[fanfic] Coping Mechanisms
Title: Coping Mechanisms
Author/Artist: kahlanaisling
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Romania, Bulgaria
Rating: G
Warnings: Nope
Summary: If they were human they would be entitled to a whole lot more than this, considering what they've been through for their people. Originally written for HetaChallenge.
Romania is his very best friend.
Bulgaria is not sure what leads him to this conclusion. Maybe it's that Romania is the only one who will actually put up with him. Maybe it's that he's the only one with a chance in hell of making sense of Romania's thought process. Maybe it's proximity. Maybe he's just an old man who doesn't want things to change, even as Romania continues to grow up and figure out how to make choices that don't result in premature burial.
Maybe it's that after centuries of denying he even has a heart, Bulgaria's decided that Romania is the only one for whom he really cares.
Maybe he doesn't actually know. He ponders this as the knocking at the door grows louder.
"Bulgaria!" Romania's saying, shouting now, and he sounds exasperated. Funny that, normally Bulgaria is the exasperated one. "Georgi! Georgi, open the door."
"Can't," Bulgaria says. There are five locks on the door, boards nailing it to its mooring, two chairs stacked against it and a chest lying on top of those. There's a rug draped over the barrier and for maximum effect, a small potted flower.
"What?"
"Can't," he repeats, louder.
"Well, why not?"
"It would require moving the furniture."
Romania is silent for a minute. When he speaks again, his tone has changed into something softer, something with sympathy and pity and Bulgaria hates it when he sounds like that, Bulgaria's a motherfucking empire he's the second Prussia Romania why are you sounding like that?
"Is it the clock again?"
Bulgaria nods before he remembers that Romania can't hear him. "Da."
"Alright. I'll come in through the back."
He's crouching at one end of the hallway, a mace in one hand and a helmet on his head as he glares at the barrier against his front door. Every clock in the house is buried deep beneath it, under layers of clothing and furniture and linen and baskets and trunks of treasures that Bulgaria doesn't know why he keeps around, he's not that sentimental. It's quiet, he's ensured that no sound can escape that fort, but he can still hear the tik-tok-tiking in the back of his ears and in his head and seeping through his brain getting into his throat he's going to choke on that infernal noise--
Footsteps, and then Bulgaria can't see the fort anymore. Instead he's face to face with Romania's gaunt cheeks, red eyes, the single tooth poking out because the USSR pulled the other one back in the Fifties. Romania takes in his appearance, then holds out a hand.
Bulgaria asks him what he thinks he's doing. Bulgaria is trying to hold his defense line, can't he see that? Because that ticking noise is going to drive him mad if he doesn't.
"Give me the stick, Bul."
No.
"Bulgaria."
Not gonna happen. What are you even doing here? I didn't call you over, we're not doing anything. I don't need your help, child, I'm your elder and your superior and--
"Molya, Georgi? Please?"
He's switched languages. Sneaky. Bulgaria reluctantly hands over the mace.
"That too," Romania continues, looking at the helmet. Bulgaria takes it off and gives it to him. The clocks are still ticking, but it's softer now.
Romania stands, tucking the helmet and mace beneath an elbow, and helps him up.
"Come on, I'm making tea."
"I hate tea."
"When did I say it was for you?"
They're in the kitchen now; Romania's put the helmet and mace aside and is making himself at home. Bulgaria sits cross-legged on the table because he's moved all of the chairs. "You hate tea too."
Romania never laughs. He cackles. He cackles now. "I spend a good amount of time with England. I don't hate tea."
Bulgaria has to admit that that's true, and that his house is almost lonely now that Romania has other friends. Bulgaria has friends but they're more like frenemies, he's not even sure he likes them much most of the time but they make good drinking buddies and at least they're not Serbia. He lets Romania make the tea.
(He doesn't see Romania slip an unconventional herb into one of the mugs.)
A few minutes later, the younger nation comes over to the table and sits across from Bulgaria, sliding the tea over to him. "You don't have to drink it," he says, "but you should pretend to or you'll hurt my feelings."
Bulgaria takes the mug, inhaling the rich, earthy scent deeply. He's not going to deny that thanks to England's tutelage, Romania makes fucking good tea. But he's on a hating tea strike right now and refuses to drink it, though it does feel good in his hands.
They sit in silence. Bulgaria is grateful, and he eventually forgets why he'd even had a problem with the clocks in the first place. He wonders where the chairs are, why there's a colander sitting out on the counter with a stick, where did Romania put his helmet and ma--?
Oh.
Bulgaria flushes and hangs his head. Dammit.
"It's all good," Romania tells him. "It's normal. Nothing to worry about." What he's really saying is you're such a crazy bastard, Bul. So crazy that I don't even need to think about this, I just automatically know what to do.
"You'd think it'd've stopped by now."
"Not necessarily."
"It's been decades, Ro."
"And I still sleepwalk. Lithuania has nightmares. Poland's scared of needles. Face it, Georgi, we're scarred for the next century at least. I try not to think about it."
Bulgaria wants to protest, but realizes that Romania's probably right. ". . . This will take some getting used to," he says. Before the other can respond, he clarifies, "The you-being-smarter-than-me thing."
Romania smirks, eyes glittering. "Somehow I doubt it'll be too much of a problem."
Bulgaria whacks him.
"Well, that completely defeats the purpose."
Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn't. Maybe Bulgaria really is crazy like everyone says he is, like Romania knows he is. Though really, Romania's not one to talk in that regard.
Bulgaria catches a trace of thought from a little while ago, and decides that it's probably moments like these that have convinced him Romania is his very best friend.
- - - - - - -
A/N So I really really love platonic!RomBul, almost as much as I love writing from Bulgaria's POV. My headcanon of him is slightly different from the canon portrayal because I read Meltedpeep before Bulgaria had any significant screen time in the comic.
Author/Artist: kahlanaisling
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Romania, Bulgaria
Rating: G
Warnings: Nope
Summary: If they were human they would be entitled to a whole lot more than this, considering what they've been through for their people. Originally written for HetaChallenge.
Romania is his very best friend.
Bulgaria is not sure what leads him to this conclusion. Maybe it's that Romania is the only one who will actually put up with him. Maybe it's that he's the only one with a chance in hell of making sense of Romania's thought process. Maybe it's proximity. Maybe he's just an old man who doesn't want things to change, even as Romania continues to grow up and figure out how to make choices that don't result in premature burial.
Maybe it's that after centuries of denying he even has a heart, Bulgaria's decided that Romania is the only one for whom he really cares.
Maybe he doesn't actually know. He ponders this as the knocking at the door grows louder.
"Bulgaria!" Romania's saying, shouting now, and he sounds exasperated. Funny that, normally Bulgaria is the exasperated one. "Georgi! Georgi, open the door."
"Can't," Bulgaria says. There are five locks on the door, boards nailing it to its mooring, two chairs stacked against it and a chest lying on top of those. There's a rug draped over the barrier and for maximum effect, a small potted flower.
"What?"
"Can't," he repeats, louder.
"Well, why not?"
"It would require moving the furniture."
Romania is silent for a minute. When he speaks again, his tone has changed into something softer, something with sympathy and pity and Bulgaria hates it when he sounds like that, Bulgaria's a motherfucking empire he's the second Prussia Romania why are you sounding like that?
"Is it the clock again?"
Bulgaria nods before he remembers that Romania can't hear him. "Da."
"Alright. I'll come in through the back."
He's crouching at one end of the hallway, a mace in one hand and a helmet on his head as he glares at the barrier against his front door. Every clock in the house is buried deep beneath it, under layers of clothing and furniture and linen and baskets and trunks of treasures that Bulgaria doesn't know why he keeps around, he's not that sentimental. It's quiet, he's ensured that no sound can escape that fort, but he can still hear the tik-tok-tiking in the back of his ears and in his head and seeping through his brain getting into his throat he's going to choke on that infernal noise--
Footsteps, and then Bulgaria can't see the fort anymore. Instead he's face to face with Romania's gaunt cheeks, red eyes, the single tooth poking out because the USSR pulled the other one back in the Fifties. Romania takes in his appearance, then holds out a hand.
Bulgaria asks him what he thinks he's doing. Bulgaria is trying to hold his defense line, can't he see that? Because that ticking noise is going to drive him mad if he doesn't.
"Give me the stick, Bul."
No.
"Bulgaria."
Not gonna happen. What are you even doing here? I didn't call you over, we're not doing anything. I don't need your help, child, I'm your elder and your superior and--
"Molya, Georgi? Please?"
He's switched languages. Sneaky. Bulgaria reluctantly hands over the mace.
"That too," Romania continues, looking at the helmet. Bulgaria takes it off and gives it to him. The clocks are still ticking, but it's softer now.
Romania stands, tucking the helmet and mace beneath an elbow, and helps him up.
"Come on, I'm making tea."
"I hate tea."
"When did I say it was for you?"
They're in the kitchen now; Romania's put the helmet and mace aside and is making himself at home. Bulgaria sits cross-legged on the table because he's moved all of the chairs. "You hate tea too."
Romania never laughs. He cackles. He cackles now. "I spend a good amount of time with England. I don't hate tea."
Bulgaria has to admit that that's true, and that his house is almost lonely now that Romania has other friends. Bulgaria has friends but they're more like frenemies, he's not even sure he likes them much most of the time but they make good drinking buddies and at least they're not Serbia. He lets Romania make the tea.
(He doesn't see Romania slip an unconventional herb into one of the mugs.)
A few minutes later, the younger nation comes over to the table and sits across from Bulgaria, sliding the tea over to him. "You don't have to drink it," he says, "but you should pretend to or you'll hurt my feelings."
Bulgaria takes the mug, inhaling the rich, earthy scent deeply. He's not going to deny that thanks to England's tutelage, Romania makes fucking good tea. But he's on a hating tea strike right now and refuses to drink it, though it does feel good in his hands.
They sit in silence. Bulgaria is grateful, and he eventually forgets why he'd even had a problem with the clocks in the first place. He wonders where the chairs are, why there's a colander sitting out on the counter with a stick, where did Romania put his helmet and ma--?
Oh.
Bulgaria flushes and hangs his head. Dammit.
"It's all good," Romania tells him. "It's normal. Nothing to worry about." What he's really saying is you're such a crazy bastard, Bul. So crazy that I don't even need to think about this, I just automatically know what to do.
"You'd think it'd've stopped by now."
"Not necessarily."
"It's been decades, Ro."
"And I still sleepwalk. Lithuania has nightmares. Poland's scared of needles. Face it, Georgi, we're scarred for the next century at least. I try not to think about it."
Bulgaria wants to protest, but realizes that Romania's probably right. ". . . This will take some getting used to," he says. Before the other can respond, he clarifies, "The you-being-smarter-than-me thing."
Romania smirks, eyes glittering. "Somehow I doubt it'll be too much of a problem."
Bulgaria whacks him.
"Well, that completely defeats the purpose."
Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn't. Maybe Bulgaria really is crazy like everyone says he is, like Romania knows he is. Though really, Romania's not one to talk in that regard.
Bulgaria catches a trace of thought from a little while ago, and decides that it's probably moments like these that have convinced him Romania is his very best friend.
- - - - - - -
A/N So I really really love platonic!RomBul, almost as much as I love writing from Bulgaria's POV. My headcanon of him is slightly different from the canon portrayal because I read Meltedpeep before Bulgaria had any significant screen time in the comic.