Been real inactive with writing - well, publishing is probably more apt, but it's kind of the same. Whatever. I don't even know what exactly I've even wrote-typed here. *scratches head*
((-Can you hear me sing this flightless song?-))
Every spring, during those rare sunset afternoons that colored the sky pure scarlet, he met him.
It's like a phantom dream, a little voice of his mused and wondered every time. His steps echoed loudly against the ancient pavement, wind softly whistling past his ears and voices suddenly devoid of their right to speak. He was alone now, but that didn't mean he panicked and ran around in search of someone or something - just up ahead, he knew already, was a small children's playground.
He walked through the old and rusted gateway, taking a moment to peer up at the slightly decorative archway of copper flowers and dead vines. He doesn't really remember where he had heard or seen it, but only one line seemed to fit it - "It was a long time ago."
Centuries, ancients, he added mentally, and then continued on.
The playground had been long abandoned. Swings were stiff from the seasons' passing, and sandboxes were empty of the children it should have. The grass was olive and overgrown, wild daisies and a few weeds - if he squinted to look and search - popping up here and there. A simple turn of his neck to the right would reveal a dead willow tree, showing signs of once being cared for greatly - but like its resting place, it was left to be forgotten in the lapses of time.
Empty, dead; it was overall a quaint and lonely place to be found, but he found it perfect, a withering sort of beauty. Like a dying battlefield in the crystalline, snowy winter time - only so much more innocent. Italy took a moment to breathe in the slightly cool spring air, amber-honey eyes staring at the wide gap of buildings absent in the backdrop of the sky, just straight beyond. The setting sun sat on the distant horizon, wavering just the slightest as clouds and wind played.
One blink. That's all it took.
The brunette looked back at the frozen swing set - a boy with a messy mop of golden hair, looking no older than eight or nine, sat on one of its unoccupied seats, teary blue eyes staring at the ground forlornly. He didn't say anything that could have indicated his noticing of the twenty-something man, preferring to idly swing his legs and hear the rusted iron of the swings creak noisily like they would crack and break any second the longer he sat there.
The Italian mirthlessly smiled at all this, but said nothing. Conversation was sometimes never needed to converse.
"I think I should have brought a canvas – a really big one, maybe - and my paints. Maybe watercolors, because everything looks better with watercolors," Italy murmured aloud to himself, light vermillion mixing vividly with his amber-honey as he continued to stare musingly at the fading sky.
Romano was eerily silent beside him, a hand harshly gripping his sibling's and a tight frown on his lips as the two walked back to their large residence in the heart of Rome - one of many scattered throughout the country. He continued to stare down at the old streets of the city, simply listening as his brother continued to ramble on what most would consider to be his usual nonsense, but was so, so very far from it.
"We could have painted this sky together - it would have been beautiful, like a pitiful war."
(("It will rain today."))
Review if you want. I preferrably want some constructive criticism, because honestly? I feel like my writing's getting worse.
~Shiroi