Book of War (5a/?)
anonymous
January 24 2010, 11:04:29 UTC
Spain is not a book left open to read. The covers tell nothing but lies, promises of simple characterization and predictable denouements. And so they yawn and look the other way in search of something more interesting.
Ivan can admire that, really. Antonio is hiding in plain sight, turning away those who want to discuss the matter of Russia being hurt with a charming smile. He laughs, is oblivious and moves in a way that is so in sync with his surroundings that for a moment Ivan thinks even himself fooled.
But really, the way Antonio is not looking at him speaks louder than any other act he could pull. He's clever, he manages, but Ivan has caught him and there's not a smile that can make him less interested.
“Italy,” Ivan calls out, cheer on his face as the grumpier one, Antonio's favorite, turns to look at him. It's all perfect, the nation knows better not to ignore him since their bosses get along so well these days and Natalia is nowhere in sight. It's all perfect, because they are alone, yet he knows that Antonio is never far away from this one.
With the help of little Italy, he'd wipe that pretense of a smile off the man's face.
“What do you want?” Italy asks him, holding back on his usual rudeness. It's obvious he's fighting to keep his eyes from staring at the bruises on his neck, but Ivan refuses to make it easy on him and instead lifts his chin the tiniest bit to make them even more visible. It makes the other gulp.
“Just saying hello,” Ivan replies, smiling and trying to manage the role of Antonio, if not to make the other more comfortable around him, then to give him something familiar to work with.
“Uh, yeah...” The other's feet are fidgety, like he's holding back his will to run away. Of course, that'd be bad business, so Ivan is confident that he'll stay right where he is for now. Casually, Ivan starts to readjust his scarf, taking it momentarily off with the excuse that it was simply badly put on and captivates Italy this way.
His throat is black and blue, gray with shapes that resemble fingers and strangling. It's ugly, horrifying and just as fascinating as Italy's eyes keep telling him, unable to look away.
“Who did that to you?” Italy asks him, eyes locked and mouth moving on its own. “Who would-” and then he realizes he's said it out loud, slaps a hand to cover his mouth and turns into that delicious shade of red again.
Ivan just chuckles and reaches out his hand (his terrifying hand that can do nothing but hurt, Italy's expression screams) and ruffles the other's hair like he knows the habit of someone else goes.
“Are you worried about me?” Ivan asks, his note not quite hitting the well-meaning levels he had aimed at. Italy scowls despite this and uses a surprising amount of strength to slap his hand away.
And it's all perfect, when he lets out a surprised gasp, taking a dramatic step back and drops his precious bottle of vodka that shall forever remain as his accessory, onto the floor. The glass cries out and breaks into uncountable pieces, some huge and sharp, some small and invisible to the eyes.
Italy's eyes grow wide with the realization that he has wronged, and he has wronged badly. You aren't supposed to mess with scary nations. Not the ones with power and capricious nature. Italy manages to keep his feet from running, instead crouching down to attend to the broken bottle, not looking at Russia while muttering a barely audible apology.
Ivan smiles, crouching down himself and tells the other nation that it is quite all right. Italy still doesn't dare to look at him, it seems, but it doesn't bother him at all, because as Ivan attempts to help him pick up the shards, he's more interested in the other's hands.
Ivan is not sure if he's acting smoothly enough to make it seem like an accident, but frankly, he couldn't care less when he goes to pick up the same piece of glass that Italy was aiming for and presses his hand that rests on Italy's down a bit too hard to make it cut itself on the sharpness and bleed. The whine of pain and the red that flows are the best ways this arrogant piece of a nation could ever make up for his broken bottle, after all.
Book of War (5b/?)
anonymous
January 24 2010, 11:16:35 UTC
Italy pulls his hand away quick, tears already starting to gather at the corners of his eyes as he inspects the damage. Ivan tries his best to look apologetic, which he thinks he fails when the look Italy gives him is that of fright, when Ivan takes the bleeding hand onto his own.
“I'm sorry,” he says, thinking that maybe it's wrong of him to smile right now, but he's just unable to keep it from his face. Italy shivers when Ivan runs his thumb over the wound to paint his own fingers red.
“There you are,” they can hear someone say, full of spirit and cheer, making them both look at Antonio who has rounded the corner. The look in his eye doesn't stay warm and content for long, when he sees Ivan so close to his former charge, but the smile on his face doesn't falter for a second.
“What's going on?” The man's voice is like honey, sweet and flowing just right, playing along with his body that doesn't hurry at all on its way over to them. The act is just so pleasant that it doesn't fool either of them, not even Italy who shivers at those words.
But still, between Russia and Spain, there was no need to even consider which one he deemed more safe.
“Spain,” the Italian in front of him whimpers, yanking his hand away from Ivan's and rushes to meet the other halfway. This is the first time Antonio notices the bleeding hand, as Italy holds it up to him as if expecting him to make it all better.
Ivan observes Antonio's throat move in a thick swallow, meeting the other's eyes when he steals a glance of Ivan. Antonio sees the blood on his hand, if not knowing that it's Italy's, then at least assuming it is and swallows again.
“Come on,” the man says, gentle and caring as he turns to look at the Italian again, completely ignoring the Russian still staring at the two of them. “Let's go get that fixed.”
Italy nods, not sparing another look at the one who caused this, giving little care about politics, oil, gas or guns now that he felt more safe. And really, Ivan didn't mind. He didn't mind at all.
Because it was not Italy he was interested in.
“Young, Antonio?” He says instead, making the man freeze in place. Casually, he reaches his hand into his pocket, drawing it back out just as slowly as Antonio is turning to look at him.
“I can't blame you,” Ivan continues, playing with the rosary he had salvaged from the floor where Antonio had left it, Italy's blood that is still on his fingers staining the beads as he goes over them.
“I understand, Antonio.”
He's not sure how much more Antonio wants to be pushed, or if he even needs that anymore, because he's not shaking in uncontrollable anger and his eyes are not ice as he stares at Ivan. Something has changed, though. Antonio stands straighter, he reeks of confidence and an air of chilling cruelty surrounds him.
And it's all in perfect control. He wears it like it's his skin, a part of him that can't be removed no matter how much he smiles and cares and sings and laughs.
“Spain?” Italy asks from beside the man, not getting the man's undivided attention like he's used to have.
Antonio says nothing, taking a step towards Ivan instead. It sends Italy into a fit of panic as his eyes widen, his instincts understanding the seriousness of the sudden situation. “What the hell, Spain!?” Italy grabs a hold of the man's shirt in an attempt to make him stop from moving in the wrong direction. “You said you'd fix this,” only when Italy waves the hand with so much red on it does Antonio tear his gaze away from Ivan.
He takes the hand in his own, kisses it and manages a smile even if some of the blood has stained the corner of his mouth. “You can take care of it yourself,” Antonio says then, brushing those red cheeks with the tips of his fingers before turning away for good.
Book of War (5c/?)
anonymous
January 24 2010, 11:33:13 UTC
“But-” Italy tries, even if he does nothing to physically stop the man this time.
“Leave, Romano,” Antonio says with a smiling voice, even though Ivan can see his expression being furthest from it. He's sure Italy wouldn't argue back if he saw that, but all the Italian sees is Antonio's back, so he opens his mouth.
“Fuck you! Don't tell me what-” He starts his rant, about to attack his former boss with both words and violence, but stops short when Spain's voice fills the empty hallways.
“Le dije que te vayas!”
It's like a god lives in his voice, strong and powerful, most eager to force its believes onto you. Ivan almost laughs, thinking it was no wonder Antonio was so good at what he did, with his axe in hand and voice like thunder.
Italy is silent, he doesn't even sob when he looks at Antonio, understanding filling his eyes the more steps the man takes away from him. It's like the ending of a really bad play, and all of them feel oddly calm despite the unexpected outcome.
Finally, Antonio reaches Ivan, but he doesn't stop walking, doesn't even look at Ivan as he walks past him further down the hallway. Ivan can only take it as a sign for him to follow, and so he does, but not before giving a one last smile for the sake of politics, throwing the rosary he had taken time to put back together at Italy.
The nation does nothing to catch it, and it lands on the ground beside his feet. Ivan says nothing, when he turns around to follow Antonio down the hall.
And when the two older nations are out of sight, Italy will fall on his knees, reach for the rosary and whisper something that resembles a prayer. He will run his fingers over the beads and stop because Ivan didn't even attempt to get them on their rightful place while fixing what Antonio had broken. The prayer won't be finished, and the rosary won't be fixed, finding its place inside Italy's pocket instead, remaining there the rest of forever, stained in blood and out of order.
-- Phew. Playing with Antonio is so much fun~ I hope you guys still find this likable. I'm kind of unsure about this drama thing, along with how Catholicism and rosaries and such are supposed to work. *Pagan anon is pagan* But next! More crazy!Spain *swoon*
Re: Book of War (5c/?)
anonymous
January 24 2010, 14:20:16 UTC
Oh, it's on now! :D
I freakin love the way you write Spain. Most people make him out to be completely oblivious (which I really have no trouble with because it's adorable) while here, he's only pretending to be. Ah, so awesome!
Re: Book of War (5c/?)
anonymous
January 24 2010, 18:20:51 UTC
SO. HOT *nosebleeds all over* God, crazy!Spain is incredibly sexy, and masochistic!Russia is such a gloriously hot bastardXD. The mind games being played here are absolutely breathtaking...and all that play over poor innocent South Italy and blood...god. Favourite moment was when Spain's old Boss voice reappeared, even if the corrections of above reviewer are true ^^
Re: Book of War (5c/?)
anonymous
January 26 2010, 13:25:05 UTC
This is one of my favourite fics in the kink meme! Is so fucked up and amazing and...argggghhhh words fail me. I read some of the translated notes of Himaruya about the characters and he does say that Spain has another side to him, just like Russia. Well, it was kind of obvious cause he couldn't have been the most powerful country of the world at the time with cheery smiles all like "hello, I'm oblivious to everything! But it was good to see that is canon! Then I came back to read this fic again!8D
Ivan can admire that, really. Antonio is hiding in plain sight, turning away those who want to discuss the matter of Russia being hurt with a charming smile. He laughs, is oblivious and moves in a way that is so in sync with his surroundings that for a moment Ivan thinks even himself fooled.
But really, the way Antonio is not looking at him speaks louder than any other act he could pull. He's clever, he manages, but Ivan has caught him and there's not a smile that can make him less interested.
“Italy,” Ivan calls out, cheer on his face as the grumpier one, Antonio's favorite, turns to look at him. It's all perfect, the nation knows better not to ignore him since their bosses get along so well these days and Natalia is nowhere in sight. It's all perfect, because they are alone, yet he knows that Antonio is never far away from this one.
With the help of little Italy, he'd wipe that pretense of a smile off the man's face.
“What do you want?” Italy asks him, holding back on his usual rudeness. It's obvious he's fighting to keep his eyes from staring at the bruises on his neck, but Ivan refuses to make it easy on him and instead lifts his chin the tiniest bit to make them even more visible. It makes the other gulp.
“Just saying hello,” Ivan replies, smiling and trying to manage the role of Antonio, if not to make the other more comfortable around him, then to give him something familiar to work with.
“Uh, yeah...” The other's feet are fidgety, like he's holding back his will to run away. Of course, that'd be bad business, so Ivan is confident that he'll stay right where he is for now. Casually, Ivan starts to readjust his scarf, taking it momentarily off with the excuse that it was simply badly put on and captivates Italy this way.
His throat is black and blue, gray with shapes that resemble fingers and strangling. It's ugly, horrifying and just as fascinating as Italy's eyes keep telling him, unable to look away.
“Who did that to you?” Italy asks him, eyes locked and mouth moving on its own. “Who would-” and then he realizes he's said it out loud, slaps a hand to cover his mouth and turns into that delicious shade of red again.
Ivan just chuckles and reaches out his hand (his terrifying hand that can do nothing but hurt, Italy's expression screams) and ruffles the other's hair like he knows the habit of someone else goes.
“Are you worried about me?” Ivan asks, his note not quite hitting the well-meaning levels he had aimed at. Italy scowls despite this and uses a surprising amount of strength to slap his hand away.
And it's all perfect, when he lets out a surprised gasp, taking a dramatic step back and drops his precious bottle of vodka that shall forever remain as his accessory, onto the floor. The glass cries out and breaks into uncountable pieces, some huge and sharp, some small and invisible to the eyes.
Italy's eyes grow wide with the realization that he has wronged, and he has wronged badly. You aren't supposed to mess with scary nations. Not the ones with power and capricious nature. Italy manages to keep his feet from running, instead crouching down to attend to the broken bottle, not looking at Russia while muttering a barely audible apology.
Ivan smiles, crouching down himself and tells the other nation that it is quite all right. Italy still doesn't dare to look at him, it seems, but it doesn't bother him at all, because as Ivan attempts to help him pick up the shards, he's more interested in the other's hands.
Ivan is not sure if he's acting smoothly enough to make it seem like an accident, but frankly, he couldn't care less when he goes to pick up the same piece of glass that Italy was aiming for and presses his hand that rests on Italy's down a bit too hard to make it cut itself on the sharpness and bleed. The whine of pain and the red that flows are the best ways this arrogant piece of a nation could ever make up for his broken bottle, after all.
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“I'm sorry,” he says, thinking that maybe it's wrong of him to smile right now, but he's just unable to keep it from his face. Italy shivers when Ivan runs his thumb over the wound to paint his own fingers red.
“There you are,” they can hear someone say, full of spirit and cheer, making them both look at Antonio who has rounded the corner. The look in his eye doesn't stay warm and content for long, when he sees Ivan so close to his former charge, but the smile on his face doesn't falter for a second.
“What's going on?” The man's voice is like honey, sweet and flowing just right, playing along with his body that doesn't hurry at all on its way over to them. The act is just so pleasant that it doesn't fool either of them, not even Italy who shivers at those words.
But still, between Russia and Spain, there was no need to even consider which one he deemed more safe.
“Spain,” the Italian in front of him whimpers, yanking his hand away from Ivan's and rushes to meet the other halfway. This is the first time Antonio notices the bleeding hand, as Italy holds it up to him as if expecting him to make it all better.
Ivan observes Antonio's throat move in a thick swallow, meeting the other's eyes when he steals a glance of Ivan. Antonio sees the blood on his hand, if not knowing that it's Italy's, then at least assuming it is and swallows again.
“Come on,” the man says, gentle and caring as he turns to look at the Italian again, completely ignoring the Russian still staring at the two of them. “Let's go get that fixed.”
Italy nods, not sparing another look at the one who caused this, giving little care about politics, oil, gas or guns now that he felt more safe. And really, Ivan didn't mind. He didn't mind at all.
Because it was not Italy he was interested in.
“Young, Antonio?” He says instead, making the man freeze in place. Casually, he reaches his hand into his pocket, drawing it back out just as slowly as Antonio is turning to look at him.
“I can't blame you,” Ivan continues, playing with the rosary he had salvaged from the floor where Antonio had left it, Italy's blood that is still on his fingers staining the beads as he goes over them.
“I understand, Antonio.”
He's not sure how much more Antonio wants to be pushed, or if he even needs that anymore, because he's not shaking in uncontrollable anger and his eyes are not ice as he stares at Ivan. Something has changed, though. Antonio stands straighter, he reeks of confidence and an air of chilling cruelty surrounds him.
And it's all in perfect control. He wears it like it's his skin, a part of him that can't be removed no matter how much he smiles and cares and sings and laughs.
“Spain?” Italy asks from beside the man, not getting the man's undivided attention like he's used to have.
Antonio says nothing, taking a step towards Ivan instead. It sends Italy into a fit of panic as his eyes widen, his instincts understanding the seriousness of the sudden situation. “What the hell, Spain!?” Italy grabs a hold of the man's shirt in an attempt to make him stop from moving in the wrong direction. “You said you'd fix this,” only when Italy waves the hand with so much red on it does Antonio tear his gaze away from Ivan.
He takes the hand in his own, kisses it and manages a smile even if some of the blood has stained the corner of his mouth. “You can take care of it yourself,” Antonio says then, brushing those red cheeks with the tips of his fingers before turning away for good.
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“Leave, Romano,” Antonio says with a smiling voice, even though Ivan can see his expression being furthest from it. He's sure Italy wouldn't argue back if he saw that, but all the Italian sees is Antonio's back, so he opens his mouth.
“Fuck you! Don't tell me what-” He starts his rant, about to attack his former boss with both words and violence, but stops short when Spain's voice fills the empty hallways.
“Le dije que te vayas!”
It's like a god lives in his voice, strong and powerful, most eager to force its believes onto you. Ivan almost laughs, thinking it was no wonder Antonio was so good at what he did, with his axe in hand and voice like thunder.
Italy is silent, he doesn't even sob when he looks at Antonio, understanding filling his eyes the more steps the man takes away from him. It's like the ending of a really bad play, and all of them feel oddly calm despite the unexpected outcome.
Finally, Antonio reaches Ivan, but he doesn't stop walking, doesn't even look at Ivan as he walks past him further down the hallway. Ivan can only take it as a sign for him to follow, and so he does, but not before giving a one last smile for the sake of politics, throwing the rosary he had taken time to put back together at Italy.
The nation does nothing to catch it, and it lands on the ground beside his feet. Ivan says nothing, when he turns around to follow Antonio down the hall.
And when the two older nations are out of sight, Italy will fall on his knees, reach for the rosary and whisper something that resembles a prayer. He will run his fingers over the beads and stop because Ivan didn't even attempt to get them on their rightful place while fixing what Antonio had broken. The prayer won't be finished, and the rosary won't be fixed, finding its place inside Italy's pocket instead, remaining there the rest of forever, stained in blood and out of order.
--
Phew. Playing with Antonio is so much fun~ I hope you guys still find this likable. I'm kind of unsure about this drama thing, along with how Catholicism and rosaries and such are supposed to work. *Pagan anon is pagan*
But next! More crazy!Spain *swoon*
Also,
Le dije que te vayas = I told you to go
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Firstly: UPDATED YAY!!!
Secondly: I need you to continue like crazy!
The atmosphere here is really dangerous! *_*
Well written mindfuck is something I love so much. This fic is totally a treasure <3
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I freakin love the way you write Spain. Most people make him out to be completely oblivious (which I really have no trouble with because it's adorable) while here, he's only pretending to be. Ah, so awesome!
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Nice fill! ♥
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God, crazy!Spain is incredibly sexy, and masochistic!Russia is such a gloriously hot bastardXD. The mind games being played here are absolutely breathtaking...and all that play over poor innocent South Italy and blood...god.
Favourite moment was when Spain's old Boss voice reappeared, even if the corrections of above reviewer are true ^^
'when gullible'. poor, poor Romano
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