Spamano week continues!
...I missed day two, so I figured I would rope that one together with day seven's prompt.
So here's to day three!
Day Three: Ocean
Title: Turbulent
Rated T for language and mild gore.
"It's fucking disgusting out."
"Si, Romano."
Spain tilted his head back against the headrest of the driver's seat, staring down his nose at the winding road before them.
"What's the point of going to a fucking beach house in weather like this."
"We'll figure something out."
Romano made an unimpressed noise and jammed his elbow into the ridge below the car window, resting his cheek against the knuckles of his fist. A terse silence filled the cabin, broken only by the uptempo song that passed through the stereo at a low volume.
"Y pensar que lo que escribo
Puede ser tan importante
Que toque algún corazón."
Romano groaned. "…Again?"
"It's catchy."
"For the third fucking time in a row?"
"You want to listen to something else?"
"No, not really."
Spain grit his teeth and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. Dark grey storm clouds rolled overhead, serving only to exacerbate Romano's foul mood as the raindrops that pounded against the hood of the car sped up in tempo to match the tension in the air. Only half an hour left, Spain approximated as they passed a familiar gas station. He made no move to change the CD.
Eventually they reached his modest villa, nestled within shallow cliffs and overlooking a small, rocky beach. Romano kicked open the door and hopped out before the car came to a complete stop. Spain turned off the engine and sat there in solitude, attempting to calm his heartbeat and tune out the muffled grumbling rounding the perimeter from the outside, even if for only a moment. The effort proved to be in vain — Romano slammed both his palms twice against the curve of the trunk and then shook the entire car for good measure. Spain released an aggravated grunt and reached down to pop the lever.
"…Shouldn't be here," Romano continued to grumble as they trudged up the pathway to the house. "I've got shit to do back home." He shot a scowl at Spain that was half-obscured by soaked bangs covering his eyes. "I didn't sign up for this."
Spain bit the inside of the cheek. "We both needed a break," he ground out. "Forgive me for pulling some strings and clearing you up for two days."
"I don't recall signing up for your sass, either."
Spain inhaled sharply and bit down harder, tasting iron.
Once inside, he made his way for the kitchen in search of a glass of water. Romano followed, talking at Spain's back and making his thoughts clear on the audacity of his actions when there is more than enough water coming from the fucking sky — or haven't you noticed? Why don't you just go and stand out there with your mouth open, you idiot.
Trying his best to let Romano's attitude slide, Spain calmly lifted the faucet handle and zeroed in on the rising pitch of the water filling his glass. He shut the tap off, took a long sip—
Turned to see Romano running a single finger through a thin sheet of dust on the island counter and cocking an accusing eyebrow.
CRACK.
"HOLY—!"
A flash of lightning, followed by a deafening thunderclap, reverberated throughout the house. The last of Spain's resolve had shattered, along with the glass in his hand, which now lay scattered across the floor in pieces. Spain and Romano froze, gazes fixed on his hand. A number of shallow gashes littered across his palm, sending blood running down his wrist. It fell to the floor in drops and mixed with the spreading puddles of water, turning them a diluted red.
Spain stared at the wound, heart pounding in his ears, only just aware of Romano's voice: "Shit, shit, are you okay? Scared the hell out of me, what the fuck was that abou—"
"I have to go," Spain said. His voice came out in a strained, graveled whisper as he backed away. A fire that was completely separate from the physical pain he felt licked at the sides of his ribcage. He closed his hand, not caring as a few pieces of glass lodged further into the cuts. "I have to go," he repeated.
"What?" Romano rounded the island as Spain made for the terrace door. "Look, Jesus, Spain, I'm sor— Let me—"
"If you don't leave me alone, Romano, so help me—"
CLASH.
The action of throwing the door open, coupled with a second thunderclap, muffled Spain's threat. Without looking back, he strode across the red tiles and continued down the narrow path that lead to the ocean.
Loud as the growing storm had become, Spain could still hear the crash of waves heightened by the sea wind below. He followed the sound, stomping down between the cliffs until he reached the water-worn stones at the shore. Here, secluded at last, he was left to confront the flare of anger that raged through his chest. Spain plopped down on a nearby rock and set to plucking away the individual pieces of glass that stuck into his skin. Then, with a grimace, he held out his palm to allow the rain to wash it clean.
The wind whipped around him. Turbulent. Spain sighed.
This was a turbulent time for all of them. Election season was upon much of the world, Romano and Feliciano's own having passed just a couple months prior. Spain hunched over and rested his forearms on his knees, looking out to the ocean. While he knew those two to handle change better than anyone, that didn't stop Romano from winding up with internalized stress behind closed doors every turnaround, especially during major potential parliament changes such as this. It had become clear to Spain over the past few weeks just how uptight Romano had grown — so sue him for thinking the other nation could use a mere couple days' worth of downtime.
If only Romano would actually allow himself to relax. And not be such a prick in the process.
Spain picked up a sizable pebble and pelted it far into the ocean with as much strength as he could manage. Then he did it again, and again. He reached down for a fourth one — but this time he was surprised to find that his fingers came into contact not with the grit of stone, but with something much smoother. Blinking the rain from his eyes, Spain glanced down and saw what looked like glass, curved in shape and half-buried in the sand. He dug his good hand into the ground to pull it up.
It was a bottle. A… very old one, actually, and… was something in there?
Spain brought the bottle closer to inspect it, but the cloudiness of the glass obscured its contents from view. Quirking an eyebrow, he gripped the cork between his teeth and pulled it out with a sharp 'pop'. Lifting it to his face, he closed one eye and peered through the mouth with the other.
There was a coil of paper inside. …A letter in a bottle? Curiosity sparked, Spain looked around until he spotted a small cliff ledge that jutted out over the beach, providing just enough shelter to keep the sand beneath it dry from the storm. He made for it, and once situated under its protection, he gripped the bottle by the neck and smashed it against a nearby rock to break the glass (careful in the process to avoid a repeat of the incident before). The paper, or rather, parchment, fluttered to the ground. Spain bent over and picked it up, squinting to make out the worn message sprawled across the page.
S,
Don't you think a month is a little long? My hand is fucking cramping after writing all these letters. I think my eyesight's going from writing so much at night. So if I lose either of those, it's your fault. You're a jerk. And a bastard.
The tomatoes are finally in season. B made us something new for dinner tonight. Tomatoes stuffed with shrimp. It was really good, so I told her that, and she gave me a hug. She's so pretty. It's a good thing her name is B because I get to call her pretty all day. I used the hug as a distraction to leave the room and steal a servant's plate. No one caught me! Maybe you shouldn't come home after all, idiot. I basically get to do whatever I want when you're away. Yeah, maybe you should just stay wherever the hell you are.
I wonder if you've had any tomatoes yet. Probably not, since they go bad so quick. I bet you cry yourself to sleep every night because you miss tomatoes so much, you tomato-eating bastard! You know, I almost thought about shoving a tomato into this bottle for you, but then I realized that's a fucking dumb idea and doesn't make any sense. You'd better be grateful I'm so smart! I'm a goddamn prodigy!
It's late. A moth keeps flying over my candle. I should probably blow it out before the stupid thing ignites itself. You better not be writing any of your letters at night! I'm allowed to write them at night because I'm on land! If you burn down your ship, then that means you have to go down with it because you're the captain, and I bet that would be really fucking painful. Also, I'd have to wait at least another month for you to swim back here. And I'm dying of boredom, so you need to come back sooner than that, okay?
…Alright, I'm going to be honest. I've been writing these shitty things for weeks. I know they're never going to make it to you, but goddamn it, like I said, I'm bored. And if this is never going to reach you anyways, I guess maybe I should just write down why I've been going to all this trouble and shit. Maybe if I just get it out once, then it'll be done with and I'll feel better.
I keep getting all these fucking letters about all this fucking bullshit that's been going on over at my land, and it's just a lot, okay? I'm stressed out all the time. And I know I shoot it down because you're a fucking sap about it, but you always know exactly what to say to make me feel better. And then you make me food. How can that not make me feel better? So I guess I just fucking miss you, you jerk bastard. So you should drag your idiot self back here soon. For the sake of my sanity.
R
The rain had lessened by the time Spain returned to the villa. In the clarity, he could see Romano bent over the kitchen island, head in his hands, darkened phone lying silent next to his elbow. Spain stood there for a few moments before he sighed and crossed the patio.
"Spain!" Romano gasped, scrambling down from the high-rise stool the second Spain slid open the door. The kitchen was filled with the pleasant, orange scent of floor cleaner. Romano was in front of him in an instant, grabbing his hand to inspect the wound before tugging him over to the counter where an open first aid kit sat.
"You idiot…" he let out, voice quiet as he unscrewed a bottle of antiseptic. He doused a gauze pad in it, and with shaking hands, began to wipe short strokes over the jagged cuts. Spain winced at the sting but otherwise did nothing. After it was clean, Romano looped a strip of bandage around his hand. He paused then, staring down at the crumpled, bloodied gauze that rested on the counter.
"Romano, I—"
Romano shook his head. "Just… don't," he said without malice as he stuck a couple pieces of tape over the bandages to hold them together. He turned Spain's hand over to check his work, and when he was finished, held it in both of his own. His brows were furrowed, the displeased expression on his face self-directed. Spain had a sudden urge to kiss those frown lines away.
A long stretch of silence passed between them, and then:
"I'm so fucking sorry," Romano said. "I've been a complete jackass."
"You really have been," Spain replied.
Romano winced. "I pushed you too hard. …It's so fucking shitty to admit this, but it… it felt good to dump that stress on you." Spain took in a deep breath and then let it out slowly. "I know it's no excuse, I know, but things have been so… so…"
"Turbulent?"
"…Yeah. I'm just… I'm just really fucking anxious about being away from it all, like I…" Romano let out a low, exasperated grunt, and gripped Spain's hand a little tighter. "I know you're trying to help. You always… you always know what to do." He tilted his head down, hiding a flushed face behind his bangs. "I guess I just don't know if I'm ready to let go of this stress yet."
"You need to, Romano," Spain said with a sigh, running a thumb across the other man's palm. "Believe me, no one is going to put up with you if you continue to choose to vent like this. Not me, not Feli, not even the Pope."
Romano snorted despite himself. Spain smiled and brought his other hand up to cup the back of Romano's head, coaxing him closer so he could press his lips to his forehead. "Let's have a fresh start," he said, nuzzling his nose into Romano's hairline. "We're already here — we have two days. Let's actually try and relax."
Romano pulled back and squinted at him. "When did you turn into such a fucking saint?"
At that, Spain broke into a true grin. He retracted his hand and absently stuck it in his back pocket, feeling the crisp parchment folded there. "Just looking out for your sanity," he said.
Romano quirked an eyebrow, before rolling his eyes and bringing Spain's injured hand to his lips. In the shadow of the rescinding storm, Spain could only just barely make out the words "Thank you," mouthed silently into the bandages.
Author's Note: I like to use Bella as Belgium's human name.
Lyrics translation:
And to think that what I write
Could be so important
That it touches some heart
From "Canciones" by El Canto del Loco
By Vimto12 on lyricstranslate dot com