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phyripo · 4 years

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33 with EstLiet? 👀

33. “You’re cute with glasses.”

Yeee! I’m so sorry that this took an actual century! What happened is: I wrote three separate stories for this prompt pretty quickly, didn’t like two of them and accidentally turned the third into a different pairing (but I did like it so I will post it in the near future), got discouraged, read the entirety of Return of the King in procrastination, and then I wrote this high fantasy... Thing. Honestly, I’m still not sure I’m satisfied and it’s very Out There considering the prompt but yeaH,, I hope you like it anyway :V

uhh so names are pretty straightforward but y’know, Tolys is Liet, Eduard is Est, Raivis is Lat, Erzsébet is Hun and Nadzeya is Bela c:

Finally, they have arrived in the southern Elven kingdom, and Tolys’s Elvish traveling companions have been whisked away by their kin immediately, expectedly. This has left him with only Raivis, who is sitting on a high table and looking around in wonder at the Elven building. His small legs swing out as he leans back on his hands.

“I knew we were traveling with an Elven Queen,” he says, “but this is all so incredible!”

Tolys nods. He could never have predicted that his search for his family’s long-lost heirlooms might lead him to find company in not only Raivis, who is most likely the first of his kind to travel so far south, but also in a party of three northern Elves seeking to join their kin in the newly reclaimed southern kingdom. Let alone could he have foreseen, of course, that one of them would actually be the Queen-in-exile.

“Everyone will be so jealous back home,” Raivis is now saying, as he inspects the fine, light clothes the Elves have gifted them. Although the lands remain yet war-torn, the Elves of the south have been more than generous to the Halfling and the Man. Tolys wagers that Erzsébet has been exaggerating their involvement in overcoming the obstacles on the way here. She acted as the Queen’s guard and became fond of Raivis in particular, having hardly met his kind before.

It's also difficult not to be fond of Raivis in general, Tolys thinks.

As approachable as Erzsébet was, with none of the expected Eleven superiority or contempt, so closed off and cool were Queen Nadzeya and the Elven clerk, Eduard. At least, when first they met. Both of them looked like northern Elves, tall and pale with hair of starlight and eyes like the lakes in their kingdom, and Tolys had been starstruck by their otherworldliness, thinking at first that Eduard must be a prince himself. However, he was merely a scribe, traveling along to record the Queen’s journey south, and he was, in fact, Erzsébet’s cousin.

“Do you think we’re allowed to leave?” Raivis asks, jumping the considerable height off the table so that his bare feet thud on the wooden floor. The buildings here have been rigged up by some ingenious engineering, or perhaps magic, between the jagged mountains and the unnaturally tall trees.

Many of the trees were felled over the past centuries, since the Elves were driven away far before Tolys was born, and more yet torn down in the battle to reclaim the land. It hadn’t been difficult to feel his companions’ sorrow as they entered their kingdom. Erzsébet had appeared particularly upset at the jagged wood, and Eduard had sung softly to the earth itself. New sprouts were already coming up.

Tolys imagines Raivis wants to take a look at the young trees himself—Halflings, that much he has learned, have a fondness for all growing things.

“We weren’t told to stay here, were we?”

Raivis shrugs, standing on his tiptoes to peer out of the window. His blond curls barely reach the edge. He gasps.

“Tolys, Nadzeya is coming over here!”

Raivis never quite warmed up to the Queen, which, in all honesty, Tolys doesn’t blame him for. She is so intimidatingly beautiful that it’s difficult to see past. It took him many weeks, and he attributes it to his upbringing more than anything.

Now, he stands and opens the door at her knock.

Unsure what the proper Elven greeting for a monarch is, he bows.

“Welcome, Your Majesty.”

Raivis follows his example, albeit with a stutter and clasping his hands together in what must be the way of the Halflings.

Nadzeya blinks, silent. Her eyelids are painted dark as ever—apparently a sign of mourning in the north, for family she lost in the battle for the south. Erzsébet had marked her body with intricate ink patterns in the southern way. Eduard had cut his hair short. He had, he told Tolys, lost his younger brother in the fight led by the southern Prince.

It’s still difficult to believe that he is related to Erzsébet. They look so little alike.

All of a sudden, Nadzeya laughs, just for a second as if startled into it. It definitely startles Tolys and Raivis in turn.

“Your—” Tolys starts. She shakes her head sharply.

“Oh, please, I’ve had enough of that for a few centuries. Eduard is looking for you, I think you’ll find he has important news.” She rolls her eyes. “The idiot.”

Tolys bristles a little on Eduard’s behalf, and Nadzeya snorts in the most un-royal manner. She isn’t wearing any kind of crown now, not even the silver circlet she wore to travel. Her hair is, in fact, completely unbound. He knows that is unusual for Elves. Maybe, it’s part of some sort of ceremony or ritual.

“Where can I find Eduard…” He bites his lip. It feels strange not to add an honorific. “My Lady?”

“You know what, even that’s too much.” Nadzeya’s expression is unreadable, as usual. “As for Eduard; he is, of course, in the library. We have some extensive genealogies preserved of important families of Men.”

“Ah,” Tolys breathes, now recognizing the amused spark in her eyes. “Yes, of course. Where…”

Gesturing, Nadzeya says, “That way, the building says library. I know you read Elvish.”

“Shall I come?” Raivis asks nervously, glancing up at the Queen. Tolys shakes his head.

“I’ll return shortly.”

As he leaves, he hears Nadzeya say something dry to the Halfling, and hopes he will be all right.

It seems odd for the Queen to be out like this, but then again, what does he really know about Elvish traditions? Let alone courtly ones? Perhaps, this is just how it goes around here.

It is a short walk to the library, and he meets no one on his way there. More Elves are expected to arrive over the coming year, to help restore the kingdom and make it the thriving realm it once was, but as of yet, very few are here.

Eduard is easy to spot. The Elf sits by a window, pale hair shimmering in the golden sunlight. He’s shielding a scroll from the sun, long fingers skimming over the parchment. With his other hand, he adjusts—

“I have never seen an Elf wear eyeglasses before,” Tolys finds himself saying.

Eduard starts, looking up at him through the round spectacles, pinched on his nose with golden a golden frame.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

At that, he smiles and shakes his head. He carefully rolls the scroll and slides it back into its casing.

“I don’t mind at all.” He adjusts the frames, smiling faintly. “It’s good to have them back. My handwriting is much better when I can see what I’m writing.”

Tolys takes a seat at the high desk across from his Elven friend, glancing down at the scroll’s tube. He bites down on a wry smile.

“That’s good. They look nice. You’re—you’re cute with glasses.”

“That…” Eduard is stunned silent, which is endearing, and obviously not thinking about the scroll at all, which is good. “Cute?”

“Hm.” Tolys bites his lip and leans his chin in his hand. “Like a young Halfling would be, I imagine.”

“I’ve never—do you know how old I am?”

Interested, Tolys leans forward. He actually does not know. It was enough to understand that he was the youngest in their little company. Raivis, despite appearances, is almost forty years old, a few years older than Tolys. Halflings age slowly. Elves, of course, hardly age at all.

“Two thousand two hundred and twenty-two years old, and you call me cute.” He sounds more amused than indignant. It’s quite a pleasant sound.

“That’s a nice number,” Tolys says absently, much more interested in the sparkle that has entered Eduard’s light eyes than the glasses itself.

“I suppose it is.” He glances away. Sighs, and laces his long, elegant fingers together in front of his chest. “I was injured during the first battle. It damaged my sight.”

“I apologize.”

“No need. Most Elves use charms to see when such injuries occur, but we passed through a human kingdom on the way north, where I was introduced to eyeglasses like these. I find that they’re much less straining.”

Tolys know the story of the Elven refugees well.

“The kingdom of Vilnius,” he whispers. He cannot help but look at the scroll again, the familiar crest on the case. If his father had known the Elves kept all those histories here, protected for centuries…

“Indeed.”

They study each other for a long while. Tolys knows he doesn’t look like much to an Elf, even after being given the opportunity to bathe in a natural hotspring and festooned with an outfit far too fine for the likes of him. He isn’t terribly tall, and his brown hair is always a mess, curling when he doesn’t want it to and getting in his face despite his best efforts. Eduard is… Well, he’s an Elf. While they were on the road, it was easy to imagine that they were friends, and perhaps they are, still. But Tolys has no illusions that it will be the same. That he will ever get the chance to address the profound trust he has in Eduard, the appreciation for his almost Mannish groundedness but Elven whims at the same time.

Especially not when Eduard, who’s possibly the smartest being Tolys has ever met, clearly know that Tolys has lied to him, if just by omission.

“I met Queen Saulė, as we fled north,” Eduard eventually says, voice soft. “They said she had eyes like the plains of her kingdom, but they reminded me of the forest I left behind.”

Tolys lowers his own eyes. He studies the elegant woodgrain of this desk, that had stood here for all that time. It must have been protected somehow, and it wouldn’t surprise him if Eduard himself had placed the guarding charms.

“I know you looked familiar.”

With a sigh, he meets Eduard’s eye.

“I am the first in a long time, my father has told me, to have her eyes.” He tucks his hair away. “He saw it as a sign, especially after the Elves went south. It’s an age for reclaiming, he said.”

“Maybe, he was right,” Eduard says, looking thoughtful. “When Vilnius fell and your people were exiled like mine, the north came to their aid. We weren’t many and couldn’t fight for the realm, but we have since preserved the symbols of Queen Saulė’s power. Your family’s power.”

“What?” Tolys blurts. In his shock, he nearly topples of his stool, and Eduard grasps his arm, fingers cool through his fine green tunic. He smiles.

“That is what your father wants you to find, isn’t it?”

Tolys nods, wide-eyed.

“My people will bring the Sunstaff south. You may take it, and we would send Elves with you to take Vilnius, if you wish.”

“That—no—but.” Tolys takes a very deep breath. “I’ve lied to you. I lied to the Queen. Will Nadzeya even—”

Eduard ducks his head, clearing his throat. The pointed tips of his ears flush.

“I lied,” Tolys repeats faintly. Raivis knew, because just wanted to help, but…

“Yes, you did, but it’s no matter.” Again, Eduard clears his throat, and he finally removes his hand from Tolys’s arm to adjust his eyeglasses. “Not when your lie was no greater than any of ours.”

“What do you mean?”

He keeps fiddling with his glasses. The gesture is endearing, strangely.

“I hope… I hope you can forgive us—me. It would be a terrible loss to lose your…” He meets Tolys’s gaze, his eyes like sea-glass, strong yet brittle and colored like a quiet tide. “Companionship.”

“Nadzeya isn’t the Queen, is she?”

“Nadzeya is a northern noble. Her brother and sister followed my brother as he rode out.”

“Your brother.”

“I tried to stop him, but he was so young, barely an adult when we left the south. I always knew he would be the one to lead the quest, and I think I always knew I would lose him for it.”

“Your brother led the Elves?” Tolys feels quite heavy as the understanding of what this means dawns on him. “Your brother was the Prince-in-exile.”

“He was.” He sighs. “And a stubborn fool, too.”

“But that means you…” He bites his lip. “Erzsébet is the Queen.”

“Indeed. We decided to travel incognito.”

There had been some skirmishes on the road, nasty traveling beasts and Men who always went for Nadzeya on her horse, attracted to her gown and jewels even if they weren’t aware she was the supposed Queen. Tolys had thought it seemed inadvisable to travel with such a small party, at least at first. Erzsébet, who not only had mourning inks but also warrior’s lines and scars across her body, could probably have fought all the enemies off by herself, especially because they never paid attention to her, but Tolys was glad to help, and Nadzeya defended herself admirably with an innate magic that hurt Tolys’s eyes and head whenever he tried to look at the crackling darkness.

More than before, he feels for Nadzeya, because her position in this was one where she could be killed, and she had evidently taken that risk willingly.

Eduard wasn’t much of a fighter, but he held his own, and so did Raivis, much to the Elves’ surprise. Tolys already knew Halflings were a hardy folk.

“But… Why put any of you in danger like that?” he asks. “Why not travel with the larger caravan, or pretend none of you were royalty?”

Eduard smiles wryly, pushing his short hair away from his handsome face.

“It was known the Queen would travel south—rumors have wings—and the larger caravan will also have an Elf pretend to be her. It was mainly Erzsébet’s idea to go swiftly, before the enemies gather larger groups.” He sighs. “I am sorry I couldn’t tell you. I don’t wish to lose your trust.”

Tolys reaches across the desk, although he refrains from touching the Elven clerk.

“You haven’t.”

And, really, it is easy to see how this was the best decision given the circumstances, similar to how he hid the nature of his own quest from the Elves. Eduard looks at his hand, the rough fingers so different to his own slender ones. With a curious frown, he touches them quickly.

“Then, I thank you, Tolys of Vilnius.”

“Thank you,” he breathes in return, gaze flicking to the scroll again.

“I would be honored to come with you, of course,” Eduard continues, adjusting his glasses again. “If you would have me.”

Tolys wasn’t lying, earlier. He looks younger with the spectacles. A little less ethereal, more like someone warm and trustworthy, as he truly is.

“I would be honored to share it with you, Eduard.” He curls his fingers, grazing Eduard’s warm palm.

For a while, they are both silent, gently touching across the desk. Eduard is smiling absently, those light eyes shimmering in the sunlight as it dims ever so slightly. Tolys cannot wait to show him his home; even though it will be next to nothing compared to this place, even in disrepair as the kingdom is, he will be proud to share it with the Elf.

“Oh!” Eduard says. “I had nearly forgotten. I promised Erzsébet to take you and Raivis to her. She would like to extend the official friendship of the Elves to both of your people.”

“I left Raivis with Nadzeya.” He blinks. “So she isn’t royalty at all?”

An amused little smirk crosses Eduard’s lips, and Tolys breathes out slowly, curling his fingers a little more.

“What is it?”

“If Erzsébet has any say in it, she will be.” Suddenly, he frowns, peering over his glasses. “You left Raivis with Nadzeya?”

“I’m certain he’ll be fine. He’s tough.”

Eduard looks dubious, but he stands and gestures for Tolys to follow him to the grand door of the library. It has turned dusky, and the light filters through leaves to tinge his pale hair gold and his eyes almost translucent as he stands in the arch of the doorway. There, he turns to Tolys, bowing a little to bring their faces level.

“Thank you,” he says, voice soft and Elven accent giving the words a musical lilt.

“For what?”

“Being here.” He touches Tolys’s upper arm, letting his long fingers linger. “Letting me know you.”

“Of course.”

The fingers slowly trail up to his shoulder, sliding across the smooth green fabric until the tips touch his clavicle. Tolys reaches his own hand up and covers Eduard’s with it. The Elf rests their foreheads together for a moment that feels like a promise.

Just then, they both hear Erzsébet’s distinctive laugh, echoing merrily over the carved walkways. Both of them straighten to see her coming their way, her face bright and an intricate crown of golden leaves resting on her dark hair.

“My friends!” she says, and is hauling Tolys into a hug before he can even greet her, let alone think of bowing. “I’m so glad to see our secret has not put a strain on your friendship.”

There is an emphasis on friendship that Tolys doesn’t imagine for a second is the product of her accent.

“It couldn’t have, when my own secrets are similar, Your…”

“Just call me Erzsébet. Eduard was right, then? We will be equals before long.” She smiles. “And I’m certain my cousin will be glad to help you, should you so desire.”

“Erzsébet,” Eduard says, sounding long-suffering and not at all like a Crown Prince, which he is and Tolys will be soon enough. His cheeks are getting red. Tolys didn’t know Elves blushed, but finds that he would like to see it more often. It is mesmerizing.

“There you are,” come Nadzeya’s dry tones from the direction of Tolys’s temporary home. He hears the distinctive tread of Raivis’s bare feet approaching behind her nearly inaudible footsteps, and when they come into view, the Halfling bow slightly towards Erzsébet.

“Your Majesty.”

“I tried to tell him Erzsébet would be fine,” Nadzeya informs the Queen, and Erzsébet laughs again.

“Come, we have much to talk about. Much to plan.” She gestures all of them along. Eduard touches Tolys’s wrist. Raivis catches his gaze, quirks his eyebrows and grins.

Tolys smiles back and runs his fingers along the back of Eduard’s hand. It appears the journey was worth it.

#scarlettlillies #quaestiones #estliet #Phyripo writes things #whatever this is #Hetalia #aph estonia #aph lithuania

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romaniassexdungeon · 6 years

Photo

Credit to @phyripo for the header image.

Oh look, I’ve finally finished another fic inspired by a Pogues song! This time it’s NedRo, based on ‘Haunting’ and the tone is rather… different compared to my other fics. Whilst most stories in the series are rather angst-filled (though there are happier ones scattered in there to mix things up) this one’s… well, I don’t want to say funny, more stupid and terrible. And most of it’s in verse. Because I hate myself. This took months to write and I’m so glad that it’s finally finished and I get to share this monstrosity with everyone.

I’m sorry.

Also Ned's name in this is Siemen. Blame Phyripo. Also thanks to her, @peteradnan and @tikola-nesla for reading extracts of this terrible thing and letting me ramble.

It’s probably better to read it on AO3

Siemen – Netherlands

Isabel – Belgium

Luca – Luxembourg

Alin - Romania

“Sit down on that stool hear the cant of a fool,

And a strange tale I'll impart to ye…”

“Opa, will you tell me a bedtime story?”

A big fat ‘no’ wasn’t going to be an acceptable answer here, was it?

The last thing Siemen wanted to do was read anyone a bedtime story, but two pairs of bright green eyes were staring right back at him in the gloom of their shared room and he knew he could spend an hour arguing with a pair of screaming children, or he could just tell them a damn story. At least this way, he could be downstairs with a glass of wine in ten minutes.

Isabel and Luca’s room was a mess of toys and clothes and Siemen wasn’t sure he’d ever seen two people with so many possessions. When he was a child, he had a few toys and books and a little bike. That was all. How did they even have time to play with all these toys? Especially since he’d never seen Luca play with anything except an iPad and that one plastic cash register.

Okay, maybe he was a little proud of Luca for that one. Especially when the kid short-changed a teddy bear for being rude to him.

He stared down at his grandchildren in despair. They… really wanted a story, didn’t they? Was there not something they could watch instead?

No, a story was always the best thing to send a child to sleep with. That was what his daughter insisted when she caught him letting the children watch Watership Down until they fell asleep (the TV show, not the film – he wasn’t a monster).

“Okay,” he said, voice cracking, “what book do you want?”

“Can’t you tell us a story from when you were young?” asked Isabel. “You’re so old! You must have interesting stories, right?”

It was illegal to dropkick a small child out the window, right?

“What did you do when you were little?” asked Luca.

“Respected my elders.” A fat lie but oh well. It was a lie his family told him to get him to behave. It didn’t work but they could sleep easily.

“Did you have TV?”

“Yes but only a few channels,” he sighed, “and it was small and grainy.” And if anyone knocked the aerial then the image was fucked and he’d miss the end of Floris in the time it took to fix it.

“So what did you do when you weren’t watching TV?” asked Isabel.

“Rode my bike.” He smiled, remembering the long summer days wasted cycling by the beach in the sun, maybe taking a picnic with him and spending hours just looking at the sea.

If he was being honest, he had to ride his bike everywhere, because he grew up in the countryside and everything was stupidly far away.

It was how he discovered-

That’s it!

“What about a story a friend of mine wrote?” he offered. Anything to stop them asking questions about his personal life. Even his wife – God rest her soul – could only recall approximately 5 facts about his life. And that was before the dementia set in.

The kids perked up.

“Well, he wrote poems,” Siemen clarified, “but story poems.”

Luca’s face lit up. “Ooh, like Dr Seuss?”

No, nothing like Dr Seuss. “Oh, sure. Like that.”

Leaving an excited pair of grandkids to their chatter, Siemen hauled himself up to shuffle into his room. He always tried to keep everything as organised as possible, a habit that now served him well in his old age. For example, he knew – under his bed – was a battered old suitcase where he kept old mementos regarding a certain someone.

There were two books in the suitcase, one a heavy scrapbook containing preserved leaves and twigs, the other was a notebook on the verge of falling apart.

The unpublished poems of Alin Radacanu, his final volume.

Hand written by Siemen Morgens, upon the poet’s insistence.

Most of these could only be described as ‘sexually menacing’ and certainly not appropriate for adult human beings, let alone children. There was one though…

When he hobbled back to the bedroom, Luca had climbed on the bunk bed to fight Isabel. Again. It was almost perfect, like Alin had planned to have his poem read aloud – for the first time – to a pair of fighting kids.

He snarled and began with a growl.

“Sit down ya wee bastard,

I’ve a tale of disaster,

And romance all to tell ye,

About a young man,

His name was Siemen,

And a strangely attractive ol’ tree.”

The kids jumped, Luca falling off the ladder and Isabel looking at him in utter confusion.

“Dr Seuss never swore in his books.”

He would if he ever met Alin. “I said it was like Dr Seuss, but not entirely. Now, if you promise to not tell your mother about the bad words, I would like to continue, please.”

The kids nodded, eyes sparkling at the thought of hearing ‘bad words’ with cool Opa Siemen. And keeping a secret from mum.

“One night, a cold night,

A night full of fright,

He set off on his little old bike,

Off to a party,

His attire classy,

As the rain it speared like a pike.

If a journey could kill,

Oh, this man hated hills,

He much preferred land to be flat,

He was a Dutchman,

So hills he would ban,

If he had the power to do that.”

“Why don’t you just get a taxi?” asked Isabel.

“It was the 1960s and I lived in the countryside. We didn’t have taxis like those fancy fuckers in Amsterdam. Also I was poor.”

Luca laughed at him.

“You shut your bitch mouth.”

“The rain was too much,

The trip dangerous, as such,

And the hill a steep torrent of mud,

So this man turned around,

For shelter was bound,

Before he got knee-deep in sludge.

At the foot of the hill,

Trapped in a chill,

Our hero sat, sulks by a tree,

But lo and behold,

Gnarly and bold,

This tree was in fact me.

Now a prankster I am,

And I can’t spare a damn,

So as slick and as sly as an oyst-

-er, I bent down to his ear,

And in words loud and clear,

I simply said to him: moist."

“Your friend isn’t very good,” Luca commented.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Well, no.”

“Then shut up.”

“He was up like a cat,

Or poker to the back,

And let out a terrible shriek,

His face deathly white,

Oh, what a horrible fright!

Simply too fearful to speak.

When nobody was seen,

Except for this tree,

This young man decided to run,

Away from ground haunted,

By ghosts he was taunted,

I, the living tree, he did shun.”

“Your friend… is a tree?” Isabel raised an eyebrow.

“Yes.”

“Mum was right; you’re a senile old bastard.”

“I swear to you it’s tr- I’m a what?”

Isabel shrugged. “Her words, not mine.”

Siemen glared at her for a long moment. “Can I continue?”

They nodded.

“Good.”

“Back on his bike,

Almost flew into a dyke,

In his haste to get away from me,

Shaken and shook,

Without a backwards look,

At me, the twisted old tree.

For weeks, I, alone,

Just stood and bemoaned,

The loss of a potential new friend,

I want him back now,

My soul he will plow,

Will my loneliness ever just end?

Then one silent night,

A strange speck of light,

This man had come back to me,

Though he was scared,

My power he feared,

A new friendship, could this possibly be?”

Luca raised an eyebrow. “You went back to the scary old tree?”

Siemen shrugged. There was a time where he’d been less sensible, almost reckless. And maybe he just wanted to prove to himself that ghosts weren’t real because, dammit Siemen, you weren’t raised to be such a gullible fool.

“If you had found out ghosts were real, would you not want to find out more?”

“Ghosts aren’t real, though.”

“Well, you are wrong. Very wrong. Wrong and stupid.”

Luca began to cry. Because that is what happens when you call a seven-year-old stupid, Siemen.

“Wait, no, I didn’t mean it!” he hissed, “please don’t tell your mother.”

“Give me €20.”

“Absolutely the fuck not.”

Luca cried harder.

The little fu- “Fine! Here!” He – incredibly reluctantly – opened his wallet and fished out a twenty.

He already knew that smug smile on Isabel’s face meant bad news.

“You’ll have to pay me to not snitch too,” she said slyly. Why did his daughter have to go and have 2 kids?

With a growl, he handed over another twenty. “Can I continue my story now?”

“Sure thing, Opa!”

“He kealt at my root,

His glare was acute,

And demanded to know what I was,

Malevolent spirit,

A vision too vivid,

Or was he a cruel laughter’s cause.

I spoke to him gentle,

A voice thin and fragmental,

I begged him to hear my sad tale,

I meant him no harm,

No need for alarm,

I am but a man, cursed and frail,

Though his eyes showed his fear,

Siemen’s ‘yes’ was sincere,

He wanted to know tragedy,

This blight called my life,

My well-deserved strife,

The price of noxious vanity,

Alin the annoying,

A poet so trying,

A genius hated by all,

Though his rhyme was sublime,

And looks so divine,

He was regarded as quite the arsehole.

He made a bet with the devil,

Their power was level,

And he simply won’t ever die,

He put a gun to his head,

And in one shot was dead,

In blood did that idiot lie."

“This moron killed himself to prove he was immortal?” exclaimed Isabel.

“Well how else do you prove it?”

Isabel thought for a moment, then scowled when she couldn’t come up with a reply. Ha! That’s what Siemen thought!

"The devil punished this poet,

Eternal life? He’d bestow it,

Let this man live his mistakes,

Trapped in a tree,

Trickle of time oversee,

Alone in a silent heartache.

Well now I have Siemen,

Promised to be my friend,

He’d come back to visit again,

And the next day he came,

My heart was aflame,

This feeling spread like a bloodstain."

“Eugh,” Luca pulled a face. “A tree fell in love with you?”

“A tree that used to be a man, mind you.”

“It’s still weird. I mean, you couldn’t fall in love with a tree back, right?”

Siemen fell silent. His grandchildren looked at him in horror.

“Well it’s more about personality, you see.”

“And what kind of personality did Alin have?” asked Isabel.

“A horrible one.” They both raised their eyebrows. “Not really. Well, he was very strange, but I couldn’t help liking him. He was funny, and witty. And, well, I don’t know.” He could feel a blush creeping onto his face, and wanted to punch every single one of his blood vessels. “I just found him charming.”

Luca stared at him for a good minute. “Wait, are you saying this actually happened?”

“Of course.”

“You’re senile.”

“Sinterklaas isn’t real.”

Five minutes of crying, and a €30 bribe later, Siemen turned back to Alin’s poem.

“Our friendship, it grew,

To the town’s harsh ado,

Their tongues, like me, were thorny,

Though we broke the taboo,

Our hearts painted rouge,

The truth was he made me so-“

Sieman stopped. Why, Alin? “Oh no, that’s a bit too rude.” As were the next few verses, it seemed. And this was supposed to be one of the cleaner poems.

“We sat in the sun and he told me poems,” he explained, in the hopes of distracting his grandchildren from the prospect of something with a rude word in it, because holy fuck did children love rude words and he couldn’t have them asking their mother what ‘horny’ meant. “We talked about our lives and grew closer. He had a lot of interesting stories, though I’m not sure just how many were actually true.”

He desperately scanned the poem for something that was’t complete and utter filth, vaguely remembering just how disgusted he felt hearing it from Alin’s voice all those years ago.

Ah! Here we go!

“Our cruel reputation,

Across this flat nation,

The madman who French-kissed a tree,

I go naked in winter,

His lip has a splinter!

And his step-child a family of bees!”

Well, it was cleaner than the last seven verses. Isabel still looked disgusted though. He couldn’t blame her. It took him a week to get that splinter out. And that was just the one he got on his lip.

“Our time was a blast,

But it could never last,

He was a human and I just a tree,

I had stood here for years,

Cried cold, lonely tears,

What I wanted was my soul’s release.

What I ask of you dear,

I make this quite clear,

To go set me free at last,

Take your little axe,

Plunge it into my back,

And chop me up quite fast.

I know you will miss me,

With ice where you kissed me,

But the only way to break my cruel curse,

Is to chop me down,

My spirit set down,

Your axe shall be my own nurse.

I’m ready to die,

My soul has run dry,

And my bark has grown dark and inky,

So cut down this tree,

And let me be free,

In fact, I’ll find it quite- God fucking dammit Alin!”

“He’ll find it quite what?” asked Isabel.

“…Stinky?”

“That’s not the word! We’re not idiots!”

Siemen had had quite enough at this point. “It is the word now shut up and go to sleep!” And he left the kids to their protesting, turning off the light and creaking downstairs to find that wine bottle. After locking up the unpublished poems of Alin Radacanu somewhere innocent eyes couldn't find them, of course.

#nedro #aph netherlands #aph romania #APH Belgium #aph luxembourg #hetalia #Hetalia Fanfiction #pogueverse

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italiancherrybombs · 7 years

Text

FicGenExchange

Belarus & Estonia as neighbors/coworkers + Supernatural AU (the TV show or just supernatural in general, whichever you prefer)

Recipient: @phyripo

Characters: Belarus, Estonia, Finland (mentioned), Ghost (interpret him as whatever character you want)

Notes: I’m so heckin proud of this. I’ve always wanted a chance to practice characterizations with the Easter Europe countries, and I finally got it. I hope you all enjoy it!

A ghost haunted the NewFont Press.

Or, just the building at least.

It started when bags of coffee and packed lunches started disappearing from the cafeteria. Then, the printer started printing items all by itself, usually pages completely blacked-out by ink, until a printing error (and someone’s collection of pens stuffed into the feed) made it useless altogether. The lights’ flickering used to be a normal thing – they couldn’t afford better lighting – until there were blackouts almost every week.

Eduard couldn’t believe it.

Sure, the inconsistent coffee in the cafeteria irritated him, and the way his computer monitor would be covered with colorful post-it notes with looping scribbles overnight was a pain to remove, but he couldn’t quite believe that something supernatural haunted the various cubicles and offices. And, despite the fact that he did a personal blog of his own, he wasn’t a journalist. He was just some random IT guy, there to make sure that the NewFont website didn’t collapse on itself. He didn’t have that mystical passion to investigate the living daylights out of a subject like a few higher-up journalists employed there.

He didn’t want to believe it.

So, perhaps sitting with Natalya Arlovskaya during lunch that particular Friday afternoon was a big mistake on his (belief’s) part.

Normally, he didn’t eat at the cafeteria. His cubicle was a perfectly good enough eating space, or if he wanted to splurge a little he went down to his cousin Tuomi’s place. But, after multiple conversations with peers outside of work concerning his introverted nature (and maybe a bet on whether he can make friends or not), he mustered up the courage to finally bring his homemade lunch there. No, he was not trying to prove a point. He was simply… Trying new venues.

… Even if he didn’t want to.

Nevertheless, the only reason he decided sitting with Natalya was a good idea was that she was sitting by herself in her small, circular table. Eduard himself knew the loneliness of sitting alone at a table. So, after some inner debate (did it have to be her, isn’t anyone else better), he unpacked his small lunch box then and there.

He didn’t know much about the journalist. All Eduard heard about Natalya was that she wrote about the local crime in the city as one of the few investigative journalists on the Press. The gossip said that she had familial troubles at home, which was why she came early and worked late. A more toxic rumor speculated that she had an intimate relationship with her half-brother, but no one wanted to know for sure. For all he knew, Natalya was just like him: shy, lonesome, and lacking in social grace.

That wasn’t quite the case with Natalya Arlovskaya.

Six minutes into the lunch break, the lights blinked out. A few employees looked up at the ceiling concerned, but otherwise, no one made a fuss.

Unconcerned with the lights, Natalya checked her watch. She then took out a little notepad and a pen, and she wrote something down.

Curious, Eduard asked, “What’s that for?”

She stopped writing, violet eyes flicking up.

“… You mean this?” She asked, waving the notepad a little. She didn’t respond to Eduard’s nod at first, but after a moment she wrote something else down and spoke again. “I’m marking times.”

“Times?”

“When the lights go out.” Natalya checked her watch. “I don’t think I caught your name, mister…?”

“von Bock, ma'am. Eduard von Bock.” Ed took another bite of lunch. “What’s it for?”

“The ghost.”

Eduard almost choked on his food. He suppressed his coughs until he could breathe properly, all while Natalya looked on. Did he hear her right? “I’m sorry, what?”

Natalya narrowed her eyes at him. “If you think I’m crazy, you don’t have to sit by me. I never asked you to.”

“No, no!” He couldn’t lose this! “No, I’m just… Curious, you know? Why you think the lights going out has to do with ghosts.”

Natalya dubiously stared at Eduard for a little longer (he swore he felt chills from those cold, blue eyes) before sighing. “It’s just one ghost, von Bock. They seem to cause electrical problems wherever they go, with enough tangibility to hold onto items. Thus, the missing coffee.”

“… Why would it steal coffee?” Eduard asked, unsure.

“The same reason we drink it: they like the taste.” She closed her notebook and put it away. “I doubt it means any maliciousness, or else it would’ve killed someone already.”

… What?

“That… That sounds great,” Eduard coughed awkwardly. Maybe it wasn’t too late to switch seats. “What are you planning to do about it.”

Natalya nodded. “I plan to catch the ghost.”

… Wait. “Catch?” Eduard repeated, eyes wide. She wasn’t serious, was she? How could she catch something that didn’t exist?

“Of course. Tonight, perhaps.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “I don’t like working with a faulty computer and without coffee.”

The lights soon blinked on.

“If you’d like, you could join me,” Natalya offered. “I wouldn’t mind the help.”

One small problem Eduard had was the fact he worked a little too hard. As in, he worked longer than he was supposed to. A combination of tunes, pressing deadlines, and a lack of need to go home usually made him work for hours on end after lunch. Maybe the sticker on top of the clock on his desktop was also at fault (it wasn’t his fault he liked to watch the time until lunch), but that wasn’t the case right now.

He only thought about leaving when the automatic lights turned off.

Startled from his work, he checked the time on his phone. “Five forty?” He whispered to himself. Forty minutes of unpaid work. For the second time this week, he cursed himself for not having any friends; if he had some, he would’ve had some incentive to get out of work or have someone to remind him to go home. Sighing, he saved his work on the computer and closed it down.

He walked with his bag down semi-dark hallways. It wasn’t too dark since the building had lots of windows for evening sunlight to stream in. Eduard took a flight downstairs and almost entered the lobby–

– just to see an eery light mutely shining from a room.

Now that got Eduard’s curiosity piqued. This section of the building, opposite of the entrances, was one of the darkest places of the office with no artificial light. And even if the overhead lights were on, the spooky blue light would’ve probably overshone everything else. Eduard’s conversation with Natalya about ghosts came to his mind, but he shook it away. No, it couldn’t be a ghost.

… Or could it?

In any case, it could’ve been something else. Like a burglar. No doubt there was someone out there who wanted to infiltrate the building to find more inside scoops. If anyone was there, he could just call emergency services. It was his duty, as an employee of NewFont Press, to protect the building where he worked.

With that excuse bolstering his courage, he approached the room.

He was about to peek into the room when an unholy screech made him jump.

“Let me GO, witch!” An unfamiliar voice shrieked. “You cannot hold me forever!”

“I’m inclined to disagree,” a surprisingly familiar voice replied in a cool monotone. “I will keep you captive for as long as it takes–”

“… What in the world?”

Eduard clamped his hands over his mouth just as he said the words. It was too late, however; both persons in the room heard him.

If Eduard could remember correctly, this room held one of the many copying machines in the office building. However, the room was not being used for its intended purpose; instead, while the copying machine, a table, and two chairs were pushed to the side, Natalya Arlovskaya was sitting cross-legged in front of a large blue circle, the source of light Eduard had previously seen. Inside the circle was a young man furiously banging on invisible walls and three cans of coffee grounds, one in which was already spilling its contents onto the ground. Lit candles surrounded the circle, but their light couldn’t compete with the circle, which seemed to be outlined with chalk.

But now that Eduard’s presence had been announced, both Natalya and the man had stopped their argument to stare at Eduard.

Natalya’s eyebrows rose. “Ah, how convenient.”

The man started banging on the invisible walls again. “Oh stranger, I implore you to help me! This madwoman has trapped me against my will with her black arts and I beg of you, free me–”

“Hush,” Natalya snapped, and the man went silent. She then turned to Eduard. “von Bock. I’m glad you could join us.”

“What’s going on?” He asked, his voice steadily rising in pitch. That other man in the circle, that couldn’t be–

“I caught our ghost,” Natalya said as if it was the most normal thing ever. “Care to join?”

The supposed ghost huffed. “Don’t join her side. I’m the victim here, she caught me!”

Eduard couldn’t speak.

“I can very easily exorcise you, you know.” Natalya turned to face the ghost, her expression cross. “But if you can cooperate, we can make a deal. Is that clear?”

The ghost seemed to hesitate at the word “exorcise”, but then he turned away with a defiant sniff. "Oh, please. As if you could help me.“

Natalya grit her teeth."I can very well try.”

Eduard shook his head. This was all too much to handle. “Wait, wait, wait. Could everyone just stop for a moment?” He pleaded, putting his hands up. Whether it was in surrender or in command, even Eduard himself couldn’t tell. “Please?”

The ghost rolled his eyes. “Ah, great. I’m trapped with Miss Witch and Mister Incompetent. Fabulous. I swear I can’t go anywhere without a bit of peace and quiet.”

The nickname made Eduard sputter. “Wh-Why, you–!”

Natalya gripped onto the hem of her shirt. Even her patience was running thin. “Ghost, perhaps you should start speaking about your reason here to make your exit from the world less painful.”

“Less painful, eh?” The ghost snorted. “Sure, anything’s better than having a building full of idiots sitting on top of me.”

“Sitting…?” Eduard mumbled, thinking. He then gasped in realization. “Wait… Are we on your grave?”

“Have been for twenty-seven whole years,” the ghost snarked. “And it kinda hurts, thank you for asking.”

Twenty-seven years… Eduard was surprised that the building was that old. But had they really erroneously erected a building on top of a grave? Did they even know?

“We can’t remove a building for you alone,” Natalya said. “I’m sorry if it is the only way to put your soul to rest.”

“Well that’s just dandy. Then I guess I’ll keep stealing your coffee.” The ghost angrily picked up the spilling can of coffee grounds, plopped himself down away from Eduard and Natalya, and scooped coffee grounds into his mouth. The act both intrigued Eduard and disgusted him.

“So… What are we going to do with him?” Eduard whispered, kneeling down. He kept watching the ghost eat the coffee beans in mortified fascination.

“I might as well exorcise him,” Natalya whispered back. “He will keep on causing issues with the Press until our bosses decide to do something. And that,” her voice dropped lower in disdain, “will not happen soon.”

“But isn’t that the equivalent of killing him?”

Natalya looked up at Eduard, looking impressed. “Look at you, being concerned for a ghost you denied hours ago.”

Eduard gulped. Well, she was right. He really had no reason to feel sorry for a ghost that he didn’t believe in before all this drama. But there had to be some way to ease the ghost’s pain if only for the exorcism…

“Do you have any more coffee cans?”

Natalya made a face. “… There should be more upstairs, why?”

Eduard shrugged. “Just a thought.”

And just like that, the ghost and six coffee cans (not including the opened one) vanished with a poof.

Natalya clapped her hands to get rid of the chalk dust on them. “Exorcising a ghost is one thing, exorcising one with coffee is another…” She sighed, a half smile on her face. “But I’d say that that was a success.”

Eduard massaged his arms. Carrying those cans had been a chore. “Please tell me there aren’t any more ghosts in this building.”

“There shouldn’t be.” Natalya tapped the floor with her boot. “… Unless we have more graves under here.”

“I’d rather move buildings at that point.”

“Likewise.”

There was a moment of silence. Eduard fiddled with the straps of his bag. Natalya stood with her arms crossed.

“… So.” Eduard sucked in a breath. “Now that that’s over.”

Natalya raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you have somewhere to go, von Bock?”

“Not necessarily.” Eduard shrugged. “I was actually thinking drinks.”

Natalya blinked in surprise. “Excuse me?”

Eduard exhaled a short laugh. That sounded awkward, now that he said it. “I mean, after all this, we could be considered friends now, don’t you think? I know a place.”

“Do you now.” Despite the blunt, sarcastic statement, Natalya had a smile on her face. “I wouldn’t mind. A drink would help me forget I had to deal with a bratty ghost.”

“He was kind of bratty, wasn’t he?” Eduard mused, mostly to himself.

After Natalya picked up her book bag (it hid below the table and held the necessary items to catch the ghost, along with her laptop), the two headed out. It was the beginning of a friendship, one that neither had expected, but it was friendship nonetheless.

(And it only took a bet and a ghost to meet.)

#aphgenficexchange #hetalia #aph belarus #aph estonia #aph finland #oneshot #event #gift fic #cherry writings

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phyripo · 4 years

Note

20 and monabela?

20. dysfunctional relationship au

Certainly! Uhh I’m not sure what this is, but it was fun to write :0

send me a ship and a number & I'll write a short fic

Sometimes,Ukraine wonders what Monaco is doing with Belarus.

She likes Monaco,she thinks. Most of the time. There is no denying her effortless grace, her eloquence,the confidence with which she holds herself. These are things that Ukraine recognizesin Belarus as well. Her sister, always her little sister no matter how manycenturies pass, has always been more sure of herself than Ukraine is, so sheshould know what she’s doing.

And still.

Ukraine thinksabout myths. Those old Greek ones with gods and goddesses that are far toointerested in mortals, going through them at an alarming rate. She wonders ifMonaco, who’s so old that everyone forgets how old she is, might have been partof those myths, a distant golden goddess on a Mediterranean coast. Because sometimes,she looks at Ukraine’s little sister with eyes that have seen everything, andUkraine is afraid of what she’s seeing now, if it isn’t Belarus crass humor andpassion for gymnastics and love of rock music.

Compared to Monaco,Belarus is young. Although she is confident, maybe she doesn’t know herself aswell, her life always having been wrought with change and uncertainty.

Ukraine hasnever heard her talk about anyone the way she talks about Monaco—even if it isstill not a very regular occurrence, because Belarus just doesn’t talk muchabout her own life—and she wants to be glad, because finding companionship thatmight last beyond the lifespan of a human is great, and rare, but… Well, shewishes it could have been Lithuania she was hearing so much about, is all. Or Romania,or even Belgium. Someone less Monaco, a little more in touch with theworld.

Someone lessmythical.

Seychellesknows people don’t take her seriously. Most of the time, that’s fine by her. She’sbarely 500 years old; it’ll come.

She met Monacofor the first time when she was just a girl, and looked up to her immediately.She probably would have fancied herself in love at some point if not for theknowledge of how much of a waste of time it would be, even at a young age.(Younger than now, that is.) Monaco was, and still is in many ways, a bit of amentor to her.

That’s why she’sso confused about Belarus.

Admittedly, shedoesn’t know her well, but she does know that the way she regards Monaco is notlove, she doesn’t think.

They lookbeautiful together, all regal and kind of haughty, but Seychelles doesn’treckon they look in love. The thought that maybe they’re too old forthat crosses her mind, and that makes her kind of sad, so she tries not tothink that anymore. (She has no idea, really, how old Belarus is. Everyone inEurope is just ancient to her, although don’t tell France she said that.)

This sort ofalmost-deference is not what Monaco deserves. (Well, maybe it is, in a way, butnot from a partner.) It’s probably not what Belarus deserves either. Seychelleswouldn’t know.

But they seemhappy enough, when she sees them, which is admittedly almost never. Happy andbeautiful and it’s definitely not her place to interfere, so she doesn’t. Butshe wishes, even if no one will take her seriously, that Monacowould be taken seriously, just for who she is as a person.

There ishumanity to all of them, and even Monaco deserves her flaws, and to be honestlyloved despite them.

People talk,obviously, and that includes nations. People always talk. But in Poland’s experience,Belarus doesn’t talk much. Not about her personal life, anyway.

Of course, thismight have something to do with how they’ve only fairly recently started to be ondecent terms, but he does think that it’s true in general.

But she talks arelative lot now, and it’s troubling him. Which, you know, is notsomething he’d ever predicted he’d think about Belarus, but there you go.

It’s Monaco’sfault, somehow. With her stupid upside-down flag.

In a good relationship,these are things Belarus should be sharing with her girlfriend, but she’sdumping them on Poland instead. He tries to tell her, obviously, that he’s notthe one she’s dating—he has no desire to be dating her, thank you everso much—and that maybe she should tell Monaco about her feelings and herweird-ass interests instead, because, you know, she’s supposed to beinterested in that or at least pretend to be, and while Belarus is at it, maybeshe can call Monaco late at night and just breathe into the phone if shethinks that so hilarious, how about that?

Belarus saysshe doesn’t want to burden Monaco, and that doesn’t sound like her at all. Besides,she has no problem burdening Poland, obviously.

So thatconcerns him. He’s pretty sure—admittedly, it took him a while to get to thatpoint, but he knows now, okay—that the whole point of a relationship issharing stuff. Just stuff, all kinds of it, and trying new stuff together. Evenwhen you’re Belarus, and even when you’re Monaco-the-woman-the-myth-the-legend-the-upside-down-flag.

But, in theend, who is he to judge? It’s not as if he has any life experience or anything,right?

He’s just hereto listen.

People talk,and France always listens.

He hears whatthey say about Monaco and Belarus, and he doesn’t want to believe any of it,but Monaco is different when he visits her. She might have heard whatthey say. Monaco listens, too. They might not actually be related, but theyshare that trait, and in many ways, they do care about each other like siblingswould.

She pretendsnot to have heard, and he pretends he doesn’t know she’s lying. It must hurt,since she, lovely strong-willed Monaco, always seems to be the bad guy. He doesn’ttell her this, but France is worried, too. Not about Belarus, really, but abouther, about Monaco. She isn’t perfect, he knows this and loves her dearlybecause of it and despite it, but she pretends she is. She always has, so that’snothing new under the sun.

But shepretends even with the nation—the woman—who should love her for who sheis.

He’s anoptimistic person, is France, or he tries hard to be anyway, so he holds outhope that it will grow. It is not much hope, but it is there, so he lets it live.That’s his duty as her brother. All he wants is for people to be happy; for herto be happy, and for Belarus to be as well.

Perfection sorarely equals happiness, though, despite everyone’s best efforts.

Maybe theyshould talk about that.

#kanz frafka #quaestiones #monabela #Hetalia #phyripo writes things

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phyripo · 5 years

Note

46 and robul?

46. “Hey, have you seen the..? Oh.”

Uhh… That looks like a humorous prompt, so have something… Creepy? It’s a mix of the fact that I played some Rusty Lake games again combined with the fact that I’ve started listening to Welcome to Night Vale again that spawned this, soooo… I hope you like it, sorry for the long wait!

Dragos is Romania, Stefan is Bulgaria, aaaand Luca is Moldova

Send me a pairing and a number and I’ll write you a fic

There was nothing unusual about the mist.

It had rolled in across the lake as it oftendid on spring mornings like these, greying out the little island Dragos livedon. The familiar trees were looming shadows in the fog, the old well a blurrymystery. But it was just mist, and the shadows were just shadows, so Dragoswasn’t sure why he felt so unsettled whenever he looked out of the windows.He’d lived here for years now, in this little refuge he and Stefan had built onthe island. It was safe.

“Stupid mist,” he grumbled at no one, shakinghis head and going to the next line on his typewriter with too much relish. “Ishouldn’t read so many books.”

Still, he was relieved when Stefan returnedhome after his work on the mainland, where he ferried wood back and forth. Hisshape was familiar in the fog, and he smelled comfortingly of the forest whenDragos kissed him quickly as he kicked off his heavy shoes.

“It’s cold out,” Stefan said, running a handthrough his slightly damp hair.

“Looks cold, yeah.” Dragos took his coat. Themist had lingered throughout the day, seemingly not lessening at all, althoughit must have—the news on the radio reported sunny weather on the shores of thelake. “It’ll probably clear out by tomorrow.”

Stefan hummed absently. Of course, he hadn’tbeen stuck in the middle of the white haze all day; he wasn’t as unsettled. Heusually wasn’t. Dragos was more prone to that. There was a reason they’d movedto this island, where no one could judge them because there was no one elsehere.

“Please tell me there’s something to eat, Dra,”Stefan was saying, walking further into their cottage.

Dragos laughed, going after him.

“Of course there is.”

The evening was pleasant in its ordinariness,spent listening to a record and reading or writing or filling in crosswordpuzzles. Dragos closed the curtains against the pressing darkness the mistbrought with it, and had nearly forgotten all about it when he went to sleepwith his arm draped over Stefan’s upper body.

It was all the more surprising when he woke thenext morning to an, if possible, even greyer world.

The fog curled against the small windows of thecottage as if asking to be let in, like a ghost knocking on the door. Dragosdrew the curtains again and told himself not to think about it, not to imagine thathe didn’t know the shapes outside or the muffled sounds of the water and theforest. He typed, ripping sheet after sheet out of his typewriter because thewords wouldn’t listen to him. They curled into unfamiliar shapes, his fingersstraying from the right keys without his permission.

When Stefan came home in the late afternoon, hestartled Dragos from a haze of terribly non-productive writing and brought agust of cold, damp air with him.

“It’s dark,” he said, quizzically, and made toopen the curtains over the dining booth.

“It’s—” Dragos leaped up from his chair andflung himself in front of him. “It helps me work.”

He gestured at the heap of paper lyingscattered on his desk, bathed in lamplight. He wasn’t sure what he had written, certainly not his next novel, but at least itlooked like he’d been doing something useful while Stefan worked.

“Alright,” the man said slowly. His eyes werebright in the gloom, their deep forest green a comforting color after nothingbut the grey outside, the orange of the walls, and the black and white of wordson paper to keep Dragos company over the course of the day.

It had been sunny on the shore, Stefan toldhim, taking his jacket off to reveal short sleeves underneath it. The slightestof tan lines were visible on his pale skin, if Dragos squinted.

There was nothing unusual about the mist.

Weird weather phenomena were not unusual,Dragos mentally repeated like a mantra when they went to bed, later, staring upat the whorls in the wood of the bedroom ceiling. His imagination wasoveractive and it would pass. It would all pass, and their island could go backto its usual unusualness—which was mostly just Dragos himself.

The next day was a Saturday, which was Stefan’sday off, and also the day Dragos’s younger brother always called, so that was agood excuse not to go outside no matter what Stefan said about Luca alwayscalling after three, which left them plenty of time to do something together,never mind the mist, Dragos, it’sjust water.

“I thought you were the smart one,” Stefan saidjokingly, shrugging on his jacket. He hadn’t shaved today, and his stubblescratched Dragos’s jaw when he leaned over to kiss him, when he laughed againsthis mouth as Dragos tugged him down to deepen the kiss.

While the ensuing tussle was playful and funand quite pleasurable, it only delayed Stefan’s going out into the ever-presentmist by half an hour, because he thought they would need more firewood soon,and the wood would need to dry if it was to be of any use.

“You’re a strange man, Dra,” he told himwonderingly. Dragos ran his hand through the man’s mussed hair, biting his ownlip.

“You love me.”

“Never said I didn’t. Guess that makes me alittle strange, too.”

Smiling despite himself as Stefan untangled hisbody and stood, Dragos replied, “Very strange. Be careful, alright?”

He gave a jaunty little salute and was off intothe fog, where he was nothing more than a shape no more familiar than thegnarled trees. Dragos frowned at it through the window for too long, but themist hurt his eyes and his head, so he pulled the curtain mostly shut again,leaving a strip of light to spill outside.

Just in case Stefan forgot his way back.

The phone rang promptly at three, and Dragoswent to pick it up in relief, leaning against the wall in the hallway where ithung.

“Hey, Luc!” he greeted.

There was a long, staticky silence in reply.

“Hello?” Dragos tried, his heartbeat ratchetingup.

More static. A sound like a voice speakingbackwards. Dragos bit his lip so hard it started bleeding, clutching the handsetwhite-knuckled.

“What’s going on?” he asked, voice unsteady andlouder than he intended.

The voice continued, pouring unintelligiblesounds through the telephone line. If the mist had a sound, Dragos imagined itwould be this, creeping around in his head, just syllables without meaning nomatter which way he turned them.

He slammed the handset back on to the base andwas on the verge of ripping the whole contraption off the wall, when the phonerang again.

“Get out!” he yelled into it, on the verge oftears. Something was wrong here, andhe hated it.

“What?” replied a seemingly perplexed Luca. “Dra,is that you?”

He swore. “I’m so sorry, Luc. I’m sorry.Something weird is—sorry.” The plastic of the handset creaked in his grip, sohe tried to ease it a little.

“Are you alright?” Luca asked. Dragos leanedhis free hand against the wall and hung his head.

“God, I don’t know.” He tried to breathesteadily. His mind felt fuzzy, but the feeling was subsiding little by little. “Probably.”

“That sounds reassuring.” Luca laughed alittle. “Is Stefan alright?”

“Possibly. He’s out.”

“Well, I hear the weather’s good for it over th—”

The line cut in a flash of static. Dragosdropped the phone.

He scrambled to grab it where it swung againstthe wall, bouncing. It was difficult to press the little buttons with hisfingers shaking, but he managed to dial his brother’s number from memory.

“Luca?” he whispered, and when there was juststatic in reply, he slammed the handset back down again and tried again.

Stefan found him sitting with his knees drawnup to his chest in the hall, the phone dangling next to him and his fingers inhis messed-up hair.

“Well, this doesn’t look good,” he said,kneeling down in front of Dragos. Tiny water droplets clung to his hair, hiseyelashes. His eyes were curiously mossy, and Dragos pressed himself tighter againstthe wall.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked.

“Out. I got firewood, remember?” Stefan reachedfor him, pushing wispy strands of light brown hair out of his tear-streakedface with cold fingers. “Maybe you should come outside for a bit, it’d do yougood.”

Terrified, Dragos shook his head as hescrambled to his feet.

“I’m not—I’m not going anywhere. Jesus Christ, Stefan, what is going on?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” hereplied calmly.

“Stef, Stef—” Dragos put his hands on the man’sjaw and searched his gaze, and he couldn’t even say what was wrong, but something was, and the front door wasopen behind him, which was wrong. Heleaped towards it, slamming it shut on the mist. As he leaned against it, hecould feel himself shaking.

“Hey, you should lie down,” Stefan was saying,carding his fingers through Dragos’s hair again. “I’ll get some food going,alright?”

Dragos wasn’t sure how he got from the hall tothe couch, but once he was there, he couldn’t bring himself to move, or even thinkabout what the hell was happening on his little, safe island. Against all odds,he fell asleep.

When he woke, the room was dark, but that didn’tmean anything with the curtains drawn and the mist most likely still heavyoutside. Silently, he sat up, cracking his neck and stretching his arms beforewalking over to the window and peering into the forest.

The trees stood silent in the fog. It mighthave been evening or it might have been morning. Dragos honestly had no ideahow much time had passed. He turned back to the room, flicking his desk lamp onand finding a sandwich sitting next to his typewriter. On the paper currentlyin the machine, a short message was written.

Dragos, you lookedlike you needed the sleep. I hope it helped. I’m going outside, find me if youneed me.Stefan

There was no indication of when the message wasleft. It was six, according to the grandfather clock over the desk, but Dragoscouldn’t say whether it was evening or morning. He felt rested, although stillwary.

Eating the simple cheese sandwich, he went overto the radio to turn it on, hoping to find out the time, but the speakers onlyblurted out more static, shot through with maybe-human sounds. With shakinghands, he tried to tune into a different channel, but everything else justbroadcast the static that was normal—they didn’t get great reception out hereand were usually only able to receive the one channel.

One channel that was now garbled nonsense.

He put the remainder of his sandwich away andwalked quickly to the bedroom. The bed looked unslept in, but Stefan’s radioalarm clock displayed a time of a quarter past six in the morning—the radioitself was broadcasting the garbled static.

Dragos swore.

“Stefan!” he called through the house,flinching at his own voice. There was no answer, and he wasn’t surprised.

This wasn’t to say that he wasn’t terrified.

Unable to swallow past the lump in his throat,Dragos paced back to the living room, then changed his mind and rooted throughthe bathroom and the kitchen, where he found nothing out of the ordinary. Thetelephone was still dangling from its cord in the hall, spewing static, andDragos shivered.

Was it cold or was that him?

He peered through all of the windows into theunforgiving white and grey that was the forest. Nothing moved.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted, dragging his hands over his face.

He’d have to go outside.

Although his heart was trying to beat out ofhis chest and his breath was too high to do any good, he managed to find hisboots, his duffel coat. He threw the sheets of paper that he filled with hisnonsensical words yesterday into his shoulder bag along with—he didn’t knowwhat he was putting in there, he had no idea what he was doing. Closing the clasps of the bag proved difficult with hisshaking fingers, but he fumbled until they were shut.

After one last desperate sweep of the cottage,Dragos took a deep breath and opened the front door.

The mist—felt like normal mist. It was cold,and damp, and clung to Dragos’s eyelashes and wispy hair.

Somehow, he felt the urge to hold his breath.He went back into the house and found a scarf to wind around his head, coveringhis nose and mouth. It felt marginally better.

Trying to be silent, he made his way frommemory to the shed where Stefan sometimes worked. Nothing out of the ordinarythere, either.

The trees were still as he walked past the oldwell, but he couldn’t shake the feeling they were watching. Maybe not him inparticular, but watching all the same. Sometimes, something seemed to move inthe distance, but he couldn’t tell whether it was human and didn’t know if hewanted to know.

The island was small. Dragos must have beenwalking in circles or time must have stretched out in weird ways, because itfelt like hours before he saw a familiar shape among the grey. Stefan wasstanding motionless between the trees, and although the trees were motionlesstoo, they had all stretched their branches towards him as if they wanted himfor their own, like Dragos had wanted him for so long now, like Dragos hadgotten him.

He was Dragos’s. This island was Dragos’s, mist or no fucking mist.

Trees didn’t move. Trees had never moved.

“I’ve never seen a tree move,” Dragos said tohimself, his voice barely a whisper but there. He took large steps towardsStefan. They couldn’t take him away from Dragos, nothing could.

Stefan stood silently, slowly resolving intoseparate colors as Dragos neared. His green, short-sleeved shirt, hisbellbottom jeans, the dark of his hair. His back was to Dragos.

“Trees don’t move,” he repeated to himself. Andthen, “Stefan, have you seen the— Oh.”

Because he turned, and his eyes were not theirusual, comforting forest green.

Dragos stumbled back, catching his heel on atree root that may or may not have been there before and flailing to keep hisbalance.

“Stefan?” he whispered, but he knew, as certainas anything, that it wasn’t Stefan. The man—being—looked like Stefan and heldhimself like Stefan, but his eyes, his eyeswere a terrible haze of barely-there green. It was as if the mist had settled insidehim, pulled itself over his eyes.

“Hey, Dragos,” not-Stefan said, and his voicewas a wisp.

Dragos ran.

He tripped over swirling roots, and the mistthickened until he couldn’t see his own feet carrying him across his island. Heran blindly, scrambling up when he fell, pushing his scarf over his nose. Hisheartbeat rang in his ears, or maybe it was the island’s heartbeat, the treesin their terrifying unison.

Eventually, the trees gave way to sand, and heknew he’d reached the shore of the island. He couldn’t see anything out on thewater, so Dragos followed the sand until he found the dock and could scrambleonto it, his boots slipping on the damp wood.

The boat, he needed their boat.

“Dragos!” he heard Stefan, or not Stefan, callfrom the edge of the forest, louder than he should have been able to when themist dampened everything. He panted in almost-sobs, trying to squint along thedock for the little boat.

“No, no,” he whispered when he couldn’t findit. He dropped to his knees to feel along the dock for the rope.

Footsteps crunched through the sand behind him.

“Dragos!” Stefan called again. He soundedclose. Dragos’s numb fingers grappled uselessly against the scaffolding. “Nothingis wrong, Dragos! Come, I’ll take you home!”

Dragos heaved a sob through his scarf.

Footsteps on the dock.

A dull, roaring sound farther away. Somewhereon the lake. Oh god, what was out there?

“Dragos,” Stefan said. His voice sounded ashazy as his eyes had been. “It’s just mist.”

The roaring became louder, and then the mistwas breaking open at the end of the dock to allow Dragos to see that what wascausing it wasn’t something even worse, wasn’t the lake itself rising up againsthim as well.

“Luca!” he yelled, leaping up and runningtowards the motorboat his brother was driving towards the shore. “Don’t dock!Turn around, now!”

“What—” Luca started, and behind Dragos,footsteps clattered across the dock. He didn’t dare look.

“Just turn! Fast!”

Luca stared at Dragos or what was behind himfor a long second before he abruptly steered the boat in the oppositedirection, racing back along the dock. Dragos kept running, and he didn’t evencare if he was going to miss the little boat altogether—he dove towards it thesecond it shot by close enough, crashing against the wood and rolling along sofar that they almost capsized, but Luca kept going until they were clear of thedock, now just a shadow in the mist.

“Where’s Stefan?” he yelled, but Dragos couldn’tspeak, his voice was stuck somewhere in his chest. He breathed in sobs, curlinginto himself on the dirty floor of the motorboat. “Should we go back?”

Dragos shook his head. There were tears on hisface, and they were scorching hot.

They broke out of the mist and into brightmorning sunlight as suddenly as if it had never been there. Dragos still didn’tdare look back.

“I thought I’d check if you were okay,” Lucawas saying. “What’s—what just happened?”

“I don’t know,” Dragos choked out. “I just… I justdon’t know.”

He looked over his shoulder, and there wassunny lake as far as he could see, from the coast to the mountains. His heartbeatrang in his ears.

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phyripo · 5 years

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I Rose Above (14897 words) by phyripo Rating: Mature Relationships: Bulgaria/Romania (Hetalia), Moldova & Romania (Hetalia) Characters: Romania (Hetalia), Moldova (Hetalia), Hungary (Hetalia), Bulgaria (Hetalia), Belarus (Hetalia), Other Hetalia Character(s) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Supernatural (TV) Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, for Supernatural that is, Minor Character Death, Happy Ending Summary:

Dragos and Luca Bălan know everything there is to know about the supernatural, and how to protect people from it, or so they think. They're proven wrong when they meet an angel, who claims Heaven has grand plans for the brothers, and Dragos in particular.

Problem is, no one really knows what the plans are, and even the angel starts to have doubts as he gets to know Dragos better.

hello I wrote a relative lot of words in very little time and I’m kinda proud of it so please read if you feel inclined :’)

#Phyripo writes things #robul

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phyripo · 6 years

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Your writing is so wonderful and unique and all positive stuff...! Wahhhh God I am so bad with words but I just want to tell you that your work is beyond perfect, and I love reading your works! And thank you for making me ship EstLiet! The ship is so wonderful, they are adorable! Uhhh so yeah in fact just thanks for existing...! ❤️❤️❤️

Nooo anon thank you for existing! This is so sweet, you made my day :00 EstLiet is a Great ship and I’m happy I made you ship it, heh. I wrote a little thing about them as,, thanks? And also because I love writing about them! Thank you again!!

Tolys notices the man the moment he walks intothe restaurant.

It’s mostly because he’s very tall, and hiseyes are the most peculiar shade of sea-green behind his glasses. It’s alsobecause he looks incredibly awkward, causing Tolys’s coworker to elbow him andpropose a bet on whether he’s here for a first date.

That’s a certain loss, so Tolys says no.

The tall man sits by the window, back ramrodstraight while he waits for the other member of his dinner party to arrive. Oneof the other waiters goes to ask him if he would like a drink, which hedeclines with an awkward adjustment of his collar.

When the long-awaited date does arrive, in the form of a man who is almost as tall and wearing his tie backwards, Tolys is the waiter assigned to their table, and his coworkers encourage him to bring them gossip. He smiles and shakes his head but does keep his ears peeled when he goes to greet the couple and ask if they want a drink while they peruse the menu.

Tie man is interrupted in the middle of a sentence that is either about a sibling or about an ex—and judging by the other manʼs expression, itʼs the latter. Poor guy.

“Well?” asks Tolysʼs coworker eagerly when they pass each other in the still-calm kitchen.

“I wouldnʼt start planning their wedding yet if I were you.”

He snorts a laugh. “Too bad.”

When Tolys returns next, ready to note down orders, the men seem to be having a pleasant enough conversation about music. Maybe Feliksʼs dream of starting a wedding planning business still has a chance.

Tie man is gesticulating wildly and almost slaps Tolys when he approaches; the guy with the glasses winces while he laughs nervously.

Orders taken, Tolys returns to the kitchen, and then goes right back out because more patrons are arriving. He canʼt help but pick up bits and pieces of the conversation going on at the menʼs table, though. They apparently donʼt know a single thing about each other. Tolys hears tie man ask for his dateʼs name several times. Itʼs Eduard, and Eduard sounds slightly exasperated after the third time heʼs asked. And that is only the times within Tolysʼs earshot.

Tie man is talking about the ex/sibling again when Tolys brings him and Eduard the first course, and Tolys doesnʼt think he imagines the helpless look the latter gives him as he puts his plate down. He tries to look reassuring. He has seen this before, having worked here since he was a teenager. Besides, heʼs not a stranger to disappointing dates on a personal level either. Eduard smiles slightly, so he considers it a win.

He hopes tie man does too, because he really does have beautiful eyes.

Tolys hurries back to the kitchen with flaming cheeks.

“Did you have an unprofessional thought, Laurinaitis?” Feliks jokes.

“Shut up.”

He grins. “Hey, I donʼt blame you. Dude is handsome.

“Heʼs also on a date.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, “a terrible one. Guyʼs spent like a half hour listening to his date talking about his ex.”

“I thought it might be a sibling,” Tolys tries while he gathers plates to take to other patrons.

“Definitely not. At least I really hope not,” Feliks says with a disgusted look that makes Tolys wonder what he heard tie man recount. Poor Eduard.

Itʼs a moderately busy evening in the restaurant, but all the waiters are pretty involved with the disastrous date going on at table 19. Everyone keeps asking Tolys—and Feliks, whoʼs busy in that area too—for updates.

He can tell them that tie man—the name catches on—kept showing Eduard pictures of something he obviously didnʼt have the slightest interest in, then kept looking at his phone afterwards, and that during the meal itself, he choked on something because he was laughing at a joke he told himself and hit Eduard with stray steak he spit out.

Itʼs kind of funny, but Tolys feels for Eduard.

When he goes to check on their table, tie man is gone, and Eduard is poking at his still mostly-full plate forlornly.

“Sir, is everything according to your wishes?” Tolys asks, and the man startles, looking up.

“It is now,” he says, inclining his head at the empty seat across the table. And then, “No, sorry, that was mean. The food is great, thank you.”

“Iʼm glad.” Tolys should go now, but he shifts his weight from one foot to another while Eduard looks up at him questioningly. “And to your companionʼs wishes as well?”

“I expect so. He seems to be enjoying himself, at least.” He smiles wryly and casts a glance at the door to the bathroom. “Iʼm not sure why my brother thought weʼd be a good match. Sorry. Iʼm sorry, you donʼt need to know that.”

Tolys shakes his head. “Donʼt worry about it. Iʼve been there. My own brother has terrible ideas as well.”

“Gotta love your siblings. Not that I think heʼs a terrible guy, my date,” Eduard hastens to say. “We could be friends, but, well… He seems a little hung up on someone else at the moment. And I donʼt get his humor and it is so tiring. Sorry.”

“Honestly, itʼs fine.” Tolys glances over his shoulder and pushes some hair that has escaped from his ponytail away from his face. “Iʼll be honest, youʼre the talk of the evening among the waiters.”

Promptly, Eduard flushes a bright red that makes his light hair seem almost white, and Tolys canʼt help but smile at it.

“If it helps, we all feel pretty sorry for you.”

“I feel sorry for myself too,” he mumbles. “And I donʼt even have anyone who can call me and fake an emergency to get me out of here, because my siblings have no sense of loyalty.”

Without thinking about it, Tolys says, “I could do that.”

Eduard looks up at him with those turquoise eyes, and Tolys looks back with his heart beating in his throat. Why did he say that? That is the last thing he should have said. He opens his mouth to apologize, but is forestalled.

“Please do,” Eduard blurts. Then, he clasps one hand over his mouth and adjusts his glasses with the other.

“I…” Tolys doesnʼt know what to say.

“I am serious. I think. Yes. I am.”

“Alright,” he just says, because what else can he do. When Eduard starts patting down his pockets for something to write on, Tolys hands him the notebloc he uses to take down orders, biting his lip when the man smiles gratefully. Eduard scribbles something down in kind, rounded letters.

“Thereʼs my phone number.” He glances at the bathroom door again. No sign of tie man. “Iʼm Eduard, by the way.”

“Well, I hope I can help. Iʼm Tolys.”

“Thatʼs a beautiful name.” He blinks, adjusts his glasses again, and averts his eyes. “Just, I donʼt know, pretend somethingʼs wrong with my dog?”

“Oh, you have a dog?”

“Yes! Heʼs just a puppy.” Eduard seems to be on the verge of pulling out his phone and showing Tolys a picture, which he would be more than happy to look at—the only reason he doesnʼt have a dog is because his building has a no-pet policy—when he suddenly straightens and casts a meaningful look in the direction of the bathroom.

And sure enough, tie man comes back. He has re-knotted his tie so that itʼs the right way around. Was that what was taking him so long?

“Hello, sir,” Tolys greets him. “I was just informing if everything is according to your wishes.”

“Sure,” he says, grinning, and then he launches into a story about a place he used to go without sparing a further thought for Tolys, it seems, so Tolys returns to his job. Wasting time is not appreciated.

When he gets back to the kitchen in a quiet moment, about ten minutes have passed and Feliks keeps throwing him looks that promise an interrogation. He quickly shoots into the back room, fishes his phone out of his bag, and punches in the number Eduard has given him.

With a deep breath, he presses call.

“Eduard Mets,” comes Eduardʼs voice after a few rings.

“Hello, uh, Mr Mets.” Tolys swallows. “This is… Tolys Laurinaitis from the… Something with animals, probably.”

“Did something happen?” Eduard asks, playing along great. Better than Tolys is doing.

“Your dog, uh, attempted to fight a cat? The cat won. It isnʼt looking very great, sir. Would it be possible for you to come take a look?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he replies, sounding honestly distressed, which Tolys finds impressive because heʼs sure he would most likely have started laughing. “I will be there as soon as possible.”

“Thank you. Iʼm sure your dog is grateful.”

“Thank you as well.” He sounds sincere. Tolys bites his lip and smiles as he presses the end call button.

Feliks is leaning against the doorpost with his arms crossed and his eyebrows raised when he looks up.

“Shut up,” Tolys says, and he just laughs.

Sure enough, Eduard is gone when Tolys goes back out. He seems to have left some money for his date to pay with, though. Tolys does feel a little bad for the man and decides to offer him a cup of coffee on the house. Maybe heʼll come back for another date when heʼs over his ex for real.

When Tolysʼs shift is over, there is a notification of a new message on his phone. Itʼs from a number with no contact attached, but he recognizes it all the same and smiles when the message contains a picture of the tiniest, fluffiest white puppy he has ever seen and a short message.

Hello Tolys, and thank you again. This is Helicopter Pilot (my brother named him). He's fine! If you want, would you like to meet him? We could have dinner to make up for tonight. Let me know. Eduard

Tolys bites his lower lip to fight down his grin—ineffectively.

That sounds great. I know a good restaurant. Can vouch for the waiters too! Tolys

His phone beeps seconds later.

I can't wait.

“So,” Feliks says loudly, from the shadows of the back room, “can I start planning a wedding now?

#things written out of gratitude #pt 2 #estliet #Phyripo writes things #most best #anonymous #quaestiones #aaaaa

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phyripo · 6 years

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65 + Netherlands/Canada

65. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”

Thank you! I lov e NedCan but I never write it for some reason so :D

I’m sorry this took so long! I just found it difficult to think of a story. Probably because I never write them. But I hope you like it!

Matthew is Can, Maarten is Ned, and Montego is Cuba… It’s the M club

They met on the subway, far too early in themorning when there was no difference between the tunnels and the city outside,everything a great black canvas of nothing.

Matthew was half-asleep still, folded up in achair and listening to a movie music playlist at a low volume. There was ahandsome, spiky-haired man in a suit jacket and dark jeans busily scribbling ina notebook on the seat across from him, only looking up every now and then whenthe train stopped, gaze flitting over Matthew as everyone’s did.

Well, that’s what Matthew thought, then.

His worldview tilted more than a bit when thetrain had to brake so hard that the HotBusinessman, as he’d taken to calling the guy in his mind, had to make agrab for his cup of tea before it slid off the little table and into Matthew’slap—and he dropped his notebook in the process. It fell pages-down on the floorand slid underneath Matthew’s seat.

He smiled at the man and leaned over to grabit. Through his headphones, he could hear someone announcing why they’dstopped.

The man made a grab for the notebook whenMatthew had picked it up, but his hand shooting forward wasn’t fast enough toprevent him catching a glimpse of the open page.

The train was pulling up again, but Matthew hadstilled, gaze slowly lifting from the notebook back in the Hot Businessman’shands to his face. His expression was unreadable. Matthew pulled one earbud outof his ear.

“I don’t look like that,” he said softly,leaning forward to avoid disturbing the other passengers. The man looked downat his notebook, tilting it a little towards Matthew so he could see the,admittedly beautiful, drawing on the lined page. It was definitely him, but it also was not.

“Maybe not exactly,” said the man, his voicedeep and lowered as well. “Look, I’m sorry, I know it’s a bit creepy of me.”

Matthew bit his lip and swiped at some blondhair obscuring his vision.

“Were you going to do anything with it?”

He shook his head. “It’s just a way of passingthe time. Here, look.” Carefully, he started to rip the page out along theperforated line. “I’ll—”

“Wait,” Matthew interrupted, louder than heintended and surprising both of them. “Is it finished?”

He shook his head again, evidently confused.

“Would it be weird if I asked you to finish it?It’s—it’s very good, even if I don’t see it’s me completely.” Matthew had noidea what had come over him to ask that, except that somewhere, he wasflattered beyond belief that someone would want to draw him at all. He was soused to being practically invisible, especially next to his brother.

“You can’t see yourself the way I see you,” theman said. “Are you sure? Do you want to have it?”

“If you don’t mind. I get off at Dundas.”

“Hm. I’m going to St Andrew.”

Matthew nodded, a little nervous, and returnedto looking out of the window, which was useless since they were underground, sohe put his earbud back in and just listened to his music instead.

When, after a few more stops and more and morepeople crowding the car, they were nearing St Andrew with all the otherbusinessmen and harried university students like Matthew, he pulled his earbudsout again, because the Hot Businessman was looking up at him. He startedpulling the notebook page out again, careful not to rip his drawing.

“It’s not my best,” he mumbled. “Train’smoving.”

“No problem,” said Matthew. “I’m… I’m reallyflattered. Have you signed it?”

For the first time, a smile stirred on theman’s face. “Should I?”

The train had started to brake for St Andrew.People were crowding towards the doors already. The man smoothed over the pagewhen it was fully loose, and signed something at the bottom in a quickscribble. Then, with a glance up at Matthew and a furtive look around, he addedsomething else.

Just as the subway stopped, he stood up,gathering his notebook under his arm and slinging a messenger bag over hisshoulder, and handed the piece of paper to Matthew, drawing-down. BeforeMatthew could say anything, his tall form had disappeared among the throng ofsuits.

Pulling a book out of his own backpack,intending to put the paper between the pages, Matthew glanced around to see ifanyone was watching. As usual, no one was. He turned the paper over, and if this wasn’t the man’s best, then howgood was that? With just a ballpointpen, he’d managed to capture how tired Matthew felt, how his glasses were, asalways, a little askew no matter what he tried. That stupid springy strand,curlier than the rest of his hair was.

And yet, the drawing felt too kind to be trulyhim. Matthew didn’t look kindly at himself most of the time.

He sighed and wanted to close his book when henoticed the things scribbled at the bottom in tiny, neat longhand.

Thank you for lettingme do this. Maarten

With a signature, and a phone number. Matthew’sheart leaped into his throat.

Maarten.

Oh my god.

Matthew looked the phone number up on theinternet, but had no luck finding anything. The name Maarten was apparently afairly common one. In the Netherlands.None of it was of any use to Matthew, and the curiosity was killing him. Why had he left his phonenumber?

His roommate, Montego, taped the drawing to thefridge, probably in equal parts trying to be irritating and genuinely thinkingit was nice. Matthew folded the bottom part back so he couldn’t see it but leftit up, knowing he’d start complaining if he took the thing away. He got used toit.

After three weeks without running into Maarten again anywhere despite keepinghis eyes wide open on the subway rather than dozing off, Matthew told himselfto man up, re-typed a text to the phone number the man had left three times,left it in his drafts for two days, re-typed it again, and then hit send asfast as he could before closing out of his messages and throwing his phone tothe other side of the sofa.

For the next four hours, he worked diligentlyon his dissertation about urban agriculture, not checking his phone once afterthere’d been no reply in the first ten minutes.

When he gave up for the day, there was a reply, just popping up as hewatched.

Matthew had written, Hi Maarten, this is Matthew. You made a drawing of me on the subway acouple weeks ago. I just wanted to say again I’m very flattered and that myfriend and I both think you’re very talented. He wants to know if you’re aprofessional. :) Anyway, I hope life’s treating you well. -Matthew

He regretted the smiley now, but there was notaking it back. He read Maarten’s response nervously.

Hello Matthew. It’snice to hear from you, to put a name to the face. Tell your friend I’m not aprofessional, although I do murals sometimes. As he watched, another message appeared. I run a shop for garden supplies at theFirst Canadian Place. Feel free to stop by if you want to. Maarten

Matthew bit his lip and smiled. That soundednice, a shop like that. Moreover, it also sounded like Maarten wanted to seehim, for some reason.

Montego asked what he was smiling about whenthey had dinner, and he replied that his dissertation was going well, which heevidently suspected wasn’t all, but he let it be. Probably to be curious aboutlater when Matthew had all but forgotten.

A few days later, he gathered up his courageand walked from the university to the tower of the First Canadian Place. He hadlooked it up online, and there was only one shop specifically for gardensupplies in it, called Bloom. It had good reviews.

Matthew walked by in front of the shop a fewtimes when he found it, before he was brave enough to walk inside, into thecomforting smell of dirt and cleaning agent. The shop was small, its aislesstacked with everything one could possibly need to take care of a garden. Itwas an odd one in a tower like this, slap-dash in the centre of the financialdistrict of the city, but Matthew and his fondness for urban greenery loved it.

Someone was talking between the shelves. Twopeople. A woman, interspersed with a deep male voice Matthew recognized asMaarten’s. They were speaking French. Huh. Despite his Dutch name, Maarten wasevidently well at home in Canada.

He waited until the woman left the shop withher well-informed purchase, then cautiously shuffled to the register, whereMaarten was now. There was a mural of tulips behind it, and had he made that?It was beautiful, vivid and stark under the bright lights.

“Good afternoon,” Maarten started. And then,blinking, “Oh, hello!” A faint smile played around his mouth, and Matthewsmiled back.

“Hello.”

“Matthew, right?”

“That’s me. Your shop is beautiful.”

The smile grew the tiniest bit. Maarten was very handsome, but Matthew wasn’tsure how he could have taken him for a regular businessman with the smallsmudges of dirt on his hands – or the fact that he was wearing jeans. In thebright lights, the man’s eyes were a curiously vivid green.

“Thank you. Do you need anything for yourgarden, by any chance?”

Matthew shook his head sadly. “I don’t reallyhave one right now, my apartment doesn’t even have a balcony. Although, I’vegot a rooftop garden going at uni, but that’s research.”

“Really?” Maarten leaned forward on theregister, splaying large hands flat on the surface of it. There wasn’t any dirtunder his fingernails. “What kind of research?”

So Matthew spent the next who knows how long—hehonestly lost track of time—explaining his study and dissertation to the firstperson aside from his professors and fellow students who seemed genuinelyinterested in what he was saying, interrupted from time to time by Maartenhaving to help a customer.

And then, somehow, he invited the man to comelook at his rooftop garden, and Maarten said he’d love to and told him to textand Matthew promised him he would.

“See you, Matthew,” Maarten said eventually,holding a hand out. Matthew clasped it.

“See you.”

Okay. This was… Going somewhere.

It didn’t take so long, this time, for Matthewto send out a text. He was proud of his project and would love to show Maarten.And if he took twice as long deciding what to wear when the day came, no onebut Montego would ever know.

He wasgrinning knowingly when he left.

But Maarten smiled when Matthew met up withhim, and he smiled again when, with a faintly awe-struck look in his eyes, whenthey reached the rooftop garden Matthew had been cultivating. It was mostlyagricultural products, but he’d put a few flowers in as well, so he’d havesomething to look at. His tulips were coming up.

“This is amazing,” Maarten says. “Tell me aboutit.”

So Matthew did, walking around in the tinyspace he’d made his own over the past few months and explaining while Maartenpulled out that same notebook as on the subway and scribbled notes of some sortin it.

“Don’t steal my ideas, eh?” Matthew joked. Or,well, half-joked.

“What, no, I—”

When he caught a glimpse of the notebook,Matthew stilled. He’d been drawing again.

“Sorry,” Maarten said sheepishly. He tilted hisnotebook to his chest until Matthew, on impulse, took a step towards him andgently tugged it back in his own direction. Maarten let go of it easily—willingly, itseemed—then shoved his hand into the pockets of his jeans and hunched hisshoulders, which did very little to make his tall frame any smaller.

“Well, look at it,” he said, when Matthew juststood there with the notebook. It was quiet on the rooftop, the sounds of thecity muted, and the breeze carried the smell of flowers. Matthew’s hair gentlyblew in front of his eyes, catching on his glasses. He tucked it away andlooked.

The weresome notes on the lined page, in that same neat longhand, but halfway through asentence, those ended and became a drawing in blue ink taking up the rest ofthe paper. Mostly flowers; Matthew’s tulips and his young roses, buthalf-hidden among them was Matthew himself again, somehow caught in the middleof a gesture, his hair fanning around his face and his expression almostreverent.

Was that really how he looked to Maarten?Again, he couldn’t see it.

Matthew shifted his gaze back to Maarten, whowas looking off into the distance now, across the campus and to the high-risesurrounding them.

“Why?” Matthew just asked. The man glanced backat him for just a moment before starting to look at the flowers. He shruggedstiffly.

“I like flowers, I like drawing.” He paused. “Andyou’re a good subject. I’m sorry again, Matthew.”

“I’m—no—well, I’m flattered, really.” Matthewran his thumb over the ballpoint pen version of his own face. “You could ask,you know.”

The tiniest hint of a smile. “If I can drawyou?”

Matthew nodded.

“If I could ask…” He trailed off, and for abrief, exhilarating moment, something hot and hopeful flared in Matthew’schest. What if Maarten asked him out? That would be unbelievable—and even moreflattering.

But of course, he didn’t.

“Matthew, could I paint you?” he asked.

“Paint—”

“You have… Beautiful eyes,” Maarten said,then widened his own as if realizing he said that out loud.

“Thank you,” Matthew replied, bewildered. Hiseyes were dark blue, nothing like the vivid green of Maarten’s. He’d never metanyone with eyes like that.

“I understand if you’d rather have me leave youalone,” Maarten was saying, probably trying to fill the silence. “Or if youwant to think about it or something.”

He was tapping his index finger against his penrhythmically. Matthew smiled. While he was evidently a man with few nervoustells, this one was quite obvious, and a little endearing for it.

“I would be honoured, really, to be painted byyou,” he said, opting for honesty. He didn’t think Maarten had any otherthoughts in his mind than ones about art in asking that. Perhaps against hisbetter judgment, but Matthew’s instincts were usually trustworthy on thatfront.

“Really?” There was a definite smile on hisface now. Matthew nodded, ducking his head.

Even if it was only for the purpose of art, hedidn’t think there’d ever been a man that attractive eager to spend time withhim, and it was exciting.

Since Maarten didn’t have an actual workshop,Matthew ended up agreeing to visit him at home. The man had seemed tentativeabout suggesting it, even over text messages, and Matthew has debated withhimself a lot before saying yes.

He told Montego where he was going, that he’dsend him a message when he’d be coming back, and set out.

Maarten lived just out of the city’s mainbustle, in a small house with—no surprise there—quite a large garden. Therewasn’t as much space as Matthew had had growing up in the country, but thenthere never was, this close to the city. The house was spotlessly clean, andthe flowers in the garden grew in neat patches. Maarten was wearing a shirtsplattered with paint in several colors, though, and he smiled as he ledMatthew through his house.

“I know it’s a little cold,” he started, “but Ithought we could sit in the garden, if you want to.”

“It’s not cold,” Matthew replied, slightlybewildered. He hadn’t even worn a coat out.

Maarten turned to him, blinked, and shook hishead.

“I’ll never understand Canadians, and I’ve beenliving here for seven years,” he mumbled.

Ah, so he actually grew up in – Matthew wasassuming the Netherlands. He chuckled.

“Well, let’s sit in the garden,” he said,feeling more at ease already.

So they went into the garden, and contrary tohis expectations, Matthew didn’t have to sit still or anything, so he walkedaround instead, squatting to look at the flowers, listening to Maarten explaineven while the man sketched away on his notepad. After a while, they did sitdown, and Maarten continued his drawing after getting some coffee.

Matthew leaned his chin on his hand and lookedat him for a while, smiling when their gazes crossed and Maarten quickly lookedaway. The man was much shier than he seemed at first.

If Matthew could draw, Maarten would be anamazing subject, he thought, but his drawing skills were only a tiny step upfrom stick figures and putting a quarter sun in the corner of the paper.

“What are you doing now?” he asked instead. Thepaper was tilted away from him.

“Studies, I suppose,” Maarten mumbled, glancingup at Matthew again. “I’ve never taken classes or anything, but this methodworks well. That is—you wouldn’t mind coming back at some point, would you?”

Matthew shrugged, smiling. “I don’t think so.”It was nice here, peaceful.

“Would you like dinner?” Maarten asked, afterputting some more lines on his paper, apparently only now snapping out of hisconcentration for real.

Matthew, who had been looking something up onhis phone, met his green gaze. The sky was getting a little dark already, andhis eyes were bright among the shadowed angles of his face.

“If it’s no bother,” he replied, turning thescreen of his phone off.

“Of course not.” Maarten smiled.

In his pristine kitchen, they threw some foodtogether, Matthew very careful not to spill anything, and they kept up an easyconversation as they ate it. Afterwards, Maarten asked once more if he’d comeover again soon, tone almost apologetic, and he smiled beautifully when Matthewreplied he was looking forward to it—which he was.

“I’ll see you, then,” Maarten said, leaning onearm against the doorpost, backlit by the light from the hallway.

“See you,” Matthew said, and when he lookedover his shoulder as he walked away to find him still standing there, heblushed.

When Montego asked, it was impossible to denythat Matthew did have a bit of a crush on the mysterious artist.

He barely knew anything about Maarten, when hereally thought about it, while Maarten knew quite a lot about him, but he was kind and surprisinglygentle and very handsome.

“And you’re kinda naïve, Matt,” Montego toldhim.

“And you’re too cynical,” Matthew retorted. Itwas probably why they’d remained friends for so long, when he thought about it.“I’ll be careful, eh?”

Montego rolled his eyes but nodded. And,really, Matthew was 25; he did knowhow to take care of himself and his own safety.

He returned to Maarten’s house about a weeklater and watched with fascination while the man started painting, his focuscompletely on the canvas in front of him. It didn’t bore Matthew for a second,even if he was just sitting there, the book he’d brought unopened on his lap.Maarten said he didn’t mind him reading, but he didn’t want to. He wanted towatch. Wanted to see the sure way the artist moved, the way his eyes keptflicking to Matthew.

Every time that happened, tingles leaped downhis spine.

When Maarten put his brush down and rubbed hisfingers across the scar on his forehead, smudging it with red paint, Matthewsmiled at him. He smiled back.

“Dinner?”

“I’d like that.” Matthew stood and curiouslylooked at the back of the painting, but Maarten carried it off into anotherroom before he could get a glimpse of the painted side. Alright, that was fair.

They talked about flowers and music as theyate, and Maarten unearthed a guitar from somewhere when Matthew confessed heplayed. After being bribed with promises of getting to see some paintings he’ddone, Matthew agreed to play something, humming under his breath. Maarten’sgaze on him was heavy, intense, and he kept his eyes on the guitar after oneglance at the man.

The paintings Maarten promised came only afterit had gotten dark outside, and Matthew knew his favourite one the moment hesaw it.

“Is that a self-portrait?” he asked.

“It is.” Maarten picked the canvas up, his facewry. “I never know what to think of it.”

The colours of the painting were muted, exceptfor the piercing green of Maarten’s eyes and an angry red line that wasprobably that scar on his forehead. It was as if he’d been looking in a dirtymirror while painting it.

“It’s beautiful,” Matthew breathed, thenremembered himself and swallowed as he looked back up at Maarten. “You’re, Imean—you’re a handsome man.”

He shrugged. “I know people think that. I cameto Canada as a model, you know.”

Matthew nodded. He could see why.

“I never really…” He shook his head; put thepainting back down with the others. “My mother always said I scared people. Ican see that.”

“You don’t scare me,” Matthew said, andbreathed in deeply to keep looking when Maarten caught his eye. “I think thatthere is a lot more to you. To just draw a boring guy like me on the train… Idon’t know.”

“You’re not—you aren’t boring, Matthew.” Hisgaze was even more intense now. “You’re not. Hold on, wait, I’ll show you.”

He rushed out of the room and came back amoment later with the canvas he’d been working on. The portrait of Matthew.

“There are some things I need to add, but it’smostly finished, so…” He turned the painting around so Matthew could see hislikeness.

It was the polar opposite of Maarten’sself-portrait, the colours bright and saturated, Matthew’s eyes a deep bluebordering on violet behind his glasses, which were depicted which just a fewstrokes.

“It’s not—” he started.

“It’s you, Matthew.” Maarten reached for hisshoulder, but his hand hovered in mid-air until Matthew stepped forward so thatit touched him. It brought them close together, both almost touching thepainting, although they were both careful not to.

“I don’t see it,” he whispered. He wasn’t abrightly coloured kind of person; he had long since accepted that.

“I wish you could see yourself the way I seeyou, then,” Maarten replied, then seemed taken aback by the admission he’d justmade.

They looked at each other for too long, the airstill but charged. Matthew swallowed.

“Likewise,” he rasped.

Maarten put the painting carefully away, took astep forward, and rested both hands on Matthew’s shoulders.

“Let me try to convince you, and maybe you cando the same,” he said, with a nervous edge to his voice that made Matthew smile—whichin turn made Maarten smile.

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s, well, I wanted to say let’s go out todinner, but we’ve already had dinner twice and I don’t really like restaurants.”He frowned. “I would like to get to know you better.”

Matthew felt his smile widen. “I’d like for youto do that. And I, you.”

He reached up and embraced Maarten when the mansmiled beautifully once again, burying his face in his sweater.

Eventually, the portraits Maarten painted ofthem started matching, his own brightening and Matthew’s becoming a little lessostentatious. There was a metaphor somewhere in there, Matthew reckoned.

He was just happy to watch Maarten work amongthe flowers on the rooftop, dirt on his face and paint on his hands and smilingat Matthew like a sunflower opening.

Matthew got up to help him.

#this is not my best i'm sorry #i should write more nedcan i love them #nedcan #hetalia #hwdwriters #aph netherlands #aph canada #phyripo writes things #anonymous #quaestiones #me researching the toronto subway system: this is very important #anyway this isn't descriptive enough but idk it was difficult #i need more practice with those characters tbh

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phyripo · 6 years

Note

HMM MMM 58 and robul?

58. I’d die for you. Of course, I’d haunt you in the afterlife, but really, it’s the thought that counts.

HMM MMM thanks anon! This one is Actually Serious. But for once it's not Ro who dies. At least there's that.

Dragos is Romania, Stefan is Bulgaria, Luca is Moldova and Herakles is Greece of course

Afterwards, they send all of Stefanʼs belongings to Dragos.

He puts them around their apartment, trying to fill up the empty spaces heʼs left. Itʼs not much, and sometimes it does more harm than good to see them sitting around so inconspicuously, but at least it makes Dragos feel closer to him.

He likes to imagine Stefan putting those same things up in his bunk on that ship that took him away to fight a fight that was never his, all those galaxies away.

There is a hologram of their engagement, which Dragos often avoids looking at because itʼs a stark reminder of the marriage that never came to pass. There are also lesser-quality ones that sometimes flicker like a ghost, of Stefanʼs parents, of Dragosʼs brother Luca, their friends, of that stupid costume party where everyone wore too much denim.

Stefan even put his family tree up often according to the memory on the holo device. It only goes back to the 21st century, but Stefan proudly displayed it anyway. That makes Dragos smile.

He avoids looking into the data on his computer for a long time.

It would feel so final. Those things are so personal, Dragos reasons with himself while he blinks a notification from his own away. He doesnʼt need to know how the fucking war is going now, that peace talks between the quarreling planets are finally getting somewhere. Whatʼs the point?

When he finally gathers up his courage and wades through hundreds of automated messages – really, Stefan, couldnʼt you have had those automatically turned off? – Dragos is surprised by his own name in an unsent message.

In several unsent messages.

He blinks, and the earliest one unfolds itself before his eyes, overlaying on the wall of the apartment.

Dearest Dragos, it reads.No, that sounds stupid. Well, whatever.

Dearest Dragos,I hope you’ll never read this message, because I don’t intend to send it, and there are very few reasons for you to be snooping around here. I hope you’re just being nosy and I’m about to walk into the room to tell you off.

If that’s the case, tell future me to remember how this feels. He’ll forgive you.

Anyway, if that isn’t the case, then I’m so sorry. I know I promised. I’d say someone up there has thrown a wrench into the plans, but I’m up there right now, and let me tell you, it’s pretty damn empty. There’s just void and angry people. You’d hate it.

I kind of hate it too, even if my bunkmate, Herakles, is an alright guy. He’s sleeping now. I should be, too, but this seemed urgent all of a sudden. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, after all.

Remind me to get better passwords, or fancy biometric security, alright? And say hi to Luca.

I love you.Stefan Borisov#1499894

Dragos swallows back tears, biting the inside of his lower lip so hard it starts to bleed. He blinks away the notification his own computer gives about that and opens the next message.

Hi Dragos,I just saw that that other message automatically signed off with my ID. I wonder if I can turn that off. You know I’m not good with this stuff.

If you’re reading this message, I’m pretty sure I’m not around anymore. How stupid of me. I really look forward to going home, Dra. It’s so boring here.

Yes, yes, there’s a war going on and humanity is trying to mediate, I know it sounds like one of your stories, or something we’d play pretend about when we were kids, but those stories are never about the common soldier, are they? There’s good reason for that. It would make for a damn boring plot.

We’re basically just waiting. I will tell you about it in the message that I do send. This one is just to tell you that even if I’m not there anymore, doesn’t mean I never was. Or something.

I’m crying now. You must be rubbing off on me.

God, I’d love to have you rubbing off on me right now. I’ll tell you more about that in the other message too. I hope you enjoyed it. Re-read it if you want. No such thing as blasphemy.

Remember to (awkward change of topic) say hi to my mother and to Luca.

I love you, sorry about the ID again.Stefan Borisov#1499894

Now, Dragos has to laugh through the tears he canʼt stop anymore.

He did enjoy reading the message Stefan is referring to. Maybe he should re-read it. Itʼs what he would have wanted, evidently.

There are only two other messages. Dragos is trying not to look at the dates.

The first one unfolds itself in his blurry view.

Dear Dragos,I guess things are finally picking up around here. You probably saw on the news.

The warring parties have launched a full-scale attack against all expectations, leaving us kind of stuck in the middle.

I wish you were here – well, no, I wish I were there.

I can remember what you smell like, you know. That struck me as weird. After months and fucking months of only this ship’s muggy air, and my suit and Herakles’s stupid hair product (who the hell brings hair product with them into the army? To be fair, he does have good hair) I can still picture you.

I miss you so much. Well, you know, my tour is nearly over. Just a month now.

Herakles says you look too pointy in that hologram I’ve got. He’s not wrong, but I like that about you.

Dragos, I’m sleep-deprived, so forgive me anything I say that’s more stupid than usual.

Have you spoken to my mother since you’ve heard what happened to me? Are you taking care of yourself? Please take care of yourself. I know how you get. Is Luca still engaged or did he change his mind again? Don’t let my untimely demise be a burden to his marriage.

I hope to god you never read these messages.

I have to go now. Something is happening. The ship is shaking. You’ll probably hear.

I can’t wait to hold you again.Stefan Borisov#1499894

By now, Dragos is sitting on the floor of the apartment with shaking fingers dug into his hair.

He wishes he never would have had the opportunity to read these messages too. That future Stefan would have caught him at it, maybe years and years from now.

But there is no fucking future Stefan, and Lucaʼs wedding has been postponed. Life doesnʼt often go the way you want it to, let alone death.

With an uncomfortable sense of finality dawning on him, Dragos opens the last message, which was evidently written in a hurry.

Dragos,I love you i love you i love you

Pleade remember tthat. It’s the main point of this. It’s been the main point of everything sijce I me tyou and maybe that soudns unhealthy but shut up this is a life or death sitautiong, that’s not rally healthy either. I don’t have a good feeling about this intervention dragos. Herakles is suspricioisly silent on the radio and that guy can talk for hours when he gegs the chance. So I just want youu to knkw that I lov e you and that I wojld, maybe will, die for you. I’ll haaunt you in the afterlife, but really, it’s the thought that ciunts.

It’s to silent now dra, I hate it. You’re always talking, you knkw? Maybe I got used to that. It’s gonna br quiet on the other s

Knowing itʼs futile, Dragos reloads the message, and the last, lonely S glares accusingly from the projection.

“I’m sorry, Stefan,” he whispers, just in case heʼs listening. “I love you too.”

Maybe itʼs a coincidence that there is a power outage in the next second, but Dragos stares into the dark with a smile all the same.

#robul #Phyripo writes things #aph romania #aph bulgaria #Hetalia #quaestiones #anonymous #I didn't want to use an actual war so I made an intergalactic one

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phyripo · 6 years

Note

85&86 + sweden / denmark

85. “I will never apologize for saving your life, even if it costs me my own.”86. “I guess dying with you isn’t the worse (sic) way to go.”

Thanks! I’ve been watching a lot of Scandinavian crime series lately, so an AU based on those immediately popped into my head :0(I highly recommend Midnattssol if you’re interested and don’t mind, you know, blood and stuff)

Warning for… injury :))Torbjörn is Sweden, Søren is Denmark

send me a pairing and a number and I’ll write you a fic

It was not supposed to end like this.

A shot rings out over the waves, and Søren’sside blooms with pain, hot as a branding iron stabbed into his skin. He canhear footsteps crunching through the pebbles, Torbjörn’s angry Swedish becomingworried Swedish fast. His entire body shakes and he would have fallen if heweren’t already on the ground after diving for the man they have been chasingafter all this time.

Fuck, it hurts. He manages to rip hisgloves off and tries to find the wound, can feel hot blood soaking his coat,but his fingers are too unsteady.

“Søren?” Torbjörn is asking, with that funnymusical lilt he gives the name. “Søren, don’t move.”

“I don’t think I fucking can,” he replies, with effort. His Swedish colleague appears in hisfield of vision, replacing the too-bright sky and the eternal seagulls overhead.His glasses are askew. “Did—”

“He got away. Doesn’t matter,” the man repliesto the unspoken question, and Søren wants to swear but he can only hiss in painwhen Torbjörn does find the wound andpresses the fabric of his shirt down on it. The seagulls might be gone, butthere are black spots dancing all around in front of his eyes, and he goescross-eyed trying to follow them.

When Torbjörn straightens his glasses, his handis stained red and he smudges them, which Søren should find horrifying but ishilarious to him for some reason.

“‘S why I wear lenses,” he slurs, trying togesture but finding that his arm will not cooperate. The stones on the beachdig into his back, and isn’t it weird that he can feel that so clearly whensomeone is still poking that goddamn branding iron into his gut?

Torbjörn shakes his head. Ha, maybe he didn’t understand.He isn’t so bad, but his Swedish colleagues keep complaining about Søren’s Danish.Or Danish in general.

“You’re a good… A good boy,” Søren tells him,gasping halfway through the sentence. “But not a boy, y’know. Like, a man. Verymanly.”

“Please stop talking.”

“Can’t, y’know me.”

He shakes his head again, or at least Søren thinksso, because focusing is difficult and he decides to close his eyes instead.

They’ve only known each other for a few weeks,but for some reason, he really clicked with the stern Swedish detective. The gruffexterior belies a compassionate man, who is – always a plus in Søren’s book –willing to reconsider what exactly the rules mean when push comes to shove.Even if he often doesn’t know how to hold himself and scared a witness that onetime by looming too much, he is absolutely a nice benefit of the Swedish-Danishcooperation they’ve had going on. Easy on the eyes, too, when opening them isn’ttoo difficult.

Søren thinks that he maybe likes his colleaguea bit too much. It’s never seemed like much of a problem until now.

But then what does anything matter when there’sblood pouring out of him at an alarming rate and the seagulls are waiting tofucking eat him on some godforsaken beach in Sweden?

“Seagulls aren’t gonna eat you,” Torbjörn informshim, matter-of-fact, and apparently he’s saying things aloud.

Okay. Great,Nordskov. Good. Dying with dignity, what’s that?

“You won’t die,” Torbjörn says now. His deepvoice, familiar after the many hours spent together, has taken on an edge Sørendoesn’t know, and doesn’t think he likes.

“Dunno, kinda feels like it.”

His stomach is numb and alive with white-hotpain at the same time, and everything is way too quiet while Torbjörn pressesdown on it.

If there’s one thing Søren can’t stand, it’ssilence. Torbjörn has been happy enough to let him talk at him throughout theirinvestigation, let him work through the mess of clues and questions and answersin his head with only the barest minimum of interruptions. They’ve gotten soclose to the man who has killed four Danes and six Swedes and has hospitalizedat least twenty more, who’s fucking kidnapped children, because they work well together. Søren functions betterwhen he can talk.

That shouldn’t be true when he’s been shot. Andyet, here he is.

“Look,” he says to Torbjörn, wrenching his eyesback open and searching out the light blue he’s become so used to having aroundthrough the haze.

“Don’t,” he warns, but Søren coughs andcontinues anyway, trying desperately to ignore that that cough felt likesomeone trying to rip his intestines out. He’s good at things like that.

“Look, I know you’re prob’bly gonna say thatwas a stupid thing. To do.”

The familiar glare registers, and he grins withlips tasting like copper, the skin on them cracking. Why are his hands so cold?Is this what the Swedes call summer?

“Y’know, dying with you here isn’t th’worst wayto go.”

Torbjörn shakes his head.

“‘N don’t tell me I’m not gonna die, ‘s justhow it is.”

“No,” he replies, shifting his hands. There’sblood on his face, and dirt, and he let the killer get away to help Søreninstead like an idiot, but then Søren would probably have been dead by nowwithout him, would maybe have been dead days into their acquaintance if itweren’t for him, the stupid, beautiful Swede…

It’s suddenly important that Torbjörn knows. That Søren can make himunderstand what he means to him.

“He was aiming f’you, Torbjörn.”

“I know. You’re an idiot for reacting the wayyou did.”

He’s slipped back into his northern accentrather than the affected Malmø one even Søren could hear was fake. Thatprobably means something, but while Søren can identify the change without problem,for whatever fucking reason, he can’t connect it to a deeper meaning. It’s socold.

“‘M not gonna apologize f’saving your life.” Hecoughs again. Clenches his teeth. Copper, but no blood in his mouth. Is thatgood? It seems like it should be good. “Even ‘f it costs me my own. ‘S allworth it.”

Torbjörn looks up at something, maybe hearingsomething Søren can’t hear, because he can only hear those fucking seagulls andhis own heart trying to pump all the remaining blood in his body round at topspeed. But when Torbjörn looks back down, Søren can hear him too. His heavybreathing, the rattling in his chest as if he’s trying not to cry.

“Tell me when you get better, Søren. Theambulance is almost here.”

He hacks a laugh, digs his numb fingers into Torbjörn’sthigh because it’s right there and he’s wanted to touch all of him for quite awhile now, although preferably with less clothes on and maybe more with histongue or something.

“I won’t apologize,” he slurs again. “‘Cause y’know,‘s been an honor t’work with you, ‘n you’re, like, hot, ‘n…”

He tries to blink but his eyes stay shut, andeverything is so fucking cold.

“You’re worth it ‘cause I think ‘m in love with you,”he says, or thinks he says anyway. It’s difficult to make sense of anything.

Still, he’s sure that before he gives into thecold and feels himself slide into an endless sea of darkness, where even theseagulls won’t keep him company, he hears Torbjörn mumble, “I love you too.”

But then, maybe that’s heaven calling.

#densu #aph denmark #aph sweden #Hetalia #Phyripo writes things #midnattssol is really good but this is more the bridge I guess #I'd love to write a longer fic based on either of those series one day #but that's Difficult #I feel like I wanted to tag something else #oh of course #quaestiones #anonymous

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phyripo · 6 years

Note

29 + 34 with belarus/hungary!

29. “I’m laughing because you’re angry, I swear I didn’t do it!”34. “What are you, five?”

Thanks so much! This took a while, but I started writing something else for this prompt first that went in the wrong direction :0 (So if you want More HunBela, you can read that one here hA) But yes! I hope you like it! I’m experimenting with a new human name for Bela and I like it so Erzsébet is Hungary, Nadzeya is Belarus, Manon is Belgium and Kveta is Czechia :D

“Erzsébet, I’m going to be honest with you, ifyou write one more song about fucking paprika, I will fire you.”

Erzsébet looks up at Nadzeya, who is loomingover her, still intimidating even without makeup and with messy hair. Orwould-be intimidating, if Erzsébet didn’t know her so well.

“You are in luck!” she tells her brightly. “I’mwriting one a—”

“Orgoulash, I swear to fucking god,” Nadzeya interrupts. “You’re Hungarian, we getit.”

Somewhere among the mess that has alreadyaccumulated in the band’s dressing room, Manon comments, “You liked my wafflesong.”

Nadzeya rolls her eyes. “Keep telling yourselfthat.”

“Will do,” the bass guitarist says brightly.Then, as she walks by the two of them on the way out to the grassy, muddyfestival grounds, “Either of you want coffee? I’ll see if I can find Kvetawhile I’m out there, too.”

Erzsébet and Nadzeya both decline the offer forcoffee, but Nadzeya does remind Manon it’s only twenty minutes until they’resupposed to start their set; the band occupying the stage before them havestarted wrapping up theirs. Manon hums and walks outside. Is it still raining?It seems quiet on that front.

“It’s about goulash, isn’t it?” Nadzeya istrying to read her scrawled handwriting over Erzsébet’s shoulder, fingertipsresting just on her neck. Erzsébet just winks at her, turning her notepad away.

“You’ll see.”

“I’d really rather not,” she replies drily, andgoes to do her dark makeup for when they go on-stage.

Erzsébet watches her for a moment, watches hertransform from just Nadzeya to Nadzeya Alyakhnovich, frontwoman of the mostsuccessful all-female power metal band. She isn’t actually different onstage – that’s why Erzsébet, Manon and Kveta do most of the talking duringshows, lest they alienate everyone with the singer’s indefinable sense of humor– but it’s still a bit of a charade they all put on. It’s fun, actually.

When Manon and Kveta, the drummer, blunder intothe trailer that serves as dressing room for the entire band, complaining aboutthe coffee and tracking mud but not wet themselves, Erzsébet puts her notepadaway and does her own makeup, then inspects Manon’s for her as if it’s everanything less than immaculate, sharp winged eyeliner and red lipstick.

They’ve all finished that part of the pre-showroutine by the time someone from the festival comes by to tell them the stageis ready now, and the audience is still shuffling, so if they wanted to have abit of a soundcheck, now’s the time. Erzsébet gives the man a thumbs up, andNadzeya and Manon gather their instruments.

It’s indeed dry, which is good, and the cloudsseem to be parting to let the sun through, which is even better. The four of thementer the stage. It’s the main stage of this festival for the first time, andErzsébet couldn’t be prouder of her little group. Well, her group – it’s true that she and Kveta are the founding members,but they couldn’t have gotten here without Manon and Nadzeya, of course.

They’ve played here before; in fact, this metalfestival was the first major performance for them, a few years ago when theywere just starting out and were overjoyed to be allowed to play anywhere.

Kveta paces back and forth along the stage,waving at the audience and yelling at some people up front, while Manon andNadzeya tune their guitars and Erzsébet inspects her keyboard, because she’svery attached to it and wants it in perfect condition. It’s a thing left overfrom her classical background, she reckons, along with the band’s style. Oneday, she swears, she’s going to contact her old friend from piano class and askif he’d be willing to arrange orchestral versions for one of their albums.

The field in front of the stage is filled withpeople taking off jackets or putting on sunscreen, because as the real start oftheir set rolls around, the clouds are all but gone and it’s heating up. Nadzeyastrikes a chord on her guitar, and it doesn’t become quiet – of course not – but the attention noticeably focuses on thestage. Their name flashes on the screens, and Erzsébet feels the familiar rushof adrenaline rolling through her body.

“Good afternoon everyone, and welcome!” she shoutsinto her microphone, and the audience cheers uproariously. “We are Ulex, and we’rehonored to be back here; this is where it all started for us, after all!”

Nadzeya rolls her eyes, and Erzsébet grins. Shedoesn’t like overstatements, and it really started at the police station,really, but she’ll tell that story another time. Maybe when she can do sowithout admitting to the world that Manon’s way of getting the other three out oftheir holding cell wasn’t entirelylegal. Or without mortifying Nadzeya with an overly detailed description of thesexy witch costume she’d been wearing. Anyway.

“Are you all ready to run?” she continues, and can practically hear Kveta scoff; thedrummer hates her punny song introductions. “Run to the Light!”

Nevertheless, Kveta does count down amid theroaring from the crowd, and they’re off.

Erzsébet loves writing songs, loves hearingthem come to life in Nadzeya’s beautiful, raw voice for the first time, butnothing will ever top the feeling of just playingwith the band. This is what they do it for, for the times when they get to seetheir fans, when Erzsébet gets to see her fellow band members light up.Especially Nadzeya, who is never quite comfortable around people, comes aliveon stage, light hair shining in the bright lights and dark makeup framing herpale face like some old master’s painting.

There have been more songs written aboutNadzeya than anyone besides Erzsébet is aware of. Most of them never make itout of her head; they’re not a band that records love songs, generallyspeaking, and that’s definitely what they are. Erzsébet has long since given updenying that.

Nadzeya walks up close to her and smiles frombehind a curtain of hair when Erzsébet plays her favorite solo, nearing the endof their set. She smiles back, fingers flying over the keys.

She often gets the feeling they’re on the brinkof something, the two of them. That they’ve been there for a while now, andthat they could tip over the edge any moment now. She just isn’t sure how that will happen.

“Erzsébet Héderváry!” Nadzeya announces at theend of that song, and Erzsébet grins and makes an expansive gesture in thesinger’s direction.

“Nadzeya Alyakhnovich!”

Of course, Kveta shouts, “Manon Leclercq!”

“Kveta Horáková!” Manon finishes.

“Yes, thankyou,” says Nadzeya, but she smiles at Erzsébet again, before turning backto the audience and announcing their last song, the title track from theirlatest album. Even without the instrumentals that are usually part of it –because they can’t very well take an orchestra to a festival and Erzsébet hatesusing recordings of them – it lasts well over ten minutes, and they receive adeafening applause after Nadzeya’s last long, high note.

After a plethora of goodbyes and thank yous andwhatnot, they practically fall off the stage, and into a scheduled interviewwith a rock magazine, or at least Nadzeya and Erzsébet do that last one, andwhen they’re finally done with that as well, everything is bathed orange in thelight of the setting sun. Nadzeya’s sharp features are more pronounced thanusual by the shadows it casts on her face, and Erzsébet thinks she could writea song about that.

But then Nadzeya would be singing aboutherself, which, while kind of funny, would be awkward. It can be another songthat stays in her head.

Finally, they get back to the dressing roomtrailer, where they find a note from Manon and Kveta saying that they have goneto look around the festival grounds and listen to some other acts. Nadzeya justhuffs and walks to her suitcase. Erzsébet kicks her shoes off, then jumps whenthere’s a bang from Nadzeya’sdirection.

“Nadz—”

“Jesusfucking Christ,” the woman yells, and appears from behind the partitionthey’ve put up, covered in confetti. Erzsébetstares, then snorts and bursts out laughing.

“What the fuckis this, Erzsébet?” Nadzeya says, shaking confetti out of her hair. Some specksare sticking to her face. “What are you, five?”

“No, I – oh my god.” She hiccups. “I’m onlylaughing because you’re so angry, I swear I didn’t do it!”

“It’s not funny,” Nadzeya insists, but shesounds less vehement than a moment ago. “It’s always the ones you don’t expectit from.”

Erzsébet laughs more at that, because she wouldabsolutely expect a prank from Manon and Kveta. Especially Kveta, whom she met along time ago, when they were both in detention back at school and whom she’dhad a fierce rivalry with for years before it eventually turned intofriendship. Nevertheless, they usually don’t pick Nadzeya. That’s more herthing.

Well, maybe it was time they did.

“Stop laughing,” Nadzeya says, ratherpetulantly, and Erzsébet smothers her giggles into her hand. “There’s confettiin my hair.”

“Hmh, there sure is.” She takes a step forwardand plucks a purple piece of paper from her fringe. “Don’t worry, you stilllook great.”

Nadzeya looks down at her with those dark blueeyes. “I’m sweaty and I’m pretty sure there’s mascara everywhere.”

“Not so much,” Erzsébet assures her, gentlyreaching up again and swiping her thumb across the soft skin underneath her eye.“Besides, I always think you look great.”

Maybe this is it, she thinks. Maybe this is thetime they finally put words to that thing,that feeling between them. Maybe Manon and Kveta are not gone by accident –because they know, they definitely know that there’s something there.

“Thank you,” Nadzeya says, and then opens andcloses her mouth a few times as if she’s unsure of what to say.

Without speaking, Erzsébet takes more pieces ofconfetti from her hair and her face, and the singer stays still while herfingers brush through her hair and over her skin, only blinking.

“You know,” she eventually says, voice low,when Erzsébet has run out of confetti and is just aimlessly running her fingersthrough her hair, “I always figured we’d have some explosive moment.”

“Explosive moment?” Erzsébet asks. Sheunderstands, or thinks she does. Nadzeya is aware of that thing too, she has tobe, and although she is a quiet person in many ways that Erzsébet isn’t, shealso has a weakness for dramatics that’s on par with hers. An explosive moment would have been suitedto that. Maybe something on stage, as during one of Erzsébet’s many fantasies.

“Something you could write a song about.”

“I can write songs about lots of things,Nadzeya.”

She huffs. “Yeah, I’m aware.”

“Including food, I’ll admit,” Erzsébet laughinglysays. “It’s easy writing about things I like. Very inspiring.”

Nadzeya nods. She looks rather lost for words. Erzsébetwants to tell her about the songs written about her, but isn’t sure how. Herfingers are a little shaky, and she didn’t give them permission for that.

“Erzsébet?”

“Yes?”

“Would you like – god, this is the cheesiestline I’m ever going to use, so you better fucking appreciate it – would youlike to go out for more inspiration with me?”

“Is…” Erzsébet looks up at her, and finds asurprising amount of anxiety in the familiar blue eyes, the set of the thineyebrows. She keeps her tone as serious as possible. “Are you asking me todinner?”

“I am.” Nadzeya swallows. “I hope I’m not wrongabout this, that’d be really fucking emba—”

“Nadzeya,” Erzsébet interrupts, and the womanquiets. “Yes, I’d love to.”

She exhales in a big rush of air. “Oh, thankfuck.”

Erzsébet stands on her tiptoes, wraps her armsaround her neck, and grins into her hair when Nadzeya embraces her as well,clinging tight as if relieved. She feels the same, heart feeling like it’sslamming against her ribcage.

“Wanna hear a cheesy line in return?” she asks,trying to keep her voice steady and not quite succeeding.

“No,” Nadzeya replies, “but go ahead.”

With a huff, she says, “I don’t need to go anywherefor inspiration, I’ve got everything I need here.”

Nadzeya groans, and Erzsébet grins.

“You’re terrible, Erzsébet.”

“I know.”

“Besides,” Nadzeya continues, drawing back butkeeping her hands on her waist, “we do actually need to eat.”

“I don’t need to go anywhere to eat—”

“I swear to god, we haven’t even been on onedate.”

She laughs, feeling giddy. “Were you reallyexpecting otherwise?”

At that, Nadzeya shakes her head fondly,dislodging some stray confetti from the back of her hair. She shoots thespeckles of color on the floor of the trailer a flat look and announces she’llfucking get Manon and Kveta back for that.

“But I’m going to wash up first,” she says. “I’llbe right back.”

She bites her lip, then leans forward andpresses the barest of kisses to the corner of Erzsébet’s mouth before shedisappears behind the partition again, trailing confetti. Erzsébet touches herlips as if she’s fifteen again and being kissed for the first time, unable towipe the grin off her face.

They’re going to go out to dinner, and hopefullyproperly kiss, and then they’re going to get Manon and Kveta back, but shemight also just leave them a thank you note. Maybe even a song.

After that, they’ll make their own explosive momentson stage. Erzsébet is sure of it.

#aphbela #hunbela #Hetalia #aph yuri #aph belarus #aph hungary #Phyripo writes things #quaestiones #I recommend listening to dalriada because that's what I did #not that I think bela sounds like that obviously actually that's my hungary voiceclaim #but #I just love dalriada #ok bye

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phyripo · 6 years

Note

1+7+44, norhong? (or 1+44, or 1+7)

1. Are you wearing my shirt?7. “Wanna bet?”44. “Did you enjoy yourself last night?”

Ano n thanks!! I managed to get all three in there y ay

The human names are pretty clear but just in case - Einar is Nor, Leon is HK aaaand Egil is Ice

send me a pairing and a number and I’ll write a fic!

Let it be said that Einar loves a good mystery.

As a child, he read all kinds of detectivestories, even the bloody ones his parents tried to stop him from pulling offthe shelves in the library. His greatest dream was to become a detectivehimself – until, of course, he realized that it would be much easier to justwrite stories about them. He’s visited plenty of police stations, talked toprivate detectives, all in the name of accuracy, and can say that he knowsenough to solve minor crimes, most likely.

However, despite all that, the sight before himjust makes no sense.

“Hello?” the man in front of his door repeats,tilting his head. Dark hair falls into his eyes, and he swipes it away with anoverlong sleeve. A very familiar overlong sleeve, though it’s never looked thatlong before.

“Are… Are ya wearin’ my sweater?” Einar asks.

The man looks down at the dark blue, cable-knitwool covering his chest, then up at Einar again – quite a ways up; Einar isused to being taller than people often, but this is something else entirely.

“I shouldn’t think so,” he says. “I did borrowit from a guy in my class a few weeks back, but I’m sure I would haveremembered you.”

“Which class is that?”

He narrows his eyes, but answers, “A geologyone at the university in town. Why?”

Einar presses his lips together, taps his chinwith a finger that is still slightly damp because he just finished doing thedishes after dinner. “I see. And that guy – is his name Egil, by any chance?”

“Matter of fact, yeah. Do you know him? Is he,like, your…” The man’s light brown gaze sweeps up and down Einar’s body,assessing. “Brother?”

He nods. Figures that was where his favoritesweater went. He’s been missing it during the past cold week.

“Small world. I wanted to guess boyfriend, butyou kinda look like him.”

“We get that a lot.” Einar raises his eyebrowswhen something occurs to him. “Should Ibe guessin’ boyfriend? As far as I know, my brother doesn’t go around handin’ my sweaters to just anyone.”

The man – and has he mentioned his name whileEinar was busy trying to think of how the fuck he got a hold of the sweaterthat he knit? – chuckles lightly.

“We’re friends, I guess. We’ve got one class incommon, so, like, I don’t really see him often.” A pause. “But I assume you’regonna want this back, yeah?”

As soon as Einar nods, because damn it, he knows he looks good incobalt blue, the guy starts working the sweater over his head, sleeves flappingeverywhere – right in front of the doorto Einar’s apartment. Oh hell,why does Egil always attract the weird ones? Or is it Einar himself? Is it aThomassen family trait?

“Hey, stop that,” he says, reaching for theman. What’s he doing here, anyway? Has he mentioned that?

Sweater now around his neck and hair messy, theguy looks up at Einar again, gaze questioning.

“C’mon, you can’t undress on the gallery. Comein,” Einar says, stepping back to let the man into his hall. By the time he’sclosed the door, the sweater has come off, leaving him in a black T-shirt. Einarnods in thanks when the wool is thrust into his hands.

“So, as I said,” says the man, smoothing downhis hair, “I’m your new neighbor.”

Oh, that’s why he’s here. That makessense.

“Right. Nice to meet you. I’m Einar Thomassen.”

He smiles a tiny smile. “Leon Li. Likewise.”

Einar nods, pushes his foot into the carpet. Heswipes his hair out of his face and suggests, “Coffee?”

“Sounds good.”

And so Einar makes coffee – with an insaneamount of sugar for his new neighbor – and they sit on the chairs in the livingroom while Leon asks trivial questions about the building and the neighborhood,generally making easy conversation, which is something that Einar is never muchgood at. Neither is his brother, he thinks, so Leon must have some sort ofgift, considering the sweater situation.

After a while, though, he notices something.

“Are – you’re shiverin’,” he says, and Leonhalts in the middle of a tangent about how his bike was stolen when he lived onthe university campus to look up at him. “Are ya cold?”

Leon raises his impressive eyebrows, and, ofcourse, that’s a stupid question. He’s only wearing that T-shirt, and Einarnever turns his heating very high, opting instead to wear warm sweaters such asthe one that was just returned to him. He looks at where he draped it over theback of a chair at the dining table. It would probably be weird to offer it tohim again now. He wishes he still had a fireplace like he and Egil did whenthey lived with their parents.

“Do ya want… A blanket?” he suggests instead,and is slightly startled when Leon actually laughs, not unkindly.

“I’d love a blanket.”

Einar gets him a plaid – also hand-knit – andwatches him pull his thin legs up on the couch after kicking his shoes off, asif this is his new apartment ratherthan the one next door, with some vague sense of satisfaction. Some sense ofwarmth. Einar has few friends, and only one or two of those he does are sounabashed. It seems Leon might be a new one.

He doesn’t actually stick around for a wholelot longer after that, excusing himself because he has an early morningtomorrow. Before he goes, he assures Einar that he’s always welcome to visit;an invitation that Einar, to his own surprise, returns in kind.

Without even bothering to put his shoes backon, Leon pads through the hall to the door next to Einar’s, and disappearsinside with a tiny little wave. Einar raises a hand, closes his own front door,and frowns.

Leon took his plaid.

The next day, between an important work meetingand his car breaking down unexpectedly, Einar has completely forgotten aboutthe plaid when he opens the door at five-thirty in the afternoon to find Leonthere, wearing a denim jacket this time, instead of one of the other sweatersEgil has stolen from Einar over time as he was half-expecting.

“Hey,” the man says, pushing his hands deepinto the pockets of his baggy jeans. “I was wondering if you’d like to comeover for dinner? I totally miscalculated everything and now I’ve got way toomuch food cooking.”

Einar blinks. “That – well, that sounds nice,yeah. Ya sure?”

“Of course.” A small smile again. Leon doesn’tseem to smile often, but then neither does Einar himself.

“Well, let me get my slippers on, and I’ll beright there.”

The smile stays there, and Leon nods.

The both of them traipse over to Leon’sapartment. He apologizes for the mess, but it’s really quite neat, if not fullyfinished yet. There are some paintings leaning against the wall instead of hungup, and there’s only one window with curtains. Most of the furniture is white,with touches of red here and there. It looks nice. It also smells delicious,sweet and spicy at once.

Einar curiously leans over to examine someinteresting-looking stones on the table while Leon putters around in the kitchen.He knows more than the average person about rocks because Egil likes to talkabout his geology study, but isn’t sure whether those ones are actuallyinteresting in a way his brother would appreciate. There are faint shapes inthem. Fossils?

“I see you found Guinevere,” Leon says as hecomes back into the room. Einar looks up, amused.

“Guinevere?”

He chuckles. “She’s a trilobite. I study – didI tell you? – I study archaeology, and there’s a lot of them around on digs.”

“Ya didn’t tell me, actually. That’s nice.” Andit explains the geology class he shares with Egil. “Found anything interestinglately?”

And so, throughout dinner – which is way toogood for being made by a guy who’s, what, 25, and lives on his own; Einar iskind of jealous – Leon tells him about ruins and old civilizations and Einar’smind immediately spins stories out of the new knowledge, as it tends to do.

“You never told me what you do, did you?” Leonasks, later, over tea this time. He’s curled up on his own couch now, with hishands curled protectively around his teacup and his small form hidden under aheap of red blankets, and a blue plaid that doesn’t quite register to Einar atfirst, and when it does, he doesn’t think it’s pertinent to bring it up.

“I’m a writer.” Einar smiles at him. “Urban fantasy,for the most part.”

“No way, that’s awesome.”

“It’s… Well, I suppose it is. I like it a lot.”

By the time Einar goes home, he’s tired enoughthat he just pads across the hall and only takes a short shower before going tobed. He promised Leon to help hang his curtains later this week, never mindthat he’s a terrible handyman, and he actually rather looks forward to it. He’seasy company, which is worth a lot.

In addition, well, he’s not exactly hard on theeyes either.

On Saturday, Einar can’t find his slippersanywhere and is trying to retrace their whereabouts when the doorbell rings. Somehowexpecting Leon again, and finding that he wouldn’t even mind if that were thecase, he opens the door to find his brother instead.

“You don’t look happy to see me,” Egil remarksdrily, shouldering his way inside.

“Does anyone ever?” Einar shoots back. Egilgives him a flat look while he toes his sneakers off, and he smiles. “Well, to whatdo I owe the pleasure? Out of food again?”

“I can actually take care of myself, you know.”

“You’re out of food again.”

“I’m out of food again.”

And, because Einar is a good brother, he letsEgil stay for lunch and doesn’t even say anything about his sweater thievery. It’snot as if it’s anything new, anyway. They talk about the plans for their father’sbirthday and Egil’s classes and Einar’s annoying publisher, and the afternoonslips by fast.

Around four, with darkness just starting to setin, there a rap on the balcony door, and of course it’s Leon out there, lookingcold, and – oh – wearing Einar’sslippers. Egil is in the kitchen, and Einar lets his neighbor in quickly. It is cold outside.

“Are ya secretly a kleptomaniac?” he asks,amused.

“It’s not very secret if you notice, is it?”Leon kicks the slippers off. “Figured you might want these back. They’re supercomfy, though.”

“Thankyou.” Einar makes sure to put far too much emphasis on the words, and Leonsmirks.

“Hey, Einar, who’re you talking… To?” Egilstops in the doorway to the kitchen, coffee in hand. “Leon?”

“Egil, hi. I take it your brother didn’tmention me?”

Egil shakes his head, slowly lifting his mug totake a sip.

“I see how it is, hmm.” A semi-disappointedheadshake. “Well, I’ve gotta run now, but, like, I’ll see you both around.”

Einar nods absently, but then Leon turns to himwith a worrying twinkle in his light brown eyes, and he’s very alert all of asudden. For all that they’ve only met two days ago, he can already tell thatthat look means he’s up to no good. He has enough pranksters for friends.

Leon stands on his tiptoes, grabs Einar’s bicepand leans into his space, crowding him with the same sweet and spicy scent asin his apartment yesterday. Einar leans over a bit. His light hair brushes Leon’snose for a second.

“Did you enjoy yourself last night?” Leon asksin an undertone just loud enough to be heard by Egil, who promptly spits hiscoffee everywhere and starts coughing.

“Oh, fuck off.” Einar pushes his neighborbodily to the door, biting his own lip to keep from laughing. Leon is shakingwith suppressed laughter as well. He drags Einar out to the chilly balcony withhim, and speaks through chuckles.

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to see your brother’sface.”

“If I have any costs from cleanin’ the carpet,I’m makin’ you pay for ‘em,” Einar tells him, not quite as deadpan as heintended to.

“You’re a hardass, aren’t you?”

Einar quirks his eyebrows, which makes Leonlaugh again.

“I’m sure Egil doesn’t really believe that wegot something, anyway.”

“No? Wanna bet?” And, when Einar tilts his headin a combination of question and challenge, “Just don’t, like, contradict himif he does believe we do. See what he makes of it.”

“I—”

“Unless you’re not into guys and it would makeyou uncomfortable? Or for any other reason, of course, I wouldn’t—”

“No, I am – I do like men.” Einar looks inside,where his brother is now fighting with a dozen paper tissues to clean uphimself and Einar’s floor. It’s been a long time since he got a good prank in;he usually leaves it to Søren or Dragos to annoy Egil. “Alright, good. Let’ssee how long it keeps up if he does believe it. I say less than a week.”

“You’re on, Einar.”

They shake hands, and then Leon quicklyscuttles home across their shared balcony. Einar follows the example, steppingback inside.

“Are yousleeping with my classmate?” Egil practically shrieks when he’s barelyclosed the door behind himself. Einar shrugs at his brother, letting himinterpret the gesture. He looks like he doesn’t know whether to be amused orhorrified, and eventually settles for faintly constipated. Unfortunately, thatexpression is a family trait, but that’s another issue entirely.

“How did you guys even meet? He’s, what, eightyears younger than you?”

“No, I, he’s, what?”

“He’s 21 – you didn’t even ask for his age?”

“Well…” Einar supposes he didn’t, at that. Hejust assumed that Leon was around his brother’s age, but of course, atuniversity, there’s no guarantee that’s the case even when you share a class. However,he finds that he doesn’t mind. Why would he, if he didn’t before? He wonders ifLeon is aware Einar’s turning thirtynext year, but gets the feeling the man doesn’t mind much. An admirable trait.

“Einar?” Egil asks.

“What? No, I didn’t know how old he is, Egil,but we met because he’s my new neighbor, and not only does he remember toactually buy food for himself, he’s good at cookin’ it too. That’s more of anindication of maturity than age in your twenties, wouldn’t ya say?”

“You wound me,” Egil says. “Well, I wish youtwo all the luck in the world. Just watch out for him stealing your sweaters. Igave him one in class and I still don’t have it back.”

“Ah, yes, about that…”

When Einar does go to help Leon with hiscurtains on Tuesday, the man insists on taking a picture of the two of them andsending it to Egil via Snapchat. At the last moment before he takes it, Leonleans up and kisses Einar on the cheek, capturing his startled face.

Egil sends back a picture of himself with hismiddle finger extended even though he appears to be in a lecture hall. Einardespairs of his life choices.

“I think you’re cheatin’,” he tells Leon, whojust smirks and takes another picture of him.

They hang the curtains – Einar is only usefulbecause he’s at least a full head taller than Leon, but still – and afterwards,Einar takes his leather jacket off because the heating is turned far higherthan he’s used to, and they have coffee. With some satisfaction and a healthydose of suspicion, Einar regards the misshapen lumps Leon presents with thecoffee, introduced as biscuits in that vaguely British-sounding accent he has.

“Good to know there’s something I’m better atthan you,” Einar says, prodding one of the things. It crumbles at his touch.

“I am an excellent cook, Mr Thomassen,” heretorts.

“I, however, am an excellent baker, Mr Li.”

Leon tilts his head, choppy black hair fanningacross his face. He swipes it away.

“I think I’ll hold you to that,” he muses, andEinar smiles into his mug.

“By the way,” he then says, “my brother thinksI’m a cradle snatcher.”

With a deadly serious face, Leon replies, “Ofcourse not, you’re a sugar daddy.”

Einar chokes, and Leon laughs, sprawling out onthe couch.

“Don’t eversay that again,” Einar sputters. “I feel old enough already!”

“God, your face! I wish I’d taken a picture.”

“Oh, fuck off, Leon.”

“It’s alright, I’ve got enough money of my ownanyway.”

“That wasn’t the issue with it!”

But Leon stretches a foot out from underneathhis eternal blankets and pokes it against his thigh, and Einar has to smilewhile shaking his head fondly.

“Isn’t sugar daddy, like, better than cradlesnatcher, all things considered?”

“Shut up,Leon, I’m only 29.” Einar slaps his shin.

When he gives Leon his phone number, becausethey managed to forget about that before, he has to wrestle the man’s phone outof his hands to prevent him naming the contact Sugar Daddy or putting aneggplant emoticon behind his name. He leaves in a good mood and only has aslight moment of panic when he realizes they have definitely been flirting.

Still, he doesn’t want to lose the bet, so heinvites Egil over for dinner on Thursday and resolves to wait until Saturday toresume responding to Leon’s teasing.

It’s… Difficult to keep that resolve. Twenty-fiveyears with a younger brother and who knows how many with terrible friends likeNatalya and Søren have conditioned Einar into immediately responding to any andall barbs thrown his way.

Even if he doesn’t intend to flirt with Leon, it kind of happens, and besides, it’s amusing to see the exasperated looksEgil is throwing them. He doesn’t once seem to doubt his assumption that they’re– at least fucking, probably a couple. To be honest, they’re not giving himmuch reason to.

“You’re gross,” he tells both of them duringdinner that Thursday evening. “I hope you’re very happy together.”

“We have fun,” says Einar, which is true, butthe wink Leon throws his way in response gives the statement a differentimplication.

The thing is that Einar wouldn’t mind at all,he thinks, if the implications were true, and he’s fairly sure that Leon issincere in his flirting, that he’s not just teasing, not just trying to sellEgil on his assumption or trying to make him uncomfortable. But damn it, he needs to win that bet. He’sgot pride.

He tries looking a bit uncomfortable when Leonmakes some kind of come-on to him, just a bit, but Egil is talking about rocks,which means he isn’t paying attention. Einar isn’t sure he could fool hisbrother. He can’t even fool himself, after all.

Leon, to his credit, does pick up on hissignals, and unsubtly follows him to the kitchen when he goes to get dessert.

“Am I, like, making you uncomfortable?” heasks, leaning against the kitchen counter while Einar looks through the fridgefor whipped cream. He pokes his head around the door to look at the man, andabruptly realizes he’s wearing hisleather jacket. It looks way too attractive for being three sizes too big.

“You’re not making me uncomfortable, don’tworry. I’m havin’ a good time, it’s just—” He flicks his gaze to the kitchen doorand lowers his voice, closing the refrigerator. “I want to win this bet.”

Leon smiles. “If you’re this fanatical about abet without any terms, remind me never to play Monopoly with you.”

“I can set a term,” Einar says. He leans a hipagainst the counter.

“Oh?”

He takes a deep breath. “If I win, I can – I cantake ya on a date where I want.”

Leon’s impressive eyebrows jump. “And do I geta say in that?”

“If ya win, yeah.”

“If I win…” He steps forward. Reaches up andcurls his fingers into Einar’s sweater – it’s the cobalt blue one. “I think I’dsay yes.”

Einar looks down at him, and he suddenly looksyounger than usual, maybe more his actual age, and rather unsure. His fingersfidget with the wool of the sweater, and on impulse, Einar pulls it over hishead and drapes it around Leon’s shoulders. His eyes widen.

“I was hopin’ you’d say yes anyway,” Einarsays, voice low. He keeps his hands on Leon’s shoulders, only partially so thesweater doesn’t fall, and Leon, in return, trails his fingers down the white,long-sleeved shirt he was wearing underneath it.

“Well, I mean.” He seems to have regained hisconfidence, and looks up and up until he locks eyes with Einar. “Wouldn’t youlike a bit more incentive, Einar?”

“Incentive for what?” Einar asks innocently,eyebrow rising.

“You know,” he replies, shrugging, but his gazeflicks to Einar’s lips, and Einar wants to go on that date, damn it.

Besides, does he really lose the bet if they’reactually together in some way?

“Oh, alright then,” he says, feigning annoyance.

In a swift but precise move, he presses Leonagainst the counter, slides his fingers into his hair, leans over and kisseshim.

Of course, Egil chooses that exact moment tocome into the kitchen, and he shrieks something about his ice cream and, “Icould have sworn you guys were fucking faking it but I guess not!”

It’s all well worth Leon’s smug look, because itturns out he tastes as sweet and spicy as Einar imagined.

“I technically won, ya know,” Einar says, later.“He believed it for less than a week.”

Leon, wearing absolutely no clothes of his ownand instead what seems like half of Einar’s wardrobe, waves a hand in reply.

“Winning is relative, Einar. Maybe the real betwas the warm clothes we stole along the way.”

“I fuckin’ hate ya,” he deadpans.

“Really? Wanna bet? I say less than a second.”

Einar considers this.

“I win. I say never.”

#back at it again with the norhong #norhong #aph norway #aph hong kong #Hetalia #Phyripo writes things #send me more things! or send me requests anyway I like doing requests #anonymous #quaestiones

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phyripo · 6 years

Note

Ozsey 36?

36. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Thanks, anon! Here’s a bunch of people being terrible in some au I just thought up I hope you like it :’)

Oh, yeah - David is Oz, Angélique is Sey and Riley is Zea because they insisted on being there as well

send me a pairing and a number and I’ll write a fic!

She seems sort of boring, at first.

Well, not boring, but very decent, with her sensible hiking shoes and the small cross charmnecklace resting in the hollow of her throat. Her name is written in roundedletters on the nametag they’re all being made to wear – Angélique, with alittle sun drawn in the corner. (David tried to draw a crocodile in the cornerof his own, but it looks more like a blob than anything else.)

Still, the only reason that he notices heramong the other summer camp counsellors is that she’s very pretty, all tight black curls and smiling eyes and frecklesdotting her warm brown skin. She’s wearing a summery blue dress that’s quicklyexchanged for a yellow camp T-shirt tucked into denim shorts after everyone hasreceived their instructions.

They’re on the same team – which is to say,they have to supervise the same gaggle of overexcited kids, they themselves underthe supervision of Arthur (“call me Mr Kirkland”) and his ever-present clipboard.He seems surprised that David is back for another year, but only raises hiseyebrows, which are somehow even bigger than David’s own, and doesn’t sayanything about it. Their little group is completed by David’s friend Riley.That’s a first. For some reason, they were always split up before.

“Yeah, I pulled some strings,” Riley says inthat innocent way of theirs, before going to introduce themself to Angélique.(David swears one day Riley’s going to land himin jail and he’ll never even know what for.)

They meet ‘their’ kids, a dozen hyperactivethirteen-year-olds who are still convinced the summer camp is cool (it’llprobably be the last year of that) but not so much that they should actuallylisten to what their counsellors tell them. It all ends in a lot of shouting.David can practically feel himself going hoarse, but he also gains a lot of satisfactionfrom watching Arthur’s eyebrows crinkle ever more.

Poor man. He probably wishes he had a real job.

David accidentally catches Angélique’s eyewhile he’s busy suppressing laughter at the supervisor, and she bites her lipwhile grinning, gaze flicking to Arthur and back again. The man is turning vaguelyred now, and it doesn’t look like it’s the sun causing it – yet.

Ah, so she’s a little less decent than hethought, then. Good. He might need to get to know her a little better.

They have their first excursion right away onthe first full day of camp, taking the teens into the surrounding forest toplay some games that end with people being pushed into mud or hiding in trees(that last group including David) and Arthur covered in ants. Angélique can’tstop laughing even while she helps him bat them away.

David has to tell them that they can’t showertonight, and is understandably mobbed by mud-caked kids. (He didn’t even tellthem that he is allowed to wash.)

“You’ve got a little…” Angélique tells himwhen he joins the counsellors for dinner, as she gestures vaguely at her own face.

“Yeah, I’m moisturising,” David jokes,grimacing when he wipes his forehead and his fingers come away muddy. Angéliquelaughs and hands him a paper tissue.

Later, when they’re watching the celebratory we-survived-the-first-day-of-campcampfire burn out while Riley and Arthur herd the kids to their cabins, Davidtells her about some of the weirdest things that have happened in previousyears, including the time last year when he and Riley discovered that a very Romeo and Juliet-type romance had sprungup between two teenagers from their respective groups, and they decided toprotect them from the rest of the counsellors. (They all hated the two of themby the end. Maybe that’s why they’vebeen put together now, with the new recruit.)

“I think that’s why Arthur was so surprised I’mback this year,” he adds, grinning as Angélique laughs brightly. Her eyes aresparkling in the firelight, and they look very deep.

“Well, I’m glad you are,” she replies. Shebites her lip, absently grabs her necklace, and shakes her curls out of herface. “I think it’ll be fun, this week. And the kids seem to love you.”

“The feeling is entirely mutual,” he assuresher. “Except on the kids’ parts. I hate those little arseholes.”

She laughs again, and David keeps grinninguntil he goes to bed and Riley thwackshim over the head with a pillow. Although Arthur eventually appears to tellthem to stop their ‘utterly childish’ pillow fight, he decides it’s been a muchbetter first day than he could have expected.

The second day is much the same, except that theyhave an outing to the sea, where Angélique demonstrates admirable surfing skilland also that she looks very good in a bikini top and boardies, and whereArthur Mr Kirkland does, in fact, get sunburnt, this much to everyone’shilarity. While he sits in the shade and grumbles, hiding his face behind hisclipboard, Riley, David and Angélique lead the kids in a chaotic game ofCapture the Flag that eventually devolves into Angélique’s and David’s groupsganging up on Riley’s, because (as always) Riley has come up with a strategythat’s far too serious and complicated and apparently includes booby traps on thebeach.

David is running from some children withAngélique when she trips over one such trap and sprawls on the sand, gettingtangled in ropes.

“Fucking shit,”she almost-shrieks, squirming. “Damn it!”

David’s brain practically screeches to a halt. Sheswears. And not entirely mildlyeither. That is about the opposite of what he expected from her – seemingly mild-mannered,most likely religious Angélique Verlaque.He stops running to look at her, all sandy curls and yellow fabric and waytoo much damn skin.

“You kiss your fucking mother with that mouth?”he asks, almost in awe.

“No,” she says, still struggling, “butsometimes I kiss yours.”

“What the h—”

The kids take him down, Riley looming over himlike a malevolent god as he falls to the sand.

Worth it.

Later, he and Riley form the rear of the groupas they walk back to the campsite. There’s still sand all over him, but Davidfeels fucking amazing.

“Riley,” he tells them, and takes theexasperated sigh he receives in answer as a sign to continue, “I’m in love.”

“Because she told you she kisses your mum?”

“Don’t you see, mate? She’s perfect. She’s the perfect woman.”

“Because she told you she kisses your—”

He throws his hands up. “No, because she can keep up with me, Riles. She doesn’tmind, you know…”

“Your terribleness?”

He takes a breath. Releases it. “Yeah, basically.”

Riley chuckles. They’ve been dealing with Davidlong enough themself to know what he means. David knows he’s a chaotic man, andprone to saying things he really hasn’t thought about (sometimes, justsometimes, he doesn’t like that about himself) but not a lot of people manage tostick around once they know that. Angélique, maybe, could. The signs are good.

“Excellent,” Riley says. “I’ll prepare a shoveltalk.”

“I’m honoured, mate.”

“For you,Dave. That poor girl.”

“I take offense to that.”

“You deserve it. Don’t worry, I have all thereasons why outlined in the speech I’ll give at your wedding.”

The kids have to prepare dinner for everyone,and it turns out surprisingly good (because Riley distracts Arthur so he can’t ‘help’and Angélique actually does help) soit’s another good evening. They leave them to a spirited game of truth or darewith some of the other counsellors keeping watch around nine in the evening,and David goes to take a much-needed shower.

When he exits the cubicle, not wearing a shirtand still fumbling with an uncooperative zipper, he catches Angélique’s eyes inthe mirror over the row of sinks. She’s brushing her teeth.

“Hey,” he says, stilling. She quirks hereyebrows, leans forward to rinse her mouth, and then turns to him.

“Hi.” She presses her lips together. “Ah,David, I wanted to say sorry about that thing I – that thing I said. About yourmum.”

He smiles, letting his zipper be. “Don’t worryabout it. I’m sure she’d be flattered.”

“Good to know.” Her dark eyes very quickly flitdown his chest, but she meets his gaze again after a second. “She isn’t single,is she?”

“Ha, no, she’s not, sorry to disappoint.” Heruns a hand through his damp hair, watching through his eyelashes as Angéliquetakes a deep breath and swallows.

“Too bad,” she says, leaning against the sinks,back arching. “Any other family members you can recommend for swearing at?”

Briefly, David thinks about his brother, whopretends to be scandalised every time someone uses a single swear word (but he’sheard him talk to his schoolmates) and his sister, who is not allowed to swear(but he’s heard her talk to herschoolmates and damn).

“Me, maybe,” he says. “If you’re not opposed to,y’know, swearing at men.” He doesn’t think she is, but she’s full of surprises,is Angélique. Well, he’s only known her three days, after all. Who knows whatother interesting things he can learn about her.

“I’m not picky.” She shrugs. Then, she laughs,arms crossing. Her necklace glints in the bright lights in the bathroom. “Youshould have seen your face, though!You’d think I was propositioning you, David!”

Then, suddenly, Riley’s voice from the otherside of the mirrors. “Can you two get a room? Jesus Christ.”

Angélique does flinch at that last one, justslightly. David resolves to stick to God-less swearing from now on. (Oh, fuck,he’s already in deep.)

“Thanks, Riles!” he calls. “They’repropositioning me for you, I think.”

“I absolutely am, and you better get a damnmove on, mate,” Riley replies. The bathroom door opens and closes, and Davidgrins down at Angélique, who is looking very intently at him. Her eyes haveflecks of green in them in this light.

“Problem?” he asks.

She just says, “Oh, fuck it,” and reaches forhim, wrapping a hand around his neck and resting the other against his chest. Hequickly shuts up altogether.

(His mum, David later reflects, is definitelymissing out with regards to being kissed by that mouth.)

(He’s very glad that the kids are determined torepay him for the Romeo and Juliet situation from last year, although he couldhave done without the extensive alarm system they set up to warn them everytime Arthur is approaching.)

(Also, Riley’s shovel talk is terrifying. Theirbest man speech at the wedding even more so.)

#Phyripo writes things #ozsey #aph australia #aph seychelles #Hetalia #anonymous #quaestiones #what terrible

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