Re: [Part 20] In All The Little Things (1/?)
anonymous
October 9 2011, 03:56:00 UTC
The house is still and silent as he walks down the stairs, his footsteps echoing through the halls and empty rooms; he enters the kitchen and opens the blinds, wishing to open the windows to the fresh, morning breeze but unwilling to let the cold in. The day is just starting and France loves it, loves being a part of it, even if others like England would rather sleep through it.
(“I hardly get enough sleep as it is,” England argued when he wanted to watch the sunrise on his roof together, “Don’t even think about taking away my Sundays. And I've seen the sunrise a million times, you bloody romantic frog.” A tired England is a grumpy(er) England, so France pouts and complains and makes a big fuss of it but lets him sleep anyway.)
France starts on breakfast - a true English breakfast with all the works, because England will love it even if he won’t say it and France has grown quite fond of it too. He turns on the coffeepot and, as it’s heating up, fills up the tea kettle with water and heats it on the stove.
He is just finishing up when he hears grunts and moans from upstairs; it sounds sort of like someone’s dying, but he knows it’s really just England waking up. There are muffled curses and footsteps walking across floors and coming downstairs and then a bleary-eyed, messy-haired Englishman lumbers into the kitchen in baggy sweatpants and a shirt that Francis thinks must be his - it’s fashionable, for one thing, and the sleeves are just a bit too long, just enough that they fall past England’s fingers and hide his hands. (It‘s another one of those strangely adorable things, France thinks, a little, goofy smile on his face.)
England mumbles some sort of half-awake gibberish that was probably meant to be “tea, please” and sits at the counter and rests his head on his folded arms; France fills up a mug of Earl Gray - with just a touch of milk and two spoonfuls sugar - and sets it by England’s head, turning back to finish up breakfast.
“You’re up early,” he comments cheerfully.
England only grumbles and moans for a moment in reply, then lifts his head and takes a sip of his tea. “The bed was cold when yeh left,” he mutters once he’s swallowed, and France finds it funny how heavily his accent coats his words when he’s tired. (It’s a lot of Cockney and a bit of Yorkshire, and France can probably only understand it because he’s known England for so very long.)
France, of course, ever the romantic, interprets the other man’s reply as “I missed you” and drops what he’s doing immediately to hurry over to the still half-asleep man and hug him tightly. England flails in his arms, but it’s lacking energy and does nothing to get France off of him; finally he stills and buries his face into France’s chest. “Ge’ off meh,” he mutters. “It’s too early fer this.”
France reluctantly lets go and heads back to the stove. He fills two plates full of bacon, sausage, eggs, and toast - with marmalade for England that France refuses to 'ruin his bread with' - quickly prepares a cup of coffee for himself, and takes a seat next to England, placing the food in front of them. England stares at it for a few moments, green eyes still glazed over with sleepiness, as if he can’t figure out what it’s there for.
Finally, he shakes his head slightly, waking himself up, and begins eating. He doesn’t say it’s good (heaven forbid a compliment for France from England) but his mouth twitches up at the corners in what France knows is a suppressed smile.
It’s silent as they eat, and somehow, strangely enough, it’s comfortable that way. If you asked them, England would say he was too tired to insult the frog, France would say he was busy eating. (But maybe, perhaps, they’re both starting to like this habit of not always fighting.)
[Part 20] In All The Little Things (3/?)
anonymous
October 9 2011, 04:01:12 UTC
Ack! Sorry for the title and format fail up there! That was supposed to be part 2.
They finish breakfast quickly and by the time France clears their plates and puts them in the dishwasher, England is finally awake. He yawns loudly and stretches like a cat; France watches as his shirt rides up enough to expose his pale stomach and when England notices the stare, he glares and pulls the shirt back down with a scowl. “Pervert,” he accuses, but there is hardly any fire in the insult. (It’s the magic of these lazy Sundays, France thinks.)
“You know me so well,” France responds, grinning as he crosses his arms against the counter and leans towards England.
“Unfortunately,” England grunts as he stands and heads towards the family room, but he doesn’t turn away fast enough for France to miss the playful smile on his face.
With a smile and a shake of his head, France finishes cleaning the kitchen and then braves the cold outside to retrieve his daily newspaper.
As he enters the family room, he is greeted to the sight of England curled up against the corner of the love seat, his bare toes peaking out from his too long sweatpants; a thick book sits in his lap and he glances up from it to watch France take a seat beside him, before turning back to it and flipping the page.
(France sits a little closer than is normal, leaning up against England’s side so he can feel the warmth coming from the other man; England leans a little closer too, and one of his hands falls away from his book, resting on the sofa cushion. France opens his newspaper and somehow as he’s reading it, one of his hands manages to find England’s; their fingers tangle together comfortably, fitting snug like a puzzle; it makes England’s breath hitch a little and France’s heart swell a bit, because it’s just a tad bit more domestic than they’re ready to admit to, but it kind of feels nice, kind of feels right, so they leave it.)
They do not talk, each too wrapped up in their own reading (and both too comfortable) to bother insulting each other. They hardly move; occasionally England turns a page in his book; sometimes France flips the pages of his newspaper; every once in a while they lean further into each other; and once, but just once, France leans in suddenly - because he’s so very good at spontaneity - and kisses England’s cheek. (He pulls back and returns to his reading before England can comment; England stares at him with a face that France can’t read before pretending it didn’t happen and flipping the page of his book. But there’s this silly, little smile on his face that wasn’t there before.)
[Part 20] In All The Little Things (FIXED PART 3/?)
anonymous
October 9 2011, 04:06:46 UTC
Alright. I fail. In my defense, it's late. Let's try this again, shall we?
They finish breakfast quickly and by the time France clears their plates and puts them in the dishwasher, England is finally awake. He yawns loudly and stretches like a cat; France watches as his shirt rides up enough to expose his pale stomach and when England notices the stare, he glares and pulls the shirt back down with a scowl. “Pervert,” he accuses, but there is hardly any fire in the insult. (It’s the magic of these lazy Sundays, France thinks.)
“You know me so well,” France responds, grinning as he crosses his arms against the counter and leans towards England.
“Unfortunately,” England grunts as he stands and heads towards the family room, but he doesn’t turn away fast enough for France to miss the playful smile on his face.
With a smile and a shake of his head, France finishes cleaning the kitchen and then braves the cold outside to retrieve his daily newspaper.
As he enters the family room, he is greeted to the sight of England curled up against the corner of the love seat, his bare toes peaking out from his too long sweatpants; a thick book sits in his lap and he glances up from it to watch France take a seat beside him, before turning back to it and flipping the page.
(France sits a little closer than is normal, leaning up against England’s side so he can feel the warmth coming from the other man; England leans a little closer too, and one of his hands falls away from his book, resting on the sofa cushion. France opens his newspaper and somehow as he’s reading it, one of his hands manages to find England’s; their fingers tangle together comfortably, fitting snug like a puzzle; it makes England’s breath hitch a little and France’s heart swell a bit, because it’s just a tad bit more domestic than they’re ready to admit to, but it kind of feels nice, kind of feels right, so they leave it.)
They do not talk, each too wrapped up in their own reading (and both too comfortable) to bother insulting each other. They hardly move; occasionally England turns a page in his book; sometimes France flips the pages of his newspaper; every once in a while they lean further into each other; and once, but just once, France leans in suddenly - because he’s so very good at spontaneity - and kisses England’s cheek. (He pulls back and returns to his reading before England can comment; England stares at him with a face that France can’t read before pretending it didn’t happen and flipping the page of his book. But there’s this silly, little smile on his face that wasn’t there before.)
(Sometimes, but he won’t admit it, England wonders why France stays with him.)
Some time around noon, France stands and tugs England up with him, who stumbles and possibly would have fallen if France hadn’t steadied him with his free hand. (The other is still interwoven with England’s and he doesn’t want to release it quite yet.) “What?” England asks, annoyance obvious, placing the bookmark back in his book to mark the page before dropping it on the couch. He turns to glare at France.
“It’s lunchtime, cher,” France says simply, tugging England towards the kitchen.
“I’ve told you to stop calling me that,” he hears the younger nation mutter behind him and he fights back a smile.
“Whatever you say, mon chou,” France replies simply.
England growls and swats France‘s shoulder with his free hand. “That’s worse,” he argues - but the red on his face more likely from embarrassment than anger.
France merely laughs and grins back at him, squeezing England’s hand gently as they enter the kitchen. It is here that France finally releases England’s hand to begin searching through the cupboards for something to cook. England swears he doesn’t feel disappointed by this - not at all, not even a little bit.
[Part 20] In All The Little Things (4/?)
anonymous
October 9 2011, 04:16:08 UTC
(( In the kitchen there’s a fridge that’s rather boring and rather ordinary. But on this fridge there’s this piece of paper that France has titled his ‘grocery list.’
There in France’s neat handwriting it reads:
farine porc pain sucre cigarettes
And underneath all that, England’s added in his scrawling cursive ‘buy me some black pudding’. France can’t stand black pudding - he thinks it absolutely awful.
But the next time he goes to the store, he buys some anyway. ))
France surveys his pantry for a moment while England waits. Finally, he emerges, grabs England’s hand and begins pulling him to the stairs. “What the hell, France!” England yells, yanking his hand away. “What in the world are you doing?”
“Let’s go out to eat instead,” France answers. “But I will not be seen in public with you like that. Go change.”
England grumbles at him - it sounds an awful lot like ‘I don’t want to be seen in public with you at all’ - but heads upstairs anyway.
“You can wear that shirt, though!” France calls up after him, winking flirtatiously when England glances back at him. “I like seeing you in my clothes!”
“Shut up,” England growls, pausing on the top step. “I only wore it because you threw my clothes all over the place last night and I couldn’t find my shirt,” he explains. (Except he brought a whole bag of clothes with him, so that’s not really an excuse.)
England turns and disappears down the hall. After a moment of waiting France yells, “And please, dear, try to do something with those eyebrows of yours! I wouldn’t want to frighten any of my citizens!”
He receives a few choice curses in reply.
(Sometimes, but he won’t admit it, France thinks he might die if England ever leaves.)
They keep close as they walk through the streets of Paris.
(( “Only because it’s cold and you’re warm,” England assured when he wrapped his arms around France’s and pressed tight to his body.
“Of course,” France replied, rolling his eyes; he pulled his arm from England‘s tight grip - and no, England did not whine about this, thank you very much - before he wrapped it around England’s thin waist and pulled him close. ))
There’s a light dusting of snow on the ground, and it makes Paris sparkle, leaves two pairs of close footsteps as they walk through the crowded streets - those footsteps will fade, be covered up and stomped away by others’ feet, England knows, but there seems something magical about them anyway. England shakes this thought away at once - it’s much too romantic and ridiculous a thought to even consider; there’s absolutely nothing magical about Paris. (Except - except it’s France's heart, so maybe, maybe that makes it somewhat special. Somewhat magical, even.)
“Hey,” England grunts out, glaring at France. “There better be tea wherever we go. And they better speak English; I’m not speaking any of your damn frog-speak. And -”
France covers England’s mouth with his free hand. (He would have kissed him, but then England would go on for hours about public displays of affection - “Not that there’s any affection to speak of!” he would add - and people assuming they’re in a relationship - “Which we’re not, obviously! As if I would ever be with a damn, poofty, French frog like you!”) “It will be fine,” France says. “For once, just try to enjoy it.”
England frowns, pulls his face away from France’s hand, and mutters, “As if I could ever enjoy anything from this bloody, ridiculous, love-obsessed country of yours.”
France just laughs and pulls him closer. He takes a chance and kisses England’s cheek and is pushed away by a squirming, swearing, heavily blushing England who, true to France’s prediction, begins to yell about public appearances and people getting the wrong idea about them.
[Part 20] In All The Little Things (5/5)
anonymous
October 9 2011, 04:33:29 UTC
They eat at a lovely little café and England only complains once - a true record, France thinks. Afterwards they walk through the streets with no destination in mind, no true purpose in mind, with fingers woven together, bodies pressed close, and magical intertwining footsteps trialing behind them in the snow.
It’s all rather ordinary, all rather domestic, but it’s absolutely beautiful because of that. It’s something fragile, this new relationship forming between them, and they have to take it slow - one careful step at a time so it doesn’t all crumble beneath them.
When they’re done with their wandering - and when the cold becomes too much for them - they head back to France’s house; France pulls England upstairs and into bed and then just stops. There. In bed.
He doesn’t pull off England’s clothes, he doesn’t kiss at England’s neck. He just falls back in the bed and pulls the fully-clothed England on top of him, holding him close. They stare at each other, green into blue, and both can see the caution, the fear in the other’s eyes - because this is all so different it’s frightening.
“I -” England breathes, and France wishes he could read that expression and know what England wants to say. (He has a guess, or more a wish, but he can’t be certain.) England’s gaze roams France’s face as he struggles to make his words work. And then, he stops and changes his mind, and says, “I need to get back soon; I have work tomorrow” instead.
France nods and whispers, “Of course.”
England bites his lip and then buries his face into France’s chest to hide it. France only smiles and kisses his forehead, wondering silently, secretly, when they’ll be ready to utter that oh, so terribly frightening word that starts with an ’l’ and ends with an ’e’. It isn’t now, he knows, as he’s combing his fingers through England’s messy hair and listening to the soft, gentle melody their heartbeats compose; and it may not be this week. Or even this year. It may not be for centuries, for lifetimes.
But they have time.
And France is fine with how things are - as long as he can awake to slurred curses and quiet, little snores; as long as he can make Earl Gray with his coffee in the mornings; as long as he can hold hands as he reads the paper and buy black pudding with his weekly groceries and experience all those other simple everyday miracles.
It was a whole day! Sort of....it got a bit rushed and lazy there towards the end, sorry. I didn't know what else to fill it with. I hope OP enjoys!
Re: [Part 20] In All The Little Things (5/5)
anonymous
October 9 2011, 18:24:27 UTC
I love, love, loved this, anon! The style is a perfect complement to the lazy-yet-sometimes-spontaneous feeling of their day, and all the little details and denial-but-not made me smile so much. This fill is everything I love about FrUK.
Re: [Part 20] In All The Little Things (5/5)
anonymous
October 11 2011, 23:44:03 UTC
This is gorgeous. I admit that I'm a sucker for domesticity, anytime, anywhere, but this was particularly well-written. I quite love that part at the very end, too, where they're not quite ready to say those dreaded three words. Thank you for sharing!
Re: [Part 20] In All The Little Things (5/5)
anonymous
October 29 2011, 19:13:05 UTC
You know, I used to not care for domesticity but now I'm a junkie for it. Especially FrUK domesticty. And your fic hits all the good points for me. Great job.
(“I hardly get enough sleep as it is,” England argued when he wanted to watch the sunrise on his roof together, “Don’t even think about taking away my Sundays. And I've seen the sunrise a million times, you bloody romantic frog.” A tired England is a grumpy(er) England, so France pouts and complains and makes a big fuss of it but lets him sleep anyway.)
France starts on breakfast - a true English breakfast with all the works, because England will love it even if he won’t say it and France has grown quite fond of it too. He turns on the coffeepot and, as it’s heating up, fills up the tea kettle with water and heats it on the stove.
He is just finishing up when he hears grunts and moans from upstairs; it sounds sort of like someone’s dying, but he knows it’s really just England waking up. There are muffled curses and footsteps walking across floors and coming downstairs and then a bleary-eyed, messy-haired Englishman lumbers into the kitchen in baggy sweatpants and a shirt that Francis thinks must be his - it’s fashionable, for one thing, and the sleeves are just a bit too long, just enough that they fall past England’s fingers and hide his hands. (It‘s another one of those strangely adorable things, France thinks, a little, goofy smile on his face.)
England mumbles some sort of half-awake gibberish that was probably meant to be “tea, please” and sits at the counter and rests his head on his folded arms; France fills up a mug of Earl Gray - with just a touch of milk and two spoonfuls sugar - and sets it by England’s head, turning back to finish up breakfast.
“You’re up early,” he comments cheerfully.
England only grumbles and moans for a moment in reply, then lifts his head and takes a sip of his tea. “The bed was cold when yeh left,” he mutters once he’s swallowed, and France finds it funny how heavily his accent coats his words when he’s tired. (It’s a lot of Cockney and a bit of Yorkshire, and France can probably only understand it because he’s known England for so very long.)
France, of course, ever the romantic, interprets the other man’s reply as “I missed you” and drops what he’s doing immediately to hurry over to the still half-asleep man and hug him tightly. England flails in his arms, but it’s lacking energy and does nothing to get France off of him; finally he stills and buries his face into France’s chest. “Ge’ off meh,” he mutters. “It’s too early fer this.”
France reluctantly lets go and heads back to the stove. He fills two plates full of bacon, sausage, eggs, and toast - with marmalade for England that France refuses to 'ruin his bread with' - quickly prepares a cup of coffee for himself, and takes a seat next to England, placing the food in front of them. England stares at it for a few moments, green eyes still glazed over with sleepiness, as if he can’t figure out what it’s there for.
Finally, he shakes his head slightly, waking himself up, and begins eating. He doesn’t say it’s good (heaven forbid a compliment for France from England) but his mouth twitches up at the corners in what France knows is a suppressed smile.
It’s silent as they eat, and somehow, strangely enough, it’s comfortable that way. If you asked them, England would say he was too tired to insult the frog, France would say he was busy eating. (But maybe, perhaps, they’re both starting to like this habit of not always fighting.)
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They finish breakfast quickly and by the time France clears their plates and puts them in the dishwasher, England is finally awake. He yawns loudly and stretches like a cat; France watches as his shirt rides up enough to expose his pale stomach and when England notices the stare, he glares and pulls the shirt back down with a scowl. “Pervert,” he accuses, but there is hardly any fire in the insult. (It’s the magic of these lazy Sundays, France thinks.)
“You know me so well,” France responds, grinning as he crosses his arms against the counter and leans towards England.
“Unfortunately,” England grunts as he stands and heads towards the family room, but he doesn’t turn away fast enough for France to miss the playful smile on his face.
With a smile and a shake of his head, France finishes cleaning the kitchen and then braves the cold outside to retrieve his daily newspaper.
As he enters the family room, he is greeted to the sight of England curled up against the corner of the love seat, his bare toes peaking out from his too long sweatpants; a thick book sits in his lap and he glances up from it to watch France take a seat beside him, before turning back to it and flipping the page.
(France sits a little closer than is normal, leaning up against England’s side so he can feel the warmth coming from the other man; England leans a little closer too, and one of his hands falls away from his book, resting on the sofa cushion. France opens his newspaper and somehow as he’s reading it, one of his hands manages to find England’s; their fingers tangle together comfortably, fitting snug like a puzzle; it makes England’s breath hitch a little and France’s heart swell a bit, because it’s just a tad bit more domestic than they’re ready to admit to, but it kind of feels nice, kind of feels right, so they leave it.)
They do not talk, each too wrapped up in their own reading (and both too comfortable) to bother insulting each other. They hardly move; occasionally England turns a page in his book; sometimes France flips the pages of his newspaper; every once in a while they lean further into each other; and once, but just once, France leans in suddenly - because he’s so very good at spontaneity - and kisses England’s cheek. (He pulls back and returns to his reading before England can comment; England stares at him with a face that France can’t read before pretending it didn’t happen and flipping the page of his book. But there’s this silly, little smile on his face that wasn’t there before.)
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They finish breakfast quickly and by the time France clears their plates and puts them in the dishwasher, England is finally awake. He yawns loudly and stretches like a cat; France watches as his shirt rides up enough to expose his pale stomach and when England notices the stare, he glares and pulls the shirt back down with a scowl. “Pervert,” he accuses, but there is hardly any fire in the insult. (It’s the magic of these lazy Sundays, France thinks.)
“You know me so well,” France responds, grinning as he crosses his arms against the counter and leans towards England.
“Unfortunately,” England grunts as he stands and heads towards the family room, but he doesn’t turn away fast enough for France to miss the playful smile on his face.
With a smile and a shake of his head, France finishes cleaning the kitchen and then braves the cold outside to retrieve his daily newspaper.
As he enters the family room, he is greeted to the sight of England curled up against the corner of the love seat, his bare toes peaking out from his too long sweatpants; a thick book sits in his lap and he glances up from it to watch France take a seat beside him, before turning back to it and flipping the page.
(France sits a little closer than is normal, leaning up against England’s side so he can feel the warmth coming from the other man; England leans a little closer too, and one of his hands falls away from his book, resting on the sofa cushion. France opens his newspaper and somehow as he’s reading it, one of his hands manages to find England’s; their fingers tangle together comfortably, fitting snug like a puzzle; it makes England’s breath hitch a little and France’s heart swell a bit, because it’s just a tad bit more domestic than they’re ready to admit to, but it kind of feels nice, kind of feels right, so they leave it.)
They do not talk, each too wrapped up in their own reading (and both too comfortable) to bother insulting each other. They hardly move; occasionally England turns a page in his book; sometimes France flips the pages of his newspaper; every once in a while they lean further into each other; and once, but just once, France leans in suddenly - because he’s so very good at spontaneity - and kisses England’s cheek. (He pulls back and returns to his reading before England can comment; England stares at him with a face that France can’t read before pretending it didn’t happen and flipping the page of his book. But there’s this silly, little smile on his face that wasn’t there before.)
(Sometimes, but he won’t admit it, England wonders why France stays with him.)
Some time around noon, France stands and tugs England up with him, who stumbles and possibly would have fallen if France hadn’t steadied him with his free hand. (The other is still interwoven with England’s and he doesn’t want to release it quite yet.) “What?” England asks, annoyance obvious, placing the bookmark back in his book to mark the page before dropping it on the couch. He turns to glare at France.
“It’s lunchtime, cher,” France says simply, tugging England towards the kitchen.
“I’ve told you to stop calling me that,” he hears the younger nation mutter behind him and he fights back a smile.
“Whatever you say, mon chou,” France replies simply.
England growls and swats France‘s shoulder with his free hand. “That’s worse,” he argues - but the red on his face more likely from embarrassment than anger.
France merely laughs and grins back at him, squeezing England’s hand gently as they enter the kitchen. It is here that France finally releases England’s hand to begin searching through the cupboards for something to cook. England swears he doesn’t feel disappointed by this - not at all, not even a little bit.
(But he does.)
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There in France’s neat handwriting it reads:
farine
porc
pain
sucre
cigarettes
And underneath all that, England’s added in his scrawling cursive ‘buy me some black pudding’. France can’t stand black pudding - he thinks it absolutely awful.
But the next time he goes to the store, he buys some anyway. ))
France surveys his pantry for a moment while England waits. Finally, he emerges, grabs England’s hand and begins pulling him to the stairs. “What the hell, France!” England yells, yanking his hand away. “What in the world are you doing?”
“Let’s go out to eat instead,” France answers. “But I will not be seen in public with you like that. Go change.”
England grumbles at him - it sounds an awful lot like ‘I don’t want to be seen in public with you at all’ - but heads upstairs anyway.
“You can wear that shirt, though!” France calls up after him, winking flirtatiously when England glances back at him. “I like seeing you in my clothes!”
“Shut up,” England growls, pausing on the top step. “I only wore it because you threw my clothes all over the place last night and I couldn’t find my shirt,” he explains. (Except he brought a whole bag of clothes with him, so that’s not really an excuse.)
England turns and disappears down the hall. After a moment of waiting France yells, “And please, dear, try to do something with those eyebrows of yours! I wouldn’t want to frighten any of my citizens!”
He receives a few choice curses in reply.
(Sometimes, but he won’t admit it, France thinks he might die if England ever leaves.)
They keep close as they walk through the streets of Paris.
(( “Only because it’s cold and you’re warm,” England assured when he wrapped his arms around France’s and pressed tight to his body.
“Of course,” France replied, rolling his eyes; he pulled his arm from England‘s tight grip - and no, England did not whine about this, thank you very much - before he wrapped it around England’s thin waist and pulled him close. ))
There’s a light dusting of snow on the ground, and it makes Paris sparkle, leaves two pairs of close footsteps as they walk through the crowded streets - those footsteps will fade, be covered up and stomped away by others’ feet, England knows, but there seems something magical about them anyway. England shakes this thought away at once - it’s much too romantic and ridiculous a thought to even consider; there’s absolutely nothing magical about Paris. (Except - except it’s France's heart, so maybe, maybe that makes it somewhat special. Somewhat magical, even.)
“Hey,” England grunts out, glaring at France. “There better be tea wherever we go. And they better speak English; I’m not speaking any of your damn frog-speak. And -”
France covers England’s mouth with his free hand. (He would have kissed him, but then England would go on for hours about public displays of affection - “Not that there’s any affection to speak of!” he would add - and people assuming they’re in a relationship - “Which we’re not, obviously! As if I would ever be with a damn, poofty, French frog like you!”) “It will be fine,” France says. “For once, just try to enjoy it.”
England frowns, pulls his face away from France’s hand, and mutters, “As if I could ever enjoy anything from this bloody, ridiculous, love-obsessed country of yours.”
France just laughs and pulls him closer. He takes a chance and kisses England’s cheek and is pushed away by a squirming, swearing, heavily blushing England who, true to France’s prediction, begins to yell about public appearances and people getting the wrong idea about them.
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It’s all rather ordinary, all rather domestic, but it’s absolutely beautiful because of that. It’s something fragile, this new relationship forming between them, and they have to take it slow - one careful step at a time so it doesn’t all crumble beneath them.
When they’re done with their wandering - and when the cold becomes too much for them - they head back to France’s house; France pulls England upstairs and into bed and then just stops. There. In bed.
He doesn’t pull off England’s clothes, he doesn’t kiss at England’s neck. He just falls back in the bed and pulls the fully-clothed England on top of him, holding him close. They stare at each other, green into blue, and both can see the caution, the fear in the other’s eyes - because this is all so different it’s frightening.
“I -” England breathes, and France wishes he could read that expression and know what England wants to say. (He has a guess, or more a wish, but he can’t be certain.) England’s gaze roams France’s face as he struggles to make his words work. And then, he stops and changes his mind, and says, “I need to get back soon; I have work tomorrow” instead.
France nods and whispers, “Of course.”
England bites his lip and then buries his face into France’s chest to hide it. France only smiles and kisses his forehead, wondering silently, secretly, when they’ll be ready to utter that oh, so terribly frightening word that starts with an ’l’ and ends with an ’e’. It isn’t now, he knows, as he’s combing his fingers through England’s messy hair and listening to the soft, gentle melody their heartbeats compose; and it may not be this week. Or even this year. It may not be for centuries, for lifetimes.
But they have time.
And France is fine with how things are - as long as he can awake to slurred curses and quiet, little snores; as long as he can make Earl Gray with his coffee in the mornings; as long as he can hold hands as he reads the paper and buy black pudding with his weekly groceries and experience all those other simple everyday miracles.
It was a whole day! Sort of....it got a bit rushed and lazy there towards the end, sorry. I didn't know what else to fill it with. I hope OP enjoys!
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it’s silly and it’s strange - except it’s England, so maybe it’s lovely and it’s sweet and maybe France loves them anyway - the socks, that is
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