Triumvirate: Noodles are long and thin, like string and human lives[2/2] (mess-up in numbering)
anonymous
April 30 2009, 06:19:05 UTC
North Italy bounds over to the soup pot and uncovers the lid. The smell of the broth is savory and just a little salty, but surprisingly clean, not greasy. “Ve- It smells so good!” He stirs it around a few times with the ladle, breathing in the steam before scooping out a bit. Then he freezes.
“Oh,” he says in a very small voice, staring at the chunks of potato in the soup.
“Feli? What’s wrong?” South Korea is in the middle of counting eggs but he looks over there. “Don’t tell me that it tastes awful-”
Feliciano looks at the ladle of soup steadily growing stone cold. Potatoes, neatly cubed. Bits of onion, clear and soft. He doesn’t realize the tears starting to form in his eyes.
“Italy?” asks a very quiet voice behind him. “What’s wrong?”
He turns around swiftly, still gripping the ladle in a death grip. The man behind him is tall, the voice pitched just low enough that he might- he might- But hair that should be blonde and combed very precisely is black and wild around a rounded face, not a chiseled one. Blue eyes are replaced with pitch black ones. No smell of shoe polish and leather and perhaps a little of dog, only garlic and pepper and a mild smell of medical astringent.
Feliciano swallows his tears. “Nothing!” he babbles. “Nothing at all! I’m just being silly, honestly!” He sips the broth quickly, but he is unable to eat the potatoes, the onions. Miserable and tense, he stares at them again, tears threatening his eyes.
Then, softly, thin arms surround him. A hand rests on the back of his head and gently turns his face to a narrow shoulder. “Sh…” whispers a quiet voice, steady but very sad. “If you want to cry, cry.”
And Feliciano does cry. He sobs, his entire body shaking as a thin hand strokes his hair and gently pats his back. After a minute, he forgets why he’s crying, only that he is and that nothing is all right and it’s all wrong… But the tears eventually stop flowing and he does feel better, a lot better. Sniffling, he still buries his face into Yong-soo’s shoulder.
“I- I’m sorry,” he says through his sniffling. “I’m getting you all messy.”
“It’s just a shirt.” South Korea offers him a nearby dishrag and North Italy blows his nose on it.
“You have a special person, don’t you?” Yong-soo asks softly. “A very, very special person.”
North Italy nods. “G-Germany,” he says, miserably. “Doitsu.”
He does notice that Yong-soo looks a little tense at the Japanese term but it vanishes.
“Ah. I’m sorry,” the Asian man says after a moment. “I’m very sorry.” His voice is very polite and very sad but he seems to mean every word of it.
“I-It’s silly of me, isn’t it?” Feliciano says, rubbing at his eyes. “I just saw potatoes and then… and then….”
“Oh,” he says in a very small voice, staring at the chunks of potato in the soup.
“Feli? What’s wrong?” South Korea is in the middle of counting eggs but he looks over there. “Don’t tell me that it tastes awful-”
Feliciano looks at the ladle of soup steadily growing stone cold. Potatoes, neatly cubed. Bits of onion, clear and soft. He doesn’t realize the tears starting to form in his eyes.
“Italy?” asks a very quiet voice behind him. “What’s wrong?”
He turns around swiftly, still gripping the ladle in a death grip. The man behind him is tall, the voice pitched just low enough that he might- he might- But hair that should be blonde and combed very precisely is black and wild around a rounded face, not a chiseled one. Blue eyes are replaced with pitch black ones. No smell of shoe polish and leather and perhaps a little of dog, only garlic and pepper and a mild smell of medical astringent.
Feliciano swallows his tears. “Nothing!” he babbles. “Nothing at all! I’m just being silly, honestly!” He sips the broth quickly, but he is unable to eat the potatoes, the onions. Miserable and tense, he stares at them again, tears threatening his eyes.
Then, softly, thin arms surround him. A hand rests on the back of his head and gently turns his face to a narrow shoulder. “Sh…” whispers a quiet voice, steady but very sad. “If you want to cry, cry.”
And Feliciano does cry. He sobs, his entire body shaking as a thin hand strokes his hair and gently pats his back. After a minute, he forgets why he’s crying, only that he is and that nothing is all right and it’s all wrong… But the tears eventually stop flowing and he does feel better, a lot better. Sniffling, he still buries his face into Yong-soo’s shoulder.
“I- I’m sorry,” he says through his sniffling. “I’m getting you all messy.”
“It’s just a shirt.” South Korea offers him a nearby dishrag and North Italy blows his nose on it.
“You have a special person, don’t you?” Yong-soo asks softly. “A very, very special person.”
North Italy nods. “G-Germany,” he says, miserably. “Doitsu.”
He does notice that Yong-soo looks a little tense at the Japanese term but it vanishes.
“Ah. I’m sorry,” the Asian man says after a moment. “I’m very sorry.” His voice is very polite and very sad but he seems to mean every word of it.
“I-It’s silly of me, isn’t it?” Feliciano says, rubbing at his eyes. “I just saw potatoes and then… and then….”
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