Fic: Make Me Whole Again
Pairing: Canada/Lithuania
Rating: PG
Warnings: Countries. Personified. You dun like? Steer clear.
Summary: A cake, a kitchen.
Author's Notes: Still going with my stuff written for hetalia_kink! The request was for Canada/Lithuania, inspired by the song "Baker, Baker" by Tori Amos.
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Make Me Whole Again
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The kitchen was radiant in the morning, the sunlight streaming slanted and golden in through sheer curtains to leaves pools of light on the tasteful beige countertops. Flour had been laid out, and brown sugar, eggs, and cloves; already some of the ingredients had been measured into bowls, tipped carefully into cups, the excess scraped even. It was an exercise in precision, for the two figures that stood in the room, hair burnished to lighter shades by the glow of daylight, were the sort of people to pay attention to such things. They did not speak as they worked, slender fingers dipping and pouring and stirring, spoons occasionally retrieving small samples to ensure that all was according to recipe. At long last, satisfied, Canada scraped the excess icing from a long wooden spoon and set the bowl beside another that contained cake mix.
It had been a comfortable silence, a gentle thing, and even when it was broken the words did not seem intrusive. “Looks like we’re about ready to go, eh?”
“The oven’s heated.” Lithuania confirmed, and he reached to open its door, searched briefly about for an oven mitt and slipped his hand inside to pull the rack from within it.
The Canadian gave a polite nod of thanks to his guest and began to scoop the cake batter in long, pale ribbons into the pan. It spread across the bottom, filled up all the empty space; he gave it a careful pat, smoothing it even before handing it to the other boy, who slid it into the oven with habitual care.
When it had settled into its expected place, the steady, measured ticking of an egg timer marking the pass of seconds, Canada moved to the sink, stacking dishes as he passed. He ended with a balanced armful, set them all down at once, turned on the water and squeezed in more soap than was probably necessary. The stream of it was almost too hot, hot just this side of burning, for outside the air was chill for all the beauty of the sun’s efforts, and Canada had always found that there was little to fend off the cold fingers that his country induced like a good sinkful of dishes.
There was a mild sort of surprise when Lithuania’ hands slipped beneath his, deft and firm and tentative all at once, to claim half of the washing and the extra sponge. For a moment, Canada’s eyes lingered on the Lithuanian’s face, wide aqua behind glasses that only accentuated the brilliant hue, and a part of his mind began to make noise about it being bad manners to let a guest help with the washing up. He half suspected that the boy would take it as a rebuke when none was intended, however- and so he accepted the help with a smile, expression warm.
This task, too, was completed in silence, two sets of pale hands sliding over plates and bowls and spoons until half the newly clean tableware rested on a towel upon the counter, dripping, staining the fabric beneath them a darker shade of powder blue.
It was with the feel of someone cleaning an open wound, probing to make certain that the treatment won’t hurt too badly, that Lithuania’s words ventured to the surface at last, breaking the hush so tentatively that it might have been a crime. “Your brother… couldn’t make it?”
The words brought a small smile to the corners of Canada’s lips, soft and not entirely honest- an expression for the shape of it, rather than the feel. “He’s busy, I’m sure. Off in New York or LA, moving too fast and doing too much.”
Lithuania watched the other boy, a sidelong glance shuttered with dark lashes, and reached for the last bowl. “But you said…?”
“I did.” And he had. Because the piercing stare of Russia’s purple eyes might have withered ghosts, and there had been some awful glimmer of hope in Lithuania’s, some lingering optimism that perhaps the missing nations might yet arrive on time for the conference. That, if only for a little while, he would not have to return home.
It had been easy to offer him another place to be instead, easy to add on that little bit of a lie to deter Russia from accepting the offer as well. And now there was a kitchen with just the two of them, and soon there would be a cake bigger than they could finish on their own. “Plans change though, eh?”
After the sponge swiped the bowl in Lithuania’s hands a last time, he reached thoughtfully to turn off the water, set the final dish to dry with the rest. His face seemed unable to decide the appropriate response to the words, for it flickered briefly from understanding to anxiety, slipping finally into something that flirted with gratitude.
When the kiss came, a sweet, closed-mouthed thing born of thanks and the pleasant safety of a sunny kitchen, Lithuania’s lips were surprisingly warm, unexpectedly soft. He pulled away again bare seconds later, cheeks stained as crimson as those of the boy he had kissed, and Canada licked his lips unconsciously, tongue chasing the lingering remembrance of a touch. The taste was sweet, mild and spicy all at once, the taste of the icing that they’d made together.
Canada wondered whether he tasted the same.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Countries. Personified. You dun like? Steer clear.
Summary: A cake, a kitchen.
Author's Notes: Still going with my stuff written for hetalia_kink! The request was for Canada/Lithuania, inspired by the song "Baker, Baker" by Tori Amos.
=====
Make Me Whole Again
=====
The kitchen was radiant in the morning, the sunlight streaming slanted and golden in through sheer curtains to leaves pools of light on the tasteful beige countertops. Flour had been laid out, and brown sugar, eggs, and cloves; already some of the ingredients had been measured into bowls, tipped carefully into cups, the excess scraped even. It was an exercise in precision, for the two figures that stood in the room, hair burnished to lighter shades by the glow of daylight, were the sort of people to pay attention to such things. They did not speak as they worked, slender fingers dipping and pouring and stirring, spoons occasionally retrieving small samples to ensure that all was according to recipe. At long last, satisfied, Canada scraped the excess icing from a long wooden spoon and set the bowl beside another that contained cake mix.
It had been a comfortable silence, a gentle thing, and even when it was broken the words did not seem intrusive. “Looks like we’re about ready to go, eh?”
“The oven’s heated.” Lithuania confirmed, and he reached to open its door, searched briefly about for an oven mitt and slipped his hand inside to pull the rack from within it.
The Canadian gave a polite nod of thanks to his guest and began to scoop the cake batter in long, pale ribbons into the pan. It spread across the bottom, filled up all the empty space; he gave it a careful pat, smoothing it even before handing it to the other boy, who slid it into the oven with habitual care.
When it had settled into its expected place, the steady, measured ticking of an egg timer marking the pass of seconds, Canada moved to the sink, stacking dishes as he passed. He ended with a balanced armful, set them all down at once, turned on the water and squeezed in more soap than was probably necessary. The stream of it was almost too hot, hot just this side of burning, for outside the air was chill for all the beauty of the sun’s efforts, and Canada had always found that there was little to fend off the cold fingers that his country induced like a good sinkful of dishes.
There was a mild sort of surprise when Lithuania’ hands slipped beneath his, deft and firm and tentative all at once, to claim half of the washing and the extra sponge. For a moment, Canada’s eyes lingered on the Lithuanian’s face, wide aqua behind glasses that only accentuated the brilliant hue, and a part of his mind began to make noise about it being bad manners to let a guest help with the washing up. He half suspected that the boy would take it as a rebuke when none was intended, however- and so he accepted the help with a smile, expression warm.
This task, too, was completed in silence, two sets of pale hands sliding over plates and bowls and spoons until half the newly clean tableware rested on a towel upon the counter, dripping, staining the fabric beneath them a darker shade of powder blue.
It was with the feel of someone cleaning an open wound, probing to make certain that the treatment won’t hurt too badly, that Lithuania’s words ventured to the surface at last, breaking the hush so tentatively that it might have been a crime. “Your brother… couldn’t make it?”
The words brought a small smile to the corners of Canada’s lips, soft and not entirely honest- an expression for the shape of it, rather than the feel. “He’s busy, I’m sure. Off in New York or LA, moving too fast and doing too much.”
Lithuania watched the other boy, a sidelong glance shuttered with dark lashes, and reached for the last bowl. “But you said…?”
“I did.” And he had. Because the piercing stare of Russia’s purple eyes might have withered ghosts, and there had been some awful glimmer of hope in Lithuania’s, some lingering optimism that perhaps the missing nations might yet arrive on time for the conference. That, if only for a little while, he would not have to return home.
It had been easy to offer him another place to be instead, easy to add on that little bit of a lie to deter Russia from accepting the offer as well. And now there was a kitchen with just the two of them, and soon there would be a cake bigger than they could finish on their own. “Plans change though, eh?”
After the sponge swiped the bowl in Lithuania’s hands a last time, he reached thoughtfully to turn off the water, set the final dish to dry with the rest. His face seemed unable to decide the appropriate response to the words, for it flickered briefly from understanding to anxiety, slipping finally into something that flirted with gratitude.
When the kiss came, a sweet, closed-mouthed thing born of thanks and the pleasant safety of a sunny kitchen, Lithuania’s lips were surprisingly warm, unexpectedly soft. He pulled away again bare seconds later, cheeks stained as crimson as those of the boy he had kissed, and Canada licked his lips unconsciously, tongue chasing the lingering remembrance of a touch. The taste was sweet, mild and spicy all at once, the taste of the icing that they’d made together.
Canada wondered whether he tasted the same.