hetalia oneshot || por clara y por oscura;
title: Por Clara Y Por Oscura
pairing: France x Spain
rating: PG-13ish I guess, for France being France XD
summary: Through the years, they're apart, and then they're together.
POR CLARA Y POR OSCURA
He just found Spain unequivocally charming; he just found him, always returning, after the roads spun out by sweet lonely years. They were each alone, then they were together: with long journeys in the eyes, memories that went unspoken. France remarked on how easy it was to come back to him.
He could watch Spain for long periods of time, mark his movements and waste his minutes like they were stretched in light. His skin, vibrant olive and steady; beneath that, the song of his bones, his blood- always trembling with life. Up the seamless shadow lines of his arms; his waist as thin and dulcet as a copper coin, but angled just like sin...and his face, the flush of hair in waves that framed it. His mouth, wreathed in light but suggesting dark. Lashes dusted, lowered; eyes up to attention.
It was just pleasant to be around him; he was always cheerful, always giving. There was always a strong, kind look in his eyes. Always a song on his tongue. When Spain walked through the door he immediately started chattering about bright nothings, and even though France barely bothered to dissect the words, he could make out clear the way his voice pushed- soft like chocolate. He didn't really meet Spain's eyes when they spoke- just watched the glass sunlight in them, like a cat watches water.
France turned his back for a moment, headed behind the kitchen counter. "Are you hungry, mon cher?" he asked, not knowing if he'd just interrupted Spain.
Spain paused and smiled; got up from his place on the sofa. "Sure!"
"What shall I get you?" France responded, voice slightly humming.
He turned around to look at Spain, who leaned against the counter, propping his elbows up on it. "Tomato please!" he said, holding his hand out expectantly.
France rose an eyebrow, bemused. "I can make you whatever you'd like, you know," he replied. Spain just smiled, not seeming to get it. France paused. "And you only want a tomato?"
"Si! Por favor. Tomatoes are my brain food!" Spain replied fervently.
France stopped to consider that; well, Spain was Spain, after all. He smiled. "Kiss first," he answered, eyes low, shaded.
Spain laughed and leaned forward, over the counter, gave France a quick peck on the corner of his mouth. Less than France'd wanted, but he'd settle for now; he turned around, back to the counter. Retrieved a tomato and a knife and handed it to Spain, saying, "Voila- your king's feast has arrived."
"Thanks," Spain answered, and set about cutting himself a neat quarter- the juice running down the knife, down his slim fingers...
And here France was watching him again; he leaned back on the shadows, folded his arms. The light in here caught clarity, and the air was dusty as it floated by Spain's eyes. How many times had this occurred?- how often had he seen Spain as he saw him now? He never seemed to get tired of it, it never seemed old to him. A thought passed his mind like vague mercury, and he wondered what exactly they meant for each other; but he knew better than to question it- knew that love was often more than shadows but less than fire, that it was better not to ask too much of something as graceful, as undefinable, as this.
He shook his thinking from his mind; Spain popped a tomato slice into his mouth, and now his lips were wet- now there was a new unstructured meaning to the smile of his jaw. He didn't seem to notice any change at all in the way France looked at him and just continued to eat; and this was always something France liked about Spain...
He also didn't seem to notice when France walked back around the counter, moved closer to him, until France took the knife from his hands. Spain looked up at France curiously as France laid the knife down on the counter. "What is it?" Spain asked, holding his tomato tentatively.
"Baise-moi," France replied- stringing his arms around Spain's shoulders.
Spain paused, processing within moments what that meant- then he leaned forward with his body pushing softly, with his sun collecting, and kissed France on the mouth. The weight incited the flood, dark stars (their kisses, always like sand and smoke, no matter what the flavor)...but he pulled away just as France was deepening the kiss, and, quite predictably, turned back to eating his tomato.
But France caught Spain's wrist, redirected his movements, led him to the sofa. "Huh?" Spain asked, eyes confused.
France laughed, pulling Spain toward him, onto him. "Don't agree to something if you don't first know what it is, amour-"
-Because our bodies are bound by a contract; we're apart, and then together- these long roads of time will always lead to love, sooner or later.
NOTES;;
1] The title ("Por Clara Y Por Oscura") is from the Pablo Neruda poem from Cien sonetos de amor; Sonnet XX. This is the line:
My Love: I love you for your clarity, your dark. / Amor, te amo por clara y por oscura.
2] "Baise-moi" - people who aren't native speakers of French often make this mistake, so I'm told. The word baiser means to kiss (and sounds like other Romance-language words for "kiss"), but, typical of the French, it's taken on another meaning which starts with an F and ends with an UCK. XD So people often say, "Kiss me!" without knowing it means something else.
Incidentally, "Baiser" is a meringue in German. I heard a story about a German who walked into a patisserie asking for "a dozen Baisers." FUN!
Thanks for reading! :D
pairing: France x Spain
rating: PG-13ish I guess, for France being France XD
summary: Through the years, they're apart, and then they're together.
POR CLARA Y POR OSCURA
He just found Spain unequivocally charming; he just found him, always returning, after the roads spun out by sweet lonely years. They were each alone, then they were together: with long journeys in the eyes, memories that went unspoken. France remarked on how easy it was to come back to him.
He could watch Spain for long periods of time, mark his movements and waste his minutes like they were stretched in light. His skin, vibrant olive and steady; beneath that, the song of his bones, his blood- always trembling with life. Up the seamless shadow lines of his arms; his waist as thin and dulcet as a copper coin, but angled just like sin...and his face, the flush of hair in waves that framed it. His mouth, wreathed in light but suggesting dark. Lashes dusted, lowered; eyes up to attention.
It was just pleasant to be around him; he was always cheerful, always giving. There was always a strong, kind look in his eyes. Always a song on his tongue. When Spain walked through the door he immediately started chattering about bright nothings, and even though France barely bothered to dissect the words, he could make out clear the way his voice pushed- soft like chocolate. He didn't really meet Spain's eyes when they spoke- just watched the glass sunlight in them, like a cat watches water.
France turned his back for a moment, headed behind the kitchen counter. "Are you hungry, mon cher?" he asked, not knowing if he'd just interrupted Spain.
Spain paused and smiled; got up from his place on the sofa. "Sure!"
"What shall I get you?" France responded, voice slightly humming.
He turned around to look at Spain, who leaned against the counter, propping his elbows up on it. "Tomato please!" he said, holding his hand out expectantly.
France rose an eyebrow, bemused. "I can make you whatever you'd like, you know," he replied. Spain just smiled, not seeming to get it. France paused. "And you only want a tomato?"
"Si! Por favor. Tomatoes are my brain food!" Spain replied fervently.
France stopped to consider that; well, Spain was Spain, after all. He smiled. "Kiss first," he answered, eyes low, shaded.
Spain laughed and leaned forward, over the counter, gave France a quick peck on the corner of his mouth. Less than France'd wanted, but he'd settle for now; he turned around, back to the counter. Retrieved a tomato and a knife and handed it to Spain, saying, "Voila- your king's feast has arrived."
"Thanks," Spain answered, and set about cutting himself a neat quarter- the juice running down the knife, down his slim fingers...
And here France was watching him again; he leaned back on the shadows, folded his arms. The light in here caught clarity, and the air was dusty as it floated by Spain's eyes. How many times had this occurred?- how often had he seen Spain as he saw him now? He never seemed to get tired of it, it never seemed old to him. A thought passed his mind like vague mercury, and he wondered what exactly they meant for each other; but he knew better than to question it- knew that love was often more than shadows but less than fire, that it was better not to ask too much of something as graceful, as undefinable, as this.
He shook his thinking from his mind; Spain popped a tomato slice into his mouth, and now his lips were wet- now there was a new unstructured meaning to the smile of his jaw. He didn't seem to notice any change at all in the way France looked at him and just continued to eat; and this was always something France liked about Spain...
He also didn't seem to notice when France walked back around the counter, moved closer to him, until France took the knife from his hands. Spain looked up at France curiously as France laid the knife down on the counter. "What is it?" Spain asked, holding his tomato tentatively.
"Baise-moi," France replied- stringing his arms around Spain's shoulders.
Spain paused, processing within moments what that meant- then he leaned forward with his body pushing softly, with his sun collecting, and kissed France on the mouth. The weight incited the flood, dark stars (their kisses, always like sand and smoke, no matter what the flavor)...but he pulled away just as France was deepening the kiss, and, quite predictably, turned back to eating his tomato.
But France caught Spain's wrist, redirected his movements, led him to the sofa. "Huh?" Spain asked, eyes confused.
France laughed, pulling Spain toward him, onto him. "Don't agree to something if you don't first know what it is, amour-"
-Because our bodies are bound by a contract; we're apart, and then together- these long roads of time will always lead to love, sooner or later.
NOTES;;
1] The title ("Por Clara Y Por Oscura") is from the Pablo Neruda poem from Cien sonetos de amor; Sonnet XX. This is the line:
My Love: I love you for your clarity, your dark. / Amor, te amo por clara y por oscura.
2] "Baise-moi" - people who aren't native speakers of French often make this mistake, so I'm told. The word baiser means to kiss (and sounds like other Romance-language words for "kiss"), but, typical of the French, it's taken on another meaning which starts with an F and ends with an UCK. XD So people often say, "Kiss me!" without knowing it means something else.
Incidentally, "Baiser" is a meringue in German. I heard a story about a German who walked into a patisserie asking for "a dozen Baisers." FUN!
Thanks for reading! :D