as-yet-untitled [2/?]
anonymous
February 5 2010, 16:05:58 UTC
The night of May 1 was damp but clear in Warsaw, and they made their way to the Royal Castle in ones and twos, in fine evening clothes or neat suits or traditional ethnic clothing, depending on their temprament. Germany had worn a tuxedo. He was somehow unsuprised that England had just arrived in a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches that he'd owned at least since 1932.
"Ah, I see my attempts to instill a sense of fashion in Angleterre have yet to bear fruit," France stage-whispered to him. In English. Germany did not allow his wince to show. France was in a new suit, of course, with a shirt that made up for its feminine detailing by its brilliant red colour. England glanced at them, then ostentatiously turned away, making a beeline for the corner where America, Canada, Switzerland, and Japan were still setting up their instruments.
Forty minutes to midnight, and they were still missing four of the new EU members. Germany sipped his wine and fretted.
France leaned over and said softly, in French this time, "The Baltics said they might be late, and Poland is with them, I'm sure. Enjoying the street party."
Germany nodded. "Lithuania is reliable, at least," he offered. "And Estonia." They've grown up, he doesn't say - doesn't have to, because they both know it. They've grown. All of Western Europe did, ever since - the Second World War, he forces himself to think, and then since the Soviet Union fell, Eastern Europe has caught up. Mostly. His brother doesn't seem that affected. And Lithuania was always the oldest of the Eastern Bloc; he and Belarus havn't changed a bit.
France pats Germany on the shoulder, and grins at him. There is no grey in France's hair. There are lines at the corner of his eyes.
Germany returns the smile, and wonders what France -
There's a clatter, and the doors open and Poland strides in. He's wearing strappy high-heeled sandals, a long blue dress with a flaring skirt, and a voluminous satin shawl. In deference, perhaps, to the occasion, all are royal blue with gold stars. He is clinging to Lithuania's arm. Lithuania is in a dark suit with a vest that matches the dress. He's beaming like a proud bridegroom. Latvia and Estonia trail behind them, Latvia looking shy, Estonia very determined.
It would be nice if this was a suprise. Still, at least half the room is staring. Germany fixes his grin on his face and heads over to say hello.
It's while he's shaking hands with Latvia that there's another clatter, this one from the corner with the string quartet. Germany takes a deep breath and looks over.
Switzerland is making inarticulate noises and has kicked his chair over. Japan is holding Switzerland's viola in one hand, his own violin in the other, and is trying to right the chair with his foot. America has Switzerland in a headlock, and Canada is gesticulating wildly. It wouldn't be the EU without at least one threat of violence, but Switzerland isn't technically in the EU and he's usually pretty calm for someone who never goes anywhere without a gun. Germany turns around, very slowly.
His brother is standing at the door, beaming. Smiling demurely, with his arm around her waist, is Lichtenstein, in a gold dress and what looks like every piece of jewelry she owns. It probably adds up to enough to buy, oh, the Maldives. Maybe Kenya.
Next time, Germany decides, they're getting a human band, no matter how hard England complains about memory spells giving him migranes.
The night of May 1 was damp but clear in Warsaw, and they made their way to the Royal Castle in ones and twos, in fine evening clothes or neat suits or traditional ethnic clothing, depending on their temprament. Germany had worn a tuxedo. He was somehow unsuprised that England had just arrived in a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches that he'd owned at least since 1932.
"Ah, I see my attempts to instill a sense of fashion in Angleterre have yet to bear fruit," France stage-whispered to him. In English. Germany did not allow his wince to show. France was in a new suit, of course, with a shirt that made up for its feminine detailing by its brilliant red colour. England glanced at them, then ostentatiously turned away, making a beeline for the corner where America, Canada, Switzerland, and Japan were still setting up their instruments.
Forty minutes to midnight, and they were still missing four of the new EU members. Germany sipped his wine and fretted.
France leaned over and said softly, in French this time, "The Baltics said they might be late, and Poland is with them, I'm sure. Enjoying the street party."
Germany nodded. "Lithuania is reliable, at least," he offered. "And Estonia." They've grown up, he doesn't say - doesn't have to, because they both know it. They've grown. All of Western Europe did, ever since - the Second World War, he forces himself to think, and then since the Soviet Union fell, Eastern Europe has caught up. Mostly. His brother doesn't seem that affected. And Lithuania was always the oldest of the Eastern Bloc; he and Belarus havn't changed a bit.
France pats Germany on the shoulder, and grins at him. There is no grey in France's hair. There are lines at the corner of his eyes.
Germany returns the smile, and wonders what France -
There's a clatter, and the doors open and Poland strides in. He's wearing strappy high-heeled sandals, a long blue dress with a flaring skirt, and a voluminous satin shawl. In deference, perhaps, to the occasion, all are royal blue with gold stars. He is clinging to Lithuania's arm. Lithuania is in a dark suit with a vest that matches the dress. He's beaming like a proud bridegroom. Latvia and Estonia trail behind them, Latvia looking shy, Estonia very determined.
It would be nice if this was a suprise. Still, at least half the room is staring. Germany fixes his grin on his face and heads over to say hello.
It's while he's shaking hands with Latvia that there's another clatter, this one from the corner with the string quartet. Germany takes a deep breath and looks over.
Switzerland is making inarticulate noises and has kicked his chair over. Japan is holding Switzerland's viola in one hand, his own violin in the other, and is trying to right the chair with his foot. America has Switzerland in a headlock, and Canada is gesticulating wildly. It wouldn't be the EU without at least one threat of violence, but Switzerland isn't technically in the EU and he's usually pretty calm for someone who never goes anywhere without a gun. Germany turns around, very slowly.
His brother is standing at the door, beaming. Smiling demurely, with his arm around her waist, is Lichtenstein, in a gold dress and what looks like every piece of jewelry she owns. It probably adds up to enough to buy, oh, the Maldives. Maybe Kenya.
Next time, Germany decides, they're getting a human band, no matter how hard England complains about memory spells giving him migranes.
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