❝and you feel hopeless and homeless, lost in the haze of the wine❞
Title: And Now I Know How Joan of Arc Felt (2/2)
Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Words: 1000+
Characters: Vietnam ; France (mentions of Jeanne d’Arc) Vietnam/France ; Jeanne/France
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: kisses ; mentions of alcohol and sexual situations
Summary: In 2009, Vietnam sits on the United Nations Security Council. While in New York, Hong Kong comes to her and asks for her help getting a drunken France out of China’s rooms. As she tries to deal with her drunk ex-lover, Vietnam hears some things she would rather not coming out of his mouth.
Chapter Summary: France makes his way back to lucidity to find a heart-sore Vietnam still waiting for him. And while they discuss his love of the past, France tries to convince her that a man can have more than one true love.
Part I
And Now I Know How Joan of Arc Felt
Part II
Of course, this is not the first time that France has regained consciousness and lucidity under a cold shower. However, this time the water is bitingly frigid, so as his mind slips back to itself, he chokes on the icy water, coughing roughly as the ache in his head becomes more pronounced.
He dries off, trying to piece together the past few hours, wondering what the hell it was he drank, and wanders back into the main room of his hotel suit. He’s surprised, at first, when he sees Vietnam on the loveseat, curled into a tight ball, her arms wrapped around herself. But then, somehow, it seems natural.
“Vi?” he asks softly, for two reasons. For one, he always seems to whisper with her, as though she’s a tense cat that might run off at any moment. Secondly, raising his voice any louder would only aggravate the headache that promises to grow worse, anyway.
She doesn’t respond, and so he sits down gently beside her, running one hand through her hair. It’s always been a habit of his, to become enamored of the shining tresses of his lovers. He realized, once, that it was because it hurt so much to see Jeanne cut off her long braids, when she decided to don armor and dress as a man-the armor that ultimately damned her.
Jeanne. The thought hits France like a freight train, and suddenly he remembers, staggering through the hallways and leaning against Vietnam, relying on her, kissing her-confusing her for his long-lost love.
“Oh, shit,” France murmurs, forgetting to keep his voice low. He winces in pain, his own words ringing in his ears. Vietnam shifts, turns her head towards him, blinks open her eyes.
Without preamble, she asks, “She was your true love, wasn’t she?”
It’s May 30th, France’s least favorite day of the year. It’s a feast day, so he can usually write off his heavy drinking as some sort of celebration. But now, looking into Vietnam’s oil-dark eyes, and knowing what she’s heard from his lips, he really can’t deny it.
“Oui,” he murmurs, running a hand through his hair. “I believe she was.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Vietnam replies in a dead tone, turning away from him. Her voice is distant and cold, devoid of emotion. But there is something in her face that speaks of heartbreak and loneliness, and so of course France can’t leave things there.
“Why’s that?” he asks softly.
“Because,” she says, still turned away from him, so he can’t read her face, “I always wrote you off, saying that there was something wrong with you, and that’s why we could never be in love, not really. But if you had a true love, someone you could have been completely happy with, that means there was something wrong with me, doesn’t it?”
He opens his mouth, desperately trying to think of something to say to stop her, but she keeps speaking. “As long as you never had a true love, I could believe that our romance was ill-fated from the start. But if it wasn’t, it means that we…we just weren’t right for one another. And that’s just too much to take.”
“Vi…” he begins, but then his voice trails off. Because really, what is there to say? Even if he was completely sober, he wouldn’t have a response to this. Because though he may deny it, Jeanne was the only woman he has ever loved completely. He has loved others, since, but never as completely, never as purely. Or so he had thought, until about a century and a half ago.
“Jeanne was my true love,” he reiterates, leaning towards Vietnam, his chin against her shoulder and neck, “but she was only my first true love.”
“Don’t feed me that,” Vietnam snaps, but she doesn’t pull away from the embrace. “True love is just that-just once. There’s no do-overs, no second chances.”
“I’m sorry, ma cherie, but that’s simply not true.” And before she can argue anymore, France turns her gently towards him, cradling her face in his hands. There is the barest hit of tears in her eyes, but he can still taste salt when he presses his lips against hers.
She doesn’t resist. When he finally breaks the kiss, her brow furrows, and she leans towards him, pushing him down onto the couch and claiming his mouth again. He is still bare-chested, his hair slightly damp from the shower. It seems brutally unfair to him that he be the only one undressed, so while they kiss he reaches up and undoes the buttons of Vietnam’s blouse, so that when she leans in closer, he can feel her soft, lotus-petal skin against his.
He’s not sure how long they intertwine like that, but eventually, he’s laying back against the couch, and she’s snuggled up against him, her head against his shoulder. It’s amazing how quickly they fall back into routine; it is as though they were never apart.
“…so why isn’t it true?” she asks softly, her fingers dancing across his cheek for the barest of moments.
“I had one true, pure love,” he begins, wistfully. For one moment, he sees her-a young girl, seventeen, promising to be his savior. Then his dear farm girl grows into a general, leading his troops to victory. And then she is the bold woman on the scaffold, tied to firewood, being set aflame. He feels the emotion rising in his eyes and impatiently blinks the tears away. “And to be honest, even though I loved again, I never expected to fall in love again.”
“But you did?” she asks skeptically.
“Oh, yes,” he replies. “You’re as different from Jeanne as the moon from the sun. And yet when I look in your eyes…it’s like seeing her, again.”
“I’m not just a replacement,” she retorts defensively.
“Of course not,” France assures her, caressing her skin. “You just prove it, though-a man can fall in love more than once.”
“If that man can live for a thousand years,” she murmurs ruefully.
“If most men get one love for a hundred years, I should get at least two for my age,” he mutters.
“Proportionally, you’re still getting screwed,” she replies.
He pulls her back down on top of him, his arms encircling her waist. “I’d prefer it very much if it wasn’t just proportionally,” he whispers in her ear.
And of course, there’s only one thing Vietnam can do in response.
---
Footnotes:
* “And Now I Know How Joan of Arc Felt” - the title comes from the song “Bigmouth Strikes Again” by the Smiths.
* Vietnam currently sits as a non-permanent member on the United Nations Security Council. The permanent members are China, France, the United Kingdom, the United States, and Russia. The UN meets in New York City.
* Joan of Arc is the patron saint of France. She was burned as a heretic during the Hundred Years’ War, a legendary conflict between France and England. She was burned at the stake on May 30, 1431, at the age of 19; the date has since become her feast day.
* amandier mentioned to me a long time ago that in her head canon, France associated Vietnam with Jeanne. It was that thought that spawned this fic.
* I have a lot of head-canon for the idea of Vietnam and France carrying on an affair while they’re both on the Security Council. However, this fic was meant to focus just on Jeanne’s impact on their relationship, so it ends here. Maybe there’s a sequel in the future?
Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Words: 1000+
Characters: Vietnam ; France (mentions of Jeanne d’Arc) Vietnam/France ; Jeanne/France
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: kisses ; mentions of alcohol and sexual situations
Summary: In 2009, Vietnam sits on the United Nations Security Council. While in New York, Hong Kong comes to her and asks for her help getting a drunken France out of China’s rooms. As she tries to deal with her drunk ex-lover, Vietnam hears some things she would rather not coming out of his mouth.
Chapter Summary: France makes his way back to lucidity to find a heart-sore Vietnam still waiting for him. And while they discuss his love of the past, France tries to convince her that a man can have more than one true love.
Part I
And Now I Know How Joan of Arc Felt
Part II
Of course, this is not the first time that France has regained consciousness and lucidity under a cold shower. However, this time the water is bitingly frigid, so as his mind slips back to itself, he chokes on the icy water, coughing roughly as the ache in his head becomes more pronounced.
He dries off, trying to piece together the past few hours, wondering what the hell it was he drank, and wanders back into the main room of his hotel suit. He’s surprised, at first, when he sees Vietnam on the loveseat, curled into a tight ball, her arms wrapped around herself. But then, somehow, it seems natural.
“Vi?” he asks softly, for two reasons. For one, he always seems to whisper with her, as though she’s a tense cat that might run off at any moment. Secondly, raising his voice any louder would only aggravate the headache that promises to grow worse, anyway.
She doesn’t respond, and so he sits down gently beside her, running one hand through her hair. It’s always been a habit of his, to become enamored of the shining tresses of his lovers. He realized, once, that it was because it hurt so much to see Jeanne cut off her long braids, when she decided to don armor and dress as a man-the armor that ultimately damned her.
Jeanne. The thought hits France like a freight train, and suddenly he remembers, staggering through the hallways and leaning against Vietnam, relying on her, kissing her-confusing her for his long-lost love.
“Oh, shit,” France murmurs, forgetting to keep his voice low. He winces in pain, his own words ringing in his ears. Vietnam shifts, turns her head towards him, blinks open her eyes.
Without preamble, she asks, “She was your true love, wasn’t she?”
It’s May 30th, France’s least favorite day of the year. It’s a feast day, so he can usually write off his heavy drinking as some sort of celebration. But now, looking into Vietnam’s oil-dark eyes, and knowing what she’s heard from his lips, he really can’t deny it.
“Oui,” he murmurs, running a hand through his hair. “I believe she was.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Vietnam replies in a dead tone, turning away from him. Her voice is distant and cold, devoid of emotion. But there is something in her face that speaks of heartbreak and loneliness, and so of course France can’t leave things there.
“Why’s that?” he asks softly.
“Because,” she says, still turned away from him, so he can’t read her face, “I always wrote you off, saying that there was something wrong with you, and that’s why we could never be in love, not really. But if you had a true love, someone you could have been completely happy with, that means there was something wrong with me, doesn’t it?”
He opens his mouth, desperately trying to think of something to say to stop her, but she keeps speaking. “As long as you never had a true love, I could believe that our romance was ill-fated from the start. But if it wasn’t, it means that we…we just weren’t right for one another. And that’s just too much to take.”
“Vi…” he begins, but then his voice trails off. Because really, what is there to say? Even if he was completely sober, he wouldn’t have a response to this. Because though he may deny it, Jeanne was the only woman he has ever loved completely. He has loved others, since, but never as completely, never as purely. Or so he had thought, until about a century and a half ago.
“Jeanne was my true love,” he reiterates, leaning towards Vietnam, his chin against her shoulder and neck, “but she was only my first true love.”
“Don’t feed me that,” Vietnam snaps, but she doesn’t pull away from the embrace. “True love is just that-just once. There’s no do-overs, no second chances.”
“I’m sorry, ma cherie, but that’s simply not true.” And before she can argue anymore, France turns her gently towards him, cradling her face in his hands. There is the barest hit of tears in her eyes, but he can still taste salt when he presses his lips against hers.
She doesn’t resist. When he finally breaks the kiss, her brow furrows, and she leans towards him, pushing him down onto the couch and claiming his mouth again. He is still bare-chested, his hair slightly damp from the shower. It seems brutally unfair to him that he be the only one undressed, so while they kiss he reaches up and undoes the buttons of Vietnam’s blouse, so that when she leans in closer, he can feel her soft, lotus-petal skin against his.
He’s not sure how long they intertwine like that, but eventually, he’s laying back against the couch, and she’s snuggled up against him, her head against his shoulder. It’s amazing how quickly they fall back into routine; it is as though they were never apart.
“…so why isn’t it true?” she asks softly, her fingers dancing across his cheek for the barest of moments.
“I had one true, pure love,” he begins, wistfully. For one moment, he sees her-a young girl, seventeen, promising to be his savior. Then his dear farm girl grows into a general, leading his troops to victory. And then she is the bold woman on the scaffold, tied to firewood, being set aflame. He feels the emotion rising in his eyes and impatiently blinks the tears away. “And to be honest, even though I loved again, I never expected to fall in love again.”
“But you did?” she asks skeptically.
“Oh, yes,” he replies. “You’re as different from Jeanne as the moon from the sun. And yet when I look in your eyes…it’s like seeing her, again.”
“I’m not just a replacement,” she retorts defensively.
“Of course not,” France assures her, caressing her skin. “You just prove it, though-a man can fall in love more than once.”
“If that man can live for a thousand years,” she murmurs ruefully.
“If most men get one love for a hundred years, I should get at least two for my age,” he mutters.
“Proportionally, you’re still getting screwed,” she replies.
He pulls her back down on top of him, his arms encircling her waist. “I’d prefer it very much if it wasn’t just proportionally,” he whispers in her ear.
And of course, there’s only one thing Vietnam can do in response.
---
Footnotes:
* “And Now I Know How Joan of Arc Felt” - the title comes from the song “Bigmouth Strikes Again” by the Smiths.
* Vietnam currently sits as a non-permanent member on the United Nations Security Council. The permanent members are China, France, the United Kingdom, the United States, and Russia. The UN meets in New York City.
* Joan of Arc is the patron saint of France. She was burned as a heretic during the Hundred Years’ War, a legendary conflict between France and England. She was burned at the stake on May 30, 1431, at the age of 19; the date has since become her feast day.
* amandier mentioned to me a long time ago that in her head canon, France associated Vietnam with Jeanne. It was that thought that spawned this fic.
* I have a lot of head-canon for the idea of Vietnam and France carrying on an affair while they’re both on the Security Council. However, this fic was meant to focus just on Jeanne’s impact on their relationship, so it ends here. Maybe there’s a sequel in the future?