it's your time to worry, my time to be alone- your reckless disposition drove me way from home;
title: Like Music
pairing: Spain/Romano
rating: PG-13
summary: The way Spain moves is, to Romano, inexplicable as music. [written for tanya_tsuki for the sparo_xchange.]
☆LIKE MUSIC
I.
It was like Spain moved in code; past the dust and sweat Romano finally found the words for it- the angle of his hips, the ease of his rough hands, the way his hair threw off light when he smiled up to the crowd, was all a foreign language that Romano couldn’t figure. It was what put a cold thought in his mind, nervous shivers down his spine. Made him so unsure of himself that the world became formless, out of reach.
It was that way in everyday life; in song; in the effortless way he turned, twisted around, and made the final pass- ending the third of death with muerta pura, the last rush of metal- blood escaping; the way Spain shook his cape was like a twist of color as bright as the brain could conjure, was better than bowing.
His eyes flashed when he looked up into the crowd- he smiled his thanks, and then he found Romano sitting among the watchers, the dreamers and no-ladies. Spain’s surprised green hit Romano’s mistrust. The cape rushed as a wave; Spain smiled, wide and sunny. -Romano found himself under the spell of foreign words. Hypnotized, just as much by the way Spain moved, dark and low with blood, and the way he smiled: flashing, absorbing him in sun until nothing was left but the heavy sensation of light.
II.
“I don’t understand it,” Romano said, beneath a vague frown, feeling dissatisfied, sitting on the small corner cot.
Spain looked up from folding his shirt with a bemused smile. “Que? What’s that?”
Romano folded his arms. The light was low; the room was dusty- just as dusty as the rest of this goddamn place, all dry with sun until nothing was hidden. “The bullfights, moron, what else?”
“Eh? What about it?” Spain asked. He laid the shirt aside with the montero; he turned- skin only covered with the metal crucifix around his neck, beating unseen to the invisible sea of his heart.
Romano rolled his eyes, looked away (because here it was again, this foreign feeling in his stomach that tasted like jealousy but sweeter). “I don’t fucking know. It’s just- it’s so...I don’t know,” he repeated, scoffing; and then, letting it slip- “The movements.”
Spain paused; quirked his head. “Huh? What do you mean? Like the way the matador moves?”
“-Tch, yeah. I mean- it’s so fucking showy- why doesn’t he just kill the damn thing if he knows how?” Romano answered- his eyes looking up to Spain with a tang of irritation as he folded his arms.
Spain laughed- Romano’s frown grayed against the sunny sound. “Ah! It’s just because it’s more than that- it’s like- como music, or painting!” Spain said with an eager nod.
“You mean an art, stupid,” Romano answered. He leaned back against the wall.
“That’s it! An art!” Spain exclaimed, nodding again. He had finished putting aside the adornments of the traje de luces; but now he took up the cape, still stained dark and stiff in some places with dried blood, and turned to Romano. There was just that degree of strange grace, with just that hint of killing light sweeping past his eyes, that put Romano on edge. “’Member, Romanito, I taught you how to dance?”
Romano’s eyes shaded; “Well, your dances, anyway.”
“Right,” Spain said, with a warm smile- “It’s like flamenco; or like a sevillana.” He straightened his posture, to shift into that carriage of proud light, of secret fire, that always preluded the opening chord. Hips and shoulders at an angle- looking so bare in this empty, quiet room. The dispassionate frown never left Romano’s face, but he straightened up just a bit, leaned forward. Spain held the cape low, at his hips- “It’s not really even about it being beautiful- it’s about the emotion,” he said, with that emphatic smile that always told just how much he believed in or felt something.
His smile stuck like honey; he turned the cape- just that flash of drama, that flash of sleepless blood- Romano’s mind lit. “Like this,” Spain said, carrying the posture- and then he shifted again, the cape turning (Romano listened careful- the stiff, crowded sound of cloth sounded almost like music). “And this.”
Romano’s hand clutched at the cloth sheets; again he was feeling those black vines, that cold torment that felt shamefully like pleasure, like rain. His eyes were almost angry as he looked up to Spain. Spain held the posture- that posture that was everything he was- full of light and proud, with just a touch of something dark that Romano couldn’t figure. “It’s to show what it means,” he explained- and then he laughed, and Romano cursed the fact that Spain could laugh in every situation, even when Romano was feeling this low and strange. “Do you understand now?”
Romano bit his tongue; something in him lashed. “No,” he answered, his tone just a touch confrontational, “It’s still- shit, you bastard, you’re so goddamn confusing.”
Spain paused, confused, and gave a little nervous laugh. He tossed the cape aside and touched Romano’s shoulder. “What? I’m confusing?” he asked, concerned.
“Yeah, you’re fucking confusing- goddamn,” Romano said, looking away, leaning into Spain’s touch so he could feel the hollow of his palm fit correctly on his shoulder. “It’s like- there’s just no word for it. You’re a real jerk...”
Spain paused again- worrying that he’d done something wrong, not understanding what Romano meant. He bit his lip, looked Romano over- hands all tight, posture tense, all fugitive lightning and gray frown. But then his eyes found Romano’s, and didn’t see anything angry there- so he figured it just must be okay. “It’s just like dancing, lindo,” Spain said, with a warm laugh, “It doesn’t need words for you to understand it- you just need to go along!”
The heaviness was gone now, and Romano couldn’t let out a sigh against the smile in Spain’s voice. He wished that Spain didn’t speak to that foreign part of him, that corner of his mind that he couldn’t make sense of- but, really, though, it was a useless wish because he loved the feeling so much, couldn’t get enough of it, like shadow in heat. His eyes shifted to Spain, his skin, his bright eyes- that was it- heat- calenture, that craziness that can only understand itself. If he couldn’t use words to express it, damn, he’d used something else- one day he’d be able to meet this feeling with whatever made the most sense- his heart or his body- and make this bastard feel exactly the way he felt.
(Ah but Romano didn’t know- couldn’t know- he already put the same exact feeling in Spain; it was just that Spain knew music better.)
NOTES;;
1] muerta pura - pure death
como - like
traje de luces - nickname for the bullfighter’s costume; “suit of lights,” because it’s so showy
accent mark fail lol (can never tell the difference between como with an accent mark and como without an accent mark). also sorry if this is incoherent because like. i was in that kinda frame of mind when i wrote it orz.
Thanks for reading! :D
pairing: Spain/Romano
rating: PG-13
summary: The way Spain moves is, to Romano, inexplicable as music. [written for tanya_tsuki for the sparo_xchange.]
☆LIKE MUSIC
I.
It was like Spain moved in code; past the dust and sweat Romano finally found the words for it- the angle of his hips, the ease of his rough hands, the way his hair threw off light when he smiled up to the crowd, was all a foreign language that Romano couldn’t figure. It was what put a cold thought in his mind, nervous shivers down his spine. Made him so unsure of himself that the world became formless, out of reach.
It was that way in everyday life; in song; in the effortless way he turned, twisted around, and made the final pass- ending the third of death with muerta pura, the last rush of metal- blood escaping; the way Spain shook his cape was like a twist of color as bright as the brain could conjure, was better than bowing.
His eyes flashed when he looked up into the crowd- he smiled his thanks, and then he found Romano sitting among the watchers, the dreamers and no-ladies. Spain’s surprised green hit Romano’s mistrust. The cape rushed as a wave; Spain smiled, wide and sunny. -Romano found himself under the spell of foreign words. Hypnotized, just as much by the way Spain moved, dark and low with blood, and the way he smiled: flashing, absorbing him in sun until nothing was left but the heavy sensation of light.
II.
“I don’t understand it,” Romano said, beneath a vague frown, feeling dissatisfied, sitting on the small corner cot.
Spain looked up from folding his shirt with a bemused smile. “Que? What’s that?”
Romano folded his arms. The light was low; the room was dusty- just as dusty as the rest of this goddamn place, all dry with sun until nothing was hidden. “The bullfights, moron, what else?”
“Eh? What about it?” Spain asked. He laid the shirt aside with the montero; he turned- skin only covered with the metal crucifix around his neck, beating unseen to the invisible sea of his heart.
Romano rolled his eyes, looked away (because here it was again, this foreign feeling in his stomach that tasted like jealousy but sweeter). “I don’t fucking know. It’s just- it’s so...I don’t know,” he repeated, scoffing; and then, letting it slip- “The movements.”
Spain paused; quirked his head. “Huh? What do you mean? Like the way the matador moves?”
“-Tch, yeah. I mean- it’s so fucking showy- why doesn’t he just kill the damn thing if he knows how?” Romano answered- his eyes looking up to Spain with a tang of irritation as he folded his arms.
Spain laughed- Romano’s frown grayed against the sunny sound. “Ah! It’s just because it’s more than that- it’s like- como music, or painting!” Spain said with an eager nod.
“You mean an art, stupid,” Romano answered. He leaned back against the wall.
“That’s it! An art!” Spain exclaimed, nodding again. He had finished putting aside the adornments of the traje de luces; but now he took up the cape, still stained dark and stiff in some places with dried blood, and turned to Romano. There was just that degree of strange grace, with just that hint of killing light sweeping past his eyes, that put Romano on edge. “’Member, Romanito, I taught you how to dance?”
Romano’s eyes shaded; “Well, your dances, anyway.”
“Right,” Spain said, with a warm smile- “It’s like flamenco; or like a sevillana.” He straightened his posture, to shift into that carriage of proud light, of secret fire, that always preluded the opening chord. Hips and shoulders at an angle- looking so bare in this empty, quiet room. The dispassionate frown never left Romano’s face, but he straightened up just a bit, leaned forward. Spain held the cape low, at his hips- “It’s not really even about it being beautiful- it’s about the emotion,” he said, with that emphatic smile that always told just how much he believed in or felt something.
His smile stuck like honey; he turned the cape- just that flash of drama, that flash of sleepless blood- Romano’s mind lit. “Like this,” Spain said, carrying the posture- and then he shifted again, the cape turning (Romano listened careful- the stiff, crowded sound of cloth sounded almost like music). “And this.”
Romano’s hand clutched at the cloth sheets; again he was feeling those black vines, that cold torment that felt shamefully like pleasure, like rain. His eyes were almost angry as he looked up to Spain. Spain held the posture- that posture that was everything he was- full of light and proud, with just a touch of something dark that Romano couldn’t figure. “It’s to show what it means,” he explained- and then he laughed, and Romano cursed the fact that Spain could laugh in every situation, even when Romano was feeling this low and strange. “Do you understand now?”
Romano bit his tongue; something in him lashed. “No,” he answered, his tone just a touch confrontational, “It’s still- shit, you bastard, you’re so goddamn confusing.”
Spain paused, confused, and gave a little nervous laugh. He tossed the cape aside and touched Romano’s shoulder. “What? I’m confusing?” he asked, concerned.
“Yeah, you’re fucking confusing- goddamn,” Romano said, looking away, leaning into Spain’s touch so he could feel the hollow of his palm fit correctly on his shoulder. “It’s like- there’s just no word for it. You’re a real jerk...”
Spain paused again- worrying that he’d done something wrong, not understanding what Romano meant. He bit his lip, looked Romano over- hands all tight, posture tense, all fugitive lightning and gray frown. But then his eyes found Romano’s, and didn’t see anything angry there- so he figured it just must be okay. “It’s just like dancing, lindo,” Spain said, with a warm laugh, “It doesn’t need words for you to understand it- you just need to go along!”
The heaviness was gone now, and Romano couldn’t let out a sigh against the smile in Spain’s voice. He wished that Spain didn’t speak to that foreign part of him, that corner of his mind that he couldn’t make sense of- but, really, though, it was a useless wish because he loved the feeling so much, couldn’t get enough of it, like shadow in heat. His eyes shifted to Spain, his skin, his bright eyes- that was it- heat- calenture, that craziness that can only understand itself. If he couldn’t use words to express it, damn, he’d used something else- one day he’d be able to meet this feeling with whatever made the most sense- his heart or his body- and make this bastard feel exactly the way he felt.
(Ah but Romano didn’t know- couldn’t know- he already put the same exact feeling in Spain; it was just that Spain knew music better.)
NOTES;;
1] muerta pura - pure death
como - like
traje de luces - nickname for the bullfighter’s costume; “suit of lights,” because it’s so showy
accent mark fail lol (can never tell the difference between como with an accent mark and como without an accent mark). also sorry if this is incoherent because like. i was in that kinda frame of mind when i wrote it orz.
Thanks for reading! :D