I now present more the Netherlands/Estonia in the form of short vignettes/drabbles, whatever you want to call them. Each little one is 200 words a piece and from Estonia's point of view. Enjoy ;w;

I

"I want to hear you sing."

With a frown, I look at him as if he's insane. With a question like that, he may as well be. There's a look in his eyes stating he won't take no for an answer. His eyes are blue, the same pale cornflower blue that I've grown so accustom to staring into.

"I don't sing alone." It's the closest to a 'no' that I can give him. It serves it's purpose because the next minute he's laughing, shaking his head as I wrap my arms over my chest. Even my own frown turns into a small smile, and I try to figure out what's so amusing.

"Well, I don't know any songs."

He sits back in his chair, hand heading towards the cigarette still held upright against the side of an ashtray.

Glancing away, I look out from the terrace to the road. It was a lovely little café, but we'd have to be on the move soon enough. The smell of rain carried on the wind, even though the sky was still pale and light.

"I'll teach you sometime, then."

It seems as if my response finally satisfied him.

II

It's spring and everything is muddy and wet. This season, I absolutely hate it. Back home there wouldn't be that much of a change, just the rain and everything thawing out, but here in Amsterdam...

"What's your favorite season?"

It's a question out of nowhere as we walk side by side, an umbrella sheltering us.

The loud dripping of the rain as it cascades down the fabric is enough to hurt my ears.

Summer.

Back home, everything is still so cool in the summer. It's the time when people go out into the country, visit lakes, and you can hear the cries of insects.

He stops and I almost don't follow him in time enough to stay under the shelter. He crouches down and I reluctantly follow, even though I can feel the rain begin to soak my pant legs.

"Mine's spring."

Leaning over a planter along the road, he momentarily shields some flowers. The tulips are in a rainbow of colors, and he reaches out and grabs a stem. Pinching it he picks it away, and he turns to offer it to me.

It's yellow and soft, droplets still sticking to the petals.

"...Mine is too."

III

Sitting through photographs and sorting them together as such a dreary task for a Sunday afternoon.

I can remember the first time I ever saw a camera. It was daunting, those days I was about as far away from knowing anything about technology as a person could be. It's only been the past few years that nations like us have been advised to not get photographed too often.

You don't want memories that will last through hundreds of years available to everyone.

Pictures of me with my two siblings and pictures of him with his two siblings seem to be our main concern.

Family is important, especially since neither of us live with our siblings anymore.

"Huh?" He mumbles and I turn my head. In his hand is a photo of himself, looking off-camera at something while a multitude of different colored lights bathe his skin. I begin to smile. "Where did this one come from?"

"When you took me to that infernal bar." I grab the photograph away from him, tucking it under the flimsy cellophane sleeve of my own photo album.

Softly, I continued.

"It was the night I fell in love with you."

IV

"Hallo."

"Tere."

"Hoe gaat het?"

"Kuidas sul läheb?"

"Ik ben oké."

"Olen trahvi."

"Tot ziens."

"Head aega."

Hello, how are you, I'm fine, good bye... All these things, they sounded so different between the two of us.

He paused and I gave a small grin, watching that absolutely perplexed look cross his features.

"Is that even a language you speak?"

"Of course it is. And what about you? Is that a language or just a brutish attempt of speaking German?"

That definitely got a rise out of him, and his lips turned down into a slight snarl. With a small smirk, I placed my hands on his face, pulling him down just enough to kiss him.

"Ma armastan sind."

It took him a moment before he reluctantly calmed down, his eyebrows and muscles relaxing with a soft exhale.

"Ik hou van je."

They still sounded absolutely nothing alike. Maybe we'd never find a single similarity between our native tongues, but maybe after all there was no need to. In every language, whether it was a smile or a frown or just a kiss, it all meant the same.

V

"Tell me a story."

He cocks an eyebrow, looking down at me while I'm busy tucked comfortably in his arm.

"Once upon a time..."

With that, I give him a jab to the ribs. Before I can ask if he absolutely has to act like a smartass, a soft chuckle escapes his lips and I look up at him expectantly.

"Fine. Give me a moment."

The room is a bit too warm when nestled against another, but there's nowhere else I'd rather uncomfortable at.

"There was a boy who liked cheese..."

"Cheese?"

"Yes. Loved it. Once during the night, he heard voices beckoning him with promises of cheese. He followed them into the forest, and found faeries dancing around a fire."

I frowned.

"They gave him all the cheese he could want. They made him keep eating and eating until he couldn't anymore, and then made him still eat until he screamed, and they thought he was singing because they'd never heard a human in pain."

At this point, I was absolutely dumbfounded at his story.

"And then he woke up."

"...You're terrible at this."

"Precisely. So never ask again."

VI

Whenever he comes home with his fingers dusted with dirt, stuck under his fingernails, and smudged on his pants and forehead, I never have to ask where he's been.

It's adorable in a way how rugged he looks, sweat still sticking to his brow.

"You'll get sunburned one of these days," I warn him. "You really should be more careful."

"I'm sorry I don't have the delicate pale skin of a northerner. I don't burn, I tan."

"Well, I just stay out of the sun entirely. Problem solved." Grabbing a paper towel from the kitchen, I wet it in the sink and return to him. It's almost comical how we've fallen into such a marital routine: winter and spring spent in Amsterdam and summer and autumn in Tallinn.

And the slight annoyance that I feel realizing he's dirtied the carpet only solidifies it.

Pressing the towel to his face, I try to remove most of the dirt.

"Go take a shower. I'll run out and get something for dinner."

All I know is that there's no way to stay angry at such a tough seeming man who spends his days off taking care of gardens.

VII

Whenever I bleed, it's always seemed to run out of my body like water.

And it's quickly soaking the cloth that he presses to my hand. He's roughly holding my hand, raising it just above my heart.

It's as if he doesn't mind that his shoes are crunching on the broken glass or his white sleeves are speckled red.

"Verdomme, you tell me to watch out and then you go..." The frustrated mumbles keep coming, and my throat is dry from how angry he sounds.

When I finally am adventurous enough to look at him, it surprises me.

He looks more worried then I do. His eyes are unsettling, his brow furrowed as he presses the white cloth harder against the wound. Trying to stop the bleeding with pressure with an already soaked cloth isn't helpful, at this point it's just squeezing blood between his fingers.

Somehow I feel like he won't be trusting me enough to do dishes again for a while.

"It'll be fine, it's not that bad..."

Peeling away the towel to look, he doesn't seem to note how shallow the cut actually is.

"You get hurt like this again and I'll kill you."

VIII

"It's from the Dutch Golden Age."

The great amount of artists and sculptors and writers to come from his home makes me a bit envious sometimes. Everyone has heard of Rembrandt, Van Gogh, Escher...

"Did you know him?" I gesture to the painting. The label under it clearly states it as a Rembrandt, the subject matter a fair-haired lady lifting her dress as she wades through water.

"I knew her more than I knew him."

"Who was she?" His arms find their way around my waist from behind, and I can almost feel the cocky grin as it spreads across his face.

"Rembrandt's wife."

My expression falls flat, and I almost stumble as he pulls me closer to him.

"You didn't..."

"No, I didn't. You don't think I know every famous person who originated here though, do you?"

"No... Well, I knew Johann Köler... And Friedrich Kreutzwald..."

I sigh when the inevitable response comes.

"Who?"

"See, no one ever knows who they were."

He drags me along to the next painting. I decide that when we get home I'll have to give him a crash course in my history again.

IX

"What is this?" As he asks he's dipping his fork across the red berry mixture, watching as it glides across the pancake.

"Red currant kissell. I made it yesterday..."

There's a smile growing across his lips and I'm glad for that. He gathers a bit on his fork, taking it to his lips to taste.

"I like red currants." He murmurs the remark before having a taste, nodding his head in approval before trying a bit of it with the pancake. I'm glad it seems to meet his approval, few of the things that I cook from back home ever do. Whenever he finds out what the ingredients are of things I cook he says he regrets eating them.

"You're sure it's just red currants?"

"Red currants, potato starch, water, and sugar."

"No blood or anything, right?"

"Nope." I roll my eyes slightly, grabbing my cup of coffee to quietly sip.

"It reminds me of something I had at Denmark's once.." I look at him as he struggles to remember.

"Rod.. Red... ...Raw... ...Rød..."

I smile, waiting for him to give up pronouncing it.

"Rødgrød med fløde?"

"...Right, that."

X

It's almost the end of spring. All of our personal things are packed up in boxes, waiting for us to one day soon move on to Tallinn. He lets me lay across him on the couch as I tap away at the laptop on my lap, resting my head against his lap.

One of his hands stroked through my hair idly, and the other held a book.

"I wonder..." I murmured, turning to look up at him. "When my country will be as open as yours."

The article I was reading was just about homosexuality in the Netherlands, how people shouldn't even bat an eye at it. Combined with his other more... unique tastes...

"They will, one day."

"You think so? Well, it would be nice to be able to get married one day..."

I didn't even realize the implications of that sentence before saying it. Once it hits me I quietly go back to typing, feeling as his hand pauses in my hair.

"Well, one day, when Estonia legalizes it..." Tilting my head back to look up at him, he's busy staring off at something else. "It would be nice."

We both smiled.

III: I always figured that nations would have the common sense to try and not be photographed (unless with each other) for well, the fact they're immortal and it could cause pesky little oopses a hundred years down the road and they still are arounddd.

IV: 'Hello', 'how are you', 'I am fine', 'good bye', and then 'I love you' all translated in Dutch and Estonian.

V: I looked up Dutch faerie tales and swear to God that's an actual one I found e_e;;

VII: Verdomme means something akin to 'dammit'. |D;

VIII: Johann Köler was a very famous Estonian painter, and Friedrich Kreutzwald was a famous Estonian poet known for being the one to write their national epic.

IX: Say 'rødgrød med fløde'. Congratulations, unless you speak fluent Danish or study it heavily, you've just said it wrong. It's red berries and cream. Kissell is... a type of berry, potato starch, water and sugar. |D;