Ontario [4/?]
anonymous
November 30 2009, 21:44:01 UTC
Russia turns to smile at France in response; but the smile is saccharine-sweet, too saturated in what Russia thinks a smile should look like rather than what it actually is.
Somehow, the sight of it makes France feel a little sadder, so he smiles wider, makes his own eyes even more seductive and inviting as they walk into the room, eyes darting about for empty seats on opposite sides of the room.
“Oi! France!”
France blinks and lifts his head to find England waving at him. He can’t help but notice how the frown sits a bit softer on Arthur’s face, how the way he speaks and waves is almost inviting.
He also can’t help but wonder if his boss put him up to it and if England is only acting - the man begot Shakespeare, after all.
Part of him wants to sneer and look elsewhere for a seat. But the other half sets a ghostly, barely-there image of his own boss against his corneas, leaving it there for him to digest and think about as the smile falls off his face.
He remembers his boss telling him they need to start trying for friendlier communication with the United Kingdom - complete with a significant gaze and a strong silence to let the notion sink in.
With a sigh and a shake of his head, France makes his way across the room and away from Russia, his seductive smile and eyes making their way back onto his face. “Ah, to what do I owe the pleasure, my dear England?” France purrs, and his voice drips sex as he slides into the seat next to England.
It’s always amusing to make England turn this particular shade of red, to chuckle as he crosses his arms and turns away. “I - I - you were just standing there like some daft idiot! We need to get this meeting started, and we can’t unless everyone’s seated.”
“Is that so,” France murmurs, resting his chin in his hands and gazing across the room.
“…France?”
“Hm?”
“Is…something wrong with you?”
And it’s only when France blinks that he realizes he’s not looking at England; he’s looking at Russia, who smiles and places his hands on a shaking Italy’s shoulders. He does not look across the room, either because he is stronger-willed than France, or it simply hurts too much.
France knows which option it is for him.
“No,” he whispers over Canada’s soft voice calling the G8 to order. “Nothing is wrong, dear England. Nothing at all.”
As he continues watching Russia, he wonders who he’s trying to convince. ___
He feels empty by the end of the day’s meeting, when the sun sinks low in the sky and blurs everything in pleasant warm colors.
Perhaps empty is not the right word for it, France thinks, walking with the other Nations as they make their way to the dining hall. Empty is a word that at least denotes a freedom from feeling, a numbness that just exists.
France is not empty in feeling.
His body feels high-strung, jittery. He lets his body control his conversation with England as his mind floats, filled with nothing but puppet-string jerks and quickening heartbeats. He knows he is distractible and scared, but he cannot stop himself from turning his head to look at the nations behind them.
Russia trails behind, watching their group with a too-thin smile and half-lidded violet eyes. France finds he is not the only looking back over his shoulder at him. But their gazes are different; theirs is made of fear and anxiety.
France’s is made of something else entirely. But it’s close enough. And he knows Russia will see the difference.
“…Ah. Yes. Please excuse me, England,” he murmurs, and splits off from the group without another word, pushing open the door to the men’s room and glancing over his shoulder again before he slips in.
One violet eye flickers towards him. Just one. Just for a second.
But France knows it is enough as he lets the door shut behind him, leans back on the sink counter, and waits, not bothering to check his watch or the clock above the bathroom door.
It makes time slow down, just a bit. But France wants things to be slow. If only for a little bit.
He tries to think of excuses to tell other men who might stare at him while he waits. Lady Luck, however, does not hate him as much as he thinks, for she brings Russia through the door first and spares him embarrassing explanations.
Somehow, the sight of it makes France feel a little sadder, so he smiles wider, makes his own eyes even more seductive and inviting as they walk into the room, eyes darting about for empty seats on opposite sides of the room.
“Oi! France!”
France blinks and lifts his head to find England waving at him. He can’t help but notice how the frown sits a bit softer on Arthur’s face, how the way he speaks and waves is almost inviting.
He also can’t help but wonder if his boss put him up to it and if England is only acting - the man begot Shakespeare, after all.
Part of him wants to sneer and look elsewhere for a seat. But the other half sets a ghostly, barely-there image of his own boss against his corneas, leaving it there for him to digest and think about as the smile falls off his face.
He remembers his boss telling him they need to start trying for friendlier communication with the United Kingdom - complete with a significant gaze and a strong silence to let the notion sink in.
With a sigh and a shake of his head, France makes his way across the room and away from Russia, his seductive smile and eyes making their way back onto his face. “Ah, to what do I owe the pleasure, my dear England?” France purrs, and his voice drips sex as he slides into the seat next to England.
It’s always amusing to make England turn this particular shade of red, to chuckle as he crosses his arms and turns away. “I - I - you were just standing there like some daft idiot! We need to get this meeting started, and we can’t unless everyone’s seated.”
“Is that so,” France murmurs, resting his chin in his hands and gazing across the room.
“…France?”
“Hm?”
“Is…something wrong with you?”
And it’s only when France blinks that he realizes he’s not looking at England; he’s looking at Russia, who smiles and places his hands on a shaking Italy’s shoulders. He does not look across the room, either because he is stronger-willed than France, or it simply hurts too much.
France knows which option it is for him.
“No,” he whispers over Canada’s soft voice calling the G8 to order. “Nothing is wrong, dear England. Nothing at all.”
As he continues watching Russia, he wonders who he’s trying to convince.
___
He feels empty by the end of the day’s meeting, when the sun sinks low in the sky and blurs everything in pleasant warm colors.
Perhaps empty is not the right word for it, France thinks, walking with the other Nations as they make their way to the dining hall. Empty is a word that at least denotes a freedom from feeling, a numbness that just exists.
France is not empty in feeling.
His body feels high-strung, jittery. He lets his body control his conversation with England as his mind floats, filled with nothing but puppet-string jerks and quickening heartbeats. He knows he is distractible and scared, but he cannot stop himself from turning his head to look at the nations behind them.
Russia trails behind, watching their group with a too-thin smile and half-lidded violet eyes. France finds he is not the only looking back over his shoulder at him. But their gazes are different; theirs is made of fear and anxiety.
France’s is made of something else entirely. But it’s close enough. And he knows Russia will see the difference.
“…Ah. Yes. Please excuse me, England,” he murmurs, and splits off from the group without another word, pushing open the door to the men’s room and glancing over his shoulder again before he slips in.
One violet eye flickers towards him. Just one. Just for a second.
But France knows it is enough as he lets the door shut behind him, leans back on the sink counter, and waits, not bothering to check his watch or the clock above the bathroom door.
It makes time slow down, just a bit. But France wants things to be slow. If only for a little bit.
He tries to think of excuses to tell other men who might stare at him while he waits. Lady Luck, however, does not hate him as much as he thinks, for she brings Russia through the door first and spares him embarrassing explanations.
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