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A garden in Kalmar [Sweden/Norway]
Title: A garden in Kalmar
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Sweden/Norway
Rating: 0+
Length: 1k
Summary: Sweden isn't very direct about his affection, but it isn't difficult for Norway to figure it out. Set during the Kalmar Union.
Other: This was written for a zine, but the project was cancelled. Thanks to Folie for help with the proofing.
The white flowers are a reference to a scene from When the Sixth Day Comes. ;)
A garden in Kalmar
Sparkling sunlight on glass caught Norway's eye as he slipped into his room. He followed the light, and in a second saw the gift, and just as quickly he knew exactly who had put it there.
Soft white blossoms in a small cup of water. He went to them, and took the vessel in his hands with care. Dipped his head to breathe in their delicate, barely-there perfume.
They wouldn't last long; that sort of flower was quick to fade. But for the moment, the scattering of blossoms was fresh and alive.
Nothing else. Nothing to add to it, nothing more extravagant than that. No note, either. Only the flowers, cut with care and placed on his desk near the bright window, which was left uncovered so the sun would be sure to catch on the glass and scatter its light.
Norway closed his eyes and took in another breath of fragrance.
Yes, he knew who had given him these.
It couldn't be anyone else.
He went looking for him. After lingering for a while with that gift, wondering what would be the right thing to do, Norway decided that he didn't care that, by rights, he probably shouldn't acknowledge it. Taking up one of the blossoms, he tucked it neatly into his hair, letting the clip keep it in place. Then he slipped from his room and went to find his admirer.
Sweden was out in the gardens, sitting on a stone bench with a book in his lap. Norway watched him for a moment. The sun brushed his hair with gold, and softened his features – which was good, as they needed a great deal of softening. Sweden was someone even more inclined to severe expression than Norway was. But Norway knew how gentle he could be, though he looked stern even now, squinting at his reading.
Norway lifted a hand and touched the blossom in his hair.
Somehow, he felt unsure, wondering if he should even approach him. But then again, why not? Why shouldn't he? This was, after all, personal, and so were all of the other times they had been close.
Many things were no longer his own, but that didn't mean that nothing was.
He went to him.
Sweden looked up when he approached, first staring at the hem of his clothes before dragging his gaze up to Norway's face, and then finally flicking over to the white flower tucked in his hair before, once again, settling on his face. He mumbled out a greeting, looking unsure of what to think or say.
Even with all that, he didn't seem able to meet Norway's eyes. That, Norway thought, was quite a thing.
Norway tilted his head. "Is there room for me here, or would you rather keep the whole bench to yourself, then."
Sweden flushed and scooted over, giving Norway more than enough room to sink down beside him.
And Norway did just that, taking his place, sitting more closely than he had to – in fact, closer than was strictly appropriate. For a moment, he said nothing; he merely folded his hands in his lap and waited.
Sweden said nothing either. He looked down at the book, then up at the sky, then at the garden's flowering bushes – everywhere except at Norway.
It was infuriating. Norway stared at him long and hard. He could see that Sweden was blushing, his ears tinted pink from it all. But whether that was from knowing that his present had been discovered, or knowing that it hadn't taken any effort for Norway to realize who the culprit was, or the simple fact of Norway's presence – well, Norway wasn't sure.
What he was sure about was that Sweden would drag the moment out for all eternity if Norway didn't do anything about it.
Norway considered this for a long moment.
A simple "thank you" would be appropriate, of course. But it wasn't right for the situation. Not right at all. Not considering who he was, and who Sweden was, and what this moment was – the two of them, alone together in the garden, surrounded by flowers that smelled sweet but not half as nice as the delicate, frail fragrance of the blossoms that Sweden had left for him.
"I could read to you," Norway said, nodding to the book in Sweden's lap. "If you'd like."
It was then that Sweden looked at him, finally meeting his eyes properly. He was still blushing, Norway noticed. Of course he was. "Sure," was Sweden's mumbled reply. "That'd... that'd be good."
Neither of them needed to say that it was better if Norway took over the whole thing. They both knew that Sweden had to squint in order to read; all the immortality in the world refused to make up for flaws in his sight.
He handed it over. Norway took it, and took care to make sure that their hands touched as he did. Sweden's fingers were warm against his own.
"What's this - 'The Knight of the Cart'?" Norway murmured, raising an eyebrow when he realized what the text was. "So that's where this one went."
"Hmm?"
"I've been looking for this volume for weeks." When he thought about it, Norway wasn't surprised to find that Sweden had chosen a story where passion played a part. Others might never have guessed it of him, but Norway knew better.
Norway glanced at Sweden again. He was staring at his hands, bashful, but the blush had faded from his cheeks and ears.
Well, then.
Without a word, Norway moved to lean against him, shifting a bit so he could comfortably prop the book up, and himself as well. He heard Sweden suck in a breath.
"Doin' that on purpose," Sweden muttered.
"Doin' what?" Norway asked as he ran his fingers down the page, casual as anything.
"Gettin' close like this."
"Codswallop," Norway replied. "I'm doing nothing amiss. Now, do you want to hear a story, or not?"
A long pause, followed by a sigh. "Go on," Sweden said.
Norway felt Sweden lean against him, giving in to what he had surely wanted ever since Norway sat down beside him. As if to reward him for admitting it, Norway let his hand drop to the bench, and after a moment, felt the warmth of Sweden's fingers linking with his own.
He read to him in the sweet-scented air, and let his presence say what words could not.
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Sweden/Norway
Rating: 0+
Length: 1k
Summary: Sweden isn't very direct about his affection, but it isn't difficult for Norway to figure it out. Set during the Kalmar Union.
Other: This was written for a zine, but the project was cancelled. Thanks to Folie for help with the proofing.
The white flowers are a reference to a scene from When the Sixth Day Comes. ;)
A garden in Kalmar
Sparkling sunlight on glass caught Norway's eye as he slipped into his room. He followed the light, and in a second saw the gift, and just as quickly he knew exactly who had put it there.
Soft white blossoms in a small cup of water. He went to them, and took the vessel in his hands with care. Dipped his head to breathe in their delicate, barely-there perfume.
They wouldn't last long; that sort of flower was quick to fade. But for the moment, the scattering of blossoms was fresh and alive.
Nothing else. Nothing to add to it, nothing more extravagant than that. No note, either. Only the flowers, cut with care and placed on his desk near the bright window, which was left uncovered so the sun would be sure to catch on the glass and scatter its light.
Norway closed his eyes and took in another breath of fragrance.
Yes, he knew who had given him these.
It couldn't be anyone else.
He went looking for him. After lingering for a while with that gift, wondering what would be the right thing to do, Norway decided that he didn't care that, by rights, he probably shouldn't acknowledge it. Taking up one of the blossoms, he tucked it neatly into his hair, letting the clip keep it in place. Then he slipped from his room and went to find his admirer.
Sweden was out in the gardens, sitting on a stone bench with a book in his lap. Norway watched him for a moment. The sun brushed his hair with gold, and softened his features – which was good, as they needed a great deal of softening. Sweden was someone even more inclined to severe expression than Norway was. But Norway knew how gentle he could be, though he looked stern even now, squinting at his reading.
Norway lifted a hand and touched the blossom in his hair.
Somehow, he felt unsure, wondering if he should even approach him. But then again, why not? Why shouldn't he? This was, after all, personal, and so were all of the other times they had been close.
Many things were no longer his own, but that didn't mean that nothing was.
He went to him.
Sweden looked up when he approached, first staring at the hem of his clothes before dragging his gaze up to Norway's face, and then finally flicking over to the white flower tucked in his hair before, once again, settling on his face. He mumbled out a greeting, looking unsure of what to think or say.
Even with all that, he didn't seem able to meet Norway's eyes. That, Norway thought, was quite a thing.
Norway tilted his head. "Is there room for me here, or would you rather keep the whole bench to yourself, then."
Sweden flushed and scooted over, giving Norway more than enough room to sink down beside him.
And Norway did just that, taking his place, sitting more closely than he had to – in fact, closer than was strictly appropriate. For a moment, he said nothing; he merely folded his hands in his lap and waited.
Sweden said nothing either. He looked down at the book, then up at the sky, then at the garden's flowering bushes – everywhere except at Norway.
It was infuriating. Norway stared at him long and hard. He could see that Sweden was blushing, his ears tinted pink from it all. But whether that was from knowing that his present had been discovered, or knowing that it hadn't taken any effort for Norway to realize who the culprit was, or the simple fact of Norway's presence – well, Norway wasn't sure.
What he was sure about was that Sweden would drag the moment out for all eternity if Norway didn't do anything about it.
Norway considered this for a long moment.
A simple "thank you" would be appropriate, of course. But it wasn't right for the situation. Not right at all. Not considering who he was, and who Sweden was, and what this moment was – the two of them, alone together in the garden, surrounded by flowers that smelled sweet but not half as nice as the delicate, frail fragrance of the blossoms that Sweden had left for him.
"I could read to you," Norway said, nodding to the book in Sweden's lap. "If you'd like."
It was then that Sweden looked at him, finally meeting his eyes properly. He was still blushing, Norway noticed. Of course he was. "Sure," was Sweden's mumbled reply. "That'd... that'd be good."
Neither of them needed to say that it was better if Norway took over the whole thing. They both knew that Sweden had to squint in order to read; all the immortality in the world refused to make up for flaws in his sight.
He handed it over. Norway took it, and took care to make sure that their hands touched as he did. Sweden's fingers were warm against his own.
"What's this - 'The Knight of the Cart'?" Norway murmured, raising an eyebrow when he realized what the text was. "So that's where this one went."
"Hmm?"
"I've been looking for this volume for weeks." When he thought about it, Norway wasn't surprised to find that Sweden had chosen a story where passion played a part. Others might never have guessed it of him, but Norway knew better.
Norway glanced at Sweden again. He was staring at his hands, bashful, but the blush had faded from his cheeks and ears.
Well, then.
Without a word, Norway moved to lean against him, shifting a bit so he could comfortably prop the book up, and himself as well. He heard Sweden suck in a breath.
"Doin' that on purpose," Sweden muttered.
"Doin' what?" Norway asked as he ran his fingers down the page, casual as anything.
"Gettin' close like this."
"Codswallop," Norway replied. "I'm doing nothing amiss. Now, do you want to hear a story, or not?"
A long pause, followed by a sigh. "Go on," Sweden said.
Norway felt Sweden lean against him, giving in to what he had surely wanted ever since Norway sat down beside him. As if to reward him for admitting it, Norway let his hand drop to the bench, and after a moment, felt the warmth of Sweden's fingers linking with his own.
He read to him in the sweet-scented air, and let his presence say what words could not.