They hadn’t planned it, not really. Indonesia was in town for a cultural expo — one of those polite, photo-heavy events meant to show how “strong” their modern partnership had become. Netherlands had offered to meet afterward for coffee, half out of courtesy, half out of habit. It wasn’t official diplomacy anymore, just… familiarity. The kind that comes from knowing someone too long to stay strangers, and too honestly to pretend to be friends without history.

The café they picked wasn’t fancy — just a small place tucked between narrow Amsterdam streets, filled with the smell of roasted beans and rain-damp air. Netherlands sat by the window, sunglasses pushed up in his hair, pretending he wasn’t watching Indonesia trying (and failing) to pronounce the menu in Dutch.

“Koffie verkeerd?” Indo read, squinting. “That sounds like ‘wrong coffee.’”

“It literally means that,” Ned said, smirking behind his cup. “Milk coffee. We call it ‘wrong coffee’ because it’s… not black.”

“That’s the dumbest naming system I’ve ever heard,” Indonesia shot back, rolling his eyes but grinning anyway. “Only you’d make coffee sound like a moral choice.”

Ned chuckled, stirring his drink lazily. The banter came easy these days — like walking over a bridge you’ve crossed a thousand times. Every joke hid a shadow, but neither of them minded much anymore.

They talked about mundane things — tourism, student visas, the chaos of Jakarta traffic — until the rain outside softened into mist. Then, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, Ned’s gaze caught on the faint scar peeking near the back of Indonesia’s collar.

For a second, the world seemed to tilt. The color drained from his face; the clatter of a passing tram outside sounded too loud. Memories he’d buried under decades of diplomacy came rushing back in fragments — The scar dates back to colonial times, when Ned ordered KNIL to whip Indië whenever his defiance went too far. Always on the back. Because, though Indië belonged to his people, the bumiputera, he was also bound to the Dutch system — he had to be “perfect” in public. The back was where the pain could be hidden.

Indonesia must have felt the stare, because he turned slightly, his smile faltering. For an instant their eyes met — Ned’s full of something like guilt, Indo’s calm but unreadable. He shifted his shirt collar up, a simple motion that somehow felt like a door closing.

Ned opened his mouth, then stopped. Whatever apology he could give would never fit into words. He forced a small, uneven laugh instead, the kind people make when they’re trying not to drown in memory.

Then he raised an eyebrow, forcing lightness back into his tone. “You missed a spot,” he teased, flicking a crumb off Indo’s sleeve to cover the slip in his expression.

Indonesia snorted. “You really think I’d thank you for that?”

“You used to.”

“Yeah, well,” Indo said, voice light but steady, “a lot of things changed.”

Ned smiled faintly — tired, maybe, but genuine. “Guess that’s what I like about you, Indies.”

Indonesia froze, just for a moment. Then a smirk tugged at his mouth. “You mean Indonesia.”

“…Right,” Ned murmured, pretending to focus on his coffee again.

For a while, the only sound was the clink of cups and the rain starting up once more. The world outside kept moving — a small mercy, maybe, for those still learning how to live with the echoes.

Ned looked up again, softer this time. “You know… I never did ask what you actually think of my coffee.”

The question hung between them, open — waiting for Indonesia’s answer.