Embers

Embers [RoBul]

[ 6 March. Split, Croatia ]

Romania was cold, but he didn't particularly care. He liked standing in the ocean, especially when he got the weird looks he was currently getting. His pants were rolled up to his knees, his boots discarded higher on the beach. There was still some snow on the ground but Romania could not wait for summer. He was, despite all stereotypes about vampires and those who look like them, a warm-weather lie-in-the-sun kind of guy. Well, that wasn't totally accurate. He only liked lying in the sun when it was coming in through a window. He just preferred to be as warm as possible, most of the time. Except for when he stuck his toes in the sand in early March.

Romania gave up trying to figure himself out a long time ago. Labels, he found, had a habit of peeling off him. He kept trying to justify his actions but his justifications made no sense whatsoever about 90% of the time. Whatever. He was okay with that. He'd lived with himself for a very long time. He'd gotten used to his own odd sense of humor, his weird cravings and his crazy mood swings. Others hadn't.

Like Serbia, for example. Or Hungary—damn her to hell for all of eternity, don't swear Romania, you're trying to set an example for Moldova—or Russia, the Ottoman Empire. With one prominent exception.

Bulgaria. Romania's pulse quickened. He started walking up and down the beach—well, he wasn't going far yet but that was his end goal—enjoying the feeling of the saltwater against his skin. Anything to get Bulgaria out of his mind. He had gone so far as to stop buying yogurt to get him out of his head. He was another one of Romania's crazy cravings, those things he needed to see or do or—whoops, that came out dirtier than Romania meant it to—something. Sort of like his need to piss off Croatia by scaring people away from a popular tourist destination. Another justification for his current madness.

I'm off my rocker and I don't care
I'm off my rocker and I don't care
I'm off my rocker and I don't care
I'm away on vaca—tion!

He was whistling now.

But of course, he wasn't alone on this vacation. Someone else was here, someone with beautiful green eyes and an intoxicating laugh and—Romania, what is an intoxicating laugh? That's just stupid—dark brown hair, almost black that Romania wanted nothing more than to run his fingers through. He was a fool and he knew it, so he kept walking. He was almost to the end of the beach when he remembered he had left his boots without supervision. He turned around quickly and sloshed through the water in a rather ridiculous fashion towards them. They were still there, of course, but Romania had just realized something. He didn't have a towel. He dug through his pockets for his phone and, thankful he paid for international service, dialed Bulgaria.

"Hello, this is Bulgaria. Who is this?"

"Didn't you add me to your contacts? You should already know who you're talking to."

"Hello, Romania." A sigh. "What is it this time?"

"I—um, well, forgot my towel."

"Towel?" Bulgaria laughed and, despite how stupid it sounded, his laugh was intoxicating, goddamnit. Whoops! No internal monologue swearing, Romania. "What could you possibly—I don't want to know. Where are you?"

"The beach."

"In the name of all that is good and holy, Romania, what—"

Romania was about to learn why you never turn your back on the ocean. When he sat up a few moments later, he had sand all over his beautiful coat, in his hair, on his face, and he was dripping wet. His phone was waterproof, thank goodness. He rescued it and said, "There was a wave."