[Drabble] To the Ground
Title: To the Ground
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre(s): Historical/Angst/Drama
Character(s)|Pairing(s): France/Spain
Rating/Warning(s): PG-13, disturbing imagery, blood
Word Count: 847
Summary: Long, long awaited drabble request for mikazuki_kagami , who asked for France/Spain interaction during the Franco-Spanish War of 1823.
Seeing Spain bound was both alluring and disturbing. It was rather like seeing a colt upon the ground, the long and delicate and fragile legs folded up and twisted and trapped. The sight was of movement frozen and locked, grasped until it contorted in a possessive and unnatural grip.
No chains for Spain this time, no shackles locked tawny limbs. No ropes either, to contain him like a wild beast. What bound the slender Kingdom was cloth wrapped around crossed and twisted wrists, knotted around upper arms and around the chest.
France surveyed the sight, knowing that he could not touch, not yet. His fingers bore the livid evidence of such folly, with the deep crescent indents from the other male’s sharp teeth. He wanted to touch though, because to not touch was to be unconnected from the world and all others. To not touch, despite being warned (beyond warned), was a shame and sorrow.
Spain’s eyes had a gray cast and a brightness that bespoke of high fever. He was not often ill, though he had come from the New World with skin yellowed and pocked and speaking in a whisper. Illnesses did affect their kind, whether they willed it or not. France still sported the remains of rosy round blooms of dead flesh from the Plague, the scars lingering under his arm and along his side.
“You have not eaten,” France remarked.
Spain laughed, voice cracking. “I cannot keep it down if I did,” he whispered. “It is kind of you, however.” He spoke jovially, pleasantly, even as his wrists turned this way and that in their bindings, worrying away at them.
France filled a glass with wine. The dark liquor gurgled down the neck of the bottle and splashed along the sides in a torrent. Spain followed the path of the wine, licking cracked, pale lips. France’s fingers wrapped around the slender neck of the cup and walked over to his bound brother. Dark green eyes, languid and fringed with extravagant dark lashes, like smoke over a forest, stared at the wine. They stared absentmindedly, as if willing the wine forwards, borne on aether.
France’s hand darted out, seized Spain’s face with as much gentleness he could dare. And the teeth still lashed out, jaw working and an angry, animal snarl tumbling out from the distorted mouth. The glass tilted and the red wine splashed downwards. It soaked into Spain’s tattered shirt, stained his cloth bonds in royal purple. The smaller country choked and gasped, spraying droplets to stain France’s shirt and drip down impassive cheeks
“Again, you always come,” Spain said thickly, wine dripping from the corners of his mouth. “Always, always.”
Spain’s face, round-cheeked, youthful, good-natured as a child’s, bore sharper angles, lupine instead of canine. The face belonged to the hard men in the rocky hills, ducking behind trees and trapping in the narrow, treacherous ravines. This was the face that bore hate and injured pride that frightened away despair and uncertainty. How quickly one became savage! Or was that always within Spain, the beast beneath the boy? And curiously, this change seemed to have the sudden, flickering magical transition of a nebulous cluster of clouds to a ship or a castle or a leaping horse. No physical change occurred, merely a shift of the light or angle of perception.
“I didn’t come unasked.”
“Of course not.” Spain’s laughter could not be deemed such a thing; such bitter croaks should never have escaped from that mouth.
“Tell me to leave, and I will,” breathed France. “Look me in the eye, frère, and tell me.”
Glassy green eyes did not have the ferocity to look through France. Not when they had all the signs of a fever dreamer’s expressions. The world was up and down at once for Spain, tilting on an ever unsteady base. France remained crouched, meeting the almost unseeing eyes.
The bound wrists lashed out, the hands seized the glass. Air screamed from the harsh pitched cacophony of breaking crystal. Spain opened his hands, let fall dozens of little shining, blood stained pieces, the biggest piece wedged in his fingers. The light glinted off two shining points, one pointing each at the two countries.
“Does the screaming ever end?” asked Spain conversationally. “Will it ever end?”
“You do not want to do this. You have your soul,” replied France carefully and yet tonelessly.
“Souls. Heh.” Spain squeezed upon his makeshift weapon, so far away from his halberd of Toledo steel. “You do not believe those words. Neither can I.”
“So you are going to flee.”
“If only to stop the screaming, Francia.” Spain smiled as brightly and oddly as the gleaming edges of cut glass. “You have no idea.”
“I do, Espagne. You have no idea either.”
France rested his hand upon the other country’s wrist. Gray-green eyes flickered to the grip momentarily then the brown, calloused fingers that cast steel and plucked fruit moved again. Blood splashed upon the ancient carpet of the chamber, two pairs of eyes observed the effect and just how… artistic it all was.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre(s): Historical/Angst/Drama
Character(s)|Pairing(s): France/Spain
Rating/Warning(s): PG-13, disturbing imagery, blood
Word Count: 847
Summary: Long, long awaited drabble request for mikazuki_kagami , who asked for France/Spain interaction during the Franco-Spanish War of 1823.
Seeing Spain bound was both alluring and disturbing. It was rather like seeing a colt upon the ground, the long and delicate and fragile legs folded up and twisted and trapped. The sight was of movement frozen and locked, grasped until it contorted in a possessive and unnatural grip.
No chains for Spain this time, no shackles locked tawny limbs. No ropes either, to contain him like a wild beast. What bound the slender Kingdom was cloth wrapped around crossed and twisted wrists, knotted around upper arms and around the chest.
France surveyed the sight, knowing that he could not touch, not yet. His fingers bore the livid evidence of such folly, with the deep crescent indents from the other male’s sharp teeth. He wanted to touch though, because to not touch was to be unconnected from the world and all others. To not touch, despite being warned (beyond warned), was a shame and sorrow.
Spain’s eyes had a gray cast and a brightness that bespoke of high fever. He was not often ill, though he had come from the New World with skin yellowed and pocked and speaking in a whisper. Illnesses did affect their kind, whether they willed it or not. France still sported the remains of rosy round blooms of dead flesh from the Plague, the scars lingering under his arm and along his side.
“You have not eaten,” France remarked.
Spain laughed, voice cracking. “I cannot keep it down if I did,” he whispered. “It is kind of you, however.” He spoke jovially, pleasantly, even as his wrists turned this way and that in their bindings, worrying away at them.
France filled a glass with wine. The dark liquor gurgled down the neck of the bottle and splashed along the sides in a torrent. Spain followed the path of the wine, licking cracked, pale lips. France’s fingers wrapped around the slender neck of the cup and walked over to his bound brother. Dark green eyes, languid and fringed with extravagant dark lashes, like smoke over a forest, stared at the wine. They stared absentmindedly, as if willing the wine forwards, borne on aether.
France’s hand darted out, seized Spain’s face with as much gentleness he could dare. And the teeth still lashed out, jaw working and an angry, animal snarl tumbling out from the distorted mouth. The glass tilted and the red wine splashed downwards. It soaked into Spain’s tattered shirt, stained his cloth bonds in royal purple. The smaller country choked and gasped, spraying droplets to stain France’s shirt and drip down impassive cheeks
“Again, you always come,” Spain said thickly, wine dripping from the corners of his mouth. “Always, always.”
Spain’s face, round-cheeked, youthful, good-natured as a child’s, bore sharper angles, lupine instead of canine. The face belonged to the hard men in the rocky hills, ducking behind trees and trapping in the narrow, treacherous ravines. This was the face that bore hate and injured pride that frightened away despair and uncertainty. How quickly one became savage! Or was that always within Spain, the beast beneath the boy? And curiously, this change seemed to have the sudden, flickering magical transition of a nebulous cluster of clouds to a ship or a castle or a leaping horse. No physical change occurred, merely a shift of the light or angle of perception.
“I didn’t come unasked.”
“Of course not.” Spain’s laughter could not be deemed such a thing; such bitter croaks should never have escaped from that mouth.
“Tell me to leave, and I will,” breathed France. “Look me in the eye, frère, and tell me.”
Glassy green eyes did not have the ferocity to look through France. Not when they had all the signs of a fever dreamer’s expressions. The world was up and down at once for Spain, tilting on an ever unsteady base. France remained crouched, meeting the almost unseeing eyes.
The bound wrists lashed out, the hands seized the glass. Air screamed from the harsh pitched cacophony of breaking crystal. Spain opened his hands, let fall dozens of little shining, blood stained pieces, the biggest piece wedged in his fingers. The light glinted off two shining points, one pointing each at the two countries.
“Does the screaming ever end?” asked Spain conversationally. “Will it ever end?”
“You do not want to do this. You have your soul,” replied France carefully and yet tonelessly.
“Souls. Heh.” Spain squeezed upon his makeshift weapon, so far away from his halberd of Toledo steel. “You do not believe those words. Neither can I.”
“So you are going to flee.”
“If only to stop the screaming, Francia.” Spain smiled as brightly and oddly as the gleaming edges of cut glass. “You have no idea.”
“I do, Espagne. You have no idea either.”
France rested his hand upon the other country’s wrist. Gray-green eyes flickered to the grip momentarily then the brown, calloused fingers that cast steel and plucked fruit moved again. Blood splashed upon the ancient carpet of the chamber, two pairs of eyes observed the effect and just how… artistic it all was.