Your reign is over, why couldn't you prove me wrong?
Title: drabbles
Author/Artist: electriclaugh
Character(s) or Pairing(s): spain, france/spain
Rating: PG
Warnings: none !
francis/antonio [france/spain]
(He misses those days, sunlight brighter and blinding in the fields and on the streets and on the ocean.)
Life is going by too fast. It was only yesterday, I swear, we were still kids Francis-
C’est la vie, c’est la vie mon cher.
I mean-
What?
It’s just, I can’t believe it anymore. I think I might be crazy, in the head, Francis. Antonio smiles, lips curling red, like farm fields, and teeth showing.
-------------
antonio [spain]
Only on warm nights, nights without blankets, where sweat pools while he lays there, while the moon is only a half, dull songs of crickets in the street and slight glimmer of small farmhouses and bedroom lights across the roads, Antonio lays, half-asleep. Light dreams like short summer rains that coat the earth with a thin layer of water to darken the colours of the ground, deeper brown, deeper red.
Something that holds together how he lives, how they live. Red earth and tiled roofs and flat dancing shoes during the fiestas of the summer and fall and blood that needs to be cleaned off century old weapons. Of battlegrounds.
Pictures sliding and rolling behind his eyelids of earlier days, when he was-younger, stronger, greater.
-------------
antonio [spain]
It was Thursday. Moon full and perfect, air still and he stood out there, serenading to a window stories up, guitar in hand. Strumming the loveliest melodies he could pick out, rhythm slow like the stars, and voice rising and calling out to a girl he had seen twice. Remembers the red dress and grey eyes, dancing, laughing, flying free, and round cheeks full of roses. Sweet-smelling dark curls that reached the middle of her back. It was at least nine years ago.
They said he had true aficion. Truly different, real, passion for the bulls. Bullfighting, letting others live vicariously through him, through it. That he drew in eyes with his movements, fast and eloquent, livid and dancing. Flashes of sword and lance and blood exploding at joints that are punctured deep within. Lightening strikes so Antonio hopes that it hurts less, deep and dark eyes in steely defiance staring back at him before there is one last strike. One last bow of the head and stumble of hooves. Last shallow breath and buck of its hide.
Beginning of cheers and whistles and flowers raining down like golden showers of sunlight and rose-smelling crown of blood and flesh. And when he leaves, Antonio, young and indifferent, waves at flits of skirts and slightly exposed breasts, fleshy and blushed from being pushed together. Shakes the hands of other men in the bar during the night and heads home with someone-
At that point, nineteen years and thirty-seven days of his life had already passed before his green, green eyes like poison in the forests.
He had fought in wars too, Francis by his side and against him at the same time. Gilbert standing firmly on one side, defending it like nothing else mattered, same defiance showing in slanted eyes and the grip of his sword. (Antonio had once killed something who had showed all the same signs.) Flags waving against the wind and the manes of horses and uniforms, some bloodied, some still clean. He had stood by his men, bled, fought, skin marred and head turning for another victim for him. Another man he did not know, though he showed no hesitation to murder him, all throughout his empathy. As if they were no better than animals fighting for survival. Bloodbath.
He was nineteen that year also, but only years later did he understand it was true-they were all animals and no better.
When there was still a King and Queen sitting, eloquent and just, at the head of the palace. Flowing dresses and jewels of ocean water and magma and forest leaves during the summertime and golden crown, delicately constructed just for her, finishing off a perfectly fair face-all for the queen.
-------------
antonio [spain]
With that realization, Antonio had come crumbling down. Armada being out ran on the wind, defeated and he doesn’t believe it. Still cannot and, in his mind, clouded and unchanged, has never lost in the first place.
Author/Artist: electriclaugh
Character(s) or Pairing(s): spain, france/spain
Rating: PG
Warnings: none !
francis/antonio [france/spain]
(He misses those days, sunlight brighter and blinding in the fields and on the streets and on the ocean.)
Life is going by too fast. It was only yesterday, I swear, we were still kids Francis-
C’est la vie, c’est la vie mon cher.
I mean-
What?
It’s just, I can’t believe it anymore. I think I might be crazy, in the head, Francis. Antonio smiles, lips curling red, like farm fields, and teeth showing.
-------------
antonio [spain]
Only on warm nights, nights without blankets, where sweat pools while he lays there, while the moon is only a half, dull songs of crickets in the street and slight glimmer of small farmhouses and bedroom lights across the roads, Antonio lays, half-asleep. Light dreams like short summer rains that coat the earth with a thin layer of water to darken the colours of the ground, deeper brown, deeper red.
Something that holds together how he lives, how they live. Red earth and tiled roofs and flat dancing shoes during the fiestas of the summer and fall and blood that needs to be cleaned off century old weapons. Of battlegrounds.
Pictures sliding and rolling behind his eyelids of earlier days, when he was-younger, stronger, greater.
-------------
antonio [spain]
It was Thursday. Moon full and perfect, air still and he stood out there, serenading to a window stories up, guitar in hand. Strumming the loveliest melodies he could pick out, rhythm slow like the stars, and voice rising and calling out to a girl he had seen twice. Remembers the red dress and grey eyes, dancing, laughing, flying free, and round cheeks full of roses. Sweet-smelling dark curls that reached the middle of her back. It was at least nine years ago.
They said he had true aficion. Truly different, real, passion for the bulls. Bullfighting, letting others live vicariously through him, through it. That he drew in eyes with his movements, fast and eloquent, livid and dancing. Flashes of sword and lance and blood exploding at joints that are punctured deep within. Lightening strikes so Antonio hopes that it hurts less, deep and dark eyes in steely defiance staring back at him before there is one last strike. One last bow of the head and stumble of hooves. Last shallow breath and buck of its hide.
Beginning of cheers and whistles and flowers raining down like golden showers of sunlight and rose-smelling crown of blood and flesh. And when he leaves, Antonio, young and indifferent, waves at flits of skirts and slightly exposed breasts, fleshy and blushed from being pushed together. Shakes the hands of other men in the bar during the night and heads home with someone-
At that point, nineteen years and thirty-seven days of his life had already passed before his green, green eyes like poison in the forests.
He had fought in wars too, Francis by his side and against him at the same time. Gilbert standing firmly on one side, defending it like nothing else mattered, same defiance showing in slanted eyes and the grip of his sword. (Antonio had once killed something who had showed all the same signs.) Flags waving against the wind and the manes of horses and uniforms, some bloodied, some still clean. He had stood by his men, bled, fought, skin marred and head turning for another victim for him. Another man he did not know, though he showed no hesitation to murder him, all throughout his empathy. As if they were no better than animals fighting for survival. Bloodbath.
He was nineteen that year also, but only years later did he understand it was true-they were all animals and no better.
When there was still a King and Queen sitting, eloquent and just, at the head of the palace. Flowing dresses and jewels of ocean water and magma and forest leaves during the summertime and golden crown, delicately constructed just for her, finishing off a perfectly fair face-all for the queen.
-------------
antonio [spain]
With that realization, Antonio had come crumbling down. Armada being out ran on the wind, defeated and he doesn’t believe it. Still cannot and, in his mind, clouded and unchanged, has never lost in the first place.