Work Text
05.49 - tom waits - i hope i don’t fall in love with you [ portmano ]
Now it's closing time, the music's fading outLast call for drinks, I'll have another stoutWell, I turn around to look at you, you're nowhere to be foundI search the place for your lost face, guess I'll have another roundAnd I think that I just fell in love with you
Amid the shuffling of a busy empire, they had once said: all roads lead to Rome. They had not explained what it meant; for a long time, Portugal had had to imagine that story himself. Until one day he didn’t have to imagine anymore; he could feel the profecy in the air, sticking to him like a film of magical dust. It came as no surprise when they gave in, doing what old men do best: stumbling into a bar and geting pissed drunk on a boring night. Evenings at Spain’s were boring, oftentimes lazy; he always did his housework in the evening, either that or he was tired slumping off somewhere. Mostly because there was nothing else to do and the heat was unbearable, unless Romano was at home. It had been one such lucky occasion when they had found themselves at Spain’s bored out of their minds on a perfectly still summer night; the wine served over dinner had been a pleasant foreboding for what would come later that evening, it had sugarcoated their senses, lulling them into a pleasant and relaxed disposition… And as the evening rolled around and they strolled like tired horses through the streets of Sevilla, their age finally caught up to them and they settled into the cool shadows of an old tavern.
Falling in love just makes me blue…
Glass by empty glass, the liquor eventually became too strong to handle; they fell, like flies, one after the other, tired, old and smelly, slumping against each other. The cinnamon sweetness clung to them, to their mouths glued together moments ago, now apart. The two of them, always alone, two perpetual single butterflies, with nothing to do but to flutter around each other, caught in plain honey; the bar had been the perfect place to get to know each other better. The sweet taste of the liquor clung to them, stubborn, as if forcing their mouths to speak sweeter words. The two of them, with memories longer than the road that stretched away behind them; that road that Portugal would look down on so many times just to catch a glimpse of times spent with him. The two of them with so much to talk about, the stories stretching as far as the roads themselves. The muscles like well-travelled roads, well-known maps on the palms of their hands, overcome by sweat and sweetness. The two of them, each of them a pile of stones piled on top of each other over the centuries, painful one by painful one, tumbling away by the force of spicy liquor and warm lust.