Note from Catskid100- I actually really REALLY liked this. There was a lot of feeling in it and the end made me feel warm and fuzzy. And When I recived it, the swears were *'s so I decided to keep them there and leave what they say to your imagination. Though they're pretty self explainitory.
Enjoy! And review kindly!
Title - Mapping
Author - Esso
Rating - T
Genre - Romance/Drama (?)
Pairing - Bel/Sea, implied others
Disclaimer - I disclaim.
There are eleven time zones in Russia, and I want to let my fingers slide across skin and explore them all.
I have copied the capitalist and have made maps like narcissism, but they are only of Him. Look, I capitalized the pronoun referring to Him. Cliché.
I surround myself in maps ragged from when I chopped them off. I've hung Him around my room as my own subtle **, because it would be strange to have pictures of Him as a man burying me as I sleep.
It's not a literal burial, of course. I'm not obsessed.
He is shaped so nicely, I have learned, even though it was something I already knew. I have always known He was beautiful. I look at the maps on my walls and all I want is to feel skin. Some of them are ripped because at times I think that if I claw hard enough, I will feel Him.
I asked Elizaveta what skin feels like and she thought I was crazy. I think she was correct.
A little boy is at the meetings, sitting outside and telling me to acknowledge the mighty Sealand.
"You are not on my maps," I tell him one day in order to shut him up. Instead, he stares in awe.
"Hey! You talked to me!" He is happy and it irks me.
"Yes. You need to stop talking. You are a nuisance."
"You sound just like that jerk England!" he pouts.
I turn away, because He will be out in two-point-three-seven minutes after talking to Lithuania and I must not be late. But the boy disagrees.
"Hey! I'm sorry if I made you mad! Come back! I want to talk to you!"
I ignore him. He is no one but a boy. He isn't even
on a map.
The next time I see him, he hands me a piece of paper covered in crayon scrawls. It is a crude map of "Jerk England" and "Uncle Nor" and "Dad" and "Mom". In between "Jerk England" and "Uncle Nor" is a phrase in huge letters: ME – THE MIGHTY SEALAND.
I give the paper back to him. He stares at how I hold it in my hands. "Keep it," he says, pressing my hands back. His are warm and sweaty, child hands. "Don't forget the mighty Sealand."
"I couldn't," I say. "You wrote much too big."
England is trying to teach me what skin feels like. He is the best ** I've had in a while, even though he is still new to this. I think he misses his capitalist. I do not mind how he screams the pig's name when he comes, because I am screaming His name even louder.
I don't look at him as I slide my clothes back on. I know what he is doing. It is always the same – he lies on his bed and breathes heavily, as if I have worn him out. I never bother to look anymore, so I simply clothe myself and leave without a word.
I am not sure when this started, but it was around the time when the pig and He decided to stop their staring contest and take out their tensions in bed. England definitely became more violent after they started holding hands in public and functioning as some form of couple.
But England is only measured in two time zones, and those are no fun to map on skin.
Sometimes, the eyebrows boy from the meetings is standing on England's porch as I leave. I never acknowledge him.
"Hey!" he says once, grabbing onto my coat. "You're Belarus, right?" I don't even bother to nod. "Do you remember me? I'm Sealand, the one who gave you a map!"
"The world is much bigger," I say, because I know that the world is eleven time zones large.
It's Friday and I'm in London, so I call England and tell his answering machine that I'm coming over. The taxi takes too long, so I get out at an intersection and walk.
When I get to his door, the map boy is there, sitting on the steps.
"Hi!" he says, waving. "Why are you here?"
"Where is England?"
My ignoring him does not faze the boy. "I don't know. Why do you need him?"
"I'm lonely and I need a body to **."
He looks confused. "What's '**'?"
"Sex," I say offhandedly.
"But I thought you loved Russia and the jerk loved Alfred…"
I snort. "So you think sex is only for lovers." He nods and I'm almost laughing, even though I'm not one to laugh. "You're a fool."
"Why?" He's blushing, probably due to the topic of our conversation.
"Because sometimes the one love loves another, and so you're terribly lonely and horny. So, instead of making your right hand your best friend, you find another pathetic body and you **."
"Oh…" He doesn't understand, I don't think. "Does it help?"
"Of course not."
He smiles at me as if he pities me. "Then what does?"
"Please stop talking. Where's England?"
"He's not home."
I turn to leave, since my purpose has been thus thwarted. "Miss Belarus!" he calls after me. "Don't be lonely!"
And, suddenly, I'm laughing.
I'm sitting in front of the computer, refreshing the Internet with a thin, white fleece blanket keeping my arms warm, when I get an e-mail from England. He tells me how he resents the way I told his brother about ** and how lonely he is. He also says he will not "be requiring my services" anymore.
I suppose the eyebrow kid is his brother. Too bad. England may be a nice distraction, but he is still replaceable. That's when I try to think of lonely nations and come up with nothing.
I think it should hurt, being alone, but I don't mind. I'm numb. This is simply life. It doesn't matter any longer, regardless.
I find the crayon map when I'm organizing old meeting notes. I throw it away, since I have no use for it.
As it falls upside-down, I see a phone number on the back. It belongs to the eyebrow kid, that much I can guess.
I call it on a whim, and it isn't long before I hear a certain annoying voice. "Hello?" he says.
"Belarus? Is that you?"
It's strange how we start off talking about England and end up talking about everything. He only hangs up because it's bedtime, and I suddenly remember that he is a child.
The map kid is talking about something that I stopped listening to a while ago, but that's how I like it. I've found it too hard to keep up with him, so I prefer to bury myself in the raw noise.
It is a cold day – winter – but I am used to it. Even so, I am wearing a coat while the kid is not. It is his home, though.
Da. It has taken years, but he has finally convinced me to visit.
His home is pathetic. It is a metal platform in the sea. It is so small, I can see from one end to the other. But he is only a child, so it is fitting.
Suddenly, the noise stops. The boy looks preoccupied. "Is there something wrong?" I ask. I don't sound concerned.
"Yeah…" he says. Then he looks up at me, and I force myself to see past the eyebrows and into his eyes, which are not half as bad.
That is when he steps onto a nearby crate, then leans over and kisses my cheek.
I take a step back. I feel shaken, but I do not think I look it. "I love you, Natalia," he says.
I blink. "You are a child, and I am a Nation. Wait until you are older." I do not tell him that it is because he is not He and does not have time zones to map on naked skin.
The best ** of my life has huge eyebrows. He walks into my room and stares at the tattered maps lining the walls. They are yellowing with time and I suddenly feel very old.
"Wow…" he murmurs. "I don't know if I can do this… I'll feel like he's watching us."
Good, I want to say. I want Him to see me naked. Instead, all I do is strip robotically. He is blushing as he unbuttons his simple shirt.
"You're beautiful," he says, grasping one of my shoulders in each hand. He has grown, so now he has to bend down to kiss me.
He still doesn't understand **, because instead of leaving when we're done, he tries to cuddle and whispers, "I love you, Natalia."
Absentmindedly, I trace the time zones on hhis skin as my eyes rove my walls. Amid my fantasies of Him, there is a paper drawn