Guide to Being A Good Big Brother [1/1]
Title: Guide to Being A Good Big Brother
Series: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Netherlands, Belgium
Rating: PG
Date: Written today
Status: complete
And So... Netherlands pens himself a few reminders throughout the years.
Notes: Taking a break from Fanime cosplay--anyone else going?--to post this for siiy who has not only been very patient, but also super helpful :3 This mostly concerns current events between Belgium and the Netherlands, so I have no idea how much others will get it but... there are notes.
Netherlands will admit it, honestly, if you pester him about it for long enough--he likes girls. A lot. They're nice, sensible--more-so than most of the idiots cavorting around in furs and helmets with horns on them, burning everything to hell and back--and can usually appreciate flowers. So even though he's young, he figures it out: Girls are okay. Better than okay. And this one in front of him, standing in a bed of wildflowers, frankly falls into the former category rather than the latter. She's a bit plain looking, but that's nothing a nice dress wouldn't fix.
With a slight frown, Netherlands fidgets with the bouquet in his arms and stares down at her. She's just a bit shorter than him, which is saying something considering how short he is. "You. What's your name?"
"Excuse me?" Her hair keeps whipping around in the breeze, and it's distracting and unruly. She keeps pushing it behind her ears to no avail, like it's bugging her just as much as it's bugging Netherlands. "Um, well... Some people have been calling me Flanders, the County of Flanders to be exact--"
And she stops talking when she sees the look on Netherlands' face. "Who the hell has been calling you that?"
"Well, France, mostly..."
"Gross. You should stay away from that guy."
"H-he's not all that bad--"
"And you're too polite if you think he's not bad," Netherlands mutters. He takes the ribbon from the bouquet in his small arms, unties it, and lets the wind carry it to the girl. "Here. Do something with your hair."
"Oh!" She catches it--the ribbon is green, like her eyes, and looks good in her hair when she ties it back. Give her a nice dress, Netherlands decides, wipe the soil from her hands and feet, and she would actually look kinda cute. Really cute, even. She smiles--and that's cute too--and says, "Thank you, Brother."
"Yeah, yeah, no proble--" Netherlands nearly drops the loose bouquet to the ground. "What did you just call me?"
The girl laughs. "Oh, don't be so silly!" She stops when she sees the confusion on his face. "Did you forget about me? Did you... did you really?"
"N-no." Yes. "Don't be stupid."
"I... your sense of humor is... different. I will have to get used to it, I think."
She knows, but she's too polite to call him on it. That irks Netherlands even more.
Chapter One, Netherlands pens, remember you have siblings. They don't like it when you forget.
Netherlands can't help the smug look on his face. Who knew it would take one of his people to get Belgium's into shape? Oh, he knows Turkey's gonna give him hell and a half tomorrow about the football match, but until then, he can make his way through the bar's jubilant crowd and lay a hand on his sister's shoulder. "You're welcome."
"What?" Belgium yells over the noise. Her face is painted black, red and yellow, a matching ribbon in her hair.
Someone in the joyful mob jostles Netherlands, and causes him to step closer to her. Belgium's hair smells like chocolate; he's always loved that. "I said... you're welcome!"
Belgium finally hears him and gives him that hesitant smile that means she doesn't really know what to say. "I think you mean congratulations."
"Sure," Netherlands shrugs, still grinning. "I'll buy you a beer."
Chapter Sixty-Two, Netherlands continues on the back of a damp coaster; sometimes it's better to just let things slide. Sometimes.
"..and the vogeltjesmarkt has birds, and we can find a birthday gift for Luxembourg and--"
"Sure, sure, fine." Netherlands has at least a head over his sister and peers out over the sea of people in Antwerp for the Sunday market. Where the hell is the stand with all the beer that Denmark had told him about?
Belgium tightens her hold on his arm, falling in step with him, voice laced with excitement. "If you want we can look for bikes--I know you want a new one--and there's a place with wonderful--" She suddenly stops, grip tightening on Netherlands' biceps. "Wait."
He frowns. "What is it?"
With a deep, steadying breath, Belgium gives him the sweetest, most passive-aggressive smile he's ever seen since he knocked over one of Canada's more delicate maple syrup bottles. "When you told me," she says in a honeyed voice, "that you wanted to spend the day with me at the vogeltjesmarkt... Was it just to get the discounted beer and have me drive you home?"
He's never been good at lying. Ever. "I... I'll buy you flowers and a vase."
Belgium's nails dig into his skin. "How many flowers?"
He winces. "A lot."
"Alright." Gently, then, Belgium steers him down past a few stands selling fruit. "The best beer is this way."
Chafpter somethignd... Netherlands hiccups. Goddamn does he love Stella Atrois. Sometimes, like, youjust gotta... gotta... compromise.
The waiter sets the check down between them and Belgium says something to him in Flemish--Netherlands dies a little on the inside--and smiles to the waiter once he departs. "I've got this."
"What?" Netherlands watches her pull out her wallet and frowns. "Oh, thanks."
"It's not a problem. I read in the newspaper today that, well..." Belgium hides a laugh behind her hand, and that's when Netherlands gets worried. "Well, you know. It's really no trouble at all though."
There are a few things that Netherlands can do at this point. He can either ask her what the hell she's going on about, let it slide and forget it and enjoy the rest of dessert, or bide his time. Frankly, as a big brother, he likes to think that he's above his siblings' childish barbs and snipes. Netherlands has nothing to prove to his sisters, nothing to worry about since he is the Big Brother and they look up to him and this incident is probably nothing.
Probably.
Probably not.
He steals the newspaper off some poor sap's doorstep well after lunch and discovers that the Belgian King is--reportedly--richer than his lovely queen. The resulting curse in the air is decidedly not brotherly.
Chapter Sixty-Eight, Netherlands writes with a scowl. Don't trust your sisters when they laugh like that.
He really hates it when girls cry, but he hates it just a bit more when they're furious at him. And while the allegations are completely unjustified on Belgium's part, here he is, knee-deep in sand and silt and the better part of the Scheldt, digging so she will stop fucking glaring at him like he's Satan or something.
"Listen," she had said over the phone that morning, "I know what you're doing."
Netherlands had glanced down at the magazine of dubious character in his hands. "As in... right now?"
"I mean with the Scheldt."
"Oh." Phew.
"You tried to pull this in the 16th century--you turned my Antwerp into, into nothing. And I don't mean that you're doing it deliberately--"
"Fuck, Belgium, if you're going to yell at me, don't backtrack over your argument."
"I wasn't!"
"Get on with it."
"You're not dredging your side so that Rotterdam gets the ships that are supposed to come to Antwerp!"
"That's a pretty ballsy accusation." Netherlands had almost felt a tear of joy at that, at his little sister being ballsy.
"And until you do dredge it, don't expect me to import any more of your mussels!" She had slammed down the phone, and Netherlands had suddenly gotten the sneaking suspicion that Belgium imported about sixty percent of her mussels from him. Don't ask him how, but like some people suddenly get headaches, Netherlands suddenly gets economic premonitions.
So. Shit. Here he is, in that damned estuary or river or whatever it is.
Netherlands scoops another shovelful of sand from the Scheldt, a bead of sweat rolling down his neck. That ought to do it. At least him down here covered in sand and crap should be a good enough of a symbolic gesture to get Belgium's panties un-bunched, right? Right. So he triumphantly pulls himself out of the Scheldt to the bemused looks of a few dock workers and hoofs it to Belgium's house. By the time he pushes open her door, his chest is puffed up with pride at how brotherly he's just been and how Belgium will cave into her big brother's awesomeness and give him a big hug and cook him dinner and-----and fuck, he's starting to sound like Prussia, he realizes with a slight wave of nausea.
It's then that Netherlands also realizes he's been walking around the little house for quite some time, tracking slop and sand on the rugs, but his sister is nowhere to be seen. He frowns, and calls out: "Belgium?" She has to be here--he can smell her perfume; is that creepy?--but the only place he hasn't checked is the basement. He turns to it, and lo! A light, from under yonder door crack doth shine or whatever!
Netherlands throws open the door; "Belgium!" He grins in pride and strolls down the steps. "I did it! I dug up the Scheldt! Just an eighth of a meter in one spot kinda, but still!"
"N-Netherlands!" And he notices then that Belgium is hunkered in the corner of her basement, shielding something with her body, eyes gone wide.
"What are you doing?" Netherlands sets his shovel on the floor, frowning. "The last time I saw someone with a look that guilty it was Spain buying new dresses for Romano."
"N-nothing! Go upstairs! Please! I'll be there in a moment!"
Curious, Netherlands peers over his sister's quaking shoulders and sees--"Is that..."
"N-no!"
"...Mosselen-friet?"
"T-they're clams! I swear!"
Netherlands feels an eyebrow raise at that. "They're not. And these are from the Dutch Zeeland coast, aren't they?"
"I-I... N-no... How could you even tell such a thing?"
Netherlands ignores the question and poses one of his own: "Were you hiding in your basement eating Dutch mussels during a boycott of said mussels so I'd dredge my side of the Scheldt?" He crosses his arms over his chest and waits.
"I-I..." The tears at the corners of big green eyes snuff out any sense of triumph Netherlands may have had. "They're so good! I c-can't help it," she sobs into her dish of shellfish. And takes another bite. "S-so good..."
Hesitantly, Netherlands pats her head gently, waits for her to finish her mussels, and helps Belgium back up the stairs.
Chapter Seventy-Five, Netherlands writes in a lazy scrawl, waiting for Belgium to finish cooking their dinner. Sometimes it's so weird that you just have to go with it and fuck the manual.
-----
Notes; mainly from siiy 's expertise:
Belgian boycott of Dutch mussels: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/belgium/6062679/Belgians-urged-to-boycott-Dutch-mussels-in-port-row.html
Thanks to Dick Advocaat, a Dutch coach, Belgium won a match against Turkey who's a pretty strong team that almost beat Germany in E2008.
"Every sunday in Antwerp there's this "vogeltjesmarkt" (birdmarket but the english name of it sucks :'D) and a lot of dutch come to this market every sunday, it would amaze you to see how many dutch people travel from their place for one day in Antwerp. They only go for the Vogeltjesmarkt cause there are bargains and everything's cheap plus beer, of course."
Series: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Netherlands, Belgium
Rating: PG
Date: Written today
Status: complete
And So... Netherlands pens himself a few reminders throughout the years.
Notes: Taking a break from Fanime cosplay--anyone else going?--to post this for siiy who has not only been very patient, but also super helpful :3 This mostly concerns current events between Belgium and the Netherlands, so I have no idea how much others will get it but... there are notes.
Netherlands will admit it, honestly, if you pester him about it for long enough--he likes girls. A lot. They're nice, sensible--more-so than most of the idiots cavorting around in furs and helmets with horns on them, burning everything to hell and back--and can usually appreciate flowers. So even though he's young, he figures it out: Girls are okay. Better than okay. And this one in front of him, standing in a bed of wildflowers, frankly falls into the former category rather than the latter. She's a bit plain looking, but that's nothing a nice dress wouldn't fix.
With a slight frown, Netherlands fidgets with the bouquet in his arms and stares down at her. She's just a bit shorter than him, which is saying something considering how short he is. "You. What's your name?"
"Excuse me?" Her hair keeps whipping around in the breeze, and it's distracting and unruly. She keeps pushing it behind her ears to no avail, like it's bugging her just as much as it's bugging Netherlands. "Um, well... Some people have been calling me Flanders, the County of Flanders to be exact--"
And she stops talking when she sees the look on Netherlands' face. "Who the hell has been calling you that?"
"Well, France, mostly..."
"Gross. You should stay away from that guy."
"H-he's not all that bad--"
"And you're too polite if you think he's not bad," Netherlands mutters. He takes the ribbon from the bouquet in his small arms, unties it, and lets the wind carry it to the girl. "Here. Do something with your hair."
"Oh!" She catches it--the ribbon is green, like her eyes, and looks good in her hair when she ties it back. Give her a nice dress, Netherlands decides, wipe the soil from her hands and feet, and she would actually look kinda cute. Really cute, even. She smiles--and that's cute too--and says, "Thank you, Brother."
"Yeah, yeah, no proble--" Netherlands nearly drops the loose bouquet to the ground. "What did you just call me?"
The girl laughs. "Oh, don't be so silly!" She stops when she sees the confusion on his face. "Did you forget about me? Did you... did you really?"
"N-no." Yes. "Don't be stupid."
"I... your sense of humor is... different. I will have to get used to it, I think."
She knows, but she's too polite to call him on it. That irks Netherlands even more.
Chapter One, Netherlands pens, remember you have siblings. They don't like it when you forget.
Netherlands can't help the smug look on his face. Who knew it would take one of his people to get Belgium's into shape? Oh, he knows Turkey's gonna give him hell and a half tomorrow about the football match, but until then, he can make his way through the bar's jubilant crowd and lay a hand on his sister's shoulder. "You're welcome."
"What?" Belgium yells over the noise. Her face is painted black, red and yellow, a matching ribbon in her hair.
Someone in the joyful mob jostles Netherlands, and causes him to step closer to her. Belgium's hair smells like chocolate; he's always loved that. "I said... you're welcome!"
Belgium finally hears him and gives him that hesitant smile that means she doesn't really know what to say. "I think you mean congratulations."
"Sure," Netherlands shrugs, still grinning. "I'll buy you a beer."
Chapter Sixty-Two, Netherlands continues on the back of a damp coaster; sometimes it's better to just let things slide. Sometimes.
"..and the vogeltjesmarkt has birds, and we can find a birthday gift for Luxembourg and--"
"Sure, sure, fine." Netherlands has at least a head over his sister and peers out over the sea of people in Antwerp for the Sunday market. Where the hell is the stand with all the beer that Denmark had told him about?
Belgium tightens her hold on his arm, falling in step with him, voice laced with excitement. "If you want we can look for bikes--I know you want a new one--and there's a place with wonderful--" She suddenly stops, grip tightening on Netherlands' biceps. "Wait."
He frowns. "What is it?"
With a deep, steadying breath, Belgium gives him the sweetest, most passive-aggressive smile he's ever seen since he knocked over one of Canada's more delicate maple syrup bottles. "When you told me," she says in a honeyed voice, "that you wanted to spend the day with me at the vogeltjesmarkt... Was it just to get the discounted beer and have me drive you home?"
He's never been good at lying. Ever. "I... I'll buy you flowers and a vase."
Belgium's nails dig into his skin. "How many flowers?"
He winces. "A lot."
"Alright." Gently, then, Belgium steers him down past a few stands selling fruit. "The best beer is this way."
Chafpter somethignd... Netherlands hiccups. Goddamn does he love Stella Atrois. Sometimes, like, youjust gotta... gotta... compromise.
The waiter sets the check down between them and Belgium says something to him in Flemish--Netherlands dies a little on the inside--and smiles to the waiter once he departs. "I've got this."
"What?" Netherlands watches her pull out her wallet and frowns. "Oh, thanks."
"It's not a problem. I read in the newspaper today that, well..." Belgium hides a laugh behind her hand, and that's when Netherlands gets worried. "Well, you know. It's really no trouble at all though."
There are a few things that Netherlands can do at this point. He can either ask her what the hell she's going on about, let it slide and forget it and enjoy the rest of dessert, or bide his time. Frankly, as a big brother, he likes to think that he's above his siblings' childish barbs and snipes. Netherlands has nothing to prove to his sisters, nothing to worry about since he is the Big Brother and they look up to him and this incident is probably nothing.
Probably.
Probably not.
He steals the newspaper off some poor sap's doorstep well after lunch and discovers that the Belgian King is--reportedly--richer than his lovely queen. The resulting curse in the air is decidedly not brotherly.
Chapter Sixty-Eight, Netherlands writes with a scowl. Don't trust your sisters when they laugh like that.
He really hates it when girls cry, but he hates it just a bit more when they're furious at him. And while the allegations are completely unjustified on Belgium's part, here he is, knee-deep in sand and silt and the better part of the Scheldt, digging so she will stop fucking glaring at him like he's Satan or something.
"Listen," she had said over the phone that morning, "I know what you're doing."
Netherlands had glanced down at the magazine of dubious character in his hands. "As in... right now?"
"I mean with the Scheldt."
"Oh." Phew.
"You tried to pull this in the 16th century--you turned my Antwerp into, into nothing. And I don't mean that you're doing it deliberately--"
"Fuck, Belgium, if you're going to yell at me, don't backtrack over your argument."
"I wasn't!"
"Get on with it."
"You're not dredging your side so that Rotterdam gets the ships that are supposed to come to Antwerp!"
"That's a pretty ballsy accusation." Netherlands had almost felt a tear of joy at that, at his little sister being ballsy.
"And until you do dredge it, don't expect me to import any more of your mussels!" She had slammed down the phone, and Netherlands had suddenly gotten the sneaking suspicion that Belgium imported about sixty percent of her mussels from him. Don't ask him how, but like some people suddenly get headaches, Netherlands suddenly gets economic premonitions.
So. Shit. Here he is, in that damned estuary or river or whatever it is.
Netherlands scoops another shovelful of sand from the Scheldt, a bead of sweat rolling down his neck. That ought to do it. At least him down here covered in sand and crap should be a good enough of a symbolic gesture to get Belgium's panties un-bunched, right? Right. So he triumphantly pulls himself out of the Scheldt to the bemused looks of a few dock workers and hoofs it to Belgium's house. By the time he pushes open her door, his chest is puffed up with pride at how brotherly he's just been and how Belgium will cave into her big brother's awesomeness and give him a big hug and cook him dinner and-----and fuck, he's starting to sound like Prussia, he realizes with a slight wave of nausea.
It's then that Netherlands also realizes he's been walking around the little house for quite some time, tracking slop and sand on the rugs, but his sister is nowhere to be seen. He frowns, and calls out: "Belgium?" She has to be here--he can smell her perfume; is that creepy?--but the only place he hasn't checked is the basement. He turns to it, and lo! A light, from under yonder door crack doth shine or whatever!
Netherlands throws open the door; "Belgium!" He grins in pride and strolls down the steps. "I did it! I dug up the Scheldt! Just an eighth of a meter in one spot kinda, but still!"
"N-Netherlands!" And he notices then that Belgium is hunkered in the corner of her basement, shielding something with her body, eyes gone wide.
"What are you doing?" Netherlands sets his shovel on the floor, frowning. "The last time I saw someone with a look that guilty it was Spain buying new dresses for Romano."
"N-nothing! Go upstairs! Please! I'll be there in a moment!"
Curious, Netherlands peers over his sister's quaking shoulders and sees--"Is that..."
"N-no!"
"...Mosselen-friet?"
"T-they're clams! I swear!"
Netherlands feels an eyebrow raise at that. "They're not. And these are from the Dutch Zeeland coast, aren't they?"
"I-I... N-no... How could you even tell such a thing?"
Netherlands ignores the question and poses one of his own: "Were you hiding in your basement eating Dutch mussels during a boycott of said mussels so I'd dredge my side of the Scheldt?" He crosses his arms over his chest and waits.
"I-I..." The tears at the corners of big green eyes snuff out any sense of triumph Netherlands may have had. "They're so good! I c-can't help it," she sobs into her dish of shellfish. And takes another bite. "S-so good..."
Hesitantly, Netherlands pats her head gently, waits for her to finish her mussels, and helps Belgium back up the stairs.
Chapter Seventy-Five, Netherlands writes in a lazy scrawl, waiting for Belgium to finish cooking their dinner. Sometimes it's so weird that you just have to go with it and fuck the manual.
-----
Notes; mainly from siiy 's expertise:
Belgian boycott of Dutch mussels: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/belgium/6062679/Belgians-urged-to-boycott-Dutch-mussels-in-port-row.html
Thanks to Dick Advocaat, a Dutch coach, Belgium won a match against Turkey who's a pretty strong team that almost beat Germany in E2008.
"Every sunday in Antwerp there's this "vogeltjesmarkt" (birdmarket but the english name of it sucks :'D) and a lot of dutch come to this market every sunday, it would amaze you to see how many dutch people travel from their place for one day in Antwerp. They only go for the Vogeltjesmarkt cause there are bargains and everything's cheap plus beer, of course."