berseker: (ninja)
[personal profile] berseker

Title: The Flying Heart of Love 4/?
Rating: ... PGish. Probably. Or not.
Characters: Luciano, Martín, Maria, Manuel and Miguel. Mentions of others.
Pairings: Too many to count.
Warnings: This is an AU, so you'll have to ignore everything you know about family relations and things from what passes for canon at Latin Hetalia. Be warned.

Summary: So, in the last chapters episodes, Martín and Maria invaded Luciano's hotel room, making the famously hot, or hotly famous, football star very upset, Manuel wanted to send both of them to jail so he could go back to angsting about his dark, dark past with the cute owner of the first TRULY Peruvian restaurant in town, Luciano thinks Martín sneakily plotted to get himself shoved inside a closet for his own twisted reasons, Antonio is having a meltdown off screen, and there's something weird going on about Francis' watch.

(thanks to Zuzu for beta-ing <3)


Episode 6


So much for destroying Martín's life and finally having some happiness, Manuel thought. Some people just didn't know how to take an opportunity.

He was just planning to go back to work, and then maybe fret a little more about tonight, when one of the receptionists came to tell him that there was a girl looking for him.

Manuel nodded, and followed him to the hall. He assumed it would be one of the clients wanting to ask something, so he was surprised – and very annoyed – when he recognized Martín's sister.

“I'm sorry,” he said, trying to be patient, and failing completely, “But I thought I was very clear-”

“I know, I know, I just need a favor. I'm not trying to invade your hotel again.”

“Well, good, because you and your brother gave me a lot of trouble this morning, and it was all I could do to-”

“You don't know the worst of it,” she said, sadly, “He stole his watch.”

Manuel stopped.

Maria leaned over the counter, first checking to see if there was anyone else listening. There wasn't, of course, the hall was empty and the other receptionist hadn't come back when he saw Manuel would be there. But Maria whispered anyway:

“Well, technically, Luciano gave it to him, because he was the one who shoved him inside the closet, but still, Martín didn't mean to, and we didn't even notice it, it's just that everything was so confusing, and then he went away in a hurry-” and here she stopped to give him a pointed look, as if it were his fault - “And then he was going to pay for the ice-cream and we saw the watch there. And he didn't want to come back, because you threatened him, so I brought it here.”

“... Martín didn't want to come back because of my threats,” Manuel said. Somehow, he was a little skeptical.

“Yes, because he doesn't want to go to jail. Obviously.”

Manuel glared at her.

Maria glared back.

But then her honesty, obviously not shared by her despicable brother, won out and she said, “and maybe he wants to pull some sort of prank or something, I don't know. The point is, I got the watch, so if you could let me give it back-”


She looked wounded. Manuel tried to stay stern, but she was too young, and Martín was a bad influence, so maybe she just couldn't help being a brat. Living with him and all.

“I can't let you in,” he explained, kindly, but he made a point of scowling so it wouldn't sound too soft, “I don't know how you two think hotels work, but you can't just waltz in and invade people's rooms. I'm telling you, we're all lucky Luciano is not suing everyone, including me, so no, just give it to me and I'll give it back to him.”

“... how do I know you will?”

Manuel sighed.

“Then don't, wait until he calls the police. If this watch even exists.”

She tried to glare at him again, but this time Manuel didn't yield, so Maria sighed, deeply, and opened her purse. She got the thing out, and then slammed it in the counter.

“There,” she said, sulking, “Can you at least tell him we didn't mean it? It was really an accident.”

“... Sure,” Manuel said.

That watch.

He had heard about it.

Many times. More than he cared to count.

And now it was here.

“Really? Promise?”

“Sure. Yes. I'll let him know.”

She nodded. Then she waited.

Manuel looked at her.

“You're so weird,” Maria said, mournfully, “Goodbye, then. And thank you for not throwing my brother in jail.”

“Not just him, you'd go to,” Manuel said, slowly covering the watch with his palm, “But you're welcome.”

He watched as she left. He wasn't sure he believed the story – confusing as it had been – and she was probably just trying to get herself another chance to visit Luciano.

But. This watch.

Suddenly, Manuel couldn't move fast enough. He grabbed the thing, holding it like a bird that could fly away if he didn't pay attention, and then he got his cellphone and called his father, and when the man picked up, he was already in the parking lot.


Maria wouldn't have found Luciano, even if Manuel had let her in, because he wasn't there anymore.

After a few hours trying to go back to sleep, that he spent mostly cursing Martín and everyone else who had participated in this morning's invasion and thinking about all the things he should have said, he had decided to get out of bed and take a walk to unwind.

He had called dad, and, as usual, the old man had been completely useless. His advice had been to sue them, and that had been annoying, for some reason Luciano didn't really understand, because it was what he had been thinking about doing. It's just that...well, maybe it was the way had had said it. Like it was already decided, even if Luciano hadn't thought all that much about it.

Or maybe it was because he was already upset, and dad tended to make it worse.

So when the conversation ended, he decided to take a walk. Without telling anyone, because no one had anything to do with it anyway, and he needed some distraction.

It didn't work. Well, it did, but not for long. He would find something interesting in the street, some touristic site or some store or whatever, and would just be starting to relax and then the memory would come back. Martín, and Maria, and the whole mess that had been this morning, and the fact that they had stolen Francis' watch.

That would be a problem. He really wished he'd remember the guy's name. He'd have to ask the hotel manager, who had been part of the mess anyway, so he could at least do that for him. Get him his name and the newspaper he worked for. All Luciano remembered was that it was something dumb and obvious. Like him.  

And he was getting tired. Walking wasn't helping, so he stopped to wait for a cab. And he was just starting to wonder if maybe he should ask someone where he could call one, when a young man approached him.

He looked nervous, and excited:

“Excuse me, but I think I know you.”

That was... a little surprising. Luciano smiled, just in case, and then the other one added:

“No, really, I'm sure I do. Are you someone famous?”

“Erm. Yes? I guess? I mean, I don't know here, but in my country-”

“That's great! You're just the guy I need.”

Right. Uhm. Luciano wondered if it would be rude to run away. But the weirdo noticed it, because then he laughed, and said, “I'm sorry, I'm just a little crazy today, because I'm opening my restaurant, and it will be the first truly Peruvian restaurant in town.”

He emphasized 'truly', and then he looked particularly deranged, his eyes wild with excitement. Luciano smiled and nodded, and then it became clear that he was supposed to say something, so he tried to find a proper comment.

“That's- really nice. I heard a lot about Peruvian food...” and then, because he was here anyway, and there was no cab, and what the hell why not, he added, “So, the best, uh?  And it's opening just now?”

“No, not now, today, I mean, tonight. And it would be really great if you could come, because you're a famous – what did you say you were famous for?”

This time, Luciano smiled for real.

“I didn't.”

“... oh. Well, I guess I'll have to find out, then?”

“I guess you will. Maybe if the food is really that good-”

“Oh, it is,” he said, too earnest to keep the effect from before. But then he remembered, and said, with a slow, lascivious voice, “So you'll have to come, to give me the chance to find out your secret identity.”

“All right, fair enough. Will you give me a discount?”

“For you? It will be on the house.”

Luciano laughed, and the man laughed too. He gave him a colorful flyer, with an image combining a picture of the restaurant, the Peruvian flag, a bottle of something that was probably wine, plates and cutlery and dishes and glasses and happy people eating and smiling and drinking and it also had the words “The BEST Peruvian Restaurant in town.”

Of course.

It also had the date and the time of the big event. Today, at seven pm., promising to stay open until everyone was satisfied and ready to be carried home.

“I'll be there,” Luciano said, feeling a lot better. “Hey. I didn't get your name.”

“Come and you'll find out,” he said, but then he laughed. “Ok, no, my name is Miguel Prado. Maybe I should have added that on the flyer, I think-”

“No, it's- good enough as it is, don't worry.”

And there was virtually no space left.

“Ok then,” Miguel said, cheerfully, “See you later!”

Luciano watched as he went to attack someone else.

He smiled, and checked the thing again. Now he had something to do tonight. And last night it had been a French restaurant, so it worked, and anyway food always improved his mood.

And there was a cab just passing by. Things were already getting better.


Miguel was happy.

No, he was more than that, he was ecstatic. He was overwhelmed with joy. Today, finally – finally! - he would open his restaurant.

The first TRULY Peruvian restaurant in town. With capslock of extreme quality. It had been his idea, to advertise it like that, and he was very proud of it.

He had planned everything. He had found the perfect place, and the perfect people to hire. He had advertised it everywhere, and he knew the press would be there too – he had a few friends who had promised to cover it – and that famous guy would be there and would love his food and then he'd tell everyone about it – and it would be the hugest success that had ever succeeded in the history of successes.

It had to, or he would be dead.

But Miguel wasn't really worried about it. He had his own doubts about borrowing money from the Mysterious White Haired Man, who had promised to cut off his head if he didn't pay it, but he needed to get it somewhere, and the bank wouldn't lend it, because he owed them already. But it didn't matter; the success would be so huge that he would pay it soon. Probably this year, even.

The day seemed to drag, and at some moments Miguel had to admit that he was almost worried, a little. But when the time came, and everything was ready, the cooks and the waiters and the dude he had hired to play something to entertain the guests, everyone waiting, and he saw the people starting to line up at the door – and yes, Martín was there, good, because Miguel wanted this all over the newspapers – he felt his throat tightening.

This was it. Finally. After so many years of dreams and heartaches and headaches and hand-aches too because he was always getting burned with the dumb oven door that his grandfather refused to fix. Of working when he wasn't studying and studying when he wasn't working and never having time for himself and trying so, so hard. This was it.

The place was gorgeous. The decoration was a bit funny, and Grandpa probably wouldn't really approve, because it relied way too much on stereotypes, but Miguel secretly loved these things. He had told him it was to make a point, so everyone would remember this place was supposed to be Peruvian. But the truth was, he loved the room organized sort of like Machu Picchu – if you looked from above – and the pictures of the lovely Peruvian landscape. And the flag on the wall. He'd make everyone sing the anthem too, if he could.

But enough of patriotism. Deep down, Miguel knew he was overcompensating the fact that he missed home like crazy, but that was just another thing that made this awesome. The fact that he could see bits of home here everywhere, and prepare all his favorite dishes, and get rich and then, later, when he owned a chain of restaurants all over the continent, he'd go back, and everything would be perfect.

A small crowd was waiting at the door, and he knew more people would come, because it really was a great place. That was why the Mysterious White Haired Man had agreed on the project. Because he knew it would work.

Miguel grinned, at himself, at the door, at everything. At life. He opened the door, with a flourish, ready to welcome everyone.

Then he stopped, his grin frozen, forgotten in his lips.

There, in a dark, shadowed spot a little to the left, looking awkward as ever, proud as ever, and just as sullen as Miguel remembered, was Manuel – the only person in the world he really didn't want to see.



So, who's the Mysterious White Haired Man? Why is Miguel so mad at Manuel, when he's so cute and adorable? What's up with the watch? Why is Luciano not naked anymore? Don't miss the answer to all these questions in the next episode of TFHOL

(… not all the answers, but. You know. Some answers.)


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