aphanon_meme | part 335 summer nights (tell me more tell me more)

part 335 summer nights (tell me more tell me more)

Like did he have a car? Dodo--dodo--dodo... yeah! How is your July going so far, meme? Good? Bad? Okay? Scrumtrulescent? ... Question mark? This is a very rambling post today, I'm sorry, I'm in a tired rush. A tired tired summer rush. Which, in my professional opinion, is the most annoying kind of rush. I prefer a crisp winter rush! But oh well.

Enjoy part 335!

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[His face scrunches with that kiss, and he tilts his head back a bit farther, playful, trying to get that kiss a little lower]

Maybe not, but it definitely won't if no one tries at all...

[And then his eyes are closing again as fingers brush through his hair, the sighing out this time louder. It's the most relaxing touch he's had in quite a while now, he's boneless against the back of the chair]

If it was a friend...

[He has to pause before answering. He doesn't know what you're talking about, but his own fight with England is fresh on his mind. He'd never admit England could be a friend out loud, but they've had some good times too, and he has to believe]

If it's a friend they must have a reason to do it.

[Strokes at Spain's hair, saying nothing. 'Must have a reason to do it'. Is that right.]

Could be they just want you to go home, is what.

[His hands are shaking. He breathes deeply, threading his fingers through the strands, trying to say what he means. Normally he wouldn't give a damn about explaining himself, not plainly, but this is different.]

They want you to go home 'n wake up in your bed 'n wait for them to call you 'n say they've come back too. They're sendin' you home. That's all.

[He's only thinking in terms of himself and England. He certainly didn't attack because he wanted to send England home, and he's sure England didn't either. He doesn't know what the reasoning was for pulling a knife on him, but he's sure it wasn't that]

No entien- ah, I don't understand...

[It's impossible not to notice the shaking hands with them buried in his hair like that, and he tilts his head a little to the side, confused. Even after the time they've spent together he still doesn't truthfully know Norway all that well, but he does know his body. Can feel the tension in the way his hands are moving now, doesn't understand that either]

[His head looks back again, trying to look at Norway's face, see if he can read that better]

... Noruega?

Edited 2013-07-18 16:19 (UTC)

[Fuck, if he keeps doing that-]

[Breathes deeply, then straightens his expression, evens out his voice. Calms his hands, makes them stop -- stop that.]

[He knows Spain's trying to figure him out. Best make sure he can't, then.]

I'm fine. Day's been rough, is all.

[As if to apologize for concerning him, he edges to the side so that Spain can see him. Touches his face, meets his gaze with his own, his eyes too blank for the situation, then dips his head to kiss him.]

[The other hand drops from Spain's hair and Norway slips it beneath his clothing to feel out the weight there, the shape of the pistol.]

Ah...

[It's not as if looking at Norway helps him. He can't read things like this, can only rely on the words he's speaking being truthful. So he accepts the explanation, lips quirking up again in what's meant as a reassuring smile]

Guess it's been for all of us. It'll get better.

[And Norway's being gentle with him, he doesn't have anything to fear. He leans his head against the hand that touches his cheek, almost nuzzling against it, and accepts the kiss too, when it comes. He's easily distracted, doesn't pay any attention to the movement of Norway's hand, though his own is moving, lifting his slashed arm to wrap around Norway's neck, pull him closer, keep this comforting kiss going a little longer]

[As Spain pulls him closer Norway knows that he should resist, but he doesn't. For a moment - just one moment - he'll lose himself in this. Close his eyes and remember. When was it. A few weeks ago? Catching fireflies on a clear night. Heading back, talking low, walking close to each other. Swept up as if he were both nothing and everything. Cold glass against his back and warm, gentle hands and soft words by his ear telling him things that he couldn't understand but knew the meaning of anyway.]

[He tightens his grip on the pistol, grounding himself. He can't think about this right now.]

[When he breaks the kiss he opens his eyes and then slowly pulls away from him, taking a step back. There's no way that Spain won't be able to see what he's at now, and he knows it.]

Edited 2013-07-18 20:39 (UTC)

[He only lets his arm drop back down when Norway moves too far away for him to keep the grip, making a quiet noise of protest as it does. It's hard to forget where they are with the throbbing discomfort of his arm keeping him from being swept away, but surely they can try to pretend they're somewhere else for a few hours, there's no need to move away]

[He's slow coming back around, eyes lazy as they trail over Norway stepping back, landing on the gun. Where did that come from? No, Norway's weapon was laughable, he must be seeing things]

[But it's not going away, no matter how many times he blinks, trying to clear his head. His brow furrows in confusion, he can't make sense of it. There's no movement from him, no running or any show of fear at all, stuck dumbly in place]

... Should- should put that away. Someone could get hurt.

[It's suddenly a little harder to speak, words thick in his mouth. It can still be an accident, he took it out on accident. He won't believe that pistol's meant for him yet. His smile returns at the thought, a little hesitant but there all the same; yes, it's an accident]

Yes.

[There's a tightness in his chest, and it won't go away. It had stirred the second he saw him, and at the sight of that smile, it's almost too much. Almost.]

You didn't answer proper when I asked you before. I'd like to hear now, if you don't mind.

[Spain could pretend that it was an accident before, tell himself that it was nothing, but now Norway has it raised, aiming true, and it'll be damn difficult to deny what he intends now.]

[Only now it's coming together, when the barrel of the gun is already staring him in the face. Norway wasn't talking about him and England, he was talking about himself. Sending him home]

... No.

[It could be the answer Norway's looking for, but it sounds like it might just be a reply to the situation as a whole, breathed out quietly, still on the edge of disbelief. The smile's gone, and a moment later so is the confusion, replaced with a harder look]

I won't go home yet.

[He can feel his body moving before he knows what he's doing, pushing up from its seat and throwing itself right at Norway. It's instinctual, this isn't the first time he's been caught looking down his nose at a gun. Running won't help, Norway has the range to shoot, but he's larger, heavier, and he'll use his body as his weapon, aiming to ram himself right into Norway, topple him]

[The movement surprises him - he expected, what? For him to talk it out?]

[Spain slams right into him. He's bigger than Norway is, much bigger, and it's enough to send him off his feet. He latches onto him, scrambling to cling, dropping the gun as he does - god fucking damn it he dropped it - but he barely registers that as he hits the floor.]

[He's usually a pretty nice guy. Might usually even try and talk it out. But he's already been in a scrap or two, already seen a body or two, and in the end he's always been a fighter, his contribution to the people making the plans]

[He hears metal hitting the floor just a moment before he does, body landing right on top of Norway none too gently. There's something in his eyes, a focus that isn't usually there, and now they're trained on Norway's face]

[There's no shock of impact to slow him down, and as soon as he's steady he raises both hands over his head, clasping them together before bringing them down, trying to knock right into Norway's head. The gun's gone, but until Norway's incapacitated there's no reason to think he won't still attack]

[He knows that's coming - something like it, anyway - and moves just in time to avoid the hit.]

[This isn't exactly going how he planned it.]

[He's dazed from the fall, but not so much that he doesn't react - trying to push him off, kicking upward. Trying to hit at his face, at least distract him. Get off, get off, get off]

[It's a good thing Norway moved in time, because the sound his fists make when they meet the ground should be enough to tell that it would have been a serious hit. As it is, his own hit stuns him for a moment with the force of it- he's probably already bloodied the side of his hands]

[And it slows down his reaction to the kicking. One foot catches him in the jaw, pushes him to the side but not off, and then he's grabbing for that leg, wanting to twist it, make it stop]

[Tries to scramble out from under him. No good. Can't manage it.]

[He continues flailing with his legs as Spain tries to grab at them, except now he reaches up and back instead of hitting at him, scrambling to grab at something - the gun, anything.]

[He finds purchase, latching onto one of the cafe chairs as Spain finally manages to grab at him, and as he grits his teeth to keep from crying out he sweeps it over and down, aiming at his head. Let go.]

[And then he's crying out too, the sudden impact taking him by surprise. It's certainly not the hardest hit he's ever taken, but he hadn't noticed it coming with all the flailing keeping him occupied, and it landed solidly, opening a nice gash across the side of his face]

[The sight of the blood dripping down onto Norway stops him completely for a moment, eyes widening. For a moment he looks almost confused again, what is he doing here, fighting with a friend? He's half lifted his body, up on his knees over Norway. It should be enough room for him to get out from underneath if he wants to take it, but he's not paying attention to the opening he's given, instead turning those questioning eyes back to Norway]

What-?

[There - that's the opening he was looking for.]

[He scoots out from under Spain, rolling to get out of the way and off of his back. Spain won't be distracted for long. The gun, the gun, where is that fucking gun]

[There it is; out of the corner of his eye, a black shape on the ground. He scrambles toward it.]

[No, he's not distracted for long, but it's plenty long enough for Norway to get out and start moving where he wants. His eyes land on the gun too before Norway can get to it, and then it's an almost panicked grabbing at his leg, trying to clamp on and keep him from reaching it]

[He doesn't know what he was thinking, attacking like that, but he doesn't want it to happen again and he has a terrible sinking feeling that it will if Norway manages to grab it]

Stop!

[He doesn't want to hurt anyone, doesn't want to do this fighting. Don't make him fight. He sounds scared, finally, the first time in all of this. Whether it's for himself or for everyone else he doesn't know]

[Kicks as Spain tries to grab at him. The whole thing throws him off balance, there's contact, he's down on the ground again.]

[He can hear him, but the word doesn't register; only the sound, and it's one that sends his insides sinking. Thank fuck he's not facing him. Instead he's reaching for he gun, practically scratching for it. There. There. Sweeps it up and closes both hands on it.]

[He knows the moment Norway has the gun again just from the change in his body, can feel his own heart sink with the realization. He's going to make him do this, kill or be killed]

Please...

[It's hardly a whisper, likely to not be heard at all. His tugging was useless, and he drops Norway's pant leg, his throat closing for a moment with emotion. Fear, sadness, worry for them both]

[Disgust]

You couldn't just let it be.

[That's a little louder, voice cracking with hurt, or maybe anger, it's hard to tell]

[He's standing, rising quickly to his feet before Norway can turn, and this time he's the one grabbing the chair that Norway's already dragged over. Maybe it's defense, maybe it's to attack, it looks like he's fighting with himself to decide]

[Try as he might, Norway can block out the words, but he can't block out the tone. Fuck. He's as good as ruined everything, hasn't he, but he'll have plenty of time to think on that later.]

[He doesn't wait to find out what Spain is doing. He feels him let go, hears the noise as he gets up and grabs that chair. It's enough.]

[Rolling over, he fires in his general direction.]

[The shot is loud in this room, echoing off the walls making it sound even louder. There isn't time to try and dodge, not at this close range, and it grazes the side of his shoulder, searing and ripping flesh, cutting deep. His body jerks with the shot but no pained noises come. It doesn't even look like he's noticed]

[In fact, he's smiling]

[And when he lifts the chair overhead and sends it crashing back down on Norway's body, it doesn't falter]

[That look is one he has seen before, but not on this one, on someone else, and it's a sight he hasn't seen in centuries, one that drains the colour right out of his face.]

[Barely even thinking he shoots again - not even aiming properly, he can't - but that doesn't stop the force of the chair as it comes down right onto him, and the pain that comes with it, and the sound that comes out of his lips at that, something between a scream and a sob.]

[And that's a look he recognizes too, one he hasn't had occasion to see in just about as long. He's past his fighting days by now, there's little reason for anyone to fear him anymore, but right now it sends a thrill up his spine, speeds up his breathing]

[There's blood trailing down his arm, it's lucky he let the chair go when he did or it probably would have just slipped from his grasp. A moment later there's more of it, the second bullet hitting just above a hip bone, angled to pass right through and back out of his body. He should be grateful Norway's aim is off, but instead he's just amused by the poor shot at such close range]

[He steps close, lifting a leg to press onto Norway's stomach, knocking the chair aside with his knee. And then he's leaning down, reaching for Norway's arms to try and twist them up, get the gun pointed away from him]

Drop it.

[Before he can move away, before he can even think of it, Spain is on him, pressing him, pinning him down to the floor and Norway knows that he can do much more than that.]

[Even with that he do something, would shoot him again, with him over him the way that he is now there's no way he could miss, but then before he can do it his wrists are grabbed and his arms twisted painfully and he lets out a whimper and lets go of the gun -- not because he was ordered to, not because of that. He just couldn't keep hold of it any more.]

[He's still bleeding heavily from the hit to his shoulder, and with Norway's arms in his grasp it's beginning to cover him as well, linking them together with his blood. It's too much blood loss, much too fast, the adrenaline and racing heart speeding up the loss even more. But the dizziness that comes with it feels a lot like exhilaration from battle, and he pays it no mind. There will be plenty of time to fix himself when he's done here]

[His smile (or is it a grin?) widens as he hears the gun hit the floor a second time. He bends the arms back farther, up over Norway's head, until he can feel the strain in the muscles. Finally drops them, moves his hand to Norway's cheek instead, bloody fingers tracing a jaw]

I was going to love you.

[It's soft, but without a hint of such an emotion behind it. Finally he reaches forward to close fingers over the gun, stands back up straight]

[And throws it to the other side of the room, behind the counter. He doesn't need it, but he doesn't want it within Norway's reach. A slow turn back to face Norway, the smile finally slipping from his face as he approaches again]

You had to do this.

[Raises his leg again, not to press Norway down this time, to kick out, aiming for his side. His hip hurts with the movement, he can feel it again now, it's just making him more upset]

Why couldn't you leave it be!?

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part 335 summer nights (tell me more tell me more)

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