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)
metamorphosis2010-05-20 11:33 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-05-20 11:33 pm
Entry tags:
106;
Title: Under the Rooftops
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: G
It's cold and wet and rainy, not the drizzle that usually accompanies London smog but a thick, heavy downpour, one that drums against the old cobblestones of side streets and against the thin edge of the café's roof, forcing people to huddle together before stepping out into the water with an umbrella protecting them feebly, but neither England or Spain has one so they're stuck together, pressed against the wall and watching the rain pour, pour, pour. England shifts uncomfortably and mutters angrily to himself that no matter how beautiful the day had started – and it had, with sunshine and only a few passing clouds, flowers turned up and smiling at the long-forgotten friend – it would rain sometime or another and so he should have brought a bloody umbrella regardless. Spain half-listens and instead watches the downpour gloomily, shaking his feet free of water every so often and glancing back inside, to the warmth and safety of the café. England follows his gaze, shakes his head, and pulls him along the thin, dry edge carefully, to a wider and more covered spot – a little alcove to an employee entrance at the back, in safe seclusion and in warmth from the nearby heater.
“It'll let up soon enough.”
“Are you sure?”
The withering look England sends Spain could kill three acres of tomatoes.
“I am the country of rain, Spain. I'm pretty sure I know what I'm talking about.”
Spain shrugs and moves closer, tilts his head slightly so his breath hits England's cheek and he's barely a hair's width away, eyes half-lidded and England starts backwards at the sudden movement, presses against the wall and narrows his eyes against the dancing, childish grins and the laughter that accompanies it, slightly off-key and fading as Spain slumps against the wall beside him, close to the heater and looks up at the roof that shields them from thundering rain.
“You used to say that, too, and you never knew what you were talking about.”
“Young and stupid.”
“Weren't we all.”
Uncomfortable silence. England looks down, crosses his arms over his chest, and frowns.
“Did you just try to kiss me?”
“Pérdon?”
“Kiss me. Didn't you just try to--”
He's interrupted by a slow kiss, soft and warm, one that makes him close his eyes and smile, and even though it's only a split second, it feels like an eternity; Spain presses his forehead to England's and smiles, wraps his arms around his waist and smiles right back, sways a little and half-closes his eyes in a relaxed state of mind. England opens his eyes, then squeezes them shut again and purses his lips, and though he looks stern his voice doesn't sound stern.
“Why did you--?”
“You told me to. You said 'kiss me' so I did.”
“You tried to before.”
“I was just wondering how you'd react.”
England's lips twitch and he opens an eye, presses his nose to Spain's and shakes his head.
“Sometimes I wonder why I bother with you continentals.”
“You don't. We bother you.”
That's true enough, and as soon as the rain lets up (just as he had predicted, England reminds Spain) they separate and part ways, agreeing that such close quarters were only to keep out of the rain – nothing more and nothing less, with an odd smile gracing them with its presence.
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: G
It's cold and wet and rainy, not the drizzle that usually accompanies London smog but a thick, heavy downpour, one that drums against the old cobblestones of side streets and against the thin edge of the café's roof, forcing people to huddle together before stepping out into the water with an umbrella protecting them feebly, but neither England or Spain has one so they're stuck together, pressed against the wall and watching the rain pour, pour, pour. England shifts uncomfortably and mutters angrily to himself that no matter how beautiful the day had started – and it had, with sunshine and only a few passing clouds, flowers turned up and smiling at the long-forgotten friend – it would rain sometime or another and so he should have brought a bloody umbrella regardless. Spain half-listens and instead watches the downpour gloomily, shaking his feet free of water every so often and glancing back inside, to the warmth and safety of the café. England follows his gaze, shakes his head, and pulls him along the thin, dry edge carefully, to a wider and more covered spot – a little alcove to an employee entrance at the back, in safe seclusion and in warmth from the nearby heater.
“It'll let up soon enough.”
“Are you sure?”
The withering look England sends Spain could kill three acres of tomatoes.
“I am the country of rain, Spain. I'm pretty sure I know what I'm talking about.”
Spain shrugs and moves closer, tilts his head slightly so his breath hits England's cheek and he's barely a hair's width away, eyes half-lidded and England starts backwards at the sudden movement, presses against the wall and narrows his eyes against the dancing, childish grins and the laughter that accompanies it, slightly off-key and fading as Spain slumps against the wall beside him, close to the heater and looks up at the roof that shields them from thundering rain.
“You used to say that, too, and you never knew what you were talking about.”
“Young and stupid.”
“Weren't we all.”
Uncomfortable silence. England looks down, crosses his arms over his chest, and frowns.
“Did you just try to kiss me?”
“Pérdon?”
“Kiss me. Didn't you just try to--”
He's interrupted by a slow kiss, soft and warm, one that makes him close his eyes and smile, and even though it's only a split second, it feels like an eternity; Spain presses his forehead to England's and smiles, wraps his arms around his waist and smiles right back, sways a little and half-closes his eyes in a relaxed state of mind. England opens his eyes, then squeezes them shut again and purses his lips, and though he looks stern his voice doesn't sound stern.
“Why did you--?”
“You told me to. You said 'kiss me' so I did.”
“You tried to before.”
“I was just wondering how you'd react.”
England's lips twitch and he opens an eye, presses his nose to Spain's and shakes his head.
“Sometimes I wonder why I bother with you continentals.”
“You don't. We bother you.”
That's true enough, and as soon as the rain lets up (just as he had predicted, England reminds Spain) they separate and part ways, agreeing that such close quarters were only to keep out of the rain – nothing more and nothing less, with an odd smile gracing them with its presence.