Starry Night [9]
anonymous
April 23 2009, 20:12:03 UTC
Late that evening they rested together, draped over the sofa and wrapped up in comfortable silence. Poland lay with his head on Estonia’s chest, seeming as if he was almost dozing, as if he had not recovered from being jolted awake so early in the morning and needed the opportunity to snatch some sleep. After a time, however, he broke the silence, never one to leave things quiet for long. “Hey, Estonia?”
“Yes?”
“I. Ah. This is going to sound dumb. But, like... I’m glad I came to see you.”
The fluttering feeling returned and as his insides twisted Estonia reflected that it was strange that whenever he found himself beginning to feel as if he was adjusting to the situation, he quickly discovered that he was not. “I-I’m glad you did, too.” He ran his fingers through Poland’s hair, appreciating the sensation of it slipping through his fingers. How long had it been since he had last stayed with someone this way? Estonia tried to remember, and failed.
Poland had taken his other hand and pressed their palms together, comparing the size. After a moment he brought Estonia’s hand to his lips, brushing kisses along it. At that Estonia’s insides twisted further, but not in the same way they had before. The feather-light kisses along his palm were far too familiar, calling to mind thoughts he normally tried to restrain. The kisses with drew, then Poland began to trace the lines of his palm with one finger, a light, tickling gesture. Estonia’s breath hitched in his throat as it called up old memories. The image in his mind was of fire light, an orange glow in the inky-black dark. The fingers he remembered touching him so gently were not soft and manicured, as Poland’s were, but blunt-nailed, weathered and rough. When Estonia shut his eyes he could almost hear a voice, speaking in an old language, and it was certainly not Poland’s voice.
“You have a scribe’s hands.”
“I do?”
“You do. They’re beautiful.”
Though he tried to shove the memory down the image persisted, and he nearly lost himself in the gentle hands and the quiet voice that murmured to him in the old words. He recalled eyes made dark by the dim room, reflecting the firelight, looking up at him with more affection than words could speak.
“Yes?”
“I. Ah. This is going to sound dumb. But, like... I’m glad I came to see you.”
The fluttering feeling returned and as his insides twisted Estonia reflected that it was strange that whenever he found himself beginning to feel as if he was adjusting to the situation, he quickly discovered that he was not. “I-I’m glad you did, too.” He ran his fingers through Poland’s hair, appreciating the sensation of it slipping through his fingers. How long had it been since he had last stayed with someone this way? Estonia tried to remember, and failed.
Poland had taken his other hand and pressed their palms together, comparing the size. After a moment he brought Estonia’s hand to his lips, brushing kisses along it. At that Estonia’s insides twisted further, but not in the same way they had before. The feather-light kisses along his palm were far too familiar, calling to mind thoughts he normally tried to restrain. The kisses with drew, then Poland began to trace the lines of his palm with one finger, a light, tickling gesture. Estonia’s breath hitched in his throat as it called up old memories. The image in his mind was of fire light, an orange glow in the inky-black dark. The fingers he remembered touching him so gently were not soft and manicured, as Poland’s were, but blunt-nailed, weathered and rough. When Estonia shut his eyes he could almost hear a voice, speaking in an old language, and it was certainly not Poland’s voice.
“You have a scribe’s hands.”
“I do?”
“You do. They’re beautiful.”
Though he tried to shove the memory down the image persisted, and he nearly lost himself in the gentle hands and the quiet voice that murmured to him in the old words. He recalled eyes made dark by the dim room, reflecting the firelight, looking up at him with more affection than words could speak.
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