AN: So here's the skinny, guys and dolls. I realize that I haven't updated in forever, but I'm kind of a little unable to update any of my other fics right now. It'll happen, eventually. So instead, he's this short, sad, little oneshot for a pairing I don't even ship. It's been lurking on my computer since I wrote it for my friend's birthday a while back. it's actually two seperate pieces that were both two short to stand alone and exist in the same universe, so I just kinda... lumped 'em together. Even though I don't enjoy it, I hope you all do, and I will try to update everything else ASAP.
It's one in the morning, and Spain cannot sleep. He tosses and turns but no matter how hard he tries, he cannot drift into comforting slumber.
Flash forward one day to England hooked on Spain's lips and wrapped all around him. The twisted, co-dependent relationship they have built around old blood and new alliance. Spain needs comfort, and England is no longer capable of leaving the man to fend for himself. The Spaniard and his neediness. The Brit and his urge to give, but just to Spain, only to Spain. These two hopeless fools, they dance.
Jump back to two days to eight PM, the night before Antonio finds himself restless. Jump to Francis putting his hands on Spain's shoulders. Francis, the ever faithful friend and brother, shaking his head. Saying, "At this point, you've forgotten what love really is. You've blurred the lines between casual sex and genuine affection." Saying, "You're stuck in reverse. No. You're stuck park, with your wheels sinking down to the bottom of a deep, muddy ditch. And it just keeps raining." Rain. Spain hates the rain, and it's always rainy in Arthur's country. England would prefer to go out for a walk on days with dreary weather, but if Spain is there the Brit will find himself being coaxed into staying in instead, the two of them drowning out the rat-a-tat-tat of raindrops with noises of their own.
Flash forward to Francis in his imported car, speeding away. Spain buries his head in his hands.
Forward again, and England is wrapping his arms around Spain. Spain rests his head against England's chest. Spain, with his flawless acting, he feigns innocence. He only there for comfort. Poor baby. The great pretender, but they both know why he's really there.
Flash back to Antonio being single, and Francis and his concern. He means well, and Antonio keeps this in mind as he tells Francis that he doesn't want to be with anybody. Jump to Francis calling him out. Telling Antonio that he's obviously stuck on somebody. Telling Antonio that he knows exactly who. That one name that Francis does not wish to say.
Skip ahead to Antonio lying in Arthur's bed, covered in all different kinds of shame. It's strange, but Antonio can only ever seem to sleep peacefully these days when he's like this, curled up beside and between his disheveled English lover and his pale, slender limbs. If they can even be described as "lovers" at this point. He listens to the steady rise and fall of the Brit's chest as he breathes in precious oxygen and exhales carbon dioxide. Nutrition for the plants. Spain's always had a thing for those "green thumb" types of guys.
Rewind a day back, Spain is still awake at four AM. He gets up, makes himself a cup of coffee. Dials Arthur. Machine. Spain never leaves a message.
Fast forward to the same time the next day. Antonio is lying in bed, and he's thinking about what Francis said. The Frenchman is right and Antonio knows it. He knows that he will be back is his same old position with Arthur before the day is through. He also knows that Arthur, he is stuck in the same muddy rut, with the rain pouring down. Their dance won't end, not any time soon.
Spain calls Arthur again. This time, he answers. Jump to Arthur, his voice laced with concern. Maybe it's real. Maybe all of this, Antonio's inner turmoil and Arthur's doting tone, maybe all of it is a real as they say it is, and maybe there's really a very real happily-ever-after waiting just around the bend. It doesn't matter, not to anyone, not right now. Either way, it makes no difference to Spain. He mumbles soft Spanish words into the phone. Jump to Arthur, pretending he doesn't understand the language. Ignorance tends to simplify things.
Jump to Antonio agreeing to come to Arthur's house. Jump to London, to Arthur's living room. Spain lying sprawled out on the England's couch. His head in the Brit's lap and Arthur's fingers in his hair. They don't talk about anything important. They don't need to; enough was said over the phone and is being said now in Antonio's eyes. Oh, what expressive eyes he has. Wide. Glimmering. He really does have such gorgeous eyes. Arthur, he can never seem to look away from them.
Yeah right. It's definitely not his eyes Arthur is looking at as he follows Spain down the hall. Not his eyes that the Brit's wandering hand cups and squeezes roughly, eliciting a yelp from the Spaniard as both Arthur's other hand and his hips pin Antonio against the wall.
Jump to Spain, pushing Arthur away. Fickle little prince that he is, feigning inner turmoil. Or perhaps it's real. After all, Antonio is still capable of feeling real emotions, isn't he? He was nearly boiling over with them, just a night ago. Arthur still feels them too. So perhaps it is genuine, his sweet, gentle caresses as he tries to comfort Antonio. Than his lips on his jaw, his neck, his collarbone. Hands, everywhere. Such a gentleman.
Jump to the next morning, Arthur sipping coffee while Antonio cooks. He never saw the point in trying to sneak out before the Brit woke. As if he needed to make their situation any more clear.
Flash forward to Antonio driving home.
Skip ahead. Time passes.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
What a cycle.
What Antonio really wants right now is to fall back into his average routine. He wants to curl up on the couch next to Romano, in front of a fire. Maybe he's talking and laughing with Romano (they're both talking, but really, he's the only one doing any laughing). Maybe he's reading a book while Lovi flips from channel to channel on the TV.
It doesn't matter. That's not where he is. Really, he's bathed in the harsh, cold morning light seeping in through drawing curtains and open blinds in a room that is not his own. Really, he's barely registering softy spoken words drifting through his ears from the warm body beside him.
Antonio does not feel warm. Physically, there is warmth resting on his skin and wrapped all around him. But inside he feels cold. He wraps his arms tighter around the heat beside him. That doesn't help.
Antonio finally forces himself to pry his eyes open and tilt his head up from its resting place on the shoulder below and beside it. This action is met with bright emerald eyes gazing into his, full to the brim with an emotion that frightens the Spaniard.
"You're still here." The statement is not spectacular, and the speaker is neither surprised nor displeased.
"Of course." He never leaves. Not before England has woken, anyway.
"I was worried you would leave." Arthur wasn't worried. This is their routine.
"Nunca." Antonio likes some consistency in his life.
Everything here has more than one meaning. Arthur says, "Do you want breakfast?" which really means "Cook me something" which really also means "Your food always tastes so delicious". Antonio says, "I'm a bit hungry," which really means "If I must" which really also means "I'd love to."
Jump the kitchen, where Antonio says, "Breakfast is ready," which really means "Breakfast is ready", sometimes Antonio says what he means. They sit and eat together, but they are both deeply encompassed inside their own bubbles, their own thoughts.
Arthur, he is wondering when Antonio will leave again. Drive off and leave him in that big empty house with only ghosts of the night before and sheets, still warm from the heat that Antonio radiates like the sun,—he's just as brilliant—to keep him company. Arthur will lie in those sheets and he will take just one deep breath in and while he lies there he will exhale just once. Then he will get up, as he always does, he'll take the sheets off the bed and put them in the wash, as he always does, and he will move forwards as if nothing ever happened. As he always does. He'll pretend that he isn't waiting for the phone to ring or hoping for a knock at his door. Three times, always, the first two knocks hurried and eager, the final one more reserved. When the phone does ring, he'll make sure not to sound eager. When the knock does come, he'll act like he's not expecting it.
Antonio's thoughts are a bit different. He's asking himself why he's going to leave again, and why he even came in the first place. How did he get entangled in such a situation anyway? It boils down to knowing what he wants, but not knowing how to go about getting it. It'd be easier if he wanted something tangible from England. He was always rather good at getting what he wanted in that regard, and subconsciously—no, Spain would be lying to himself if he said he didn't realize this consciously realize this as well—he realizes that Arthur is virtually wrapped around his finger. However, Antonio knows that he feels the same way about Arthur, and that's what is so confusing and frightening to him. That's where things get tricky.
He's also thinking about the sweet, innocent youth he used to be. The darling child who had worn a large cross around his tiny neck and praised God for every moment, every day, every breath. Antonio still wears that cross, but he cannot remember the last time he went to church.
Arthur Kirkland, slayer of angels.
He can't place all the blame on Arthur, though, when it's his own fault just as much. Or perhaps neither of them is to blame. Antonio has always been a big believer in fate and a divine plan, though he can't imagine why any god would have chosen this. Perhaps this is the opposite of what fate has in store for them, and Antonio and Arthur are just screwing everyone and themselves over by straying from the original path. Bring on the devil, bring on the demons, bring on the hellhounds. Perhaps it's selfish of him, but if such an extreme really is the case, Antonio would rather get lost in forever with Arthur, doom himself to eternal damnation, than follow a path that would dare to separate them.
Jump to breakfast being over, and Arthur and Antonio cleaning the Brit's kitchen together. Both of them knowing that Antonio will leave soon, and neither of them wanting him to go.
Jump to Antonio breaking their routine. Saying, "Come to church with me."
Arthur asking, "You still go to church?"
Antonio replying, "Not usually." Saying again, "Come to church with me."
Jump to Arthur and Antonio, parting ways after mass ends with nothing more than a very formal goodbye.
Antonio goes home, and Francis is there again.
Arthur goes home, and the sheets are no longer warm.