part 10 ; Sing Sung Songs [20/?]
anonymous
September 13 2010, 06:48:12 UTC
England who he knew the best out of everyone.
England who he’d known from what seemed to be day one.
England who’d been his rival, sworn enemy, begrudged ally and wary friend.
All sides France thought he knew. A cry baby who wants to get everything he wants, a greedy gold hungry power thirsty, lonely, shy and bashful. Easy to hurt and difficult to please. England who he thought knew him just as well.
He thought he knew what kind of monster lay in both of them.
France’s step stiffly falters as he knows, knows that drab wheat gold hair, messy and unfashionable. With that green sweater vest no less. It could only be-
“England!”
And France slams his hands on the small table England is sitting at in front of this tiny café. This street is a back street and less crowded than the others but still this city is busy, ever restless. For once it matches France perfectly, he wastes no time falling into what is a deceivingly comfortable action often utilized before- France grabs England by the neck and hauls him up, not minding the mess that he’s caused by slamming into the table earlier, the milky brown liquid of an icy drink spills out of the glass as it shatters.
England looking surprised and venerable, almost making that face he always made when America was going to make a decision that was not in his favour. Yes, France knew this face too so why had he not known-?
“What are you doing?!”
France’s grip slacks in shock as America makes his way over, holding a glass with another icy beverage except it’s a green like- oh.
What had been spilled before had been coffee, must have then been America’s if America was here (England hadn’t wanted anything to drink originally, America made his order but seeing England constantly gaze over at him had assumed it was a drink England actually wanted and insisted, to get something green tea flavoured from the menu for Japan liked that sort of thing so England probably would too; leaving England to agonise over America’s abandoned drink- a drink England knew from where his lips had sucked at that straw. Discreetly. England had slid the cup over to himself while America was away and was about to drink when-)
“Let go of him!” America interjects, forcefully pushing France away and placing his body in front of England’s, much like he had at the bar before Canada.
There’s no need for France to make as if either of them don’t know.
“It’s like Canada said America! You don’t have to do this anymore!”
France is hoping because they’re now sober this would cause a different reaction from America but that appears not to be the case, if anything America is dead set on what he said before.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying! You’re here to bully England like always. Well too bad! You can’t do that anymore, we’re going out now-!”
The natural order of things has been corrupted, and had been for a while now. England knows this, hanging his head and silent behind America.
“Shut up.”
France tells him, irritated that the scowl he’s making is not the most flattering but now isn’t the time for vanity, who was this kid to tell him- to act as if all England had done to him could be pardoned? As if he’d done nothing? And that is when France truly feels the depth of this deprivation. America is not normal. America can never be normal. To America What England Did was normal.
That-
“How could you?” France yells at England, tears springing into his eyes, France remembers how quiet America had been after he’d won the revolution, after that fire had gone away (from both of them) that little smile it’s only a matter of time now.
Until what?
France had had his own trouble stirring up at home he’d not bothered to investigate to try to see, to know what had you mean.
England who he’d known from what seemed to be day one.
England who’d been his rival, sworn enemy, begrudged ally and wary friend.
All sides France thought he knew. A cry baby who wants to get everything he wants, a greedy gold hungry power thirsty, lonely, shy and bashful. Easy to hurt and difficult to please. England who he thought knew him just as well.
He thought he knew what kind of monster lay in both of them.
France’s step stiffly falters as he knows, knows that drab wheat gold hair, messy and unfashionable. With that green sweater vest no less. It could only be-
“England!”
And France slams his hands on the small table England is sitting at in front of this tiny café. This street is a back street and less crowded than the others but still this city is busy, ever restless. For once it matches France perfectly, he wastes no time falling into what is a deceivingly comfortable action often utilized before- France grabs England by the neck and hauls him up, not minding the mess that he’s caused by slamming into the table earlier, the milky brown liquid of an icy drink spills out of the glass as it shatters.
England looking surprised and venerable, almost making that face he always made when America was going to make a decision that was not in his favour. Yes, France knew this face too so why had he not known-?
“What are you doing?!”
France’s grip slacks in shock as America makes his way over, holding a glass with another icy beverage except it’s a green like- oh.
What had been spilled before had been coffee, must have then been America’s if America was here (England hadn’t wanted anything to drink originally, America made his order but seeing England constantly gaze over at him had assumed it was a drink England actually wanted and insisted, to get something green tea flavoured from the menu for Japan liked that sort of thing so England probably would too; leaving England to agonise over America’s abandoned drink- a drink England knew from where his lips had sucked at that straw. Discreetly. England had slid the cup over to himself while America was away and was about to drink when-)
“Let go of him!” America interjects, forcefully pushing France away and placing his body in front of England’s, much like he had at the bar before Canada.
There’s no need for France to make as if either of them don’t know.
“It’s like Canada said America! You don’t have to do this anymore!”
France is hoping because they’re now sober this would cause a different reaction from America but that appears not to be the case, if anything America is dead set on what he said before.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying! You’re here to bully England like always. Well too bad! You can’t do that anymore, we’re going out now-!”
The natural order of things has been corrupted, and had been for a while now. England knows this, hanging his head and silent behind America.
“Shut up.”
France tells him, irritated that the scowl he’s making is not the most flattering but now isn’t the time for vanity, who was this kid to tell him- to act as if all England had done to him could be pardoned? As if he’d done nothing? And that is when France truly feels the depth of this deprivation. America is not normal. America can never be normal. To America What England Did was normal.
That-
“How could you?” France yells at England, tears springing into his eyes, France remembers how quiet America had been after he’d won the revolution, after that fire had gone away (from both of them) that little smile it’s only a matter of time now.
Until what?
France had had his own trouble stirring up at home he’d not bothered to investigate to try to see, to know what had you mean.
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