Some background information: Stovan is my own creation of an OC, representing the nation of Serbia. The Montenegro mentioned is Ilinka Cetkovic, also my own creation. Respectively, they are found on tumblr as the users kakodoslo-takoproslo and zdravocetinje. The Czech Republic in this story is one of the most beautifully developed and well researched Hetalia characters I will ever encounter, and I feel so privileged to use her in my works. The creator is Tzrema here on FFnet, and the roleplay blog for the Czechia OC is kralovnapiva on tumblr. I hope you enjoy this, as I worked very hard on it.

As much as he despised having to do so, Stovan had settled in a hotel for the night, opting for that instead of a hostel where he'd more than likely have to deal with kids fresh out of high school daring each other to play quarters and promise not to tell papa whenever they got back home. All he had wanted was a little bit of quiet on his vacation to Prague and that was far from quiet.

Though, truthfully, as much as he had liked having a room to himself away from home, it was boring. The TV clicked channels click-click every time he pressed a button on the remote because nothing was on but news and cable porn. Stovan had entertained himself by weighing which one was more boring but even that had gotten old by the time he had listed the cheesy techno riffs both played in the backgrounds.

So Stovan had entertained himself by trying to concoct some sort of midnight snack with what food he'd bought after passing by Lord knows how many restaurants on Dušní that taunted him. So far, he'd been able to make a decent smelling stew of some beef he'd bought, and as he was experimentally adding some chopped potatoes, his cell phone buzzed from its perch on the counter.

Stovan reached over with his free hand, the other holding a knife that had impaled a potato chunk, and grabbed the phone, flipped it open, and answered without checking the ID, as he had taken to doing lately, "Anđelković."

There was a muted rustling noise on the other end, like a paper bag full of cloth, and Stovan rolled his eyes while waiting for an answer, nibbling on the potato chunk. Right before he was about to call out again, something like, "For fuck sake," someone yelped once, distantly, then a much closer, "Stovan!"

He cocked an eyebrow, pulling the knifed potato away from his mouth. "Milena? S'at you? What're you doin' callin' this late?"

"'Late', he says," Milena snorted, and there was a pause intermixed with some tinkling noises, like a chandelier being swayed. Then she heaved a gusty sigh, and Stovan could picture her flopping backward on her bed, head tilted back off the mattress. "I'm bored, Stovan, of course. Bored. So I called you."

"So I'm entertainment for your boredom?"

"You say it like it's a bad thing!" Milena laughed. "Nooo, just wondering… how areyou, dear? How've you been? Whatcha up to on this kind of Saturday?"

Stovan sighed ruefully, but smirked nonetheless. "Ain't that the question of the century." Ignoring the first two questions, he relayed, "I'm makin'—" he squinted, leaning forward and stuck the remaining potato chunk in his mouth, "—beef and potato and carrot stew? Could be a new sorta stroganoff. Stovan's Stroganoff—got a nice ring to it."

"Impolite to talk with your mouth full."

"And how many times have you seen me carin'?" Stovan grinned. He slid the knife into the sink and picked up the wooden spoon to stir the mixture on the stove, nodding as Milena continued talking, intermittent pauses working their way into her speech. Something about work and sore feet and an evening with the television, and Stovan was really only paying half attention until he had leaned against the counter, stopping his work with the food.

It was then that he noticed Milena's slips in her speech. "Milena, you're drunk."

Ever the captain of all things obvious, ain't you, Anđelković.

Milena's tone said the same thing, but her words said, "Not too much—not at all! And I'm not in public, so no—no scolding. The better observation would be, you're notdrunk."

"Astoundin' logic," he snorted, scratching an itch underneath his nose, and she keened from the other end of the line.

"But that's also the problem—it's no fun being drunk all alone by myself here, Stovan, because there's—"

"You mean Emil ain't there?"

"—no one to make fun of in the morning whenever I tell about how they fell down my front steps or how I lost my necklace in a bottle of absinthe." Milena sighed with a pout, sniffed once, and twirled a loose string from the collar of her sweater. "I know you're so very busy making stew and watching my country's news and all but I'd reallylove it if you came over here and kept a lonely girl company."

"Aw, Milena—" Stovan groaned, but a teasing edge wove its way into his voice after, "no need to play the guilt trip card! 'Sides, I'm Serbian. Ser-bi-an. You really think I'm gonna turn down alcohol and a date with a pretty lady?"

She giggled and blew a strand of fallen hair out of her face. "You could be the first to not!"

"Then that'd be a mark on my pride," Stovan fired back. Having grabbed the pot and started pouring its contents into a crock pot he had dragged out from the cabinets earlier in his cooking adventure, he said, "I'll be there in twenty."

—-

After knocking twice, Stovan let his hand fall to his side, brow crinkling as a series of thumps, then sock feet pattering across wood floors echoed before the door swung open, with Milena leaning against the doorframe, hair half in her face but grinning nonetheless.

"Whoo!" She let out a breath. "Sometimes, going up and down these stairs is enough of a workout to last me a week." Milena continued her talking, even as she tugged a hairband off her wrist with her teeth and started pulling her hair back into a high ponytail. "And don't say what I know you're going to say—that it's the al-co-hol."

Milena's voice dipped to mock Stovan's baritone teasingly, then she herself physically dipped down to collect a pair of her boots from the porch. Stovan watched bemusedly. "You gonna need an elevator to get back up?"

"Oh, shut up," she laughed, heaving herself up to her full height. "And you say I need to go to bed, but you bring by some slivovitz." Stovan lifted the bag.

"Exactly, which is why you—" he extended his arm and the bag toward Milena, "—are gonna carry this in for me while I kick off my boots, and you—" he nudged her side with his elbow playfully, "—are gonna pour me a glass or three. After all, I amthe guest. Show me the hospitality of the Czech nation."

That earned him a whap on the back, and whenever he laughed there was a short play-scuffle when Milena threatened to drop the plastic bag over the railing that ended up in Stovan throwing his arms around her waist, hoisting her up and sidestepping the door into the foyer. Once he was sure the drinks were still in her grasp, he set Milena down, slightly breathless from effort and from laughing whenever she flailed her legs awkwardly to unsuccessfully kick his shins out from underneath him.

"For someone with wires for arms, people would think you'd be less capable of hauling another person in with just brute strength," Milena smirked as she straightened out her shirt and hair. Stovan returned the smirk, kicking off his boots and narrowly avoiding having them make skid marks on the tile. Milena waved off his offer to sweep up the crusted mud that had fell off whenever he had shoved the shoes to the side and tugged him more inside by the sleeve.

"Don't stall the fun, sarma for brains," Milena said, flopping back onto the couch once she had reached the living room. "You ask, you get." She removed the bag from around the bottle of brandy and leaned forward, taking hold of two shot glasses between her fingers and setting them on the couch in the space between her and Stovan's legs.

"You know how to throw a damn fancy impromptu party, Milenica," Stovan poked as he picked up one of the glasses. Milena responded with an eye roll and a haughty, "Well, it's not like I have Serbs show up every night on my doorstep with a bottle of good brandy, so I have—" a hiccup, hands almost jumping and spilling the slivovitz she was pouring into Stovan's glass, "—to improvise."

"Improvisin' under the influence. You've learned so well through the years."

"One does what one can under the cir—" she held up a finger as she held back another ungainly hiccup, "—cumstances."

"Oh, is that what they call it now?"

"Only in the Czech Republic."

"What's bad is, I ain't got a comeback ready for that one," Stovan pulled his glass away from Milena's outstretched hand as she fumbled to swat him, pushing the neck of the bottle of alcohol up at the last second before it splattered and seeped its way into the couch fibers.

Whenever Milena had finished pouring her own glass—and finished it off—she nudged Stovan's thigh with her knee, interuppting him as the glass reached halfway to his lips. At his cocked eyebrow, she raised the small glass between her fingers, tapping on the rim with her index finger, and asked, "Help me propose a toast?"

"Like I said, damn fine impromptu parties." Stovan acquiesed nonetheless, dark eyes softer around the edges as he raised his shot level with Milena's. "Ah, to older than dirt friends without sproutin' a gray hair—"

"Stovan!Be serious, I'll spill my drink!"

"And wouldn't that be a shame to the Czech nation! Hmm, and to bein' able to call up each other at fuck knows what time in the morning without repercussions, to long life and romance and—"

"To the unforeseeable end of the world?" Milena half-teased, setting aside the bottle on the small table in front of the couch and scooted closer to Stovan, close enough so that she could feel the thinning material of well-worn jeans and his crumpled athletic jacket (no great thanks to a suitcase jammed into a compartment for hours) against her leg and arm.

"You make it sound so philosophical, Miss Kafka," Stovan poked back. "To that, 'cos I think that's the only thing that'll cut what relationship we've got in the here and now. Cheers?" He gestured toward her, eyes expectant but patient.

No answer, just a small clink of glass against glass. That was fine enough for Stovan; after all, the adage actions speak louder than wordshad always proved itself true enough to him, so the small knock of glass rang loud and clear. Both nations nearly simultaneously tossed back their shots after, with Stovan letting the inital burn slide down his throat, chest, and settle while Milena reached forward to grab the neck of the bottle, intent on 'showing the hospitality' and keeping their glasses full as necessary, even if her movements were already clumsy enough, knocking her knee against the edge of the coffee table hard enough to leave a bruise in the morning.

Later, whenever Stovan's retort rung in her delayed mind, she spoke up, "You may call me Miss Kafka, but what—" Milena paused to hold her concentration so as not to spill, "—what brought on the eloquency?"

"What, you sayin' I can't be eloquent?" Stovan asked as his glass was refilled.

"Not in the least; lack of common sense doesn't mean you can't be poeti— kidding!" She hiccup-giggled whenever Stovan turned his head and curled a lip at her, and pressed the heel of her free palm to her forehead to mentally steady herself. "God, Stovan, don't be a-a—" a couple unorthodox snapping of her fingers as she searched for the words, "—a party pooper. It's—yes, a party pooper," she finished with a toss of her hair back and a one-swallow sip from her glass.

"Not a party pooper," Stovan murmured against the rim of his glass, dark eyes darting around as he chose to savor this shot himself. With Milena fumbling around, he chose to scoot down a bit on the couch, avoiding projectile elbows—to no avail, however, because when his head was tossed back, eyes closed and neck exposed, he felt fingertips on the side of his neck, dangerously close to the scar stretching across the expanse, with a hint of fingernails pressing against the flesh. His eyes opened, darted to the side of his peripherals to glance at his companion, and what he saw was a blurred image of Milena with a placid expression, yet a touch of worry lingered between her eyebrows.

"Stovan, I'm— I've gotta ask you somethin', before I forget again."

Stovan lowered his glass from his face, chin touching his chest as he tilted his head down and sighed. He shook the muscles loose in his shoulders, tense from her tone, and leaned back against the back of the couch, running fingers through his mop of hair as he did. "Go on."

"Well, I'm admitting that I had a bit of a—" her hand paused on its trek up the side of his face to his hair as her mind reeled, trying to place an internal finger on the word, "ult— ul— reasonbehind inviting you over, 'side from having a blast with one of my best friends in this idiot world." Milena's hand reached its goal, nearly intertwining with one of Stovan's larger, more scarred ones, and in her mind she giggled childishly at the contrast.

At the touch, Stovan stopped his dazed ministrations, but didn't pull his hand away. It had been a while since he'd had any sort of contact, no matter how mildly intimate, like this, and damned if he wasn't going to accept it like some bratty kid. Amidst his thoughts, Stovan almost forgot that Milena had asked a question, and when he twisted his head to look at her, he noticed the expectant gaze upon her face and made an 'ah' sound in the back of his throat. "That so? You plannin' on makin' me the recycler for all your old beer or somethin'?"

"Oh be serious, because I actually am," Milena pinched the skin on one of his knuckles. "I just thought— well, it's like, I, uh," she lolled her head back and puffed out her cheeks overexaggeratedly. "Gimme a sec… ah, yeah, I invited you over, because I wanted to loosen you up a bit."

"Me? Loosen up? Yep, definitely drunk. Come on, off to beddy-bed with you."

Milena nearly cackled, which made Stovan smirk victoriously. "No!Really, listen, it's like— lately you really have been kinda down. Like you're walking through wet sand everywhere. I mean, at the— at that meetup in Pécs, y'know, that one, you didn't even crack a joke when Dragomir and Erzsebet started—started—" Her sentence was cut off by snickers at the visual memory of a buzzed Erzsebet pulling on the poor Romanian's sideburns only to wind up with Dragomir holding her in a full Nelson, spewing curses in accents she'd never knew existed in the Carpathian region.

Stovan only uttered a toned down version of the smirk he had made earlier, the brandy now starting to burn in the back of his head instead of his throat, his inhibitions collapsing into the flames as well. This time, he reached for the bottle itself, downing two gulps before leaning forward, elbows on his knees, blinking away the wetness blurring his eyes from the assault on his esophagus. "M'fine, y'know. Mom."

"I was being serious on the phone when I asked you if you were alright." Milena's arms had found their way in a hug around Stovan's torso somewhere in between his third swallow from the bottle and him closing his eyes as her front pressed against his side. "You should know that it's not easy for me to care enough about people to fr—" her fingers curled in his shirt as she tried to pull the word out, "—to fret about 'em in my off time."

Truthfully, Stovan was touched—in both metaphorical and physical senses, considering Milena's hands were now clutched together, locking her arms around his middle—as that was probably the first time in monthsanyone had bothered to at least mildly give a shit about his actual well-being outside of the office. As a result, he let his free hand rest over her forearm, reciprocity for her actions, and leaned back again, into a more relaxed position for the both of them.

For a moment, both were silent, air thick with whispers of thoughts, uninhibited from alcohol and comfortability, content to let it weight over their shoulders, until Stovan spoke up. "I just miss her, y'know?"

"Oh, all too well," Milena sighed ruefully, squeezing her arms around him once.

"Was it hard for you, when you two split up?"

Milena was silent; such a wide expanding thought coupled with the alcohol made it difficult to gather her thoughts, scattered about the corners of her mind now. She wanted to say more; she offered the condensed version. "It was, but it was for the better good, in the end."

"Y'know, it's funny, 'cos I've been tellin' myself that for all these past weeks, but shit, Milena," Stovan dropped his head back, neck curved at a seemingly impossible angle over the back of the couch, and he let the shot glass bounce off the cushion and to the rug by his toes as he lifted his hands to press and rub against his eyes tiredly, almost agitatedly. "Almost ninety years, and now we're not together, and every damn day I still wake up expectin' her to be there brushin' her hair or fixin' my kid's breakfast or smellin' her on my pillow and it's just fuckin' surreal—"

"It's alright, Stovan," Milena soothed. A little twinge ached at the edge of her heart to hear her friend's voice nearly crack at the last part, understanding that feeling all too well, so she leaned forward, the tip of her nose folding slightly against his cheekbone as she kissed the side of his face, holding herself there and feeling the skin stretch and move as he talked.

"I wonder if Emil felt the same way—he was kinda broody and wrinkled between the eyebrows there for a while, but he never came straight out and said, 'I miss Milena'. Too proud, I think." His shoulders heaved and dropped with a sigh. "I haven't talked to her since, y'know. I think I'm goin' a bit crazy. With worry or what have you." Stovan snorted and let his palms run down his face, pulling his cheeks and lower eyelids down into a grotesque grimace and narrowly missing Milena's nose on the way. "If this is killin' the buzz, lemme know and say, 'Stovan, quit bein' a lovesick schoolgirl, and get back to the alcohol you so graciously purchased.'"

Milena didn't smile. Instead, she did the opposite: moved even closer to Stovan, even daring to slide a leg over his own two and sit on his lap, if only to give him a hug at a better angle and to be able to look him straight in the eyes whenever she talked. "You didn't do that to me whenever I said things like that to you—why should I do that in return.

"One more for Češko's side."

"I'm glad that you told me though, Stovan. Really, you bottle up so much…" Milena lifted her hand to press smoothed-over fingertips to the place where her lips had previously been, pleased when the touch brought a smile to the Serb's face. The gesture was comforting to him, even if it was small, and it was admittedly nice to have someone understanding of both sides of the dilemma talking to him about this, with his guard down.

"Yeah, maybe I do, but hey, what can you do when you've been the stronger—in all friggin' senses of the phrase—of a duo for decades and just have it drop, splat," he emphasized the noise with a fist flexing open and closed, "like that, eh?"

"One must make do," Milena replied simply, trailing her hand down Stovan's neck, brushed the fine edges of her fingernails over the pulled and almost angry scar, pressed her palm to his chest, easing him more relaxed against the sofa. Stovan hadn't any clue as to what was happening, mind too slow to really pick up on any meaning behind Milena's actions, and instead just took the touch in as more physical consolation, a petting, as if he were a dog with his ears laid back and his head dipped low.

Of course, whenever he felt both sets of digits on the belt buckle keeping his jeans hoisted on his narrow hips, slipping the length of leather out of the metal, his eyes jolted open, eyebrows practically becoming glued to his hairline, and Stovan snapped his head up to look at Milena's hands, her face; the latter was futile now, since her forehead was resting against the curve of his shoulder. "Milena—"

"I told you, I understand, really. I know how you feel, so I'll show you how I feel better during times like this instead of bottling it up, like you," Milena trailed into a murmur as she fumbled the belt loose and out of the loops, skimmed her fingertips along the edge of the denim, pressed her inner thighs to the outside of Stovan's, and nudged the edge of his jacket collar out of the way so she could nose the skin behind the sharp point of his jaw.

Stovan was at a loss, hands trembling with taut tendons and coiling synapses and hovering over the curves leading to Milena's hips, and that blankness in his mind only fizzled out wider whenever she licked her lips, tongue brushing against the pulse in his neck as she did so, and said softly, "You know, I used to have a crush on you. Always standing up for yourself, but still being you: funny, quick-witted, self-assured…"

He could do this. As Milena rattled off innuendos in hot breath and began to slide her hips, up his thighs and back down again, Stovan thought, he could do this. There were no strings now, nothing was holding him back, and nothing was holding her back either. And if he felt guilt toward himself in the morning, well… he unintentionally nudged the forgotten shot glasses on the floor with his toes as he lifted a thigh to shift around, causing Milena to make a small noise in the back of her throat in the process.

But this was wrong. This was wrong, she was drunk and so was he, no matter how quickly they might come to sober up. And all Stovan could see when he closed his eyes was pitch black hair dipping over his collarbone instead of sun-streaked auburn, straight-vase sides instead of the dips of a waist and thighs, and a barely there husk instead of the soprano whisper keening in his ear.

"No."

For a moment, Milena was jolted into stopping, until her mind transferred that as her hearing things in an alcohol induced haze and continued on mouthing at the small place between Stovan's collarbones. This time, Stovan was more firm; he squared his shoulders, nearly ground his molars into dust and frustration, and grabbed Milena's biceps and pushed her back until he made assured eye contact, her pupils wide and his sparking. "I said no."

Her irises shrunk, dilated, still hazy from the mild satisfaction she had been in the process of achieving, and she blinked once. Then let a Cheshire cat's grin take hold of the lower part of her face, lip bitten between the ridges of her front teeth and her hands began wandering under the jacket once more, toying with the buttons of his button-down. "Ah, but you're drunk."

"You're right, I am, and that's why I want you to not go o—"

"But I can feel that you're havin' a good time too," Milena let her hips roll across the front of Stovan's jeans, trying to make her point, "—you're just a bit tense, come on, sweetheart."

Stovan rolled his head back at the motion and bit the inside of his cheek. "Milena, really, I'm not teasin', you need to get off—"

"And that's what's happening— please, Stovan, we're both in the same state. I know how you feel, and I can make it better for you—"

"Milena—"

"—because I hate to see my dearest friend so lost—"

"I said stop!"

This time he was more firm, louder, the echo of the single word filling up the empty corners of the room, and Milen pulled back from real, frozen. To emphasize his point, Stovan gave her a quick shake as he made eye contact, desperate for her to stop stop stop because she was his closest friend and almost his sister and this was just so wrong to him. Heavier breaths filled the awkward space between them, and Milena's lipstick-smeared lips—undoubtedly there were smudges along the side of Stovan's neck now—trembled a bit while trying to form words.

What came out next was definitely something Stovan had not expected. Maybe a harsh reprimand, whether about makeup or hormones, maybe even a little apology, but definitely not, "So what, Stovan, it's not enough for me to try and help you now? You've got a problem about you now?"

Stovan, flabbergasted, attempted to reply, jaw heavy from alcohol and the release of stress, and his grip loosed from thinking too hard. Milena seized that opportunity to physically seize Stovan's jaw and force him to look up at her, eyes usually like a smooth sea now raging like a shipwreck in a storm. "It's not enough for me to attempt a little bit of consol— ation?" A slip of the tongue. "Am I just not Montenegrinenough for you?"

That just made Stovan start to seethe, and wiry though he was he was not weak, so this time he took a sure grip on Milena's wrists and jerked them away from his face. His nerves sparked, sending a tremor of impulse up his spine and he hissed, in Milena's tongue this time, hoping to get the point across better, "You know damn well that's no reason to why I'm doin' this. For one, I'm not you—"

Milena scoffed condescendingly, "Saint Stovan."

"—so I don't need to fuck my best friend and, well, goddamnit, my sister in order to soothe the fact that my feelings fuckin'hurt! And you think the possibility of screwin' up my friendship will help that?" Stovan bit off the end of his sentence with a push given to Milena, not hard, but firm enough so that she would look straight into his eyes instead of letting her gaze dart around the room, anywhere but eye contact with the Serb.

She achieved that avoidance by hiding her look underneath a fallen lock of hair, but her voice betrayed her far more. A shaky laugh made its way before she murmured, "You're so whipped—" and, when she felt Stovan's fingers clench around her biceps, she made her way up, straightening her shirt and clumsily gathering up the fallen glasses. And Stovan just sat and watched, blank and limp against the couch.

Once she had finished her mini-cleaning session, she paused, her back to Stovan, and hung her head, gaze presumably toward the carpet from where Stovan's point of view was, and he almost thought she had fallen asleep standing up before she whirled around, eyes blazing once more, and locked onto him like a scope.

"You know, I may be blunt and harsh about things, Stovan, but at least I'm upfront about it and not some goddamned passive-aggressive boiling pot." Milena nearly stumbled over Stovan's feet and the edge of the rug as she headed toward her bedroom for the rest of the night, but her speech remained surprisingly undeterred. "Maybe, if you never accept any sort of advice I give you again, you should think on that."

At the click-shut of her bedroom door, Stovan practically collapsed sideways onto the couch, face half squashed against the arm like a folded pancake. He was exhausted, physically, drained, emotionally, and he felt like Milena had defenestrated him right into a wooden fence: not enough to puncture, but enough to hurt like hell and leave some pretty bad memories behind. All he wanted to do was sleep this off, eyelids slowly lowering as if the alcohol he had consumed had finally made its way into his skull cavity, but her words kept floating through his mind like ether fumes.

Reaching back, he slid his phone from his pocket and flipped it open, checking the display. One in the morning, no texts, no voicemail. Stovan released his final sigh of recognition before thumbing the keypad briefly, then dropped the phone onto the carpet, undisturbed for another night.

—

"Whaddaya mean, you've got my boots? Give 'em back, those're for choppin' wood in a few months." "There is no fuckin' way you made it up those stairs in those shoes." "Someone's tetchy. You need a kiss?"

Stovan's voice peeked through the fog of a headache settling in Milena's skull. She made a small noise in the back of her throat, trying not to roll over too fast, and shuffled her way out of bed. There was no way to avoid any sort of confrontation now—the spat hung fresh in her mind, and the guilt in itself was enough to make her stomach lurch more than usual, and had she had any food left over in her body, she would be hunched over the tub right about now.

Padding as gently as possible across the floor as if avoiding an actual earthquake, Milena made her way toward the kitchen where Stovan's voice was becoming more and more clear, closer, and less irate than she had expected? Who exactly WAS he talking to, she pondered to herself. Once in the actual kitchen, Stovan had his back turned to the new entrant, his shoulders shaking with a laugh, and he didn't even hesitate in whatever he was doing whenever the scooting of one of Milena's stools that she had pulled out made a scraping noise. He just swiveled around from where he was sitting and slid a glass of water down the length of the table toward Milena.

She tried to mouth a 'thank you' but she was cut off by Stovan mouthing 'it's cool' and curled his thumb and index finger to make a symbol representing 'okay'. Mutely, and somewhat dumbfounded, Milena pushed the hair that had fallen around her face, partially to block unnecessary light and partially to—interesting parallel duly noted—avoid any gaze Stovan might send, away so that she could slowly sip at the water, the perspiring glass cooling her fingertips.

"—and I promise to call you back later. A-a-alright, alright, see ya." A soft beep and clack signaled the end of his phone conversation. Stovan slid his phone into his jeans—the same ones worn from last night, but his jacket had been shed to leave him clad in a well-loved undershirt—and turned to face Milena. Silently, she took a swallow of water to mentally steady herself for any verbal blows that may be sent her way, but instead, she found her hair being ruffled once and a voice chirping in Serbian, "Mornin', sweetcheeks!"

Mildly stunned, Milena jerked her head up, a bit too quickly and the world spun a bit. "Stovan— ugh, this blasted…" fingers fluttered to pinch her temples and in effect shielded her eyes from any light. "Ah, morning to you too… I take it someone was reenacting Sleeping Beauty?"

"Nah." Milena lifted the edge of her hand and caught Stovan smirking distantly. "Just had some time to think and play spring cleanin' with my brain. In with the new, out with the old, y'know? So I took some action."

Milena was almost incredulous. She had expected Stovan to overflow like a volcano and leave the mess behind in her living room, leave herto fight off the morning alone, and definitely not be standing here in her kitchen, ducking to avoid the hanging lights and giving her water. "I see, I think. So, that person you were on the phone with, just now?"

"Monty." She began to fist the hem of her shirt in one fist and lower her free hand from her face in favor of grasping the glass and swirling the liquid around. "Texted her last night, actually, right after—"

"Oh Stovan, I—"

"—nah-ah-ah, and she called me back this mornin'. And we talked. For the first time in months we've actually talked like, well, I would say 'people' but we're nations, so like that, and outside of the friggin' diplomatic offices. And it's like nothin's really happened."

"No, you—" Milena lifted a finger, wavery in her vision, in a signal for Stovan to hold his thoughts for a minute, "—let me just… Stovan, I'm sorry. I'm very sorry, I was drunk and I had been lonely and you were so upset, I had almost no clue as to what I was doing and if I hurt you I'm so—"

"Again, nah-ah-ah, lepotica." Stovan leaned forward over the small expanse of the kitchen island, reaching out and resting his hands where Milena's elbows bent, fingers long enough to almost wrap around the circumference, and squeezed comfortingly. "Stop it with that apology talk. Ain't nothin' that small gonna step between centuries of kickin' ass and drinkin' and consolin' personal shit, alright?

"And besides," a genuine smile spread across his face, a small amount of gap-laden teeth showing through, and Milena practically felt sparks behind her eyes replacing the gnawing where anxiousness had been previously, "if anything, you should be tellin' me to pay up for your advice, 'cos thank you. I say, thank you, for verbally haulin' me off my ass in this waist deep pile of bitchin' and moanin' my poor luck, so that I could actually move forward. Call me the loose rock to your river."

Stovan leaned in a pressed a quick kiss to the slope of Milena's nose, as if to punctuate his point, and maybe to coax a reply out in process. She managed a stuttery laugh, almost sounding like she was clearing her throat, and replied, "But won't that end up wearing you down into nothing?"

"Don't think so. You're one of those calmer rivers, not some sorta rushin' rapid."

This time, Milena did act: despite how loose it may have knocked her equilibrium for the moment, she leaned forward and gathered the lanky man in her arms, nose smushed against that scar stretching across his neck, and he'd be damned if he didn't return the gesture. They stayed like that for the moment, a picture worthy of the adage 'worth a thousand words', speaking more than silly metaphors that were under the guise of eloquent apologies.

Wars and fallouts had passed and this was nothing compared to some trials, but somehow these emotional mendings patched up more than just current interpersonal conflicts. Both reminisced of a time or two on the battlefield where they would scream their stress across the no-man's lands and they would always, no matter how late it may be or the time it would take, end up like they were in Prague, because while Milena may have been a river and Stovan a stone, both were iron without air, chain links that were never doomed to the fate of rust and breaking apart.

Post-notes: A headcanon of mine is that Milena gets pretty brutally honest while drunk, but her foresight dwindles down so she doesn't see irrationalities well. And, as per predicted symptoms, get enough alcohol coursing through her and her mood swings from up to down—not massively extreme swings though, just enough to make a noticeable difference :'D and for anyone curious as to the reasons behind Stovan's mood etc, 2006 was when Montenegro declared independence from Serbia proper (hence the title).