[APH] Hands
Title: Hands
Category: Axis Powers Hetalia / Hetalia World Series
Characters/Pairings: North and South Italy
Genre/Rating/Warnings: hurt/comfort, general/G/no names
Summary/Excerpt: These are their hands.
Hands
His hands are soft.
They clasp in prayer on dusty golden Sundays in cathedrals dotted by old women, priests and children. They touch the ancient walls of his city, feeling the weathered rock against his palms, remembering how smooth it was when they first built it. They touch children's heads in passing benediction as they carry purchases from the local market. They toss pasta into boiling water and grow warm over the steam. They cool as they wash tomatoes and dry when they set the dishes on the table in loving meal which could not have been possible without them. They grasp a paintbrush in solitude and represent life and flowers on a smooth white of canvas.
They have held the hands of old men they carried as babes nearly a hundred years ago. They have grasped the hands of the dying and the hands of the living, showering them with kisses and tears of sorrow and joy. They have caressed the bodies of lovers, felt their heat and ripple, the damp of sweat and the rise and dip of breathing. They have been pricked by thorns of roses and felt the burn of shooting guns. They have tingled with fear, heartbreak and thrill.
His hands are strong.
- - - -
His hands are rough.
They sink into the earth, past the soil and the roots to bring a bloom from the pot to the garden. They mend the weave on an old rocking chair, remembering with each new fiber the generations of families who have sat on it, watching the sun rise and set in sea waves. They carry lumber across the farmers' fields, relishing the bomp and pull of work, the sweat they wipe off the brow and the dirty streak they leave behind. They shake the hands of those they've helped, conveying gratitude and warmth through the tightening of their fingers. They bring in the fresh tomato harvest in a rough hewn basket and wash a few to brighten a brown table in the center of an orange kitchen.
They have had crumbs and cream licked off them when they were young. They have grabbed the hems of embroidered velvet capes and khaki army coats out of stubbornness, love and defiance. They have held smoking cigarettes and dealt playing cards but never pulled the trigger. They have strummed a thousand songs on crisp guitars, snapped to many dances and clapped to many beats. They have tingled with passion, grief and patience.
His hands are beautiful.
Both their hands are incredibly kind.
END
Category: Axis Powers Hetalia / Hetalia World Series
Characters/Pairings: North and South Italy
Genre/Rating/Warnings: hurt/comfort, general/G/no names
Summary/Excerpt: These are their hands.
Hands
His hands are soft.
They clasp in prayer on dusty golden Sundays in cathedrals dotted by old women, priests and children. They touch the ancient walls of his city, feeling the weathered rock against his palms, remembering how smooth it was when they first built it. They touch children's heads in passing benediction as they carry purchases from the local market. They toss pasta into boiling water and grow warm over the steam. They cool as they wash tomatoes and dry when they set the dishes on the table in loving meal which could not have been possible without them. They grasp a paintbrush in solitude and represent life and flowers on a smooth white of canvas.
They have held the hands of old men they carried as babes nearly a hundred years ago. They have grasped the hands of the dying and the hands of the living, showering them with kisses and tears of sorrow and joy. They have caressed the bodies of lovers, felt their heat and ripple, the damp of sweat and the rise and dip of breathing. They have been pricked by thorns of roses and felt the burn of shooting guns. They have tingled with fear, heartbreak and thrill.
His hands are strong.
- - - -
His hands are rough.
They sink into the earth, past the soil and the roots to bring a bloom from the pot to the garden. They mend the weave on an old rocking chair, remembering with each new fiber the generations of families who have sat on it, watching the sun rise and set in sea waves. They carry lumber across the farmers' fields, relishing the bomp and pull of work, the sweat they wipe off the brow and the dirty streak they leave behind. They shake the hands of those they've helped, conveying gratitude and warmth through the tightening of their fingers. They bring in the fresh tomato harvest in a rough hewn basket and wash a few to brighten a brown table in the center of an orange kitchen.
They have had crumbs and cream licked off them when they were young. They have grabbed the hems of embroidered velvet capes and khaki army coats out of stubbornness, love and defiance. They have held smoking cigarettes and dealt playing cards but never pulled the trigger. They have strummed a thousand songs on crisp guitars, snapped to many dances and clapped to many beats. They have tingled with passion, grief and patience.
His hands are beautiful.
Both their hands are incredibly kind.
END