Traditions [1a/1]archangelunmeiAugust 29 2010, 22:00:42 UTC
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..."
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..."
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