The taste of honey [Russia/Norway]
Feb. 13th, 2016 09:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roesslyngTitle: The taste of honey
Characters/Pairing: Russia/Norway
Rating: 13+
Length: ~500
Summary: Sometimes, they spend their summer nights together. One night, Russia gives him a gift.
Other: Set during the 19th century.
Written for Qichi for Chocolate Box Exchange. :) (Original post)
The taste of honey
Under the brightness of July's summer sky, neither of them can sleep. They stay up in their shared lodgings, talking a while. When Norway's words run out, as they always do, Russia talks for the both of them.
Norway listens, resting against Russia's bulky form, even if it really is too warm for close contact on that summer night. He listens to his voice, takes in the rise and fall of those soft words in their shared tongue. Strange words. A strange tongue. But good. Sharp at times. Rolling at others. The syllables fit together roughly. It suits both of them.
Russia pauses. He has been speaking of home and the garden he has there, that he has taken to beekeeping, that he has become fond of it. Then he gasps as h remembers something, and carefully moves away with a soft word of apology. Rummages in his luggage, searching by feel in the dark.
Norway waits.
Eventually, something is pressed into his hand. Thick, heavy, a good weight. Glass. Norway reaches for the curtain, flips the thick fabric out of the way so he can see what Russia gave him. A jar sealed with wax.
"Honey," Russia says, pressing a kiss to the top of Norway's head. There is a proud smile in his voice. "From my bees. I thought you would like it."
Norway brushes his fingertips over the sealing. Turns the jar in his hands, takes in the weight. It's full to the top, he's sure. Tilts his head to the side and lets Russia kiss at him again. He can feel the press of his nose, the flutter of breath against his ear.
It is a gift.
He has received gifts before. More than usual in recent years. Books. Clothes. Trinkets. All slipped to him by a figure no less imposing than Russia, but far quieter, and even more sparse with words than Norway himself. Desperate gestures meant to win him over. Norway refused them all without a word.
This is different. Norway knows. It is nothing more than it is, and Russia expects nothing from it.
"Yes," he says softly, the pidgin words comfortably heavy on his tongue. "I'll have it with my tea."
He sets the jar on the bedside table, and turns his head to kiss him. Once, twice. Again. He pulls Russia on top of him and doesn't stop.
The night is too hot for sex, but they have it anyway. Later, exhausted, they push the window open, draw back the curtain to let in the air. Norway closes his eyes and sighs as a breeze brushes against his forehead, a contrast to the heat rolling off the large form on the bed next to him.
They had opened the jar after they were finished. Just for a hint of it. Just for a taste. Norway insisted. The sweetness lingers on his mouth and Norway runs his tongue over his lips, savouring it.
It is a gift.
Norway will not forget it.
Characters/Pairing: Russia/Norway
Rating: 13+
Length: ~500
Summary: Sometimes, they spend their summer nights together. One night, Russia gives him a gift.
Other: Set during the 19th century.
Written for Qichi for Chocolate Box Exchange. :) (Original post)
The taste of honey
Under the brightness of July's summer sky, neither of them can sleep. They stay up in their shared lodgings, talking a while. When Norway's words run out, as they always do, Russia talks for the both of them.
Norway listens, resting against Russia's bulky form, even if it really is too warm for close contact on that summer night. He listens to his voice, takes in the rise and fall of those soft words in their shared tongue. Strange words. A strange tongue. But good. Sharp at times. Rolling at others. The syllables fit together roughly. It suits both of them.
Russia pauses. He has been speaking of home and the garden he has there, that he has taken to beekeeping, that he has become fond of it. Then he gasps as h remembers something, and carefully moves away with a soft word of apology. Rummages in his luggage, searching by feel in the dark.
Norway waits.
Eventually, something is pressed into his hand. Thick, heavy, a good weight. Glass. Norway reaches for the curtain, flips the thick fabric out of the way so he can see what Russia gave him. A jar sealed with wax.
"Honey," Russia says, pressing a kiss to the top of Norway's head. There is a proud smile in his voice. "From my bees. I thought you would like it."
Norway brushes his fingertips over the sealing. Turns the jar in his hands, takes in the weight. It's full to the top, he's sure. Tilts his head to the side and lets Russia kiss at him again. He can feel the press of his nose, the flutter of breath against his ear.
It is a gift.
He has received gifts before. More than usual in recent years. Books. Clothes. Trinkets. All slipped to him by a figure no less imposing than Russia, but far quieter, and even more sparse with words than Norway himself. Desperate gestures meant to win him over. Norway refused them all without a word.
This is different. Norway knows. It is nothing more than it is, and Russia expects nothing from it.
"Yes," he says softly, the pidgin words comfortably heavy on his tongue. "I'll have it with my tea."
He sets the jar on the bedside table, and turns his head to kiss him. Once, twice. Again. He pulls Russia on top of him and doesn't stop.
The night is too hot for sex, but they have it anyway. Later, exhausted, they push the window open, draw back the curtain to let in the air. Norway closes his eyes and sighs as a breeze brushes against his forehead, a contrast to the heat rolling off the large form on the bed next to him.
They had opened the jar after they were finished. Just for a hint of it. Just for a taste. Norway insisted. The sweetness lingers on his mouth and Norway runs his tongue over his lips, savouring it.
It is a gift.
Norway will not forget it.
