#fraspa

That is the thing, isn't it? You never quite know, as a nation, which battle could be your last. A figure comes to mind, a fading silhouette of a man he once adored (and, in some ways, still does)—a figure who left one day, and never came back as they had thought and hoped and prayed. 

The risk of an empire. A fool’s game.

He waits, and waits some more. Negotiating treaties takes time. For weeks, in fact, diplomats have been talking terms and compromises. Spain has witnessed most of it—has done his best to try and guess who would be getting what, based on body language alone, as they have more or less all refused to talk to him. It has been a frustrating process.

Even now, with the final signatures being collected and the nations having gathered for the grand finale, he still feels he lacks anyone to talk with. Anyone to confide in. 

A few rooms away, England sits across from France, who sits across from Austria, who sits across from the Netherlands—though, he is only here for being considered a small player in this war, and the best he is going to get is having Utrecht’s name slapped on the paperwork. I hope it has been worth all the money he sunk into this pitiful war. The words, though unspoken, are bitter on his tongue.  

Thirteen years. Thirteen years of conflict and battles and bloodshed. And there he waits, alone in a small, private room, wondering who it is who is going to walk through those doors.

Really, it isn’t hard to guess. His aristocracy have their preference as to who should become King of Spain—a preference greatly changed in the last decade—but it is perhaps more difficult for him, on a personal level, to decide whether he would… rather stay Habsburg, or become something new. Something B—

The doors open. Spain stands out of instinct, rather than respect, and is greeted by all four nations. A surprise, just for him. 

No one speaks. Not immediately. England and France share a look—more unspoken words, more reading body language and trying to read the room when he is sick and tired of it—and then, three leave. Three of them leave, the doors close, and Spain is left looking at France.

This is the outcome Antonio knew would come.

“So,” the other says, a meek smile on his face as he begins to approach—threatens to broach the gap between them, both physical and sentimental, “it would seem that you and I are once more on the same page."

"We are barely in the same book," Antonio assures him, however. "You have a long way to go if you want me to enjoy your company.”

“Oh? Does that mean you… are not so pleased to see me?”

“Is anyone, in this day and age, ever pleased to see you, France?”

“Antonio, please,” the other coos, nevertheless, “you and I have such a history together, you cannot tell me that you hate me that much.”

And he’s right, in some ways. Hatred is such a strong sentiment, that, although there are other people Antonio is very sure he could hate, Francis is… not quite one of them. It is simply too hard to separate them. Francis has been there for as long as Antonio can remember—a neighbour, a lover, a friend—and now they stand there in that room, the world on their shoulders, and Antonio knows that he cannot hate Francis, even now. Even after war.

“You,” the Spaniard says quietly, “are so, so annoying…”

It makes a smile bloom on the other’s face, as though he’s ready to laugh, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Francis extends a hand to Antonio, and Antonio, wary as he is… he takes it. He takes Francis’ hand, and does not fight it when the other pulls him in for a rather unorthodox embrace. 

It feels weird to be in his arms again. It feels weird to feel his warmth, his hair, his skin, his breath.

“I’ve missed you,” Francis confesses in an unexpected bout of openness and honesty. 

His walls have vanished, it seems, purely for Antonio’s benefit, and the brunette doesn’t know how to respond to being held like this. It feels too intimate. It feels too surreal.

When… When was the last time someone held him…? It's been so many years...

“I know you have been through a lot. I know this war has drained you,” the Frenchman goes on, steadily pulling back from the embrace to take a good look at Antonio, the back of his hand brushing across the other’s flushed skin. “You and I can make this work, though. I want to see you happy, I want to see Spain be that wonderful, strong empire, and I want you to not hate me, ideally.” 

Antonio gently exhales. “You don’t ask for much, do you?”

“Why are you being so abrasive?”

“I don’t know,” the brunette quips, “perhaps I am just imagining you with a crown on your head and how much nicer that crown would look on, say, a Spaniard.”

“You should have made sure your king had an heir,” Francis returns with a small frown. “That is not on me.”

“The reason we had a war is because your precious Louis thought that France and Spain would be united powers under his grandson,” Antonio reminds the other, however. “I was not so against having a Frenchman in Madrid, until such a ridiculous and inflammatory statement was made.”

“Would a unification really have been such a bad thing?” Francis tries to reason. “A marriage between France and Spain would mark a new golden era—a new meaning of ‘power’ in Europe.”

“But that’s just it,” Antonio replies. “I am sick of this obsession with marriage, with unification, with rings and crowns and pretty royal crests. Do not misunderstand me,” the Spaniard presses, “I would rather you stand here than anyone else. But do not get your hopes up, Francis. I am famously good at holding grudges, no matter how small.”

Francis, at last, concedes. Antonio will not be moved—he can see that. So, rather than pushing the matter any further, he informs Antonio that there are some gentlemen who would like to meet him in light of the finalised Treaty of Utrecht. French gentlemen, of course.

The invitation does not go rejected. While Antonio is sure this will not be the last time they discuss this, nor will it be the last time Francis tries to soften him, shape him, reform him… for now, he will stand his ground. For now, he will hold his head as high as he can, at the end of this long war, and will not let his boat be rocked, even by his oldest friend.

Spain is still Spain. Spain is still an empire. That is the only outcome that matters to Antonio, and that is the only outcome that will ensure his survival going forward. 

His own survival is all he can afford to care about.