[APH fanfiction] Traditions
Title: Traditions
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Pairing: FrUK
Rating: PG-13
Timeline: Modern
Summary: When you do something often enough, it can become a tradition.
Notes: Written for fruk_giftbasket, for starfishyfish. Her prompt was 'Commemoration'. I swear that's what this started as, and then, er, it sort of shifted. Sorry about that.
Posted to what_the_fruk
~*~
When you live for hundreds of years, it's surprisingly easy to fall into routines and habits, repeating the same trips and actions over and over, year after year. Sometimes, these routines go on so long that they become tradition. For instance, some parties might argue that France and England's constant bickering was at this point nothing more than tradition.
But, for the last twenty years or so, the two of them had fallen into a very different sort of tradition. A secret ritual to be repeated every summer and never to be spoken of to anyone else.
So when England showed up in Paris already more than half drunk, France wasn't exactly surprised. He was, however, somewhat annoyed. It meant he had some catching up to do.
"'S... 's all like this," England gestured with his bottle of beer as France drank good wine far too fast to be proper. "'s like... dolphins."
France stopped drinking long enough to blink at him. Even he was thrown off by that one. "Dolphins?"
"Yeah," England took another drink. "Dolphins. 'Merica has 'em all. Trains 'em. Jumps through hoops. Bloody stupid 'f you ask me."
"I didn't," France clarified helpfully. They'd moved from a bar to France's apartment hours ago, both for added privacy and for his excellent stash of alcohol, compiled all year for the purpose of this very weekend.
England made a rude noise in the back of his throat, taking another long gulp of beer. Being Nations, neither of them was quite as drunk as they seemed. England hadn't poofed into a toga yet, after all. But it was the principle of the thing. It was tradition.
"Tha's your problem, France," England slurred, waving his beer around again yet managing not to spill a single drop. "Sinna... cynas... bein' negative."
France raised his eyebrows. "Me, dear? Really? I'm not the one who insists on getting drunk every fourth of July, and has now turned it into a weekend excursion." Well, he did, actually, but only because England had started it, decades ago, and France had gone along with it because the wine was good.
He knew right away he'd said the wrong thing, but didn't particularly care. England's nose wrinkled and his face scrunched up, just the way it had when he was still small and about to cry. To France's infinite relief, he hiccuped instead. "Can't blame me..." he mumbled. "Lost m' little brother... Why'd he grow up so fast?"
France just sighed. America had grown up rather fast, going from colony to country in barely a hundred and fifty years. In his opinion, England could be excused a bit of shock, but not two hundred years of girlish pining. "They always do. Even you used to be tiny and adorable. Obviously, no longer."
For once England didn't rise to the bait, he merely hiccuped again.
France eyed him. "I believe, however, that your eyebrows have stayed the same. They merely looked larger on your much smaller face."
That at least earned him a mild glare and a swat on the arm.
"And anyway," France continued, tucking his hair behind his ears and giving England a stern look. "You seem to be missing half the point of this weekend."
"Am I?" England asked dully, peering into his bottle as though wondering why it was empty. France rolled his eyes and plucked the empty bottle out of his hand to set it with the others.
"Yes, you are. A hundred years ago you merely went on a one night bender on the fourth. It is currently the first."
England hiccuped again in sudden memory. "Canada."
"Very good," France couldn't help the dryness that crept into his voice. "You weep over America like a child with a dead dog, and completely forget about the cat."
England gave him a funny look over the rather broken metaphor, and France decided to blame it on the wine. Usually he was a bit more eloquent than that.
"Canada's the nice one," England mumbled after a minute. "He stayed so long, I didn't think he'd ever ask to leave..."
France sighed again, taking another sip of wine. "Children grow up," he repeated, mostly to himself. "As Nations, we're just lucky they grow up much slower, we can keep them with us longer. But we still have to let them go." He looked sideways at England. "Unless you plan to go pirate again and retake them by force?"
England just snorted. They both knew they days of the British Empire were quite over. England stretched his arms over his head, then got up to go claim another beer, walking only slightly unsteadily. "How'd we end up like this, France?" he asked over his shoulder. "Sitting around moaning like two old grandmothers. I remember when you and Napoleon were trying to take over the world."
"Yes, and that worked out so well for us, thank you for the reminder. I remember when your Navy was something to be feared."
"It still is!" England insisted defensively. "...Ish." He closed the refrigerator with a little more force than was necessary. "Do you ever miss the days when you could just go out and kick arse instead of having to sit through boring meetings and playing politics? Not that you've ever kicked arse, France, just take my word for it."
"Oh, yes," France rolled his eyes heaven-ward. "I certainly miss the dysentery, the endless slogging through mud, the poverty, the political revolutions, the-"
"Fine fine, I get it," England flapped a hand at him to try and get him to shut up. "The infections, the leeches, the scurvy, I get it. But things were so much easier then."
"Yes, you go out and pick up a new colony by the collar and declare it yours instead of having to fight over it with other developed Nations..."
"We did that anyway," England pointed out, and France paused. Both of them were thinking of a particular incident involving Canada, French court clothes, and rather too many ribbons. "My point," England continued after a moment, struggling to remember what that point had been. "My point is that we've been tamed. We used to lead our troops into battle, now we're too busy doing paperwork."
"I, for one, will not miss the trenches,"
England shuddered. "Well no, neither will I..."
"Then you have no point," France concluded. Then he relented when he saw England starting to pout. "But perhaps you are right. The world is changing quickly now, and people are changing too."
"I wonder," England leaned back against the arm of the couch, sipping his beer. "I wonder if that will induce us to change as well."
"...I don't know," France admitted. "I don't think we can know, until it happens."
"I don't really want to change," England admitted, staring at the wall with a far-away look in his eyes. "Russia's changed a lot since his Revolution in the '20's, you know he has. And Germany... And America. He's changed so much over a hundred years..."
France didn't know what to say around the sudden lump in his throat, he just reached over to touch England's knee lightly.
"Well," England's tone brightened a bit. "At least I know that whatever else happens, you'll still be a bloody git."
France snorted in amusement. "And you, my dear, will forever be an insufferable rosbif."
England offered him a lopsided grin, and held up his bottle in toast.
And when they fell asleep much later that night, tangled up together on the couch with France's head on England's chest and England's hands tangled in France's hair, both of them clinging to the one unchanging constant in their world, well, that too was tradition.
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Pairing: FrUK
Rating: PG-13
Timeline: Modern
Summary: When you do something often enough, it can become a tradition.
Notes: Written for fruk_giftbasket, for starfishyfish. Her prompt was 'Commemoration'. I swear that's what this started as, and then, er, it sort of shifted. Sorry about that.
Posted to what_the_fruk
~*~
When you live for hundreds of years, it's surprisingly easy to fall into routines and habits, repeating the same trips and actions over and over, year after year. Sometimes, these routines go on so long that they become tradition. For instance, some parties might argue that France and England's constant bickering was at this point nothing more than tradition.
But, for the last twenty years or so, the two of them had fallen into a very different sort of tradition. A secret ritual to be repeated every summer and never to be spoken of to anyone else.
So when England showed up in Paris already more than half drunk, France wasn't exactly surprised. He was, however, somewhat annoyed. It meant he had some catching up to do.
"'S... 's all like this," England gestured with his bottle of beer as France drank good wine far too fast to be proper. "'s like... dolphins."
France stopped drinking long enough to blink at him. Even he was thrown off by that one. "Dolphins?"
"Yeah," England took another drink. "Dolphins. 'Merica has 'em all. Trains 'em. Jumps through hoops. Bloody stupid 'f you ask me."
"I didn't," France clarified helpfully. They'd moved from a bar to France's apartment hours ago, both for added privacy and for his excellent stash of alcohol, compiled all year for the purpose of this very weekend.
England made a rude noise in the back of his throat, taking another long gulp of beer. Being Nations, neither of them was quite as drunk as they seemed. England hadn't poofed into a toga yet, after all. But it was the principle of the thing. It was tradition.
"Tha's your problem, France," England slurred, waving his beer around again yet managing not to spill a single drop. "Sinna... cynas... bein' negative."
France raised his eyebrows. "Me, dear? Really? I'm not the one who insists on getting drunk every fourth of July, and has now turned it into a weekend excursion." Well, he did, actually, but only because England had started it, decades ago, and France had gone along with it because the wine was good.
He knew right away he'd said the wrong thing, but didn't particularly care. England's nose wrinkled and his face scrunched up, just the way it had when he was still small and about to cry. To France's infinite relief, he hiccuped instead. "Can't blame me..." he mumbled. "Lost m' little brother... Why'd he grow up so fast?"
France just sighed. America had grown up rather fast, going from colony to country in barely a hundred and fifty years. In his opinion, England could be excused a bit of shock, but not two hundred years of girlish pining. "They always do. Even you used to be tiny and adorable. Obviously, no longer."
For once England didn't rise to the bait, he merely hiccuped again.
France eyed him. "I believe, however, that your eyebrows have stayed the same. They merely looked larger on your much smaller face."
That at least earned him a mild glare and a swat on the arm.
"And anyway," France continued, tucking his hair behind his ears and giving England a stern look. "You seem to be missing half the point of this weekend."
"Am I?" England asked dully, peering into his bottle as though wondering why it was empty. France rolled his eyes and plucked the empty bottle out of his hand to set it with the others.
"Yes, you are. A hundred years ago you merely went on a one night bender on the fourth. It is currently the first."
England hiccuped again in sudden memory. "Canada."
"Very good," France couldn't help the dryness that crept into his voice. "You weep over America like a child with a dead dog, and completely forget about the cat."
England gave him a funny look over the rather broken metaphor, and France decided to blame it on the wine. Usually he was a bit more eloquent than that.
"Canada's the nice one," England mumbled after a minute. "He stayed so long, I didn't think he'd ever ask to leave..."
France sighed again, taking another sip of wine. "Children grow up," he repeated, mostly to himself. "As Nations, we're just lucky they grow up much slower, we can keep them with us longer. But we still have to let them go." He looked sideways at England. "Unless you plan to go pirate again and retake them by force?"
England just snorted. They both knew they days of the British Empire were quite over. England stretched his arms over his head, then got up to go claim another beer, walking only slightly unsteadily. "How'd we end up like this, France?" he asked over his shoulder. "Sitting around moaning like two old grandmothers. I remember when you and Napoleon were trying to take over the world."
"Yes, and that worked out so well for us, thank you for the reminder. I remember when your Navy was something to be feared."
"It still is!" England insisted defensively. "...Ish." He closed the refrigerator with a little more force than was necessary. "Do you ever miss the days when you could just go out and kick arse instead of having to sit through boring meetings and playing politics? Not that you've ever kicked arse, France, just take my word for it."
"Oh, yes," France rolled his eyes heaven-ward. "I certainly miss the dysentery, the endless slogging through mud, the poverty, the political revolutions, the-"
"Fine fine, I get it," England flapped a hand at him to try and get him to shut up. "The infections, the leeches, the scurvy, I get it. But things were so much easier then."
"Yes, you go out and pick up a new colony by the collar and declare it yours instead of having to fight over it with other developed Nations..."
"We did that anyway," England pointed out, and France paused. Both of them were thinking of a particular incident involving Canada, French court clothes, and rather too many ribbons. "My point," England continued after a moment, struggling to remember what that point had been. "My point is that we've been tamed. We used to lead our troops into battle, now we're too busy doing paperwork."
"I, for one, will not miss the trenches,"
England shuddered. "Well no, neither will I..."
"Then you have no point," France concluded. Then he relented when he saw England starting to pout. "But perhaps you are right. The world is changing quickly now, and people are changing too."
"I wonder," England leaned back against the arm of the couch, sipping his beer. "I wonder if that will induce us to change as well."
"...I don't know," France admitted. "I don't think we can know, until it happens."
"I don't really want to change," England admitted, staring at the wall with a far-away look in his eyes. "Russia's changed a lot since his Revolution in the '20's, you know he has. And Germany... And America. He's changed so much over a hundred years..."
France didn't know what to say around the sudden lump in his throat, he just reached over to touch England's knee lightly.
"Well," England's tone brightened a bit. "At least I know that whatever else happens, you'll still be a bloody git."
France snorted in amusement. "And you, my dear, will forever be an insufferable rosbif."
England offered him a lopsided grin, and held up his bottle in toast.
And when they fell asleep much later that night, tangled up together on the couch with France's head on England's chest and England's hands tangled in France's hair, both of them clinging to the one unchanging constant in their world, well, that too was tradition.