"Church Etiquette"
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Title: "Church Etiquette"
Author: pyrrhiccomedy and wizzard890
Character(s) or Pairing(s): bitty!Russia, bitty!Ukraine, very bitty!Belarus, France, various men of the cloth.
Rating: PG-13 for, uh, for France.
Summary: In which Russia meets France for the first time, and narrowly avoids receiving something of an education.
And I Care...Why? Because bitty!Russia is cuter than a box of puppies. And watching France make a pass at somebody who's still young enough to be afraid of the dark is sort of failtastically awesome. There's history in, too, if you look!
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Reims, France. May 19th, 1051.
It's a perfect day for a wedding. Well, Vanya's never been married, so he wouldn't really know, but the sky is a bright, enamel blue, and there are a few fluffy wisps of cloud hanging over the cathedral, turning shapes on every little gust of breeze and if he was going to get married, he'd want the world to look just like this. Princess Anna is so lucky.
He stands half in and half out of the cool stone gallery bordering the east end of the cloister and watches his sisters pick sprays of clover growing up around the edges of the lawn.
Belarus had spent the last three days floating between them, like a mote of dust caught between crossbreezes. Now she clings close to Ukraine, her fingers curled in their big sister's white skirts, a clump of clover clutched against her frock. She stares at each clover for a long time before she picks it; measuring it, studying it, Belarus will only ever pick a flower if it meets her standards.
Eventually she drifts back to Vanya and holds up a small white blossom: every petal is perfect and just like its fellows. "I found this for you," she whispers.
Vanya takes it from her carefully, makes sure not to pinch the stem too hard between his fingertips. "It's so pretty!" He smiles a little, then reaches out and tugs light and sweet on the end of his sister's pale braid. Her hair gleams in the sunlight. "Think they'll let me wear it in the wedding?"
Belarus's eyes widen, and she looks fast back to Ukraine, as if for permission.
There's a bundle of clover flowers in Ukraine's hands, and she fusses with them as she makes her way across the cloister to the gallery. Vanya sees that she's trying to loop them all together with an especially long strand of grass. "Vanya," she says, eyes on her work, "you've got nowhere to put a flower!"
"I do too! Um." Vanya casts about briefly, rubs his hands down his sides. These new clothes are so funny, all crisp and smooth and too-snug. It would probably be bad to make a little hole in them for Belarus' flower.
Ukraine knots the grass a final time, and beams down at her bouquet with a proud smile that Vanya thinks is the prettiest out of all her smiles. "We could put some in your hair, though."
Vanya wrinkles his nose.
Belarus takes the white flower back; then goes up on her toes, wobbles, she's so small, and tucks the flower behind Vanya's ear. She looks up at him, serious and big-eyed, and waits.
If he looks to the side just right, Vanya can see the petals out of the corner of his eye. They blend in with his hair, especially now that it's summer and the sun bleaches it so pale.
Ukraine giggles.
An older--an older nation comes suddenly around the corner, walking fast, and almost trips over Vanya. He jerks himself to a halt four inches away and blinks down at them. "Oh," he says, "Hello."
Belarus scampers behind Vanya and peers out around his side.
The new nation is a lot older than the three of them, probably big enough to have a king and queen and everything! His clothes are even richer than the ones Vanya and his sisters are wearing, but he looks like he's used to them. He's not tugging at his sleeves like Vanya's been doing, anyway.
"H-Hello," Ukraine stammers. She's using her polite voice. "It's, um, it's nice to see you again."
Vanya remembers that she had gotten to meet their host right when they arrived, because she was the oldest. Well, and also because he and Belarus had been sleeping, and had to be carried inside and put to bed, curled into one another like a pair of kittens.
The other nation straightens, smiles. "Ukraine," he greets. "I hope the accommodations have been to your liking? --Are you lost? The wedding party is preparing on the other side of the cathedral."
Ukraine's eyes widen. "Already?" She pushes the clover bouquet into Vanya's arms and takes Belarus' hand, urges her gently out from behind him. "I told the princess we'd be there to help!” The girls are halfway across the lawn before Ukraine calls back, “Vanya, don’t lose my flowers!”
Belarus stumbles after their sister, hidden in clover up to her knees; she gives Vanya and the other nation a blinking look over her shoulder before they disappear around the chapel.
The other nation stares after them for a few seconds, while the grass sways and closes the wake behind them. Then he heaves in a small breath and gives Vanya a bow. There's a laugh caught in his eyes. "We haven't met yet, have we? I'm France, your host."
Vanya blushes, and he feels himself going a little quiet inside; new people always manage to twist his tongue into a knot. His fingers tighten around the clover and he hears a little snip, feels a broken stem in his hand and oops, he must have squeezed too hard--
He returns France's bow with a clumsy one of his own, to buy himself some time. He's not trying to be rude, really he's not.
France waits a few seconds, and then gently prompts, "You must be Russia."
A nod, too fast. "Mm-hm. But I’m called Vanya." He fiddles with his high collar, shifts his weight in his tight new shoes, and fishes for something else to say. "Um. Anna is really nice. I-I hope your king likes her."
"I'm sure he will." France scans the horizon, broken by the upswept arcs of the Reims cathedral. He smoothes down the front of his shiny blue clothes and looks back down at Vanya. A little silence unfolds. "Have you enjoyed your stay?" he asks, as though he's only now remembering to speak.
"It's so pretty here," Vanya bubbles, shyness swallowed abruptly by his glittering impressions of the city. "A-And all the people move so fast all the time, like they've got somewhere really important they need to be, and they dress so nice and you've, um, you've got that big arch that Rome made! One of the princess' guards showed it to me and is it really as old as he said?"
A cautious smile from France. "You mean the Porte de Mars? Yes, it really is that old, and so am I." He tips his head, flicks his hair over his shoulder, and goes on, "But I wear it well, don't you think so?"
"Uh-huh. You're nice to look at." Vanya does, for a few seconds, squinting into the sunlight. "Do you wear clothes like this a lot? 'Cause mine are itchy."
France sighs. "They really are, aren't they."
"Everyone keeps on telling me not to mess them up, so I can't climb on anything! And they’re all ruffly and tight." He scrubs a hand through his hair, catches himself before his fingertips can dislodge Belarus' flower. "I think they're a lot prettier on girls."
France kneels before him, straightens his hair with quick fingertips, swipes it off his forehead, straightens the flower. "Well, I think you look very fine," he murmurs, "And you are very patient for wearing them all day."
Vanya flushes, smiles. A dimple blooms on his left cheek. "Princess Anna wants me to. And it's her wedding, so I think it's a good thing to make her happy." A pause. "Are you excited about getting a new queen?"
France thinks about it for a moment. "'Excited' is the wrong word." He tugs the shoulders of Vanya's coat straight. "I am relieved."
“How come?"
France gives Vanya a perfunctory smile. "Have you ever had a succession crisis?"
A furrow opens up between Vanya's pale eyebrows. "Sometimes my rulers would fight each other... But that was back when we were pagans, and we didn’t know any better."
"I had less of that kind of problem when I was pagan," France sighs. He stands. "Well, in any case. Anna seems like a very fine girl, and her children will--ah--keep me out of trouble. So I am relieved to have her here." He dusts a few flecks of grass off his sleeves and mutters to himself, "For a while it was beginning to look like the entire European aristocracy had become so inbred that the king would have no choice but to fornicate with himself to produce an heir."
Vanya hops a step back towards the gallery, beaming. "She is nice! And she wants babies! She told Ukraine so! You'll have lots of princes and princesses." He's in the curved shadows of the arcade before he blinks. "What's 'fornicate?'"
France grins at him. "How long is your stay in Reims due to last? Perhaps you could find out."
"Dunno!" Vanya waves the bouquet vaguely. "Is it something only important people like kings do?"
"Not at all," France assures him, "Although it has been my impression that kings do it more than most men."
Vanya stands on one leg and thinks, swaying a little. "Well, I bet I could do it too. I'm not real smart or anything, but I learn fast."
"I'm sure you do," France purrs. "And after all, we are going to be married, soon."
"Can it only happen when you get married?"
"The alternative is discouraged." France straightens his cuffs, glances back towards the front of the cathedral. "--By some parties. Although even then, an hour in a confessional will usually set you right."
"I saw a confessional box inside!" Vanya says. "We don't have those. That's okay, though, 'cause I don't like small places. Is that where fornication happens?"
France coughs on a laugh and lays his hand on Vanya's head, strokes his hair a few passes with his thumb. "Not nearly so much as it should."
Vanya watches a butterfly skitter and sail low over the grass. It's yellow and black and he wishes that it was okay to touch butterflies without making it so they can't fly anymore. "Anna is going to be queen, soon," he chirps at last. "I can ask her to tell people to do more of it, if you want."
"Let's just keep this conversation between us, shall we?" France touches Vanya under his chin, and their eyes meet. "Fornication is a very private thing, you should know. I think, once the ceremony is over, we should return to my rooms so that I can demonstrate--"
"Bonnefoy!"
"Fuck," France sighs.
A bevy of men in bright clothes and funny hats come marching across the grass, their sleeves fluttering and their eyebrows knit together. The one in front stops two feet from France, who had taken his hand away from Vanya and stands relaxed and attentive a little to his left.
"Where have you been?" the man demands. His front is all covered in gold stitching. "We have been looking for you for an hour!"
"Well, yes," France agrees. "I moved this way to avoid you."
""His Eminence insists that you attend him prior to the ceremony--"
"Ah. I am afraid the finer points of church etiquette are not quite what I had on my mind."
"Who is this?" the deacon bristles, glares at Vanya, tightenens his robes across his chest. "Why isn't he with the other children?"
France glances at Vanya, then back at the deacon. "He is one of Princess Anna's guests."
"I-I just wanted to, um, to look at everything before the wedding." These are holy men, Vanya can tell. He’s always wondered why God seems to like big hats so much. He clings to the wilting clovers and looks helplessly up at France. "We only talked a little..."
France gives him a reassuring smile, strokes his hair again. "You did nothing wrong, mon lapin. But I will take you back to your sisters and--" a tiny grimace, "Then I should go to see the cardinal."
Vanya tangles his fingers into France's, quick and unselfconscious. He tugs gently, whispers too quiet for the muttering group to hear: "I can tell him that it was my fault you were late, if he gets mad."
France peels through the bulwark of holy men, Vanya in tow, and gives his fingers a little squeeze. "It's all right. The cardinal never thinks much of me. I am used to it. But you--" A quick smile. "Should enjoy the rest of your stay. Let nothing trouble you, do you understand? And if you should have the opportunity to visit me again in the future--well." France's smile stays on as his gaze drifts up to the distant crowd. "I should like that very much."
"I'm gonna come lots," Vanya giggles. "And meet everybody in Europe!" He trots along beside France, trying to keep up with the older nation's long, graceful strides. "I hope they like me."
"I am sure they will, darling." There, the princess's retinue; France gives him a gentle push in its direction. "I already do."
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--After the death of his first two wives, both of whom died childless, King Henry I of France searched the courts of Europe for a suitable bride, but could not locate a princess who was not related to him within illegal degrees of kinship. At last he sent an embassy to distant Kiev, which returned with Anna, princess of Kiev and daughter of Yaroslav the Wise. Anna and Henry were married at the cathedral of Reims on 19 May 1051.
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Title: "Church Etiquette"
Author: pyrrhiccomedy and wizzard890
Character(s) or Pairing(s): bitty!Russia, bitty!Ukraine, very bitty!Belarus, France, various men of the cloth.
Rating: PG-13 for, uh, for France.
Summary: In which Russia meets France for the first time, and narrowly avoids receiving something of an education.
And I Care...Why? Because bitty!Russia is cuter than a box of puppies. And watching France make a pass at somebody who's still young enough to be afraid of the dark is sort of failtastically awesome. There's history in, too, if you look!
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Reims, France. May 19th, 1051.
It's a perfect day for a wedding. Well, Vanya's never been married, so he wouldn't really know, but the sky is a bright, enamel blue, and there are a few fluffy wisps of cloud hanging over the cathedral, turning shapes on every little gust of breeze and if he was going to get married, he'd want the world to look just like this. Princess Anna is so lucky.
He stands half in and half out of the cool stone gallery bordering the east end of the cloister and watches his sisters pick sprays of clover growing up around the edges of the lawn.
Belarus had spent the last three days floating between them, like a mote of dust caught between crossbreezes. Now she clings close to Ukraine, her fingers curled in their big sister's white skirts, a clump of clover clutched against her frock. She stares at each clover for a long time before she picks it; measuring it, studying it, Belarus will only ever pick a flower if it meets her standards.
Eventually she drifts back to Vanya and holds up a small white blossom: every petal is perfect and just like its fellows. "I found this for you," she whispers.
Vanya takes it from her carefully, makes sure not to pinch the stem too hard between his fingertips. "It's so pretty!" He smiles a little, then reaches out and tugs light and sweet on the end of his sister's pale braid. Her hair gleams in the sunlight. "Think they'll let me wear it in the wedding?"
Belarus's eyes widen, and she looks fast back to Ukraine, as if for permission.
There's a bundle of clover flowers in Ukraine's hands, and she fusses with them as she makes her way across the cloister to the gallery. Vanya sees that she's trying to loop them all together with an especially long strand of grass. "Vanya," she says, eyes on her work, "you've got nowhere to put a flower!"
"I do too! Um." Vanya casts about briefly, rubs his hands down his sides. These new clothes are so funny, all crisp and smooth and too-snug. It would probably be bad to make a little hole in them for Belarus' flower.
Ukraine knots the grass a final time, and beams down at her bouquet with a proud smile that Vanya thinks is the prettiest out of all her smiles. "We could put some in your hair, though."
Vanya wrinkles his nose.
Belarus takes the white flower back; then goes up on her toes, wobbles, she's so small, and tucks the flower behind Vanya's ear. She looks up at him, serious and big-eyed, and waits.
If he looks to the side just right, Vanya can see the petals out of the corner of his eye. They blend in with his hair, especially now that it's summer and the sun bleaches it so pale.
Ukraine giggles.
An older--an older nation comes suddenly around the corner, walking fast, and almost trips over Vanya. He jerks himself to a halt four inches away and blinks down at them. "Oh," he says, "Hello."
Belarus scampers behind Vanya and peers out around his side.
The new nation is a lot older than the three of them, probably big enough to have a king and queen and everything! His clothes are even richer than the ones Vanya and his sisters are wearing, but he looks like he's used to them. He's not tugging at his sleeves like Vanya's been doing, anyway.
"H-Hello," Ukraine stammers. She's using her polite voice. "It's, um, it's nice to see you again."
Vanya remembers that she had gotten to meet their host right when they arrived, because she was the oldest. Well, and also because he and Belarus had been sleeping, and had to be carried inside and put to bed, curled into one another like a pair of kittens.
The other nation straightens, smiles. "Ukraine," he greets. "I hope the accommodations have been to your liking? --Are you lost? The wedding party is preparing on the other side of the cathedral."
Ukraine's eyes widen. "Already?" She pushes the clover bouquet into Vanya's arms and takes Belarus' hand, urges her gently out from behind him. "I told the princess we'd be there to help!” The girls are halfway across the lawn before Ukraine calls back, “Vanya, don’t lose my flowers!”
Belarus stumbles after their sister, hidden in clover up to her knees; she gives Vanya and the other nation a blinking look over her shoulder before they disappear around the chapel.
The other nation stares after them for a few seconds, while the grass sways and closes the wake behind them. Then he heaves in a small breath and gives Vanya a bow. There's a laugh caught in his eyes. "We haven't met yet, have we? I'm France, your host."
Vanya blushes, and he feels himself going a little quiet inside; new people always manage to twist his tongue into a knot. His fingers tighten around the clover and he hears a little snip, feels a broken stem in his hand and oops, he must have squeezed too hard--
He returns France's bow with a clumsy one of his own, to buy himself some time. He's not trying to be rude, really he's not.
France waits a few seconds, and then gently prompts, "You must be Russia."
A nod, too fast. "Mm-hm. But I’m called Vanya." He fiddles with his high collar, shifts his weight in his tight new shoes, and fishes for something else to say. "Um. Anna is really nice. I-I hope your king likes her."
"I'm sure he will." France scans the horizon, broken by the upswept arcs of the Reims cathedral. He smoothes down the front of his shiny blue clothes and looks back down at Vanya. A little silence unfolds. "Have you enjoyed your stay?" he asks, as though he's only now remembering to speak.
"It's so pretty here," Vanya bubbles, shyness swallowed abruptly by his glittering impressions of the city. "A-And all the people move so fast all the time, like they've got somewhere really important they need to be, and they dress so nice and you've, um, you've got that big arch that Rome made! One of the princess' guards showed it to me and is it really as old as he said?"
A cautious smile from France. "You mean the Porte de Mars? Yes, it really is that old, and so am I." He tips his head, flicks his hair over his shoulder, and goes on, "But I wear it well, don't you think so?"
"Uh-huh. You're nice to look at." Vanya does, for a few seconds, squinting into the sunlight. "Do you wear clothes like this a lot? 'Cause mine are itchy."
France sighs. "They really are, aren't they."
"Everyone keeps on telling me not to mess them up, so I can't climb on anything! And they’re all ruffly and tight." He scrubs a hand through his hair, catches himself before his fingertips can dislodge Belarus' flower. "I think they're a lot prettier on girls."
France kneels before him, straightens his hair with quick fingertips, swipes it off his forehead, straightens the flower. "Well, I think you look very fine," he murmurs, "And you are very patient for wearing them all day."
Vanya flushes, smiles. A dimple blooms on his left cheek. "Princess Anna wants me to. And it's her wedding, so I think it's a good thing to make her happy." A pause. "Are you excited about getting a new queen?"
France thinks about it for a moment. "'Excited' is the wrong word." He tugs the shoulders of Vanya's coat straight. "I am relieved."
“How come?"
France gives Vanya a perfunctory smile. "Have you ever had a succession crisis?"
A furrow opens up between Vanya's pale eyebrows. "Sometimes my rulers would fight each other... But that was back when we were pagans, and we didn’t know any better."
"I had less of that kind of problem when I was pagan," France sighs. He stands. "Well, in any case. Anna seems like a very fine girl, and her children will--ah--keep me out of trouble. So I am relieved to have her here." He dusts a few flecks of grass off his sleeves and mutters to himself, "For a while it was beginning to look like the entire European aristocracy had become so inbred that the king would have no choice but to fornicate with himself to produce an heir."
Vanya hops a step back towards the gallery, beaming. "She is nice! And she wants babies! She told Ukraine so! You'll have lots of princes and princesses." He's in the curved shadows of the arcade before he blinks. "What's 'fornicate?'"
France grins at him. "How long is your stay in Reims due to last? Perhaps you could find out."
"Dunno!" Vanya waves the bouquet vaguely. "Is it something only important people like kings do?"
"Not at all," France assures him, "Although it has been my impression that kings do it more than most men."
Vanya stands on one leg and thinks, swaying a little. "Well, I bet I could do it too. I'm not real smart or anything, but I learn fast."
"I'm sure you do," France purrs. "And after all, we are going to be married, soon."
"Can it only happen when you get married?"
"The alternative is discouraged." France straightens his cuffs, glances back towards the front of the cathedral. "--By some parties. Although even then, an hour in a confessional will usually set you right."
"I saw a confessional box inside!" Vanya says. "We don't have those. That's okay, though, 'cause I don't like small places. Is that where fornication happens?"
France coughs on a laugh and lays his hand on Vanya's head, strokes his hair a few passes with his thumb. "Not nearly so much as it should."
Vanya watches a butterfly skitter and sail low over the grass. It's yellow and black and he wishes that it was okay to touch butterflies without making it so they can't fly anymore. "Anna is going to be queen, soon," he chirps at last. "I can ask her to tell people to do more of it, if you want."
"Let's just keep this conversation between us, shall we?" France touches Vanya under his chin, and their eyes meet. "Fornication is a very private thing, you should know. I think, once the ceremony is over, we should return to my rooms so that I can demonstrate--"
"Bonnefoy!"
"Fuck," France sighs.
A bevy of men in bright clothes and funny hats come marching across the grass, their sleeves fluttering and their eyebrows knit together. The one in front stops two feet from France, who had taken his hand away from Vanya and stands relaxed and attentive a little to his left.
"Where have you been?" the man demands. His front is all covered in gold stitching. "We have been looking for you for an hour!"
"Well, yes," France agrees. "I moved this way to avoid you."
""His Eminence insists that you attend him prior to the ceremony--"
"Ah. I am afraid the finer points of church etiquette are not quite what I had on my mind."
"Who is this?" the deacon bristles, glares at Vanya, tightenens his robes across his chest. "Why isn't he with the other children?"
France glances at Vanya, then back at the deacon. "He is one of Princess Anna's guests."
"I-I just wanted to, um, to look at everything before the wedding." These are holy men, Vanya can tell. He’s always wondered why God seems to like big hats so much. He clings to the wilting clovers and looks helplessly up at France. "We only talked a little..."
France gives him a reassuring smile, strokes his hair again. "You did nothing wrong, mon lapin. But I will take you back to your sisters and--" a tiny grimace, "Then I should go to see the cardinal."
Vanya tangles his fingers into France's, quick and unselfconscious. He tugs gently, whispers too quiet for the muttering group to hear: "I can tell him that it was my fault you were late, if he gets mad."
France peels through the bulwark of holy men, Vanya in tow, and gives his fingers a little squeeze. "It's all right. The cardinal never thinks much of me. I am used to it. But you--" A quick smile. "Should enjoy the rest of your stay. Let nothing trouble you, do you understand? And if you should have the opportunity to visit me again in the future--well." France's smile stays on as his gaze drifts up to the distant crowd. "I should like that very much."
"I'm gonna come lots," Vanya giggles. "And meet everybody in Europe!" He trots along beside France, trying to keep up with the older nation's long, graceful strides. "I hope they like me."
"I am sure they will, darling." There, the princess's retinue; France gives him a gentle push in its direction. "I already do."
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--After the death of his first two wives, both of whom died childless, King Henry I of France searched the courts of Europe for a suitable bride, but could not locate a princess who was not related to him within illegal degrees of kinship. At last he sent an embassy to distant Kiev, which returned with Anna, princess of Kiev and daughter of Yaroslav the Wise. Anna and Henry were married at the cathedral of Reims on 19 May 1051.
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