Work Text:
somewhere in warsaw, winter
Lithuania is silent in the dreams. The entire world is silent in there, no hush of the trees above him, no soft chuckle of the water below.
Only silence.
But it's not the bad kind. Not the ugly kind, the silence that makes his head hurt, the calm before the storm (or after, the deathly silence that comes after the crashing bombs above, as everyone holds their breath and prays not my sister, not my son, not this time and God is somehow unforgiving because it always is-)
or the silence of a breath held in fear, before the hammer falls, before the world crashes and folds and falls apart-
The dreams are silent like a sleeping child. Maybe that's what he is, on the outside, to those watching in the dim light of the bunker.
A sleeping boy.
But inside the dreams, in the golden glory-light, there he is! There he comes, arms open, Lithuania, laughing,
'polska, my lovely, what took you so long?'
And Poland can't hear him, but it's there, in the curve of his mouth and the sweetness of his silence.
And Poland can only smile and cry and pray.
Inside the cotton-white silence, Lithuania takes him into his arms and kisses his brow, takes his hands and oh they are healed, they are pale and alive, fingers soft and unhurt as Lithuania kisses each one reverently. The halo around his head - the sun, perhaps, from behind and above and below, blinding him but Poland doesn't close his eyes because it doesn't hurt. Nothing hurts in the dreams.
And Lithuania lowers him down into blankets and goose-feather pillows, into tall grass and into warmth, and covers Poland's tired body with his own.
'what took you? i missed you, i waited here'
Poland laughs and cries and can only clutch at his shoulders, at strong and broad Lithuania kissing away sorrow and pain. It's golden and white and Heaven, right here in the dream, kissing and touching and silent laughter, Lithuania's breath on his neck, moving slowly as if underwater. Shrouded in a shimmering light, he is overtaken, drowning, gasping for air-
'hush, polska, lie back. you've been brave. you're so brave...'
Lithuania tells him this, over and over, in his soft silence-voice, hands at his waist intertwining with Poland's fingers in his hair all over, everywhere, all at once and he's so warm, like the fire in the hearth, the candle before his eyes. He's so warm. It's so warm here, in the sunlight beneath the swaying birch trees - their leaves rustle but there is no breeze. He holds and is held and it's blissful oblivion. Poland doesn't hear himself call his name, but knows he did anyway, lips parted around a single breath of completion.
He knows the dream is ending when Lithuania kisses the crown of his head and stands, draped in a tunic of homely golden brown. He says nothing and leaves.
It's very cold when Poland awakes, and the smell on his clothes isn't rye but ash, and Lithuania is intangibly gone.
The sirens start up again in the distance.