[Fluffathon] What Unlonely Is Like
Title: What Unlonely Is Like
Author: me!
Rating/Warnings: G - none
Pairing(s): England/Belgium
Prompt: "Dancing in the rain. England/Belgium."
Notes: Set in pre-WWII. I really enjoyed writing these two, as long as their (admittedly rocky) friendship has been. I should write them more often, pairing or none. ^^
"A Cue from Nature
Run out during a thunderstorm
That downpour, that conquered hesitation, that exhilaration
That's what unlonely is like"
-Unknown
-------
The opera had been lovely, he was sure-the lead had been classically trained in Austria, and spent a year touring with a renowned chambers choir-and goodness knew any time he was awarded to spend his evening enjoying music instead of worrying about every move Germany made was time he cherished.
But he had hardly paid attention to the opera, far too content in sitting back and watching Belgium in his peripheral vision, as her earrings shimmered in the low light and her expressions changed infinitesimally in reaction to the elation and sorrow and power held in the music that flowed around them.
The sky was a dark, brooding grey as they left the theatre, and England found himself grateful that he’d picked up his umbrella as he’d left the house instead of his ebony walking cane. Belgium was silent beside him, watching other Londoners mill about on the sidewalks and the lights of the opposite shore shimmer and sway on the surface of the Thames. The skirts of her dress swirled around her ankles as she walked, like sea foam bending around her and conforming to the curves of her hips and legs.
“Opera was lovely,” she said absently, her Dutch tongue curving awkwardly and yet beautifully around the words.
“It was, indeed,” he responded, just as the taps of raindrops began on the sidewalk, smattering it with dark polka dots. He immediately lifted the umbrella, unfastening it and letting it pop open, and holding it over her head, uncaring that his right shoulder was getting wet with rainwater.
She smiled at him, her eyes shining with light from an unknown source, reflecting perhaps off the Thames or the shimmer of silver that was the wet sidewalk. He smiled in return, for the first time in weeks finally able to relax and enjoy someone else’s presence, silently, beside him.
Under the gentle hiss of rain, the sidewalks emptied, pedestrians ducking under awnings and into nearby shops to wait out the storm. A block down, a shop had it’s door propped open, a phonograph inside playing a slow waltz melody into the silence of the street, the gentle hum of rain gentling its upward beats.
“Shall we dance, good sir?” Belgium asked, her voice full of smile.
“Beg pardon?” he asked, caught in his daydream, and she stepped swiftly in front of him, gently extricating the umbrella from his fingers and taking his hand in hers, her soft skin sliding against his silk gloves. She smiled mysteriously at him, the rain shining in her hair and on her dress.
“Let us dance.”
He smiled, unable to resist this spontaneous idea with all the relaxation in him, and he stood back on his heel to bow to her, lifting his top hat from his head and leaving his meticulously brushed hair to the rain. Pleased, she mirrored him in a curtsy, sweeping her skirts behind her with her free hand, and then they were close together again, his hand at the gentle dip of her lower back, her delicate but calloused fingers resting on his shoulders, and the beat caught them and swept them into a slow waltz.
His shoes ground against the sidewalk as he moved with her, and when she twirled, her hair swept into her face, sticking to her cheek in its wetness, and he could feel the rain dripping down the back of his neck and into his shirt collar, dampening his shirt and running warm rivulets down his spine. But the music was gentle as it moved them, and her smile was full of a secret joy that he found intriguing, and the rain seemed to make them lighter instead of weighing them down.
The waltz slowed to its final notes, and their dance followed along, finishing gently and without the awkward hiccup of lost momentum, and then they were standing in the downpour with identical smiles, her hand still warm in his and her dress alive with reflected light.
He moved to pick the umbrella up from its place on the sidewalk, but he collapsed it and held it by his side, offering his other elbow to her. Almost giddily, she grinned at him, slipping her arm through his, and in a twirl of skirts and coattails, they turned their heels to the silent sidewalk and continued their walk under the warm glow of the streetlamps.
--------
Hope the submitter of the prompt enjoys it! ^^ And everyone else, too, of course! Thanks for reading!
Author: me!
Rating/Warnings: G - none
Pairing(s): England/Belgium
Prompt: "Dancing in the rain. England/Belgium."
Notes: Set in pre-WWII. I really enjoyed writing these two, as long as their (admittedly rocky) friendship has been. I should write them more often, pairing or none. ^^
"A Cue from Nature
Run out during a thunderstorm
That downpour, that conquered hesitation, that exhilaration
That's what unlonely is like"
-Unknown
-------
The opera had been lovely, he was sure-the lead had been classically trained in Austria, and spent a year touring with a renowned chambers choir-and goodness knew any time he was awarded to spend his evening enjoying music instead of worrying about every move Germany made was time he cherished.
But he had hardly paid attention to the opera, far too content in sitting back and watching Belgium in his peripheral vision, as her earrings shimmered in the low light and her expressions changed infinitesimally in reaction to the elation and sorrow and power held in the music that flowed around them.
The sky was a dark, brooding grey as they left the theatre, and England found himself grateful that he’d picked up his umbrella as he’d left the house instead of his ebony walking cane. Belgium was silent beside him, watching other Londoners mill about on the sidewalks and the lights of the opposite shore shimmer and sway on the surface of the Thames. The skirts of her dress swirled around her ankles as she walked, like sea foam bending around her and conforming to the curves of her hips and legs.
“Opera was lovely,” she said absently, her Dutch tongue curving awkwardly and yet beautifully around the words.
“It was, indeed,” he responded, just as the taps of raindrops began on the sidewalk, smattering it with dark polka dots. He immediately lifted the umbrella, unfastening it and letting it pop open, and holding it over her head, uncaring that his right shoulder was getting wet with rainwater.
She smiled at him, her eyes shining with light from an unknown source, reflecting perhaps off the Thames or the shimmer of silver that was the wet sidewalk. He smiled in return, for the first time in weeks finally able to relax and enjoy someone else’s presence, silently, beside him.
Under the gentle hiss of rain, the sidewalks emptied, pedestrians ducking under awnings and into nearby shops to wait out the storm. A block down, a shop had it’s door propped open, a phonograph inside playing a slow waltz melody into the silence of the street, the gentle hum of rain gentling its upward beats.
“Shall we dance, good sir?” Belgium asked, her voice full of smile.
“Beg pardon?” he asked, caught in his daydream, and she stepped swiftly in front of him, gently extricating the umbrella from his fingers and taking his hand in hers, her soft skin sliding against his silk gloves. She smiled mysteriously at him, the rain shining in her hair and on her dress.
“Let us dance.”
He smiled, unable to resist this spontaneous idea with all the relaxation in him, and he stood back on his heel to bow to her, lifting his top hat from his head and leaving his meticulously brushed hair to the rain. Pleased, she mirrored him in a curtsy, sweeping her skirts behind her with her free hand, and then they were close together again, his hand at the gentle dip of her lower back, her delicate but calloused fingers resting on his shoulders, and the beat caught them and swept them into a slow waltz.
His shoes ground against the sidewalk as he moved with her, and when she twirled, her hair swept into her face, sticking to her cheek in its wetness, and he could feel the rain dripping down the back of his neck and into his shirt collar, dampening his shirt and running warm rivulets down his spine. But the music was gentle as it moved them, and her smile was full of a secret joy that he found intriguing, and the rain seemed to make them lighter instead of weighing them down.
The waltz slowed to its final notes, and their dance followed along, finishing gently and without the awkward hiccup of lost momentum, and then they were standing in the downpour with identical smiles, her hand still warm in his and her dress alive with reflected light.
He moved to pick the umbrella up from its place on the sidewalk, but he collapsed it and held it by his side, offering his other elbow to her. Almost giddily, she grinned at him, slipping her arm through his, and in a twirl of skirts and coattails, they turned their heels to the silent sidewalk and continued their walk under the warm glow of the streetlamps.
--------
Hope the submitter of the prompt enjoys it! ^^ And everyone else, too, of course! Thanks for reading!