Rare Pair Week, day 4: Historical
Brazil/Uruguay + fem!Argentina, PG, 600 words
The ink is still wet on the peace treaty when Argentina’s fist collides with Brazil’s cheek with a loud and wet sound. England’s face turns redder and redder by the second as the two tumble into the ground in a confusion of limbs, shouting at them to stop and screaming at their representatives to get a grip on their countries. No one notices when Uruguay leaves the room quietly through the back door.
He walks three or four steps before his feet become too unsteady, his vision blurring, and he has to brace himself on the wall of the corridor not to fall on his knees. He hides his trembling mouth under his palm, his neck and cheek heating up, his sinuses clogging.
He is free.
He is free from both of them.
He doesn’t have to choose anymore.
The door opens behind him and he knows the hands that grip his arms and turns him around, he knows them by heart. Brazil’s cheek is red where Argentina had struck him, his brown eyes still blazing with anger when he takes his wet face in his hands and kisses him, lips too rough, tongue too domineering. He clings to his back, bunches the thick fabric of his dress uniform with all of his medals and all of his ribbons, and kisses him back, feels tears roll down his cheek, fat and heavy.
“I gave you everything you asked for,” Brazil whispers into his lips, his hands easing their grip a fraction, his body a solid, warm weight under his palms. “I’d have given you more.”
“I couldn’t stay.” His hands delved into his hair, keeping his face tilted towards him, thumbs pressed against the trails of coarse salt on his cheeks.
“Because of her?” Uruguay shakes his head, but Brazil continues, “I can still win this war, give me another year, give me—Fuck, Cis, don’t do this.”
He fists the fabric of his uniform, feels the tension of the muscles on his back. When he looks into his eyes, all he sees is the little boy he once was, all scrawny arms and scrapped knees, a heart too big, too easily broken.
“I couldn’t stay,” he repeats and closes his eyes. He hates himself for it, but he can’t—he can’t look into his eyes as he says it.
Brazil kisses him again, desperate and clumsy, and Uruguay holds him with tight fists on his back, Brazil’s hands gripping him too hard. He knows these hands too well, he knows how harsh they can be, how strong he is, he knows how tenderly he can hold him, knows how his own body melts and shivers with the smallest of his touches.
“I couldn’t stay,” he confesses, small and raw and true, and Brazil holds him too tightly before letting him go, tucks the little boy away, stands before him as the Empire he has become.
“Do I have to hit you again?”
They turn to see Argentina standing by the door with her arms crossed and anger written between her brows. Brazil scoffs, but steps away without looking back.
“Witch,” he spats at her on his way back into the room.
“Imbecile,” she sneers at his back.
Uruguay can’t help the wet laugh that escapes him, and wipes his tears away from his face when Argentina turns her sharp blue eyes to him in question.
“You two would make a good couple,” he explains and his smile broadens at the sight of her full-face grimace.
“We still need your signature,” she tells him and opens an arm to lead him back into the room.
He nods, lets out a shuddering breath, straightens his back.
He is free.
He is finally free.
Despite Uruguay having declared independence from Brazil in 1825, several battles were still fought between Empire of Brazil and the United Provinces of the Río de la Plata (Argentina), both of which claimed Uruguay (Cisplatine/Banda Oriental) as theirs. At the end of the conflict known as Cisplatine War (also known as Argentine-Brazilian War), Uruguay was created as a separate state independent from both with the Treaty of Montevideo, in 1828, under mediation of the United Kingdom.
While under Brazilian rule, Cisplatine had a special autonomous status granted by the 1824 Constitution, something no other province/state enjoyed.