Red and White [Lithuania and Poland]
Jan. 16th, 2009 08:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roesslyngTitle: Red and White
Characters/Pairing: Lithuania and Poland
Rating: E for Everyone
Length: 630
Summary: Lithuania thinking about Poland.
Other: Posted in my personal journal. (Original post)
Red and White
Where are you now, July?
Winter enfolds you in his night
and though I call to you
no call returns.
Closing my eyes
all I see is the white
that surrounds you now, my friend.
Remember the colours you knew
and the warmth of the sun
as we lay in the grass
beneath the linden and birch.
If you should happen
to see red and white
close your eyes
and let it be poppies.
Cold air bites until it reaches my bones. I shut the door behind me and though the wind ceases the cold still reaches through my clothing and my breath still becomes mist when I exhale.
My fingers are trembling and as I reach for the crushed letter in my breast pocket my eyes dart around to be certain, to be sure. There is a small window and I go, sink beneath it. In the thin grey light I unfold the paper and something slips out and flutters to rest in my lap. The edges crumble at my touch.
The letter was delivered to me in the dark, in secret, and I did not recognize the messenger. Now I open it, alone, unknowing. Who?
The two dry pressed poppies between my fingertips are delicate as a butterfly’s wing and there is little I can do to prevent them from turning to dust.
Red and white.
I do not need to look at the handwriting to know who sent them. Touching those paper-thin petals, the thoughts rush over me and I remember the sun, remember the warmth, remember red and white and you. Running through a field kicking up flower petals as you chased me and suddenly falling as I came to a steep hill and didn’t stop, rolling all the way down. You followed and our joy became our world, reached through that open space all the way up to heaven.
You landed on top of me and knocked the wind from my chest but somehow I didn’t mind. Your yellow hair was in my face and your laughter filled me. When you moved aside and I could finally breathe, you looked at me and grinned, said hey, your shirt is totally stained now.
I checked.
Crisp white streaked and stained bright from the poppy petals, and it normally would have bothered me, but you tackled me again and I didn’t care, it didn’t matter, there was nothing in the world but the sun and the sky and our laughter.
Reading the message I find my lips drawn into a wide strained smile. My shoulders shake and I find myself short of breath from silent laughter. It must be laughter, because it can’t be crying, even though my eyes are hot and damp and threatening to overflow.
It isn’t funny, but it is. But it isn’t.
All my shirts are stained red, but this is another kind, the kind that does not wash out. And don’t you remember the meaning of your gift? You’ve sent me death-flowers.
But I know your intent as I look at your poppies crumbling in my hand, and as I close my eyes the warmth returns and for a flickering, fragile moment I can see us, you and me in a field of poppies, marked with red and soaked through with sun.
A sound from the shadows startles me.
I crush the flowers in the letter and shove it in my pocket.
Too late.
I can tell by the silence that he has seen it, and I know suddenly that he was here the entire time, watching.
My heart pounds and my stomach twists. Still he says nothing. He opens the door to the outside and I know what sort of colours I will see tonight.
I will follow your advice soon, my friend.
Characters/Pairing: Lithuania and Poland
Rating: E for Everyone
Length: 630
Summary: Lithuania thinking about Poland.
Other: Posted in my personal journal. (Original post)
Red and White
Where are you now, July?
Winter enfolds you in his night
and though I call to you
no call returns.
Closing my eyes
all I see is the white
that surrounds you now, my friend.
Remember the colours you knew
and the warmth of the sun
as we lay in the grass
beneath the linden and birch.
If you should happen
to see red and white
close your eyes
and let it be poppies.
Cold air bites until it reaches my bones. I shut the door behind me and though the wind ceases the cold still reaches through my clothing and my breath still becomes mist when I exhale.
My fingers are trembling and as I reach for the crushed letter in my breast pocket my eyes dart around to be certain, to be sure. There is a small window and I go, sink beneath it. In the thin grey light I unfold the paper and something slips out and flutters to rest in my lap. The edges crumble at my touch.
The letter was delivered to me in the dark, in secret, and I did not recognize the messenger. Now I open it, alone, unknowing. Who?
The two dry pressed poppies between my fingertips are delicate as a butterfly’s wing and there is little I can do to prevent them from turning to dust.
Red and white.
I do not need to look at the handwriting to know who sent them. Touching those paper-thin petals, the thoughts rush over me and I remember the sun, remember the warmth, remember red and white and you. Running through a field kicking up flower petals as you chased me and suddenly falling as I came to a steep hill and didn’t stop, rolling all the way down. You followed and our joy became our world, reached through that open space all the way up to heaven.
You landed on top of me and knocked the wind from my chest but somehow I didn’t mind. Your yellow hair was in my face and your laughter filled me. When you moved aside and I could finally breathe, you looked at me and grinned, said hey, your shirt is totally stained now.
I checked.
Crisp white streaked and stained bright from the poppy petals, and it normally would have bothered me, but you tackled me again and I didn’t care, it didn’t matter, there was nothing in the world but the sun and the sky and our laughter.
Reading the message I find my lips drawn into a wide strained smile. My shoulders shake and I find myself short of breath from silent laughter. It must be laughter, because it can’t be crying, even though my eyes are hot and damp and threatening to overflow.
It isn’t funny, but it is. But it isn’t.
All my shirts are stained red, but this is another kind, the kind that does not wash out. And don’t you remember the meaning of your gift? You’ve sent me death-flowers.
But I know your intent as I look at your poppies crumbling in my hand, and as I close my eyes the warmth returns and for a flickering, fragile moment I can see us, you and me in a field of poppies, marked with red and soaked through with sun.
A sound from the shadows startles me.
I crush the flowers in the letter and shove it in my pocket.
Too late.
I can tell by the silence that he has seen it, and I know suddenly that he was here the entire time, watching.
My heart pounds and my stomach twists. Still he says nothing. He opens the door to the outside and I know what sort of colours I will see tonight.
I will follow your advice soon, my friend.
