yousei-san (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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metamorphosis2010-03-10 04:13 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-03-10 04:13 pm
Entry tags:
42;
Title: Silver and Gold
Characters: England, Spain
Rating: PG
For Livejournal's 30smiles community, the prompt 'Silver'.
The first thing he always, always notices with England is the single silver hoop earring neatly piercing through the soft lobe of his ear, and it’s hard not to notice it because it swings and jangles when England moves and most times Spain finds himself just staring at it, transfixed, wondering how he could only have one piece of jewelry on.
The first thing he always, always notices with Spain is the multiple gold rings adorning his fingers, clanking together when he drums his fingers, and it’s hard not to notice because they’re huge and showy and most time, England finds himself glancing away and landing on something else to watch, wondering how he could have so many riches on him.
The second thing they notice about each other are the crosses around their neck. England’s is a small silver and iron one, hand-crafted and beaten, hanging around his neck by a leather cord. Spain’s is a medium-sized gold one, embedded with rubies and emeralds and quartz, hanging by gold metal plates similar to the kind he had stolen from the Aztecs, the Mayans, the old empires he had come across with their emperors covered in gold without a care in the world.
On one hand, England always scoffs and grinds his heel into Spain’s chest, always leans down and slips his hand into Spain’s shirt and pulls the cross up, plays with it and admires it and snorts that it’s too showy, that it could be seen and heard and that it was as iconic as a picture of Jesus –
“But then again, savage, you did always like men like Jesus.”
Spain would just smile, eyes half-shadowed by bangs, and reply softly that England had looked nothing like Jesus and that he had loved him.
On the other hand, Spain always laughs and presses England closer to the wall, pressing a knife to his neck and tearing the cord from around his neck, gives it a glance over and purses his lips at the obvious age – at least two hundred, three hundred years – and drops it, muttering that it was as lowly as a peasant’s –
“But then again, Arturo, you are nothing but a serf.”
England would laugh in his face and sneer that it was better than being a slave to the Pope.
They were matched in these hurting blows – often, even when he felt a comment would no longer affect him, England would still flinch and press his knee to his prisoner’s neck until the latter passed out and he could leave with some semblance of dignity, hot shame washing over him for even moving an inch at it; often, even when he had heard them time and time again, Spain would still bite his lip and try not to look hurt, try not to let any tears spill if it was a particularly close comment, and would stand from his chair and leave his prisoner in his quarters, chained and laughing at him.
No matter how many times they smiled and sneered and jeered and made fun of the other for emotions, they always winded up quiet and thinking to themselves; one with a glass of sherry, one with a flask of rum.
Characters: England, Spain
Rating: PG
For Livejournal's 30smiles community, the prompt 'Silver'.
The first thing he always, always notices with England is the single silver hoop earring neatly piercing through the soft lobe of his ear, and it’s hard not to notice it because it swings and jangles when England moves and most times Spain finds himself just staring at it, transfixed, wondering how he could only have one piece of jewelry on.
The first thing he always, always notices with Spain is the multiple gold rings adorning his fingers, clanking together when he drums his fingers, and it’s hard not to notice because they’re huge and showy and most time, England finds himself glancing away and landing on something else to watch, wondering how he could have so many riches on him.
The second thing they notice about each other are the crosses around their neck. England’s is a small silver and iron one, hand-crafted and beaten, hanging around his neck by a leather cord. Spain’s is a medium-sized gold one, embedded with rubies and emeralds and quartz, hanging by gold metal plates similar to the kind he had stolen from the Aztecs, the Mayans, the old empires he had come across with their emperors covered in gold without a care in the world.
On one hand, England always scoffs and grinds his heel into Spain’s chest, always leans down and slips his hand into Spain’s shirt and pulls the cross up, plays with it and admires it and snorts that it’s too showy, that it could be seen and heard and that it was as iconic as a picture of Jesus –
“But then again, savage, you did always like men like Jesus.”
Spain would just smile, eyes half-shadowed by bangs, and reply softly that England had looked nothing like Jesus and that he had loved him.
On the other hand, Spain always laughs and presses England closer to the wall, pressing a knife to his neck and tearing the cord from around his neck, gives it a glance over and purses his lips at the obvious age – at least two hundred, three hundred years – and drops it, muttering that it was as lowly as a peasant’s –
“But then again, Arturo, you are nothing but a serf.”
England would laugh in his face and sneer that it was better than being a slave to the Pope.
They were matched in these hurting blows – often, even when he felt a comment would no longer affect him, England would still flinch and press his knee to his prisoner’s neck until the latter passed out and he could leave with some semblance of dignity, hot shame washing over him for even moving an inch at it; often, even when he had heard them time and time again, Spain would still bite his lip and try not to look hurt, try not to let any tears spill if it was a particularly close comment, and would stand from his chair and leave his prisoner in his quarters, chained and laughing at him.
No matter how many times they smiled and sneered and jeered and made fun of the other for emotions, they always winded up quiet and thinking to themselves; one with a glass of sherry, one with a flask of rum.