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

[aphanon_meme]

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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[oh_espana]

[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]

[iceandheather]

[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.]

[oh_espana]

[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.

[iceandheather]

[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.]

[oh_espana]

[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!?

[iceandheather]

[The words throb in his ears. I was going to love you. What does that even mean, now. What can it mean, when he said it like that?]

[He cries out again as Spain kicks him, and he tries to move out of the way but the best he can do is curl up a little. It might be on account of the pain. It might be something else. To make it worse he hears him clearly now, even after he tried to block him out, and those words and that upset note hurt as much as the place in his side where that foot jabbed into him.]

Told you already!

[But any explanation that he can sob out won't be good enough.]

[oh_espana]

No!

[He's shaking his head, blocking out Norway's words. He wasn't trying to help anything, was trying to hurt him, did hurt him]

[And it's catching up with him fast. His breathing is ragged, gasping, his head is light and the next time he raises a leg to try and repeat the kick he stumbles to the side, only held up by the luck of crashing into a table]

[He can feel the pain in his shoulder now too, searing and burning with each movement of his arm. It brings tears to his eyes, a few spilling over down his cheeks. It's just because it hurts- his shoulder and his hip and his heart all at once]

You're a liar!

[He tries to pull himself from the table and back to Norway, he doesn't know what for anymore. He's starting to feel confused again, all this red in his vision blinding, and the moment he lets go of the table he drops to his knees by Norway's side, leans over him, brings his hands to his face again. Lowers them then, wrapping around his neck, thumbs pressing into the soft skin, tears falling freely now]

[iceandheather]

[He should move, should scramble out during that second when Spain is down and away from him, but he hears those words and he can't.]

[The next thing he knows, Spain is beside him. And strong hands are at his throat, and Norway can feel dampness on his face, and this time it isn't blood. He knows those hands. Knew them. And it was only once, but he remembers the way it felt.]

[Norway stares up at him. Those tears are wrong, there's something wrong about Spain crying like this. And what he's saying isn't right either. It's impossible to speak properly, but he manages, bringing a hand up to touch at Spain's wrist, not to try to remove his hands but just to touch as he rasps it out.]

Wasn't. Lying.

[oh_espana]

[His jaw is clenched tight as he presses down harder with his hands, squeezing. His eyes are squeezed closed too, suddenly unable to take anymore of that red. It's his favorite color, it's his color, it makes sense that it's the color of everything that makes him up too. But right now he doesn't want to see it, prefers the black behind his eyelids]

[He feels there's something wrong in this too. Why isn't Norway fighting back, why isn't he fighting at all? He's supposed to be fighting, making this easy for him to do, but instead he's touching his wrist with the same gentle hands he spent an evening learning, denying everything he needs to believe to do this]

[The pulse under his fingers is strong, racing like his own heart. They're in tune again, Norway's last heartbeats will echo through him, he can carry them on]

[Except he can't. This isn't how it's supposed to be]

[His eyes snap back open, a choking sob leaving his throat as his hands leave Norway's, and he's scrambling back, eyes wide and panicked. There's blood on his hands, there's blood everywhere, it was almost Norway's blood. He's too dizzy, can't see clearly anymore as he scrambles back to his feet, unsteady, staring down at Norway in horror]

I'm sorry- I'm sorry!

[He can't be here. Needs to leave, find somewhere to breathe. He runs to the door, won't look back before he darts out. Needs to be alone now, the first time he's wanted to be alone as long as he can remember]

[iceandheather]

[Spain runs out before Norway can even register what's happening. Before he can even breathe. Those hands were gripping and pressing at his throat and then suddenly they're gone, and all he hears is I'm sorry. Gasping and dizzy, Norway turns his head in time to see Spain rush out.]

[For a little while, he stays where he is, sprawled there on the floor and staring up at the ceiling. Breathing. In, out, slowly, trying to ignore the ache. Everything fucking hurts. His throat. His side. Everything. There is a heavy, damp stickiness all over, and he knows that it's blood. The tightness in his chest from before never left, neither.]

[I'm sorry - Damn it, why did you have to go and say that? There's nothing for you to be sorry about.]

[Eventually, he picks himself off of the ground. Searches for the gun, he knows Spain threw it somewhere -- there it is. As he takes it up, flinching a little at the pain as he bends for it, he wishes that this could just be over.]

[He has so much to apologize for.]