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hetalia2010-03-10 12:12 am
mennybeads.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2010-03-10 12:12 am
Entry tags:
Fanfic: netherlands/belgium: Fill in the gaps
Title: Fill in the gaps.
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mennybeads
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Netherlands/Belgium
Rating: R
Warnings: Light sexual content, vague swearing.
Summary: Post-WWII; prompt: Netherlands/Belgium - Endearments & Trust and vows. Written for a friend.
Netherlands/Belgium - Endearments & Trust and vows
They didn't see each other immediately after the war. 1944, she was free. Half of him was free, the other was occupied and starving.
So they don't see each other for a while. Can't, anyway, even if he'd want to see her-- which he doesn't, because he's seen himself in the water (when there's clear water that hasn't turned to ice, that is) and he looks like crap. And even though he knows she wouldn't, he's still afraid she'd make fun of him for still being occupied. For picking parts of a flower bulb out of his teeth and eating them again. His skin's ashen and he can't tell the colour of his own eyes.
He thinks of Belgium and all he can think of is her hand in his after the last war, and he knows he looks the same as she did that time, scarred and hungry and paranoid and sick to his stomach of everything he sees. And he's too ashamed to even try and send a letter. So he doesn't, and he thinks.
Even after May 1945, when everyone goes free, he still doesn't see her. He goes to England, sees his queen. Goes to Canada, sees the rest of his royal family. He's too tired to cry when he sees little Margriet, but Juliana does when she sees him, and he understands. He can see his own ribs; he hasn't slept in weeks.
July swelters. August does the same. Sometimes when he thinks of Canada he smiles, but when he thinks of Belgium his heart wrenches. He doesn't know why he hasn't gone to see her yet. Why she hasn't come to see him. He helped her last time, despite that whole neutrality thing he had going on back then-- is it too much to say hi, at least? Hey, asshole, long time no see. You look like shit. Let's get drunk. Yeah, Belgium, yeah, okay. I love you. I love you. Buy me a beer because I don't even have you left.
But she doesn't say hi. So he rebuilds and he rebuilds and-- he goes hungry again. Not as hungry as last time, never again as hungry as last time. But hungry enough. He wants to punch someone until his people can eat again, but all he can do is rebuild and rebuild and rebuild and have dreams of when he couldn't even wrap his arms around all the people in his house. That many. Those times.
He's got cheese and bread, at least. And milk. He got some from a farmer-- had to cycle for an hour just to get there, but it's still milk, and it makes him feel good and strong and a little younger. He's just contemplating how much of the cheese he could give to the kids down the road when there's a knock on the door. Sounds frantic, and for a moment his hands still around the bread because it sounds like he's going to be taken away.
He grunts to himself and stands up, angry at himself for thinking that. Stupid Netherlands. Stupid dreams. Stupid Germa--
He doesn't know what to think when she stands there crying and sniffling in her summer dress and her summer hair ribbon and her summer shoes and eyes. Doesn't know why she's crying. He's been eating. Washing, even. He looks okay enough.
“Oh, Netherlands, oh, Willem,” she whispers, and the lilt to her voice is still the same and even though she's thinner and he's thinner and their hearts are heavier she still feels the same in his arms.
---
It takes her a while to stop crying (he didn't, obviously. No, he held her and thought about her and he smiled, which was probably more disturbing than the wet stains on his shirt), but when she does he takes her hands quietly.
“I missed you,” he says, and he means it. He's meant it since 1830, and she knows that, but she chooses to ignore all of thát bullshit when she puts her head on his shouler.
“I know. I'm sorry I wasn't there before.”
“Busy. We all were.” He wants to say 'I missed you' again but that'd just negate what he just said, and he doesn't want her to get smart with him now. Now, when her head is on his shoulder and her hand is in his, and he can close his eyes and feel happy.
“How are...” She trails off and he doesn't know what she wants to ask but he still answers-- “Fine.” Because he wants to show her that everything is fine. Everything will be fine, for both of them.
---
She kisses him after dinner, after coffee. She tastes like one potato and a bit of cauliflower and bad coffee, he like the tears running down into his mouth when he finally starts to cry. He's missed her so much. Her lips are cracked now, even though they never were. He can feel her cheekbones under his thumbs, and she breaks away and laughs and hiccups. “Y-you silly oaf,” she whispers, and his hands feel her hipbones. “You dreadful, dreadful man,” she says, a little louder, when he feels her thighs and lifts her up, when her wrists touch the back of his neck. “I'll tell Luxembourg you were c-crying,” she manages before he puts her down on his bed and he kisses her again.
He doesn't speak much when he makes love to her. His mouth moves silently against new scars. They hurt him, those scars, just like his scars hurt her. She gives herself to him and he gives himself to her and it's an all-around giving fest and he has to lean over twice to wipe his nose on a kerchief or else he'll blubber all over her. Their hips jut into one another but that just illustrates how well they fit into one another, still.
“Broertje,” she whispers thickly, and he whispers back, whispers “België, alles, jij-- alleen jij, altijd jij, jij of de hel,” and when he comes inside of her warmth he chokes out “M'n lief--” and she laughs hoarsely in delight. He hears the love in there. It sounds good.
Afterwards she pets his hair, his head on her chest, hearing her heart beat. “I'll come see you again soon,” she says, fingers slipping over his jawline. He only grunts and kisses her collarbone. “I will. I won't stay away this long again. I never will again.”
That just reminds him of 1830 again, and he bites her collarbone instead.
“I'll stay with you,” she says, again. To make her point. He knows. He hopes he does, anyway.
When her heartbeat's slowed down and he's counting her ribs as she breathes in her sleep, he takes her hand again. “I'll protect you next time,” he whispers. He's not going to just smuggle food over her borders, or choke on his own misery while she does the same. And he feels sick at the thought of there even being a next time next time, but he has to say it. She stirs at his voice, in his arms, and he lets out a soft sigh. Protection. That sounds nice.
;There were bad harvests all over Europe for a couple of years after the war. Things sucked balls for a while.
;The south of the Netherlands got liberated before the west and north; the south suffered less during that hunger winter because of it. A little.
;It's still a joke in the Netherlands to say 'Oh, you don't like your dinner? Well, in the war we had flower bulbs, so stop complaining.' It really did happen, though.
;As a nation, the Netherlands as a whole was probably worst off during the war. There's numbers on this and that, suffice to say that things were pretty crappy.
;1830, by the way, was the year the Belgians said fuck it, we wanna be our own nation. Sure, the Netherlands only accepted that in 1839, but who's counting?
;Translations! 'Broertje' is little brother. What Netherlands is saying: 'Belgium, everything, you-- only you, always you, you or hell-- my darling--'.
;In WWI, Netherland stayed neutral, but they díd smuggle food and supplies into Flanders. Couldn't just leave 'em, right?
Author/Artist:
mennybeadsCharacter(s) or Pairing(s): Netherlands/Belgium
Rating: R
Warnings: Light sexual content, vague swearing.
Summary: Post-WWII; prompt: Netherlands/Belgium - Endearments & Trust and vows. Written for a friend.
Netherlands/Belgium - Endearments & Trust and vows
They didn't see each other immediately after the war. 1944, she was free. Half of him was free, the other was occupied and starving.
So they don't see each other for a while. Can't, anyway, even if he'd want to see her-- which he doesn't, because he's seen himself in the water (when there's clear water that hasn't turned to ice, that is) and he looks like crap. And even though he knows she wouldn't, he's still afraid she'd make fun of him for still being occupied. For picking parts of a flower bulb out of his teeth and eating them again. His skin's ashen and he can't tell the colour of his own eyes.
He thinks of Belgium and all he can think of is her hand in his after the last war, and he knows he looks the same as she did that time, scarred and hungry and paranoid and sick to his stomach of everything he sees. And he's too ashamed to even try and send a letter. So he doesn't, and he thinks.
Even after May 1945, when everyone goes free, he still doesn't see her. He goes to England, sees his queen. Goes to Canada, sees the rest of his royal family. He's too tired to cry when he sees little Margriet, but Juliana does when she sees him, and he understands. He can see his own ribs; he hasn't slept in weeks.
July swelters. August does the same. Sometimes when he thinks of Canada he smiles, but when he thinks of Belgium his heart wrenches. He doesn't know why he hasn't gone to see her yet. Why she hasn't come to see him. He helped her last time, despite that whole neutrality thing he had going on back then-- is it too much to say hi, at least? Hey, asshole, long time no see. You look like shit. Let's get drunk. Yeah, Belgium, yeah, okay. I love you. I love you. Buy me a beer because I don't even have you left.
But she doesn't say hi. So he rebuilds and he rebuilds and-- he goes hungry again. Not as hungry as last time, never again as hungry as last time. But hungry enough. He wants to punch someone until his people can eat again, but all he can do is rebuild and rebuild and rebuild and have dreams of when he couldn't even wrap his arms around all the people in his house. That many. Those times.
He's got cheese and bread, at least. And milk. He got some from a farmer-- had to cycle for an hour just to get there, but it's still milk, and it makes him feel good and strong and a little younger. He's just contemplating how much of the cheese he could give to the kids down the road when there's a knock on the door. Sounds frantic, and for a moment his hands still around the bread because it sounds like he's going to be taken away.
He grunts to himself and stands up, angry at himself for thinking that. Stupid Netherlands. Stupid dreams. Stupid Germa--
He doesn't know what to think when she stands there crying and sniffling in her summer dress and her summer hair ribbon and her summer shoes and eyes. Doesn't know why she's crying. He's been eating. Washing, even. He looks okay enough.
“Oh, Netherlands, oh, Willem,” she whispers, and the lilt to her voice is still the same and even though she's thinner and he's thinner and their hearts are heavier she still feels the same in his arms.
---
It takes her a while to stop crying (he didn't, obviously. No, he held her and thought about her and he smiled, which was probably more disturbing than the wet stains on his shirt), but when she does he takes her hands quietly.
“I missed you,” he says, and he means it. He's meant it since 1830, and she knows that, but she chooses to ignore all of thát bullshit when she puts her head on his shouler.
“I know. I'm sorry I wasn't there before.”
“Busy. We all were.” He wants to say 'I missed you' again but that'd just negate what he just said, and he doesn't want her to get smart with him now. Now, when her head is on his shoulder and her hand is in his, and he can close his eyes and feel happy.
“How are...” She trails off and he doesn't know what she wants to ask but he still answers-- “Fine.” Because he wants to show her that everything is fine. Everything will be fine, for both of them.
---
She kisses him after dinner, after coffee. She tastes like one potato and a bit of cauliflower and bad coffee, he like the tears running down into his mouth when he finally starts to cry. He's missed her so much. Her lips are cracked now, even though they never were. He can feel her cheekbones under his thumbs, and she breaks away and laughs and hiccups. “Y-you silly oaf,” she whispers, and his hands feel her hipbones. “You dreadful, dreadful man,” she says, a little louder, when he feels her thighs and lifts her up, when her wrists touch the back of his neck. “I'll tell Luxembourg you were c-crying,” she manages before he puts her down on his bed and he kisses her again.
He doesn't speak much when he makes love to her. His mouth moves silently against new scars. They hurt him, those scars, just like his scars hurt her. She gives herself to him and he gives himself to her and it's an all-around giving fest and he has to lean over twice to wipe his nose on a kerchief or else he'll blubber all over her. Their hips jut into one another but that just illustrates how well they fit into one another, still.
“Broertje,” she whispers thickly, and he whispers back, whispers “België, alles, jij-- alleen jij, altijd jij, jij of de hel,” and when he comes inside of her warmth he chokes out “M'n lief--” and she laughs hoarsely in delight. He hears the love in there. It sounds good.
Afterwards she pets his hair, his head on her chest, hearing her heart beat. “I'll come see you again soon,” she says, fingers slipping over his jawline. He only grunts and kisses her collarbone. “I will. I won't stay away this long again. I never will again.”
That just reminds him of 1830 again, and he bites her collarbone instead.
“I'll stay with you,” she says, again. To make her point. He knows. He hopes he does, anyway.
When her heartbeat's slowed down and he's counting her ribs as she breathes in her sleep, he takes her hand again. “I'll protect you next time,” he whispers. He's not going to just smuggle food over her borders, or choke on his own misery while she does the same. And he feels sick at the thought of there even being a next time next time, but he has to say it. She stirs at his voice, in his arms, and he lets out a soft sigh. Protection. That sounds nice.
;There were bad harvests all over Europe for a couple of years after the war. Things sucked balls for a while.
;The south of the Netherlands got liberated before the west and north; the south suffered less during that hunger winter because of it. A little.
;It's still a joke in the Netherlands to say 'Oh, you don't like your dinner? Well, in the war we had flower bulbs, so stop complaining.' It really did happen, though.
;As a nation, the Netherlands as a whole was probably worst off during the war. There's numbers on this and that, suffice to say that things were pretty crappy.
;1830, by the way, was the year the Belgians said fuck it, we wanna be our own nation. Sure, the Netherlands only accepted that in 1839, but who's counting?
;Translations! 'Broertje' is little brother. What Netherlands is saying: 'Belgium, everything, you-- only you, always you, you or hell-- my darling--'.
;In WWI, Netherland stayed neutral, but they díd smuggle food and supplies into Flanders. Couldn't just leave 'em, right?