yousei-san (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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metamorphosis2010-05-23 10:57 am
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-05-23 10:57 am
Entry tags:
109;
Title: Domesticity in Complicity
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: PG-13
The sounds of waking up are the birds singing, the wind brushing through the window and across papers (spinning them wildly, madly, in a dance that lasts mere moments) and the faraway clink of silverware in the kitchen sink. Spain stretches and yawns, blearily blinks and glances out the window and then at the clock, then sits up and lets the blankets clump around his waist, skin bared and littered in marks of last night's activities. He winces when he rolls his shoulders and stretches a deep scratch (teeth dragged over skin, sweet tears and salted kisses), then slips out of bed and out of the blanket that covers his stark nakedness. He shuffles around a bit more among the tossed clothing on the floor before salvaging his red boxers and slipping into them, holding back a yawn as he steps quietly down the hall and peers into the kitchen, watches England drop and slam pots and pans and plates (so carefully, carefully with the plates!) into the sink and stop to press his hands to his face, shaking in mirthless laughter.
It's almost a piteous sight.
Spain slips into the smoke-scented room, tiled in cream and batter. He pulls the dressed man against him, presses kisses against his neck in a sleepy fashion and presses a warm nose into England's skin. England reacts in surprise, jerking up and away and letting the plates clatter and break against the floor. His fists ball up, pinpricks of blood forming from porcelain splinters in calloused palms, and he turns around to shove Spain away, but the country of passion is too quick – he takes England's wrists and holds them, lifts them up and presses kisses to the inside of the wrist, tenderly. Caught, England feels warmth rising from his gut to his head as Spain licks away the little droplets of blood with a weird look on his face (a cross between pleased and disgusted), chastely kisses the cuts as he bandages them and turns his hands over, runs his fingers across England's knuckles and kisses those, too, down the length of the digits to his finger tips, like butterflies settling on a warm branch in the middle of the day.
He stops at England's left ring finger, remembering when there was a simple, golden band fitted around it, and continues, until the hands are littered with secrets and promises and murmured adoration from the night before and are littered with good mornings and hellos of the morning after. England flushes and thanks him quietly, turning away before Spain could kiss him and stares in dismay at the expensive, broken pieces, huffing angrily and slipping out of arms that caged him against the counter to fetch a broom.
Spain busies himself with washing the dishes, pans charred from inattention and sauces doused with too much alcohol, tapping out an old lullaby on the edges of the counter and avoiding the floor dusted with glass. England returns and gets on hands and knees to pay for his mistake, carefully sweeps up the shards into broom-pan and dumps them into the trash, purses his lips at every new cut and keeps them (and the blood that runs and stains his white sleeves) out of sight of Spain. He leaves when the singing starts and retreats instead to the shower, turns the heat up until he's as red as a lobster and until Spain slips in after him, presses kisses to his shoulders and neck and against the slick shower wall, pushes back soaked blonde hair and pulls England down, traces silly words into his back and stays long after England escapes with quiet refusal and a towel wrapped around his waist.
He stays until the water turns into stinging drops of ice; when that happens he turns off the water and gets up, takes the other towel and slings it around his hips lazily, saunters out and lets a smile quirk out when he finds England laying on the bed, hair plastered against his forehead and eyes closed, breathing uneven and body clothed in a long shirt borrowed from the open, disheveled closet. He doesn't bother to dress himself, instead preferring to flop on the bed next to England and splatter him with water, grinning when he opens an eye and glares ruefully. A chaste kiss fixes this mess and he straddles England, layering them on the exposed skin of his face and neck, adding to the hickeys already placed there. England is willing to submit, to wrap his arms around Spain's neck and draw him closer, but lets go when Spain murmurs a question into his skin and waits expectantly for the answer.
“Why did you try cooking breakfast?”
England squeezes his eyes eyes shut in exasperation, tangles his fingers unhappily in Spain's hair and strokes his scalp in measured, massaging tones.
“To-- to repay you for letting me stay.”
“Oh.”
The word is a purr without meaning to be, and Spain slips off of England, abandoning his towel in favor of clothing, smirking when he catches the island of rain looking and causing him to look away, red down to his fingertips and a grimace on his face in an attempt to be indifferent.
“It wasn't necessary.”
“I'm aware, Spain. Why do you think I tried not to wake you?"
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: PG-13
The sounds of waking up are the birds singing, the wind brushing through the window and across papers (spinning them wildly, madly, in a dance that lasts mere moments) and the faraway clink of silverware in the kitchen sink. Spain stretches and yawns, blearily blinks and glances out the window and then at the clock, then sits up and lets the blankets clump around his waist, skin bared and littered in marks of last night's activities. He winces when he rolls his shoulders and stretches a deep scratch (teeth dragged over skin, sweet tears and salted kisses), then slips out of bed and out of the blanket that covers his stark nakedness. He shuffles around a bit more among the tossed clothing on the floor before salvaging his red boxers and slipping into them, holding back a yawn as he steps quietly down the hall and peers into the kitchen, watches England drop and slam pots and pans and plates (so carefully, carefully with the plates!) into the sink and stop to press his hands to his face, shaking in mirthless laughter.
It's almost a piteous sight.
Spain slips into the smoke-scented room, tiled in cream and batter. He pulls the dressed man against him, presses kisses against his neck in a sleepy fashion and presses a warm nose into England's skin. England reacts in surprise, jerking up and away and letting the plates clatter and break against the floor. His fists ball up, pinpricks of blood forming from porcelain splinters in calloused palms, and he turns around to shove Spain away, but the country of passion is too quick – he takes England's wrists and holds them, lifts them up and presses kisses to the inside of the wrist, tenderly. Caught, England feels warmth rising from his gut to his head as Spain licks away the little droplets of blood with a weird look on his face (a cross between pleased and disgusted), chastely kisses the cuts as he bandages them and turns his hands over, runs his fingers across England's knuckles and kisses those, too, down the length of the digits to his finger tips, like butterflies settling on a warm branch in the middle of the day.
He stops at England's left ring finger, remembering when there was a simple, golden band fitted around it, and continues, until the hands are littered with secrets and promises and murmured adoration from the night before and are littered with good mornings and hellos of the morning after. England flushes and thanks him quietly, turning away before Spain could kiss him and stares in dismay at the expensive, broken pieces, huffing angrily and slipping out of arms that caged him against the counter to fetch a broom.
Spain busies himself with washing the dishes, pans charred from inattention and sauces doused with too much alcohol, tapping out an old lullaby on the edges of the counter and avoiding the floor dusted with glass. England returns and gets on hands and knees to pay for his mistake, carefully sweeps up the shards into broom-pan and dumps them into the trash, purses his lips at every new cut and keeps them (and the blood that runs and stains his white sleeves) out of sight of Spain. He leaves when the singing starts and retreats instead to the shower, turns the heat up until he's as red as a lobster and until Spain slips in after him, presses kisses to his shoulders and neck and against the slick shower wall, pushes back soaked blonde hair and pulls England down, traces silly words into his back and stays long after England escapes with quiet refusal and a towel wrapped around his waist.
He stays until the water turns into stinging drops of ice; when that happens he turns off the water and gets up, takes the other towel and slings it around his hips lazily, saunters out and lets a smile quirk out when he finds England laying on the bed, hair plastered against his forehead and eyes closed, breathing uneven and body clothed in a long shirt borrowed from the open, disheveled closet. He doesn't bother to dress himself, instead preferring to flop on the bed next to England and splatter him with water, grinning when he opens an eye and glares ruefully. A chaste kiss fixes this mess and he straddles England, layering them on the exposed skin of his face and neck, adding to the hickeys already placed there. England is willing to submit, to wrap his arms around Spain's neck and draw him closer, but lets go when Spain murmurs a question into his skin and waits expectantly for the answer.
“Why did you try cooking breakfast?”
England squeezes his eyes eyes shut in exasperation, tangles his fingers unhappily in Spain's hair and strokes his scalp in measured, massaging tones.
“To-- to repay you for letting me stay.”
“Oh.”
The word is a purr without meaning to be, and Spain slips off of England, abandoning his towel in favor of clothing, smirking when he catches the island of rain looking and causing him to look away, red down to his fingertips and a grimace on his face in an attempt to be indifferent.
“It wasn't necessary.”
“I'm aware, Spain. Why do you think I tried not to wake you?"