[drabble repost] They are old and almost friends
Title: They are old and almost friends
Author: drcalvin
Summary: France and Prussia aren't at war - yet.
Oversized comment drabble
Rating/Warnings: None, really. Maybe swearing?
Notes: Whoa, I'd totally forgotten this. Comment fic from January - I discovered it when I cleaned out old entries from my blog. Don't think it's been reposted
They both prefer to have Spain around when they start drinking. Unfortunately, he couldn't make it this evening. Prussia suggested that young Germany join them instead, but France vetoed that quite forcibly. So, tonight it's only the two of them, a few bottles of wine and many years of tension.
Prussia isn't one to avoid the inevitable. No, he prefers wading into the murky waters at once.
At the third glass, already, he toasts for Germany's health. France grins and bears it, next toasting Austria's happy marriage.
At the seventh toast, Prussia goes even further. "For Elsaß and Lothringen! May the grow into a strong left arm for my little West'!"
"For Alsace and Lorraine, the proud shoulders of the French!"
They bare their teeth at each other before downing their drinks in one gulp.
"We really should have brought Spain," Prussia muses, once his glass is empty. "At least his laugh sounds real..."
"Next time, perhaps Italy can substitute for him? North, I mean." France suggests.
A sappy smile spreads on Prussia's face. "Ohh, he is adorable! But I'm not sure I'd like him to be around you when you're drunk. You get even grabbier than usual."
There is a sly wink accompanying those words. France is not late to take the hint.
Afterward, they continue drinking, more relaxed now. It was quick, messy and not a little competitive but it is enough to calm them for tonight. They are impatient, though. Two powers straining against their confinement, hungry for more.
Alcohol and fucking can only substitute the real thing for so long.
"Fare well, my dear Prussia," France tells him when all bottles have been emptied. "I suppose I shall see you again, soon."
He is kissed in lieu of a proper goodbye; a messy, brutish thing it is, but France can still enjoy it. They can both enjoy carnal pleasures together, secure in the knowledge that it will not matter one whit when they stand on the field of battle.
"We'll see each other, yes. And toast again," Prussia slurs, "for Elsaß and Lothringen! And for all the other things you can't have..." His breath is heavy with wine and beer, but his crazed eyes shine clear.
"For that brother of yours," France murmurs, "whom should never have been allowed to grow up. For the wounds you've caused me and the blows I will give in return; we will meet again and toast."
"Until..."
Laughing, France gives Prussia a proper kiss. It is smooth, does not yield. He leaves the other nation leaning against the door post in a panting half-swoon.
"Until we can meet each other for real, dearest enemy mine."
Prussia snickers at him, waves a little and makes his unsteady way home.
France eyes follow him until he has left the house; even drunk and laughing, Prussia is not one to be underestimated.
The year is 1912. France is growing impatient.
Wine, after all, only goes so far to ease the ache in his shoulders. The grape can not silence the anger of his children.
1912 . Prussia is always impatient.
That, France decides, is a good thing.
/End
There is a Chinese translation here of this fic. (I think it's Chinese. Pretty sure)
Author: drcalvin
Summary: France and Prussia aren't at war - yet.
Oversized comment drabble
Rating/Warnings: None, really. Maybe swearing?
Notes: Whoa, I'd totally forgotten this. Comment fic from January - I discovered it when I cleaned out old entries from my blog. Don't think it's been reposted
They both prefer to have Spain around when they start drinking. Unfortunately, he couldn't make it this evening. Prussia suggested that young Germany join them instead, but France vetoed that quite forcibly. So, tonight it's only the two of them, a few bottles of wine and many years of tension.
Prussia isn't one to avoid the inevitable. No, he prefers wading into the murky waters at once.
At the third glass, already, he toasts for Germany's health. France grins and bears it, next toasting Austria's happy marriage.
At the seventh toast, Prussia goes even further. "For Elsaß and Lothringen! May the grow into a strong left arm for my little West'!"
"For Alsace and Lorraine, the proud shoulders of the French!"
They bare their teeth at each other before downing their drinks in one gulp.
"We really should have brought Spain," Prussia muses, once his glass is empty. "At least his laugh sounds real..."
"Next time, perhaps Italy can substitute for him? North, I mean." France suggests.
A sappy smile spreads on Prussia's face. "Ohh, he is adorable! But I'm not sure I'd like him to be around you when you're drunk. You get even grabbier than usual."
There is a sly wink accompanying those words. France is not late to take the hint.
Afterward, they continue drinking, more relaxed now. It was quick, messy and not a little competitive but it is enough to calm them for tonight. They are impatient, though. Two powers straining against their confinement, hungry for more.
Alcohol and fucking can only substitute the real thing for so long.
"Fare well, my dear Prussia," France tells him when all bottles have been emptied. "I suppose I shall see you again, soon."
He is kissed in lieu of a proper goodbye; a messy, brutish thing it is, but France can still enjoy it. They can both enjoy carnal pleasures together, secure in the knowledge that it will not matter one whit when they stand on the field of battle.
"We'll see each other, yes. And toast again," Prussia slurs, "for Elsaß and Lothringen! And for all the other things you can't have..." His breath is heavy with wine and beer, but his crazed eyes shine clear.
"For that brother of yours," France murmurs, "whom should never have been allowed to grow up. For the wounds you've caused me and the blows I will give in return; we will meet again and toast."
"Until..."
Laughing, France gives Prussia a proper kiss. It is smooth, does not yield. He leaves the other nation leaning against the door post in a panting half-swoon.
"Until we can meet each other for real, dearest enemy mine."
Prussia snickers at him, waves a little and makes his unsteady way home.
France eyes follow him until he has left the house; even drunk and laughing, Prussia is not one to be underestimated.
The year is 1912. France is growing impatient.
Wine, after all, only goes so far to ease the ache in his shoulders. The grape can not silence the anger of his children.
1912 . Prussia is always impatient.
That, France decides, is a good thing.
/End
There is a Chinese translation here of this fic. (I think it's Chinese. Pretty sure)