One Cup of Tea [England & Norway]
Dec. 20th, 2016 10:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roesslyngTitle: One Cup of Tea
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: England & Norway
Rating: 0+
Length: 1.2k
Summary: These are hard times, but there are still quiet moments, and those moments call for a cup of tea. Gen, set during WWII.
Other: Written for the Silver Linings Hetalia charity zine.
Many thanks go to Qichi for helping me beat this thing into shape. <3
One Cup of Tea
"Here," England said. "Have some tea."
Norway had come to know that when England offered a cup, it was best to accept it. "Thanks," he said, and took a long breath as it was poured, his mug filled with a hot drink so weak that only two years ago England would have blushed at the thought of serving it.
Hard times, indeed.
They said nothing for a while, sitting there in England's library, on an afternoon that had so far proven to be unusually slow and calm. Norway cupped the mug in his hands and enjoyed the silence.
Over the course of his stay with England, Norway had come to understand that the point was not tea. Not exactly. Not tea in itself.
The point was warmth in the hands and in the gut. Take a moment. Ground yourself. Talk with someone, perhaps, about anything. Anything at all. The subject at hand, or something else altogether. Or just enjoy the company.
He knew England by now. That was how it was with him.
Norway watched him. Brought his mug to his lips and waited. Tea, he had learned, could be for anything, including good things. He studied his friend's face, and waited.
This must be one of those times. A time for good things. Good news, maybe.
Because they were here, in England's home, on this quiet day. The sun slipped through the window, picking out dust motes in the golden glow. The line of England's shoulders was easy, relaxed, and the tension he was so used to seeing in his face was... well, there was less of it. Less than Norway had become used to seeing of late. A good day, then, compared to some of the others.
This war had aged them in ways differently from the others they had been through, so many conflicts over the years. Norway recalled the strands of grey hair he had found upon looking in the mirror the other day. The faint lines he had seen on his face, the ones he had thought at first were a trick of the light, but weren't. England, too, was looking haggard.
All of this has taken its toll on both of them.
But today was... calm.
So, Norway waited. Finally, the words came. Light, cheerful, as if it was no matter at all.
"The ship came in from your brother's place without any complications."
"Aye, so I heard." This was not news. He had been informed of it earlier that day. But there must be something else, Norway thought, must be more to it, as England wouldn't mention it if there weren't a reason.
England set his mug down and slipped his hand into his pocket. "Yes. I've a letter for you. Strictly personal, of course."
As if we would be talking like this if it were something important, Norway thought. No, if it were something important, they would not be talking about it over tea in the library. A more secure location would be necessary. But that didn't matter.
It was more than enough that there was a letter at all.
He kept back his excitement. Shoved it down as he reached out to take the letter England offered him. His face was as carefully composed as he could make it, which was very composed indeed. Surely England would have understood the joy he felt at having some word from Iceland, some news, but it wasn't for him to know. It wasn't something for him to see.
Maybe he understood, anyway.
Norway ran his thumb along the envelope's flap. It showed no sign of tampering, but that didn't mean that England hadn't opened it. Should he even ask? "I'm guessing that you read it," he said quietly, lifting his gaze to him again as he slipped the letter into his pocket for safekeeping.
England cleared his throat. Spread his hands. At least he had the decency to look sheepish. "Come, now. I'm sure you understand how it is -"
"Don't worry on it." A nod. A lifted hand. Say no more, the gesture said. Of course he knew.
It didn't matter, anyway. Iceland would know better than to send anything confidential by post.
"If you want to reply, you'll have to do it soon," England said. "I'll need it by tomorrow, to be precise."
"That's fine," Norway said.
Unusual times called for unusual measures, and that included things like not getting fussed about having to write your personal letters in a hurry, or the chance of someone reading your mail. Someone who, only a century and a half ago, had been your enemy.
Someone who now, after everything, was an ally. And a friend – perhaps. In a way.
"Speaking of brothers," England continued, his tone light and a tad too nonchalant, "I have been having a word with one of mine. He said he's looking forward to seeing you again."
Norway knew that England had more than one brother.
He also knew he didn't have to ask which one he meant.
Scotland, he thought. The Shetland operations would continue when the seasons turned. "Good. I'll see him again in a few months, I reckon..."
It was strange to think of the cold winter nights waiting for him, working silently, transporting people under the cover of complete darkness. The chill of the black, icy sea was nothing like England's home, where his host offered a comfortable bed and carefully-rationed hot drinks, and the danger came not from the water, but from above.
If Norway could not be in his own home, he could at least do what he did best.
Navigating the water between them felt as natural now as it had been years ago, when Norway sailed the sea as if it belonged to him, raiding England's shores. But the risks now were much higher than they had been then, much greater than he ever could have dreamed.
Soon. He would be on that boat again soon.
The rest of their talk was light. Comfortable, even, or it could have been, under better circumstances. They spoke of books, of the things Norway had read since coming here. When northern summer nights made clandestine sea crossings impossible, and staying with England left him restless, at the very least Norway could retreat into his friend's library.
Iceland's letter rested in his pocket. Norway knew that before long, it would be creased over and over, read a million times. He knew that it would say nothing. That Iceland would talk, perhaps, of the weather, and of fishing, and of sheep.
And maybe more. In the last, Iceland had said, writing in a way that told that he was trying far too hard to be casual, that America was teaching him to dance.
Norway thought about it. Tried to imagine it. Couldn't. The thought was enough to make him laugh. So he dipped his head, and drank his tea, and hid his smile in his mug so his host – his friend – wouldn't see it.
It was impossible to be sure what tomorrow would bring. But he would have that letter. And even if the tide turned, it was easy to know what they would do:
Sit down. Have a cup of tea.
Go forward.
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: England & Norway
Rating: 0+
Length: 1.2k
Summary: These are hard times, but there are still quiet moments, and those moments call for a cup of tea. Gen, set during WWII.
Other: Written for the Silver Linings Hetalia charity zine.
Many thanks go to Qichi for helping me beat this thing into shape. <3
One Cup of Tea
"Here," England said. "Have some tea."
Norway had come to know that when England offered a cup, it was best to accept it. "Thanks," he said, and took a long breath as it was poured, his mug filled with a hot drink so weak that only two years ago England would have blushed at the thought of serving it.
Hard times, indeed.
They said nothing for a while, sitting there in England's library, on an afternoon that had so far proven to be unusually slow and calm. Norway cupped the mug in his hands and enjoyed the silence.
Over the course of his stay with England, Norway had come to understand that the point was not tea. Not exactly. Not tea in itself.
The point was warmth in the hands and in the gut. Take a moment. Ground yourself. Talk with someone, perhaps, about anything. Anything at all. The subject at hand, or something else altogether. Or just enjoy the company.
He knew England by now. That was how it was with him.
Norway watched him. Brought his mug to his lips and waited. Tea, he had learned, could be for anything, including good things. He studied his friend's face, and waited.
This must be one of those times. A time for good things. Good news, maybe.
Because they were here, in England's home, on this quiet day. The sun slipped through the window, picking out dust motes in the golden glow. The line of England's shoulders was easy, relaxed, and the tension he was so used to seeing in his face was... well, there was less of it. Less than Norway had become used to seeing of late. A good day, then, compared to some of the others.
This war had aged them in ways differently from the others they had been through, so many conflicts over the years. Norway recalled the strands of grey hair he had found upon looking in the mirror the other day. The faint lines he had seen on his face, the ones he had thought at first were a trick of the light, but weren't. England, too, was looking haggard.
All of this has taken its toll on both of them.
But today was... calm.
So, Norway waited. Finally, the words came. Light, cheerful, as if it was no matter at all.
"The ship came in from your brother's place without any complications."
"Aye, so I heard." This was not news. He had been informed of it earlier that day. But there must be something else, Norway thought, must be more to it, as England wouldn't mention it if there weren't a reason.
England set his mug down and slipped his hand into his pocket. "Yes. I've a letter for you. Strictly personal, of course."
As if we would be talking like this if it were something important, Norway thought. No, if it were something important, they would not be talking about it over tea in the library. A more secure location would be necessary. But that didn't matter.
It was more than enough that there was a letter at all.
He kept back his excitement. Shoved it down as he reached out to take the letter England offered him. His face was as carefully composed as he could make it, which was very composed indeed. Surely England would have understood the joy he felt at having some word from Iceland, some news, but it wasn't for him to know. It wasn't something for him to see.
Maybe he understood, anyway.
Norway ran his thumb along the envelope's flap. It showed no sign of tampering, but that didn't mean that England hadn't opened it. Should he even ask? "I'm guessing that you read it," he said quietly, lifting his gaze to him again as he slipped the letter into his pocket for safekeeping.
England cleared his throat. Spread his hands. At least he had the decency to look sheepish. "Come, now. I'm sure you understand how it is -"
"Don't worry on it." A nod. A lifted hand. Say no more, the gesture said. Of course he knew.
It didn't matter, anyway. Iceland would know better than to send anything confidential by post.
"If you want to reply, you'll have to do it soon," England said. "I'll need it by tomorrow, to be precise."
"That's fine," Norway said.
Unusual times called for unusual measures, and that included things like not getting fussed about having to write your personal letters in a hurry, or the chance of someone reading your mail. Someone who, only a century and a half ago, had been your enemy.
Someone who now, after everything, was an ally. And a friend – perhaps. In a way.
"Speaking of brothers," England continued, his tone light and a tad too nonchalant, "I have been having a word with one of mine. He said he's looking forward to seeing you again."
Norway knew that England had more than one brother.
He also knew he didn't have to ask which one he meant.
Scotland, he thought. The Shetland operations would continue when the seasons turned. "Good. I'll see him again in a few months, I reckon..."
It was strange to think of the cold winter nights waiting for him, working silently, transporting people under the cover of complete darkness. The chill of the black, icy sea was nothing like England's home, where his host offered a comfortable bed and carefully-rationed hot drinks, and the danger came not from the water, but from above.
If Norway could not be in his own home, he could at least do what he did best.
Navigating the water between them felt as natural now as it had been years ago, when Norway sailed the sea as if it belonged to him, raiding England's shores. But the risks now were much higher than they had been then, much greater than he ever could have dreamed.
Soon. He would be on that boat again soon.
The rest of their talk was light. Comfortable, even, or it could have been, under better circumstances. They spoke of books, of the things Norway had read since coming here. When northern summer nights made clandestine sea crossings impossible, and staying with England left him restless, at the very least Norway could retreat into his friend's library.
Iceland's letter rested in his pocket. Norway knew that before long, it would be creased over and over, read a million times. He knew that it would say nothing. That Iceland would talk, perhaps, of the weather, and of fishing, and of sheep.
And maybe more. In the last, Iceland had said, writing in a way that told that he was trying far too hard to be casual, that America was teaching him to dance.
Norway thought about it. Tried to imagine it. Couldn't. The thought was enough to make him laugh. So he dipped his head, and drank his tea, and hid his smile in his mug so his host – his friend – wouldn't see it.
It was impossible to be sure what tomorrow would bring. But he would have that letter. And even if the tide turned, it was easy to know what they would do:
Sit down. Have a cup of tea.
Go forward.
