part 10 ; Sing Sung Songs [13/?]
anonymous
July 6 2010, 09:02:37 UTC
France’s fleeting glance, downcast gaze confirms all but it’s not what he already knows that he wants to discuss rather- he shifts a little in his seat, arms, clasped. Blue sofas, France’s house. The smell of roses, Canada wonders who really tends to the rose garden here. As appreciative France is of the beautiful it is one thing to appreciate and another to tend to.
Painstakingly holding, growing, looking after something without breaking it, harming it. Sharp, stingingly the gasp he makes.
“The roses-”
“England,” France tells him, “He grumbles and swears all the while.”
When he tirelessly tends to them because he has a rose garden himself, a beautiful garden, and if France can cook delicious food then England can grow and raise lovely healthy roses. He can do it better than France who doesn’t know anything about gardening (this is not true, but England likes to think so as an excuse to stay, to get his hands dirty and prickled by earth and weeds, hauling water and fertilizer, humming now and then a tune they all pretend they don’t know) Canada quirks a smile. France would play along and he’d try to help by unwinding the hose, which he’d feign not knowing how to use and end up spraying England with water. England in turn would rush at him and try to rip off that beard-
But it leaves him, that smile. As does this image of an England who cares only for a rose garden of a friend not friend, whose cooking he’ll eat hastily and begrudgingly before leaving for home as compensation for the red, pink, white, yellow, the array of colours roses can be, blossoming under a sunny day at the home of an old nemesis.
If England can care diligently to roses why could he not have taken better care of-
But the end of that sentence.
That rationale.
Canada knows.
Roses are just flowers, they aren’t people, aren’t nations, aren’t beings who fester desire in another. Roses can’t love you back. Not the way America could should you hold his heart.
“You told me before didn’t you? That I don’t know really what England’s capable of. But, I know…” his already quiet voice, normal in the silent room save for the clock ticking steadily away, how many more minutes would he spend in hesitance?
I know something you don’t know.
Feels arrogant even as the truth.
The brief part when lips take in breath, a slight one with a flex of the bottom lip. France’s mouth does this, the golden whiskers of his beard look glossy even in the dimmer light. Canada thinks it takes a lot to look good with facial hair, when he grows out a little he just feels like he’s spent too long camping in the mountains again and will need a bath.
part 10 ; Sing Sung Songs [14/?]
anonymous
July 6 2010, 09:03:12 UTC
America- when he’d asked about this (“How do you think we’d look?”), had grown stubble with him when they were young, he’d still been part of England and America a nation- they’d rubbed their fingers over the other’s, rubbed those whiskered cheeks against one another, comparing growth speed, colour and texture. England had visited once during this experiment. America had promptly shaved it off after he’d seen it, became irritated and was gone. Deriving a certain pleasure in every little crease of England’s brow.
“America loves England.”
France sits back, crosses a leg. Fingers twitch in the fold of his hands, he holds a hand out to place on Canada’s shoulder as the younger nation buries his face in his hands, cheeks feeling the sweat that’s spread on his palms. That hand does not reach its destination as muffled, but louder than the voice that is not screened behind the shield of flesh and bone.
“He slept with England.”
Incredulous, that noise- it’s not a chuckle, but it’s a sort of laugh.
“Of course have you seen them now-”
“Before he was a nation.”
France’s throat closes up.
“Before he could-”
Canada’s eyes glisten, moisten as he peers over his hands, voice growing steadily stronger though it quakes.
“-before his head could rest against your shoulder or your hip.”
England’s hip. When America could just reach it, England would fumble his touch against the back of America’s head on the cushions of a chair in the room he’d love to sew in, fumble those fingers to hook under America’s chin and hold it in place as his other hand reached to tug out from beneath his breeches-
France’s grip slips away as he stands, so violently straightforward with a sharpness grace cannot attend. It alarms Canada but does not stop him from finishing.
“Not in the way you and I would.”
Under the covers, it’s cold, but big brother is there to warm him in a gentle embrace, as drifting and soft, they fell to slumber, to dream. Canada does not fear ghosts or monsters in the dark where he’s found peace and comfort in anticipation of another day (there must be night for day to come) unlike America who cries at any small sound, any small indication of movement, shadow that is or is not there. Monsters to eat him, ghosts to haunt him. America fears the dark, for what it brings to him is not the same as what it brings to Canada.
-pressed so deeply it might as well they be one body, one figure estranged in the pitch dark. Sleepily rub away vision, Canada can only creep back to bed and pretend and ignore and forget-
Augh, all those little snippets of the past are heart-breaking enough, but I still feel so bad for Canada-- And now France, too! Canada, who was unable to stop what was happening or even able to say anything -- he still has that kind of "I know something you don't know, and it's even more horrible than you could imagine" feeling. France, entirely unknowing. And neither able to fix the present or future, either. >_< Although I'm looking forward to France kicking some ass, either literally or metaphorically. *cheers big brother France on*
That last line is a tiny piece of heart-break, but this is just gorgeous:
Under the covers, it’s cold, but big brother is there to warm him in a gentle embrace, as drifting and soft, they fell to slumber, to dream. Canada does not fear ghosts or monsters in the dark where he’s found peace and comfort in anticipation of another day (there must be night for day to come) unlike America who cries at any small sound, any small indication of movement, shadow that is or is not there. Monsters to eat him, ghosts to haunt him. America fears the dark, for what it brings to him is not the same as what it brings to Canada.
God, that's seriously heart-breaking. And enough to fuck everyone up for life. T_T
... Captcha: "Mermaids know" Er, then the mermaids need to kick England's ass and/or get him some therapy? Preferably both, dammit.
Re: part 10 ; Sing Sung Songs [14/?]
anonymous
July 7 2010, 02:06:32 UTC
You... you're back! *sobs in happiness*
When I saw this on the Fill list, I immediately went back and reread the previous parts then this new part. I crave more now!
Gosh, shit's really going to hit the fan after this part, isn't it? France's reaction was so wonderfully written. It wasn't written as being over the top, and just perfect.
My favorite part was this paragraph:
Under the covers, it’s cold, but big brother is there to warm him in a gentle embrace, as drifting and soft, they fell to slumber, to dream. Canada does not fear ghosts or monsters in the dark where he’s found peace and comfort in anticipation of another day (there must be night for day to come) unlike America who cries at any small sound, any small indication of movement, shadow that is or is not there. Monsters to eat him, ghosts to haunt him. America fears the dark, for what it brings to him is not the same as what it brings to Canada.
Re: part 10 ; Sing Sung Songs [14/?]
anonymous
July 9 2010, 09:09:04 UTC
OMG I'm so happy your back!! oh wow.. this is so sad.. and the last part. whoa! ow my heart, but I love you for it.<3 why does America's personality fit so well with this it's becoming my head cannon. I think I'm going to cry.. poor America. ;_; why are you so amazing Author!Anon?
Re: part 10 ; Sing Sung Songs [14/?]
anonymous
August 2 2010, 06:41:32 UTC
I only just found this while perusing the recs list and read everything in one go, and I'm kind of overwhelmed by the richness of emotions and your style. You've given me an ache I'm not sure I want to shake off. Amazing.
Painstakingly holding, growing, looking after something without breaking it, harming it. Sharp, stingingly the gasp he makes.
“The roses-”
“England,” France tells him, “He grumbles and swears all the while.”
When he tirelessly tends to them because he has a rose garden himself, a beautiful garden, and if France can cook delicious food then England can grow and raise lovely healthy roses. He can do it better than France who doesn’t know anything about gardening (this is not true, but England likes to think so as an excuse to stay, to get his hands dirty and prickled by earth and weeds, hauling water and fertilizer, humming now and then a tune they all pretend they don’t know) Canada quirks a smile. France would play along and he’d try to help by unwinding the hose, which he’d feign not knowing how to use and end up spraying England with water. England in turn would rush at him and try to rip off that beard-
But it leaves him, that smile. As does this image of an England who cares only for a rose garden of a friend not friend, whose cooking he’ll eat hastily and begrudgingly before leaving for home as compensation for the red, pink, white, yellow, the array of colours roses can be, blossoming under a sunny day at the home of an old nemesis.
If England can care diligently to roses why could he not have taken better care of-
But the end of that sentence.
That rationale.
Canada knows.
Roses are just flowers, they aren’t people, aren’t nations, aren’t beings who fester desire in another. Roses can’t love you back. Not the way America could should you hold his heart.
“You told me before didn’t you? That I don’t know really what England’s capable of. But, I know…” his already quiet voice, normal in the silent room save for the clock ticking steadily away, how many more minutes would he spend in hesitance?
I know something you don’t know.
Feels arrogant even as the truth.
The brief part when lips take in breath, a slight one with a flex of the bottom lip. France’s mouth does this, the golden whiskers of his beard look glossy even in the dimmer light. Canada thinks it takes a lot to look good with facial hair, when he grows out a little he just feels like he’s spent too long camping in the mountains again and will need a bath.
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“America loves England.”
France sits back, crosses a leg. Fingers twitch in the fold of his hands, he holds a hand out to place on Canada’s shoulder as the younger nation buries his face in his hands, cheeks feeling the sweat that’s spread on his palms. That hand does not reach its destination as muffled, but louder than the voice that is not screened behind the shield of flesh and bone.
“He slept with England.”
Incredulous, that noise- it’s not a chuckle, but it’s a sort of laugh.
“Of course have you seen them now-”
“Before he was a nation.”
France’s throat closes up.
“Before he could-”
Canada’s eyes glisten, moisten as he peers over his hands, voice growing steadily stronger though it quakes.
“-before his head could rest against your shoulder or your hip.”
England’s hip. When America could just reach it, England would fumble his touch against the back of America’s head on the cushions of a chair in the room he’d love to sew in, fumble those fingers to hook under America’s chin and hold it in place as his other hand reached to tug out from beneath his breeches-
France’s grip slips away as he stands, so violently straightforward with a sharpness grace cannot attend. It alarms Canada but does not stop him from finishing.
“Not in the way you and I would.”
Under the covers, it’s cold, but big brother is there to warm him in a gentle embrace, as drifting and soft, they fell to slumber, to dream. Canada does not fear ghosts or monsters in the dark where he’s found peace and comfort in anticipation of another day (there must be night for day to come) unlike America who cries at any small sound, any small indication of movement, shadow that is or is not there. Monsters to eat him, ghosts to haunt him. America fears the dark, for what it brings to him is not the same as what it brings to Canada.
-pressed so deeply it might as well they be one body, one figure estranged in the pitch dark. Sleepily rub away vision, Canada can only creep back to bed and pretend and ignore and forget-
England loves America more.
--
TBC
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... I'm going to reread everything before I read this, but welcome back. ♥~
Duuuuuude, Captcha is excited too: "breakthrough fondled" D:
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That last line is a tiny piece of heart-break, but this is just gorgeous:
Under the covers, it’s cold, but big brother is there to warm him in a gentle embrace, as drifting and soft, they fell to slumber, to dream. Canada does not fear ghosts or monsters in the dark where he’s found peace and comfort in anticipation of another day (there must be night for day to come) unlike America who cries at any small sound, any small indication of movement, shadow that is or is not there. Monsters to eat him, ghosts to haunt him. America fears the dark, for what it brings to him is not the same as what it brings to Canada.
God, that's seriously heart-breaking. And enough to fuck everyone up for life. T_T
... Captcha: "Mermaids know" Er, then the mermaids need to kick England's ass and/or get him some therapy? Preferably both, dammit.
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When I saw this on the Fill list, I immediately went back and reread the previous parts then this new part. I crave more now!
Gosh, shit's really going to hit the fan after this part, isn't it? France's reaction was so wonderfully written. It wasn't written as being over the top, and just perfect.
My favorite part was this paragraph:
Under the covers, it’s cold, but big brother is there to warm him in a gentle embrace, as drifting and soft, they fell to slumber, to dream. Canada does not fear ghosts or monsters in the dark where he’s found peace and comfort in anticipation of another day (there must be night for day to come) unlike America who cries at any small sound, any small indication of movement, shadow that is or is not there. Monsters to eat him, ghosts to haunt him. America fears the dark, for what it brings to him is not the same as what it brings to Canada.
Oh... it really pulls at my heart. America... ;_;
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oh wow.. this is so sad.. and the last part. whoa! ow my heart, but I love you for it.<3 why does America's personality fit so well with this it's becoming my head cannon. I think I'm going to cry.. poor America. ;_; why are you so amazing Author!Anon?
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(Wanna join me in stalking this thread? :D)
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T-THIS FILL. I THINK I'M GOING TO CRY NOW, ANON.
p-please more... I'm such a sucker for angst and trauma and heartbreak...
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