Rhinestones

/There is a discomforting lack of RomaBel en noir/

~About the anthology; this will be a deposit for all my {Tomato-centric} drabbles. They will all contain either one or several of the following characters; Southern Italy, Belgium and Spain. General themes will be stained gray or black- angst, horror, politics, history etc.

Note(s): This; is (pretentiously) historical; contains my interpretation of a slightly damaged and more mature Southern Italy; tries to give a solid foundation for the pairing of dark!Southern Italy x dark!Belgium.

Warning(s): Mentions of subtle seduction, psychological manipulation, deals with the economical and socio-political aftermath of WWII.

Inspired by: Romanzo Criminale II, La Sentenza; Tears for Fears – Shout

I hereby disclaim any rights.


She reminds him of Rita Hayworth; this, he decides in the quarter of a second it takes her to transverse the distance between the gaping doorway and the faux-leather French provincial fauteuil. The hem of her beige trench coat brushes against her ghastly thin calves, causing his cognitive capabilities to falter, to hitch and knot through another; vision blending into perception of scent and noise. Her cheeks, he remembers to be bulb and florid, are now hollow, white like crumpled lily-petals but her mouth, covered in cardinal red, is still languorous and taut. Translucent smoke, reminiscent of rainy-Monday skies, flees from between his slightly-parted lips as he ducks his head to place number 13 of this day upon the glass ashtray, which serves as a dreary centerpiece of the ebony table-basse with its bouquet of cigarette buds.

His dorsum scuffs against his palate, holding down an inquiry, a crossfire of questions all starting with the letter 'w' and each one could've been phrased more eloquently, more politely but instead the silence drifted between them, much like the gray haze bursting from the orange light of the cigarette. She crosses one frangible leg over the other, her black pump dangling from her toes, and retrieves a package from her breast pocket. Her holding a gasper between her index and middle finger was the last distorted sight burning upon his retina before he closes his with-green-specked cinnamon eyes.

"Lovino," her soprano was dulcet, pleasant like a silver bell jingling before dinner, "I…" Something sizzles, she was lighting a match, "I want to discuss something important with you."

When he decides to grace the blonde with his right eye, the sight of swirly wisps of smoke rake over the bottom row of her teeth. Lovino merely states, "Feliciano occupies himself with the affairs of state…" He leans forwards, smooth and flexible aside from his left forearm, wrapped in a broken white Esmarch bandage, and adds before putting the filter into his mouth, "Unless you're here for pleasantries."

She chortles, low and amused as if his statement had been an inclination for more; as if she could delve past the construction of syllables down to the core, "Perhaps," Her lips flex and curl into her trademark feline smile, "the concept of utter professionalism is lost on me. I do, however, have a proposal…"

Her hand darts out in something, he could only assume, to be a comforting gesture, as the alabaster fingertips strum upon his upper arm. "For all of Italy." She decides to add in good measure. He exhales, sagging his posture and holding the cigarette just above the table, his legs are slightly tense, he notices.

"I'm going to get something to drink." Lovino shakes the appendage off, "Would you like something as well? Don't have much… Coffee, water, some of that cola stuff from the shithead American." He expectantly glances down at her, as he stands, ignoring the tremor in his right leg. –fucking nerves..

She nods, the cigarette back between those sinful crimson lips, the hand he had shaken off out of paranoia, calmly in her lap, and when she treats him an answer, the Italian couldn't help the tiniest of smirks tugging on the corner of his mouth, "Espresso, 'cause you know how I like 'em strong." She seasons the response with a charming laugh.

"Coming right up…" He strolls over to kitchen of his latest apartment in the center of Rome, separated from the living room, where he mostly spent his days forgetting and watching movies from own soil as well as across the Atlantic, and concentrates on the machine.

Lovino suddenly muses over his shoulder, "Economical? Or industrial? Not that I'm curious or anything… Just wondering." His curl bounces as he moves around to gather the cups, the sugar and a platter, not quite gracefully with only one arm available.

"Bit of both, I suppose…" He hears her rustle in the fauteuil, and couldn't help but still the conflicting emotions. She is present, separated only by a wall, with an outdated 20's rose-specked wallpaper, and completely devoid of hostilities concerning the… The hot-tempered Italian sighs as the machine starts to pour the creamy brown liquid down the complementary ceramic cups.

/But she wants something/ His mind bites back viciously.

With a silver platter balancing on the flat palm of his usable hand, he reenters the room only to catch her staring at the antique gramophone in the far right corner, an odd souvenir from before the…, and she halts the locomotive of thoughts crossing the railroads in his brain with an innocent smile, amiable peridots blinking in her eye sockets and another inhale of nicotine.

"Does it still work?" Her cigarette's filter was painted a fainted shade of red and slightly moist, she chews apparently, and he jerks his head back to the phonograph.

He bends slightly to put their drinks upon the ebony ornament and holds his chin pensively, before shrugging in a non-committed manner, "No fucking… Uh, sorry… No clue, really. Just stood here even before Feliciano and I came around." She nods in understanding, and seats herself in a more ladylike manner, her patella's close to another and prepares to grab one of the cups.

When she leans forwards, honey blonde curls frame her heart-shaped cheeks and Lovino can't contain his wandering gaze, from her distinguished collarbones down to the sickly pale flesh seemingly stitched over the ivory bars of her ribcage, maggot-white with dim lackluster blue. "A pity." His glance abruptly shifts back to her round eyes, which were fixated on the contents of her cup. "I would've liked to hear au claire de la lune.." She sips cautiously and in anticipation, the chestnut-haired male shoves the container of sugar into her direction. She swallows.

"Au claire de la lune, mon ami Pierrot… Prêtes-moi ta plume.." The blonde woman trips over the lyrics, her tongue clacking in disdain, "Ma chandelle est morte?" In the shake of her head, her frumpish ringlets twirl and dance as she giggles girlishly.

He finishes the restants of his gasper, a smoldering morsel of ash brightens the glass ashtray, and stirs copious amounts of sugar into his own brew. "So, uhm, about your proposition… You wanted to include me into the negotiations?"

With a light thud, the bottom of her cup collides with the lacquered surface of the saloon table, "Ouvre-moi ta porte, pour l'amour de Dieu… Mmh?" Lovino finds himself staring straight into iridescent eyes and blinks slowly, before repeating his question with a slight pink gloss.

"Oh, yes…" She smiles in apology, "You might be aware that most mining facilities were destroyed due to the war." Her tone doesn't waver when she speaks the last word, but she does dip her head lowly and her hands rest listlessly in her lap, fingers entangle together to form a flesh-made bowl. "Except for those on my territory. Van Acker decided to reform and modernize them." He notices how the digits turn post-mortem rigid, "I'm going to be honest with you here… We don't find enough operatives to perform labor and we can't keep interlarding more collaborators."

Silently, he gulps down a gush of coffee, coated with saccharine, and the blonde takes the invitation to continue, "I promised Ludwig," the Italian nearly chokes, "I'd release his prisoners in November, next year.. And I am aware of your high rate of unemployment…" In light tremor, he puts down the cup, sighs in aggravation and scrutinizes his companion with narrow olive eyes.

"You want people. My and Feliciano's people to be exact. People to descend in your mines and make you prosper." She shifts lightly and arches her back. Before Lovino realizes the sudden action, her fingers were already tapping his left shoulder softly, gently, in tune with her previous wish of hearing 'au claire de la lune'.

She was close, "I am hardly unreasonable, Lovino." –hot breaths, reeking of tobacco cascade down his flustered cheekbones, too close, "This is a negotiation and it takes two to negotiate." Her crimson-splattered lips curl back into a pleasant, irresistible smile. "So I'm listening."

In an attempt to create more distance, he leans forwards, his available hand reaches for his package of cigarettes but he stops mid-action when talons, belonging to her pale fingers, drag three parallel lines down the fabric of his button-up. "I'd require a rough fifty-thousand." He clutches his source of relief and retreats.

"And what do you have to offer in return?" He flips open the lid, retrieves number 14 (or was it 15? Her presence was overbearing…) and searches the pockets of his trousers for a box of matches.

His company swiftly strikes a match and lights his cigarette for him, grinning with teeth bare, and after putting her own matches back into her beige trench coat, "Coal, of course. I was thinking about…" Her apex darts out, flicking over her canines, "One hundred fifty kilograms, per day, per laborer with a contract of twelve months or more… Granted, they will have living accommodations prepared upon their arrival on my territory. Good, enough?"

Lovino manages to ignore the soft prodding tips of her digits, giving the proposal serious consideration and briefly pondering if alterations were necessary. The French rococo clock, a preposterous gift from self-proclaimed 'older brother' Francis Feliciano could never properly part from, keeps ticking in and he finds himself staring at the mechanics through a gray haze; observing the swirls and frills, the golden cherub sitting atop the trinket, the obnoxious shade of mauve… Finally, the Italian shakes his head lightly and decides to add a few extra demands.

Tails of smoke flutter as he speaks, "Two hundred kilograms a day." She doesn't frown and urges him to continue, "Plus, money for the families the immigrants leave behind." The distracting tongue moistens the corner of her mouth. The Italian inhales again and the burning sensation down his throat eases the budding blossoms of distress at her lack of response.

"Sounds fair. I'll be sure to report your opinion regarding the matter to Spaak. He might want to sway your resolution, but if you stand firm, he'll most likely comply." He sighs in slight relief, not entirely certain whether the emotion is an outcome from her positive behavior or the fact his demands might pass.

She plucks his cigarette from between his lips and takes the liberty to take a quick puff, but he is far too occupied by balling his right hand into a shivering fist, steadfast on ignoring the limb, from the infuriating Belgian, on his thigh. Her eyes are half-closed, a wave of mascara-coated lashes drumming upon skin and she simply leers at him.

"I'd love to stay and chit-chat, Lovino." The blonde puts the gasper back between his slightly-parted lips, "But," the hand hasn't moved yet, resting comfortably on his thigh, "I'm feeling under the scorching weather… Would you be so kind to escort me to the front door?" –clutch, the hand tugs on the fabric of his trousers.

Quizzical would be an excellent definition of her current smile, he thinks absentmindedly while standing up, looking down upon her fragile frame, and leans forwards to put number 14 in the crowded ashtray. With linked arms, they make their way through the gaping doorway, leading to the minuscule entryway with the apricot wallpaper, a waft of oregano drifts from the discarded carton-brown shopping bags. Lovino finds the task of opening his door suddenly difficult, fumbling with the copper key and forgetting to twist a complete circle and a half. He also finds himself wondering how many times the blonde has reached out and touched him in the span of an hour and a half she has kept him company.

"You know," Somehow she scares him with feather-light caresses, "I think our co-operation will prove an excellent opportunity for Italy's international image to heal." Alabaster digits float inches above his Esmarch bandage.

Lovino reveals the sight of the apartment building's hallway, "I don't particularly care about such matters." And he can already hear her think that his younger brother and De Gasperi, for a fact, do. "When is the actual meeting between our prime ministers?"

Golden curls brush against the tip of his nose when she abruptly turns her head to stare at the elegant hatstand in the far corner. They are so close and she says a date he'll most likely forget in the next few seconds because her knuckles are sliding down his jaw line and she is back staring at him with her sphinx-like smile –or is it a glimmer of a smile?-. He exhales, with a shiver sliding down his spine, and carefully splays her palm over his windpipe, with his hand over the back of hers, in a manner akin to throttling. Her mouth nears the tip of his nose. It feels like she sucks the air straight from his lungs.

"Don't forget," She kisses his nose tenderly, "To inform Feliciano of our arrangement, he needed a bit more persuasion after I left his office."

And she knocks the oxygen straight back inside.


I tried to make this as attractive as possible. I'd love to hear your opinions :D

(Note; All names mentioned in this drabble are ministers; Van Acker was prime minister of Belgium; Spaak was the minister of foreign affairs of Belgium and De Gaspari was prime minister and minister of foreign affairs of Italy. Just for clarification and to avoid misconceptions ;3)