My thanks to Disturbed Nord for correcting the Spanish in this fic. Gracias! (probably the only word I know OTZ)

She had not expected the letter now staring her in the face, daring her to open it.

The neat, slightly cursive handwriting invoked memories both good and bad. His handwriting always surprised her – she would have thought him someone who scrawled messily all over the paper. She sighed; it had been so long ago when they last met, yet all these years she had never really forgotten about him.

"Spanje."

The name rolled off her tongue, sounding familiar yet foreign at the same time. When had she last called out his name? God, she was already crying, and she hadn't even opened the letter yet.

Mi querida Bélgica,

How have you been? I know this is sudden, but I'd like to invite you to my place for a party and to support our soccer teams playing against each other in the qualifiers. I guess you could say it's become a tradition ever since Austria came over for the Austria-Spain match a few days ago. Feliciano dragged him along on Visit Romano Day, but the more the merrier! :) Please come, I hope to see you again! :)

Besos,

Antonio :)

The letter was short, but all Belgium could see were the salutations "Belgium, my love" and "Yours".

Yours. Was he really? Did he mean anything by it? Her hopes rose for a second, before she cruelly quashed them. It's probably just something he said to everyone.

She stared at the letter, as if committing each word to memory. Studying it, she realised why there were so many ink stains. This seemingly short note must have taken ages to write - it looked as if he had carefully thought out each word before writing it down, absent-mindedly letting the ink drip onto the paper as he pondered what to write next.

She crushed the letter to her chest, careful not to let her tears wash away his words.

"Oh, Spanje. You stupid, stupid man."

She'd originally brought enough beer for seven. As one of Europe's heaviest beer-drinking countries, it was to be expected. She figured since Romano was there, Feliciano would be too. Naturally, Northern Italy would be accompanied by West Germany; and then of course Prussia would follow his brother. And where two-thirds of the Bad Touch Trio were, the last member France obviously would be as well. The thought of the Germany brothers prompted her to throw in a few dozen more bottles into the box, and with that, she set off towards Spain, with a heavy heart and countless soft sighs along the way.

She heard before she even saw them, their voices carrying over the hill where she was as she trudged to the house. Reaching the door, she kicked at the door, her arms too full to knock. Instead of opening inwards like she expected, the door fell to the ground as the hinges finally gave way. The occupants of the house looked up at the new arrival, their expressions ranging from mild interest (France) to open shock (Feliciano).

"Oi, Spain! You stupid idiot, get your door fixed."

Spain gave his signature cheerful laugh as he assured Romano that he would (someday). A mirage of emotions coursed through Belgium as she heard him chuckle. She missed his innocent, carefree laughter.

She missed him.

A part of her wanted to drop her carton and run to him, hugging him and holding him close to her once again, never mind the audience. But too much had happened; she couldn't do that anymore. For now, she would pretend that everything was okay, that she was here solely as a sort-of prodigal sister returning to reunite with her sort-of brother.

Antonio could never read between the lines. The clueless man looped his arm around her shoulder as he shuffled her into a spot on the couch, grinning happily all the way. She guessed this was because the match had started, and Spain was currently controlling the field. Belgium ended up being squashed between the Italy brothers, Romano giving her the sneer he gave everyone, Feliciano giving her the open smile he gave everyone.

"Where's Prussia?" She asked the room, trying to distract herself from openly staring at the Spaniard. Northern Italy cheerfully informed her, while shoving his mouth full of food, that the albino was coming by later. He was currently at Hungary's, trying his luck to hook up with her yet again. Belgium rolled her eyes. Anyone could see where the Prussian was going to end up for the next few weeks, if the rumours she heard about the legendary cast-iron frying pan were accurate.

True enough, the telephone rang, the caller informing West Germany that his brother had been thrown into the Accident and Emergency section (again).

So. She took him to the hospital even after all his annoying antics.

Belgium chuckled inwardly at the love-hate relationship between the Prussian and her best female friend. She was shaken out of her musing by Feliciano's loud exclamation that he and West had to go visit the latter's brother in hospital – it was only right, after all. Romano shot a look of disdain at the Spaniard, who was blissfully unaware of his charge's disgruntlement, before the Italian announced that he had to go along to prevent his brother getting into trouble (and to get away from his useless guardian). France decided to follow suit, twirling around and wondering aloud how best to spread his love around in the hospital. Belgium shut her eyes and covered her ears as France grew more passionate about his plan, his comments growing racier and his pile of clothes mounting on the ground as he continued to shed them.

When she was sure it was safe, she opened her eyes again and let her hands fall away from her ears, only to find that everyone had left without her.

"GOAL! Yay!"

…and Antonio.

The whole world ran on irony sometimes, she grumbled. She plopped down on the other end of the couch, grabbing a beer to ease her discomfort at being alone with Spain.

Well, this is awkward.

Realising she had finished her first bottle, she reached for another. And another. And yet another. Countless bottles later, she was jumping and screaming at the television like the man next to her. Her excitement grew as the football drew closer and closer to the Spanish goalpost, and when the ball was intercepted by the goalkeeper, she pouted in annoyance and reached for another bottle. Her hand found empty space where all the bottles once stood. She glanced around her, confused. She couldn't have drunk seven shares of beer by herself, and Antonio didn't drink. Probably the only Spaniard who didn't, she thought. Then again, if one took into consideration his mental age, he was way underage indeed.

…she really had to stop rolling her eyes. The action was making her head hurt.

She whirled around to face him nevertheless; the sudden movement making her feel light-headed. Sure enough, the clueless man had drunk himself silly; mistaking her beer for his non-alcoholic drinks. She couldn't help but roll her eyes again. He really should have taken his eyes off the screen to look at what he was pouring down his throat.

The sound of a whistle drew her attention back to the television – the signal of the end of the match. Spain had won 5-0. She shrieked in disbelief and outrage, the alcohol overriding her earlier inhibitions around the Spaniard. The latter was currently laughing and cheering, his face red from the unfamiliar alcohol in his body.

5-0. It would look to the world that Belgium was weak, that they couldn't even put up a proper fight. Unlike the Italy brothers, she did not, would not accept failure. Years of battle had made her bitter and hardened – she strove to become strong, because power meant acknowledgement and respect. Her country's fate would not be decided on the whims of leading nations. She all but disregarded her feminine side for this belief even, because there was no time or effort to waste on such frills when there was a war to fight.

And the Spaniard was still dancing a victory dance in his own little world, not realising his actions were akin to handing Belgium the hammer to nail in his coffin. Fuelled by the copious amounts of alcohol earlier ingested, she stalked (or rather, wobbled) angrily to the brunette, who was still unaware of the fury about to be unleashed at him.

She reached out and grabbed him by his shirt front, shaking him roughly, face red with ire. Admittedly, Antonio made a spectacular drunk on his first try. His mind completely overwhelmed by the unfamiliar alcohol, he barely registered Belgium's death grip, her hands moving closer and closer to wring his neck. In fact, his dazed grin got even larger.

"Belbel!" he cooed, totally inebriated. He wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled the area between her cheek and neck, like he used to when she was younger.

"So…pretty. I love you, Belbel~"he giggled, and reached up to run his fingers through her soft locks; but miscalculated, his hand colliding painfully with her nose. She cried out as she jerked backwards in shock, losing her balance and pulling Spain down with her.

Sprawled on the floor, he knocked the wind out of her. She struggled to breathe and crawl out from underneath him, but with him being a deadweight in his current state, her actions were futile. She groaned in annoyance and frustration.

"Belbel, you're all soft and squishy and warm." She heard him mumble from where his face was stuck in between her breasts, his voice sending vibrations in her cleavage. She grudgingly admitted to herself that it felt good. She knew she wasn't as well-endowed as Ukraine, but she came a close second.

Damn if his warm breath wasn't making her feel hot and bothered.

"Spanje." She tried.

No response.

…great. He had fallen asleep.

Hesitantly, she brought her hand to pat his head and rub his back in a soothing manner, just like old times. She missed having him in her embrace, warming her being inside and out. He still smelled exactly as she remembered.

The lines on her face faded as she drifted into a peaceful sleep with a rare smile on her face.