For Each Ecstatic Instant (10b/10)
anonymous
January 19 2010, 10:30:04 UTC
“That’s no excuse.”
Lithuania shrugged. “Maybe not,” he sighed, curling further into himself. “It’s what I tell myself, though.”
This conversation wasn’t going anywhere helpful, America could see clearly. “Well,” he began brazenly. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll never lay a finger on you again. I won’t let him.”
“I know you won’t,” Lithuania said sweetly, with absolute assurance, absolute trust.
America wasn’t sure what to say. His mouth hung open stupidly, and he could practically see Lithuania’s quiet, little smile even though his face was turned. Finally, America just reached out and stroked Lithuania’s hair, running his wet fingers through the soft, brown locks.
“You’ve got beautiful hair, Toris,” he said lightly.
Lithuania’s shoulder’s jerked suddenly. America drew his hand away, racing to figure out what he had done wrong, how he had hurt the wounded nation before him.
After only a moment, Lithuania let out a long breath and his shoulders straightened.
“Toris…?” America asked quietly.
“I’m fine,” Lithuania said, smiling wanly at America over his shoulder. “I… remembered something. It’s gone now. Please, do that again.”
America did his best not to dwell on whatever dark memory had been dredged up by his thoughtless comment. Hesitantly, he reached up and ran his hand through Lithuania’s hair again. Lithuania sighed and leaned into the touch.
Heartened, America picked up a washcloth and dunked it in the water, before ringing it out over Lithuania’s head, just to see the warm water roll over the silky hair and down over his shoulders.
Lithuania laughed as America rubbed the washcloth against his neck, feeling steady, but delicate muscles writhing under his fingertips, occasionally dipping back into the water when the cloth went dry.
The cloth began to move lower, down from his neck, to his shoulders, sliding onto his back, but Lithuania didn’t object, humming tunelessly and running his hands through the water.
America began to wash the scarred flesh. He felt the uneven bumps and divots in Lithuania’s skin, the lingering marks of a whip or boot heel. Some of the lashes were still red and inflamed, but Lithuania only sighed again as they were touched.
As he moved over the seemingly endless map of abuse, America wished with an almost physical desire that he could erase them. That some brave act or noble sacrifice could make any reminder of his lover’s torture disappear.
But, he knew that was impossible. All that he could do was clean the scars, kiss them, touch them, cover them, and watch them heal as well as they ever would. Ever could.
When he had felt every inch of Lithuania’s skin, America dropped the washcloth into the cooling water. He wrapped his arms around Lithuania’s thin, chest, pressed his scarred stomach to the even more scarred back, and placed his chin on Lithuania’s shoulder.
Lithuania turned slightly, just enough to press his lips to America’s. He tasted clean and cool.
They kissed until the water became uncomfortably cold. America lifted Lithuania out of the bath and sat him on the counter and dried him like a baby, while Lithuania let him, because he knew it made America happy.
America walked hand-in-hand with Lithuania to the bedroom. They curled up on the bed, under the clean blankets and sheets, Lithuania’s body pressed into the hollow of America’s, equal parts chaste and erotic at once.
Lithuania’s hair was still damp, smelling of soap and bathwater. America felt it leave wet streaks on his throat as he and Lithuania spooned like teenagers.
An exhilarating thought was rumbling through him, warm and exciting: this could work. It was just possible that nothing, himself included, would throw this off the rails.
It wouldn’t be perfect. He wasn’t enough of a child to still think that. They would have their beloved hours, and their sharp pittances of years, the keen and quivering ration.
But, it could work. He would make Lithuania the best that he could be again, and Lithuania would do the same for him.
He didn’t need to fix Lithuania. Because, this was fixed. As fixed as it ever was going to get.
Re: For Each Ecstatic Instant (10b/10)
anonymous
April 7 2010, 19:49:13 UTC
I just found this and I had to leave a comment: I loved loved loved this fic, read it twice and awwwwed uncountable times. (and I am usual a hardcore LietPol shipper)
Re: For Each Ecstatic Instant (10b/10)
anonymous
July 15 2011, 02:46:14 UTC
This is so amazing and awesome, I can't even. Words fail me. Beautiful, poignant, breathtaking. Just the way you write is, I don't know, just the right amount of detail, it's...gah! I love Toris' quiet strength, Alfred's acceptance of the way things are. God. This is the best Lithuania/America I've ever read, hands down.
I don't know if you'll ever read the comments again, but I'd love to know what else you've written. I'd devour it in an instance. *is creepy but in a good way?*
Lithuania shrugged. “Maybe not,” he sighed, curling further into himself. “It’s what I tell myself, though.”
This conversation wasn’t going anywhere helpful, America could see clearly. “Well,” he began brazenly. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll never lay a finger on you again. I won’t let him.”
“I know you won’t,” Lithuania said sweetly, with absolute assurance, absolute trust.
America wasn’t sure what to say. His mouth hung open stupidly, and he could practically see Lithuania’s quiet, little smile even though his face was turned. Finally, America just reached out and stroked Lithuania’s hair, running his wet fingers through the soft, brown locks.
“You’ve got beautiful hair, Toris,” he said lightly.
Lithuania’s shoulder’s jerked suddenly. America drew his hand away, racing to figure out what he had done wrong, how he had hurt the wounded nation before him.
After only a moment, Lithuania let out a long breath and his shoulders straightened.
“Toris…?” America asked quietly.
“I’m fine,” Lithuania said, smiling wanly at America over his shoulder. “I… remembered something. It’s gone now. Please, do that again.”
America did his best not to dwell on whatever dark memory had been dredged up by his thoughtless comment. Hesitantly, he reached up and ran his hand through Lithuania’s hair again. Lithuania sighed and leaned into the touch.
Heartened, America picked up a washcloth and dunked it in the water, before ringing it out over Lithuania’s head, just to see the warm water roll over the silky hair and down over his shoulders.
Lithuania laughed as America rubbed the washcloth against his neck, feeling steady, but delicate muscles writhing under his fingertips, occasionally dipping back into the water when the cloth went dry.
The cloth began to move lower, down from his neck, to his shoulders, sliding onto his back, but Lithuania didn’t object, humming tunelessly and running his hands through the water.
America began to wash the scarred flesh. He felt the uneven bumps and divots in Lithuania’s skin, the lingering marks of a whip or boot heel. Some of the lashes were still red and inflamed, but Lithuania only sighed again as they were touched.
As he moved over the seemingly endless map of abuse, America wished with an almost physical desire that he could erase them. That some brave act or noble sacrifice could make any reminder of his lover’s torture disappear.
But, he knew that was impossible. All that he could do was clean the scars, kiss them, touch them, cover them, and watch them heal as well as they ever would. Ever could.
When he had felt every inch of Lithuania’s skin, America dropped the washcloth into the cooling water. He wrapped his arms around Lithuania’s thin, chest, pressed his scarred stomach to the even more scarred back, and placed his chin on Lithuania’s shoulder.
Lithuania turned slightly, just enough to press his lips to America’s. He tasted clean and cool.
They kissed until the water became uncomfortably cold. America lifted Lithuania out of the bath and sat him on the counter and dried him like a baby, while Lithuania let him, because he knew it made America happy.
America walked hand-in-hand with Lithuania to the bedroom. They curled up on the bed, under the clean blankets and sheets, Lithuania’s body pressed into the hollow of America’s, equal parts chaste and erotic at once.
Lithuania’s hair was still damp, smelling of soap and bathwater. America felt it leave wet streaks on his throat as he and Lithuania spooned like teenagers.
An exhilarating thought was rumbling through him, warm and exciting: this could work. It was just possible that nothing, himself included, would throw this off the rails.
It wouldn’t be perfect. He wasn’t enough of a child to still think that. They would have their beloved hours, and their sharp pittances of years, the keen and quivering ration.
But, it could work. He would make Lithuania the best that he could be again, and Lithuania would do the same for him.
He didn’t need to fix Lithuania. Because, this was fixed. As fixed as it ever was going to get.
They could live with that.
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<3<3<3
Not OP, but thank you, Author. c:
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I don't know if you'll ever read the comments again, but I'd love to know what else you've written. I'd devour it in an instance. *is creepy but in a good way?*
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