L'anse Aux Memory [Canada/Norway, Iceland]
May. 6th, 2009 12:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roesslyngTitle: L'anse Aux Memory
Characters/Pairing: Canada/Norway, Iceland
Rating: 13+
Length: 3450 prose; also has some poetry at the end.
Summary: Canada brings Norway to the site at L'anse aux Meadows in Newfoundland, and tries to make him remember something from many years ago.
Other: Posted in my personal journal. (Original entry)
L'anse Aux Memory
It was late afternoon at L’anse aux Meadows. The sun shone brightly, warming the hard, grassy earth. The scent of the sea was in the air and waves could be heard crashing against the nearby shoreline.
“D’you feel anything?”
Norway breathed in deeply, pursed his lips, then shook his head. “I don’t understand what you want me to say.” He looked at Canada and raised an eyebrow. When the kid had extended an invitation to visit the site had surprised him, but the thought of it had piqued his curiosity enough for him to accept it. It seemed Canada was curious, too; curious and full of questions. Unfortunately, he seemed to think Norway had the answers.
The young nation looked disappointed for a moment, then tried again, turning his question around. “I mean,” he said, bright-eyed and hopeful, “d’you remember anything? From back then.”
Norway looked once more at the structure in front of him. There was no question that it was a building, the kind his people had once built. Abandoned for so long, the sod roof flourishing with greenery and bluebells, it was difficult to imagine what it once was, or might have been. Though careful work had been put into restoration, such work could not truly reveal what had once happened there, the words spoken or memories made, the hope that had once flourished in a structure built into the land itself.
He recalled nothing.
“No,” he said finally. He let out a quiet, barely-there sigh and shook his head again. “I don’t remember.”
“But-“
“I remember very little from those days,” he said gently. “It was a long time ago. Let it be.”
Wind in his face. The scent of the sea. The taste of berries and fresh water. He had his feet on solid ground again.
His brother stood beside him. They looked out toward the ocean, silent and contemplating. After a time Iceland asked him, “What do you think?”
“Rocky. Will be cold in the winter. Too far north.” A pause. “But the location is good. It will do for now.”
“Ah.” For a moment they were both quiet. “Will we stay a while longer?”
“Yes.”
When they returned, it was summer, and things were as they had been before. That was not how it remained.
One day Iceland told him that he had seen a strange thing: a figure like a child, pale as a ghost.
“Don’t think anything of it,” Norway told him. “There will always be strange things where we go.” His brother nodded in agreement. It was for the best.
Days later they caught sight of it again, watching them from behind a tree. No words were exchanged. That night in the darkness and under the influence of drink they whispered to each other.
“It was watching.”
“It looks like you.”
“It is harmless.”
There was no further discussion of it.
Canada’s questioning reminded Norway of a curious child’s habits: always turning a question over and over, never satisfied with the answer. “But why don’t you remember?” he asked, persisting.
“It was a long time ago,” Norway repeated patiently. “I was drunk most of the time in those days.” The comment was light and faintly teasing, a rare joke. He looked at Canada and offered him a small smile. The disappointed expression on the other nation’s face surprised him. “Why do you care? You didn’t exist back then.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Ah. Complicated.”
The two of them were together, walking side by side, their paces matching perfectly. The air was cold. Suddenly Iceland grabbed his sleeve and turned to whisper by his ear. “I see it again,” his brother said, making a small gesture toward the treeline.
Norway looked in that direction. Small, ghostly, and peeking out from behind a large fir. “I see it.”
“It sees us. What should we do?”
“Nothing. Let it be.”
Canada, it seemed, tried to put the disappointment behind him. Their three-day road trip led them through Corner Brook and Gander, then finally back to Saint John’s. Throughout the trip they did not exchange another word on the subject. Much of the time driving was spent without speech, and what would have been silence was filled in by the sound of the radio. At other points Canada chattered about politics, international affairs, and ordinary things far different from their original reason for making the journey. Norway listened to him talk, rarely speaking himself.
When they finally arrived in Saint John’s it was early in the day, and they spent the afternoon napping to recover from the long journey. When night fell they went out drinking, and eventually found themselves at a pub where live music was playing. The music was quick, lively and sounded the way the salty air tasted. Newfie music, Canada called it.
After downing some of the foul stuff he called “Moosehead”, Canada was out on the floor after trying, and failing, to persuade Norway to join him. Instead Norway remained at their table and watched him, a bottle never far from his lips. His movements were perfect, filled with vigour, the songs a part of him. When he danced it was as if it was the most natural thing in the world, like breathing.
After a time a different sort of song began. Slower, a sort of quick waltz. Canada came to him, holding out his hand, his cheeks flushed from drink and movement. “Eh, c’mon naow,” he said, accent thickened by liquor. “Y’can’ sit dere all nigh’. Dance wi’ me!”
Norway raised an eyebrow, pausing a moment as he tried to process the mangled, unfamiliar form of English. “I’m not nearly drunk enough for that,” he said dryly.
“Eh, no. If y’dance wi’ me I’ll gets y’anudder, get y’pissed ‘nuff t’ferget. C’mon now, don’ sit dere lookin’ all contrary – dance wi’ me, b’ye!”
Perhaps Norway’s judgement was more clouded than he had thought, because he took the offered hand. Soon they were flying around the room together, tipsy enough to enjoy it, but not enough to be clumsy. The music made its way through them, stirred their blood and warmed them like liquor. Norway found himself smiling.
How strange.
He was drunk. That was it. Perhaps the piss-water he’d been downing all evening was stronger than it seemed.
Why else would he be laughing?
They returned to that location again and again, and every time they did they saw the strange creature, though they remained unsure what to think of it. His brother said there was something of Norway in its eyes. Norway firmly denied it.
Snow fell one evening. The next morning when they stepped out from their temporary home into the cool, bright sun they saw it nearby, watching them. Iceland drew closer to Norway and hissed. It lingered for a time, then slowly walked away, disappearing into the fir trees.
They walked to where it had stood. The found no sign it had been there. It left no footprints.
One spring when they sailed away on the annual journey they looked back to the shore and saw it watching. It stayed by the edge of the water, unmoving, and soon it was out of sight.
The night was clear and bright when they finally left the pub. The moon was high in the sky and the stars shone up above, and it seemed there was not a soul stirring in the city but the two of them. They were drunk and happy, and as they walked together Canada sang. At times Norway joined in, following his lead.
“An’ now we’re boun’ fer ol’ Saint John’s where all th’ girls are dancing – heave away, me jolly boys, we’re all boun’ away!”
The air rang with their voices, mixing together in the cool night.
When they finally arrived at Canada’s apartment they slipped inside and kicked off their shoes, then fumbled for the light switch. They bumped into each other in the dark and Norway could hear Canada grumbling that he couldn’t find the light. “Fuck th’ thing, muss’ve moved on me,” was his low muttering as he groped along the wall.
“Don’ think so. Switches don’ move,” Norway pointed out, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Shows wha’ ye’know.” There was a long pause and some shuffling. Norway squinted a bit. His eyes had begun to adjust, and he could see Canada’s large, shadowy frame moving clumsily through the dark room.
“Hey. Hey, b’ye. Norway. Nor. Eh, c’n I call y’Nor?”
“Norge. ‘s Norge. Did you find th’ goddamn light?”
“Nah.” There was a pause as Canada moved toward him, still groping along the wall. “Eh, Norge. Y’sure y’don’ r’member hanythin’?”
“What?”
“L’anse aux Meadows.” Another step, then Canada stumbled into him, the impact pushing Norway hard against the door. He let out a startled gasp, the hit making him lose his breath for a moment, though he recovered quickly.
“Careful!” The liquor had left him dazed, but it seemed Canada was more affected by the foul stuff he tried to pass off as beer, Norway reflected as he tried to steady him. “Meadow-wha’?”
“L’anse aux Meadows,” Canada mumbled again, the French words slurred and thick in his mouth. “Y’know, b’ye. Were dere few days ago, eh?” He leaned against Norway, pressing him firmly into the door. Norway told himself it was just because he couldn’t stand properly on his own. “Yer settlemen’.”
Norway pursed his lips, slowly recalling their road trip and the site and the reason Canada had invited him to Newfoundland in the first place. “Told you. Don’ remember.” He hesitated, then looked up at him. A faint hint of light filtered in through the blinds, brightening the room just enough that he could barely make out Canada’s features. “You weren’ there, anyway. Didn’t exist back then.”
“Not th’ point. ‘S th’ idea of settlement that matters, b’ye.” Canada leaned in close, nuzzling him as he whispered it.
Norway grew tense for a moment before deciding to allow it, reasoning that though he was drunk and his words were strange, he was harmless. “Don’ know what you mean,” he said coolly.
“Th’ land, Norge.” Canada whispered it by his ear and the hot, fluttering breath made Norway shiver involuntarily. “Th’ land r’members you. ‘N a part of me feels it, ‘n it knows you. Cause’ve th’land, eh? ‘S how it is.”
“You’re drunk,” Norway mumbled. “Talking nonsense.”
“Drunk, yes. But ‘s not nonsense.”
Before Norway could protest, a mouth closed over his own. His eyes widened and he squirmed, trying to wriggle his way out from between Canada and the door. His actions were ineffective: he was quite firmly pinned. Fuck, he thought. A part of him didn’t really mind as such, but there was also the matter of the undeserved familiarity of the action to consider, and some worry as to how Canada would feel about the entire thing the next morning.
After a long moment the kiss broke and Norway’s hands flew up to grip Canada’s shoulders, holding him steady. They were both out of breath, staring at each other in the dim light. Norway gritted his teeth. There were several things he wanted to say, most of them amounting to “what the hell are you doing?”, but what actually came out of his mouth was, “If you’re pissed about this tomorrow, you can’t blame me, because you started it.”
It seemed that Canada grinned, but in the dark it was difficult to be certain. “Got it,” he said. “’s all me. Don’ worry.”
There were no further words, because Canada kissed him again, and that time Norway didn’t try to squirm away. He slid his arms around Canada’s shoulders, the uncertainty slowly fading. Well, he thought, even if the kid was upset in the morning, it was just a kiss. He’d live.
A startled sound escaped him as Canada pressed him more tightly against the door, and Norway’s eyes flew open wide as a slick tongue slid into his mouth, tasting of cheap Atlantic beer. After recovering from his shock he returned the gesture, cautiously at first, then gradually with more enthusiasm. Hell, it felt good to be pinned like that, between the young nation’s large frame and solid wood, and damn, he was a good kisser, too. The sensation of large hands sliding downward made him tense, but they stopped at his waist, which was reassuring. He might be plastered, Norway thought, but it seemed there was still some sense in him. A nagging voice in the back of his head reminded him not to let it go too far. With that in mind, he wrapped his arms around Canada’s neck and resolved to enjoy himself.
Kissing, nipping, and biting each other’s lips, soon they were both dishevelled and flustered. He’d had some nerve making a move like that, Norway reflected, but even with his inhibitions lowered by a night of dancing and drinking, Canada was still Canada. Even when he broke the kiss to trail his mouth along Norway’s throat, grazing with teeth and tongue, there was little of the arrogance and egotism characteristic of certain other nations. The gestures had a tentative nature, and in his flustered, dazed state the small part of Norway that was still thinking clearly suspected that if he pushed him away and told him to stop, he would cease and desist with little argument.
It was a comforting thought.
It was the reason he didn’t object to any of his actions, the reason he tilted his head to give him more room to press kisses to his throat, the reason he relished the attention, not caring that there would probably be marks the next day. Damn the marks. Canada wasn’t like certain cocky bastards and for that reason alone Norway would put up with marks.
Finally his mouth was attacked again, and he returned the gesture, a playful growl rumbling in the back of his throat. Canada’s glasses bumped awkwardly, getting in the way and reminding him of – Norway shoved the thought down. No, he wasn’t nearly drunk enough to think about that.
After a time the kiss gentled into slow, deep, warm pressure against his mouth, firm as the sensation of the hands at his waist and the weight that pressed him into the door. Long and dizzying, when it finally broke Norway found himself panting and breathless. They lingered nose-to-nose, catching their breath, until finally Norway muttered, a hint of teasing in his voice, “And all that, just to get me to stop saying you’re talking nonsense.”
“Not jus’ that.” A light kiss. Norway could feel him grinning. “Was also ‘cause you’re fuckin’ hot.”
Norway stared at him. Something bubbled inside him, rising from joy taken in the sheer ridiculousness of it. Before he knew what was happening, he was laughing. “You,” he said between chuckles. “You’re fucking plastered.”
They kissed again and it was quite a while before the tremors ceased.
It was bright that day and the air was crisp. He sat by himself on a large flat rock on the shore, looking out at the ocean. His brother was elsewhere. Taking a deep breath, he savoured the salt in the air and the sound of crashing waves.
When he heard someone approaching he assumed it was Iceland. He didn’t say a word, nor turned to look at him, merely gestured for him to sit.
They sat together in silence for a time. When he finally turned to look at his brother, he realized it was not Iceland.
It certainly was not Iceland.
The small, pale figure that stared up at him didn’t look quite so ghostly at such a close proximity. Its hair was mussed, stuck with twigs and pine needles. Its facial features were ordinary, unremarkable. It had wrapped itself in a blanket; it was one of his own, Norway noted. One he had noticed was missing.
Its eyes were big and blue and looked back at him coolly. A bit like Iceland’s. A bit like his own.
“Who are you?” Norway asked quietly. It did not respond, merely stared at him a moment longer, then turned its head to look out at the ocean.
Norway shrugged and did the same. They stayed that way, and no further words were spoken.
Norway cracked his eyes open, then shut them almost immediately as they were hit by sunlight streaming in through the partially-open blinds. He held back a groan and quickly ran through some very important questions: Where am I, whose bed is this, what did I do last night, and how much will I regret it?
In the background he could hear a radio turned down low and someone singing along in the sort of way that one does when they wish they could do it at the top of their lungs but are restraining themselves for the sake of the sleeping person in the next room. “I wanna’ be consequence free; I wanna’ be where nothing needs to matter...”
Norway slowly let out the breath he had been holding and relaxed into the bright white sheets, the events of the previous night gradually coming back to him. He was in Saint John’s. They had come home after drinking. They had made out against the door then stumbled to the bed room where they made out some more until finally, exhausted, they both fell asleep. He was sure that was all.
He sat up and ran his fingers through his hair, blinking groggily as he realized that he had fallen asleep fully-clothed. It was a source of both discomfort and relief, further confirming that nothing untoward had happened. Nothing but drinking, the kisses, and the dream.
The dream. When he tried to recall it, it was still vivid, and somehow he knew it wasn’t really a dream. Not really.
His head hurt.
He drew in a deep breath. Well, he thought, best get it over with. With his decision made, he slid off the bed and padded into the kitchen.
He found his host going through the kitchen cupboards, setting out various ingredients on the counter: cinnamon, nutmeg, and a bottle of vanilla. Canada had changed out of his jeans in favour of flannel pyjama pants, but he still wore the same bright red shirt he had slept in. When he noticed Norway he stopped singing and flashed him a smile. “G’ morning!”
Norway raised an eyebrow, wanting to ask, “Is it?” Instead he simply began, “Got any-“
Before he could finish his sentence, Canada was pressing an aspirin tablet into his hand. “Figgered y’d need it,” he said, setting a glass of water on the counter before he resumed his rummaging. “You up fer breakfast? I ha’ all I need t’make my special French toast.”
“Mm.” Norway downed the tablet, trying not to let his bafflement show. How on earth could he be so cheerful? “Yes,” he said. “That would be good.” He hesitated. “About last night...”
Canada froze. “Yeah?” He didn’t turn to look at him. There seemed to be a slight tremor in his voice, though it might have been imagined. Ah, Norway thought. Drunk enough to act like an idiot, but not drunk enough to forget it in the morning.
Norway cleared his throat. “What happened was all right.” He paused, searching for the right words. “You’re all right.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth when he heard Canada sigh in relief.
“That’s great. I was worried you’d –“
“No need. It’s all right.” He nibbled his lip, considering for a moment, then added, “And you weren’t talking nonsense. Last night.”
“What?”
“I remembered something.” When Canada looked at him, wide-eyed and hopeful, the smile that had threatened to appear flitted over Norway’s lips a moment, before disappearing as quickly as it came. “Not much,” he added, his tone cautious. “But something. I’ll tell you over breakfast.”
The pan sizzled with cooking toast soaked through with egg and milk and vanilla and spice. When they had settled down to it, Norway recounted his memory between mouthfuls of the stuff, made sweet with syrup.
“It wasn’t you,” he said, when all had been told. “But there was something. Someone. It might have become a nation if we had stayed.”
“And it didn’t,” Canada said, a thoughtful expression on his face. “But it’s in the land. The land remembers it.” He paused, then looked at Norway, smiling broadly. “And it remembers you.”
Though he was sceptical, Norway decided it would do no good to protest. “If you say so,” he said quietly, reaching for more syrup.
“I do.”
There was no more to say, and the rest of the morning was spent in comfortable silence.
Stars and a Bottle
So tell me boyo,
what d'you think?
Sittin' with me
on this grassy hill
covered in bluebells and
fergit-me-nots,
passin' a bottle of
Moosehead back 'n forth-
Ah, I see your
face twistin';
You got no taste for
the stuff.
Well, never mind, just
look up and up-
see now there,
th' sun's almost gone
down past th' horizon
and the stars are
out a-twinklin'.
Say b'ye, isn't they
th' very same stars
y'sailed by
so many years ago?
And isn't that
th' same bright sky
y'walk unner when
on crisp winter nights
in chilly Oslo
y' make yer way
back to your home with
a head full of drink?
Well, no matter
as now
's th' sky we sit under
on this fair May night
th' grass tickling our palms,
th'scent of salt air
in our nostrils.
Characters/Pairing: Canada/Norway, Iceland
Rating: 13+
Length: 3450 prose; also has some poetry at the end.
Summary: Canada brings Norway to the site at L'anse aux Meadows in Newfoundland, and tries to make him remember something from many years ago.
Other: Posted in my personal journal. (Original entry)
L'anse Aux Memory
It was late afternoon at L’anse aux Meadows. The sun shone brightly, warming the hard, grassy earth. The scent of the sea was in the air and waves could be heard crashing against the nearby shoreline.
“D’you feel anything?”
Norway breathed in deeply, pursed his lips, then shook his head. “I don’t understand what you want me to say.” He looked at Canada and raised an eyebrow. When the kid had extended an invitation to visit the site had surprised him, but the thought of it had piqued his curiosity enough for him to accept it. It seemed Canada was curious, too; curious and full of questions. Unfortunately, he seemed to think Norway had the answers.
The young nation looked disappointed for a moment, then tried again, turning his question around. “I mean,” he said, bright-eyed and hopeful, “d’you remember anything? From back then.”
Norway looked once more at the structure in front of him. There was no question that it was a building, the kind his people had once built. Abandoned for so long, the sod roof flourishing with greenery and bluebells, it was difficult to imagine what it once was, or might have been. Though careful work had been put into restoration, such work could not truly reveal what had once happened there, the words spoken or memories made, the hope that had once flourished in a structure built into the land itself.
He recalled nothing.
“No,” he said finally. He let out a quiet, barely-there sigh and shook his head again. “I don’t remember.”
“But-“
“I remember very little from those days,” he said gently. “It was a long time ago. Let it be.”
Wind in his face. The scent of the sea. The taste of berries and fresh water. He had his feet on solid ground again.
His brother stood beside him. They looked out toward the ocean, silent and contemplating. After a time Iceland asked him, “What do you think?”
“Rocky. Will be cold in the winter. Too far north.” A pause. “But the location is good. It will do for now.”
“Ah.” For a moment they were both quiet. “Will we stay a while longer?”
“Yes.”
When they returned, it was summer, and things were as they had been before. That was not how it remained.
One day Iceland told him that he had seen a strange thing: a figure like a child, pale as a ghost.
“Don’t think anything of it,” Norway told him. “There will always be strange things where we go.” His brother nodded in agreement. It was for the best.
Days later they caught sight of it again, watching them from behind a tree. No words were exchanged. That night in the darkness and under the influence of drink they whispered to each other.
“It was watching.”
“It looks like you.”
“It is harmless.”
There was no further discussion of it.
Canada’s questioning reminded Norway of a curious child’s habits: always turning a question over and over, never satisfied with the answer. “But why don’t you remember?” he asked, persisting.
“It was a long time ago,” Norway repeated patiently. “I was drunk most of the time in those days.” The comment was light and faintly teasing, a rare joke. He looked at Canada and offered him a small smile. The disappointed expression on the other nation’s face surprised him. “Why do you care? You didn’t exist back then.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Ah. Complicated.”
The two of them were together, walking side by side, their paces matching perfectly. The air was cold. Suddenly Iceland grabbed his sleeve and turned to whisper by his ear. “I see it again,” his brother said, making a small gesture toward the treeline.
Norway looked in that direction. Small, ghostly, and peeking out from behind a large fir. “I see it.”
“It sees us. What should we do?”
“Nothing. Let it be.”
Canada, it seemed, tried to put the disappointment behind him. Their three-day road trip led them through Corner Brook and Gander, then finally back to Saint John’s. Throughout the trip they did not exchange another word on the subject. Much of the time driving was spent without speech, and what would have been silence was filled in by the sound of the radio. At other points Canada chattered about politics, international affairs, and ordinary things far different from their original reason for making the journey. Norway listened to him talk, rarely speaking himself.
When they finally arrived in Saint John’s it was early in the day, and they spent the afternoon napping to recover from the long journey. When night fell they went out drinking, and eventually found themselves at a pub where live music was playing. The music was quick, lively and sounded the way the salty air tasted. Newfie music, Canada called it.
After downing some of the foul stuff he called “Moosehead”, Canada was out on the floor after trying, and failing, to persuade Norway to join him. Instead Norway remained at their table and watched him, a bottle never far from his lips. His movements were perfect, filled with vigour, the songs a part of him. When he danced it was as if it was the most natural thing in the world, like breathing.
After a time a different sort of song began. Slower, a sort of quick waltz. Canada came to him, holding out his hand, his cheeks flushed from drink and movement. “Eh, c’mon naow,” he said, accent thickened by liquor. “Y’can’ sit dere all nigh’. Dance wi’ me!”
Norway raised an eyebrow, pausing a moment as he tried to process the mangled, unfamiliar form of English. “I’m not nearly drunk enough for that,” he said dryly.
“Eh, no. If y’dance wi’ me I’ll gets y’anudder, get y’pissed ‘nuff t’ferget. C’mon now, don’ sit dere lookin’ all contrary – dance wi’ me, b’ye!”
Perhaps Norway’s judgement was more clouded than he had thought, because he took the offered hand. Soon they were flying around the room together, tipsy enough to enjoy it, but not enough to be clumsy. The music made its way through them, stirred their blood and warmed them like liquor. Norway found himself smiling.
How strange.
He was drunk. That was it. Perhaps the piss-water he’d been downing all evening was stronger than it seemed.
Why else would he be laughing?
They returned to that location again and again, and every time they did they saw the strange creature, though they remained unsure what to think of it. His brother said there was something of Norway in its eyes. Norway firmly denied it.
Snow fell one evening. The next morning when they stepped out from their temporary home into the cool, bright sun they saw it nearby, watching them. Iceland drew closer to Norway and hissed. It lingered for a time, then slowly walked away, disappearing into the fir trees.
They walked to where it had stood. The found no sign it had been there. It left no footprints.
One spring when they sailed away on the annual journey they looked back to the shore and saw it watching. It stayed by the edge of the water, unmoving, and soon it was out of sight.
The night was clear and bright when they finally left the pub. The moon was high in the sky and the stars shone up above, and it seemed there was not a soul stirring in the city but the two of them. They were drunk and happy, and as they walked together Canada sang. At times Norway joined in, following his lead.
“An’ now we’re boun’ fer ol’ Saint John’s where all th’ girls are dancing – heave away, me jolly boys, we’re all boun’ away!”
The air rang with their voices, mixing together in the cool night.
When they finally arrived at Canada’s apartment they slipped inside and kicked off their shoes, then fumbled for the light switch. They bumped into each other in the dark and Norway could hear Canada grumbling that he couldn’t find the light. “Fuck th’ thing, muss’ve moved on me,” was his low muttering as he groped along the wall.
“Don’ think so. Switches don’ move,” Norway pointed out, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Shows wha’ ye’know.” There was a long pause and some shuffling. Norway squinted a bit. His eyes had begun to adjust, and he could see Canada’s large, shadowy frame moving clumsily through the dark room.
“Hey. Hey, b’ye. Norway. Nor. Eh, c’n I call y’Nor?”
“Norge. ‘s Norge. Did you find th’ goddamn light?”
“Nah.” There was a pause as Canada moved toward him, still groping along the wall. “Eh, Norge. Y’sure y’don’ r’member hanythin’?”
“What?”
“L’anse aux Meadows.” Another step, then Canada stumbled into him, the impact pushing Norway hard against the door. He let out a startled gasp, the hit making him lose his breath for a moment, though he recovered quickly.
“Careful!” The liquor had left him dazed, but it seemed Canada was more affected by the foul stuff he tried to pass off as beer, Norway reflected as he tried to steady him. “Meadow-wha’?”
“L’anse aux Meadows,” Canada mumbled again, the French words slurred and thick in his mouth. “Y’know, b’ye. Were dere few days ago, eh?” He leaned against Norway, pressing him firmly into the door. Norway told himself it was just because he couldn’t stand properly on his own. “Yer settlemen’.”
Norway pursed his lips, slowly recalling their road trip and the site and the reason Canada had invited him to Newfoundland in the first place. “Told you. Don’ remember.” He hesitated, then looked up at him. A faint hint of light filtered in through the blinds, brightening the room just enough that he could barely make out Canada’s features. “You weren’ there, anyway. Didn’t exist back then.”
“Not th’ point. ‘S th’ idea of settlement that matters, b’ye.” Canada leaned in close, nuzzling him as he whispered it.
Norway grew tense for a moment before deciding to allow it, reasoning that though he was drunk and his words were strange, he was harmless. “Don’ know what you mean,” he said coolly.
“Th’ land, Norge.” Canada whispered it by his ear and the hot, fluttering breath made Norway shiver involuntarily. “Th’ land r’members you. ‘N a part of me feels it, ‘n it knows you. Cause’ve th’land, eh? ‘S how it is.”
“You’re drunk,” Norway mumbled. “Talking nonsense.”
“Drunk, yes. But ‘s not nonsense.”
Before Norway could protest, a mouth closed over his own. His eyes widened and he squirmed, trying to wriggle his way out from between Canada and the door. His actions were ineffective: he was quite firmly pinned. Fuck, he thought. A part of him didn’t really mind as such, but there was also the matter of the undeserved familiarity of the action to consider, and some worry as to how Canada would feel about the entire thing the next morning.
After a long moment the kiss broke and Norway’s hands flew up to grip Canada’s shoulders, holding him steady. They were both out of breath, staring at each other in the dim light. Norway gritted his teeth. There were several things he wanted to say, most of them amounting to “what the hell are you doing?”, but what actually came out of his mouth was, “If you’re pissed about this tomorrow, you can’t blame me, because you started it.”
It seemed that Canada grinned, but in the dark it was difficult to be certain. “Got it,” he said. “’s all me. Don’ worry.”
There were no further words, because Canada kissed him again, and that time Norway didn’t try to squirm away. He slid his arms around Canada’s shoulders, the uncertainty slowly fading. Well, he thought, even if the kid was upset in the morning, it was just a kiss. He’d live.
A startled sound escaped him as Canada pressed him more tightly against the door, and Norway’s eyes flew open wide as a slick tongue slid into his mouth, tasting of cheap Atlantic beer. After recovering from his shock he returned the gesture, cautiously at first, then gradually with more enthusiasm. Hell, it felt good to be pinned like that, between the young nation’s large frame and solid wood, and damn, he was a good kisser, too. The sensation of large hands sliding downward made him tense, but they stopped at his waist, which was reassuring. He might be plastered, Norway thought, but it seemed there was still some sense in him. A nagging voice in the back of his head reminded him not to let it go too far. With that in mind, he wrapped his arms around Canada’s neck and resolved to enjoy himself.
Kissing, nipping, and biting each other’s lips, soon they were both dishevelled and flustered. He’d had some nerve making a move like that, Norway reflected, but even with his inhibitions lowered by a night of dancing and drinking, Canada was still Canada. Even when he broke the kiss to trail his mouth along Norway’s throat, grazing with teeth and tongue, there was little of the arrogance and egotism characteristic of certain other nations. The gestures had a tentative nature, and in his flustered, dazed state the small part of Norway that was still thinking clearly suspected that if he pushed him away and told him to stop, he would cease and desist with little argument.
It was a comforting thought.
It was the reason he didn’t object to any of his actions, the reason he tilted his head to give him more room to press kisses to his throat, the reason he relished the attention, not caring that there would probably be marks the next day. Damn the marks. Canada wasn’t like certain cocky bastards and for that reason alone Norway would put up with marks.
Finally his mouth was attacked again, and he returned the gesture, a playful growl rumbling in the back of his throat. Canada’s glasses bumped awkwardly, getting in the way and reminding him of – Norway shoved the thought down. No, he wasn’t nearly drunk enough to think about that.
After a time the kiss gentled into slow, deep, warm pressure against his mouth, firm as the sensation of the hands at his waist and the weight that pressed him into the door. Long and dizzying, when it finally broke Norway found himself panting and breathless. They lingered nose-to-nose, catching their breath, until finally Norway muttered, a hint of teasing in his voice, “And all that, just to get me to stop saying you’re talking nonsense.”
“Not jus’ that.” A light kiss. Norway could feel him grinning. “Was also ‘cause you’re fuckin’ hot.”
Norway stared at him. Something bubbled inside him, rising from joy taken in the sheer ridiculousness of it. Before he knew what was happening, he was laughing. “You,” he said between chuckles. “You’re fucking plastered.”
They kissed again and it was quite a while before the tremors ceased.
It was bright that day and the air was crisp. He sat by himself on a large flat rock on the shore, looking out at the ocean. His brother was elsewhere. Taking a deep breath, he savoured the salt in the air and the sound of crashing waves.
When he heard someone approaching he assumed it was Iceland. He didn’t say a word, nor turned to look at him, merely gestured for him to sit.
They sat together in silence for a time. When he finally turned to look at his brother, he realized it was not Iceland.
It certainly was not Iceland.
The small, pale figure that stared up at him didn’t look quite so ghostly at such a close proximity. Its hair was mussed, stuck with twigs and pine needles. Its facial features were ordinary, unremarkable. It had wrapped itself in a blanket; it was one of his own, Norway noted. One he had noticed was missing.
Its eyes were big and blue and looked back at him coolly. A bit like Iceland’s. A bit like his own.
“Who are you?” Norway asked quietly. It did not respond, merely stared at him a moment longer, then turned its head to look out at the ocean.
Norway shrugged and did the same. They stayed that way, and no further words were spoken.
Norway cracked his eyes open, then shut them almost immediately as they were hit by sunlight streaming in through the partially-open blinds. He held back a groan and quickly ran through some very important questions: Where am I, whose bed is this, what did I do last night, and how much will I regret it?
In the background he could hear a radio turned down low and someone singing along in the sort of way that one does when they wish they could do it at the top of their lungs but are restraining themselves for the sake of the sleeping person in the next room. “I wanna’ be consequence free; I wanna’ be where nothing needs to matter...”
Norway slowly let out the breath he had been holding and relaxed into the bright white sheets, the events of the previous night gradually coming back to him. He was in Saint John’s. They had come home after drinking. They had made out against the door then stumbled to the bed room where they made out some more until finally, exhausted, they both fell asleep. He was sure that was all.
He sat up and ran his fingers through his hair, blinking groggily as he realized that he had fallen asleep fully-clothed. It was a source of both discomfort and relief, further confirming that nothing untoward had happened. Nothing but drinking, the kisses, and the dream.
The dream. When he tried to recall it, it was still vivid, and somehow he knew it wasn’t really a dream. Not really.
His head hurt.
He drew in a deep breath. Well, he thought, best get it over with. With his decision made, he slid off the bed and padded into the kitchen.
He found his host going through the kitchen cupboards, setting out various ingredients on the counter: cinnamon, nutmeg, and a bottle of vanilla. Canada had changed out of his jeans in favour of flannel pyjama pants, but he still wore the same bright red shirt he had slept in. When he noticed Norway he stopped singing and flashed him a smile. “G’ morning!”
Norway raised an eyebrow, wanting to ask, “Is it?” Instead he simply began, “Got any-“
Before he could finish his sentence, Canada was pressing an aspirin tablet into his hand. “Figgered y’d need it,” he said, setting a glass of water on the counter before he resumed his rummaging. “You up fer breakfast? I ha’ all I need t’make my special French toast.”
“Mm.” Norway downed the tablet, trying not to let his bafflement show. How on earth could he be so cheerful? “Yes,” he said. “That would be good.” He hesitated. “About last night...”
Canada froze. “Yeah?” He didn’t turn to look at him. There seemed to be a slight tremor in his voice, though it might have been imagined. Ah, Norway thought. Drunk enough to act like an idiot, but not drunk enough to forget it in the morning.
Norway cleared his throat. “What happened was all right.” He paused, searching for the right words. “You’re all right.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth when he heard Canada sigh in relief.
“That’s great. I was worried you’d –“
“No need. It’s all right.” He nibbled his lip, considering for a moment, then added, “And you weren’t talking nonsense. Last night.”
“What?”
“I remembered something.” When Canada looked at him, wide-eyed and hopeful, the smile that had threatened to appear flitted over Norway’s lips a moment, before disappearing as quickly as it came. “Not much,” he added, his tone cautious. “But something. I’ll tell you over breakfast.”
The pan sizzled with cooking toast soaked through with egg and milk and vanilla and spice. When they had settled down to it, Norway recounted his memory between mouthfuls of the stuff, made sweet with syrup.
“It wasn’t you,” he said, when all had been told. “But there was something. Someone. It might have become a nation if we had stayed.”
“And it didn’t,” Canada said, a thoughtful expression on his face. “But it’s in the land. The land remembers it.” He paused, then looked at Norway, smiling broadly. “And it remembers you.”
Though he was sceptical, Norway decided it would do no good to protest. “If you say so,” he said quietly, reaching for more syrup.
“I do.”
There was no more to say, and the rest of the morning was spent in comfortable silence.
Stars and a Bottle
So tell me boyo,
what d'you think?
Sittin' with me
on this grassy hill
covered in bluebells and
fergit-me-nots,
passin' a bottle of
Moosehead back 'n forth-
Ah, I see your
face twistin';
You got no taste for
the stuff.
Well, never mind, just
look up and up-
see now there,
th' sun's almost gone
down past th' horizon
and the stars are
out a-twinklin'.
Say b'ye, isn't they
th' very same stars
y'sailed by
so many years ago?
And isn't that
th' same bright sky
y'walk unner when
on crisp winter nights
in chilly Oslo
y' make yer way
back to your home with
a head full of drink?
Well, no matter
as now
's th' sky we sit under
on this fair May night
th' grass tickling our palms,
th'scent of salt air
in our nostrils.
