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metamorphosis2010-06-13 12:33 am
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2010-06-13 12:33 am
Entry tags:
127;
Title: Foglights
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: PG-13
A cool note - the first three sentences are from Ernest Hemingway's The Fifth Column, from the first Act, and are spoken between Preston and Dorothy. Presen is the first one, and Dorothy speaks the second two.
It's nighttime, a pretty summer night, with fireflies and stars and a waning moon, green grass faded to the dark shades of navy only penetrated by the lightning bug's cool touch when they rest and flicker their lights, call for a mate and wait for an answer. England lays in the grass and stares at the sky, slips an arm out of the war-torn red coat and stretches to catch a shimmering light between his fingers, holding it in the sky and shivering at the cold inflicted night. He's dressed in nothing but black leggings and golden chains, muddied boots and open belts, chest bared with bandages around his middle and brown splattered on his side.
After a moment of consideration he lets the star go, even though it stays in its spot with his help, and turns on his side, with some effort, pressing the grass down and peering across the two inches that separates him from Spain, who stares back and lets his scabbed fingers crawl across the loose dirt and touches England's face, pressing a smile into the ground below. He permits the calloused fingers to trace every contour, cracked lips and open eyes, stopping when England opens his mouth and runs his tongue on the underside of Spain's thumb, nose twitching at the taste of cooking oil and amethyst quartz.
He relinquishes his hold on the digit and slowly straightens up, back curving by the flickering lights of the fireflies, slow and lazy; a cat arching and stretching at its leisure, after a satisfactory hunt or meal, readying itself for a small sleep or getting up from an easy nap. The bugs dance around them, still vying for mates, and England leans over and pulls Spain up by his shoulders, slowly, like it'd disturb the already broken plant-life.
One passes between them and England leans forward and kisses him, kisses Spain (kisses Antonio) and shocks the breath out of the both of them. He presses his tongue against the soured lips and gains an entrance, tastes the sweetness of Iberian wine and something, just something, that is overpoweringly Spanish. It makes him pull away and press a kiss to Spain's forehead instead, nudging the tanned arms around his waist with his thighs and humming agreeably at the lavish licks and piteous, chaste kisses to his neck.
“God, I wonder sometimes why I love you.”
The confession is let out like a breath held too long, and Spain does not pause his kisses, only listens to the wordless voice and feathered breathing. England runs his fingers through the tangled mess of dark hair, slipping his fingers under the frayed red ribbon that holds it in a little ponytail and frees the tresses to run between his hands and fingernails, thinking absentmindedly of how silly he looks with long hair unbound, and it's just enough time for him to lean back more and rock heedlessly, without caution or cause, closer to the ground.
“I don't think it's very sensible, really.”
Spain pauses then, hands clasped against the small of England's back and mouth closed against the exposed skin of his shoulder, barely seen through moonshine and moving, flickered stars. He closes his eyes and imagines with tough, explores the scarring back and well-done bandages, the splattered side and the tight skin unifying unhealthiness. England doesn't notice, lost in his own thoughts but still speaking on in a soft, caring voice that makes Spain want to pick him up and hold him down until he quiets down, because such a voice never comes from someone who hates you so thoroughly and yet chases you to the ends of the Earth.
“It's just sort of a bad habit I've gotten into.”
He stops, suddenly, rocks back into the dirt and the grass green stains, amongst the fireflies and sleeping flowers, leaving Spain to slip forward and onto his stomach, tracing circles around his naval with his tongue and flickering it upwards until he's face-to-face with the nation of rain, staring down and furrowing his brows together slightly. England smiles lazily, a contented cat, and tangles his fingers in the longer, sweeping hair and pulls him close, cheek brushing cheek and lights dancing in mind and on body. The scent of the land is there, sweet and fresh and mixed with salt and flooded with ink and smoke, fire and brimstone of Protestantism. Spain can almost taste damnation on the gilded skin.
“Bad habits are hard to break, true, but this is one that will be broken.”
All of a sudden the field is alight and the fireflies are really fireflies, shooting madly about and searing the land, and when Spain turns to look at England he is gone, replaced with a charred skeleton with rings and jewels encrusted to the fingers that entangle in his hair and around his waist, the jaw slacked into a grin and god, it's horrifying. Spain screams and tears himself away from the skeleton of his past and watches the flames close in and consume him and suddenly he's not watching from his own eyes but from someone else's, and he watches himself be burnt alive, flesh crawling and peeling back, fingers twitching and bones blackening until it's just another skeleton held up by the wind. His skeleton turns to him, laughs off-key and flies towards him, and Spain screams again and --
he awakes in the ruins of a sacked church in Madrid, shaking and crying, holding himself so hard he can barely breathe, let alone wake up from this accursed nightmare of a reality. Around him the church withers, pages strewn and rolling across the concrete floor, and all that was gold is now as black as coal, as black as the land and bones in his dream, and he cries out again, heart hammering and wrenching to free itself of its cage of ribs. He shoves himself into a corner of stone, whimpering and clawing at his skin, itchy with the feeling of flames and peeling flesh, and he does not sleep again that night.
Characters: Spain, England
Rating: PG-13
A cool note - the first three sentences are from Ernest Hemingway's The Fifth Column, from the first Act, and are spoken between Preston and Dorothy. Presen is the first one, and Dorothy speaks the second two.
It's nighttime, a pretty summer night, with fireflies and stars and a waning moon, green grass faded to the dark shades of navy only penetrated by the lightning bug's cool touch when they rest and flicker their lights, call for a mate and wait for an answer. England lays in the grass and stares at the sky, slips an arm out of the war-torn red coat and stretches to catch a shimmering light between his fingers, holding it in the sky and shivering at the cold inflicted night. He's dressed in nothing but black leggings and golden chains, muddied boots and open belts, chest bared with bandages around his middle and brown splattered on his side.
After a moment of consideration he lets the star go, even though it stays in its spot with his help, and turns on his side, with some effort, pressing the grass down and peering across the two inches that separates him from Spain, who stares back and lets his scabbed fingers crawl across the loose dirt and touches England's face, pressing a smile into the ground below. He permits the calloused fingers to trace every contour, cracked lips and open eyes, stopping when England opens his mouth and runs his tongue on the underside of Spain's thumb, nose twitching at the taste of cooking oil and amethyst quartz.
He relinquishes his hold on the digit and slowly straightens up, back curving by the flickering lights of the fireflies, slow and lazy; a cat arching and stretching at its leisure, after a satisfactory hunt or meal, readying itself for a small sleep or getting up from an easy nap. The bugs dance around them, still vying for mates, and England leans over and pulls Spain up by his shoulders, slowly, like it'd disturb the already broken plant-life.
One passes between them and England leans forward and kisses him, kisses Spain (kisses Antonio) and shocks the breath out of the both of them. He presses his tongue against the soured lips and gains an entrance, tastes the sweetness of Iberian wine and something, just something, that is overpoweringly Spanish. It makes him pull away and press a kiss to Spain's forehead instead, nudging the tanned arms around his waist with his thighs and humming agreeably at the lavish licks and piteous, chaste kisses to his neck.
“God, I wonder sometimes why I love you.”
The confession is let out like a breath held too long, and Spain does not pause his kisses, only listens to the wordless voice and feathered breathing. England runs his fingers through the tangled mess of dark hair, slipping his fingers under the frayed red ribbon that holds it in a little ponytail and frees the tresses to run between his hands and fingernails, thinking absentmindedly of how silly he looks with long hair unbound, and it's just enough time for him to lean back more and rock heedlessly, without caution or cause, closer to the ground.
“I don't think it's very sensible, really.”
Spain pauses then, hands clasped against the small of England's back and mouth closed against the exposed skin of his shoulder, barely seen through moonshine and moving, flickered stars. He closes his eyes and imagines with tough, explores the scarring back and well-done bandages, the splattered side and the tight skin unifying unhealthiness. England doesn't notice, lost in his own thoughts but still speaking on in a soft, caring voice that makes Spain want to pick him up and hold him down until he quiets down, because such a voice never comes from someone who hates you so thoroughly and yet chases you to the ends of the Earth.
“It's just sort of a bad habit I've gotten into.”
He stops, suddenly, rocks back into the dirt and the grass green stains, amongst the fireflies and sleeping flowers, leaving Spain to slip forward and onto his stomach, tracing circles around his naval with his tongue and flickering it upwards until he's face-to-face with the nation of rain, staring down and furrowing his brows together slightly. England smiles lazily, a contented cat, and tangles his fingers in the longer, sweeping hair and pulls him close, cheek brushing cheek and lights dancing in mind and on body. The scent of the land is there, sweet and fresh and mixed with salt and flooded with ink and smoke, fire and brimstone of Protestantism. Spain can almost taste damnation on the gilded skin.
“Bad habits are hard to break, true, but this is one that will be broken.”
All of a sudden the field is alight and the fireflies are really fireflies, shooting madly about and searing the land, and when Spain turns to look at England he is gone, replaced with a charred skeleton with rings and jewels encrusted to the fingers that entangle in his hair and around his waist, the jaw slacked into a grin and god, it's horrifying. Spain screams and tears himself away from the skeleton of his past and watches the flames close in and consume him and suddenly he's not watching from his own eyes but from someone else's, and he watches himself be burnt alive, flesh crawling and peeling back, fingers twitching and bones blackening until it's just another skeleton held up by the wind. His skeleton turns to him, laughs off-key and flies towards him, and Spain screams again and --
he awakes in the ruins of a sacked church in Madrid, shaking and crying, holding himself so hard he can barely breathe, let alone wake up from this accursed nightmare of a reality. Around him the church withers, pages strewn and rolling across the concrete floor, and all that was gold is now as black as coal, as black as the land and bones in his dream, and he cries out again, heart hammering and wrenching to free itself of its cage of ribs. He shoves himself into a corner of stone, whimpering and clawing at his skin, itchy with the feeling of flames and peeling flesh, and he does not sleep again that night.