Work Text:
countryside Poland, july, 1969
"You can't seriously... Ew."
"Shush, Po, go fetch me a towel."
It's rare to see Lithuania this confident, this intense. It's rare that Poland listens, but now he turns on the heel and sprints back into the house, grabbing a towel and some warm water for good measure, heart pounding. This was supposed to be a cheap and relaxing countryside holiday, he thinks wildly as he washes his hands and looks out towards to barn. But of course, as soon as the farmer and his wife head into town for the day, their sheep decides to-
He runs back out as fast as he can without spilling his bowl of water, crossing the yard and hoping Liet is fine. He's never done this before. Not even with a sheep.
Suddenly, he thinks back to the old days, when the Queen was with child. Her cries had been agonizing to them both, but where Poland had been petrified, Lithuania had been fascinated. So while Poland ran away to the stables and rode outside for a full day, chasing the sounds from his mind, Lithuania had begged his way to the Queen's chambers, where he's watched and learned, somehow braving the terrible thing Poland would not, could not, witness.
He bumps the stable doors open with his hip.
"Liet, I got you-"
And then he damn near drops all he's holding, stricken with the same terror he only faintly recalled until now.
Lithuania, bless him, turns to him with a gentle smile that fades into worry at the sight of Poland's paling cheeks.
"Po, are you all right? What's wrong?"
The poor ewe bleats shrilly in the background and Poland feels a little faint.
"Are you... Are you afraid?"
He can only nod. Lithuania stands, then, and wipes his hands on his overalls. There's understanding in his expression.
Poland halfway collapses against his shoulder, breathing in the smell of hay and sheep and soap. It takes him a minute and more to find his voice.
"I'm fine. I'll help. Let me help, please, I-"
"Come. Sit here, I'll show you."
Lithuania's eyes glitter golden honey-brown in the dim light of the barn, and Poland kneels easily in the hay, letting him take his hands. This; this is the Lithuania he fell in love with. Not the soldier on the battlefield, not the scholar in the cloister. No - The father in the barn, the gentle way with which he soothes and calms the animal and Poland alike, the tender movements of his hands.
The warm, glowing look he gives Poland when he hands him the first lamb, wrapped in the clean fluffy towel.
In the end, they sit there, kneeling in the hay, for nearly three hours. The ewe, aptly named Magdalena Konstantynówa by Poland, procures three lambs, each one healthy and round, to be washed and cared for. Lithuania lets Poland do this, telling him with a soft and low voice that it'll be okay, they're perfectly fine, you won't hurt them, I promise.
Poland only cries a little.
They wipe their hands - the smallest one will have to be bottlefed, Lithuania says, and Poland has eyes for the lamb only as they make their way inside, cradling it in his arms and feeling its warmth against his chest. He can feel Lithuania watching him, too, with that fond look perhaps, the one he wears when he thinks Poland can't see. Poland loves him for it. Pawel, the lamb, sleeps in his lap all evening.
That night, he sneaks into Lithuania's room.
They make love beneath the sheets with an aching tenderness in their hearts.
"Thank you, Lietuva," he whispers.
When, two months and a week later, Lithuania catches Poland cradling Mrs. Next-door's newborn baby, he says nothing on the matter.
He kisses Poland against the entree wall and intertwines their hands.
"Thank you, Polska."