Mr. Hurricane is officially my song for these two and I blame it for the end of this chapter. Some Avril Lavigne and I had Aurora going before I gave up on this being too serious.
Black Chery
Part 5: Will You Just Fucking Kiss Already?
He just doesn't go back inside.
Nope, it's warm enough outside that Romano stays out in the orchard. It's not very comfortable, but it's not cold, and he's too upset to go wandering through an empty house to get to his bed when he's settled and moody under the lemon tree.
So he just doesn't go back in, and he must fall asleep because when he opens his eyes again he's wet with morning dew and... is this a blanket?
He hears footsteps whispering across the grass, but they're moving away from him and before his eyes are open the sound is gone. The dawn light isn't shining in his eyes, but he's definitely under a blanket. The rays creeping over the mountain reach around the tree trunks and low bushes to find the beaded dew clinging to the rough weave of the blanket and the blades of grass cushioning his cheek, but that's not right. His neck should hurt if he slept without something bracing his head, but his arms are under the blanket and his neck is fine. The grass marks on his face, when he touches them, also aren't deep enough for a whole night spent on his side.
Why is the grass behind him dry when everything else is wet? Why is it crushed when he can tell from the stiffness everywhere else that he hasn't moved while sleeping? Under the blanket he finds one of his shirts draped over hi- SHIT.
Romano bolts upright and the early morning is entirely too quiet. He almost trips on the blanket trying to get himself up and on his feet. Without thinking he starts running, stumbling for several steps as he gets his arms through the shirt's sleeves and pulls it over his head. No way, no fucking way, he was so sure that-
"I- I thought you left." He's standing at his own back door when he stops and gasps the words, because he can see right through his kitchen to the pale man standing there scowling at the coffee maker. Romano's confused, he knows he's relieved but he just doesn't understand: he heard the car. He heard it pull away and drive off. He heard Prussia leave but Gilbert's right here.
Rush up, kiss him, apologize. Those three things in order shoot through his mind and Romano has to grip the doorframe tight to keep himself from acting on the impulses. The first two, at least, are completely out of the question, and he's not sure about the third one when Prussia just lifts a hand and scratches the back of his head awkwardly, clearing his throat and glancing around the kitchen instead of looking at him.
"Should um, uh..." Romano's never seen him grasp for words before. "You want me to leave?"
"No." He doesn't have to think about his answer, he just gives it because it feels right. "But I thought you had. I heard the car-"
"I figured you wouldn't come back if I was still here." But Romano hadn't come back because the house was empty... "Drove to town, came back." Prussia doesn't say it, but Romano can hear it as he carefully crosses into the kitchen to stand closer to him. He can hear it:
I looked for you.
I found you.
I stayed with you.
"Have you eaten yet?" Prussia's face starts going red again just from Romano coming close enough to speak softly.
"Coffee's almost ready." He talks around the question instead of answering it. "There's cake."
The only other person Romano knows bakes when he's upset is Austria. Prussia's prepared a spiced coffee cake with a cherry compote, and just from the texture Romano can tell that it's been sitting out for hours: he made it first and then went looking for him when Romano didn't come back inside.
They eat in painful, stifling silence, and it's the first time since Prussia arrived that he sits across the table instead of right next to Romano on the corner. Romano wants to say something because there's no reason for this silence. They're not mad at each other and yesterday was stupid and awkward, but they should be through that now and everything can go back to normal. So why isn't it going back to normal?
Prussia asks if he can take a look at the broken latch on the bathroom window, and Romano says sure. He washes up and then escapes outside to tend his grape vines and they don't see each other again until noon.
"You have pidgeons living in your attic."
"I have what?"
"Pidgeons." In his attic. "Lots of pidgeons."
"How the hell have I never heard them?"
"Guess that's what happens when you sleep outside." That stings, but it just makes Romano decide not to go back out to the vineyard. "Why not?" Huh?
"Because... there are pidgeons in my attic?" So Romano should go get rid of them?
"I already started that." That's not a job a guest should be handling. "Why not? You're busy with your plants."
"My plants aren't shitting all over my house."
Prussia mutters something unsavoury into his wine glass and Romano starts grinding his teeth. They're drinking his wine now too, they blitzed through that cherry wine from Cologne in the first few days Prussia was here. Come to think of it, they've had a lot of wine in the last week since their meals have taken at least an hour or two each time with all the talking. Today they're just drinking though, no chatter, and with one bottle empty and a second one nearly there, Romano knows which ratio he prefers.
He has no idea why the fuck they're being so hostile with one another now, but it's pissing him off all over again.
"Fine. You wanna muck around with bird shit then go ahead. Thanks."
"You're fucking welcome." He's such a little bitch. "Do you have any roofing materials?"
"No, why?"
"How do you think they got in?" Romano stands up and starts gathering up the dishes from their cold meal, snatching away the bowl of cured olives before Prussia can reach for one.
"So you're telling me to fix my damn roof?" He snaps.
"No, I'm telling you I'm going to fix your damn roof."
"What?" He practically drops the dishes in the sink before twisting the water on, not even paying attention to how much soap he squirts into the falls. "You think I'm going to let you turn bright red again?" His mind scrambles for something red that isn't a tomato, his eyes landing on a bowl of pink fruit before his mouth betrays him: "You looked like a god-damned cherry yesterday."
There are two hands on the counter with arms there to trap and keep him in place. Prussia's chest touches his back and Romano's temperature screams up by several degrees before a sharp breath hits his neck, followed by very threatening words:
"Says the one who couldn't keep his god-damned hands to himself." Fucking hell.
"Hey, I fucking asked you!" Romano can't do this, he can't be this close to this asshole with this much wine in his blood. He can't have Prussia breathing on his neck with wine-sweet breath and sweat dying on his skin from the menial work he's been doing around the house all morning. "I asked you again and again, did you want me to stop? And you said no every time- I fucking heard you!"
The best way to scare Prussia off is to do exactly what Romano's aching for anyways, so he turns and lets his face line up with Gilbert's where it's close to his neck. He expects the blonde to jump back and get away from him, but instead- oh-
Instead, Gilbert straightens up enough so their foreheads actually touch and Romano's brown eyes start drowning in the wine-red pair in front of him. All he can smell is wine and sweat and aftershave and Gilbert's pale cheeks are bright pink again like before. And he's pissed.
It's turn, touch, kiss. It's that damn fast. Romano doesn't even realize there's a hand on his back until after he sees the blush, and the kiss came before both and Gilbert's just scowling at him like it's his fucking fault for some reason. Well fuck him, Romano glares right back even as the fireworks crackle and pop down his spine.
It's a closed-mouth kiss, but as soon as Gilbert starts pulling back Romano's got him with a hand behind his head and forces him into another lip-lock. He'll get one good, long, satisfying kiss from this moment if it kills him, and he only opens his eyes once when he hears the blonde make a soft whine in his throat. Gilbert's not glaring anymore; his eyes are shut as his lips give against a warm lick and gentle push on his bottom lip.
Actually, all of him gives. Romano goes for more and instead of standing his ground Gilbert shuffles back, one arm tugging the Italian with him and the other out and flailing back looking for the table. He's not sure which one of them's responsible for Romano ending up between his legs, but when Gilbert's backside finds the table he's given the unbearable satisfaction of their hips colliding and the tight feelings below the belt grow into an agonizing heat.
Romano plants his hands on the table and Gilbert leans back on his own palms. The kiss broke when they stopped moving, but he can feel all that heat and weight pushing down on his hips. Gilbert just makes it worse by refusing to stop moving, grinding slowly like he can't help himself, eyes closed with Romano standing over top of him.
It all just makes his blood run hot. The panting, the grinding, the blush that doesn't go away when Romano gives in and kisses one of Gilbert's cheeks. And then they're kissing again, because he knows what that head-tilt means and he's too caught up in the moment to wonder how many hints and clues he's missed since Gilbert got here.
No one fires up like this unless a low burn's been going on for a while. Teases and risk-takers don't give up control without thinking. If Gilbert was playing him then he wouldn't look so punch-drunk when the kiss breaks so he can lift Romano's shirt up over his head. The fucker wanted him to wear it so badly and now there are pale hands running down his chest and sides.
Somehow he's not even mad as he leans down and slips his fingers through Gilbert's hair again, twisting just enough so he tilts his head and lets Romano get at the smooth warm skin along his neck. It's a stretch but he kisses up into the hairline behind the blonde's ear, Gilbert uttering breathless sounds that masquerade as something half composed. He doesn't gasp or whimper, it's more like he stutters senseless German while his fingertips roughly tease the Italian's nipples, and his palm travels eagerly along his back.
He likes this. He likes this a lot, and he likes it even more when he stops Gilbert from actually laying on the table so he can work his cotton shirt open and pull the blue fabric off his pale body. There, as the fabric whispers to the floor, now he can lay down, and Romano helps him shuffle his hips back and up properly onto the platform.
The contrast is so sharp between their skins, but even though his blush is gone Gilbert's flesh is so warm Romano can't stand it. He just stands there for a moment looking down at him, his hands on Gilbert's pale chest, and watches all the colours change when he tweaks one pink nipple and a healthy flush rolls over firm muscles covered by white skin. The backs of his arms and sides of his neck are blushed with gold as the burns from yesterday are long forgotten and transformed into a light tan. And the scars-
"Lovino?" He bends down and places his lips over one of them, a bullet wound under the left collar bone that's just a white circle now. He lets his thumb glide down between ribs and warm a long white line from what was probably left by a sword in some past century. "...You too, huh?"
"Yeah." Yeah, he wants this too. Gilbert takes his wrist and drags his hand up until his palm is cupping the Prussian's cheek and jaw, his lips searching for the centre of his palm as Romano curls his fingers so they can touch and stroke more of his face. Down on his chest Romano doesn't care about the scars anymore, he just wants to touch and kiss and taste, and Gilbert's calves hook around his legs clumsily to make him come closer.
He has no idea how they're going to do this on a table, but the prospect of trying is enough to make him grin stupidly against the patch of pale blonde in the centre of Gilbert's chest. There's barely enough room for Gilbert to move back without his head going off the other side of the table so if it's too difficult then they'll just find someplace else. But that doesn't mean they have to rush to the bedroom, and when he looks up because Gilbert's hands are pulling on his shoulders to coax him up, Romano won't deny him and places one knee up on the thin wood.
"So that cake this morning..."
"Hey, I know what you like." And Romano knows he's too damn sentimental, practically growling the words out as he leaves the floor behind with a small hop. He slides one hand over Gilbert's shoulder and then they both, tilt?
There's the scream of table legs across tile, two grown men shriek, and then with an explosive bang the word goes very, very dark.
And the moral of the story is: always have the author specify which part of the table you're making out on.
Stopping here makes for a funny segue into what really honestly ought to be the last chapter~