Chapter Text
Spain might have gotten blackout drunk at the Christmas party.
Well, no, he definitely got blackout drunk. But he wasn't sure exactly what he did. That's what happened when he got blackout drunk, he supposed. Either way, there was a very large gap in his memory.
Gaps are all fine and good, but England was acting… like he did.
"Don't talk to me," he said, eyes hard.
He moved his seat next to America. England hated America, so Spain must have really fucked up.
But he had to try.
"England—"
"Are you really talking to me?" England shuffled his papers, shoulders stiff. "Because you really have some fucking nerve, if that's what you're doing. If you're talking to me."
"Okay. Okay, I'm not talking to you. But, say, if I, uh, was talking to you. If I was trying to find out what… happened…?" Spain stood an awkward distance behind England's chair.
"Are you referring to the Christmas party?"
"Am I?"
England stood and turned on his heel. The meeting room felt very empty. England must have been hiding in here for lunch, and Spain felt like he was intruding. He tried a smile, something nice and goofy and pleading.
England's jaw clenched. "Maybe you should try a little harder and remember." He went to push by Spain.
Spain's hand seemed to move on its own, and he grabbed England's arm as he passed. He stopped England, but the island ripped himself away from his grip. But at least now he was facing Spain.
"Do not," England seethed, "touch me."
Spain held up his hands. "I didn't mean anything by it," he tried in Spanish.
"Fuck off."
"Look, whatever I did to you, I didn't mean it, yeah?" Spain edged closer. "I did not mean it. I was drunk."
England tossed his folder at Spain. He tried to grab it, but ended up catching on edge. Papers scattered across the floor, and England backed away. Spain threw the folder down and put his hands on his hips.
"Don't be like this."
England crossed his arms. "Like what?"
Spain gestured. "Just tell me."
"Tell you what?"
Spain let out a frustrated sigh. "I'm sorry, okay? I do not know what I did, but I'm sorry. Is that what you want?" Spain got on his knees. "I am sorry, your highness."
England's cheeks burned, and he whipped around to make sure no one had returned to the room.
"Stop that," England hissed. "Get up."
"This isn't what you want?"
England stepped forward. He reached down, maybe to try and drag Spain to his feet, but Spain caught his wrists. England froze, glared at Spain through his bangs.
He just wanted England to stay close. To stop this. His grip tightened, and England looked away.
"What did I do? Please, just tell me."
"You don't want to know." England's mouth twisted. "Let me go."
"Tell me."
"Let me go."
Spain stood, and England snarled and twisted.
This was not going very well. Spain should have just left it alone. He couldn't stand the dirty looks. And the silent treatment. God, he hated the silent treatment. He shouldn't have gotten drunk.
Spain finally let England go, and he stumbled, rubbed his wrists.
"Not telling me won't help."
England scoffed. "It certainly won't help your hatred of me."
"Did I say I hated you?"
England half-turned away. "No."
"I don't. England, I do not hate you. Did I really say that?" Spain neared. He didn't want to touch England, in case he lashed out, snapped. His hands hovered. "Did I say that?"
"No!" England turned farther away. "No. You didn't say that. But you do."
"How do you know?"
England let out a quick laugh. "Because."
Spain let his hands drop. "What did I do?"
"You said you loved me."
Oh. And he couldn't really help himself—he laughed. England whirled around, breathing heavy. Spain took a step back, but England was already giving him a shove. Spain barely stopped himself from falling on his ass.
"What the fuck?" Spain snarled.
"It's not funny! You think everything between us is funny! Fuck, Spain, I need more than that!" England gave him another shove. "Not this shit! Over and over and over again!"
Spain grabbed a fistful of England's shirt and hauled him close. "What do you want me to do?" he hissed in Spanish. "I try, England. But half the time you act like I'm not worth the dirt you stand on!"
"Oh, you do care." England gave a big eye roll. "You could have fooled me. You only talk to me when you want a quick shag." He pried Spain's fingers off his shirt, but his bottom lip trembled.
"I didn't hear you complaining." Spain wrapped an arm around England's waist to keep his close.
England glared. "Fuck you. God, fuck you. Let me go."
"You like sleeping with me! Don't you? You don't tell me to stop! You come into my hotel room. You like me, don't you?"
England just glared. Spain released him.
"Do you really care?" England asked. He sounded so tired. "Do you really care if I like you? Does it matter? This—we're—we're not anything, Spain."
The room was very quiet.
"I do love you." It was all Spain could say.
"No," England said firmly, "you don't. You like our back and forth. But me? Really me?"
"Is there a difference?"
England laughed, again, once. "Yeah. Yeah, there is a fucking bloody difference." He sat on the ground and began to gather the paper. "Go away, Spain. Just—go away."
And, as he always did in the end, Spain let England simmer.
"England, do you know you have the prettiest eyes in the world? It's not fair, you're a really handsome bastard. Sometimes I want to kill you. More than sometimes. But I'm very in love with you and I can't. There's no justice."