la croix de lorraine [2/?]
Title: la croix de lorraine
Series: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: France/???
Rating: R overall
Date: Written today
Status: incomplete; companion to Die Buchhandlung
And So... Three men know three things: There are people who love you; there are things worth killing for, dying for; and lastly, there is no good ale in Paris.
Notes: This is a companion piece to Die Buchhandlung, focusing on the French Resistance. Hopefully you find it as engaging orz ...I've done research for this--far more than I can say without getting embarrassed--but if you have a question or comment about something, so let me know; sometimes I miss stuff!
Also! hetaliasunshine is open for business! I'll be there again this time around, I look forward to everyone's submissions :3
April, 1940: Paris
Francis could appreciate the irony of the film--not necessarily the film itself, nor its plot--but he could appreciate the beautiful irony of watching an American film about Paris with subtitles in French. He could understand the English fairly well, but he could ignore it even better. And that actress--Greta Garbo, he name was--held his attention, for at least the first half of the film. But it became clearer and clearer that she was mocking Mr. Stalin in the east, praising Paris as if there had never been a single Communist in its streets. Amused, Francis took another drag, his tendrils of white floating high in the movie house to mingle with the smoke of others. The smoke fogged the picture on the screen and masked the air of unease, but the ushers and managers allowed it these days.
“First you arrive late, now you’re dozing off--Antonio,” Francis said around his cigarette into the dark, “I am offended.”
Antonio’s head bobbed down once like a duck searching for fish before snapping back up again at his name. “I--what? Is it over?”
“I don’t believe so. Mademoiselle Garbo’s character has not yet been fully seduced by the capitalists.”
“Once she renounces Communism we may leave then?” Antonio asked with a slight yawn.
There was a hiss from a row ahead of them: “You may both leave now if you are so bored!”
“My apologies; he is a Spaniard.”
“Hey,” Antonio frowned. “I was born that way.”
“Up; let’s get going.” With a wave of his hand, Francis rose and ushered Antonio from his seat into the aisle. “I’ve already figured out the ending. And if you all haven’t,” Francis said with a raised voice, “she and the count fall in love and everyone becomes a capitalist!”
“Get out!” Something flew past Francis ear among the groans and hisses of the audience, and he shoved Antonio through the doors back into the lobby. Normally there would have been chuckles at his remark, Francis thought grimly; it was if the world had been reversed in one day. He wouldn't be surprised if the Eiffel Tower had its four feet in the air when he returned home.
“Tell me again why you haven’t rejoined the FCP?”
Francis ignored Antonio’s knowing grin. “That was not Francis the Communist speaking; that was Francis the movie connoisseur crying out in pain. Be a friend to me and finish this; I have lost my taste for it.”
Without a hint of reluctance, Antonio accepted the half-finished cigarette as they exited the movie theater. He blew a sharp line of white into the night, walking towards the metro in the eerie quiet of a city preoccupied with other thoughts. “I really am sorry for being late; I got into a discussion with a young man about Norway--he never knew that it had been more or less one with Sweden under King Magnus the Seventh.”
“And I’m sure you, being the good school teacher, gave him a proper lesson, no?”
“No, in fact; he was too distressed with current events,” Antonio said, with more disdain in his voice than was probably appropriate. “Just one more thing the fascists have taken from me.”
“It sounds to me as if they saved someone’s chastity tonight,” Francis chuckled, hands shoved deep into his pockets. But far be it from him to chastise Antonio for his exploits when he had broken so many hearts in Paris himself.
“Just you wait for when they come marching through this very street,” Antonio said with a flourish of his hand, almost knocking a passerby’s hat from his head. “They’ll have their shiny buttons, pressed uniforms, black boots--”
“That’s enough,” Francis said flatly. “Enough; people are beginning to stare, you madman.”
Antonio just laughed, puffing away until there was hardly anything left of the cigarette to be crushed under his heel. “You French!” He at least had the decency to notice the startled looks around him at that. Grinning, Antonio took Francis’ elbow and yanked him from the sidewalk, pressing him to the dimly lit bricks of someone's townhouse. “You French,” he said quietly, “have forgotten the last war with the Boches too quickly.”
Francis’ eyes narrowed. “I will never forget begging for food in the streets.”
But still, for all the world Antonio grinned like he had the most wonderful secret--and no one else knew it but him. “Everyone is shocked--so shocked!--that Norway and Denmark have been invaded by Germany. Honestly, I can only say I had a hunch--but they are strategic nations, especially where Britain is concerned. Did you learn about the Vikings, when they burned little villages in England to the ground? I’ll give you a lesson sometime, but the point is,” Antonio shrugged, “the Germans remembered this and they struck. The fact that Parisians are not wallowing more than their blank stares surprises me, I must admit.”
“There is still the Maginot Line,” Francis reminded, clucking his tongue behind his teeth. Gently, he dislodged Antonio’s fingers from his jacket. “And I will pass on a history lesson from you.”
“Such a funny thing about that…” Antonio rubbed at his bottom lip, pondering for a moment. “I have not heard how far it extends. But I can assume it goes just through France.”
Francis rolled his eyes. “Of course it goes through France; would you suggest we put it through Sicily?"
“Look, look here, teacher will show you.” Before Francis could protest, Antonio had slung his arm around Francis’ shoulders and steered him back to the curb, pushing through the people shuffling dazedly to the metro. “Now look across past the cars, to the bench--what do you see?”
Antonio’s arm was a heavy weight across Francis’ back, but a warm weight nonetheless. He sighed and gave in to the history lesson. “I see a little old woman sitting, reading. Beside her is another woman--much younger--and beside that one is a man with the physique of a barrel on a stool. Possibly her lover, the way they are chatting so hushed and intimately.”
“And the young thing in the middle, she is quite pretty, isn’t she? One you would go after?”
“Well--”
“There is no time for you to appraise her, my friend; let’s just pretend she suits your picky tastes. How would you get to her, to work your charms?” Antonio's voice was almost convincingly curious.
“Through the old woman's side, seat myself between them. Unless I had a death wish,” Francis added. The man on the bench must have been at least twice his size. “And what does this have to do with the Maginot--”
“To get to the pretty city of Paris,” Antonio said softly, eyes still across the road, “they will go through the path of least guard and resistance. Your Maginot Line does not extend far enough, my friend. Once the Lowlands fall, it will be over and done.”
Francis chuckled. "You are a pessimist."
"I am a Spaniard who by all rights should have died in his homeland."
“They’re neutral,” Francis said patiently, “why would the Germans--”
“Denmark and Norway were neutral.” Shrugging, Antonio let his arm slip from Francis’ shoulders, and he began to walk towards the metro once more. “It’s only been a day and already you forget. The names and faces of past lovers are one thing to let fade from memory; history is another.”
Francis was only barely listening; instead he stared at the woman across the street. She had long, dark hair, sharp eyes and a small frame. He knew her, Francis realized suddenly, and as soon as he did she caught his gaze, noticing the not-quite stranger staring at her. Her mouth set into a thin line--it had always done that, when she was irritated--and the grunt beside her stopped talking. They both watched him intently as the woman whispered--"Francis Bonnefoy," her lips said slowly--and waited. They waited as if he were to simply walk across the street and join them on that bench.
"Francis? Aren't we going back?"
To admit to knowing her was to admit to forgetting history, even his own. Francis shrugged his jacket higher upon his shoulders and turned to Antonio. "We are; what would you like for dinner?"
He felt her eyes on the back of his neck until they descended into the metro's belly beneath the street.
-----
Here are your notes:
-Boches; an offensive slang term
-Nazi invasion of Denmark and Norway on April 9, 1940. Basically, in 1939 Germany said they wouldn't, but they did, in what was widely regarded as a 'bitch move'.
-Maybe random, but there is a good book I'm reading--where I picked up the 'Boches' term--about an American doctor and his family in occupied Paris. Doctor to the Resistance; I believe you can read most if not all of it on Google Books. Pretty interesting stuff, and it's an easy read for anti-text book people. This is where I picked up the movie Francis is watching--Ninotchka
Series: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: France/???
Rating: R overall
Date: Written today
Status: incomplete; companion to Die Buchhandlung
And So... Three men know three things: There are people who love you; there are things worth killing for, dying for; and lastly, there is no good ale in Paris.
Notes: This is a companion piece to Die Buchhandlung, focusing on the French Resistance. Hopefully you find it as engaging orz ...I've done research for this--far more than I can say without getting embarrassed--but if you have a question or comment about something, so let me know; sometimes I miss stuff!
Also! hetaliasunshine is open for business! I'll be there again this time around, I look forward to everyone's submissions :3
April, 1940: Paris
Francis could appreciate the irony of the film--not necessarily the film itself, nor its plot--but he could appreciate the beautiful irony of watching an American film about Paris with subtitles in French. He could understand the English fairly well, but he could ignore it even better. And that actress--Greta Garbo, he name was--held his attention, for at least the first half of the film. But it became clearer and clearer that she was mocking Mr. Stalin in the east, praising Paris as if there had never been a single Communist in its streets. Amused, Francis took another drag, his tendrils of white floating high in the movie house to mingle with the smoke of others. The smoke fogged the picture on the screen and masked the air of unease, but the ushers and managers allowed it these days.
“First you arrive late, now you’re dozing off--Antonio,” Francis said around his cigarette into the dark, “I am offended.”
Antonio’s head bobbed down once like a duck searching for fish before snapping back up again at his name. “I--what? Is it over?”
“I don’t believe so. Mademoiselle Garbo’s character has not yet been fully seduced by the capitalists.”
“Once she renounces Communism we may leave then?” Antonio asked with a slight yawn.
There was a hiss from a row ahead of them: “You may both leave now if you are so bored!”
“My apologies; he is a Spaniard.”
“Hey,” Antonio frowned. “I was born that way.”
“Up; let’s get going.” With a wave of his hand, Francis rose and ushered Antonio from his seat into the aisle. “I’ve already figured out the ending. And if you all haven’t,” Francis said with a raised voice, “she and the count fall in love and everyone becomes a capitalist!”
“Get out!” Something flew past Francis ear among the groans and hisses of the audience, and he shoved Antonio through the doors back into the lobby. Normally there would have been chuckles at his remark, Francis thought grimly; it was if the world had been reversed in one day. He wouldn't be surprised if the Eiffel Tower had its four feet in the air when he returned home.
“Tell me again why you haven’t rejoined the FCP?”
Francis ignored Antonio’s knowing grin. “That was not Francis the Communist speaking; that was Francis the movie connoisseur crying out in pain. Be a friend to me and finish this; I have lost my taste for it.”
Without a hint of reluctance, Antonio accepted the half-finished cigarette as they exited the movie theater. He blew a sharp line of white into the night, walking towards the metro in the eerie quiet of a city preoccupied with other thoughts. “I really am sorry for being late; I got into a discussion with a young man about Norway--he never knew that it had been more or less one with Sweden under King Magnus the Seventh.”
“And I’m sure you, being the good school teacher, gave him a proper lesson, no?”
“No, in fact; he was too distressed with current events,” Antonio said, with more disdain in his voice than was probably appropriate. “Just one more thing the fascists have taken from me.”
“It sounds to me as if they saved someone’s chastity tonight,” Francis chuckled, hands shoved deep into his pockets. But far be it from him to chastise Antonio for his exploits when he had broken so many hearts in Paris himself.
“Just you wait for when they come marching through this very street,” Antonio said with a flourish of his hand, almost knocking a passerby’s hat from his head. “They’ll have their shiny buttons, pressed uniforms, black boots--”
“That’s enough,” Francis said flatly. “Enough; people are beginning to stare, you madman.”
Antonio just laughed, puffing away until there was hardly anything left of the cigarette to be crushed under his heel. “You French!” He at least had the decency to notice the startled looks around him at that. Grinning, Antonio took Francis’ elbow and yanked him from the sidewalk, pressing him to the dimly lit bricks of someone's townhouse. “You French,” he said quietly, “have forgotten the last war with the Boches too quickly.”
Francis’ eyes narrowed. “I will never forget begging for food in the streets.”
But still, for all the world Antonio grinned like he had the most wonderful secret--and no one else knew it but him. “Everyone is shocked--so shocked!--that Norway and Denmark have been invaded by Germany. Honestly, I can only say I had a hunch--but they are strategic nations, especially where Britain is concerned. Did you learn about the Vikings, when they burned little villages in England to the ground? I’ll give you a lesson sometime, but the point is,” Antonio shrugged, “the Germans remembered this and they struck. The fact that Parisians are not wallowing more than their blank stares surprises me, I must admit.”
“There is still the Maginot Line,” Francis reminded, clucking his tongue behind his teeth. Gently, he dislodged Antonio’s fingers from his jacket. “And I will pass on a history lesson from you.”
“Such a funny thing about that…” Antonio rubbed at his bottom lip, pondering for a moment. “I have not heard how far it extends. But I can assume it goes just through France.”
Francis rolled his eyes. “Of course it goes through France; would you suggest we put it through Sicily?"
“Look, look here, teacher will show you.” Before Francis could protest, Antonio had slung his arm around Francis’ shoulders and steered him back to the curb, pushing through the people shuffling dazedly to the metro. “Now look across past the cars, to the bench--what do you see?”
Antonio’s arm was a heavy weight across Francis’ back, but a warm weight nonetheless. He sighed and gave in to the history lesson. “I see a little old woman sitting, reading. Beside her is another woman--much younger--and beside that one is a man with the physique of a barrel on a stool. Possibly her lover, the way they are chatting so hushed and intimately.”
“And the young thing in the middle, she is quite pretty, isn’t she? One you would go after?”
“Well--”
“There is no time for you to appraise her, my friend; let’s just pretend she suits your picky tastes. How would you get to her, to work your charms?” Antonio's voice was almost convincingly curious.
“Through the old woman's side, seat myself between them. Unless I had a death wish,” Francis added. The man on the bench must have been at least twice his size. “And what does this have to do with the Maginot--”
“To get to the pretty city of Paris,” Antonio said softly, eyes still across the road, “they will go through the path of least guard and resistance. Your Maginot Line does not extend far enough, my friend. Once the Lowlands fall, it will be over and done.”
Francis chuckled. "You are a pessimist."
"I am a Spaniard who by all rights should have died in his homeland."
“They’re neutral,” Francis said patiently, “why would the Germans--”
“Denmark and Norway were neutral.” Shrugging, Antonio let his arm slip from Francis’ shoulders, and he began to walk towards the metro once more. “It’s only been a day and already you forget. The names and faces of past lovers are one thing to let fade from memory; history is another.”
Francis was only barely listening; instead he stared at the woman across the street. She had long, dark hair, sharp eyes and a small frame. He knew her, Francis realized suddenly, and as soon as he did she caught his gaze, noticing the not-quite stranger staring at her. Her mouth set into a thin line--it had always done that, when she was irritated--and the grunt beside her stopped talking. They both watched him intently as the woman whispered--"Francis Bonnefoy," her lips said slowly--and waited. They waited as if he were to simply walk across the street and join them on that bench.
"Francis? Aren't we going back?"
To admit to knowing her was to admit to forgetting history, even his own. Francis shrugged his jacket higher upon his shoulders and turned to Antonio. "We are; what would you like for dinner?"
He felt her eyes on the back of his neck until they descended into the metro's belly beneath the street.
-----
Here are your notes:
-Boches; an offensive slang term
-Nazi invasion of Denmark and Norway on April 9, 1940. Basically, in 1939 Germany said they wouldn't, but they did, in what was widely regarded as a 'bitch move'.
-Maybe random, but there is a good book I'm reading--where I picked up the 'Boches' term--about an American doctor and his family in occupied Paris. Doctor to the Resistance; I believe you can read most if not all of it on Google Books. Pretty interesting stuff, and it's an easy read for anti-text book people. This is where I picked up the movie Francis is watching--Ninotchka