River Boys
Feliks had a large collection of rocks – small, smooth stones that he found lying on the banks of the river. They formed a sort of hill nestled against the roots of a willow where he piled them, just high enough so that they were out harm's way when the river swelled with storm, yet not so far that it was a struggle to carry the larger stones to the pile. There was nothing that uniformed these rocks, no particular rhyme or reason to the stones Feliks chose to pick up – except, perhaps, that they were all stones of carryable weight. Feliks couldn't explain it to himself, but he just knew when a rock was to be added to his collection; sometimes it was large flecks of mica, or sometimes it was its color, or maybe it just felt right in his palm – but Feliks never questioned it, never doubted that the rocks he collected were indeed special.
And so, when he came down to the riverbed one morning to find a strange boy picking through his collection and sending all the flat stones across the surface of the lazy river – his precious stones, wasted, sunk to the bottom of the river! – he screamed.
"Those are mine! Don't touch them!"
The boy jumped, his brown ponytail bobbing with the movement. "Who-who are you?" he asked, eyes wide.
Feliks shrieked and ran away, leaving the boy to wonder what on earth he'd done wrong.
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Two days later, Feliks slunk nervously back to the river. His stomach was somewhat uneasy; he wished he'd had the courage to not run away in the first place, and hoped desperately that the stranger had not finished dismantling his hard-earned collection in the time that elapsed. It would take months to rebuild it, if he had. But when Feliks scrambled up the embankment to the willow, he found his collection perfectly intact – and perhaps even larger than it'd been when the strange boy had first found it. However, when he looked closer, he noticed that not all the rocks were meant to be there; the stones on top, in particular, were smooth and flat, but they were ordinary, with nothing particularly special about them to earn them a place on the pile. With a frown, Feliks carefully began to pick out the not-special rocks.
Feliks had just pulled out the last of them – leaving two new rocks he'd deemed unique enough to stay – when there was a crunch behind him. He turned, and there was the strange boy from the other day. The boy's hair was left down, and the loose hair framed his face, serving to make him look a little younger and less intimidating. Feliks noticed that his leggings were soaked to the knees, and his bare feet were muddy.
The boy smiled.
Feliks suddenly felt the urge to run away.
"H-hi," the boy said nervously. "I'm sorry I took your rocks. I didn't know they were yours. But I've been making up for it, look-." He opened his fists, to reveal three more flat stones nestled in each palm. "These are for you."
Feliks peered at the stones curiously for a moment, and then he reached out and snatched up one of the rocks – a small, rectangular stone of a beautiful blue-gray. "You can keep the rest," he said curtly.
"But-,"
"I don't need them'
"Oh," the boy replied, slightly crestfallen. "Okay."
Feliks nodded absently and turned back to his collection.
After a moment, the other boy crouched down next to him, pocketing the rejected stones. "So, what kind of rocks are you looking for?"
Feliks paused, considering. "Cool ones," he answered finally.
"Oh." The boy thought about this for a moment. He peered around at the surrounding rocks curiously, and then hesitantly picked one up. "Like this one?"
It was a larger, copper-colored triangle with a flared base, its tip slightly darker than the rest of it. But Feliks could see nothing particularly interesting about it, and he frowned.
"No," he replied. He reached out and snatched up another stone lying by the boy's big toe, a rounded gray one that looked almost like a sleeping cat."Like this one."
"Oh," the boy said again. He peered at the stone, but apparently his and Feliks' ideas of 'cool' were different, so he simply sat back on his heels and watched Feliks work. "I'm Toris, by the way,"
"Hi, Toris," Feliks replied curtly. He plucked up a brown pebble, then chucked it aside.
They fell silent.
"What's your name?" Toris asked finally.
"Feliks."
"Oh."
More silence.
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Two weeks passed without Toris and Feliks running into each other again. And, as typical of most children their age, the moved on easily, absorbed in the present and their playtime. Indeed, by the end of the second week, they'd all but completely forgotten about each other.
"Look sharp," Toris' boss told him curtly, tapping his shoulder warningly. "We are meeting with some ambassadors of Poland. Your presentation is important."
"Why did I have to come?" Toris asked. He kicked at the carpet sulkily; the kitchen cat had just birthed a new litter of kittens, and he had wanted to see them, not get dragged off on yet another boring diplomatic mission.
"Because it is important for you to understand our relations with our neighboring countries."
"Why?" Toris replied. "It's not like I'm ever going to be Grand Duke or anything."
"But you will always have an important administrative position," his boss retorted. "Now shush the back-talk, or I'll tell the kitchens not to let you have dessert for a week – or see the kittens."
Toris meekly fell silent, properly chastised.
The door opened, and a messenger entered, his head bowed. "Pardon me, sir," he said. "But the ambassadors are here."
Toris' boss nodded curtly. "Send them in."
The messenger bowed in agreement and slipped out. Moments later, the door opened again, and the messenger returned, this time followed by two stiff-looking men, one tall with a crooked nose, and the other a head shorter, with sleepy, bleary eyes. And trailing behind them was a familiar boy with soft blond hair and a surly pout, who was picking unhappily at his less-familiar formal dress.
"Feliks!" Toris cried.
Feliks' head jerked up sharply, and then as his gaze met Toris', his eyes flew wide in surprise.
"Toris!" his boss said sharply. "You forget yourself!"
Toris ducked his head, abashed. "Sorry, sir."
His boss said something in response, but Toris wasn't listening anymore. Feliks had caught his eye again, and the way his eyebrows arched sharply and jaw dropped slightly clearly said: "Why are you here?"
Toris cast a sidelong glance at his boss, but his boss had already engaged in conversation with the ambassadors and wasn't paying attention to him any longer. Furtively, Toris slunk back and began to creep along the wall, inching ever-so-slightly over to Feliks.
"T-Tori?" Feliks whispered, once he was close enough.
"Toris," Toris corrected. "But what are you doing here?"
"I'm, like, supposed to learn about Lithuania," Feliks replied.
Toris frowned – he and Feliks both knew that the question was really: "Why are you supposed to learn about Lithuania?", but Feliks chose not to elaborate.
"And why are you here?" Feliks asked.
"I'm supposed to learn more about Poland."
Feliks' eyes narrowed as his own reply was thrown back at him. Toris said nothing, and the two peered suspiciously at one another, sizing each other up and trying to break through the other's mask. Toris rarely saw anyone his age in court, and when he did, they were sons of extremely prominent nobles, inseparable from their father's hip. But Feliks didn't look particularly like either of the dark-haired ambassadors – just as Toris' rounder features would never allow him to be mistaken for his boss' son.
"Feliks . . . ," he said slowly. "Are you – are you Poland?"
If he wasn't, Toris reasoned, Feliks would simply give him an odd look, and that would be the end of that. But instead, Feliks froze, and he gaped in shock, his wide eyes as resounding a 'yes' as if he'd shouted it at the top of his lungs.
"How – are you Lithuania?"
Toris nodded. An irrepressible smile was slowly beginning to spread across his features, stretching from ear to ear – here was companionship in the lonely world of noble immortality, someone who could know him for what he was, who could understand and sympathize with emotions he'd thought were unique only to him. But of course, although this was the reason for the joy and relief that surged through him, they were only subconscious thoughts, and Toris would recognize them until years later. At the moment, he attributed his exhilaration to the thrill of discovery.
Feliks was grinning, too, now, for Toris' excitement was infectious.
"Wow," he breathed, and instinctively reach out a hand, as if to check if Toris was real. "This is, like, kind of awesome."
"Yeah."
Feliks' eyes glittered, and he let out a nervous giggle. "We-we should be best friends, y'know?"
"Yes, we should," Toris agreed.
The two just grinned dumbly at each other for a moment, both wanting to say and ask a thousand things, but neither quite knowing where to start. In the end, however, Toris settled with a hug for his new best friend, and Feliks giggled, asking if he was usually this cuddly.
Later, when Toris' boss asked what he had learned about Poland, Toris answered honestly that Poland was a blond boy his age with bright green eyes, and who had a collection of rocks that he thought were cool. Toris lost his desserts for a week for inattention – but the news that Lithuania and Poland were now best friends saved him the chance to visit the new kittens.
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It was not long before Toris could no longer imagine life without Feliks. When they weren't wreaking havoc in one palace or the other, they were splashing about in the river, finding rocks and making themselves unspeakably late for their lessons, or they were huddled in fortresses built of freshly-laundered linens they'd kidnapped from the clotheslines, giggling over weightless, childish secrets. The two were inseparable, except when they were separated, at which point they'd be inconsolable until they were consoled by promises of future inseparability.
"We're best friends," they'd chorus in unison. "We're doing everything together."
Indeed, at one point, they'd even managed to convince their tutors to allow them to take their lessons together – but that arrangement didn't last long, because the tutors agreed that while getting either Toris or Feliks to pay attention when they wanted to run off and play with each other was damned near impossible, having the two in the same room during lessons was nothing short of a nightmare. And, thus, the two were returned to their separate lessons – a decision that did not sit well with either Toris or Feliks, whom were well-aware that best friends were meant to be together every waking second, and that any attempt to impede as such was a borderline crime. Feliks voiced his protests by daydreaming more than usual, even making the effort to fall asleep several times in any one class. Toris, on the other hand, worked extra diligently in an attempt to prove that he could pay attention – but unfortunately, this only served to validate his tutors' claims that he worked better alone.
And that was how Toris and Feliks found themselves in their present situation, cramped together in an empty cupboard, smothering their giggles as they listened to the sounds of the tutors and servants darting all over the palace in their search for them.
"Those two have no sense of duty!" That was Feliks' etiquette tutor, who had never quite liked the stubborn, self-confident boy. "I should like to see what sort of vagabonds they grow up to be."
"They're only boys," a servant put in wisely. "A good spanking should sort them out easily enough."
"Yes, and Toris used to be quite well-behaved," added Toris' mathematics instructor. "That young Łukasiewicz has been a horrible influence on him."
Hidden away in their cupboard, Toris flushed slightly, and Feliks looked remarkably pleased with himself. They listened with baited breath as their tutors began to move away, now discussing whether or not a simple spanking would really be enough where Feliks was involved. Once they'd moved a decent distance away, Feliks turned to Toris and flashed him a brilliant girn.
"See? Told you they wouldn't find us."
Toris grinned weakly in response. "Is – is it really okay to be skipping out on lessons like this?"
Feliks rolled his eyes. "Like, of course it is. Jeez, where's your adventurous spirit?" He huffed and blew a stray hair out of his face.
Toris opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything, there was a soft mewl, and the cupboard door rattled.
"Shoo!" Toris opened the door slightly to send away the nosy cat, for fear that it would alert their tutors to their location. But the cat ignored him and pushed its nose in the gap, wedging it wider open. "Go!" Toris commanded, but the cat just purred. It was a small, tortoise-shell kitten with dappled spots of brown and black, and at six months old, it was old enough to be independent but young enough to want to share Toris' and Feliks' adventurous spirit.
"C'mon, Aras, leave us alone!" Feliks kicked out gently at the kitten, who mewed in protest.
And then, suddenly, the doors were flung open, and Toris and Feliks were left blinking in the bright light that flooded their cupboard. When their vision cleared, they stared up at the great, hulking figure stand before them – Toris' mathematics instructor, whose square jaw was set in a serious frown.
"H-hi," Feliks squeaked.
Toris' tutor responded by grabbing Toris' wrist and dragging him forcibly from the cupboard. He spun him around and struck him – three sharp whacks across the behind, ignoring Toris' cries of shock.
"That was a horribly naughty thing for you to do," he said firmly, finally releasing Toris' wrist. "I thought better of you. What have you got to say for yourself?"
"'M sorry," Toris mumbled to his toes.
"As you should be," his tutor retorted. "And stop it right there, young Łukasiewicz-," for Feliks had begun to try and discreetly slip away – "You're not going anywhere."
"But-!" Feliks protested feebly.
Toris' tutor ignored him and spun him around as well. Feliks yelped as he received three sharp spanks of his own, and when Toris' tutor released him, he slunk back with both hands clasped firmly over his smarting rear.
"Now, go off to your classes," Toris' tutor instructed firmly. "And don't let me catch the either of you ever skipping out on any of your lessons ever again."
"I'm not going to any class without Toris!" Feliks retorted hotly.
"Do you want me to spank you again?"
Feliks hastily scampered off with no further complaints.
In the end, it was decided that Feliks and Toris would be given a second chance; they would resume their joint classes, under the agreement that good behavior would be rewarded with a pony come the new year, and that bad behavior would be punished with separate classes, no ponies, and twice the schoolwork. Feliks and Toris accepted the arrangement eagerly, and their tutors agreed that from that day forward, the boys had never been better behaved.
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Poland wasn't quite sure when things had begun to change between him and Lithuania – how could he put his finger on that exact moment when his craving for Lithuania's companionship took on a different feel, one that was both warmer and more painful at the same time? When, exactly, did he begin to marvel at the way Lithuania's dark hair contrasted his paler skin and at the soft warmth of his smile, his laugh? Whenever did Poland begin to quiet his endless jabbering, if only to hear Lithuania talk a little bit longer? The moment he'd become aware of it was moot – a smile brushing of hand against hand which had sent a sudden spark racing up the length of his spine, a spark, he'd realized in horror, that was deeply familiar, almost as familiar as the feel of Lithuania's hand itself.
The entire concept was a mystery to Poland, a puzzle that kept him awake late into the night, sometimes for weeks on end. When? And why? Both questions were entirely unanswerable, as much so as what the nature of these feelings was. Oh, certainly, Poland understood the concept of a crush – but for Lithuania? His best friend?
What to do – what to do? This, indeed, was the hardest question of all, for not only was it as unanswerable as any of the others, it also imperatively had to be answered. To pursue or ignore? To continue as usual or to distance? And yet – Poland could not even say whether the feelings were to be celebrated or condemned – he coveted the thrill even as much as it terrified him, so how on earth could he decide what to do?
Even in moments like this – no, especially in moments like this, when the two of them were escaping from the sweltering afternoon sun under the wide boughs of an old oak, Lithuania reading, Poland pretending to sleep against his shoulder, both utterly silent – that the questions continued to plague him. He knew he had to choose an answer soon, but what if he chose wrong? And lying here, feeling Lithuania subconsciously lean closer to him – the thoughts of losing it all was enough to deter Poland from making a blind decision.
"Liet . . . ," he murmured softly, shifting slightly.
"Po? You're awake?" Poland felt Lithuania's shoulder move under his cheek, and he let his eyes flutter open.
"Yeah," he replied. "But, like, can I ask you a question?"
"Sure. What is it?"
"Um, well . . . ," Poland giggled nervously and hid his face in Lithuania's shoulder, feeling his heart pounding erratically in his chest.
Lithuania's hand was on the back of head immediately, gently stroking his hair – concerned, even now. "Poland?"
"'M fine," Poland mumbled. After a long moment, he looked up and met Lithuania's eyes. "Liet, like, what would you do if – if someone liked you, but you didn't have any feelings for them?"
Lithuania paused, clearly surprised by the question. But he did respond, and when he did, it was with a steady voice: "I suppose you mean in a romantic sense?"
"Well, yeah."
"I-I suppose I'd turn them down as gently as possible," Lithuania confessed. "And I'd do my best to remain friends with that person."
"Oh." Poland fell quiet, feeling his heart sink slightly – certainly that was the answer he'd expected, but it was not quite what he had hoped for. "Do – do you think that you'd, like, give it a chance with them, 'cause, like, maybe you'd fall for them, too?"
For a long moment, Lithuania said nothing, and Poland turned his head to look at him; Lithuania was gazing off into the distance, brow creased worriedly as it always was when he was thinking hard, and a delicate flush adorned his cheeks. "Once, I might have," he murmured finally – and now a sheepish smile was creeping over his lips. "But now – I kind of have my eye on someone."
Poland leapt upwards sharply. "You – you never told me that!" he cried, staring at Lithuania in shock. He felt as if a giant hole had been ripped out of the center of his chest; he wanted to cry.
Lithuania, however, misinterpreted Poland's distress. "Yes, well, please don't think I didn't tell you because I don't trust you," he said hastily. "It's just . . . I couldn't really accept it myself."
"No, it's okay," Poland replied, although it certainly didn't feel that way as his eyes burned. "But who is it?" And what do they have that I don't?
Lithuania turned bright red and stared at his toes. "I-I can't say."
"C'mon, you have to, Liet! We're best friends, right?" Of course, Poland confessed inwardly, it might be best not to tell him, for the sake of whomever it was that Lithuania liked.
Lithuania shook his head. "No, Poland . . . I can't."
"But I totally want to know! Like, seriously, who? Does this person like you, too?"
"I-I don't know – I never asked."
"What? Why?" Poland asked, aghast. For him not to confess was one thing, but for Lithuania to stay silent . . . well, anyone who wasn't totally ecstatic that Lithuania – kind, gentle Lithuania – liked them had to be completely insane. And yet . . . if whomever this was didn't return Lithuania's feelings, perhaps there was hope for Poland?
Lithuania didn't reply.
Poland let out an exasperated groan. "C'mon, Liet, please tell me who it is? I promise I won't laugh, even if they are butt-ugly."
Lithuania raised an eyebrow, looking somewhat amused.
Poland scowled at him, pouting slightly. "Pretty please?"
"Poland -," Lithuania began patiently – but Poland ignored him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and pulling him close.
"Please? Your best friend needs to know," Poland purred, chin resting on Lithuania's shoulder.
Lithuania flushed beet red. He dropped his gaze to his toes and shifted, slightly uncomfortable. "T-tell you what," he stammered finally. "You know that ball we're having tonight?"
"Yeah?"
"I'll ask the person I like for the first dance. You'll see who it is then."
"Ooh, suspense!" Poland giggled – but inwardly, his chest was aching, and he felt positively nauseous. He buried his face in Lithuania's neck, ostensibly to hug him tighter. But in reality, it was so Lithuania wouldn't see him fight off the tears.
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That evening, Poland stood before his reflection, shirtless and pouting at himself. In his right hand, he held a gorgeous, floor-length gown of a soft, coral blue, and in his left, he carried a dashing tailcoat, black with silver cufflinks. Poland was particularly partial to the dress - a beauty freshly brought in from France – but then again, it was new, and perhaps he should save its official debut for a better occasion? It wasn't as if he didn't look good in the tailcoat, either – oh, but that lovely coral blue . . . Poland wondered vaguely which Lithuania would prefer, then quickly reprimanded himself, reminding himself with an aching heart that Lithuania was interested in someone else. He scowled; he disliked such dilemmas.
Suddenly, there was a sharp knock at the door, and Poland jumped.
"Poland? Are you ready to go?" It was Lithuania. Poland felt his heart swoon for a moment, but he managed to pull himself together enough to hasten over to the door and unlatch it.
"Whoops, sorry, Liet, totally not ready yet!" Poland giggled, even as he pulled the door open.
Lithuania looked positively handsome with his navy-blue tailcoat, which hugged his waist just right, his hair pulled back in a low ponytail, and his sapphire-studded cufflinks sparkling in the light. Poland's heart skipped a beat, and he could not help the manic grin that spread across his lips.
"My, Liet, aren't you just the cat's meow?"
Lithuania flushed slightly, quickly stepping into Poland's room and shutting the door behind him. "Thanks, Poland – but what about you? You can hardly go out like that; you're still in your underwear."
"Well, obviously," Poland retorted. "But I totally couldn't decide whether to go with the dress or the tailcoat." He held up each in turn.
Lithuania blinked, his eyebrows floating higher as he peered at the dress. "A-are you really sure you'd be willing to go to a public function in a dress?"
"Don't you like it?"
"Well, it is pretty . . . ," Lithuania confessed.
Poland's face lit up with a brilliant grin, and he haplessly tossed the tailcoat onto the bed. "That settles it then!" he declared, stepping into the dress and pulling it up. "I just love this shade of blue."
"I s-suppose; it suits you nicely, if you really want to go with it . . ."
"Yeah – hey, Liet, can you button me up?"
Wordlessly, Lithuania stepped over and began to button up the back of the dress with nimble fingers. Poland held his breath; at Lithuania's close proximity, the familiar butterflies had sprung to life in his chest, and he swallowed, trying very hard not to blush. Once Lithuania finished, he stepped back and turned Poland around.
"You look great," he said sincerely.
Poland grinned. "I haven't even put on my makeup yet, or done my hair!"
A shadow of anxiety flit over Lithuania's face, and he frowned. "Poland, we're going to be late . . . ," he said.
And Poland felt as if his heart had broken in two yet again; right – Lithuania wanted to dance with that other person. His own smile fell, and for a moment, he considered purposefully missing that first dance – but the doubt passed in a heartbeat, and his dazzling grin was back before Lithuania could even recognize that it'd gone.
"Like, don't worry!" Poland said brightly. "It'll only take me half a minute – go wait outside!"
"But-!" Before Lithuania could finish voicing his protests, however, he found himself herded back outside, the door latched quickly behind him. He sighed and slumped against the wall.
It wasn't half a minute, but nor was it an hour, and when Poland emerged – bejeweled hair pins glittering in his hair, a touch of rouge on his cheeks – he grabbed Lithuania's hand and raced off, dragging Lithuania behind him. The two miraculously had enough time to dash through the palace, tails and skirts flying behind them, and even to catch their breath in the back of the already-crowded ballroom before the orchestra struck its first chord.
Poland felt his heart twist as the notes rose to the ceiling, and he stared up helplessly as gentlemen approached ladies and ladies giggled and curtsied. Partners began to twirl onto the dance floor, and a stab of pain tore through his chest; they looked so happy, carefree, and some so clearly in love. Poland almost wanted to grab Lithuania and cry into his chest, begging him to forget this other person, whomever it was, to come into his, Poland's, arms instead – who else could be better for Lithuania? Who else had been there with him for countless years, thwarting tutors and guardians who meant them well, splashing in rivers and muddying their clothes? Who else knew Lithuania like Poland did? Surely, surely Poland was the right choice.
But Poland forced himself to get a grip; Lithuania deserved whomever he wanted, no less. With a deep breath, he put on a brave smile and turned to Lithuania. "Liet . . . go on, this is your chance."
And Lithuania smiled nervously, a deep blush upon his cheeks. "Y-yeah." He did not move.
"Well?"
Lithuania just fidgeted for a moment. But then, just as Poland opened his mouth to urge him on again, Poland felt a warmth cup his hand, and he froze. Poland watched numbly, as if in a dream, as Lithuania lifted his gloved hand to his lips and gently kissed the fingers. Poland's heart was racing at paces heretofore yet unattained, and his lungs had all but ceased to function; he could do little more than stare, open-mouthed at Lithuania, who grinned back at him with a nervous smile.
"Er . . . Po, can – can I have this dance?"
"M-me?" Poland asked weakly. "The first dance?"
Lithuania smiled and kissed his hand once more in affirmation.
The spell was broken. Poland let out a gleeful shriek and flung his arms around Lithuania's neck, entirely uncaring of the scandalized looks that their fellow dancers flung their way. "Oh my God, Liet! That was totally mean!" he squealed, gripping him tightly and laughing. "I totally thought you were talking about someone else, and I was seriously jealous, y'know?"
Lithuania was grinning ear to ear, and he let his hands fall to hold Poland around the waist. "Sorry, Po, I just didn't trust myself to say it aloud," he apologized. "But, um . . . was that a 'yes'?"
"Oh, God, yes!" Poland replied instantaneously. "Yes, yes, yes, a thousand times yes!"
Lithuania glowed and spun Poland onto the dance floor with a laugh. "I'm glad," he said, leading Poland into the waltz.
"Liet, Liet," Poland purred, as if it were the most beautiful sound in the world. "I can't believe you actually meant me."
"And I can't believe you accept me. I was so anxious; I was beginning to feel nauseous."
"Good thing you didn't throw up," Poland retorted. "I would have never gotten that out of the dress!"
Lithuania rolled his eyes, but the way his hand tightened momentarily on Poland's waist said his humor was forgiven. "Good thing, then."
There was a pause – not awkward, no, just a simple silence, in which both gazed at each other, basking in one another's presence and oblivious to the world around them; more than once, they nearly collided with another couple and were saved from a crash only be the other dancers' nimble footwork.
It was Lithuania who eventually broke the silence. "Poland . . . can I – can I kiss you?"
And even as Poland flushed, he flashed Lithuania a brilliant grin. "Like, do you have to ask?"
Lithuania laughed, and with the next turn, he spun Poland into his embrace – for a moment, he rested his forehead against Poland's, but then he tilted Poland's chin up and sealed their lips together.