 2 years ago

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Since I’m bored, I made a mini playlist for APH Portugal because I love him and I like to think we have similar music taste

Stromae- Tous les mêmes (it just fits him)

PSY - Gentleman (he’s a cocky idiot and it gives engport duo)

Pink Martini - Sympathique (ok I know there’s already two French songs but I like the laid-back, Parisian chic vibes. It’s him.)

Mimicat - Ai Coraçao (EUROVISION EUROVISION I really liked this song and it’s HIM it’s HIM and his dramatic ass)

Coldplay - Viva la Vida (works for all the old empire grandpas so I must put it)

ABBA - Money Money Money (hehe Ned being the mentioned ‘rich man’, and again. Port is very theatrical in my opinion. I’ve made this point enough times.)

ABBA - Lay All Your Love On Me (I love jealous port.)

(I don’t listen to music. Correct me.)

#hetalia #aph portugal #hetalia headcanons #I’m projecting onto him

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rosesandalfazemas · 5 months ago

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Look at me, Captain. I'm worth it.

#hetalia #aph portugal #engport #aph england #porteng #hws portugal #rosas headcanons #Piratalia #Pirate hetalia #Hws england #Pirates #Old england

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owlrolls · 10 months ago

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MY OLD PHONE STARTED WORKING AGAIN AND I HAVE ALL MY OLD HETALIA DRAWINGS BACK !!!!!!

#theyre mostly engport BUT i think itll be fun posting a few (theyre 250+ drawings so i think ill redraw them >:)))#i cant believe it oml #owl rambles #and when i say old i mean 2020 and beyond (bad era dnjssjkskskd)

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needcake · 2 months ago

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Engport Week 2025

Day 4: Brothers in Arms

@engportevents

The address in the slip of paper in his hand led Arthur into the winding streets of a small village deep in the Portuguese countryside. As he rode his horse through the cobblestone streets, he passed by locals eying him strangely, looking up and down with distrustful frowns this strange English officer in uniform coming into their village. The last time he had been in Portugal, Arthur was a youth, barely of age but old enough to fight the war against the French. Now that he returned as a man, his heart twisted in his chest as he witnessed what the three invasions of Napoleon’s Army and the six years of civil war that followed had done to the country and its people.

He stopped his horse in front of the small church that the address indicated. The main bell tower was missing, its stones still piled high but the marks of destruction and abandonment still very much clear, and there was man on top of the roof fixing a part that was caved in. At the front, inspecting the work, was the priest in his dark robes.

“Good day, Father,” Arthur called, and the priest turned, frowning at him like the rest of the villagers. “My name is Arthur Kirkland, Lieutenant Colonel or the British Army.” He dismounted under the priest’s watchful eyes and produced a letter from the inner pocket of his coat. “I served under Lord Wellington. I was a Lieutenant then, of the 95th Foot Division. I am searching for a man, his name is Gabriel da Costa, he was a Lieutenant of the 3rd Caçadores Division. We served together, but I’m afraid I lost contact with him after the civil war. This parish is his last known address. I was hoping you might be able to help me find my friend.”

The priest’s face opened with understanding the moment Gabriel’s name was mentioned and he received Arthur’s letter in his hands, reading over the lines quickly, before folding it again and handing it back.

“I’m afraid you are out of luck, Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Kirkland of the British Army,” he said not unkindly, putting the letter back on Arthur’s hand and giving it a sympathetic squeeze. “I have not seen Gabriel in two years.”

“But you have seen him, sir?” Arthur insisted, holding on tight to his letter. “After the civil war?”

The priest nodded. “Last I heard he had taken a job in the colonies.”

Hope filled his stomach and Arthur had to restrain himself not to smile. “Which colonies?”

“Goa, if I’m not mistaken. He has a cousin who works for the Governor. I might have his name here somewhere.”

“Please, Father, if you would be so kind. I have spent many years trying to find him. Anything that might help me locate him would be of great value to me.”

The priest looked at him in silence, then nodded, waving a hand at him indicating that he should follow as the priest turned and headed inside the small church. “He must be a good friend of yours,” was the priest’s only comment, and Arthur bowed his head before entering the quiet cold halls.

He was.

The winter of 1810 was brutal on the troops. Chasing after the retreating French Army and battling against constant torrents of rain and half rations. When he received his approval for a three-day leave in Lisbon, Arthur’s first reaction was to cross the camp to the Portuguese side and barge into Gabriel’s tent.

“I got mine, did you get yours?”

Gabriel was just finishing with the buttons on his brown uniform and grinned when he saw him, looking at him over his shoulder, pulling his hair from under his coat and grabbing his approval letter from his things to show him as well.

“Pack your things, Kirkland, we’re going to Lisbon,” Gabriel said lively, grabbing Arthur’s face and giving his cheeks a kiss each in his excitement.

Through his uncle who worked for the East India Company, Arthur managed to be transferred to serve in Bombay the following year, 1836, and he would remain in India until 1844. During that time, he greatly distinguished himself in the protection of the Crown’s interests. His contributions for the solidification of the Empire were acknowledged and awarded with a good, albeit small, fortune.

When his uncle died, having no other heirs, and being Arthur his favorite nephew, he left him his estate in Norfolk.

During his eight years in India, Arthur never once stopping looking for his long lost Portuguese friend. But after his uncle died, Arthur sat alone in his room, heavy-hearted and grieving, and decided it was maybe time to go home.

Lisbon during the war was a mess of British and Portuguese soldiers, fidalgos that were left behind when the royal family escaped to Brazil, common folk and refugees from other parts of the country that sought protection behind the city’s walls. It was bursting with life in every corner, balls held to entertain the British officers, the opera, the theaters, the bars of every kind, the brothels. They said the best girls were hiding in the convents and Gabriel told him he knew a guy who knew a guy that could get them inside one. Arthur was 19 and this was his first time away from England. Everything was new, the people, the language, the war. His bones ached from the marching and his stomach longed for good and plentiful food, and he did not want to waste any second of these precious three days of leave with something as mundane as sleeping.

After finding a hotel room for the two of them in the crowded city, the trashiest place Arthur had ever set foot on, with creaking floorboards and leaks everywhere, but with two very real beds that felt too soft for someone who had spent the majority of the last two years on his feet or sleeping on the hard ground wrapped on his coat, Gabriel took him to a bar where they had to elbow their way inside and yell to get the barmaid’s attention. But finally Gabriel put a tankard of ale in front of him and offered a shouting toast that was accompanied by the soldiers around them that happened to hear.

“To the best friend life has ever given me!”

In April 1847, a few years after he had established himself in Norfolk, he woke up in the middle of the night with pain radiating from his left knee. It was not an unusual occurrence; he had been injured in India years before and the injury had never properly healed. He limped his way down the stairs and into the darkened kitchens and sent a quick prayer of gratitude for the lumps of coal still warm he found in the stove. He would make himself some tea and use some of the warm water to relieve the stiffness on his knee.

But as he pulled some old newspapers from a basket to rekindle the fire, his eyes fell on an outdated advert from weeks before.

Gabriel O. G. da Costa

R. de São Jorge 201, Lisbon, Portugal

IS prepared to pay a handsome reward for

good and helpful information

in finding a friend.

They decided to spend their first night in the city going from one bar to the next, to the next, to the next, and drink as much as their wallets would allow. Inevitably, by the fifth bar Arthur’s nerves were itching for a fight and the first git to step on his toes, drunk out of his mind raving about how much better and cleaner Madrid was in comparison to Lisbon, Gabriel’s face contrite with annoyance, Arthur had thrown the first punch and the crowd had cheered them on as he the other solider viciously rolled around the filthy floors of the bar, people placing bets and shouting excitedly above them.

Gabriel tried to break that fight and received a punch in the face for his troubles, and from there on out the fight escalated to a full out brawl. He dragged Gabriel out by the collar of his undershirt, ducking under flying fists and kicking legs to get them out into the cold quiet of the steep cobblestone streets. Arthur would forever remember laughing outside like an absolute lunatic, holding a hand around his stomach where the soldier had caught him and spitting out a little blood, Gabriel’s jaw rapidly swelling and purpling from the punch.

“Why did you do that?” Gabriel asked, still a little winded, but grinning, looking at Arthur with his eyes so brilliant, the street’s oil lamps casting everything around them in yellow light. But Arthur just shrugged, trying to stand straight but wincing, laughing again. He then felt Gabriel’s cold hands on his face, making him face him. He looked so deeply into his eyes, quiet for a moment that seemed to last forever, that Arthur felt helpless, completely at his mercy. And maybe it was the alcohol in their blood, maybe it was the euphoria from the fight. But when Gabriel leaned down to kiss him, he immediately knew what was going to happen and pulled him forth with his hand fisted in his shirt.

They stumbled back to their hotel, hands unable to keep to themselves, lips red from their frantic, incessant kissing. They made a ruckus of pushing their two single beds together and received thumps on the walls from other guests for that, but to them it didn’t matter. Between uncoordinated hands and breathless gasps, they undid buttons and laces and undressed each other, falling on the joined beds smiling and giddy, having eyes and ears only for each other.

Not a second of their three-day leave was laid to waste.

Arthur paced the hall restlessly, hands clasped behind his back. He had grown tired of checking the time. He had woken up that day checking for the time and knew it would do him no good. When he could no longer bear the wait, he decided to take his dogs for a long walk in the fields around the estate, and asked his maid to get the dogs ready and his valet to fetch his boots.

Either by fate or coincidence, the moment he stopped waiting was when he heard the screech of a carriage outside his front entrance. He jumped in front of the servant who went to answer the door, wrenching it open and taking to the two short steps to the gravel, while at the same time the door to the carriage opened and a man of similar age and stature hurried out, his hair still long but less brown than he remembered, his nose still very sturdy, his black suit and long black coat of high quality wool, so very different from his old brown Caçador uniform, but it was, unmistakably, Gabriel.

“I found you,” Gabriel whispered as he met him, his hands framing Arthur's cheeks, his green eyes watering with emotion. “I searched for you for so long.”

And Arthur could only close his eyes and laugh, weakly, pathetically, water building behind his closed eyelids. Gabriel pressed his forehead against his and Arthur pressed back, leaning into him, smiling so openly, with so much relief and gratitude, closing his hands around his back.

“Welcome home.”

#hetalia #hws portugal #hws england #engport #engportweekevent #engportweek 2025

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