Personal challenge:
One Song - One word - Write without really planning anything out.
Song: Broken - Lifehouse
Word: Books
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He runs his fingers over the leather bound cover, feels the cool material beneath his fingertips as he traces the worn edges.
Each page has been read a thousand times over, and he'll read them a thousand times more.
Long ago the pages wear neat and straight, but centuries of wear and tear has made them ragged.
Norway has tried to repair the book to the best of his abilities, but it will never look new.
Not that it has to – part of the charm is it's age.
He flips it open, finding a particular page he really loves and re-reads it for the umpteenth time with a faint smile.
His mother's handwriting is still recognisable, even if he's had to re-trace her words with his own pen and ink a good few times.
Her runes, her teachings, her knowledge – all stored in the leather bound book that has survived for much longer than any book ever should.
Norway doesn't know if it would have survived if he wasn't a nation – if no one memorized the words they would surely fade into dust forever.
He doesn’t actually have to read it any more, he knows ever page by heart.
On page 78 there's a rune of rings.
On page 94 there's a diagram of the stars in winter.
Page 40 to 45 contain a map of the northern lights best viewing spots.
Even centuries later the map never fails or lets him down when he wants to sit beneath the glowing sky.
Amongst his books it looks insignificant.
Worn spine and crumbled pages that Norway has tried to straighten out again and again.
Between his other books it pales in beauty.
But judging a book by a cover can prove disastrous.
Norway smiles to himself as he finds the chapter on trolls.
His mother left nothing out of the book.
All her tricks are gathered between the covers.
All her spells, her secrets, her knowledge.
Everything she thought important (and something not so important), she ensured it was all written down.
Something written plainly, other things hidden in code.
Norway particularly loves the pages where he can see his mother's train of thought wander from one subject to the other.
The pages where she mixes languages and letters.
The pages where the text stops and is replaced with drawings – some intricate and detailed, others sketchy and simple.
Each tell a story, and despite knowing it's damaging the pages, Norway keeps tracing the lines – following each pen stroke and letter with uttermost care.
The book could burn to ash and Norway could still produce a perfect replica.
But it wouldn't really be the same.
It wouldn't hold the same importance as this one does.
And no matter if the words are the same, or if he's now traced them again and again.
I wouldn't mean as much if the words in the front cover weren't originally penned by her hand.
“Words from one heart to another,” the first line reads, and Norway can't help but feel his heart ache each time he reads them.
“Stay strong, stay safe,” the second one reads, and he always feels but guilty for not really having followed that request of hers.
“All will be well in the end my son.”
The last line is written in smaller writing, a little less legible and harder to read if you're not familiar with her handwriting. But Norway knows what it says.
He knows the words, and every time he reads them he remembers her voice.
Comforting but stern.
The voice that told him stories from old lore. The voice who guided him through hard lessons that sometimes could only be learned through failing.
The voice who comforted him when the world seemed especially dark and cold.
Norway smiles softly and places the book carefully back in the shelf, fingers lingering on the spine before he steps away and admires the bookcase with fondness.
Even with torn pages, worn edges and faded words – the book is dear to him. His little personal guide when he needs it most in life.
Words of wisdom that even he needs to re-learn.
A distant voice from his past to guide him away from mistakes.
A parent’s wisdom lingering even if their voice long gone from the world.
A book.
A memory.
A piece of his heart and a piece of hers.
Discussing headcanons with yuuago on twitter regarding Norway and (in nations terms) his new found riches.
Headcanon ficlet followed.
Because, after all; years of being poor isn't easily forgotten.
{Read on FF / Dreamwidth]
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It's hard some days.
Those days when he's made too much food and wonders if just this once he could just throw it out.
He never does.
That would be a waste.
Norway can't bear to let things go to waste.
It's a habit left over from years of being poor. Years of struggling and working his fingers to the bone.
Years of not really knowing if he'd be able to eat. Because if he could eat someone else couldn't.
He used to leave food at his neighbour’s door and still the hunger in his own stomach with what he could find in the forest.
Norway is good at knowing what plants make at least a filling meal – albeit far from tasty or satisfying.
These days everyone around him tends to have more than enough to eat.
But habits are hard to quit.
There's always that nagging little voice telling him that all this wealth won't last.
His people these days barely remember the hard times.
But Norway does.
His body and mind does.
He remembers being able to count his ribs, remembers that he hated physical affection because hugs gave away just how thin he was.
No layers of clothing could his his sharp hip bones.
His basement is filled with canned food and preservatives.
Denmark once asked if he was preparing for the apocalypse – Norway jokingly told him he was and Denmark didn't really ask again.
Denmark hasn't know the same pain he has.
And Norway doesn't blame him.
He wouldn't wish his fate on others.
So he just continues as he always has.
Storing leftovers away.
Eating them a few months later when he realises his freezer can no longer hold any more things.
And then it's leftovers for dinner and lunch for about a month.
Norway who hides behind expensive suits – a feeble attempt to show others he's no longer poor.
Yet, there's more logic than money behind his clothing choices.
After all, a good suit will last him many years. A cheap one has to be replaced.
He could buy anything, but he can't bring himself to do so.
What if the money is needed later?
What if bad times come?
Save it all, the voice in the back of his mind whispers.
Store it away.
Leave it till a later date.
Using it now is a waste.
So he listens.
Hides it away.
Pretends it's not there.
After all, if his homemade sweaters kept him warm for centuries, why wouldn't they continue to do so?
No need for new ones if the old are still free from holes.
Norway still twitches when people throw things away needlessly.
So what if the sell-by date says it's gone off?
He knows the food is still edible for another day or or two – if not a week or more.
He still wants to steal Denmark or Sweden's shirts when they throw them out because a button has gone missing or the edges of the sleeve is looking a little worn.
“It can be fixed,” Norway tries to remind himself, but receives laughs in return.
“It's old and tatty.”
“Not really fashionable either.”
The words make Norway's stomach sink.
Such stupid details to become fixated on.
Clothes are clothes.
If they keep you warm and comfortable, then why does it matter if they're old?
He doesn't say that – he just grumbles and leaves them too it.
Habits are hard to break.
Too hard at times.
But while for his people it is a fading memory, it's still fresh in Norway's mind.
He may be climbing the list of richest country.
He may right now be able to afford what he wants.
But it wasn't always like that; and no amount of riches can erase his past struggles.
So one krone there or another there. They shouldn't matter.
But they do.
And Norway is painful aware it's not healthy to live like this.
Not any more.
But some habits are simply too hard to kick.
And maybe, just maybe: the little voice is right.
Maybe, just perhaps maybe: bad times will come again.
Oh, the endless question. They had all been addicted to the local smoothie hut just at the corner of where the road broke into the country and the asphalt road turned into a tan, rich gravel and dirt road. They went there almost every night, as well. If one of them had a bad day, they agreed to help each other through it. Since Lovino had found the place and all the good reviews on the internet, he tried it out and came back shouting ‘I’ve foundEl Dorado, The Fountain of Youth, and spell to finishBarcelona’s castle, Antonio, right in this smoothie!’
Of course, it had just brought back bad memories, but just one sip had managed to change Antonio’s crummy day into a major discovery. He had finally found his inspiration. But, it had only worked on bad days, so the boys were making every day a nightmare just so they could trek down the gravelly road to the smoothie place with the bright magenta and orange colored parasols and drink them on their way back, telling each other forgotten stories and other tales that wished they were forgotten forever.
“The usual,”
“You’re so boring!” Antonio scoffed, giving him a pinch in the side and leaning over the vibrantly tiled counter to place their order. He set his elbows on the top of the counter, like a child, and hoisted himself up, his pointed, dirtied tennis shoes waving back and forth two inches above the ground. “I’ll have a Peach-Mango-Pineapple Fusion with a Sunshine shot, and he’ll have a Strawberry-Raspberry Rush, both larges.”
The large was practically the size of the cow they got the milk from. They had started out getting the quickie shots of the smoothies, but soon that grew to be too little to satisfy their taste buds, let alone their minds. Then, it had shifted to the smalls, which they downed a quarter of the way back on their trek home. Soon, it had grown to be the mediums, which were a fairly decent size, if they didn’t leave them hanging on for more, giving each other looks on the couch with their rented movies that they should grab their bikes to get more. Of course, it wasn’t that big of a size for the large. It was probably more comparable to a Big Gulp from a Seven-Eleven, or a two-liter bottle of soda— because that’s what it was.
Two liters of smoothie that left them able to steal from each other, enough to drink the next day for breakfast, and enough for the two-kilometer trek home. Antonio particularly enjoyed Lovino’s, and Lovino was too afraid of experiencing new flavors on his own, so he stuck to mooching off Antonio’s decision. It changed everyday.
Antonio didn’t like the Lemon-Lime with Pineapple, though. That one made his taste buds rise up, and poor Lovino never heard the end of that. Antonio had even tried to kiss him with his ice-cold mouth, and Lovino had hated the feel of his irritated, acidized tongue so much he made him brush several times and use mouthwash.
“This place should go nation-wide.” Antonio commented, scooting up to a table to play with the brightly colored wires on the children’s toy that was dragged over from the kid section and left here. “Maybe when we have to move, we can have one.”
“Order up,” The employee called out, placing the hot pink and yellow streaked plastic cups on the counter, filled up to the top of the domed lids, with long, colored straws pressed tightly to them. “Have a nice day, guys,”
“You, too, keep up the excellent work,” Lovino grinned at him, getting up to juggle the two enormous sized jugs of smoothie-heaven in his arms after giving the nice, God-gifted man his well deserved money, with a very generous tip. Lovino knew what it was like to lean on a job, serving Seville, Spain his delicious smoothie mixtures that deserved Nobel Prizes for picking him off his feet. He shoved the straw in his after he gave Antonio his daily fix. He was grasping at it, unclenching and clenching his fists at him and whining as they went out, like a five year old.
Lovino took a generous sip of the already slippery cup and moaned in delight as they stepped out, the bell of the door ringing softly behind them. The warm night air ofSevillecombed through his bangs with such grace he nearly made Antonio stop to admire the stars, brightly lit in the air, the fluorescent lights of the smoothie joint behind them.
“Worth the walk,” Antonio reported yet again in his triumphant tone, scowling and moaning when Lovino reach across from him, mid-sip, and snaked a kiss. Really, all he was after was the straw to his concoction, which he licked up and into his mouth with his tongue. “C’mon! You’re going to drink it all!”
Lovino pulled back, wiping his mouth and grinned at him, laughing easily in the gentle breeze that caressed the sun-dried grass in the nightly orchestra. Antonio had to forgive him for that smile of his, the way his skin was lit a hue of blue from the sky’s dark light. He kissed him back, reaching an arm around his shoulder and holding his right cheek, pulling him in and making a little ‘mm’ sound, raising in pitch before he yanked away, rushing ahead with his huge drink cradled in his arm like a small child.
“Hey! No one kisses a Vargas like that and gets away with it!” Lovino cried out behind him, jogging up, and the sound of the crunching gravel under his feet. It grew closer, and closer. Antonio tried running a little bit faster, but to no avail. Lovino wrung his arm around his boyfriend’s neck, dragging him back with a strong leap of his spiny little legs.
“No, no!” Antonio wailed, attacked by Lovino’s lips to the ear, the neck, the cheek, and he was finally let go. He got smoothie all over his hand, too. “Look at this, Lovino, look what you did, you ruined some of it,” He whined as if he were no older than five, and showed Lovino the pale-orange ice-drink on the back of his hand, sticking to the hairs with the cool breeze.
“Lick it off.” Lovino chided from his side, putting on his fake bedroom-eyes and taking Antonio’s wrist in his own, drawing his tongue up his hand and licking his lips. It made Antonio’s skin crawl, and a loud ‘yuegh’ escape his curled lips. “Look at us, Toni, we’re so sexy together, oh my God,” He said in his low, husky voice, accompanied by a loud, shrill laugh.
“If you count making my penis crawl back inside my body as sexy, then absolutely, Lovino,” Antonio grumbled, licking off the rest himself and wiping the spit on his khaki cargo shorts.
The homestead came around soon enough; it’s porch light on and glinting with moths. Antonio had made a dent in his, but planned to drink his while Lovino and he watched a TV show or two that was on. Lovino had cut a solid one-fifth of the drink out of its cup, slurping and complaining of brain-freeze. They got inside, relieved and thankful for the soft air, cool from the air conditioner, and sat down at the couch, drinks in hand.
“We are literally the fattest beings on this earth.” Lovino commented after a long sigh of exasperation, taking the remote from Antonio’s clutches.
“We’re not that bad, I mean, we’re fit. I pluck tomatoes all day and you help, sometimes. You’re kind of chubby though,” Antonio mumbled, giving Lovino a playful little pinch under his darkened red tank top, that exposed his tan, spiny little back, and unfortunately, showed a little of his gut. His own, dark grey pants that were rolled up to his ankles helped with this problem, though, giving his hips the illusion of not being very graspable during the passionate nights between the sheets. They were, and he bore so many nails into that skin so much he was surprised Lovino’s skin there wasn’t contoured with his hands.
“Me? Chubby? As if, lard-butt, don’t lie that you don’t stuff that thing,” Lovino scoffed, leaning over and pinching a little of his, too, wiggling it in front of him to show how much he gathered. “Someone needs to lay off the churros, chubby.”
“In your dreams!” Antonio scoffed, tugging Lovino’s waist over to his side, letting him lean on his shoulder, legs slipping out of their sandals and onto the dark leather couch. “What’s on tonight?”
“Nothing,” Lovino sighed, taking a large slurp of his own, delicious, delicate smoothie. “The news, a shitty newlywed game show, a movie,” He turned his head up, his auburn hair scraping against Antonio’s shoulder. “I miss my Italian Bravo! Channel,” It was just so much fun to make fun of the mediocre designers, Tonio,”
“None of that here,” Antonio kissed him, settling on a shitty movie in the early channels that had been given lookdowns from the moment it came out. They had a wonderful time cackling and choking on their smoothies as the horrible actors tried to show a minimal amount of emotion.
Antonio liked these little smoothie-dates, and he was sure Lovino did, too. When the night wound down like this and the smells of dinner hung in the air, the garish television set cutting through the dark, moonlit night like a knife; he could be genuine friends with this man. He could talk so openly that Lovino would have almost admitted that he really did love every single step to and from the smoothie place.
Although, it had exhausted him to no end, because he ended up with a melted smoothie in his slacken hand, and with Antonio’s in the other, asleep while the movie’s credits rolled. He couldn’t think of a better way to spend a night.
Lovino Vargas had doubted the record high temperatures.
He was wrong to doubt them. The Spanish sun reined down with such force he almost wanted Antonio, his housemate and dedicated lover, to try to convince some sense into the big orb of light, if he could.
Sighing, he was lying out on the porch on an old, beat up lounger they kept telling themselves they’d fix up, but never did. The breeze was fighting itself, blowing a gratifying, merciful string of cool wind that tickled the hairs on his head, sending them away from his damp, warm forehead. On the other hand, when the zephyr was out for lunch, he’d be sitting in the humid, stifling heat, his bare, red, hot toes baking in the shade.
It was so hard to breathe right after the big storm that came in last night and watered the tomato garden for Antonio. It was a blessing for him, how he only had to pick the red, juicy ripe ones to sell to the public and keep for himself, but on Lovino’s mind, it was a curse. It was a horrible taunt from God saying; ‘Here’s your warmth you’ve been begging all winter for! Is it what you hoped for?’
Antonio came up, perspiration shining off his bare tan back, the white shirt he had once went out with balled up and shoved into his back pocket, dirty and browned from him kneeling and reaching back into the itchy plants for the ripe red fruits that filled the whicker baskets on his shoulder. He looked tired, worn out, but extremely happy for the sun. Figures, Lovino thought, closing his eyes again and sitting up to take a little advice from the Spaniard by shedding his own light blue top, Antonio would love the presence of sun no matter if there was a horrible, high eighties temperature hanging in the air so stubbornly like a layer of dust that could never quite be cleared.
Like Antonio had in his storage rooms.
“Getting your Vitamin D, are ya Lovino?” He asked, that smirk in his voice as he passed into the house, setting down the tomato baskets and coming out to sit by him in the more decently kept lawn chair, taking a sip of the iced lemonade Lovino had made himself, the condensation too risky to dare drinking while laying down.
“I’m going to damn you to hell, one day, Antonio, mark my words,” He whimpered out, his arm ever-so dramatically falling in front of his face and over his eyes. “Damn your sun, damn your wind, damn your bright attitude, and damn your humidity— damn it all to hell. We’re moving to Italy.”
“But I can’t speak Italian,” Antonio laughed, wiping the condensation on his hand from the glass and setting his palm onto Lovino’s forehead, moving his arm back to his stomach.
“But I can’t speak Italian,” Lovino mocked, his eyebrows furrowing and his lip curled up, but only for a second. It was impossible to get mad at him. “Learn it. That or we’re moving to the basement for the summer. Or,”
“Or what, Lovino,” Antonio smiled, stroking his dark brown eyebrows with his damp, cool fingers.
“Or,” Lovino enunciated, giving him a small smile to show he wasn’t mad. “We can just turn on the air, Antonio. Just a few more degrees, I’ll give you the money,” He pleaded, making kissy-faced movements with his soft shell-pink lips. “Please, Boss, please, I’m so hot, Boss, you never let me have things, Boss—”
Antonio moved his hand to his mouth, the muffled pleadings Lovino continued to spout out vibrating off his hand. He gave him a small glare, a big smile, and let go.
“Hey, this isn’t so bad. Do you know what I did when I was little, when I was hot?” Antonio asked, leaning down to give him a kiss on the cheek and getting up, convincing the man to sit upright, and tying the loose shirt he had on the floor beside him into a narrow blindfold.
“No blowjobs.” Lovino laughed, covering his crotch, but being cooperative with whatever show of manliness Antonio was going to give him to be at a normal temperature again. “Behave, or I’m not going to sleep with you anymore.”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t move, I’ll be right back!” Antonio’s footsteps were muffled, he must have taken off his sandals, and all he heard was the fierce calls from Antonio to stay where he was. Other than that, he could only hear the soft breeze whistling between the wooden planks of the porch.
Finally, he came back, what did he have? He didn’t know. It drove him to sway on his bare toes, his hands in his cargo shorts.
“Oi, it’s still hot, and I’m not cooled down yet—”
There was a sound of a metal handle creaking out with years of use, and the slosh of water from its previous holding spot. The chill hit him like an axe would to a trunk of a tree, spreading chills down his spine and a shrill, choked shriek from his chest.
“Antonio!” He screeched, throwing off the blindfold and catching him, the bucket half-full, his grin spreading for miles, his green eyes alert with what his next move would be.
“Are you cool now?” Antonio asked, while Lovino reached for the fallen plastic glass of lemonade, and poured the rest over his head, gaining another wail of protest.
“I’ll kill you!” He cried after him, shoving his soaking wet hair back, kicking the glass away and pursuing his lover, or his traitor would be a better word, only to catch a belt hole of his pants. Antonio was a lot faster in his old age, though, sprinting around the house, cackling in triumph as he looked for a place to hide.
Well, this wasn’t good at all. Now, the breeze felt good, welcoming, but he had vengeance to serve on an icy, cool dish to his own boyfriend. Lovino took the bucket, only to hide it under the porch so Antonio wouldn’t think about using such an unfair weapon in their newly formed battle of aqua glory.
“You want to play dirty?” He called out, tutting, and moving to storm back inside, grabbing the party balloons left over from Antonio’s birthday party he kept dogging him to put away, and rushing to the tap. From the kitchen sink window, he saw he was getting the rubber hose, attaching the sprayer head that he used to water his precious tomatoes.
In addition, he caught his eye.
Antonio went running away, out of view, and Lovino slipped down to fill the balloons up with the worn tap, grabbing the small duffle bag of clothes he had so carelessly emptied from the laundry room and threw down the stairs, shoving every swollen, easy to throw balloon in and throwing it over his shoulder.
He was ready for battle.
Antonio had a hose. What could he do with a hose?
Lovino tiptoed out the back door, a red, clear balloon in his hand, poised to throw.
“Come out, come out, where ever you are,” He sang, breathing hard from the thrill of a good water fight, turning the corner to—
“Gotcha!” The Spaniard cried out, his toes curling into the hard-packed dirt, the grass itching at his ankles. Antonio was dumbfounded with the sudden burst of power from the Italian’s lash, the ripping cry of nerves spreading across his face as the water balloon exploded, sending its colorful remnants scattered around the yard. The hose’s filmy, arctic water hit his face as well, coating his expressions in a sheet of ice.
They hit the ground, impacted by each other’s strikes, heads drawn back with laughter, the shakes of the cold that followed.
How they woke up the next morning with terrible colds, they pretended not to know. After all, such child’s play wasn’t smiled upon from two, immortal creatures, which lived each moment of each day, together, close, and maybe even a little bit feverish.
