Learning the Language [2/3]
anonymous
June 23 2009, 18:27:02 UTC
“I…” he choked on his words, “I should get washed up,” he decided, escaping into his room and letting out a very relieved sigh once the door was shut. He smiled a little to himself, fiddled with the strings of his bunnyhug, and decided that maybe he should retrieve his suitcase from the hallway.
----
Getting flowers in the Ukraine was easier than it sounded. Well, maybe that was just what Canada thought, having purchased a particular flower for his friend (not a crush, no matter what his idiotic twin said) for years. Since her independence, in fact.
Maybe in other countries it was much harder, but Canada knew where to go to ask for sunflowers, and as the national flower of Ukraine, people were much more willing to stock to large, vibrant blossoms. It could be said Ukraine was delighted when Canada gave her the large golden flower, a blue bow tied to it as always. But Canada firmly believed the nation was glowing and so what if tears clung to her blue eyes?
“Дякую!” she said, leaning forward and hugging Canada one-handed. It was as if this was her first sunflower again, not her hundred-somethingth (and no, he was not keeping track. At all).
“Mm, Прошу будь даска,” Canada replied, hugging her back and most certainly not thinking about the fact her ample bosom was pressed against his front in a very innocent way.
Russia decided it would be great fun to join the hug and wrapped his long arms around his sister and his friend, chuckling all the while. Any cheerful blush escaped Canada’s cheeks, and he instead blanched visibly.
“Shall we go to dinner?” Russia asked brightly. He repeated the question in Russian, for Canada’s benefit. There was no choice in the matter, of course, reservations for a table for three had already been made.
“Так,” both Canada and Ukraine said. They looked at each other and giggled, and maybe Canada blushed just a little.
Dinner was cheerful, at a warm restaurant specializing in traditional Ukrainian food.
“When I go to your house I will have to have some of your food,” Ukraine said brightly, eating her Golubsty with zeal.
“Canadian cuisine isn’t too distinct,” Canada warned gently, going at his own meal with equal zeal.
“The beaver tails you made me were most delicious, Matthew,” Russia cut in cheerfully.
“B-Beaver tails?” Ukraine suddenly looked alarmed. Her eyes were already misting at the thought of the poor innocent beavers being slaughtered to make hats and snacks.
“A pastry topped with brown sugar and cinnamon,” Canada answered quickly. “It’s large and flat, so we call them beaver tails.” Relief seemed to sweep through the young woman. The misting in her eyes went away and she smiled.
Russia excused himself from the table, promising to be back in a few minutes. Without her big brother acting as a sort of chaperone, Canada felt much more tense sitting with Ukraine. His throat was getting dry, and the glass holding his beer was empty. So was the water glass. So he reached for the pitcher of water. Apparently Ukraine had been thirsty, too. They yelped as their hands touched.
“Вибачте!” Canada choked. He would’ve withdrawn his hand, except his was under hers and she felt so cool and soft. Something settled between them, as silent and unobtrusive as a December snowfall.
“Matthew…” Ukraine began to say, as Canada said her nickname with equal timidness. She almost got a “Вибачте” out but Canada shook his head. “Go ahead,” he said gently. The tone of his voice made her flush.
“Дуже дякую,” she said. “For being my friend, for treating me so well.” She hadn’t withdrawn her hand yet, and was now stroking Canada’s strong fingers under hers without a thought. “I was so happy that someone who knew me so well was one of the first to acknowledge my independence. And before then you took me in when I needed somewhere to stay for a while.” She glanced down at their still touching hands then flicked her eyes up to look straight at Canada. “Дуже дякую,” she repeated.
----
Getting flowers in the Ukraine was easier than it sounded. Well, maybe that was just what Canada thought, having purchased a particular flower for his friend (not a crush, no matter what his idiotic twin said) for years. Since her independence, in fact.
Maybe in other countries it was much harder, but Canada knew where to go to ask for sunflowers, and as the national flower of Ukraine, people were much more willing to stock to large, vibrant blossoms. It could be said Ukraine was delighted when Canada gave her the large golden flower, a blue bow tied to it as always. But Canada firmly believed the nation was glowing and so what if tears clung to her blue eyes?
“Дякую!” she said, leaning forward and hugging Canada one-handed. It was as if this was her first sunflower again, not her hundred-somethingth (and no, he was not keeping track. At all).
“Mm, Прошу будь даска,” Canada replied, hugging her back and most certainly not thinking about the fact her ample bosom was pressed against his front in a very innocent way.
Russia decided it would be great fun to join the hug and wrapped his long arms around his sister and his friend, chuckling all the while. Any cheerful blush escaped Canada’s cheeks, and he instead blanched visibly.
“Shall we go to dinner?” Russia asked brightly. He repeated the question in Russian, for Canada’s benefit. There was no choice in the matter, of course, reservations for a table for three had already been made.
“Так,” both Canada and Ukraine said. They looked at each other and giggled, and maybe Canada blushed just a little.
Dinner was cheerful, at a warm restaurant specializing in traditional Ukrainian food.
“When I go to your house I will have to have some of your food,” Ukraine said brightly, eating her Golubsty with zeal.
“Canadian cuisine isn’t too distinct,” Canada warned gently, going at his own meal with equal zeal.
“The beaver tails you made me were most delicious, Matthew,” Russia cut in cheerfully.
“B-Beaver tails?” Ukraine suddenly looked alarmed. Her eyes were already misting at the thought of the poor innocent beavers being slaughtered to make hats and snacks.
“A pastry topped with brown sugar and cinnamon,” Canada answered quickly. “It’s large and flat, so we call them beaver tails.” Relief seemed to sweep through the young woman. The misting in her eyes went away and she smiled.
Russia excused himself from the table, promising to be back in a few minutes. Without her big brother acting as a sort of chaperone, Canada felt much more tense sitting with Ukraine. His throat was getting dry, and the glass holding his beer was empty. So was the water glass. So he reached for the pitcher of water. Apparently Ukraine had been thirsty, too. They yelped as their hands touched.
“Вибачте!” Canada choked. He would’ve withdrawn his hand, except his was under hers and she felt so cool and soft. Something settled between them, as silent and unobtrusive as a December snowfall.
“Matthew…” Ukraine began to say, as Canada said her nickname with equal timidness. She almost got a “Вибачте” out but Canada shook his head. “Go ahead,” he said gently. The tone of his voice made her flush.
“Дуже дякую,” she said. “For being my friend, for treating me so well.” She hadn’t withdrawn her hand yet, and was now stroking Canada’s strong fingers under hers without a thought. “I was so happy that someone who knew me so well was one of the first to acknowledge my independence. And before then you took me in when I needed somewhere to stay for a while.” She glanced down at their still touching hands then flicked her eyes up to look straight at Canada. “Дуже дякую,” she repeated.
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