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[personal profile] berseker
Title: The Flying Heart of Love 5/?
Rating: ... Pgish, sort of. Maybe not.
Characters: Luciano, Martín, Maria, Manuel and Miguel, the mysterious foreign siblings.
Pairings: Br/Arg. And many many others.
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. I MEAN IT. BE WARNED.



Summary: Miguel was opening his restaurant, his brain was blowing up because he had just seen a face from the past, Luciano wasn't doing much of anything, Martín was around because he'll work for food if he has the chance. That's pretty much it.


Thanks to Zu and Oreo for reading it over for me ♥








*~*~*

Episode 7

*~*~*



“What the hell are you doing here?”

Luckily, no one heard him. It would be terrible for business if people saw him mistreating a possible guest, even if anyone with eyes and common sense could see that Manuel was up to no good. Just- look at him, standing there like that. And glaring, as if Miguel had just done something inexcusably rude, as if just showing up like this, without any warning, was normal.

But this would have to wait. He had a show to run here, and Miguel turned away, his bright smile back with full force. He'd just have to deal with him later. He let everyone in, smiling, shaking hands, making a point of looking nice and enthusiastic, of letting them know how pleased he was to see them there, and how much Manuel's presence didn't bother him.

Even if he hadn't gone away, for whatever reason. That was weird. The Manuel from one year ago would have left right away, wouldn't have forgiven such a slight to his precious dignified psycho person. Miguel could still remember the way he had looked at him, that fateful night-

No, he couldn't. He was over that. He didn't even think about that anymore. He had made a point of forgetting everything.

… why was he standing there? Just- standing, like a statue, looking at him as if they were back in school, just there, not going away like he should. What was he trying to do? Why?

And then, when he turned to him again, ready to ask what he thought he was doing, Manuel wasn't there anymore.

Miguel stared at the place he should have been. What now, he thought. He wasn't disappointed, of course, he wasn't feeling sick or anything, he just... he still had to kick him out properly, and not just... be abandoned like this.

Not that he cared.

He was thinking about how much he didn't care when he saw Luciano da Silva – see, he had found out his name – talking to a small crowd. So his plan had worked, the guy had attracted more people. That was good. He was happy. He was very happy. Ecstatic, even. Who cared about Manuel?

Miguel went there to shake his hand. This was another sign that he didn't. Care, that is.

And the power of his not caring was so hard that he must have conjured him, because before he could get there Manuel just materialized in front of him, still scowling, and said:

“Now, what the fuck was that all about?”

Miguel took a few precious seconds to react from this, and to remember he didn't care. But he did, and then he nodded at him, looking at some point behind his head, to avoid his eyes – his dark eyes, deep like the deepest mines – and said:

“I'm sorry, I can't waste my time with you, because I have people I need to-”

“I can't believe you're still acting so stupid! And I came all the way here to save you from your own ineptitude-”

“Well, then you wasted your time!”

Manuel glared at him.

Miguel frowned.

“Because I'm not inept. Not because I can't be saved. You know what I mean. Are you trying to confuse me?”

“As if I need to try!”

Some people looked at them. Miguel forced a smile, and tried to calm down. The part of the crowd lucky enough to get seats wasn't paying attention, but the rest of them had gone straight to the bar, and were standing there holding their drinks and giving them curious looks. He tried to lower his voice.

“Look, Manu- I mean, Manuel. It's great to see you again, but I really need to mind my own business, so I think you should go and do the same and-”

“Come work for me,” he said.

And then he blanched, as if he hadn't planned to say it, and even covered his mouth. Miguel was just as shocked – even if a small part of his brain pointed out that Manuel looked kinda adorable when he did spontaneous stuff like that and there had been a time when he had lived for those moments and-

“Work for you? Why the hell would I do that? I just got my own place!

Manuel look away, his eyes almost closed, and then he took a deep breath. When he turned back, he looked like himself again, strong and serious and slightly deranged:

“Yes, but you know it won't work. Come work for me, at the hotel, then you can cook whatever you want, and I'll keep you safe from your own incompetence.”

He still didn't care. He didn't. It's just that this was so like Manuel, to come here looking adorable and then say this, right in this moment of triumph, it was so like him-

“Ah, so you're still the same jerk, I knew it!”

“Miguel-”

“You never believed in me! Since the first day we met, you always thought I was a stupid loser, didn't you?”

“Yes! That's what I keep telling you! Now stop screaming, you stupid loser, why can't we have a normal conversation for once-”

“Don't try to deny it, I know what you really think of me!”

“I'm not denying anything!”

“And you know, you're completely wrong. I got this, see how many people came? And there's even famous people, too, how about that!”

He pointed at Luciano. Manuel – with everyone else who was now watching the show – turned at him. Luciano turned to see who they were staring at, and then he realized it was himself.

Then he waved at them.

Miguel tried to decide if he should be insulted at this obvious lack of respect for the unfolding drama, when Manuel made it worse- or better- by saying:

“You're here? Weren't you at the hotel?”

There was a chorus of ooohs from the crowd, and Luciano opened his mouth to answer, still looking awkward as hell, but Miguel saw the opportunity, and he took it:

“Of course he came, the food you serve is inedible.”

His guests cheered him, Manuel looked surprised, and then wounded, and then furious.

“Oh, is that what you think? Let's see how long you can keep this place standing when everyone rushes to the hospital tomorrow because of food poisoning!”

And then he stomped off, without even glancing back to see if Miguel was looking.

And he was, but not because he cared. Because he had won this. He was glad, triumphant, even, and not in any way whatsoever just a little empty.




*




Martín hadn't noticed Luciano was there, until those two clowns pointed at him. He took a picture of the poor guy's dumbfounded face, and tried to come up with a headline for this. Brazilian Player Tries to Ruin the Economy by Betraying Restaurant.

Or something like that.

So yes, he was still upset, who could blame him? His morning had been totally wasted, except for the naked pictures, because Luciano hadn't say anything interesting or useful, and even those pictures were a bit of a problem, because they were clearly in a bedroom, and people might wonder how the hell he had managed to get them. And if his faithful readers suspected him of taking pictures of his lovers, then his reputation, not to mention his sex life, would be ruined forever.

He could always add a note explaining that he and Luciano weren't lovers. And that this was all his fault for being naked and then jumping on him. And having great legs. And great everything. And his hair was all curly. As in, all over. As in-

“You're so red,” Maria said, poking his cheek, “Are you ok?”

“I'm fine. Why don't you go find us a table?”

“You go find us a table. I'm tired and my shoes are killing me.”

This was so like her. Making a point of coming, and of wearing those heels even if she knew they were murderous, and then blaming him for it.

“But I'm busy. I'm trying to work, and-”

“Look!” she grabbed his arm, suddenly excited, “Those people are talking in English!”

Martín looked. He saw a tall blond guy, animatedly discussing something with an equally tall blonde girl. Both wore glasses, and their faces were so alike that they were probably twins. Martín felt a light vindictive pleasure at that. So he wasn't the only one hanging out with a sibling.

“Do you think they're American? What are they doing here? There's nothing to see here.”

“Stop staring, they'll notice, and what do you mean, there's nothing to see? Do you know this city was considered the most-”

“Come on, let’s interview them! I bet they have interesting things to say, and then I can practice my English.”

“I don't want to interview them! And since when can you speak English?”

He tried to find Luciano again. It took him a few seconds, and then spotted him in the middle of a small crowd, giving autographs and probably still plotting against national security. He almost told Maria, but then he thought she would want to go talk to him, and that would ruin everything, because what if that idiot decided to talk to her and ignore Martín? Like he had tried to do this morning? And he couldn't let that happen.

“Go talk to them, if you want it so much. Here, I'll even introduce you.”

“No! I can't just go there and say I want to practice, they will think I'm an idiot! Martín, don't you dare-”

She grabbed his arm again, he tried to shake her off because her nails were sharp, and the weirdness of it caught the two tourists’ attention. Of course.

“Serves you right,” Martín muttered, trying to force a smile to show they were just having fun and no one needed to call the police, really.

“Shut up, this is your fault,” Maria said, the same frozen smile pulling her lips. Then the American girl smiled back, shyly, and Maria risked a 'hello'.

“See, that was easy,” Martín said, “Good luck.”

He made his strategic retreat before she could grab him again. He still had to check what Luciano was doing.




*




Luciano tried to hide in the crowd as soon as they forgot about him.

He hadn't know he was... taking some sort of stance by coming here and not eating at the hotel, and he wished someone had mentioned this before. Maybe now he'd have to dine there next night, to make up for it? Maybe there was a rule he wasn't aware of, determining that he should not favor one place over the other?

Whatever it was, he didn't like it, it made him feel guilty and he hated to feel like that. Clearly, he had been too hasty when he had assume the day would improve. He went back to the bar, and stared at the colorful bottles lined in the wall. There was only one thing to do, if everything was going so weirdly bad; he'd have to drink to forget it.

He had been waiting for this opportunity for months. It was one of his dark, dark secrets that he'd never admit to anyone even if it killed him and would protect with his own life, but it was the truth. He hardly ever had the chance to drink.

When he was growing up, Dad had never let him do anything, because he had to care for his health and his weight and his not having a hangover for the game or the practice of the day, so he hadn't had the chance to experiment much. And see, this only proved Dad was a jerk, because of course Luciano would have acted just the same if he hadn't been such a controlling freak, because he wanted to be good too, it wasn't like he'd drown in a pool of beer as soon as the old man looked away.

… well, he wouldn't.

Anyway with the game earlier this week, he hadn't had the chance, and that night with Francis Bonnefoy didn't count, either, so now it was the perfect opportunity to get totally plastered and brood. He had always wanted to brood, too.

So he asked for a mix of wine and condensed milk and pineapple that made everyone give him weird looks, but he didn't care. They could go complain to his father, if he wasn't used to the taste of alcohol. And everyone knew condensed milk was perfect for brooding.

When he started the third glass, this time with vodka and ice-cream and chocolate, someone tapped his shoulder. He had a brief moment of panic over the kinda remote but you never knew possibility of being Dad coming to ask him what he was doing – like that time that was his other dark, dark secret – but it wasn't.

It was the stupid reporter again, looking even more attractive now in that weird combination of jeans and a dress shirt and a leather jacket. Luciano decided to buy one for himself too. It looked cool. He wondered if he would look just as good if he were naked.

“So,” Martín said, with his irritating smug grin, “Here you are. I thought you had run away, after nearly destroying the hotel's restaurant's reputation.”

“Oh God! I forgot to brood about it, I think it was the pineapple, or the hazelnut, I always thought hazelnut made me forget things, and I didn't ask them to add it, but they did, or was that in the second one?” he frowned, “Are you following me?”

Martín stared. Luciano waited, but he didn't answer, just stared at him like he had two heads, which he didn't, so he shrugged, and tried to remember what he was doing before thinking about him naked.

“I won't drink that anymore, because I hate hazelnut. The other one, I mean. This one has chocolate. Have you ever tried vodka and ice-cream? It's great, here, you can have mine. I'll order...”

He gave him the glass, and then picked the menu again, and tried to find the part with the fruits. Martín took it from his hand, a little wary, and then sniffed it.

“... vodka and ice-cream? You got drunk on this?”

“I'm not drunk! Look, this one with papaya and orange, but there's one with lemon too. Orange must be better, right?”

“What the hell is wrong with you? How many of these do you even have to drink to-”

“I don't have to tell you, you're not my father! Stop stalking me, and- hey, you stole my drink!”

He tried to get it back. Martín, instead of giving it to him like any normal human being would, raised his stupid long arm and Luciano considered clinging to him, but that would look really stupid, and there were reporters here who would love a stupid picture like that.

Like Martín. So he didn't.

“I think you should stop,” Martín said, looking weirdly cross, even if he was the one being a jerk, “You're embarrassing your whole country. Who drinks papaya and orange anyway?”

“Oh, right, I was going to order. Thank you! Why are you holding that? Aren't you going to drink it?”

But then the bartender came back, and Luciano lost interest in whatever Martín was planning to do. He ordered the one with orange, and explained he'd be wanting the one with lemon after that, so he could bring that one too, and then he tried to list more fruits to try afterwards. When he looked to the side, to ask what the person there thought about it, he found himself face to face with Martín, again.

“Oh, hey! You're still here. Are you still following me?”

“I'm just asking. As a friend. How many did you have?”

“This is the third, if you must know,” Luciano said, a little peevish himself, “But I'll drink more, so you don't have to look at me like that. And it's not like I can go around getting drunk all the time.”

“Hm.”

“Yes,” he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “We had a huge fight over this once, so I had to stop, but that was before.”

“Before what?”

“That's a secret,” he said, pleased with himself for remembering it, “So I wasn't even drunk last night, they just thought I was, but I wasn't. Well, Francis knew, because we had sex later, and he would have noticed. It's like smoking.”

“... having sex is like smoking?”

“No,” Luciano laughed, “Of course not, why would it be? It's like, you notice if the person smokes, when you kiss her, and Francis does. But I don't, I couldn't, I tried it once and then I stopped because it was pointless, right? Do you smoke?”

“Why, do you want to kiss me?”

“Sure,” Luciano said, cheerfully again, now that they were talking about something fun, “You look really great when you're not talking. And you did try to see me naked.”

Martín stared again. He did that a lot, Luciano thought. Then his drink arrived, so he got distracted, until Martín coughed in a very awkward way, and said:

“I wasn't trying to see you naked, you just- so, this means you- were you thinking about-”

“I can't taste the orange,” Luciano said, disappointed, “It's like they didn't even- oooh now I found it. Cool! Here, try it.”

He tried to shove the straw in his mouth. Martín grabbed his hand before he could do it:

“That doesn't even work, orange and papaya, and anyway that's not the point, the point is-”

“You really want me to kiss you,” Luciano said, a little intrigued, “Why didn't you say so before, instead of hiding in my closet?”

“I don't! And I didn't! And I-”

“So, do you smoke?”

“No!”

He turned away from Luciano, looking at the glass, and Luciano could tell he was really annoyed now, so he patted his shoulder in a comforting way.

“Don't worry, you're not the first one to try that.”

“I don't want to be!”

“It's easy to tell when someone smokes, because the taste lingers, even if they didn't do it right before, but I never tried it myself. Except this one time I mentioned, and that other time and when my father saw it, and do you know what he did?”

“I don't care.”

“It's a secret, I won't tell you. You're blushing, am I making you embarrassed?”

Martín glared again, and if eyes could shoot daggers Luciano would be dead now, but the funny, intriguing part, was that he looked so many different things, too, and Luciano didn't remember ever seeing someone so angry and embarrassed and awkward at the same time, or at least someone feeling all that who hadn't gone away, and Martin wasn't, he was still here.

Luciano smiled:

“You don't have to be, we're just talking. Why aren't you drinking?”

“You know what, I'm going to record this, and then I'll post it somewhere and you'll kill yourself tomorrow when you see it. If you're going to ramble at me, why don't you say something interesting?”

“You looking great is not interesting?”

“No! Well-” he stopped, and then raised his chin, “It is, but it's not news, and everyone knows that. So no. And - what do you think you're doing?”

He was resting his hand on Martín's knees, that was what, but it wasn't for any interesting reason or anything, just because he wanted to come near and the room was starting to spin. So he did it, supporting himself on his leg.

“Why is your hair like that? Did you do it on purpose?”

“... my hair?”

He looked so angry, so unsure of what to do, and he obviously wanted many different things and Luciano was curious to see which would win. His hair was intriguing; it had this crazy strand that was up and a little curly at the tip and Luciano tried to touch it, to see if Martín had used gel to keep it up or if it was naturally like that. It took three tries to get it, but then he finally touched it, and it was soft and normal and Luciano tried to comb it like the rest of it to see what would happen.

“... yours is not exactly normal either,” Martín said, but his voice sounded weak. Luciano looked at his face, curious at the change in his tone. He seemed to be blushing even harder, but was still glaring at him, and not doing anything to make it stop. Actually, it felt like he was trying not to move. His eyes were wide, now, and so beautifully green. Luciano wanted to touch his eyelids, or something. He didn't, because he would fall on him if he tried it. So he just said:

“Your eyes are green.”

“Thank you, I know that. Now, if you could just- go back to your place-” he held his shoulders, but didn't shove him, didn't do anything. Luciano let go of his hair, because he still had his drink to drink. Drink to drink. He giggled.

“I can't, if I do that then I won't tell you any secrets. Come on, ask me, do you want to try the orange? I really liked it-”

“Like- something important, like-” Luciano could see how nervous he was, the weirdo, the way he was swallowing hard, and it kinda made Luciano want to kiss his neck. For. Some reason. He raised his hand, and touched the corner of his lips instead. Again, Martín seemed to freeze, and this gave Luciano time to try to figure out what he liked about his lips.

“Like- like, uh, football, that's the only thing you know, so- are you- uh, match-fixing the games or something?”

He seemed to be trying to ignore him, somehow, talking even if Luciano was tracing his lips with the tip of his finger, and he was so focused on it that it took him a while to even register the question. Not that it was worth it when he did.

“Match-fixing? But we won. You're asking if we beat you on purpose?”

“No, that's not what I mean,” and something inside him seemed to snap, because he grabbed Luciano's hand, but then he changed his mind again because he didn't pull him away, he kept his hand still so close to his mouth and to his face and said, his voice so weirdly angry, “And you clearly don't know anything useful, so- I think I'll find someone more interesting to interview.”

“But you wanted to see me naked,” Luciano pointed out. Also, now they were holding hands, and Martín was the one who had started that. Luciano beamed at him, pleased with how things were going, and watching the struggle going on in his eyes, and then it ended and he had won, because Martín suddenly closed them tight, and then pressed both their hands, still locked together, against his lips.

But this meant Luciano had to give him a secret, because if he didn't Martín would resent him later, he could tell, he would get mad and think he was a waste of time and then he'd change his mind and Luciano really wanted to kiss his neck, so he said:

“I can tell you one thing, if you promise you won't tell anyone.”

Martín raised his eyes. Green. Like emerald, like green fire. Luciano smiled again, and then he lowered his voice one more time to whisper:

“The secret is, I'll have to stop playing,” he said.

And then he kissed him.



*





tbc...


Will they ever order food? Will they have sex? Why would Luci stop playing? Will Manuel ever forgive Miguel for this disaster? Who are the mysterious people Maria just met? All this and more in the next chapter of TFHoL!

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