Hetalia fic - The First Cut (is the Deepest)
The First Cut (is the Deepest)
Rating: PG
Pairing: France/America
Warning: Not much, other than blatant flirting on France's part. Melancholy?
Summary: Someone on the kinkmeme requested 1920s France/America, with bonus points for members of the Lost Generation or their works. I did The Sun Also Rises instead of The Great Gatsby, but that got a reference or two in as well. Really, I was aiming for hints of Hills Like White Elephants. Takes place 1926-27-ish.
Many thanks to jedishampoo for beta-ing!
Meant as a stand-alone but can just as easily be a companion of sorts to Afición and The Sun Also Sets.
England had called while America was packing his bags - half-drunk judging from the tone of his voice - demanding to know what America hoped to find in Paris. Really, it had been less of a question and more the theme of an invective-laden speech against all things French (but most especially against France himself).
How he’d even discovered America was planning a visit to France, let alone the long one he had in mind, was a mystery, though America suspected Canada was somehow to blame. His twin had been out of sorts since the conclusion of the Great War and less patient than usual with America`s exuberance. America couldn`t think of what in particular he`d done to cause Canada to run off tattling on him, but he was sure there was something. A joke fallen flat or a game he`d been a bit too over the top about winning, or a rum-run gone poorly.
Well, it could be any number of things and, when one considered how long Canada liked to hold grudges, it could have happened at any time.
France found grudges romantic and England took them for granted, constant and inevitable as the rain. America for his part found them tiring and boring, but then again, he`d never liked rainy days all that much, either.
“Nothing,” he had answered England in complete honesty, his reserves of playful lies running on empty. “But I`m going all the same.”
England’s reply had been little more than incoherent sputtering. America imagined he must have been all shades of purple as he hung up the phone.
Sitting across from France in the riverside café, America wondered what else he could have said. He smiled, close-mouthed, chin resting on his arm as he listened to France talk about politics and philosophy. It was a strange reversal from their usual position - France listening while he babbled on. For once though, America was content to drowse a little in the pleasant mix of afternoon sunshine and wine, sunmotes splashing off the reddish-purple dregs in his glass and carrying the rich-tart aroma of pressed grapes to his nose. He didn`t want the bother of worrying about anything right then. Let tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow fend for themselves for the time being.
America knew it was strange though, his quiet. Of course France would notice it, having known America since he was still short enough to be lost in the barley fields, one small amber-gold head among many. He stopped, eyeing America, his mouth first wrinkling into a frown, then softening to a smile.
“Enjoying the summer, cher?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow delicately. France does everything delicately, America has noticed, unless he’s gone mad, and sometimes even then. (Even the guillotine, for all its horror, was far more delicate than the old methods of ax and sword.)
“Yes,” America answered with a yawn. He forced himself to sit up, half-heartedly straightening his shirt where it had crinkled. The downy hairs at the base of his skull were stuck to the back of his neck with sweat, but it was nothing compared to an August day in the bayou where one practically had to grow gills to breathe. “It’s the tops.”
“And I`m not boring you?” France continued, his face a mask of concern.
“Oh no, not at all!” America scrambled to right his posture and to erase the drowsiness of a late luncheon and several glasses of wine. His arm bumped against his table knife and he dived to catch it before it hit the ground. Amidst the clatter, he heard the familiar sound of France`s laughter. He retrieved the knife and sat back up, hot with embarrassment but wearing a smile nonetheless.
“Oh, cher.” France`s smile was Paris elegance and charm done up into an upturned bow. “Whatever am I to do with you? Ah, but it`s my own fault, for keeping you out so late last night.”
America shook his head and waved off the waiter who came to refill his wine glass, though he waited for France`s to be filled before speaking. “No, I wanted to go. I practically begged you to go. Miss Baker was dancing, after all.” His tone turned wistful and he picked at his nails, tugging at a particularly stubborn hangnail. “She came all the way here to dance for you.”
France reached out and caught America’s hand, stilling his fingers from worrying at the hangnail. “Are you certain it is only me she dances for?”
America pursed his lips and looked away until France withdrew his hand. France sighed silently. “So much for Prohibition. Shall we toast to it?”
“God, no. Not a toast. The wine is too good to waste on it. You’ll just ruin the taste.” America’s insides twisted at the reminder and he wished he had let the waiter refill his own glass. After enough alcohol, he could usually forget to remember. He watched as France let the swallow linger for a moment - Bordeaux grapes with a hint of oak and cherry, he recalled from his own glasses of the same. The sunlight caught the coarse scraggly gold that outlined France`s chin as he swallowed and set it aglow.
“Well, how will you have me tonight, then?” America blushed at the double-entendre, echoes of the Puritans hard to shake completely, but France continued on as if his teasing was naught but pure innocence, gesturing out at the city. “A tour of the art museums, followed by the finest dining Paris has to offer? Or shall we `put on our glad rags` as your people say, and visit the jazz halls? Or shall I entertain you myself? I will cook a light dinner and a rich dessert, and we can stroll along the riverside until the stars come out.”
France`s lips curved up into that languid, easy smile of his, the one that could charm a cat down from a tree and make America feel uncertain as a farmboy in Paris, dressed up in his borrowed best. “But choose, mon petit lapin, and I shall sweep you away on such an evening that you will sleep dreamless, for your dreams will have been put to shame.”
America rolled his eyes at the elaborate language, but ended up smiling just the same. “However I can get you,” he answered with a laugh. “I`ll take you however I can get you.”
France leaned forward on his elbows as if about to impart a great secret of the world. The light in his eyes danced like sunlight reflected off the Seine or like gaslight flickering in the New Orleans dusk.
“The wisest of choices,” France commented, seemingly in complete seriousness. America thought it might have been an act, but he wasn`t sure. For a moment, however, he felt enchanted all over again. However briefly it might last, he didn`t see what the harm was in letting that feeling sweep him away, since it felt so nice.
When France stood and held out his hand, America smiled and accepted it.
They stayed in after all, holing up against the world. Or rather, they talked of the world at a distance from within the safety of France`s apartments, the walls of their cozy cocoon given a warm fuzz thanks to the very nice assistance of some gin. Conversation lasted until it didn`t, and the lull stretched on to a full-out halt.
America discovered the newest prints of expatriate novels, while France flipped leisurely through thumbnail sketches of works he wished to acquire for his precious Louvre. Quiet at first, it wasn`t long before America was commenting aloud as he read. He grew animated as he discovered a turn of phrase or a description he particularly liked, laughing or ooh-ing over the best of them. At times his eyes ran over a sentence once, twice, and he felt the truth of it sharp in his heart. Those times, he fell absolutely silent.
France crept up behind as one of those moments stretched on, America`s finger lingering on the page out of a irrational yet irresistible fear that if he lifted it, the inked letters might somehow fly away. Hunched over his book as America was, France had enough height that his chin nestled just perfectly into America’s nape. Echoes of breath tickled the back of his neck as France indulged in their position.
America sighed, closing the book. The cover design was a simple sketch having little to do with the story inside other than capturing the melancholic frustration of it all.
“Why does Spain get to be the heroic figure?” he complained. “Or, well, not a hero, I guess. Hemingway doesn`t really do heroes the way Hollywood likes. None of them do, which is why I guess they like coming here so much. But still!”
“You know how your dear Ernesto feels about Spain,” France replied easily. “You are just put out that he made you into a woman. But she suits you, doesn`t she? Unwilling to be tied down and yet desperate for affection. How should I feel, when he cut my balls off?” He shuddered. “At the least, I get to punch Angleterre by the conclusion.”
“You think England is Cohn?” America asked, surprised. He opened the book again, flipping through the pages to re-read a few passages, seeking for where France might have noted a resemblance. “I thought - that is, he seemed more like Canada to me.”
France shrugged. “I suppose,” he obliged, his lips brushing the spot just behind America`s ear. “Yes, you must be right. Who would that leave for England then?” America stiffened in his arms and France exhaled a soft sigh of realization. “Ah, of course… The Lord Ashley.”
America snapped the book closed, pulling out of France`s arms. France let him slip free only to move in front of him, cutting off his escape.
“First loves, America - ah, but they are the hardest.” He retrieved America`s drink, tugging the novel out of his hands to replace it with the alcohol. “No matter the circumstances under which they expire, it is the same. We never truly recover from them, you know.”
“I know,” America replied with an honesty borne of drunkenness. He looked at the drink in his hand, then drained it in favor of meeting France`s gaze. “But it wasn`t England I loved first.”
“No?”
Eyes fixed on his now-empty glass, America could still hear the surprise in France`s voice. He hesitated. America, like his people, preferred to rush head-on into the future, consequences be dealt with and damned another day. But that didn`t mean he`d forgotten how small his hand had been in England`s. Or how he`d once had to look up and up to see his face, or how lonely it had felt to watch the wind filling the boat`s sails and taking it away from him. But he remembered France as well. “Not the same sort of love.”
“Ah.” France was quiet as he put the puzzle pieces together. Really, it shouldn`t have been any sort of an epiphany, all things considered. “Ah, Amerique, do I owe you an apology? One hundred and fifty years since our alliance and you haven`t had another. Did I break your heart so badly?” When America didn`t answer, France reached out to tip his face up. “And now?”
America shrugged. He remembered the heady rush of finding someone who believed in his dream of inalienable rights and equality. It had been France`s hands that had soothed away the hurt of England branding him a traitor when all he`d wanted was to stand firm for the same values he`d learned from England himself. The intricate webs of nations had caught him by surprise though, and had left him flailing as he’d struggled to stand. Rebellion against England had been a series of bonfires, too hot to feel cold regret for long. Losing France to his madness in comparison was the wasting decay of illness, intimately painful even as it tricks you with the false hope of a remission. If everything crumbled like that, was it so bad to pull the ocean up over his head like a child hiding in his blankets? “It`s fine.”
France leaned forward, his breath smelling of gin and time, of ages past before America had even been born. “You`re lying,” he said, his lips twitching up in what was almost a smile.
America looked for the words to deny it, and failed to find them.
le end?
And for your listening pleasure (or whatever), the song (as opposed to the novel and characters) that inspired the title and the work:
...I need to make reference notes for this at some point. When I'm not half-dead and utterly swamped. *sigh*
Rating: PG
Pairing: France/America
Warning: Not much, other than blatant flirting on France's part. Melancholy?
Summary: Someone on the kinkmeme requested 1920s France/America, with bonus points for members of the Lost Generation or their works. I did The Sun Also Rises instead of The Great Gatsby, but that got a reference or two in as well. Really, I was aiming for hints of Hills Like White Elephants. Takes place 1926-27-ish.
Many thanks to jedishampoo for beta-ing!
Meant as a stand-alone but can just as easily be a companion of sorts to Afición and The Sun Also Sets.
England had called while America was packing his bags - half-drunk judging from the tone of his voice - demanding to know what America hoped to find in Paris. Really, it had been less of a question and more the theme of an invective-laden speech against all things French (but most especially against France himself).
How he’d even discovered America was planning a visit to France, let alone the long one he had in mind, was a mystery, though America suspected Canada was somehow to blame. His twin had been out of sorts since the conclusion of the Great War and less patient than usual with America`s exuberance. America couldn`t think of what in particular he`d done to cause Canada to run off tattling on him, but he was sure there was something. A joke fallen flat or a game he`d been a bit too over the top about winning, or a rum-run gone poorly.
Well, it could be any number of things and, when one considered how long Canada liked to hold grudges, it could have happened at any time.
France found grudges romantic and England took them for granted, constant and inevitable as the rain. America for his part found them tiring and boring, but then again, he`d never liked rainy days all that much, either.
“Nothing,” he had answered England in complete honesty, his reserves of playful lies running on empty. “But I`m going all the same.”
England’s reply had been little more than incoherent sputtering. America imagined he must have been all shades of purple as he hung up the phone.
Sitting across from France in the riverside café, America wondered what else he could have said. He smiled, close-mouthed, chin resting on his arm as he listened to France talk about politics and philosophy. It was a strange reversal from their usual position - France listening while he babbled on. For once though, America was content to drowse a little in the pleasant mix of afternoon sunshine and wine, sunmotes splashing off the reddish-purple dregs in his glass and carrying the rich-tart aroma of pressed grapes to his nose. He didn`t want the bother of worrying about anything right then. Let tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow fend for themselves for the time being.
America knew it was strange though, his quiet. Of course France would notice it, having known America since he was still short enough to be lost in the barley fields, one small amber-gold head among many. He stopped, eyeing America, his mouth first wrinkling into a frown, then softening to a smile.
“Enjoying the summer, cher?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow delicately. France does everything delicately, America has noticed, unless he’s gone mad, and sometimes even then. (Even the guillotine, for all its horror, was far more delicate than the old methods of ax and sword.)
“Yes,” America answered with a yawn. He forced himself to sit up, half-heartedly straightening his shirt where it had crinkled. The downy hairs at the base of his skull were stuck to the back of his neck with sweat, but it was nothing compared to an August day in the bayou where one practically had to grow gills to breathe. “It’s the tops.”
“And I`m not boring you?” France continued, his face a mask of concern.
“Oh no, not at all!” America scrambled to right his posture and to erase the drowsiness of a late luncheon and several glasses of wine. His arm bumped against his table knife and he dived to catch it before it hit the ground. Amidst the clatter, he heard the familiar sound of France`s laughter. He retrieved the knife and sat back up, hot with embarrassment but wearing a smile nonetheless.
“Oh, cher.” France`s smile was Paris elegance and charm done up into an upturned bow. “Whatever am I to do with you? Ah, but it`s my own fault, for keeping you out so late last night.”
America shook his head and waved off the waiter who came to refill his wine glass, though he waited for France`s to be filled before speaking. “No, I wanted to go. I practically begged you to go. Miss Baker was dancing, after all.” His tone turned wistful and he picked at his nails, tugging at a particularly stubborn hangnail. “She came all the way here to dance for you.”
France reached out and caught America’s hand, stilling his fingers from worrying at the hangnail. “Are you certain it is only me she dances for?”
America pursed his lips and looked away until France withdrew his hand. France sighed silently. “So much for Prohibition. Shall we toast to it?”
“God, no. Not a toast. The wine is too good to waste on it. You’ll just ruin the taste.” America’s insides twisted at the reminder and he wished he had let the waiter refill his own glass. After enough alcohol, he could usually forget to remember. He watched as France let the swallow linger for a moment - Bordeaux grapes with a hint of oak and cherry, he recalled from his own glasses of the same. The sunlight caught the coarse scraggly gold that outlined France`s chin as he swallowed and set it aglow.
“Well, how will you have me tonight, then?” America blushed at the double-entendre, echoes of the Puritans hard to shake completely, but France continued on as if his teasing was naught but pure innocence, gesturing out at the city. “A tour of the art museums, followed by the finest dining Paris has to offer? Or shall we `put on our glad rags` as your people say, and visit the jazz halls? Or shall I entertain you myself? I will cook a light dinner and a rich dessert, and we can stroll along the riverside until the stars come out.”
France`s lips curved up into that languid, easy smile of his, the one that could charm a cat down from a tree and make America feel uncertain as a farmboy in Paris, dressed up in his borrowed best. “But choose, mon petit lapin, and I shall sweep you away on such an evening that you will sleep dreamless, for your dreams will have been put to shame.”
America rolled his eyes at the elaborate language, but ended up smiling just the same. “However I can get you,” he answered with a laugh. “I`ll take you however I can get you.”
France leaned forward on his elbows as if about to impart a great secret of the world. The light in his eyes danced like sunlight reflected off the Seine or like gaslight flickering in the New Orleans dusk.
“The wisest of choices,” France commented, seemingly in complete seriousness. America thought it might have been an act, but he wasn`t sure. For a moment, however, he felt enchanted all over again. However briefly it might last, he didn`t see what the harm was in letting that feeling sweep him away, since it felt so nice.
When France stood and held out his hand, America smiled and accepted it.
They stayed in after all, holing up against the world. Or rather, they talked of the world at a distance from within the safety of France`s apartments, the walls of their cozy cocoon given a warm fuzz thanks to the very nice assistance of some gin. Conversation lasted until it didn`t, and the lull stretched on to a full-out halt.
America discovered the newest prints of expatriate novels, while France flipped leisurely through thumbnail sketches of works he wished to acquire for his precious Louvre. Quiet at first, it wasn`t long before America was commenting aloud as he read. He grew animated as he discovered a turn of phrase or a description he particularly liked, laughing or ooh-ing over the best of them. At times his eyes ran over a sentence once, twice, and he felt the truth of it sharp in his heart. Those times, he fell absolutely silent.
France crept up behind as one of those moments stretched on, America`s finger lingering on the page out of a irrational yet irresistible fear that if he lifted it, the inked letters might somehow fly away. Hunched over his book as America was, France had enough height that his chin nestled just perfectly into America’s nape. Echoes of breath tickled the back of his neck as France indulged in their position.
America sighed, closing the book. The cover design was a simple sketch having little to do with the story inside other than capturing the melancholic frustration of it all.
“Why does Spain get to be the heroic figure?” he complained. “Or, well, not a hero, I guess. Hemingway doesn`t really do heroes the way Hollywood likes. None of them do, which is why I guess they like coming here so much. But still!”
“You know how your dear Ernesto feels about Spain,” France replied easily. “You are just put out that he made you into a woman. But she suits you, doesn`t she? Unwilling to be tied down and yet desperate for affection. How should I feel, when he cut my balls off?” He shuddered. “At the least, I get to punch Angleterre by the conclusion.”
“You think England is Cohn?” America asked, surprised. He opened the book again, flipping through the pages to re-read a few passages, seeking for where France might have noted a resemblance. “I thought - that is, he seemed more like Canada to me.”
France shrugged. “I suppose,” he obliged, his lips brushing the spot just behind America`s ear. “Yes, you must be right. Who would that leave for England then?” America stiffened in his arms and France exhaled a soft sigh of realization. “Ah, of course… The Lord Ashley.”
America snapped the book closed, pulling out of France`s arms. France let him slip free only to move in front of him, cutting off his escape.
“First loves, America - ah, but they are the hardest.” He retrieved America`s drink, tugging the novel out of his hands to replace it with the alcohol. “No matter the circumstances under which they expire, it is the same. We never truly recover from them, you know.”
“I know,” America replied with an honesty borne of drunkenness. He looked at the drink in his hand, then drained it in favor of meeting France`s gaze. “But it wasn`t England I loved first.”
“No?”
Eyes fixed on his now-empty glass, America could still hear the surprise in France`s voice. He hesitated. America, like his people, preferred to rush head-on into the future, consequences be dealt with and damned another day. But that didn`t mean he`d forgotten how small his hand had been in England`s. Or how he`d once had to look up and up to see his face, or how lonely it had felt to watch the wind filling the boat`s sails and taking it away from him. But he remembered France as well. “Not the same sort of love.”
“Ah.” France was quiet as he put the puzzle pieces together. Really, it shouldn`t have been any sort of an epiphany, all things considered. “Ah, Amerique, do I owe you an apology? One hundred and fifty years since our alliance and you haven`t had another. Did I break your heart so badly?” When America didn`t answer, France reached out to tip his face up. “And now?”
America shrugged. He remembered the heady rush of finding someone who believed in his dream of inalienable rights and equality. It had been France`s hands that had soothed away the hurt of England branding him a traitor when all he`d wanted was to stand firm for the same values he`d learned from England himself. The intricate webs of nations had caught him by surprise though, and had left him flailing as he’d struggled to stand. Rebellion against England had been a series of bonfires, too hot to feel cold regret for long. Losing France to his madness in comparison was the wasting decay of illness, intimately painful even as it tricks you with the false hope of a remission. If everything crumbled like that, was it so bad to pull the ocean up over his head like a child hiding in his blankets? “It`s fine.”
France leaned forward, his breath smelling of gin and time, of ages past before America had even been born. “You`re lying,” he said, his lips twitching up in what was almost a smile.
America looked for the words to deny it, and failed to find them.
le end?
And for your listening pleasure (or whatever), the song (as opposed to the novel and characters) that inspired the title and the work:
Click to view...I need to make reference notes for this at some point. When I'm not half-dead and utterly swamped. *sigh*