Romano lies still in the tangle of sheets. He closes his eyes, lets the notes float around his bedroom. The lyrics are familiar. He sings along.
(warm pleasant heat of vermillion sun on his face to his shoulders)
A muffled thumping and his bedroom door opens. Veneziano shouts at him to wake up, that big brother Spain is outside the window singing with friends. He rubs his eyes, inhales and starts his litany of curses. He throws his things out the window, threatens to throw his brother as well. The singing stops with a yell of pain and protest.
“Fuck.”
In the living room, when they have dressed, when they have served drinks and wrapped bandages across wounded heads, they sit on the rug and chat. Romano is restless, guilty for having hit Prussia in the head with a chair. He fiddles with the scissors.
Gauze; (rough net on his forearms)
Tape; (clear chlorine stinging at his throat)
“Cute as always, Veneziano~”
Across him, Spain is talking with his brother. Romano excuses himself to the kitchen. He drinks water and puts the glass down by the sink. Someone enters.
“Romano? Are you alright?”
Spain goes up to him and places a hand on his shoulder. He hisses, shrugs it off and turns away.
“Why won’t you look at me?”
He would tell him, but it is difficult.
(little crimson spindles on his chest, in his chest)
He would tell him, but his mouth fills with an overwhelming taste.
(ambrosia)
He simply leaves.
Outside, he sees France staring at him, and as he climbs the staircase, he flips him the finger.
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Chiaroscuro [5/6]
(Anonymous) 2012-02-02 06:16 pm (UTC)(link)Spain is singing at their window.
Romano lies still in the tangle of sheets. He closes his eyes, lets the notes float around his bedroom. The lyrics are familiar. He sings along.
(warm pleasant heat of vermillion sun on his face to his shoulders)
A muffled thumping and his bedroom door opens. Veneziano shouts at him to wake up, that big brother Spain is outside the window singing with friends. He rubs his eyes, inhales and starts his litany of curses. He throws his things out the window, threatens to throw his brother as well. The singing stops with a yell of pain and protest.
“Fuck.”
In the living room, when they have dressed, when they have served drinks and wrapped bandages across wounded heads, they sit on the rug and chat. Romano is restless, guilty for having hit Prussia in the head with a chair. He fiddles with the scissors.
Gauze; (rough net on his forearms)
Tape; (clear chlorine stinging at his throat)
“Cute as always, Veneziano~”
Across him, Spain is talking with his brother. Romano excuses himself to the kitchen. He drinks water and puts the glass down by the sink. Someone enters.
“Romano? Are you alright?”
Spain goes up to him and places a hand on his shoulder. He hisses, shrugs it off and turns away.
“Why won’t you look at me?”
He would tell him, but it is difficult.
(little crimson spindles on his chest, in his chest)
He would tell him, but his mouth fills with an overwhelming taste.
(ambrosia)
He simply leaves.
Outside, he sees France staring at him, and as he climbs the staircase, he flips him the finger.