Fic: Des Vignettes [9/9]
Title: Des Vignettes
Rating: PG-13 for this chapter; R for the whole fic
Characters & Pairings: England/France, America; mentions of Japan, Russia and Spain.
Warnings: In this chapter, close kissing and minor sexual references. In the whole fic, language, sex, and some blood.
Notes: De-anon from the kink meme; originally written for this prompt. Cleaned up and slightly altered since the original version.
Summary: 1904, 2004, and a few moments in between. In which France and England talk, fight, kiss and confound their way towards some form of progress.
-
|<- Back to chapter 1
<- Back to chapter 8
Year One Hundred
Because England shall always be England, and because France is indomitably France, the two of them have argued about today. France has been insisting that they spend it on his land, preferably in an inconceivably expensive hotel and wearing nothing but rose petals and however much champagne will stay on their skin, and backs up this suggestion with little in the way of reasoning but a great deal of fervour. England, meanwhile, has posed some very emphatic arguments for spending it on his land and going on long walks in the countryside in the peace and quiet, his case consisting largely of not everything has to be expensive you know and what do you mean of course it’s romantic and shut up frog that’s obscene.
But in the end, although France is France and England is England, they are still France and England, the two of them, together. So France averts his eyes and looks sheepish, and England goes red and coughs, and eventually they agree to sit down at the kitchen table and negotiate.
And so, on their hundredth April the eighth, here they are: a little unsteady, a little too cold in the dark moving air, arms over torsos over legs, all jumbled up under the night.
“It doesn’t have to be expensive,” France mocks, very softly, wind-slurred and wave-rocked.
England punches his upper arm, even more softly. “You got your champagne, didn’t you?”
True, France thinks, he did. He thinks about the champagne, its taste, thinks about drinking it from off England’s pale, slightly-hollowed belly - but then he remembers the cold and the night and the slight shiver already in England’s limbs, and merely settles his head against England’s ribs and hums.
Somewhere, in both their lands, their people are commemorating them. State visits are being made, speeches are being given, newspapers are warning people not to sentimentalise and to remember the facts of the case - and here they are, away from all of it, lying together on their backs with sky and water all around them. England’s heartbeat is in France’s skin, echoing in his temples, the grand deep nation-slow rhythm of blood and time flowing through him. Without otherwise moving, without even glancing downwards, he reaches out and clasps France’s hand with cold stiff fingers, and France squeezes until the feeling blossoms, slow and perfect, outwards along their nerves.
“I like being on the sea again,” England mumbles, some time later, after the stars have turned around them another fraction and the waves have rolled them gently back and forth, held in their midst, the Channel heavy and moving like a vast creature beneath them. His voice thrums reverberating inside France’s head; he sighs, and France rises and falls with it. “It feels good.”
France raises an eyebrow and plays his fingertips upon England’s abdomen, lethargic and goalless. “Try not to get any ideas.”
England huffs a small laugh into his hair. “Don’t be stupid,” he says, and grins; “I could never get away with it now.”
France lifts himself up off the deck just enough to swivel around and stare at him in disbelief.
Another bout of laughter, thus time broad and substantial, follows. “I was just joking, you ridiculous man. Get back here.”
Wary, France sinks back down, eyeing him all the way. “And how am I ever to trust you now?”
“You’re not.” England coolly takes his hand again and moves to change their position, leaning their heads side by side upon the deck.
“Such a sense of security you give me, I am so blessed -”
“To hell with security,” England says bluntly.
France looks at him sidelong, curious, his lashes already beginning to lower a little in his returning calm, framing his vision like semi-subsistent veils. England’s face seems slightly blurred, slightly softened in the darkness, even the bright shocking flash of his eyes looking subdued and muted. The dip of his neck is collecting moonlight, curled up quiet in between his tendons, and the motion of the boat urges them both together and apart in rhythm. Here, in the unreality of the water and the night, everything is gleaming, silver and intimate; France runs his fingers over England’s thigh and tastes the sea-salt on his cheeks, and they could be strangers or soulmates in this strange new world.
“Yes,” France murmurs then, watching starlight on skin; “yes, all right,” and he learns England’s mouth again, learns his thin, even lips and the curl in one corner, learns his jaw, his eyelids, the hands that come up and cradle France’s head and each individual finger that wraps into his hair.
They wind themselves together, England’s leg slipping between France’s thighs as they unhurriedly taste of each other once more. They share the ghost of the champagne, pass it between them along with air and quiet words, but they are too subdued and the scene too lulling for anything more to happen. Instead they simply touch - not without the occasional slight nip of teeth or playful pinch of fingers; they are not about to lose their claws entirely, after all - but slow and languid, comfortable in each other in this moment. The night blinds them, draws them downwards and gathers them together; here, in its lap, England can hold onto France’s hair without pulling on it, and France can run his hand down England’s back but no lower, resting securely in the curve of his spine that fits it so well. For now, amongst the silence of the sea, that is all they need.
-
The centenary of the Entente was marked by state visits, amongst various other official events. A commemorative collaboration was run by the Paris paper Libération (including an article with the headline “I love you, moi non plus”) and the London paper The Guardian (including one headed “After 100 years, we love France - but they don't like us and we don't like them”).
On a clear day, you can see straight across the English Channel, like this.
My headcanon states that nations’ heartbeats are slower than humans’, possibly around 15 BPM.
Thank you so much to everyone who has read this fic, both here and on the kink meme. It's because of all of you that this fic was such a pleasure to write, and holds such a special place for me now. It's been a great experience, and I'm grateful to every single person who helped to make that happen.
It's really over now aahhh ;_;
Rating: PG-13 for this chapter; R for the whole fic
Characters & Pairings: England/France, America; mentions of Japan, Russia and Spain.
Warnings: In this chapter, close kissing and minor sexual references. In the whole fic, language, sex, and some blood.
Notes: De-anon from the kink meme; originally written for this prompt. Cleaned up and slightly altered since the original version.
Summary: 1904, 2004, and a few moments in between. In which France and England talk, fight, kiss and confound their way towards some form of progress.
-
|<- Back to chapter 1
<- Back to chapter 8
Year One Hundred
Because England shall always be England, and because France is indomitably France, the two of them have argued about today. France has been insisting that they spend it on his land, preferably in an inconceivably expensive hotel and wearing nothing but rose petals and however much champagne will stay on their skin, and backs up this suggestion with little in the way of reasoning but a great deal of fervour. England, meanwhile, has posed some very emphatic arguments for spending it on his land and going on long walks in the countryside in the peace and quiet, his case consisting largely of not everything has to be expensive you know and what do you mean of course it’s romantic and shut up frog that’s obscene.
But in the end, although France is France and England is England, they are still France and England, the two of them, together. So France averts his eyes and looks sheepish, and England goes red and coughs, and eventually they agree to sit down at the kitchen table and negotiate.
And so, on their hundredth April the eighth, here they are: a little unsteady, a little too cold in the dark moving air, arms over torsos over legs, all jumbled up under the night.
“It doesn’t have to be expensive,” France mocks, very softly, wind-slurred and wave-rocked.
England punches his upper arm, even more softly. “You got your champagne, didn’t you?”
True, France thinks, he did. He thinks about the champagne, its taste, thinks about drinking it from off England’s pale, slightly-hollowed belly - but then he remembers the cold and the night and the slight shiver already in England’s limbs, and merely settles his head against England’s ribs and hums.
Somewhere, in both their lands, their people are commemorating them. State visits are being made, speeches are being given, newspapers are warning people not to sentimentalise and to remember the facts of the case - and here they are, away from all of it, lying together on their backs with sky and water all around them. England’s heartbeat is in France’s skin, echoing in his temples, the grand deep nation-slow rhythm of blood and time flowing through him. Without otherwise moving, without even glancing downwards, he reaches out and clasps France’s hand with cold stiff fingers, and France squeezes until the feeling blossoms, slow and perfect, outwards along their nerves.
“I like being on the sea again,” England mumbles, some time later, after the stars have turned around them another fraction and the waves have rolled them gently back and forth, held in their midst, the Channel heavy and moving like a vast creature beneath them. His voice thrums reverberating inside France’s head; he sighs, and France rises and falls with it. “It feels good.”
France raises an eyebrow and plays his fingertips upon England’s abdomen, lethargic and goalless. “Try not to get any ideas.”
England huffs a small laugh into his hair. “Don’t be stupid,” he says, and grins; “I could never get away with it now.”
France lifts himself up off the deck just enough to swivel around and stare at him in disbelief.
Another bout of laughter, thus time broad and substantial, follows. “I was just joking, you ridiculous man. Get back here.”
Wary, France sinks back down, eyeing him all the way. “And how am I ever to trust you now?”
“You’re not.” England coolly takes his hand again and moves to change their position, leaning their heads side by side upon the deck.
“Such a sense of security you give me, I am so blessed -”
“To hell with security,” England says bluntly.
France looks at him sidelong, curious, his lashes already beginning to lower a little in his returning calm, framing his vision like semi-subsistent veils. England’s face seems slightly blurred, slightly softened in the darkness, even the bright shocking flash of his eyes looking subdued and muted. The dip of his neck is collecting moonlight, curled up quiet in between his tendons, and the motion of the boat urges them both together and apart in rhythm. Here, in the unreality of the water and the night, everything is gleaming, silver and intimate; France runs his fingers over England’s thigh and tastes the sea-salt on his cheeks, and they could be strangers or soulmates in this strange new world.
“Yes,” France murmurs then, watching starlight on skin; “yes, all right,” and he learns England’s mouth again, learns his thin, even lips and the curl in one corner, learns his jaw, his eyelids, the hands that come up and cradle France’s head and each individual finger that wraps into his hair.
They wind themselves together, England’s leg slipping between France’s thighs as they unhurriedly taste of each other once more. They share the ghost of the champagne, pass it between them along with air and quiet words, but they are too subdued and the scene too lulling for anything more to happen. Instead they simply touch - not without the occasional slight nip of teeth or playful pinch of fingers; they are not about to lose their claws entirely, after all - but slow and languid, comfortable in each other in this moment. The night blinds them, draws them downwards and gathers them together; here, in its lap, England can hold onto France’s hair without pulling on it, and France can run his hand down England’s back but no lower, resting securely in the curve of his spine that fits it so well. For now, amongst the silence of the sea, that is all they need.
-
The centenary of the Entente was marked by state visits, amongst various other official events. A commemorative collaboration was run by the Paris paper Libération (including an article with the headline “I love you, moi non plus”) and the London paper The Guardian (including one headed “After 100 years, we love France - but they don't like us and we don't like them”).
On a clear day, you can see straight across the English Channel, like this.
My headcanon states that nations’ heartbeats are slower than humans’, possibly around 15 BPM.
Thank you so much to everyone who has read this fic, both here and on the kink meme. It's because of all of you that this fic was such a pleasure to write, and holds such a special place for me now. It's been a great experience, and I'm grateful to every single person who helped to make that happen.
It's really over now aahhh ;_;