yousei-san (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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metamorphosis2010-04-19 04:10 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-04-19 04:10 pm
Entry tags:
74;
Title: Come Sail Away
Characters: England, Spain, mention of France
Rating: PG
For LJ's 30smiles prompt 'Freedom'.
England loves to sail. It’s the freedom of it – to make your own rules, command your crew, to just get away from the tired worries of the world. These days, he feels old and unused; younger, more powerful nations are taking form (some more dangerous than other, he minds) and stepping up, leaving the older powers in their wake. He’ll never not be a power, he knows, but there are others who aren’t as lucky. With this thought, he slides a glance to his only crew-mate and, thus, first mate. Spain looks at easy against the sky, a bright robin’s egg blue, silhouetted by fluffy white clouds and the sun shining just above them. He squints, then makes his way over, drawing his nails along the hard white plastic of the rail (and he strongly remembers the way splinters would dig into his fingertips when he did this and how he hadn’t cared, except when Spain or France or whoever he boarded that night took notice and kissed them better, or so they said, drawing them into their mouths and—) and he breaks this line of thought before he reaches his crew-mate.
Spain regards him with a curious intent, then turns to watch the water as they stream right through it, waves bobbing off from the speed in slow motions. England watches for a moment, too, then reaches over and cuts the engine. It goes silent as the boat stops, and now it’s just the two of them in open water, gently moving up and down as the sea rolls off its abuse. After a while it becomes still, and England takes this moment to smile and climb onto the rail, feet tucking under the evenly-spaced bars to hold himself, and place his hands on either side of him. Spain’s surprised, actually, because the last time England had smiled so freely was years and years ago, when there was reason to be happy. At the eternal rain’s nod he leans on the rail, close enough to whisper, instead of climbing on. At England’s muddled look he shrugs and smiles brightly, easy-going as ever.
“Do you come out here often?”
“When I’m feeling stressed, yes. Usually it’s just I and the boat.”
“So why did you invite me?”
“I have found it’s… very nice to have a companion on the seas.”
England’s voice falters just a little, so little that Spain thinks he imagines it.
“Besides, you didn’t look so well. Sea breezes are best for clearing one’s head.”
“Huh? But I never said…”
“I said you looked unwell. I might have been watching you for a few minutes.”
“More than a few minutes.”
“You aren’t that hard to read, Spain.”
Spain makes an unsatisfied hum, looking back out to the open ocean instead of at England, who rolls his eyes slightly and nudges him with his shoulder.
“Don’t be like that. Satisfaction suits you.”
“Does it now…”
The silence becomes deafening after than; neither wants to speak or spoil whatever sort of moment this was. Spain smiles, though, and plants his hands on England’s and kisses him, soft and easy-going, not hard enough to push him over the edge. England’s tense, at first, then relaxes into it, letting go of the railing and pulling his arms over Spain’s head instead, prolonging it. There was no one to see them like this; no embarrassment except perhaps the sting of memory when they saw each other next. When Spain starts to pull away, England moves with him, sliding off the rail and untucking his feet, dragging them along and keeping pace, trying to keep up the pressure, loving the taste of sea salt and of Spain.
In one motion, fluid and swift, Spain nudges him off and runs his hand through the soft golden locks, laughing and ruffling them up. His voice is low, silky and soft, murmuring to the air between them.
“You haven’t changed, Inglaterra. You still desire what you shouldn't have.”
Characters: England, Spain, mention of France
Rating: PG
For LJ's 30smiles prompt 'Freedom'.
England loves to sail. It’s the freedom of it – to make your own rules, command your crew, to just get away from the tired worries of the world. These days, he feels old and unused; younger, more powerful nations are taking form (some more dangerous than other, he minds) and stepping up, leaving the older powers in their wake. He’ll never not be a power, he knows, but there are others who aren’t as lucky. With this thought, he slides a glance to his only crew-mate and, thus, first mate. Spain looks at easy against the sky, a bright robin’s egg blue, silhouetted by fluffy white clouds and the sun shining just above them. He squints, then makes his way over, drawing his nails along the hard white plastic of the rail (and he strongly remembers the way splinters would dig into his fingertips when he did this and how he hadn’t cared, except when Spain or France or whoever he boarded that night took notice and kissed them better, or so they said, drawing them into their mouths and—) and he breaks this line of thought before he reaches his crew-mate.
Spain regards him with a curious intent, then turns to watch the water as they stream right through it, waves bobbing off from the speed in slow motions. England watches for a moment, too, then reaches over and cuts the engine. It goes silent as the boat stops, and now it’s just the two of them in open water, gently moving up and down as the sea rolls off its abuse. After a while it becomes still, and England takes this moment to smile and climb onto the rail, feet tucking under the evenly-spaced bars to hold himself, and place his hands on either side of him. Spain’s surprised, actually, because the last time England had smiled so freely was years and years ago, when there was reason to be happy. At the eternal rain’s nod he leans on the rail, close enough to whisper, instead of climbing on. At England’s muddled look he shrugs and smiles brightly, easy-going as ever.
“Do you come out here often?”
“When I’m feeling stressed, yes. Usually it’s just I and the boat.”
“So why did you invite me?”
“I have found it’s… very nice to have a companion on the seas.”
England’s voice falters just a little, so little that Spain thinks he imagines it.
“Besides, you didn’t look so well. Sea breezes are best for clearing one’s head.”
“Huh? But I never said…”
“I said you looked unwell. I might have been watching you for a few minutes.”
“More than a few minutes.”
“You aren’t that hard to read, Spain.”
Spain makes an unsatisfied hum, looking back out to the open ocean instead of at England, who rolls his eyes slightly and nudges him with his shoulder.
“Don’t be like that. Satisfaction suits you.”
“Does it now…”
The silence becomes deafening after than; neither wants to speak or spoil whatever sort of moment this was. Spain smiles, though, and plants his hands on England’s and kisses him, soft and easy-going, not hard enough to push him over the edge. England’s tense, at first, then relaxes into it, letting go of the railing and pulling his arms over Spain’s head instead, prolonging it. There was no one to see them like this; no embarrassment except perhaps the sting of memory when they saw each other next. When Spain starts to pull away, England moves with him, sliding off the rail and untucking his feet, dragging them along and keeping pace, trying to keep up the pressure, loving the taste of sea salt and of Spain.
In one motion, fluid and swift, Spain nudges him off and runs his hand through the soft golden locks, laughing and ruffling them up. His voice is low, silky and soft, murmuring to the air between them.
“You haven’t changed, Inglaterra. You still desire what you shouldn't have.”