Notes: Ah, I'm finally getting around to posting this here! There are two chapters. Thank you to sednamode for beta-reading 3
Basically, this is my everything-is-beautiful-LietPol-reunion-fic, because I hadn't written one yet, and I love them, and ugh all I wanted to do was write a love scene. And then all this happened. There is history and angst in the background, but on the whole it's just very fluffy and very hopeful.
Also, yeah, obviously, rated M for quite a lot of romantic, enthusiastic, fluffy, chatty sexual content :)
January 1992
London, England
Women in Europe, Poland reflected, probably hadn't worn their hair this voluminous in two hundred years. Of course, Hungary was rocking the look as hard as she always rocked every look. It was so very good to see her.
"New Year's Resolution," he announced. "From now on, I'm going to be totally unselfish."
"Really?" Hungary asked. "What brought this on? This time, I mean."
"Oh, things!" Poland said airily, ignoring her last comment. "Life is pretty sweet at the minute, you know? I should share it around."
"Fair enough. Who said you were selfish, anyway?"
"Well… no one recently, I guess. Except Russia."
Hungary snorted. "Oh, well then. Yes, we all know how incredibly selfish you've been there. Functional democracy? Reasonable wages? Whatever were you thinking?"
"I know, right?" Poland laughed. "Like, 'wait what you don't want to use my shiny industrial policy, but I worked so hard on that, OMIGOD SO SELFISH POLSHKA!'"
"Yeah! 'course, I'm right up there in the selfishness stakes too…"
"Yeah, like all those troops he so kindly left in your house? How weirdly ungrateful of you, I mean!"
"It's been a series of tragic misunderstandings this half-century, hasn't it? 'Oh you DON'T WANT my tanks crushing your citizenry Hungary I am so hurt'—"
"—'what do you mean you want help in Warsaw I am way too important and busy just on the other side of this river', HA—"
Old wounds. They laughed until they gasped.
After they'd calmed down a little, they exchanged rueful glances.
"Well, that was fun," Hungary sighed.
"It was kinda," Poland admitted. "Okay, it must be weird for him, though. Russia actually believed all that stuff, you know?"
"And now here they are trying to take away all his friends. I know."
There was a pause.
"Ah… but, a little totally healthy venting aside, I am going to try to be better. So! I'm gonna get another drink, can I get you anything?"
"Good start," said Hungary. "No, thank you, I'd better head on now. Off you go and be unselfish – all for Russia's benefit, right?"
Oh.
The way Hungary was looking at him, she absolutely knew.
Poland and Lithuania's first one-to-one conversation in person in years was plain ridiculous. It was held walking along down a corridor after a classic "you-first-no-you-first" at the door.
"So – party time, hey?" Poland said, falling into step.
"What?" said Lithuania, then: "Oh, yes. Yeah, we had a few actually; it was nice."
"Oh, yeah – of course." Poland knew that, he'd been at at least one of them; it hadn't been a real question, he was just trying to think of something to say… "Hey, I got you Baltic guys' song on tape, did I say?"
"Did you? That's nice!" Lithuania smiled politely.
"At least," Poland continued, "I taped it off the radio, is that illegal? I dunno…"
"Um… only a little?"
There was a noise like a small herd of elephants behind them and a shout:
"Guys, wait up!"
Lithuania waved, all-too-obviously relieved. "Hello, Mr. America!"
"You got all formal again, dude," America chided him. "Anyway, anyway, aren't you looking well? Freedom looks real great on you."
Poland agreed with all his heart. Why couldn't he have said that? Lithuania might look a little tired, a little frayed; that was nothing new. But there was a fire kindled in his eyes that had been dampened for years and years, and it was still growing brighter.
Looking at him today, Poland wondered: did I ever glow like that? If he'd only known, he would have worn all his most daring outfits.
America extended his hand to Lithuania and Lithuania responded immediately, instinctively. "Lithuania. I mean it. I'm really happy you're okay – ha, you're better than okay, you're fantastic. And if there's anything I can do to help, you just let me know, alright?"
Lithuania's face, open and smiling, mirrored the genuine affection.
"Thank you," he said.
"You're completely welcome." His frank blue eyes didn't waver.
He's so nice, Poland thought wretchedly, and almost jumped as America suddenly turned to him with a wide grin.
"And you too, bro, gimme an S gimme an O… SOL-I-DAR-I-TY, right? How's it all going?"
He didn't want real answers, Poland told himself; he was just being friendly. So he answered briefly that it was all going like totally great thank you, and excused himself.
Poland couldn't be sure of the precise meaning of that look shared between America and Lithuania. He'd never asked much about Lithuania's trip to the States that one time. He'd never wanted to ask. He'd always wanted to know. He felt stupid for not knowing. Were they–? Or had they ever been..? All he had to go on were years of Russia's twisted hints and intimations, every one of them designed to turn them all against each other, to make sure they could trust no one but him.
America seemed so nice.
That really only made it worse.
But, if he could make Lithuania smile like that, then… Then…
Like someone said, Never ask to God to make you patient because He will. He'll do it by putting you into situations that stretch your patience to its outer limits and beyond. Apparently much the same model applied to foolhardy resolutions about unselfishness.
Poland balled his fists and screwed his eyes tight shut.
This isn't about me. I want him to be happy. I really want him to be happy.
That, then, was the off.
I really want him to be happy.
I'll never forgive you, Lithuania had said.
By this time, Poland had no shortage of memories to fuel his nightmares, but that moment still occasionally surfaced. It was after their fight, or maybe during it, depending how you measured (Liet was no quitter.) Not their only fight, but their worst. Poland. I'll never forgive you for this.
And Poland had felt his assured smile slip for half a second. "Sure you will," he'd quipped. "It's me. Everything's going to be fine now, so stop making a fuss."
He'd said that. Lithuania glowering up at him, split lip and smoke-stained uniform, refusing his hand, but everything's going to be fine now. Stop making a fuss. The memory was still tender. He'd thought, he'd really thought…
Well, it didn't matter what he'd thought, because nothing had been fine again, at all, for a very long time.
Before the Second World War, Lithuania, personally, had been at least civil, to a degree that would have surprised observers.
And then, Poland had spared hardly a thought for Liet or for repairing their relationship. He only wished he'd had the leisure.
Afterwards, the phone talks had begun again. They were not allowed to see each other, (and jumping borders had gotten trickier since the 1800s) but they were On Speaking Terms. Poland tried not to feel giddily happy when he heard that voice again, but it was no good. And somehow, talking was very easy, even though he didn't know what to say. They had some shared troubles once again, and better home technology, but by now over a hundred years' distance. So he rambled on about this or that, nothing deep, no past, no future - except, latterly: come on, hurry up and get out.
This time around, very consciously, he'd had no hopes. No assumptions. Hardly a daydream about the one person who shone in his memories like no one else. It would be nice to see him again. That was as much he allowed himself.
And when he had, at the Baltics' party… it was calamitous. Because it turned out that Poland was still crazy about Lithuania. Still? Moreso. Chronically, certifiably: he had it bad. The only thing that had changed was that he couldn't even pretend anymore.
He counted it a blessing that he could still enjoy their phone conversations, regardless of this stupid feeling, the settled unhappy knowledge of his own terminal condition. And so they talked of nothing at all, and a little of politics, once it started to make a difference, and again nothing. He often got the feeling that he was annoying Lithuania, but he didn't know how else to act.
And then there was America, who was just too loud and friendly and assured and likable! America, who was even good-looking in a loud way. America, for whom Poland could almost have contracted the kind of doomed admiration he'd once felt for France and England. Which was just embarrassing; America was only a kid after all.
But a stupid crush? Maybe that would have been okay, maybe that he could have dealt with, had some fun indulging those thoughts even.
He couldn't.
He was in love with Lithuania. So much it ached. As if someone had scratched that name on his heart, over and again.
And then there was Russia, whose insanity was of a different kind, and into the depths of which Poland had caught more than a glimpse.
Among the peaceable nations at conference, several had a kind of haggard jollity about them: America was possibly even louder than usual, more relieved than he wanted to admit; England, playing host, was a strange mix of friendly and aloof.
Russia's face was grey, like old snow. Poland almost felt sorry for him, alone in that crooked house. Almost; but not quite (not yet.)
Passing him in the corridor, he was sorely tempted to chant "Gorby, Gorby!" like they had in '89, under his breath, just to see him twitch. But he remembered his resolution and walked by in haughty silence, which had to count as a start.
Poland involved himself fully in the meeting. He'd gone so long without anyone caring about his opinions that it seemed important to have a lot of opinions now to make up for lost time. This was fun, until he caught Lithuania looking at him oddly. He said nothing for the rest of the afternoon.
America caught him again on the way out.
"Hi! How are you doing, anyway?" he asked. They shook hands a little awkwardly as they walked along. "Sorry, we didn't get much chance to talk earlier."
"That's alright," Poland said automatically. "Yeah, I'm pretty good. Um, yeah?" Where on earth had all his words gone? Two hours ago he'd had opinions.
"That's great, that's so great to hear. You're our pioneer, you know? Hey – if there's anything I can do?" America flashed a smile so brilliant and genuine that it was exhausting to look at. "I'll give you my pager number."
"Okay, thanks…" Poland mumbled, as America strode off somewhere.
Too exhausted to face any more socialising, Poland skipped out on dinner and went straight to his room. He had a bag of sweets in his case and picked at them until suddenly they were three-quarters gone and he felt sick. He got ready for bed at nine-thirty and lay down with headphones on.
He had to fast-forward through The Baltics Are Waking Up, though.
Poland wakes to hear the bells of the Kościół Mariacki chiming midnight, though when he looks across at the digital clock on his bedside table, the numbers don't seem to agree. He sits up in bed.
His light-switch doesn't work either, so he wanders down the hotel corridor to where he thinks Lithuania's room should be. A yard from the threshold, he hesitates.
The door is open and light spills into the hall, a yellow soft-edged light like steady-burning lamps. Something about it tugs at him, reminding him absurdly of Christmas long long ago; of golden-brown smells from the ovens and the pleasant burn of spiced wine. Churches warm at midnight with candles and incense and music. A time to put aside old grudges…
How he hopes he has been forgiven.
The thought he keeps at bay in his waking hours now rises unbidden and completed.
He stands drowning in memories of experiences he never had, an imagined childhood: the way he'd felt as he stood at the door of a half-real memory of home and family for years and years and years, but never abandoned by his people, never truly lost. The thought had kept his heart bitter-sweet but warm because it was always love that sang him back to life…
…Out in the cold street, lighting matches for the little heat and the flame-picture-love until everything burned away to nothing… (but that, too, was someone else's story.)
—How he hopes.
Surely, whatever the doctrine of penance requires of him—by now, surely… Because he's been scoured to the soul. They tied him down and sliced him open, bones all broken and on display. Poured out like water. Even if a small voice niggles at him that that isn't quite how it works: you can't wash away your own sins, no matter how much the blood.
Still here he is outside someone's hotel room, and –
- a low murmur of voices -
– the open door calls to him, and he walks in.
Seated side-by-side on a settee, Lithuania and America look up, no surprise: shirt-sleeves and smiles and low resonant voices.
"Nice night, isn't it?" says America. "Come on in, why don't you?"
Feeling suddenly underdressed, exposed, too-young: a child at the grown-ups' party, Poland comes in.
A thousand years young and there's no cure for shyness. He blurts it out: "So, are you two – I mean, cos, like, I'm totally fine if—"
"Poland." Lithuania glances at America. "Come sit here?"
Poland, not entirely clear what's happening, walks over and sits down between them.
"So, um—" he begins again, but again Lithuania gently but firmly cuts him off.
"Hey. Shh. Don't worry so much."
"I—you're the one who worries."
"Hm…"
Lithuania tips Poland's chin up - they look into each other's eyes, and Poland is almost undone - and then suddenly Lithuania is kissing him.
"Mmf – Lith–…!" Poland mumbles against his lips, and Lithuania opens up his mouth and starts to move his tongue, so gently…
And then behind him, America draws aside his hair, and begins to nibble at his ear, his neck…
And Poland has practically lost all capacity for thought, let alone speech. His pulse skitters in his throat and he makes soft and breathless "oh"s into Lithuania's kisses.
The thin fabric of his nightshirt affords him no protection. He can feel every crease and button of their formal clothes on his skin and now, closer in, he is wanting them, he is vulnerable to this. When Lithuania clasps America's arm over his shoulder and sighs, Poland finds he doesn't mind one bit because now both their bodies are pressing against his, and both their mouths are busy at the junctures of his throat and shoulder, and never never has he felt so coveted and so treasured.
Don't I get a say here? he thinks wildly - and just then Lithuania pulls back and looks at him, head a little on one side, mouth quirking, asking the question. (America too, has stopped, hands resting on his waist; Poland can hear the smile in his very breathing.)
He flings his arms about Liet's neck and pulls him right back down, kissing him silly, telling him with his body, yes, yes, yes.
America, playfully peeved at being left out, pounces and tickles. Poland squeals and flails and then they're all three sitting side-by-side but close, flushed and breathless. Poland turns to America to apologise or something, but America just laughs and kisses his forehead, and they're over to the bed, and he still hasn't realised…
America helps him off with his shirt, one fluid movement over his head, then runs his hands all over his chest and down his sides, warm hands and gentle before he has a chance to feel cold or exposed or ashamed of the scars still scattered there like a constellation. They'll fade, he's fading them, he's done it before, it's a special skill… America leans in, brushes his open mouth over Poland's chest, breathes, whispers, feather-soft, maddeningly sweet:
"Honey, what took you? We're so glad you made it."
Liet settles behind him. "Lie back…" he says, and smoothes his hair, "Oh, sweetheart, you've been brave."
America is young and strong, gentle and golden – the ideal of a captain, or a prince, not that they have princes in the New World… Poland breathes in and catches just a faint scent of soap. Lithuania is just exactly as he'd always remembered and dreamed. All this although he does wonder fleetingly how America can still be so sure, so simple and so warm after all the shit that's gone down in the last couple decades, and although, by now… by now he should have realised.
But now, ah, now – they are adoring him like something sacred; they are blessing and anointing his body with reverent fingers, holy kisses, with America's teeth just barely grazing a nipple, and Liet's hand slipping under his waistband, he is losing track – then a shock of sensation – ahh – and the sound he makes causes his face to flame more than ever. It seems to please the other two, all smiles and encouraging murmurs and moving faster, pressing in… Had they planned this, he wonders; how did Liet remember and how did America know –
Poland tries to do something, to reciprocate in some way but everything feels so pleasantly heavy. He can hardly work his weak fingers to fumble with shirt buttons, and America shoos him away, so he just holds on tight, seeking out each of their mouths with his mouth, needing them like comfort, like breathing – Which can't be right because, he's tough and he doesn't need anyone, but he feels… like silk thread, like a melody, fragile and strong, delicate-indomitable – They are touching him everywhere. Drinking him in like elixir. Wave after wave breaks upon him until he feels himself overtaken, submerged he must surely drown, but they are alert to every signal and always watching closely, are you okay? do you like this? breathe, baby – Faces and bodies gilded in the flickering light of candles, telling him that he's beautiful and showering him with all the care in the world.
Heat builds up and up inside until he's head thrown back and gasping, shiveringly – Liet, Liet! – to whiteout, and there they all are, sprawled out in a tangle, kissing each other's vague smiles and catching their breath…
like all dreams, it has no definite ending.
Poland woke up tangled in headphone wires and hearing the night sounds of London (not Warsaw) outside his window. At odd intervals the headlamps of passing cars spread filtered light across the ceiling.
He flicked on the reading lamp by his bed, and tried to work out what had just happened.
The dream had not rushed away upon waking, and he remembered it all in detail and in sequence. Confusion, shame – because thinking about it now, how bizarre and how grotesque and yet, and yet it wasn't that but rather the very potency and sweetness that twisted up his insides. An intimate sense of loss.
He punched his pillow, angry almost-tears prickling his eyes because even in his head Lithuania apparently liked America better. No. That wasn't even it. But he'd been fooled, it hadn't happened, and worst of all he'd let himself believe that he deserved something so wonderful. Stupid, stupid…
All at once, he felt badly homesick.
He threw himself into the shower then back into bed, wet hair be damned, where sleep signally failed to find him for hours.
At seven-thirty, he came fully awake to find that nothing had changed. The same thoughts were still running through his head. He made himself get neatly dressed, then spent ages tamping his hair down before realizing he was putting off the instant of leaving his room.
"Stop being an idiot," he muttered to himself, and slammed the door behind him.
He struck out down the corridor in an odd attitude of mixed wistfulness and irritation.
And found himself once again hesitating at the door to Lithuania's room.
