Ignorance, My Bliss [29-32/?]
Update behind the cut. <3 Sorry for the wait~
Please pardon any errors and enjoy. :)
“You’re late.”
His smile was soft, pulling gently at the corners of his lips, meeting the barely contained sneer smeared across the other’s features, twisting the face with anger and acid; he let confusion creep into his gaze, trying to act as he normally would.
Though that was hardly normal.
“Nuh uh, ve, I’m not; it is,” he said, pulling an antique pocket watch from the inner fold of his coat, holding it up for the other to see, “exactly 11:30.” Arthur nearly growled, the primal sound humming low in his throat as he pushed the door farther open, moving slightly to the side.
“Just shut the fuck up and get in here.”
Feliciano brushed past the sandy-haired nation, discretely eyeing the rest of the occupants as he removed his topcoat, draping it over the remaining chair.
Well.
This was certainly interesting.
There were the expected ones, of course. England, still scowling, was leaning back against the door, as if daring anyone to try and leave. He had a thick bandage wrapped around his hand and lower arm, white gauze pulled tight with medical tape; emerald eyes glinted dangerously in the muted light, dark, shadowy. France was nearby, face painted with blooming purple-black bruises, dried blood clinging to the edges of his lips and nose, which looked remarkably straight, considering, the northern Italian mentally noted; they must have fixed that quickly.
Russia was sitting closest to the window, China not far away, staring out into the inky night; a shot-glass filled with vodka was perched in his fingers, the bottle resting on the tiny coffee table. The window was quickly gathering frost, intricate ice patterns creeping up the glass, looking disturbingly unnatural.
Too dangerous, Feliciano thought.
China, draped in luscious red silk, was pointedly ignoring the violet-eyed man, lips pressed into a thin line; ink-black hair trickled down over his shoulder, brushing the gold embellishments slinking up the front of the fabric.
It was the others that surprised him.
Japan, sitting perfectly straight and poised on the tiny couch, quiet and pensive, hands neatly folded into his lap; beside him an unusually silent Korea, whose face was strangely blank, eyes like rusty scarlet against the white of his skin. Belarus, lovingly kneeling beside Russia’s chair, her head resting against his knees, fingers idly playing with a corner of his jacket, and Spain, sitting to his right, countenance pale and dim, his fingers trembling.
Very interesting.
Feliciano took his seat, carefully crossing his legs and pulling a gold case from his inner breast pocket; he popped it open, removing a cigarette, and closed it again, tapping the paper hard against the metal, sound echoing in the silence. Antonio stared at the case, eyes glinting with the reflection of the metal. He swallowed, frame rigid, as Feliciano perched the cigarette between two slim fingers.
“Do you have a light?”
Noticeably shaking, the Spaniard produced a jeweled, rose-gold lighter; after a few tries, the flame finally caught, and Feliciano leaned close, taking an experimental inhale. Satisfied, he pulled away, blue-grey smoke curling from his lips, twisting around the other’s face, magnifying already blood-shot eyes. The Italian smiled, leaning back into the chair as he propped his chin on his hand.
A little fun never hurt anyone.
“Ve~ What a pretty design,” he nearly cooed, gesturing to the lighter, “-is it gold?” Antonio’s reply was fractured, just like the tremulous grin set upon his lips.
“Ah-y-yes; r-rose g-gold,” the other stuttered; Feliciano mentally purred, amused with the other’s violent personality change.
Poor thing.
Antonio was afraid-afraid of himself; prospects of Empire did do things to people-
What was it again? God, Gold, and Glory? He inwardly chuckled.
He should have worn his gold crucifix.
“Where’s your brother, Italy?”
Ah, such a biting tone could only belong to England, the once great and mighty; the sun had set on him long ago, though, and the darkness in those forest irises cried for the release of the light, the light from rubies glittering, from blood flowing, from coins tumbling from opulent fingers, from swords hot from the heat of battle-
The light of Empire.
Feliciano gave a small sigh, taking another breath of smoke; they just didn’t want Antonio to revert in the middle of the meeting. They thought he wasn’t doing it on purpose; no, pretty little Italy is too flighty and dumb to think of something as cruel as that. Give him brushes, give him his easel-he’ll paint a pretty picture for you.
Then let them think that-all the more fun for him.
“He couldn’t come-but I’m here, so it’s okay, right?” He chirped sunnily, waving his cigarette as if to emphasize. Arthur frowned, eyebrows knitting.
“He couldn’t come?” Feliciano raised an eyebrow, questioning.
“Is that a problem, ve?”
Because if it is, I’m sure I’m a better shot then whoever gave you that hole in your arm.
The Briton eyed him suspiciously, but finally grunted, acquiescing with a frustrated wave of the hand.
“Very well, as long as he-”
“Oh, and I'm here for Germany, too!”
Now that got some attention.
Japan looked up at him in alarm, posture not quite so perfect as before; Belarus did the glaring for her brother, who still refused to part from the entrancing view the window offered. France seemed to pale further, bruises looking even more ominous on his too wan complexion as Antonio mumbled barely breathed words in Spanish. England’s hand spasmed, twitching, before clenching into a fist, gaze boring into Feliciano’s own; the Italian blinked, cocking his head to one side as the other glared.
“You think this is some sort of joke?”
“Joke?” The Italian said, countenance perplexed, thoughtful, “I didn’t think it was funny.” He turned to Korea, as if they were sharing some sort of secret. “Did it sound like a joke, ve?” The strangely subdued man looked up, eyes blank, in response to the question; suddenly, his lip quirked, a crooked smile twisting his mouth, and he began to laugh.
“Ha ha…hahaha…ha ha…”
The room seemed to become even more silent, several of the occupants eyeing Im Yong Soo warily. Feliciano frowned, nearly a pout upon his lips, as he took another drag, blowing the smoke off towards the side.
“I guess it was funnier than I thought, ve,” he admitted grudgingly.
“You know very well what the bloody fuck I mean!” Arthur hissed, voice quickly rising in anger, gesturing violently; France was looking distinctly ill, raising a weak hand towards the other.
“L'Angleterre,” he began feebly, as if in warning.
Because they should be worried.
“If I remember correctly,” the Italian began, tone smooth and airy, “you invited all the major players, who were then allowed to bring others if they liked, ve; you wouldn’t have bothered inviting us if you didn’t need our help, because you’d just hoard Alfred all to yourself, draining him for every last drop.”
No one answered him.
“Besides, ve,” he continued, a hint of smile creeping through, “I think bad things happened the last time Germany wasn’t invited to something~”
Six years of bad things, in fact.
He wanted to ask if the burns on England’s legs and back still flamed with Blitzkrieg’s heat, but decided that might be a little much.
Arthur’s eyes widened in shock, realizing just what the former Axis power was implying with the tiny half-grin and gaze half-lidded by smoke; colorless lips pressed into a thin line, hands clenched and shaking, before the Briton finally turned away, voice tight and flat.
“Fine.”
The room seemed to breathe an inaudible sigh of relief, tension slowly trickling away; all except for Italy, however, whose smile immediately vanished, eyes darkening. He stamped out the remaining embers on his cigarette in the nearby ashtray only to pull another from the case, which Spain lit without being asked.
It was time for business.
“How’s the split gonna go?” Arthur didn’t turn.
“Everyone gets a taste at first, one taste,” he carefully stressed, “any tastes after that are up to both France and I; we have to both agree.” Feliciano sniffed in disdain, taking another long drag; Japan looked over at him, curious, as if trying to discern something from the other’s expression.
“And of the nation that finds them?”
“That’s up for discussion, depending on who finds him. We are, of course,” Arthur drawled near sarcastically, “‘willing to be fair.’”
“Then let’s discuss.”
“Pardon?” The Italian blew a stream of smoke off to the side, smile razor-sharp, like it had been traced with a knife.
“I know where he is.”
He reveled in the tense silence that followed, electricity seeming to sparkle in the air; it prickled along his skin, adrenaline making every sense hyper-aware: the smell of the sweat on the back of Spain’s neck and his barely mouthed prayers, the smooth paper of the cigarette between his fingers, Ivan’s startled glance that made his blood want to freeze:
It was such a rush.
“-the fuck-? You-you know where he is? Why didn’t you tell us?” Arthur nearly roared, grabbing a fistful of the other’s red tie and yanking him close. Feliciano was nonplussed, allowing smoke to swirl from partially parted lips as he examined a neatly polished cufflink.
“You never asked.”
“Where-is-he?” Arthur ground out, clenching the silk harder in his grip, wrinkling it with imperfection; the Italian didn’t blink.
“Deal first,” a monotone informed flatly, coolly, “And then you’ll have your prize.” The question that followed was not even a whisper, saturated with hatred and anger.
“What are your terms?”
Now they were getting somewhere.
“A taste a month-”
“Are you out of your bloody-”
“-one for me and Romano, and one for Germany.” The Briton sneered at him, lip curling as his eyes narrowed; Feliciano met his gaze, a blatant challenge.
“You know that’s not enough for us to overthrow you,” he said softly, honey irises dark with calculation, “It’s merely a precaution.”
“A precaution against what?” Feliciano leaned towards the other’s ear, warm vibrations tickling the outer shell; sugar permeated his tone, dripping with a sickly sweetness.
“Ve, I don’t like it when people cheat me~ It makes me so sad~” England abruptly let go, regarding the younger with a mix of revulsion and grudging respect; he looked away, mumbling.
“I suppose you’ll want some sort of document?” The light quickly returned to the Italian’s eyes, as if the previous exchange had never happened.
“That’s right! Gosh England, you can read my mind!”
Paper was soon acquired, and a contract was drawn up, quickly, of course, as Arthur was becoming increasingly impatient. Feliciano seemed to merely glance over the document before giving a hum of approval, and it was ready to be signed. Both countries added their signature with a quick flourish of ink, wasting no time.
Then it was time for the true agreement.
Arthur pricked his finger with his pocket knife, allowing a drop of scarlet to fall and rapidly vein across the paper, a living seal. Eyes looked expectantly at Feliciano, who removed a thin vial from his pocket. He tipped it, a tiny bead of scarlet falling near his own name before slipping the glass back into his pocket; he neatly folded the paper, tucking it away.
“Ve, it’s always so troublesome to sign things without Brother; we need blood from both of us to make it official.” England wasn’t listening anymore.
“Where is he, Italy?” The other smiled.
“My-family embraces many people,” Feliciano began, happy, bubbling, “and we all make sure to take care of each other, because that’s what family does: they take care of each other.”
Sometimes, that just happens to involve a long, evening swim.
“And my kind sister, Mary, she works at the airport-y’know, that thing with all the planes?” he added as an aside to the still grinning Korea, “Well, she knew where Alfred went! And, so, ve, she was more than willing to help.”
After offering to acquaint her husband with his favorite Beretta 93R-
“She said they went to Destination #8 on-ve, who’s that other guy again? Oh, yeah, Canada!-Canada’s list.”
“And what, pre tell, was it?” Arthur managed to only half-hiss. Italy smiled once again, darkness beginning to slink back into his eyes. He made sure to say the name softly, like a purr.
“Ukraine.”
Several heads turned in alarm as the shattering of glass exploded through the air; Ivan was on his feet now, ice crackling along the window pane as the temperature quickly began to drop. Violet eyes flickered with frozen fire, hand leaking garnet from being cut by the shot glass, the smell of vodka nearly over-whelming. Belarus pawed weakly at her brother’s legs, murmuring little endearments as she trailed kisses up his clothed thigh, trying to calm him; it didn’t help.
“Гадостная, тупоумная шлюха!” The Russian growled, feral, angrily snatching the half-full bottle of Stolichnaya from the table, “Ёбанный придурок!” He hurled it at the wall, container bursting into innumerable pieces. Italy brushed a few fragments of crystal from his sleeve, lighting another cigarette as several other countries tried to calm Ivan down. Korea grinned at him.
“I’m-hungry,” Im Yong Soo breathed, tone punctuated by a high-pitched giggle; Italy blew smoke into the air.
Good.
=~=~=~=
Alfred.
Alfred.
Oh, Alfred.
Not much longer now.
Not much longer indeed. ;3 Is that a little N. Korea I see there? I dunno, maybe not~ ;D
Anyway, thanks to everyone who's stuck with me so far! I know this is late (again--again) but it's almost end of term here. Actually, I've got exams next week, so I can't promise another update, but I'll try my best.
Comments= amazing. No reall, thank you to everyone who has commented and please contintue to do so! <333
P.S:...Can you see it now? ;3
Till next time~