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)
metamorphosis2010-05-11 07:07 am
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-05-11 07:07 am
Entry tags:
97;
Title: Drowsy
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: G
A little old, but I don't believe I've posted it here before.
It was warm and beautiful outside, and so it made him drowsy. He loved to lay in the grass under a tree and watch the wisps of clouds pass by, loved to forget that sky could vary shades of grey at any moment. In this he felt safe, secure, warmed. The other place he had found that solace was in the arms of one Spain, and he certainly wasn't going to go seeking that while he was sober.
Of course, things had a knack for happening when he didn't want them to, such as Spain finding him nestled in the tall saffron grass, dozing. He woke up when Spain shifted him into his lap and, drowsily, asked what he was doing.
“Making you more comfortable.”
He accept the answer and curled his fingers into the loose shirt, tilted his head just enough so it laid in the crook of his arm, and watched Spain with a fascination usually reserved for biologists and their specimens. He watched as the sun curled in his hair, highlighting every colour – and he knew every colour, every curl and which spots to tug just right to get the expected response. A hand climbed up and twirling the hair on the back of his neck, think of when it had been long enough to put in a small ponytail.
“Why'd you get rid of it?”
Spain blinked and reached back, taking England's hand into his own and feeling where it had been.
“You kept cutting it off. It grew out of style anyways.”
“Oh.”
England frowned slightly and scooted up more, moving himself onto Spain's lap and resting against his chest, one arm around the back of his neck to play with the hair on the back of his neck. He pressed his lips together and closes his eyes, lays his head on the nape of Spain's neck, not noticing the uncomfortable shift Spain gives to adjust and prevent.
“You always looked handsome with it. I wanted one, too, but every time I grew my hair out it became tangled and messy, so I ended up cutting it back to the way it was.”
He paused, thinking.
“...I think I would've looked good with it.”
“I'm sure.”
Spain's voice feels like a gentle purr against him and he shifts closer, chuckling softly and nudging his Adam's apple with his nose.
“Keep talking. It feels nice.”
Spain thinks it's weird, then, that it feels nice, not sounds nice, but complies, chatting absentmindedly about how he was doing and how everyone else was and that yes, the beaches were prettier this year than last year and that the food was nice, and England responds with soft remarks and a growing smile that soon presses to Spain's lips to silence him. The even slightness shift of weight lets him fall back with a soft thud and England straddling him, slowly unhooking his tie and pulling it over his head, shedding his jacket and kissing, always kissing, Spain, who responds much the same way England does to advances; he shoves England off and asks what the hell is wrong with him, then winces slightly at the flash of hurt in the cool green eyes and at the mask, indifferent, that is put on right after.
“I... nothing. Forget it.”
England moves away and sits on the other side of the tree, fully awake now and glaring out at the blue sky. Spain runs a hand through his messy curls and peers around the tree, leans against it with his hip and watches England hate himself and the weather for making him drowsy enough to almost engage in something. He reaches out, then drops his hand and pushes away from the tree, steps around and sits down and pulls England back between his legs, setting his head on his shoulder.
“This is nicer, isn't it?”
No answer, and he hadn't expected one. He shakes his head and unbuttons England's shirt carefully, slides it off and flattens his palms against the cooling warm expanse of skin beneath it, pale and lacking in the tan he used to see on the golden haired teen – and he has to remind himself they were adults, grown men, not teenagers with ideas and beliefs and hatreds. England's extremely tense, so Spain presses kisses to his back and neck and shoulders and mutters hotly that he needs to relax a little, procures a bottle of massage oil from his bag (always close at hand, and England thinks that Spain had been planning this all along), and proceeds to give him a thorough massage.
Dimly, England thinks he should invite Spain over sometime.
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: G
A little old, but I don't believe I've posted it here before.
It was warm and beautiful outside, and so it made him drowsy. He loved to lay in the grass under a tree and watch the wisps of clouds pass by, loved to forget that sky could vary shades of grey at any moment. In this he felt safe, secure, warmed. The other place he had found that solace was in the arms of one Spain, and he certainly wasn't going to go seeking that while he was sober.
Of course, things had a knack for happening when he didn't want them to, such as Spain finding him nestled in the tall saffron grass, dozing. He woke up when Spain shifted him into his lap and, drowsily, asked what he was doing.
“Making you more comfortable.”
He accept the answer and curled his fingers into the loose shirt, tilted his head just enough so it laid in the crook of his arm, and watched Spain with a fascination usually reserved for biologists and their specimens. He watched as the sun curled in his hair, highlighting every colour – and he knew every colour, every curl and which spots to tug just right to get the expected response. A hand climbed up and twirling the hair on the back of his neck, think of when it had been long enough to put in a small ponytail.
“Why'd you get rid of it?”
Spain blinked and reached back, taking England's hand into his own and feeling where it had been.
“You kept cutting it off. It grew out of style anyways.”
“Oh.”
England frowned slightly and scooted up more, moving himself onto Spain's lap and resting against his chest, one arm around the back of his neck to play with the hair on the back of his neck. He pressed his lips together and closes his eyes, lays his head on the nape of Spain's neck, not noticing the uncomfortable shift Spain gives to adjust and prevent.
“You always looked handsome with it. I wanted one, too, but every time I grew my hair out it became tangled and messy, so I ended up cutting it back to the way it was.”
He paused, thinking.
“...I think I would've looked good with it.”
“I'm sure.”
Spain's voice feels like a gentle purr against him and he shifts closer, chuckling softly and nudging his Adam's apple with his nose.
“Keep talking. It feels nice.”
Spain thinks it's weird, then, that it feels nice, not sounds nice, but complies, chatting absentmindedly about how he was doing and how everyone else was and that yes, the beaches were prettier this year than last year and that the food was nice, and England responds with soft remarks and a growing smile that soon presses to Spain's lips to silence him. The even slightness shift of weight lets him fall back with a soft thud and England straddling him, slowly unhooking his tie and pulling it over his head, shedding his jacket and kissing, always kissing, Spain, who responds much the same way England does to advances; he shoves England off and asks what the hell is wrong with him, then winces slightly at the flash of hurt in the cool green eyes and at the mask, indifferent, that is put on right after.
“I... nothing. Forget it.”
England moves away and sits on the other side of the tree, fully awake now and glaring out at the blue sky. Spain runs a hand through his messy curls and peers around the tree, leans against it with his hip and watches England hate himself and the weather for making him drowsy enough to almost engage in something. He reaches out, then drops his hand and pushes away from the tree, steps around and sits down and pulls England back between his legs, setting his head on his shoulder.
“This is nicer, isn't it?”
No answer, and he hadn't expected one. He shakes his head and unbuttons England's shirt carefully, slides it off and flattens his palms against the cooling warm expanse of skin beneath it, pale and lacking in the tan he used to see on the golden haired teen – and he has to remind himself they were adults, grown men, not teenagers with ideas and beliefs and hatreds. England's extremely tense, so Spain presses kisses to his back and neck and shoulders and mutters hotly that he needs to relax a little, procures a bottle of massage oil from his bag (always close at hand, and England thinks that Spain had been planning this all along), and proceeds to give him a thorough massage.
Dimly, England thinks he should invite Spain over sometime.