Latin Hetalia Secret Santa: Ticket Stubs
I HOPE YOU LIKE, MIAU. <3
I can't write BrArg worth shit. ;;;
It wasn’t so much that Martín Hernandez hated flying. In fact, he liked it. It was fairly relaxing, to have a couple of hours to yourself with no bosses, neighbors, or any other interruptions. Just himself, the maté he’d made for the flight and his hot water carafe resting warmly against his stomach, the pretty flight attendant who brought him whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, and a gossip magazine or twelve to keep him company.
That had been his plan when he stepped into Washington National airport with his luggage close behind, coming back from a business meeting in the states and bound for Pistarini. Martín shucked his coat as he made it through the entrance-it was December 23rd, after all, and the sweet heat of Buenos Aires was welcoming in comparison to the icy chill of America’s home-and skipped through security and check-in like a breeze, flirting with the disapproving attendant and rolling his suitcase down the hallways to gate A24, as it said on the first class ticket pressed nicely into his Italian leather wallet.
The gate itself was packed, more so than it should have been, and Martín pursed his lips as he glanced among the crowd. It was a veritable clamor about the desk, and as he strode up to ask when the flight was leaving, he caught snatches of a conversation, and one word he absolutely did not want to hear.
“Volcano.”
You have to be shitting me. In a flash, the blonde had whipped out his phone and flicked through the news stories on his screen, his expression slipping from curiosity to horror in a second. Puyehue-Cordon Caull, just as explosive as the country it resided in, had sent up a cloud of ash, grounding flights for at least a day.
A day. A day that required missing Noche Buena.
The logical thing (or perhaps illogical thing) would have been to throw a fit, but the last time that had happened, he’d been stranded for a lot longer than he chose to remember-so, scowling, the Argentine leaned against the side of the desk and sent off a “this is your fault” text to Manuel. The “fuck off, it serves you right” in response was customary, and as he started to tap back a brilliant reply, a voice startled him out of his concentration.
“You’re stuck too, blondie?”
And sure enough, standing in front of him (whether it was a sign from Heaven or a sign from Hell, Martín wasn’t sure) was Luciano, wide white grin, crossed arms, Brazil t-shirt and all. He’d almost forgotten that he’d been invited, seeing as how the idiot had been late (something about making an entrance). Martín leaned back against the counter and raised his eyebrows-he managed his usual lilted smirk, shrugging a shoulder. “I thought threatening to sleep on the desk wouldn’t change anything, so I guess not.”
“Great! C’mere, I got a place to sit away from all the noise.” Luciano gestured with the cup of American coffee in his hand (flirted for free out of the barista at the Starbucks, probably) towards where he’d piled his beat up duffel bag and his heavy coat (and scarf and mittens-Luciano had always been a drama queen about the cold, and that was coming from the King of Drama himself.), next to a sad looking potted plant. And before he could blink, he’d been dragged by the chatty Brazilian to the corner; Martín settled a good distance away and drew in his long legs as Luciano stretched out, pulling out his phone once more to glance at the screen.
He definitely wasn’t sulking.
But. Of all of the people in the world, it had to be Luciano. There were at least a thousand other people that Martín could think of spending his Christmas Eve stuck in an airport with (Maradona, for one. Or a gorgeous female celebrity. Or Victoria.) over Luciano. But there he was, with his stupidly infectious grin and his stupidly bright yellow shirt, and really, how could he let himself be seen with Brazil of all people, in the middle of an airport in the USA, drinking American coffee and chatting up every woman he saw?
Some Noche Buena this was. At this moment in Buenos Aires, the people were probably preparing fireworks-the closest here was the lights on the runway, twinkling orange and blue in the fading dusk and the roar of the engines of planes that headed home. Minutes ticked by, to half-hours and hours, and Martín’s iPhone had long since fizzled out of power; he stared out at the glass window where the planes flew by, watching them take off into the stars above.
It was Luciano’s voice who broke the silence of people murmuring and tinny Christmas music over the speakers, leaning on his knees as he seemed to come out of thought. “-Do you remember Aquele Beijo’s Christmas episode?”
Luciano’s dark eyes were bright when he finally did look over, and there was a mischievous looking grin on his face-Martín almost rolled his eyes, but responded with a small smile of his own. Of course he remembered-every year when it was Luciano’s turn to host the Christmas party, he’d make the group settle together on the couch and watch the entire thing, and Luciano would imitate it to Sebastían and Martín (complete with overly dramatic gestures) until the three of them had collapsed into a pile of laughter on Luciano’s old couch. “I remember it wasn’t as good as Ana y Los Siete’s.”
“Bullshit, man. Bullshit.”
By the time a voice crackled to life on the gate speaker across the way, two hours had passed, and the brushing of dusk outside the window had given way to the pitch dark night of a city fast asleep, and Martín had barely noticed. There was something about Luciano’s conversation, the constant banter, the laughter and the insults, that kept a man occupied (dare he say, entertained), and as he turned his head up to listen, the words “flights are leaving the gates” echoed around the terminal, the crowd burst into applause and cheers, relieved at the thought of making it home before Christmas breakfast the next morning. Looking around the terminal, Martín’s face fell into a smile (the kind that was reserved for your citizens, for the swell of pride when they excelled and moved together in a kind of sigh of relief)-but he froze, catching the eye of a woman sitting in the corner, who buried her tearstained face in her hands. The smile slipped into a frown, and Martín shared a glance with Luciano, who stood as well and walked over towards the young woman, noting a man sitting beside her with his arm wrapped around her shoulders. “Is everything okay?”
“There’s no space on the flight-“ The young man started, but he was interrupted by the woman, who wiped at her eyes and stared up at Martín (and for a moment, he saw himself reflected in the bright green of her eyes, and it made his heartstrings twinge), “-And our son is at home without us.”
He didn’t even hesitate. The blonde pulled out his wallet and handed over his ticket. Luciano watched him, and for a moment, surprise seemed to register across his face (and he had to remember-Martín Hernandez was nothing if not full of surprises.) But, he grinned too, and squatted down to hand the man his ticket-“I had a layover in Buenos Aires, and I’d bet you’d rather be there than me.”-and clapped him on the shoulder, grinning at the couple as they clutched their tickets and thanked them a thousand times over.
The next flight to Buenos Aires wouldn’t be until morning, they were informed as the couple climbed onto the plane with a tearful thank you and kisses to their cheeks. Maybe it was exhaustion or the inherent feeling of doing a good thing, but somehow, the inward fit Martín had been prepared for never came.
Around 11, Luciano disappeared from the corner by the plant into one of the soon closing airport stores. Martín didn’t bother to question where he went; he probably got distracted by a plant or something, God knows it wouldn’t be surprising. When he returned, it was with a gold foil bag, which he set down rather enthusiastically, and Martín peered over his shoulder as Luciano unwrapped several cheesy fake ornaments, the kind filled with chocolates. “…You have to be kidding me.”
“Shut up, man, I’m doing something here.” As he sat back on his heels, he frowned-something was missing-then plucked Martín’s iPhone from his hands and placed on top, like a tree topper. There was a moment of stunned silence before the Argentine snorted, unable to keep the grin from spreading across his face, and Luciano slid into the spot beside him, smiling from cheek to cheek and looking at his work. “It’s not…mistletoe, or anything cool like that, but this is all kind of weird anyway. So. Feliz Natal, I guess.”
Behind them, the clock struck twelve; Luciano’s hand caught Martín’s cheek, and he pressed his lips to the blonde’s at the eleventh chime.