#hetaberia 2023

[needcake]

@hetaberia-week

Day 1: historical .

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1539,

Lisbon

A man in his crew had made a comment that had stayed with him hours after they had reached the capital. In fact, Portugal was still thinking about it when he finally left the Casa da Índia and crossed the short distance to the Ribeira Palace, walking up the stone steps in the winding staircases, nodding at the palace staff that passed him by and greeted him demurely, and, being himself clad in black, it had taken him a moment to realize everyone was too.

No bad news ever comes unaccompanied, his crewmate had said, and Portugal was still thinking of that when he opened the door to the King’s private drawing room, finding him with his eyes red-rimmed, clutching a letter to his chest in anguish. The Empress of the Holy Roman Empire, his younger sister, had died in May, he said, her last pregnancy had robbed her much of her strength, the child had not survived either. Portugal still smelled of gunpowder and ash, he could still feel grains of Indian sand inside his boots, but his eyes were lost on some unidentifiable corner of the King’s private drawing room as he sat down before his desk. They never lived long, did they. He had held her as a baby in his arms, had seen her learn her first words of his language, had attended her wedding, had visited her children. Their lives went by so fast, not like his.

There would be a funeral and the King wanted him to accompany him, Portugal did not think to say no. He was tired, battered, hurting, ears still ringing from cannon blasts shot across the Indian coast by Ottoman ships into his fortress in Diu, wearing months of a siege they had at great pains finally won. No bad news ever comes unaccompanied, and he found himself on a carriage a few days later bound to Granada, crossing the border with his shoulders heavy with padded fabric, his hair combed and clean, golden rings on his fingers.

The husband, the Holy Roman Emperor, was not there when they reached the church. Unable to bring himself to say the final good-bye to his beloved wife, he had instead sent his son in his place, his first-born and only surviving son and heir, and the boy stood, stone-faced and ashen, accompanying his mother’s coffin into the small, packed full church alone.

How small he seemed at that moment. And Portugal would never forget that image, of the boy entering the church behind his mother’s casket, his posture stiff with grief, dark clothes too heavy, golden fleece too garish. It would be the last time he ever saw him as a child. Once the ceremony was over and the body was buried, the son would leave the marble grounds of that church forever changed. No bad news ever came unaccompanied.

From across the entrance to the church while the crowd dispersed, surrounded by a group of nobles and high-ranking clergymen, Spain spotted him and excused himself to come to him, the pull on the bottom of his stomach becoming stronger the closer he came, recognizing him as an old soul like himself, despite him being so much younger.

“We did everything we could to save her,” Spain said, taking Portugal’s numb hand between both of his in a comforting gesture.

It should be the other way around, Portugal thought, looking at his young face and red-rimmed eyes. It was Spain who had just lost a Queen and an Empress, Portugal had lost her long ago, the moment they had sent her away to be married in a political alliance, but Spain had just lost a companion, an advisor, a friend. Portugal should be the one comforting him.

What an odd creature this boy was, he thought, observing the brown curls that framed his youthful face, feeling the calluses on his fingers from handling sword and quill, looking into his olive green eyes that so reminded him of someone else.

Portugal laid his other hand on top of theirs.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said, earnestly, and Spain’s composure cracked, his chin trembling as he turned his eyes down to nod at the ground, sniffling.

And how odd, he thought, how so very odd, that his first instinct had been to pull him into his arms, even though he didn’t.

--

Notes: Portugal is coming home from the Battle of Diu (1538), only to discover the Holy Roman Empress, Isabella of Portugal, had died in May, 1539.

[undeadhetalian]

Hetaberia 2023 Day 2: Summer

Rating: T

@hetaberia-week

[shakaxmoon]

so I heard it's hetaberia week and quick doodle woosh

prompt: day 6 | sea

[hetaberia-week]

‧̍̊˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧ ⠀⠀it's prompt o'clock !

august 21st - august 27th⠀[ 🍊 ]

day 1: historical / domestic

day 2: betrayal / summer

day 3: university / fairytales

day 4: pets / love language

day 5: royalty / ghosts

day 6: sea / childhood rivalry

day 7: bad habits / gods

+ a free day token for you to use on any day!

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we can't wait to get started! happy creating!

@heta-on-the-books @hetaliahappenings

[sisididis]

Day 2 of @hetaberia-week

Prompt: Summer 

Antonio and João’s friendship is in danger. 

Or at least Antonio thinks it is. 

After their accidental kiss on the football field, which João had shrugged off as Antonio being Antonio, the Spaniard knew that he had to make it up to his childhood best friend. How? By kissing him a second time in the pitch-black parking lot of a drive-in theater. 

Inspired by this adorable animation.

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“What movie did you say that they were rolling tonight,” João asked ten minutes into their uncharacteristically quiet drive to the neighborhood theater, which was a shy distance from Antonio’s childhood home.

July 1st was a summer night like any other in that it made the young restless and the old reminiscent of their olden days. Everything felt suspended in time, and as far as Antonio was concerned, summer break was nothing but an infinite stretch of heat and cricket song.

Except for the humming of the convertible’s wheels and the wind whipping wildly at their hair, the boys sat in stilled silence – João, bored in the passenger seat, and Antonio, lost in thoughts that seemed to evaporate at the older boy’s question. 

“Casablanca,” Antonio chirped cheerfully, and chanced a glance at João to gauge his reaction. 

It was an old crowd pleaser that habitually attracted dozens of couples after sunset. Under the cover of darkness, boys and girls became braver, and their hands and mouths more curious. Sure, there was always a slight chance that the warden would shine a flashlight into your car and tap on your window to leave, but right now there were worse scenarios tugging at Antonio’s mind. Like him losing his best friend over an accidental kiss.

“Hm,” João hummed, content with Antonio’s answer, as if he had picked the movie himself. 

Antonio exhaled softly. 

He took that as a good omen for the rest of the night and began to slow down as the entrance to the drive-in theater came into view. A split second later, they spotted the queue to the ticket booth and gulped, taking in its length. 

“You’d think that they were giving out free tickets,” João whistled, and Antonio nodded in agreement, clutching the wheel tighter. 

It took all his strength not to hit his head against it. 

In the week that followed their kiss on the football field, Antonio sensed that something profound had shifted between them. Unlike before, he found himself torn between craving and dreading João’s company. His chest felt tight with nerves, and something else that he did not dare voice.

He’d decided that it would be best if he kept his distance from João until he made sense of the war waging within, but the older boy was quick to catch onto that. He’d wasted no time in assuring Antonio that the kiss had meant nothing to him, and that he’d shrugged it off as Antonio being Antonio. But knowing João as he did, Antonio could tell that he didn’t believe that. Neither of them did. 

In a desperate bid to save their friendship, Antonio suggested that they paid the old drive-in theater a visit. 

“Finally!” João sighed. “We’re getting close.”

And a visit they paid.

After moving up the queue with a slowness that put their Iberian patience to the test, Antonio stationed in front of the ticket booth just long enough to pay for two (he had rolled his window shut just in time to avoid João’s insistent bills) then drove to the refreshment stand, where he ordered a bag of popcorn twice the size of his head and two cans of soda. 

As they made their way to their parking space, the Spaniard silently pitied the person who had to pick up all the empty popcorn bags strewn around the parking lot.

“The movie is about to start,” the warden announced, and darkness fell all around them. From the corner of his eye, Antonio noticed how the projector’s beam illuminated the top of João’s dark hair. 

I want to kiss him, he thought, then promptly tucked his hands under him, horrified at how easily the thought crossed his mind. 

He’s your friend, he scolded. 

Your friend. 

He continued to fidget in his seat while João remained seemingly oblivious to his discomfort, pouring all his attention elsewhere. 

“Where were you last night, Rick?”

“That was so long ago, I don’t remember,” drawled the protagonist.

“What a fool I was to fall for a man like you!” Annia cried, and Antonio realized that João and him were almost shoulder to shoulder now. He did not remember his convertible to be so cramped before. His heart hammered in his chest and he wet his lips for the tenth consecutive time. Loudly. 

That tore João’s attention away from the movie, and as he turned to him, there was a touch of a smile in his eyes.

“Just drink already if you’re that thirsty,” he said and handed Antonio his drink.

The drink was cold and tasty, but fizzy. Antonio’s nerves were fizzy, too, bubbling and surging up, up, up, before he forced them back down. He tried to swallow, but the lump lodged in his throat was more stubborn than him. And that said something. 

From above, the voices of the characters rang out again, dripping with sarcasm. 

“Rick is completely neutral about everything, and that takes in the field of women, too!” 

The crowd laughed.

Perhaps a bit of butter could make his throat work again, he thought. A heartbeat later, Antonio reached blindly inside the popcorn bag propped up next to João, and inhaled sharply when he felt something warm against his fingers. 

He froze.

Oh my god. 

That’s his hand, he thought. 

Despite himself, goosebumps sprang on his skin. He was torn. If he drew his hand back suddenly, then that would arouse João’s suspicion, but if he pretended to be absorbed in the movie long enough to let his hand linger on João’s, then…

What to do, what to do?

Sweat began to bead at his temples. 

“Is that cannon fire,” Ilsa whispered against Rick’s embrace, “or is it my heart pounding?” 

Seemingly confused at Antonio’s immobile hand, João turned to look at him.

And green met green. 

Although it was dark, Antonio recognized the startled look on his friend’s face, the blush dusting his cheeks. An unspoken question flickered in João’s eyes. And an unspoken answer flickered in Antonio’s. 

I love you, I love you, I love you, Antonio wanted to yell, but no words passed between them. 

He could see João’s pulse quicken just above his Adam’s apple, and he knew that his did the same. As João began to lean closer, Antonio closed his eyes. His heart was rabbiting wildly in his chest, wanting nowhere but out and inside João. He could feel the older boy's warm breath on his face, almost feel his soft lips on his—!

“Booh!”

Then both of them jumped like two cats drenched in cold water, sending the popcorn bag between them flying and landing on João’s lap.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” someone shouted.

Antonio’s face suddenly flushed red, and he swiveled around to face the anger of the movie watchers, who must have surely seen them. 

“We want our money back!” 

A chorus of approval soon joined the clamor. 

As the red faded from Antonio’s face, it dawned on him that the crowd’s anger wasn’t directed at them, but at the newly-blank projection screen. He’d forgotten that the older movies would cut right in the middle sometimes, and by the looks of it, João had forgotten it, too. 

After a tense minute of waiting, during which neither João nor Antonio dared to breathe, the projectionist got the movie working again and the whole parking lot exhaled with relief. 

“Madre mía,” Antonio whispered and João echoed his sentiment.    

For the remainder of the movie, neither of them spoke or looked at each other. Instead, under the protection of darkness, Antonio cradled his hand that burned with João’s touch, while João licked his unkissed lips in consolation.    

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After what felt like an eternity, after the crowd had clapped their approval, dried their tears and  started their engines, Antonio finally turned to João and searched his face. He’d expected to see a disappointed João in the passenger seat. Instead, the older boy looked relieved. 

He puffed out a laugh.

“Thank god that’s over with!” 

Antonio frowned. That wasn’t the reaction that he had hoped for. He chewed the inside of his mouth and looked away, but João was quick to notice and touched his shoulder. 

“It wasn’t all bad,” he lied. “I liked the movie.”

You didn’t even watch half of it, Antonio would have retorted had his throat worked. They fell into an uneasy silence.

I want to go home, Antonio thought. He didn’t know how so many things could go wrong at the same time. Before he could continue that thought, João’s voice brought him back to the now empty, street-lamp lit parking lot. 

“What’s that shining in the back?" he asked.  

Antonio followed with his eyes the direction to which João pointed. From a distance, it looked like a man standing behind a ticket booth. As they drew closer and closer, the fortune teller inside the box belted out: 

“Come let Zoltar tell you more!” 

Antonio wondered if the machine was an old carnival attraction that the warden refused to part with. That’s why he must have hid it in the back, he thought, then broke the silence. 

“You like this sort of things?” he asked João.

“Just as much as I liked getting popcorn all over my pants,” João smiled sarcastically. 

That’s right. The popcorn. He’d forgotten. Antonio ducked his head and kicked at the dust. He made to apologize, but the older boy interrupted him before he could. “Come on, ask it a question,” he prompted.

Antonio couldn’t tell if João was joking or not. He exhaled and thought about it for a second, his face illuminated by the crystal ball caressed by the animatronic. João watched the blue light dance on Antonio’s face. Knowing Antonio as he did, he was ready to tease Antonio mercilessly. He could almost hear him.

Zoltar, will I become a famous football player some day?

Zoltar, will I own a farm of turtles? 

Zoltar, will I ever win a lifetime supply of olive oil? 

In reality, Antonio settled on none of those.

“Does João like me, too?” Antonio breathed softly.

And the world stopped. 

Whatever it was that João had wanted to say immediately died on his lips. Antonio felt the older boy stiffen up, saw his mouth part in surprise. He certainly had not expected that. Not even Antonio expected his sudden bout of bravery. But he would not deny himself any longer. He would not fool his heart any longer.

He waited and waited and waited. The entire world was left suspended between his question and João’s answer. Time and its passage had ceased to exist altogether. Even the crickets had stopped their song to listen. 

When at last João’s eyes flickered to meet Antonio’s, Antonio saw that João’s expression had gentled, and his lips had quirked into one of his smiles that he reserved only for him.

You idiot, it said endearingly.

You idiot.

When João stepped tentatively towards Antonio, Antonio was ready. He could feel João’s warm breath on his lips, feel the air in his lungs escape, rush out and leave him empty, craving for João, only João. João brushed his lips softly over Antonio’s, barely there, but close enough for them to know that it wasn’t nearly close enough. Then, leaning in fully, thumbs pressed against Antonio’s cheeks, João kissed Antonio.

Somewhere inside him, everything was exploding at once.

João, his João, loved him back, every inch of him sang. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears. 

Antonio responded eagerly to João’s kiss, gripping his shoulders and twisting his fingers into his long hair. They stayed like that until they grew breathless, and remembered that they needed to breathe just as much as they needed each other. 

Soon after they parted, Zoltar spat out a card. It was Antonio who unfolded it as João looked on from behind his shoulder. 

Love is right around the corner, it said, and Antonio laughed. 

João found the sound light, airy and wonderful. 

The Iberians kissed under the moonlight until the crunch of the scattered popcorn under the warden’s boots was but a distant sound, drowned out by their heartbeats. 

[orbitinghetalia]

Prompt summer for @hetaberia-week

[helianskies]

hetaberia • day 2 • betrayal 🧨

The gun was not what scared João; the man who held it, however, was.

[ read on ao3! ]

event: @hetaberia-week

rating: mature ⠀ wordcount: 4.1k

[maivalkov]

NedPort | M | @hetaberia-week day 4: love language

Despite being abandoned, insulted by his date, João's night is far from over. Charity—a private bar—awaits, and with it comes the chance to try again.

Read on ao3

[flash56-chase05]

Written for @hetaberia-week Day 2: Betrayal / Summer!

Punto de fricción (Sticking point)

Y pensar que todo aquello había empezado con una simple pregunta. . And to think that everything had started with a simple question.

Leer en: Ao3 /ff.net.

Because this is connected with the previous fic, the summary could be that he did start a war with France. However, I found the final one to be more descriptive and accurate.

But he did it. Twice.

[needcake]

@hetaberia-week

Day 8: extra

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1588,

Madrid

No bad news ever came unaccompanied.

“Let me through,” he ordered at first, pushing against the barrier of servants, nurses and surgeons trying to keep him from entering the room, hands on his arms and shoulders, telling him their young Lord had just undergone extensive surgery, he needed to recover, he needed rest, he needed – “Let me through!”

A path opened, their voices fading into silence in face of Portugal’s ire and he crossed the threshold in hard stomps, locking the doors behind himself.

“You scare them,” came a frail voice from the bed, weak and flickering like the candlelight on his bedside table. Spain was a ghost against the pillows, his face ashen and pale, forehead feverish to the touch of Portugal’s hand, eyes unfocused. The mattress dipped under Portugal’s weight as he sat on the edge, and Spain attempted a smile that came out too shaky.

“England did this to you?”

He shook his head, stubbornly. “There was a storm,” he licked his lips, blinking slowly, “the men got confused, the English kept firing at us. If we could’ve boarded them, I would’ve won.” He coughed and Portugal helped him to a glass of water, holding it steady against his lips as he took small sips. “He’s coming for you next,” Spain said, turning his eyes to the pamphlets on his bedside table, jutting his chin at them for Portugal to take a look.

He put the glass of water down and gingerly took the pamphlets in his hands, his frown deepening as he flipped through the pages.

“He’s negotiating an alliance with the Ottomans,“ Spain said, and Portugal abandoned the printed lines of English excuses for stealing his people’s grain and supplies from Lisbon’s harbors justifying it as a just cause in their conflict against Spain and looked directly into Spain’s weakened but resolute olive green eyes, seeing the Turk smirking in the corner of his Moroccan prison cell, his stupid mask glinting in the dark. “Morocco too, he’s been trading freely with her, sending ambassadors—”

“Yes, I already know about that,” Portugal cut him off dryly, looking down at the pamphlets in his hands. He had known England had been dealing with Morocco behind his back, but the Ottoman Turks. That hurt more, cut deep into his flesh, stung like the devil. He could feel Spain’s eyes on him, but didn’t dare look up when his chin trembled so and his eyes watered with angry tears.

A cold hand was laid gently on top of his trembling fist still holding the pamphlets, crinkling the pages. At this he did look up, finding Spain’s eyes so much softer than he expected.

And here he felt it again, the strange urge to pull his injured body in his arms, the pull of kinship on the bottom of his stomach too strong to resist this time, and when he opened his arms, Spain came all too easily, bandaged arms circling his torso and face pressed into his clavicle, allowing Portugal to embrace his shoulders, mindful of the bruises, careful when he tucked him under his chin.

“We’ll show them,” Spain mumbled into his doublet, “We’ll make them pay,” he said, his hoarse voice vibrating with anger, but all it did was make Portugal press his eyes tighter, trying to keep himself from crying harder. I’m sorry, he wanted to tell him, but didn’t, cradling his soft hair in his palm, hiding in the crook of his neck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you’ll never be a boy again after this, that once he left this bed Spain would be forever changed.

No bad news ever came unaccompanied.

---

After the defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588, the English poured all their resources into a counter-attack the following year aiming to “liberate” Portugal and install António, Prior of Crato, as its King. They blockaded Lisbon’s harbors and confiscated their grains and supplies, which were carried by ships from the Hanseatic League that had nothing to do with the conflict. To justify their actions, the English issued pamphlets explaining their position, which you can read here. This resulted in the Portuguese population rejecting this liberation and the English Armada of 1589 also ended in failure, nearly bankrupting Elizabeth I. Concomitantly, the English, isolated as a Protestant nation amongst Catholic neighbors, sought out Islamic allies in Morocco and the Ottoman Empire, which further angered Spain and Portugal.

[needcake]

@hetaberia-week

Day 5: royalty/ghosts

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1578,

Marrakesh

His prison cell was small. He could tell it was night when the walls grew cold, and he could tell it was day when he couldn’t stand with his back against them for too long. Down the long corridor of the prison, he could hear the young men that had been captured with him in the aftermath of the battle crying softly, quietly, praying that their families still had enough money and possessions to pay for their ransom.

Portugal stared at the walls and thought of the battle lost.

He had seen his young King ride out into battle, he had seen him with his sword raised, his horse kicking up a cloud of dirt.

He hadn’t seen him come out.

The days dragged on slowly, but all Portugal thought was the battle. Had they cinched their horses right? Had they loaded the right ammunition into their muskets? Had they planned their strategy correctly? Had the King died?

The young men cried night after night in the other prison cells down the corridor, begging to be rescued. Portugal dreamt of clouds of dirt, the King’s horse riding out and disappearing from view, of Ottoman banners raised behind Morocco’s men on the other side.

He stared at the walls, listened to the boys crying down the corridor, saw his King disappearing into a cloud of dirt.

“Have you lost your mind yet?” the Turk asked him from the corner, smirking that infuriating smirk, looking at him from behind that stupid mask as if Portugal couldn’t recognize him even in the dark, even miles away from this damp, dark, small prison cell.

“Not yet,” he mumbled in the dark, looking at the walls. Where had they gone wrong? What if they had come earlier to Morocco? What if he had attacked the capital instead? What if they had stayed in Lisbon? What if he had done more to protect his King? What if, what if, what if.

The boys cried down the corridor and Portugal dreamt that it was his King crying, begging for help, praying Portugal would find him and bring him back.

The bars to his cell were opened and gentle hands pulled him upright. “Not yet,” he mumbled in the dark, but a voice shushed him.

“It’s okay, Port, it’s me. We paid the ransom, it’s okay,” the voice continued and it sounded like Spain, but Spain was miles away in Madrid, Portugal was still trapped in the battlefield.

Gentle hands guided him down the corridor supporting his weight, Portugal flinched when they reached the outside and the harsh Moroccan sun blazed down on him.

“Not yet,” he mumbled, gripping the hands that so gently carried him forward, away from his prison cell, away from the walls and the shadows and the boys crying to be rescued. What if he was still in there, what if Portugal was leaving him behind. “Not yet,” he tried a little louder, trying to push away the gentle hands, trying to go back. He had to follow him, follow his King’s horse into the cloud of dirt and smoke, he was only a boy.

“It’s okay,” Spain continued to say, gripping him tighter, not letting him go. “I’m here to help.”

Portugal sagged in his arms, no more fight left in him.

He felt a presence behind his back looking at him, but when he looked back, looked back like Orpheus, looked back like Lot’s wife, cursed and fated, unable to stop himself, all he saw was a cloud of dirt.

-

King Sebastian of Portugal disappeared in the aftermath of the Battle of Alcácer Quibir, also known as the Battle of the Three Kings, presumed dead. Fighting alongside him were young men from almost every noble family in Portugal, who were held for ransom after the battle was lost, and whose families had to plead help from the Spanish King Philip II to bring them back from Morocco. This marks the beginning of the decline of the Portuguese Empire, and sparked the myth of Sebastianism, the idea that King Sebastian wound return on a misty day to bring back the glorious days of the Empire.

[needcake]

@hetaberia-week

Day 7: bad habits

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1587,

Madrid

“Are you sure it’s wise?”

Spain looked away from the fire and turned his head to the side to blink at Austria on the armchair beside his. “What is?”

“This invasion plan.”

He looked back at the fire, took another sip of his wine. “Someone needs to stop England.”

“Yes, but—”

“France can’t or won’t do it. England’s been harboring our enemies, financing the Dutch against us. Did you know he struck a deal with the Ottomans?”

“But why does it have to be you?”

Spain turned to look at Austria beside him again, facing his pinched eyebrows over the rim of his glasses, the admonishing tight press of his lips. He felt an ugly stir in his chest, his temper rising, suddenly uncomfortable in his own quarters. He hated how Austria always treated him like a child when they were alone. Spain would prove that he could stomach an Empire.

“Because I’m the only one who can,” was all he said, ending the conversation, turning his head to face the fire.

He heard him make a small noise of restrained disbelief that sounded like an accusation to his ears, and didn’t even turn to see him rising to his feet and straightening his clothes. “Can I expect you in my chambers this evening?” Austria asked, laying a light hand on his shoulder, fingers timidly caressing the embroidery of his collar, but Spain gave him a quick look and shifted uncomfortably on his armchair, away from him, feeling like a scolded schoolboy, his cheeks heating from more than the fire in front of him.

“Maybe, I don’t know,” he mumbled, non-committedly, “You don’t have to stay up.”

Austria’s hand retreated from his shoulder and he almost looked… disappointed? Spain could never read him right. Their marriage was only political, they didn’t have to mix business with pleasure and blurry the lines between them. Austria nodded to himself and his expression smoothed back into neutrality. If he wanted them to be something more, why wouldn’t he say so? Spain couldn’t understand him. Things were better this way.

“As you wish, my Lord,” Austria limited himself to say. “I’ll leave the door unlocked in case you change your mind.”

He watched him go with a frown and sighed when the door closed behind him. Spain took another sip of his wine.

Without a second thought he was up, crossing the room and the darkened corridors, going down a flight of stairs before knocking on one of the doors. An old servant answered, clearly distraught from being woken in the middle of the night, grumbling as she let him into the apartments and went to check if her mistress could see him.

“My Lord,” Belgium candidly called, coming out of her chambers closing a light blue and pink embroidered robe over her chemise, her blonde hair loose over her shoulder, smelling like a spring flower in bloom. “I wasn’t expecting your visit.”

He took her smaller hands in his, weaver hands, still calloused from working on the loom before Spain brought her and her brother to the palace, away from her older brother’s rebellious influence. He rubbed his thumbs over her knuckles.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Belgium closed her fingers over his, meeting his gaze when he looked into her eyes. Why couldn’t Austria look at him like this, why couldn’t he tug his hands like she did, guide him through the doors to his chambers, lead him to his bed. Belgium had no qualms telling him exactly what she wanted. And he liked how her hands tugged hard on his hair, how her legs wrapped tight around his hips, how her husky voice whispered praise in his ear. You are invincible, she would say, you are the Spanish Empire.

He liked it better this way.

[needcake]

@hetaberia-week

Day 2: summer

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1544,

Lisbon

It was the end of summer and the branches of the trees lining the sides of the roads connecting their countries were heavy with fruit, the air warm and sweet as Spain rode at top speed through Badajoz and into Elvas, gripping the reigns tight and kicking back his horses’ sides to make him go even faster, ignoring the locals’ surprised and judgmental stares.

By the time he came into Lisbon the sun was hot and burning above him and there was a pang of hunger hollowing his stomach. He would deal with it later, the letter he brought with him from Madrid safely secured inside his doublet and he left his horse at the royal stables before climbing up the stairs of the Ribeira Palace two steps at a time, the guards opening the doors for their ally without question.

He looked around the antechamber while he waited, the palace’s high ceilings decorated with paintings of angels and saints, white and blue tiles depicting historical victories in battles long fought when Portugal had first ventured out into the north of Africa. Spain knew the stories, everyone knew the stories. No one knew exactly how Portugal had accomplished such deeds, but they had all heard about them. The long sieges, battles that went long into the night, city walls that crumbled under Portuguese cannons. Civilization conquering barbarism.

“It’s unlike you to come unannounced,” Portugal said as he came to greet him, and Spain spun on his axis to see him come into the antechamber, eyebrows furrowed slightly.

“I received a letter from a mutual acquaintance,” Spain answered in lieu of explanation, reaching into his pocket for the folded paper with the English seal, Portugal’s eyebrows furrowing further as he extended it to him. “I would like your opinion on it.”

Portugal’s eyes moved swiftly over the pages, his frown turning into amusement as he read, lips pressing together to hold in laughter, and Spain almost regretted coming to him in the first place if Portugal hadn’t looked up at him and asked, in the most serene of tones:

“Have you eaten yet?”

-

“England is a jerk,” Spain complained sullenly, slouched on the couch of Portugal’s private quarters after a full and hearty meal, watching him lay out cards on a low table while sitting cross-legged from it, playing a hard game of solitaire against himself. “I told him I wanted to end the war against France, I finally had France agree to back me up on the church reform project I told you about, he finally agreed to break his alliance with the Ottomans—” Portugal grunted loudly, laying a queen of hearts on top of a king of clubs, “—but if England doesn’t stop hostilities against France and Scotland in the north it’ll be all for naught!”

Portugal listened, but didn’t comment, turning three cards from the pile and frowning at his game. Spain threw an arm melodramatically over his face.

“I don’t know how you can stand England,” he groaned with a pout, “He’s a bully and his breath stinks and his King is an idiot,” Spain mumbled, but Portugal merely hummed from his spot on the floor, continuing to stack cards on the table.

“He makes me laugh,” he said quietly, still too engrossed in his game to see the way Spain peeked at him from under his arm.

He huffed in mild disbelief. He found nothing funny about England. The air that came in through the open windows was warm, the afternoon sun glowing gold on the horizon with the end of summer.

“When is your next trip?” Spain asked, peeking at him again.

Portugal’s lips moved worriedly from side to side, searching for a card until he finally spotted a jack of spades and placed it on top of his queen of hearts. “I have to be in Japan in four months.”

“Can I come with you?” he piped up excitedly, lifting himself up from the couch on his elbows, looking at Portugal pleadingly. “I haven’t been out of Europe in years.”

But Portugal merely gave him a reproachful look before turning his eyes back down. “We agreed you’d stay on your side of the line,” he said before going back to his game, and Spain let his body fall back down with a defeated groan.

“I’m starting to think you’re a bully too,” he told him demurely.

Portugal snorted. He snorted, but didn’t disagree.

[needcake]

@hetaberia-week

Day 6: sea

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1583,

Madrid

It is done, his King told him as he came into his private drawing room at night, answering his urgent summons. Azores has fallen, he said, handing him the letter from their Admiral for Spain to read.

Spain looked at him, stunned into silence, receiving the letter in his numb hands.

“And the pretender to the throne?” he asked, skimming over the words, jumping lines, eyes moving too fast over the ink.

His King snorted, sitting back on his chair. “Fled to France. Rats are the first to abandon ship. I reckon the French Queen won’t want to keep him in her court for long, soon he’ll be seeking out some other hole to hide.”

The words jumped to his attention on the letter, written in ink, preserved in paper. A suggestion made by their Admiral in the aftermath of the victory over the last of the Portuguese resistance, adrenaline undoubtedly still running high. Spain turned his eyes up slowly to face his King, the implicit suggestion in his voice filling his stomach with heavy lead.

The man sat with his back against the high frame of his chair, eying him candidly in return.

“You don’t approve,” he affirmed, but Spain was quick to shake his head, dismissing the idea. It wasn’t that he didn’t approve, it was just—

“We have no evidence that the English Queen will grant him asylum.”

“You don’t know her like I do,” his King retorted, eyes turned stern, and Spain quickly looked down, fidgeting with the letter in his hands, skimming over the words again.

“Still,” he tried again, quietly, “To invade England.”

“They harbor our enemies, attack us at sea, steal our ships. They’re financing the Dutch against us, making alliances with the Moroccans and the Ottomans. We must act now,” his King reasoned emphatically, and Spain knew he was right, he could see it plainly. “We must seize the moment after this great victory. We have the Portuguese fleet on our side now, nothing and no one can stand against us.”

Spain bit into his lower lip, the written words glaring back at him, black ink on the paper. He nodded, despite the heavy weight still lodged in the bottom of his stomach. He had a bad feeling about this. This was the moment of no return.

The King hummed, pleased, and with a flick of his fingers dismissed him. “We’ll have a meeting to discuss the details once the Admiral returns. I’d like the Iron Duke to be present, you as well. And if your friend is better disposed, we could use his seafaring skills.”

At this he looked up sharply. “No,” he said firmly, shaking his head. The King’s eyebrows rose slightly, but Spain was adamant, setting his foot down and raising his chin. “We don’t need to bring him into this.” Portugal would only oppose, cause unnecessary strife and friction, he had just lost a King, the Dutch betrayal still hung heavily over his head. He couldn’t ask this of him. “I can do it alone,” he promised.

The King eyed him thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded. Of the boy who entered the church accompanying his mother’s coffin only the name remained. They were men of duty, Spain knew he would understand.

“Very well,” he said at last, resting his palm on his desk, looking at him with sympathy, if not pity. “We’ll make the arrangements.”

He bowed in deference, leaving the Admiral’s letter on the desk within the King’s reach before exiting the room, feeling each step heavy, as if the long corridors of the palace were gallows and he was heading for an inevitable death.

“Sir, he’s been down at the kitchens again today,” one of his servants whispered as he walked back into his chambers, readily coming closer to help him undress, pulling at strings and undoing buttons, relieving some of the weight on his shoulders. “The staff doesn’t like it. They’ve asked us to stop him from going back.”

Spain sighed, rubbing his hand over his eyes, looking up at the high ceiling of his room. On a table near the fireplace, seven misshapen honey cakes sat, too sad to look at.

“Tell them they’ll have to put up with him a little longer,” he said quietly, closing his eyes. “Just a little longer.”

--

After the Duke of Alba, also known as the Iron Duke, defeated the pretender to the Portuguese throne, António, Prior of Crato, after the death of King Sebastian, at the Battle of Alcântara in 1582, António fled to the Azores, where he was again defeated in 1583 by the Marquis of Santa Cruz, Admiral of the Spanish fleet. After that he fled again, this time to Catherine de Medici’s court in France. His final destination would be Queen Elizabeth I’s court in England where he asked for her help regaining the Portuguese throne. In the aftermath of their victory in the Azores, the Spanish Admiral wrote to King Philip II suggesting they should form a Spanish Armada composed of the Spanish and Portuguese fleets and invade England.

[needcake]

@hetaberia-week

Day 4: love language

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1551-1578,

Madrid

Months after Valladolid, Spain received a box of bunny-shaped marzipans. It came with no note, but it was fine, he didn’t need one.

A week later he had a rich velvet sack of their newly-found and beloved potatoes tied with a string of gold delivered to Lisbon, directly from the colonies. In return, a still steaming plate of bacalhoada, codfish layered with tender sliced potatoes, onions, olives and halved eggs, arrived the next day.

A few more months and he received a sponge cake, layered with meringue and fruit, to which he responded with a generous plate of paella, the seafood fresh from the coast.

The plate returned empty, clean, and with a bottle of good wine.

He would send him tomatoes and Portugal would send back pastries. Portugal would send him mangoes and he would send back bottles of high quality olive oil.

There would be entire months of silence, entire years Portugal spent fighting the Ottomans in the Indies and would come back to Europe only to leave again within days, and there were times when Spain would be too engrossed in wars in Europe to remember their little tradition. A couple of boxes of fruitcake went stale and hard on his desk by the time he returned home, deep fried offerings went unanswered. But like a language, he learned to tell when Portugal returned victorious when his servants would announce the arrival of boxes of clams and sardines and fresh fruits from the neighboring kingdom, or when he had suffered a defeat at sea and all he would receive were sad little honey cakes. On those days he would send back whole pieces of jámon, pots full of steaming cocido, bottles of sherry. It was easier to communicate with Portugal like this, without words, without accusations, just two friends sending food and drinks back forth across the border. And for a few years it had been good, it had been enough.

But then it stopped.

[needcake]

@hetaberia-week

Day 3: university

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1550,

Valladolid

He had sent him a letter with an invitation to attend the debates held in the Colegio de San Gregorio, but, as often happened with the letters he sent to Portugal, he had not expected him to respond, much less show up.

What was Spain’s surprise then, when he spotted his black-clad somber figure sitting on the last row of the audience chamber like a sinister crow, watching de las Casas argue for the fifth day straight.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he told him honestly and excitedly, coming to find him outside of the audience chamber at the end of the day while the crowd dispersed and conversation about the day’s discussions sparked loudly all around him. Intellectuals and theologians debating amongst themselves the merits of Aristotle’s definition of the natural slave and if it could and should be applied to their American colonies. Spain felt that they had made incredible progress since the beginning of these talks, but there was still so much more that he hoped would be accomplished.

“You invited me,” Portugal said simply, his voice sounding a little too dry to Spain’s ears and he looked him over a little more carefully, squinting his eyes slightly at him, his excitement giving way to wariness.

“Did you enjoy today’s debate?” he asked guardedly, but Portugal shrugged, glancing back at the open door to the debate chamber. “Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner,” he offered, diplomatically, testing the waters. Portugal was spending more and more time overseas these days, he hardly saw him for most of the year unless it was for official business between their crowns.

“What exactly do you hope to achieve here?”

It was the way he said it, in retrospect, that made Spain angry, not the question itself. It was how it sneaked under Spain’s excitement and attacked his unguarded sensibilities, how it poked at his insecurities until they were raw and swollen and inflamed. It was the way Portugal looked at him when his eyes returned to his face after glancing at the now empty space where he had seen his best philosophers and theologians discuss the rights of their new subjects in the colonies for the better part of the last few days and speak of it as if it had no more consequence than a debate on the merits of building their churches with two or three bell towers. Suddenly he felt foolish, gaping at Portugal without response, which in turn only made him angrier.

“What do you mean?”

Portugal shrugged again, glancing around the chatting groups around them, Spain’s anger building and building the longer it took for him to make his point.

“You’re letting de las Casas argue for five straight days while his opponent only had a few hours to state his case, it seems like you’re favoring one more heavily than the other. Why have a debate at all if your King has already made up his mind? Why not just have him decree it as law?”

“Because it’s important,” Spain said, shoulders set and jaw tight, and he could see Portugal straightening his back in front of him in response to his evident rising anger. “It’s important that these are ideas are discussed and accepted, not just imposed.”

“But they’re not being discussed with the colonists, are they?” Portugal countered, leveling him a hard look that only fueled the fire growing inside Spain. “What’s to stop them for disregarding your orders?”

“Because we’ll have them arrested if they do!” he shouted, attracting the curious glanced of the nearby scholars, feeling his face heat up with his temper. “They’ll have to obey or they’ll be facing the consequences!”

"And what consequences will those be?"

He glared at him, but Portugal continued to look at him with that infuriating calm, that maddening calm that made him want to throw a punch at his serious circumspect expression, made him want to get under his skin and make him feel as exposed and hypocritical as Spain felt.

“I’ll ask again,” Portugal said, and Spain had to curl his hands into fists by his sides not to hurt him, his anger corrupting the pull he felt on the bottom of his stomach that insisted on gravitating towards Portugal, making him want to push him away instead of bringing them closer together. “What are you hoping to achieve here?”

He glared at him through tightly clenched teeth and Portugal huffed softly through his nose, glancing around.

“If you don’t have the stomach for an Empire, you probably shouldn’t have one.”

He commended himself for keeping his composure until Portugal's dark figure had turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall, only yelling out a long string of curses after he was well out of earshot.

-

The Valladolid debate (1550-51), sometimes called the Valladolid controversy, was one of the earlier examples of discussions centered around slavery and whether or not Europeans should enslave the natives of the Americas. Despite Bartolomeu de las Casas arguing against the use of indigenous labor and the enforced conversion of the natives, his position being supported by the Spanish crown, little was done to actually enforce it and one consequence of denying colonists the use of indigenous labor was the import of enslaved labor from Africa, which was done by the Portuguese.