as-yet-untitled [4/?]
anonymous
February 5 2010, 16:08:57 UTC
The quartet breaks into a cheerful mazurka. They are officially part of the European Union. Lithuania doesn't feel any different, but the thought is pleasant.
Ireland, of course, has grabbed Poland to open the dancing. The way their skirts spin out is really quite beautiful. He could watch it all night.
A hand on his shoulder, and he fliches instictively, but the hand isn't big enough to be Russia. Russia wasn't invited, nobody wants him, this is for the Union, even Lichtenstein only got in as somebody's date. He turns, schooling his features to a smile. "Hello, Denmark."
"Hi." Denmark beams. "You just gonna sit and watch? This is your big night!"
Well, when he puts it like that . . .
It's probably the alcohol making him blush, Lithuania decides, but Denmark hasn't stepped on his toes once and the grin is infectuous. He's happy. He can't remember the last time he was this happy. 1990 should have been, but he was so exhausted and strung out and cold, and it took so long to settle things. 1918, maybe, that came close. But really, he hasn't felt so giddy since the 1600s. No more champagne. Definitely no more champagne.
The mazurka ends. The second dance is a saltarello, and he very nearly falls down trying to keep up with North Italy.
Then a waltz starts up. Poland - oh, hell. Poland is taking off the satiny blue shawl, shoving it into his arms with a whisper of "Put this somewhere, would you, Liet? Hungary wants this one, and I'm really heating up in here. I mean, would it kill them to put in some AC?" And a wink.
Hungary, in her rose velvet suit, gives them a little wave. Hungary picked out Poland's dress. Hungary is in this up to her eyebrows, and while Lithuania doesn't exactly dissaprove, he can't help but think they should have picked some day that would cause less fuss.
"Okay," he says. Poland beams, and then Hungary spins them away.
There should be a safe place in an alcove, maybe. Keeping a silent mental count, Lithuania edges past the buffet table, cradling the shawl. Nobody pays him any mind, a situation he's grown fond of these past couple centuries.
He's up to seventeen when England suddenly blurts out, "Poland, why the fuck do you have tits?"
Ireland, of course, has grabbed Poland to open the dancing. The way their skirts spin out is really quite beautiful. He could watch it all night.
A hand on his shoulder, and he fliches instictively, but the hand isn't big enough to be Russia. Russia wasn't invited, nobody wants him, this is for the Union, even Lichtenstein only got in as somebody's date. He turns, schooling his features to a smile. "Hello, Denmark."
"Hi." Denmark beams. "You just gonna sit and watch? This is your big night!"
Well, when he puts it like that . . .
It's probably the alcohol making him blush, Lithuania decides, but Denmark hasn't stepped on his toes once and the grin is infectuous. He's happy. He can't remember the last time he was this happy. 1990 should have been, but he was so exhausted and strung out and cold, and it took so long to settle things. 1918, maybe, that came close. But really, he hasn't felt so giddy since the 1600s. No more champagne. Definitely no more champagne.
The mazurka ends. The second dance is a saltarello, and he very nearly falls down trying to keep up with North Italy.
Then a waltz starts up. Poland - oh, hell. Poland is taking off the satiny blue shawl, shoving it into his arms with a whisper of "Put this somewhere, would you, Liet? Hungary wants this one, and I'm really heating up in here. I mean, would it kill them to put in some AC?" And a wink.
Hungary, in her rose velvet suit, gives them a little wave. Hungary picked out Poland's dress. Hungary is in this up to her eyebrows, and while Lithuania doesn't exactly dissaprove, he can't help but think they should have picked some day that would cause less fuss.
"Okay," he says. Poland beams, and then Hungary spins them away.
There should be a safe place in an alcove, maybe. Keeping a silent mental count, Lithuania edges past the buffet table, cradling the shawl. Nobody pays him any mind, a situation he's grown fond of these past couple centuries.
He's up to seventeen when England suddenly blurts out, "Poland, why the fuck do you have tits?"
*
Reply
Leave a comment