83;

[flair]

Title: Unspoken Laws Should Be Upheld
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: PG

For LJ's 30smiles' last and final prompt, 'Rules'. Bonus prompts will be done and posted next Monday through Friday!

They had simple, unspoken rules.


One: Never, under any circumstance, mention the Spanish Armada.

Two: Never talk badly about past kings or queens.
 

Three: Never speak about feelings.
 

And finally, four: Always dine out.
 

Two of these four had already been broken – by that, one and four – because Spain had opted to make dinner instead of making reservations and England had made a smart remark on the Armada and how it was almost as bad as Spain’s time management (which, he added, was the specific reason the Armada had failed, prompting an angry stare from Spain).
 

It was very, very quiet in the otherwise sunny household. England thought they might make another rule that no one was to touch the gold – for both their houses had plenty of it, and most of his was stolen Spanish, and god he felt those eyes slip over it and give him a unreadable stare half the time – but then, he mused, it wouldn’t be as fun to take the swords off the walls and have a little practice.
 

Of course, if he caught Spain at it, well, that’d be another situation and another rule to add to their unspoken laws that kept them, for the better part of the day, civil. Hypocrisy is the lifeblood of all beings.
 

He wasn’t surprised to see the table laden with foods and wine, nor for the smell to be so intoxicating. He was surprised, however, to see Spain in his chair - or not see, rather, as the idiot was leaning against the door frame, a cat’s playful smirk on his face and with either pleased or smug eyes (England couldn’t decide, even if he stared into them long enough) watched him as a lion watches its prey.
 

So England sat and watched Spain as an antelope watches for the quick gait of a predator. He didn’t start eating – tucked his napkin into his shirt, though he felt as if he might regret it later, though this wasn’t the case – until his host had seated himself and had smiled brilliantly.
 

Which is to say, he didn’t start at all; the insufferable twit just stood there, inspecting the table (so neatly lined with silver and ivory and lace, golden candlebras with red candlesticks half-burnt and pools of wax collecting by cause of the hot, if small, flame) and his guest (dressed in cream ruffles and black leggings, tight and almost reminiscent of earlier centuries, which nearly prompted him to ask if he’d been playing dress up in the guest room again but he restrained himself from speaking) and smile an odd, quirked smile, which was the only way England could describe it as.
 

It was eerie, so the dinner was passed off and they reclined on opposite ends of the sofa, one watching the fireplace and the other watching the telly. Spain stared hard into the flames and thought he could see London burning; England glanced at them and muttered it was more like the Inquisition that Spain’s awful king had let roam free.
 

Three out of four rules broken, now.
 

There was no way they’d break the fourth one though – there was no need for it, actually, and they had only kept it out of courtesy of not-quite-gone emotions prior to the Great War, and it had remained one ever since – though, really, Spain’s silence and England’s growing anger at such blatant ignorance was bound to collide at some point.
 

It did, as soon as the power went out and both their eyes flickered to the window, watching rain pound against the window.
 

“It didn’t look like it was going to rain earlier either.”
 

“It never does.”
 

After this sort of quiet contemplation, Spain turned on England and pinned him against the arm rest of the couch, snarling that it was his fault that a storm had come and, well, England couldn’t exactly argue with that as he had a habit of summoning gales when he was pissed off (and rightfully so, might he add), but when he questioned for evidence he was greeted was a sick smile and another glance to the window.
 

“You mentioned my Armada.”
 

“…honestly, Spain?”
 

“What other reason for a storm to come could there be?”
 

“Oh, I don’t know, perhaps it’s because there’s a clear habit of summoning angry things when I’m, say, angry?”
 

“And why would you of all people be angry, Inglaterra?”
 

He grit his teeth; god, all four rules broken, and there wasn’t a damn civil thing about it.
 

“Because you’ve been ignoring me the past eight hours and it honestly stings that you’d do that because of something said in jest.”
 

They stared at each other for what seemed an hour (in truth, England glanced at his watch and counted twenty-four seconds) before Spain got off of him, brushing his hands on his shirt and moving back to the other side of the couch. England fixed his suit and glanced at his host with a mixture of pure confusion and perhaps (though he’d rather dive off of the cliffs of Cornwall before he’d admit it) hurt.
 

It remained that way for the rest of the day and well into the night, even with them spending no time together in bed and instead on opposite sides of the room, peering at each other through darkness and over blankets.
 

‘Whoever said rules were meant to be broken,’ England decided, ‘was completely around the bend.’