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Author's Note: De-anon from Minvasion.
Again not a Spamano fan, but here, have some. I guess this borrows on my ideas from Tangerine Tree? Here we have Romano fascinated by Spain's cross. At least, that's what happens. Named for the statue of Mary in Vatican City, which I must say, is stunning. Once somebody tried to shoot it with a machine gun, so it's now behind bulletproof glass.
Also, what Spain and Romano are reciting is Hail Mary in their native tongues.
La Pieta.
They know every inch of the words. Romano begins it in a hiss, gripping at Spain's necklace, his eyes flitting up and down Spain's warm chest, even as his fingers curled into the chain. "Ave Maria, piena di grazia," Spain gently pulled at Romano's fingers, but they locked tightly in the chain. Romano used it to pull Spain near, near and near and beautifully near, because this is never a sin when it's so beautiful. "Il Signore è con te." Romano finished his lone line, like he had gnawed over the words as a dog teeths on a bone.
"Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres," Spain sighed, pressing the words into the crook of Romano's neck, heart beat burning in his chest like spanish sun. He wants to run, and hide, and can't help but remember waking up spooled in his own blood, unsure of where he exactly stood with his own people. "Y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús." Romano wound the chain links round and round his fingers.
Romano clawed at Spain's neck, fingernails settling on each line in Spain's jaw, and neck, and clavicle. The cross hung limp, and a little cold where Romano touched him. Everything a counterpoint to the ferocious sunlight.
"Santa Maria, Madre di Dio,"
"Santa María, Madre de Dios," Spain's response is docile to the point of something more pitiful than lust; love. Romano swallowed, too awkward for his emotions, emotions too awkward for him, and kissed at the corner of Spain's mouth, whispering and praying.
"Prega per noi peccatori." With that Romano clung to Spain, sweat palming along his arms, arcing down into his elbows. Kissed the cross, once, twice. This isn't a sin, even when both of them would do anything to run away. It's a pity, or perhaps a mercy, that they cannot; bodies delineated against each other, in the way history lies cracked and curled upon each other in spirals. More dangerous than desire, and more lethal than something as clumsily physical as sex.
"Ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte." Spain murmured, his insides burning up and he kisses Romano like it's something sweet. The cross clinked tiredly against his chest, as Romano left it there, to cool and to settle between them.
May your quills be ever sharp.