Another fic written for the Hetalia Kink Meme that was just gathering dust. I did post this on my LJ, but I kinda gave up on that because I don't update it and I don't understand how to use it... -is embarrassed- So, I'm sticking with this account until LJ becomes less scary. Anyways, enjoy~
Warnings: slash, angst, OOCness, use of human names for nations
Pairing: one-sided Spain/S. Italy
"Lovino~ I have something for you!" Antonio shouted cheerfully, bursting into the kitchen. Bracing himself with one hand on the doorway, he slid into the kitchen, and, with a grand flourish, presented a plump, shining tomato in his outstretched hand. The tomato was perfect and firm and ripe with a deep, rich red color—the color of love and passion and of the blood that rushed to Lovino's cheeks when he was embarrassed or angry or trying to cover his pleasure. As soon as Antonio saw it, growing strong amongst its brother tomatoes and the lush greenery of the garden and stubbornly pushing itself through the artfully wild maze of vines, he wanted to present it to the stubborn young Italian who would, no doubt, scowl and grumble and fuss, saying how stupid the gift and Antonio are all while a barely-there glimmer of pleasure would flash in his vivid hazel eyes. And then, he would look away and mutter a soft thanks, hoping that he, Antonio, wouldn't but knowing he would hear, while the faintest of blushes—the same dusting of red that appears on ripening tomatoes—would adorn his cheeks.
And Antonio would fall again for his mercurial charge. But he would reign in the urge to touch the younger, control the desire to conquer and possess and hoard, and hold back the need and love that pumped in his veins and seared his heart with each beat that demanded that he confess his adoration for the little Italian who cursed and fought him and took so much from him. Lovino who tried so hard to prove that he was useful, that he wasn't the weaker, that he was worthy. The little spitfire who glared during the day and curled up against him during siestas. But Spain would stay in control. He would be patient with the boy. Instead of doing what his soul and heart screamed, he would chuckle and ruffle the dark waves of hair, saying "If only your hair were green, Lovi. Then you'd look just like a tomato~"
He may be the country of passion, but even he could not let it govern his life. He was Spain, once a great empire, who still wielded much power across the great ocean, invoking fear and awe and burning jealousy amongst his follow nations. He conquered the new world in the name of God and Glory. He could still feel his old strength, crackling under his skin, and taste the heady flavor of power on his tongue.
He would not fall prey to the foolish emotions battling, burning, and clawing at his ribs. He loved Lovino.
One day, and yes, with God's grace, he would wait until eternity's hourglass shed its last grain, the charmingly obstinate youth would be his.
But, first he'd have to find out where his young charge had gone. Because the kitchen was depressingly empty.
"Ehh?" Antonio blinked several times, emerald gaze darting around room, with tomato still outstretched. "He's not here."
Normally, the grumpy Italian could be found in the kitchen at this time boiling pasta, tossing spices and herbs into a pot, and mumbling choice words in his mother tongue with a white handkerchief around his hair and a matching smock in preparation for lunch.
"Perhaps he went to the market?" Antonio wondered aloud, pulling the delicious gift closer to him. Glancing down at the tomato, he decided that he would just meet Lovino on his way and give him the gift. The Spaniard did not feel like waiting around in the empty manor. It was too quiet, too easy to think, too lonely with memories and unspoken truths and hidden gazes.
And so, with a cheerful whistle and the grace of a warrior, Antonio departed, praying fervently that he met with a cheerful, or at the very least not an angry, Lovino.
The market was a short distance away from Antonio's country home. He walked briskly, reminiscing about decades past, when he would take a young Lovino, no more than an ill-tempered toddler, to the market, coaxing the younger one into speaking Spanish and smile—because he had and still has the smile of an angel, and back, with the tired child held in the crook of one arm, a tiny fist curled in the soft fabric of his shirt, and purchases in the other. Years later, Lovino would refuse to be carried, instead choosing to march sullenly and somberly in front of Antonio with crossed arms and a pout marring his cherubic face.
Today Antonio wondered if he had loved Lovino even back then and why he did not feel disgust and shame wash over him when a voice—so similar to the voice that conquered the peoples an ocean away, that rumbled across battlefields and boats, that sounded just like the sharp bloody steel of his axe as it slashed the wind—whispered with malicious affection Yes, and may He have mercy.
Finally reaching the outer sprinkling of stalls, jade eyes assiduously roamed across the area, over the heads of his people, straining to find that one particular head with that defiant curl.
---And there it was. With a wide smile, Antonio began to gently push his way through his countrymen and held the tomato aloft. Then, just as he was about to capture Lovino's attention with a joyful cry, he saw that Lovino was not alone.
The Italian stood, confident and tall, with a trio of young ladies, looking to be his age. He politely alternated his gaze between the three, engaging them all with a self-assured manner with a charming smile tugging at his pale lips.
Though Antonio could not hear the youth, he could imagine it well enough. No doubt, Lovino's tone was that of a nobleman, pleasant and low and cultured. He was flattering the girls, gifting each with his angel's smile and a tender glance. There would be no trace of scorn or viciousness or mockery. He would never address a young beauty in such a foul manner.
Antonio knew that tone was saved for other men, but used exclusively with him.
He freely gave to those girls the same smile and glances and attitude that Antonio battled for, craved, cherished. Once in a season, under the light of the moon and the Madonna's benevolent smile, was not enough for Antonio.
To see Lovino so free and happy and loving towards these three strange girls---because they were not quite women Antonio bitterly decided---hurt him more than that pirate's cutlass, more than the destruction of his beautiful armada, more than when that filthy moor stormed his beautiful home, and, for the briefest of moments, Antonio hated the boy who took so much and gave so little, who stirred up a tempest of emotion and did nothing to soothe it. Lovino, who could not see how much Antonio wanted him, needed him, loved him. The beautiful brat who wooed pretty girls but could not see how Antonio wooed him and how Antonio controlled his beast, refusing to defile the youth despite how loudly his beast snarled and shrieked Take him! Make him yours! You are the strong one. Show him.
And yet, as Antonio stood, warring with the beast and silently loving the foul-tempered, spoiled yet endearing child, Lovino carried on, leaning closer to the girls, eyes at half-mast, flashing that beautiful smile.
Antonio, let his eyes slide shut, and breathed in deeply, immersing himself in the rustic setting and cheerful Spanish weaving about him. His eyes burned, but he would not show weakness. He throat closed up, but he swallowed dryly to relieve the lump. He breathed deeply, feeling the fingers in his still outstretched hand reflexively flex around the plump fruit.
Tomatoes are delicate fruits. Firm and juicy when ripe but oh so very delicate. All one has to do, is tear through the thin skin to reach the taste. Just a slight puncture, and the tomato will bleed, sticky pulp dripping out of the wound, sliding down long fingers, calloused from years upon years of fighting and holding swords and lovingly tending to flowers and fruits and vegetables and Lovino, pulp dripping to the dusty ground.
Antonio vaguely registers that, in gripping the tomato too hard, he has punctured the beautiful fruit. And, as he stands watching Lovino flatter and charm and smile yet still not see the tall, brunet with eyes the color of the forest after a rainstorm because he only has eyes for the girls gathered around him, the tomato bleeds slowly in his palm, dripping onto the unfeeling ground.
And Antonio is bleeding.
Here is my heart, Lovino. It is only for you.
...Damn it. I wrote this and even I feel bad for Antonio. Someone go strip Lovino and tie him to Antonio's bed. I think one day I'll try to write a happy ending for these two. Someday.... Anyways, hope you all enjoyed it! And let me know what you all thought of it!