And Spain though... [ 1/?]
anonymous
October 7 2009, 20:14:13 UTC
Fail title for fail fic. ----------------------- Sometimes, Spain liked to sit down and think.
Making himself comfortable on one of his favorite wooden chairs, the Spaniard looked outside, watching little droplets of rain hitting the rather dirty glass of the framed window that showed his garden, it was rather melancholic.
Sometimes, Spain liked to think, especially on rainy days like this. It was a little cold, and he trembled a little but it didn't matter, because Spain was thinking right now, and that was enough to warm him up, even a little, the smallest, but on days like this, there wasn’t neither warm or cold to the Spaniard, only the faint smell of humidity and wet grass mixed with the scent of ripe tomatoes, ah, it was quite relaxing, with this a smile graced his tanned face.
And Spain started thinking deeply.
About the past, about spoken words, wars fought...
About family.
And Spain wondered, as his hands, roughed up from fight and colonization, gently ruffled his hair, trying to remember voices and faces, of his children and brothers, but not the current faces, no, the ones from before, before revolution, before war, before evil, before his children looked at him with well earned hate and his brothers stared with indifference masked thru genuine Interest in which the cold surface of money and politics had very big roles. Saddly, those were lost memories to the European. Taking a deep breath, the brunette's head lowered slightly and admired his floor.
Such a nice floor, it had a warm brown tone, it made him remember the ground of America, his America. Feeling a little unknown pang in the chest, the Spanish darted his eyes to a wall, it was decorated with swords and art. Oh, and he who was avoiding melancholy, how ironic, now the green-eyed country was being reminded of war, and war reminded him of his brothers, of France, of Portugal.
The relationship he kept with them was special, if one could say. One day it was love, friendship and the next they would be enemies. Countries were like that, instable, always having to be ruled by the decision of some powerful people with expectacular titles, having to be ruled by a bunch of costumes and obligations, never able to do what they though it was better for their people, their country, themselves.
And Spain wandered through memories of old wars and fights, times he had hurted and been hurt, times he had stupid wars against both of his brothers, many things, and the only thing that the, usually cheerful, man didn't find in greater abundance were memories of his childhood, only blurs, little scraps which he couldn't quite grasp, but feel the ever so weakening happiness in them, the carefree happiness of a little child who knew no war and no evil.
Then Spain realized, who were really his family? Who were really his brothers, cousins, children and lovers? Who were their parents, their grandparents? He didn't knew, no nation knew, then again, they weren't even really blood related really, but sometimes it went farther than that, much farther. He remembered the words of one of the children the ex-conquistador had stolen from America. "We may not share a bond of blood, a bond of cultures or a bond of lands, but we share a bond of souls, a bond of feelings which can't be broken so easily, we share a bond none of you, Europeans, with your lust of gold, lust of power and your blind faith could understand." The deep in though country was not able to remember who said it, or is it was even spoken, he wasn't sure of anything anymore.
And Spain contemplated the idea of that, maybe, he was actually crazy.
Shaking the though off, the tan male resumed his thoughts, family invading all of them, going back in time, recollecting scraps of leftover memories here and there, he stopped at a certain one of the Italy brothers and a little smile graced him again, with a happy spark in his eyes.
"Cute~" was the only thing to be said out loud about those two for Spain right now, that happiness was starting to make a place on the Spaniard like usual again. They were his brothers too one could say, his beloved little brothers, but he didn't want to think that, no, because then Romano could not be a lover, and that only though would make Antonio suffer.
-----------------------
Sometimes, Spain liked to sit down and think.
Making himself comfortable on one of his favorite wooden chairs, the Spaniard looked outside, watching little droplets of rain hitting the rather dirty glass of the framed window that showed his garden, it was rather melancholic.
Sometimes, Spain liked to think, especially on rainy days like this. It was a little cold, and he trembled a little but it didn't matter, because Spain was thinking right now, and that was enough to warm him up, even a little, the smallest, but on days like this, there wasn’t neither warm or cold to the Spaniard, only the faint smell of humidity and wet grass mixed with the scent of ripe tomatoes, ah, it was quite relaxing, with this a smile graced his tanned face.
And Spain started thinking deeply.
About the past, about spoken words, wars fought...
About family.
And Spain wondered, as his hands, roughed up from fight and colonization, gently ruffled his hair, trying to remember voices and faces, of his children and brothers, but not the current faces, no, the ones from before, before revolution, before war, before evil, before his children looked at him with well earned hate and his brothers stared with indifference masked thru genuine Interest in which the cold surface of money and politics had very big roles. Saddly, those were lost memories to the European. Taking a deep breath, the brunette's head lowered slightly and admired his floor.
Such a nice floor, it had a warm brown tone, it made him remember the ground of America, his America. Feeling a little unknown pang in the chest, the Spanish darted his eyes to a wall, it was decorated with swords and art. Oh, and he who was avoiding melancholy, how ironic, now the green-eyed country was being reminded of war, and war reminded him of his brothers, of France, of Portugal.
The relationship he kept with them was special, if one could say. One day it was love, friendship and the next they would be enemies. Countries were like that, instable, always having to be ruled by the decision of some powerful people with expectacular titles, having to be ruled by a bunch of costumes and obligations, never able to do what they though it was better for their people, their country, themselves.
And Spain wandered through memories of old wars and fights, times he had hurted and been hurt, times he had stupid wars against both of his brothers, many things, and the only thing that the, usually cheerful, man didn't find in greater abundance were memories of his childhood, only blurs, little scraps which he couldn't quite grasp, but feel the ever so weakening happiness in them, the carefree happiness of a little child who knew no war and no evil.
Then Spain realized, who were really his family? Who were really his brothers, cousins, children and lovers? Who were their parents, their grandparents? He didn't knew, no nation knew, then again, they weren't even really blood related really, but sometimes it went farther than that, much farther. He remembered the words of one of the children the ex-conquistador had stolen from America.
"We may not share a bond of blood, a bond of cultures or a bond of lands, but we share a bond of souls, a bond of feelings which can't be broken so easily, we share a bond none of you, Europeans, with your lust of gold, lust of power and your blind faith could understand."
The deep in though country was not able to remember who said it, or is it was even spoken, he wasn't sure of anything anymore.
And Spain contemplated the idea of that, maybe, he was actually crazy.
Shaking the though off, the tan male resumed his thoughts, family invading all of them, going back in time, recollecting scraps of leftover memories here and there, he stopped at a certain one of the Italy brothers and a little smile graced him again, with a happy spark in his eyes.
"Cute~" was the only thing to be said out loud about those two for Spain right now, that happiness was starting to make a place on the Spaniard like usual again. They were his brothers too one could say, his beloved little brothers, but he didn't want to think that, no, because then Romano could not be a lover, and that only though would make Antonio suffer.
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