[fanfic] Fitting
Title: Fitting
Author/Artist: myself, chromatic_coma
Character(s)/Pairing(s): America, France; France/America
Genre: Romance, Friendship
Rating: T/PG13
Warning(s): My fail fashion sense.
Summary: America has a terrible fashion sense, and France takes it upon himself to correct that. Originally written for absynthess as part of a drabble meme but... it got a bit out of hand XD
Fitting
Another dejected sigh came from the lumping sitting in the chair by the window, and France could only breathe softly into his wine glass at the sound. America had been sitting in that same seat for the past hour, staring at the rainy skies and picking at the frays in his most beloved old bomber jacket.
Taking another sip of the ruby red liquid, France arose from his seat and walked around the rich, mahogany table, slipping up behind America and resting his arms on broad shoulders.
“Mon coeur, qu’est-ce qu’il y a?” He whispered heavily in the younger blond’s ear, and America looked up, blue eyes so dull it almost hurt to look it.
“He said I have no sense of style, that I’m sloppy and dress like a child.”
“He?” France repeated curiously, but America ignored his question completely, turning back to the window with a pout.
“I do not dress sloppily. I dress like a hero!” He murmured at his reflection in the water-stained window pane, and France took the opportunity to survey his attire and make his own judgment.
There was, of course, the thick, brown bomber jacket the boy had insisted on wearing since his time as a pilot in the World Wars of the last century, fraying at the edges from being too well-loved. As much as the frays added an element of age to the musky jacket that France could respect, the patches and stitches America had added to salvage his jacket beyond its years were a bit too much.
Beneath the jacket was a plain, white button-down shirt, one that had obviously not been ironed prior to this meeting. That observation did not bother France as much it probably should have; in fact, he found the wrinkles in the shirt made America look deliciously ruffled, and he certainly wasn’t afraid to admit it to himself. Still, the tie he wore over the shirt, one bearing the stars and stripes of his national banner, could not be seen as anything but tacky, France mused sadly. That would have to go.
Looking down to scope out America’s pants yielded even worse results. The beige color worked well, but it was obvious these pants were not tailored for the blond, as they did absolutely no justice to his muscled, sculpted legs. They were baggy and loose in places where France personally felt they should have been tighter, and that made France more upset than anything.
Cerulean eyes fell to the floor, where he found to some relief America had opted to forgo his Converse sneakers for proper dress shoes, though even they looked like they’d had some quality time with the inside of America’s closet.
“Are you done checking me out now?” An angry voice drew France out of the recesses of his mind before it could start wander and let his imagination take over.
“Bien sur. I must say, L’Amerique, I expected better of you than this.”
“So you think I look sloppy too?” The younger questioned with a dejected tone that called out to France like a siren.
“Non, not ‘sloppy’, just, ah, a bit tacky in some places.” And very sexy in some other places, especially with the way his white shirt was just snug enough on his chest so that not too much was left to the imagination, but France did not want to scare the boy off.
“Tacky?” America repeated, his tone full of hurt and cheeks puffed out in a pout that France thought was alarmingly adorable.
“Don’t worry, mon cher, it is easily fixable. Come, come.” With that America was pulled out of his seat hurriedly, and after recovering from a stumble he followed France out onto the rainy Paris streets, unable to get a word out of him to as where they were going.
France was quite pleased with the fact that they were in his country, because it made fashionable, proper clothing very easy to find. Only an hour later, and they had already solved the issue of the rumpled shirt and tacky tie, replacing them with a much cleaner, freshly pressed navy blue shirt that made America’s eyes stand out all the more brilliantly, and a silk cerulean tie that was smooth to the (read: France’s) touch.
Of course America, being himself, could not appreciate someone doing something so kind for him, and had spent the entire time muttering under his breath about how pointless all this was. Even now France could hear him grumbling from the other side of the changing room’s curtain.
“I’m not coming out. I look stupid in these stupid pants.”
France sighed. “Those pants are not stupid, and you will not leave this store until you show me what they look like on you.”
“Fine, then neither will you, since I’m not coming out dressed like this.” Oh, right. The boy had inherited L’Angleterre’s brute stubbornness. No matter, France was not about to give up just yet.
“If you do not come out here, mon cher, I will be forced to come in there.”
“Fine.” America counted angrily, and France figured he probably didn’t realize what he was agreeing to. Still, he had agreed, and that was all the invitation France needed to brush the red curtain open just a bit and slip inside the booth.
“France! Geez, man, haven’t you ever heard of privacy?” But France was no longer listening to the American at all; he was far too busy appraising the other’s backside. Just as he’d expected, America’s old beige pants were not doing the boy’s legs or derrière any justice. These black dress pants, while they were not custom tailored, were still a much better fit.
“W-Well?” It took France a moment to realize exactly how unnerved America was by his staring; was that a blush on his cheeks?
“Parfait, whoever it is you are trying to impress will be smitten.” France, being an expert with emotions, was able to say that without betraying that little twinge of jealousy in his heart. Whoever it was America was trying to impress certainly did not deserve it, not if he was going to insult the other’s usual choice in attire.
“Y-Yeah, I think he will.” America muttered, and despite the fact that he was uncomfortable he forced a smile as he turned back to look in the mirror.
France was peering into the mirror behind his shoulder, a bemused expression on his face. “I must admit, I am jealous of this man, whoever he may be.”
“Really?” America raised an eyebrow, and France almost wonder why he didn’t sound repulsed.
“Oui. He is a very lucky man, to have someone so willing to change himself to impress him. What’s more, you are very attractive, mon cher.”
“O-oh?”
“Oui.”
“Heh, that’s good, then.” America chuckled, and now it was France’s turn to raise an eyebrow.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s good when the person you like and want to impress finds you attractive, isn’t it?” Now America was beaming, and it did not take long for France to process the thought.
It took even less time for him to have America pressed against the wall of the fitting room, his hand against the young man’s derrière, their lips engaged in a fierce combat.
It was, as France would later muse, a fitting start to the relationship.
End.
Dude, I love France/America. I only wish I got more muses for it. I hope you enjoyed this!!
Author/Artist: myself, chromatic_coma
Character(s)/Pairing(s): America, France; France/America
Genre: Romance, Friendship
Rating: T/PG13
Warning(s): My fail fashion sense.
Summary: America has a terrible fashion sense, and France takes it upon himself to correct that. Originally written for absynthess as part of a drabble meme but... it got a bit out of hand XD
Fitting
Another dejected sigh came from the lumping sitting in the chair by the window, and France could only breathe softly into his wine glass at the sound. America had been sitting in that same seat for the past hour, staring at the rainy skies and picking at the frays in his most beloved old bomber jacket.
Taking another sip of the ruby red liquid, France arose from his seat and walked around the rich, mahogany table, slipping up behind America and resting his arms on broad shoulders.
“Mon coeur, qu’est-ce qu’il y a?” He whispered heavily in the younger blond’s ear, and America looked up, blue eyes so dull it almost hurt to look it.
“He said I have no sense of style, that I’m sloppy and dress like a child.”
“He?” France repeated curiously, but America ignored his question completely, turning back to the window with a pout.
“I do not dress sloppily. I dress like a hero!” He murmured at his reflection in the water-stained window pane, and France took the opportunity to survey his attire and make his own judgment.
There was, of course, the thick, brown bomber jacket the boy had insisted on wearing since his time as a pilot in the World Wars of the last century, fraying at the edges from being too well-loved. As much as the frays added an element of age to the musky jacket that France could respect, the patches and stitches America had added to salvage his jacket beyond its years were a bit too much.
Beneath the jacket was a plain, white button-down shirt, one that had obviously not been ironed prior to this meeting. That observation did not bother France as much it probably should have; in fact, he found the wrinkles in the shirt made America look deliciously ruffled, and he certainly wasn’t afraid to admit it to himself. Still, the tie he wore over the shirt, one bearing the stars and stripes of his national banner, could not be seen as anything but tacky, France mused sadly. That would have to go.
Looking down to scope out America’s pants yielded even worse results. The beige color worked well, but it was obvious these pants were not tailored for the blond, as they did absolutely no justice to his muscled, sculpted legs. They were baggy and loose in places where France personally felt they should have been tighter, and that made France more upset than anything.
Cerulean eyes fell to the floor, where he found to some relief America had opted to forgo his Converse sneakers for proper dress shoes, though even they looked like they’d had some quality time with the inside of America’s closet.
“Are you done checking me out now?” An angry voice drew France out of the recesses of his mind before it could start wander and let his imagination take over.
“Bien sur. I must say, L’Amerique, I expected better of you than this.”
“So you think I look sloppy too?” The younger questioned with a dejected tone that called out to France like a siren.
“Non, not ‘sloppy’, just, ah, a bit tacky in some places.” And very sexy in some other places, especially with the way his white shirt was just snug enough on his chest so that not too much was left to the imagination, but France did not want to scare the boy off.
“Tacky?” America repeated, his tone full of hurt and cheeks puffed out in a pout that France thought was alarmingly adorable.
“Don’t worry, mon cher, it is easily fixable. Come, come.” With that America was pulled out of his seat hurriedly, and after recovering from a stumble he followed France out onto the rainy Paris streets, unable to get a word out of him to as where they were going.
France was quite pleased with the fact that they were in his country, because it made fashionable, proper clothing very easy to find. Only an hour later, and they had already solved the issue of the rumpled shirt and tacky tie, replacing them with a much cleaner, freshly pressed navy blue shirt that made America’s eyes stand out all the more brilliantly, and a silk cerulean tie that was smooth to the (read: France’s) touch.
Of course America, being himself, could not appreciate someone doing something so kind for him, and had spent the entire time muttering under his breath about how pointless all this was. Even now France could hear him grumbling from the other side of the changing room’s curtain.
“I’m not coming out. I look stupid in these stupid pants.”
France sighed. “Those pants are not stupid, and you will not leave this store until you show me what they look like on you.”
“Fine, then neither will you, since I’m not coming out dressed like this.” Oh, right. The boy had inherited L’Angleterre’s brute stubbornness. No matter, France was not about to give up just yet.
“If you do not come out here, mon cher, I will be forced to come in there.”
“Fine.” America counted angrily, and France figured he probably didn’t realize what he was agreeing to. Still, he had agreed, and that was all the invitation France needed to brush the red curtain open just a bit and slip inside the booth.
“France! Geez, man, haven’t you ever heard of privacy?” But France was no longer listening to the American at all; he was far too busy appraising the other’s backside. Just as he’d expected, America’s old beige pants were not doing the boy’s legs or derrière any justice. These black dress pants, while they were not custom tailored, were still a much better fit.
“W-Well?” It took France a moment to realize exactly how unnerved America was by his staring; was that a blush on his cheeks?
“Parfait, whoever it is you are trying to impress will be smitten.” France, being an expert with emotions, was able to say that without betraying that little twinge of jealousy in his heart. Whoever it was America was trying to impress certainly did not deserve it, not if he was going to insult the other’s usual choice in attire.
“Y-Yeah, I think he will.” America muttered, and despite the fact that he was uncomfortable he forced a smile as he turned back to look in the mirror.
France was peering into the mirror behind his shoulder, a bemused expression on his face. “I must admit, I am jealous of this man, whoever he may be.”
“Really?” America raised an eyebrow, and France almost wonder why he didn’t sound repulsed.
“Oui. He is a very lucky man, to have someone so willing to change himself to impress him. What’s more, you are very attractive, mon cher.”
“O-oh?”
“Oui.”
“Heh, that’s good, then.” America chuckled, and now it was France’s turn to raise an eyebrow.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s good when the person you like and want to impress finds you attractive, isn’t it?” Now America was beaming, and it did not take long for France to process the thought.
It took even less time for him to have America pressed against the wall of the fitting room, his hand against the young man’s derrière, their lips engaged in a fierce combat.
It was, as France would later muse, a fitting start to the relationship.
End.
Dude, I love France/America. I only wish I got more muses for it. I hope you enjoyed this!!