[FANFIC] Paris 1947
Title: Paris 1947: Rencontre à la Tour Eiffel
Author/Artist: roolley
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France, Germany, mentions of England, America and Prussia. Implied FrUK if you squint.
Rating: PG
Warnings: A little bit of blood, gratuitous French, mentions of WWII and of the Occupation, human names, some angst (with a guilty!Germany), aaaaaaaand that's pretty much it.
Summary: In 1947, sixteen european nations meet in Paris to discuss the Marshall Plan: amongst them, Germany. America decides Germany has to start talking to the other again.
Notes: This is part of the 'Paris 1947' series I plan to write - basically, a number of drabbles featuring different countries meeting up in Paris to discuss the Marshall Plan (which is trufax, people) and trying to get over the War.
***
It had been America’s idea to begin with. The nation had outright declared that Germany had to talk to France (whom, among others, he had been avoiding at the meetings) and had directed him to England for ways in which he might go about this.
“France likes to go out to the Eiffel Tower in the evening,” England had informed him in a prim and rather disapproving tone. “You will most likely find him there alone.”
In a huffy undertone he had added something about drinking, and how wine was a wanker’s drink anyway. Germany had thanked him, and gone out of their luxury Parisian hotel to call a taxi. His accent had caused the driver to cast him a very hostile look, but twenty minutes and a great deal of honking of horn later, he had arrived at his destination.
He crossed the Champs de Mars at a brisk pace, arrived at the north pillar, found the elevators were really much too slow (and didn’t look quite secure) and decided to take the stairs.
There was no sign of the French nation on the first niveau, which wasn’t much of a surprise, as it didn’t offer quite as good a view of Paris as the second one.
Germany half-walked, half-ran the stairs from the first to the second level…
…And sure enough, there was France, leaning at the parapet, a glass of something that looked suspiciously like wine held nonchalantly in his right hand. If the half-empty bottle perched precariously next to him on the barrier was anything to go by, he wasn’t at his first drink; and even as Germany watched, he ran his finger on the rim of his glass and raised it to his lips.
Although they were by no means alone and France had therefore no way of knowing one of his fellow nations had just irrupted unto the platform, Germany suddenly felt secrecy was vital. It was a strange feeling - almost like he didn’t want France to see him, to recognize him.
His run slowed quickly to a walk as he attempted to catch his breath and slow the beatings of his heart. France was standing right in front of him now, his broad back swathed in darkness, his normally golden hair ashen.
“Francis?”
The Nation didn’t react, and Germany wondered for a moment if it was because he was so unused to being called by his human name or if he simply hadn’t heard him.
He decided to renew his attempt.
“Francis… Francis!”
“Is that you, Arthur?” France answered mildly, without even turning around to look at him.
Germany, for some reason feeling distinctly embarrassed, cleared his throat.
“Ludwig. This is Ludwig.”
France stilled suddenly, and Germany noticed how his shoulders grew taut beneath his white shirt.
A skipped beat.
Germany watched, still, as the Frenchman’s free hand ran through his bangs before he turned to face him. And suddenly, under his neighbouring Nation’s unreadable blue stare, he found to his embarrassment that he didn’t know quite how to hold himself: his weight shifted from a foot to the other, then back, and his arms felt oddly long and awkward - yet it seemed inappropriate to assume his usual strict military stance.
Two years, he reflected, were not quite long enough to rid oneself of such habits. He compromised by taking a step forward and leaning one hand gingerly on the rail, so he was now standing beside France.
“Of course, Ludwig,” amended France, his tone carefully neutral and smooth. “You must excuse me; I was not expecting you.”
And Germany, once again, found himself at a loss for what to say. This did not seem to bother France; instead, he went back to doing what he had been doing before Germany’s arrival - drinking red wine and observing Paris, which spread out below them as far as the eye could see, like a huge, three-dimensional map.
Germany coughed into his ungloved fist.
“The sight of Paris is quite… incomparable from here,” he remarked.
His French felt uncomfortably rusty.
“Indeed,” murmured France in English, as if he had noticed Germany’s discomfort. “One of my writers - quite a remarkable man - used to say much the same thing. He loathed this tower, you see, and logically it was the one place from which he was unburdened by his sight.” He gave a dry chuckle, and added, “I’ve grown rather fond of it, myself.”
Germany gave a non-committal jerk of the head and saw France’s lips quirked up at the corners as he downed the rest of his glass, not really amused, mostly mocking.
Paris, illuminated by night, with the sweeping Avenue des Champs-Elysée - the Arc de Triomphe at one end and the Obélisque de la Concorde at the other -; with its immeubles hausmanniens, light of stone and dark of roof; with the dark flow of the Seine which carried an odd, lonely boat… Paris really was a beautiful sight - quite different from the ruined and wounded Berlin he had left behind.
But wounds, he knew, were not always immediately apparent.
“I hated it, you know,” said the other nation almost conversionally.
France’s empty glass swung softly between his slim fingers, and Germany suddenly found he could not look away from it.
One swing.
Two swings.
“Your flags over my buildings. I loathed it. Paris, mon Paris - my capital, Ludwig! And it belonged to you.”
Three swings.
“ You took it from me. My capital! During four years - quatre ans - during four years it belonged to you. Was Berlin not good enough for you? You might as well have ripped out my heart!”
His voice rose to a shout, and suddenly, France was gripping his glass so hard his hands were shaking, knuckles white, shoulders heaving. He let go of the glass, inhaled shakily, and, for the first time since the war, he faced Germany properly, the electric lights casting deep shadows unto his face, underlining the tiredness of his features, his livid skin.
“Do you know how that felt, Ludwig? Est-ce que tu te rends compte?”
His voice was soft again, but he was speaking French, and the effect was electrising. Germany tried to meet his eyes, but found he couldn’t quite.
The glass was broken. France took a step back, half back into the shadow, half still into the light.
“Sûrement que oui. Bien sûr que oui… »
He ran a hand through his hair once more, looked down, and seemed to notice the broken glass at his feet. Germany heard him curse softly under his breath in French, and he knelt down to pick up the pieces.
Germany hesitated, unsure of what to do, still under the shock, before kneeling down himself to help his fellow nation.
“Je suis désolé,” he told Francis; “Pardon,” he murmured under his breath; “Excusez-moi.”
Each different apology felt like a bead being counted on a rosary, a blood-red rosary with a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand, pearls, yet he wasn’t even sure who he was apologizing to or what he was saying sorry for; the glass, the war, Paris, his people, the French, Berlin, Prussia, and others he didn’t even dare name…
France’s hand slipped on a shard of glass, smearing blood on fingers, as his eyes flickered up to meet Germany’s.
Another pause; a deep breath on both parts, for different reasons, no doubt.
“C’est la troisième fois déjà, mais espérons que ça sera la bonne,” he told Germany with an odd twist of the lips, and seemingly on impulse, held out to him his cut hand. Germany took it with his own, knowing but not caring that it would come away red. Hands could always be washed; the blood on them could be scraped away.
“Jamais plus, Allemagne.”
“Jamais plus.”
***
NOTES ON STUFF
- L’Avenue des Champs Elysée is a great avenue in Paris. L’Obélisque de la Concorde and l’Arc de Triomphe are famous landmarks. The ‘immeubles haussmaniens’ are the type of buildings most commonly found in Paris.
- Est-ce que tu te rends compte? - do you understand/ do you realise
- Sûrement que oui. Bien sûr que oui - Surely you do. Of course you do (rough translation, it sounds weird in English ^^)
- C’est la troisième fois déjà, mais espérons que ça sera la bonne - it’s already the third time, but let’s hope this one will be for good (in 1945, it was the third time France had signed a peace treaty with Germany/Prussia: 1870, 1918 and 1945. That’s quite a lot of wars in quite a short time.)
- Jamais plus - never again.
Author/Artist: roolley
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France, Germany, mentions of England, America and Prussia. Implied FrUK if you squint.
Rating: PG
Warnings: A little bit of blood, gratuitous French, mentions of WWII and of the Occupation, human names, some angst (with a guilty!Germany), aaaaaaaand that's pretty much it.
Summary: In 1947, sixteen european nations meet in Paris to discuss the Marshall Plan: amongst them, Germany. America decides Germany has to start talking to the other again.
Notes: This is part of the 'Paris 1947' series I plan to write - basically, a number of drabbles featuring different countries meeting up in Paris to discuss the Marshall Plan (which is trufax, people) and trying to get over the War.
***
It had been America’s idea to begin with. The nation had outright declared that Germany had to talk to France (whom, among others, he had been avoiding at the meetings) and had directed him to England for ways in which he might go about this.
“France likes to go out to the Eiffel Tower in the evening,” England had informed him in a prim and rather disapproving tone. “You will most likely find him there alone.”
In a huffy undertone he had added something about drinking, and how wine was a wanker’s drink anyway. Germany had thanked him, and gone out of their luxury Parisian hotel to call a taxi. His accent had caused the driver to cast him a very hostile look, but twenty minutes and a great deal of honking of horn later, he had arrived at his destination.
He crossed the Champs de Mars at a brisk pace, arrived at the north pillar, found the elevators were really much too slow (and didn’t look quite secure) and decided to take the stairs.
There was no sign of the French nation on the first niveau, which wasn’t much of a surprise, as it didn’t offer quite as good a view of Paris as the second one.
Germany half-walked, half-ran the stairs from the first to the second level…
…And sure enough, there was France, leaning at the parapet, a glass of something that looked suspiciously like wine held nonchalantly in his right hand. If the half-empty bottle perched precariously next to him on the barrier was anything to go by, he wasn’t at his first drink; and even as Germany watched, he ran his finger on the rim of his glass and raised it to his lips.
Although they were by no means alone and France had therefore no way of knowing one of his fellow nations had just irrupted unto the platform, Germany suddenly felt secrecy was vital. It was a strange feeling - almost like he didn’t want France to see him, to recognize him.
His run slowed quickly to a walk as he attempted to catch his breath and slow the beatings of his heart. France was standing right in front of him now, his broad back swathed in darkness, his normally golden hair ashen.
“Francis?”
The Nation didn’t react, and Germany wondered for a moment if it was because he was so unused to being called by his human name or if he simply hadn’t heard him.
He decided to renew his attempt.
“Francis… Francis!”
“Is that you, Arthur?” France answered mildly, without even turning around to look at him.
Germany, for some reason feeling distinctly embarrassed, cleared his throat.
“Ludwig. This is Ludwig.”
France stilled suddenly, and Germany noticed how his shoulders grew taut beneath his white shirt.
A skipped beat.
Germany watched, still, as the Frenchman’s free hand ran through his bangs before he turned to face him. And suddenly, under his neighbouring Nation’s unreadable blue stare, he found to his embarrassment that he didn’t know quite how to hold himself: his weight shifted from a foot to the other, then back, and his arms felt oddly long and awkward - yet it seemed inappropriate to assume his usual strict military stance.
Two years, he reflected, were not quite long enough to rid oneself of such habits. He compromised by taking a step forward and leaning one hand gingerly on the rail, so he was now standing beside France.
“Of course, Ludwig,” amended France, his tone carefully neutral and smooth. “You must excuse me; I was not expecting you.”
And Germany, once again, found himself at a loss for what to say. This did not seem to bother France; instead, he went back to doing what he had been doing before Germany’s arrival - drinking red wine and observing Paris, which spread out below them as far as the eye could see, like a huge, three-dimensional map.
Germany coughed into his ungloved fist.
“The sight of Paris is quite… incomparable from here,” he remarked.
His French felt uncomfortably rusty.
“Indeed,” murmured France in English, as if he had noticed Germany’s discomfort. “One of my writers - quite a remarkable man - used to say much the same thing. He loathed this tower, you see, and logically it was the one place from which he was unburdened by his sight.” He gave a dry chuckle, and added, “I’ve grown rather fond of it, myself.”
Germany gave a non-committal jerk of the head and saw France’s lips quirked up at the corners as he downed the rest of his glass, not really amused, mostly mocking.
Paris, illuminated by night, with the sweeping Avenue des Champs-Elysée - the Arc de Triomphe at one end and the Obélisque de la Concorde at the other -; with its immeubles hausmanniens, light of stone and dark of roof; with the dark flow of the Seine which carried an odd, lonely boat… Paris really was a beautiful sight - quite different from the ruined and wounded Berlin he had left behind.
But wounds, he knew, were not always immediately apparent.
“I hated it, you know,” said the other nation almost conversionally.
France’s empty glass swung softly between his slim fingers, and Germany suddenly found he could not look away from it.
One swing.
Two swings.
“Your flags over my buildings. I loathed it. Paris, mon Paris - my capital, Ludwig! And it belonged to you.”
Three swings.
“ You took it from me. My capital! During four years - quatre ans - during four years it belonged to you. Was Berlin not good enough for you? You might as well have ripped out my heart!”
His voice rose to a shout, and suddenly, France was gripping his glass so hard his hands were shaking, knuckles white, shoulders heaving. He let go of the glass, inhaled shakily, and, for the first time since the war, he faced Germany properly, the electric lights casting deep shadows unto his face, underlining the tiredness of his features, his livid skin.
“Do you know how that felt, Ludwig? Est-ce que tu te rends compte?”
His voice was soft again, but he was speaking French, and the effect was electrising. Germany tried to meet his eyes, but found he couldn’t quite.
The glass was broken. France took a step back, half back into the shadow, half still into the light.
“Sûrement que oui. Bien sûr que oui… »
He ran a hand through his hair once more, looked down, and seemed to notice the broken glass at his feet. Germany heard him curse softly under his breath in French, and he knelt down to pick up the pieces.
Germany hesitated, unsure of what to do, still under the shock, before kneeling down himself to help his fellow nation.
“Je suis désolé,” he told Francis; “Pardon,” he murmured under his breath; “Excusez-moi.”
Each different apology felt like a bead being counted on a rosary, a blood-red rosary with a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand, pearls, yet he wasn’t even sure who he was apologizing to or what he was saying sorry for; the glass, the war, Paris, his people, the French, Berlin, Prussia, and others he didn’t even dare name…
France’s hand slipped on a shard of glass, smearing blood on fingers, as his eyes flickered up to meet Germany’s.
Another pause; a deep breath on both parts, for different reasons, no doubt.
“C’est la troisième fois déjà, mais espérons que ça sera la bonne,” he told Germany with an odd twist of the lips, and seemingly on impulse, held out to him his cut hand. Germany took it with his own, knowing but not caring that it would come away red. Hands could always be washed; the blood on them could be scraped away.
“Jamais plus, Allemagne.”
“Jamais plus.”
***
NOTES ON STUFF
- L’Avenue des Champs Elysée is a great avenue in Paris. L’Obélisque de la Concorde and l’Arc de Triomphe are famous landmarks. The ‘immeubles haussmaniens’ are the type of buildings most commonly found in Paris.
- Est-ce que tu te rends compte? - do you understand/ do you realise
- Sûrement que oui. Bien sûr que oui - Surely you do. Of course you do (rough translation, it sounds weird in English ^^)
- C’est la troisième fois déjà, mais espérons que ça sera la bonne - it’s already the third time, but let’s hope this one will be for good (in 1945, it was the third time France had signed a peace treaty with Germany/Prussia: 1870, 1918 and 1945. That’s quite a lot of wars in quite a short time.)
- Jamais plus - never again.