(no subject)
Disclaimer: If Axis Powers Hetalia were mine, I wouldn’t need to write fanfics. If any of these songs were mine, I wouldn’t be writing fanfics.
Background music: Bad Romance - Lady Gaga
Minimal fluff 09!
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Bad Romance
Feliciano was not one to cease smiling but his face was completely blank as he flipped through the pages of the book he held carefully perched on his hand. Only the momentary macaroni floated through his thoughts as he stared down at the glossy pages, the leather shimmering almost realistically. He flipped the page, the page a rigid crinkle in his fingers. He had known for a while what kinks Germany was into, so it hardly surprised him to find a book of leather, whips, and the occasional feather boa.
He knew what he wanted too, and he could get it. Be it tears, or a sense of uselessness, or his innate ability to cook, he could always worm himself into anyone’s affections. He didn’t know why anyone would automatically assume he or his brother was completely useless by themselves; he had learned how to survive, and if it involved playing on pity, he would do it.
Italy had wanted help in the world war, and he was unhappy with his spoils of the first great war. So along came Germany, and along came the tears. Everyone was a sucker for his tears.
He flipped the page, barely taking in the tight leather shorts on the page.
After the tears came the pitifulness; the charm he had that he couldn’t do anything; and Germany did it all for him. He watched as Germany exhausted manpower for his sake, and he, with a tug at his conscience, offered help, but sat and watched as the play unfolded. He made up for the troubles with his presence, his hidden talents, his body. He let Germany do as he wished because it was fun and he was bored.
When people saw him, they didn’t see a threat. Italy didn’t know why he shouldn’t continue that first impression. He looked away from a kink punishment scene on the page in front of him for a moment, pondering, before he shoved the magazine back in the nook he found it in and left the library.
Germany knew, though. He had always known. It wasn’t something to call someone out on. Germany had known, seen through the tears to the badly disguised ploy, and taken him anyway. It was this toleration that forbade any other shenanigans the nation could get up to. Orders were given, expected to be followed.
He had seen the fire in Italy’s eyes the first time they collapsed in bed together for a night dedicated to the night. He had seen the crimson lining to the ordinarily helplessness he showed, saw the animalistic lust for survival in the golden eyes that narrowed seductively and looked down at the leather fingerless gloves he wore.
Leather was cold or hot occasionally, with unnecessary friction and limited flexibility, but left nothing to the imagination, which an organized, serious nation like Germany had limited use for. Leather hid the immaturity from his face and accented everything else.
Germany came upstairs, feeling a shift in the house, and saw Italy sitting at the window, wearing tall, black, leather stiletto heels, a pilfered dress shirt, and Germany’s military cap hanging low over his left eye, barely covering the calculating grin on his face.
There is something about turn-ons that one cannot resist, hence the name, and Germany closed the door behind him, as the last of the intruding light gave in to the dark, the dark that defined the crevices of their very souls and the sexual squeak of leather.
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Ashes fell from the tip of the cigarette but Romano didn’t take it out of his mouth. Spain watched wordlessly as the twin in front of him shook another white cigarette into his hand from the box and lit it from the tip of the dying one. When the new one glowed with the embers of the old, Romano took the retired cancer stick and ground it into the ashtray to the edge of the table, taking a long drag and letting out a gray stream of smoke.
“I don’t think you can smoke here,” Spain said, a twitch tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“What can they do?” Romano asked, exhaling another puff, nearly extinguishing the candle between them. It had been Spain’s insistence that brought them to such a high class restaurant, their grip on traditional dinner dates that kept them in the badly lit room surrounded by men in sunglasses and suits and women in cocktail dresses. Romano shifted slightly to reveal the pistol around his waist, before bringing his fingers up to his lips again. Spain fidgeted slightly.
“You’re uncomfortable.” The words filled the silence between them.
“What can I say?” Spain asked. Swirling the wine in his glass, he mock-saluted Romano, who studied him with hard green eyes. “Visiting my child to see he chain smokes and participates in black market activity is hardly the things that make a parent’s life.”
Romano snorted, barely choking on the smoke to demonstrate his skill in the area. “I knew bringing you out here wouldn’t be a good idea. I even kept the cigars at home,” he added sarcastically.
Spain looked down at the uncooked food in front of them. “I suppose I can’t say anything; I’m not really in the position to praise straight lace behavior. It was just surprised you turned out like this.”
“Can we talk about something else?” Romano asked, letting the glowing cigarette dangle from the edge of his lips. Of course, it prompted the habit in the older nation to kiss the older twin, but the last time their mouths connected, he had tasted the smoke, as fleeting as his disapproval of his former charge. “This is a date, after all.”
“Whatever you say,” Spain said airily, looking past his shoulder at the others surrounding them. Romano used to respond awkwardly at the mention of any sort of romantic activity with Spain, but it seemed it came with the territory to adapt and turn. The secondhand smoke littered the air.
“I do want to go out with you sometimes, you know,” Romano said offhandedly, balancing the cigarette between his ring and pinkie finger, staring in the opposite direction of Spain’s glance, so they were effectively looking elsewhere. “I may have changed from what you remember, but that much is true.”
“I don’t doubt it. But it pressures me; if I do anything to hurt you, you’ll have your people come take me out.” It was a joke, but Romano turned to look at him, a gray lining to his eyes.
“Could you hurt me, without me stopping it?” Flicking some of the ash so it landed in Spain’s food, Romano chuckled, sounding husky with the years of smoke in his throat. Nations couldn’t suffer from death by smoke, and it was no use telling the twin otherwise. Spain watched the white in the dim light. “I’m not a child anymore.”
“I couldn’t tell,” Spain shrugged. There was no rebellious stage; that had passed years ago. Romano still vowed loyalty to his family, went to mass, went to underground meetings. He stared at his now-grown sidekick, flying solo with apathy. Romano caught his eyes and kept the stare, the smoke trailing off into the air like a prayer.
Spain felt Romano knock his knees against his under the tablecloth and the twitch tugged at his lips again as he felt Romano nudge his shin, still sore from all the years he as a child kicked at Spain, with his shoe. It was numb pain enough to remind him of all his conquistador years, as comfortable with blood as Romano was now. He saw red again, and it set his heart racing.
Reaching under the white cloth, Spain let a hand come to a rest on Romano’s knee, griping with slightly with an asking pressure. The latter breathed out long and low, taking the cigarette and pressing it into the ashtray, next to the already burnt out ones.
“Let me a grab a mint and we can go.”
Owari
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