hetalia oneshot || blonde april;
IM IN UR FRIENDS LIST...CLUTTERIN SHIZ UP.
title: Blonde April
pairing: Spain/France
rating: PG-...15? XD
summary: A month, a year, is like blinking when you live as long as they do; but centuries is a different thing altogether, and France wonders how much longer it'll take for Spain to realize.
☆BLONDE APRIL
France could say he was getting impatient...night was on him now (clinging dark to his jacket sleeves), cold, and the remnants of rain were fast as neon underneath the tires of cars going by. Dark skies were some refuge from the morning's gray but then again, it must have been a sin to wait so long. Bright metro lights stamped against inky darkness...an American tourist grumbled past him, looking resentful off all the lies he’d been told about “Paris in the spring” (Paris in the spring indeed! but best bring an umbrella; and besides, silly American, this was Bordeaux). France smiled inwardly at being able to trick the American peoples, but it was a temporary satisfaction, chalky, almost a dissatisfaction. The steam train minutes; he tapped his foot on the concrete subconsciously.
He was waiting for Spain and Spain was taking too long. Actually, getting to this point had been months of last-minute reschedules and now-is-not-a-good-times. It was mostly because of political duties, more often on Spain’s part; Spain wasn’t really as well-off as France was, had to work harder for some things- but France understood and was patient. Finally they had both been free around the same time, the first week of April, and they’d planned to meet today. Then “today” had turned into “tonight,” because Spain had to do...something. France hadn’t really understood it, because Spain, silly thing, was too excited and was babbling incoherently- maybe it had something to do with a party of some sort. France couldn’t tell. Anyway, it seemed important or exciting and France wasn’t one to rain on anyone’s parade, so he gave the okay-go. But now Spain was already an hour late and, while France didn’t much mind lateness, the fact that it was Spain bothered him.
-Maybe because he actually cared? Or what was the word for it...he tried to think of some better means of expression, but he didn’t know if there was an eloquent way to put it. Some motorcycle Jean passed by with his ti belle, and he thought that maybe that was what he was thinking of- impatience to be together.
It was that, even though they’d been rescheduling for only a couple of months, and even though Spain was only an hour late, he’d been waiting for much, much longer than that. An hour, a week, a month, a year- to somebody who’d lived so long it was only a penny dropping into shallow water. But centuries stretched like blue smoke, and France just wondered how much longer it’d take to get next to Spain. The fact that Spain was a bit of a dummy didn’t help much either- maybe France would have to be more forceful...
He was at the point of worrying that Spain had gotten into some traffic mishap (like a freak truck explosion or something) when, as though to punctuate his doubting, a compact Fiat’s headlights blinked through the wet air. It was bright metallic blue, familiar because it was so carelessly banged-up; hot desert dust rose, fanned out from the bottom of the car, gradually thinning as it reached the windows. One cheerful honk; then it pulled up in front of him, and he smiled carefully, folded his arms.
-Ignition turned off; dull clatter of the door opening, and the first thing he saw was Spain’s head of dark curls pop up from the chassis. He turned around, saw France and smiled- that smile, hypnotic sun and brightly slashing, cutting through his senses- shouting a bright, “Hola!” No endearments, his voice was endearment enough. France was about to respond while Spain rounded about the car- but he stopped himself short when he saw how Spain was dressed. He was shivering into a down jacket, but he had the high-waisted pants and crisp shirt of the traje corto- the boots, too.
“Ay! It’s so cold!” Spain exclaimed, rubbing his hands together.
France paused; he neared Spain, reached to trace his jaw with a light metal touch. “-What a surprise! I had expected mon frere plus cher and I’ve received a matador!” he said, with a sly smirk.
Spain cocked his head, blinking. “Huh?”
“Your clothes,” France reminded.
Spain paused, then laughed. “Ah, that! You didn’t know? I told you on the phone- it was the Feria de Abril!” He lifted his jacket a bit and gestured to the opulent waistband, as if to punctuate his point. “You should see what I brought!”
France looked at Spain incredulously. “In Sevilla?” Spain nodded with an eager “si!”; France strung his arm up around Spain’s shoulders, turned both of them back to the car (it was the beat of some city pink song, the way Spain’s shoulders were strong, fit so smooth under his arm). “Well, show me, then.”
Spain tugged the door open (or tried to tug it open; first it was a futile effort, then he remembered that he had to unlock the car). “Mira, people kept giving me their stuff,” he said, reaching recklessly inside and snatching up a lace-trimmed claret fan. He opened it with a flick of the wrist and showed it to France. “This was from a girl- and there was a man, sold me his guitar- and then somebody gave us free food, even though we didn’t know them- and we stayed in their tent for a while- I was so happy that Romanito came with! He danced, it was fun- you should come next time.”
Spain went on, words bright and tangled, and France half-listened as he ducked his head inside and looked over the assortment of colorful things in the back seat. It was dusty...there were artificial flowers twisted in makeshift color, candy wrappers, a box of Rabitos Royale- the aforementioned guitar (Spain tossed the girl’s fan next it)...there was an abandoned change of clothes, jeans and a proper shirt and a pair of canvas sneakers. And in a bold shade, the flat, wide-brimmed hat that France had never known the name of. He took it from the seat, put it on and looked back toward Spain (trying to find his place in Spain’s words):
“-It was like, what do you call it- a moment of truth! Claro; and then the horse ran off and we never found it. And then I had to go.”
France smiled and nodded; with an effortless movement he sidled up into Spain’s frame, insinuated himself, sort of- arms slung low around Spain’s waist. “It’s so cold here,” Spain mused again, as though he’d just realized it. Close now, he could smell sweet and smoke lingering around Spain’s body; could see the feria still turning like a pinwheel in his bright eyes.
“Hm,” France said, not giving much other answer because he was busy at the moment- kissing Spain’s jaw, his neck. Spain just laughed; France paused and looked up at Spain. “Ah, that’s right- it’s starting to get hot in Sevilla, yes?”
“Yeah- it’s almost like summer there,” Spain nodded; unfortunately he managed to duck out of France’s embrace and closed the car door. He leaned against the car, looked up to the black sky; summer stars although the breath of ice was still raining over the earth. “It’s always like that in the South, though. The North, it’s more like this.”
France nodded; but then some sort of realization struck him. “You drove here from the South?”
The wind breathed by, tousled Spain’s hair. Spain looked back to France, unfazed, and nodded. “Yep,” he answered, “I had to leave early.”
France was a little unsettled- was that why Spain had been late? and what a drive that must have been- but he just laughed. “How silly- why did you do that? You should have just come tomorrow.”
Spain smiled- broad- bright with waves of dark hidden in its corners. He shook his head. “No, no! I wouldn’t have done that,” he said; and then, nonchalantly, almost as an aside, “I couldn’t wait to see you.”
-And he didn’t even seem to realize the facets that turned within those words- the sides of fire- how much desire, possession, it could insight. France was almost flattered- he watched Spain, a thousand thoughts of what next spiraling up from his throat to his brain- too many ways to touch someone, and the margins of time were too small to use them all.
Spain rifled through his pockets with a smile like a song, all rhythm and sun of his movements- all darkness around him. He got out a cigarette- lit it, orange light cosmic against his face- and only remembered his manners on the first drag. “Oh, sorry- quieres?” Spain asked, waving his cigarette at France.
France’s smile was slim as shadow; “Oui,” he answered, plucking Spain’s cigarette from his fingers and leaning forward- kissed Spain, smoke from Spain’s mouth to his. Heady and light...his tongue crossed Spain’s, danced by it, with just a touch of stars before he pulled back, smiling like a damn cat.
-And Spain grinned back; and all he did was laugh. France exhaled the smoke in a ring. “What do you want to do, anyway? Let’s go to that restaurant!” Spain suggested. France paused, trying to remember what restaurant he was talking about- then he recalled that, whenever they were in Bordeaux, they usually went to the Bouchon Bordelais and watched the old prostitutes loll across the street- frowning and laughing, their bodies perfumed artificial desire (ah but their memories were the real thing- they knew longing as though it were a dark page open)-
That was nostalgic, always amusing; however France was sorely tempted to go to some trashy hotel and try everything on Spain, test out old mechanics against new desire, map out a private sin and- God, what he’d be like on top of him, underneath him- alive and drowning...but, unfortunately, it might be too soon for that. A kiss was only an ephemeral conquest, he didn’t have Spain that close yet (even though, he might be willing). Besides, so far, patience had gotten him what he’d wanted. “Of course,” France said, looking at Spain with shaded eyes; “Like always.”
Spain smiled back. “Yeah, like always,” he said. He unlocked the car and both of them ducked inside- Spain asked whether or not he should change, but France pretty much said, Leave it, you’re good that way.
Shadows and light- even on the drive there, France was leaning haphazard across his seat, couldn’t keep his hands off- and was he losing this battle with patience? Yes, Jeanne d’Arc had taught him it was a virtue, and yes, Spain was worth the wait, but- feeling Spain’s mouth against his, feeling that Spain finally understood clearly- hadn’t he waited long enough?
NOTES;;
This may or may not have been inspired by this picture on pixiv that made me keyspazz hopelessly when I first saw it. I notice that I have a thing about France, Spain, and cigarettes.
Also prolly inspired by the traje corto which Spain is wearing in this fic; it's sort of matador wear, but not so uhm embellished? Also I'm sure the traje corto for matadors is unique to matadors in some way. Traje corto, with and without the flat, wide-brimmed hat.
Thanks for reading! :D
title: Blonde April
pairing: Spain/France
rating: PG-...15? XD
summary: A month, a year, is like blinking when you live as long as they do; but centuries is a different thing altogether, and France wonders how much longer it'll take for Spain to realize.
☆BLONDE APRIL
France could say he was getting impatient...night was on him now (clinging dark to his jacket sleeves), cold, and the remnants of rain were fast as neon underneath the tires of cars going by. Dark skies were some refuge from the morning's gray but then again, it must have been a sin to wait so long. Bright metro lights stamped against inky darkness...an American tourist grumbled past him, looking resentful off all the lies he’d been told about “Paris in the spring” (Paris in the spring indeed! but best bring an umbrella; and besides, silly American, this was Bordeaux). France smiled inwardly at being able to trick the American peoples, but it was a temporary satisfaction, chalky, almost a dissatisfaction. The steam train minutes; he tapped his foot on the concrete subconsciously.
He was waiting for Spain and Spain was taking too long. Actually, getting to this point had been months of last-minute reschedules and now-is-not-a-good-times. It was mostly because of political duties, more often on Spain’s part; Spain wasn’t really as well-off as France was, had to work harder for some things- but France understood and was patient. Finally they had both been free around the same time, the first week of April, and they’d planned to meet today. Then “today” had turned into “tonight,” because Spain had to do...something. France hadn’t really understood it, because Spain, silly thing, was too excited and was babbling incoherently- maybe it had something to do with a party of some sort. France couldn’t tell. Anyway, it seemed important or exciting and France wasn’t one to rain on anyone’s parade, so he gave the okay-go. But now Spain was already an hour late and, while France didn’t much mind lateness, the fact that it was Spain bothered him.
-Maybe because he actually cared? Or what was the word for it...he tried to think of some better means of expression, but he didn’t know if there was an eloquent way to put it. Some motorcycle Jean passed by with his ti belle, and he thought that maybe that was what he was thinking of- impatience to be together.
It was that, even though they’d been rescheduling for only a couple of months, and even though Spain was only an hour late, he’d been waiting for much, much longer than that. An hour, a week, a month, a year- to somebody who’d lived so long it was only a penny dropping into shallow water. But centuries stretched like blue smoke, and France just wondered how much longer it’d take to get next to Spain. The fact that Spain was a bit of a dummy didn’t help much either- maybe France would have to be more forceful...
He was at the point of worrying that Spain had gotten into some traffic mishap (like a freak truck explosion or something) when, as though to punctuate his doubting, a compact Fiat’s headlights blinked through the wet air. It was bright metallic blue, familiar because it was so carelessly banged-up; hot desert dust rose, fanned out from the bottom of the car, gradually thinning as it reached the windows. One cheerful honk; then it pulled up in front of him, and he smiled carefully, folded his arms.
-Ignition turned off; dull clatter of the door opening, and the first thing he saw was Spain’s head of dark curls pop up from the chassis. He turned around, saw France and smiled- that smile, hypnotic sun and brightly slashing, cutting through his senses- shouting a bright, “Hola!” No endearments, his voice was endearment enough. France was about to respond while Spain rounded about the car- but he stopped himself short when he saw how Spain was dressed. He was shivering into a down jacket, but he had the high-waisted pants and crisp shirt of the traje corto- the boots, too.
“Ay! It’s so cold!” Spain exclaimed, rubbing his hands together.
France paused; he neared Spain, reached to trace his jaw with a light metal touch. “-What a surprise! I had expected mon frere plus cher and I’ve received a matador!” he said, with a sly smirk.
Spain cocked his head, blinking. “Huh?”
“Your clothes,” France reminded.
Spain paused, then laughed. “Ah, that! You didn’t know? I told you on the phone- it was the Feria de Abril!” He lifted his jacket a bit and gestured to the opulent waistband, as if to punctuate his point. “You should see what I brought!”
France looked at Spain incredulously. “In Sevilla?” Spain nodded with an eager “si!”; France strung his arm up around Spain’s shoulders, turned both of them back to the car (it was the beat of some city pink song, the way Spain’s shoulders were strong, fit so smooth under his arm). “Well, show me, then.”
Spain tugged the door open (or tried to tug it open; first it was a futile effort, then he remembered that he had to unlock the car). “Mira, people kept giving me their stuff,” he said, reaching recklessly inside and snatching up a lace-trimmed claret fan. He opened it with a flick of the wrist and showed it to France. “This was from a girl- and there was a man, sold me his guitar- and then somebody gave us free food, even though we didn’t know them- and we stayed in their tent for a while- I was so happy that Romanito came with! He danced, it was fun- you should come next time.”
Spain went on, words bright and tangled, and France half-listened as he ducked his head inside and looked over the assortment of colorful things in the back seat. It was dusty...there were artificial flowers twisted in makeshift color, candy wrappers, a box of Rabitos Royale- the aforementioned guitar (Spain tossed the girl’s fan next it)...there was an abandoned change of clothes, jeans and a proper shirt and a pair of canvas sneakers. And in a bold shade, the flat, wide-brimmed hat that France had never known the name of. He took it from the seat, put it on and looked back toward Spain (trying to find his place in Spain’s words):
“-It was like, what do you call it- a moment of truth! Claro; and then the horse ran off and we never found it. And then I had to go.”
France smiled and nodded; with an effortless movement he sidled up into Spain’s frame, insinuated himself, sort of- arms slung low around Spain’s waist. “It’s so cold here,” Spain mused again, as though he’d just realized it. Close now, he could smell sweet and smoke lingering around Spain’s body; could see the feria still turning like a pinwheel in his bright eyes.
“Hm,” France said, not giving much other answer because he was busy at the moment- kissing Spain’s jaw, his neck. Spain just laughed; France paused and looked up at Spain. “Ah, that’s right- it’s starting to get hot in Sevilla, yes?”
“Yeah- it’s almost like summer there,” Spain nodded; unfortunately he managed to duck out of France’s embrace and closed the car door. He leaned against the car, looked up to the black sky; summer stars although the breath of ice was still raining over the earth. “It’s always like that in the South, though. The North, it’s more like this.”
France nodded; but then some sort of realization struck him. “You drove here from the South?”
The wind breathed by, tousled Spain’s hair. Spain looked back to France, unfazed, and nodded. “Yep,” he answered, “I had to leave early.”
France was a little unsettled- was that why Spain had been late? and what a drive that must have been- but he just laughed. “How silly- why did you do that? You should have just come tomorrow.”
Spain smiled- broad- bright with waves of dark hidden in its corners. He shook his head. “No, no! I wouldn’t have done that,” he said; and then, nonchalantly, almost as an aside, “I couldn’t wait to see you.”
-And he didn’t even seem to realize the facets that turned within those words- the sides of fire- how much desire, possession, it could insight. France was almost flattered- he watched Spain, a thousand thoughts of what next spiraling up from his throat to his brain- too many ways to touch someone, and the margins of time were too small to use them all.
Spain rifled through his pockets with a smile like a song, all rhythm and sun of his movements- all darkness around him. He got out a cigarette- lit it, orange light cosmic against his face- and only remembered his manners on the first drag. “Oh, sorry- quieres?” Spain asked, waving his cigarette at France.
France’s smile was slim as shadow; “Oui,” he answered, plucking Spain’s cigarette from his fingers and leaning forward- kissed Spain, smoke from Spain’s mouth to his. Heady and light...his tongue crossed Spain’s, danced by it, with just a touch of stars before he pulled back, smiling like a damn cat.
-And Spain grinned back; and all he did was laugh. France exhaled the smoke in a ring. “What do you want to do, anyway? Let’s go to that restaurant!” Spain suggested. France paused, trying to remember what restaurant he was talking about- then he recalled that, whenever they were in Bordeaux, they usually went to the Bouchon Bordelais and watched the old prostitutes loll across the street- frowning and laughing, their bodies perfumed artificial desire (ah but their memories were the real thing- they knew longing as though it were a dark page open)-
That was nostalgic, always amusing; however France was sorely tempted to go to some trashy hotel and try everything on Spain, test out old mechanics against new desire, map out a private sin and- God, what he’d be like on top of him, underneath him- alive and drowning...but, unfortunately, it might be too soon for that. A kiss was only an ephemeral conquest, he didn’t have Spain that close yet (even though, he might be willing). Besides, so far, patience had gotten him what he’d wanted. “Of course,” France said, looking at Spain with shaded eyes; “Like always.”
Spain smiled back. “Yeah, like always,” he said. He unlocked the car and both of them ducked inside- Spain asked whether or not he should change, but France pretty much said, Leave it, you’re good that way.
Shadows and light- even on the drive there, France was leaning haphazard across his seat, couldn’t keep his hands off- and was he losing this battle with patience? Yes, Jeanne d’Arc had taught him it was a virtue, and yes, Spain was worth the wait, but- feeling Spain’s mouth against his, feeling that Spain finally understood clearly- hadn’t he waited long enough?
NOTES;;
This may or may not have been inspired by this picture on pixiv that made me keyspazz hopelessly when I first saw it. I notice that I have a thing about France, Spain, and cigarettes.
Also prolly inspired by the traje corto which Spain is wearing in this fic; it's sort of matador wear, but not so uhm embellished? Also I'm sure the traje corto for matadors is unique to matadors in some way. Traje corto, with and without the flat, wide-brimmed hat.
Thanks for reading! :D