[Fanfic] La Vie En Rose
Alright. This is the first fanfiction I have ever posted anywhere publicly. It's probably the fifth I've ever written. I've read some pretty spectacular Hetalia fics, so I wanted to give it a shot. After writing a few of these I started feeling stupid because how am I going to know if I'm any good if I don't put myself out there?
So this is me. Putting myself out there. Please, criticize me to death if needed. Chase me away from the fandom with bayonets. If anyone sees this, that is.
Oh god I'm so nervous.
Title: La Vie En Rose
Author: meridianvase aka Marie
Characters: France/Germany (sort of...)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some fondling and general France-y-ness
Summary: During Germany's occupation of France in WWII, beloved French singer Edith Piaf sings for a group of German soldiers. You'd be crazy to believe the French Resistance doesn't have something to do with this.
Smoke stretched from either side of the dimly lit club like a giant gray cobweb, veiling France’s vision in a filmy haze and filling the air with the thick odor of tobacco. Not France’s tobacco; his was the only cigarette in the One Two Two Club. No, this smoke came from pipes. German pipes.
Germans sat at every table, blowing turrets of cloudy smoke from their long pipes, drinking beer in excess and laughing at jokes spoken in harsh German tongue. Their glances at the pretty French servers gradually turned to ogling and winking as the night progressed and the beer mugs were emptied and refilled, emptied and refilled. France sat back with his glass of wine and observed the rather entertaining scene.
Beside him, a German soldier was attempting to impress a young French girl with soft blonde hair and wide blue eyes. Germany always was a fan of the blondes.
“I earn dis badge for shooting fivteen of dem, ja.” He was more than a little inebriated, and therefore mistook the girl’s blushing cheeks and slight steps backward as a sign of interest in his heroic acts.
Uniforms, France had long apprehended, gave every man an overbearing sense of importance. Combined with alcohol, they had the power to turn commoners into Kings, or at least Dukes of some sort. This soldier thought he was a real gift to France’s girls, a real noble prize, when in reality he was probably the son of some piss poor farmer in some piss poor German town.
France, feeling the red wine warming his veins, laughed to himself before taking a long drag from his cigarette. C’est la vie, he thought. To be a foreigner in your own country.
“What are you laughing at?” The voice, quiet but rough, came from directly above. His voice always came from above now, because it was he who held France firmly down.
“A wonderful joke I heard your soldiers telling, Allemagne. They are quiet charming, you know,” France was giddy now. His eyes were hooded, his face shrouded in smoke, his yellow hair calculatedly disheveled. He was in fine form tonight, oh yes. No invasion could keep him from looking his best.
Germany sat down in the seat across from him, his eyes focused down at the pipe in his mouth and his hand fumbling with a package of matches.
“Permettez-moi,” France struck a match on the side of the table and leaned over to light the pipe for Germany, who looked taken aback by his forwardness.
The puffed in silence for a while, Germany deftly avoiding looking at France to the point where France wondered why the hell he bothered sitting with him in the first place. But that was Germany: awkward and stony-cold, at least until you got a little alcohol in him.
“So, you are here to see my Little Sparrow?” France spoke, eyeing Germany with amusement.
“What?” Germany looked up, but not at France. Instead he very pointedly stared at a picture on the wall directly behind him, as though some force prevented him from meeting France’s eyes.
“Edith Piaf,” France tapped his cigarette on the ashtray in the middle of the circular table. “My darling little sparrow. You will not be disappointed, mon ami.”
“Oh. Ja. I hear you are very fond of her.”
“More than fond. They say she is the voice of France, you know.” He chuckled. “If only my voice were so powerful. I would not be in this situation now, non?”
The last statement made Germany noticeably uncomfortable. Well, there was no avoiding it: France was his bitch now.
“Relax, Allemagne. You are in charge now. There is nothing I can do, and I accept. That is what surrender is.” Would France have to spell it out for him? God, he already needed more wine.
Germany continued to glare at the portrait-what, did he hate art now too?-and blow smoke into a dense fog encircling his head.
“Surrender,” he spoke in a chipped tone, “is not the impression I get from your people.”
“Ah, La Resistance, you mean? Surely you do not expect me to be entirely submissive. It is in no country’s nature.” France watched the smoky fog creep through the shadows of Germany’s slicked back hair, his crisp uniform.
They slipped back into silence, Germany as pensive as ever, France insouciant, seemingly carefree. It almost frightened Germany to see France so… so… relaxed. As if nothing were wrong. He was never the best at seeing past a nation’s visage, and France was so devious…
“All that stress, Allemagne. It is showing in your posture.” France leaned over the table to put out his cigarette on the ashtray, but hovered for a moment, his elbows on the table and his entire body slanted toward Germany’s apprehensive form. “Relax. You are here for entertainment, and France knows how to entertain.” That grin blossomed again like a poisonous flower, obstructed slightly by a blade of blonde hair.
His stern expression remained, but Germany’s shoulders lost a bit of their tenseness. France knew the nation well-admit he is in charge, and he will be content. Deny his power, and he will attack like a rabid wolf. The trick was to neither submit nor resist, and such a feat often required assistance.
“Mademoiselle, would you be so kind as to refill my friend’s glass?” France asked the barmaid without looking up.
Twenty minutes passed, and Germany was conceivably much happier than he was before.
“’s not a bad place, really.” He let France know in between gulps. “I mean the women… They’re not the same as the one’s at home, and not in a bad way.”
“The French know how to please, oui,” France smiled. He was now sitting beside the fellow nation, his chair pushed close enough for him to wrap one arm around his shoulders in a friendly gesture. Germany didn’t protest.
“And the food is good... and the beer’s not so bad.”
Yes, the beer imported from Germany, France thought.
“So I’m not such a terrible nation?” he asked, leaning his head against Germany’s softened shoulders.
Germany took another swig.
Suddenly, the stage in the back of the club lit up with the eerie incandescence of theatre.
The announcement was brief: “Ladies and Gentlemen, presenting-Edith Piaf!”
And there she was, standing in the glow of the spotlight, her dark brown hair in a curly bun and her odd little face as bright and pale as the moon.
She was a trembling, fragile thing, and her high heels did little to improve her height. Her eyes were glassy and wide. Come on, my Sparrow. Do France justice tonight. Sing for no one but me.
When she opened her mouth, fear and resentment were cast in a faraway corner by the beauty of her sumptuous song. She held the stage, she claimed it as her own; her elegantly drifting hands spun invisible thread around the bulky microphone. She was weaving music. The accompanying band was barely heard over the raw strength of her sonorous sound.
“Quand il me prend dans ses bras
Il me parle tout bas,
Je vois la vie en rose.”
The Germans were silent, stunned by the power and splendor flowing from the mouth of this strange, tiny bird. Even Germany wore a faint smile.
France sang along quietly into Germany’s neck.
“Et dès que je l’aperçois,
Alors je sens en moi
Mon cœur qui bat…”
“What does it mean?” Germany asked, sinking further into his chair.
“And when he takes me in his arms, and speaks softly to me, I see life in rosy hues.” He planted a kiss under his chin, just to see his reaction.
It worked: Germany closed his eyes and let him continue. “It’s very… pretty. Happy.”
“Oui,” France stroked his smooth hair. “It is a beacon of light. It gives me hope, gives my people hope… You like it, non?” By “it” he could have been referring to the music, or the way he was nuzzling the spot on the side of his neck with his keen mouth.
Germany grunted-or maybe that was how he sighed.
The Little Sparrow’s love croon was casting a spell over Germany’s army. Each note hung in the air like a rosy mist alongside the gray pipe smoke. Enchantment lingered in the Germans’ glazed eyes. See how beautiful I am, France thought. See how easily you fall under the charm of romance.
Good work, my little siren.
“Do you know what would make things easier for you, my Allemagne?” France was practically in his lap now, but was cautious of the line he’d drawn for himself. One can only go so far.
Another grunt. France let his fingers slip beneath the back of his uniform (a few buttons had been ever so skillfully undone during his amorous doting) so he could gently stroke his taut skin while kissing lightly, then harder beneath his right ear.
In almost a whisper: “Let my Sparrow lift the spirits of those who have been causing you trouble. Let her visit them, take a few pictures. The French are much more obliging”-Germany was loosening under France’s soft kisses-“when we have been satisfied, even a little.”
The song ended with a final sigh from the band’s trumpet, and the Germans exploded into applause. Edith blushed modestly and curtsied for the soldiers, who stood and clapped with tipsy enthusiasm.
France leaned back to allow Germany a view of his flirtatious blue eyes, his yellow hair falling coyly about his grinning visage.
“… You think letting her, letting her see them would make them-“
“Obedient? Oui. They will respect you for it, believe me.”
Germany had to sigh when France bent to kiss a line down his exposed collarbone. “Sounds like… good idea to me. She can go t’night, take pictures, make happy…”
“Ah, my Allemagne. You are so good to me.” He sang as he draped himself facetiously in Germany’s arms. “Quand il me prend dans ses bras, il me parle tout bas, je vois la vie en rose!”
That night, a red-cheeked Edith Piaf was greeted with eagerness and admiration by French prisoners of war, who were more than pleased to gush over and take pictures with the national icon.
“I can’t wait to tell my wife!” One said. Another looked as though he thought he could make Edith his wife that very night. She laughed, so appreciative to see the happiness her presence gave the poor men. She smiled for every picture and kissed every one of them on the cheek, allowing them to kiss her in return.
The prisoners received their pictures a week later. And every one of those faces, smiling brightly beside the great Edith Piaf, suddenly appeared a few days later on forged passports. And every one of those prisoners miraculously escaped soon after.
And for a brief moment, France saw life in rosy hues.
____________________
Footnotes because I'm a dork:
The French Resistance took place during Germany's occupation of France in WWII. Many were imprisoned for refusing to submit to the German regime. French-German relations were... not so great during this period. They hadn't been for a while, honestly.
Edith Piaf (yes, I realize the 'E' is supposed to have an accent mark over it) was probably France's favorite and most beloved singer. I highly recommend looking her up. Her songs are beautiful and so, so French.
It might just be a tall tale, but it's been said that the night Edith performed at the One Two Two Club for a group of Germans, she managed to convince them to let her take pictures with many French prisoners of war. When the prisoners received these pictures, they cut out their faces and used them on fake passports. Somehow this helped them escape. Idk, the details are fuzzy. Either way, YAY.
So this is me. Putting myself out there. Please, criticize me to death if needed. Chase me away from the fandom with bayonets. If anyone sees this, that is.
Oh god I'm so nervous.
Title: La Vie En Rose
Author: meridianvase aka Marie
Characters: France/Germany (sort of...)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some fondling and general France-y-ness
Summary: During Germany's occupation of France in WWII, beloved French singer Edith Piaf sings for a group of German soldiers. You'd be crazy to believe the French Resistance doesn't have something to do with this.
Smoke stretched from either side of the dimly lit club like a giant gray cobweb, veiling France’s vision in a filmy haze and filling the air with the thick odor of tobacco. Not France’s tobacco; his was the only cigarette in the One Two Two Club. No, this smoke came from pipes. German pipes.
Germans sat at every table, blowing turrets of cloudy smoke from their long pipes, drinking beer in excess and laughing at jokes spoken in harsh German tongue. Their glances at the pretty French servers gradually turned to ogling and winking as the night progressed and the beer mugs were emptied and refilled, emptied and refilled. France sat back with his glass of wine and observed the rather entertaining scene.
Beside him, a German soldier was attempting to impress a young French girl with soft blonde hair and wide blue eyes. Germany always was a fan of the blondes.
“I earn dis badge for shooting fivteen of dem, ja.” He was more than a little inebriated, and therefore mistook the girl’s blushing cheeks and slight steps backward as a sign of interest in his heroic acts.
Uniforms, France had long apprehended, gave every man an overbearing sense of importance. Combined with alcohol, they had the power to turn commoners into Kings, or at least Dukes of some sort. This soldier thought he was a real gift to France’s girls, a real noble prize, when in reality he was probably the son of some piss poor farmer in some piss poor German town.
France, feeling the red wine warming his veins, laughed to himself before taking a long drag from his cigarette. C’est la vie, he thought. To be a foreigner in your own country.
“What are you laughing at?” The voice, quiet but rough, came from directly above. His voice always came from above now, because it was he who held France firmly down.
“A wonderful joke I heard your soldiers telling, Allemagne. They are quiet charming, you know,” France was giddy now. His eyes were hooded, his face shrouded in smoke, his yellow hair calculatedly disheveled. He was in fine form tonight, oh yes. No invasion could keep him from looking his best.
Germany sat down in the seat across from him, his eyes focused down at the pipe in his mouth and his hand fumbling with a package of matches.
“Permettez-moi,” France struck a match on the side of the table and leaned over to light the pipe for Germany, who looked taken aback by his forwardness.
The puffed in silence for a while, Germany deftly avoiding looking at France to the point where France wondered why the hell he bothered sitting with him in the first place. But that was Germany: awkward and stony-cold, at least until you got a little alcohol in him.
“So, you are here to see my Little Sparrow?” France spoke, eyeing Germany with amusement.
“What?” Germany looked up, but not at France. Instead he very pointedly stared at a picture on the wall directly behind him, as though some force prevented him from meeting France’s eyes.
“Edith Piaf,” France tapped his cigarette on the ashtray in the middle of the circular table. “My darling little sparrow. You will not be disappointed, mon ami.”
“Oh. Ja. I hear you are very fond of her.”
“More than fond. They say she is the voice of France, you know.” He chuckled. “If only my voice were so powerful. I would not be in this situation now, non?”
The last statement made Germany noticeably uncomfortable. Well, there was no avoiding it: France was his bitch now.
“Relax, Allemagne. You are in charge now. There is nothing I can do, and I accept. That is what surrender is.” Would France have to spell it out for him? God, he already needed more wine.
Germany continued to glare at the portrait-what, did he hate art now too?-and blow smoke into a dense fog encircling his head.
“Surrender,” he spoke in a chipped tone, “is not the impression I get from your people.”
“Ah, La Resistance, you mean? Surely you do not expect me to be entirely submissive. It is in no country’s nature.” France watched the smoky fog creep through the shadows of Germany’s slicked back hair, his crisp uniform.
They slipped back into silence, Germany as pensive as ever, France insouciant, seemingly carefree. It almost frightened Germany to see France so… so… relaxed. As if nothing were wrong. He was never the best at seeing past a nation’s visage, and France was so devious…
“All that stress, Allemagne. It is showing in your posture.” France leaned over the table to put out his cigarette on the ashtray, but hovered for a moment, his elbows on the table and his entire body slanted toward Germany’s apprehensive form. “Relax. You are here for entertainment, and France knows how to entertain.” That grin blossomed again like a poisonous flower, obstructed slightly by a blade of blonde hair.
His stern expression remained, but Germany’s shoulders lost a bit of their tenseness. France knew the nation well-admit he is in charge, and he will be content. Deny his power, and he will attack like a rabid wolf. The trick was to neither submit nor resist, and such a feat often required assistance.
“Mademoiselle, would you be so kind as to refill my friend’s glass?” France asked the barmaid without looking up.
Twenty minutes passed, and Germany was conceivably much happier than he was before.
“’s not a bad place, really.” He let France know in between gulps. “I mean the women… They’re not the same as the one’s at home, and not in a bad way.”
“The French know how to please, oui,” France smiled. He was now sitting beside the fellow nation, his chair pushed close enough for him to wrap one arm around his shoulders in a friendly gesture. Germany didn’t protest.
“And the food is good... and the beer’s not so bad.”
Yes, the beer imported from Germany, France thought.
“So I’m not such a terrible nation?” he asked, leaning his head against Germany’s softened shoulders.
Germany took another swig.
Suddenly, the stage in the back of the club lit up with the eerie incandescence of theatre.
The announcement was brief: “Ladies and Gentlemen, presenting-Edith Piaf!”
And there she was, standing in the glow of the spotlight, her dark brown hair in a curly bun and her odd little face as bright and pale as the moon.
She was a trembling, fragile thing, and her high heels did little to improve her height. Her eyes were glassy and wide. Come on, my Sparrow. Do France justice tonight. Sing for no one but me.
When she opened her mouth, fear and resentment were cast in a faraway corner by the beauty of her sumptuous song. She held the stage, she claimed it as her own; her elegantly drifting hands spun invisible thread around the bulky microphone. She was weaving music. The accompanying band was barely heard over the raw strength of her sonorous sound.
“Quand il me prend dans ses bras
Il me parle tout bas,
Je vois la vie en rose.”
The Germans were silent, stunned by the power and splendor flowing from the mouth of this strange, tiny bird. Even Germany wore a faint smile.
France sang along quietly into Germany’s neck.
“Et dès que je l’aperçois,
Alors je sens en moi
Mon cœur qui bat…”
“What does it mean?” Germany asked, sinking further into his chair.
“And when he takes me in his arms, and speaks softly to me, I see life in rosy hues.” He planted a kiss under his chin, just to see his reaction.
It worked: Germany closed his eyes and let him continue. “It’s very… pretty. Happy.”
“Oui,” France stroked his smooth hair. “It is a beacon of light. It gives me hope, gives my people hope… You like it, non?” By “it” he could have been referring to the music, or the way he was nuzzling the spot on the side of his neck with his keen mouth.
Germany grunted-or maybe that was how he sighed.
The Little Sparrow’s love croon was casting a spell over Germany’s army. Each note hung in the air like a rosy mist alongside the gray pipe smoke. Enchantment lingered in the Germans’ glazed eyes. See how beautiful I am, France thought. See how easily you fall under the charm of romance.
Good work, my little siren.
“Do you know what would make things easier for you, my Allemagne?” France was practically in his lap now, but was cautious of the line he’d drawn for himself. One can only go so far.
Another grunt. France let his fingers slip beneath the back of his uniform (a few buttons had been ever so skillfully undone during his amorous doting) so he could gently stroke his taut skin while kissing lightly, then harder beneath his right ear.
In almost a whisper: “Let my Sparrow lift the spirits of those who have been causing you trouble. Let her visit them, take a few pictures. The French are much more obliging”-Germany was loosening under France’s soft kisses-“when we have been satisfied, even a little.”
The song ended with a final sigh from the band’s trumpet, and the Germans exploded into applause. Edith blushed modestly and curtsied for the soldiers, who stood and clapped with tipsy enthusiasm.
France leaned back to allow Germany a view of his flirtatious blue eyes, his yellow hair falling coyly about his grinning visage.
“… You think letting her, letting her see them would make them-“
“Obedient? Oui. They will respect you for it, believe me.”
Germany had to sigh when France bent to kiss a line down his exposed collarbone. “Sounds like… good idea to me. She can go t’night, take pictures, make happy…”
“Ah, my Allemagne. You are so good to me.” He sang as he draped himself facetiously in Germany’s arms. “Quand il me prend dans ses bras, il me parle tout bas, je vois la vie en rose!”
That night, a red-cheeked Edith Piaf was greeted with eagerness and admiration by French prisoners of war, who were more than pleased to gush over and take pictures with the national icon.
“I can’t wait to tell my wife!” One said. Another looked as though he thought he could make Edith his wife that very night. She laughed, so appreciative to see the happiness her presence gave the poor men. She smiled for every picture and kissed every one of them on the cheek, allowing them to kiss her in return.
The prisoners received their pictures a week later. And every one of those faces, smiling brightly beside the great Edith Piaf, suddenly appeared a few days later on forged passports. And every one of those prisoners miraculously escaped soon after.
And for a brief moment, France saw life in rosy hues.
____________________
Footnotes because I'm a dork:
The French Resistance took place during Germany's occupation of France in WWII. Many were imprisoned for refusing to submit to the German regime. French-German relations were... not so great during this period. They hadn't been for a while, honestly.
Edith Piaf (yes, I realize the 'E' is supposed to have an accent mark over it) was probably France's favorite and most beloved singer. I highly recommend looking her up. Her songs are beautiful and so, so French.
It might just be a tall tale, but it's been said that the night Edith performed at the One Two Two Club for a group of Germans, she managed to convince them to let her take pictures with many French prisoners of war. When the prisoners received these pictures, they cut out their faces and used them on fake passports. Somehow this helped them escape. Idk, the details are fuzzy. Either way, YAY.