Psuedocyesis (Lithuania/Poland, part 2/8)
anonymous
March 1 2010, 00:03:05 UTC
It's long past dark when Lithuania returns home - almost past midnight. The roads are muddy with the misty rain, and he leaves his shoes in the kitchen. All is dark and silent. Belarus will have put Courland to bed long since, and she tends to retire early herself. Poland sits up recklessly late with her books, but her window was unlit as he approached.
He clutches the volume of Rosseau close as he opens his bedroom, hoping Belarus remembered to oil the hinges; the noise will carry, and Poland needs her sleep.
He need not have worried. His lamp is burning, and she's sitting up in his bed, squinting at - at a shirt in his size, Lithuania thinks in mounting suprise, which she's embroidering with little red flowers. Her tounge sticks out the corner of her lips with concentration; the way her nightgown bunches makes the bulge of her belly absurdly obvious. Six months, he would think, if he hadn't known it was a decade along.
"Polska," he says.
Suprise almost makes her drop her needle. But she covers for it well, snatching it up with a laugh. "Liet! I thought you'd be out carousing all night. Family dinner?" Her smile turns into a smirk.
"Why else would I be out so late? Poland, you shouldn't be sitting up for me, it's not healthy." He hurries to her side, leaving the book on the corner of his desk. "Poland, you don't have to work so hard, really." The treacherous voice in the back of his head suggests she never works hard. He tells it to shut up and mentally waves the embroidered shirt and the bulging nightgown in its face.
She smiles. "I'll put this away and go to bed, iiiif . . . I can sleep in here with you tonight."
She kicks and steals all the covers and talks in her sleep, and his bed is barely big enough for one, let alone two. Nearly three. "Of course you can," he says, and puts her embroidery on his desk with the volume of Rosseau before he blows out the lamp.
They have to work a bit to find a comfortable way to lie; eventually Poland rolls over to face to wall, and Lithuania curls behind her, draping an arm over her waist and letting it rest on her swollen belly. She's sick so much these days, hrowin up in the morning, stumbling around with an aching back. She catches his hand and presses it close. "Here, feel."
"Has the baby started kicking?" He tries not to let the way his heart lept into his throat show in his voice. If it's quickened already, then what hope is there that all this is some terrible mistake, about to be undone - in a mess of blood and pain and despair, but undone, nontheless?
She shifts, and her hair tickles his nose. "Sometimes I think I feel something. But then it goes away."
"Well, give it time." Years and years and years. I don't want to lose you.
"Liet." Her voice is accusatory. "Liet, why are you so worried? There's nothing we can do." And he should have known he couldn't keep his fear from his vocie that well - how long has she been hearing the undertones? Listening to his silent prayers? "Liet, you've done just fine with Courland, and - and you'll have Belarus to help you, it's not like you have to bring the kid up all alone - please don't be sorry, Liet. I don't think I could bear it." She knows just as well as I do what this means. He doesn't answer, even though his hand is trembling. "Please. Promise me. You'll take good care of him. He'll make Poland great again. I don't care. I kind of made a mess of things, didn't I? Oh, Liet," she says, and he lenches his hand in her nightgown. He does not touch her face; if she's crying, he doesn't want to know. "Liet, I love you."
"I love you too," he whispers. There isn't anything else he can say.
After a while she falls into a fitful sleep. He wraps himself around her and throws a leg over her to keep her from kicking, and lies awake the whole night, shivering even against her feverish body.
Re: Psuedocyesis (Lithuania/Poland, part 2/8)
anonymous
March 1 2010, 02:55:47 UTC
Anon, this is beautiful and I love the direction you've taken it. The characterizations are great, and the atmosphere of creeping unhappiness is really nicely done.
He clutches the volume of Rosseau close as he opens his bedroom, hoping Belarus remembered to oil the hinges; the noise will carry, and Poland needs her sleep.
He need not have worried. His lamp is burning, and she's sitting up in his bed, squinting at - at a shirt in his size, Lithuania thinks in mounting suprise, which she's embroidering with little red flowers. Her tounge sticks out the corner of her lips with concentration; the way her nightgown bunches makes the bulge of her belly absurdly obvious. Six months, he would think, if he hadn't known it was a decade along.
"Polska," he says.
Suprise almost makes her drop her needle. But she covers for it well, snatching it up with a laugh. "Liet! I thought you'd be out carousing all night. Family dinner?" Her smile turns into a smirk.
"Why else would I be out so late? Poland, you shouldn't be sitting up for me, it's not healthy." He hurries to her side, leaving the book on the corner of his desk. "Poland, you don't have to work so hard, really." The treacherous voice in the back of his head suggests she never works hard. He tells it to shut up and mentally waves the embroidered shirt and the bulging nightgown in its face.
She smiles. "I'll put this away and go to bed, iiiif . . . I can sleep in here with you tonight."
She kicks and steals all the covers and talks in her sleep, and his bed is barely big enough for one, let alone two. Nearly three. "Of course you can," he says, and puts her embroidery on his desk with the volume of Rosseau before he blows out the lamp.
They have to work a bit to find a comfortable way to lie; eventually Poland rolls over to face to wall, and Lithuania curls behind her, draping an arm over her waist and letting it rest on her swollen belly. She's sick so much these days, hrowin up in the morning, stumbling around with an aching back. She catches his hand and presses it close. "Here, feel."
"Has the baby started kicking?" He tries not to let the way his heart lept into his throat show in his voice. If it's quickened already, then what hope is there that all this is some terrible mistake, about to be undone - in a mess of blood and pain and despair, but undone, nontheless?
She shifts, and her hair tickles his nose. "Sometimes I think I feel something. But then it goes away."
"Well, give it time." Years and years and years. I don't want to lose you.
"Liet." Her voice is accusatory. "Liet, why are you so worried? There's nothing we can do." And he should have known he couldn't keep his fear from his vocie that well - how long has she been hearing the undertones? Listening to his silent prayers? "Liet, you've done just fine with Courland, and - and you'll have Belarus to help you, it's not like you have to bring the kid up all alone - please don't be sorry, Liet. I don't think I could bear it." She knows just as well as I do what this means. He doesn't answer, even though his hand is trembling. "Please. Promise me. You'll take good care of him. He'll make Poland great again. I don't care. I kind of made a mess of things, didn't I? Oh, Liet," she says, and he lenches his hand in her nightgown. He does not touch her face; if she's crying, he doesn't want to know. "Liet, I love you."
"I love you too," he whispers. There isn't anything else he can say.
After a while she falls into a fitful sleep. He wraps himself around her and throws a leg over her to keep her from kicking, and lies awake the whole night, shivering even against her feverish body.
---
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Happily awaiting part three :)
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