![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
As time moves we stay the same [Russia/Norway]
Title: As time moves we stay the same
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Russia/Norway
Rating: 10+
Length: 800 words
Summary: They have settled into themselves. Time and borders shift, but they do not.
Other: Written for Qichi for Trick or Treat exchange. :) [Original post]
As time moves we stay the same
They have walked this path more than once.
Down this old trail, through this forest. On one side, the sea wafts its scent over, salting the air. On the other side, the land rises up and up, sharp as the ridges of Norway's spine.
The forest had changed somewhat over the centuries, as living things do, and so have they.
But it is still the same forest, and they are still the same people, and they have changed very little in some ways. Russia is as tall and broad beside him as he was one hundred years, two hundred years ago. But Norway is stronger now than he has ever been, except for that time long ago, when his fingers were heavy with gold rings, before the wheel of his fortune turned.
They have settled into themselves. Time and borders shift, but they do not.
The autumn path is bright and sharp. Yellow leaves and bare branches reach up to the dome of the sky. It is an uncommonly blue day. There aren't many of those left in this year.
Damp earth all around them. There have been some autumn rains, and there will be more. "Bring boots you don't mind mucking around in," Norway had advised his companion over the phone, when they were planning the visit, when one of them was packing for a flight and the other was readying his house. Russia had laughed at him in response, but Norway knew that Russia knew he was serious when he gave a warning like that.
His friend talks. Russia's voice is light, sing-song, cheerful, scattered with endearments. Nothing he talks about is anything serious. They set down that rule long ago: when they are in private together, and when it is a personal trip rather than matters of business, there is to be no talk of politics, of economies, of governments. They have had this rule since long before the trading ships from Arkhangelsk ceased their pilgrimage to Norway's northern shores. It has served them well.
So Russia speaks of the coming winter, of snow, of knitting. He has begun working on a new sweater. "Did I send you that pattern? No? I must show you. It is so much more complicated than it looks."
Norway listens, lets him talk. Speaks quietly, when he does speak. The words roll off his tongue in a way that is old but familiar, like the two of them, like themselves. Their memories are long and, in private, in moments like this, their words are better suited to a time two centuries ago, on Vardø's shore, when they explored one another's bodies under the midnight sun.
He lets the words wash over him, and the sounds around them too – the autumn leaves, the birdsongs, trilled out by those who haven't left yet. He keeps his hands in his pockets and walks with long strides, a brisk pace. Norway is used to going beside others who have a longer step than his own.
They will have a week together. It is enough. They do not have time for personal visits very often, but when they do, it is sometimes hard not to become tired of each other's company if it goes too long. It is better to take it in bites, in pieces.
Russia is a nation best appreciated in small doses.
When they return to his home they will have tea. Norway made sure to buy some, to tuck it away in the pantry for this week. His friend has particular tastes, and Norway doesn't share them. But he will brew it in the interest of closeness, of sitting side-by-side on the patio. And so that he will not have to deal with the childishly disappointed expression that he could expect to see if he forgot it.
They will pick apples from his garden, green and sour and flecked, the best kind for pies. That's one of the useful things about having Russia around: he can reach the tallest ones. Broad hands that can pluck off two at once. Norway thinks of those same hands, flour-dusted, rolling out pastry. He feels his cheeks heat, feels that warmth creep down his neck.
Best not to think on that for now. Not until later. He draws down the zipper of his coat and breathes in the cool air.
The sky is clouding over by the time they make their way back to Norway's house. Down the trail, past the gate, up the path to the door. By the time they reach it the rain is falling, thick wet drops pounding the dead leaves. They stand beneath the overhang instead of going in, and watch it for a while as it pours down.
Norway leans against Russia and closes his eyes. As a long arm snakes around his shoulders, his lips twitch. Maybe a smile.
The apples will have to wait.
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Russia/Norway
Rating: 10+
Length: 800 words
Summary: They have settled into themselves. Time and borders shift, but they do not.
Other: Written for Qichi for Trick or Treat exchange. :) [Original post]
As time moves we stay the same
They have walked this path more than once.
Down this old trail, through this forest. On one side, the sea wafts its scent over, salting the air. On the other side, the land rises up and up, sharp as the ridges of Norway's spine.
The forest had changed somewhat over the centuries, as living things do, and so have they.
But it is still the same forest, and they are still the same people, and they have changed very little in some ways. Russia is as tall and broad beside him as he was one hundred years, two hundred years ago. But Norway is stronger now than he has ever been, except for that time long ago, when his fingers were heavy with gold rings, before the wheel of his fortune turned.
They have settled into themselves. Time and borders shift, but they do not.
The autumn path is bright and sharp. Yellow leaves and bare branches reach up to the dome of the sky. It is an uncommonly blue day. There aren't many of those left in this year.
Damp earth all around them. There have been some autumn rains, and there will be more. "Bring boots you don't mind mucking around in," Norway had advised his companion over the phone, when they were planning the visit, when one of them was packing for a flight and the other was readying his house. Russia had laughed at him in response, but Norway knew that Russia knew he was serious when he gave a warning like that.
His friend talks. Russia's voice is light, sing-song, cheerful, scattered with endearments. Nothing he talks about is anything serious. They set down that rule long ago: when they are in private together, and when it is a personal trip rather than matters of business, there is to be no talk of politics, of economies, of governments. They have had this rule since long before the trading ships from Arkhangelsk ceased their pilgrimage to Norway's northern shores. It has served them well.
So Russia speaks of the coming winter, of snow, of knitting. He has begun working on a new sweater. "Did I send you that pattern? No? I must show you. It is so much more complicated than it looks."
Norway listens, lets him talk. Speaks quietly, when he does speak. The words roll off his tongue in a way that is old but familiar, like the two of them, like themselves. Their memories are long and, in private, in moments like this, their words are better suited to a time two centuries ago, on Vardø's shore, when they explored one another's bodies under the midnight sun.
He lets the words wash over him, and the sounds around them too – the autumn leaves, the birdsongs, trilled out by those who haven't left yet. He keeps his hands in his pockets and walks with long strides, a brisk pace. Norway is used to going beside others who have a longer step than his own.
They will have a week together. It is enough. They do not have time for personal visits very often, but when they do, it is sometimes hard not to become tired of each other's company if it goes too long. It is better to take it in bites, in pieces.
Russia is a nation best appreciated in small doses.
When they return to his home they will have tea. Norway made sure to buy some, to tuck it away in the pantry for this week. His friend has particular tastes, and Norway doesn't share them. But he will brew it in the interest of closeness, of sitting side-by-side on the patio. And so that he will not have to deal with the childishly disappointed expression that he could expect to see if he forgot it.
They will pick apples from his garden, green and sour and flecked, the best kind for pies. That's one of the useful things about having Russia around: he can reach the tallest ones. Broad hands that can pluck off two at once. Norway thinks of those same hands, flour-dusted, rolling out pastry. He feels his cheeks heat, feels that warmth creep down his neck.
Best not to think on that for now. Not until later. He draws down the zipper of his coat and breathes in the cool air.
The sky is clouding over by the time they make their way back to Norway's house. Down the trail, past the gate, up the path to the door. By the time they reach it the rain is falling, thick wet drops pounding the dead leaves. They stand beneath the overhang instead of going in, and watch it for a while as it pours down.
Norway leans against Russia and closes his eyes. As a long arm snakes around his shoulders, his lips twitch. Maybe a smile.
The apples will have to wait.