'Easy come, easy go; That's just how you live, oh! Take, take, take it all, but you never give...'
He often dreamed of kissing France, a deep passionate kiss where the world was lost to them, and it was to be a beautiful relationship as well, with amazing sex where even the naïve America could surprise France, and it would be like living in heaven.
They got as far as kissing, before France couldn't be bothered with all this 'commitment' stuff and went off to fuck someone else.
Their rooms were next to each other, how was America not supposed to hear the pleasured moans rattling the walls and the chains connected to his heart, leading through the wall and gently wrapping around the person who had broken his heart on more occasions than America even thought possible. He sat on his bed and all but wailed; France must know he was here, listening to those torturous sounds that could have been him, should have been him.
Was it his fault for being too scared? For taking it too slowly? For not being adequate enough? Following France left a trail of self-disgust and insecurity in his wake. He wanted someone, but preferably France to lift him out of it, even though he refused other's efforts. England warned him: "If you don't give France exactly what he wants, and even if you do, he's gone. He'll be with the woman next door and in the brothel down the street before you can breath apologies: stay away from France if possible."
America reasoned that it was not possible - there was some kind of one way magnet, so America was drawn to his poisonous beauty every time he walked in the room, every flick of his hair, and that alluring French language and accent coated his mind in honey.
He had tried explaining to France what he meant to him, once.
"You don't get it! I'd catch grenades, blades, weapons for you! I'd, I'd get shot for you! You just don't understand how much I'd do for you, how much I love you!" France stiffened at that last word, and before he spoke a single word in that addictive tone America knew he was gone.
"I need to do paperwork, l'Amerique, so if you please?"
When leaving, he had allowed himself one last look at the window where he confessed his deepest feelings, beared his soul for France to take or maim.
And maim he did. For on that balcony, America saw him attempt to suffocate some prostitute, tongue halfway down her throat and shirt almost off.
'I'd catch a grenade for you, I'd throw my hand on a blade for you, I'd jump in front of a train for you! You know, I'd do anything for you! I would go through all this pain, Take a bullet straight through my brain. Yes I would die for you baby, but you won't do the same.'
He set off towards the train station, fully intending to make his physical appearance match the state of his heart.
One week later, one huge battered and broken bruise cried into England's arms. France was one of the only ones who didn't visit.
'If my body was on fire, You'd watch me burn down in flames...'
I hope you liked it, and that everyone was in character...? I can see France being quite committment-phobic.
Re: Burn Down In Flames [1/1]
anonymous
May 29 2011, 10:16:28 UTC
It's almost one of the stereotypes of French as I've heard. They never belong to one person and will sleep around. Would be heartbreaking for America indeed, with all his Hollywood stories.
Might be biased, but I'm glad England knows about it well enough and is there to at least side America.
This fill is going to be stuck in my brain for a while, plotting out the angst and everything ;____;
Re: Burn Down In Flames [1/1]
anonymous
May 30 2011, 00:24:29 UTC
Geez, poor America. You just made me want to wrap him in a blanket and cuddle him and feed him soup (considering he’s one of my least favourite characters that’s an accomplishment)
This fic has no character death, but a vague mention of suicide.
'Easy come, easy go;
That's just how you live, oh!
Take, take, take it all, but you never give...'
He often dreamed of kissing France, a deep passionate kiss where the world was lost to them, and it was to be a beautiful relationship as well, with amazing sex where even the naïve America could surprise France, and it would be like living in heaven.
They got as far as kissing, before France couldn't be bothered with all this 'commitment' stuff and went off to fuck someone else.
Their rooms were next to each other, how was America not supposed to hear the pleasured moans rattling the walls and the chains connected to his heart, leading through the wall and gently wrapping around the person who had broken his heart on more occasions than America even thought possible. He sat on his bed and all but wailed; France must know he was here, listening to those torturous sounds that could have been him, should have been him.
Was it his fault for being too scared? For taking it too slowly? For not being adequate enough?
Following France left a trail of self-disgust and insecurity in his wake. He wanted someone, but preferably France to lift him out of it, even though he refused other's efforts. England warned him: "If you don't give France exactly what he wants, and even if you do, he's gone. He'll be with the woman next door and in the brothel down the street before you can breath apologies: stay away from France if possible."
America reasoned that it was not possible - there was some kind of one way magnet, so America was drawn to his poisonous beauty every time he walked in the room, every flick of his hair, and that alluring French language and accent coated his mind in honey.
He had tried explaining to France what he meant to him, once.
"You don't get it! I'd catch grenades, blades, weapons for you! I'd, I'd get shot for you! You just don't understand how much I'd do for you, how much I love you!" France stiffened at that last word, and before he spoke a single word in that addictive tone America knew he was gone.
"I need to do paperwork, l'Amerique, so if you please?"
When leaving, he had allowed himself one last look at the window where he confessed his deepest feelings, beared his soul for France to take or maim.
And maim he did.
For on that balcony, America saw him attempt to suffocate some prostitute, tongue halfway down her throat and shirt almost off.
'I'd catch a grenade for you,
I'd throw my hand on a blade for you,
I'd jump in front of a train for you!
You know, I'd do anything for you!
I would go through all this pain,
Take a bullet straight through my brain.
Yes I would die for you baby, but you won't do the same.'
He set off towards the train station, fully intending to make his physical appearance match the state of his heart.
One week later, one huge battered and broken bruise cried into England's arms.
France was one of the only ones who didn't visit.
'If my body was on fire,
You'd watch me burn down in flames...'
I hope you liked it, and that everyone was in character...? I can see France being quite committment-phobic.
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And so quickly too!
Thank you so much authornon~!
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Might be biased, but I'm glad England knows about it well enough and is there to at least side America.
This fill is going to be stuck in my brain for a while, plotting out the angst and everything ;____;
Reply
Well written, by the way.
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Such a lovely sad story.
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