OP wanted someone loving Conquistador!Spain and try to provoke him to his, ahem, "old habits." SO! I went with Russia and Spain, if that is okay? Is it? Insane!Russia/Conquistador!Spain is yummy, isn't it? D:
Er, also, there's so much to warn about, so I'll just say that if you're an avid visitor of the kink meme and not corrupted yet, then maybe it's time you be! D< --
The book that contains history of a certain kind lays nicely on his bedside table, and when the night falls, he often traces his fingers over the three letters written in bold gold on the cover, the font grand and precious like it's a thing to be worshiped. And he worships, in his own silent way. He smiles and he worships.
Weakness, it bores him. And this world he lives in right now is weak. Strong words, pressuring actions, but still so goddamn weak. (Like a once great general whose spine had cracked.)
Apathetic is what it's threatening to make him. Time means nothing to those who live forever, but when spent in such a meaningless way (political correctness, gatherings where nothing gets done, demanding rights for everyone while they do nothing to the greed that prevents them from having them in the first place) it sucks him dry.
Ridiculous, is what he thinks when his boss senses his restlessness and how he constantly looks at what was instead of what is, and says; “Don't start anything,” with a tone that carries a warning in it. And ridiculous it is, he smiles, how justice is often blind to the cause when only the result is stained in blood like things (should) used to be.
In bold, golden letters, like a thing that should be worshiped.
“What is that?” Antonio asks him, a smile ready on his lips when he is talked to but it quickly disappearing from his face when his eyes spy the fine piece of jewelry that Ivan dangles in front of his face.
“Mayan gold,” Ivan answers, cheer in his tone as he savors the green eyes that do not let the treasure from their sight. “I got it this other day. See, isn't it pretty?”
The Adam's apple moves in a delicious way, when Antonio swallows like his mouth is filled with thick liquid that tastes of foul. “Sure,” he says, and although it comes out weak, voice fragile, barely even there, it sends precious, dark shivers down Ivan's core.
“It's beautiful,” Antonio says a bit stronger after clearing his throat, smile back on his lips like the most natural thing.
Ivan is not fooled though, because history is what makes them and history does not lie. He doesn't know him too well, knows little what time has done to Antonio as of late, but Ivan has studied his past and Antonio's past is what he is salivating for.
Spain loves gold.
Spain adores God.
Spain is red.
They make meaningless chitchat about the current -past is avoidable, Antonio seems to think- wonders of gold and the things made of it, all the while Ivan makes sure the necklace is at the range of Antonio's sight, teasing, taunting and distracting when he makes it catch the sunlight that pours from the window, the corners of his lips twitching when Antonio's eyes drift every single time.
That smile wouldn't fool anyone. He's poor at resisting, easily hooked, seemingly weak but still holding back that something Ivan wishes to lure out. This is nothing, not even foreplay.
So it's with a smile Ivan lets Antonio go, when his dear Gilbert calls for him from the other side of the hallway, apparently too displeased about their shared past to approach Ivan, but too protective to leave Antonio in his presence for any longer.
Antonio smiles again, cheerful and sunny, laughter in his tone as he wishes they'd talk again sometime, then turning around to continue on with the another useless meeting they were obliged to attend to.
Ivan watches in satisfaction at the parting nation, catching dearest Gilbert glaring at him and answers with a smile that is sure to make the other look away.
This is nothing, just a knock on the door, and if Antonio refuses to answer, he would just force his way inside.
Book of War (2/?)
anonymous
December 19 2009, 12:39:40 UTC
Ivan is no stranger to torture, but Inquisition is what makes his mouth water. It makes no sense when he grows hard at the thought of Antonio's ever-present smile and piles of bodies that were dangled too deep in sin to reach salvation. With every burned soul, Antonio feels satisfaction, and with every saved spirit he kneels down like he's humble and thanks the Carpenter for making things so.
This is Ivan's fantasy, and history does nothing to make him unconvinced that Antonio was so in the past.
Meaning no ill to his own church of Orthodoxy, Ivan steps inside the small chapel built inside their grad hotel complex and takes in the reek of Catholicism. He's unfamiliar with the rules, an old awareness rising within him that religion is the one thing no one should fuck around with, but he shrugs this off because the only fucking he'd be doing would be with Antonio, not their somewhat shared All Mighty.
“Are you praying?” He asks, friendly and nice -interrupting, he smiles- startling Antonio who kneels on the ground, not quite at the altar, rosary in hand.
Again, the smile is back on like it's sewed to his skin, although Antonio's gaze is a bit distant when he answers. “Trying to,” and he says it in a way that doesn't leave him feeling like it's because of Ivan that he's only trying and not managing to.
The rosary is being clutched harder and Antonio chews on his lip, presenting a fascinating sight that traps Ivan in it's hold. “Are you a sinner, Antonio?” Ivan asks, taking a seat on one of the benches the room has to offer, leaning his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers to mock a prayer, the smile that General Winter has frozen on his face never melting.
He sees a hint of a temper, when Antonio's brow ticks even though the expression doesn't change, and he feels so satisfied that he's glad this chapel is of the wrong religion. It's quick to pass, though, and soon there's nothing but cheer -if a bit self mocking- on Antonio's face.
“Aren't we all?” He asks, the taste of bitter buried so deep that if Ivan hadn't been graving for it, he would have missed it altogether.
“I don't think we're bound by the general rules,” Ivan chuckles, so much derision in him that Antonio has to stare in disbelief. “And even if we are, there's little God can do about it, no matter how much we pray.”
Ivan is fond of this line of thinking. He's been horrible, has never lived like a good Orthodox should with his knees on the ground and heart close to God. Sin is too thrilling for him to leave it be and besides, if he wanted to go to Heaven all he had to do was to convert into a Christian, repent and die. (Even though regret is one of the things he was never capable of.)
“I suppose you're right.” Antonio can't look at him anymore, and turns away, gazing the floor as his posture sags the slightest. He looks so weak, subjected and fragile that it makes a crack in Ivan smile. This is not what he wants from Spain.
Spain is violence, takes what it wants, conquers and converts. Ivan knows Antonio is strong, and he yearns for that strength to force itself on him, tear him raw and leave him dripping. He loves damage, wounds that will take a long time to heal, if they heal at all, and while he knows he can mentally scar Antonio by playing with the balance of his mind, Ivan expects something in return.
“Is it the past you are repenting?” Ivan adds a laugh in his question, making sure Antonio understands he's mocking him and his attempts to be a better son of religion. Antonio's whole body twitches in what he believes to be resentment, but that's the only sign of aggression he gets.
“No,” Antonio says, looking at the picture of a saint hanging behind the altar. “It's not a thing to regret. Not for people like us.”
“What is it then?” He's prying, impolite and out of patience, not even expecting an answer.
Book of War (3/?)
anonymous
December 19 2009, 12:44:10 UTC
Though Antonio gives him one anyway, a bit absentminded and with words that drift, but still. “I've been lapsing into indecency.” Antonio stares at the saint that smiles back at him, gentle and not judging, but the guilt is heavy and Ivan observes as Antonio bows his head, presses the rosary to his forehead and whispers, “he was so young,” unintentionally aloud. “Oh God,” and he's more hunched on the ground now, a hand reaching the floor to help support the weight of his sin, “so young.”
The rosary shakes, but Ivan shivers in delight, because as much as Antonio struggles, there's a tiny, obscene quirk at the corner of his mouth when he tries to ask to be forgiven. Antonio may try his best, but he doesn't regret a thing, tries to fill his heart with norms and the word of the Lord, but fails miserably when his people grow less religious and enticement tastes so delicious.
“What's there to regret?” Ivan chuckles, not meaning well at all when he fills his expression with cruel. “I'm sure he enjoyed it as well.”
He can't understand Antonio's wish to bend into the stream of normality when even some of his men of God take a bite of this apple the serpent dares them to have. Antonio turns slow, eyes darkened and somewhat grim as he looks at Ivan with something that is not usual for modern Spain.
“Why are you here?” He asks Ivan, adding an edge to his tone for the first time. “To mock me?”
Ivan finds it amusing, that this is Antonio trying to repent, and the best act that Ivan can pull is childlike innocence. So he smiles like he means well, happiness in his eyes like he doesn't understand the reality of the subject. “I'm just saying to take what we want is what we live for.”
That's what used to be, lingers in the air, but neither of them say it out loud. And they have taken a lot. God, have they taken.
“You still yearn to take him, don't you?” Ivan leers, devouring the emotions that are starting to boil in the depths of Antonio's being where he has buried them. “Dream of him with his legs spread, moaning like a whore.” This is a room of God, and although the ideals differ from his, the Carpenter is the same and hears him speak these obscenities in Its place of worship. Briefly he thinks if he's going to be punished, but the way Antonio trembles, he's sure it's not not the flames of Hell that are first to burn his skin.
“If so,” and as Ivan says this, Antonio is straightening his back, strengthened by fury that the words force into him, burning like purgatory. “Why not just conquer him?”
The pain it earns him is sweet, when Ivan's back is smashed against the marbled floor of the chapel, the laugh he tries to choke out dying in his throat which Antonio has in his grip so tightly that air can't even begin to wish to make it's way to his lungs.
“You,” it comes out as a low, deep grumble, from the bottom of Antonio's being as he stares down at Ivan, green eyes unable to hide the satisfaction this act of violence stirs within him. Unconsciously, the hands around Ivan's neck tighten their hold still, and if he could, Ivan would moan in bliss. “You come here to mock me -my God,” Antonio's hands tremble, his muscles straining from the strength they are suddenly forced to bring.
“You shouldn't even be here, not with your false religion,” and a smile crawls on those lips, sweet and so out of place for someone who usually represents nothing but joy. Ivan can feel the rosary press against his throat, the beads still in Antonio's hands.
“I'll teach you-” but Antonio suddenly stops talking, smile and hands withdrawing as he snaps. Ivan is not disappointed though, because as much as he's grown bored with fright, regret and carefully calculated actions, the expression on Antonio's face is precious -adorable, even.
“I-” the other stammers, pulling away from Ivan, making him miss the heat of his strength already. “I'm sorry.” Antonio struggles to get onto his feet, the rosary dropping to the floor, beads escaping the bounds of the rope that had snapped at some point by the strength Antonio had been straining it with. “I'm so sorry.”
Book of War (3b/?)
anonymous
December 19 2009, 12:47:40 UTC
Ivan lies on the floor, even after the last echoes of Antonio's running steps fade away. He reaches a hand to brush at his neck, pleased when he thinks how bruised it was going to be. If he didn't wear a scarf tomorrow, then along with the bite marks General Winter has left on his neck, they would see the force of a past empire, and Antonio could not make himself think that this never happened. A constant reminder throughout an entire meeting.
Like the rosary on the ground, Ivan smiles to himself as he slowly gets up from the floor, Antonio would fall apart. -- ;u;?
Re: Book of War (3b/?)
anonymous
December 20 2009, 07:45:23 UTC
OP has been quietly hoping and praying someone would write this- I've come very close to just starting writing some silly Prussia/Spain thing and pretending I wasn't OP just because I liked the prompt so much (I feel like an idiot saying that XD). This, though? This is better then I imagined. So well written! And I've been fascinated by Russia and Spain since I read about their interaction in WWII and Stalin's wish for an Allied invasion of Spain (which UK shot down)... ugly, fascinating history, but I don't think I've ever seen a fic with them together.
I am so happy you're writing this. Spain's current caution and Russia's crazy are playing off of each other wonderfully... I can't wait to see what happens when Russia finally gets the crazy from Spain that he seeks. :D
Re: Book of War (3b/?)
anonymous
January 2 2010, 14:57:26 UTC
Author!Anon thinks that OP should write that Prussia/Spain! There can never be enough love for Conquistador!Spain, yes?
I have to confess, though, that I know little about Spain and Russia's history together. I just love both characters and wanted them to interact somehow. xD; But now that you mentioned that, maybe I should study them a bit more...
Re: Book of War (3b/?)
anonymous
December 21 2009, 02:57:08 UTC
OHMIGAD I can't wait for more!!! This was written so well and and and the langauge you use is so describing and beautiful! Also the way you wrote the characters were just perfect!
I wonder if I can sleep after reading this.
Anyway, I'm so going to be reading the next parts when you post them!
Re: Book of War (3b/?)
anonymous
December 31 2009, 03:23:40 UTC
This was awesome. Masochist!Russia is just so disturbing, so twisted and somehow way more scary. And Spain. Oh my god, Spain. Your description of him is just beyond words.
"(...)and a smile crawls on those lips, sweet and so out of place for someone who usually represents nothing but joy."
Book of War (4/?)
anonymous
January 2 2010, 14:40:04 UTC
Honesty is an ailing virtue. This is the only conclusion Ivan can make when he makes no haste on his way to the meeting room.
The air is thick with whispers, words that spread like fire once they are let out. He takes no offense in them, of course, because this was all indented when he put his scarf on making sure the bruises peek tauntingly where the garment fails to cover his skin. And oh, do they whisper.
Someone has hurt Russia. Someone has hurt Russia.
These words will flood this building and there is not a place where Antonio can hide from them and what he did. It makes Ivan smile.
But honesty, he mourns, is something he's rather fond of, pursuing it by liking what he likes and not drowning in the deep pit of denial like the old nations who used to have the power to do with the world as they pleased. When asked, they say they'd never be able to do what someone has done to him now to anyone (not anymore). And whoever had asked, swallows this up like a delicious plate of propaganda.
It's curious, though, when he settles down on his seat, how they fail to ask Antonio about this turn of events. Ivan thinks it's the smile, constantly on his face, now creating too big a contrast for them to even remember how he has once served his country by bringing it more riches and spreading the Word.
“Hey, bastard, have you heard?” There is no need to question what little Romano has heard, because both Ivan and Antonio are quite aware of what he's about to say. Ivan leans his head on his hand and watches the two southern nations, mildly curious if Antonio's expression is going to falter.
“Lovino!” To his surprise, Antonio's face only lights up more. “I don't need to be told how cute you are.”
It's the love for red, Ivan idly thinks, what must make Romano so appealing to Antonio. The boy's cheeks are painfully red when he takes a step back from the older nation, stuttering out profanities as he does so. The words have little effect, either because centuries have dulled them down or because Antonio simply can't take his eyes off the color.
He wonders how it is even possible for the boy to turn himself so red, thinks if it's a condition or if it's consciously done to attract the attention of those who he knows it arouses. But of course, Ivan realizes it's blood that rushes through Romano's veins so wildly to create the fanciful sight, and he feels so stupid for not giving this a thought before.
“Tsk, just forget it, you idiot.”
Antonio keeps smiling even as his former charge goes, but he is a fool if he thinks Ivan hasn't noticed how he's not even once spared a single glance towards his direction. But he is no fool. Neither of them are.
OP wanted someone loving Conquistador!Spain and try to provoke him to his, ahem, "old habits." SO! I went with Russia and Spain, if that is okay? Is it? Insane!Russia/Conquistador!Spain is yummy, isn't it? D:
Er, also, there's so much to warn about, so I'll just say that if you're an avid visitor of the kink meme and not corrupted yet, then maybe it's time you be! D<
--
The book that contains history of a certain kind lays nicely on his bedside table, and when the night falls, he often traces his fingers over the three letters written in bold gold on the cover, the font grand and precious like it's a thing to be worshiped. And he worships, in his own silent way. He smiles and he worships.
Weakness, it bores him. And this world he lives in right now is weak. Strong words, pressuring actions, but still so goddamn weak. (Like a once great general whose spine had cracked.)
Apathetic is what it's threatening to make him. Time means nothing to those who live forever, but when spent in such a meaningless way (political correctness, gatherings where nothing gets done, demanding rights for everyone while they do nothing to the greed that prevents them from having them in the first place) it sucks him dry.
Ridiculous, is what he thinks when his boss senses his restlessness and how he constantly looks at what was instead of what is, and says; “Don't start anything,” with a tone that carries a warning in it. And ridiculous it is, he smiles, how justice is often blind to the cause when only the result is stained in blood like things (should) used to be.
In bold, golden letters, like a thing that should be worshiped.
“What is that?” Antonio asks him, a smile ready on his lips when he is talked to but it quickly disappearing from his face when his eyes spy the fine piece of jewelry that Ivan dangles in front of his face.
“Mayan gold,” Ivan answers, cheer in his tone as he savors the green eyes that do not let the treasure from their sight. “I got it this other day. See, isn't it pretty?”
The Adam's apple moves in a delicious way, when Antonio swallows like his mouth is filled with thick liquid that tastes of foul. “Sure,” he says, and although it comes out weak, voice fragile, barely even there, it sends precious, dark shivers down Ivan's core.
“It's beautiful,” Antonio says a bit stronger after clearing his throat, smile back on his lips like the most natural thing.
Ivan is not fooled though, because history is what makes them and history does not lie. He doesn't know him too well, knows little what time has done to Antonio as of late, but Ivan has studied his past and Antonio's past is what he is salivating for.
Spain loves gold.
Spain adores God.
Spain is red.
They make meaningless chitchat about the current -past is avoidable, Antonio seems to think- wonders of gold and the things made of it, all the while Ivan makes sure the necklace is at the range of Antonio's sight, teasing, taunting and distracting when he makes it catch the sunlight that pours from the window, the corners of his lips twitching when Antonio's eyes drift every single time.
That smile wouldn't fool anyone. He's poor at resisting, easily hooked, seemingly weak but still holding back that something Ivan wishes to lure out. This is nothing, not even foreplay.
So it's with a smile Ivan lets Antonio go, when his dear Gilbert calls for him from the other side of the hallway, apparently too displeased about their shared past to approach Ivan, but too protective to leave Antonio in his presence for any longer.
Antonio smiles again, cheerful and sunny, laughter in his tone as he wishes they'd talk again sometime, then turning around to continue on with the another useless meeting they were obliged to attend to.
Ivan watches in satisfaction at the parting nation, catching dearest Gilbert glaring at him and answers with a smile that is sure to make the other look away.
This is nothing, just a knock on the door, and if Antonio refuses to answer, he would just force his way inside.
Reply
This is Ivan's fantasy, and history does nothing to make him unconvinced that Antonio was so in the past.
Meaning no ill to his own church of Orthodoxy, Ivan steps inside the small chapel built inside their grad hotel complex and takes in the reek of Catholicism. He's unfamiliar with the rules, an old awareness rising within him that religion is the one thing no one should fuck around with, but he shrugs this off because the only fucking he'd be doing would be with Antonio, not their somewhat shared All Mighty.
“Are you praying?” He asks, friendly and nice -interrupting, he smiles- startling Antonio who kneels on the ground, not quite at the altar, rosary in hand.
Again, the smile is back on like it's sewed to his skin, although Antonio's gaze is a bit distant when he answers. “Trying to,” and he says it in a way that doesn't leave him feeling like it's because of Ivan that he's only trying and not managing to.
The rosary is being clutched harder and Antonio chews on his lip, presenting a fascinating sight that traps Ivan in it's hold. “Are you a sinner, Antonio?” Ivan asks, taking a seat on one of the benches the room has to offer, leaning his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers to mock a prayer, the smile that General Winter has frozen on his face never melting.
He sees a hint of a temper, when Antonio's brow ticks even though the expression doesn't change, and he feels so satisfied that he's glad this chapel is of the wrong religion. It's quick to pass, though, and soon there's nothing but cheer -if a bit self mocking- on Antonio's face.
“Aren't we all?” He asks, the taste of bitter buried so deep that if Ivan hadn't been graving for it, he would have missed it altogether.
“I don't think we're bound by the general rules,” Ivan chuckles, so much derision in him that Antonio has to stare in disbelief. “And even if we are, there's little God can do about it, no matter how much we pray.”
Ivan is fond of this line of thinking. He's been horrible, has never lived like a good Orthodox should with his knees on the ground and heart close to God. Sin is too thrilling for him to leave it be and besides, if he wanted to go to Heaven all he had to do was to convert into a Christian, repent and die. (Even though regret is one of the things he was never capable of.)
“I suppose you're right.” Antonio can't look at him anymore, and turns away, gazing the floor as his posture sags the slightest. He looks so weak, subjected and fragile that it makes a crack in Ivan smile. This is not what he wants from Spain.
Spain is violence, takes what it wants, conquers and converts. Ivan knows Antonio is strong, and he yearns for that strength to force itself on him, tear him raw and leave him dripping. He loves damage, wounds that will take a long time to heal, if they heal at all, and while he knows he can mentally scar Antonio by playing with the balance of his mind, Ivan expects something in return.
“Is it the past you are repenting?” Ivan adds a laugh in his question, making sure Antonio understands he's mocking him and his attempts to be a better son of religion. Antonio's whole body twitches in what he believes to be resentment, but that's the only sign of aggression he gets.
“No,” Antonio says, looking at the picture of a saint hanging behind the altar. “It's not a thing to regret. Not for people like us.”
“What is it then?” He's prying, impolite and out of patience, not even expecting an answer.
Reply
The rosary shakes, but Ivan shivers in delight, because as much as Antonio struggles, there's a tiny, obscene quirk at the corner of his mouth when he tries to ask to be forgiven. Antonio may try his best, but he doesn't regret a thing, tries to fill his heart with norms and the word of the Lord, but fails miserably when his people grow less religious and enticement tastes so delicious.
“What's there to regret?” Ivan chuckles, not meaning well at all when he fills his expression with cruel. “I'm sure he enjoyed it as well.”
He can't understand Antonio's wish to bend into the stream of normality when even some of his men of God take a bite of this apple the serpent dares them to have. Antonio turns slow, eyes darkened and somewhat grim as he looks at Ivan with something that is not usual for modern Spain.
“Why are you here?” He asks Ivan, adding an edge to his tone for the first time. “To mock me?”
Ivan finds it amusing, that this is Antonio trying to repent, and the best act that Ivan can pull is childlike innocence. So he smiles like he means well, happiness in his eyes like he doesn't understand the reality of the subject. “I'm just saying to take what we want is what we live for.”
That's what used to be, lingers in the air, but neither of them say it out loud. And they have taken a lot. God, have they taken.
“You still yearn to take him, don't you?” Ivan leers, devouring the emotions that are starting to boil in the depths of Antonio's being where he has buried them. “Dream of him with his legs spread, moaning like a whore.” This is a room of God, and although the ideals differ from his, the Carpenter is the same and hears him speak these obscenities in Its place of worship. Briefly he thinks if he's going to be punished, but the way Antonio trembles, he's sure it's not not the flames of Hell that are first to burn his skin.
“If so,” and as Ivan says this, Antonio is straightening his back, strengthened by fury that the words force into him, burning like purgatory. “Why not just conquer him?”
The pain it earns him is sweet, when Ivan's back is smashed against the marbled floor of the chapel, the laugh he tries to choke out dying in his throat which Antonio has in his grip so tightly that air can't even begin to wish to make it's way to his lungs.
“You,” it comes out as a low, deep grumble, from the bottom of Antonio's being as he stares down at Ivan, green eyes unable to hide the satisfaction this act of violence stirs within him. Unconsciously, the hands around Ivan's neck tighten their hold still, and if he could, Ivan would moan in bliss. “You come here to mock me -my God,” Antonio's hands tremble, his muscles straining from the strength they are suddenly forced to bring.
“You shouldn't even be here, not with your false religion,” and a smile crawls on those lips, sweet and so out of place for someone who usually represents nothing but joy. Ivan can feel the rosary press against his throat, the beads still in Antonio's hands.
“I'll teach you-” but Antonio suddenly stops talking, smile and hands withdrawing as he snaps. Ivan is not disappointed though, because as much as he's grown bored with fright, regret and carefully calculated actions, the expression on Antonio's face is precious -adorable, even.
“I-” the other stammers, pulling away from Ivan, making him miss the heat of his strength already. “I'm sorry.” Antonio struggles to get onto his feet, the rosary dropping to the floor, beads escaping the bounds of the rope that had snapped at some point by the strength Antonio had been straining it with. “I'm so sorry.”
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Like the rosary on the ground, Ivan smiles to himself as he slowly gets up from the floor, Antonio would fall apart.
--
;u;?
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ReCaptcha: Rock Colombus O_O
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BRB, GOING TO BASK IN THE SHEER AWESOME OF THIS FILL.
PLEASE CONTINUE TO ROCK MY WORLD.
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I didn't even realize how much I love yandere Spain until I read this. .__.
Please, por favor, continue. <333
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I am so happy you're writing this. Spain's current caution and Russia's crazy are playing off of each other wonderfully... I can't wait to see what happens when Russia finally gets the crazy from Spain that he seeks. :D
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I have to confess, though, that I know little about Spain and Russia's history together. I just love both characters and wanted them to interact somehow. xD; But now that you mentioned that, maybe I should study them a bit more...
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This was written so well and and and the langauge you use is so describing and beautiful! Also the way you wrote the characters were just perfect!
I wonder if I can sleep after reading this.
Anyway, I'm so going to be reading the next parts when you post them!
Reply
"(...)and a smile crawls on those lips, sweet and so out of place for someone who usually represents nothing but joy."
It was great. Please continue.
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The air is thick with whispers, words that spread like fire once they are let out. He takes no offense in them, of course, because this was all indented when he put his scarf on making sure the bruises peek tauntingly where the garment fails to cover his skin. And oh, do they whisper.
Someone has hurt Russia. Someone has hurt Russia.
These words will flood this building and there is not a place where Antonio can hide from them and what he did. It makes Ivan smile.
But honesty, he mourns, is something he's rather fond of, pursuing it by liking what he likes and not drowning in the deep pit of denial like the old nations who used to have the power to do with the world as they pleased. When asked, they say they'd never be able to do what someone has done to him now to anyone (not anymore). And whoever had asked, swallows this up like a delicious plate of propaganda.
It's curious, though, when he settles down on his seat, how they fail to ask Antonio about this turn of events. Ivan thinks it's the smile, constantly on his face, now creating too big a contrast for them to even remember how he has once served his country by bringing it more riches and spreading the Word.
“Hey, bastard, have you heard?” There is no need to question what little Romano has heard, because both Ivan and Antonio are quite aware of what he's about to say. Ivan leans his head on his hand and watches the two southern nations, mildly curious if Antonio's expression is going to falter.
“Lovino!” To his surprise, Antonio's face only lights up more. “I don't need to be told how cute you are.”
It's the love for red, Ivan idly thinks, what must make Romano so appealing to Antonio. The boy's cheeks are painfully red when he takes a step back from the older nation, stuttering out profanities as he does so. The words have little effect, either because centuries have dulled them down or because Antonio simply can't take his eyes off the color.
He wonders how it is even possible for the boy to turn himself so red, thinks if it's a condition or if it's consciously done to attract the attention of those who he knows it arouses. But of course, Ivan realizes it's blood that rushes through Romano's veins so wildly to create the fanciful sight, and he feels so stupid for not giving this a thought before.
“Tsk, just forget it, you idiot.”
Antonio keeps smiling even as his former charge goes, but he is a fool if he thinks Ivan hasn't noticed how he's not even once spared a single glance towards his direction. But he is no fool. Neither of them are.
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