[hetachallenge] RomNor -- 13/Now
Title: [untitled]
Author: kahlanaisling
Claim: Romania/Norway
Character(s): Romania, Norway
Table/Prompt: Random/13 -- Now
Word Count: 1460
Rating: G
Summary: Romania is sick and wants to solve this in a way that would not be conducive to his health.
A/N hover for translations u_u
Romania has been sick lately.
There is nothing to worry about. It's just a cold, he reassures everyone. I have them often. I'll get over it. He carries on as normal in meetings (be they world or national or magic in nature) and rolls his eyes at expressed concerns and he smiles, because Romania is always smiling. It's one of his more annoying traits.
Norway's not inclined to be concerned, really. Iceland has had a cold for forever now and while it was upsetting at first they've all mostly gotten over themselves. Iceland often complains that he's forgotten what it's like to not be sick. Denmark laughs at that, and then Iceland dumps cold coffee over his head and Norway smirks while Finland and Sweden roll their eyes.
The point is, there is nothing to worry about.
At least, that's what he likes to tell himself as he hears Romania coughing and hacking himself to death in the guest bedroom. Norway brings a coffee mug filled with tea upstairs (Romania's not inclined to coffee and tea is better for the throat anyway) and doesn't knock on the door before going in. “You sound horrible,” he says.
He finds Romania sitting cross-legged at the desk, a laptop open on one side and books and papers strewn about the rest. He's wearing trousers and his hat and nothing else; couldn't be bothered, can't ever be bothered but he also had a high temperature last Norway checked.
“Hmm?” Romania asks, eyes flickering in Norway's direction. He doesn't leave his work.
Norway sets the mug down on a coaster. Only true villains don't. He can't stand the rings they leave. “I said you sound horrible,” he repeats.
Romania sets down a pen - he refuses to use a pencil, says they constantly break in his hands and imply mistakes -- and takes the tea, drinking it too fast and yelping when he scalds his tongue. He scowls at Norway, clearly blaming him. “I sound fine.”
“No you don't.”
“I do.” His voice is grating like the gravel in a road, how is that fine? Norway doesn't argue the point, though; Romania is impossible to argue with. (So is Norway. Often fights are never resolved, merely forgiven and forgotten.)
Norway picks up one of the papers covered in Romanian scrawl and tries to make out the words. It's not that he can't speak the language - he can, and very well thank you. It's that Romania's writing is fast and furious and not lending itself to outside interest. “What are you working on, anyway? You've been up here for hours.”
“Research,” Romania replies, sipping the tea slowly and scrolling through some sketchy page on Norway's laptop. It is obviously virus-laden.
“On what, though?”
“Nothing.”
The screen is easier to read than the handwriting. A bit of skimming around the back of Romania's head reveals that he is deep in the modern witchcraft community. Why that is, Norway isn't sure.
He does catch the words lead and gold, however.
Romania suddenly turns around, red eyes bright with fever and sunken in with exhaustion. He smiles, his expression is cheerful. “Can I help you?” he asks.
Norway taps one of the books. “Why the sudden interest in alchemy?” he asks.
Romania almost hesitates in his answer, but is interrupted by a sudden fit of coughing. He grasps the desk for support. Norway sits by until he can breathe again.
“Finished?”
Romania blinks and nods, running a hand through his hair.
Norway waits.
Romania's cheerful expression is gone, leaving him leaning on a fist and glaring at the wall. “I can't stand this,” he says.
“Clearly,” Norway replies, eyeing the grip that hasn't left the edge of the desk.
Romania ignores him and continues. “Being sick. I hate it.”
“Doesn't mean you need to turn lead to gold.” Norway places the back of his hand Romania's forehead. He's not good at caring for the sick; whenever there was a problem with Iceland he would go to a woman or maybe a doctor. Now, if something's wrong he generally consults Sweden. But even he can tell that Romania's still running a temperature and probably a little delirious.
“Not many other options.”
“You could try going to bed instead of getting germs all over my stuff.”
Romania shoves Norway's hand away as he untwists his legs and leans back in the chair. “Easy for you, you're fucking loaded.”
“And you're not thinking straight.”
“I'm never thinking straight.”
“True,” Norway admits. Romania glares at him.
“You're not supposed to agree with me.”
“What am I supposed to do then?”
A sigh. Then, rasping, “Hand me my tea.”
Norway is tempted to make Romania get it himself, the lazy bastard. But he ends up passing him the mug that's been left on the desk. Romania takes it and breathes in deeply before taking another sip. “Is good,” he mutters.
“Of course it is, I made it.”
“Don't be a dick, I'm giving you a compliment.”
Norway shrugs. That's as much of an apology as Romania is going to get.
A few silent minutes pass during which neither feels the need to speak. Romania eventually sits back up, returning to scroll through the questionable website that Norway will spend hours later regretting. Norway doesn't stop him.
He does say, however, “Arthur will kill you if he finds out.”
“Arthur doesn't need to find out,” Romania says quietly. Norway can barely hear him thanks to the combination of mumbling and a sore throat.
“Arthur always finds out.” This is a lie, but hey, if it works.
A sidelong glance from Romania. “Not if no one tells him.”
“Are you implying I'm untrustworthy?”
“Maybe.”
“You wound me.”
“I'm serious,” Romania says, setting the mug down - not even on a coaster. “You never mention Arthur unless you're going to get him involved somehow.”
“I won't get him involved.”
“Swear on it.”
The problem with England is that he has a set of very rigid rules regarding what magic can and can't be used for; neither Norway nor Romania cares, but unfortunately England is not as tolerant as he likes to pass himself off to be. Not to say England isn't a decent man. He is.
He's just impossible to reason with.
And, to be honest, Norway disapproves of alchemy and magic as a way of solving these kinds of problems. If one asks for help or uses forces beyond another's advantage, then what satisfaction can one gain from achieving his ends? If it doesn't bother Romania, then more power to him, but somewhere inside Norway knows that it does and that's why he's never used it before.
Norway holds up his right hand, raising a thin, blond eyebrow at the same time. “I swear,” he says. He's actually telling the truth.
Romania clearly doesn't believe him. “Swear on your mother's grave.”
Norway drops his hand and gives Romania a flat look. “I don't have a mother,” he retorts.
Romania's mouth presses into a thin line. Norway's never quite understood why the matron of the family means so much to the man, but it might be because he's one of the few nations to actually have one. “Oh,” he says. "Îmi pare rău."
“Don't bother,” Norway says, then reaches across the desk for the laptop and snaps it shut.
“What are you doing?” Romania demands.
“You know how you never sleep?”
“I don't need sleep--”
Arguing with Romania is useless. Unless you're Bulgaria, in which case you inevitably lose. “I'm well aware,” Norway replies. He balances the computer in his arm and begins closing the books, stacking them on top. “I'm not forcing you to go to sleep. But I am advising you stop working and if sleep comes into the equation I'll be much more inclined to keep my promise.”
“What the hell-” Romania begins, reaching for his papers or even his pen, but Norway's already walking out of the room. He clambers out of the chair to give chase.
“Sov godt.”
“Lukas!”
Norway closes the door. He half expects Romania to open it and come after him, but he makes it all the way to the living room without an irritable nation on his tail.
“Is he asleep?” he asks his familiar, which is quietly hovering around the ceiling.
The answer is no, Romania is sulking. Norway is unsurprised. But the rest, forced or not, will do him good.
Sweden will probably tell him later that his methods are unconventional. Norway will reply by saying that if someone wanted tender loving care when sick, they would go to someone else.
And anyway, Romania's smart enough to know when he needs someone to talk him out of things.
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Author: kahlanaisling
Claim: Romania/Norway
Character(s): Romania, Norway
Table/Prompt: Random/13 -- Now
Word Count: 1460
Rating: G
Summary: Romania is sick and wants to solve this in a way that would not be conducive to his health.
A/N hover for translations u_u
Romania has been sick lately.
There is nothing to worry about. It's just a cold, he reassures everyone. I have them often. I'll get over it. He carries on as normal in meetings (be they world or national or magic in nature) and rolls his eyes at expressed concerns and he smiles, because Romania is always smiling. It's one of his more annoying traits.
Norway's not inclined to be concerned, really. Iceland has had a cold for forever now and while it was upsetting at first they've all mostly gotten over themselves. Iceland often complains that he's forgotten what it's like to not be sick. Denmark laughs at that, and then Iceland dumps cold coffee over his head and Norway smirks while Finland and Sweden roll their eyes.
The point is, there is nothing to worry about.
At least, that's what he likes to tell himself as he hears Romania coughing and hacking himself to death in the guest bedroom. Norway brings a coffee mug filled with tea upstairs (Romania's not inclined to coffee and tea is better for the throat anyway) and doesn't knock on the door before going in. “You sound horrible,” he says.
He finds Romania sitting cross-legged at the desk, a laptop open on one side and books and papers strewn about the rest. He's wearing trousers and his hat and nothing else; couldn't be bothered, can't ever be bothered but he also had a high temperature last Norway checked.
“Hmm?” Romania asks, eyes flickering in Norway's direction. He doesn't leave his work.
Norway sets the mug down on a coaster. Only true villains don't. He can't stand the rings they leave. “I said you sound horrible,” he repeats.
Romania sets down a pen - he refuses to use a pencil, says they constantly break in his hands and imply mistakes -- and takes the tea, drinking it too fast and yelping when he scalds his tongue. He scowls at Norway, clearly blaming him. “I sound fine.”
“No you don't.”
“I do.” His voice is grating like the gravel in a road, how is that fine? Norway doesn't argue the point, though; Romania is impossible to argue with. (So is Norway. Often fights are never resolved, merely forgiven and forgotten.)
Norway picks up one of the papers covered in Romanian scrawl and tries to make out the words. It's not that he can't speak the language - he can, and very well thank you. It's that Romania's writing is fast and furious and not lending itself to outside interest. “What are you working on, anyway? You've been up here for hours.”
“Research,” Romania replies, sipping the tea slowly and scrolling through some sketchy page on Norway's laptop. It is obviously virus-laden.
“On what, though?”
“Nothing.”
The screen is easier to read than the handwriting. A bit of skimming around the back of Romania's head reveals that he is deep in the modern witchcraft community. Why that is, Norway isn't sure.
He does catch the words lead and gold, however.
Romania suddenly turns around, red eyes bright with fever and sunken in with exhaustion. He smiles, his expression is cheerful. “Can I help you?” he asks.
Norway taps one of the books. “Why the sudden interest in alchemy?” he asks.
Romania almost hesitates in his answer, but is interrupted by a sudden fit of coughing. He grasps the desk for support. Norway sits by until he can breathe again.
“Finished?”
Romania blinks and nods, running a hand through his hair.
Norway waits.
Romania's cheerful expression is gone, leaving him leaning on a fist and glaring at the wall. “I can't stand this,” he says.
“Clearly,” Norway replies, eyeing the grip that hasn't left the edge of the desk.
Romania ignores him and continues. “Being sick. I hate it.”
“Doesn't mean you need to turn lead to gold.” Norway places the back of his hand Romania's forehead. He's not good at caring for the sick; whenever there was a problem with Iceland he would go to a woman or maybe a doctor. Now, if something's wrong he generally consults Sweden. But even he can tell that Romania's still running a temperature and probably a little delirious.
“Not many other options.”
“You could try going to bed instead of getting germs all over my stuff.”
Romania shoves Norway's hand away as he untwists his legs and leans back in the chair. “Easy for you, you're fucking loaded.”
“And you're not thinking straight.”
“I'm never thinking straight.”
“True,” Norway admits. Romania glares at him.
“You're not supposed to agree with me.”
“What am I supposed to do then?”
A sigh. Then, rasping, “Hand me my tea.”
Norway is tempted to make Romania get it himself, the lazy bastard. But he ends up passing him the mug that's been left on the desk. Romania takes it and breathes in deeply before taking another sip. “Is good,” he mutters.
“Of course it is, I made it.”
“Don't be a dick, I'm giving you a compliment.”
Norway shrugs. That's as much of an apology as Romania is going to get.
A few silent minutes pass during which neither feels the need to speak. Romania eventually sits back up, returning to scroll through the questionable website that Norway will spend hours later regretting. Norway doesn't stop him.
He does say, however, “Arthur will kill you if he finds out.”
“Arthur doesn't need to find out,” Romania says quietly. Norway can barely hear him thanks to the combination of mumbling and a sore throat.
“Arthur always finds out.” This is a lie, but hey, if it works.
A sidelong glance from Romania. “Not if no one tells him.”
“Are you implying I'm untrustworthy?”
“Maybe.”
“You wound me.”
“I'm serious,” Romania says, setting the mug down - not even on a coaster. “You never mention Arthur unless you're going to get him involved somehow.”
“I won't get him involved.”
“Swear on it.”
The problem with England is that he has a set of very rigid rules regarding what magic can and can't be used for; neither Norway nor Romania cares, but unfortunately England is not as tolerant as he likes to pass himself off to be. Not to say England isn't a decent man. He is.
He's just impossible to reason with.
And, to be honest, Norway disapproves of alchemy and magic as a way of solving these kinds of problems. If one asks for help or uses forces beyond another's advantage, then what satisfaction can one gain from achieving his ends? If it doesn't bother Romania, then more power to him, but somewhere inside Norway knows that it does and that's why he's never used it before.
Norway holds up his right hand, raising a thin, blond eyebrow at the same time. “I swear,” he says. He's actually telling the truth.
Romania clearly doesn't believe him. “Swear on your mother's grave.”
Norway drops his hand and gives Romania a flat look. “I don't have a mother,” he retorts.
Romania's mouth presses into a thin line. Norway's never quite understood why the matron of the family means so much to the man, but it might be because he's one of the few nations to actually have one. “Oh,” he says. "Îmi pare rău."
“Don't bother,” Norway says, then reaches across the desk for the laptop and snaps it shut.
“What are you doing?” Romania demands.
“You know how you never sleep?”
“I don't need sleep--”
Arguing with Romania is useless. Unless you're Bulgaria, in which case you inevitably lose. “I'm well aware,” Norway replies. He balances the computer in his arm and begins closing the books, stacking them on top. “I'm not forcing you to go to sleep. But I am advising you stop working and if sleep comes into the equation I'll be much more inclined to keep my promise.”
“What the hell-” Romania begins, reaching for his papers or even his pen, but Norway's already walking out of the room. He clambers out of the chair to give chase.
“Sov godt.”
“Lukas!”
Norway closes the door. He half expects Romania to open it and come after him, but he makes it all the way to the living room without an irritable nation on his tail.
“Is he asleep?” he asks his familiar, which is quietly hovering around the ceiling.
The answer is no, Romania is sulking. Norway is unsurprised. But the rest, forced or not, will do him good.
Sweden will probably tell him later that his methods are unconventional. Norway will reply by saying that if someone wanted tender loving care when sick, they would go to someone else.
And anyway, Romania's smart enough to know when he needs someone to talk him out of things.
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