Forsaken
A/N: Hey guys! Here is a very small fic… Obviously. I'm working on about a million, but this idea just popped into my head and demanded to be written.
Disclaimer: Don't even own the first season yet.
Warnings: Angsty Lovi, shonen-ai, language, violent references, historical inaccuracy, human names, you know the drill.
Summary: You see him as he left you, tall and proud and reckless, clad in full plate armor: heroic. Falling to the ground with an arrow through his chest.
You really hate that Spanish bastard.
He looked over his shoulder at you once. Smiled, winked, couldn't be bothered to wave or turn around, just smiled once and left.
You howled his name, threw rocks at his ship, screeched and cursed and raged and Spain just leaned into the wind and laughed.
You want to leap onto the boat and throw him into the water, armor be damned, because it serves you right for leaving me here and what the hell's in your new world that you can't find here, you selfish bastard?
Your brother takes your hand, makes you pasta and babbles about nothing until you push him away and scream that he doesn't need to comfort you because God dammit I'm fine, just leave me alone, would you?
It isn't until Veneziano goes home that you realize just how dark your house is. You grip your candle, jumping at shadows until you reach your bedroom. You light the lantern, and dive under the big red blanket, glancing about desperately. The night is utterly still, moonless and cold.
It wouldn't be so bad, you think, if it wasn't so quiet.
When Spain was here, the house was full of noise. Meaningless chatter about trees and flowers and food, snippets of song, half-formed guitar chords all spun together in a sticky web of safety and comfort, not this empty, dead void of nothing. All you can hear now is your too-fast breathing, your too-loud heartbeat, a half dozen other imagined noises, mice and ghosts and why isn't Spain here?
You really miss that Spanish bastard.
You wrap yourself up in the blanket he gave you and stare at the shadows until dawn.
You don't know how long it's been since he's left. You mark the passage of time by how often your brother visits to make sure you haven't hurt someone in your distress. Six visits. That should mean three months. Days? Years? You don't know anymore.
He sends you a letter on a returning ship. It's beautiful here, he writes. I miss you. Stay out of trouble. The script is hurried and you get the feeling he didn't want to write at all. You consider throwing it in the ocean, pocket it, and burn the words I miss you into the backs of your eyelids.
You wrote a letter back. It was short, mainly consisting of come back you bastard and I hope you run out of food and have to eat rats. You glare at it, burn it, and write a new one. I need you, it says. You tear it into pieces, shrieking your rage as you fling the scraps into the fire. Doesn't that idiot know what he's doing to you?
Now that Spain's gone, you've become hyper-sensitive to the talk surrounding the New World.
Savages, they whisper. Giants. Monsters. Their eyes glow red, they have the claws of an animal, they capture men to sacrifice to the devil. They shoot you with poisoned arrows, tie you up, cut your heart out…
You can't listen to this. Images of Spain flash through your mind, too vivid to be purely imagination.
You see him as he left you, tall and proud and reckless, clad in full plate armor: heroic. Sailing across the seven seas, striding proudly onto the shores of the New World.
Falling to the ground with an arrow through his chest.
Monsters bursting through the forest, wielding vine-ropes still bloody from their last victim.
Spain leaping up to fight them off, a swish of strings and he falls again, crucified by a hundred arrows, screaming as the poison decimates him.
The savages dragging his writhing form by the hair, binding him to their alter. The high priest raising the knife, stabbing again and again.
Death, rebirth, death, an endless cycle of Spain's dying shrieks and gasps of surprise at his resurrection.
You can't do this. Can't, can't, can't, can't, Christ Antonio, come back already! Your fingers are white-knuckled around your kneesand you need him here, laughing and smiling and safe. You want to run to your brother, find some measure of comfort in his pasta and art and song.
Instead, you curl up under the cold blankets and cry.
You really need that Spanish bastard.
Fin
A/N: And that's it! My small and (hopefully) angsty story is complete. This was my first time trying to write Spamano in fic-form. I was going to end it with them being all reunited and cuddly, but that would have defeated the original purpose of the story. I also have a paper to write, but this story refused to move until it was written down. So yeah. Drop a review, if you'd like. As usual, I'll check out what you've written in return.
Also, my apologies in the extreme lateness of the second chapter of Hangman. It's on its way, but I took a small surprise turn and it will now probably end up being three chapters and a small epilogue instead of the planned twoshot.