literature

Instants

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~Instants~

“Smile!”

Of course, Berwald didn’t really smile. He sat there awkwardly trying to form a positive expression for the camera, but it ended up looking like something out of a bad comedy sketch. Everything down to the lighting, ambience, and food was perfect: Berwald’s clothes were a grunge grayish blue to fit in with the soft beige and marine colors of the tablecloth. It was only his face that ruined the composition—or perhaps it gave the picture the last boost of flavor it needed to add Tino’s bubbly eccentric charm.

Emil, who was normally isolated from the other nations, was starting to catch on Tino’s new hobby: trying national recipes and taking photos of finished dishes with Berwald somewhere in the frame. He always thought the mainlanders were a bit strange—or perhaps it was the other way around? He did live farther up north away from the rest of the world, so it was probably natural that he would find even the trendiest of things strange at first. Whatever makes him happy, he supposed.

It wasn’t too long ago—roughly four days to be exact—that Tino personally came over to Emil’s house to ask for a cookbook on Icelandic cuisine. Emil remembered visiting a restaurant that served some of the more “fancier” Icelandic cuisine and being personally given a copy of a cookbook by one of the chefs. North: The New Nordic Cuisine of Iceland so it was called. The book held a number of interesting recipes with an authentic Icelandic twist, but Emil had never tried any of the recipes, seeing as how the portions in the cookbook were undoubtedly small and a little too fancy for his tastes; so he was eager to lend Tino the cookbook and see what he could do with it.

“If he puts his mind to something and focuses, he can really pull through,” is what Eduard mentioned once, and pull through he was trying.

Somewhere in the kitchen in the residential addition to Berwald’s workshop, Tino was hard at work trying to pull together the ingredients for the said Icelandic recipe. Many of the ingredients were not readily available in Berwald’s kitchen: spiced rhubarb sugar crystals, pink Himalayan salt, and pistachio powder. While certainly creatable from scratch, Tino had to venture into the “deep ends” of the supermarkets to find the ingredients needed. He was certain pink Himalayan salt wasn’t authentically Icelandic, but if that’s what the recipe called for, then that’s what the recipe would get.

“The salt’s all the same,” Arthur commented when paying a visit. For reasons here and there, he had to check up with Peter on some affairs. In the meantime, Tino had worked up the courage to ask him for a cookbook on English cuisine. Everyone had wished him well. “The only reason the salt’s pink is because of the mineral deposits in the surrounding area. The chemical composite is exactly the same as any old table salt, more or less.”

“But if it is the same as table salt, then why is it pink?” Tino countered.

“E-Eh…Just something to do with the atmosphere of the Himalayas, I’d assume,” Arthur said, trying to sound as intelligent and well-spoken as possible. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to speak with Peter about some things.” He promptly exited the kitchen, leaving Tino with a need to justify how unique pink Himalayan salt was.

“Berwald!” he called into the workshop, as he was more likely than not to be there. “I want to talk to you!”  

The sturdy silent nation didn’t respond as Tino marched inside his workshop. He was too busy trying to drill a new design in a bedframe. Being that the order called for a traditional style, he was taking his time with the swirls and flowers. If he was listening to Tino, he made no attempts to voice his opinion.

“Just now, Arthur was telling me that Himalayan salt—the pink kind—was just the same as any other table salt. Did you know how far I had to drive to find a store that sold that stuff?” Berwald didn’t say anything, so he continued with his answer. “Seventy minutes! And I will tell you, there is nothing quite like it. Not only is it pink, but it has other minerals that make it a little sweeter. So Arthur’s wrong. It’s not just those basic chemical components that make it different.” He sighed. “Eduard would know what I was talking about. He’s smart with these kinds of things. But you agree with me, don’t you? The taste of every kind of salt is a little different. Even sea salt is different in texture and taste, and the ocean has plenty of it. Berwald? Berwald, are you listening to me?”

Berwald just grunted a reply and continued to work.  He was taking some final measurements on the stencil he used to make sure everything was perfectly symmetrical.

Meanwhile, Tino vented on about his recent labors to make the perfect Icelandic apple and rhubarb crystal cake. “…The portions on those things are so small, Berwald. You wouldn’t believe it. I sometimes worry about Ice. I hope he gets enough to eat out there, all alone in the cold like that away from us all…Even Lukas can’t be there for him all of the time. Mathias knows him better than we do. He knows enough that Ice can get lonely, too, don’t you think so?”

“He’s a hardy kid,” Berwald subconsciously mumbled. He started up the drill and began to start on the far end. He planned on making it towards the middle and starting from the other side so the cutting would be even. As he invested his attention to his job, Tino was still talking.

“Ice is a sweet boy, but even for me, looking through all of the recipes in his book, I couldn’t say he has too much going on in his diet. The ingredients are so rare and expensive, Berwald. He doesn’t do too well with money all of the time. He needs to enjoy himself and live a little. Do you think we should invite him over to play with Peter some time?”

“Mm…” he hummed. He stopped momentarily to adjust his glasses and went back to work. He caught the part about Emil not eating a balanced diet. While he didn’t think Emil was eating the wrong foods, he thought the boy could eat a little more. Perhaps that and the lack of exercise he got was why he wasn’t as fit as Mathias or even Lukas and Tino. Just as he was about to recall the other things Tino said, something jerked the back of his drill and sent it flying straight up from the bedframe, finally coming to a rest at the edge of the woodwork.

The workshop went dead silent. Tino mouthed a voiceless “Oops” as his eyes went from the power cord to the electrical outlet. He had accidentally wandered too close to the wall and snagged his foot on the cord. That wouldn’t have been a problem since the appliances were firmly built, but the design on the bedframe was what made Berwald fall still.

Smack dab in the middle of the bedframe where a beautiful flower and leaf pattern should have been was a long gash shooting all the way across. It had dug itself so deep into the wood that it couldn’t even be sanded out and redone. Berwald would have to start all over.

“Berwald, I’m so sorry…!” Tino gasped. He didn’t know what to do. Nothing he could say or do would make anything better. He knew how long Berwald had taken trying to find the right wood and get the measurements just right. Everything was ruined. “Berwald…I’m really sorry…”

He was afraid Berwald would outright explode like a volcano after building up too much pressure. He had seen Emil do that, and it was not pretty when the quietest ones blew up.

To his shaky relief, however, Berwald put the drill back on his workbench, stood up from his stool, and placed a heavy but gentle hand on Tino’s shoulder. “D’you want to go shopping with me?” he softly asked in an almost timid voice. “I think I should get a cordless one.”

It took Tino a moment to understand what he wanted. “A cordless…? Oh! Oh, yes, yes, yes. A cordless drill. I’ll pay for it, Berwald. It’s the least I could do after, well, doing that to your work…I’m so sorry for what I did, Berwald.”

“S’okay.” He was very casual in his response. A good sign.

By the time the pair left the hardware store, Tino had returned to his jovial self and was revealing his next plans for a new dish. He had borrowed seventeen books and tried thirty-eight recipes from fourteen nations. His next country of choice was going to be the United Kingdom.

Berwald actually flinched from hearing that. “S’that what Arthur was here fer?”

“Yes! His place has lots of puddings and chocolates! I thought we’d try at least one recipe out.”

He relaxed a little. “So they’re just going to be the desserts then.”

“Of course, they are. I’m not going to try out his real main courses—yet.” Tino chuckled. “Besides, it’s not that Arthur’s house has bad cooking; it’s more along the lines of him being a bad cook. It’s as if he’s cursed to forever be bad. He tried to take some cooking classes, you know.”

Berwald nodded. Peter mentioned something about that and joked about how “ol’ Bush Brows” would never surmount to anything beyond the dishwasher in a dingy diner.

“Berwald,” Tino spoke in a sheepish voice, “you’re not still mad about the bedframe are you?”

“No. It’s just wood. I can start over.” He then added in a quieter voice, “Besides, seeing you smile isn’t something I can replace.”

Tino’s plump cheeks flushed a rosy pink when he heard him. “Oh, that’s very sweet of you! I was upset all of this time because I thought you wouldn’t forgive me. It was such a hard pattern to get right. I can’t think of any way to repay you for not getting mad. It feels as though paying for the drill wasn’t enough.” Then he had an idea. “I know! Berwald, would you like to come over to Lukas’ place with me and try a new recipe tomorrow? Ice is going to be there, too. I need to return his cookbook to him.”

“Sure,” he simply said without a moment of hesitation.

As to be expected from the workings of Lukas’ home, his place was a gateway for oddities and trouble. Mathias had invited himself over since he heard Emil was paying a visit. All five of the Nordic representatives had congregated in Lukas’ home. Peter wasn’t present since he was supposedly visiting his strange new friends overseas.

“Finny! Berwald!” Such a loud greeting voice could only come from Mathias. “Didja like the book I sent you?”

“Yes, Berwald like the food, too,” Tino replied. “Did you get the recent picture?”

“The one about the rhubarb apple cake?” Mathias pulled out his phone, a glaringly large smartphone model that made him feel self-important during international meetings. Lukas did not much care for it. “Yeah, I’ve got it saved. Ice, you’ve got it, too, right?”

Emil, who was sitting in the living room with his pet puffin, looked confused. “Save what?”

“The photo. Tino sends it to all of his friends. You’re one of his friends on SnapChat, right?”

He had to pause to process that. “SnapChat?”

Everyone else in the room looked at one another. Tino, being the most honest and eager to help next to the slightly more unreliable Mathias, explained. “SnapChat is like a little messaging system where you can send pictures with caption messages. I’m sorry, Ice. I always thought you were one of my friends. I should add you.”

Emil’s puffin grunted. “Why bother if he doesn’t have the dang app to begin with?”

“That’s right, I’m sorry,” Tino bashfully replied. “Ice, would you like me to download it on your phone?”

He didn’t look too enthusiastic. “Who else has this SnapChat thing?”

“Everyone!” Mathias beamed. “All of the cool nations have it. I get a lot of reads and favorites on my feed. Out of everyone, I get the most attention. I’m the king, after all.”

Under his breath, Lukas muttered to his brother, “By that, he means he gets the most negative attention from us.”

“Oh,” was all Emil said. “But that sounds stupid. Why would you get a separate app from messaging when you can send pictures and messages on phones already?”

“Because SnapChat deletes them after a certain period of time. They’re just like real conversations, only with pictures. But if you like something, you can save it as a favorite.”

Emil furrowed his eyebrows. “But real conversations usually have someone talking to you so their face doesn’t go away,” he pointed out. He winced when he felt a cold, clammy hand squeeze his shoulder.

“But Brother, dearest, if we’re not there to pick up calls or vice versa, you can send us a temporary message. And if it’s something embarrassing, it won’t save itself on our messages. Wouldn’t that be a nice way to contact us?”

“It’s stupid. You’ll probably end up saving everything I send you, regardless,” he stubbornly frowned, but when he saw how dejected Tino was, he tried to see things his way; Tino had gone out of his way to borrow books from so many nations, and so as not to bother people, he would do the simple act of using this so-called SnapChat system to show his friends how well he was doing—Berwald included. And it wasn’t like it was harmful. Emil never had to save any of the pictures, so perhaps it would be fine to try out the application on his phone. He was usually one step behind everyone else, anyway. Might as well catch up a little.

“Fine, I’ll get it,” he sighed, “but only if Tino’s my single contact. I don’t want any of you guys sending stupid stuff to me. You all have my number, so it’s not like you guys can’t contact me.” He was paying close attention to Mathias while he was talking.

Lukas and Mathias weren’t too keen on the condition; Berwald had little input, seeing as how his SnapChat life mainly revolved around Tino taking pictures of him. In the end, however, Emil managed to successfully download the application and receive his first testing message from Tino. It was a picture of the gang minus himself.

“I always put the timer to the ten-second mark, so you have some time to decide whether or not you want to save it,” Tino explained. “Do you want to save this one?”

Emil read the caption displayed. It was a trivial message that read, “Hanging out at Nor’s.” Simple enough. He didn’t think he needed to save it even if it was his first ever message.

“So now you know how it works, Ice!” Tino smiled. “We’re going to be trying one of your brother’s butter cakes. After that, the next time you get a message, it’ll be of Berwald trying out some chocolate truffles.”

“Oh. So you’re doing a different recipe now. Where from?”

“England!” Tino answered. Lukas appeared as though he had thrown up in his mouth. Mathias and Emil looked worried.

When Emil managed to speak, he asked, “Is this recipe from Arthur’s personal collection or a professionally published cookbook?”

“You know, I’m not sure. The book looked a little old.” That was all everyone needed to hear to eagerly await the next installment in Tino’s line of SnapChats.

Sure enough, after three days give or take, Tino had completed the recipe. He didn’t make any adjustments to the recipe at all, despite raising some eyebrows about the strange calls for strong anise root and molasses, both insanely bitter and strong even for English chocolates. Ingredients were ingredients, he decided and chose to search out everything anyway. By the time the chocolate mixture had finished melting, Hanatamago refused to go into the kitchen. It was also a good thing Peter was still out and about with his friends. It shouldn’t have been possible for any sane person to handle the stench.

Fortunately for Tino and Berwald, the only residents in the house, they were both nations, and nations had a slight resistance to something so impure and unethical to cooking and culinary arts everywhere. It was no wonder the others sounded so terrified when they heard Tino tell everyone the recipe was an age-old one. Arthur must have had that handed down by his family personally. Who knows whatever gods could have led them to believe the chocolates were even edible? Poor Berwald had to find out. Mathias and Lukas would have paid a visit just to see the results, but they weren’t stupid when it came to the preservation of their sanity and livelihood. This was the antithesis of confectionary desserts in the making.

“Okay, Berwald, when you eat it, let’s see a big smile!” Tino mustered an alacritous grin. It might have had something to do with the fact that he was the one who had made the chocolates and was, therefore, more prone to the fact that the results would be undesirable—that and he had long since gotten used to the smell of boiling licorice and bitter syrup frothing in the double-boiler hours ago. Hours.

Berwald had never looked so pale. He was never good at showing his emotions, and it didn’t help when Tino was someone who was. If he could say something, he would had said he would have chosen fermented herring over this. This wasn’t chocolate. This was Arthur’s recipe. This was something Arthur had made and thought was okay.

“Come on, Berwald! Everyone was so excited to see this! I’ve already got the pictures saved on my blog. Now all we need to do is capture your reaction.”

If he made a sound, Tino couldn’t hear him. Staring deep into the black spheres of the nether that were the Kirkland truffles, Berwald took one of the sugar-dusted truffles between his fingers, hoping the light layer of sugar would offer some solace for the bitter onslaught that was to come.

And then, with his eyes shut and his breath held, he bit into one. Tino took the picture.

Sometime after that, Emil received a quick message on his phone. It was a SnapChat from Tino showing off his latest creation. Berwald was showing off his latest creation, too: a face he had never quite made before.

“Oh…” Emil had nothing else to say. He was sure Tino had followed to recipe down to the milligram but something was…off.

Okay, there were several things that were off. For one, there was the fact that Berwald’s face had shrunk into a molecule-sized black hole. There were more wrinkles on his face than a dress shirt that had come out of the washer. It looked like he swallowed something unbelievably sour, a green raspberry or a key lime. Maybe even one of those tear-inducing sour candies Alfred brought over to a meeting once. That was a memorable day.

Another thing Emil noticed was how the other half of the truffle in Berwald’s hand popped like a ripe grape. He literally crushed it. Emil didn’t think he could help it.

Lastly, it was subtle, but before the ten-second countdown was up, Emil saw how the edges of the photo were blurred like Tino was moving his phone in mid-capture. Shortly after taking the photo, he must’ve realized what a horrible mistake it was to make his friend go through something like any recipe from Arthur. He didn’t have to wait any longer. He saved the picture and put it in his favorites. He had a feeling there would be a lot of people doing the same that day.

“Poor Berwald…” he whispered.

Poor Berwald, indeed. Right after managing to down some of the truffle, he had to excuse himself to the bathroom. He refused to say anything about Tino’s skills after that, not wanting to insult him. Tino didn’t do anything wrong; he just followed the recipe as it was.

When Tino ended up returning to cookbook to Arthur during the next international meeting, no words were exchanged, just two solemn faces with a deep understanding no human could grasp. Meanwhile, Berwald was treated like a universal hero to the other representatives who received Tino’s SnapChat message. All had added the photo to their favorites. Mathias used Berwald’s famous face as his phone’s screensaver for a week before Lukas told him to take the repulsive reminder of culinary sin off.

It took nearly a week after consuming the half of the truffle for Berwald to recover emotionally, mentally, and physically. Everyone back home noticed how attentive Tino had become after putting his friend through that last event and promised he wouldn’t make him try his recipes again if he didn’t want to.

Unsurprisingly, Berwald said he didn’t mind—so as long as it wasn’t anything from Arthur’s library again. Tino looked honestly relieved, but his friends had a feeling Berwald didn’t mind being with Tino in the slightest. It was nice being able to spend time together however many ups and downs there were. Whether as short-lasting as the dishes he tried, to his pictures sent through SnapChat, Berwald treasured every moment they had with one another. He strongly believed Tino felt the same way, too.
Late prize for :iconaliceclone: who wanted a SuFin story of trying new foods and SnapChatting. I had to look up what SnapChat was. I still don't really know what it is.  ^^; 

North: The New Nordic Cuisine of Iceland is a real book. I checked it out at the library recently. It's a really cool book filled with all sorts of Icelandic recipes, and the best part is that they share lots of stories and cultural points of how certain Icelandic dishes came to be. And I love the binding and paper finishing! The colors are very homely and the photography superb. Even the origins of how the book came to be are humbling. Granted, I didn't have the ingredients to try any of the recipes, myself, but it was a pleasant read. You should check it out! (Look at me gushing all over this book in a SuFin story...) 

Hetalia belongs to Himaruya Hidekazu.
This story belongs to me, GydroZMaa.
Any similarities to characters, settings, scripts, or stories from other pieces of literature or media unless otherwise stated are purely coincidental.
© 2015 - 2024 GydroZMaa
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NerdyParadox's avatar
I don't understand Snapchat, either... I think it's one of the stupidest things... I can't technology. At all. But awesome story!