[Fanfiction] Sweets to the Sweet - Bûche de Noël (Part Three)
Title: Sweets to the Sweet - Bûche de Noël (Part Three)
Previous Parts: Part 1, Interlude, Part 2
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre(s): Romance/Humor/Drama
Character(s)|Pairing(s): France/South Korea
Rating/Warning(s): PG-13, boys kissing and more
Word Count: 2,996
Summary: Baked goods and international relations, what’s there not to love? And a resolution, of sorts, since that’s what Christmas is about.
Note: Originally a kink meme fill - France and Korea’s current relations and their “Treaty of Friendship,” a relationship told in cookery.
Every year, France made several cakes around Christmas time. He methodically baked the rich, yellow sponge base, filled it with cream laced with brandy and real Madagascar vanilla, iced with rich chocolate buttercream frosting, decorated it with powdered sugar, sprigs of rosemary, and meringue mushrooms. Every year, he delivered each cake to their intended recipient.
One to Belgium, who would give him a kiss on the cheek in payment (and let him grope her ass for five seconds before reaching for her revolver or the closest heavy item).
One to Germany, who accepted it stoically (and wasn’t so obliging about the grope to the ass).
One to Canada, who thanked him politely as always and who only got one bite of it, courtesy of Quebec.
One to Seychelles, who didn’t have much of a sweet tooth but thanked him anyways.
One to England, who had a 50% probability of hurling it back over the Channel.
But France didn’t care about the last one. At least it meant that the gift was received, was acknowledged. Any attention was good attention, yes?
But inexplicably, he had one left on his kitchen counter. One solitary Bûche de Noël staring accusingly at him. He tapped his lower lip in contemplation, considering inviting Spain over. But wait… his neighboring Nation was having the holidays with his former colonies this year, as well as his brother. France made a private note to give a call, just to make sure that Spain didn’t end up locked in Portugal’s basement again or concussed by thrown crockery (Peru had an astonishingly good arm… not that France knew of this from personal experience).
He found himself calling a particular number without thinking it, lifting his new cell phone to his ear and waiting after successive rings.
Right at the last ring, a sleep muddled voice answered the phone in rather confused English. “Yes?”
“Korea?”
“Mm? Who is it?” A sound of rather impressive yawn that somehow transitioned into a cough crackled on the phone, as the voice shifted to another language.
“France.” And here, the European nation paused, unsure for once about the intricacies of Asian etiquette when it came to waking up people for reasons not relating to the end of the world. Mon Dieu, and he thought that he had done a wonderful job with Versailles manners three hundred years ago!
“Is something wrong?” The sleepiness fled from the voice and it sounded tenser.
“Non. Not at all… I… was wondering if you were free in the next few days. I know that it is quite sudden but-”
“What is it, France?” There was the sound of blankets rustling in the background and a few dull thumps of several sizeable or at least somewhat heavy objects dropping onto the ground from a short height.
“I was wondering if you would like to spend Christmas with me,” France whispered. He never liked asking for things; he really didn’t. But the words slipped from his mouth like rivulets of water from his cupped hands.
“Don’t you have- anyone?” asked Korea guardedly. Sleep had made his voice drop an octave or so and it nibbled at the edges of his words; he sounded oddly tired as well, not merely sleepy.
“I merely… would like your company.” And it was drawn out of him, bit by bit and he hated himself, hated South Korea. But he couldn’t just slam the phone down, pretend that it had never happened. He had to continue on and perhaps be able to get out of it with some adroit maneuvering.
“I will pay for your flight,” France added as an afterthought. “Since I am inviting you.”
“I have enough frequent flyer miles,” replied South Korea, sounding much more coherent. “And some people owe me some favors. I’ll give you a call when I get it all through.” He added, quietly, “Take care of yourself.”
“You as well.” France ended the call and stared at his phone for another minute or so, wondering what in the world he had gotten himself into. Then he shook himself, irritated for acting too much like England.
…
South Korea brushed off any offers to pick him up at the airport and no amount of wheedling would push him from that. So France puttered around his apartment and checked on the guest bedroom (though that had never been used by South Korea since his first visit). He decided to brew coffee in a probably ill-advised move to soothe his sudden bout of nerves. Just because he and his people looked cool, collected, poised, it didn’t mean that nerves never had a hold on them. They were just better at seeming the thing.
Audacity, perhaps.
Like one of South Korea’s saccharine, histrionic dramas, the events unfolded. Enter the Bûche de Noël, settled on a counter and awaiting admiration and eventual consumption. Enter France, who was getting a cup for his coffee. Insert a splash of coffee leading to an undignified yelp and a wayward elbow. Result: a careful application of force leading to the acceleration of a particular baked good and its descent to the floor.
France stared at the crumpled remains of the cake on the floor. This would be one of those moments for an apt and profane term. He couldn’t think of any.
Life rarely lived up to fiction.
South Korea rang the bell at the time he said he would for once and France was resigned to making do with whatever he could. The blonde Nation blinked as a bouquet of roses was thrust into his face without too much ceremony. His guest didn’t barrel into him quite but definitely charged into the apartment without waiting for an invitation. He was dressed rather nattily, even for France’s exquisitely discriminating standards, and his cheeks held lingering traces of a blush.
“Host gift,” South Korea said as he steered his massive suitcase to the antique couch.
“You shouldn’t have,” said France, blinking as he fingered the half-white, half-red petals of the blossoms. South Korea had expensive (and admittedly exquisite) taste.
“They looked pretty. I would have gotten you my flowers but customs are a bitch and besides, roses suit you.” South Korea undid his black bomber jacket and unwound a deep blue and silver cashmere scarf from around his neck. Underneath, he jangled with titanium and silver jewelry, several chains tangled around his neck. “The phone give you any trouble? I programmed it with your country settings but I might have missed something.”
“It was no trouble at all,” said France, for once completely caught off guard.
His guest’s face held no guile, no irritation or possibly lingering rancor. He looked as good humored as ever though not quite as energetic. His eyes had dark shadows under them and he had the overall impression of someone who hadn’t been sleeping well for a while.
“Amant, what is wrong?” France asked, taken aback even more once he had gotten a better look at South Korea. “You look- horrible.”
South Korea laughed a short little chuckle. “A lot of work lately. Parliament’s been brawling again and you know I’m not being figurative. This and that.” He spoke of this too blithely, even for him, and France’s brow furrowed.
“If I took you at a bad time,” he began.
“No. I needed a vacation,” South Korea said bluntly. “And I told my boss that he wasn’t going to stop me.”
Not for the first time, France began to wonder when he had entered that “Twilight Zone” that America kept mentioning. The Asian nation smiled brightly.
“Oh, I always wanted to try a Bûche de Noël here too,” he continued. “Even though they originated in me.”
“I am afraid I do not have any,” said France, wincing at the memory in place of retorting at the statement. “Though we can always go to one of the shops-”
“Oh.” South Korea paused and he nodded to himself. “I’ll make one for you then! You have all the ingredients, right?” He beamed as he went to France’s kitchen without so much as a “by your leave.”
The host Nation trailed after him, vaguely confused. “Of course I do, but really you do not have-”
South Korea washed his hands in the sink before going through all the cabinets and refrigerator and pulling out the necessary ingredients and tools. He never had to hunt for anything in particular, finding everything far too easily.
“Would you need any help?” asked France after a moment once everything had been assembled along a countertop. South Korea, who was tying on an apron, looked up.
“Well, if you want to beat the eggs then. Don’t separate them. Just beat them all together.” In the mean time, the Asian nation was measuring out sugar into a small bowl before starting to sift flour.
France obliged. “It is not quite a génoise then?” he inquired, as he cracked the eggs into a glass bowl and started beating them with a whisk.
South Korea tilted his head. “Oh, no. I don’t heat the eggs and sugar. I suppose you can? I just find that beating it for long enough makes it keep a good texture.”
“It may not be sturdy enough then,” France warned, didactic impulses suddenly rising.
The Asian nation smiled in response. “Oh, I hope you have cream too.” He finished sifting the flour before frowning suddenly. “Do you have coffee powder?”
“Oui to the cream and honestly, do you think I would ever let that cross my threshold?” France arched a perfect golden eyebrow.
South Korea shrugged and strolled back to his suitcase to produce two gold foil packets. At the affronted look this caused, he only shrugged again and returned to measuring out the rest of the ingredients necessary.
“That is a crime against common decency,” grumbled France, glaring at the instant coffee.
South Korea merely flapped his hand at him dismissively and closed the sugar jar. Somehow, the time went by, first in trickles, then in streams. France found himself watching more than helping, though that seemed like the wiser course of action. His guest’s face remained good-natured but astonishingly focused, as he continued to whisk eggs and sugar, mixing in flour and instant coffee powder, melted butter and just a pinch of sea salt. The smell that soon filled the apartment resembled the rich sweetness of génoise sponge cake, or rather, its subtle ghost, tinted with bittersweet edges of chocolate and coffee.
All the while, South Korea remained quiet, except to request this or that or to inquire about any other ingredients. For lack of anything else to do save voyeurism, France began to whip cream, as requested, until he had soft, stiff white peaks. Part of this was taken aside and mixed with bittersweet cocoa.
“What do you do for Christmas?” France asked, while South Korea, bent over, stared hard into the oven at the baking cake therein.
“What? Oh… Uh… I usually head over to China’s house to get my presents.” The grin sidled shamelessly into the Asian nation’s voice, even as he kept his eyes fixed quite firmly upon the oven.
France refrained from commenting for once. So he let the inevitable question come instead, with the resigned intention of answering it.
“So what do you do?” asked the other Nation.
“Drink, eat, be merry.” And France surprised himself with the lack of irony in that statement.
“With anyone in particular?”
“Spain, sometimes. Germany too.”
There it was, it was inevitable- but South Korea didn’t say anything. He merely opened the oven door and pulled out the long, flat pan, setting the cake to cool on the counter.
“That sounds nice,” the Asian nation replied, turning off the oven and putting the mitts in the appropriate drawer. “Or do you celebrate it with your people?”
“If I can.”
South Korea looked over at France. “I do hope that you don’t spend it alone,” he said after a moment. “Holidays aren’t meant to be spent alone.”
“I try not to,” replied France, and he meant it.
South Korea leaned over and… patted him on the shoulder. “Good. It’s all about family on holidays.” His smile reminded the other Nation of the scent of summer flowers and fruit, heady and bright and just a little unreal.
“If you say so.”
They lingered in the kitchen’s warmth as the cake cooled, talking amicably about the latest fashions and photographers and designer watches. It was so wonderfully surreal, so bizarrely comfortable, a truly baffling dream that overwhelmed any Dadaist vision in its domesticity. France found himself not minding that at all, however. Outside, the street lamps were lit, though they took little notice of the setting sun and rising moon.
Then South Korea stood up to pry the cake from its pan, spreading it on a board next to the bowl of whipped cream. He spread the filling across the cake thickly and evenly, the light brown cream contrasting sharply against the darker gold-brown of the cake.
“Do you have anything for your winter holidays?” France inquired.
South Korea started to roll the cake into a log shape, careful to not cause any tearing or breaking. He paused. “Before the missionaries? Not really. Except for New Year,” he replied. He stared down at the finished roll for a moment and then he laughed, almost self-deprecatingly. “I’m not too sure about Christmas sometimes,” he remarked very softly. Then he shook his head rapidly, as if trying to dislodge an all too troubling thought.
“But it’s about the family and giving and receiving,” he said, again, perhaps not quite to France or to himself. “It’s about good food and having someone to be with.”
He looked over his shoulder and smiled one of those soft smiles France was used to seeing only in the early mornings, when sleep still cast her lingering veil over the other Nation’s eyes. South Korea reached for a knife and cut a diagonal section of the roll away, placing it by the cake’s side, creating a branch.
“Do you mind if I-” began France but his visitor was already sliding over the whipped cream and another knife.
Mindlessly, France frosted the cake with long strokes of the flat knife, spreading it not quite smoothly but creating ridges, like the raised bark of a pine tree.
“I don’t like being alone on holidays,” France said after a moment, the remark costing him a lot more than he realized. But at the same time, it felt too remarkably like being able to delicately spit out a bad vintage. It felt- freeing.
“No one should have to be alone during those times,” said South Korea solemnly. He dotted the cake with the leftover raspberries and sprigs of rosemary plucked from a pot on the windowsill.
“So… thank you,” said France. “For coming, that is.” He couldn’t bring himself to meet South Korea’s eyes as he finished the last stroke and put the knife aside.
A warm hand rested on his forearm and gently squeezed. “I’ll do anything for a friend,” said the Asian nation, simply.
Somehow, they managed to end up eating the cake later, after Yong-soo had milked every bit of praise for the decoration for it and after he had taken far too many pictures of it from every angle. Somehow, they didn’t end up eating any real sort of dinner but that cake, and coffee and perhaps some little nibbles that France always kept lying around in his cupboards. Oh, and a small glass of brandy each, just for festivities’ sake.
“It is good,” admitted France after he took a bite of cake. “The flavor is so very delicate… And the texture is far better than I would have thought.”
South Korea laughed. “You see? I told you!”
France took a drink of coffee to hide his expression. South Korea leaned in his seat, his expression mellowed from the brandy and exhaustion and time zone differences. He smiled at nothing in particular and that was when France leaned over to kiss him. There was a moment of confusion but sticky lips parted willingly after that brief, startled few seconds.
Later, their lovemaking was quiet and languid. And again, France had the disquieting sensation that it was only a surreal series of moments, like segments of film reel flashing before him.
But that was better than nothing. So he tried not to think too hard about it.
In the morning, South Korea came out of the shower and wandered back to the bed, hair still damp. He leaned in to kiss France’s forehead affectionately, receiving the friendly, sleepy grope to his ass in good stride as always.
Neither one of them wanted to ask that question. But it hung in the air. Or so France thought, despite the sleep that still clouded his brain and wouldn’t be completely gone until somewhere after his second cup of coffee.
Where do we go from here?
“Maybe next year we can host a party,” South Korea said. “Invite as many people as we can. I think it’ll be fun.”
“Where will it be then?” asked France, intrigued despite himself.
“Anywhere. We have more than a year, don’t we? And it’ll be the best party ever.” As he continued in a long train of half-formed ideas that darted everywhere, he didn’t seem aware that France was contemplating him with half-closed eyes. Not for the first time, the European nation mused on the contradiction and eccentricity known as South Korea, the boyish exuberance and fanatical ceremony, but at the same time, the slightly distorted reflection the other nation presented to him with their every interaction.
“We have time,” South Korea finished. “Plenty of time.”
And despite himself, France smiled. Yes, there always was time. There was always a tomorrow- Tomorrow, he decided. Perhaps tomorrow.
But for today… he pulled South Korea down, pushing their lips together and lost himself in brief, lingering sensations of a series of moments.
...
Author’s Notes:
-Bûche de Noël is a traditional Christmas dessert served in multiple countries including France, Belgium, Quebec and the UK. It has also been somewhat appropriated by South Korea and Japan. The dessert consists of cake baked in a jelly roll pan, covered in frosting (or ice cream in some cases) and rolled up into a log shape. Sometimes, part of the cake is sliced off in a diagonal cut and attached to the side, to look like a branch on a log, and it is generally frosted with chocolate to look like tree bark. It can then be decorated with a variety of things including powdered sugar (to look like snow), berries, and mushrooms made of meringue.
-Please don’t ask about the incidents involving the thrown pots and Spain getting locked up. All I’m going to say is that Portugal can be one hell of a yandere for his little brother Spain (though the reverse can be very true as well). And… family dinners with Spain and the former colonies are always very interesting (provided you don’t have one of them coming after you with a heavy duty skillet or one of those volcanic stone mortars and pestles…).
-Argh. I don’t know where the characterization went. However, I’m basing South Korea heavily on multiple Korean males I know, who are often wonderful studies in contradictions. Bitch about everything and yet pretend that nothing’s wrong at all… workaholics who eventually say, “Fuck this and fuck you, I’m leaving, don’t bother to call me until I come back!” On the other hand, I really do see Yong-soo going off on his own when the work’s too much for him. He either stays in his room playing MMORPGs or he goes to shoot something (shooting fire arms is in fact a rather popular sport in South Korea… don’t ask me how this is possible in a country with such freaking strict gun control laws). It’s probably Alfred’s influence though I can see a younger Yong-soo sneaking out from Council meetings and philosophy lessons to go fishing or kite flying.
-I rather like Korean style cakes more than Western cakes because Koreans favor lighter, fluffier textured cakes with milder and less sweet flavors, rather like the Japanese. They tend to prefer sponge and chiffon cakes to the denser tortes. I have had a Korean-style Bûche de Noël (which I brought to a class Christmas party when I was in high school), which was a pretty big hit. Oh, and buttercream and cream cheese frosting is practically nonexistent. Koreans prefer whipped cream to buttercream and fondant, which I can’t argue with too much.
-I based the recipe and process on a Castella cake recipe, substituting honey with coffee.
-Génoise cake: a type of Italian cake named after the city of Genoa, consisting of a sturdy, yellow sponge cake that’s often the base for Bûche de Noël
-Instant coffee powder is quite popular in Korea, coming in foil packets that you can easily tear open and pour into your cup. I think this would horrify France.
-South Korea, unlike Japan and China, considers Christmas an official holiday, probably owing to the higher number of Christians. There really isn’t an equivalent winter holiday except for New Years and the first full moon (January 15 in the lunar calendar).
So… wow. It’s over. It’s actually over. Something I thought would be only a small writing exercise for me (a fun look at baking and light romance, which are two things I’m rather fond of) just exploded. Of course, it’s in good ways and bad ways. The good thing is the examination of two characters traditionally seen as less than serious in the Hetalia canon and the bad thing is… the examination of said characters.
It’s been just about a year since I finished this and I never got around to putting it up… mostly because I wasn’t sure about putting a very obviously Christmas story at any other time of year. But it’s swung back again to December so...
In any case, happy holidays to you, reader, whatever holiday you celebrate.
Previous Parts: Part 1, Interlude, Part 2
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre(s): Romance/Humor/Drama
Character(s)|Pairing(s): France/South Korea
Rating/Warning(s): PG-13, boys kissing and more
Word Count: 2,996
Summary: Baked goods and international relations, what’s there not to love? And a resolution, of sorts, since that’s what Christmas is about.
Note: Originally a kink meme fill - France and Korea’s current relations and their “Treaty of Friendship,” a relationship told in cookery.
Every year, France made several cakes around Christmas time. He methodically baked the rich, yellow sponge base, filled it with cream laced with brandy and real Madagascar vanilla, iced with rich chocolate buttercream frosting, decorated it with powdered sugar, sprigs of rosemary, and meringue mushrooms. Every year, he delivered each cake to their intended recipient.
One to Belgium, who would give him a kiss on the cheek in payment (and let him grope her ass for five seconds before reaching for her revolver or the closest heavy item).
One to Germany, who accepted it stoically (and wasn’t so obliging about the grope to the ass).
One to Canada, who thanked him politely as always and who only got one bite of it, courtesy of Quebec.
One to Seychelles, who didn’t have much of a sweet tooth but thanked him anyways.
One to England, who had a 50% probability of hurling it back over the Channel.
But France didn’t care about the last one. At least it meant that the gift was received, was acknowledged. Any attention was good attention, yes?
But inexplicably, he had one left on his kitchen counter. One solitary Bûche de Noël staring accusingly at him. He tapped his lower lip in contemplation, considering inviting Spain over. But wait… his neighboring Nation was having the holidays with his former colonies this year, as well as his brother. France made a private note to give a call, just to make sure that Spain didn’t end up locked in Portugal’s basement again or concussed by thrown crockery (Peru had an astonishingly good arm… not that France knew of this from personal experience).
He found himself calling a particular number without thinking it, lifting his new cell phone to his ear and waiting after successive rings.
Right at the last ring, a sleep muddled voice answered the phone in rather confused English. “Yes?”
“Korea?”
“Mm? Who is it?” A sound of rather impressive yawn that somehow transitioned into a cough crackled on the phone, as the voice shifted to another language.
“France.” And here, the European nation paused, unsure for once about the intricacies of Asian etiquette when it came to waking up people for reasons not relating to the end of the world. Mon Dieu, and he thought that he had done a wonderful job with Versailles manners three hundred years ago!
“Is something wrong?” The sleepiness fled from the voice and it sounded tenser.
“Non. Not at all… I… was wondering if you were free in the next few days. I know that it is quite sudden but-”
“What is it, France?” There was the sound of blankets rustling in the background and a few dull thumps of several sizeable or at least somewhat heavy objects dropping onto the ground from a short height.
“I was wondering if you would like to spend Christmas with me,” France whispered. He never liked asking for things; he really didn’t. But the words slipped from his mouth like rivulets of water from his cupped hands.
“Don’t you have- anyone?” asked Korea guardedly. Sleep had made his voice drop an octave or so and it nibbled at the edges of his words; he sounded oddly tired as well, not merely sleepy.
“I merely… would like your company.” And it was drawn out of him, bit by bit and he hated himself, hated South Korea. But he couldn’t just slam the phone down, pretend that it had never happened. He had to continue on and perhaps be able to get out of it with some adroit maneuvering.
“I will pay for your flight,” France added as an afterthought. “Since I am inviting you.”
“I have enough frequent flyer miles,” replied South Korea, sounding much more coherent. “And some people owe me some favors. I’ll give you a call when I get it all through.” He added, quietly, “Take care of yourself.”
“You as well.” France ended the call and stared at his phone for another minute or so, wondering what in the world he had gotten himself into. Then he shook himself, irritated for acting too much like England.
…
South Korea brushed off any offers to pick him up at the airport and no amount of wheedling would push him from that. So France puttered around his apartment and checked on the guest bedroom (though that had never been used by South Korea since his first visit). He decided to brew coffee in a probably ill-advised move to soothe his sudden bout of nerves. Just because he and his people looked cool, collected, poised, it didn’t mean that nerves never had a hold on them. They were just better at seeming the thing.
Audacity, perhaps.
Like one of South Korea’s saccharine, histrionic dramas, the events unfolded. Enter the Bûche de Noël, settled on a counter and awaiting admiration and eventual consumption. Enter France, who was getting a cup for his coffee. Insert a splash of coffee leading to an undignified yelp and a wayward elbow. Result: a careful application of force leading to the acceleration of a particular baked good and its descent to the floor.
France stared at the crumpled remains of the cake on the floor. This would be one of those moments for an apt and profane term. He couldn’t think of any.
Life rarely lived up to fiction.
South Korea rang the bell at the time he said he would for once and France was resigned to making do with whatever he could. The blonde Nation blinked as a bouquet of roses was thrust into his face without too much ceremony. His guest didn’t barrel into him quite but definitely charged into the apartment without waiting for an invitation. He was dressed rather nattily, even for France’s exquisitely discriminating standards, and his cheeks held lingering traces of a blush.
“Host gift,” South Korea said as he steered his massive suitcase to the antique couch.
“You shouldn’t have,” said France, blinking as he fingered the half-white, half-red petals of the blossoms. South Korea had expensive (and admittedly exquisite) taste.
“They looked pretty. I would have gotten you my flowers but customs are a bitch and besides, roses suit you.” South Korea undid his black bomber jacket and unwound a deep blue and silver cashmere scarf from around his neck. Underneath, he jangled with titanium and silver jewelry, several chains tangled around his neck. “The phone give you any trouble? I programmed it with your country settings but I might have missed something.”
“It was no trouble at all,” said France, for once completely caught off guard.
His guest’s face held no guile, no irritation or possibly lingering rancor. He looked as good humored as ever though not quite as energetic. His eyes had dark shadows under them and he had the overall impression of someone who hadn’t been sleeping well for a while.
“Amant, what is wrong?” France asked, taken aback even more once he had gotten a better look at South Korea. “You look- horrible.”
South Korea laughed a short little chuckle. “A lot of work lately. Parliament’s been brawling again and you know I’m not being figurative. This and that.” He spoke of this too blithely, even for him, and France’s brow furrowed.
“If I took you at a bad time,” he began.
“No. I needed a vacation,” South Korea said bluntly. “And I told my boss that he wasn’t going to stop me.”
Not for the first time, France began to wonder when he had entered that “Twilight Zone” that America kept mentioning. The Asian nation smiled brightly.
“Oh, I always wanted to try a Bûche de Noël here too,” he continued. “Even though they originated in me.”
“I am afraid I do not have any,” said France, wincing at the memory in place of retorting at the statement. “Though we can always go to one of the shops-”
“Oh.” South Korea paused and he nodded to himself. “I’ll make one for you then! You have all the ingredients, right?” He beamed as he went to France’s kitchen without so much as a “by your leave.”
The host Nation trailed after him, vaguely confused. “Of course I do, but really you do not have-”
South Korea washed his hands in the sink before going through all the cabinets and refrigerator and pulling out the necessary ingredients and tools. He never had to hunt for anything in particular, finding everything far too easily.
“Would you need any help?” asked France after a moment once everything had been assembled along a countertop. South Korea, who was tying on an apron, looked up.
“Well, if you want to beat the eggs then. Don’t separate them. Just beat them all together.” In the mean time, the Asian nation was measuring out sugar into a small bowl before starting to sift flour.
France obliged. “It is not quite a génoise then?” he inquired, as he cracked the eggs into a glass bowl and started beating them with a whisk.
South Korea tilted his head. “Oh, no. I don’t heat the eggs and sugar. I suppose you can? I just find that beating it for long enough makes it keep a good texture.”
“It may not be sturdy enough then,” France warned, didactic impulses suddenly rising.
The Asian nation smiled in response. “Oh, I hope you have cream too.” He finished sifting the flour before frowning suddenly. “Do you have coffee powder?”
“Oui to the cream and honestly, do you think I would ever let that cross my threshold?” France arched a perfect golden eyebrow.
South Korea shrugged and strolled back to his suitcase to produce two gold foil packets. At the affronted look this caused, he only shrugged again and returned to measuring out the rest of the ingredients necessary.
“That is a crime against common decency,” grumbled France, glaring at the instant coffee.
South Korea merely flapped his hand at him dismissively and closed the sugar jar. Somehow, the time went by, first in trickles, then in streams. France found himself watching more than helping, though that seemed like the wiser course of action. His guest’s face remained good-natured but astonishingly focused, as he continued to whisk eggs and sugar, mixing in flour and instant coffee powder, melted butter and just a pinch of sea salt. The smell that soon filled the apartment resembled the rich sweetness of génoise sponge cake, or rather, its subtle ghost, tinted with bittersweet edges of chocolate and coffee.
All the while, South Korea remained quiet, except to request this or that or to inquire about any other ingredients. For lack of anything else to do save voyeurism, France began to whip cream, as requested, until he had soft, stiff white peaks. Part of this was taken aside and mixed with bittersweet cocoa.
“What do you do for Christmas?” France asked, while South Korea, bent over, stared hard into the oven at the baking cake therein.
“What? Oh… Uh… I usually head over to China’s house to get my presents.” The grin sidled shamelessly into the Asian nation’s voice, even as he kept his eyes fixed quite firmly upon the oven.
France refrained from commenting for once. So he let the inevitable question come instead, with the resigned intention of answering it.
“So what do you do?” asked the other Nation.
“Drink, eat, be merry.” And France surprised himself with the lack of irony in that statement.
“With anyone in particular?”
“Spain, sometimes. Germany too.”
There it was, it was inevitable- but South Korea didn’t say anything. He merely opened the oven door and pulled out the long, flat pan, setting the cake to cool on the counter.
“That sounds nice,” the Asian nation replied, turning off the oven and putting the mitts in the appropriate drawer. “Or do you celebrate it with your people?”
“If I can.”
South Korea looked over at France. “I do hope that you don’t spend it alone,” he said after a moment. “Holidays aren’t meant to be spent alone.”
“I try not to,” replied France, and he meant it.
South Korea leaned over and… patted him on the shoulder. “Good. It’s all about family on holidays.” His smile reminded the other Nation of the scent of summer flowers and fruit, heady and bright and just a little unreal.
“If you say so.”
They lingered in the kitchen’s warmth as the cake cooled, talking amicably about the latest fashions and photographers and designer watches. It was so wonderfully surreal, so bizarrely comfortable, a truly baffling dream that overwhelmed any Dadaist vision in its domesticity. France found himself not minding that at all, however. Outside, the street lamps were lit, though they took little notice of the setting sun and rising moon.
Then South Korea stood up to pry the cake from its pan, spreading it on a board next to the bowl of whipped cream. He spread the filling across the cake thickly and evenly, the light brown cream contrasting sharply against the darker gold-brown of the cake.
“Do you have anything for your winter holidays?” France inquired.
South Korea started to roll the cake into a log shape, careful to not cause any tearing or breaking. He paused. “Before the missionaries? Not really. Except for New Year,” he replied. He stared down at the finished roll for a moment and then he laughed, almost self-deprecatingly. “I’m not too sure about Christmas sometimes,” he remarked very softly. Then he shook his head rapidly, as if trying to dislodge an all too troubling thought.
“But it’s about the family and giving and receiving,” he said, again, perhaps not quite to France or to himself. “It’s about good food and having someone to be with.”
He looked over his shoulder and smiled one of those soft smiles France was used to seeing only in the early mornings, when sleep still cast her lingering veil over the other Nation’s eyes. South Korea reached for a knife and cut a diagonal section of the roll away, placing it by the cake’s side, creating a branch.
“Do you mind if I-” began France but his visitor was already sliding over the whipped cream and another knife.
Mindlessly, France frosted the cake with long strokes of the flat knife, spreading it not quite smoothly but creating ridges, like the raised bark of a pine tree.
“I don’t like being alone on holidays,” France said after a moment, the remark costing him a lot more than he realized. But at the same time, it felt too remarkably like being able to delicately spit out a bad vintage. It felt- freeing.
“No one should have to be alone during those times,” said South Korea solemnly. He dotted the cake with the leftover raspberries and sprigs of rosemary plucked from a pot on the windowsill.
“So… thank you,” said France. “For coming, that is.” He couldn’t bring himself to meet South Korea’s eyes as he finished the last stroke and put the knife aside.
A warm hand rested on his forearm and gently squeezed. “I’ll do anything for a friend,” said the Asian nation, simply.
Somehow, they managed to end up eating the cake later, after Yong-soo had milked every bit of praise for the decoration for it and after he had taken far too many pictures of it from every angle. Somehow, they didn’t end up eating any real sort of dinner but that cake, and coffee and perhaps some little nibbles that France always kept lying around in his cupboards. Oh, and a small glass of brandy each, just for festivities’ sake.
“It is good,” admitted France after he took a bite of cake. “The flavor is so very delicate… And the texture is far better than I would have thought.”
South Korea laughed. “You see? I told you!”
France took a drink of coffee to hide his expression. South Korea leaned in his seat, his expression mellowed from the brandy and exhaustion and time zone differences. He smiled at nothing in particular and that was when France leaned over to kiss him. There was a moment of confusion but sticky lips parted willingly after that brief, startled few seconds.
Later, their lovemaking was quiet and languid. And again, France had the disquieting sensation that it was only a surreal series of moments, like segments of film reel flashing before him.
But that was better than nothing. So he tried not to think too hard about it.
In the morning, South Korea came out of the shower and wandered back to the bed, hair still damp. He leaned in to kiss France’s forehead affectionately, receiving the friendly, sleepy grope to his ass in good stride as always.
Neither one of them wanted to ask that question. But it hung in the air. Or so France thought, despite the sleep that still clouded his brain and wouldn’t be completely gone until somewhere after his second cup of coffee.
Where do we go from here?
“Maybe next year we can host a party,” South Korea said. “Invite as many people as we can. I think it’ll be fun.”
“Where will it be then?” asked France, intrigued despite himself.
“Anywhere. We have more than a year, don’t we? And it’ll be the best party ever.” As he continued in a long train of half-formed ideas that darted everywhere, he didn’t seem aware that France was contemplating him with half-closed eyes. Not for the first time, the European nation mused on the contradiction and eccentricity known as South Korea, the boyish exuberance and fanatical ceremony, but at the same time, the slightly distorted reflection the other nation presented to him with their every interaction.
“We have time,” South Korea finished. “Plenty of time.”
And despite himself, France smiled. Yes, there always was time. There was always a tomorrow- Tomorrow, he decided. Perhaps tomorrow.
But for today… he pulled South Korea down, pushing their lips together and lost himself in brief, lingering sensations of a series of moments.
...
Author’s Notes:
-Bûche de Noël is a traditional Christmas dessert served in multiple countries including France, Belgium, Quebec and the UK. It has also been somewhat appropriated by South Korea and Japan. The dessert consists of cake baked in a jelly roll pan, covered in frosting (or ice cream in some cases) and rolled up into a log shape. Sometimes, part of the cake is sliced off in a diagonal cut and attached to the side, to look like a branch on a log, and it is generally frosted with chocolate to look like tree bark. It can then be decorated with a variety of things including powdered sugar (to look like snow), berries, and mushrooms made of meringue.
-Please don’t ask about the incidents involving the thrown pots and Spain getting locked up. All I’m going to say is that Portugal can be one hell of a yandere for his little brother Spain (though the reverse can be very true as well). And… family dinners with Spain and the former colonies are always very interesting (provided you don’t have one of them coming after you with a heavy duty skillet or one of those volcanic stone mortars and pestles…).
-Argh. I don’t know where the characterization went. However, I’m basing South Korea heavily on multiple Korean males I know, who are often wonderful studies in contradictions. Bitch about everything and yet pretend that nothing’s wrong at all… workaholics who eventually say, “Fuck this and fuck you, I’m leaving, don’t bother to call me until I come back!” On the other hand, I really do see Yong-soo going off on his own when the work’s too much for him. He either stays in his room playing MMORPGs or he goes to shoot something (shooting fire arms is in fact a rather popular sport in South Korea… don’t ask me how this is possible in a country with such freaking strict gun control laws). It’s probably Alfred’s influence though I can see a younger Yong-soo sneaking out from Council meetings and philosophy lessons to go fishing or kite flying.
-I rather like Korean style cakes more than Western cakes because Koreans favor lighter, fluffier textured cakes with milder and less sweet flavors, rather like the Japanese. They tend to prefer sponge and chiffon cakes to the denser tortes. I have had a Korean-style Bûche de Noël (which I brought to a class Christmas party when I was in high school), which was a pretty big hit. Oh, and buttercream and cream cheese frosting is practically nonexistent. Koreans prefer whipped cream to buttercream and fondant, which I can’t argue with too much.
-I based the recipe and process on a Castella cake recipe, substituting honey with coffee.
-Génoise cake: a type of Italian cake named after the city of Genoa, consisting of a sturdy, yellow sponge cake that’s often the base for Bûche de Noël
-Instant coffee powder is quite popular in Korea, coming in foil packets that you can easily tear open and pour into your cup. I think this would horrify France.
-South Korea, unlike Japan and China, considers Christmas an official holiday, probably owing to the higher number of Christians. There really isn’t an equivalent winter holiday except for New Years and the first full moon (January 15 in the lunar calendar).
So… wow. It’s over. It’s actually over. Something I thought would be only a small writing exercise for me (a fun look at baking and light romance, which are two things I’m rather fond of) just exploded. Of course, it’s in good ways and bad ways. The good thing is the examination of two characters traditionally seen as less than serious in the Hetalia canon and the bad thing is… the examination of said characters.
It’s been just about a year since I finished this and I never got around to putting it up… mostly because I wasn’t sure about putting a very obviously Christmas story at any other time of year. But it’s swung back again to December so...
In any case, happy holidays to you, reader, whatever holiday you celebrate.