(con't) The First Cut (is the Deepest)
anonymous
May 9 2011, 13:25:04 UTC
France leaned forward on his elbows as if about to impart a great secret of the world. The light in his eyes danced like sunlight reflected off the Seine or like gaslight flickering in the New Orleans` dusk.
“The wisest of choices,” France commented, seemingly in complete seriousness. America thought it might have been an act, but he wasn`t sure. For a moment however, he felt enchanted all over again. However brief it might last, he didn`t see what the harm was in letting that feeling sweep him away, since it felt so nice.
When France stood and held out his hand, America smiled and accepted it.
They stayed in after all, holing up against the world. Or rather, they talked of the world at a distance from within the safety of France`s apartments, the walls of their cozy cocoon given a warm fuzz thanks to the very nice assistance of some rum. Conversation lasted until it didn`t, and the lull stretched on to a full out halt.
America discovered the newest prints of expatriate novels, while France flipped leisurely through thumbnail sketches of works he wished to acquire for his precious Louvre. Quiet at first, it wasn`t long before America was commenting aloud as he read. He grew animated as he discovered a turn of phrase or a description he particularly liked, laughing or ooh-ing over the best of them. At times his eyes ran over a sentence once, twice, and he felt the truth of it as a sharp prick into his heart. Those times, he fell absolutely silent.
France crept up behind as one of those moments stretched on, America`s finger lingering on the page as if he feared lifting it would allow the inked letters on it to fly away. Wrapping his arms around the taller nation, France indulged in the fact that their heights aligned just right for him to lean in and nuzzle America`s neck in this position.
America sighed, closing the book. The cover design was a simple sketch having little to do with the story inside other than capturing the melancholic frustration of it all.
“Why does Spain get to be the heroic figure?” he complained. “Or, well, not a hero I guess. Hemingway doesn`t really do heroes the way Hollywood likes. None of them do, which is why I guess they like coming here so much. But still!”
“You know how your dear Ernesto feels about Spain,” France replied easily. “You are just put out that he made you into a woman. But she suits you, doesn`t she? Unwilling to be tied down and yet desperate for affection. How should I feel, when he cut my balls off?” He shuddered. “At the least, I get to punch Angleterre by the conclusion.”
“You think England is Cohn?” America asked, surprised. He opened the book again, flipping through the pages to re-read a few passages, seeking for where France might have noted a resemblance. “I thought - that is, he seemed more like Canada to me.”
France shrugged. “I suppose,” he obliged, his lips brushing the spot just behind America`s ear. “Yes, you must be right. Who would that leave for England then?” America stiffened in his arms and France exhaled a soft sigh of realization. “Ah, of course… The Lord Ashley.”
America snapped the book closed, pulling out of France`s arms. France let him slip free only to move in front of him, cutting off his escape.
(con't) The First Cut (is the Deepest)
anonymous
May 9 2011, 13:25:49 UTC
“First loves America, ah, but they are the hardest.” He retrieved America`s drink, tugging the novel out of his hands to replace it with the alcohol. “No matter the circumstances under which they expire, it is the same. We never truly recover from them you know.”
“I know,” America replied with an honesty borne of drunkenness. He looked at the drink in his hand, then drained it in favor of meeting France`s gaze. “But it wasn`t England I loved first.”
“No?”
Eyes fixed on his now-empty glass, America could still hear the surprise in France`s voice. He hesitated. America, like his people, preferred to rush head-on into the future, consequences be dealt with and damned another day. But that didn`t mean he`d forgotten how small his hand had been in England`s. Or how he`d once had to look up and up to see his face, or how lonely it had felt to watch the wind filling the boat`s sails and taking it away from him. But he remembered France as well. “Not the same sort of love.”
“Ah.” France was quiet as he put the puzzle pieces together. Really, it shouldn`t have been any sort of an epiphany, all things considered. “Ah, Amerique, do I own you an apology? One hundred and fifty years since our alliance and you haven`t had another. Did I break your heart so badly?” When America didn`t answer, France reached out to tip his face up. “And now?”
America shrugged. He remembered the heady rush of finding someone who believed in his dream of inalienable rights and equality. It had been France`s hands that had soothed away the hurt of England branding him a traitor when all he`d wanted was to stand firm for the same values he`d learned from the empire himself. The intricate webs of nations had caught him by surprise though, and left him flailing as he struggled to stand. Rebellion against England had been a series of bonfires, too hot to feel cold regret for long. Loosing France to his madness in comparison was the wasting decay of illness, intimately painful even as it tricks you with the false hope of a remission. If everything crumbled like that, was is so bad to pull the ocean up over his head like a child hiding in his blankets?
“It`s fine.”
France leaned forward, his breath smelling of gin and time, of ages past before America had even been born. “You`re lying,” he said, his lips twitching up in what was almost a smile.
America looked for the words to deny it, and failed to find them.
Re: (con't) The First Cut (is the Deepest)
anonymous
May 9 2011, 13:45:12 UTC
This was exquisite. Excuse me while I tear apart my own writing attempts.
And I love your fresh, un-clichéd methaphors, these two being my favourites:
...having known America since he was still short enough to be lost in the barley fields, one small amber-gold head among many.
France`s lips curved up into that languid, easy smile of his, the one that could charm a cat down from a tree and make America feel uncertain as a farmboy in Paris, dressed up in his borrowed best.
Re: (con't) The First Cut (is the Deepest)
anonymous
May 9 2011, 15:02:53 UTC
This is genuinely amazing; I read this four times, and I still have a pleased knot in my throat and nothing to say. God, why don't people write more of this pairing? Hell, but it's not that, and not just your effortless grasp of metaphor; it's the characterization that kills me. It's so rare to see real, serious characterization for either of these guys, and both of them seem real enough that they could step of the page at any moment. I felt strangely voyeuristic while I was reading this, actually. Like I was passing by and was was pulled into their orbit by the gravity of someone else's intimate moment. Like I was compelled to stay and watch a moment before I could wrench myself away. It's a very strange, compelling feeling. And ... I'm rambling. Um.
I love this. ♥ And am shamelessly begging for more, yeah. *_*
Re: (con't) The First Cut (is the Deepest)
anonymous
May 9 2011, 16:32:32 UTC
ack I love "Hills Like White Elephants" ...there was definitely a touch of it here. le end? Does that mean you might continue? oh please do if you can. It was so beautifully done.
Re: (con't) The First Cut (is the Deepest)
anonymous
May 9 2011, 22:32:42 UTC
Wait, what? Someone wrote an America with actual thoughts and problems? And a France who's a sexual being but not perverted to the point of being a caricature? In the same fic? ... What is the madness? <3<3<3
Also, even if you never write another fanfic, you should seriously never stop writing. This is a thing of beauty, and as long as you can come up with good plots, you could definitely get writing this lovely published. You'd still get a dozens of rejections letters before you got published, just like all other writers EVER, but you could definitely get published. Please keep writing! :Db
Re: (con't) The First Cut (is the Deepest)
anonymous
May 10 2011, 02:23:22 UTC
This fic. THIS FIC. I want to rake all of your metaphors into one big, colorful pile and jump in. Your grasp of metaphor is just number one in the long list of everything right and good with this story, but I don't have the words. I think you must have taken them, because dang, anon!
Now, if you'll excuse me.
*douses own writing in petrol* *lights a match*
Captcha says: "everyone schooled". No kidding, Captcha.
Re: (con't) The First Cut (is the Deepest)
anonymous
May 10 2011, 17:05:06 UTC
Oh my god, anon! This fill was a masterpiece. Perfectly characterized America and France, where you don't fall into the temptation of making them caricatures (where America is brainless and France is completely perverted), and the references to The Sun Also Rises were masterful. I'd say your writing reminds me more of...perhaps Hemingway or Fitzgerald's writing in general, rather than Hills Like White Elephants, because of its lyrical, slightly melancholy feel (something which I didn't get when reading Hills.) I will have to bookmark this fill so I can read it again later!
Re: (con't) The First Cut (is the Deepest)
anonymous
May 11 2011, 00:40:59 UTC
I agree with all of the other Anons! This was gorgeous! A work of art! You word choices were painterly, like the haiku of Basho. Please continue, please please!
Re: (con't) The First Cut (is the Deepest)
anonymous
May 19 2011, 10:16:11 UTC
My biggest issue was a few typos/spelling errors but those only stood out because this was otherwise really, really brilliant. The characterization was extra delicious, and oh, those metaphors! If only there were more fics here that were written like this.
You know, I'm trying to think of a coherent comment here but honestly all I can say is that this makes me feel like swooning.
I'm not being silly here, the whole fic made me feel breathless and starry-eyed and I can't pick out what I like best and list those because there's so much beauty and oh....
Re: The First Cut (is the Deepest)
anonymous
May 26 2011, 19:22:17 UTC
I'm not going to try to compare you to geniuses like all the other anons, because I can't think of anyone good enough (unless you count fictitious persons). All I'm going to say that your writing style is gorgeous, and that both France and America were fantastic.
“The wisest of choices,” France commented, seemingly in complete seriousness. America thought it might have been an act, but he wasn`t sure. For a moment however, he felt enchanted all over again. However brief it might last, he didn`t see what the harm was in letting that feeling sweep him away, since it felt so nice.
When France stood and held out his hand, America smiled and accepted it.
They stayed in after all, holing up against the world. Or rather, they talked of the world at a distance from within the safety of France`s apartments, the walls of their cozy cocoon given a warm fuzz thanks to the very nice assistance of some rum. Conversation lasted until it didn`t, and the lull stretched on to a full out halt.
America discovered the newest prints of expatriate novels, while France flipped leisurely through thumbnail sketches of works he wished to acquire for his precious Louvre. Quiet at first, it wasn`t long before America was commenting aloud as he read. He grew animated as he discovered a turn of phrase or a description he particularly liked, laughing or ooh-ing over the best of them. At times his eyes ran over a sentence once, twice, and he felt the truth of it as a sharp prick into his heart. Those times, he fell absolutely silent.
France crept up behind as one of those moments stretched on, America`s finger lingering on the page as if he feared lifting it would allow the inked letters on it to fly away. Wrapping his arms around the taller nation, France indulged in the fact that their heights aligned just right for him to lean in and nuzzle America`s neck in this position.
America sighed, closing the book. The cover design was a simple sketch having little to do with the story inside other than capturing the melancholic frustration of it all.
“Why does Spain get to be the heroic figure?” he complained. “Or, well, not a hero I guess. Hemingway doesn`t really do heroes the way Hollywood likes. None of them do, which is why I guess they like coming here so much. But still!”
“You know how your dear Ernesto feels about Spain,” France replied easily. “You are just put out that he made you into a woman. But she suits you, doesn`t she? Unwilling to be tied down and yet desperate for affection. How should I feel, when he cut my balls off?” He shuddered. “At the least, I get to punch Angleterre by the conclusion.”
“You think England is Cohn?” America asked, surprised. He opened the book again, flipping through the pages to re-read a few passages, seeking for where France might have noted a resemblance. “I thought - that is, he seemed more like Canada to me.”
France shrugged. “I suppose,” he obliged, his lips brushing the spot just behind America`s ear. “Yes, you must be right. Who would that leave for England then?” America stiffened in his arms and France exhaled a soft sigh of realization. “Ah, of course… The Lord Ashley.”
America snapped the book closed, pulling out of France`s arms. France let him slip free only to move in front of him, cutting off his escape.
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“I know,” America replied with an honesty borne of drunkenness. He looked at the drink in his hand, then drained it in favor of meeting France`s gaze. “But it wasn`t England I loved first.”
“No?”
Eyes fixed on his now-empty glass, America could still hear the surprise in France`s voice. He hesitated. America, like his people, preferred to rush head-on into the future, consequences be dealt with and damned another day. But that didn`t mean he`d forgotten how small his hand had been in England`s. Or how he`d once had to look up and up to see his face, or how lonely it had felt to watch the wind filling the boat`s sails and taking it away from him. But he remembered France as well. “Not the same sort of love.”
“Ah.” France was quiet as he put the puzzle pieces together. Really, it shouldn`t have been any sort of an epiphany, all things considered. “Ah, Amerique, do I own you an apology? One hundred and fifty years since our alliance and you haven`t had another. Did I break your heart so badly?” When America didn`t answer, France reached out to tip his face up. “And now?”
America shrugged. He remembered the heady rush of finding someone who believed in his dream of inalienable rights and equality. It had been France`s hands that had soothed away the hurt of England branding him a traitor when all he`d wanted was to stand firm for the same values he`d learned from the empire himself. The intricate webs of nations had caught him by surprise though, and left him flailing as he struggled to stand. Rebellion against England had been a series of bonfires, too hot to feel cold regret for long. Loosing France to his madness in comparison was the wasting decay of illness, intimately painful even as it tricks you with the false hope of a remission. If everything crumbled like that, was is so bad to pull the ocean up over his head like a child hiding in his blankets?
“It`s fine.”
France leaned forward, his breath smelling of gin and time, of ages past before America had even been born. “You`re lying,” he said, his lips twitching up in what was almost a smile.
America looked for the words to deny it, and failed to find them.
le end?
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And I love your fresh, un-clichéd methaphors, these two being my favourites:
...having known America since he was still short enough to be lost in the barley fields, one small amber-gold head among many.
France`s lips curved up into that languid, easy smile of his, the one that could charm a cat down from a tree and make America feel uncertain as a farmboy in Paris, dressed up in his borrowed best.
Reply
I love this. ♥ And am shamelessly begging for more, yeah. *_*
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Also, even if you never write another fanfic, you should seriously never stop writing. This is a thing of beauty, and as long as you can come up with good plots, you could definitely get writing this lovely published. You'd still get a dozens of rejections letters before you got published, just like all other writers EVER, but you could definitely get published. Please keep writing! :Db
Reply
Now, if you'll excuse me.
*douses own writing in petrol*
*lights a match*
Captcha says: "everyone schooled". No kidding, Captcha.
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Also I now have the song stuck in my head. >.<
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Would you be interested in a beta to make it nearly perfect?
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I'm not being silly here, the whole fic made me feel breathless and starry-eyed and I can't pick out what I like best and list those because there's so much beauty and oh....
I'm speechless, really.
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You done good.
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