yousei-san (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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metamorphosis2010-03-15 04:06 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-03-15 04:06 pm
Entry tags:
46;
Title: Rot
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: G
The kisses fell like rain (soft, gentle, yet unheeding) upon the blemished skin, rotting a pale green with splotches of black and blue and brown. He shook with fever; a fit caught him and he roared into coughing, white handkerchief turning a pinkish red. The hold tightened, the storm roared, and above all else a lullaby started up to calm the quaking, dying child.
When he felt the last breath pass from the shaking body he grieved and set it aside, holding his face in his hands and muttering prayers for the young soul in high-pitched Spanish, urgent and alert.
Fifteen minutes passed; he could feel them ticking by. The body stirred slightly and the boy half-sat up, crying out in pain and holding his side. He hurriedly gathered the child up, laughing and crying and whispering condolences to the shaking, whimpering bundle of green. He raked his fingers through the matted blond hair, kissed the large brows unfit for such a small and frail body, whispered against the skin already beginning to fade back to its sickly pale hue. The child withstood it, eyes closed and fists balled into his shirt, fright evident in his dry sobs.
“Quiet, niño, shh…”
It was his first time dying like this, he mused.
“Shh, Inglaterra… You’re fine.”
The sobs didn’t stop; if anything, they grew harder and more violent.
“You’re alive. It happens.”
“Often?”
The voice was quiet and weak and shaking and he hugged him tighter, pressing his lips to the dirty hair and laughing softly, shaking his head and breathing in the scent that always seemed to follow new life – a sweet, forestry smell (or was that just the child himself?).
“Only sometimes.”
“How many sometimes, Spain?”
“So many questions, so little energy… Quiet down, mi niño, you’ll hear those some other day.”
England made a feeble objection before quieting down, thumb pushed slightly into his mouth and an uneasy expression on his sleeping face. Spain sighed and pushed back his bangs, kissed the faintly bruised forehead, and prayed harder.
Everyone needed a prayer in this sickness.
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: G
The kisses fell like rain (soft, gentle, yet unheeding) upon the blemished skin, rotting a pale green with splotches of black and blue and brown. He shook with fever; a fit caught him and he roared into coughing, white handkerchief turning a pinkish red. The hold tightened, the storm roared, and above all else a lullaby started up to calm the quaking, dying child.
When he felt the last breath pass from the shaking body he grieved and set it aside, holding his face in his hands and muttering prayers for the young soul in high-pitched Spanish, urgent and alert.
Fifteen minutes passed; he could feel them ticking by. The body stirred slightly and the boy half-sat up, crying out in pain and holding his side. He hurriedly gathered the child up, laughing and crying and whispering condolences to the shaking, whimpering bundle of green. He raked his fingers through the matted blond hair, kissed the large brows unfit for such a small and frail body, whispered against the skin already beginning to fade back to its sickly pale hue. The child withstood it, eyes closed and fists balled into his shirt, fright evident in his dry sobs.
“Quiet, niño, shh…”
It was his first time dying like this, he mused.
“Shh, Inglaterra… You’re fine.”
The sobs didn’t stop; if anything, they grew harder and more violent.
“You’re alive. It happens.”
“Often?”
The voice was quiet and weak and shaking and he hugged him tighter, pressing his lips to the dirty hair and laughing softly, shaking his head and breathing in the scent that always seemed to follow new life – a sweet, forestry smell (or was that just the child himself?).
“Only sometimes.”
“How many sometimes, Spain?”
“So many questions, so little energy… Quiet down, mi niño, you’ll hear those some other day.”
England made a feeble objection before quieting down, thumb pushed slightly into his mouth and an uneasy expression on his sleeping face. Spain sighed and pushed back his bangs, kissed the faintly bruised forehead, and prayed harder.
Everyone needed a prayer in this sickness.