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A Man of Few Words [Netherlands/Japan]
Title: A Man of Few Words
Characters/Pairing: Netherlands/Japan
Rating: E for Everyone
Length: 1k
Summary: Netherlands' letters have always been brief, but over the years, Japan has come to understand what he intends by them.
Other: I don't think I'll ever tire of the idea of these two in a long-distance friendship/relationship/agreement. <3
Japan is challenging to write... If there is anything that contradicts canon, please let me know.
A Man of Few Words
Japan turned the letter over in his hands. It was a thick, broad envelope, sealed firmly and plastered with stamps.
The sender had neglected to write their name, but he knew the address.
Carefully, he opened it, slipping out first one lone sheet, then a bundle of pages carefully packed together. The first was the letter; the second held the sketches.
That was how these packets always went.
Tea. Sunlight coming in through the window. He sat down to read and thought of Netherlands in his small Amsterdam flat, a cup of coffee by his hand, his rabbit lolling by his foot. He imagined his brows furrowing, teeth worrying at his lower lip as he tried to decide what to write.
In the end, the letter was brief, as it always was.
Japan-
It's raining here again. Hasn't stopped for three days. Not good weather for cycling. Can't take Lodewijk out either.
I got your letter a couple of weeks ago. Nice photographs.
When do you want to meet? Not for business. It's your turn to come to my place. Tell me when.
My schedule is open.
Lodewijk says hello.
-Netherlands
Japan folded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope. Netherlands had always had a very curt approach to writing them, and Japan had learned long ago that it was not meant as a slight against him, and should not be taken as such. That it was a simple matter of Netherlands being one who expressed himself as simply as possible, in the most direct way possible, and in as few words as possible, at least when it came to matters of words in personal correspondence.
The sketches, however, were another matter.
Japan took up the thick bundle of paper. Opened the fastenings with great care. Let his eyes linger over the pages, settle gently on the work, appreciatively taking it in.
It had been a while since they had last had opportunity to see one another, be it for business or for personal matters.
The thickness of the pile of sketches only emphasized this.
Turning the pages over, he began looking through them one by one. Ink drawings. Loose, flowing, simple but elegant, with the grace of one who had been drawing for centuries. Sketches of his rabbit, of nooks and crannies in his busy but immaculately-kept home, of flowers and plants. Of locations Japan recognized, streets with familiar canal houses, bridges they had crossed when they were together, windows and embellishments on old buildings they had passed. The park where they had picnicked together on so many occasions, at least when the weather was good, when the grey Amsterdam sky didn't open and pour itself out.
Here and there were touches of colour, drawings embellished with it. Coloured ink. Coloured pencil. That was new. He was experimenting with it, then.
The last sheet. Japan lingered on it, taking in the lines, the sweep of the ink on the page. A rare drawing of Netherlands himself, sitting at his table, pen in his hand, looking out the window.
Japan set it down.
He took up his tea, and then he took up the letter again.
Netherlands expressed himself with brief words. But that was only because words were not his medium of choice. It was not words that he used to say I am fond of you, or I miss you or I am looking forward to when we will meet again.
Of course, Netherlands would not admit to expressing such thoughts at all. But he did.
Japan recalled that he had always been such a person. That his personal letters, even in the earliest days, had been short. Four pages at most, and that in the age before telephones, before modernity, hundreds of years ago when all of his messages had to be carried by ship, and when their words would take forever to reach one another.
His letters had always come secondary to a packet of drawings, a thick stack of pages tied carefully together, or sometimes an entire book of skilled inkwork.
Japan had become accustomed to his long letters receiving a response that came in the form of a few short words, and many heartfelt drawings.
He knew that it was typical of Netherlands' character.
The letter he sent in reply was much longer than the one he had received, as it always was. With it, he included poems he had written, photographs he had taken, and drawings too, returning the gesture – even if to a smaller degree than what he had been sent. That, too, was something he had come to understand over time: that the ratio of art was not a one-to-one gesture of affection; that he did not need to match Netherlands in numbers, only in expression.
They met several months later.
Autumn. Rain. Netherlands had grumbled about it, said September could be damp. Japan had simply said that he was prepared for rain, and that he knew how Netherlands' country could be at this time of year, and that he would dress for it.
Amsterdam was grey. The rain was light, damp but gentle on the streets, the canals, falling with a soft touch that was hardly more than a mist.
"Told you," Netherlands muttered, sucking at his teeth and looking out at the world from beneath an umbrella broad enough for two. "It's a damp autumn again."
Japan stood closer to him, not only because of the rain, but because the opportunity allowed it. He peered out at the familiar city from beneath the umbrella, and nodded. "I do not mind it," he said. What he did not say was that he was glad for it, if only for the opportunity to stay close by. Close enough to feel the warmth rolling from Netherlands' tall frame, or perhaps that was just his imagination.
Netherlands let out a low hum as he considered it. Few words, but he seemed to understand what Japan meant; both the things that he said, and the things he did not say. "Fair enough," he said, and smiled. "Then I don't mind either."
"Ah. I'm glad."
In the grey city, as the rain thickened and let its drops spill down, they walked close together, and said nothing else.
End
Characters/Pairing: Netherlands/Japan
Rating: E for Everyone
Length: 1k
Summary: Netherlands' letters have always been brief, but over the years, Japan has come to understand what he intends by them.
Other: I don't think I'll ever tire of the idea of these two in a long-distance friendship/relationship/agreement. <3
Japan is challenging to write... If there is anything that contradicts canon, please let me know.
A Man of Few Words
Japan turned the letter over in his hands. It was a thick, broad envelope, sealed firmly and plastered with stamps.
The sender had neglected to write their name, but he knew the address.
Carefully, he opened it, slipping out first one lone sheet, then a bundle of pages carefully packed together. The first was the letter; the second held the sketches.
That was how these packets always went.
Tea. Sunlight coming in through the window. He sat down to read and thought of Netherlands in his small Amsterdam flat, a cup of coffee by his hand, his rabbit lolling by his foot. He imagined his brows furrowing, teeth worrying at his lower lip as he tried to decide what to write.
In the end, the letter was brief, as it always was.
Japan-
It's raining here again. Hasn't stopped for three days. Not good weather for cycling. Can't take Lodewijk out either.
I got your letter a couple of weeks ago. Nice photographs.
When do you want to meet? Not for business. It's your turn to come to my place. Tell me when.
My schedule is open.
Lodewijk says hello.
-Netherlands
Japan folded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope. Netherlands had always had a very curt approach to writing them, and Japan had learned long ago that it was not meant as a slight against him, and should not be taken as such. That it was a simple matter of Netherlands being one who expressed himself as simply as possible, in the most direct way possible, and in as few words as possible, at least when it came to matters of words in personal correspondence.
The sketches, however, were another matter.
Japan took up the thick bundle of paper. Opened the fastenings with great care. Let his eyes linger over the pages, settle gently on the work, appreciatively taking it in.
It had been a while since they had last had opportunity to see one another, be it for business or for personal matters.
The thickness of the pile of sketches only emphasized this.
Turning the pages over, he began looking through them one by one. Ink drawings. Loose, flowing, simple but elegant, with the grace of one who had been drawing for centuries. Sketches of his rabbit, of nooks and crannies in his busy but immaculately-kept home, of flowers and plants. Of locations Japan recognized, streets with familiar canal houses, bridges they had crossed when they were together, windows and embellishments on old buildings they had passed. The park where they had picnicked together on so many occasions, at least when the weather was good, when the grey Amsterdam sky didn't open and pour itself out.
Here and there were touches of colour, drawings embellished with it. Coloured ink. Coloured pencil. That was new. He was experimenting with it, then.
The last sheet. Japan lingered on it, taking in the lines, the sweep of the ink on the page. A rare drawing of Netherlands himself, sitting at his table, pen in his hand, looking out the window.
Japan set it down.
He took up his tea, and then he took up the letter again.
Netherlands expressed himself with brief words. But that was only because words were not his medium of choice. It was not words that he used to say I am fond of you, or I miss you or I am looking forward to when we will meet again.
Of course, Netherlands would not admit to expressing such thoughts at all. But he did.
Japan recalled that he had always been such a person. That his personal letters, even in the earliest days, had been short. Four pages at most, and that in the age before telephones, before modernity, hundreds of years ago when all of his messages had to be carried by ship, and when their words would take forever to reach one another.
His letters had always come secondary to a packet of drawings, a thick stack of pages tied carefully together, or sometimes an entire book of skilled inkwork.
Japan had become accustomed to his long letters receiving a response that came in the form of a few short words, and many heartfelt drawings.
He knew that it was typical of Netherlands' character.
The letter he sent in reply was much longer than the one he had received, as it always was. With it, he included poems he had written, photographs he had taken, and drawings too, returning the gesture – even if to a smaller degree than what he had been sent. That, too, was something he had come to understand over time: that the ratio of art was not a one-to-one gesture of affection; that he did not need to match Netherlands in numbers, only in expression.
They met several months later.
Autumn. Rain. Netherlands had grumbled about it, said September could be damp. Japan had simply said that he was prepared for rain, and that he knew how Netherlands' country could be at this time of year, and that he would dress for it.
Amsterdam was grey. The rain was light, damp but gentle on the streets, the canals, falling with a soft touch that was hardly more than a mist.
"Told you," Netherlands muttered, sucking at his teeth and looking out at the world from beneath an umbrella broad enough for two. "It's a damp autumn again."
Japan stood closer to him, not only because of the rain, but because the opportunity allowed it. He peered out at the familiar city from beneath the umbrella, and nodded. "I do not mind it," he said. What he did not say was that he was glad for it, if only for the opportunity to stay close by. Close enough to feel the warmth rolling from Netherlands' tall frame, or perhaps that was just his imagination.
Netherlands let out a low hum as he considered it. Few words, but he seemed to understand what Japan meant; both the things that he said, and the things he did not say. "Fair enough," he said, and smiled. "Then I don't mind either."
"Ah. I'm glad."
In the grey city, as the rain thickened and let its drops spill down, they walked close together, and said nothing else.
End
no subject
That, too, was something he had come to understand over time: that the ratio of art was not a one-to-one gesture of affection; that he did not need to match Netherlands in numbers, only in expression.
Such a pleasant concept. Thank you for sharing this story -- I'll definitely come back to reread it!