[fiction] Silver Bells and Cockle Shells [France/Belgium]
Title: Silver Bells and Cockle Shells
Characters/Pairings: France/Belgium
Rating: PG-13
Warning: implied sexual situation, possible OOC
Notes: For the prompt: It's about time Francis got some love back for what he's given, so this is a request for any character (or characters!) seriously courting or pursuing France.
I wrote this a very long time ago, when Belgium didn't really have a personality so I am aware this is inaccurate, among other things. OH WELL.
There were three flowers arranged in the vase: one scarlet poppy, one white lily, and one tulip of a rare deep blue shade. A valiant and rather unsubtle effort to bolster flagging spirits, he thought, but who could find fault with such an earnest gift?
He followed the lines of the stems upward to rest his gaze on the familiar face smiling at him from behind the blossoms.
“Do you like them?” she asked hopefully, slender battle-scarred fingers fiddling with the ribbon in her hair in uncharacteristic unease.
He nodded and murmured his thanks, merci beaucoup, found himself smiling back in response to her obvious delight. Leaning over the expanse of the table separating them, she kissed his cheek in triumph and excused herself to finish preparing breakfast.
Banned from exerting himself where she temporarily ruled, he stood off to the side with coffee cup in hand, and watched her flip a crepe into the air with a flick of the wrist, catching it in the pan expertly. She looked over at him and winked, and he could remember a similar spring morning many years past, how they had ended up with burnt or runny blobs of batter all over the kitchen floor, but finally, with his hand over hers to guide, she managed to catch one just right. Secretly, he cherished the sound of their surprised laughter in that one perfect moment, brought it out with other such memories during the darkest days of the war, when they fought side by side, waiting desperately for reinforcements that came too late, losing so much ground before the German forces, once, twice…
She would not hear of him leaving without eating everything set out on the table, pouted and glared, begged and finally threatened to shove the crepes into his mouth herself. Was her cooking not good enough, she asked hotly, and he quickly reassured her that while everything looked delicious, he could not eat for four people, possibly five.
“But you are so thin, you must eat more. I know you haven’t been eating well, don’t deny it.” For empty wine bottles were all she found when she opened the dustbin earlier that morning, and one lone cheeseburger wrapper that she was sure he did not purchase, at least not of his own will.
Fork in hand, she set about feeding him with the unstoppable determination of a sister on a mission. And when he started eying the back door of the kitchen, she crushed any hopes of escape by sitting on his lap and wrapping an arm about his shoulders.
Surrendering gladly, he settled back into the chair and balanced her carefully with one hand at her too narrow waist. “Out of love, I will humor you, ma soeur. Just this once.”
“I am glad you are seeing some sense. Now, open your mouth.”
He did, closing his eyes and missing the embarrassed flush that momentarily tinged her cheeks.
At last his pleas of fullness convinced her, and she admitted that she may have gone overboard making a dozen waffles, plus the crepes and toast and quiche and chocolate-dipped strawberries and yogurt, not to mention the chocolates and coffee and milk and fruit juices still waiting to be sampled. One last bite, and no more, she promised, so he held her to that, bravely finishing one especially large spoonful of quiche.
Sighing, full and contented, he reached up automatically to wipe a spot of crème fraîche off her lower lip. In response, she dipped her head and caught his finger in between her teeth, then gently sucked at his fingers, licking one after the other, looking up at him through long blond lashes while he stared, mouth suddenly gone dry. When she finally drew rosy lips back and away, releasing his hand, he leaned forward to firmly press his mouth against hers, to claim what he should have taken years ago, yet for some reason never did.
In any other situation, there would have been heavenly choirs of angels singing, white doves taking off into the air, rainbows and glitter sparkling everywhere. But if such things occurred, he was too occupied tasting the fresh sweetness of her mouth to notice. They parted at last for air, cheeks flushed, eyes shining, and the first thing he said was...
“Chocolate beer in the morning? Seriously, Belgium?”
She giggled, corrected him - no, it was double chocolate stout - and gave him a full account of her latest concoction, inviting him to take a sample from the small keg sitting in the icebox, while he shook his head in amazement at her obsession.
Then Belgium stood up, a secretive smile gracing her lips, and told him to leave cleaning up for later. She took his hand and led him out to the garden in the back, her skirts practically bouncing from the cheerful energy in her steps. France almost forgot that there was a garden for this particular house, but he had made love out in the open air several (dozen, hundred) times before, so he looked forward to seeing it again in that capacity. Unfortunately, that was not what she had in mind, he soon discovered.
“I hope you don’t mind me cleaning up the flowerbeds,” she said, “they were overrun with weeds. And cigarette butts.” She glared at him disapprovingly with that last statement, but France merely shrugged, knowing she smoked these days as well. They all did, after the war.
Now dragging him to the shed tucked away in a corner of the lawn, Belgium proudly opened up a flat wooden box, showing him a variety of bulbs nestled in dried moss within each compartment.
“These are for you, France. I thought perhaps you might like to plant these sometime, now that… now that things have gotten better…”
“You did not have to do all of this,” was his only response.
“But beautiful people deserve beautiful things, is that not true?” she murmured with a coy glance in his direction. Coming from any other person, France would have teased them for sounding so cheesy, but she knew his cadences as well as her own, and delivered the line pitch-perfect.
He smiled to himself, thoroughly charmed, and ran a hand lightly over the delicate paper-like coverings of each bulb. Though it had been years since he had the time to attend to a garden, the knowledge came back to him easily. Iris, narcisses, crocus, jacinthes, jonquil, lily, tulipe - of course tulips, he thought, fleetingly jealous of her other brother… but what were these?
“That’s garlic, you have some in your kitchen.”
“Ah… I knew that.” France cleared his throat, embarrassed, while she snorted, then laughed out loud, the sound as bright and joyful as wedding bells.
Setting the box down, the two of them left the shed and walked along the dainty gravel path through the garden, quietly enjoying the sights and smells and sounds of a peaceful morning in Paris.
It was not so long ago that he was helping rebuild the war-torn city, mind numbed to the horrors he had witnessed, ears deaf to the soft roar of despair, tongue unable to taste anything other than ashes and mud. He could not even imagine what it must have been like to rebuild her lands, yet here they were, reveling in the rewards of their labor, at peace with the world for the first time in many years.
“I’ve missed this…”
“I’ve missed it, too.”
They were at the steps leading back to the house now, and Belgium untangled her fingers from his, so slowly, so wistfully, muttering her apologies for intruding on his time, wishing him the best for his recovery.
“Wait, sister… Can you not stay for a little while longer?” he asked, almost pleaded.
“Ah, well… I would love to, if I did not have so much work back home.”
“You have worked hard enough. Don’t go just yet,” he whispered, drawing her close enough to feel her wildly beating heart, the heat from her soft skin, the silken fineness of her golden hair. “Stay with me, Belgium.”
She faltered, biting her lower lip, indecisive as ever, but finally met his eyes and smiled. “Of course, France, I will stay.”
He kissed her again, lightly on the lips, grateful, adoring, so incredibly happy to be loved --- then figured that she probably wanted to take the keg back home.
He led the way now, and Belgium was content to follow him up the stairway, into the bedroom, all the while clasping his hand tightly, as if she feared to snap the tenuous thread that bound them together this idyllic morning. Tomorrow things could change between them, but today, there were memories to make, to treasure and cherish, though dark times may lie ahead.
Standing together in the elegant bareness of his room, a light breeze blowing in through tall windows, Belgium self-consciously reached to undo the buttons of his shirt. It was just France, only her foolish, useless, love-addled sibling to the west, whom she had known for centuries, whom she had fought alongside as often as against. Yet the magnitude of her boldness overwhelmed her, now that she really thought about what she was attempting to do, and she froze under the intensity of that blue gaze, unable to find the right words through the turmoil of her ever divided thoughts.
France, mistaking her shyness for reluctance or even anxiety, gently kissed her work-roughened knuckles as if they were the pampered hands of a princess - for indeed, she stood out like a princess among the brutes and bullies of Europe. (Though of course, he was very biased on this point.) Truthfully, he worried that it was too soon after the war, and he knew the pain of opening wounds not yet completely healed.
“Ma fleur,” France whispered tenderly, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. “My sweet brave belle… Please, do not feel like you have to do anything else for me. You have done more than enough already, I am truly thankful.”
But she shook her head, non, non, her green eyes bright with indescribable emotion. “It’s nothing like that, France. Because I want to be with you, right here, right now. You make me… you make me angry sometimes, but you make me happy, too.” She laughed sheepishly, covering her face with her hands. “Oh, you must think I’m so silly…”
He thought his heart would break for her honesty, her pure affection, like the love of that girl he could never forget. How could he resist?
“No, you are not silly, dearest, not at all. When is love ever silly?”
She uncovered her eyes and blinked, lips parted in surprise as she considered his words.
“Do you mean…?”
He shushed her with a soft sound, and sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling her close, to make his intentions clear. There would be no turning back now, and he knew by the answering glow in her lovely face that she came to him willingly, with no regrets.
Gently, Belgium guided his fingers to the sash at her waist, untying the bow there. With graceful, practiced motions, he unbuttoned the front of her dress, bending closer to place a kiss over each area of skin bared by the parting of soft fabric. She giggled at the light brush of his lips against her collarbone, down her sternum, over the curve of her breasts, and she ran her fingers through his hair, admiring how the sunlight glanced off of deep golden strands. France was not really beautiful, not as stunning as he used to be in his youth, but somehow his allure remained irresistible, and his confidence well-deserved. Though she had kept her feelings secret, and had scolded and harangued him as any sister would, cursed with such a brother, still she was not one to deny love from blooming where it will.
The air was sultry, almost shimmery and hazy in the light of the late morning sun. Sighing reluctantly, France slid out of bed and went over to open the windows, to let in a cool breeze, the distant sounds of traffic below, the occasional birdsong outside. He settled back onto the mattress, resting on his side as Belgium looked up at him through half-closed eyes. She looked so peaceful, so sweetly content, lying on her stomach, a pillow cushioning her face and arms. Unable to resist, he traced a finger over the still-healing purple scar on her back, the one that matched his, and she shivered under his caress, though she did not flinch. In his mind’s eye, he could see the gash of scarlet poppies against the bleak landscape of abandoned battlefields, like the bloom of blood across her shoulderblades as he tried to remove the shrapnel with hands trembling violently from too little sleep and too much adrenaline.
“I have always wondered why you are not angrier with me,” he mused, not bitter, just resigned.
“Oh, brother, I am often furious with you for something or other,” she murmured lazily. “But it does not mean I hate you. That, I believe, is someone else’s right.”
“…Ouch.”
“Nothing more than you deserve, idiot.” But she said this while smiling, and he returned it with a kiss.
As they lay in bed, relaxing in each other’s familiar company, there soon came the unmistakable sound of a car pulling up into the driveway.
“Who can that be?” France wondered aloud, sitting up. Did he invite someone and not remember it?
“I think I have an idea,” Belgium replied from where she was rummaging through the clothes on the floor and finding his shirt to slip on. The two drifted over to the window as car doors slammed and familiar voices reverberated through the air.
“Hallo!” she called out, waving to the three nations down below. “Well! If it isn’t Johnny Come-lately and his Come-lateliers.”
England grimaced and tried to hide the bouquet of roses behind his back, but France could see them clearly from his vantage point and grinned.
America waved back to them, seemingly oblivious to the insult. “Are you still talking about the fries thing? Sorry about that, but it already caught on in my home!” At his side, Canada smiled nervously and then kept his eyes on the ground, not daring to look up again.
“And what brings you here, Angleterre?” France asked of his sometimes ally, more often times enemy. “My stunning good looks? My superior cuisine? My French charms? Perhaps a delightful combination of all three?”
England muttered something, and Belgium cheerfully requested him to speak louder.
“I said, we have not seen you in a while, and we were dropping by to see if your economies are quite all right.”
Something unspoken, something tense but not quite unfriendly, passed through the distance between the three European nations, and for his part, America finally realized that both France and Belgium were mostly naked.
After a brief moment’s hesitation, France smiled and finally answered, “I think we are doing much better. Especially now that good friends are here.” He glanced at Belgium, who nodded in agreement.
“England, America, Canada, why don’t you stay for lunch?”
“I will be happy to cook you something to eat!” Belgium added.
The brothers looked up with identical expressions of relief on their faces, obviously forced to endure a British breakfast that morning. England snorted scornfully, red-faced, though he gave in at last.
“Very well, we will stay… But you two better put on some clothes, for heaven’s sake.”
Characters/Pairings: France/Belgium
Rating: PG-13
Warning: implied sexual situation, possible OOC
Notes: For the prompt: It's about time Francis got some love back for what he's given, so this is a request for any character (or characters!) seriously courting or pursuing France.
I wrote this a very long time ago, when Belgium didn't really have a personality so I am aware this is inaccurate, among other things. OH WELL.
There were three flowers arranged in the vase: one scarlet poppy, one white lily, and one tulip of a rare deep blue shade. A valiant and rather unsubtle effort to bolster flagging spirits, he thought, but who could find fault with such an earnest gift?
He followed the lines of the stems upward to rest his gaze on the familiar face smiling at him from behind the blossoms.
“Do you like them?” she asked hopefully, slender battle-scarred fingers fiddling with the ribbon in her hair in uncharacteristic unease.
He nodded and murmured his thanks, merci beaucoup, found himself smiling back in response to her obvious delight. Leaning over the expanse of the table separating them, she kissed his cheek in triumph and excused herself to finish preparing breakfast.
Banned from exerting himself where she temporarily ruled, he stood off to the side with coffee cup in hand, and watched her flip a crepe into the air with a flick of the wrist, catching it in the pan expertly. She looked over at him and winked, and he could remember a similar spring morning many years past, how they had ended up with burnt or runny blobs of batter all over the kitchen floor, but finally, with his hand over hers to guide, she managed to catch one just right. Secretly, he cherished the sound of their surprised laughter in that one perfect moment, brought it out with other such memories during the darkest days of the war, when they fought side by side, waiting desperately for reinforcements that came too late, losing so much ground before the German forces, once, twice…
She would not hear of him leaving without eating everything set out on the table, pouted and glared, begged and finally threatened to shove the crepes into his mouth herself. Was her cooking not good enough, she asked hotly, and he quickly reassured her that while everything looked delicious, he could not eat for four people, possibly five.
“But you are so thin, you must eat more. I know you haven’t been eating well, don’t deny it.” For empty wine bottles were all she found when she opened the dustbin earlier that morning, and one lone cheeseburger wrapper that she was sure he did not purchase, at least not of his own will.
Fork in hand, she set about feeding him with the unstoppable determination of a sister on a mission. And when he started eying the back door of the kitchen, she crushed any hopes of escape by sitting on his lap and wrapping an arm about his shoulders.
Surrendering gladly, he settled back into the chair and balanced her carefully with one hand at her too narrow waist. “Out of love, I will humor you, ma soeur. Just this once.”
“I am glad you are seeing some sense. Now, open your mouth.”
He did, closing his eyes and missing the embarrassed flush that momentarily tinged her cheeks.
At last his pleas of fullness convinced her, and she admitted that she may have gone overboard making a dozen waffles, plus the crepes and toast and quiche and chocolate-dipped strawberries and yogurt, not to mention the chocolates and coffee and milk and fruit juices still waiting to be sampled. One last bite, and no more, she promised, so he held her to that, bravely finishing one especially large spoonful of quiche.
Sighing, full and contented, he reached up automatically to wipe a spot of crème fraîche off her lower lip. In response, she dipped her head and caught his finger in between her teeth, then gently sucked at his fingers, licking one after the other, looking up at him through long blond lashes while he stared, mouth suddenly gone dry. When she finally drew rosy lips back and away, releasing his hand, he leaned forward to firmly press his mouth against hers, to claim what he should have taken years ago, yet for some reason never did.
In any other situation, there would have been heavenly choirs of angels singing, white doves taking off into the air, rainbows and glitter sparkling everywhere. But if such things occurred, he was too occupied tasting the fresh sweetness of her mouth to notice. They parted at last for air, cheeks flushed, eyes shining, and the first thing he said was...
“Chocolate beer in the morning? Seriously, Belgium?”
She giggled, corrected him - no, it was double chocolate stout - and gave him a full account of her latest concoction, inviting him to take a sample from the small keg sitting in the icebox, while he shook his head in amazement at her obsession.
Then Belgium stood up, a secretive smile gracing her lips, and told him to leave cleaning up for later. She took his hand and led him out to the garden in the back, her skirts practically bouncing from the cheerful energy in her steps. France almost forgot that there was a garden for this particular house, but he had made love out in the open air several (dozen, hundred) times before, so he looked forward to seeing it again in that capacity. Unfortunately, that was not what she had in mind, he soon discovered.
“I hope you don’t mind me cleaning up the flowerbeds,” she said, “they were overrun with weeds. And cigarette butts.” She glared at him disapprovingly with that last statement, but France merely shrugged, knowing she smoked these days as well. They all did, after the war.
Now dragging him to the shed tucked away in a corner of the lawn, Belgium proudly opened up a flat wooden box, showing him a variety of bulbs nestled in dried moss within each compartment.
“These are for you, France. I thought perhaps you might like to plant these sometime, now that… now that things have gotten better…”
“You did not have to do all of this,” was his only response.
“But beautiful people deserve beautiful things, is that not true?” she murmured with a coy glance in his direction. Coming from any other person, France would have teased them for sounding so cheesy, but she knew his cadences as well as her own, and delivered the line pitch-perfect.
He smiled to himself, thoroughly charmed, and ran a hand lightly over the delicate paper-like coverings of each bulb. Though it had been years since he had the time to attend to a garden, the knowledge came back to him easily. Iris, narcisses, crocus, jacinthes, jonquil, lily, tulipe - of course tulips, he thought, fleetingly jealous of her other brother… but what were these?
“That’s garlic, you have some in your kitchen.”
“Ah… I knew that.” France cleared his throat, embarrassed, while she snorted, then laughed out loud, the sound as bright and joyful as wedding bells.
Setting the box down, the two of them left the shed and walked along the dainty gravel path through the garden, quietly enjoying the sights and smells and sounds of a peaceful morning in Paris.
It was not so long ago that he was helping rebuild the war-torn city, mind numbed to the horrors he had witnessed, ears deaf to the soft roar of despair, tongue unable to taste anything other than ashes and mud. He could not even imagine what it must have been like to rebuild her lands, yet here they were, reveling in the rewards of their labor, at peace with the world for the first time in many years.
“I’ve missed this…”
“I’ve missed it, too.”
They were at the steps leading back to the house now, and Belgium untangled her fingers from his, so slowly, so wistfully, muttering her apologies for intruding on his time, wishing him the best for his recovery.
“Wait, sister… Can you not stay for a little while longer?” he asked, almost pleaded.
“Ah, well… I would love to, if I did not have so much work back home.”
“You have worked hard enough. Don’t go just yet,” he whispered, drawing her close enough to feel her wildly beating heart, the heat from her soft skin, the silken fineness of her golden hair. “Stay with me, Belgium.”
She faltered, biting her lower lip, indecisive as ever, but finally met his eyes and smiled. “Of course, France, I will stay.”
He kissed her again, lightly on the lips, grateful, adoring, so incredibly happy to be loved --- then figured that she probably wanted to take the keg back home.
He led the way now, and Belgium was content to follow him up the stairway, into the bedroom, all the while clasping his hand tightly, as if she feared to snap the tenuous thread that bound them together this idyllic morning. Tomorrow things could change between them, but today, there were memories to make, to treasure and cherish, though dark times may lie ahead.
Standing together in the elegant bareness of his room, a light breeze blowing in through tall windows, Belgium self-consciously reached to undo the buttons of his shirt. It was just France, only her foolish, useless, love-addled sibling to the west, whom she had known for centuries, whom she had fought alongside as often as against. Yet the magnitude of her boldness overwhelmed her, now that she really thought about what she was attempting to do, and she froze under the intensity of that blue gaze, unable to find the right words through the turmoil of her ever divided thoughts.
France, mistaking her shyness for reluctance or even anxiety, gently kissed her work-roughened knuckles as if they were the pampered hands of a princess - for indeed, she stood out like a princess among the brutes and bullies of Europe. (Though of course, he was very biased on this point.) Truthfully, he worried that it was too soon after the war, and he knew the pain of opening wounds not yet completely healed.
“Ma fleur,” France whispered tenderly, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. “My sweet brave belle… Please, do not feel like you have to do anything else for me. You have done more than enough already, I am truly thankful.”
But she shook her head, non, non, her green eyes bright with indescribable emotion. “It’s nothing like that, France. Because I want to be with you, right here, right now. You make me… you make me angry sometimes, but you make me happy, too.” She laughed sheepishly, covering her face with her hands. “Oh, you must think I’m so silly…”
He thought his heart would break for her honesty, her pure affection, like the love of that girl he could never forget. How could he resist?
“No, you are not silly, dearest, not at all. When is love ever silly?”
She uncovered her eyes and blinked, lips parted in surprise as she considered his words.
“Do you mean…?”
He shushed her with a soft sound, and sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling her close, to make his intentions clear. There would be no turning back now, and he knew by the answering glow in her lovely face that she came to him willingly, with no regrets.
Gently, Belgium guided his fingers to the sash at her waist, untying the bow there. With graceful, practiced motions, he unbuttoned the front of her dress, bending closer to place a kiss over each area of skin bared by the parting of soft fabric. She giggled at the light brush of his lips against her collarbone, down her sternum, over the curve of her breasts, and she ran her fingers through his hair, admiring how the sunlight glanced off of deep golden strands. France was not really beautiful, not as stunning as he used to be in his youth, but somehow his allure remained irresistible, and his confidence well-deserved. Though she had kept her feelings secret, and had scolded and harangued him as any sister would, cursed with such a brother, still she was not one to deny love from blooming where it will.
The air was sultry, almost shimmery and hazy in the light of the late morning sun. Sighing reluctantly, France slid out of bed and went over to open the windows, to let in a cool breeze, the distant sounds of traffic below, the occasional birdsong outside. He settled back onto the mattress, resting on his side as Belgium looked up at him through half-closed eyes. She looked so peaceful, so sweetly content, lying on her stomach, a pillow cushioning her face and arms. Unable to resist, he traced a finger over the still-healing purple scar on her back, the one that matched his, and she shivered under his caress, though she did not flinch. In his mind’s eye, he could see the gash of scarlet poppies against the bleak landscape of abandoned battlefields, like the bloom of blood across her shoulderblades as he tried to remove the shrapnel with hands trembling violently from too little sleep and too much adrenaline.
“I have always wondered why you are not angrier with me,” he mused, not bitter, just resigned.
“Oh, brother, I am often furious with you for something or other,” she murmured lazily. “But it does not mean I hate you. That, I believe, is someone else’s right.”
“…Ouch.”
“Nothing more than you deserve, idiot.” But she said this while smiling, and he returned it with a kiss.
As they lay in bed, relaxing in each other’s familiar company, there soon came the unmistakable sound of a car pulling up into the driveway.
“Who can that be?” France wondered aloud, sitting up. Did he invite someone and not remember it?
“I think I have an idea,” Belgium replied from where she was rummaging through the clothes on the floor and finding his shirt to slip on. The two drifted over to the window as car doors slammed and familiar voices reverberated through the air.
“Hallo!” she called out, waving to the three nations down below. “Well! If it isn’t Johnny Come-lately and his Come-lateliers.”
England grimaced and tried to hide the bouquet of roses behind his back, but France could see them clearly from his vantage point and grinned.
America waved back to them, seemingly oblivious to the insult. “Are you still talking about the fries thing? Sorry about that, but it already caught on in my home!” At his side, Canada smiled nervously and then kept his eyes on the ground, not daring to look up again.
“And what brings you here, Angleterre?” France asked of his sometimes ally, more often times enemy. “My stunning good looks? My superior cuisine? My French charms? Perhaps a delightful combination of all three?”
England muttered something, and Belgium cheerfully requested him to speak louder.
“I said, we have not seen you in a while, and we were dropping by to see if your economies are quite all right.”
Something unspoken, something tense but not quite unfriendly, passed through the distance between the three European nations, and for his part, America finally realized that both France and Belgium were mostly naked.
After a brief moment’s hesitation, France smiled and finally answered, “I think we are doing much better. Especially now that good friends are here.” He glanced at Belgium, who nodded in agreement.
“England, America, Canada, why don’t you stay for lunch?”
“I will be happy to cook you something to eat!” Belgium added.
The brothers looked up with identical expressions of relief on their faces, obviously forced to endure a British breakfast that morning. England snorted scornfully, red-faced, though he gave in at last.
“Very well, we will stay… But you two better put on some clothes, for heaven’s sake.”