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Posted: Thu Aug 01, 2013 11:46 am

cross-posted to tumblr and ffn

you might want to turn your profanity filters off because i get pretty liberal with the word "********>

Posted: Thu Aug 01, 2013 11:48 am

001. glass

x

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When Spain closes his eyes, he can still see them.

Beautiful women with dark eyes and dark hair and full lips, dancing and twirling and trailing their fingers across his chest, his arms, their skin so deliciously soft. He likes the sounds they make when he ******** them, the low, husky moans or the high, drawn out whines, or even just the sharp, quiet inhalations of breath.

They're all gone the next morning, and there is more blood on his hands.

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Holland is always the one that grounds him.

He does not treat Spain gently, does not ignore his checkered past, does not act in accordance to the facade that Antonio wears.

Instead, he spits insults and vitrol and leaves bruises where his fingers dug into Spain's hips the night before, and has the audacity to ignore his texts. When they are in public, Willem will ignore him, puff on his pipe and spare Spain not even a single glance.

Antonio thinks he's in love.

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Once upon a time, the sun never set on the Spanish Empire.

Lands claimed by the throne sprawled over five continents, from the Americas to Asia, to Africa and Europe. It was the Golden Age, what every country had once aspired to be. Wealth flowed into the empire from all over the world.

Once upon a time, Spain had been the most powerful man on Earth.

And he had loved it.

He was infected with the gold sickness, with the high that power always brought, and it was glorious. He could do whatever he wanted- fight and ******** and wander the entire world. The Age of Exploration were the best years of his life.

And then, things started crumbling.

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Once upon a time, Holland had been a child.

He had been a child, and Belgium had been a child, and Luxembourg, too, and they had all been children together. They were happy.

Then he got older and suddenly it wasn't just the three of them anymore, but the three of them plus a brat and the names of so many others that they wouldn't meet for centuries.

And Spain loomed over them all, green eyes cold and glittering in the dark, smile grossly insincere. An animosity boiled beneath Willem's skin, bubbling up when he opened his mouth and overflowing through his teeth.

The first time Spain hit him, it had been a shock. The last time Spain hit him, he hit back.

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Antonio thinks that some of that old hatred still remains, buried deep but not deep enough.

When they ********, Willem scratches and bites and squeezes, and Antonio matches him for every injury, every bruise and bead of blood that wells from torn skin.

Afterwards, they lie on the bed, spent and silent and not touching, except for the occasional brush of fingers and knees. Holland's hot breath fans across Spain's face and he closes his eyes.

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Posted: Thu Aug 01, 2013 11:54 am

002. rest

x

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Antonio liked watching Willem when he slept.

The blonde’s face was peaceful, serene, the lines in his forehead smooth and the disdainful frown wiped from his face. The gel was gone from his hair, silky strands falling into his face, which Antonio brushed away with gentle fingertips.

He looked so much younger, so much like the boy that Spain used to know that it made his heart hurt. Holland had always been distant, had always harbored some sort of anger toward him, and though their feuding had cooled, Antonio still felt the sharp pain of Willem’s fist crashing into his face, still felt the waves of anger roll over him.

His fingers ghosted over the Dutchman’s scar, something like regret twisting his stomach.

Posted: Thu Aug 01, 2013 11:57 am

003. glass

x

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He touched her like she was fragile, like she was something precious, calloused fingers skirting down the subtle curve of her jaw, her breast, her hip. It was the one gentle thing about him, the way he made love.

She hated it.

Spain was not made of glass; she had fought and killed and done so many terrible things that she was swimming in a sea of blood. Her scars were the history of what she had endured, stories embedded into her skin.

His hands wander up her sides and she grabs them, lighting-fast. He grunts in question.

"Don’t," she says against his mouth, and it comes out sounding like a sob. “Willem. I’m not going to break. Stop acting like I am."

Holland stills for a moment, blue-green eyes scrutinizing, before his arms come around her like a vice and he kisses her, hard.

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Posted: Thu Aug 01, 2013 11:59 am

004. neglect

x

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Spain was never meant for responsibility.

Even as a child, he had a habit of shirking off his chores and duties, to go hide amongst the tall, dry grass. He was a hellion child, running from his caretakers only to be found hours later trying to scale a building. At that time, Francis had been the only one able to reign him in, to quell his nervous energy and calm his racing thoughts.

Antonio had thought that he loved Francis, once.

As he grew, that sense of irresponsibility grew with him. He took young nations under his wing and into his care and then left, for years at a time, sailing across the wide blue sea and fathering children of his own. Mexico, Peru, Paraguay, and then he left them, too.

Spain loved his children, he really did, in his own, misguided way. Or, at least, he would come to. But Spain could not stand still, could not stay in one place. He had to keep moving, keep exploring, keep discovering.

And when the empire crumbled, when he lost everything and everyone and his house was empty for the first time in centuries, Spain shut himself off. He ignored his dear France when he called for aid, turned away from Romano’s requests for support.

He fought himself, instead.

Posted: Thu Aug 01, 2013 12:06 pm

005. adventure

x

"Initially, Netherlands was said to be a strong strategist and world-dominating type of man who likes very young women and thinks nothing of using some types of shady drugs."

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Willem had never wanted anything more than freedom.

As a child, it had been his lack of wealth that kept him from roaming, kept him at home with his little garden. When he got older, it was Spain; Antonio was always off and about, leaving the Netherlands to look after the household and Belgium and Luxembourg and little Romano.

When he left, when he fought through eighty dark years and found himself on the other side of the storm, he was bewildered. Holland had the entire world at his finger tips, a whole planet to explore that was his for the taking.

He knew just where to start.

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Posted: Thu Aug 01, 2013 12:08 pm

006. now

x

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One thing that Willem would never admit was that Antonio made him nervous.

Which was silly, of course; Antonio was sociable and chatty and completely approachable, and Willem had made it his creed to never be phased by anything the Spaniard did.

But even after all these centuries, when they sit on top of the apartment building in Barcelona to watch the stars, something in Willem’s gut twists violently every time his fingers brush Antonio’s.

He knows he cares for the b*****d, knows he’s ridiculously in love (and that admission is enough to make his stomach lurch). He’s certain of his own feelings, but not about Spain’s, and that’s what scares him.

Smoke from his pipe circles lazily in the air above them and warm fingers ghost over the back of his hand once more. Willem takes a moment to steel himself and reaches for Antonio’s hand.

He doesn’t look over, but he can hear Spain’s laughter and he doesn’t pull away.

Posted: Thu Aug 01, 2013 8:18 pm

007. jealous

x

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Antonio falls in love at least once a day.

He falls in love with the cute girl waiting for the bus down the way, with the bird that chirps outside his window in morning. He falls in love with the handsome news anchor on the television every morning and he falls in love with the ladybug that is on his keyboard. He is so overflowing with love that it would be impossible to keep it all to himself.

Willem exists on the other end of the spectrum. He is stingy with both his money and his affections, slow to trust and even slower to care. He is possessive and solemn and so reserved that one could question if he even felt love at all.

But he knows that's not true, knows by the violent surge of jealousy he gets when Spain smiles just like that at someone else, someone that's not him. It's a hot, uncomfortable feeling that makes him angry over that fact that he was jealous in the first place.

And maybe he doesn't know what love is, exactly. Maybe he takes it too seriously. But he knows that he doesn't want Antonio to laugh at anyone else, to smile at them or kiss them, and if that isn't love he doesn't know what is.

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