Fic: Des Vignettes [6/9]
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, language and 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 5
Year Sixty-six
There is a candle on the table in between them. It is an elegant one, red and slender, with a bright yellow flame that holds fast despite the pressure of their gazes upon it. England keeps staring at it as if it is an affront to his sensibilities - which it may well be, in fact. The tension between them is crawling across the spotless white tablecloth and stilling their movements; they both eye their empty wine glasses with a long-practised reticence.
“Your tie does not match your suit,” France tells England.
England slams both his hands palms-down onto the table. “Oh, for the love of -”
“Merely an observation.” France interlaces his fingers, delicately. “This is a nice restaurant, after all.”
England snorts, looking around at the black and red interior. “It figures that you would like it.”
France does not remind him that England was the one to suggest this plan in the first place.
“I certainly prefer it to the prospect of your home cooking,” he says instead. Testing the waters.
“Fuck off,” England says promptly and picks up his menu. “Come on, what do you want?”
France raises his eyebrows. “Are you treating me?”
“Well,” says England, coughs, flushes, “well, I thought... all right. I suppose.”
“I’ll have the most expensive dish on the menu,” France declares.
“You haven’t even looked at what it is.”
“I know. I want it.”
“You’re such a prick.”
France shrugs weakly, uncertain whether or not to smile. England’s expression - brows hunching inwards together, lips pale and tense - is at once both plainly transparent and deeply ambiguous. He has a napkin on the plate to his side and is unfolding and re-folding it along its crisp, even creases.
“I think I’ll have the beef,” he says, and France rolls his eyes - but England frowns at him and they relapse into silence.
After they order, they are brought water and a little silver tray of bread; England lunges over to grab one of the slices, and proceeds to fiddle with it until he has picked almost every one of the softened, doughy seeds from out of it. France, meanwhile, is moving his knife around his plate with no goal in mind, watching the candlelight on it.
“So,” England says at last, and clears his throat - a very proper, controlled little ahem - “how have you been?”
It takes a lot of effort on France’s part not to let out an unseemly snort. “Oh, wonderful,” he says instead, “truly excellent. I have been hosting wild festivities every evening, and have accumulated my own personal harem of beautiful people who desire nothing more than to caress my body all over. Yourself?”
England, however, is unsmiling. “I was just making conversation.”
“Well, I am afraid I do not appreciate the effort,” France says flatly, his control finally fracturing. “Why did you ask me here, England? It was not to make small talk.”
England jerks, his eyes skittering over to bury their gaze in the far wall. He furrows his brow, pushes at the little pile of seeds on his plate until his finger skids and they scatter, looks down detachedly at the mess. “It was just so,” he says, bites his lip, begins again, “It was so stupid, the way we. Well. It was idiotic. And so I - I just wanted...” He trails off, sighs in frustration, takes a drink of water and allows the glass to drop heavily back onto the table and his head to drop heavily backwards.
“I don’t think it was idiotic,” France says tersely. “I proposed to you, you turned me down. What else is there?”
England rubs wearily at his forehead. “Please don’t make this out to be all my fault.”
“And how is it not?” France spits, struggling to keep his voice at a civilised volume. A group of middle-aged women at the table beside them turn their heads to look at him, interests piqued but uncomprehending. “You didn’t want me: very well, I cannot blame you for that feeling. But when did I ever do anything that made me actively responsible for what happened?”
“You proposed to me because you thought you were dying,” England snaps.
Everything seems to spring open like a dropped watch. The middle-aged women go pale and give each other horrified glances. The candle flame flickers madly and casts strange shadows onto the crockery.
France has his mouth open, but no sound in it. He stares at England, who is flushed and shaking, struggling with an entire company of emotions.
Just then, a waiter approaches them with their food. They keep eye contact as he lays the plates between them: France biting his lip hard, England beginning to calm himself a little, to look merely weary. The man might have asked them a question, but they ignore him, and he retreats hastily.
“You thought you were dying,” England says at last, voice thin and trembling, “and so you proposed. You thought it would save your wretched skin - or am I wrong?”
France moves his lips soundlessly, with some effort. He shakes his head.
“No. I didn’t think so.”
France shifts, suddenly, leaning forwards. “I didn’t mean to -”
“Don’t get me wrong,” England cuts him off abruptly, “I’d have turned you down anyway.” He rubs the back of his hand under his nose and sniffs. “I don’t need marriage - all the show and the smugness, all the people I don’t care about and who don’t care about me, telling me about my relationship. The only people who are allowed to say whether or not we belong together are us.”
France raises his eyebrows slowly, attempting to digest the meaning of this - but soon enough grasps firmly onto the most obvious conclusion in his range. “America has been bothering you too?”
“And then some,” England sighs, and picks up his fork. He risks a glance upwards and smirks just a little. “I never told him I was doing this.”
“Good.”
“I thought so.” He pauses, takes a mouthful of his meal and ponders over it. “So,” he says after some seconds of silence, looking intently at the candle with a studied, affected sort of negligence, “are we...?”
“I don’t know,” France muses, resting his cutlery for a moment. The food is not bad. “I have been having so much fun with my harem.”
England snaps his eyes across to France’s face seemingly without thinking and he gives an exasperated grunt. “Give it a rest, you’ve been drinking wine straight from the bottle and masturbating at three in the afternoon.”
Surprised, France lifts his eyes. England has his eyes down on his meal, but there is a certain taut expectancy in the side of his mouth; it is as if he is poised, the nervousness in his shoulders palpable, lying low and waiting in the way that a rabbit would, rather than a wolf. Seeing it makes France pause, uncertain, wary of misinterpreting the look and scattering what they have painstakingly built so far - but eventually he makes up his mind, and grins wryly. “You’re as romantic as the day we met.”
“Look,” says England, “are you going to shut up and start celebrating our bloody love and commitment or aren’t you?”
France does.
They do not go home together that night, but they stand outside in the silent street with England’s fingers curled up cautiously in the end of France’s sleeve and kiss, almost nervous, like it is their first time.
-
Anglo-French relations began to improve from 1969 onwards. One of the clearest indicators of the easing of tensions came when Britain finally managed to join the EEC in 1973, after France had vetoed their two previous bids in 1963 and 1967.
It's accidentally been two weeks since I last updated. Whoops.
On to chapter 7 ->
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, language and 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 5
Year Sixty-six
There is a candle on the table in between them. It is an elegant one, red and slender, with a bright yellow flame that holds fast despite the pressure of their gazes upon it. England keeps staring at it as if it is an affront to his sensibilities - which it may well be, in fact. The tension between them is crawling across the spotless white tablecloth and stilling their movements; they both eye their empty wine glasses with a long-practised reticence.
“Your tie does not match your suit,” France tells England.
England slams both his hands palms-down onto the table. “Oh, for the love of -”
“Merely an observation.” France interlaces his fingers, delicately. “This is a nice restaurant, after all.”
England snorts, looking around at the black and red interior. “It figures that you would like it.”
France does not remind him that England was the one to suggest this plan in the first place.
“I certainly prefer it to the prospect of your home cooking,” he says instead. Testing the waters.
“Fuck off,” England says promptly and picks up his menu. “Come on, what do you want?”
France raises his eyebrows. “Are you treating me?”
“Well,” says England, coughs, flushes, “well, I thought... all right. I suppose.”
“I’ll have the most expensive dish on the menu,” France declares.
“You haven’t even looked at what it is.”
“I know. I want it.”
“You’re such a prick.”
France shrugs weakly, uncertain whether or not to smile. England’s expression - brows hunching inwards together, lips pale and tense - is at once both plainly transparent and deeply ambiguous. He has a napkin on the plate to his side and is unfolding and re-folding it along its crisp, even creases.
“I think I’ll have the beef,” he says, and France rolls his eyes - but England frowns at him and they relapse into silence.
After they order, they are brought water and a little silver tray of bread; England lunges over to grab one of the slices, and proceeds to fiddle with it until he has picked almost every one of the softened, doughy seeds from out of it. France, meanwhile, is moving his knife around his plate with no goal in mind, watching the candlelight on it.
“So,” England says at last, and clears his throat - a very proper, controlled little ahem - “how have you been?”
It takes a lot of effort on France’s part not to let out an unseemly snort. “Oh, wonderful,” he says instead, “truly excellent. I have been hosting wild festivities every evening, and have accumulated my own personal harem of beautiful people who desire nothing more than to caress my body all over. Yourself?”
England, however, is unsmiling. “I was just making conversation.”
“Well, I am afraid I do not appreciate the effort,” France says flatly, his control finally fracturing. “Why did you ask me here, England? It was not to make small talk.”
England jerks, his eyes skittering over to bury their gaze in the far wall. He furrows his brow, pushes at the little pile of seeds on his plate until his finger skids and they scatter, looks down detachedly at the mess. “It was just so,” he says, bites his lip, begins again, “It was so stupid, the way we. Well. It was idiotic. And so I - I just wanted...” He trails off, sighs in frustration, takes a drink of water and allows the glass to drop heavily back onto the table and his head to drop heavily backwards.
“I don’t think it was idiotic,” France says tersely. “I proposed to you, you turned me down. What else is there?”
England rubs wearily at his forehead. “Please don’t make this out to be all my fault.”
“And how is it not?” France spits, struggling to keep his voice at a civilised volume. A group of middle-aged women at the table beside them turn their heads to look at him, interests piqued but uncomprehending. “You didn’t want me: very well, I cannot blame you for that feeling. But when did I ever do anything that made me actively responsible for what happened?”
“You proposed to me because you thought you were dying,” England snaps.
Everything seems to spring open like a dropped watch. The middle-aged women go pale and give each other horrified glances. The candle flame flickers madly and casts strange shadows onto the crockery.
France has his mouth open, but no sound in it. He stares at England, who is flushed and shaking, struggling with an entire company of emotions.
Just then, a waiter approaches them with their food. They keep eye contact as he lays the plates between them: France biting his lip hard, England beginning to calm himself a little, to look merely weary. The man might have asked them a question, but they ignore him, and he retreats hastily.
“You thought you were dying,” England says at last, voice thin and trembling, “and so you proposed. You thought it would save your wretched skin - or am I wrong?”
France moves his lips soundlessly, with some effort. He shakes his head.
“No. I didn’t think so.”
France shifts, suddenly, leaning forwards. “I didn’t mean to -”
“Don’t get me wrong,” England cuts him off abruptly, “I’d have turned you down anyway.” He rubs the back of his hand under his nose and sniffs. “I don’t need marriage - all the show and the smugness, all the people I don’t care about and who don’t care about me, telling me about my relationship. The only people who are allowed to say whether or not we belong together are us.”
France raises his eyebrows slowly, attempting to digest the meaning of this - but soon enough grasps firmly onto the most obvious conclusion in his range. “America has been bothering you too?”
“And then some,” England sighs, and picks up his fork. He risks a glance upwards and smirks just a little. “I never told him I was doing this.”
“Good.”
“I thought so.” He pauses, takes a mouthful of his meal and ponders over it. “So,” he says after some seconds of silence, looking intently at the candle with a studied, affected sort of negligence, “are we...?”
“I don’t know,” France muses, resting his cutlery for a moment. The food is not bad. “I have been having so much fun with my harem.”
England snaps his eyes across to France’s face seemingly without thinking and he gives an exasperated grunt. “Give it a rest, you’ve been drinking wine straight from the bottle and masturbating at three in the afternoon.”
Surprised, France lifts his eyes. England has his eyes down on his meal, but there is a certain taut expectancy in the side of his mouth; it is as if he is poised, the nervousness in his shoulders palpable, lying low and waiting in the way that a rabbit would, rather than a wolf. Seeing it makes France pause, uncertain, wary of misinterpreting the look and scattering what they have painstakingly built so far - but eventually he makes up his mind, and grins wryly. “You’re as romantic as the day we met.”
“Look,” says England, “are you going to shut up and start celebrating our bloody love and commitment or aren’t you?”
France does.
They do not go home together that night, but they stand outside in the silent street with England’s fingers curled up cautiously in the end of France’s sleeve and kiss, almost nervous, like it is their first time.
-
Anglo-French relations began to improve from 1969 onwards. One of the clearest indicators of the easing of tensions came when Britain finally managed to join the EEC in 1973, after France had vetoed their two previous bids in 1963 and 1967.
It's accidentally been two weeks since I last updated. Whoops.
On to chapter 7 ->