Aumenta la Tensión [England, Spain]

[England]

1713
San Agustín, Tegesta

San Agustín had been evolving out of the horizon since the sun rose over it, and in the last hour her shore had taken on the jumble, bustle and sun-dashed walls of a Spanish town--a rebuilt and replenished Spanish town, England noticed, watching the smoke plumes emerge from her chipper painted buildings and the outline of stacked cargo bundled neatly, openly, by the wharf. He’d burnt the entire thing down twice, so far, and old habits died hard: it was only a matter of time and opportunity before he had another go. But today the Tegesta sun was taking the opportunity instead, crawling into all the gaps in his uniform and steadily eating red stripes into his wrists and ears; it was boiling the dark, smart wool in a vindictive attempt at retaliation he didn’t appreciate, and which did absolutely nothing for his humour. And to confound it all, he had to appear calm. The breeze coming off the sea was hot, but it was made all the worse for being miles into Spanish waters. The Navío de Permiso had been in place with Spain for six years now, and England had been quite contentedly ignoring it for those six years. If the South Sea Company’s investors hadn’t begun to froth at the mouth, he would be ignoring it still. It was a useless bit of paper—one ship a year, 600 tonnes of cargo—and it was England’s private opinion that the flourishing trade already established under less…constrained means was quite sufficient. The Assiento agreement certainly didn’t require his attention. England rarely read the complaints lining his desk in Whitehall, but he could arrange them in order of urgency by the state of France’s loopy handwriting and the number of words Spain reached before his ink began to spit. (Portugal got all their points into the first paragraph and left the rest to obscenities, which was at least entertaining, but the Dutch did make it dull.) Amongst the hundreds of missives in that pile, England hadn’t noticed any complaints pertaining to the only genuinely functional part of their agreement--which was certainly not this part. Nonetheless, it had been agreed the Annual ship would finally sail, and there had never been a question of it sailing without him.

Not to San Agustín.

The shadow of Castillo de San Marcos was becoming a heavy, sweaty hand on the neck of the ship as the captain ordered sails trimmed, slipping them beneath the oppressive range of the fort’s shorter guns. The noise on deck was dying off, and Arthur spared San Marcos’ high, haughty coquina walls a scowl. Guards wandered along the ramparts, their distinctive helmets flashing in the sun. Some were watching them with words that didn’t carry at the distance (not so a few choice hand gestures) and some were actually bothering to do their job. Flags snapped high above the parapets, and Arthur was almost certain he could see a pair of boots hung over the side to dry. England trusted San Marcos’ benevolence not at all, but at the very least her guns were run in. That was an improvement on last time. At the corner of his vision something fled between the crenels, murky in the sun, and England snapped his gaze up. It appeared again, flitting from one to the other, following their slow crawl. Even at a glance its movements were counter-wise and wrong. The sunlight faltered in its wake, the guards didn’t turn with its passing, and England hurried stopped looking at it. Whether it recognised them for the cause of its last moments, or wanted passage home, nothing good could come of it just now. The siege of 1702 was already sour against the roof of his mouth, smoke and stubborn cannon fire that had bought them bugger all against the new fort’s defences.

Not that Charles Town hadn’t tried its best with the attempt. The settlement was only two days sail away, a tempting proposition, but they’d sailed from the South Sea Company’s headquarters in Jamaica and would likely return to the same. This time, at least, America would have to wait. As England had threatened to replenish his curriculum on his next visit, he could at least absolve himself partly; he was delaying the boy’s self-declared suffering another half year. The progression of the day in Tegesta matched that farther north, and he could reasonably expect the young colony to be evading his tutor with gusto at that very moment. Despite their touch of affection, England’s thoughts were far from pure sentimentality. Arthur braced his boot against the cannon rail, tilting his chin up into the sun as they crept out of San Marcos’ angry shadow.

Last time she’d beaten him, it was true, but he’d break her one day. Sooner or later he’d have it all. He believed it, and he had no intention of being re-educated of his notions. America was in his possession, and after all these years Spain hadn’t managed to Catholic and Mass any contenders out of his palm trees and gold. Little Mexicanos was far too far south. As long as he could keep Alfred; as long as he could bide his time... England turned his back on the fort, returning to the now.

Ahead of them several boats were already at anchor, their crews spread between deck and mast or sweating and swearing up their planks, rolling heavy caskets and tar sealed barrels growing gummy under the sun. The rest were presumably ashore, breathing life, coin and lechery back into the taverns and town. It was a trick as old as the trade: what the men made they'd spend, back into the hands of the traders who’d given it to them--driving the mottling lot back into the hands of their pay master, and the tides kept flowing. Nothing, Arthur knew, would ever get done in a world of responsible, rational men. Ideals were ideals.

And despite San Marcos’ threatening presence, Spain's men were being ideally lazy.

England been expecting some kind of escort from the moment they appeared to the south, if for no other purpose than to make a point, but Spain’s plumed spectacle of a galleon was lying at anchor amongst her dowdier ducklings, the jolly boats lowered over her sides to fuss with something or other. There was, of course, nothing to suggest her synonymy with Spain’s personal presence --but had their positions been reversed, England would have commandeered something with just as many gun-ports to meet the hilarity of a British merchant brig sailing, unguarded, into San Agustín.

"She’s a fine thing," a sailor murmured, somewhere to his left. One look at England’s face and he disappeared back into the safety of the rigging.

“She’s preposterous,” he muttered, as the captain called for signal flags, and went to see about being put ashore before the worst of the diplomacy started. His reasons for being there had nothing to do with counting commodities.



-

Notes

Tegesta
An alternative name for Florida coined by the Dutch, which England chooses to use in lieu of La Florida because he despises saying ‘La’ anything.

Navío de Permiso
A provision in the Treaty of Utrecht to allow the British to send one shipload of merchandise to Spanish America each year, not exceed 600 tons of cargo. It took six years for the British to bother.

Assiento
The more lucrative trade agreement from the Treaty of Utrecht, granting the British South Sea Company a contract to supply the Spanish American colonies with slaves.

Castillo de San Marcos
The castle built in St. Augustine, Florida, to defend the town after it was twice sacked by the British, once by Sir Francis Drake in 1586 and once by Robert Searle in 1668. The British laid siege to it in 1702 out of Charles Town (later Charleston), but couldn’t penetrate its defensive walls. When the Spanish fleet sailed from Cuba to break the siege, the British burned their ships to prevent them being taken and made the journey back to Charles Town overland.

The South Sea Company
A private trading company that operated out of Jamaica, and also a base of operations for English smugglers who exchanged their cargoes at minor Spanish ports for gold or products. The illegal trade was a great source of tension between England and Spain, with the British doing little to rein them in.

[Spain]

The sounds of crews unloading their cargo, the chattering voices of people headed to the market for the latest gossip, and the crushing footsteps on the stone and gravel roads lulled Antonio Fernández Carriedo from his rest. As an olive green eye lethargically opened as a hand reached up to scratch on his nose the itch induced by the sea salt in the air. However, the glaring sun mercilessly shining upon his face when he woke caused him to quickly shut the eye in pain again as he turned his head to the side. Yawning, he swung one leg over and sad up, stretching his body like a cat would during a warm, sunny and lazy afternoon. Yet unlike one, as soon as his feet hit the ground, the Spaniard headed for the door, jacket in hand billowing behind him as he placed his hat upon his shaggy mane, which was tied back with some modest twine. After all, if he was here, taking a break from his obligations and the pressures placed upon him, he would have found a more appropriate retreat in either Valencia or Sevilla. But instead, he travelled across the relentless Atlantic Ocean, to the West Indies to determine the condition of the Spanish Empire and to ensure that those put in charge were carrying out their duties.

It had been two days since he had arrived in San Agustín and had found himself pulled into many meetings and visitations, performing some sort of damage control to ensure that the colonists would remained somewhat complacent. At least, that was the reason that he told all those he had met on his journey. For there was yet another reason that he was hanging out in Florida, where the sun made him feel like he was standing next to the sun in spite of the fact that he had taken off his jacket and loosened up the rest of his shirt. In spite of the fact that the affairs of Europe are complicated and demanded more of his attention, there was an occasion in which the government, usually due to the fact that they have been stretched too thin, would agree to leave Antonio to his own devices.

Leaving the inn, Antonio threw on his jacket and continued to walk, smiling at those who make eye contact with him. The upturn of his lips appeared slightly strained, as he carried on, regardless of how many times he had played the different scenarios in his mind. It had been years since he had met with Ingraterra, who was the one who put that idea into the king’s head in the first place? What good would it do for them to meet with the English, who were always the type to come to an agreement with them and then break it in the same week by secretly sponsoring a group of people to undermine the arrangement of the treaty that they had meticulously worded. He could think of a few occasions where he had felt that Arthur had (merrily) driven a knife into his back so hard that one could only see the hilt jutting out.

There was no way that the English could be satisfied with just one ship – if anything he was most definitely planning something. After all, though he tended to miss connections, he could not help but notice that the colonists were using products that were not typical of the Spanish cargo.

Walking with the backdrop of the Castillo de San Marcos, a constant reminder of the past Anglo-Spanish relations, the Spaniard looked up at the place, pensive as he recalled the main reason why it was built. It was not easy to colonize Florida – the natives were hostile and had driven them out several times, diseases wiped out settlements. Yet during that time, motivated by the possibility of a fountain of youth, the end results justified all of the pain and suffering that they had experienced. Though many of the people who were part of it passed away, convinced that they had brought their kingdom closer to the elixir of life, in the end, it appeared to only really be a vision, a myth. And he would admit that it hurt when he first started to accept the reality of the situation.

In spite of the attitude that he had in regards to the mission that he was given here, he could not deny the fact that the city was growing. The number of people here had more than doubled since the last time he was here and the city actually looked a lot more like a city than the fort that it was. Granted, with the sugar and rum trade in the Caribbean, the entire area had benefited greatly in spite of the fact that many that have come over to work will most likely never return to Spain ever again. Sighing, Antonio shoved those ideas to the side, telling himself that this place was as quality of a place in spite of the fact that he had his own attachments.

With that, he turned and walked towards the wharf, deciding that it may not be bad to see if the condition of his ship. Despite the fact that a number of the team stayed on board to watch the ship, a large number of them took the liberty to spend their free time on shore, savoring the feel of solid ground under their poorly rested feet. While he stood and admired the silhouette, impulse overruled any logic that Antonio may have had as he charged forward, smile on his face as he admired the ornate designs carved into the boat. In spite of the fact that he had been handed over to a new line of masters, albeit almost penniless (expansion of one's dominion and estate involved a lot of start-up capital), it was difficult to give up the luxuries of life and cut out the exquisite details -- after all, with power came status and with status wealth and it was pride that often led men down the road of decline.

Yet in spite of the fact that he had continued to sport the latest fashion of the courts, he chose to limit it to his official appearances in court and when he was acting on the behalf of the crown. Away from the homeland and out of the sight of the major players of the Old Continent, Antonio took more liberty to wear whatever he desired. Sporting a humble tunic that hung form loosely, he tugged on the collar uncomfortably, cursing the warm weather as he arranged his waist coat. Where it was cooler in temperature, it made more sense to put on more layers, but here, where it felt as it he was standing inside a furnace, such was unnecessary. But he continued walking on, trusting his first mate to watch over the affairs of the ship until he came back. Pushing through the crowd, he was certain that he had arrived a few days early, free to take care of his affairs as he needed.

---

- The sentiments he feels about this city and England results from the two sacks. And then some sinking of ships, looting, the events that led up to the first Armada, etc.
- Yes, because Spain is totally a mature adult here.

[England]

Despite his earlier parsimoniousness, England hadn’t been able to resist ordering the oarsmen in a wide, lazy circle around the Spanish galleon as they pulled for land. She truly was a plumed bird: ridiculous and opulent both, and thoroughly beautiful for it. The dark sheen of her hull came up almost polished under the sun, and the gold contouring of her figurehead reflected off the water amongst the flicker and splash of sunspots and shoals. England had a healthy contempt for Spain’s sailors and an almost savage hatred of his navy—neither remotely a secret, and both, one hoped, satisfyingly reciprocated—but Spain’s ships…

Well, even Arthur could admit they were sometimes a pleasure. Particularly captured, renamed and set under a White Ensign.

England shifted his gaze away from her, and every concern she symbolised, as his small party slid into the bustling activity. Dressed down, they were just another non-descript jollyboat stacked with crates and sacks. Nothing exceptionally provocative, of course, just in case someone paid them more than overworked, overheated attention—a little Madeira, a little gold, some tightly packed bolts of cloth: enough to seem innocuous on a dock teaming with trade. (Enough to buy his boots on Spanish soil while there was still time to poke around.)

It was, after all, this very trade that they’d agreed upon—and something Spain was determined to see him limited to, if the Spanish could manage it. It was handsome in its way and thoroughly jilted in every other—and from what England understood, it would never be allowed to stand as it was.

Even if he had got Gibraltar out of it. As the boat nudged the dock, England made the short leap to shore before the boys could catch the mooring ropes. He was smiling for the first time all day as the planks flexed under his weight, and the smell of land—weeks absent—assaulted him with everything a port had to offer. At once. England touched his sleeve up against his nose to keep from sneezing, though even that couldn’t ruin the flush of satisfaction. He’d certainly wanted Gibraltar badly enough—maybe even badly enough to make all this aggravation worthwhile.

The men came quick on his heels to tie up and make fast, and England moved out of their way to take his first, landed, look over the streets of San Agustín. It was the first time he'd been at liberty to do so without a sword in his hand, after all. Spanish ports were always a double-edged sword, built as they were on the gold of a richer time. England found them both enticing and thwarting these days. They weren’t the same as French ports, by any means. Those were all wine and pomp and chickens—there were always chickens, loud inconvenient things. Spanish ports were all wine and pomp and gold. (Francis had learned not to leave things lying about where England could see them. Spain, from what he could gather, seemed to think that he’d lost the psychological war if he were forced to hide them. Which was preposterous, what with how many times England had alleviated him of this or that.) San Agustín was not the richest of pickings—Spain was not thoroughly stupid. But it was the site that had defied England the most, leaving him to carry on the necessary through more subversive means. The lack of escort was playing now on his mind—an intentional slur, or an unintentional lapse of attention? With Spain it could as easily be either, but England meant to make the most of it.

To that end, it was thoroughly pointless to attempt for ‘local’ in a place like this. England wasn’t the only man whose hair had been lightened by years under the sun, but as thoroughly toasted as he was he would never have the required darkness about him. That didn’t mean he had to announce himself. There could never be a soldier prouder to wear the uniform of their nation than a Nation—it was much like embodying yourself with every stitch and tassel (and being disembodied was distinctly uncomfortable, he had cause to know)—but there were times when the situation called for a little less obviousness. Under the Articles of War it was a rather thin excuse, but under the Tegesta sun it was more like sense. England had replaced the brazenly coloured wool with an ensemble more fitting to one of his privateers than an official envoy. Even if he’d had no less honourable intentions than taking himself, directly and without diversion, to the place he was planning on meeting Spain, he could hardly go wearing the uniform of the crown. The meetings between them, for years, had had little to do with the orders they received and everything to do with how the world really turned. Whitehall was not the smoking tar and burning timber of Cádiz; it was not the ragged losses of Malplaquet or the handshake once the ink had dried.

It was both far less binding and far more certain.

“Sir—” one of the men murmured. They’d almost finished unloading.

England took a last glance at the merchant vessel, holding at anchor in the bay. She was crowded on all sides with enemy colours and possibilities—only some of which could ever be predicted. Fewer still assured, but that was precisely where he was needed.

“As you were,” he replied, ignoring the uneasy glance the ship’s third lieutenant gave him. He was leaving them to it; an escort would be nothing but a liability now.

San Agustín had changed in the last eleven years. Her arteries had thickened with cobbles and deeper, stronger foundations; the vulnerabilities he’d exploited fallen, it seemed, beneath disillusionment and all its pragmatism. The colonists were no longer looking for eternity, but armouring their new lives for children whose future was here, not in Madrid or Seville. For now.

Arthur had not gone far from the dock before he paused at one corner, beneath the shadow of a rope-maker’s awning. The Nation’s hand shifted to the grip of his sword as he turned to glance over his shoulder, unaccountably certain... But the colonists walked on, the seagulls circled, and England hesitated for a short moment longer before he stepped back out onto the road for town at a brisk clip.





-

Notes

Gibraltar was already in England’s possession, captured by Anglo-Dutch forces in 1704. However it was only officially ceded to Great Britain by Spain in 1713. It’s always nice to have the piece of paper in your grubby mitts.

Cádiz, Anglo-Spanish War, 1587. Sir Francis Drake burned 37 Spanish ships in harbour at Cádiz.

Malplaquet, Battle of, 1709. War of the Spanish Succession. The Allied cavalry were driven back six times by French Cavalry, who were in turn driven back on each occasion by English artillery. The French finally retreated, acknowledging an unwinnable situation, but the Allies had suffered twice the losses of their opponent and were unable to pursue.


I have landed, I have settled in, the cat no longer hates me. My promised revision. <3

[Spain]

The port was fairly animated, people bustling about and causing Antonio to side step packers as they loaded the docks, smiling as he nodded apologetically as he passed. Perhaps it was the fact that he had been on the Old Continent, or perhaps it was just the overall sense of what it meant to be in the New World, but the entire feel of the place was different. The hot humidity stuck to his skin like an undershirt as the scorching heat of the Caribbean sun continued to beat on him overhead. It was a good thing that he was wearing a hat, for it helped him keep his already dark complexion from becoming darker (it is not that he really cared about his complexion, but it was a command from the higher ups). Squinting as he looked up, watching as the gulls circled lazily in the sky, Antonio could not help but feel envious of their positions, wishing that he could also be as lazy as them. After all, with weather like this, it was best spent sleeping the day away or at least resting indoors with something cool to drink.

Turning, the Spaniard could see that he had been ditched by the rest of his crew in his wandering. But rather than feeling abandoned like he would usually, he felt slightly relieved because it would have only hindered him from taking care of some of his own personal affairs. Well, that and following a particular stranger that looked a bit out of place.

A while ago, he had spotted a particular ship that he knew had no place in the Spanish fleet. Not only was her presence lacking the grandiose of the other Spanish cogs and galleons, but even the appearance and feel of her crew gave off a feeling of humble beginnings and crooked intentions. It was not to say that they were particularly criminal and failed to be courteous and polite to those they interacted with once they had gotten off the ship. It was also not completely due to the general regard that he had for Englishmen, but the fact that he had been ensnared in too many plots, schemes, and other unwanted memories, that ingrained in him the ability to sense the presence of Englishmen, regardless of how much they blended in with the rest of the people in this particular town. Antonio had gotten along with the English merchants, especially when they saw eye-to-eye, though there were a few that he had cut ties with just because of their selfish whims and firm beliefs that preying on Spanish trade ships was perfectly fine. The recollection of one or more of the skirmishes caused him to frown deeply, especially at the memory of a certain Englishman possessing unnaturally dense bushes that rested his eyes and an annoyingly arrogant laugh.

No, he had not quite gotten over the last spat that the particular Englishman in mind had with him. Or the last war that he joined against him. Hell, he was still a bit upset about the Armada (the first one, which Isabel claimed to be the works of Englishmen, though Antonio would chalk it up to poor weather in the channel and a lot of bad luck – hell, they would have been evenly matched that if the trip around Ireland had not happened. Back then though, he was more spirited and inclined to protest and insist that it was more fair to call it a draw).

But with that, Antonio's instinct was to immediately search for Arthur, who had most likely had arrived with the fleet of men. For some reason or other, the Spaniard always had the impression that the man was more inclined to show up on time and give off the impression of being stiff-necked when it came to things like these. Nevermind that he personally had started to take these types of meetings less seriously, much to the dismay of his leaders. However, with all things considered, the length of such meetings could cost the Empire a colony if caution was not taken to ensure that order is upheld around the world.

And then he thought he saw it. And if there was someone else who looked like him, there was no way that he could miss the man – those eyebrows were too unworldly to be considered the norm. But over time, Antonio learned to keep his mouth shut (only sometimes though), especially when Arthur was in a foul mood (which unfortunately seemed to be more frequent).

Exercising caution in a public area, the Spaniard did his best to follow quietly, hoping that the man would wander into a more secluded place where he could step in. He could feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins with each stride, growing louder with every breath. When when he got closer, he could see that the man had not changed much (he was still a very grumpy man and still an imbecile in his books). But that did not mean that Antonio should take him lightly or the fact that he could take him on in a fight at the moment. The viceroy would be miffed if he did anything like that (not that it always stopped him in the past). Yet considering the sensitivity of the issue and the fact that the New World remained connected to the Crown of Spain through fragile lifelines, it was osmething that the Spaniard actually pondered seriously before deciding to rush to him, adopting a friendly demeanor as he sauntered over.

"Buenas tardes, mi amigo!" he said cheerfully, the grin on his face was wide, though perhaps a bit too showy for an adversary.

---

Notes:
- I wrote this while delirious. May come back and edit when not so delirious. Too much tax consulting and compliance is killing my brain.
- Give me back Gibraltar, you bastard! Hurts the man's pride when he thinks about it. Spain would claim to have not been invaded since 1492 by a foreign entity. D<

[England]

Out of the chattering rabble, like so much lazy sunshine, Spain wasn’t there and then he was: a turn of a corner and a flourish of coat in the afternoon light. England did him the debatable compliment of stopping short in the dusty street, forcing the flow of people to break around his back with muttered curses and wobbling loads. He’d seen him, of course, but Arthur didn’t give a rat’s arse about the other Empire’s slow, thoroughly visible saunter—though he cared a good deal more that when Spain emerged into the bright—hitherto rather pleasant—afternoon, he at least did so sans half a regiment. Beneath England’s bored expression, it'd been an unpleasant surprise. He’d been listening closely, after all—despite the temptation to make thorough use of the situation; despite his own ambitions and derisions, it would not do to be the cause of any direct accusations. How long had Antonio been following him, the damned Moor?

“Are we starting the day with insults?” England retorted, forcing himself to appear unhurried. Well, of course they were—he’d been a lot of things to Spain, through the centuries, but his friend was certainly pushing the bounds of tolerable insult. The hand that had looked to his sword didn’t relax as the gaiety and persecution that was España stepped out of the sun. It wasn’t mistrust, you understand—merely a healthy desire to see the other Nation on the ground long before himself.

Not long enough to know where I came from; too briefly to know where I’m going, Arthur thought, stepping smartly from optimistic to careful in the space of an afternoon smile—surely Spain would have let him get further had he been specifically suspicious? But the crowds in his wake had been rather silent. That was bothersome. Either Spain was getting good at this, or—

Or, perhaps, the people weren’t listening to Spain themselves. He rather doubted it; fate hadn’t been that obliging of late. But still, apathy would be very welcome; he was getting sick and tired of making treaties over this place.

"Good morning," he corrected, idly. Since Spain was going to bleat Spanish at him, he didn’t see any reason not to use English. A glance up and down the other Nation carried his meaning well enough: if Spain hadn't just rolled out of bed, he looked like he might as well have done. It made little difference to England whether the insult was real or imaginary: he was on Spain's soil, and Spain had only just turned up. All in all he was going to choose to be nettled, and more than a little proud of himself in the doing.

A salty, prickly drop of sweat was making its stinging way down the back of his spine, and though Spain could not possibly know about it, Arthur blamed him anyway—if for nothing else than having the audacity not to look remotely hot. If Fernandez was waiting for an explanation, he would have a long wait. If England had waited for a civil invitation, he'd still be twiddling his thumbs on board his ship; he had no intention of standing on ceremony long enough to take on that sun-sodden expression of Iberian dupery.

“If we’re going to get this over with,” England went on, without preamble, “a drink would be the civilised way of doing it.”






a.n. .

307 years, mate. Give it up already. The rock is ours <3

/those days you really can't write for peanuts.

[Spain]

Anyone who had the average awareness of social situations may have taken Arthur’s biting reply to Antonio’s cheerful greeting as a confirmation that all tensions that strained the Spanish-Anglo relations remained unchanged. Instead, the Spaniard, in coordination with the sunny and lazy weather, casually dismissed the tone of the remark and continued to grin. “Oh come on, there’s no need to be like that, unless old age has finally gotten to you?” Antonio said as he waved his hand. He had dismissed the attempt to correct him – it was his territory and he had no intention of being accommodating when he was forced to take the time to learn the language of whatever kingdom he was visiting (albeit that he never worked hard enough to completely master the language). Despite the fact that running into Arthur here days before their meeting did annoy Antonio to a certain extent, at least it was before the Englishman had enough time to do any more damage than he could have if he had run into him a lot later (nevermind the fact that his blasted piratas could still be out there, targeting his merchants, conducting illegal trade that would hurt his own merchants).

Tilting his head, the Spaniard studied the expression on Arthur’s face, never quite able to successfully decipher the expression hidden inside the jade green eyes. Not that he had ever been able to do it ever. Giving the man a look over, taking note of his garb, Antonio then rubbed the back of his neck and leaning against one of the walls before turning to look back into the streets. Aside from the unpleasant sentiments he felt towards finding Arthur in his territory, he did recognize the fact that things could be worse -- he could have run into the Englishman while he was in the looting mode (he still had the occasional nightmare about those encounters, though he would never admit that he did).

Plus, how dangerous could a man be without his army?

Antonio’s olive green eyes squinted as the afternoon sun illuminated his face, before he turned and his lips twisted into a slight frown. He could not deny the fact that the unsatisfied curiosity continued to nag at him even though it took the outer limits of his willpower to force it back into its place. And the questions continued to pile up, causing him to sigh softly behind his mirthful expression despite his recent circumstances. The look he gave the man lasted a second more than it should have before he gestured back towards the street again.

“You know a drink does not sound too bad right now, no?” he replied with a warm smile. With that, he turned and walked, hand waving at Arthur to follow him into the sunlight. “This way-- anyway this isn't exactly what you drink back where you came from, but I think it does the spot. Say, perhaps it’ll loosen you up a little, you are too tense for your own good, you know that, Arthur.” With that, Antonio grabbed at Arthur’s arm, pulling him along, unaware of the fact that his less than willing partner would most likely object to his treatment, if not fight back. But as usual, the Spaniard paid him no mind. After all, it was how his people acted back home. Though Arthur may not consider him close enough to be family, at one point, they had almost been family (though neither really mention that part of their past anymore).

Passing the piers for a while, Antonio finally veered off the main street and ducked into a place in a less frequented street, though it was still lively. Turning back to make sure that Arthur was still following him, Antonio pushed open the door. “I’ve been to this place ever since it had opened,” he said, “should we head for a quieter place?”

Just as he had said that, an alarm went off in the back of Antonio’s mind, an alarm that he had grown accustomed to and had learned to ignore. After all, though he knew that he did not have the strongest relationship with Arthur, even a small child would know that the atmosphere in this place was not the most ideal for serious conversations of utter importance, such as division of territories and changes of political alliances. But paying no mind to the fact that Arthur had not responded yet, he charged down a hallway in the back and ducked into a room tucked away from the rest of the bar. The door swung open as he walked in and lit the lamps before he turned to his companion.

---

Notes:
- 307 years, oh yeah? WELL, I owned it way before you did-- and for a LOT longer. Asswipe. >:c I'll bite your knee caps off, you caterpillar eyebrowed jerk. >:c
- I am back from my week and a half long vacation and with full internet. I'm sorry for the late reply, work has stabalized a bit, so hopefully it will be better. Oh yeah. hopefully length makes up for it~
- alksj;askdl;asd Don't speak English for a week and this is what happens to the writing.

[England]

“Oh come on, there’s no need to be like that, unless old age has finally gotten to you?” came the grinning reply.

By God, but he’d forgotten how obnoxiously cheerful sunlight and a little leisure could make Spain. While Arthur got antsy and irritable with too much free time on his hands, the concept didn’t seem to enter the other Empire’s vocabulary at all. How long had he been out here, sunning himself, to fake hospitality quite so handsomely? It boded well for not being clapped in chains for piracy, of course, but then again maybe it didn’t. No-one had ever quite forgotten the Inquisition, no matter what they said, and after a tense moment and an inscrutable look England finally tilted his head, and shifted his hand slowly away from the hilt of his sword. By the time it does, Arthur thought, haughtily, I’ll have your Empire for a footnote.

“You know a drink does not sound too bad right now, no?” Antonio went on, saving them both England’s tart reply. The fool even showed him his back, and so he supposed this was going to be peaceable, if not especially civil, after all.

“I’m glad we agree on that,” England muttered. The thought that Spain could tolerate him without a drink was as absurd as the idea he could get through half an hour of being chirped at without a stiff fortifier. Of all the nations, kingdoms and empires of the world, Spain was perhaps the most painful of all to wake up beside with a hangover, but as he had no intention of hanging around that long, there was no sense in depriving himself of the pleasure. It was too hot outside as it was.

He had been perfectly prepared to follow, anyway, as Spain went on talking. “…perhaps it’ll loosen you up a little,” he heard, and something inane about his own good, before his arm was seized and suddenly they were off.

“I’ll loosen your head from your neck,” England snapped, alarmed, as the indignant words were lost in the need to keep up or be dragged. Spain was such a languid bastard it was all too easy to forget that he was also strong, in his own territory, and in possession of a cheerful mood that was completely uncalled for. The island empire almost barked in surprise as they rapidly changed direction beneath the ominous shadow of a lumbering cart, and about then he finally succeeded in yanking his arm free with a little tear of fabric and lining at the shoulder. That was quite enough of that. His scowl accompanied them like a third person, all the way down the steps to Spain’s tavern and all the way inside.

Arthur had been in places like this before, certainly, and they always seemed to end with rum on the floor and cutlasses drawn. When Spain glanced back at him England was ready, with a look that said quite clearly Are you stupid?

Should they head for a quieter place, indeed.

It was probably the time to be (for once in his life, from the bottom of his weasely piratical soul) the mature one and demand they walk out of here with as much haste as they’d walked in. As their eyes met, Arthur felt the corner of his mouth curl with a hint of treacherous approval.

“Do you want a quiet night in with me?” England asked, all sarcasm and pique. Well, that would be touching and all, but it wasn’t what he’d come here for.

Now this disappearing down dark corridors, on the other hand, made Arthur pause. His eyes were narrowed and his chin was high as he stepped down into the narrow passageway, watching Spain and watching the shadows and trusting neither. He spared a backwards glance over his shoulder, despite himself, just to make sure. Had it been France, he should not even have entertained the possibility of following. A closed off door in a pit of disreputables, lit by lamps in the full light of day? To expect to be set upon was optimistic; to expect something quite a lot worse was realistic. But Spain was neither so sordid nor so easily satisfied in their broken treaties (they might have got somewhere a good bit sooner if he had been) and England hiked an impressive eyebrow at Spain when the other Empire looked back at him. With a sharp smile like cannon fire and false flags, Arthur stepped past him and inside, the light flickering and catching on the gold of his earrings.

Spain had been absurd in his earlier pronouncement: there wasn’t a thing brewed, distilled or refined on all the seas they shared that England wasn’t used to drinking. Eating, now, that was a different story. But if it became rough and insensible by the tenth glass, he’d put aside their borders and their differences for it.

”I hope you’re going to have those sentries flogged,” he suggested, conversationally, as he took a curious look around. “I really wasn’t trying all that hard. Not since things have been going so well.”

[Spain]

With the way Arthur had moved as he entered into the corridor, the hesitation that clearly showed in each step he took (only a blind man could miss such a thing), Antonio deeply regretted not capitalizing the fact that the man was uncomfortable, to jump. It would be worth the swift punch to the face if it granted him even a minute’s worth of gratification. Though it was in his nature to be hospitable and enjoy the company of others, there was something about the fact that the Englishman appeared uncomfortable that gave him a sense of satisfaction. As it stood now, he struggled to heed to the fact that he was told to stand by as long as negotiations were going as planned (though it was not whether but when negotiations would break down). Though he was cheerful and at times, childish, he was not stupid. Repeat offenders are less likely to change their ways unless divine intervention caused them to suddenly walk the straight and narrow, and as far as he was concerned, piratas were the lowest human form in these parts of the world. And where before Antonio would have prayed for the salvation of Arthur’s soul out of sentiments of their former relations (he’d never admit that he resorted to childishly praying that he would one day wake up and decide that looting was bad), if the man had such a thing, he would trust the man far less than he could throw him (based on the assumption that Arthur was as light as he looked).

“Oh, stop looking that way, Arturo, dampens the mood, you know?” he said cheerfully as he pulled out a chair and sat down, shifting himself a few times until he was comfortable. Then he looked up at Arthur, an inquisitive look in his olive green eyes as he rested his head in one of his hands. “You’ll just make your wrinkles worse, it scares the children,” he offered as a second reason as to why the man should lighten up.

The way things were now, if it did not turn around soon, indicated that today would be a long day unless he did something.

Just then, the barmaid having spotted the familiar head of Antonio appear as they headed for the back of the tavern showed up with two mugs and smiled cheerfully. Greeting Antonio, she planted a quick kiss to his cheek before she stood up straight in surprise when she saw Arthur (the Spaniard could not quite tell whether she was surprised by his whole appearance or those… things that sat proudly on his brow). Then quickly excusing herself, she disappeared down the corridors, her quickened steps growing distant before it blended in with the lively sounds of the tavern.

“I hope you’re going to have those sentries flogged. I really wasn’t trying all that hard. Not since things have been going so well,” Arthur said, causing Antonio to look as if Arthur had started to speak at him in a foreign language (one that he did not understand).

It was only natural when faced with accusations for someone to act dumb and hope that the accuser gives up and drops the subject. However, in this case, Antonio was fairly confused by the sudden change in subject. “What’s that?” he said as his eyebrows furrowed and his lips pursed into a frown. This man had to be kidding… right? Why would he even do something like that? In his eyes, the men were doing what they should have been doing, catching pirates that were doing what they should not have been doing, preying on innocent merchant ships. The entire idea caused Antonio to snort, nearly choking as he drank.

Laughing, he set his mug down and put his head down before he looked up at Arthur. He still was not quite sure about what he was talking about, but if his guess was right, then what Arthur was not even bothering with hiding the fact that his men were pirating ships. “Sorry ‘bout that, I didn’t know you had such a great sense of humor, but you said that you weren’t trying hard? Kind of like how you’ve tried to disguise your piratas as honest merchants? Well, at least it’s good to know our relationship has moved past telling half-truths and the like!” Then with that, Antonio reached over and tried to give the Englishman a friendly slap on the back, though a self conscious person may insist that he did it with more force than he would normally. “Granted, if we were both honest to begin with, there wouldn’t even be need for sentries, don’t you agree? Save us all the trouble if it was the case!”

Then with that, Antonio picked up his mug and took a drink, still maintaining the half-smile he had since he had run into England. After all, though he was smiling naturally and was in a good mood, it made him feel good that whatever he was doing was somehow pushing Arthur’s buttons, it seemed.

---

Notes:
- You know, sometimes you just have to watch out, those carts kind of just jump out at you…
- I hope I am responding right, I was kind of confused as to what Arthur was referring to and decided not to clarify because I figured a response that didn’t really make sense was pretty in character too. Orz

[England]

There was no need to shutter the windows in an establishment like this one. The piercing glint of tropical sunlight, never the friend of the dedicated drinker, was as unwelcome as the intrusion or suggestion of authority. Years of slowly accumulating dust had built privacy, layer upon layer, in defence of both over the windows. There was no suggestion of transparency left. As they came to a table, Arthur ran his eye along the windows nearest, taking in the shadowed staircase at the back and the scuffed square of a basement door in the far corner.

Well, it never hurt to know one’s exits.

“Oh, stop looking that way, Arturo, dampens the mood, you know? You’ll just make your wrinkles worse, it scares the children.”

England’s gaze came back to Spain, already throwing himself down into a chair, and he snorted. He wasn’t France. Cracks about his appearance were old and well-rehearsed and everyone knew exactly how much of a damn Arthur didn’t give about his looks. (Which was to say, by the time he was visibly upset he’d already started a brawl.) Spain was possibly the cleanest thing about this tavern – barring England, of course, who if he never brushed his hair, at least bothered to do up his buttons. There was no help for the table. Arthur swiped a hand over it fastidiously, anyway, sweeping off the crumbs and grit to put his hat down. He sat with the shift and rustle of belted armaments and trinkets. Only some of them formerly Spain’s. He did weed them out with an eye to diplomacy, from time to time, but to be frank he couldn’t remember where they all came from anyway.

“Codswallop. You need something to scare your children about at night,” England pointed out, acridly. And for once it wasn’t just sour grapes. “ And while we’re on the subject, Minorca is quite convinced of all manner of horrible things. I do not talk to Satan in the bathtub, but she’s certainly starting to look like a ghoul.” He had no proof, of course, that all this nonsense came from Spain. But he was going to choose to blame him anyway. The young island wouldn’t be forced into a decent bath for love nor money until England had summarily left the Mediterranean. It might have been an exaggeration, but not by much.

They were interrupted by the timely arrival of alcohol. While it was in England’s nature to get up when a lady joined the table, even a Spanish one (and to be fair on the subject, if there was an incredible amount wrong with the Spanish then there was nothing at all wrong with Spanish ladies. Their temperaments possibly withstanding. They were dark-eyed, small-boned and hot-blooded and were Reino de España completely run by them, England could conceive of being in far more trouble than he normally was.) A bar wench was another matter entirely, and Arthur looked somewhere else. From the curl of his lip, he’d never accept all this kissing for a greeting of any decency. If Spain hadn’t had her at least once, it clearly wasn’t for lack of trying on her part (or lack of cleavage, for that matter). He gave her surprise only the contempt it deserved – she could have Spain back just as soon as they were done here.

Besides, he thought, it wasn’t as though he were dressed so very far beneath Spain’s station. Adding up the gold on him, there’d be far more chance of Antonio coming up short on his tab than Arthur.

Between talking and drinking, it was no surprise to anyone that England chose to drink as Spain attempting to work out what he’d just said. He peered into the tankard, swirling it suspiciously in the dim light. Over the smell of leather, oranges, gunpowder and sailor, there wasn’t much hope of additional information. In the end, he decided he didn’t quite care. The drink went back with none of the suspicion England had shown for the rest of it.

“Sorry ‘bout that, I didn’t know you had such a great sense of humor, but you said that you weren’t trying hard? Kind of like how you’ve tried to disguise your piratas as honest merchants? Well, at least it’s good to know our relationship has moved past telling half-truths and the like! Granted, if we were both honest to begin with, there wouldn’t even be need for sentries, don’t you agree? Save us all the trouble if it was the case!”

Of all the reactions he’d been expecting, laughter hadn’t quite been one of them. Or a slap on the back. Arthur made a satisfying (embarrassing) hwuff as the air was compressed out of his lungs and his coat. He shot Spain a withering look. He might have swayed slightly, but it had to be said for him, the hand holding the important thing – that was, to writ, his drink – didn’t budge. The surface didn’t even shiver. Now he’d had a chance to swallow some, it was wretched and not half bad at all. He had no intention of losing it because Spain was tickled, and seemed utterly determined to manhandle him.

"Reports of my audacity must have been greatly exaggerated," England smirked, face perfectly innocent and nothing of the kind. "You know as well as I do, we've put all that nonsense behind us. It's all shipping routes and real estate now. What I meant,” he went on, leaning his side against the bar, “is that it’s almost impossible to get your lookout’s attention without a couple of good bow chasers. We picked a berth at random in the end. Still, I’m sure they’ll wake you up if anything important happens.” Like an attack, or perhaps a burning castle? England would certainly have his flogged, and possibly keel-hauled, if he found Spain wandering in one of his towns. But then again, each to their own. “It’s hard to trust a man who keeps trying to marry a trollop, but I’ll certainly drink to trying.”







a.n.

. Minorca was ceded to England in the Treaty of Utrecht at the same time as Gibraltar. Spain would retake the island in 1756, though it would continue to change hands until 1802.

. bow chasers and stern chasers, cannons mounted fore and aft to fire on a ship being perused, and a ship perusing, respectively.

. trying to marry a trollop. He means, of course, France, and is referring to the attempt to unite the French and Spanish crowns which led to the War of the Spanish Succession and where they are now.