Savon de Marseille (1/?)
anonymous
June 30 2009, 04:35:30 UTC
Oh, anon, forgive me if this wasn't what you had in mind. It got a bit angsty... The good news is that France still bottomed?
---
"The world," France begins softly, tipping his head back so that damp tendrils of his hair stick to the lip of the cracked bath tub and he slips down a few inches with barely a ripple on the warm water. Warm rather than piping hot because he's been stewing in there for a good hour, like bread crusts in panade, cheeks glowing a healthy shade of red with blood, from wine and damp heat. He shuts his eyes with a long, quiet sigh, and completes the picture of decadence by sucking on a soggy cigarette. Ash flakes off around him. "The world is too big for love to be real, mon petit garçon."
Well, France always has been known to wax poetic when he's gotten a substantial amount of alcohol down his gullet.
America is precariously balanced on the bathroom windowsill and lobbing bits of crushed ice down to the street, but suddenly glances over at him with that bastard expression that's part wry amusement and distaste. The cork of their tepid magnum of champagne is snug between his white, bared teeth. He has no idea how much he looks like England when he does that, the thing with his eyebrows most of all, and France has no intention of reminding either of them of the... unfortunate similarity.
He sighs - and here, his face shifts again, and now he looks just like himself, shiny and naïve, only a little worn around on the edges as he spits the cork out the window too - and seals his thumb over the mouth of his bottle of champagne, giving it a shake until it froths anew, spilling into his lap and on the floor, pinging off the ice bucket like crude bells.
"Bien sûr," he replies evenly and sucks his thumb clean with an enthusiastic pop! It's impossible to miss that tetchy undertone in his voice. The boy's accent gets better every day though. A slow, easy smile spreads across France's face.
"I do so love to hear you speak my tongue."
"Well, I guess I really like your tongue," America retorts. He crosses the bathroom and unceremoniously plops himself down on the damp tile, one elbow propped up on the tub. France cracks an eye open and grins - tip of his pervert's tongue between his teeth - before his lips silently form the word touché.
The more time America spends in Paris, the more irritable he seems to become, but France has quite enjoyed his stay. He shows him his Surrealism, his Duchamps and Massons and Man Rays (technically America's, but he doesn't have to know), and puts a long finger to the young nation's lips when he insists Francis, my people have got three-year-olds that could pull that out of their asses. And France's country is, for some Americans (their soldiers and poets and lovers), blissfully Prohibition-free. With enough whiskey burning a hole in his gut, France will even let America lead him in the foxtrot, provided they don't stumble into and knock over his best gramophone. Again.
"But what the hell are you talking about anyway?"
"Oh, nothing, chèr. I'm just talking for the sake of talking. And my throat is dry."
He lifts his dripping wet hand to take the champagne from him, but instead America presses it to his lips: he miscalculates the distance and hears it barely chink against France's front teeth, but the man doesn't protest or do so much as bat an eyelash. Rather, France catches his eyes as he languidly traces the opening of the bottle with the tip of his tongue. He brings his cigarette to America's lips in return and prompts him to take a drag with a huge wink and a lazy nod.
"Did you know, Amerique, that the person you love and the person that loves you are not one and the same?"
Puff! "Er, I don't follow."
"Take you and me for example. We-" lick "-are not in love because you-" liiick "-are already in love with someone. In fact, you've always resented me. Just a tad, darling, just a tad."
---
"The world," France begins softly, tipping his head back so that damp tendrils of his hair stick to the lip of the cracked bath tub and he slips down a few inches with barely a ripple on the warm water. Warm rather than piping hot because he's been stewing in there for a good hour, like bread crusts in panade, cheeks glowing a healthy shade of red with blood, from wine and damp heat. He shuts his eyes with a long, quiet sigh, and completes the picture of decadence by sucking on a soggy cigarette. Ash flakes off around him. "The world is too big for love to be real, mon petit garçon."
Well, France always has been known to wax poetic when he's gotten a substantial amount of alcohol down his gullet.
America is precariously balanced on the bathroom windowsill and lobbing bits of crushed ice down to the street, but suddenly glances over at him with that bastard expression that's part wry amusement and distaste. The cork of their tepid magnum of champagne is snug between his white, bared teeth. He has no idea how much he looks like England when he does that, the thing with his eyebrows most of all, and France has no intention of reminding either of them of the... unfortunate similarity.
He sighs - and here, his face shifts again, and now he looks just like himself, shiny and naïve, only a little worn around on the edges as he spits the cork out the window too - and seals his thumb over the mouth of his bottle of champagne, giving it a shake until it froths anew, spilling into his lap and on the floor, pinging off the ice bucket like crude bells.
"Bien sûr," he replies evenly and sucks his thumb clean with an enthusiastic pop! It's impossible to miss that tetchy undertone in his voice. The boy's accent gets better every day though. A slow, easy smile spreads across France's face.
"I do so love to hear you speak my tongue."
"Well, I guess I really like your tongue," America retorts. He crosses the bathroom and unceremoniously plops himself down on the damp tile, one elbow propped up on the tub. France cracks an eye open and grins - tip of his pervert's tongue between his teeth - before his lips silently form the word touché.
The more time America spends in Paris, the more irritable he seems to become, but France has quite enjoyed his stay. He shows him his Surrealism, his Duchamps and Massons and Man Rays (technically America's, but he doesn't have to know), and puts a long finger to the young nation's lips when he insists Francis, my people have got three-year-olds that could pull that out of their asses. And France's country is, for some Americans (their soldiers and poets and lovers), blissfully Prohibition-free. With enough whiskey burning a hole in his gut, France will even let America lead him in the foxtrot, provided they don't stumble into and knock over his best gramophone. Again.
"But what the hell are you talking about anyway?"
"Oh, nothing, chèr. I'm just talking for the sake of talking. And my throat is dry."
He lifts his dripping wet hand to take the champagne from him, but instead America presses it to his lips: he miscalculates the distance and hears it barely chink against France's front teeth, but the man doesn't protest or do so much as bat an eyelash. Rather, France catches his eyes as he languidly traces the opening of the bottle with the tip of his tongue. He brings his cigarette to America's lips in return and prompts him to take a drag with a huge wink and a lazy nod.
"Did you know, Amerique, that the person you love and the person that loves you are not one and the same?"
Puff! "Er, I don't follow."
"Take you and me for example. We-" lick "-are not in love because you-" liiick "-are already in love with someone. In fact, you've always resented me. Just a tad, darling, just a tad."
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