Cordiality (Sept. 1843), a FrUK fic
Pairing: FrUK, France/England
Rating: M
Warnings: Alcohol, mutual masturbation, history, French phrases
Synopsis: The first Entente Cordiale. France and England attend the meeting along with their respective monarchs. King Louis Philippe I holds a ball in honor of Queen Victoria's visit. There is drinking, political socializing, a walk in the darkness of the chateau's garden, and a walk of shame the next morning. French phrases and groping. FrUK. Historical Hetalia w/notes.
Cordiality, Sept. 1843
by crashedtimemachine
( historical fruk fic about the first entente cordiale; nations that use human names only when speaking with humans;
there are extensive end notes;
hover over french words for translations )
They’d been there before, so many times, too many to count. The town was quaint as ever (they both remember a time when there was no town at all), and the chateau, rebuilt. In battle and at peace, the place had left an indelible mark upon both England and France, and anytime they met at the Chateau d’Eu, history was bound to be made. The people might change. The countryside and the huddle of buildings and cobble roads around the house might grow and sprawl over the rolling hillsides. But the essence of the place remained very much intact and it pressed its weight against the dip between England’s shoulder blades, the hand of centuries resting on his back alone.
At least, it often felt like it of late.
But things were supposed to change (as all things must, like the people and the town) with the meeting in the morning, and keeping this in mind, England sat up a little straighter in the coach as it bumped along the path toward the chateau. He half-listened to the soft murmuring of conversation between his monarch and her consort, and let their optimism fill him with hope.
The formal discussions were easily concluded by midday, and the activities for the rest of the visit included the royals from each side of the channel partaking in afternoon tea and coffee, expensive wine, smoking, and a lavish dinner of local faire. Naturally, England stuck to tea and mumbled under his breath about the thickness of the soup, the overuse of butter and spices, and the overall richness of the food. France just smirked at him from across the room and smugly asked him to pass the sea salt.
The king and queen and their companions chatted quietly in their restrained ways at one end of the table, while Lord Aberdeen and Monsieur Guizot laughed at the other end. Chairs scooted impossibly close, their shoulders regularly bumped. Guizot’s hand might have continued to slap Aberdeen’s back longer than necessary when they laughed together, and they whispered in low tones as if sharing secrets only they were allowed to know.
Neither France nor England missed these friendly gestures, and France waggled his eyebrows at England playfully, implying something more than good natured friendship passed between the two. Of course, England was required to disagree for the sake of disagreement, and he rolled his eyes, dismissing the whole affair.
It was too scandalous for a gentleman to entertain such a notion, so he put it out of his mind.
Dinner ended with the announcement of a ball in honor of the visitors.
The dances in France weren’t much different from the dances at home, and England was glad to find that he knew most of them. He lingered near the grand archway that framed the entrance, trying to remain inconspicuous, and watched as the men on the dance floor spun their partners this way and that. They performed the short skips of the polka, the careful turns of the waltz, and a few dances he’d never seen before that left him feeling exhausted on behalf of the participants who were jumping and spinning like ballet dancers rather than party-goers. He would have to ask France about it later when-no, if he was lucky, he would manage to avoid France altogether and duck out of the ballroom with as little fanfare as possible.
No longer than a breath after the thought had crossed England’s mind, however, did he hear someone calling his name.
“Arthur!” France was waving to him from across the room.
Damn. I’ve been spotted. Well, he couldn’t exactly duck out now.
France draped one arm across England’s shoulders, dangling a wine glass in front of him. “Take it, mon ami. You look like you could use it.”
Normally, England would protest or reject it on principle, but the air was laden with the parfums of the women and the men, and the ballroom was unseasonably warm even with the double doors to the terraces wide open, so he sighed in resignation and took the wine glass from France’s hand just as he’d known he would.
England downed half of the glass in one gulp.
“Non, non, non, Angleterre...” France tsked beside his ear, "That is no way to appreciate a fine wine.”
England tried to pull away from France’s breath on his cheek, but France tightened his arm around England’s shoulder and shepherded him toward a crowd of giggling noble women adorned with bobbing feathers and quivering lace. He balanced his own wine glass in his free hand. “Smile, mon ami! We’re supposed to be celebrating the new era of paix et d'amitié, a cordial agreement between us both, as Lord Aberdeen puts it. You are not getting into the spirit of things!” He raised his wine glass toward the group, and several of the ladies curtsied or waved back. “See? You should be building new friendships, Angleterre, and what better way to do so than by meeting a beautiful French girl and falling in love? L’amour is the answer to all of your troubles!”
England’s expression clearly illustrated his own thoughts on the matter, but before he could voice his dissent, a woman with rich, soil-dark hair began hurrying across the ballroom to intercept them. “Oh! Monsieur Bonnefoy!” she called loudly across the dancefloor, “Tu m'as manqué à la cour! Où étiez-vous? Tout le monde attendait votre retour et blah blah blah-” And on and on. The trill of song-like French trailing out of her mouth was lovely but incomprehensible to England. It was too fast, too bird-like, despite his mastery of the language.
Yes, the woman was decidedly bird-like. Her head bobbed as she spoke, seemingly precarious in its balance atop her thin, long neck, and the dress she wore clung somehow to her shoulders without falling despite giving only the bare minimum of coverage to the anatomy it was meant to preserve modestly. She reminded him of the peacocks in the gardens at Buckingham Palace showing off their bright plumage as they performed a mating dance for the opposite sex.
Which, where France was concerned, probably wasn’t far from the truth. England grit his teeth in annoyance. That conceited git didn’t need anyone else contributing to the constant inflation of his already grand ego.
Completely unaware of England’s internal monologue, France declared, “Enchanté, mademoiselle,” bowing low with a flourish and kissing the back Madame de Whatever-her-name-was’s gloved hand. The lace looked crisp and rough; England hoped that it was.
“And this is Signeur Arthur Kirkland, emissary of Queen Victoria,” France continued, stepping back to present him with a broad grin adorning his face and his brows raised in expectation. When England didn’t immediately reach for the lady’s hand - and why should he, anyway? - France chuckled, but his expression fell ever so slightly.
Seemingly shrugging it off, he winked at the lady and pulled her closer, leaning in as if to whisper in her ear. Instead, he made sure to speak just loud enough for England to hear him, as well: “I think he’s embarrassed to speak en français, but I’m sure he finds you very charming.” The woman just tittered annoyingly and puffed up her chest, attempting to make her already abundant cleavage that much more obvious.
As England internally fumed, reminding himself that he knew several languages, thank you very much, and French was just one among many and how dare France - he was interrupted by a strong hand grasping his arm just above the elbow and a familiar, disarming warmth pressed against his side.
“Now, pardonnez-moi, but Monsieur Kirkland and I have some important business to attend to elsewhere. Bonsoir, ma petite fleur.” France finally extracted himself from the noble woman, shooting England a look he was all too familiar with. It was serious and dark, and it promised that England would find himself hard-pressed to rise from his bed in the morning if the evening progressed to France's liking. It promised quite a lot of things actually, and England couldn’t say he didn’t feel a certain thrill of anticipation shimmy down the curve of his spine.
France was, after all, a very talented man.
Realizing the direction of his own thoughts, England rolled his eyes and glared at his now empty wine glass. This was somehow its fault.
It didn’t take long for his second and third glasses of wine to go to England’s head, and he found himself clinging to France's arm as they strolled the chateau's darkened garden. The occasional gas lamp situated amongst the hedgerows cast a wan light on France's hair, catching England's eye several times and causing him to stare, mesmerized. Each time France found him staring, he would chuckle softly (no need to ruin the romantic atmosphere) and lean a little closer to England's side. Or perhaps it was England tilting toward France as he fought his body's lack of equilibrium. In either case, their wanderings through the garden took them past the hedges and several nude statues (England did snort at that, so fitting for France, really), past the other party-goers and the fountain, until they found themselves huddled and whispering and giggling, entangled on a bench in the mostly-hidden corner farthest from the chateau's brightly lit terraces. The music from the ballroom strained to reach them over the chirps of the crickets in the surrounding forest and the prominent gurgling of the fountain. As their conversation about foreign policy and economics lulled, the atmosphere became quite peaceful, and England said as much to France, his words bubbling up from inside his chest in a thick, slurred dialect that his companion somehow still managed to understand despite their mutual drunkenness.
France chuckled again, the same soft, almost gentle sound as before. "We're quite secluded, are we not, mon petit lapin?" He leaned a bit too close to England as he said it, possibly misjudging the distance, and his lips brushed against England's wine-flushed cheek.
"Aren't we just..." England murmured, focusing on the darkness and the distant light of the chateau-anything to keep him from turning to meet France's too close gaze because he knew where this was going (where it always went) and he wasn’t ready for their placid solitude to end, not when they were just getting along so splendidly and-was that France's hand inching along his thigh?!
England turned with every intention of berating France and his one-track, perverted mind, but a pair of firm, supple lips descended on his own, effectively swallowing up both his protests and his reason.
It was as if they had both been holding their breaths for this moment. Afterward, it was all England could do to hold himself together. France's hands were everywhere, in his hair, in his clothes, sliding under the hem of his silk blouse. He was kissing him; coarse stubble and soft lips contrasted roughly against England's pale skin.
Just when had he unbuttoned his waistcoat? And where was his fancy jacket? (Lying in a heap beneath the bench, and England didn't bother looking too hard because it was just then that France's flattened palm smoothed across his abs and lower.)
France’s fingers grazed the sensitive skin below England’s navel, and he let out a soft hiss when France didn't stop there. He continued his explorations; delving fingertips pressed against England’s hipbone, tangled in the thatch of hair at the base of his cock, and then wrapped around it.
It was disorienting how pinprick sharp his mind focused on that one point of contact. The sounds around him filtered out until England was only aware of the burbling fountain brought into stark relief against the thrum of his heart in his eardrums and the rasp of France’s breath against his neck.
All else faded.
There was only France’s hand pumping him steadily (a lie, they both knew, as France was on the verge of losing what little control he could muster), his lips on his skin, and the soft whisper of Angleterre just beside his ear.
The more erratic France’s hand became, the more desperately England itched to return the favor; he was hardly one to be deflowered like a simpering maid! They were meant to be on equal footing, and it was important to maintain that sort of balance...for diplomatic relations, naturally.
And so France shifted his knee across England’s thighs until he straddled him, and England deftly removed the last obstacles of cloth and closures to slip his own hand into France’s trousers. Their hands moved in frantic, desperate unison, then. And if pet names and oaths of fidelity were exchanged (...mon amour, idiot, mon chéri, w-wanker...sans toi je suis perdu...ngh...), no one would speak of them in the morning.
England awoke to a ceiling he didn’t recognize and a stiffness in his body that he most certainly did.
No... no, no, no...
He tilted his head toward the window to gauge the time, but his cheek encountered a firm warmth that could only be France’s shoulder. England cursed softly in the gray-violet glow of early morning light that filtered in through the lace window dressings.
“Mmm? Angle...terre?” England held his breath as his bed partner shifted a bit, but continued to sleep.
This was the worst. It was indecent. It was France. And moreover, under the right circumstances, it could become a damaging international incident if mishandled.
So, naturally, rather than do the rational thing-wait for France to awaken, apologize for his drunkenness the night before, and then head back to his room with a shred of dignity intact-England rolled off the bed as stealthily as he could and bolted out the door, his bundle of clothes grasped tightly to his chest.
For the rest of the royal visit to the chateau, England managed to avoid France completely If he hadn’t been so relieved by this happy turn of events he might have realized that it probably wasn’t completely by accident or good luck. The thought that France might have been avoiding him didn’t occur to England until the whole party had boarded the ferry to cross at Calais. It was too late, of course, and England nursed his guilt halfway across the channel, staring blearily at the white faces of Dover, before finally managing to convince himself that if France had wanted to see him, he would have, so how was that his fault?
Besides, their paths, though sometimes divergent, had been twinned by Fate the moment France had taken him in so very long ago. He was bound to see him sooner rather than later.
It was a paper-thin excuse, already ragged at the edges from overuse, but he had to dress his wounded ego with something and it would hold for now.
..
Historical notes:
Lord Aberdeen: George Hamilton Gordon, Lord Aberdeen, the Prime Minister of Great Britain
Guizot: François Pierre Guillaume Guizot, the Prime Minister of France
"his monarch and her consort": Refers to Queen Victoria and Albert, Prince Consort
During her reign, Queen Victoria sought to increase good relations between Great Britain and France, which had been damaged by previous centuries of fighting and sabotaging one another’s international efforts. In September, 1843, she and Prince Albert visited King Louis Philippe I of France at his vacation home, the Chateau d’Eu, located in Eu (Normandy region). Queen Victoria was the first monarch of England to meet with a French monarch in over 320 years, and it marked a change in how the two countries regarded each other going forward. The second attempt at an Entente Cordiale in 1904 is more famous, but the 1843 and 1845 meetings were important in laying the groundwork for that agreement. (Plus, the two monarchs had apparently struck up a friendship - in 1848, when Louis Philippe I was forced to abdicate his throne due to the July Revolution, he lived out the rest of his life safely in the UK).
I tried to be (mostly) accurate with things like the dresses, perfumes, and even the peacocks of Buckingham Palace. The grounds of the Chateau d’Eu are quite lovely, too (here’s a video about it).
However, one component of this piece was speculation, and that’s the historical context under which I wrote the, uh, more adult scene between France and England. Lord Aberdeen and Monsieur Guizot wrote very personal and intimate letters to one another and even exchanged portraits and hung them in their own offices above their desks. The exchange of portraits was often done by engaged couples, and when put together with their letters and their similar ages, it does make you wonder if something more interesting was going on between the lines. There were certainly gay and bisexual people in the 19th century, but the ability to act on their same-sex affections was dictated by English law and French society, neither of which accepted homosexual behavior (in fact, it was an offense punishable by death in England until 1861). So it wouldn’t be unusual for Aberdeen and Guizot to be married or publicly dating someone of the opposite sex, but also having same-sex attractions and relationships cloaked in friendship.
History has traditionally erased the contributions of LGBTQ people and their relationships. While many people will assume that two people of the opposite sex who are close to one another in history must have been lovers without much evidence beyond intimate letters and the fact that they have specific body parts, the same treatment is not afforded to people of the same-sex with a comparable relationship. Coupled with the punishments for being caught in that kind of relationship (both socially and legally), it’s no wonder that history is decidedly heterosexual in nature despite LGBTQ people having existed throughout the ages. In this case, I used England and France to represent the perceived feelings between their Prime Ministers, whether or not those feelings were ever acted upon physically, because, as we all know, these two countries have been chasing each other’s tails for centuries anyway. I hope you will forgive this one foray into speculation.
I was moved to tears when reading about them and many others; I feel so sad for the people in history who were in love and never allowed to embrace that and find happiness. My wife and I were married two weeks after the U.S. Supreme Court deemed section 3 of the Defense of Marriage Act unconstitutional. Before that, we were forbidden from marrying one another, and it hurt my heart every day, so I guess, in many ways, I can sympathize.
Thank you very much for reading this. It was my first Hetalia fic. I hope you enjoyed it!
Rating: M
Warnings: Alcohol, mutual masturbation, history, French phrases
Synopsis: The first Entente Cordiale. France and England attend the meeting along with their respective monarchs. King Louis Philippe I holds a ball in honor of Queen Victoria's visit. There is drinking, political socializing, a walk in the darkness of the chateau's garden, and a walk of shame the next morning. French phrases and groping. FrUK. Historical Hetalia w/notes.
Cordiality, Sept. 1843
by crashedtimemachine
( historical fruk fic about the first entente cordiale; nations that use human names only when speaking with humans;
there are extensive end notes;
hover over french words for translations )
They’d been there before, so many times, too many to count. The town was quaint as ever (they both remember a time when there was no town at all), and the chateau, rebuilt. In battle and at peace, the place had left an indelible mark upon both England and France, and anytime they met at the Chateau d’Eu, history was bound to be made. The people might change. The countryside and the huddle of buildings and cobble roads around the house might grow and sprawl over the rolling hillsides. But the essence of the place remained very much intact and it pressed its weight against the dip between England’s shoulder blades, the hand of centuries resting on his back alone.
At least, it often felt like it of late.
But things were supposed to change (as all things must, like the people and the town) with the meeting in the morning, and keeping this in mind, England sat up a little straighter in the coach as it bumped along the path toward the chateau. He half-listened to the soft murmuring of conversation between his monarch and her consort, and let their optimism fill him with hope.
The formal discussions were easily concluded by midday, and the activities for the rest of the visit included the royals from each side of the channel partaking in afternoon tea and coffee, expensive wine, smoking, and a lavish dinner of local faire. Naturally, England stuck to tea and mumbled under his breath about the thickness of the soup, the overuse of butter and spices, and the overall richness of the food. France just smirked at him from across the room and smugly asked him to pass the sea salt.
The king and queen and their companions chatted quietly in their restrained ways at one end of the table, while Lord Aberdeen and Monsieur Guizot laughed at the other end. Chairs scooted impossibly close, their shoulders regularly bumped. Guizot’s hand might have continued to slap Aberdeen’s back longer than necessary when they laughed together, and they whispered in low tones as if sharing secrets only they were allowed to know.
Neither France nor England missed these friendly gestures, and France waggled his eyebrows at England playfully, implying something more than good natured friendship passed between the two. Of course, England was required to disagree for the sake of disagreement, and he rolled his eyes, dismissing the whole affair.
It was too scandalous for a gentleman to entertain such a notion, so he put it out of his mind.
Dinner ended with the announcement of a ball in honor of the visitors.
The dances in France weren’t much different from the dances at home, and England was glad to find that he knew most of them. He lingered near the grand archway that framed the entrance, trying to remain inconspicuous, and watched as the men on the dance floor spun their partners this way and that. They performed the short skips of the polka, the careful turns of the waltz, and a few dances he’d never seen before that left him feeling exhausted on behalf of the participants who were jumping and spinning like ballet dancers rather than party-goers. He would have to ask France about it later when-no, if he was lucky, he would manage to avoid France altogether and duck out of the ballroom with as little fanfare as possible.
No longer than a breath after the thought had crossed England’s mind, however, did he hear someone calling his name.
“Arthur!” France was waving to him from across the room.
Damn. I’ve been spotted. Well, he couldn’t exactly duck out now.
France draped one arm across England’s shoulders, dangling a wine glass in front of him. “Take it, mon ami. You look like you could use it.”
Normally, England would protest or reject it on principle, but the air was laden with the parfums of the women and the men, and the ballroom was unseasonably warm even with the double doors to the terraces wide open, so he sighed in resignation and took the wine glass from France’s hand just as he’d known he would.
England downed half of the glass in one gulp.
“Non, non, non, Angleterre...” France tsked beside his ear, "That is no way to appreciate a fine wine.”
England tried to pull away from France’s breath on his cheek, but France tightened his arm around England’s shoulder and shepherded him toward a crowd of giggling noble women adorned with bobbing feathers and quivering lace. He balanced his own wine glass in his free hand. “Smile, mon ami! We’re supposed to be celebrating the new era of paix et d'amitié, a cordial agreement between us both, as Lord Aberdeen puts it. You are not getting into the spirit of things!” He raised his wine glass toward the group, and several of the ladies curtsied or waved back. “See? You should be building new friendships, Angleterre, and what better way to do so than by meeting a beautiful French girl and falling in love? L’amour is the answer to all of your troubles!”
England’s expression clearly illustrated his own thoughts on the matter, but before he could voice his dissent, a woman with rich, soil-dark hair began hurrying across the ballroom to intercept them. “Oh! Monsieur Bonnefoy!” she called loudly across the dancefloor, “Tu m'as manqué à la cour! Où étiez-vous? Tout le monde attendait votre retour et blah blah blah-” And on and on. The trill of song-like French trailing out of her mouth was lovely but incomprehensible to England. It was too fast, too bird-like, despite his mastery of the language.
Yes, the woman was decidedly bird-like. Her head bobbed as she spoke, seemingly precarious in its balance atop her thin, long neck, and the dress she wore clung somehow to her shoulders without falling despite giving only the bare minimum of coverage to the anatomy it was meant to preserve modestly. She reminded him of the peacocks in the gardens at Buckingham Palace showing off their bright plumage as they performed a mating dance for the opposite sex.
Which, where France was concerned, probably wasn’t far from the truth. England grit his teeth in annoyance. That conceited git didn’t need anyone else contributing to the constant inflation of his already grand ego.
Completely unaware of England’s internal monologue, France declared, “Enchanté, mademoiselle,” bowing low with a flourish and kissing the back Madame de Whatever-her-name-was’s gloved hand. The lace looked crisp and rough; England hoped that it was.
“And this is Signeur Arthur Kirkland, emissary of Queen Victoria,” France continued, stepping back to present him with a broad grin adorning his face and his brows raised in expectation. When England didn’t immediately reach for the lady’s hand - and why should he, anyway? - France chuckled, but his expression fell ever so slightly.
Seemingly shrugging it off, he winked at the lady and pulled her closer, leaning in as if to whisper in her ear. Instead, he made sure to speak just loud enough for England to hear him, as well: “I think he’s embarrassed to speak en français, but I’m sure he finds you very charming.” The woman just tittered annoyingly and puffed up her chest, attempting to make her already abundant cleavage that much more obvious.
As England internally fumed, reminding himself that he knew several languages, thank you very much, and French was just one among many and how dare France - he was interrupted by a strong hand grasping his arm just above the elbow and a familiar, disarming warmth pressed against his side.
“Now, pardonnez-moi, but Monsieur Kirkland and I have some important business to attend to elsewhere. Bonsoir, ma petite fleur.” France finally extracted himself from the noble woman, shooting England a look he was all too familiar with. It was serious and dark, and it promised that England would find himself hard-pressed to rise from his bed in the morning if the evening progressed to France's liking. It promised quite a lot of things actually, and England couldn’t say he didn’t feel a certain thrill of anticipation shimmy down the curve of his spine.
France was, after all, a very talented man.
Realizing the direction of his own thoughts, England rolled his eyes and glared at his now empty wine glass. This was somehow its fault.
It didn’t take long for his second and third glasses of wine to go to England’s head, and he found himself clinging to France's arm as they strolled the chateau's darkened garden. The occasional gas lamp situated amongst the hedgerows cast a wan light on France's hair, catching England's eye several times and causing him to stare, mesmerized. Each time France found him staring, he would chuckle softly (no need to ruin the romantic atmosphere) and lean a little closer to England's side. Or perhaps it was England tilting toward France as he fought his body's lack of equilibrium. In either case, their wanderings through the garden took them past the hedges and several nude statues (England did snort at that, so fitting for France, really), past the other party-goers and the fountain, until they found themselves huddled and whispering and giggling, entangled on a bench in the mostly-hidden corner farthest from the chateau's brightly lit terraces. The music from the ballroom strained to reach them over the chirps of the crickets in the surrounding forest and the prominent gurgling of the fountain. As their conversation about foreign policy and economics lulled, the atmosphere became quite peaceful, and England said as much to France, his words bubbling up from inside his chest in a thick, slurred dialect that his companion somehow still managed to understand despite their mutual drunkenness.
France chuckled again, the same soft, almost gentle sound as before. "We're quite secluded, are we not, mon petit lapin?" He leaned a bit too close to England as he said it, possibly misjudging the distance, and his lips brushed against England's wine-flushed cheek.
"Aren't we just..." England murmured, focusing on the darkness and the distant light of the chateau-anything to keep him from turning to meet France's too close gaze because he knew where this was going (where it always went) and he wasn’t ready for their placid solitude to end, not when they were just getting along so splendidly and-was that France's hand inching along his thigh?!
England turned with every intention of berating France and his one-track, perverted mind, but a pair of firm, supple lips descended on his own, effectively swallowing up both his protests and his reason.
It was as if they had both been holding their breaths for this moment. Afterward, it was all England could do to hold himself together. France's hands were everywhere, in his hair, in his clothes, sliding under the hem of his silk blouse. He was kissing him; coarse stubble and soft lips contrasted roughly against England's pale skin.
Just when had he unbuttoned his waistcoat? And where was his fancy jacket? (Lying in a heap beneath the bench, and England didn't bother looking too hard because it was just then that France's flattened palm smoothed across his abs and lower.)
France’s fingers grazed the sensitive skin below England’s navel, and he let out a soft hiss when France didn't stop there. He continued his explorations; delving fingertips pressed against England’s hipbone, tangled in the thatch of hair at the base of his cock, and then wrapped around it.
It was disorienting how pinprick sharp his mind focused on that one point of contact. The sounds around him filtered out until England was only aware of the burbling fountain brought into stark relief against the thrum of his heart in his eardrums and the rasp of France’s breath against his neck.
All else faded.
There was only France’s hand pumping him steadily (a lie, they both knew, as France was on the verge of losing what little control he could muster), his lips on his skin, and the soft whisper of Angleterre just beside his ear.
The more erratic France’s hand became, the more desperately England itched to return the favor; he was hardly one to be deflowered like a simpering maid! They were meant to be on equal footing, and it was important to maintain that sort of balance...for diplomatic relations, naturally.
And so France shifted his knee across England’s thighs until he straddled him, and England deftly removed the last obstacles of cloth and closures to slip his own hand into France’s trousers. Their hands moved in frantic, desperate unison, then. And if pet names and oaths of fidelity were exchanged (...mon amour, idiot, mon chéri, w-wanker...sans toi je suis perdu...ngh...), no one would speak of them in the morning.
England awoke to a ceiling he didn’t recognize and a stiffness in his body that he most certainly did.
No... no, no, no...
He tilted his head toward the window to gauge the time, but his cheek encountered a firm warmth that could only be France’s shoulder. England cursed softly in the gray-violet glow of early morning light that filtered in through the lace window dressings.
“Mmm? Angle...terre?” England held his breath as his bed partner shifted a bit, but continued to sleep.
This was the worst. It was indecent. It was France. And moreover, under the right circumstances, it could become a damaging international incident if mishandled.
So, naturally, rather than do the rational thing-wait for France to awaken, apologize for his drunkenness the night before, and then head back to his room with a shred of dignity intact-England rolled off the bed as stealthily as he could and bolted out the door, his bundle of clothes grasped tightly to his chest.
For the rest of the royal visit to the chateau, England managed to avoid France completely If he hadn’t been so relieved by this happy turn of events he might have realized that it probably wasn’t completely by accident or good luck. The thought that France might have been avoiding him didn’t occur to England until the whole party had boarded the ferry to cross at Calais. It was too late, of course, and England nursed his guilt halfway across the channel, staring blearily at the white faces of Dover, before finally managing to convince himself that if France had wanted to see him, he would have, so how was that his fault?
Besides, their paths, though sometimes divergent, had been twinned by Fate the moment France had taken him in so very long ago. He was bound to see him sooner rather than later.
It was a paper-thin excuse, already ragged at the edges from overuse, but he had to dress his wounded ego with something and it would hold for now.
..
Historical notes:
Lord Aberdeen: George Hamilton Gordon, Lord Aberdeen, the Prime Minister of Great Britain
Guizot: François Pierre Guillaume Guizot, the Prime Minister of France
"his monarch and her consort": Refers to Queen Victoria and Albert, Prince Consort
During her reign, Queen Victoria sought to increase good relations between Great Britain and France, which had been damaged by previous centuries of fighting and sabotaging one another’s international efforts. In September, 1843, she and Prince Albert visited King Louis Philippe I of France at his vacation home, the Chateau d’Eu, located in Eu (Normandy region). Queen Victoria was the first monarch of England to meet with a French monarch in over 320 years, and it marked a change in how the two countries regarded each other going forward. The second attempt at an Entente Cordiale in 1904 is more famous, but the 1843 and 1845 meetings were important in laying the groundwork for that agreement. (Plus, the two monarchs had apparently struck up a friendship - in 1848, when Louis Philippe I was forced to abdicate his throne due to the July Revolution, he lived out the rest of his life safely in the UK).
I tried to be (mostly) accurate with things like the dresses, perfumes, and even the peacocks of Buckingham Palace. The grounds of the Chateau d’Eu are quite lovely, too (here’s a video about it).
However, one component of this piece was speculation, and that’s the historical context under which I wrote the, uh, more adult scene between France and England. Lord Aberdeen and Monsieur Guizot wrote very personal and intimate letters to one another and even exchanged portraits and hung them in their own offices above their desks. The exchange of portraits was often done by engaged couples, and when put together with their letters and their similar ages, it does make you wonder if something more interesting was going on between the lines. There were certainly gay and bisexual people in the 19th century, but the ability to act on their same-sex affections was dictated by English law and French society, neither of which accepted homosexual behavior (in fact, it was an offense punishable by death in England until 1861). So it wouldn’t be unusual for Aberdeen and Guizot to be married or publicly dating someone of the opposite sex, but also having same-sex attractions and relationships cloaked in friendship.
History has traditionally erased the contributions of LGBTQ people and their relationships. While many people will assume that two people of the opposite sex who are close to one another in history must have been lovers without much evidence beyond intimate letters and the fact that they have specific body parts, the same treatment is not afforded to people of the same-sex with a comparable relationship. Coupled with the punishments for being caught in that kind of relationship (both socially and legally), it’s no wonder that history is decidedly heterosexual in nature despite LGBTQ people having existed throughout the ages. In this case, I used England and France to represent the perceived feelings between their Prime Ministers, whether or not those feelings were ever acted upon physically, because, as we all know, these two countries have been chasing each other’s tails for centuries anyway. I hope you will forgive this one foray into speculation.
I was moved to tears when reading about them and many others; I feel so sad for the people in history who were in love and never allowed to embrace that and find happiness. My wife and I were married two weeks after the U.S. Supreme Court deemed section 3 of the Defense of Marriage Act unconstitutional. Before that, we were forbidden from marrying one another, and it hurt my heart every day, so I guess, in many ways, I can sympathize.
Thank you very much for reading this. It was my first Hetalia fic. I hope you enjoyed it!