Of Wine and First Meetings [Part 1/3]
anonymous
October 30 2010, 01:16:01 UTC
AN: I hope this is what the OP was looking for despite there being a lack of smut! ;; Anyway, I hope you like it~ ------------------------
Wine tinkled bright in their goblets from the flickering candlelight, bouncing red off on the sides of the silver metal, almost glowing. The shadows flickered across the room-perhaps the most lavish guest room Russia had to offer. He only hoped the extravagance would impress the French nation, would give him some sort of merit where he had none.
Russia’s cheeks felt flushed and he stared down at his goblet, swirling the liquid around it. It was easier to look at than France’s face. Nervousness spurred through his body, hummed in his blood. He couldn’t help it, either. Tsar Alexander liked Napoleon-and he couldn’t help liking the nation itself. France was all sweet smiles, and kind words. Russia’s own words were constantly caught in his throat, garbled and awkward, especially in comparison. His French was almost awkward, as if he’d just learned it when he had really known it for years. It didn’t help, he supposed, that his clothes felt itchy and stiff, far too fancy for him to enjoy. The cravat felt as if it was strangling him, and the rest of it was too tight, too different, too new.
He shifted is weight a little, trying to get comfortable on the lace of the bedspread, though that feat seemed to be beyond him. And of course, like everything else, France noticed, not once losing that pretty smile on his lips. He raised his glass a little. “You do not need to worry so much, mon cher,” he murmured, voice as smooth as the finest silks. Russia hunched a little, but then forced himself to straighten. Posture, he was told, changed everything. If he looked confident, perhaps he could feel it as well?
Now if only his hands would stop shaking.
“What makes,” he paused licking his lips, still refusing to meet France’s gaze. He tried again, “What makes you think I’m worried?”
Russia tried to match the other’s self-confident smile with one of his own, though it only ended up more of a nervous smile, and he put the goblet to his lips to hide it. The wine was sticky and sweet in his mouth, not harsh or biting like the taste of his vodka. It was strange, different from what he was used to, but at least it had the same effects, albeit a little slower to form. His belly already felt a little warm, though not as much so as he might have liked.
“You look scared out of your wits, Russie. You are shifting like a stallion when a wolf spooks him; ready to bolt,” France replied, and there was almost amusement in his voice. He leaned forward then, touching Russia’s cheek with one silk covered hand, sliding his thumb over the heated skin. “Also, you’re redder than the wine. Is something the matter? I would not have invited you back to my room for drink, if I thought you didn’t want to?”
“No!” he yelped in reply, eyes wide, violet bright and worried. He met France’s gaze then, startled by the sudden closeness, but he didn’t shift away. He wasn’t quite certain what to make of it, but it wasn’t as if he minded the warmth, and so he left it alone. His cheeks burned more though, at the touch and his sudden outburst, and he forced himself to settle back down against the blankets. “I mean… no, it’s not that. I really… enjoy spending time with you… Our bosses do too. I wouldn’t have accepted your offer otherwise…. I really like French things….”
He ducked his head again, taking another gulp of his wine, too fast to be delicate, to be polite. He sipped a little more slowly, hiding his awkwardness once again behind his shield polished metal and blood-coloured liquid.
“Then I am very glad, Russie,” France purred a little in response, smiling at the compliment. “It would be a shame to have someone as pretty as you disliking me.”
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Wine tinkled bright in their goblets from the flickering candlelight, bouncing red off on the sides of the silver metal, almost glowing. The shadows flickered across the room-perhaps the most lavish guest room Russia had to offer. He only hoped the extravagance would impress the French nation, would give him some sort of merit where he had none.
Russia’s cheeks felt flushed and he stared down at his goblet, swirling the liquid around it. It was easier to look at than France’s face. Nervousness spurred through his body, hummed in his blood. He couldn’t help it, either. Tsar Alexander liked Napoleon-and he couldn’t help liking the nation itself. France was all sweet smiles, and kind words. Russia’s own words were constantly caught in his throat, garbled and awkward, especially in comparison. His French was almost awkward, as if he’d just learned it when he had really known it for years. It didn’t help, he supposed, that his clothes felt itchy and stiff, far too fancy for him to enjoy. The cravat felt as if it was strangling him, and the rest of it was too tight, too different, too new.
He shifted is weight a little, trying to get comfortable on the lace of the bedspread, though that feat seemed to be beyond him. And of course, like everything else, France noticed, not once losing that pretty smile on his lips. He raised his glass a little. “You do not need to worry so much, mon cher,” he murmured, voice as smooth as the finest silks. Russia hunched a little, but then forced himself to straighten. Posture, he was told, changed everything. If he looked confident, perhaps he could feel it as well?
Now if only his hands would stop shaking.
“What makes,” he paused licking his lips, still refusing to meet France’s gaze. He tried again, “What makes you think I’m worried?”
Russia tried to match the other’s self-confident smile with one of his own, though it only ended up more of a nervous smile, and he put the goblet to his lips to hide it. The wine was sticky and sweet in his mouth, not harsh or biting like the taste of his vodka. It was strange, different from what he was used to, but at least it had the same effects, albeit a little slower to form. His belly already felt a little warm, though not as much so as he might have liked.
“You look scared out of your wits, Russie. You are shifting like a stallion when a wolf spooks him; ready to bolt,” France replied, and there was almost amusement in his voice. He leaned forward then, touching Russia’s cheek with one silk covered hand, sliding his thumb over the heated skin. “Also, you’re redder than the wine. Is something the matter? I would not have invited you back to my room for drink, if I thought you didn’t want to?”
“No!” he yelped in reply, eyes wide, violet bright and worried. He met France’s gaze then, startled by the sudden closeness, but he didn’t shift away. He wasn’t quite certain what to make of it, but it wasn’t as if he minded the warmth, and so he left it alone. His cheeks burned more though, at the touch and his sudden outburst, and he forced himself to settle back down against the blankets. “I mean… no, it’s not that. I really… enjoy spending time with you… Our bosses do too. I wouldn’t have accepted your offer otherwise…. I really like French things….”
He ducked his head again, taking another gulp of his wine, too fast to be delicate, to be polite. He sipped a little more slowly, hiding his awkwardness once again behind his shield polished metal and blood-coloured liquid.
“Then I am very glad, Russie,” France purred a little in response, smiling at the compliment. “It would be a shame to have someone as pretty as you disliking me.”
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