(no subject)
THE HAIRCUT;
Today.
Today, Saturday, sábado, the fiesta begins its second day of celebration; and Francis approaches the foreign junction in relative ease despite his blond hair, fair skin - his differences, contrasts to everyone else. The streets rattle with a thousand notes of song, a thousand pairs of graceful feet moving to each beat. Laughter and lights hang from the roof tops, and everywhere, there is liquor.
The stadium is small, claustrophobic, and filled to the brim with cheering crowds, adoring fans. Francis stands idly amongst the throngs of village people, their collective sounds, language, aroma - their everything a testament to the matador below them, a presence that Francis breathes in like the wine that stains his lips, wet and dark. They are the blood that makes up Antonio. Antonio is the dancer who preforms just for them.
Outside, the world calls Spain backwards, insane, unstable. Weak. But here, here he is a hero. The main attraction.
From so high up, Antonio is merely a blink of red cape, a flash of a sword, the ghost of an image behind the constant of the running of the bull. A collective gasp arises at each near brush of horn against flesh, yet none cry for the dying, raging animal. It wears its second spine of spears with its shoulders held high and proud; and Francis imagines that Antonio will kiss the beast's brow right before the final blow, in thanks.
There will be a parting scene, so beautifully orchestrated - the pop of puncturing skin, the murmur of ripping muscles, the searing bestial scream rising in crescendo, the ending, resounding moan - that all will clap, at once. And Antonio, dear Antonio, he will smile, death all around him, death in a crown of raining flowers.
Magnifique.
But Francis does not stay to watch. He leaves, abruptly, and presses his back against the entrance gates, cigarette in corroding to embers between his teeth. Glances at the town clock that reads: half past drunk.
Sighing past the pain in his joints, he waits for the muffled roar of applause and flirts with the women who walk across his view.
Antonio seems surprised, but pleasantly so.
"France," and the younger nation nearly drops his bouquet to the dusty ground as he grasps at the others arms with strength neither knew he still had. "You did not tell me you were coming!"
Antonio tastes like carnations when he kisses him on each cheek and on the mouth. Petals, pink and white and pink, begin to cling to the folds of their shirts in result of their proximity. The village waltzes around them. "But I thought you liked surprises, hm?"
"Ah," chuckles Antonio, expression apologetic as he fumbles with the intricate latchings and buttons of his vibrant uniform, "I usually have help with this, see? Give me a second."
Francis smirks at Antonio's proud back, gaze trained on their expressions showcasing in the full length mirror. "What is this, my dear Tonio? Can't even dress yourself anymore?"
"Shut up, or I will throttle you." A laugh, reflected on the window panes. "You, you bastard, are more beat up than me!"
So Francis reaches out from his seat on the edge of the bed, traces a lazy forefinger along the back of Antonio's thigh and further upwards, noting the way Antonio tenses, shivers, but does nothing. After all, Francis, as Spain eloquently put it, shut up.
"How are your wounds?" ventures the Spaniard after a long silence, leaning backwards as Francis stood to aid him, clothes falling away like leaves off a tree. A peck, at the juncture between neck and shoulder, a nip, a bite - they watch it all, on clear broadcast in the glass before them. Eyes burning fire, green and blue.
Thumbs hook into the hem of Antonio's trousers, a prelude. "I am allowed to speak now?" Antonio's hand covers his, a command: 'stop'.
"Never mind. I'll just punch you. It's much easier."
But Francis' retort is lost when Antonio draws a digit from his hip and to his mouth, and sucks.
Today.
Today, Saturday, sábado, the fiesta begins its second day of celebration; and Francis approaches the foreign junction in relative ease despite his blond hair, fair skin - his differences, contrasts to everyone else. The streets rattle with a thousand notes of song, a thousand pairs of graceful feet moving to each beat. Laughter and lights hang from the roof tops, and everywhere, there is liquor.
The stadium is small, claustrophobic, and filled to the brim with cheering crowds, adoring fans. Francis stands idly amongst the throngs of village people, their collective sounds, language, aroma - their everything a testament to the matador below them, a presence that Francis breathes in like the wine that stains his lips, wet and dark. They are the blood that makes up Antonio. Antonio is the dancer who preforms just for them.
Outside, the world calls Spain backwards, insane, unstable. Weak. But here, here he is a hero. The main attraction.
From so high up, Antonio is merely a blink of red cape, a flash of a sword, the ghost of an image behind the constant of the running of the bull. A collective gasp arises at each near brush of horn against flesh, yet none cry for the dying, raging animal. It wears its second spine of spears with its shoulders held high and proud; and Francis imagines that Antonio will kiss the beast's brow right before the final blow, in thanks.
There will be a parting scene, so beautifully orchestrated - the pop of puncturing skin, the murmur of ripping muscles, the searing bestial scream rising in crescendo, the ending, resounding moan - that all will clap, at once. And Antonio, dear Antonio, he will smile, death all around him, death in a crown of raining flowers.
Magnifique.
But Francis does not stay to watch. He leaves, abruptly, and presses his back against the entrance gates, cigarette in corroding to embers between his teeth. Glances at the town clock that reads: half past drunk.
Sighing past the pain in his joints, he waits for the muffled roar of applause and flirts with the women who walk across his view.
Antonio seems surprised, but pleasantly so.
"France," and the younger nation nearly drops his bouquet to the dusty ground as he grasps at the others arms with strength neither knew he still had. "You did not tell me you were coming!"
Antonio tastes like carnations when he kisses him on each cheek and on the mouth. Petals, pink and white and pink, begin to cling to the folds of their shirts in result of their proximity. The village waltzes around them. "But I thought you liked surprises, hm?"
"Ah," chuckles Antonio, expression apologetic as he fumbles with the intricate latchings and buttons of his vibrant uniform, "I usually have help with this, see? Give me a second."
Francis smirks at Antonio's proud back, gaze trained on their expressions showcasing in the full length mirror. "What is this, my dear Tonio? Can't even dress yourself anymore?"
"Shut up, or I will throttle you." A laugh, reflected on the window panes. "You, you bastard, are more beat up than me!"
So Francis reaches out from his seat on the edge of the bed, traces a lazy forefinger along the back of Antonio's thigh and further upwards, noting the way Antonio tenses, shivers, but does nothing. After all, Francis, as Spain eloquently put it, shut up.
"How are your wounds?" ventures the Spaniard after a long silence, leaning backwards as Francis stood to aid him, clothes falling away like leaves off a tree. A peck, at the juncture between neck and shoulder, a nip, a bite - they watch it all, on clear broadcast in the glass before them. Eyes burning fire, green and blue.
Thumbs hook into the hem of Antonio's trousers, a prelude. "I am allowed to speak now?" Antonio's hand covers his, a command: 'stop'.
"Never mind. I'll just punch you. It's much easier."
But Francis' retort is lost when Antonio draws a digit from his hip and to his mouth, and sucks.