Post by the Netherlands on Apr 19, 2012 21:20:06 GMT -5
We needed more sappy. >.>
----
February 1943
Nervously he waited for the plane to land. He knew everything was fine – or rather, there wouldn't be anything grave or anything of serious injury – but still.
It had been a cold but quiet day today, but now, when the sun settled down in the west, snow began to fall and wind became stronger. He wished he hadn't left his scarf behind in the car and tried to put on his hood, without much success. The wind was too strong. In the distance, he could see the plane safely reach the ground. Despite the urge to run towards it and greet him, he let him step outside in peace. After travelling for so long, he should leave the other alone for a moment. Later there would be enough time to talk, after all.
“Glad to have you back,” he said, opening the door of a newly rented apartment near the Ottawa Civic Hospital. It was smaller than he was used to, but it had more than enough space for one person; and he didn't spend too much time in there. It was a place to eat and rest, not much more. The kitchen was awfully neat, as was the living room. A couch and a coffee table and a chair or two, it wasn't much more than that. He didn't have to point to the couch; his guest had already set eyes on it and plopped down with a sigh.
The Canadese didn't ask any questions and went to the kitchen to make some coffee. Knowing his guest needed a certain amount of sweetness in the bitter drink, he grabbed a tiny metal tray with some sugar on it. Even though Canada wasn't exactly the battlefield of the war, luxury goods as coffee, sugar and butter were still on coupons. But today was a happy day and he didn't mind if it would cost his sugar for this month. Of course, if he really wanted to he could get some extras. However, he thought it would be unfair towards his people, who had all met the same fate. It would be awful to be treated better just because he was more than just any other Canadian.
“Take your shoes off,” was the first thing he said when he came back with two large mugs, filled with coffee. The man grunted something, but kicked them off and shoved them under the coffee table. The tired expression on his face changed into a happy one when he smelled the fresh hot drinks.
“It's real,” Canada smiled. “But after that you get instant,” he warned the other. Both men warmed their hands; the Canadian took a seat in the chair.
“It's been a long time since I had real coffee.”
“Come on America, it can't have been more than a few weeks.”
His neighbour shrugged. A few weeks was a lifetime, especially for someone who used to drink at least two mugs a day – often more. And instant coffee – instant coffee just wasn't the same. Water with mud and bean flavour, that's how it looked like. And it tasted even worse.
After such hectic days, both were perfectly content with silence, although America wasn't quite the silent type. But even men like him needed some quiet time once in a while. He broke the silence by taking off his glasses and practically throwing it on the table; his ear hurt. It hadn't been his intention, but it slipped through his fingers and made a loud, clattering noise. It took the other only a few seconds to realise the glasses had been broken all this time. Canada frowned at him and put his mug down.
“You could've told me there's a crack in your glasses. I do have a spare.”
The other blonde shook his head. “Dude, it's fine.”
“No, it's not fine,” the Canadian sighed. “You can lend a pair of mine. I have a spare right here, on my desk - ”
“Don't,” America cut him off. “How's your sight again?”
“Minus three, as usual. I don't see any problem.”
“I have minus seven.” With that, he covered one eye, picked up his mug and pulled up his legs.
The other nation stared at him.
“What?” America asked, a bit irritated. He was tired, the war was not advancing as quickly as he wanted to and in his first moment of peace and quiet in weeks and he was not in the mood in getting a lecture on how about he should take care of himself and whatnot. It was understandable, really.
Canada bit on his lip. “You didn't tell me it got worse.” When did it happen? It couldn't have been longer than a couple of decades. After World War One? After the Great Depression? It worried him more than he wanted to admit.
“You're not my grandmother. It's none of your business.” After some uncomfortable silence, he slapped playfully on the Canadian's knee. “Loosen up, man. Got any stories to tell? I heard you've been promoted to babysitter?”
The other grimaced. “The Dutch royal family is taking refugee here in Ottawa. That's all.”
“And the lady got a baby,” America answered with a small grin. “Say, how come they're staying here? I never knew you and the Dutch people were close.”
The Canadian sighed. Moving over to the couch next to him – it seemed like America cheered up a little and it would be safe there – he stuck his tongue out. “None of your business. But ..if you want to know, England asked me.”
“Oh, I see. How come England didn't ask me?” he asked – pouting just a bit.
“Because you're immature,” was the immediate answer.
“Am not!”
“Are too. No – I guess you grew up,” Canada added with a smile.
“You still sound like a grandmother.” The American was tired and repositioned on the couch to lean against his brother. Closing his eyes, he murmured something. “Hey, Canada. Do you remember we gave each other names when we were little?”
“Hm-hm.”
“I liked it.”
“Me too... Alfred.” He could tell the other was about to fall asleep; his arm had slipped away from his lap and his head had fallen on its side. Canada didn't expect an answer.
“Thank you. Matthew.”
----
February 1943
Nervously he waited for the plane to land. He knew everything was fine – or rather, there wouldn't be anything grave or anything of serious injury – but still.
It had been a cold but quiet day today, but now, when the sun settled down in the west, snow began to fall and wind became stronger. He wished he hadn't left his scarf behind in the car and tried to put on his hood, without much success. The wind was too strong. In the distance, he could see the plane safely reach the ground. Despite the urge to run towards it and greet him, he let him step outside in peace. After travelling for so long, he should leave the other alone for a moment. Later there would be enough time to talk, after all.
“Glad to have you back,” he said, opening the door of a newly rented apartment near the Ottawa Civic Hospital. It was smaller than he was used to, but it had more than enough space for one person; and he didn't spend too much time in there. It was a place to eat and rest, not much more. The kitchen was awfully neat, as was the living room. A couch and a coffee table and a chair or two, it wasn't much more than that. He didn't have to point to the couch; his guest had already set eyes on it and plopped down with a sigh.
The Canadese didn't ask any questions and went to the kitchen to make some coffee. Knowing his guest needed a certain amount of sweetness in the bitter drink, he grabbed a tiny metal tray with some sugar on it. Even though Canada wasn't exactly the battlefield of the war, luxury goods as coffee, sugar and butter were still on coupons. But today was a happy day and he didn't mind if it would cost his sugar for this month. Of course, if he really wanted to he could get some extras. However, he thought it would be unfair towards his people, who had all met the same fate. It would be awful to be treated better just because he was more than just any other Canadian.
“Take your shoes off,” was the first thing he said when he came back with two large mugs, filled with coffee. The man grunted something, but kicked them off and shoved them under the coffee table. The tired expression on his face changed into a happy one when he smelled the fresh hot drinks.
“It's real,” Canada smiled. “But after that you get instant,” he warned the other. Both men warmed their hands; the Canadian took a seat in the chair.
“It's been a long time since I had real coffee.”
“Come on America, it can't have been more than a few weeks.”
His neighbour shrugged. A few weeks was a lifetime, especially for someone who used to drink at least two mugs a day – often more. And instant coffee – instant coffee just wasn't the same. Water with mud and bean flavour, that's how it looked like. And it tasted even worse.
After such hectic days, both were perfectly content with silence, although America wasn't quite the silent type. But even men like him needed some quiet time once in a while. He broke the silence by taking off his glasses and practically throwing it on the table; his ear hurt. It hadn't been his intention, but it slipped through his fingers and made a loud, clattering noise. It took the other only a few seconds to realise the glasses had been broken all this time. Canada frowned at him and put his mug down.
“You could've told me there's a crack in your glasses. I do have a spare.”
The other blonde shook his head. “Dude, it's fine.”
“No, it's not fine,” the Canadian sighed. “You can lend a pair of mine. I have a spare right here, on my desk - ”
“Don't,” America cut him off. “How's your sight again?”
“Minus three, as usual. I don't see any problem.”
“I have minus seven.” With that, he covered one eye, picked up his mug and pulled up his legs.
The other nation stared at him.
“What?” America asked, a bit irritated. He was tired, the war was not advancing as quickly as he wanted to and in his first moment of peace and quiet in weeks and he was not in the mood in getting a lecture on how about he should take care of himself and whatnot. It was understandable, really.
Canada bit on his lip. “You didn't tell me it got worse.” When did it happen? It couldn't have been longer than a couple of decades. After World War One? After the Great Depression? It worried him more than he wanted to admit.
“You're not my grandmother. It's none of your business.” After some uncomfortable silence, he slapped playfully on the Canadian's knee. “Loosen up, man. Got any stories to tell? I heard you've been promoted to babysitter?”
The other grimaced. “The Dutch royal family is taking refugee here in Ottawa. That's all.”
“And the lady got a baby,” America answered with a small grin. “Say, how come they're staying here? I never knew you and the Dutch people were close.”
The Canadian sighed. Moving over to the couch next to him – it seemed like America cheered up a little and it would be safe there – he stuck his tongue out. “None of your business. But ..if you want to know, England asked me.”
“Oh, I see. How come England didn't ask me?” he asked – pouting just a bit.
“Because you're immature,” was the immediate answer.
“Am not!”
“Are too. No – I guess you grew up,” Canada added with a smile.
“You still sound like a grandmother.” The American was tired and repositioned on the couch to lean against his brother. Closing his eyes, he murmured something. “Hey, Canada. Do you remember we gave each other names when we were little?”
“Hm-hm.”
“I liked it.”
“Me too... Alfred.” He could tell the other was about to fall asleep; his arm had slipped away from his lap and his head had fallen on its side. Canada didn't expect an answer.
“Thank you. Matthew.”
