Here is my Heart [1/?]
anonymous
July 15 2009, 09:14:04 UTC
“Lovino~ I have something for you!” Antonio shouted cheerfully, bursting into the kitchen. Bracing himself with one hand on the doorway, he slid into the kitchen, and, with a grand flourish, presented a plump, shining tomato in his outstretched hand. The tomato was perfect and firm and ripe with a deep, rich red color-the color of love and passion and of the blood that rushed to Lovino’s cheeks when he was embarrassed or angry or trying to cover his pleasure. As soon as Antonio saw it, growing strong amongst its brother tomatoes and the lush greenery of the garden and stubbornly pushing itself through the artfully wild maze of vines, he wanted to present it to the stubborn young Italian who would, no doubt, scowl and grumble and fuss, saying how stupid the gift and Antonio are all while a barely-there glimmer of pleasure would flash in his vivid hazel eyes. And then, he would look away and mutter a soft thanks, hoping that he, Antonio, wouldn’t but knowing he would hear, while the faintest of blushes-the same dusting of red that appears on ripening tomatoes-would adorn his cheeks.
And Antonio would fall again for his mercurial charge. But he would reign in the urge to touch the younger man, control the desire to conquer and possess and hoard, and hold back the need and love that pumped in his veins and seared his heart with each beat that demanded that he confess his adoration for the Italian who cursed and fought him and took so much from him. The Italian who tried so hard to prove that he was useful, that he wasn’t the weaker, that he was worthy. The Italian who glared during the day and curled up with him during siestas. But Spain would stay in control. He would be patient with the boy. Instead of doing what his soul and heart screamed, he would chuckle and ruffle the dark waves of hair, saying “If only your hair were green, Lovi. Then you’d look just like a tomato~”
He may be the country of passion. But even he refused to let it govern his life. He was Spain, once a great empire, who still wielded much power across the great ocean, invoking fear and awe and burning jealousy amongst his follow nations. He conquered the new world in the name of God and Glory. He could still feel his old strength, crackling under his skin, and taste the heady flavor of power on his tongue.
He would not fall prey to the foolish emotions battling, burning, and clawing at his ribs. He loved Lovino. And, one day, and yes, with God’s grace, he would wait until eternity’s hourglass shed its last grain, the charmingly obstinate youth would be his.
But, first he’d have to find out where his young charge had gone. Because the kitchen was depressingly empty.
“Ehh?” Antonio blinked several times, emerald gaze darting around room, with tomato still outstretched. “He’s not here.”
Normally, the grumpy Italian could be found in the kitchen at this time boiling pasta, tossing spices and herbs into a pot, and mumbling choice words in his mother tongue with a white handkerchief around his hair and a matching smock in preparation for lunch.
“Perhaps he went to the market?” Antonio wondered aloud, pulling the delicious gift closer to him. Glancing down at the tomato, he decided that he would just meet Lovino on his way and give him the gift. The Spaniard did not feel like waiting around in the empty manor. It was too quiet, too easy to think, too lonely with memories and unspoken truths and hidden gazes.
And Antonio would fall again for his mercurial charge. But he would reign in the urge to touch the younger man, control the desire to conquer and possess and hoard, and hold back the need and love that pumped in his veins and seared his heart with each beat that demanded that he confess his adoration for the Italian who cursed and fought him and took so much from him. The Italian who tried so hard to prove that he was useful, that he wasn’t the weaker, that he was worthy. The Italian who glared during the day and curled up with him during siestas. But Spain would stay in control. He would be patient with the boy. Instead of doing what his soul and heart screamed, he would chuckle and ruffle the dark waves of hair, saying “If only your hair were green, Lovi. Then you’d look just like a tomato~”
He may be the country of passion. But even he refused to let it govern his life. He was Spain, once a great empire, who still wielded much power across the great ocean, invoking fear and awe and burning jealousy amongst his follow nations. He conquered the new world in the name of God and Glory. He could still feel his old strength, crackling under his skin, and taste the heady flavor of power on his tongue.
He would not fall prey to the foolish emotions battling, burning, and clawing at his ribs. He loved Lovino. And, one day, and yes, with God’s grace, he would wait until eternity’s hourglass shed its last grain, the charmingly obstinate youth would be his.
But, first he’d have to find out where his young charge had gone. Because the kitchen was depressingly empty.
“Ehh?” Antonio blinked several times, emerald gaze darting around room, with tomato still outstretched. “He’s not here.”
Normally, the grumpy Italian could be found in the kitchen at this time boiling pasta, tossing spices and herbs into a pot, and mumbling choice words in his mother tongue with a white handkerchief around his hair and a matching smock in preparation for lunch.
“Perhaps he went to the market?” Antonio wondered aloud, pulling the delicious gift closer to him. Glancing down at the tomato, he decided that he would just meet Lovino on his way and give him the gift. The Spaniard did not feel like waiting around in the empty manor. It was too quiet, too easy to think, too lonely with memories and unspoken truths and hidden gazes.
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