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The fire streams smoke, tendrils of it choking the small shed in which Romano sits near the back of. The light reflects into his eyes, almost hurting with how bright it is.
He reaches over, and tosses another stick into the hungry flames, letting them come up higher. Above them dangles in his hand, a cross.
It reflects dimmed yellow at him, glinting at odd directions. It’s hot from hanging for so many hours, just above the flames. Hot, but not melting.
It’s silver, bought in a time when silver was invaluable to the point of ridiculousness, carved with all the intricacy and delicacy the times could afford. It was also the most expensive thing Romano owned.
And here he was, in the back of some damned blacksmith’s shop, contemplating throwing it in the fire.
His arms ached from holding the cross for so long, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull it back down. His hand was sweaty and hot from clenching the sliver chain for so long, but he didn’t, couldn’t let it go.
Fucking Spain. He thought as he heard the fire crackle. Damned bastard. He thought, trying to ignore the way the thought of Spain made his heart pound, squeezing his eyes shut and setting his jaw.
It’s easy, Romano. He can hear in the various voices of so many priests he’s talked to in his life, all the advice he’d garnered from being unable to repent this, unable to repent despite his confessions.
You just have to choose Christ. They’d said, and in those moments it would be so clear. Put the cross back on, never take it off, never look at Spain like that again. Never think of him like Romano so often did, never stare up at the ceiling, fingers running over his cross, trying to keeps his thoughts and hands from wandering.
And in those moments, he would. In those moments, all his feelings for Spain seemed the height of ridiculousness. Feelings for another man- and fucking Spain of all people, goddamn if that wasn’t salt to the already centuries old wound.
In those moments, he’d forget that he could remember Spain’s smile from memory, map all his features in a heartbeat. He’d forget all the times he’d leaned closer when Spain was talking, even though he didn’t need to, just to see his eyes more clearly, smell that scent he always carried (grass, dirt, tomatoes, and something else that was entirely Spain’s- he called it sunshine, but it wasn’t really that. It was more like- he cuts himself off.)
He’d forget that he’d loved Spain for so long, the idea of going without that rush in his chest whenever the idiot walked in made his lips twist, his fingers curl, his chest constrict. He’d almost, just almost, forget the night he’d finally given into his heathenish desire and broken so many of his church’s rules, just for the thought of that, of Spain taking him, touching him.
The cross almost slipped, just missing the lick of the flames. He scrambled to pull it back up, fingers almost missing the chain.
He sighed with relief. He couldn’t imagine what he’d do without his cross, without his religion.
(He couldn’t imagine what he’d do without Spain either. )
Romano shoved the thought aside. He’d do fine without that bastard- he was his own country now. He was fine.
You just have to make the right choice, on priest- maybe five years ago- had said, and Romano had been clenching the bottom of the stiff wooden seat of the confession booth, teeth gritted in agony.
Because he hadn’t known which choice was right.
Drop it. A voice said, somewhere from the back of his mind that he tried to keep pressed in the back of his thoughts. What has religion done for you anyways, other than keep you from things you want?
He almost gasped at that, immediately berating himself for the thought. Blasphemy is a sin, he reminded himself, trying to keep his sore arm from shaking and dropping the cross into the fire.
So is swearing. So is thinking yourself better than those around you. So is loving another man.
You do it anyways.
His hand trembles.
“No.” He whispers, letting the chain dangle off his pointer finger.
“No.” he repeats, staring into the flames, wondering how fast it would take for them to properly devour silver, how hot they’d have to be, how his cross would look after being melted in a thousand degree heat-
“NO!” He almost yells, finally, after hours, standing up, legs aching from cramping below his makeshift seat, hand searing hot from its time next to the flames.
He snatches back the cross, cradles it to his chest. I’m sorry, he whispers a silent prayer to God, dropping to his knees, pulling the silver chain over his head and doing the symbol of the cross.
Wait. That’s his left hand. What the f-
He shakes himself, trying to block out the thoughts. Awful, blasphemous, a disgrace to the Lord-
He switches hands, exhaling as he finally, finally, does something right.
His prayers is quick, as fast as Signore, perdonami per i miei peccati, mi dispiace, mi dispiace, non li ripeterò.
The last part is a lie, he knows as he gets up to walk out of this crapsack shop, trying to push the creeping thought to the back of his mind. He barely knows where he is, he’s been here so long.
He leaves the fire, and wonders, will one final glance to its now dying flames, if this makes him a coward.
He closes his eyes, and sees nothing but a memory of Spain smiling at him, excitedly saying his name and pulling him close, Romano’s heart threatening to beat out of his chest, the way Spain’s fingers would just lightly trail down his back and how badly Romano would want to lean in, pull him down and finally, finally, kiss him.
And as he turns to leave, he thinks that yes, this makes him a coward.
Regardless of which way.