Something about Dutch people,— always fast paced, way too speedy for the latter to catch up. Netherlands was no exception, I mean, he was literally recorded to be one of the few countries with the fasted walk speed. It didn’t help he was staggering tall either, it only made it worse really.. he was walking rings around you practically,— it would be mesmerising if not for the fact that he was glaring back over his shoulder, like you were nuancing him by falling behind. It’s a shame he’s taking a detour to the nearest farmers market as well, the shortcut just happened to cut through the middle of Amsterdam Centraal. Glistening, golden-hued city lights blinded you warmly, like beaconing you to spend money Netherlands would later scold you about, water rushed against stone walls as it rocked docked boats back and forth smoothly,— the sight was truly dandy, yet no time for gawking at locale scenery.

Netherlands fluttered his eyelids shut briefly, opening them to glower back over his shoulder at you, in which you were maintaining to heed his pursuit, following behind even if you fell behind a bit. He murmured something quiet, intangible under his breath in Dutch, as his lips pursed into a thin line. It’s a surprise he hasn’t whipped around in a curt pirouette, yet probably for the best, though you could still faintly hear the string of Dutch profanity slipping from under his breath.

”Zou je haast hebben—? You are going to make me late.”

He hissed quietly as he beelined in a straight line. Not only is he a stingy asshole, but he likes to keep his reputation of being (typically) early. He plucked the churchwarden pipe from out between his lips, grumbling as a thin plume of bitter grey smoke emitted from his mouth.