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Entry tags:
Cool Rain [England/Norway]
Title: Cool Rain
Characters/Pairing: England/Norway
Rating: E for Everyone
Length: 2.8k
Summary: While Norway is staying over at England's place, a storm wakes both of them up. England decides to read to Norway to help him get back to sleep.
Other: Was a response to an Eng/Nor fluff prompt on the kink meme. (Original post) Haven't written England in ages; not quite sure about it.
Cool Rain
The rain started to fall as they made their way up the walk to England's home.
Big fat drops came down from the smoke-grey sky, dampening their hair and faces and clothes. As England fished in his pockets for his keys, muttering to himself - "I could have sworn I put them in this jacket," - Norway stood beside him and turned his face skyward, taking it in.
"They're in your back pocket," Norway said after a moment.
"Aha! Right you are."
"They're always in your back pocket."
"Of course they are; I was only - well, never mind." England decided to drop it, as in the moment they stood there talking, the sky decided to open up and dump the rain down on them, as if the warning it gave before hadn't been enough. He grabbed his keys, unlocked the door, and pulled Norway inside as it started to pour down.
They stood in the entranceway, and for a moment the only sound was the rain outside. Then England cleared his throat and turned on the light.
"Well," he said as he briskly removed his cap and shoes. "That nearly caught us."
"Nearly?" Norway snorted, glancing out the window. "Ought to've brought us home sooner. Smelled like rain all evening, it did."
"Yes, and that's what you've been telling me all evening." And England soundly ignored it every time Norway said it. The sky had been cloudless for most of the evening, and the spring air was pleasantly warm. Of course, that didn't rule out rain, especially with the English climate being what it was, but he had thought that for once it would hold off until they made their way back.
Apparently not.
A light touch distracted England from his thoughts and brought him back to the present. He felt his cheeks heating as Norway brushed his fingertips against his face, then moved to nudge a few strands of wet hair out of his eyes. "The point," England said, "is that we got home before it started pouring."
Norway said nothing at first; just gave a nod, content to just let England talk while he continued neatening England's hair - not that the short strands needed it, damp though they were. And for a moment, England let him, though all the while he wondered if they couldn't find a better place for it; getting comfortable in the foyer like that, it really wasn't the done thing, was it. Just as he was about to suggest they go somewhere else, Norway let his hand drop, and took England's hand in his own.
"Ought to get more comfortable," he said softly. "Shouldn't we."
"I... yes." England glanced down to their hands, linked gently, a familiar and comfortable hold. When he lifted his gaze to look at his friend's face again, there was no mistaking the quiet, waiting look on Norway's face. "Yes, we should."
Without another word, he led him upstairs.
England jolted awake to the sound of thunder. He caught his breath, then stared at the window, the room suddenly bright as a streak of lightning flashed across the sky, followed almost immediately by another roll of thunder.
Sometime during the night, the storm changed from mere rain to something more impressive.
He drew the blankets more closely around himself, then edged toward the center of the bed, intending to curl up beside Norway and go back to sleep. When he didn't feel the warmth of Norway's back against his own, he frowned and turned over.
Norway's side of the bed was empty.
England's brows furrowed. He blinked, staring at the empty space beside him, no longer tired but still having difficulty understanding what, exactly, was going on. A glance toward the clock on the bedside table told him that it was 2:30 AM. Then he saw the faint glow of the hall light under the door across the room, and understood. He wasn't the only one who couldn't sleep.
He sat up in bed, scrubbed a hand down his face, and looked out the window. Nothing was visible for the pounding of the rain on it. Again, the lightning lit up the room. Again, the thunder sounded.
He wasn't going to get back to sleep, not with that fuss going on. Looking back once again at the door and the slip of light under it, England decided. There was no use in staying in bed, and while he could turn on the lamp and read, some company was more appealing.
Not to mention that a cup of tea would suit him very well.
After slipping out of bed and throwing on yesterday's clothing, England made his way downstairs, where the warm glow of the kitchen light flooded into the hallway. The sound of someone rummaging around came from the room, and he paused before stepping in, taking a look inside.
Norway was there. He'd thrown on his clothes without giving it any thought; his shirt was on backward. Without the clip holding his hair in place, his fringe flopped in his face, getting in his eyes. He had taken out the French press, and was searching for something else, opening every single cabinet in the kitchen in the process. As England watched, he opened another one, peered into it with narrowed eyes, frowned as he nudged a few things around, then gave up and went on to the next one.
Oh. Of course.
"I don't have any coffee," England said.
At the sudden noise, Norway jumped, slammed the cupboard shut, and turned around to face him.
They stared at each other for a moment, Norway wide-eyed and tense, England baffled and sorely in need of a cup of tea. There was something about Norway's expression that wasn't quite right; while normally he was so put together, at the moment he seemed utterly unsettled. After hesitating, England ventured, "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," Norway said sharply. "Was just-"
The thunder rolled again and as it shook the house Norway froze and looked toward the kitchen window, biting his lip.
It was strange, England thought as he looked him up and down. Strange, seeing his normally calm friend acting so shaken. And because of what? Thunderstorms? It had to be more than that, but it wasn't his business, and he wouldn't ask. However -- the fact remained that this wouldn't do. "I can go over to pick up some coffee in the morning," he said, stepping into the kitchen. "But for now, I think you will have to make do with a cup of tea."
"Tea," Norway repeated, staring at him blankly as if he didn't know the meaning of the word.
England glanced down. Norway was gripping the counter so hard that his knuckles had turned white. He quickly looked back up to his face, and as the lightning flashed again, he replied with a crisp, "Yes. Tea. Camomile. To help you get back to sleep."
For a moment, Norway's expression flickered, and he looked as if he might protest - either because of the tea, or because he didn't want to be coddled. England couldn't be sure which. But that second passed and whatever objection Norway had must have fizzled out, because he turned, took up the French press, shoved it back into the cupboard - in the wrong place, but that didn't matter, really - and then nodded. "Okay." A deep breath. "Tea sounds fine."
"Right, then." England stepped toward him, meaning to fetch the kettle. But before he did, he paused to set his hand on his friend's shoulder. There was another deep breath from Norway, and as England looked at him, he could see that he was paler than usual. Norway met his gaze, stared right back at him, but he didn't say anything about it and England didn't ask.
Looking away, he took up the kettle, and then went to fill it. It was when his back was turned that Norway decided to explain himself.
"Had a dream. Couldn't sleep," he said softly. "The storm, I think. That's all."
"A dream?"
"A dream."
England's lips tightened as he rummaged for the tea. A dream brought on by the storm, then. And to judge by the way Norway was reacting to it, it certainly hadn't been a good one. The thunder rumbled again, loud as cannon fire and close enough to rattle the windowpanes.
Well. He wouldn't say anything. Norway wasn't the only one who had nightmares like that now and then. He filled two mugs, dropped in the bags to steep, then handed one to his friend. "I think," he said, "that I could do with some reading. Come with me."
On a whim, he offered his hand. Norway raised an eyebrow, as if asking if this was really the time, but he took it - and at the contact, some of the tightness seemed to ebb from his face.
"Lead the way, then."
And that England did. He led him through the house to the library, where the usually comfortable atmosphere was dampened by the chill of the air and the thudding of raindrops on the window. England set his mug down on an endtable, then reached for the cord to pull the curtains shut. "Could you get the fire started?" he asked. "I'll find something for us."
"Goin' to read to me, are ya'?"
"As a matter of fact, yes." Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Norway making his way to the fireplace, a hint of amusement on his face, which was a much more welcome expression than the one he'd had earlier. "If you don't object."
"Suit yourself. It's fine by me," Norway murmured as he took the pack of matches from the mantle. As the thunder boomed, he stiffened for a second, then knelt down and set to stuffing paper and kindling into the fireplace as if nothing had happened. "Make it something cozy, mayhaps."
Something cozy. Comforting, in other words. Well, then. England went to the bookshelf and trailed his fingertips along the familiar bindings. Something that would relax his friend, if not put him to sleep. Considering that the storm woke both of them up, maybe Norway wasn't the only one who needed it. Behind him, he could hear the sound of wood against paper and the eventual crackle as Norway struck a match and set the fire alight.
The thud of raindrops on the windowpanes, meanwhile, did not abate.
England pursed his lips as he searched through his bookshelf for something suitable. Fairy tales might normally do well enough, but all those stories about people dying in odd and creative ways probably were not the best choice for tonight. He moved onward, scanning the titles until his gaze fell on a small volume. That one. That might do, at least the beginning of it. He pulled it from the shelf, scanned the well-worn, familiar pages, then nodded.
It would do very well.
He took it with him to the sofa, and after a moment, Norway rose from the fireplace and joined him, sinking down close beside him. Before Norway could say anything, England neatly unfolded the throw blanket and draped it over his friend's shoulders.
Norway looked at him, an eyebrow raised as if unsure what to make of that, then took up one end of it and wrapped it around England. "If it's cold in here, I ain't the only one who'll be feelin' it," he said. "Let's share it, then."
With a nod, England reached for their tea, handing one mug over to Norway before silently taking up his own.
For a while, they sat together, saying nothing as they drank. In spite of the fire that Norway lit, the air was still cold, and England found himself glad for the half of the blanket that Norway had drawn across his shoulders.
The rain continued to fall. Its tapping on the window was steady, firm, insistent, unceasing, but the thunder changed - its deep rumble becoming softer as it moved away, the flashes of lightning giving wider space between each new roll of sound. Eventually Norway let out a sigh, then edged closer on the couch to curl against England and rest his head on his shoulder. While there was still a hint of tension in his body, it was much less than it had been when England had found him in the kitchen.
It was better than nothing, and England decided not to comment on it.
"What's the book, then?" Norway murmured. "Y'said you'd read something."
"Ah, well - I did find something." England set his cup on the couchside table. "Would you like me to?"
"Said before, didn't I. It's fine by me."
England glanced toward him. His eyes were lightly shut, and his expression calm, and if it weren't for the way he bit his lip at the sound of the rain as it picked up and pounded even more furiously against the side of the house, Norway might have looked as if he were back to his usual self. A stray strand of hair fell across his face, and England reached up to tuck it behind his ear. Then he turned back to the book.
He opened the cover. Pausing for a moment, he took in the crackle of the fire and its heat slowly spreading through the large room. The scent of tea and old worn-out paper. The rain outside and the warmth of his friend beside him. In spite of everything, he found that he was starting to feel very comfortable indeed. Hopefully, Norway would soon feel the same.
After clearing his throat, he began to read, and the familiar words felt good in his mouth.
"In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit...."
England woke with the sound of birdsong in his ears and an ache in his neck.
He yawned, blinked, and lifted his head. Morning sunlight flooded into the room; the storm was long over. In the fireplace, the warm glow of the fire had died down some time during the night, leaving nothing but embers. Beside him, Norway was asleep, his head heavy on England's shoulder, his breathing slow and deep and even.
The book was face-down on the floor and England vaguely recalled the sensation of it slipping from his fingers before he finally dozed off for good.
Well then. That was that. As he looked at Norway again and took in the calm expression on his sleeping face, England decided that perhaps everything had turned out all right after all.
Only one problem remained, and that was that Norway was asleep. England certainly wasn't going to wake him - perish the thought - but he was awake, and he could do with breakfast and tea and some time to work out the stiffness that came from falling asleep upright on the couch.
Just as he was considering how to go about moving without waking him up, Norway's eyes fluttered, and he yawned. "Ugh..."
"Well! Good morning," England said, holding back a smile as his friend blinked at him drowsily. "How do you feel?"
"Coffee."
"What?"
"Coffee," Norway repeated as he sat up, running his fingers through his hair. "Said you'd get some in the morning." Another yawn. "'S morning, ain't it."
That alone was enough for England to be sure: regardless of what had happened during the storm last night, Norway was just fine. He reached for the throw blanket and began folding it, tutting softly as he drew it together. "Are you saying you want to go get it right now? Before breakfast? You've hardly been awake for five minutes."
"Ain't breakfast without coffee, an' you know well as anyone else that I won't wake proper without it." Pausing, Norway seemed to consider something, before leaning over to graze a kiss over England's cheek. "Thanks," he murmured near England's ear, "for last night."
England's hands stilled at the sensation of Norway's breath on his ear. "I - well, it was nothing," he said, trying to say it firmly, and trying to ignore the fact that he was blushing. "You would have done the same, I think."
"'Course I would."
Norway's fingertips brushed over England's cheek, then slid to his chin to gently turn his head. When the kiss came, England was ready for it: soft, slow, and brief. It might have been thanks, but if it was, that was hardly necessary as far as England was concerned; hearing it had been more than enough, and even that was a tad excessive. But it was possible that Norway just wanted to make a point.
When they drew away, Norway looked at him expectantly, then said, "About that coffee, then."
... And the point, apparently, was that he wasn't about to take 'no' for an answer. England sighed. "Oh, all right," he said as he stood and offered him his hand. "But I wouldn't go out and about this early for just anyone, you know."
But as Norway took his hand, England held back a smile. On a bright morning like this one, and with the storm over, he didn't mind it at all.
End.
Characters/Pairing: England/Norway
Rating: E for Everyone
Length: 2.8k
Summary: While Norway is staying over at England's place, a storm wakes both of them up. England decides to read to Norway to help him get back to sleep.
Other: Was a response to an Eng/Nor fluff prompt on the kink meme. (Original post) Haven't written England in ages; not quite sure about it.
Cool Rain
The rain started to fall as they made their way up the walk to England's home.
Big fat drops came down from the smoke-grey sky, dampening their hair and faces and clothes. As England fished in his pockets for his keys, muttering to himself - "I could have sworn I put them in this jacket," - Norway stood beside him and turned his face skyward, taking it in.
"They're in your back pocket," Norway said after a moment.
"Aha! Right you are."
"They're always in your back pocket."
"Of course they are; I was only - well, never mind." England decided to drop it, as in the moment they stood there talking, the sky decided to open up and dump the rain down on them, as if the warning it gave before hadn't been enough. He grabbed his keys, unlocked the door, and pulled Norway inside as it started to pour down.
They stood in the entranceway, and for a moment the only sound was the rain outside. Then England cleared his throat and turned on the light.
"Well," he said as he briskly removed his cap and shoes. "That nearly caught us."
"Nearly?" Norway snorted, glancing out the window. "Ought to've brought us home sooner. Smelled like rain all evening, it did."
"Yes, and that's what you've been telling me all evening." And England soundly ignored it every time Norway said it. The sky had been cloudless for most of the evening, and the spring air was pleasantly warm. Of course, that didn't rule out rain, especially with the English climate being what it was, but he had thought that for once it would hold off until they made their way back.
Apparently not.
A light touch distracted England from his thoughts and brought him back to the present. He felt his cheeks heating as Norway brushed his fingertips against his face, then moved to nudge a few strands of wet hair out of his eyes. "The point," England said, "is that we got home before it started pouring."
Norway said nothing at first; just gave a nod, content to just let England talk while he continued neatening England's hair - not that the short strands needed it, damp though they were. And for a moment, England let him, though all the while he wondered if they couldn't find a better place for it; getting comfortable in the foyer like that, it really wasn't the done thing, was it. Just as he was about to suggest they go somewhere else, Norway let his hand drop, and took England's hand in his own.
"Ought to get more comfortable," he said softly. "Shouldn't we."
"I... yes." England glanced down to their hands, linked gently, a familiar and comfortable hold. When he lifted his gaze to look at his friend's face again, there was no mistaking the quiet, waiting look on Norway's face. "Yes, we should."
Without another word, he led him upstairs.
England jolted awake to the sound of thunder. He caught his breath, then stared at the window, the room suddenly bright as a streak of lightning flashed across the sky, followed almost immediately by another roll of thunder.
Sometime during the night, the storm changed from mere rain to something more impressive.
He drew the blankets more closely around himself, then edged toward the center of the bed, intending to curl up beside Norway and go back to sleep. When he didn't feel the warmth of Norway's back against his own, he frowned and turned over.
Norway's side of the bed was empty.
England's brows furrowed. He blinked, staring at the empty space beside him, no longer tired but still having difficulty understanding what, exactly, was going on. A glance toward the clock on the bedside table told him that it was 2:30 AM. Then he saw the faint glow of the hall light under the door across the room, and understood. He wasn't the only one who couldn't sleep.
He sat up in bed, scrubbed a hand down his face, and looked out the window. Nothing was visible for the pounding of the rain on it. Again, the lightning lit up the room. Again, the thunder sounded.
He wasn't going to get back to sleep, not with that fuss going on. Looking back once again at the door and the slip of light under it, England decided. There was no use in staying in bed, and while he could turn on the lamp and read, some company was more appealing.
Not to mention that a cup of tea would suit him very well.
After slipping out of bed and throwing on yesterday's clothing, England made his way downstairs, where the warm glow of the kitchen light flooded into the hallway. The sound of someone rummaging around came from the room, and he paused before stepping in, taking a look inside.
Norway was there. He'd thrown on his clothes without giving it any thought; his shirt was on backward. Without the clip holding his hair in place, his fringe flopped in his face, getting in his eyes. He had taken out the French press, and was searching for something else, opening every single cabinet in the kitchen in the process. As England watched, he opened another one, peered into it with narrowed eyes, frowned as he nudged a few things around, then gave up and went on to the next one.
Oh. Of course.
"I don't have any coffee," England said.
At the sudden noise, Norway jumped, slammed the cupboard shut, and turned around to face him.
They stared at each other for a moment, Norway wide-eyed and tense, England baffled and sorely in need of a cup of tea. There was something about Norway's expression that wasn't quite right; while normally he was so put together, at the moment he seemed utterly unsettled. After hesitating, England ventured, "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," Norway said sharply. "Was just-"
The thunder rolled again and as it shook the house Norway froze and looked toward the kitchen window, biting his lip.
It was strange, England thought as he looked him up and down. Strange, seeing his normally calm friend acting so shaken. And because of what? Thunderstorms? It had to be more than that, but it wasn't his business, and he wouldn't ask. However -- the fact remained that this wouldn't do. "I can go over to pick up some coffee in the morning," he said, stepping into the kitchen. "But for now, I think you will have to make do with a cup of tea."
"Tea," Norway repeated, staring at him blankly as if he didn't know the meaning of the word.
England glanced down. Norway was gripping the counter so hard that his knuckles had turned white. He quickly looked back up to his face, and as the lightning flashed again, he replied with a crisp, "Yes. Tea. Camomile. To help you get back to sleep."
For a moment, Norway's expression flickered, and he looked as if he might protest - either because of the tea, or because he didn't want to be coddled. England couldn't be sure which. But that second passed and whatever objection Norway had must have fizzled out, because he turned, took up the French press, shoved it back into the cupboard - in the wrong place, but that didn't matter, really - and then nodded. "Okay." A deep breath. "Tea sounds fine."
"Right, then." England stepped toward him, meaning to fetch the kettle. But before he did, he paused to set his hand on his friend's shoulder. There was another deep breath from Norway, and as England looked at him, he could see that he was paler than usual. Norway met his gaze, stared right back at him, but he didn't say anything about it and England didn't ask.
Looking away, he took up the kettle, and then went to fill it. It was when his back was turned that Norway decided to explain himself.
"Had a dream. Couldn't sleep," he said softly. "The storm, I think. That's all."
"A dream?"
"A dream."
England's lips tightened as he rummaged for the tea. A dream brought on by the storm, then. And to judge by the way Norway was reacting to it, it certainly hadn't been a good one. The thunder rumbled again, loud as cannon fire and close enough to rattle the windowpanes.
Well. He wouldn't say anything. Norway wasn't the only one who had nightmares like that now and then. He filled two mugs, dropped in the bags to steep, then handed one to his friend. "I think," he said, "that I could do with some reading. Come with me."
On a whim, he offered his hand. Norway raised an eyebrow, as if asking if this was really the time, but he took it - and at the contact, some of the tightness seemed to ebb from his face.
"Lead the way, then."
And that England did. He led him through the house to the library, where the usually comfortable atmosphere was dampened by the chill of the air and the thudding of raindrops on the window. England set his mug down on an endtable, then reached for the cord to pull the curtains shut. "Could you get the fire started?" he asked. "I'll find something for us."
"Goin' to read to me, are ya'?"
"As a matter of fact, yes." Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Norway making his way to the fireplace, a hint of amusement on his face, which was a much more welcome expression than the one he'd had earlier. "If you don't object."
"Suit yourself. It's fine by me," Norway murmured as he took the pack of matches from the mantle. As the thunder boomed, he stiffened for a second, then knelt down and set to stuffing paper and kindling into the fireplace as if nothing had happened. "Make it something cozy, mayhaps."
Something cozy. Comforting, in other words. Well, then. England went to the bookshelf and trailed his fingertips along the familiar bindings. Something that would relax his friend, if not put him to sleep. Considering that the storm woke both of them up, maybe Norway wasn't the only one who needed it. Behind him, he could hear the sound of wood against paper and the eventual crackle as Norway struck a match and set the fire alight.
The thud of raindrops on the windowpanes, meanwhile, did not abate.
England pursed his lips as he searched through his bookshelf for something suitable. Fairy tales might normally do well enough, but all those stories about people dying in odd and creative ways probably were not the best choice for tonight. He moved onward, scanning the titles until his gaze fell on a small volume. That one. That might do, at least the beginning of it. He pulled it from the shelf, scanned the well-worn, familiar pages, then nodded.
It would do very well.
He took it with him to the sofa, and after a moment, Norway rose from the fireplace and joined him, sinking down close beside him. Before Norway could say anything, England neatly unfolded the throw blanket and draped it over his friend's shoulders.
Norway looked at him, an eyebrow raised as if unsure what to make of that, then took up one end of it and wrapped it around England. "If it's cold in here, I ain't the only one who'll be feelin' it," he said. "Let's share it, then."
With a nod, England reached for their tea, handing one mug over to Norway before silently taking up his own.
For a while, they sat together, saying nothing as they drank. In spite of the fire that Norway lit, the air was still cold, and England found himself glad for the half of the blanket that Norway had drawn across his shoulders.
The rain continued to fall. Its tapping on the window was steady, firm, insistent, unceasing, but the thunder changed - its deep rumble becoming softer as it moved away, the flashes of lightning giving wider space between each new roll of sound. Eventually Norway let out a sigh, then edged closer on the couch to curl against England and rest his head on his shoulder. While there was still a hint of tension in his body, it was much less than it had been when England had found him in the kitchen.
It was better than nothing, and England decided not to comment on it.
"What's the book, then?" Norway murmured. "Y'said you'd read something."
"Ah, well - I did find something." England set his cup on the couchside table. "Would you like me to?"
"Said before, didn't I. It's fine by me."
England glanced toward him. His eyes were lightly shut, and his expression calm, and if it weren't for the way he bit his lip at the sound of the rain as it picked up and pounded even more furiously against the side of the house, Norway might have looked as if he were back to his usual self. A stray strand of hair fell across his face, and England reached up to tuck it behind his ear. Then he turned back to the book.
He opened the cover. Pausing for a moment, he took in the crackle of the fire and its heat slowly spreading through the large room. The scent of tea and old worn-out paper. The rain outside and the warmth of his friend beside him. In spite of everything, he found that he was starting to feel very comfortable indeed. Hopefully, Norway would soon feel the same.
After clearing his throat, he began to read, and the familiar words felt good in his mouth.
"In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit...."
England woke with the sound of birdsong in his ears and an ache in his neck.
He yawned, blinked, and lifted his head. Morning sunlight flooded into the room; the storm was long over. In the fireplace, the warm glow of the fire had died down some time during the night, leaving nothing but embers. Beside him, Norway was asleep, his head heavy on England's shoulder, his breathing slow and deep and even.
The book was face-down on the floor and England vaguely recalled the sensation of it slipping from his fingers before he finally dozed off for good.
Well then. That was that. As he looked at Norway again and took in the calm expression on his sleeping face, England decided that perhaps everything had turned out all right after all.
Only one problem remained, and that was that Norway was asleep. England certainly wasn't going to wake him - perish the thought - but he was awake, and he could do with breakfast and tea and some time to work out the stiffness that came from falling asleep upright on the couch.
Just as he was considering how to go about moving without waking him up, Norway's eyes fluttered, and he yawned. "Ugh..."
"Well! Good morning," England said, holding back a smile as his friend blinked at him drowsily. "How do you feel?"
"Coffee."
"What?"
"Coffee," Norway repeated as he sat up, running his fingers through his hair. "Said you'd get some in the morning." Another yawn. "'S morning, ain't it."
That alone was enough for England to be sure: regardless of what had happened during the storm last night, Norway was just fine. He reached for the throw blanket and began folding it, tutting softly as he drew it together. "Are you saying you want to go get it right now? Before breakfast? You've hardly been awake for five minutes."
"Ain't breakfast without coffee, an' you know well as anyone else that I won't wake proper without it." Pausing, Norway seemed to consider something, before leaning over to graze a kiss over England's cheek. "Thanks," he murmured near England's ear, "for last night."
England's hands stilled at the sensation of Norway's breath on his ear. "I - well, it was nothing," he said, trying to say it firmly, and trying to ignore the fact that he was blushing. "You would have done the same, I think."
"'Course I would."
Norway's fingertips brushed over England's cheek, then slid to his chin to gently turn his head. When the kiss came, England was ready for it: soft, slow, and brief. It might have been thanks, but if it was, that was hardly necessary as far as England was concerned; hearing it had been more than enough, and even that was a tad excessive. But it was possible that Norway just wanted to make a point.
When they drew away, Norway looked at him expectantly, then said, "About that coffee, then."
... And the point, apparently, was that he wasn't about to take 'no' for an answer. England sighed. "Oh, all right," he said as he stood and offered him his hand. "But I wouldn't go out and about this early for just anyone, you know."
But as Norway took his hand, England held back a smile. On a bright morning like this one, and with the storm over, he didn't mind it at all.
End.
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(Anonymous) 2016-06-30 04:11 am (UTC)(link)no subject