for 10_shakespeare
Title: -
Author: derp
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Play/Lines: Brabantio: 'But words are words; I never yet did hear that the bruised heart was pierced through the ear.' (Othello)
Rating & Warnings: PG-13
Summary: 1918, France and Spain, and light conversation.
They are no longer giants, but crippled, bandaged men conjuring cup fulls of nicotine in their kinetic, inhuman lungs. Thick and rich Cuban cigars, careless old gifts from a once-upon-a-time son now used as frivolous mediums. For the lucky non-belligerent, factories work with renewed vigor, but for France, echoes left from canon smoke and gun fire fuel him like faulty coal to an ex-grand train engine. He huffs and he puffs, but his wheels are rusty and broken.
"Life is how you say," murmurs France, inebriated, smiling, "A bitch?"
"Only if you've forgotten to tend to her, brother," answers Spain, reassuringly, and kisses a golden lock of hair when France leans his tired head upon his shoulder.
It's on the border between their lands do they sit, propped up by their elbows along a long dirt road. Between them: a bottle of wine, newly opened, the year on the label 1880. A good enough year, a good enough age.
A rifle sits atop their legs as if to ground them.
"Nonsense," continues the elder, twirling his fingers in the creases of the younger's shirt, "I'm a marvelous lover. Lady Liberty visits me in my sleep."
"Of course she does," Spain chides cheerfully, despite how the mention of the ridiculous name reminds him of his past ridiculous war with the ridiculous America, "How can she not? Everyone knows that. Everyone does."
They take turns, downing their drink. Unrefined, unsophisticated, pure and raw and no one is around to see them. All the better.
"Germany doesn't." A trail of red runs down France's lips, and Spain uses the back of his thumb to wipe it away. "Prussia's young ward, as blind as his mentor."
One after another, they snuff out their cigars and toss them aside.
"Yes."
"He'll want revenge." A pause. "It's rather romantic, don't you think?"
Quietly, "You are right. A forbidden obessesion."
"I am rather hard to resist, no?"
"He'll need to bring flowers," but Spain only raises an eyebrow.
"Naturally."
"And candies. It's only fair of him to feed you, after what he has done."
"But I am not a woman." France gestures vaguely in the air, as if to emphasize his point, "Not as fragile as one."
"You aren't?," a cluck of the tongue, "But it'd answer so much."
"Oh," sighs France, elbowing his brother's side to elicit a light cough, "How I despise him."
"You do?" Spain extends his arms to the air, stretching them and subsequently slamming his knuckles against France's grinning teeth. "But it just adds spice to it, yes?"
"You are the only spice I need!" One pinch to the side.
"How could have I forgotten!" One punch to the thigh.
The field darkens with the coming of clouds, slow patient herds of off white and gray. Almost obediently, the brothers fall quiet and take the unannounced break to inspect their respective wounds. France finds himself painfully cognizant of a newly opened wound somewhere on the surface of his body, finds himself wholly aware yet momentarily apathetic.
So after the shadows pass in silence, France's hands begin to wander once more. "Honestly, though, I'm curious. Just who do you support, brother?"
Spain only stills when fingers slip past the buttons of his clothing and trace circles over the promise of a floating rib and the xiphoid process. His chin gravitates towards his chest, smile faltering, but he offers no protest. "Don't ask me such a stupid question."
Unrest, bubbling in acid pops in the pit of his stomach. This conversation no longer pleases him. France, as if he can palpate the discomfort through the smooth feel of scars, smirks.
"You feign ignorance? But you were so full of answers just a second ago!"
"What did I just tell you?"
"But I already have -"
"Then pretend that you didn't."
"Will you kill me if I don't?" questions France.
"I will kill you don't," affirms Spain.
They laugh, finally, against all odds and against each other.
"But you are so weak," coos France, shoving Spain onto the blades of strands of grass, exposing him to the view of his face, the rays of the sun. "You would not be able to do a thing against me."
"Oh, so then I will call to Germany for aide." The world smells like an ashtray, and the rifle never moves, a stubborn, still barrier between them; but somehow, somehow he cannot stop laughing, and the lack of control brings tears to his eyes. "You are well aware of how my people are so fond of him. Are you jealous?"
Gently, France cups the others face, "But oh, my dear Spain, everyone knows that Germany is horrible in bed," and tips the bottle, that is empty, on its side, when he kisses him. "Don't you know anything?"
Author: derp
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Play/Lines: Brabantio: 'But words are words; I never yet did hear that the bruised heart was pierced through the ear.' (Othello)
Rating & Warnings: PG-13
Summary: 1918, France and Spain, and light conversation.
They are no longer giants, but crippled, bandaged men conjuring cup fulls of nicotine in their kinetic, inhuman lungs. Thick and rich Cuban cigars, careless old gifts from a once-upon-a-time son now used as frivolous mediums. For the lucky non-belligerent, factories work with renewed vigor, but for France, echoes left from canon smoke and gun fire fuel him like faulty coal to an ex-grand train engine. He huffs and he puffs, but his wheels are rusty and broken.
"Life is how you say," murmurs France, inebriated, smiling, "A bitch?"
"Only if you've forgotten to tend to her, brother," answers Spain, reassuringly, and kisses a golden lock of hair when France leans his tired head upon his shoulder.
It's on the border between their lands do they sit, propped up by their elbows along a long dirt road. Between them: a bottle of wine, newly opened, the year on the label 1880. A good enough year, a good enough age.
A rifle sits atop their legs as if to ground them.
"Nonsense," continues the elder, twirling his fingers in the creases of the younger's shirt, "I'm a marvelous lover. Lady Liberty visits me in my sleep."
"Of course she does," Spain chides cheerfully, despite how the mention of the ridiculous name reminds him of his past ridiculous war with the ridiculous America, "How can she not? Everyone knows that. Everyone does."
They take turns, downing their drink. Unrefined, unsophisticated, pure and raw and no one is around to see them. All the better.
"Germany doesn't." A trail of red runs down France's lips, and Spain uses the back of his thumb to wipe it away. "Prussia's young ward, as blind as his mentor."
One after another, they snuff out their cigars and toss them aside.
"Yes."
"He'll want revenge." A pause. "It's rather romantic, don't you think?"
Quietly, "You are right. A forbidden obessesion."
"I am rather hard to resist, no?"
"He'll need to bring flowers," but Spain only raises an eyebrow.
"Naturally."
"And candies. It's only fair of him to feed you, after what he has done."
"But I am not a woman." France gestures vaguely in the air, as if to emphasize his point, "Not as fragile as one."
"You aren't?," a cluck of the tongue, "But it'd answer so much."
"Oh," sighs France, elbowing his brother's side to elicit a light cough, "How I despise him."
"You do?" Spain extends his arms to the air, stretching them and subsequently slamming his knuckles against France's grinning teeth. "But it just adds spice to it, yes?"
"You are the only spice I need!" One pinch to the side.
"How could have I forgotten!" One punch to the thigh.
The field darkens with the coming of clouds, slow patient herds of off white and gray. Almost obediently, the brothers fall quiet and take the unannounced break to inspect their respective wounds. France finds himself painfully cognizant of a newly opened wound somewhere on the surface of his body, finds himself wholly aware yet momentarily apathetic.
So after the shadows pass in silence, France's hands begin to wander once more. "Honestly, though, I'm curious. Just who do you support, brother?"
Spain only stills when fingers slip past the buttons of his clothing and trace circles over the promise of a floating rib and the xiphoid process. His chin gravitates towards his chest, smile faltering, but he offers no protest. "Don't ask me such a stupid question."
Unrest, bubbling in acid pops in the pit of his stomach. This conversation no longer pleases him. France, as if he can palpate the discomfort through the smooth feel of scars, smirks.
"You feign ignorance? But you were so full of answers just a second ago!"
"What did I just tell you?"
"But I already have -"
"Then pretend that you didn't."
"Will you kill me if I don't?" questions France.
"I will kill you don't," affirms Spain.
They laugh, finally, against all odds and against each other.
"But you are so weak," coos France, shoving Spain onto the blades of strands of grass, exposing him to the view of his face, the rays of the sun. "You would not be able to do a thing against me."
"Oh, so then I will call to Germany for aide." The world smells like an ashtray, and the rifle never moves, a stubborn, still barrier between them; but somehow, somehow he cannot stop laughing, and the lack of control brings tears to his eyes. "You are well aware of how my people are so fond of him. Are you jealous?"
Gently, France cups the others face, "But oh, my dear Spain, everyone knows that Germany is horrible in bed," and tips the bottle, that is empty, on its side, when he kisses him. "Don't you know anything?"