Venganza (1b/?)
anonymous
November 25 2011, 07:20:09 UTC
Holding his cutlass up in a defensive stance he moved quickly across the threshold... but he was not met with the fierce onslaught he was expecting. In fact, the quarters were quite vacant; straight across from him on the far side of the room heaps of well-used maps, bottles, and other trinkets and sundries were scattered about the chamber and across a worn mahogany desk, but the chair behind it was empty of its usual Spanish occupant.
England let the door swing slowly shut behind him, scowling in irritation. This made no sense-half a dozen candles were spread across the room, all of them still burning as though someone had been using them just recently. So where the bloody hell was-
"È ora che tu torni, stronzo! Dove cazzo eri?"
The Empire whipped his gaze over to the right, to the corner closest to the door, and stepped forward slightly. As he did the small nook there that had been hidden from his view came into sight, as did a figure garbed in simple but high-quality white vestments. He knelt in front of a small set of shelves with his back turned, but England didn't need to see the teen's face to know who he was; he was older than England remembered, and much taller, but his attitude was as abrasive as ever.
The younger nation stood to return the worn book he'd been perusing to its shelf while the Empire looked on silently, pondering what course of action to take. Knowing how protective his adversary was of the boy, England would never have imagined he would come across him here in the Canaries of all places, much less out on the water, alone except for a human crew in such a pathetically protected ship where he was so... vulnerable.
Well, there was no way he was going to give up this opportunity. England secured his cutlass in the leather baldric at his side and slowly began to close the distance between the younger nation and himself. Unaware, the teen continued his complaining as he collected up an armful of rolled parchments.
"Su questa nave non c'è mai nulla da mangiare! Muoio di fame! E che cazzo era quel rumo-?"
But at that point the boy turned, and as he caught sight of the Empire he visibly froze and his scowl melted into a barely disguised expression of fear.
"In...Inghilterra?" he faltered.
England smirked at the reaction.
"Italia Romano. It's been a long time," he said conversationally, continuing to close the distance between them. "Still the Spaniard's pet, I see."
"N-non parlo la tua stupida lingua, stronzo!" the Italian said, clinging tighter to his scrolls.
England had long ago recognized the advantages of being familiar with his enemies' languages, and Spain's was no exception; so although he was unfamiliar with the younger nation's language, it was close enough to his rival's native tongue for him to get the gist of it.
"Ah, pero yo hablo español," he replied, in an accent that weighed down the naturally lilting words.
The boy's eyes went wide in recognition for half a moment, then fluttered away as he attempted to feign ignorance. The older nation narrowed his own eyes and pressed forward again, this time not stopping his approach until the other was forced to halt his retreat as his back came into contact with the wall. England closed the final distance between them, trapping Romano with an outstretched arm. In his nervousness the boy let his scrolls tumble to the floor.
"No me ignores, niñato," England insisted, then continued in the foreign tongue, "I know you speak it, so unless you want me to force it out of you, don't play your bloody games with me."
The teen pressed himself as far back against the wall as he could and looked defiantly up at the older man, but after a moment he answered in flawless, only faintly accented Spanish. "Look, bastard, I don't know what you're doing here, but if you don't leave Spain's going to kick your ass all the way back to your stupid rainy island when he gets back."
The boy smirked, but England returned the smug look with one of his own.
"How unfortunate, then, that he isn't here," England said. "But as it is, you are quite alone."
England let the door swing slowly shut behind him, scowling in irritation. This made no sense-half a dozen candles were spread across the room, all of them still burning as though someone had been using them just recently. So where the bloody hell was-
"È ora che tu torni, stronzo! Dove cazzo eri?"
The Empire whipped his gaze over to the right, to the corner closest to the door, and stepped forward slightly. As he did the small nook there that had been hidden from his view came into sight, as did a figure garbed in simple but high-quality white vestments. He knelt in front of a small set of shelves with his back turned, but England didn't need to see the teen's face to know who he was; he was older than England remembered, and much taller, but his attitude was as abrasive as ever.
The younger nation stood to return the worn book he'd been perusing to its shelf while the Empire looked on silently, pondering what course of action to take. Knowing how protective his adversary was of the boy, England would never have imagined he would come across him here in the Canaries of all places, much less out on the water, alone except for a human crew in such a pathetically protected ship where he was so... vulnerable.
Well, there was no way he was going to give up this opportunity. England secured his cutlass in the leather baldric at his side and slowly began to close the distance between the younger nation and himself. Unaware, the teen continued his complaining as he collected up an armful of rolled parchments.
"Su questa nave non c'è mai nulla da mangiare! Muoio di fame! E che cazzo era quel rumo-?"
But at that point the boy turned, and as he caught sight of the Empire he visibly froze and his scowl melted into a barely disguised expression of fear.
"In...Inghilterra?" he faltered.
England smirked at the reaction.
"Italia Romano. It's been a long time," he said conversationally, continuing to close the distance between them. "Still the Spaniard's pet, I see."
"N-non parlo la tua stupida lingua, stronzo!" the Italian said, clinging tighter to his scrolls.
England had long ago recognized the advantages of being familiar with his enemies' languages, and Spain's was no exception; so although he was unfamiliar with the younger nation's language, it was close enough to his rival's native tongue for him to get the gist of it.
"Ah, pero yo hablo español," he replied, in an accent that weighed down the naturally lilting words.
The boy's eyes went wide in recognition for half a moment, then fluttered away as he attempted to feign ignorance. The older nation narrowed his own eyes and pressed forward again, this time not stopping his approach until the other was forced to halt his retreat as his back came into contact with the wall. England closed the final distance between them, trapping Romano with an outstretched arm. In his nervousness the boy let his scrolls tumble to the floor.
"No me ignores, niñato," England insisted, then continued in the foreign tongue, "I know you speak it, so unless you want me to force it out of you, don't play your bloody games with me."
The teen pressed himself as far back against the wall as he could and looked defiantly up at the older man, but after a moment he answered in flawless, only faintly accented Spanish. "Look, bastard, I don't know what you're doing here, but if you don't leave Spain's going to kick your ass all the way back to your stupid rainy island when he gets back."
The boy smirked, but England returned the smug look with one of his own.
"How unfortunate, then, that he isn't here," England said. "But as it is, you are quite alone."
Reply
Leave a comment