To see Italy—the ever cheerful country was now like this because of him, France couldn't deliberate what to say. What he feared was... whether Italy with his naiveté could handle the anger as fine as other people did or not. But... What could he do? What could he do to comfort the boy who was now cutting their distance?
“No, I think he wouldn't cry,” Italy chuckled with a fist before his lips, jolting France back out of his thinking. The brown-haired nation looked sweet as ever, but with all the things he had said, it was starting to give a creep out of France to see. “He is proud. He is Holy Roman Empire after all.”
It was hard. It was hard for France, but...
“Italy, I understand how you feel. And I understand how Holy Roman Empire felt. I had no choice either, I mean... I really didn't mean to...”
Tilting his head to the side in an arm length distance away from France, Italy's eyebrows curled and his feature screamed for sorrow mixed with incredulity.
“How could a killer understand how the victim felt?”
Gaping like a fish without water was probably what could describe France's state the best. He moved his mouth in attempt to say anything, yet no words succeeded to slide out of it. Curse the wine, the liquid he was always so proud about. He had just dug his own grave.
Italy continued to stare, his eyes sparked something unreadable, and suddenly his hand slipped inside the trousers' pocket and scooped a tiny transparent bottle out of it. The thing inside it seemed like water, France was lost at understanding what would come next. He only knew, that his shoulder was grabbed out of a sudden, and Italy was now right before him—so close that Italy’s faint scent tickled his nostrils.
The younger boy flipped open the bottle with one hand, one of his legs had climbed on France's lap. And before France could blink, Italy had poured all the liquid into his own mouth, crushing it to France's right after. Bloodshot eyes were the only thing France could express. And it was then that he realized the scent was not belonged to Italy. It was the liquid.
The numb feeling inside his mouth failed him to taste whatever Italy had made him drink. His throat burnt, and he choked of air as he coughed and coughed, trying to spit out whatever it was that felt like killing his senses. But as his whole body shook in pain, Italy locked him into a tight hug—so tight that it hurt.
His breathing was clogged, it was like there was a huge stone that was pressing his chest, and at the same time a flame started to rage inside him. His skin itched; it felt like millions of ants walked across every inch of him, crawling under his skin, bursting into his vessels and biting the surface. He wanted to scratch. So bad. Yet his hands went limp as the remaining energy was kicked out of him. He dropped his back on the bed, breathing harsh and heavy that it sounded like an old kettle, mind clouded but eyes were forced to wide awake.
Because it itched. It pained. It hurt. He needed to scream. But yes, he couldn't.
Re: Ethereal Threads of Fate [4/7]
To see Italy—the ever cheerful country was now like this because of him, France couldn't deliberate what to say. What he feared was... whether Italy with his naiveté could handle the anger as fine as other people did or not. But... What could he do? What could he do to comfort the boy who was now cutting their distance?
“No, I think he wouldn't cry,” Italy chuckled with a fist before his lips, jolting France back out of his thinking. The brown-haired nation looked sweet as ever, but with all the things he had said, it was starting to give a creep out of France to see. “He is proud. He is Holy Roman Empire after all.”
It was hard. It was hard for France, but...
“Italy, I understand how you feel. And I understand how Holy Roman Empire felt. I had no choice either, I mean... I really didn't mean to...”
Tilting his head to the side in an arm length distance away from France, Italy's eyebrows curled and his feature screamed for sorrow mixed with incredulity.
“How could a killer understand how the victim felt?”
Gaping like a fish without water was probably what could describe France's state the best. He moved his mouth in attempt to say anything, yet no words succeeded to slide out of it. Curse the wine, the liquid he was always so proud about. He had just dug his own grave.
Italy continued to stare, his eyes sparked something unreadable, and suddenly his hand slipped inside the trousers' pocket and scooped a tiny transparent bottle out of it. The thing inside it seemed like water, France was lost at understanding what would come next. He only knew, that his shoulder was grabbed out of a sudden, and Italy was now right before him—so close that Italy’s faint scent tickled his nostrils.
The younger boy flipped open the bottle with one hand, one of his legs had climbed on France's lap. And before France could blink, Italy had poured all the liquid into his own mouth, crushing it to France's right after. Bloodshot eyes were the only thing France could express. And it was then that he realized the scent was not belonged to Italy. It was the liquid.
The numb feeling inside his mouth failed him to taste whatever Italy had made him drink. His throat burnt, and he choked of air as he coughed and coughed, trying to spit out whatever it was that felt like killing his senses. But as his whole body shook in pain, Italy locked him into a tight hug—so tight that it hurt.
His breathing was clogged, it was like there was a huge stone that was pressing his chest, and at the same time a flame started to rage inside him. His skin itched; it felt like millions of ants walked across every inch of him, crawling under his skin, bursting into his vessels and biting the surface. He wanted to scratch. So bad. Yet his hands went limp as the remaining energy was kicked out of him. He dropped his back on the bed, breathing harsh and heavy that it sounded like an old kettle, mind clouded but eyes were forced to wide awake.
Because it itched. It pained. It hurt. He needed to scream. But yes, he couldn't.