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roesslyngTitle: Remembering the Midnight Sun
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Russia/Norway
Rating: 18+
Length: 1k
Summary: It's November now. November, and many, many years have passed since those days.
Other: Birthday fic for Qichi! Gratulerer med dagen!! And many more! :D
This fic has been translated into Russian by Moriell. You can read it in Russian over at Ficbook!
Remembering the Midnight Sun
Norway closes his eyes and thinks back to earlier days.
It isn't as easy now as it used to be. The warmth is the same. So is the large, broad shape of Russia's body, and the way it feels to be sprawled out beneath him. The way he moves. The cadence of his breathing.
Other things are very different.
The light that presses through his eyelids is from clean-burning candles. Norway doesn't smell lamp oil or beeswax or woodsmoke. Can't quite recall that particular scent no matter how hard he tries. Too much time has passed. The lingering tang of tobacco and tar and sap is gone. And Russia is warm, yes, but this warmth is only his own, and none of it is from the heat of a bright northern night.
It's November now. November, and many, many years have passed since those days. It's different from when they used to meet, in those northern places, during the summer. Even inside, in this bedroom that has been his for such a long time, Norway's nose is cold, his fingertips chilled as he digs his nails into Russia's shoulders.
Maybe, Norway thinks, it would be better to only ever ask him to visit in the summer. For old time's sake. Maybe Russia would understand. Maybe he wouldn't.
Maybe he'd get a laugh out of it, if he did manage to figure out what Norway was getting at.
But maybe he should ask anyway. Hint at it, in the way that isn't a hint. For the sake of memory. For the sake of grain and fish and the recollection of northern coastal air.
Norway keeps his eyes shut. Listens to the sounds that both of them make as they move. The deep, low gasps of the nation above him. His own breaths, coming quick and sharp. Creaking bedsprings. No rustle of stuffed mattresses. No birdsong from outside. No voices carrying to them from elsewhere in the building.
He cherishes the privacy. It's good to have this when he is with Russia, these moments when they can be together in solitude, without the potential to be interrupted or overheard. They can make as much or as little noise as they like, can do whatever they please to each other. But he can't help but remember the time spent in their old lodgings, in the brightness of the midnight sun at the top of their world.
This is not Trondheim. This is not Narvik or Tromsø. This place is not anywhere in bare northern Finnmark. It is not Arkhengelsk, either. This is the house that has become his primary residence, sturdy and old and nestled up against the forest, one hour's drive away from Oslo. This is far to the south, far from the small northern towns where they used to meet.
It is easier to travel now, but somehow it seems that they see each other in private less than they used to. Just arranging to get up there was so difficult in those days, but they took care with it, this relationship that they shared. When time was something that had to be sliced thinly, and rationed like the last bag of flour meant to stretch until the next trading boat arrived, it was different. Now, they are within a short flight of one another, but they don't see each other. Their meetings are rushed, brief. Businesslike. Too public.
Moments like this one are few, like the one they have now, right here, in the quiet dark of Norway's bedroom.
Russia's mouth covers his own, and Norway stops thinking. Wills himself to stop thinking, because if he doesn't stop, he will not enjoy this. Not as much as he should. He can't have with that. Better to savour it. He opens his mouth and takes him in, because he knows it's impossible to say when they will meet again like this. It's impossible to say how anything will go.
It's better, instead, to relax under him, and take things as they go. The shape of Russia's lips, the tongue that slides into his mouth. The size of him, that wide frame that Norway loves to hang himself on, loves to wrap his legs around. Norway clings, sinks his fingers into Russia's hair, twining the strands around his fingers.
He doesn't dip his hand between them to help himself along. He doesn't have to. Norway knows he can come from this alone, from nothing but the shape of Russia inside of him. It's more than enough if he keeps this up, if he doesn't slow down.
The words come out when their mouths part. "Don't stop." They slip out easily in a soft gasp and Norway isn't even sure which language he's whispering it in, whether it's his own, or Russia's, or that tongue they shared years ago, that one that was theirs alone. It doesn't matter how he said it, Norway decides, because Russia understands it regardless. Murmurs some half-coherent acknowledgement. His words light, thrilled, almost a laugh. Not a laugh against him; just pleased that they're both enjoying this so much. Norway has heard this before.
When he finishes, it is hard and fast and he clamps his teeth shut to hold the noise in.
Russia isn't so quiet. In fact, he's downright loud. But Norway is used to those deep groans by now, the rough thrusting, the heavy shudders that run through that huge frame. He waits it out, breathes slowly as he rolls in time with him. It runs its course eventually.
They stay quiet long after that, resting against one another. They say nothing. Once, there was a time when Norway might say something, or at least wonder if he should. Now he knows that he doesn't have to.
As Russia noses him, kissing along his cheek, Norway sighs deeply. Opens his eyes. Stares upward and watches the shifting light from the candles dance on the ceiling.
It isn't the glow of oil lamps, but it's enough.
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Russia/Norway
Rating: 18+
Length: 1k
Summary: It's November now. November, and many, many years have passed since those days.
Other: Birthday fic for Qichi! Gratulerer med dagen!! And many more! :D
This fic has been translated into Russian by Moriell. You can read it in Russian over at Ficbook!
Remembering the Midnight Sun
Norway closes his eyes and thinks back to earlier days.
It isn't as easy now as it used to be. The warmth is the same. So is the large, broad shape of Russia's body, and the way it feels to be sprawled out beneath him. The way he moves. The cadence of his breathing.
Other things are very different.
The light that presses through his eyelids is from clean-burning candles. Norway doesn't smell lamp oil or beeswax or woodsmoke. Can't quite recall that particular scent no matter how hard he tries. Too much time has passed. The lingering tang of tobacco and tar and sap is gone. And Russia is warm, yes, but this warmth is only his own, and none of it is from the heat of a bright northern night.
It's November now. November, and many, many years have passed since those days. It's different from when they used to meet, in those northern places, during the summer. Even inside, in this bedroom that has been his for such a long time, Norway's nose is cold, his fingertips chilled as he digs his nails into Russia's shoulders.
Maybe, Norway thinks, it would be better to only ever ask him to visit in the summer. For old time's sake. Maybe Russia would understand. Maybe he wouldn't.
Maybe he'd get a laugh out of it, if he did manage to figure out what Norway was getting at.
But maybe he should ask anyway. Hint at it, in the way that isn't a hint. For the sake of memory. For the sake of grain and fish and the recollection of northern coastal air.
Norway keeps his eyes shut. Listens to the sounds that both of them make as they move. The deep, low gasps of the nation above him. His own breaths, coming quick and sharp. Creaking bedsprings. No rustle of stuffed mattresses. No birdsong from outside. No voices carrying to them from elsewhere in the building.
He cherishes the privacy. It's good to have this when he is with Russia, these moments when they can be together in solitude, without the potential to be interrupted or overheard. They can make as much or as little noise as they like, can do whatever they please to each other. But he can't help but remember the time spent in their old lodgings, in the brightness of the midnight sun at the top of their world.
This is not Trondheim. This is not Narvik or Tromsø. This place is not anywhere in bare northern Finnmark. It is not Arkhengelsk, either. This is the house that has become his primary residence, sturdy and old and nestled up against the forest, one hour's drive away from Oslo. This is far to the south, far from the small northern towns where they used to meet.
It is easier to travel now, but somehow it seems that they see each other in private less than they used to. Just arranging to get up there was so difficult in those days, but they took care with it, this relationship that they shared. When time was something that had to be sliced thinly, and rationed like the last bag of flour meant to stretch until the next trading boat arrived, it was different. Now, they are within a short flight of one another, but they don't see each other. Their meetings are rushed, brief. Businesslike. Too public.
Moments like this one are few, like the one they have now, right here, in the quiet dark of Norway's bedroom.
Russia's mouth covers his own, and Norway stops thinking. Wills himself to stop thinking, because if he doesn't stop, he will not enjoy this. Not as much as he should. He can't have with that. Better to savour it. He opens his mouth and takes him in, because he knows it's impossible to say when they will meet again like this. It's impossible to say how anything will go.
It's better, instead, to relax under him, and take things as they go. The shape of Russia's lips, the tongue that slides into his mouth. The size of him, that wide frame that Norway loves to hang himself on, loves to wrap his legs around. Norway clings, sinks his fingers into Russia's hair, twining the strands around his fingers.
He doesn't dip his hand between them to help himself along. He doesn't have to. Norway knows he can come from this alone, from nothing but the shape of Russia inside of him. It's more than enough if he keeps this up, if he doesn't slow down.
The words come out when their mouths part. "Don't stop." They slip out easily in a soft gasp and Norway isn't even sure which language he's whispering it in, whether it's his own, or Russia's, or that tongue they shared years ago, that one that was theirs alone. It doesn't matter how he said it, Norway decides, because Russia understands it regardless. Murmurs some half-coherent acknowledgement. His words light, thrilled, almost a laugh. Not a laugh against him; just pleased that they're both enjoying this so much. Norway has heard this before.
When he finishes, it is hard and fast and he clamps his teeth shut to hold the noise in.
Russia isn't so quiet. In fact, he's downright loud. But Norway is used to those deep groans by now, the rough thrusting, the heavy shudders that run through that huge frame. He waits it out, breathes slowly as he rolls in time with him. It runs its course eventually.
They stay quiet long after that, resting against one another. They say nothing. Once, there was a time when Norway might say something, or at least wonder if he should. Now he knows that he doesn't have to.
As Russia noses him, kissing along his cheek, Norway sighs deeply. Opens his eyes. Stares upward and watches the shifting light from the candles dance on the ceiling.
It isn't the glow of oil lamps, but it's enough.
