The first thing that you must remember is simple, and plain, and something that everyone should know: despite certain actions taken place on the behalf of a certain someone that may or may not be for the protection of a certain someone else, there has never been anything between Spain and South Italy.
That is not to say that there is nothing nothing between the two of them, in his extremely generous moments Romano might be prevailed upon to admit that perhaps, if he weren’t such a fuck up, Spain might’ve been a slightly positive role model. It’s Spain that’s the surprisingly inscrutable one, the one who didn’t want Romano, the one who protected him against all comers, the one who calls him cute on a basis so regular that Romano’s come to expect it in the way that he expects the sun to rise, and Spain is also the one who is so deeply ingrained into Romano’s being that he’s no longer just plain, pure Italy. If one asked in the correctly roundabout manner, it is possible that Romano would admit that the only reason that there is a South Italy, that the only reason that Romano still exists as a separate identity from his brother, is thanks to Spain and the influence that he’s had on Romano. Spain etched himself onto Romano’s bones, and it’s the only thing that keeps him alive.
And this leads us to the second thing that you must remember, also simple, also plain, but perhaps a little difficult to wrap your mind around (do try): Spain’s claim on South Italy is undeniable, but South Italy does not hold a similar claim to Spain.
Romano’s always known this, in the past it was a truth that he wore every day, picking it up and placing it in his pocket as one might pick up a pretty stone or seashell that caught their fancy. It was a heavy burden once, one that made Romano burn with jealousy whenever Spain’s smile was caused by someone else. Over time, he’s become used to the weight, to the point that he tells himself that he can no longer feel it, like the weight of glasses or of a length of hair or of a necklace given by a beloved.
Every now and then, however, he’s sharply reminded of the weight of the burden/anger/jealously that he carries.
This is one of those times.
He knows that Spain and France and Prussia are friends, or the imitation of such relationship that nations profess as such, but he’s never seen it, not with his own two eyes, and he’s certainly never seen Spain and Prussia together, not like this, never.
Aesthetically, it holds a certain charm. Spain is tanned, deeper and darker than the colour that crawls along Romano’s own forearms, his hair is thick and curly and dark and his eyes possess a green that Romano’s never seen in anyone else’s. Prussia is like moonlight made solid, not a speck of colour on him from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head. His eyes stand out hellish red in comparison, and the web of bruise-blue veins at his wrists seem fragile, like all it would take is a too-harsh press of the thumb to break the skin. Intertwined together, with Prussia’s fingers deep in Spain’s hair and Spain’s hands running the length of Prussia’s spine, mouths working against each other’s, they look like a work of art, like a commentary on the balance of good and evil.
They’re beautiful, almost.
It makes Romano feel like vomiting.
South Italy has never had a claim on Spain, true. But that doesn’t mean that he hasn’t wanted one.
He can’t seem to make himself move, his feet are stuck to the floor, his mouth is stuck open and his eyes are stuck on the two of them. He wants to do something, he’s not quite sure, and the idea will never move beyond half formed, not when Spain breaks away from Spain with a sigh that is almost a pant, opens up his eyes and smiles at Romano, holding out one hand and beckoning him closer.
Some extraordinarily stupid part of Romano’s brain makes him move closer, until his hand is in Spain’s and Spain uses it to jerk him harshly forward, until he lands, sprawling in between the two of them. There’s heat, oppressive and heavy at both his sides, and Romano has a sudden, insane flashback to his youth.
[Part 3] Spain/Prussia/South Italy [1b/1]
anonymous
March 16 2011, 16:36:16 UTC
Prussia laughs, gratingly and hoarse, destroying all focus on anywhere but the present, and he licks a long line up Romano’s neck.
“Hey pretty.” Is rasped into one ear in harshly-accented English, the type that people expect from bad Nazi movies, the type that Prussia loves to use.
“Romano.”Is moaned into the other, Spain’s normal voice catching on the ‘r’ and turning it into something obscene.
The contrast is … unexpected, and it makes Romano twist in an attempt to escape. Two different sets of hands catch at his hips, both pairs gripping his hips firmly, too firmly, when their hands shift, the places they leave behind ache. Fingers slide under his shirt and stroke along his skin, calluses, one set from agriculture and war, the other from war and more war, scrap against him.
One hand drifts away from his skin, coming up to cup the back of his head and tilt it forward, and then Spain invades his mouth, all soft lips and hot tongue. A different hand wraps around his chin and pulls him away, tugging his head almost painfully to the side, Prussia not so much kissing him as taking him.
Romano pulls away, feeling the hardness of Prussia’s dick against his back and seeing the tent in Spain’s shorts.
“So cute.” Is whispered into both his ears, harsh and sweet.
As one they lean forward and as one Romano’s eyes slide close, giving himself over to what he’s never had and what he’s always wanted.
Re: [Part 3] Spain/Prussia/South Italy [1b/1] NotOP is very very happy now
anonymous
March 16 2011, 17:19:38 UTC
Homygod I am dying of the incredible love! Your description of Spain and Romano's relationship was incredible and absolutely accurate in my opinion. It's rare to come across a good description of their platonic (well, not anymore) relationship like that, but you wrote it so well.
Then there was this line here: “Hey pretty.” Is rasped into one ear in harshly-accented English, the type that people expect from bad Nazi movies, the type that Prussia loves to use
I IMAGINED IT AND DIED. Anon's soul fluttered off to heaven because I too love that voice.
Hell, the entire last half of that made me nosebleed like a fountain. Go ahead, destroy my brain while I try to work, I love you anyway.
Re: [Part 3] Spain/Prussia/South Italy [1b/1]
anonymous
March 16 2011, 21:28:58 UTC
If one asked in the correctly roundabout manner, it is possible that Romano would admit that the only reason that there is a South Italy, that the only reason that Romano still exists as a separate identity from his brother, is thanks to Spain and the influence that he’s had on Romano. Spain etched himself onto Romano’s bones, and it’s the only thing that keeps him alive.
What an interesting theory. Very grounded in history as well (I checked). I like this characterization for the pairing and situation, and your description of the sight of Prussia and Spain intertwined was lovely.
Re: [Part 3] Spain/Prussia/South Italy [1b/1]
anonymous
March 16 2011, 23:16:16 UTC
So very much seconded. I really like this thought -- it says so much about the relationship between Romano and Spain, and between both Italies for that matter. (It also makes me wonder a bit about Prussia, too, because what in fact is still keeping him alive past his 'retirement' as a nation?)
A very well-crafted story, exactly the right length for what it's trying to convey. I'm highly impressed, writer!anon!
The first thing that you must remember is simple, and plain, and something that everyone should know: despite certain actions taken place on the behalf of a certain someone that may or may not be for the protection of a certain someone else, there has never been anything between Spain and South Italy.
That is not to say that there is nothing nothing between the two of them, in his extremely generous moments Romano might be prevailed upon to admit that perhaps, if he weren’t such a fuck up, Spain might’ve been a slightly positive role model. It’s Spain that’s the surprisingly inscrutable one, the one who didn’t want Romano, the one who protected him against all comers, the one who calls him cute on a basis so regular that Romano’s come to expect it in the way that he expects the sun to rise, and Spain is also the one who is so deeply ingrained into Romano’s being that he’s no longer just plain, pure Italy. If one asked in the correctly roundabout manner, it is possible that Romano would admit that the only reason that there is a South Italy, that the only reason that Romano still exists as a separate identity from his brother, is thanks to Spain and the influence that he’s had on Romano. Spain etched himself onto Romano’s bones, and it’s the only thing that keeps him alive.
And this leads us to the second thing that you must remember, also simple, also plain, but perhaps a little difficult to wrap your mind around (do try): Spain’s claim on South Italy is undeniable, but South Italy does not hold a similar claim to Spain.
Romano’s always known this, in the past it was a truth that he wore every day, picking it up and placing it in his pocket as one might pick up a pretty stone or seashell that caught their fancy. It was a heavy burden once, one that made Romano burn with jealousy whenever Spain’s smile was caused by someone else. Over time, he’s become used to the weight, to the point that he tells himself that he can no longer feel it, like the weight of glasses or of a length of hair or of a necklace given by a beloved.
Every now and then, however, he’s sharply reminded of the weight of the burden/anger/jealously that he carries.
This is one of those times.
He knows that Spain and France and Prussia are friends, or the imitation of such relationship that nations profess as such, but he’s never seen it, not with his own two eyes, and he’s certainly never seen Spain and Prussia together, not like this, never.
Aesthetically, it holds a certain charm. Spain is tanned, deeper and darker than the colour that crawls along Romano’s own forearms, his hair is thick and curly and dark and his eyes possess a green that Romano’s never seen in anyone else’s. Prussia is like moonlight made solid, not a speck of colour on him from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head. His eyes stand out hellish red in comparison, and the web of bruise-blue veins at his wrists seem fragile, like all it would take is a too-harsh press of the thumb to break the skin. Intertwined together, with Prussia’s fingers deep in Spain’s hair and Spain’s hands running the length of Prussia’s spine, mouths working against each other’s, they look like a work of art, like a commentary on the balance of good and evil.
They’re beautiful, almost.
It makes Romano feel like vomiting.
South Italy has never had a claim on Spain, true. But that doesn’t mean that he hasn’t wanted one.
He can’t seem to make himself move, his feet are stuck to the floor, his mouth is stuck open and his eyes are stuck on the two of them. He wants to do something, he’s not quite sure, and the idea will never move beyond half formed, not when Spain breaks away from Spain with a sigh that is almost a pant, opens up his eyes and smiles at Romano, holding out one hand and beckoning him closer.
Some extraordinarily stupid part of Romano’s brain makes him move closer, until his hand is in Spain’s and Spain uses it to jerk him harshly forward, until he lands, sprawling in between the two of them. There’s heat, oppressive and heavy at both his sides, and Romano has a sudden, insane flashback to his youth.
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“Hey pretty.” Is rasped into one ear in harshly-accented English, the type that people expect from bad Nazi movies, the type that Prussia loves to use.
“Romano.”Is moaned into the other, Spain’s normal voice catching on the ‘r’ and turning it into something obscene.
The contrast is … unexpected, and it makes Romano twist in an attempt to escape. Two different sets of hands catch at his hips, both pairs gripping his hips firmly, too firmly, when their hands shift, the places they leave behind ache. Fingers slide under his shirt and stroke along his skin, calluses, one set from agriculture and war, the other from war and more war, scrap against him.
One hand drifts away from his skin, coming up to cup the back of his head and tilt it forward, and then Spain invades his mouth, all soft lips and hot tongue. A different hand wraps around his chin and pulls him away, tugging his head almost painfully to the side, Prussia not so much kissing him as taking him.
Romano pulls away, feeling the hardness of Prussia’s dick against his back and seeing the tent in Spain’s shorts.
“So cute.” Is whispered into both his ears, harsh and sweet.
As one they lean forward and as one Romano’s eyes slide close, giving himself over to what he’s never had and what he’s always wanted.
Reply
Then there was this line here: “Hey pretty.” Is rasped into one ear in harshly-accented English, the type that people expect from bad Nazi movies, the type that Prussia loves to use
I IMAGINED IT AND DIED. Anon's soul fluttered off to heaven because I too love that voice.
Hell, the entire last half of that made me nosebleed like a fountain. Go ahead, destroy my brain while I try to work, I love you anyway.
Reply
What an interesting theory. Very grounded in history as well (I checked). I like this characterization for the pairing and situation, and your description of the sight of Prussia and Spain intertwined was lovely.
Reply
A very well-crafted story, exactly the right length for what it's trying to convey. I'm highly impressed, writer!anon!
Reply
The pictures you created with your imagination were so vivid and unique, it was a real pleasure to read.
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