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metamorphosis2010-05-04 09:53 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-05-04 09:53 pm
Entry tags:
88;
Title: Only Sweeter
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: G
For LJ's 30smiles bonus prompt 'Remember, remember the first of November'. Originally was supposed to be posted Monday, but I became sidetracked...
“Do you remember?”
England glanced over and frowned, drawing his eyebrows together as he tried to figure out what he meant. Spain just laughed.
“Do you, Inglaterra? The first day of November, back in… must’ve been the tenth century, even.”
Ah.
“The day we met?”
“Sí. Describe it for me.”
“Can’t you remember it yourself?”
“I want to hear you remember it.”
It had been cold. Very, very cold. England – then Anglaland – had dressed in his warmest furs that France had given him to starve off the cold, had been sitting outside and staring at the sky and had been wondering why the sky cried.
Spain had appeared almost out of nowhere, a thin, lanky shadow in priest’s clothing. The sun was setting between the overcast sky and the hooded lands of forest that littered the landscape, and it was cold, very cold, because England remembers that his fingers were red and white and Spain’s hands were hot, very hot, because they had been stuffed into his armpits. He remembers the first words they spoke where a garbled mixed of Spanish, French, and Gaelic until, finally, they had both settled on a language they could both speak to some extent – Latin.
They had conversed for a while (it was blurry to him now, the words fading away as quickly as he remembered them) but he does remember Spain's smile and how it lost its glamour and cheerfulness a long, long time ago.
He mentions this and Spain shrugs half-heartedly, smiles in that half-genuine way he does, and kisses England.
“Times change.”
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: G
For LJ's 30smiles bonus prompt 'Remember, remember the first of November'. Originally was supposed to be posted Monday, but I became sidetracked...
“Do you remember?”
England glanced over and frowned, drawing his eyebrows together as he tried to figure out what he meant. Spain just laughed.
“Do you, Inglaterra? The first day of November, back in… must’ve been the tenth century, even.”
Ah.
“The day we met?”
“Sí. Describe it for me.”
“Can’t you remember it yourself?”
“I want to hear you remember it.”
It had been cold. Very, very cold. England – then Anglaland – had dressed in his warmest furs that France had given him to starve off the cold, had been sitting outside and staring at the sky and had been wondering why the sky cried.
Spain had appeared almost out of nowhere, a thin, lanky shadow in priest’s clothing. The sun was setting between the overcast sky and the hooded lands of forest that littered the landscape, and it was cold, very cold, because England remembers that his fingers were red and white and Spain’s hands were hot, very hot, because they had been stuffed into his armpits. He remembers the first words they spoke where a garbled mixed of Spanish, French, and Gaelic until, finally, they had both settled on a language they could both speak to some extent – Latin.
They had conversed for a while (it was blurry to him now, the words fading away as quickly as he remembered them) but he does remember Spain's smile and how it lost its glamour and cheerfulness a long, long time ago.
He mentions this and Spain shrugs half-heartedly, smiles in that half-genuine way he does, and kisses England.
“Times change.”