It doesn’t take too long for him to realize just how scared Latvia is, trembling and attempting to stop his body from recoiling at Estonia’s gentlest touch. His fingers brushing against Latvia’s before cradling them gently, stroking each one in what he hopes is in a soothing way; his lips meeting the younger boy’s collarbone in brief, fleeting kisses; Estonia pausing to whisper into Latvia’s ear: shh, it’ll be alright, you don’t need to worry - all of that is making him terrified. Finally, Estonia stops and straightens up, looking at Latvia as he tries to even out his breathing as he sits on the edge of the bed.
There is no talking for a while, just the sound of inhaling and exhaling. Estonia glances at the pair of glasses on the nightstand, wondering if he should just put them on and leave.
“We don’t have to do this,” Estonia reminds him, looking at his dear friend of what feels to be countless centuries. He looks at Latvia’s blond hair, quivering lips, the deep rise and fall of his still-clothed chest - looks at it all as if he is made of china or glass or some other fragile thing, and wonders how Latvia’s survived all these years with Russia.
And then Estonia is surprised by the way that Latvia looks up at him, his eyes unusually clear and lacking in tears. “It’s okay,” he says in a small voice that somehow manages to sound firm. “It’s okay. I t-trust you. It’s - it’s not like y-you’re…”
Estonia doesn’t let him stutter anymore, leaning down and kissing him on the lips. He tries to be chaste about it, not pushing at Latvia’s lips with his tongue, and keeping his hands planted on the bed rather than anywhere on the smaller body. After all, he wants to keep his actions loving rather than shadowed by cruel intentions, to make Latvia feel tranquility after pleasure as opposed to shame and dirt after pain. Tonight is not a night for frostbite and memories. It is the exact opposite. It is supposed to show Latvia that he’s independent, now. He’s supposed to be free, so why is he still so scared-
“-Latvia...” As always, he can’t keep the concern out of his voice. But there’s something a little bit like pleasure in the words too, as Latvia begins to respond. His fingers, smaller yet rough and by no means delicate, thread themselves through Estonia’s hair. He deepens the kiss himself - with some hesitance, but Estonia relieved nonetheless - and doesn’t protest as he is gently pushed down onto the bed.
They stay like that for a long time, just kissing each other with their hands beginning to wander a little carelessly when they aren’t grasping or holding onto the other person. Estonia feels his breath getting shorter - heavier, and maybe sounding needier too - and he glances briefly at the collar of Latvia’s shirt, but dismisses the idea of undressing him. Estonia knows he needs to wait.
When he feels a pair of shaking hands undoing the top buttons of his shirt, Estonia almost feels startled. It’s only been panting between slightly messy kissing up until now, only Estonia trying to keep things as innocent as much as the heat in his body will allow.
Latvia pauses a bit at the last few buttons, fingertips resting undecidedly at the rounded plastic. Estonia’s hand touches those fingers reassuringly, and then breaks away from Latvia for a moment in order to take off his shirt properly.
He has scars, of course - mostly everyone does, though maybe not as big as the one stretched out across his lower abdomen, and maybe as not as small as some of the minor ones on his back - and he can see Latvia studying them, trying to blink the ever-present tears out of his eyes. There’s something caressing the rippled, ugly flesh of the one slashed across the front of his torso, still struggling to heal after so many years. He closes his eyes for a moment, not concentrating on the way that his own hands are undressing Latvia, but more on the way that Latvia’s hands are touching him.
There is no talking for a while, just the sound of inhaling and exhaling. Estonia glances at the pair of glasses on the nightstand, wondering if he should just put them on and leave.
“We don’t have to do this,” Estonia reminds him, looking at his dear friend of what feels to be countless centuries. He looks at Latvia’s blond hair, quivering lips, the deep rise and fall of his still-clothed chest - looks at it all as if he is made of china or glass or some other fragile thing, and wonders how Latvia’s survived all these years with Russia.
And then Estonia is surprised by the way that Latvia looks up at him, his eyes unusually clear and lacking in tears. “It’s okay,” he says in a small voice that somehow manages to sound firm. “It’s okay. I t-trust you. It’s - it’s not like y-you’re…”
Estonia doesn’t let him stutter anymore, leaning down and kissing him on the lips. He tries to be chaste about it, not pushing at Latvia’s lips with his tongue, and keeping his hands planted on the bed rather than anywhere on the smaller body. After all, he wants to keep his actions loving rather than shadowed by cruel intentions, to make Latvia feel tranquility after pleasure as opposed to shame and dirt after pain. Tonight is not a night for frostbite and memories. It is the exact opposite. It is supposed to show Latvia that he’s independent, now. He’s supposed to be free, so why is he still so scared-
“-Latvia...” As always, he can’t keep the concern out of his voice. But there’s something a little bit like pleasure in the words too, as Latvia begins to respond. His fingers, smaller yet rough and by no means delicate, thread themselves through Estonia’s hair. He deepens the kiss himself - with some hesitance, but Estonia relieved nonetheless - and doesn’t protest as he is gently pushed down onto the bed.
They stay like that for a long time, just kissing each other with their hands beginning to wander a little carelessly when they aren’t grasping or holding onto the other person. Estonia feels his breath getting shorter - heavier, and maybe sounding needier too - and he glances briefly at the collar of Latvia’s shirt, but dismisses the idea of undressing him. Estonia knows he needs to wait.
When he feels a pair of shaking hands undoing the top buttons of his shirt, Estonia almost feels startled. It’s only been panting between slightly messy kissing up until now, only Estonia trying to keep things as innocent as much as the heat in his body will allow.
Latvia pauses a bit at the last few buttons, fingertips resting undecidedly at the rounded plastic. Estonia’s hand touches those fingers reassuringly, and then breaks away from Latvia for a moment in order to take off his shirt properly.
He has scars, of course - mostly everyone does, though maybe not as big as the one stretched out across his lower abdomen, and maybe as not as small as some of the minor ones on his back - and he can see Latvia studying them, trying to blink the ever-present tears out of his eyes. There’s something caressing the rippled, ugly flesh of the one slashed across the front of his torso, still struggling to heal after so many years. He closes his eyes for a moment, not concentrating on the way that his own hands are undressing Latvia, but more on the way that Latvia’s hands are touching him.
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