Fanfic - What a Difference a Rose Makes
I am emerging from lurkdom, probably only to disappear into it again right away.
Title: What a Difference a Rose Makes
Characters and Pairings: France/England... or is it?
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Swearing and the use of such an egregious cliché that I should probably be shot.
Summary: All is happy in England's world; the sun is shining and the roses are blooming and his lover is cooking him a fine meal... hang on, this is England we're talking about. That can't be right.
England was happy. He was happy in his garden, tending to his roses. He snipped away at the bushes, shaping them to his own whims and pleasures, taking the time to enjoy the wonderful day. The sky was blue, only wisps of cloud drifting by high in the atmosphere and a pleasant breeze kept the sun from being too warm.
The roses were giving off an exquisite scent and England buried his nose into the centre of a particularly fine bloom. He inhaled deeply, the smell filling him with joy. He pulled back and stroked the soft petals of the flower. It was in its prime. Tomorrow it would start to discolour and wither, but for today it was the best one on the plant.
An idea came into England's head and he smiled slowly at the flower. He took up his secateurs once more, reached carefully into the bush and snipped the flower off, leaving it with a long stem. He sniffed it and smiled wider, finding it had the same smell that it did before he cut it. It was perfect.
He knew just what he was going to do with it.
The smells coming from the house were delicious. Almost as delicious as the sight that met him when he entered the kitchen. France was at the stove, shirtless but with an apron on, bending over the masterpiece he was cooking, showing off his fabulous and yet shamefully clothed arse. As yet unnoticed, England stalked up behind his prey.
“Hello,” said England darkly, sliding his free hand under France's apron.
France jumped and the wooden spoon he was holding clattered onto the stove top. It was only a reflex, though, and he quickly composed himself. “Hello, Angleterre,” he said fondly.
England rested his chin on France's shoulder, peering down at the contents of the saucepan. It smelt wonderful. “Cooking something nice?” he asked, and lightly pressed his hips into France's backside.
“Of course,” said France. He stirred the sauce once with his reclaimed spoon, then tasted a little bit, careful not to burn his tongue. “Very near perfection, if I do say so myself.”
England smirked and turned his head into France's neck. He pressed a kiss there. “Do you know what else is very near perfection?” he murmured. His hand wandered further up France's chest.
“I wish you had been like this before I started cooking,” said France with a longing sigh, leaning back into England just slightly.
“I have something for you,” said England, this time licking France just behind the ear.
France replied with a pleased hum.
England withdrew his hand from behind his back and held his carefully cultivated rose out in front of France. He felt just as much as heard France's intake of breath.
“It's beautiful,” he said reverently as he gently took it from England's hand.
England merely grinned into France's skin.
“And it smells so,” France breathed the scent deeply, “Wonderful.”
They stood like that for a moment, France contemplating the rose and England watching him, until England broke the peaceful calm that had settled over them.
“Je t'aime, mon amour,” he whispered into France's ear.
France spun around suddenly, sending England stumbling back a few steps. When he looked back up at France's face, he saw the smile and the gleam in his eyes and had only time to wonder how France managed to look so predatory in a lily-patterned apron before he was being pushed back into the table and France's mouth descended on his and--
England's eyes snapped open.
He stared at the darkened ceiling, still breathing erratically.
What the fuck was that?
What
the fuck
was that?
He sat up in bed and ran a hand through his hair, staring unseeingly at the bedsheets as he tried to work out what his subconscious had been thinking.
Je t'aime, mon amour, echoed endlessly around his head.
He couldn't sleep like this.
~~~
France was just coming to the end of his daily ablutions, admiring the way the morning sunlight played across his features, when his phone rang. He finished putting the final touches to his hair - tied back today because it was far too hot for anything else - before he answered it.
“Allô?” he said.
“France!” It was England. Of course it was England. He was probably calling to check that France had remembered their meeting and that he was going to break a habit of a lifetime and turn up on time. France was perfectly capable of being punctual, naturally, he just chose not to. “I have to cancel our meeting.”
“What,” said France blankly.
“Our meeting. I'm cancelling it.” England clarified.
France was not impressed. “You are kidding me.”
“I am not.”
“But I am already in Londres.” Indeed, he had arrived late last night. As such, he had already been forced to endure what the hotel described as a 'continental breakfast'. He should've just gone for the fruit.
“Well, I can't make it,” said England. “Something... something very, very important has come up.” It was at this point that France noticed the suspicious slur to England's words.
“Are you drunk?”
“No!” said England, far too emphatically. “No, no, no,” he went on, “No, no, no, no, no,” he added for good measure.
France ignored England and checked his watch. “It's barely even nine in the morning, what is wrong with you?”
“Nothing!” England said forcefully.
On the contrary, France had a very long list of things wrong with England. He sighed. “I suppose there is no choice but to cancel if you are not in a fit state.”
“And you're not coming over my house, neither!”
France pondered this; it would've been an amusing way to pass the time, but he had more important things to be getting on with in his newly-freed day. “Oh yes,” he said, before it looked like he was actually considering it, “Because I would find it so thrilling to watch you stumble about your house until you throw up.”
“You don't usually,” England belched, “'Scuse me, usually seem to mind.”
Bodily functions aside, England was sorely tempting him. Such possibilities for blackmail and groping should not be lightly thrown aside. But no. There was a particularly fine new employee at his local café back home awaiting his attentions.
“I shall get back to Paris, then,” he said, “Thank you for dragging me to such a hole of a city for absolutely no reason. It is greatly appreciated.”
“France!” England called out before France managed to hang up on him.
“What is it now?”
“Before you go,” England started uncertainly, “I just, I want to tell you...”
“Yes?” said France, his patience wearing thin.
“...That I hate you.”
Revelation of the fucking century right there.
“Right.” France's thumb rubbed over the lovely red button that would end this conversation once and for all.
“I-I don't.” England stopped and started again, “I wouldn't want you to think that I didn't hate you.” he let out all in one breath.
“I know, England,” said France, bemused but humouring him for the moment.
“No matter what apron you wear.”
France had no idea what England was on about, but it did make the “And I hate you too,” even easier to say than usual.
“Good,” said England, “That's good. I was just making sure. And France?”
Ugh, would this phone call never end? “Yes?”
“If that ever... ever changes... For fuck's sake, don't you dare tell me.”
“Do not worry,” soothed France, “If that ever happens, I will have already killed myself.”
There was a great sigh of relief from England's end. “I'm glad to hear it.”
“Goodbye, England,” said the long-suffering France just before he hung up.
France threw the phone on the bed and sighed. That was the way with England; nigh on impossible to live with, yet there was no conceivable way of living without him.
Not without breaking a great number of international laws, anyway.
The End.
Did that have enough roses and aprons to count? I swear that's where I got the idea from.
Title: What a Difference a Rose Makes
Characters and Pairings: France/England... or is it?
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Swearing and the use of such an egregious cliché that I should probably be shot.
Summary: All is happy in England's world; the sun is shining and the roses are blooming and his lover is cooking him a fine meal... hang on, this is England we're talking about. That can't be right.
England was happy. He was happy in his garden, tending to his roses. He snipped away at the bushes, shaping them to his own whims and pleasures, taking the time to enjoy the wonderful day. The sky was blue, only wisps of cloud drifting by high in the atmosphere and a pleasant breeze kept the sun from being too warm.
The roses were giving off an exquisite scent and England buried his nose into the centre of a particularly fine bloom. He inhaled deeply, the smell filling him with joy. He pulled back and stroked the soft petals of the flower. It was in its prime. Tomorrow it would start to discolour and wither, but for today it was the best one on the plant.
An idea came into England's head and he smiled slowly at the flower. He took up his secateurs once more, reached carefully into the bush and snipped the flower off, leaving it with a long stem. He sniffed it and smiled wider, finding it had the same smell that it did before he cut it. It was perfect.
He knew just what he was going to do with it.
The smells coming from the house were delicious. Almost as delicious as the sight that met him when he entered the kitchen. France was at the stove, shirtless but with an apron on, bending over the masterpiece he was cooking, showing off his fabulous and yet shamefully clothed arse. As yet unnoticed, England stalked up behind his prey.
“Hello,” said England darkly, sliding his free hand under France's apron.
France jumped and the wooden spoon he was holding clattered onto the stove top. It was only a reflex, though, and he quickly composed himself. “Hello, Angleterre,” he said fondly.
England rested his chin on France's shoulder, peering down at the contents of the saucepan. It smelt wonderful. “Cooking something nice?” he asked, and lightly pressed his hips into France's backside.
“Of course,” said France. He stirred the sauce once with his reclaimed spoon, then tasted a little bit, careful not to burn his tongue. “Very near perfection, if I do say so myself.”
England smirked and turned his head into France's neck. He pressed a kiss there. “Do you know what else is very near perfection?” he murmured. His hand wandered further up France's chest.
“I wish you had been like this before I started cooking,” said France with a longing sigh, leaning back into England just slightly.
“I have something for you,” said England, this time licking France just behind the ear.
France replied with a pleased hum.
England withdrew his hand from behind his back and held his carefully cultivated rose out in front of France. He felt just as much as heard France's intake of breath.
“It's beautiful,” he said reverently as he gently took it from England's hand.
England merely grinned into France's skin.
“And it smells so,” France breathed the scent deeply, “Wonderful.”
They stood like that for a moment, France contemplating the rose and England watching him, until England broke the peaceful calm that had settled over them.
“Je t'aime, mon amour,” he whispered into France's ear.
France spun around suddenly, sending England stumbling back a few steps. When he looked back up at France's face, he saw the smile and the gleam in his eyes and had only time to wonder how France managed to look so predatory in a lily-patterned apron before he was being pushed back into the table and France's mouth descended on his and--
England's eyes snapped open.
He stared at the darkened ceiling, still breathing erratically.
What the fuck was that?
What
the fuck
was that?
He sat up in bed and ran a hand through his hair, staring unseeingly at the bedsheets as he tried to work out what his subconscious had been thinking.
Je t'aime, mon amour, echoed endlessly around his head.
He couldn't sleep like this.
~~~
France was just coming to the end of his daily ablutions, admiring the way the morning sunlight played across his features, when his phone rang. He finished putting the final touches to his hair - tied back today because it was far too hot for anything else - before he answered it.
“Allô?” he said.
“France!” It was England. Of course it was England. He was probably calling to check that France had remembered their meeting and that he was going to break a habit of a lifetime and turn up on time. France was perfectly capable of being punctual, naturally, he just chose not to. “I have to cancel our meeting.”
“What,” said France blankly.
“Our meeting. I'm cancelling it.” England clarified.
France was not impressed. “You are kidding me.”
“I am not.”
“But I am already in Londres.” Indeed, he had arrived late last night. As such, he had already been forced to endure what the hotel described as a 'continental breakfast'. He should've just gone for the fruit.
“Well, I can't make it,” said England. “Something... something very, very important has come up.” It was at this point that France noticed the suspicious slur to England's words.
“Are you drunk?”
“No!” said England, far too emphatically. “No, no, no,” he went on, “No, no, no, no, no,” he added for good measure.
France ignored England and checked his watch. “It's barely even nine in the morning, what is wrong with you?”
“Nothing!” England said forcefully.
On the contrary, France had a very long list of things wrong with England. He sighed. “I suppose there is no choice but to cancel if you are not in a fit state.”
“And you're not coming over my house, neither!”
France pondered this; it would've been an amusing way to pass the time, but he had more important things to be getting on with in his newly-freed day. “Oh yes,” he said, before it looked like he was actually considering it, “Because I would find it so thrilling to watch you stumble about your house until you throw up.”
“You don't usually,” England belched, “'Scuse me, usually seem to mind.”
Bodily functions aside, England was sorely tempting him. Such possibilities for blackmail and groping should not be lightly thrown aside. But no. There was a particularly fine new employee at his local café back home awaiting his attentions.
“I shall get back to Paris, then,” he said, “Thank you for dragging me to such a hole of a city for absolutely no reason. It is greatly appreciated.”
“France!” England called out before France managed to hang up on him.
“What is it now?”
“Before you go,” England started uncertainly, “I just, I want to tell you...”
“Yes?” said France, his patience wearing thin.
“...That I hate you.”
Revelation of the fucking century right there.
“Right.” France's thumb rubbed over the lovely red button that would end this conversation once and for all.
“I-I don't.” England stopped and started again, “I wouldn't want you to think that I didn't hate you.” he let out all in one breath.
“I know, England,” said France, bemused but humouring him for the moment.
“No matter what apron you wear.”
France had no idea what England was on about, but it did make the “And I hate you too,” even easier to say than usual.
“Good,” said England, “That's good. I was just making sure. And France?”
Ugh, would this phone call never end? “Yes?”
“If that ever... ever changes... For fuck's sake, don't you dare tell me.”
“Do not worry,” soothed France, “If that ever happens, I will have already killed myself.”
There was a great sigh of relief from England's end. “I'm glad to hear it.”
“Goodbye, England,” said the long-suffering France just before he hung up.
France threw the phone on the bed and sighed. That was the way with England; nigh on impossible to live with, yet there was no conceivable way of living without him.
Not without breaking a great number of international laws, anyway.
The End.
Did that have enough roses and aprons to count? I swear that's where I got the idea from.