The Tylenol and dentist visits must be making me less fangirly D: D: D:
So episode 20 for APH is supposed to be a continuation of the Cleaning out the Storage scenes…ahhh, it’s been hyped up too much for me to spazz about :\ Truthfully, the only reason I’m looking forward to it is to hear England cry. Haha. *bricked* Oh! And for all of the little scenes and teasers to end…finally XD...
And here are two prompts done for the five sentence meme! I was going to post all of them at the same time, but then I got stuck on some of them…and thought it would be too much anyways for one entry XD so I’m just going to post the two I already finished:
Prompted by wayya:
Contact
A handshake over their robots, a strange electricity that Shouichi swears, against his better judgment, is leaking from the batteries, “It was an honor,” he hears Spanner say in heavily accented Japanese.
Curtain
“Houses in Japan have them?” Spanner asks Shouichi, both astonished for different reasons.
Hurt
They helped repair this world knowing it would come down to this -- that victory meant the end of the era in which they found each other -- and it hurts when Spanner holds him close and whispers, “It was an honor,” his Japanese has improved so much.
Trade
They are used to the input for an output mindset, and they know it’s different with people but, when Shouichi kisses back, Spanner can’t help the function table he mentally invokes when he pulls away, “I’m sure you did it too,” he says to a snickering Shouichi.
Internet
An apple falls on Spanner’s head, causing the lollipop between his teeth to crunch and crumble from his lips when he grits his teeth in pain, and Shouichi wonders what Spanner could possibly be looking at when he doesn’t look up from his laptop.
and prompted by stalkerbunny
frame
“Maybe you should ask my brother,” Romano mutters when Spain asks him which frame goes better with the painting, but the boy quickly turns away and tells him to shut-up when Spain says he wants Romano’s opinion.
intent
Spain is a jester, a natural tease -- if bullfighting isn’t already an indication -- and Romano wonders if there is ever any intent behind those actions, if there is any reason Spain has to leave him for those long journeys across the sea.
cool
A warm tomato pressed to his hot cheek, the humid Mediterranean air rolling around them -- Spain’s laugh actually felt cool against his lips, which is the only reason Romano leaned in to kiss him, damnit!
grow
Spain is one to take pride in the fact that Romano has grown so much, even if it meant that the previously much smaller boy is now tall enough to make eye contact, to pin him against the wall like so with just his hips.
cut
“It’s all your fault,” Romano whines and flushes red when Spain asks him about the cut across his palm, “I was picking tomatoes because you’re a lazy bastard and-” he’s cut of when Spain, despite never having told Romano to pick any tomatoes for him, beams apologetically and brings the bleeding palm to his lips.
(edit as of 5 Dec 2013)
I thought I'd link the Spamano fic I finally just *throws hands up* right here on this post: http://www.twitlonger.com/show/n_1rsu2aq
& put the text here too:
They drop anchor when they are close enough to the shore and lower their rowboats into the lucid aquamarine waters. And when they are even closer to the shore, they step off the floating rowboats and sink their boots into the warm tide, treading over sand and nests of seaweed until the water no longer restricts their steps.
An island, after a storm, should be teeming with catch, the white sands of the shore line full of silver flying fish and gangly lobsters with appendages as long as a man’s arm.
This is when America stops the narrative, because, “Really? Lobsters can grow to be that big?”
“They can, in the Caribbean,” England replies with a smug grin, “Many lobsters we roasted had been bigger than even you.”
America gasps, his expression so open in wonder and amazement. England couldn’t help but laugh /such a darling boy/ and pull America closer. A child’s body is really quite warm.
“Engwand, why aren't you a pirate - ”
“Privateer, my lad.”
“Why aren't you a private tear anymore?”
“Well, if I still did it,” England answers, “I wouldn’t have time for you.”
*
Like any world power, Spain’s eyes are always set beyond the sea. The lingering pungency of the spices in the East brush silk sashes against his face, unveils in porcelain dreams. The residue left in his system of these experiences are his memories, his thoughts, his dementia. And he promises he will be back -- for glory, for god, and for gold.
For so many things, like you -- he thinks as he tilts Romano’s face toward his, the boy looks on the verge of tears, slurring and whining in Italian. Spain cannot understand what he is saying. And when Romano buries his face in his hands, Spain can no longer hear him. Maybe it’s okay to tell Romano that to keep him, he needs the gold; that to keep him, he needs to leave him once in a while.
“Romano,” he says, trying to sound cheerful, “Don’t cry, I’ll be back.” In truth, he is a little pleased. It makes him feel guilty, but the boy is always so private about his feelings. At least now he knows.
Romano lowers his arms, eyes obscured by his hair as he jerks away, “Ahh, just shut-up and go.” He turns on his heel and runs off down the long hall of Spain's ornate mansion. His figure occasionally blends and reemerges between the columns of light that come through the iron vines furling around the tall windows. It’s almost dawn. Spain doesn’t know what he is going to do, but he does know that he is not finished. He catches up easily, and grabs Romano’s arm. Gently, of course, but firmly enough to keep the boy from tugging himself away again.
Romano’s glistening eyes meet him, a brief moment before he turns away again. And Spain knows...he can’t tell Romano. He rests his palm against the boy's round cheek, turning his face forward as he kneels. He doesn’t tell him that he’ll understand when he is older either. He wouldn’t like to hear that. “Look at me, Romano.”
Romano lifts his gaze, and makes a small noise of protest as Spain presses a kiss to his forehead, “I’ll be back before you know it.”
Romano furrows his eyebrows before he clamps a hand to the place that Spain kissed, “Gross.”
Spain’s face lights in a smile, brave in the dark shadows of the hall, “What, it’s just a kiss, right?”
“Well, it’s gross from /you./ You won’t be gone long enough,” he grumbles.
“Haha!” Spain makes sure to laugh loud enough to echo off the high ceiling. Relived, he drags Romano in for a hug. “That’s the spirit,” he whispers against the crook of the boy’s shoulder. He breathes in, remembering Romano's scent: salty, buttery. Tomatoes.
He sets off for the harbor with a loud, “Don't miss me too much!” and gets an even louder /Stop kidding yourself!/ in return.
*
The only nation to see Spain hollow-cheeked with malnourishment and dark eyed with conquest is England, who follows the Spanish Armada out of Europe and then spends his days squatting in the filthy, sin infested port towns along the Caribbean. The Spanish ships, on their way back from the New World and weighted down with riches, would dock ripe for harvest in these port towns. England is a seasoned professional by now, scaling the sea-foam green calcium crusted anchor chain and landing without a sound on the deck.
This must be the ideal way to plunder. It eliminates the trouble of also guarding his own ship, which he would have to do if he were to launch a raid in the middle of the ocean. He does do that sometimes too, though. The sound of a cannon ball splintering into wood becomes addicting.
But what England doesn't consider is the sheer amount of ghosts Spain has on his ship.
He falls back, stunned speechless at the horrible figures slipping in blood. There had never been so many. He closes his eyes to shut them out but immediately regrets it. The poor soul he had seen a split second before, ridden with holes and leaking terribly from pustules that coated his body, is now burned inside of his eyelids.
Spain, unable to see ghosts himself, had been sitting on a stool, clutching a blanket tightly around him and gazing out to sea. He's facing west, his eyes focused on a point that England cannot know.
He turns around at the sound of England's scabbard striking the ground. Teeth chattering and lips pale, Spain glowers at England with enough hatred to burn through him, even in this subzero thickness of ghosts.
Spain is now rising slowly from his chair, eyes still fixed on England. Spain is bowed with exhaustion, but his back straightens slowly, as if a string from the heavens are pulling him upright. His stance ponderously, but steadily, takes a position promising impending pain. Spain then purposefully wraps each of his fingers on the long handle of his great axe, lifting it from against the railing, and stops moving. His dark, livid eyes say that he's ready if England is.
England's first instinct is to abort the mission. The ghosts have even been forgotten in the face of Spain's terrible aura. But England waits years, years sunburned and swollen with fiery insect poison, at a time for opportunities to plunder Spain.
He draws his sword from his scabbard with a sharp ringing noise, and Spain springs toward him.
*
When Romano wakes up one bright morning, he stays in bed a little longer, feeling the warm harmony of the sunlight filtering through his opened window strike his exposed upper body. Something in the air has changed. He sits up quickly.
/The window is open./
He spots a telescope set up near the window. “Did that damn bastard…” Romano feels his heart pound faster. Excitement whirls in his stomach. He bites it down as he stands and steps hesitantly toward the window, preparing himself for the worst. Maybe he just forgot to shut it yesterday. Maybe he wanted to stargaze in his sleep. Maybe this is all a dream.
And then he sees Spain in the garden, picking ripe tomatoes off the vine. Romano couldn't hear it but Spain is definitely whistling. Romano sighs in relief, and yells, “Oi, you bastard!”
Spain starts, looking over his shoulder and up at the veranda, tomato in one hand and suddenly smiling as though the airborne-status of the sun depended on it, “Hey!” He waves. Romano just reddens.
“You better still be there when I come down, damnit!” He yells without thinking and, without bothering to dress, he runs out to the garden
Barefoot, he stops short of Spain, who has his arms open. Panting, he glances skittishly into dark smiling eyes before averting his own, and lets Spain hold him against his warm chest. It hurts. His chest throbs, he needs air and Spain is squeezing his so tightly. It hurts so much.
“You've grown, Romano!" Spain holds him at arm's length and sweeps Romano head to toe with his eyes, "…are you crying?”
“N-no! You were suffocating me, so of course my eyes began to water, bastard!” Romano pulls away, though not far away, and roughly wipes his face with his bare arm. When he's done, he looks back a Spain, who is still smiling sunnily back at him. "How long are you staying?"
"Leaving again tomorrow."
Romano is thinking of telescopes, and distances unable to be bridged by science. He’s thinking of the time he thought he saw a ghost and wished he could sleep with Spain. He had walked to Spain's empty bedroom and almost screamed when he saw Spain standing by the wardrobe in his ancient suit of armor. But the very next instant he had realized that the armor was vacant, like it has been for about two hundred years. He had ended up lying awake all night asking himself which ghost made him more upset. The one he thought he saw -- or Spain, with his history seeped everywhere in the house but never actually there.
Romano doesn’t know what he is thinking about when he inhales and presses his lips to Spain’s. But it feels like pleading.
'
Romano’s eyes rake over the dark sky. The stars, no longer set against the ink-black of midnight, have lost some intensity -- fading imperceptibly into imminent dawn. It’s one of those things that don’t seem to make progress until you can stand to look away for a while. His gaze drifts to the docks. And he averts his eyes, turning around before he can take in the silent shadows of the masts and unfurled sails, the strips of dark cast by ropes waiting to be cut.
Spain keeps his oversized axe in his room. Why Spain would choose to wield a weapon taller than himself only confirms that he is a showy and violent bastard. The form of the weapon probably beckons enemies just like him; a matador’s red cape. At least that is what Romano thinks.
He takes the large axe in his hands, and lifts it from the ground. Immediately, his sense of balance is overwhelmed by the cumbersome blade, and he finds himself tipping backwards and trying in vain to gain footing. He curses as he goes down.
What he strikes next isn’t the ground, but the warm body of Spain. How long the other has been awake or /watching/ him, Romano isn’t sure he wants to know. He only watches as the other effortlessly takes the weapon in one hand and grips his shoulder firmly with the other. It’s damn frustrating. Spain heaves an enormous sigh, tired and harried as usual, “What are you doing in my room at this hour?”
“I-” Romano starts indignantly, and finds he didn't prepare a response. He /could/ just tell the truth, that he wanted to see Spain before he left without waking him up, but since when would Romano ever admit anything like that? “I came to clean your room.”
Spain makes a face of disbelief, but laughs like he realizes it was his own mistake for asking. Deciding he doesn't care anymore, he and drags Romano close, one hand still holding the axe.
Romano squawks. Spain's grip around his middle is so, so, tight.
“Romano, will you kiss me again?”
“Why would I! That first time was an accident. I hate you, bastard.” Romano wishes his voice didn't sound strained.
“Hmm,” Spain hums. He nuzzles the nape of Romano's neck, “Really?”
Romano feels breath and lips against the shell of his ear and he can't say anything that makes sense anymore. His face feels unbearably hot and his desire quickly intensifies as Spain kisses his ear, his lips moving down, over the sensitive front of his neck, over his collarbone…
A thumb brushes against Romano's nipple through his thin shirt -- Romano jolts, feels a whimper escape from his throat. That is when Spain lets the axe fall to the rug with a stiff thud and uses his newly free hand to pull up Romano's shirt.
His heart races and he hates how Spain can feel it with that hand over his chest. He feels himself being pulled backwards; falling into Spain’s much too large bed. As Spain tumbles atop him, he could feel Spain become hard against his hip.
Romano hated to be touched by Spain the most right before a voyage, during the hours of the morning when the darkest shade of sky has faded and before any traces of dawn could be found in the deep blue. He’d be cranky because he couldn’t sleep well -- for reasons he would never admit -- and, in truth, the reality of a coming day always hangs the most heavily in the air during this time.
So he hates it, now, when Spain is pressing him so tightly against the smooth sheets, running his warm fingers over his chest and kissing him so passionately, “I-” /hate you/ becomes a moan into the other’s mouth. Spain's hands are coming dangerously close to where he needed to be touched the most.
He gasps as Spain’s hand finally grips him, because he can’t help it. Perhaps his reaction had been too much - he feels Spain’s pleased groan against his lips. .
Spain whispers his name and Romano feels fingers brush against his lips. When Romano opens his mouth for an obligatory protest, Spain slips his fingers into his mouth. Every action is laced with a sense of urgency. It’s discordant, in the back of his mind Romano knows the faster they do this the faster it’ll end, but he doesn’t care, he just knows how much he wants Spain to continue…because it’s all he has right now, because Spain will be gone in a few hours and he never wakes Romano when he casts the lines and sets sail.
When Spain's fingers pull out of his mouth, Romano feels a thin trail of saliva fall on his chin. Anticipation swells in the pit of his stomach, almost painfully, and his breath stalls when he feels Spain's fingers enter him. Spain catches his arm and pins it next to his head before Romano could cover his face.
Spain prods and searches, and Romano archs and twists, panting and calling him a bastard in drawn out whimpers. Then Spain curls his fingers touches a spot that makes Romano's insides melt.
"Ah, here?" Spain strokes the spot again and Romano swears he sees stars.
"Bastard..." Romano sobs in desire. Spain's fingers move tenderly inside of him, finding a rhythm that makes Romano pant, his body glisten in sweat.
Spain breathes heavily above him, his eyes never leave Romano's face. "Romano," He breathes. "Romano..." He finally lets go to Romano's arm to squeeze his own arousal.
Spain's fingers leave him and Romano groans in need, "Why'd you stop, you bas--"
Spain kisses Romano heatedly. Romano feels Spain shifting above him, and then Spain entering hot and slow inside of him.
His cries are muffled by Spain's lips still pressed passionately over his own. Spain's tongue searches every last surface of Romano's mouth, memorizing it. He's still sliding into Romano, trying to be gentle.
Romano feels overwhelmed by Spain, his tongue, his heat. His eyes water in pain. He tries to call Spain a bastard but he can't get it out coherently.
Spain groans in bliss when he has settled fully into Romano, pausing as they both feel each other so intimately for the first time. Romano arches his hips, which makes him tighten a little. Spain's breath hitches and Romano feels Spain's cock twitch in response. They could feel every shudder, every movement the other is making, every thought.
Romano is hardly adjusted to this feeling before Spain starts to pull out. Romano jolts when Spain grazes his sweet spot again. He reaches down to touch himself, but Spain is already there, wrapping his warm hand around Romano's aching desire and squeezing exquisitely.
"Are you ok?" Spain's breath is hot against his ear.
Romano whimpers, give the slightest of nods, and hooks his arms over Spain's neck.
Spain thrusts in again. He pulls out, in, out, in. Each time is little faster, a little more urgent. Romano holds onto Spain more tightly as the tempo of their thrusts quicken.
Each time Spain thrusts to hit his sweet spot, Romano's vision whitens and blurs in blind pleasure. Their damps foreheads touch as they share the breath between their panting mouths. Both of them have forgotten that they'll be alone again this time tomorrow. The only thing that matters is this. Only this pleasure, this present moment.
"Ah, I'm --" Romano feels the ache of release intensifying, reaching a boiling point. Spain pumps him harder, moaning his name, encouraging him.
Romano cries out as he comes, accumulated pleasure rushing out in a final explosive sensation. Tears roll from the corner of his eyes and mingle with the sweat at his temples.
Spain groans, seeing Romano orgasm pushing him over the edge as well.
When they lay on Spain's bed to catch their breaths, Romano looks up at the ceiling. The shade of blue that filters in from the window is lighter. With a breath-taking sadness, Romano realizes time had been passing all along.
But he knows he had instinctively understood it, and couldn't stop the tears when he had climaxed.
Spain reaches for Romano’s hand. Romano pulls it away, turning away unto his side. /Don't leave me/ he says to the dark, because he knows all too well that Spain has never bothered to learn his language.
There is a pause before Spain chuckles and settles for patting the boy’s hip, “Don’t miss me too much while I’m gone, okay?”
“Tch,” Romano wants to cry, “Stop kidding yourself.”
And here are two prompts done for the five sentence meme! I was going to post all of them at the same time, but then I got stuck on some of them…and thought it would be too much anyways for one entry XD so I’m just going to post the two I already finished:
Prompted by wayya:
Contact
A handshake over their robots, a strange electricity that Shouichi swears, against his better judgment, is leaking from the batteries, “It was an honor,” he hears Spanner say in heavily accented Japanese.
Curtain
“Houses in Japan have them?” Spanner asks Shouichi, both astonished for different reasons.
Hurt
They helped repair this world knowing it would come down to this -- that victory meant the end of the era in which they found each other -- and it hurts when Spanner holds him close and whispers, “It was an honor,” his Japanese has improved so much.
Trade
They are used to the input for an output mindset, and they know it’s different with people but, when Shouichi kisses back, Spanner can’t help the function table he mentally invokes when he pulls away, “I’m sure you did it too,” he says to a snickering Shouichi.
Internet
An apple falls on Spanner’s head, causing the lollipop between his teeth to crunch and crumble from his lips when he grits his teeth in pain, and Shouichi wonders what Spanner could possibly be looking at when he doesn’t look up from his laptop.
and prompted by stalkerbunny
frame
“Maybe you should ask my brother,” Romano mutters when Spain asks him which frame goes better with the painting, but the boy quickly turns away and tells him to shut-up when Spain says he wants Romano’s opinion.
intent
Spain is a jester, a natural tease -- if bullfighting isn’t already an indication -- and Romano wonders if there is ever any intent behind those actions, if there is any reason Spain has to leave him for those long journeys across the sea.
cool
A warm tomato pressed to his hot cheek, the humid Mediterranean air rolling around them -- Spain’s laugh actually felt cool against his lips, which is the only reason Romano leaned in to kiss him, damnit!
grow
Spain is one to take pride in the fact that Romano has grown so much, even if it meant that the previously much smaller boy is now tall enough to make eye contact, to pin him against the wall like so with just his hips.
cut
“It’s all your fault,” Romano whines and flushes red when Spain asks him about the cut across his palm, “I was picking tomatoes because you’re a lazy bastard and-” he’s cut of when Spain, despite never having told Romano to pick any tomatoes for him, beams apologetically and brings the bleeding palm to his lips.
(edit as of 5 Dec 2013)
I thought I'd link the Spamano fic I finally just *throws hands up* right here on this post: http://www.twitlonger.com/show/n_1rsu2aq
& put the text here too:
They drop anchor when they are close enough to the shore and lower their rowboats into the lucid aquamarine waters. And when they are even closer to the shore, they step off the floating rowboats and sink their boots into the warm tide, treading over sand and nests of seaweed until the water no longer restricts their steps.
An island, after a storm, should be teeming with catch, the white sands of the shore line full of silver flying fish and gangly lobsters with appendages as long as a man’s arm.
This is when America stops the narrative, because, “Really? Lobsters can grow to be that big?”
“They can, in the Caribbean,” England replies with a smug grin, “Many lobsters we roasted had been bigger than even you.”
America gasps, his expression so open in wonder and amazement. England couldn’t help but laugh /such a darling boy/ and pull America closer. A child’s body is really quite warm.
“Engwand, why aren't you a pirate - ”
“Privateer, my lad.”
“Why aren't you a private tear anymore?”
“Well, if I still did it,” England answers, “I wouldn’t have time for you.”
*
Like any world power, Spain’s eyes are always set beyond the sea. The lingering pungency of the spices in the East brush silk sashes against his face, unveils in porcelain dreams. The residue left in his system of these experiences are his memories, his thoughts, his dementia. And he promises he will be back -- for glory, for god, and for gold.
For so many things, like you -- he thinks as he tilts Romano’s face toward his, the boy looks on the verge of tears, slurring and whining in Italian. Spain cannot understand what he is saying. And when Romano buries his face in his hands, Spain can no longer hear him. Maybe it’s okay to tell Romano that to keep him, he needs the gold; that to keep him, he needs to leave him once in a while.
“Romano,” he says, trying to sound cheerful, “Don’t cry, I’ll be back.” In truth, he is a little pleased. It makes him feel guilty, but the boy is always so private about his feelings. At least now he knows.
Romano lowers his arms, eyes obscured by his hair as he jerks away, “Ahh, just shut-up and go.” He turns on his heel and runs off down the long hall of Spain's ornate mansion. His figure occasionally blends and reemerges between the columns of light that come through the iron vines furling around the tall windows. It’s almost dawn. Spain doesn’t know what he is going to do, but he does know that he is not finished. He catches up easily, and grabs Romano’s arm. Gently, of course, but firmly enough to keep the boy from tugging himself away again.
Romano’s glistening eyes meet him, a brief moment before he turns away again. And Spain knows...he can’t tell Romano. He rests his palm against the boy's round cheek, turning his face forward as he kneels. He doesn’t tell him that he’ll understand when he is older either. He wouldn’t like to hear that. “Look at me, Romano.”
Romano lifts his gaze, and makes a small noise of protest as Spain presses a kiss to his forehead, “I’ll be back before you know it.”
Romano furrows his eyebrows before he clamps a hand to the place that Spain kissed, “Gross.”
Spain’s face lights in a smile, brave in the dark shadows of the hall, “What, it’s just a kiss, right?”
“Well, it’s gross from /you./ You won’t be gone long enough,” he grumbles.
“Haha!” Spain makes sure to laugh loud enough to echo off the high ceiling. Relived, he drags Romano in for a hug. “That’s the spirit,” he whispers against the crook of the boy’s shoulder. He breathes in, remembering Romano's scent: salty, buttery. Tomatoes.
He sets off for the harbor with a loud, “Don't miss me too much!” and gets an even louder /Stop kidding yourself!/ in return.
*
The only nation to see Spain hollow-cheeked with malnourishment and dark eyed with conquest is England, who follows the Spanish Armada out of Europe and then spends his days squatting in the filthy, sin infested port towns along the Caribbean. The Spanish ships, on their way back from the New World and weighted down with riches, would dock ripe for harvest in these port towns. England is a seasoned professional by now, scaling the sea-foam green calcium crusted anchor chain and landing without a sound on the deck.
This must be the ideal way to plunder. It eliminates the trouble of also guarding his own ship, which he would have to do if he were to launch a raid in the middle of the ocean. He does do that sometimes too, though. The sound of a cannon ball splintering into wood becomes addicting.
But what England doesn't consider is the sheer amount of ghosts Spain has on his ship.
He falls back, stunned speechless at the horrible figures slipping in blood. There had never been so many. He closes his eyes to shut them out but immediately regrets it. The poor soul he had seen a split second before, ridden with holes and leaking terribly from pustules that coated his body, is now burned inside of his eyelids.
Spain, unable to see ghosts himself, had been sitting on a stool, clutching a blanket tightly around him and gazing out to sea. He's facing west, his eyes focused on a point that England cannot know.
He turns around at the sound of England's scabbard striking the ground. Teeth chattering and lips pale, Spain glowers at England with enough hatred to burn through him, even in this subzero thickness of ghosts.
Spain is now rising slowly from his chair, eyes still fixed on England. Spain is bowed with exhaustion, but his back straightens slowly, as if a string from the heavens are pulling him upright. His stance ponderously, but steadily, takes a position promising impending pain. Spain then purposefully wraps each of his fingers on the long handle of his great axe, lifting it from against the railing, and stops moving. His dark, livid eyes say that he's ready if England is.
England's first instinct is to abort the mission. The ghosts have even been forgotten in the face of Spain's terrible aura. But England waits years, years sunburned and swollen with fiery insect poison, at a time for opportunities to plunder Spain.
He draws his sword from his scabbard with a sharp ringing noise, and Spain springs toward him.
*
When Romano wakes up one bright morning, he stays in bed a little longer, feeling the warm harmony of the sunlight filtering through his opened window strike his exposed upper body. Something in the air has changed. He sits up quickly.
/The window is open./
He spots a telescope set up near the window. “Did that damn bastard…” Romano feels his heart pound faster. Excitement whirls in his stomach. He bites it down as he stands and steps hesitantly toward the window, preparing himself for the worst. Maybe he just forgot to shut it yesterday. Maybe he wanted to stargaze in his sleep. Maybe this is all a dream.
And then he sees Spain in the garden, picking ripe tomatoes off the vine. Romano couldn't hear it but Spain is definitely whistling. Romano sighs in relief, and yells, “Oi, you bastard!”
Spain starts, looking over his shoulder and up at the veranda, tomato in one hand and suddenly smiling as though the airborne-status of the sun depended on it, “Hey!” He waves. Romano just reddens.
“You better still be there when I come down, damnit!” He yells without thinking and, without bothering to dress, he runs out to the garden
Barefoot, he stops short of Spain, who has his arms open. Panting, he glances skittishly into dark smiling eyes before averting his own, and lets Spain hold him against his warm chest. It hurts. His chest throbs, he needs air and Spain is squeezing his so tightly. It hurts so much.
“You've grown, Romano!" Spain holds him at arm's length and sweeps Romano head to toe with his eyes, "…are you crying?”
“N-no! You were suffocating me, so of course my eyes began to water, bastard!” Romano pulls away, though not far away, and roughly wipes his face with his bare arm. When he's done, he looks back a Spain, who is still smiling sunnily back at him. "How long are you staying?"
"Leaving again tomorrow."
Romano is thinking of telescopes, and distances unable to be bridged by science. He’s thinking of the time he thought he saw a ghost and wished he could sleep with Spain. He had walked to Spain's empty bedroom and almost screamed when he saw Spain standing by the wardrobe in his ancient suit of armor. But the very next instant he had realized that the armor was vacant, like it has been for about two hundred years. He had ended up lying awake all night asking himself which ghost made him more upset. The one he thought he saw -- or Spain, with his history seeped everywhere in the house but never actually there.
Romano doesn’t know what he is thinking about when he inhales and presses his lips to Spain’s. But it feels like pleading.
'
Romano’s eyes rake over the dark sky. The stars, no longer set against the ink-black of midnight, have lost some intensity -- fading imperceptibly into imminent dawn. It’s one of those things that don’t seem to make progress until you can stand to look away for a while. His gaze drifts to the docks. And he averts his eyes, turning around before he can take in the silent shadows of the masts and unfurled sails, the strips of dark cast by ropes waiting to be cut.
Spain keeps his oversized axe in his room. Why Spain would choose to wield a weapon taller than himself only confirms that he is a showy and violent bastard. The form of the weapon probably beckons enemies just like him; a matador’s red cape. At least that is what Romano thinks.
He takes the large axe in his hands, and lifts it from the ground. Immediately, his sense of balance is overwhelmed by the cumbersome blade, and he finds himself tipping backwards and trying in vain to gain footing. He curses as he goes down.
What he strikes next isn’t the ground, but the warm body of Spain. How long the other has been awake or /watching/ him, Romano isn’t sure he wants to know. He only watches as the other effortlessly takes the weapon in one hand and grips his shoulder firmly with the other. It’s damn frustrating. Spain heaves an enormous sigh, tired and harried as usual, “What are you doing in my room at this hour?”
“I-” Romano starts indignantly, and finds he didn't prepare a response. He /could/ just tell the truth, that he wanted to see Spain before he left without waking him up, but since when would Romano ever admit anything like that? “I came to clean your room.”
Spain makes a face of disbelief, but laughs like he realizes it was his own mistake for asking. Deciding he doesn't care anymore, he and drags Romano close, one hand still holding the axe.
Romano squawks. Spain's grip around his middle is so, so, tight.
“Romano, will you kiss me again?”
“Why would I! That first time was an accident. I hate you, bastard.” Romano wishes his voice didn't sound strained.
“Hmm,” Spain hums. He nuzzles the nape of Romano's neck, “Really?”
Romano feels breath and lips against the shell of his ear and he can't say anything that makes sense anymore. His face feels unbearably hot and his desire quickly intensifies as Spain kisses his ear, his lips moving down, over the sensitive front of his neck, over his collarbone…
A thumb brushes against Romano's nipple through his thin shirt -- Romano jolts, feels a whimper escape from his throat. That is when Spain lets the axe fall to the rug with a stiff thud and uses his newly free hand to pull up Romano's shirt.
His heart races and he hates how Spain can feel it with that hand over his chest. He feels himself being pulled backwards; falling into Spain’s much too large bed. As Spain tumbles atop him, he could feel Spain become hard against his hip.
Romano hated to be touched by Spain the most right before a voyage, during the hours of the morning when the darkest shade of sky has faded and before any traces of dawn could be found in the deep blue. He’d be cranky because he couldn’t sleep well -- for reasons he would never admit -- and, in truth, the reality of a coming day always hangs the most heavily in the air during this time.
So he hates it, now, when Spain is pressing him so tightly against the smooth sheets, running his warm fingers over his chest and kissing him so passionately, “I-” /hate you/ becomes a moan into the other’s mouth. Spain's hands are coming dangerously close to where he needed to be touched the most.
He gasps as Spain’s hand finally grips him, because he can’t help it. Perhaps his reaction had been too much - he feels Spain’s pleased groan against his lips. .
Spain whispers his name and Romano feels fingers brush against his lips. When Romano opens his mouth for an obligatory protest, Spain slips his fingers into his mouth. Every action is laced with a sense of urgency. It’s discordant, in the back of his mind Romano knows the faster they do this the faster it’ll end, but he doesn’t care, he just knows how much he wants Spain to continue…because it’s all he has right now, because Spain will be gone in a few hours and he never wakes Romano when he casts the lines and sets sail.
When Spain's fingers pull out of his mouth, Romano feels a thin trail of saliva fall on his chin. Anticipation swells in the pit of his stomach, almost painfully, and his breath stalls when he feels Spain's fingers enter him. Spain catches his arm and pins it next to his head before Romano could cover his face.
Spain prods and searches, and Romano archs and twists, panting and calling him a bastard in drawn out whimpers. Then Spain curls his fingers touches a spot that makes Romano's insides melt.
"Ah, here?" Spain strokes the spot again and Romano swears he sees stars.
"Bastard..." Romano sobs in desire. Spain's fingers move tenderly inside of him, finding a rhythm that makes Romano pant, his body glisten in sweat.
Spain breathes heavily above him, his eyes never leave Romano's face. "Romano," He breathes. "Romano..." He finally lets go to Romano's arm to squeeze his own arousal.
Spain's fingers leave him and Romano groans in need, "Why'd you stop, you bas--"
Spain kisses Romano heatedly. Romano feels Spain shifting above him, and then Spain entering hot and slow inside of him.
His cries are muffled by Spain's lips still pressed passionately over his own. Spain's tongue searches every last surface of Romano's mouth, memorizing it. He's still sliding into Romano, trying to be gentle.
Romano feels overwhelmed by Spain, his tongue, his heat. His eyes water in pain. He tries to call Spain a bastard but he can't get it out coherently.
Spain groans in bliss when he has settled fully into Romano, pausing as they both feel each other so intimately for the first time. Romano arches his hips, which makes him tighten a little. Spain's breath hitches and Romano feels Spain's cock twitch in response. They could feel every shudder, every movement the other is making, every thought.
Romano is hardly adjusted to this feeling before Spain starts to pull out. Romano jolts when Spain grazes his sweet spot again. He reaches down to touch himself, but Spain is already there, wrapping his warm hand around Romano's aching desire and squeezing exquisitely.
"Are you ok?" Spain's breath is hot against his ear.
Romano whimpers, give the slightest of nods, and hooks his arms over Spain's neck.
Spain thrusts in again. He pulls out, in, out, in. Each time is little faster, a little more urgent. Romano holds onto Spain more tightly as the tempo of their thrusts quicken.
Each time Spain thrusts to hit his sweet spot, Romano's vision whitens and blurs in blind pleasure. Their damps foreheads touch as they share the breath between their panting mouths. Both of them have forgotten that they'll be alone again this time tomorrow. The only thing that matters is this. Only this pleasure, this present moment.
"Ah, I'm --" Romano feels the ache of release intensifying, reaching a boiling point. Spain pumps him harder, moaning his name, encouraging him.
Romano cries out as he comes, accumulated pleasure rushing out in a final explosive sensation. Tears roll from the corner of his eyes and mingle with the sweat at his temples.
Spain groans, seeing Romano orgasm pushing him over the edge as well.
When they lay on Spain's bed to catch their breaths, Romano looks up at the ceiling. The shade of blue that filters in from the window is lighter. With a breath-taking sadness, Romano realizes time had been passing all along.
But he knows he had instinctively understood it, and couldn't stop the tears when he had climaxed.
Spain reaches for Romano’s hand. Romano pulls it away, turning away unto his side. /Don't leave me/ he says to the dark, because he knows all too well that Spain has never bothered to learn his language.
There is a pause before Spain chuckles and settles for patting the boy’s hip, “Don’t miss me too much while I’m gone, okay?”
“Tch,” Romano wants to cry, “Stop kidding yourself.”