[Fanfiction] "Acebolado"
Acebolado
Rating: T
Characters: Brazil (Luciano)/Argentina (Martín)
Summary: Some BrArg requested by zulenha
Martín woke up alone.
Granted, that wasn’t always an unusual circumstance, but this wasn’t his bed (it was smaller than his, for one), these weren’t his sheets (obviously), and he was alone in a bed that wasn’t his with a bad headache pounding in the back of his skull and an odd taste in his mouth.
So he could conclude that he was at Luciano’s place and that was alright. Actually, that was probably better than alright because it meant he had someone he could take this headache out on instead of nursing it silently within the confines of his own home with a mug of mate and Sebastián bitching at him over speakerphone about the consequences of drinking or something while Daniel made interjections in the background.
Well, at least Sebastián wasn’t here and that was something.
Still, the smell of something being cooked (or burnt, maybe) assaulted his senses with all the delicacy of a raging bull or Manuel in a particularly sour mood. It was enough motivation to at least drag himself to sit upright and grope half-blindly for some sort of article of clothing on the floor. After all, walking around naked within any close proximity to Luciano was like begging to be molested and dragged back into the bedroom.
…or any relatively flat surface, since Luciano wasn’t exactly picky about that kind of thing-
But a man had to have his pride, Martín told himself as his hand at last closed around denim and he was presented with jeans that were…not his. He glared at them for a moment and then fell back against the pillows. They were likely too small, but his head hurt too much for him to make a more dedicated search for his own pants, and his back was too sore for him to stand and squirm into pants that were a few sizes too small (but too short, he noted smugly).
They would have to do.
So there he was, flat on his back in Luciano’s bed with his legs in the air as he tried to pull on pants that were clearly meant for someone smaller. He thanked God that the door was closed and that was nobody here to see him looking so undignified, because then he would have to kill them to salvage his honour before killing himself, probably. But eventually he got himself into the jeans to where he at least looked presentable, or at least as presentable as someone on a quasi-Walk of Shame could look. Martín could fake shamelessness though. He was good at it. And damn if there wasn’t a bit of swagger added to his step when he finally got up again, because he had just fit into jeans that were Size Boludo and that meant his diet was finally paying off. (Getting rid of that extra serving of dulce de leche had done wonders, really.)
He slapped his palms lightly against his cheeks to forcibly knock himself a bit further into wakefulness, taking a deep breath (and getting a heavy whiff of whatever culinary abomination Luciano was concocting in his ill-equipped kitchen), and giving a particularly graceless lurch off the bed and to his feet. Martín swayed a bit, trying to regain some sense of equilibrium and simultaneously feeling caipirinha-flavoured bile rising in the back of his throat.
He wasn’t going to take Luciano’s suggestions at a bar ever again. Ever.
Five minutes and one trip to the toilet that destroyed his remaining dignity later, Martín strolled into the small kitchen with a dramatic gait that demanded the attention of all present--or would've if Luciano hadn't been so intent on slicing the onions on the cutting board and singing along obnoxiously with the tinny rendition of "Ai Se Eu Te Pego" playing over the radio perched in the sunny window sill.
With an annoyed huff, Martín dropped himself into one of the kitchen chairs and arranged himself as if he were a king on the throne of his domain, as was his custom. Luciano deigned to notice him then, acknowledging his presence with a quirk of his lips and a quick inclination of his head.
"Glad to see the cachaça didn't kill you like I thought it would," Luciano chirped cheerfully, lifting the cutting board and tipping the sliced onions into a sizzling pan.
"As if your sugar water could," Martín scoffed in return, clenching his eyes shut and trying not to let the smell of raw onions and cooking oil overwhelm his already roiling stomach so that he would throw up right here on the floor even though the thought was tempting because that meant Luciano would have to clean it up since Martín was a guest (of sorts), and that would wipe the irritating smirk right off of his damn face.
But it also meant that he would be proving Luciano's point, so.
"So what are you making me?"
"Who said I was making anything for you?"
Martín didn't bother to reply, fixing his eyes on Luciano's bare back with a singular stare and mentally cataloging how fucking stupid it was to cook without a shirt on.
A silent moment passed and he watched Luciano's shoulders hitch higher and higher in discomfort beneath his stare, grinning in victory at Luciano's eventual resentful mutter of "bife acebolado".
"What was that?" he taunted, "hace boludo?"
Luciano threw a dishtowel at him.