Author's Note: Another un-anonned from the Hetalia Kink Meme. This one has been slightly edited to fit the terms on this site, but the full version can be found on my lj. The request was for Poland/Lithuania; five time Lithuania realized he was in love with Poland.

If countries being personified bothers you, GIVE THIS A MISS.

Five More

I.

It was there the very first time the boy had stumbled from the wilderness, wide-eyed and bewildered: the golden stalks of rye, the neatly tended garden, the little pond surrounded with glossy red flowers. He had come to the top of the grassy rise, stood stock-still and stared, captivated with the vision. It was a peaceful thing, this little house, a thing that he later would think should be a painting; but he was still new, and his people had not yet painted anything, and so Lithuania did nothing more than trace the lines of it with his eyes, drink in the novelty of it all.

The sun crept away in time, what little daylight had remained stolen by idle fascination- and when at last night fell, the chill fingers of autumn wrapping themselves around the boy, he did not heed the cold but remained where he stood. Because now, against the darkness of the sky, light was beginning to blossom in the windows. It was warm and welcoming, the flickering yellow glow of flame, and it occurred to the child in a marveling, enchanted sort of way that there must be someone inside. Someone must have caused it.

Lithuania stayed until his nose and cheeks stung with the cold; he stayed until the wind had ruffled overlong brown hair into something artless and wild. He stayed until he should have turned around to go back to where he belonged, to that lovely place he felt was his own- but there was no house there, not yet, and there would not be any warmth to greet him.

It was not until the moon had risen, lifting fat and round and orange into the sky, that the child at last turned reluctantly to leave. Movement caught the corner of his eye, however, as he made to go, and Lithuania glanced back to the widest window in time to see the boy that passed before it. The little blonde was a graceful thing, all silken hair and careful clothing; he was singing, perhaps, or laughing, for his lips were curved up in a smile, moving softly.

In the darkness, Lithuania gasped a breath in, tasting the cold night air.

Tomorrow, he promised himself. He would come again tomorrow.

II.

Lithuania did not know yet where the spices were kept in the pantry- or perhaps it was simply that Poland had no set place for anything at all.

He could never find the salt, or the cheese cloth, or the good knife, and he had searched half an hour last week for a bowl big enough to mix in, giving up in the end and settling for two smaller ones, instead. He kept forgetting that here the šakotis was sękacz, the blynai were bliny, and koldūnai were pierogi- and the number of times the headstrong little blonde had corrected him carelessly, helping himself to the food no matter which name it was given, had begun to wear thin on reserves of patience that usually ran still and deep.

For now, however, the trial that cooking had become was over. The soup had been set to hang above an open fire, its contents beginning to bubble as the heavy pot heated, and the brunette was free to turn to the wide basket he'd left waiting by the door. He lifted it familiarly, tucked it under one arm, and made his way through the house to haul the blankets off the bed, retrieving Poland's rumpled clothes from the pile he'd made of them in the corner. It was not until he'd finished, basket full and heavy, the heap of cloth high enough to obscure his vision, that he spotted it: a pair of the blonde's prized stockings, somehow fallen behind the high-backed old chair along the wall.

Lithuania bent to retrieve them without thinking, his hurry to finish before the soup was ready making him hasty, and the angle was all wrong; before he could get his other hand up to catch it, he felt the wash-basket tipping, saw the topmost shirt begin to slide.

And then pale hands were on his own, were pushing the basket back into his arms and saving him the spill. "You are, like, so clumsy today, Liet," Poland told him, and a narrow grin danced across the blonde's lips. There was something smug in those vibrant green eyes, something triumphant, something amused.

Lithuania took a long breath in, let it out as a sigh that was more put-upon than he'd meant it to be. "Oh, honestly, Poland. It's your turn to do the washing up, anyway. If you can't-"

From around the pile of laundry, there appeared a laughing face. Impish, it darted in to peck a kiss to the tip of his nose before pulling back, and the protest that had seemed so important mere moments before vanished from Lithuania's mind. "Tomorrow," Poland was saying. "I'll, like, totally help with everything, I swear."

Perhaps it was honest- or perhaps the little blonde had simply learned the best way to avoid his share of the chores. Whichever the case, however, his partner followed him to the front door, holding it open so that Lithuania could wrestle the overflowing basket outside. And when he reached the stream, toeing off his boots so that he could step into the cold, clear water to do the washing, he found that perhaps he did not mind so much about the kitchen, after all.

III.

They did not make it as far as the bedroom; the last of the armor came off when fumbling fingers loosened straps far too difficult for the occasion, fell to the floor before the hearth with a clang.

For once, Lithuania did not pause to pick it up, did not insist that they polish away the filth of battle and return it immediately to its rightful place. He was too busy rediscovering the body that had been shielded by it, hurrying on with open-mouthed kisses and shaking hands, the actions desperate and demanding both at once.

Poland laughed at the brunette's haste when he began to strip the other boy's pants away- laughed although the garments tangled between their knees. For Lithuania, in his hurry, had not wanted to part for long enough to do it properly, had not wanted his mouth to leave off the wet trail it was busily making down his partner's pale chest. The laughter was a gentle vibration against his lips, when it came, and Poland swatted him away affectionately, wriggling out of the clothing with the sinuous grace of a cat.

"God, Liet, slow down or something." Those upturned lips reached up to catch his own, and Lithuania moaned into the kiss, already needing, needing, needing this more than he ever had before. "We're not, like, going anywhere."

"Poland," came the warning, in a voice strangely hoarse, strangely choked. "Don't- don't say that. Not today."

But Poland only laughed again when the brunette leaned down to continue his sloppy kisses, laughed as Lithuania's mouth mapped a trail down his abdomen and moved onward without pausing. It was a sultry sound, that laughter- part amusement and part arousal- and Poland reached to thread his fingers through battle-tangled hair.

But all that Lithuania could see, as he bent to turn his attentions to where his partner wanted them most, was the way the sunlight had glinted off the sword blade that afternoon, the way the metal had looked pressed against Poland's throat.

It felt like a premonition.

IV.

He awoke to cold, and Lithuania's first thought, before his brain struggled fully to consciousness, was that perhaps he could convince Poland to stoke the fire. Something was screaming along his shoulder blades, a hurt sharp and unfading, and he was surprised in a distant, not-fully-awake sort of way by the fact that he was shaking, a deep and persistent trembling that ran all along his limbs.

"Poland," he said, and the word came out cracked and uncertain, in a voice so near to gone that he did not recognize it as his own. "H-has the fire gone out?" The brunette paused, darted his tongue out to lick at his lips. "It's so cold."

No answer came; nothing met his ears but the ragged sound of his own breathing.

It was not until Lithuania had found the strength to lift his head once more that he recalled. Not until he stared uncomprehending about this room devoid of Poland's clothes, Poland's furniture, Poland's ridiculous sense of décor, that the memories drifted back to him in snatches: unwise words spoken when they should not have been; a childish smile giving way to stormy violet eyes; the stone of the floor immediately before his eyes, in sharp focus as the whip came down again, and again, and again, long after he'd fallen.

Lithuania closed his eyes against the sting that tried to prickle at the corners of them, swallowed hard against the lump in a throat ravaged by screaming. "Poland," he said again, so quietly the name was scarce a breath of air.

"Poland, could you make up the fire?"

V.

It had been put off for as long as Lithuania dared; already, he imagined that there was something like rebuke in Poland's eyes each time he shied away, each time another excuse joined the increasingly implausible collection of them. And he had promised himself this, promised himself today, for if not now, on the anniversary of his independence, he was afraid he might never gather the courage at all.

But it was one thing to make a pledge in private and quite another to feel his heart skip a beat as Poland's hands pulled up the cloth of his shirt. Quite another to feel the tension settle like an impossible weight upon his shoulders and along his spine. He waited for the moment in the way that a condemned man anticipates the headman's axe- flinched from the feel of the blonde's palms on his back and the knowledge of what was beneath them.

The world shuddered to a stop. Lithuania held his breath and closed his eyes, not ready to see the expression that he was sure would be dawning over his partner's face.

For an endless moment, there was no sound. The heavy tang of dread was bitter in Lithuania's mouth, and when at last there came the soft rustle of fabric as Poland moved, there was an instant in which it felt as though his throat and chest and heart were being crushed, an instant when he was certain, certain that the blonde was walking toward the door.

The touch startled him back from his private nightmare- a touch so soft that he could scarce feel it through the pale, thick flesh of the scars. And then his eyes were flying wide, mouth opening to ask a question that would not come; he was twisting round to stare at Poland, half a dozen different reactions warring to show themselves upon his face.

"What?" Poland wrinkled his nose, gave his head a shake. "You thought it would, like, scare me off or something?" The little blonde- his lover, his partner, his childhood friend- smiled a rueful smile, and in those half-lidded eyes there was something tender. "You can be way dumb sometimes, you know that?"

And Poland leaned forward to scatter kisses over the marks that history had left upon them.

Historical note: Part 1 takes part between 966- the founding of the Polish state- and 1253, the founding of the Lithuanian one. Poland has corn poppies growing in his yard because they're a flower important to him, culturally- even if the song that caused that link didn't happen until WWII-ish. Anachronism ftw! Part 2 takes place directly after the forming of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. Part 3 is after the Battle of Tannenburg. Part 4 takes place immediately following the Partitions of Poland; poor Liet's not used to living with Russia, yet. And finally, part 5 takes place in 1991, one year after Lithuania declared independence.