yousei-san (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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metamorphosis2010-03-23 05:05 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-03-23 05:05 pm
Entry tags:
51;
Title: Birthdays Are Nothing
Characters: England, Spain
Rating: PG
For 30smiles' prompt, 'dance'.
The music tinkles through the door, slightly ajar and full of light from the large, circular window on the left side. Between the frosted glass and the opaque dust, covered furniture lays about, aged. Sounds of a party rise, suddenly, from below and England glances up with a start, from his book. He listens for a moment, then flips to the next page and continues on. The floorboards creak under the weight of someone entering, the door returning to its position with the utmost care, and he glances up again, eyes training on an outstretched hand.
“Why don’t you join the party?”
“Why should I?”
The smile fades for a split second, but it’s back in a flash; he wonders if he imagined such an occurrence.
“Because it’s fun! Anyways, it’s your birthday. You should at least try to look happy.”
“It’s just another year of age, Spain. What does it matter to you and I?”
“You should still enjoy the party.”
England makes a vexed sound and shakes his head, burying his nose deeper into his book. It didn’t matter to him, and parties for this sort of thing were a waste. Besides, he wasn’t finished reading this old journal of his – he had marveled, upon finding it, at the careful gold inscription in a flourishing, tricky script, the words Captain’s Log – and it was getting to some extraordinarily interesting parts. Spain scratched the back of his hand idly, then sat down next to him and craned his neck to read the cover; still confused, he peered over England’s shoulder.
‘…and of course, he was there. Why shouldn’t he have been? It was still an annoyance, though! And with that stupid little smile of his, those stupid rings, sliding one onto my finger… how rude, how stupid of him to do that in such a long congregation, married or not. I hate him. I hate this marriage, I hate his king, and I feel as if I’m about to get sick over this whole affair. There are some interesting upsides to…’
England slams the journal shut, ears red and angry, as soon as he notices the hovering presence. He turns away and tucks it between the cushions, shuddering when arms wrap around him and Spain’s breath softly tickles his ear.
“’Interesting upsides,’ you say?”
“None of your business, either then or now.”
England can tell Spain’s disappointed; he rests his head on his shoulder, wrapping his arms around the not-quite slim waist, and exhales softly. It’s almost unnoticeable, and he berates himself for noticing it. He doesn’t notice the way they begin to sway, in time to the music, how comfortable he feels nestled in his arms, tanned from farm work and general sun, how perfectly the mesh and meld almost as if they used to be part of the same land, part of the same continent. He doesn’t notice it, but only because he doesn’t want to. How painfully obvious it was in the gentle caresses, idle, of the calloused hands, the memories and emotion of them; how painfully obvious those were gone now.
They dance through memories, swim through time, breath in music, and brace themselves. What feels like half an hour is only five minutes; England stands and nudges Spain out of the way with his hip, sways slightly and crosses the room to stand at the door. Spain watches, curled on the couch like a cat awoke from its slumber. He gives a little wave, a tiny smile, and England huffs, sour.
He shuts the door quietly when he leaves; Spain’s left only with the dusty recollections and the bitter light.
Characters: England, Spain
Rating: PG
For 30smiles' prompt, 'dance'.
The music tinkles through the door, slightly ajar and full of light from the large, circular window on the left side. Between the frosted glass and the opaque dust, covered furniture lays about, aged. Sounds of a party rise, suddenly, from below and England glances up with a start, from his book. He listens for a moment, then flips to the next page and continues on. The floorboards creak under the weight of someone entering, the door returning to its position with the utmost care, and he glances up again, eyes training on an outstretched hand.
“Why don’t you join the party?”
“Why should I?”
The smile fades for a split second, but it’s back in a flash; he wonders if he imagined such an occurrence.
“Because it’s fun! Anyways, it’s your birthday. You should at least try to look happy.”
“It’s just another year of age, Spain. What does it matter to you and I?”
“You should still enjoy the party.”
England makes a vexed sound and shakes his head, burying his nose deeper into his book. It didn’t matter to him, and parties for this sort of thing were a waste. Besides, he wasn’t finished reading this old journal of his – he had marveled, upon finding it, at the careful gold inscription in a flourishing, tricky script, the words Captain’s Log – and it was getting to some extraordinarily interesting parts. Spain scratched the back of his hand idly, then sat down next to him and craned his neck to read the cover; still confused, he peered over England’s shoulder.
‘…and of course, he was there. Why shouldn’t he have been? It was still an annoyance, though! And with that stupid little smile of his, those stupid rings, sliding one onto my finger… how rude, how stupid of him to do that in such a long congregation, married or not. I hate him. I hate this marriage, I hate his king, and I feel as if I’m about to get sick over this whole affair. There are some interesting upsides to…’
England slams the journal shut, ears red and angry, as soon as he notices the hovering presence. He turns away and tucks it between the cushions, shuddering when arms wrap around him and Spain’s breath softly tickles his ear.
“’Interesting upsides,’ you say?”
“None of your business, either then or now.”
England can tell Spain’s disappointed; he rests his head on his shoulder, wrapping his arms around the not-quite slim waist, and exhales softly. It’s almost unnoticeable, and he berates himself for noticing it. He doesn’t notice the way they begin to sway, in time to the music, how comfortable he feels nestled in his arms, tanned from farm work and general sun, how perfectly the mesh and meld almost as if they used to be part of the same land, part of the same continent. He doesn’t notice it, but only because he doesn’t want to. How painfully obvious it was in the gentle caresses, idle, of the calloused hands, the memories and emotion of them; how painfully obvious those were gone now.
They dance through memories, swim through time, breath in music, and brace themselves. What feels like half an hour is only five minutes; England stands and nudges Spain out of the way with his hip, sways slightly and crosses the room to stand at the door. Spain watches, curled on the couch like a cat awoke from its slumber. He gives a little wave, a tiny smile, and England huffs, sour.
He shuts the door quietly when he leaves; Spain’s left only with the dusty recollections and the bitter light.