Sorted out for E's and Whizz(1/?)
anonymous
March 15 2011, 03:50:46 UTC
He wasn’t drunk. Well, at least not roaringly drunk. Only a bit tipsy, and he had reasons to be: the meeting was awful, the weather was even more awful and he positively hated London, world meetings and dreaded yet another day of fights and interaction with countries he didn’t like and never would.
Lovino had dragged his brother to a wine bar in Embankment, apparently one of the oldest in the city, a bar that Spain had showed them, France and Portugal a couple of years ago.
“I actually know a decent place in London” he had confided to them, talking in the same way as if he just said “I found a pink elephant under my bed”.
And he had been right. It wasn’t your typical english pub or your fake anglicized Italian, Spanish or French restaurant. The wine menu was as thick as a book and they sold nothing else but wine, no beer or spirits, making the dark, almost windowless place an ideal refuge from some annoying beer drinking idiots. Central European idiots. Potato idiots.
The atmosphere itself was quite charming, all wooden barrels and catacomb-like alcoves litted by candlelight. Spanish food was served but in a very english way, seafood, chorizo and cheese plates, and of course, Spanish owners and staff. But he didn’t throw it in Spain’s face at the time, even if in another situation he would have done, because in the little cellar rooms it felt somehow like they were in their own little private club, a small place were each of them was present even if they were in England’s place, and he knew he wasn’t the only one who felt like that. The dark alcoves and the dimmed light had made them strangely giddy and chatty.
They’ve had platters of cheese and cold meat, conversation flowing amongst them like the bottles of Broully, Chianti, Alentejo and Rioja they drank -one of each of them, to make things fair, each of them appreciating each other’s flavours, each other’s grapes, so much in common yet so different- and they hadn’t argued at all. It had been a night of fun and banter accompanied by outrageous amounts of wine and good food.
He specially remembered Spain’s clear laughter against the dark walls (crinkled grass green eyes contrasted by dark hair that had made his heart beat go faster every time they looked at him), a crystalline sound provoked by France’s lewd stories or Portugal’s dry humour. It had been a nice evening, one of the best nights out after a world meeting in the last decade. Maybe that was the reason he had wanted to come back.
Beyond the thick windows the weather was rainy and miserable, unlike that starry summery night they’d spent there. The smell of wine, cigarettes and greenery surrounding them when they’ve moved to the terrace back there was engraved on his brain but he could only smell candles and damp this time around.
Re: Sorted out for E's and Whizz(2/?)
anonymous
March 15 2011, 03:53:50 UTC
The Italian brothers were in their third bottle of Barolo, by themselves this time, as Francis had left the meeting with Canada and Portugal had been too busy bickering with Brazil.
Antonio had also disappeared in the late afternoon, probably with Argentina and Uruguay, whom Lovino had seen him talking to at lunchtime.
Whatever. It wasn’t like he cared about what that Spanish bastard did. And it wasn’t like those two were almost like sons to him and Feliciano too, no, that was alright. They all could go together to Hell. Ungrateful bitches.
“...so why don’t we go? Is not far and we have our card-thingys to travel! Lovi? Lovinooo!!!”
The eldest of the Italies was suddenly taken out of his train of thought about ungrateful Latin American ex-colonies who spoke italian accented Spanish and handsome Iberian idiots by Feliciano’s loud whining.
“Go where?”
“To the club, Lovino, to the club! Weren’t you listening?. I saw it in Ludwig’s laptop when he was showering! He had a search on for the address, and I know he didn’t invite me because we normally don’t go t to this places but I really want to see him now and I don’t want to go to bed and this place is closing anyway and it’s not far so please let’s go!”
Feliciano caught his breath after his long tirade and looked at him with his best puppy eyes.
“Please?”
“No. Way. And what the hell where you doing in that prick’s rooms when he was showering?”
“Lovinooooooooo!”
Lovino hated clubs. He enjoyed going out and drinking, having entertaining conversations about this and that and maybe flirting with a couple of girls, just like that night a few years ago, or tonight.
He didn’t see the point in going to a place where it was impossible to talk, the type of soulless music he hated drowning all voices, intoxicated people with empty gazes and hollow laughter. That may be fun for the Netherlands or Germany; countries that had lost in his view the most important things in life, the laughter of friends, a good chat, fine wine and fine food. The fun of being social, of putting first your friends and family and then everything else.
He didn’t mind going sometimes to the latin rhythm clubs he was dragged to regularly by Spain and his vast cohort of ex colonies -those times when they decided they were a family and loved each other instead of being at one another’s throats as usual- in some world meetings.
He could still chat and the music agreed more with him. It was a much more sensual experience as well, couples dancing, the art of flirting and seducing hanging heavy in the air, music thrumming through their bodies, laughter floating in the club’s smoky atmosphere. And Spain dancing. That was his favourite thing in those clubs. The way he and “the kids” moved was amazing; they could make a simple song into something sexual and graceful, his feelings mixed between pride and jealousy when he noticed so many stares directed to his former charge.
Re: Sorted out for E's and Whizz(3/?)
anonymous
March 15 2011, 03:59:13 UTC
It had been the same Spain the one that had made him hate the other kind of clubs as well. It had been in the early nineties, Wide, bright smile asking him to go with him clubbing in Ibiza, why not, Romano, is seriously one of the best places ever. It had been hell on earth. The electronic music, or noise, as Lovino would call it, was defeaning, the sweaty bodies, the damp heat, hot enough to condensate and start dripping from the ceiling and Fucking Hell, he knew that was sweat, so disgusting, so loud, so...empty in a way.
And the worst part had been Antonio. They’ve been separated early on, lost from each other in the crowd. Hundreds of people crammed together, dancing and walking around him, making him feel utterly forgotten and alone. After a few drinks he had to go to the toilets, and he got lost again, completely disorientated into the sea of people. When he finally got there he wished he had pissed against a wall or behind one of the sofas, as they seemed to be unisex, and every single cubicle seemed to be occupied by several people and there was no doubt of what several of them were used for. People were having sex. In the toilets. God’s sake, what the fuck was wrong with them? Lovino finally got to one that luckily had recently been used solely for the consumption of drugs judging by the faces of the three girls coming out of it. While he pissed he promised himself something. He was going to kill the Spanish bastard.
He’d found him a couple of hours later. Antonio had hugged him, overly happy, maybe far too happy, but Lovino had felt so relieved he forgot about the murdering plans, hoping that they could get going on their way back to Antonio’s villa by the beach. But Antonio didn’t listen to him, probably because the music had been so loud, so incredibly loud he could have been shouting his lungs off into his ear and it wouldn’t have any effect on the guy whatsoever. And then he had noticed Antonio’s spaced expression, even more than usual.
The bottle of water in his hand and the way he tilted his head back whilst dancing. His unfocused eyes, the heavy breath. The lack of his irritating chattering. Lovino didn’t know if it was the influence of the people around him; they were in the same state as Antonio was and after all they were his people. Just like Lovino felt a bit euphoric during his festivals, maybe Spain felt just like they did, exalted, exhilarated, high. Or maybe he had actually taken something. He hated to see him like that and he didn’t really want to know which of them it was.
He spent the rest of the never-ending night sitting in a sofa in a corner, watching Spain dance and saying no to invitations to take drugs and dance from strangers. It had been one of the worst nights of his life, feeling completely disconnected from Spain and completely abandoned. Antonio, the only person who was always trying to make him happy and pouring all of his attention onto him, was ignoring him. Even now the fact that Antonio was so proud of owning “The party capital of the World” irked him to no end. As if having a haven for depraved druggies was anything to be proud of. “Gomorra of the West” as others called it, was far more suitable.
Re: Sorted out for E's and Whizz(3/?)
anonymous
March 15 2011, 16:20:29 UTC
this looks really good! Kudos for including Portugal, and so many details about Spain's relationship with his colonies (the absence of South America makes this anon very sad).
I must admit lovino's views about Ibiza and dance night clubs mirrors mine. I thought Ibiza was a very beautiful island with a nightmarish nightlife, lol
Re: Sorted out for E's and Whizz(3/?)
anonymous
March 17 2011, 13:26:00 UTC
OP here! Author anon you rule!!!! I think I see where this is going as well and I can't wait for it! AAARRRGGGHHH! Have all my internets. I'm really happy you didn't go for Spamano, and Romano is so tsundere and just so...Romano! And I'm loving the references to Latin America and Portugal as well!
Sorted out for E's and Whizz(4/?)
anonymous
March 17 2011, 13:51:04 UTC
(I posted it in the wrong place, pardon my fail)
So no. He was not going to any club, specially not one where the potato bastard was going. It probably involved people dressed in leather with whips and moustaches and God knew what other perversions. He was drunk, but not that drunk, and he told Feliciano so.
And Feliciano resorted to what Lovino hated the most. He turned on the waterworks, telling Lovino between sobs how he hadn’t seen Ludwig for months and he didn’t want to go home yet and is only midnight and I swear is only for one hour or two, Lovino, sniff, I swear! The half incoherent rambling kept going on and on, and the older of the Italies noticed most people around them were staring at them by now. And he didn’t feel like going home either, he was a bit on the very-tipsy-a-bit-happy-what-the-hell-let’s-explore-side.
Justshutthefuckup it came out like a hiss, so he got up and downed his half full glass of wine -and at this time he’d realised that it was the fourth bottle; as Feliciano had asked for another one while he was spacing away thinking about Spain- when had he lost count?
“Where is this fucking place? Let’s just go.”
As if by magic the sobbing stopped and a bright wide smile appeared in Feliciano’s face and out of nowhere his arms were around Lovino, murmuring terms of endearment in his ear.
“Only for one hour, get it?”
“Yes, of course!”
Feliciano beamed at him. The stumbled their way up the stairs and out of the cozy wine bar, both of them noticing how much they’ve drunk once they started walking. They were next to the tube station and rode a few stops till Vauxhall, trying to sober up and failing, talking about inane things.
Sorted out for E's and Whizz(5/?)
anonymous
March 17 2011, 13:53:31 UTC
The address lead them to a nameless club under the arches of a railway bridge, if “club” could be used. It seemed that it was just one step above an illegal rave, judging by the looks of it. The bouncer gave them an up and down glance, but let them in. Much to Lovino’s relief there weren’t people dressed in leather, but even then him and Feliciano stood out like a sore thumb.
The music was similar to the one in that club, that time. Maybe it may had been a different genre, but to his ears all sounded like electronic thum-thum-thum. . It was far too loud and the place was far too packed. Lovino and Feliciano were the only ones dressed in “decent clothes” and Lovino worried about his Balenciaga shirt (finally a decent christmas present from that empty headed bastard, which had taken months of not so subtle convincing) getting all mucky or losing it’s buttons in the crowded club. Feliciano shouted in his ear how pleased he was that the place was not that big, as he just wanted to find Germany as soon as possible. And it was true, the place was small compared to that temple-like place in Ibiza. That was a relief because, Holy Christ, the Virgin Maria,all Saints in Heaven and the friggin sacred bleeding heart of Jesus, he didn’t want to stay long in this shithole. And he seriously should stop hanging around Spain so much as he was blaspheming as much as he did. Spain was a goddamned bad catholic, really.
Lovino pulled at Feliciano’s sleeve, pointing upwards, motioning him towards the stairs. The club was comprised of a huge dance floor with two bars at each side and a balcony-like smaller dance floor which probably would also have a bar, from where people could observe the main room and the other way around. If they wanted to spot anyone dancing it looked like the perfect view point.
He elbowed the crowd going up the stairs, thinking for the first time how amusing it would be seeing that frigid, stuck up, German dancing. Could he even dance at all? Maybe he could move to this cold, electronic beat,moving his body like a robot. Lovino snorted while he though about it. Even if he hated this kind of places the sight was going to be amusing at least. This place and Ludwig didn’t match at all. They fought their way through the crowd to the balustrade, stopping at the bar to order a bottle of wine. His request raised the barman’s eyebrows, not used to selling any of that fare, and he got presented with a bottle of cheap Australian Shiraz and two plastic cups.
Sorted out for E's and Whizz(6/?)
anonymous
March 17 2011, 14:02:01 UTC
It tasted like shit after the twenty fire pound Barolo, but at this point he didn’t care. Giving Feliciano a full cup he drank from the bottle, scanning the dance-floor below. A mass of bodies moved to the rhythm of the electronic beats. The air was damp, just like it had been in Ibiza, the temperature far too hot considering outside it was chilly English winter.
Some girls danced atop one of the platforms in what Lovino thought it was just bright coloured underwear. God’s he hated this place. Could anyone stand this noise if they weren’t on drugs? He watched the people around him and felt disgusted. Self-indulgent, hedonistic, so decadent.
He spent a good ten minutes scanning the dance floor, but there was no sign of the potato headed muscle man. He was about to pull Feliciano’s sleeve so he would follow him to have a walk around the club but he stopped in his tracks when he saw his brother’s expression.
Feliciano’s eyes were wide open, his lips slightly parted. From the close proximity they were in, he could see his bottom lip was trembling and his hands were holding the rail so hard his knuckles were visibly white, even in the changing lights of the club. Lovino followed his gaze, down to the packed dance floor, then he saw him.
He may had overlooked him before, as it was difficult to associate the guy dancing with the control freak screaming his lungs out in that morning’s meeting. He could only see his back, but he was almost sure that it was Germany, the muscled broad back and the blond hair giving him away. He was shirtless, a t-shirt tucked into the waistband of his jeans. His hair, even watching it from the back was not as it usually was. Not slicked back and perfectly styled. he could see it messily falling to the sides of his head, moving as he danced in a energetic way. Lovino looked back at his brother, about to question him about why wasn’t he rushing down and finally talking with the half naked oaf. God’s sake why did protestant countries had no sense of fucking modesty, seriously.
But Feli’s expression hadn’t changed. When he turned his head back from Feliciano to the dance floor he realised why. He was not sure if he hadn’t seen it or if it wasn’t there when he looked before, but there was a hand in the nape of Ludwig’s neck. Caressing it. Long fingers tangling with blond hair. Lovino couldn’t see the face or body of the hand’s owner as the broadness of Germany's back, the lights and the overall angle of Lovino’s position prevented him from seeing the person behind him.
Thanks a lot everyone for your comments! Anon1 : I hope so too! Anon2: Thanks! The lack of Portugal and Latin America makes me sad as well! And I would love to see some Argentina/Uruguay interaction with Spain and the Italies. (But I kind of like Ibiza's nightlife though!) Anon3: I'm sure England was dancing on a field all sorted for e's and whizz on the 90's... Anon4: Yes, he needs to! But if you go to both countries is remarkable how different the nightlife is, the italians are a lot more chilled out than the spaniards (I don't know of any other countries where people goes out for 8-9 hours at night and consider it "normal")
OP: Glad you like it! And yep, I think you can see from far away which pairing is going to be! :)
Re: Author Anon
anonymous
March 19 2011, 01:37:13 UTC
OP here! I love the update, and I'm so happy this seems to be going where I think is going -yes, I'm a bad person... -But I have to agree that your Lovino inner monologue is amazing, I'm loving it so much! Now you can have my internets and my babies too!
Re: Sorted out for E's and Whizz(6/?)
anonymous
March 25 2011, 05:00:25 UTC
A righteous anger surged through him. [i]That son of a bitch[/i]. That’s why he hadn’t invited Feliciano. The bastard was getting it on with someone, half-naked in some seedy nightclub.
He wanted to go down and bash his head in. He wanted to smash his face with a hard blunt object, -preferably with long spikes attached to it- till it was unrecognizable. Piece of shit. Damn Potato Eater Piece Of Shit.
He had gripped his bottle of wine after having a long swipe, prepared to go and crash it over the bastard’s head when Ludwig moved to let pass some stumbling person out of the dance floor, changing his position so Lovino could see his profile.
Time stopped.
The music suddenly felt sounded distorted, slower, a blur of underwater noise.
He could see the man dancing with the German now. The one dancing with Ludwig had his head tilted back, eyes closed whilst moving to the music, dancing effortlessly with a feline grace. Lovino knew which colour his eyes were, even if they were closed. They were bright green, like lush grass shining under the sun. Bright, cheerful, shining emerald eyes. He had dreamed about those eyes since he was a child, had wanted those eyes to look at him and only at him for the last five centuries. In his most sinful private fantasies he had wanted that muscular body above him, around him, taking him, making him scream. The body of a dancer, all lean muscles and soft contours, not as bulky as Germany was, much more graceful, muscles defined and sinuous, but yet incredibly powerful and strong; he had fantasized about it almost every night since he reached puberty.
Spain’s t-shirt was also tucked in the right back pocket of his jeans, his ripped torso glistening with sweat, the cross in his neck swinging with every one of his moves. With his eyes shut he smiled while he danced, far too close to Ludwig, with far too much abandon, a blissful expression on his face.
It was like the world had frozen. Like he was frozen, because he couldn’t move from that rail, couldn’t tear his eyes away from him. From them. Dancing together, grinding slightly against each other. He wanted to take Feliciano away, he wanted to go downstairs and tear them apart, to do something. ANYTHING, but somehow he felt like an spectator in the back of his own mind, just staring in morbid fascination. He just couldn’t take his eyes away from the two bodies below.
He stared when Ludwig’s hands moved to Antonio’s waist and leaned over to talk in his ear, which made the Spaniard’s eyes finally open savouringand look at him with a dazed smile. Stared when Antonio got something from his front pocket and and popped it onto Ludwig’s mouth. The probing fingers stayed in for far too long and Romano realised it was because they were being licked. Licked like Spain's fingers were some sort of candy, playfully them, and Spain seemed to think this was very amusing indeed, as he just laughed and gave Germany more digits to lick whilst looking at him with crinkled ayes. Lovino thought the action was disgusting but he couldn’t avert his gaze; in the back off his mind he wondered if Feliciano felt the same. Antonio’s other hand went to his left back pocket and offered Ludwig a bottle of water, and only then the other let go of his hand. The Spaniard’s now licked clean fingers went back to his trousers and took something for himself. They kept dancing, lost to the world, Antonio’s face back to that almost religious expression of bliss, Germany intently staring at him and smiling whilst moving energetically to the music.
Lovino had dragged his brother to a wine bar in Embankment, apparently one of the oldest in the city, a bar that Spain had showed them, France and Portugal a couple of years ago.
“I actually know a decent place in London” he had confided to them, talking in the same way as if he just said “I found a pink elephant under my bed”.
And he had been right. It wasn’t your typical english pub or your fake anglicized Italian, Spanish or French restaurant. The wine menu was as thick as a book and they sold nothing else but wine, no beer or spirits, making the dark, almost windowless place an ideal refuge from some annoying beer drinking idiots. Central European idiots. Potato idiots.
The atmosphere itself was quite charming, all wooden barrels and catacomb-like alcoves litted by candlelight. Spanish food was served but in a very english way, seafood, chorizo and cheese plates, and of course, Spanish owners and staff. But he didn’t throw it in Spain’s face at the time, even if in another situation he would have done, because in the little cellar rooms it felt somehow like they were in their own little private club, a small place were each of them was present even if they were in England’s place, and he knew he wasn’t the only one who felt like that. The dark alcoves and the dimmed light had made them strangely giddy and chatty.
They’ve had platters of cheese and cold meat, conversation flowing amongst them like the bottles of Broully, Chianti, Alentejo and Rioja they drank -one of each of them, to make things fair, each of them appreciating each other’s flavours, each other’s grapes, so much in common yet so different- and they hadn’t argued at all. It had been a night of fun and banter accompanied by outrageous amounts of wine and good food.
He specially remembered Spain’s clear laughter against the dark walls (crinkled grass green eyes contrasted by dark hair that had made his heart beat go faster every time they looked at him), a crystalline sound provoked by France’s lewd stories or Portugal’s dry humour. It had been a nice evening, one of the best nights out after a world meeting in the last decade. Maybe that was the reason he had wanted to come back.
Beyond the thick windows the weather was rainy and miserable, unlike that starry summery night they’d spent there. The smell of wine, cigarettes and greenery surrounding them when they’ve moved to the terrace back there was engraved on his brain but he could only smell candles and damp this time around.
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Antonio had also disappeared in the late afternoon, probably with Argentina and Uruguay, whom Lovino had seen him talking to at lunchtime.
Whatever. It wasn’t like he cared about what that Spanish bastard did. And it wasn’t like those two were almost like sons to him and Feliciano too, no, that was alright. They all could go together to Hell. Ungrateful bitches.
“...so why don’t we go? Is not far and we have our card-thingys to travel!
Lovi? Lovinooo!!!”
The eldest of the Italies was suddenly taken out of his train of thought about ungrateful Latin American ex-colonies who spoke italian accented Spanish and handsome Iberian idiots by Feliciano’s loud whining.
“Go where?”
“To the club, Lovino, to the club! Weren’t you listening?. I saw it in Ludwig’s laptop when he was showering! He had a search on for the address, and I know he didn’t invite me because we normally don’t go t to this places but I really want to see him now and I don’t want to go to bed and this place is closing anyway and it’s not far so please let’s go!”
Feliciano caught his breath after his long tirade and looked at him with his best puppy eyes.
“Please?”
“No. Way. And what the hell where you doing in that prick’s rooms when he was showering?”
“Lovinooooooooo!”
Lovino hated clubs. He enjoyed going out and drinking, having entertaining conversations about this and that and maybe flirting with a couple of girls, just like that night a few years ago, or tonight.
He didn’t see the point in going to a place where it was impossible to talk, the type of soulless music he hated drowning all voices, intoxicated people with empty gazes and hollow laughter.
That may be fun for the Netherlands or Germany; countries that had lost in his view the most important things in life, the laughter of friends, a good chat, fine wine and fine food. The fun of being social, of putting first your friends and family and then everything else.
He didn’t mind going sometimes to the latin rhythm clubs he was dragged to regularly by Spain and his vast cohort of ex colonies -those times when they decided they were a family and loved each other instead of being at one another’s throats as usual- in some world meetings.
He could still chat and the music agreed more with him. It was a much more sensual experience as well, couples dancing, the art of flirting and seducing hanging heavy in the air, music thrumming through their bodies, laughter floating in the club’s smoky atmosphere. And Spain dancing. That was his favourite thing in those clubs. The way he and “the kids” moved was amazing; they could make a simple song into something sexual and graceful, his feelings mixed between pride and jealousy when he noticed so many stares directed to his former charge.
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And the worst part had been Antonio. They’ve been separated early on, lost from each other in the crowd. Hundreds of people crammed together, dancing and walking around him, making him feel utterly forgotten and alone. After a few drinks he had to go to the toilets, and he got lost again, completely disorientated into the sea of people.
When he finally got there he wished he had pissed against a wall or behind one of the sofas, as they seemed to be unisex, and every single cubicle seemed to be occupied by several people and there was no doubt of what several of them were used for. People were having sex. In the toilets. God’s sake, what the fuck was wrong with them?
Lovino finally got to one that luckily had recently been used solely for the consumption of drugs judging by the faces of the three girls coming out of it. While he pissed he promised himself something. He was going to kill the Spanish bastard.
He’d found him a couple of hours later. Antonio had hugged him, overly happy, maybe far too happy, but Lovino had felt so relieved he forgot about the murdering plans, hoping that they could get going on their way back to Antonio’s villa by the beach. But Antonio didn’t listen to him, probably because the music had been so loud, so incredibly loud he could have been shouting his lungs off into his ear and it wouldn’t have any effect on the guy whatsoever. And then he had noticed Antonio’s spaced expression, even more than usual.
The bottle of water in his hand and the way he tilted his head back whilst dancing. His unfocused eyes, the heavy breath. The lack of his irritating chattering. Lovino didn’t know if it was the influence of the people around him; they were in the same state as Antonio was and after all they were his people.
Just like Lovino felt a bit euphoric during his festivals, maybe Spain felt just like they did, exalted, exhilarated, high. Or maybe he had actually taken something. He hated to see him like that and he didn’t really want to know which of them it was.
He spent the rest of the never-ending night sitting in a sofa in a corner, watching Spain dance and saying no to invitations to take drugs and dance from strangers. It had been one of the worst nights of his life, feeling completely disconnected from Spain and completely abandoned.
Antonio, the only person who was always trying to make him happy and pouring all of his attention onto him, was ignoring him.
Even now the fact that Antonio was so proud of owning “The party capital of the World” irked him to no end. As if having a haven for depraved druggies was anything to be proud of. “Gomorra of the West” as others called it, was far more suitable.
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I must admit lovino's views about Ibiza and dance night clubs mirrors mine. I thought Ibiza was a very beautiful island with a nightmarish nightlife, lol
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Also, obligatory musical reference: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-9H_W3-xHBg
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Author anon you rule!!!! I think I see where this is going as well and I can't wait for it! AAARRRGGGHHH! Have all my internets. I'm really happy you didn't go for Spamano, and Romano is so tsundere and just so...Romano! And I'm loving the references to Latin America and Portugal as well!
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So no. He was not going to any club, specially not one where the potato bastard was going. It probably involved people dressed in leather with whips and moustaches and God knew what other perversions.
He was drunk, but not that drunk, and he told Feliciano so.
And Feliciano resorted to what Lovino hated the most. He turned on the waterworks, telling Lovino between sobs how he hadn’t seen Ludwig for months and he didn’t want to go home yet and is only midnight and I swear is only for one hour or two, Lovino, sniff, I swear!
The half incoherent rambling kept going on and on, and the older of the Italies noticed most people around them were staring at them by now. And he didn’t feel like going home either, he was a bit on the very-tipsy-a-bit-happy-what-the-hell-let’s-explore-side.
Justshutthefuckup it came out like a hiss, so he got up and downed his half full glass of wine -and at this time he’d realised that it was the fourth bottle; as Feliciano had asked for another one while he was spacing away thinking about Spain- when had he lost count?
“Where is this fucking place? Let’s just go.”
As if by magic the sobbing stopped and a bright wide smile appeared in Feliciano’s face and out of nowhere his arms were around Lovino, murmuring terms of endearment in his ear.
“Only for one hour, get it?”
“Yes, of course!”
Feliciano beamed at him. The stumbled their way up the stairs and out of the cozy wine bar, both of them noticing how much they’ve drunk once they started walking. They were next to the tube station and rode a few stops till Vauxhall, trying to sober up and failing, talking about inane things.
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The music was similar to the one in that club, that time. Maybe it may had been a different genre, but to his ears all sounded like electronic thum-thum-thum. . It was far too loud and the place was far too packed. Lovino and Feliciano were the only ones dressed in “decent clothes” and Lovino worried about his Balenciaga shirt (finally a decent christmas present from that empty headed bastard, which had taken months of not so subtle convincing) getting all mucky or losing it’s buttons in the crowded club.
Feliciano shouted in his ear how pleased he was that the place was not that big, as he just wanted to find Germany as soon as possible. And it was true, the place was small compared to that temple-like place in Ibiza. That was a relief because, Holy Christ, the Virgin Maria,all Saints in Heaven and the friggin sacred bleeding heart of Jesus, he didn’t want to stay long in this shithole. And he seriously should stop hanging around Spain so much as he was blaspheming as much as he did. Spain was a goddamned bad catholic, really.
Lovino pulled at Feliciano’s sleeve, pointing upwards, motioning him towards the stairs.
The club was comprised of a huge dance floor with two bars at each side and a balcony-like smaller dance floor which probably would also have a bar, from where people could observe the main room and the other way around. If they wanted to spot anyone dancing it looked like the perfect view point.
He elbowed the crowd going up the stairs, thinking for the first time how amusing it would be seeing that frigid, stuck up, German dancing. Could he even dance at all?
Maybe he could move to this cold, electronic beat,moving his body like a robot. Lovino snorted while he though about it. Even if he hated this kind of places the sight was going to be amusing at least. This place and Ludwig didn’t match at all. They fought their way through the crowd to the balustrade, stopping at the bar to order a bottle of wine. His request raised the barman’s eyebrows, not used to selling any of that fare, and he got presented with a bottle of cheap Australian Shiraz and two plastic cups.
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Some girls danced atop one of the platforms in what Lovino thought it was just bright coloured underwear. God’s he hated this place. Could anyone stand this noise if they weren’t on drugs? He watched the people around him and felt disgusted. Self-indulgent, hedonistic, so decadent.
He spent a good ten minutes scanning the dance floor, but there was no sign of the potato headed muscle man. He was about to pull Feliciano’s sleeve so he would follow him to have a walk around the club but he stopped in his tracks when he saw his brother’s expression.
Feliciano’s eyes were wide open, his lips slightly parted. From the close proximity they were in, he could see his bottom lip was trembling and his hands were holding the rail so hard his knuckles were visibly white, even in the changing lights of the club. Lovino followed his gaze, down to the packed dance floor, then he saw him.
He may had overlooked him before, as it was difficult to associate the guy dancing with the control freak screaming his lungs out in that morning’s meeting. He could only see his back, but he was almost sure that it was Germany, the muscled broad back and the blond hair giving him away. He was shirtless, a t-shirt tucked into the waistband of his jeans. His hair, even watching it from the back was not as it usually was. Not slicked back and perfectly styled. he could see it messily falling to the sides of his head, moving as he danced in a energetic way.
Lovino looked back at his brother, about to question him about why wasn’t he rushing down and finally talking with the half naked oaf. God’s sake why did protestant countries had no sense of fucking modesty, seriously.
But Feli’s expression hadn’t changed.
When he turned his head back from Feliciano to the dance floor he realised why. He was not sure if he hadn’t seen it or if it wasn’t there when he looked before, but there was a hand in the nape of Ludwig’s neck. Caressing it. Long fingers tangling with blond hair.
Lovino couldn’t see the face or body of the hand’s owner as the broadness of Germany's back, the lights and the overall angle of Lovino’s position prevented him from seeing the person behind him.
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Anon1 : I hope so too!
Anon2: Thanks! The lack of Portugal and Latin America makes me sad as well! And I would love to see some Argentina/Uruguay interaction with Spain and the Italies. (But I kind of like Ibiza's nightlife though!)
Anon3: I'm sure England was dancing on a field all sorted for e's and whizz on the 90's...
Anon4: Yes, he needs to! But if you go to both countries is remarkable how different the nightlife is, the italians are a lot more chilled out than the spaniards (I don't know of any other countries where people goes out for 8-9 hours at night and consider it "normal")
OP: Glad you like it! And yep, I think you can see from far away which pairing is going to be! :)
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I love the update, and I'm so happy this seems to be going where I think is going -yes, I'm a bad person... -But I have to agree that your Lovino inner monologue is amazing, I'm loving it so much! Now you can have my internets and my babies too!
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Anon, you win many, many internets. I loooove how your writing is almost like Romano's stream-of-conciousness. He is so awesome, I love him XD
More soon, please! =D
*bookmarks*
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[i]That son of a bitch[/i]. That’s why he hadn’t invited Feliciano. The bastard was getting it on with someone, half-naked in some seedy nightclub.
He wanted to go down and bash his head in. He wanted to smash his face with a hard blunt object, -preferably with long spikes attached to it- till it was unrecognizable. Piece of shit. Damn Potato Eater Piece Of Shit.
He had gripped his bottle of wine after having a long swipe, prepared to go and crash it over the bastard’s head when Ludwig moved to let pass some stumbling person out of the dance floor, changing his position so Lovino could see his profile.
Time stopped.
The music suddenly felt sounded distorted, slower, a blur of underwater noise.
He could see the man dancing with the German now. The one dancing with Ludwig had his head tilted back, eyes closed whilst moving to the music, dancing effortlessly with a feline grace. Lovino knew which colour his eyes were, even if they were closed. They were bright green, like lush grass shining under the sun. Bright, cheerful, shining emerald eyes. He had dreamed about those eyes since he was a child, had wanted those eyes to look at him and only at him for the last five centuries. In his most sinful private fantasies he had wanted that muscular body above him, around him, taking him, making him scream.
The body of a dancer, all lean muscles and soft contours, not as bulky as Germany was, much more graceful, muscles defined and sinuous, but yet incredibly powerful and strong; he had fantasized about it almost every night since he reached puberty.
Spain’s t-shirt was also tucked in the right back pocket of his jeans, his ripped torso glistening with sweat, the cross in his neck swinging with every one of his moves. With his eyes shut he smiled while he danced, far too close to Ludwig, with far too much abandon, a blissful expression on his face.
It was like the world had frozen. Like he was frozen, because he couldn’t move from that rail, couldn’t tear his eyes away from him. From them. Dancing together, grinding slightly against each other. He wanted to take Feliciano away, he wanted to go downstairs and tear them apart, to do something. ANYTHING, but somehow he felt like an spectator in the back of his own mind, just staring in morbid fascination. He just couldn’t take his eyes away from the two bodies below.
He stared when Ludwig’s hands moved to Antonio’s waist and leaned over to talk in his ear, which made the Spaniard’s eyes finally open savouringand look at him with a dazed smile. Stared when Antonio got something from his front pocket and and popped it onto Ludwig’s mouth.
The probing fingers stayed in for far too long and Romano realised it was because they were being licked. Licked like Spain's fingers were some sort of candy, playfully them, and Spain seemed to think this was very amusing indeed, as he just laughed and gave Germany more digits to lick whilst looking at him with crinkled ayes.
Lovino thought the action was disgusting but he couldn’t avert his gaze; in the back off his mind he wondered if Feliciano felt the same.
Antonio’s other hand went to his left back pocket and offered Ludwig a bottle of water, and only then the other let go of his hand.
The Spaniard’s now licked clean fingers went back to his trousers and took something for himself. They kept dancing, lost to the world, Antonio’s face back to that almost religious expression of bliss, Germany intently staring at him and smiling whilst moving energetically to the music.
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