His lips on the back of her hand make Monaco swallow excitedly, involuntarily, a vivid image of them pressed to her own mouth suddenly forced into her mind and nearly drowning out the praise being given to her. It's not that she doesn't care what Spain has to say (in fact, it's quite the opposite; she adores hearing his endless torrents of praise for her), but an oddly intense desire to carry out a Christmas tradition overshadows any longing to hear wonderful things about herself. She smiles and accepts the compliment, though, her skin tingling where Spain had softly kissed it.
"Thank you very much," Monaco says, bowing her head down again just slightly. Blonde curls spill over her shoulders as she does so, tickling her bare arms. "Though I must admit, the last time I danced with you truly was the last time I danced. I'm a touch out of practice, you see."
She cannot take her eyes off Spain, she's finding. Her vision is slightly blurred without her glasses, the twinkling Christmas lights that surround them appear in a bit of a haze to her, though the Iberian nation himself looks as clear as ever, bright eyes in particular standing out against the darkness of the theater. She has half a mind to haul him up onto the stage by the shirt collar and kiss him until those eyes flutter shut in front of her own.
"Well, it must be because we've been here for some time, yes?" He can imagine the Hotel doesn't really provide a place for her to practice. It's perfectly understandable. Still, Spain thinks she did very well despite it all. He gives her hand another squeeze as he smiles up at her, admiring her still. The dress is pretty in a very girlish, youthful way and the softness of her hair when it's down like that just suits her very well. She looks young and carefree and very charming in this demure, Old World sort of way that he's always found attractive. And the flattering lights just make it all the better.
He gives her hand another kiss before he finally notices something. An amused laugh escapes him as he spies the sprig of mistletoe hanging over the stage. What a strange place to put such a thing!
"Monaco, look." He nods up towards where the mistletoe hangs from the ceiling, unaware of how she's known about it all this time. "Mistletoe." Spain turns that bright smile back up at her then. "You know what this means, right?"
Counting back the months since her arrival (seven already?), she's just about to agree that they have been here far too long, but Spain is suddenly laughing and directing her attention to the ceiling. China-blue eyes dart upward, and she turns to look high behind her, blinking a few times and smiling as if she hadn't known that tiny branch had been hanging there by a red ribbon throughout the entire performance.
"O-Oh my..." She feigns surprise touched with shyness, looking back to Spain with a bounce of those ringlets as she moves. "I suppose it cannot be helped, though."
Slowly, though perhaps a bit too obligingly, she sinks to her knees before him, her fingers gripping his for balance while the other hand rests atop the footlights, her roses set aside for the time being. They're at about the same height now, with Monaco just slightly higher, the smile on her lips still looking tentative as she carefully leans out over the edge of the stage, pressing her mouth to Spain's.
The smile doesn't leave his face even as she leans forward over the stage to kiss him. He can just imagine how it looks, pretty, petite Monaco leaning over to grant a kiss to her most adoring admirer. With her positioned as such, they must make a picture worthy of a romantic movie and the thought makes him chuckle before her lips fuse with his.
The kiss is a touch tentative, perhaps because of how Monaco has situated herself. Just a little push and she could fall over the edge and into him. It's not as if he'd let her fall, but just as well, he leans closer, gripping against the edge of the stage, and deepens the kiss soon as they are both more secure. A soft sigh escapes him as he tilts his head and gently prods his tongue against hers more confidently. That's much better.
The soft press of lips against her own is truly a desire Monaco has been unable to rid herself of since she first stepped beneath the mistletoe; though it had been a surprising sensation at the beginning of her performance, once she actually located said branch hanging high above her, it wasn't particularly difficult to put two and two together and realize that the Hotel was once again exerting its influence over her, however uncharacteristically innocent it may seem this time around.
Though she still doesn't dare let go of Spain's hand, the movement closer to her is much appreciated, allowing her to actually focus on the slow sweep of his tongue about her mouth. No longer afraid she'll fall, her eyes slip shut in contentment, and gently, she returns the kiss being pressed so sweetly to her lips.
It's not difficult to become immersed in the steady, exploratory sensations, though such thoughtless ease is a luxury Monaco is only granted by familiarity, trust, and affection for her fellow Mediterranean. There's no nervous edge to her interactions with Spain, no worries of ulterior motives or even indifference toward her; he's an open book before her, and Monaco is fairly certain the text on his pages is nothing but truthful.
Eventually, the kiss ends, oxygen becoming a necessity. He draws back a little, not going too far. Their hands are still entwined, fingers locked gently but firmly. This close, it's obvious how her breathing has quickened, how red her lips are. He looks at her and remembers their kiss, how he's holding her hand as they lean over the edge of a lit up stage, how she has danced so beautifully for him. It sounds so very sappy, but the night has been so magical so far and he doesn't quite want the spell to break just yet.
"Monaco..." He whispers, his lips just a few scant centimeters from hers and somehow he doesn't quite know what to say. There's just that feeling of magic and romance in the air and that just seems enough.
There's warmth between them, a kind of soft, nebulous feeling of fondness that makes Monaco's lips curve upward into a gentle smile as she squeezes the fingers laced with hers. Though she's almost hesitant to say anything (move and it'll surely break the spell), she finds herself pulling away and momentarily glancing about the empty theater, as if making sure one last time that no one's there with them.
"Come here," she says softly, playfully, pulling a little on Spain's hand. "Hop up."
There are no stairs leading from the floor of the theater onto the stage, so the only other way for him to join her would be to take the long way around through the dressing rooms backstage. Though Monaco would normally be hesitant to encourage such unrefined behavior, it's impossible to hide the impulsive, mischievous twinkle in her eyes tonight. Perhaps, in her time spent getting closer to Spain recently, he's begun to rub off on her.
Her words surprise him a little, making his eyebrows lift to express that feeling exactly. It's not always that Monaco spontaneously and playfully initiates something. She's usually so proper, careful and conscious of the rules of decorum and etiquette, but maybe she's affected by the same magical atmosphere he is.
The surprised expression soon melts into a grin as he moves to do as she says. Spain nods before squeezing and letting go of her hand for a moment. Hands steady themselves over the wood floor of the stage before he hoists himself up with a bit of a grunt, the motion otherwise effortless. It's not long before he's pushing himself up into a standing position, hands immediately open and reaching forward to take her back.
"Do we dance together now?" He asks with his usual unknowingly charming grin, green eyes twinkling with his smile and the stage lights. It's the only reason he can think of for her to get him up onto the stage with her.
However spontaneous her request may have been, Monaco is never quite able to completely suppress her tendency to worry; there's a brief moment as Spain climbs up onto the stage where her eyes widen and smile falls slightly, a gentle request to be careful (both with himself and of the footlights lining the very edge of the stage) falling from her lips. But soon enough, she finds herself standing before Spain, now far too short to see the top of his dark head, her hands enveloped in his.
Quietly, she chuckles at his question, staring dotingly up into his eyes, though with a bounce of golden curls, she's up en pointe once more, effectively boosting herself up high enough to place a quick kiss on Spain's lips.
"I don't know... You're not wearing the outfit," she teases, glancing down at the tiered ruffles covering her own chest. Yes, she can just see it now: Spain struggling for twenty minutes to get the patterned tights on only to realize he's put them on inside-out. Monaco holds in another laugh, pressing her lips together.
"I have to wear the dress too?" He easily teases back, emerald eyes crinkling with hilarity as he looks to her with smiling eyes. His hands hold hers, supporting her weight easily even as she rises up on her strong ballerina toes to give him another kiss. From this angle, the details of Monaco's outfit jump out at him, the ruffles piling up over one another and the fragile material of them. No, he won't be able to pull off a dress like this. That is, even if he wanted to.
The thought makes him chuckle before he leans down to return the kiss, as soft and as fleeting but no less sweet than the last one she grants him. He doesn't go far even after the kiss ends, his fond, smiling gaze on her completely. "I don't think I'll be as pretty in it as you are. Are you sure?" It's of course a joke though it leaves him open to a serious answer rather than a playful one. Nevertheless, whatever answer Spain gets, he's sure to greet it with his usual cheerful, easygoing attitude. You can be sure about that.
"Now, now, I never said anything about a dress," she laughs softly, his kiss tingling on her lips and the image of the two of them in matching pink frills even funnier than him in a fight with a pair of tights. If she could find another dress in his size, it's likely that he probably would humor her and put it on, but (un?)fortunately for Spain, she did not see another garment like her own in the dressing room.
What Monaco did see just backstage, however, was part of the Mouse King's costume; a violet cape lined with gray fur and trimmed in gold, as well as a matching prop crown and a plastic saber. Hardly fitting with her role as Clara, but at the same time, marginally cuter than a big, goofy hat and a pair of white stockings.
"Though I think I have something better in mind," she says as if she's trying to be mysterious, gracefully stepping away from Spain and pulling him along to one side of the stage and behind one of the heavy red curtains.
Spain obligingly follows her into the back of the stage, hands linked with hers still. It's a completely different sight backstage. For one, it's darker and drearier, a complete contrast from the bright lights and pageantry of the stage. Back here, you would come to remember that everything is a show and yes, it all starts in these quiet, deserted backrooms.
No one is about as it's a solo performance. Spain could easily imagine it bustling with stage hands in casual black and performers in colorful costumes before a show, the air buzzing with excitement and a bit of that magic that you witness on that stage. It's a bit cold back here, making it more obvious that there is a lack of other people. Their footsteps echo over the scratched up floorboards, floors that have probably been walked on by all sorts of people who only have one thought in mind: to put on the best show possible. Spain can't help but somehow also pick up that bit of excitement just through his imaginings and perhaps what remnant of it there is from the silent witnesses of each performance: the walls, of course.
Monaco leads him down a narrow corridor, nothing spectacular as with most everything that is there, and pulls him into what seems to be a dressing room. He's distracted first by the wide mirror lit up with light bulbs around the frame, perhaps to help the performers apply their makeup more accurately. Then he sees his reflection and had to smile a little. How strange that he's suddenly here. He's a part of the audience, is the audience. How fascinating and exciting that he's suddenly back here. If this were a real performance, he doubts he'll ever even walk past the black curtains of the side wings of the stage.
He hears a rustle and again, he's distracted, making him look towards the direction of the noise. Of the rustle of fabric and the shifting of props.
The journey to the dressing room is a bit longer than Monaco anticipated, having been so excited before her little performance that she'd made it from there to the stage in what felt like no time at all. But now she leads Spain through the hallways at an easier pace, expecting to get to the dressing room sooner than they really do. But once they're there, she leaves Spain before the mirror, her own cosmetics still out on the long table pushed up right against it, and busies herself searching a large rack of hanging costumes for what she was sure she saw not even half an hour previous.
Soon enough, she's found the heavy cape of the Mouse King amidst the other colorful clothes for the same show, dresses for flowers and angels and dewdrops mixed with a number of national costumes (she pointedly ignores the outfit resembling a traje de luces for the Spanish Hot Chocolate Dance; too uncreative). She holds the cape up before Spain, an expectant smile on her face as she assesses the look on his own.
"You like capes, yes?" A pause as she looks about and spots the appropriate crown and plastic sword on a shelf, left out almost too conveniently. She nods to them lightly. "And there's a crown, too."
Monaco digs through the numerous costumes and finally comes up with, yes, a deep purple cape fit for a king. Its velvet material shimmers elegantly in the light and Spain has no doubt that it would feel very fine under his fingers. He laughs as she mentions a crown just as he approaches to examine the cape further.
"I do like capes and this is a rather fine one, thank you." He tells her with good humor just as he takes the cape in hand. It's not quite as fine as the ones he has owned long ago, obviously, but in a time when clothes for men have a different definition for "elegant," the cape makes a nostalgic difference. He slips it on, doing it with a matador's grace, letting it fall gently over his shoulders. After making adjustments, he straightens for Monaco's inspection, adopting his most haughty, kingly look.
"Do I look kingly enough?" He asks her, looking at her from over his nose (which is rather easy) and trying hard not to laugh.
"Not quite," she replies with a small giggle of her own, pressing her fingertips to her mouth. The expression on Spain's face is cutely forced, out of practice as he is. Monaco remembers his previous mastery of that look, though she can honestly say she prefers he only use it in jest now.
With a little smile and a bounce of her ringlets, she moves to retrieve the crown and sword from their shelf. While the saber is quite obviously made of plastic (no need for any mishaps in front of an audience), the crown is actually metal, with an inlay of the same purple velvet as the cape beneath the half-arches. Monaco weighs is in her hands for a moment before returning to Spain with it and slipping his shoddy weapon into his hand. Then she's up on her toes again, placing the surprisingly heavy crown atop his wild curls
"There," she proclaims, stepping back and sinking down into a little curtsy despite it being completely out of character for their current roles. "Now you are ready to die an honorable death at the hand of a wooden man."
The look drops completely at her giggle and Spain joins her in laughing at his failed attempt at looking kingly. He doubts he looks anything less than an idiot, but that's okay. It's nice to see Monaco looking so happy and carefree. The costume must be doing something for her too.
Soon, she comes up to him to complete the look with a sword and a crown. He has the opportunity to give the sword an experimental swing (feeling a twinge of disappointment at how it's obviously fake and far too light for his grip) before she tiptoes to put the crown on his head. Obligingly, he leans down a little to make her task easier, reaching then with a hand to steady the crown as he straightens.
A hand by the crown, he looks down to her as she speaks and he raises the sword, happy enough to play along. "I shall not let myself be killed so easily!" He doesn't know if he should die easily, but he figures he'll give a pretty good show first before he's vanquished to his honorable death.
"Thank you very much," Monaco says, bowing her head down again just slightly. Blonde curls spill over her shoulders as she does so, tickling her bare arms. "Though I must admit, the last time I danced with you truly was the last time I danced. I'm a touch out of practice, you see."
She cannot take her eyes off Spain, she's finding. Her vision is slightly blurred without her glasses, the twinkling Christmas lights that surround them appear in a bit of a haze to her, though the Iberian nation himself looks as clear as ever, bright eyes in particular standing out against the darkness of the theater. She has half a mind to haul him up onto the stage by the shirt collar and kiss him until those eyes flutter shut in front of her own.
Reply
He gives her hand another kiss before he finally notices something. An amused laugh escapes him as he spies the sprig of mistletoe hanging over the stage. What a strange place to put such a thing!
"Monaco, look." He nods up towards where the mistletoe hangs from the ceiling, unaware of how she's known about it all this time. "Mistletoe." Spain turns that bright smile back up at her then. "You know what this means, right?"
Reply
"O-Oh my..." She feigns surprise touched with shyness, looking back to Spain with a bounce of those ringlets as she moves. "I suppose it cannot be helped, though."
Slowly, though perhaps a bit too obligingly, she sinks to her knees before him, her fingers gripping his for balance while the other hand rests atop the footlights, her roses set aside for the time being. They're at about the same height now, with Monaco just slightly higher, the smile on her lips still looking tentative as she carefully leans out over the edge of the stage, pressing her mouth to Spain's.
Reply
The kiss is a touch tentative, perhaps because of how Monaco has situated herself. Just a little push and she could fall over the edge and into him. It's not as if he'd let her fall, but just as well, he leans closer, gripping against the edge of the stage, and deepens the kiss soon as they are both more secure. A soft sigh escapes him as he tilts his head and gently prods his tongue against hers more confidently. That's much better.
Reply
Though she still doesn't dare let go of Spain's hand, the movement closer to her is much appreciated, allowing her to actually focus on the slow sweep of his tongue about her mouth. No longer afraid she'll fall, her eyes slip shut in contentment, and gently, she returns the kiss being pressed so sweetly to her lips.
It's not difficult to become immersed in the steady, exploratory sensations, though such thoughtless ease is a luxury Monaco is only granted by familiarity, trust, and affection for her fellow Mediterranean. There's no nervous edge to her interactions with Spain, no worries of ulterior motives or even indifference toward her; he's an open book before her, and Monaco is fairly certain the text on his pages is nothing but truthful.
Reply
"Monaco..." He whispers, his lips just a few scant centimeters from hers and somehow he doesn't quite know what to say. There's just that feeling of magic and romance in the air and that just seems enough.
Reply
"Come here," she says softly, playfully, pulling a little on Spain's hand. "Hop up."
There are no stairs leading from the floor of the theater onto the stage, so the only other way for him to join her would be to take the long way around through the dressing rooms backstage. Though Monaco would normally be hesitant to encourage such unrefined behavior, it's impossible to hide the impulsive, mischievous twinkle in her eyes tonight. Perhaps, in her time spent getting closer to Spain recently, he's begun to rub off on her.
Reply
The surprised expression soon melts into a grin as he moves to do as she says. Spain nods before squeezing and letting go of her hand for a moment. Hands steady themselves over the wood floor of the stage before he hoists himself up with a bit of a grunt, the motion otherwise effortless. It's not long before he's pushing himself up into a standing position, hands immediately open and reaching forward to take her back.
"Do we dance together now?" He asks with his usual unknowingly charming grin, green eyes twinkling with his smile and the stage lights. It's the only reason he can think of for her to get him up onto the stage with her.
Reply
Quietly, she chuckles at his question, staring dotingly up into his eyes, though with a bounce of golden curls, she's up en pointe once more, effectively boosting herself up high enough to place a quick kiss on Spain's lips.
"I don't know... You're not wearing the outfit," she teases, glancing down at the tiered ruffles covering her own chest. Yes, she can just see it now: Spain struggling for twenty minutes to get the patterned tights on only to realize he's put them on inside-out. Monaco holds in another laugh, pressing her lips together.
Reply
The thought makes him chuckle before he leans down to return the kiss, as soft and as fleeting but no less sweet than the last one she grants him. He doesn't go far even after the kiss ends, his fond, smiling gaze on her completely. "I don't think I'll be as pretty in it as you are. Are you sure?" It's of course a joke though it leaves him open to a serious answer rather than a playful one. Nevertheless, whatever answer Spain gets, he's sure to greet it with his usual cheerful, easygoing attitude. You can be sure about that.
Reply
What Monaco did see just backstage, however, was part of the Mouse King's costume; a violet cape lined with gray fur and trimmed in gold, as well as a matching prop crown and a plastic saber. Hardly fitting with her role as Clara, but at the same time, marginally cuter than a big, goofy hat and a pair of white stockings.
"Though I think I have something better in mind," she says as if she's trying to be mysterious, gracefully stepping away from Spain and pulling him along to one side of the stage and behind one of the heavy red curtains.
Reply
No one is about as it's a solo performance. Spain could easily imagine it bustling with stage hands in casual black and performers in colorful costumes before a show, the air buzzing with excitement and a bit of that magic that you witness on that stage. It's a bit cold back here, making it more obvious that there is a lack of other people. Their footsteps echo over the scratched up floorboards, floors that have probably been walked on by all sorts of people who only have one thought in mind: to put on the best show possible. Spain can't help but somehow also pick up that bit of excitement just through his imaginings and perhaps what remnant of it there is from the silent witnesses of each performance: the walls, of course.
Monaco leads him down a narrow corridor, nothing spectacular as with most everything that is there, and pulls him into what seems to be a dressing room. He's distracted first by the wide mirror lit up with light bulbs around the frame, perhaps to help the performers apply their makeup more accurately. Then he sees his reflection and had to smile a little. How strange that he's suddenly here. He's a part of the audience, is the audience. How fascinating and exciting that he's suddenly back here. If this were a real performance, he doubts he'll ever even walk past the black curtains of the side wings of the stage.
He hears a rustle and again, he's distracted, making him look towards the direction of the noise. Of the rustle of fabric and the shifting of props.
Reply
Soon enough, she's found the heavy cape of the Mouse King amidst the other colorful clothes for the same show, dresses for flowers and angels and dewdrops mixed with a number of national costumes (she pointedly ignores the outfit resembling a traje de luces for the Spanish Hot Chocolate Dance; too uncreative). She holds the cape up before Spain, an expectant smile on her face as she assesses the look on his own.
"You like capes, yes?" A pause as she looks about and spots the appropriate crown and plastic sword on a shelf, left out almost too conveniently. She nods to them lightly. "And there's a crown, too."
Reply
"I do like capes and this is a rather fine one, thank you." He tells her with good humor just as he takes the cape in hand. It's not quite as fine as the ones he has owned long ago, obviously, but in a time when clothes for men have a different definition for "elegant," the cape makes a nostalgic difference. He slips it on, doing it with a matador's grace, letting it fall gently over his shoulders. After making adjustments, he straightens for Monaco's inspection, adopting his most haughty, kingly look.
"Do I look kingly enough?" He asks her, looking at her from over his nose (which is rather easy) and trying hard not to laugh.
Reply
With a little smile and a bounce of her ringlets, she moves to retrieve the crown and sword from their shelf. While the saber is quite obviously made of plastic (no need for any mishaps in front of an audience), the crown is actually metal, with an inlay of the same purple velvet as the cape beneath the half-arches. Monaco weighs is in her hands for a moment before returning to Spain with it and slipping his shoddy weapon into his hand. Then she's up on her toes again, placing the surprisingly heavy crown atop his wild curls
"There," she proclaims, stepping back and sinking down into a little curtsy despite it being completely out of character for their current roles. "Now you are ready to die an honorable death at the hand of a wooden man."
Reply
Soon, she comes up to him to complete the look with a sword and a crown. He has the opportunity to give the sword an experimental swing (feeling a twinge of disappointment at how it's obviously fake and far too light for his grip) before she tiptoes to put the crown on his head. Obligingly, he leans down a little to make her task easier, reaching then with a hand to steady the crown as he straightens.
A hand by the crown, he looks down to her as she speaks and he raises the sword, happy enough to play along. "I shall not let myself be killed so easily!" He doesn't know if he should die easily, but he figures he'll give a pretty good show first before he's vanquished to his honorable death.
Reply
Leave a comment