Bella Italiana - 1/?
anonymous
March 7 2011, 22:33:49 UTC
This was one of those rare times England wished he were more prepared for living in Europe. He owned a small series of books, all pocket-sized, each one a different major European language. This was the middle of a continental war; why hadn't he been carrying his Italian book?
But regardless, here he was, loitering against an aged brick wall, arms crossed, doing his best to blend in as an Italian. He would be stuck in the little city for at least a couple more days, and so far, he'd been able to avoid Germany and both Italian brothers.
He was dressed sharply, his hair was slicked back and he even felt like his skin was shining with a renewed glow of confidence. Now that he no longer stuck out like an eyesore among all these beautiful Italians, he had to really act the part to keep the hawk-eyed German from spotting him.
And this is where the language barrier faulted him. He only knew basic Italian, and those skills came from knowing a tidbit of Latin from his days as part of the Roman Empire. He had to be a romantic, flirtatious Italian lover if he were going to escape this country alive.
England shifted his weight uncomfortably. In the romantic sense, he was, at best, awkward. He had never been adept at the art of seduction, let alone even flirting with someone successfully. Considering the person who he'd been in love with for several hundred years never even noticed his obvious attraction was crushing enough to his romantic self-esteem.
And yet, this was war. He would have to swallow his fear and attempt to be at least friendly with the people around him, even if they were the enemy. Maybe he could find someone on holiday from England or even France, since his French was much better then his Italian.
Two girls walked by him, their eyes trained on his broad shoulders and his slim face, and they giggled between each other.
"Lo vedete?" one whispered to the other, and they spun their eyes on him. They giggled again when England gave them a dazzling smile, but they hurried away before he could approach.
At least I'm attractive, he thought to himself. He pushed himself off the wall and walked towards the street, sliding his hands into his pockets. He had to talk to someone, anyone, before Germany came and--
But regardless, here he was, loitering against an aged brick wall, arms crossed, doing his best to blend in as an Italian. He would be stuck in the little city for at least a couple more days, and so far, he'd been able to avoid Germany and both Italian brothers.
He was dressed sharply, his hair was slicked back and he even felt like his skin was shining with a renewed glow of confidence. Now that he no longer stuck out like an eyesore among all these beautiful Italians, he had to really act the part to keep the hawk-eyed German from spotting him.
And this is where the language barrier faulted him. He only knew basic Italian, and those skills came from knowing a tidbit of Latin from his days as part of the Roman Empire. He had to be a romantic, flirtatious Italian lover if he were going to escape this country alive.
England shifted his weight uncomfortably. In the romantic sense, he was, at best, awkward. He had never been adept at the art of seduction, let alone even flirting with someone successfully. Considering the person who he'd been in love with for several hundred years never even noticed his obvious attraction was crushing enough to his romantic self-esteem.
And yet, this was war. He would have to swallow his fear and attempt to be at least friendly with the people around him, even if they were the enemy. Maybe he could find someone on holiday from England or even France, since his French was much better then his Italian.
Two girls walked by him, their eyes trained on his broad shoulders and his slim face, and they giggled between each other.
"Lo vedete?" one whispered to the other, and they spun their eyes on him. They giggled again when England gave them a dazzling smile, but they hurried away before he could approach.
At least I'm attractive, he thought to himself. He pushed himself off the wall and walked towards the street, sliding his hands into his pockets. He had to talk to someone, anyone, before Germany came and--
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