✎ Fel's Creative Journal (tinfoiltennis) wrote,
✎ Fel's Creative Journal

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✎ fanfic - hetalia - five times......

Title: Five Times: that portugal kissed england And One Time: that england kissed portugal
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: Portugal [OC] England
Pairing?: England/Portugal
Rating: PG for England’s potty mouth, as always.
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin. Six small drabbles, six kisses, with everything from the fail to the sweet.
Timeframe: … In drabble order, the late 1300s, the Peninsular War, 2010, the mid-1600s, 1974, and the early 2010s. :’>
Word Count: 2362 altogether. :>
Notes: Written as a birthday present for my best friend, who’s 20 today and requested this 5+1 style prompt a while back – I hope this is to her liking! ♥
Warnings: A Hetalia OC, England’s emotion!fail, a (somewhat obscure) reference to an earlier fic of mine, and more than a little sap.

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Their first kiss was hardly anything special.

It was a somewhat cooler evening near the end of spring. It had been raining a little earlier that day, and the night air was still a little damp and heavy with it. A few moths were flitting about blindly searching for the yellow glow of a light to fly towards.

There were no fireworks or butterflies when it happened, not even a flicker of a thrill down his spine. He wasn’t even sure, looking back, how it came about; just that they had been talking in the strange half-light that was coming from the almost completely set sun and the first stars, and a silence had fallen between them. The silences had been appearing more often recently, awkward pauses laden with teenaged uncertainty and words unsaid, something neither of them were quite certain about grabbing onto. And maybe he had grown tired of the dancing around, the almost-but-not-quite flirting, the veiled barely-there touches on the subject. Or maybe he’d decided that watching England struggle in vain not to be obvious wasn’t as amusing as it had been when he’d first began to notice it. But whatever it was that prompted him to do it, he spontaneously decided it would be a very good idea to kiss him.

It wasn’t anything like perfect. In fact, England jumped and flinched like a scared rabbit at first when Portugal leant in to kiss him, and they didn’t so much bump noses as just bump into each other generally. And maybe that was his fault for taking the other teen by surprise, but despite the bump their lips managed to find each other somehow, and for a couple of seconds England froze, barely breathing.

When he did kiss back, it was in a way that suggested he was afraid this was going to vanish before he got a chance to have it. It was clumsy and shy and almost desperate, and really neither of them, looking back, really had much idea what they were doing, trying uncoordinatedly to kiss each other a little way above a small town that evening.

When they broke apart, both feeling a little foolish, Portugal would remember that England had looked almost vulnerable then, like he was scared he’d done something wrong, and it had only taken a few seconds before he’d covered his eyes with a hand and muttered, “That was shite, wasn’t it,” like he’d been afraid this would happen.

Portugal tilted his head to the side and pursed his lips as if considering. It was true, it hadn’t been the best excuse for a kiss. But the sight of England looking so obviously dejected about whatever silly self-depreciating thoughts he was undoubtedly cooking up for himself made a strange wave of exasperated affection pass through him, one that quite displaced most of his own disappointment. So he said thoughtfully, “Well, it doesn’t count.”

England looked up at him skeptically. Well, at least he wasn’t hiding his face anymore. “It doesn’t?” he asked doubtfully, like he thought Portugal had gone a little mad.

Portugal nodded and allowed himself a teasing smile. “Well, it won’t if you kiss me again,” he said brightly, and he thought the dawning realisation on England’s face was almost enough to light up the darkening night.

After all, first kisses were never everything they were made out to be.


England was going to kill France.

He usually found himself thinking this at least once or twice every ten years, but this time he actually meant it. He really was going to kill the bastard this time, and he was going to do it in the most imaginative way he could possibly think of. And then he’d kick that idiot Spain while he was at it, twice. Once for being fool enough to actually trust the slimy frog, and another one for being enough of a sodding wanker to go after Portugal again.

But mostly, he was just going to kill France.

He looked to his right, where Portugal was holding himself against the same small ridge of rock as he was. The other nation caught his eye and smiled grimly at him, tired but resolute. Still fighting and determined and defiant and everything else that made England love him.

He gripped his bayonet tightly. That was reason enough to chuck the winebastard out. And even if it hadn’t been, he would still have gone ahead with it, because no one deserved to be ruled by France.

“Are we clear?” he asked. Portugal twisted to glance out of their vantage point, peering past the small outcrop.

“Yes,” he said after a moment. “Now is probably as good a time as any.”

“Even better if there’s less of a chance of getting shot.”

“I always thought that was a minor detail.”

England snorted. “You’re a laugh a minute. Come on, let’s go.” He made to move, but Portugal stopped him, a hand on his arm pulling him back.

“Inglaterra, wait.”

Confused, England did, looking back at his friend with a puzzled, impatient frown forming on his face. “What?” he asked, agitation edging his voice slightly. Portugal smiled that grim smile again and leaned in to press a quick, firm kiss against his lips.

“Thank you,” he said softly, heartfelt, and then he vanished over the ridge, leaving England to scramble along behind him and try to ignore his growing blush.


It’s been a hot summer by Arthur’s standards, hot enough for him to almost permanently shed his usual garb of trousers, shirts and jumpers in favour of much more comfortable shorts and t-shirts. Of course, this also means he’s had to buy out what feels like an entire Superdrug’s worth of sunscreen this year just to last the whole summer without looking like a boiled lobster, but who knows when he’s next going to see a summer this fine? He hasn’t had this much of a chance to work on his garden in years.

He’s crouched down over a flowerbed when a glass of water (with ice in it of all the most wonderful things, thank heaven) appears somewhere close to his nose and hovers there. Arthur looks up and takes it gratefully from the hand of a grinning Luís, who has a second glass in his other hand and an open tub of ice cream with a spoon jammed in it under his arm.

“You’re going to get heatstroke crouched over like that for so long out here,” he comments, sinking into a crouch himself and placing his glass on the ground. Arthur rolls his eyes and takes a long drink from his glass.

“What are you, my mother?” he asks once he’s done. Luís pauses with the spoon half way out of his mouth to chuckle.

“I should hope not,” he quips, eyes sparkling, then before Arthur can say anything to that, he carries on, nonchalantly digging the spoon back into the tub for another scoop, “Why do you have this in your freezer anyway? Not that you’ll find me complaining, but it’s not like you.”

“Peace offering for Sealand,” Arthur says, deciding to ignore Luís’s first comment.

“Is that so?”

“It’s either that or risk having him tear half the house apart whenever he decides to show up on the doorstep.”

“I think you’re exaggerating. But as it is, I think that I’ve found a better home for this.”

“I can think of a better one,” Arthur smirks, reaching for the spoon and trying to wrestle it out of Luís’s hand. At some point during the battle for tableware possession Arthur overbalances slightly and Luís sees his chance to lean over and catch him in a kiss that takes Arthur by surprise, making him lose what grip he had on the spoon. Luís tastes of ice cream, sweet and cool and smiling against Arthur’s lips like this is what summers are meant for and they’re not both really already much too old, and when Luís pulls back, smirking mischievously and sitting back in quiet triumph as he returns the spoon to the tub, Arthur almost believes it.

“That was cheating,” he mutters after a moment, and Luís laughs and Arthur’s almost expecting him to say something daft and typically him about all being fair in love and war –

When Luís hands him the next spoonful of ice cream, he supposes he can almost forgive him for cheating.


The first things Luís noticed when he hailed Arthur’s ship were the two bright red spots of sunburn on Arthur’s cheeks. That coupled with the look of surprise on his face was oddly endearing, and he couldn’t help shaking his head fondly – because Arthur was always sunburned somewhere when he was out on the sea, and even after so long sailing out under the wind and the sun his pale skin had never seemed to adapt.

It was just another one of the little things that added up to make Arthur Arthur, just like the look on his face that meant he was trying not to show that he was actually (Heaven forbid) glad to see him. Or the way his cheeks started burning in a way that had nothing whatsoever to do with the sun when Luís kissed him later below deck, just outside his cabin and he hissed not here, people will see! Luís grinned and kissed him again for that, watching the flush spread wider across Arthur’s face as he patiently explained to him that honestly, Inglaterra, do you really think I wouldn’t have checked first?

Arthur, predictably himself as always, just scowled and muttered in reply. But he did let Luís sleep in his cabin that night.


The streets are still thronged with people even now, bright red flowers clutched in hands or threaded through buttonholes or tucked into hats, and stray petals scattered about in the streets underfoot. Luís leans against a wall and watches it, and he can’t help smiling every few seconds as he does so, really, genuinely, spontaneously smiling. Maybe he’s mad, but he can’t help it, and he’s not quite sure that he wants to.

Not today.

He thinks he’s seeing things for a moment when he sees Arthur standing there among the crowd, though. Then he looks again, and Arthur’s still there. Still there and twiddling a slightly bruised carnation between his fingers like he can hardly believe his eyes and doesn’t know what to do with himself (but then, Luís can hardly believe what’s happened either, yet) – and the ends of his hair are dyed green.

For some reason, that tiny detail is the most surreal part of the whole picture, and he almost wants to laugh.

Arthur spots him then, green eyes widening before he takes a few strides in his direction. He stops a few feet away, turns the flower in his fingers again a little uncertainly, and then he looks up and says “Carnations, Portugal, really?”

Luís does laugh then, because everything about that comment is pure Arthur, and what else can he do when he’s confronted with that today? And Heaven help him, but he’s happy to see him. He’s actually happy to see him standing there. And so he closes the gap between them and pulls Arthur into a forceful kiss that has nothing soft about it, and for a second Arthur gasps and stiffens in surprise before his hands fist in the front of Luís’s shirt and he kisses back just as hard, the carnation getting crushed between them.

He still doesn’t know where they’re going, after this, isn’t sure of the shifts and changes between them. But just for this moment, he’s there, and they’re together, and on today of all days, that’s enough.

plus one.

For a moment, Arthur was sure that he’d heard him wrong. Even when he’d thought about it for a few seconds and come to the conclusion that there was no other way he could have heard it, he still thought he’d heard wrong. I mean – well, the alternative was just silly, wasn’t it?

After what felt like an eternity of thunderstruck staring, his throat unblocked itself for long enough to say “What?”

Luís smiled – albeit a little nervously – and said again, “Will you marry me?”

So he hadn’t misheard it after all. He really had said it. Bloody hell, he’d really sodding said it, and for a moment now Arthur was too stunned to have any idea what to do or how to react, and the forever cynical part of him started suggesting that this had to be some sort of joke, had to be, even as the other part dismissed it outright and – He was getting far too bloody worked up about this, wasn’t he. But still --

And it was about that time that he realised he still hadn’t actually said anything.

Luís’s smile was taking on a slightly strained edge now. “Of course,” he said lightly, sounding every inch as if he was just teasing Arthur normally, “if you don’t want to, you can just say so, and I’ll try not to hold it too much against you—”

Oh, well that just about did it, didn’t it.

“Oh, you idiot.

This time, it was Luís’s turn to be stunned into silence as he suddenly found himself with an armful of England. An armful of England kissing him rather forcefully on the mouth, no less.

“… So, that’s not a ‘no’, then?” he managed to quip hopefully. Arthur just about exploded.

“Bloody hell, does this seem like a ‘no’ to you?!” he demanded, scowling. “Of all the patently stupid – of course I want to, you daft bugger,” he finished impatiently, cheeks glowing bright enough to replace the sun. Luís’s smile spread wide and genuine across his face.

“So, not a ‘no’, then,” he said happily, a short laugh escaping him. Arthur rolled his eyes only semi-irately, unable to stop a smile creeping onto his own face.

“Shut your mouth and don’t be such a git,” he said fondly, a lock of hair curled around his fingers, and kissed him again.
Tags: canon: hetalia, character: england, character: portugal, drabble, fannish, fic, pairing: england/portugal

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