Reorganizing
A/N: I wanted to write a piece of the relationship between Poland and Lithuania. Kind of short. It's more difficult for me to write longer pieces these days, though with APH having almost no plot it makes my task even harder. I'll come up with something, though.
It was difficult.
Although it was expected, Lithuania had had no idea the volume of sheer physical labor that would be required of him, and after several agonizing hours he'd all but given up. Albeit, he was used to heavy work from the Commonwealth days of farming, but it didn't mean he enjoyed it. And, unlike the economic importance of the fields, this was in no way useful.
It was sheer madness.
"…move it to the left a bit, will you Liet? It totally doesn't fit there either…"
Lithuania let out a winded cough, all but exasperated with his still oh-so-serious partner. Poland was seated rather comfortably in the armchair opposite of him, looking calculative, neat, and all too enthusiastic.
Then again, he wasn't the one dragging this chunk of wood around.
"Poland, this is the sixth time you made me move this wardrobe," Lithuania pointed out hopelessly, knowing full well Poland had no intent on yielding his stubbornness, "and we're only halfway done filling up the room!"
Indeed, he almost regretted his choice to help his friend redecorate one of the many quarters that had been pulverized by the Russians earlier in the century. He'd been a fool to expect it to be a simple move-the-furniture-in and finish; this was his Poland they were talking about.
The man who'd rather sit on a table and let Lithuania do the work for him as opposed to simply turning the bulb in himself. Though it was cute in a way, it was just as maddening as this crazy furniture dance the other nation was forcing him to go through.
Poland made his point by pouting, arms crossed. "Do you seriously think I can live with the room looking weird, Liet? Like, that really isn't cool, you know? Just move it to the left a bit, and I swear I won't tell you to move it again."
As if.
Unable to resist Poland's demands, however, Lithuania found himself, once again, shoving that whatever-many-pound wooden block of diabolical furniture with all his might.
To the left. God, he hated the left.
Once in place, Poland finally gave a nod of approval. After a few moments of triumph—he wasn't touching that thing again any century soon—Lithuania was immediately reminded that the wardrobe had only been the second piece of furniture put in.
There was still the desk and the bed and the bookcase and the lamp—which had its own complex-as-hell instruction manual which, even after years under America's eyes, Lithuania still couldn't decipher—and just the idea of suffering more of Poland's infuriating interior-design quips gave him a sense of dread.
Too exhausted for further thought, Lithuania sidled up to Poland on the couch. The other man was warm and (it miffed him a bit, yes) physically unfazed—no beads of sweat, no signs of discomfort—which would have driven any lesser nation insane in its injustice (this was Poland's house, and yet he was doing all the work?), yet years of camaraderie between the two had taught Lithuania patience in Poland's antics. Including the ones that involved great work on Lithuania's part.
A hand found its way on Lithuania's shoulder, and he could feel Poland leaning towards him, nose pressed into his dark thick hair. The man had always been a bit touchy with him, though not in a feminine way—freely pulling his partner into arm locks and noogies, and was just as prone to slight cuddling as jostling. At some points he had been known to go further, a stray hand slipping into his Liet's pants, and despite their slightly rocky relationship Lithuania never minded.
How could he?
They had had their fights (particularly their vicious battle over Vilnius, which even now they rarely spoke of), yet every partnership had its disputes—and, he admitted, there were times in which Poland drove him so crazy his seemingly endless pit of patience had grown dry. He would burst out shouting, striking at the blond with scathing words in place of physical slaps—he wasn't Russia, god—yet the stunned look in the other's eyes had always succeeding in curbing the greater part of his anger.
And when Poland would later touch his bare back in the middle of the night, Lithuania was never the kind to refuse. Of all people, he understood the insecurities the two shared in their independence—and how, despite his cool exterior, Poland's obsession with being physically close was a way to deal with the challenges he faced in the world of the day.
Poland stroked Lithuania's hair, and despite smelling of sweat and looking like hell, the brunet made no protest, showed no embarrassment or shame. It was an old feeling of contentment, this casual acceptance of each other.
It was a contentment that had sprouted cracks in its surface, wounds which Lithuania agonized over. Wishing for the closeness of long ago, when Poland was Poland and Lithuania was Lithuania, and there was no one in between them.
When Poland had wanted to bathe together once—something they hadn't done together in years, mind—Lithuania had gone into a desperate panic. It was almost right after Lithuania's liberation, in which he found himself coping with challenges too large to fathom, with Poland's help. Despite his assured independence he still felt the ghostly breath of the Soviet on his shoulders.
He had attempted to hide from Poland, sneaking out in the early morning to take a bath by himself. It was to no avail, as the blond had quickly joined him in a "super prank attack!" and had seemed completely unsurprised at the brutal bruises and scars revealed across Lithuania's shoulders. They were ugly and jagged, scars and still blotchy bruises marring his pale skin, ruining that once tan back, strong from fieldwork and the constant sun—
They were reminders of Russia. Reminders of that chilling presence that had hovered over his shoulder for so long he still felt that grip in his sleep, and still at times felt standing behind him as if he was about to order Lithuania to enact some tormented duty…
He had wanted to hide them from Poland, to scrub so hard they'd simply disappear, scrub until his skin was red and smarting and even worse off than before. He had hid them successfully over the years, hid them behind a mask of contentment and patience, even when the bruises hurt so much he wanted to double over and never stand back up.
And when Lithuania had seen Poland look directly at the marks he had wanted to crumple up within himself. He knew.
"Like, Liet, relax. Let me wash your back."
Poland had been unusually kind towards him that day, careful not to press too hard on the bruises and working his hands in long circular motions. Neither of them mentioned the scars.
Time was better spent on the present and future. Not the past.
"If we want to finish arranging the room," Poland was saying presently as he continued to stroke Lithuania's hair, "we have to, like, start putting together the bookshelf. Liet."
He groaned—he was in no way, shape or form to deal with more manual labor, and almost made a comment suggesting Poland handle the work but was stopped by the other man's hands traveling downwards.
Absently, the blond—hair a curtain around his face, green eyes intent and sparkling with an emotion Lithuania really couldn't describe—traced his chin, his lips, his neck, and ran down his arms. It was a ghost touch, a maddening fairy dance that almost goaded Lithuania to plead for him to stop teasing (he was always teasing him, that Poland. He'd have gone insane years ago if he'd dwelled on it), and yet its lightness was always pleasing. Never threatening.
Not like him.
It had been such a relief, an invisible burden tossed off his back.
Poland had always been apt to touching Lithuania, a habit no doubt brought about by their closeness in their youth. Upon release from the brutality of Russia, and coming under the support of Poland, Lithuania had noticed the subtle questions behind the other man's actions—an inquisitive hand, hovering slightly over his. A brief shoulder-pat, light and hesitant.
He had been worried to the point where he was leaning across the toilet bowl several times a week. Worried that he wouldn't be able to accept the other's touches—that, somehow, his experiences would meld together, and instead of the warmth of Poland's breath he'd imagine the cold touch of Russia—that the minute those pale hands, more boyish than the firm calloused ones that had tormented him, the illusion would be broken.
That he and Poland could never achieve their closeness—that forever that cold nation would stand like a damn thorn grinning from ear-to-ear between the two—that somehow he'd reject his partner, and hurt him—
After the first week of Lithuania bedding with Poland, in which Lithuania could practically cut through the air of awkwardness between him and the other with a knife, the blond had made the first move. Before turning off the lights, Poland had quickly and unexpectedly leaned over and gave Lithuania a chaste kiss: chapped and dry and eerily familiar. Polish vodka.
It was different.
Different from Russia, and as the rest of the night proceeded, Lithuania knew that his fears had been silly—there was no way Poland and Russia were alike, no way in which one would remind him of the other. Poland was Poland and Russia was Russia, and when Poland touched him it was in its own world by itself. It was soft and considerate (unlike his general demeanor, Lithuania had always noted). So welcoming in place of Russia's rough grip, which was careless of its victim.
Poland knew who the man clutching him desperately was. He was no longer a land to be obtained and taken advantage of, some ornament in a quest for world domination—he was Lithuania, an actual nation, with its flag and name and capital.
When Poland's hands wandered down further, Lithuania objected: "I thought we were going to move the bookcase?"
Although he couldn't see his partner's face through the curtain of hair shielding his view, he could almost imagine Poland's exasperated look. "We are, Liet, but it's not like I said we couldn't have some fun first, you know? Here, take that off."
It was difficult.
Then again, Poland always made it difficult—even when doing these things he never ceased ranting about the stupidest things, and all the while had total control over the situation. Yet there was a way he was able to make the experience pleasurable, and Lithuania would often—with a sigh, of course—succumb to the other nation's whims. After all, Poland always got what he wanted.
And sometimes after it all, staring wordlessly out in the darkening dusk, he would feel a sharp pang of sympathy for the lonely Russia, who had no Poland to speak to, to admit his fears, who had instead forced Lithuania to be that figure against his will. Yet there was also an overwhelming sense of relief.
It was time to move forward.
(Though, dammit all, they still haven't moved that bookcase).
Comments are appreciated. Thanks!