[fanfic] První Máj
Jul. 24th, 2019 01:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gringofiedTitle: První Máj
Characters: Czech Republic, Slovakia
Pairing: CzeSlo/Velvet Pair
Pairing: CzeSlo/Velvet Pair
Warning: Possible post-divorce feels.
Summary: It’s said that if a couple kiss under a cherry tree on the first of May, their relationship will be a happy one. Or; Czechia and Slovakia meet again under a cherry tree.
[AO3]
[AO3]
---
On the first of May, he meets her under a cherry tree between Zlín and Trenčín, blooming at the old chata situated in the crossing that makes their border—
(It wasn’t there two years ago, the border; but it’s nineteen-ninety-five now, and they’re still trying to get used to the twenty-five-eighteen-hundred-meter line that marks their divide.)
“I didn’t think you would be here,” he notes in half amusement, half curiosity, and the partial implications of stirrings less obvious to the eye. “You haven’t been, not for a while.”
(Not since the years leading up to their divorce.)
She doesn’t immediately reply, river-blue eyes fixed upon one of the streams to the Morava running through them. When she finally does, her gaze is fixed upon the cherry tree in bloom above.
“I’m just as surprised to see you here.” A pause, a musing of statements she decides are best left unspoken. “I thought I’d spend the day after čarodějnice here. After the bonfires, I mean. I expected it to be quiet.”
A snort. “Well, I’d say you picked a very unusual choice if peace and quiet is what you’re after.”
“Oh hush, you. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“But did you want to?”
She does not respond.
He sits beside her, as he had done in nineteen-eighty-nine when November seemed much further from the first of May; in the spring air and fervor about them she seemed so beautiful, and he leaned in to kiss her beneath the cherry tree’s bloom—
(It’s said that if a couple kiss under a cherry tree on the first of May, their relationship will be a happy one.
A superstition, of course; but they liked to believe in its magic, at the time.)
“Regardless… I’m still glad to see you, here,” he muses quietly, and for a brief moment—as he looks upon her like he once did—he thinks she’s still very beautiful, and a pang in his heart bubbles up his throat but never finds its means of escape.
He doesn’t move to kiss her, this time.
Instead he remains still as her head falls to his direction, and river-blue meets wheat-brown; silence moves like the weight of nineteen-eighty-nine’s passage into nineteen-ninety-three, swift yet lingering all at once.
Eventually, she clears her throat to break the silence.
“… perhaps if you miss me so much, I should consider coming back next year, then?” She’s teasing of course, as he knows well from her by now. It catches him off-guard at first in the moment, but he returns with a similar cheekiness blooming upon his lips.
“Who said anything about me missing you?”
(He did, does very much so.)
Beneath the cherry tree’s bloom, they watch the streams connecting to the Morava that runs through them; past borders, past the twenty-five-eighteen-hundred-meter line that marks their divide; apart, but beside each other.
---
Some notes:
Written for APH Rare Pair Week 2019; the prompt is 'magic', but superstition works just as well, right?
In the Czech Republic, the first of May is traditionally considered a day for lovers. Usually the belief is that girls who aren't kissed on the first of May under a tree run the risk of 'drying out', but I've seen a few sources say it could just generally mean happiness as well. (I could be wrong, but gestures) Cherry trees in bloom are usually the standard, but birch trees are also common.
Zlín is a Czech province that borders Trenčín, a Slovak province.
The Morava river runs through (mainly) Czechia and Slovakia, as well as Lower Austria. It's the main river of Moravia, hence the name.
Walpurgis Night, or 'pálení čarodějnic', is also observed in the Czech Republic as well. The bonfires are to ward off evil spirits.
1989 Was the Velvet Revolution, which eventually saw the transition of power from the Communist party to a parliamentary democracy.
1993 was the dissolution of Czechoslovakia, which saw the state split into two independent countries-- the Czech Republic and Slovakia, respectively. It's occasionally called the Velvet Divorce due to how bloodless and relatively peaceful the separation was.
The title is a reference from the poem 'Máj' by Karel Hynek Mácha.
(It wasn’t there two years ago, the border; but it’s nineteen-ninety-five now, and they’re still trying to get used to the twenty-five-eighteen-hundred-meter line that marks their divide.)
“I didn’t think you would be here,” he notes in half amusement, half curiosity, and the partial implications of stirrings less obvious to the eye. “You haven’t been, not for a while.”
(Not since the years leading up to their divorce.)
She doesn’t immediately reply, river-blue eyes fixed upon one of the streams to the Morava running through them. When she finally does, her gaze is fixed upon the cherry tree in bloom above.
“I’m just as surprised to see you here.” A pause, a musing of statements she decides are best left unspoken. “I thought I’d spend the day after čarodějnice here. After the bonfires, I mean. I expected it to be quiet.”
A snort. “Well, I’d say you picked a very unusual choice if peace and quiet is what you’re after.”
“Oh hush, you. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“But did you want to?”
She does not respond.
He sits beside her, as he had done in nineteen-eighty-nine when November seemed much further from the first of May; in the spring air and fervor about them she seemed so beautiful, and he leaned in to kiss her beneath the cherry tree’s bloom—
(It’s said that if a couple kiss under a cherry tree on the first of May, their relationship will be a happy one.
A superstition, of course; but they liked to believe in its magic, at the time.)
“Regardless… I’m still glad to see you, here,” he muses quietly, and for a brief moment—as he looks upon her like he once did—he thinks she’s still very beautiful, and a pang in his heart bubbles up his throat but never finds its means of escape.
He doesn’t move to kiss her, this time.
Instead he remains still as her head falls to his direction, and river-blue meets wheat-brown; silence moves like the weight of nineteen-eighty-nine’s passage into nineteen-ninety-three, swift yet lingering all at once.
Eventually, she clears her throat to break the silence.
“… perhaps if you miss me so much, I should consider coming back next year, then?” She’s teasing of course, as he knows well from her by now. It catches him off-guard at first in the moment, but he returns with a similar cheekiness blooming upon his lips.
“Who said anything about me missing you?”
(He did, does very much so.)
Beneath the cherry tree’s bloom, they watch the streams connecting to the Morava that runs through them; past borders, past the twenty-five-eighteen-hundred-meter line that marks their divide; apart, but beside each other.
---
Some notes:
Written for APH Rare Pair Week 2019; the prompt is 'magic', but superstition works just as well, right?
In the Czech Republic, the first of May is traditionally considered a day for lovers. Usually the belief is that girls who aren't kissed on the first of May under a tree run the risk of 'drying out', but I've seen a few sources say it could just generally mean happiness as well. (I could be wrong, but gestures) Cherry trees in bloom are usually the standard, but birch trees are also common.
Zlín is a Czech province that borders Trenčín, a Slovak province.
The Morava river runs through (mainly) Czechia and Slovakia, as well as Lower Austria. It's the main river of Moravia, hence the name.
Walpurgis Night, or 'pálení čarodějnic', is also observed in the Czech Republic as well. The bonfires are to ward off evil spirits.
1989 Was the Velvet Revolution, which eventually saw the transition of power from the Communist party to a parliamentary democracy.
1993 was the dissolution of Czechoslovakia, which saw the state split into two independent countries-- the Czech Republic and Slovakia, respectively. It's occasionally called the Velvet Divorce due to how bloodless and relatively peaceful the separation was.
The title is a reference from the poem 'Máj' by Karel Hynek Mácha.
