Work Text:
Dear Portugal,
I still remember when the Iberian Peninsula wasn't divided in two, I remember when it was a great empire, when Hispania still lived, still existed. Do you remember when Lisbon and Madrid played in the playground?
I still cry looking at the Puerta del Sol where they used to play, and even more so when our children played there, or along the Alhambra in Granada, or on the Rambla in Barcelona, always running around, laughing, smiling, playing happily, almost like siblings with your children. And then there were you and me, together, making sure none of them got hurt. But now I still feel nostalgic for my great empire. I still remember when you were by my side, united by a great, passionate, and inseparable love. It saddens me that we never got married. We could have been happy, so happy.
Do you remember when...?
Why am I fooling myself? You're not coming back to me. You'll never accept me again. I no longer have a chance to make you fall in love with me, no longer have a chance to make you smile. You have Brazil now, which is old enough to be independent, but you and I could have been more than just another colony. We could have made the peninsula a great empire, and that only makes me think that you're just like my beloved colonies, the pride of my former empire: you're not coming back.
I will be left alone, with my children Madrid, Catalonia, Andalucia, Basque, alongside everyone else. I will be left alone on this peninsula, separated from you by a painful scar that is the border. I will be isolated though I have France and Morocco visiting often. Portugal... I no longer have the hope of ever having the great empire of years past. I no longer have the will to live that I once had, before Cuba, the Philippines, and Puerto Rico were seized, before they were taken from me in 1898. It saddens me to think that I am nothing now, that I am nobody, that I am no longer the person I once was, that I am absolutely nobody. I am only Spain. I am only me, no one else.
You know?
I say goodbye for now, I say goodbye with great regret, I say goodbye so as not to bother you anymore, I say goodbye forever.
I love you. I will always love you, even though you never love me back.
Spain
There were tears at the end and in several places along the letter, obscuring some of the writing, and he knew he had been crying for him. Portugal knew there was a lot of emotion in this letter; he knew Spain hadn't written it for no reason. It had been delivered as anonymously as it could on the border, but Portugal perfectly knew who it was. That letter, sealed with the Spanish flag, was in his shaking hands…
Portugal couldn't help but feel sick, with a pain in his chest, as if he had been stabbed repeatedly.
His heart hurt…
Spain was a tough guy. He had always been, he had always been serious, though he was visibly stressed and with concerning dark circles beneath his eyes, he was serious and resilient.
In meetings, he was always firm, always responsible, a formal and polite person. His children were the same, except for one son who had been a bit rebellious lately. Yes, he was referring to Catalonia, which had really taken to wanting independence. That's why Spain had become the laughingstock of Europe, the laughingstock of the world. The laughingstock of the meetings.
And Portugal wouldn't deny it, he laughed at him too. But now seeing that letter full of negative and painful feelings made my stomach clench, a really painful knot, and he understood that the pressure he was under, how bad he felt and the little desire he had to live, were worrying, and he needed help, he needed support by his side, support that would extend a hand to him, that would help him.
He was under so much pressure and he broke…
“He needs someone…” muttered for himself, his fingers sliding through the letter again, where tears had fallen at some point while writing it, biting his lip. “He needs me…”
And that's what he was going to do, run for him, run as if his life depended on it and hug him so tightly that it seemed he would break him at any moment, hug him and give him the warmth he hadn't felt in years, the warmth that had been taken from him the minute he was abandoned, the day he was left alone.
His son Lisbon, seeing his father run down the corridor in such a hurry, stared at him confused, and when he passed by his side, seeing how he he had small tears threatening with falling, frightened him and he followed him, worried about his father, worried about what might happen to him, he wanted to know what had happened, why he was carrying that letter in his hand and why he was crying.
Until he reached that border his father had crossed without a hitch, the same border his father had forbidden him to cross hundreds of years before. Lisbon gazed longingly at the time, wondering if it was right to do so. So, timidly, he took a trembling step, then another. Now he was in Spain, in Extremadura, and he immediately recognised someone who threw himself into his arms, holding him close. It was none other than Extremadura. Who embraced him as well or simply wept with joy.
“Why are you here?” she asked him in Spanish, which made Lisbon follow the direction his father headed.
“My… My dad was crying… He came here…”
“No way…” she muttered. “Galicia!” called.
Lisbon turned to the aforementioned, she glared at him as shocked as confused. His presence there was unexpected.
“Where’s dad?”
“In the capital…” she responded.
The three of them headed to the capital, in the middle of the way there, Lisbon and Extremadura explained all to Galicia, and her worries increased even more.
Spain was always kept locked away, from which no one had ever managed to free him. And there, the doors wide open, which filled them with an unprecedented surprise, was Madrid, the eldest son, there, not knowing what to do, and Catalonia, he was one of the oldest, trying to calm down the rest of their siblings, until he saw Extremadura and Lisbon arrive.
“What are you doing here?” he asked Lisbon in Catalan, which made Lisbon grimace.
“Portugal came here! Lisbon was just following him. He was worried…”
Catalonia turned to the opened doors then to their siblings. The Basque Country, Galicia and him, shared a glance, and the three of them nodded at the same time.
“We’ll look for them…”
They split into groups, but it was the Lisbon group who found Spain and Portugal in the house's inner courtyard. They were sitting side by side on a bench, with all the children spying from the windows.
“I didn't mean for you to come all this way just to laugh at me…” muttered Spain, lowering his gaze.
"I didn't come here to laugh..." Portugal replied, pursing his lips into a straight line. "I came here to talk to you. Why else would I be here?"
"To mock me... Because otherwise you would have written a letter," he replied, crossing his arms uncertainly.
“I'm not a coward like you... And I've come to talk in person.” He placed the letter on the bench between them and looked him intensely in the eyes “You're suffering and I've come to comfort you.”
"I don't need comfort," he frowned.
Portugal snorted and rolled his eyes, shaking his head slowly.
“Always so proud, you don't want to admit that you need help from someone and that when you tell me no, you're practically telling me to hug you…”
“I don't want you to give me false hope, I know you're not going to…”
He couldn't continue, for the one in green and red embraced him, embraced him tightly, causing a heartbroken and depressed Spain to emerge and begin to pour out its sorrows and hardships upon him, weeping until it had no tears left, and weeping until it was necessary to finally stop feeling the grief that had settled in its body.
They touched on the subject of Catalonia, its empire, its colonies, the Civil War, Franco, its rupture, the depression of 1898, and all the negativity it needed to release.
Every word was heard and every tear was comforted.
He really needed…
He really needed that hug.
That comfort.
He needed someone to listen to him…
And not mocking him…
“It wasn't that complicated, was it?”
“I'd rather not talk about that…”
They remained silent, looking into each other's eyes for a moment.
“‘Quillo! Besarse ya, ostiah!”
“¡ANDALUCIA!”
The two adults turned in surprise to see all the boys scolding Andalucia for interrupting the scene. Spain separated from Portugal, visibly ashamed and pretending normality and went to join his children.
Portugal, on the other hand, sighed in disappointment and rose from the bench where they had been sitting, the letter in his hands. He took Lisbon's hand, ready to return to his country. He handed the letter to Spain, who shook his head and told him to keep it. In return, the green and red country leaned in to kiss his forehead.
“Let's hope this isn't the last time we see each other…”
He muttered, leaving a flushed Spain staring at him. All his children were looking at him with mischievous grins. Catalonia and Basque, on the other hand, clicked its tongue, rolled their eyes and went back to their shared room.
“F-Fine…”
THE END