Child of the Universe [6b/6]
anonymous
January 27 2011, 03:57:58 UTC
Outside a few more nations were present, India was in the middle of a rather complex looking yoga routine, and Canada watched her for a moment, wincing a bit she stretched her leg to a ninety degree angle. She must have felt his gaze because warm chocolate eyes landed on his, crinkling in amusement when she saw his face.
“Do not wince at me,” she said softly, laughter in her voice, “I remember how flexible you were when I taught you many years ago.”
“It's just been a while,” he told her softly, remembering the more or less taboo yoga lessons she'd given him in England's rose gardens back in the nineteenth century.
“You come down here at six tomorrow and I will make sure you have a mat,” she told him, releasing her pose only to bring the other leg up, “see if you can still bend yourself into a pretzel.” Canada smiled, neither refusing nor agreeing, knowing it was better to stay noncommitmental, it lessened the impact of people invariably forgetting. Settling at one of the fine iron wrought table further in the garden, shaded by a rather magnificent pink rhododendron.
“Mon ange,” came France's voice from just behind him as he sat, “I did not expect you out here.” Canada started a bit, setting his cocoa down and blinking when he saw France. France was dressed down, hair back and wearing a simple button down, cotton by the look, with plain blue jeans. Once upon a time seeing France like this would have left Canada with his heart aching in his chest. Canada had never quite managed to be interested in fashion or aesthetics, despite both France's and England's attempts, and back when he'd been in love with his idealized image of France seeing him in such casual clothing was seemingly perfection. “Isn't your meeting much later? I thought you'd be sleeping in.”
“I have a,” he paused, searching for a word which described the act of returning ones wayward heart, but France took it in the more obvious direction.
“A date?” he looked incredibly pleased at the thought, sliding into the chair across from Canada, “and a breakfast date,” he propped his chin on his hand, “so sweet mon ange, very you.” Canada opened his mouth to say it wasn't a date, but France was one the idea like a dog with a bone. “Hmm, who could it be,” he paused, brow wrinkling as he took note of who was around, “please say it is not America.”
Matthew laughed softly at that, taking a bit of his strawberry, “no, and I'm not-”
“Netherlands?” France pondered, “we are in Amsterdam after all.” Canada just shook his head, eating another strawberry and hoping Russia thought to look outside. “Not Netherlands...Prussia?” the older nation sounded alarmed as he spoke and Canada almost choked on his food.
“Rule number one of hockey buddies; don't date hockey buddies,” he told France a little shrilly, and the other sighed in relief.
“C'est bon,” he muttered, “if not those two then, Ukraine?” he grinned at that, letting it momentarily fall into a pout when Canada once again shot the idea down.
“No, I am not on a breakfast date with the Ukraine,” he said patiently, “in fact I'm not-”
“Good morning Canada.” Canada had to give Russia credit, he was excellent at dynamic entries, always able to show up at either the right time or looking just intimidating enough to mix things up in whatever room he was coming into. The look on France's face when he'd heard Russia's voice went from pensive to displeased in less than a second, and the smile he forced when he turned to greet Russia was cool at best.
“Do not wince at me,” she said softly, laughter in her voice, “I remember how flexible you were when I taught you many years ago.”
“It's just been a while,” he told her softly, remembering the more or less taboo yoga lessons she'd given him in England's rose gardens back in the nineteenth century.
“You come down here at six tomorrow and I will make sure you have a mat,” she told him, releasing her pose only to bring the other leg up, “see if you can still bend yourself into a pretzel.” Canada smiled, neither refusing nor agreeing, knowing it was better to stay noncommitmental, it lessened the impact of people invariably forgetting. Settling at one of the fine iron wrought table further in the garden, shaded by a rather magnificent pink rhododendron.
“Mon ange,” came France's voice from just behind him as he sat, “I did not expect you out here.” Canada started a bit, setting his cocoa down and blinking when he saw France. France was dressed down, hair back and wearing a simple button down, cotton by the look, with plain blue jeans. Once upon a time seeing France like this would have left Canada with his heart aching in his chest. Canada had never quite managed to be interested in fashion or aesthetics, despite both France's and England's attempts, and back when he'd been in love with his idealized image of France seeing him in such casual clothing was seemingly perfection. “Isn't your meeting much later? I thought you'd be sleeping in.”
“I have a,” he paused, searching for a word which described the act of returning ones wayward heart, but France took it in the more obvious direction.
“A date?” he looked incredibly pleased at the thought, sliding into the chair across from Canada, “and a breakfast date,” he propped his chin on his hand, “so sweet mon ange, very you.” Canada opened his mouth to say it wasn't a date, but France was one the idea like a dog with a bone. “Hmm, who could it be,” he paused, brow wrinkling as he took note of who was around, “please say it is not America.”
Matthew laughed softly at that, taking a bit of his strawberry, “no, and I'm not-”
“Netherlands?” France pondered, “we are in Amsterdam after all.” Canada just shook his head, eating another strawberry and hoping Russia thought to look outside. “Not Netherlands...Prussia?” the older nation sounded alarmed as he spoke and Canada almost choked on his food.
“Rule number one of hockey buddies; don't date hockey buddies,” he told France a little shrilly, and the other sighed in relief.
“C'est bon,” he muttered, “if not those two then, Ukraine?” he grinned at that, letting it momentarily fall into a pout when Canada once again shot the idea down.
“No, I am not on a breakfast date with the Ukraine,” he said patiently, “in fact I'm not-”
“Good morning Canada.” Canada had to give Russia credit, he was excellent at dynamic entries, always able to show up at either the right time or looking just intimidating enough to mix things up in whatever room he was coming into. The look on France's face when he'd heard Russia's voice went from pensive to displeased in less than a second, and the smile he forced when he turned to greet Russia was cool at best.
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