yousei-san (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flair) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
metamorphosis2010-05-08 11:30 am
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-05-08 11:30 am
Entry tags:
94;
Title: But Not Always
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: PG
If I had to put a warning, I'd say it sinks into slight angst.
“Who knows, Inglaterra?”
The smile was faint, but it was there.
“Sometimes good bye is a second chance.”
England snarled and ground that smile right back into that bastard Spain's face.
He sat up, thinking of such words, of that smile that held such warmth yet those eyes, glassy and green, that held such hopelessness. It wasn't the first time England had woken up because of words. Sometimes they were of his writers, his philosophers, his monarchy; other times they belonged to other nations, to others of his kind who lived longer and remembered longer and rotted quicker. He dreamt and remembered them because words were important to him – written, spoken, thought – to a slightly odd degree.
He didn't always agree with them (God knows he didn't agree with his fellow nations half the time) and he usually considered them irrelevant unless they showed up repeatedly...
“Sometimes good bye is a second chance.”
Spain hadn't meant that, had he? England had sworn up and down that there'd never be a second chance because good bye was good bye and he wasn't about to walk back on that.
“Then why do you continue to torture me, amor? Why do you insist on coming around and burning everything you see?”
“To make sure you never come back. To kill you, to rid myself of you.”
'To make you recognize that I'm no longer yours, that I'll never be yours. To make you stop calling me 'love,' to make you stop smiling and caressing my skin as if that will bring me back, to make you realize I completely and utterly hate you, to make you realize I'd rather die than to let you ensnare me again in your great big web of lies.'
He had thought such things but never said them, biting his tongue and know it'd only make Spain laugh pleasantly and turn it against him somehow, the way he always did, the way he always had. He was good at words, the subtle way tone and movement could combine and present more possibilities than bared teeth and bared swords could. England had a different way with them – he knew what to say it make it hurt. He could spin lies and truths into indistinguishable webs, aim them and let loose the arrows, laugh as it did its damage and turn as if nothing had ever happened. He could murmur the world's sweetest sonnets, then turn around and sneer the world's greatest insults.
Sometimes, they'd tire and lay two arms' lengths away from each other and stare at the sky, mutter about memories and scream at each other that those times were over, stalk away on a turned heel and with countless lacerations on their hearts, saying the other had caused the split and denying their part in it, their role in such a schism. Spain was overemotional and let the tears stream down his cheeks there in the meadow, fling his arms out and spread his palms, front side up, in peace. England was quiet and bottled them up and swore to never cry, to only laugh and sneer and let anger take hold of him, to spread his hands in a show of power with a sick smile and a mock bow and kiss to Spain's spread fingertips.
Truthfully, it was the only way England could think to hurt him: Give him the affection he so wistfully desired, give him the hate he so very deserved.
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: PG
If I had to put a warning, I'd say it sinks into slight angst.
“Who knows, Inglaterra?”
The smile was faint, but it was there.
“Sometimes good bye is a second chance.”
England snarled and ground that smile right back into that bastard Spain's face.
He sat up, thinking of such words, of that smile that held such warmth yet those eyes, glassy and green, that held such hopelessness. It wasn't the first time England had woken up because of words. Sometimes they were of his writers, his philosophers, his monarchy; other times they belonged to other nations, to others of his kind who lived longer and remembered longer and rotted quicker. He dreamt and remembered them because words were important to him – written, spoken, thought – to a slightly odd degree.
He didn't always agree with them (God knows he didn't agree with his fellow nations half the time) and he usually considered them irrelevant unless they showed up repeatedly...
“Sometimes good bye is a second chance.”
Spain hadn't meant that, had he? England had sworn up and down that there'd never be a second chance because good bye was good bye and he wasn't about to walk back on that.
“Then why do you continue to torture me, amor? Why do you insist on coming around and burning everything you see?”
“To make sure you never come back. To kill you, to rid myself of you.”
'To make you recognize that I'm no longer yours, that I'll never be yours. To make you stop calling me 'love,' to make you stop smiling and caressing my skin as if that will bring me back, to make you realize I completely and utterly hate you, to make you realize I'd rather die than to let you ensnare me again in your great big web of lies.'
He had thought such things but never said them, biting his tongue and know it'd only make Spain laugh pleasantly and turn it against him somehow, the way he always did, the way he always had. He was good at words, the subtle way tone and movement could combine and present more possibilities than bared teeth and bared swords could. England had a different way with them – he knew what to say it make it hurt. He could spin lies and truths into indistinguishable webs, aim them and let loose the arrows, laugh as it did its damage and turn as if nothing had ever happened. He could murmur the world's sweetest sonnets, then turn around and sneer the world's greatest insults.
Sometimes, they'd tire and lay two arms' lengths away from each other and stare at the sky, mutter about memories and scream at each other that those times were over, stalk away on a turned heel and with countless lacerations on their hearts, saying the other had caused the split and denying their part in it, their role in such a schism. Spain was overemotional and let the tears stream down his cheeks there in the meadow, fling his arms out and spread his palms, front side up, in peace. England was quiet and bottled them up and swore to never cry, to only laugh and sneer and let anger take hold of him, to spread his hands in a show of power with a sick smile and a mock bow and kiss to Spain's spread fingertips.
Truthfully, it was the only way England could think to hurt him: Give him the affection he so wistfully desired, give him the hate he so very deserved.