Inside, Lithuania had joined Poland in the kitchen. “Did we remember everything?” he asked worriedly. Poland shrugged and wrapped the sausages he'd boiled the evening before in paper and tied off a piece of twine around it. “Latvia's bonnet? An extra coat for Estonia? I don't think that's going to fit,” he added. In an effort to pack what seemed like a week's starvation rations into a basket made for afternoon outings to the park, Poland was prying aside rye bread and cheese in order to make room for the sausages.
“Ha!” crowed Poland, finally obtaining victory over his latest challenge.
“Did you remember to pack some porridge for Latvia? You know he's not good with solids yet; they upset his stomach.”
Poland shot Lithuania a withering look out of one half-lidded eye.
“Ask me again when I'm, like, awake, Liet,” the blonde groaned, and shoved petulantly at a package of gołąbki until it fit into the strained woven basket. “It's four in the stupid morning. You're totally unnatural, you know that?”
“Mhm,” replied Lithuania, pecking him on the lips. “I think you've told me.”
Poland smacked his shoulder in mock-irritation and shoved the basket into his hands. “Come on, make your unnatural self, like, useful and carry this for me.”
Lithuania didn't see much use in remarking that it had been his turn to carry whatever needed carrying – the children, or Poland's bag, or in this case the basket – for the last few decades. Having a reputation for slacking and laziness to maintain, Poland would never admit it, but Lithuania knew the little blonde had gotten up before anyone else in order to put the finishing touches on their meal for the day. Forgetful and cranky he might be, but no one could accuse Poland of not caring. So it was with a tolerant (even fond) smile that Lithuania followed him out to the street, picnic basket in tow and Latvia nestled snugly against his other side.
The carriage ride outside of the city and into the hills which flanked it took nearly two hours, and sunrise had come and begun to bathe everything in a rosy light long before they reached their destination. Estonia slept curled up in his corner, with the baskets Poland had entrusted to him dangling loosely from his slack fingers. Next to him, Lithuania sat and watched the scenery passing in the unstable viewframe of the carriage window; Poland sat across from them, half-dozing with his head tipped back against the wall. He breathed in a shallow pattern of delicate, whistling snores, though every so often a particularly large bump in the road would knock the back of his head against its resting place and he would jolt fully awake, staring around as if expecting they were under some sort of attack, before dozing back off again. Latvia, slumped against his “mother's” chest and stomach, was undisturbed in his easy child's slumber. Lithuania watched them all with a sort of distant fondness, this drowsy patchwork family of his.
He noted how, even in sleep, Poland's hand would wrap unconsciously tighter around Latvia's waist, to guard him from being unsettled by the rocking movement of the carriage, and the boy would curl his chubby little fingers deeper into the fabric of Poland's shirt in response. Estonia, too, though often quiet and reserved – odd for a child his age, but a point of pride for Lithuania nonetheless – was freer in his sleep, letting his shoulder rest firmly against his older brother's and their legs bump as the road jostled them.
Their quiet early-morning reverie was ended soon, though, as the carriage pulled to a halt on the side of the road where sparse trees grew up as though forming a fence between travelers and the wild world of the hillside bushes and streams. Lithuania woke everyone and climbed down first, lifting Estonia out of the carriage and passing Latvia (who stirred a little and opened his eyes, blinking muzzily at the unexpected and dramatic change of scenery) to the older boy, who cradled his little brother as carefully and seriously as he might a piece of Venetian glasswork. Lastly, Lithuania extended a hand gentlemanly to help Poland down from the carriage. The blonde, fully awake though not entirely cured of his tired crankiness, snorted and rolled his eyes – but he still accepted the hand offered to him as he clambered down from the awkward height of their transportation.
“I'm not, like, a girl or whatever, you know.”
Lithuania smiled and resisted the overwhelming urge to kiss that contrary mouth, instead fetching the picnic basket from the carriage and instructing the coachman to wait at this spot for them. In the meantime, Poland ushered the children toward the stand of trees to explain the purpose of their outing.
“We're going to pick berries, and stuff.”
“Why?” asked Estonia, peering owlishly through his spectacles.
“Because your brother is, like, totally insane.”
“What kind of bewwies?” chirped Latvia, stirring even more and squirming to be let down. Estonia obliged him carefully.
“Pfft, I dunno. I don't remember what kinds grow around here. But I'm sure they're really good!” Poland added when the boy's face fell slightly in disappointment.
“Is that what the baskets are for?” observed Estonia.
“Mhm.”
“They won't hold very many, though.”
Lithuania, who had come up behind them in the middle of this conversation, carrying the aforementioned baskets strung over one arm and their picnic basket on the other, interjected. “Well, we're not feeding the entire army. Poland and I,” he added conspiratorially, “are going to make bilberry pierogi.”
“Hey!” Poland objected. “Don't be including me in your crazy plans. I never said I'd do any of that. 'Che!”
“Well...” Poland looked down into Latvia and Estonia's hopeful faces, and deflated. “We'll see.”
“Yay!” cheered both of the boys at once. Lithuania smiled. They may not have any blood relation, but it would be plain to a blind man that Poland had a fondness and a mile-wide weak spot for the children.
“Come on,” he prompted. “Let's go pick the berries before we worry about the pies, okay?”
They headed off through the roadside underbrush enthusiastically, Poland a little more interested now and walking ahead to scout for fruit-bearing bushes, while Estonia held Latvia's hand and guided him along the uneven hillside ground. It wasn't long before Poland spotted the first bush – bilberries, as it turned out – and, snatching a handbasket from Lithuania, set to work stripping it down. Not surprisingly, though, only perhaps three quarters of the berries actually made it into the basket; Poland only stopped sampling the fruit when Latvia, coming over with Estonia to help, shrieked that he would eat them all and there wouldn't be any left.
“There're, like, a bajillion bushes around here. Don't worry about it,” advised Poland, and he popped a berry into Latvia's mouth (which was open to let forth a new stream of protest). The boy chewed thoughtfully for a moment before his expression twisted at the tart-sweetness of the berry. “It's totally delicious, isn't it?” Poland grinned and offered one to Estonia, too.
“May I have some?” asked Lithuania with a great show of deference.
Poland pretended to think about it long and hard – while Latvia and Estonia continued to work on the bush – and finally picked a berry daintily from his basket. He lifted it to Lithuania's lips as though to feed the other man from his hand but, at the last moment when Lithuania leaned forward to accept his treat, Poland smirked mischievously and snatched his hand back, popping the berry into his own mouth.
“Mm,” he taunted, licking his lips that had quirked up into a grin.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Pastorale [2/6]
(Anonymous) 2009-04-18 10:35 pm (UTC)(link)“Ha!” crowed Poland, finally obtaining victory over his latest challenge.
“Did you remember to pack some porridge for Latvia? You know he's not good with solids yet; they upset his stomach.”
Poland shot Lithuania a withering look out of one half-lidded eye.
“Ask me again when I'm, like, awake, Liet,” the blonde groaned, and shoved petulantly at a package of gołąbki until it fit into the strained woven basket. “It's four in the stupid morning. You're totally unnatural, you know that?”
“Mhm,” replied Lithuania, pecking him on the lips. “I think you've told me.”
Poland smacked his shoulder in mock-irritation and shoved the basket into his hands. “Come on, make your unnatural self, like, useful and carry this for me.”
Lithuania didn't see much use in remarking that it had been his turn to carry whatever needed carrying – the children, or Poland's bag, or in this case the basket – for the last few decades. Having a reputation for slacking and laziness to maintain, Poland would never admit it, but Lithuania knew the little blonde had gotten up before anyone else in order to put the finishing touches on their meal for the day. Forgetful and cranky he might be, but no one could accuse Poland of not caring. So it was with a tolerant (even fond) smile that Lithuania followed him out to the street, picnic basket in tow and Latvia nestled snugly against his other side.
The carriage ride outside of the city and into the hills which flanked it took nearly two hours, and sunrise had come and begun to bathe everything in a rosy light long before they reached their destination. Estonia slept curled up in his corner, with the baskets Poland had entrusted to him dangling loosely from his slack fingers. Next to him, Lithuania sat and watched the scenery passing in the unstable viewframe of the carriage window; Poland sat across from them, half-dozing with his head tipped back against the wall. He breathed in a shallow pattern of delicate, whistling snores, though every so often a particularly large bump in the road would knock the back of his head against its resting place and he would jolt fully awake, staring around as if expecting they were under some sort of attack, before dozing back off again. Latvia, slumped against his “mother's” chest and stomach, was undisturbed in his easy child's slumber. Lithuania watched them all with a sort of distant fondness, this drowsy patchwork family of his.
He noted how, even in sleep, Poland's hand would wrap unconsciously tighter around Latvia's waist, to guard him from being unsettled by the rocking movement of the carriage, and the boy would curl his chubby little fingers deeper into the fabric of Poland's shirt in response. Estonia, too, though often quiet and reserved – odd for a child his age, but a point of pride for Lithuania nonetheless – was freer in his sleep, letting his shoulder rest firmly against his older brother's and their legs bump as the road jostled them.
Pastorale [3/6]
(Anonymous) 2009-04-18 10:38 pm (UTC)(link)“I'm not, like, a girl or whatever, you know.”
Lithuania smiled and resisted the overwhelming urge to kiss that contrary mouth, instead fetching the picnic basket from the carriage and instructing the coachman to wait at this spot for them. In the meantime, Poland ushered the children toward the stand of trees to explain the purpose of their outing.
“We're going to pick berries, and stuff.”
“Why?” asked Estonia, peering owlishly through his spectacles.
“Because your brother is, like, totally insane.”
“What kind of bewwies?” chirped Latvia, stirring even more and squirming to be let down. Estonia obliged him carefully.
“Pfft, I dunno. I don't remember what kinds grow around here. But I'm sure they're really good!” Poland added when the boy's face fell slightly in disappointment.
“Is that what the baskets are for?” observed Estonia.
“Mhm.”
“They won't hold very many, though.”
Lithuania, who had come up behind them in the middle of this conversation, carrying the aforementioned baskets strung over one arm and their picnic basket on the other, interjected. “Well, we're not feeding the entire army. Poland and I,” he added conspiratorially, “are going to make bilberry pierogi.”
“Hey!” Poland objected. “Don't be including me in your crazy plans. I never said I'd do any of that. 'Che!”
“Pwease, pwease! I'll hewp!” offered Latvia enthusiastically.
“Well...” Poland looked down into Latvia and Estonia's hopeful faces, and deflated. “We'll see.”
“Yay!” cheered both of the boys at once. Lithuania smiled. They may not have any blood relation, but it would be plain to a blind man that Poland had a fondness and a mile-wide weak spot for the children.
“Come on,” he prompted. “Let's go pick the berries before we worry about the pies, okay?”
They headed off through the roadside underbrush enthusiastically, Poland a little more interested now and walking ahead to scout for fruit-bearing bushes, while Estonia held Latvia's hand and guided him along the uneven hillside ground. It wasn't long before Poland spotted the first bush – bilberries, as it turned out – and, snatching a handbasket from Lithuania, set to work stripping it down. Not surprisingly, though, only perhaps three quarters of the berries actually made it into the basket; Poland only stopped sampling the fruit when Latvia, coming over with Estonia to help, shrieked that he would eat them all and there wouldn't be any left.
“There're, like, a bajillion bushes around here. Don't worry about it,” advised Poland, and he popped a berry into Latvia's mouth (which was open to let forth a new stream of protest). The boy chewed thoughtfully for a moment before his expression twisted at the tart-sweetness of the berry. “It's totally delicious, isn't it?” Poland grinned and offered one to Estonia, too.
“May I have some?” asked Lithuania with a great show of deference.
Poland pretended to think about it long and hard – while Latvia and Estonia continued to work on the bush – and finally picked a berry daintily from his basket. He lifted it to Lithuania's lips as though to feed the other man from his hand but, at the last moment when Lithuania leaned forward to accept his treat, Poland smirked mischievously and snatched his hand back, popping the berry into his own mouth.
“Mm,” he taunted, licking his lips that had quirked up into a grin.