#spamanohetalia

[perhapstoma]

Hetalia emojis made by me ♥ I’ll make those into stickers and keychains =w= 

[lordofspamano]

Song of Songs, Song of Sorrows | An angsty spamano drabble

Notes:

Historical context that is not necessary but that might be interesting. The procession that Antonio and Lovino refer to is the Semana Santa (Holy week) processions that became popular in early 16th century Spain, as an exteriorization of the people's faith with the intention of combatting the rise of protestantism. The Song of Songs is an erotic text that is part of the bible in catholic canon, and many different thinkers have argued about its meaning. However, the relationship between mystic ecstasy and erotic feeling is one present throughout poetry, kabbalistic teachings, and other texts present in the Abrahamic branch of religions. When Antonio refers to Nuestra Señora, he means Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows, a representation of the Virgin Mary. Shaving and bathing was common among monks, particularly in the days previous to the Holy Week. In this text, both Antonio and Lovino are franciscans.

In the hall, barren of sanctity, the Spanish friar stood by the door; his tongue caressed his lips as the poetry of the Song of Songs unfolded, like a carpet full of relics at the feet of the neapolitan. “How beautiful you are, my friend. How beautiful! Your eyes are doves!” Lovino clenched his teeth, but did not turn to look at him. “Brother Antonio, I ask that you do not interrupt me…” he said, though his mind had swiftly flown away from prayer. “I am sorry, brother,” Antonio replied with a smile, approaching and sitting next to him. “But since the images of *Nuestra Señora* have been taken for the procession, I find myself in great trouble. I need to center my unquiet eyes in the thing of beauty so that my prayers may reach our Father. And you, my friend, are in which I find such beauty…” Lovino looked at him; his first instinct was to reply with the snap of an insult, yet he remained silent as his brow arched in confusion. Antonio continued. “The red in your face, your pomegranate cheeks, reminds me of the unbridled love that one must feel for our Lord.” Antonio extended his hand to reach him, but did not. “What is this, brother?” questioned Lovino, rising up from the bench. The Spanish’s face soured in sadness. He murmured an apology, shook his head, and rose to leave, but the neapolitan caught his arm. Their eyes linked for a moment.

The touch of the razor on his chin was colder than the embrace of the river, but Lovino stood still as Antonio shaved him; the cold was not which made him unquiet. The water reached up to their knees, and they had no clothes to hide their bodies. The warmth of the other man’s body, too close to his own, forced Lovino to shut his eyes in an attempt to keep unwanted thoughts at bay. He shivered when he felt Antonio’s breath too close to him, and came to his mind the passage when God exhaled life into the wild things many years ago. When he looked again, he saw Antonio’s eyes trembling with madness, as if those hazel lanterns licked his body from his legs to his crown. “You truly are the face of God, Lovino…” And the Spanish put his hand on his waist. Lovino’s body heaved, heaved with attraction; the sign of lust was visibly present not only in him, but also in the Spanish, and the rushing of the blood was followed by the breaking of the tears. “No! I have brought you into lust!” screamed Lovino, pushing Antonio back. “Do not look at me, for I have corrupted your soul. Do not adore me! I am but the son of filth!” He ran down the river, away from the Spanish. Antonio looked at him with his hands facing upwards, like carrying the body of a tortured passion. His soul bled through his eyes.

A penitent joined the procession not much later, tearing and biting at his skin with a black bullwhip, covering his shame with the mix of blood and sweat.

“The Lord has rejected his altar, spurned his sanctuary; He has handed over to the enemy the walls of its strongholds. They shout in the house of the Lord as on a feast day.”

Thus was read from the book of Lamentations. The man cried, and the cell, cold and solitary, was barren of sanctity.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! If you liked this drabble, perhaps you will enjoy my other Spamano story, Perchance to Dream. https://archiveofourown.org/works/51143776

[lordofspamano]

Hi! I’m working on a Spamano Adventure/Romance fic! It’s set on a fictional world reminiscent of medieval spain, with a complex plot and a lot of action.  It’s novel-length and I’m probably making it a book series!