His memories of what happened after are sketchy at best. Presumably he'd put on his clothes, left the room, left the building without telling anyone - but he didn't quite remember that. What he knew was that he'd found himself in a cab, staring out the window at a blurred and rain-grayed world outside, feeling numbed and restless. It pulled up by a hotel he recognized vaguely as his own, and the warmth as the doors to the hotel opened was his next memory. He didn't remember paying, or leaving the car. When he tried to recall the face of the driver, he came up with nothing.
He was still awake when Spain came back later that evening, but feigned sleep. He didn't want to talk to anyone, especially not Spain. He honestly didn't want to speak ever again, didn't want to hear the treacherous voice which could beg America to stop and then moan in pleasure in the next breath. He felt sick when he felt the bed shift as Spain sat down, and try as he might he couldn't stop his breathing from speeding up in panic at the other's presence.
"Roma? You just left in the middle of the meeting and you didn't come back. Are you sick?" The concern in Spain's voice burned, tore at him with hungry claws, and it had an echo of scornful laughter which Romano couldn't shut out no matter how hard he tried. It was his own voice and it was America's, both telling him that he'd deserved what he'd got, and that he certainly didn't deserve Spain.
"America left really suddenly too, so I thought maybe you might have caught it from him?" A sigh. "Roma, I know you're awake. What's the matter?"
And there came the first sob that no self control in the world could hold back, and another followed behind, and suddenly he was shaking and gulping for breath as tears flowed from his eyes, burning and seemingly endless. "Roma? Romano?" Spain's voice sounded shocked through the thudding of his own panicked heartbeat in his ears, tense with sudden fear. "God, Romano, what's wrong? Why are you crying?"
But he couldn't answer. There were no words to describe the horrors still replaying over and over in his mind, not way of explaining how sorry he was when shame burned his throat shut and he could remember every excruciating detail of his own betrayal. He simply clung to Spain's shirt as he was gathered into his arms and held, Spain making vaguely panicked soothing sounds and demanding again and again to know what had happened.
Romano cried himself to sleep without giving his lover any answers, to dream of hands he couldn't escape and a feeling of being smeared in grease and dirt and semen and never, ever being clean again.
***
Oh my god why am I so attracted to angst? But yeah, this is the first part, and the actual confession won't come until part 2 or 3. Why are you making me hurt my soul like this, nonnie? Whyyyyy?
It was like living in a constant, ongoing nightmare, with that feeling of falling right before waking up without the actual waking up. That was the only way that Romano could think of to describe it, but only to himself. Only ever to himself.
Sometimes America would look up and wink at him, and he would feel as if he was drowning, like his lungs were screaming for oxygen but suddenly the air around him was like tar. Meeting him in the corridor was an agony of intense terror, as he awkwardly stepped back and forth trying to come back, America laughing as they accidentally got in each other's way - or was it accidental? Was he trying to corner Romano, was it going to happen again? He said they should do it again, so when? When was his body and his will going to be taken from him again?
Spain was worn thin by it. Romano could see it even if he tried not to let it show. He hated not knowing what was going on and he hated waking up night after night next to a crying lover and he hated the way Romano had become even more highly strung than before, flying into rages and panics over things that no amount of love could make less stupid. Of course he did.
He probably hated the obvious lack of sex too. Because there was that as well. Romano wouldn't let him touch him - couldn't let him touch him even when he wanted to. His hands on Romano's hands made him think of being touched by America, and that in turn made him feel like a filthy traitor. Spain was nothing like that, nothing. But the thoughts wouldn't go away. Kissing made him remember the taste of terror in his own mouth, and he had to tear away to keep from retching. Getting aroused made him hate himself because he'd allowed himself to actually like having his body invaded and used.
He was horrible. He was dirty, flawed, used, and he wasn't fit to be loved anymore. All he was good for was being discarded like the trash he was, and that was where the true treachery came in. Because while he couldn't bring himself to allow Spain to touch his soiled body, he couldn't make himself bring an end to it either. It would be so easy. All he would have to do was tell the other nation of his betrayal, of what he practically let America do for all his protest, because his body had invited it.
But just the mere thought of Spain looking at him in disgust was enough to make his throat close up, and he couldn't do it. He couldn't even stop himself from dragging Spain down with him, and at the same time he pushed him away and made him worry.
He'd always treated Spain kind of shittily, and Spain had somehow put up with it up until now. Romano was quite sure that this was going to prove to be too much, and he was just waiting for the explosion, the first crack, the moment when the weight crushed him, the confrontation.
And confronted he was, too, but not in the way he'd expected.
***
NONNIE IS GLAD OP IS PLEASED, and will try to live up to OP's wonderfully nice words.
Oh, right, and the title is from the song "Me and a Gun" by Tori Amos, which is the most beautiful song about one of the most horrible topics I have ever heard.
This is awesome! I loved that fill, and now you've made a really good, angsty sequel to it! Definitely keeping an eye on this one, you're off to a great start!
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Tell me what's right (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-01-18 10:07 pm (UTC)(link)He was still awake when Spain came back later that evening, but feigned sleep. He didn't want to talk to anyone, especially not Spain. He honestly didn't want to speak ever again, didn't want to hear the treacherous voice which could beg America to stop and then moan in pleasure in the next breath. He felt sick when he felt the bed shift as Spain sat down, and try as he might he couldn't stop his breathing from speeding up in panic at the other's presence.
"Roma? You just left in the middle of the meeting and you didn't come back. Are you sick?" The concern in Spain's voice burned, tore at him with hungry claws, and it had an echo of scornful laughter which Romano couldn't shut out no matter how hard he tried. It was his own voice and it was America's, both telling him that he'd deserved what he'd got, and that he certainly didn't deserve Spain.
"America left really suddenly too, so I thought maybe you might have caught it from him?" A sigh. "Roma, I know you're awake. What's the matter?"
And there came the first sob that no self control in the world could hold back, and another followed behind, and suddenly he was shaking and gulping for breath as tears flowed from his eyes, burning and seemingly endless. "Roma? Romano?" Spain's voice sounded shocked through the thudding of his own panicked heartbeat in his ears, tense with sudden fear. "God, Romano, what's wrong? Why are you crying?"
But he couldn't answer. There were no words to describe the horrors still replaying over and over in his mind, not way of explaining how sorry he was when shame burned his throat shut and he could remember every excruciating detail of his own betrayal. He simply clung to Spain's shirt as he was gathered into his arms and held, Spain making vaguely panicked soothing sounds and demanding again and again to know what had happened.
Romano cried himself to sleep without giving his lover any answers, to dream of hands he couldn't escape and a feeling of being smeared in grease and dirt and semen and never, ever being clean again.
***
Oh my god why am I so attracted to angst? But yeah, this is the first part, and the actual confession won't come until part 2 or 3. Why are you making me hurt my soul like this, nonnie? Whyyyyy?
OP
(Anonymous) 2013-01-19 01:32 am (UTC)(link)A!anon, you are doing a beautiful job capturing his guilt and horror at what happened; it's very angsty and it makes me want to hug him.
You definitely have his character down, and you've captured the feeling of the first fill. I can't wait to see what you come up with!
And poor Spain... he has no idea.
Tell me what's right (2/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-01-19 07:17 am (UTC)(link)Sometimes America would look up and wink at him, and he would feel as if he was drowning, like his lungs were screaming for oxygen but suddenly the air around him was like tar. Meeting him in the corridor was an agony of intense terror, as he awkwardly stepped back and forth trying to come back, America laughing as they accidentally got in each other's way - or was it accidental? Was he trying to corner Romano, was it going to happen again? He said they should do it again, so when? When was his body and his will going to be taken from him again?
Spain was worn thin by it. Romano could see it even if he tried not to let it show. He hated not knowing what was going on and he hated waking up night after night next to a crying lover and he hated the way Romano had become even more highly strung than before, flying into rages and panics over things that no amount of love could make less stupid. Of course he did.
He probably hated the obvious lack of sex too. Because there was that as well. Romano wouldn't let him touch him - couldn't let him touch him even when he wanted to. His hands on Romano's hands made him think of being touched by America, and that in turn made him feel like a filthy traitor. Spain was nothing like that, nothing. But the thoughts wouldn't go away. Kissing made him remember the taste of terror in his own mouth, and he had to tear away to keep from retching. Getting aroused made him hate himself because he'd allowed himself to actually like having his body invaded and used.
He was horrible. He was dirty, flawed, used, and he wasn't fit to be loved anymore. All he was good for was being discarded like the trash he was, and that was where the true treachery came in. Because while he couldn't bring himself to allow Spain to touch his soiled body, he couldn't make himself bring an end to it either. It would be so easy. All he would have to do was tell the other nation of his betrayal, of what he practically let America do for all his protest, because his body had invited it.
But just the mere thought of Spain looking at him in disgust was enough to make his throat close up, and he couldn't do it. He couldn't even stop himself from dragging Spain down with him, and at the same time he pushed him away and made him worry.
He'd always treated Spain kind of shittily, and Spain had somehow put up with it up until now. Romano was quite sure that this was going to prove to be too much, and he was just waiting for the explosion, the first crack, the moment when the weight crushed him, the confrontation.
And confronted he was, too, but not in the way he'd expected.
***
NONNIE IS GLAD OP IS PLEASED, and will try to live up to OP's wonderfully nice words.
Oh, right, and the title is from the song "Me and a Gun" by Tori Amos, which is the most beautiful song about one of the most horrible topics I have ever heard.
Re: Tell me what's right (2/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-01-19 09:45 am (UTC)(link)OP
(Anonymous) 2013-01-19 07:58 pm (UTC)(link)And the detail where he was sure that this would be the breaking point for Spain; such a lovely detail about their relationship.
I hope Spain can help him see it wasn't his fault eventually, though I definitely don't see it happening easily.
Keep it up, A!anon! Here are internet cookies. Chocolate chip~
Re: Tell me what's right (2/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-01-20 05:27 pm (UTC)(link)A!anon, this is awesome. I get feels for everyone involved except America. I can't wait to see the next part!
Re: Tell me what's right (2/?)
(Anonymous) 2014-05-10 05:41 am (UTC)(link)Re: Tell me what's right (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2013-01-19 07:43 pm (UTC)(link)