Poland - "Endlessly" (FINAL)
X
He blinked and just as his eyes had become someone else’s on a train headed to nowhere seventy one years ago, Poland was suddenly coming out from frozen memories like water, stark cold that left him shivering. He looked down at his hands and the blood had dried and been washed away. It wasn’t 1956 anymore or 1989. There only was the green of Lithuania’s eyes on him as his own forehead rested against the curve between his neck and his shoulder.
He had always liked to see himself in Lithuania’s eyes, because it took him back to times when everything seemed easier. But despite that, he was still glad that they were together once more as independent individuals. And he preferred that.
Poland’s breath felt hot on the crook of his neck and because he remained so still and quiet, Lithuania wondered for a moment if he had fallen asleep, wearied by all the painful memories he had relived. When the blond shivered abruptly, Lithuania wrapped his arms around his tense shoulders and smoothed his back by doing slow, circular movements.
“Oh, Poland…” Lithuania sighed and kissed the side of his head; the pressure on the spot where his mouth had sank amidst the coat of fair hair made Poland feel reassured and he welcomed his warm presence. His lover’s fingers hovered over Poland’s form -ghosts of touches- and he felt the constant thudding of his pulse against his cheek.
“I’m sorry I made you think about all of that…”
Poland remained quiet; his eyes felt watery but the tried to keep the tears from spilling. At that moment he felt content, secure, and he was reluctant to remove himself from that familiar embrace. He lifted his head slowly; locks of light hair fell over his forehead as he looked at Lithuania’s eyes, silently daring him to break eye contact. He didn’t.
“Those are moments that I relive every day.” He bit his lip. “Just like you have your own scars,” He thought of the angry lashes that stretched across Lithuania’s back like train tracks with derailed wagons and how they had appeared amidst soap bubbles. Poland shuddered and looked away. His voice became a whisper, barely audible beyond his shame. “I have my own.”
Lithuania’s expression was unreadable as he leant forward, caressing Poland’s cheek with trembling fingers. He realized his lover’s skin had turned cold and waxen, coloured faintly only by the green and red of the artificial lights. He licked his lips and sighed, closing his own eyes and thinking of what Poland had just said. And, likewise, he dived into his own share of cold water.
He heard the creak of leather, smelt the newly cut skin as he saddled his favourite warhorse: a grey beast with dark spots that dappled its hind quarters. Before him, donned in silver armor and cradled by a cape as red as blood, Poland grinned broadly back at him as he sat regally on his chestnut mare. The air was cut cleanly by the low ring of his sword as he unsheathed it and pointed it at Lithuania so he could see himself on the polished steel. He smiled back, copying the greeting and crossing his own blade with his lover’s before the blond rode off ahead of him. The sound of hoof beats drowned amidst the hills and the trumpeting of the troops riding behind him.
Lithuania remembered his rage when the horse fell with a terrifying shriek, spewing copper, with its snout foaming red when it crashed against the ground. He remembered his terror when their two swords, which had crossed in amiable cordiality, united by the bonds of wartime brotherhood were stepped on and reduced to dull-edged smithereens. From that day on he was forced to ropes and gags and years of harsh winter, muted speeches, the hot stir of rebellions, and scars. He knew as well as anyone what it meant to be marked; how hard it was to rediscover one’s self amidst the blizzards. Lithuania stared, deep in thought, with wrinkles creasing his forehead in effort and stress, at the shattered mosaic that had become his body, until at last in 1990, he placed the final square of colour on the completed masterpiece that became his flag.
“I understand…” he whispered and offered a kind smile, as he traced the corner of his mouth fondly with his thumb, and gently turning him so their eyes met. “However you are, whatever you do, it makes you yourself and it makes you special to me. His eyes searched Poland’s face, trying to read his reaction. He couldn’t place if he was pleased or uncomfortable, but in the end it didn’t really matter. “Forgive me for not understanding. It doesn’t matter what you do or don’t do. I like you just the way you are and wouldn’t change anything. You’re important to me and I love who you are, Poland. I really love you.”
Poland let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding back and a radiant smile brightened his face and he kissed Lithuania, softly joining their lips and sighing against his mouth. They timidly pressed their chests together, yearning for that comfort that they only found with the other and joined hands as Poland wrapped his legs around Lithuania’s waist and continued showering his face with kisses as his yellow hair fell around him like a curtain.
He caressed Lithuania’s face, brushed his lips over the lines on his forehead, the roots of his hair, and his brow as Lithuania revered his skin with his own lips, running them adoringly over his neck and feeling his blood pump with his tongue, which lapped at the bumps on his chest. Then, his lips hovered above the raw tissue over Poland’s heart and smoothed the burns and bullet holes with careful and tender licks and touches.
Lithuania’s calloused fingers followed the burns and dead skin crisscrossing all across Poland’s chest and he joined dots and kissed the points where all the lines, the gruesome scribbles, met and started again. He erased them with his hands, if only for a moment, redrawing the highways, the plains and rivers that formed his beloved’s lands, held into one piece by the bleeding poppy that was his heart and that he kissed over and over, just to feel it beat.
Their breaths raced and their kisses became wet and feverish. Poland pressed himself against Lithuania, resting his forehead against his shoulder as his lover’s fingers lifted the skirt, unfolding it over his bare stomach like petals. Their skin was sweaty and flushed as they aligned their bodies with rhythmic thrusts that sent shivers down Lithuania’s spine and made hot, abrupt gasps escape Poland’s wet lips.
Poland rocked his hips, squeezing Lithuania’s shoulder blades and digging his nails into him, uncaring that it made him bleed. Both had already spilt enough blood for the other’s expense. And he called his lover by his real name with every movement and clench of the muscles of his legs.
“Lietuva…”
Pain, sweet and burning like a bullet ripping skin, shot from his spine to his the clenched knots that were his thighs. With a shudder, the tightness in him made him scream, and cry, and laugh at his release. With a satisfied smile, Lithuania came shortly after but he didn’t pull out; hearts and cocks throbbing, entangled bodies grown sensible and quivering after the rush of love-making.
They held each other, resting their foreheads together and shaking with tiredness and low laughter. Lithuania ran his fingers through Poland’s hair, tangling them between the soft strands that so reminded him of the fields and their Golden Liberty, and nuzzling his cheek against his hand, Poland kissed Lithuania’s knuckles, swirling the tip of his tongue delicately over the rough flesh.
They remained together, humming contentedly and reminiscing in their liberating comfort, because with Poland there was never a need for words, anyway.
-
FOOTNOTES - http://mase992.livejournal.com/9900.html
He blinked and just as his eyes had become someone else’s on a train headed to nowhere seventy one years ago, Poland was suddenly coming out from frozen memories like water, stark cold that left him shivering. He looked down at his hands and the blood had dried and been washed away. It wasn’t 1956 anymore or 1989. There only was the green of Lithuania’s eyes on him as his own forehead rested against the curve between his neck and his shoulder.
He had always liked to see himself in Lithuania’s eyes, because it took him back to times when everything seemed easier. But despite that, he was still glad that they were together once more as independent individuals. And he preferred that.
Poland’s breath felt hot on the crook of his neck and because he remained so still and quiet, Lithuania wondered for a moment if he had fallen asleep, wearied by all the painful memories he had relived. When the blond shivered abruptly, Lithuania wrapped his arms around his tense shoulders and smoothed his back by doing slow, circular movements.
“Oh, Poland…” Lithuania sighed and kissed the side of his head; the pressure on the spot where his mouth had sank amidst the coat of fair hair made Poland feel reassured and he welcomed his warm presence. His lover’s fingers hovered over Poland’s form -ghosts of touches- and he felt the constant thudding of his pulse against his cheek.
“I’m sorry I made you think about all of that…”
Poland remained quiet; his eyes felt watery but the tried to keep the tears from spilling. At that moment he felt content, secure, and he was reluctant to remove himself from that familiar embrace. He lifted his head slowly; locks of light hair fell over his forehead as he looked at Lithuania’s eyes, silently daring him to break eye contact. He didn’t.
“Those are moments that I relive every day.” He bit his lip. “Just like you have your own scars,” He thought of the angry lashes that stretched across Lithuania’s back like train tracks with derailed wagons and how they had appeared amidst soap bubbles. Poland shuddered and looked away. His voice became a whisper, barely audible beyond his shame. “I have my own.”
Lithuania’s expression was unreadable as he leant forward, caressing Poland’s cheek with trembling fingers. He realized his lover’s skin had turned cold and waxen, coloured faintly only by the green and red of the artificial lights. He licked his lips and sighed, closing his own eyes and thinking of what Poland had just said. And, likewise, he dived into his own share of cold water.
He heard the creak of leather, smelt the newly cut skin as he saddled his favourite warhorse: a grey beast with dark spots that dappled its hind quarters. Before him, donned in silver armor and cradled by a cape as red as blood, Poland grinned broadly back at him as he sat regally on his chestnut mare. The air was cut cleanly by the low ring of his sword as he unsheathed it and pointed it at Lithuania so he could see himself on the polished steel. He smiled back, copying the greeting and crossing his own blade with his lover’s before the blond rode off ahead of him. The sound of hoof beats drowned amidst the hills and the trumpeting of the troops riding behind him.
Lithuania remembered his rage when the horse fell with a terrifying shriek, spewing copper, with its snout foaming red when it crashed against the ground. He remembered his terror when their two swords, which had crossed in amiable cordiality, united by the bonds of wartime brotherhood were stepped on and reduced to dull-edged smithereens. From that day on he was forced to ropes and gags and years of harsh winter, muted speeches, the hot stir of rebellions, and scars. He knew as well as anyone what it meant to be marked; how hard it was to rediscover one’s self amidst the blizzards. Lithuania stared, deep in thought, with wrinkles creasing his forehead in effort and stress, at the shattered mosaic that had become his body, until at last in 1990, he placed the final square of colour on the completed masterpiece that became his flag.
“I understand…” he whispered and offered a kind smile, as he traced the corner of his mouth fondly with his thumb, and gently turning him so their eyes met. “However you are, whatever you do, it makes you yourself and it makes you special to me. His eyes searched Poland’s face, trying to read his reaction. He couldn’t place if he was pleased or uncomfortable, but in the end it didn’t really matter. “Forgive me for not understanding. It doesn’t matter what you do or don’t do. I like you just the way you are and wouldn’t change anything. You’re important to me and I love who you are, Poland. I really love you.”
Poland let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding back and a radiant smile brightened his face and he kissed Lithuania, softly joining their lips and sighing against his mouth. They timidly pressed their chests together, yearning for that comfort that they only found with the other and joined hands as Poland wrapped his legs around Lithuania’s waist and continued showering his face with kisses as his yellow hair fell around him like a curtain.
He caressed Lithuania’s face, brushed his lips over the lines on his forehead, the roots of his hair, and his brow as Lithuania revered his skin with his own lips, running them adoringly over his neck and feeling his blood pump with his tongue, which lapped at the bumps on his chest. Then, his lips hovered above the raw tissue over Poland’s heart and smoothed the burns and bullet holes with careful and tender licks and touches.
Lithuania’s calloused fingers followed the burns and dead skin crisscrossing all across Poland’s chest and he joined dots and kissed the points where all the lines, the gruesome scribbles, met and started again. He erased them with his hands, if only for a moment, redrawing the highways, the plains and rivers that formed his beloved’s lands, held into one piece by the bleeding poppy that was his heart and that he kissed over and over, just to feel it beat.
Their breaths raced and their kisses became wet and feverish. Poland pressed himself against Lithuania, resting his forehead against his shoulder as his lover’s fingers lifted the skirt, unfolding it over his bare stomach like petals. Their skin was sweaty and flushed as they aligned their bodies with rhythmic thrusts that sent shivers down Lithuania’s spine and made hot, abrupt gasps escape Poland’s wet lips.
Poland rocked his hips, squeezing Lithuania’s shoulder blades and digging his nails into him, uncaring that it made him bleed. Both had already spilt enough blood for the other’s expense. And he called his lover by his real name with every movement and clench of the muscles of his legs.
“Lietuva…”
Pain, sweet and burning like a bullet ripping skin, shot from his spine to his the clenched knots that were his thighs. With a shudder, the tightness in him made him scream, and cry, and laugh at his release. With a satisfied smile, Lithuania came shortly after but he didn’t pull out; hearts and cocks throbbing, entangled bodies grown sensible and quivering after the rush of love-making.
They held each other, resting their foreheads together and shaking with tiredness and low laughter. Lithuania ran his fingers through Poland’s hair, tangling them between the soft strands that so reminded him of the fields and their Golden Liberty, and nuzzling his cheek against his hand, Poland kissed Lithuania’s knuckles, swirling the tip of his tongue delicately over the rough flesh.
They remained together, humming contentedly and reminiscing in their liberating comfort, because with Poland there was never a need for words, anyway.
-
FOOTNOTES - http://mase992.livejournal.com/9900.html