Dressing Wounds With Wine and Liquor
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, I simply worship it and it's amazing creator, Hidekazu Himaruya.
Summary: As France broods unhappily over the experiences brought about by being a nation, or more specifically his concerns revolving around love, you can always count on England to make him feel worse when he's down... England, you're an asshole. Bottled up FrUk.
Warning: Super angsty, solitary -not 2P- France. France centric. Both human and Nation names used. Probable cursing, but I'm too lazy to check. It might also thoroughly depress and bore you...
I love, chant and worship angst, but I can't write angst soooo... Yeah, I'm just going to stop demoting this fic now. This is also my first time writing in years, huzzah! Therefore be prepared to experience a hella amount of mistakes and muddled up sentences. This is what Hetalia has done to me, it has inspired me to write again. Maybe it'll help me get back into the swing of things... ? There may be some editing mistakes, I'm too lazy to check right now, but please point them out to me if you come across any.
Written alongside listening to Coeur de Pirate - Place de la République and Adieu. Indila - SOS, Tourner Dans Le Vide, Run Run. Stromae - Formidable. Seriously, I am in love with Stromae right now, if you want to explore some French/Belgian music, I really suggest that you really check him out. I find most of his newer songs so unbearably catchy.
A blanket of stars covered Paris on this particular night with the sky being completely cloudless, allowing him to see each little pinprick of twinkling light sparkling in the black abyss above. Had the native nation of this land looked out one of the front room windows of his second home on the edge of the city, the stars would've been drowned out by the glowing horizon of the buzzing metropolis, a metropolis that was buzzing even at night as the majority of French men, women and children slept. Instead of squinting into the glowing skyline of his capital, France lingered out on the balcony towards the rear end of his home, the expense of acres behind his house bereft of any sort of light, just darkness; nothing to hide the stars from his wandering eyes that sought peacefulness. The lukewarm night breeze rustled the trees below him, he glanced down only to see their leafy outlines in the inky black and navy. Swirling the dribble of wine left in the tall glass sitting in his palm, his ears faintly puck up on the sounds of Cyrano de Bergerac, an old romance classic, drifting out through his veranda doors that had been thrown wide and left open for the twilight and it's breeze to leak into his master bedroom.
He leant forward and propped an elbow on the stony, white-wash ledge of his balcony's thick wall, setting his tired chin in his open palm. Tossing a glance to his near empty wine glass, he decided to tip its last contents over the edge slowly, realising one glass would be enough for tonight. The liquid would go to his head quickly had he passed the three glass mark, so instead he wished to revel in the calming effects that were already beginning to unwind his muscles and settle his mind.
Placing the glass aside gently, he folded his arms on the ledge, resting his wearing head on them and tucking his stubbly chin in the small space created.
How he would love a warm body to hold him tonight, as cliché as that sounded. A warm body not just to be near him or to partake in the endless sex the other nations so stereotypically thought he had, but a warm body to stay with him and really love him. It would be the polar opposite of a fleeting connection that would only bloom for one night and wilt at dawn - that was lust, a one night stand. That was leering at something that caught your eye, stealing curious glances at a person who had snared your interest, it all came down to whether or not you enjoyed the sight before you, sometimes it made your mouth water, as inappropriate as it was, but it was the physical appeal, something you liked the look of when you had the appetite for it.
But France's usual appetite, the typical urges to storm his beautiful city of Paris to bring home a woman or a man had left him, for now. Yesterday had been a down day, tonight would be a down night but tomorrow he would wake and wonder what had ever gotten into him, he'd return to normal, silky compliments flowing out of his mouth like second nature, innuendos rolling of his tongue with the intentions of making other people and other nations flustered.
Still, he had yet to get through this night where he'd be wallowing around in his dismal and languid mind, thinking of the past and the future simultaneously.
In a way, the sole problem was that the nation of love was a little bit lonely; his abilities and skills in the area of seduction allowed him to bed almost anyone he desired, but sex didn't really cut it now, it had him feeling excited and warm for a while, his limbs and body tingling in the immediate aftermath of it, his head remaining contently fuzzy and thoughtless as he lay panting for the briefest of moments, but at the crack of dawn he'd wake with an empty feeling in his chest, his heart sinking just a little bit that this person beside him didn't really mean anything to him, that they never would be able to become close to him because France would never give them the chance.
Lust was all well and good when the body wanted to submit to it, when it craved the rouse that could be mistaken for love, to fool the lonely into thinking they were okay with how life was turning out, a one night fling and something uncommitted to keep all the negative feelings at bay. As much as the Frenchman approved of lust, he had openly accepted that it was a part of everyone, something about such connections worried him to no end. France was beginning to panic; his heart, it was beginning to crave an emotional and lifelong connection, the connection that kept your lover there in the morning when the two of you woke with your arms entangled around each other's bodies and you didn't have to worry about them, or you, upping and leaving. It was the connection that saw you both through thick and thin, the light and the dark times, the connection that had a familiar face to ease you through life whenever change was a whirlwind and you felt a little lost and ungrounded.
A craving to return home from war and have someone waiting to hug you, kiss you, tell you they love you, and for you to be able to tell them the exact same thing from the very pit of your heart. France had once fought on the frontline with his people, the First World War, where he'd been shot in the gut - had he been human, he would've bleed to death, and slowly. Being a nation, he still bleed for the longest time waiting for a fellow soldier to realise he wasn't dropping like a fly anytime soon.
But when he had returned home from the trenches, hopped off that train with other soldiers where wives, children, siblings and parents cried with happiness at having their husband, father, brother or son return home while other families stood anxiously, hoping and praying to see their loved one emerge from all the smoke invading the train platform from the funnel and engine of the steam train, France had wished someone had been there to greet him. It didn't help to return home to a house that was in tatters, a place that had once been a sanctuary becoming unrecognisable to him.
Such thoughts were cruel of him though - soldiers had died, his precious people had died in the wars, for every one man lost a plethora of people mourned to different degrees and there he had been, among his citizens, wishing he had someone to greet him, when many of those around him were wishing for a beloved's return, all having to deal with the fact that there was a possibility that it might never happen. It was cruel of him.
France smiled sadly and closed his eyes as the breeze tickled his face, nature's tranquilly gradually lulling him to sleep. Nations couldn't experience real love - Well, they could he supposed - because there was nothing physically stopping them, they still felt every bit the human, indulging in the emotion of it all. But they shouldn't experience it, that is, not if they wanted their hearts to be mercilessly ripped from their chests when the inevitable came in the end.
It had happened to him twice before, the first had been Jeanne, his heart twisted painfully even at the faintest thought of her, so he attempted to dampen it with a sip of wine, only to fondle with the empty glass, realising he'd thrown away the drink that would've be his haven.
He sighed and went back to what he had been doing beforehand, cracking his neck and plopping his head down again as his thoughts involuntarily took another direction. After swearing Jeanne D'Arc would be the first, the only and the last, it had happened for a second time. The woman had been mortal and he had been immortal, just like Jeanne D'Arc and he. She wasn't anything of historical significance, simply a French citizen with a personality so colourful that it could shine through even the most black and white of pictures. It had been 1885 when he'd met her. A time in which England was trying to grow a beard and was failing miserably, or was reluctantly discarding his collection of silly top hats that had been in fashion amongst English gentlemen since the 1830s. France himself had been very fond of white tights under trousers that resembled an equestrians nowadays, he loved his ruffled neck cloth and he seemed like the only French man to have the courage to brave gorgeous long hair, that of which he was really proud of to this day.
He still remembered her face so clearly, even after so long. She'd been ripped from his life while she'd still been young - just like Jeanne. He remembered her youthful and he wasn't sure if it were a bittersweet blessing. He didn't have to watch her grow old and die slowly.
For six measly years of his centuries long life she'd been there to wake up beside him. One day, looking through an old photo album filled with poorly developed black and white pictures from the first time they'd met, she told him it looked like he hadn't aged a day. Unknown to her, what should've been a compliment and made him smile, it only stung, the underlying meaning she was unaware of causing a thick lump to rise in his throat as he looked over her shoulder at the photo. He'd never told her about his immortality... Never about being a nation.
Not once had he'd breathed that he was France.
Their bond, his adoration for her had formed after he'd broke the one night rule, they woke in the morning under silk blankets, he'd made her giggle and before he knew it, she was telling him her address as he scribbled it on a piece of parchment. They embraced lightly, but as France leant back, her touch lingered before she let go and she straightened her hat atop her long shimmering blond hair, preparing to slip out the door.
Inhaling the night air sharply, France struggled to get the air into his lungs with that familiar constriction of his throat. Realising he shouldn't reflect or dwell on events that had long conspired, he pushed himself off his elbows and stood up tall again, sweeping his deep-sea blue eyes over his garden one last time, collecting the empty wine glass from where it sat extremely close to the edge. Maybe a cigarette would do wonders, or maybe he should just go inside and head straight to bed, a yawn slipping through his lips at the very thought. Even with no one to see him, he still felt the need to place a hand to his mouth.
He stirred and set off back inside when his ears puck up on the pleasant pinging of his phone that sat on the window ledge inside, it brought his attention to the sound still coming from his TV. As he shuffled back through the veranda doors, he swiped the iphone from its perch beside the pale cream curtains, vaguely noting he ought to properly re-watch the rest of that movie one day. He put the glass back down beside the newly opened bottle of wine on his bedside table, mentally reprimanding himself when his fingers twitched at the want to pour himself out a fresh glass of crimson alcohol. If the wine had been white instead of red or rosé, then he wouldn't have had the problem with wanting another glass, after all, that effervescent sparkling pee-coloured stuff did smell and taste of le pissement in France's opinion , but he would rather down a whole bottle of Chardonnay than admit a slight dislike to a any wine to England.
Instead of pouring another, he screwed the cap back on the tall bottle and flopped down onto his plush quilts, swiping a thumb across the screen of his phone and bit back a laugh when he discovered the text was from the Devil of Hell's kitchen himself.
TO: FRANCIS BONNEFOY
FROM: ARTHUR KIRKLAND
Noo sssshsshhh listen king frog of frenchland do not question me,. or my logics as i pour my beating heart oout to you,. i ponder over that fairytail where the princess kisses the frog and it photosynthesises into the fugly prince I like to bash disney you can't really blame me but the whole cracky crazy thing makes me think of you,,.
He read over the text with a pout on his lips at the Englishman's appalling grammar rather than the strange content, since he really was no stranger to drunken texts from Arthur. The man actually had a very creative mind when drunk, the polar opposite of what seemed to be his two dimensional sober self, it was as if sometimes he morphed into a completely different celestial being that posed questions like "What do you think would happen if the world stopped turning?" Other times he would be angry, his plain-old-angry-drunk-complaining-British self, where he'd half-stomp-half-stumble around whining about America's independence or restart the long concluded feud over why he should've ended up saving Seychelles and Canada from "Frenchie-isation", as he'd once so 'eloquently' put it. Francis typed out his reply with an amused smile on his face, rolling over on the poufy blankets to face the decorated ceiling of his bedroom, relishing the softness of comforter against the curve of his back.
TO: ARTHUR KIRKLAND
FROM: FRANCIS BONNEFOY
Oh L'Angleterre this is just vraiment mignon, mon cher! From your lack of punctuation, and not at all from the content, I can deduce you are drunk, oui? Although, c'est très bizzare... You are drunk, yet you spell the act of a flowering plant correctly. Interessant , très interessant.
France had only discarded his phone to the side and closed his eyes for a nap when it rung out again, eyes still closed, he padded a lethargic arm around the quilts to the right of him before wrapping him fingers around his phone and lifting it above his face.
TO: FRANCIS BONNEFOY
FROM: ARTHUR KIRKLAND
You dont know me frog!" how daer you insinuatte such blithering nonsens i could be soaring right now for all you knoe i hate you sodding sod and ur arse,.. you deduce nothing your not sherlock
France rolled his sleepy blue eyes at England's typical insult filled messages, the man was so predictable for the majority of the time but he found it oddly coincidental that the Englishman had taken to getting plastered tonight, of all nights. Tomorrow he was hosting a world meeting in London, meaning the man was going to be suffering a nasty hangover during it. France briefly pondered over the circumstances would have drove him to such unwise actions, it was a decision unfitting of England - Since the man insisted on taking these conferences that usually went nowhere very seriously and, with the help of Germany, crushed all the possible fun France, Spain and Prussia always planned on having. He tapped out a quick reply before dropping the device on his stomach and reached to absently twirl a strand of blond hair around his forefinger.
TO: ARTHUR KIRKLAND
FROM: FRANCIS BONNEFOY
Oui d'accord d'accord, I get it, you might be drunk, drugged, could have been hit really hard over the head with a tennis racket? But tell me mon ami, I'm curious, how do I remind you of that Frog fairy tale? Hm~ In your eyes am I the horrendous frog or the 'fugly' prince? I must inform you that I am neither though, I am fabulous, je suis formidable! Sexiii moi~
Again the phone sang out quicker than Francis was expecting - mon dieu, Arthur was really fast at texting, even when he couldn't think or type straight.
TO: FRANCIS BONNEFOY
FROM: ARTHUR KIRKLAND
yes you remind me ofthe fat and ungly toad prince inbred but i also think what if soneone where to kiss you and you were to be nicer? yoknow what i'm saying?
France blinked at the words of the screen in front of him a couple of times, separating conjoined words and correcting spelling errors before really thinking about what England was saying. In all honesty, he wasn't exactly sure what he meant. It was a well known fairytale and France was positive that England would not be sparing him any drunken compliments. With a shrug against his mattress, he smiled mischievously and sent off his reply - best to reply to it in the only way he knows how.
TO: ARTHUR KIRKLAND
FROM: FRANCIS BONNEFOY
Through the butchering of your own native tongue, I still somehow managed to get the general idea. If you kissed me, would I turn into the beautiful prince and shower you with roses, wine and love, and that is something you want? Oh L'Angleterre I'm so surprised at this indirect revelation of your feelings for me! I always thought you were asexual, this is wonderful discovery! Finland could cancel Christmas and I wouldn't even care.
The effect of such a text was almost instantaneous, in no less than thirty seconds France received a hurried reply, as if England was nearly smashing his phone apart in his haste to send back something to counteract France's words. The French man chuckled at the thought of a flustered Arthur, flustered with either anger or embarrassment or too much lager, fawning hard over how to best insult a flirty French man. Gosh, how he loved the look of the Englishman when his cheeks were tainted red, or when his hair was slightly more tussled than normal, or when he decided to wear a shirt and tie rather than a thick heavy cotton jumper and even then, France still loved those hideous jumpers - to a certain degree, of course, some were too much of a fashion faux pas to excuse. The world most likely looked at England as being supercilious and standoffish but France saw that aspect of him and he loved that about him. France found himself both hating and loving the man very much, in the strangest ways too - like how the man would stiffen in his chair and sit up straighter whenever he was being addressed by someone he wasn't really fond of or didn't exactly know, how he would pucker his lips the second before he took a sip of Earl Grey tea, or how his nostrils flared whenever he sniffed the tea his assistant would bring him just to check from the smell if it was Earl Grey or not, the paternal looks you'd catch him shooting towards America every once and a while, how he tugged absently at the hem of his suit cuff when his was thinking hard, or how he crossed his leg over the other and shifted in his chair every time he didn't agree on something someone else said, how his monstrous eyebrows raised in surprise or judgement and bunched together in scepticism, how his emerald orbs reminded him of the most hateful vegetables to ever exsist - leeks, cucumbers, gherkins - and the list goes on.
Yeah, France thought reluctantly. Maybe I'm enamoured. Maybe... Merde. That was never supposed to happen.
Whereas France had the secret of wanting to spend his life with someone, he was also strongly attracted to things he couldn't get his hands on easily, and England's attitude made him one of those people. Seducing the Brit was near impossible. Every time France complimented him, which usually didn't happen very often, England would respond with a textbook of amphibian related insults, every time France so much as brushed him by accident whenever they weren't physically trying to strangle each other, he'd be on the receiving end of a passionate lecture on how it was disrespectful to come onto people whenever they're clearly repelled by his 'nauseating cologne that smells like something found at the bottom of Hogwart's lake', even offering a comforting hug saw France receive a punch in the face before. Maybe all that was why France was secretly so damn enthralled by the infuriating nation, he'd rather that be the reason why instead of actual, genuine love.
But when he next glanced at the text he'd just received, he felt something sink in his chest, sinking with both a realisation that it wasn't the former reason as to why he had loved being in the man's company for so long, but also at the fact that England's words actually did have an effect on him somewhat, because they actually hurt him slightly. Why though? Nothing was different between them now compared to yesterday, if England had rung him over the phone yesterday and showcased the usual vehement disgust in his voice rather than texting the words, France wouldn't have cared in the slightest.
TO: FRANCIS BONNEFOY
FROM: ARTHUR KIRKLAND
twat no ur disgusting i just vomited a little nd it wasn't even the whiskys fault i mean someone else,./ someone else problay kissed you and reversed the spelll and you became the toad haha i just made myself laugh
Maybe it got to him so much because when people are drunk out of their wits, they tended to say how they really felt about things. . . They'd drop the facade they'd been trying so hard to maintain when sober and let the truth come out.
Was Francis upset that Arthur hadn't revealed something of the sort yet? Arthur got drunk so often but he'd never indicated liking the Frenchman in that way, or in any way for that matter. Wine made Francis oddly giddy, he couldn't remember the amount of times he'd told Arthur how handsome he was when he was drunk, each time bringing up how his eyebrows could never dampen his love for him. But Arthur never seemed to take him seriously, the Englishman believed that was how Francis acted with everyone. He brushed the compliments off as typically French. France was a flirt, and England once told him there was nothing special about words of adoration being tossed around so carelessly and frequently.
But Arthur had no idea how wrong he was, nor how truthful France's words had been each and every time.
TO: ARTHUR KIRKLAND
FROM: FRANCIS BONNEFOY
Non, I am Prada et you are crocs. Deteste, je vous deteste.
He blinked away his unfocused vision and stared at the British nation's very last text for another short minute, before sighing and running a sluggish hand through his slightly tangled blond locks. Even though he suddenly felt a little bit gloomy and unenthusiastic, a small smile graced his lips, but the smile was a long way short of happy, or content, or humoured.
It was simply solemn, a smile of solemn acceptance, acceptance that this would always be the attitude England would take to him. Acceptance that England would never be his, even for a small second. They'd fought for centuries, fought too often, held too many grudges against one another, and it seemed England couldn't both love and hate a person at the same time, not like France was so adept in doing.
The way France saw it; there were the human's, many of whom he had grown to adore when he'd gotten to know them, but all humans, no matter how much he wanted to let the warmth of love grow and spread like ivy up the side of a piazza in Italy, he wouldn't let it because he couldn't have them forever, not for the majority of his life. No matter how persistent the human's were, when they asked over and over again with tearful eyes why France couldn't give them a chance, no matter how some made him laugh and enraptured him by the simplistic beauty of their faces, the artful blink of long eyelashes, the purse of warm lips, no matter how long time seemed to stop along with his heartbeat when someone beautiful gazed into his eyes or brushed soft gentle hands against his. He could never have them forever- they could have him forever of course, but France would have to live on after their deaths.
So there were the mortals,
Then there was England.
Stoic. Pompous. Patriotic yet secretly a closet anarchist from his plundering days. Proud. Gentlemanly. Judgemental. Herb obsessed. Many other things. England.
France didn't understand whatever they had, nor could he make any conclusive heads or tails of what he felt for England. They fought like two cats who hated each other's guts, pulling hair, shoving, whacking, yanking ties. What France felt when fighting with England was quite the opposite of what one would think - the French man enjoyed it, it allowed him to be physically close to England for once.
It was all very complicated, he supposed.
France decided it was time for bed and heaved himself onto his feet, making his way towards the on-suite of his room to take a warm shower and scrub his teeth.
On the cream, plush sofa in the centre of the spacious living room lay England, his face pressing into the cushioning as one arm remained looped over the back of the seat. The other hung idly over the edge of the couch with his phone gripped loosely in his slack hand.
It had been a trying day for the nation. First, one of his four older brothers, all of which having the humongous 'Kirkland' eyebrows, who was known as Wales - a jovial brunette who was nowhere near as raucous as the rest of his brothers - appeared at his door with a sack of odd ingredients to stew up a mysterious broth, a broth of which he wouldn't breathe a word about to England. Curious, and enthralled by most of the odd concoctions this particular 'medieval era' obsessed brother cooked up, England had let him in with the hopes of snagging himself some helpful tips for when he next needed to brew a potion... Or invent a new flavour of home-originated herbal tea, either-or. Half an hour into the process the cauldron exploded into flames and burnt his kitchen to the ground. Being the stubborn, awkward nation he was, England fought the fire himself as Wales did a runner, probably on a dragon.
Next, at around lunchtime, a rowdy burly man with eye-catching ruby-red hair, wearing a kilt that fluttered threateningly as he sprinted up the path and shouldered England's front door of its hinges, who was commonly known as the second - and eldest - brother of England, named Scotland, decided it was time to make an untimely appearance. In contrast to the way he rammed down the door, Scotland came with a peaceful request for independence. The two sat down and negotiated a while before finally agreeing that the citizens would vote on the decision later on in the year. This seemed satisfying enough for the Scottish man, and England was relieved the negotiations hadn't descended into an all out brawl. Just when he thought luck was on his side and he prepared to shoo the Scot out without a fuss, his brother was finishing off the contents of his drinks cabinet at an alarming pace. A fuss was kicked up as England desperately tried to save the little alcohol that was left, and as Scotland was thrown out the door seemingly unaffected by the massive amount he had drunk, neither was left unscathed.
The icing on the cake came as England was nursing his bruises. A freckly, flaming orange - thoroughly ginger - lanky Northern Ireland came barrelling into the room without stopping to ring the doorbell by the door-less front door. Apparently the Irish Sea did not dampen brotherly connections , or rather, dampen the niggling notion that his little brother was already all riled up and fuming, and being a brother who hated missing the chance to wind up his sibling, he was over in a flash to piss England of even more. He brought multiple messages of love and hate from the Republic of Ireland, complained over and over again about the religious divide on his land, destroyed his house and smashed the expensive chandelier in his hallway when he attempted to hang England from it by the scruff of his jumper, but at this point England had already polished of what was left of his liquor reserves and was slurring his words as he padded after the energetic Irish man, shouting profanities as timeless ceramic decorations were knocked flying.
This time around, if England had have been sober, America would've been welcomed into his home for once. He arrived exactly at the time he and England had previously scheduled during the working week, soda and hamburger in hand. Burger stuffed in his mouth, he surveyed the ginger with wide blue eyes and pushed his glasses up his nose before he resumed munching. Asking Northern Ireland questions between mouth falls of soda and savoury meat and buns. Northern Ireland had promptly left when the American's energetic attitude managed to outdo his own, leaving America to look after the drunkard.
Now, well into the early hours of the morning, America saunters into the living room with a cup of coffee in one hand and what was an attempt at tea in the other, which would have been a very decent and adequate cup had he not of used the frothy milk meant for the coffee, both hands trembling from excessive caffeine intake - since the American had been purposely testing and trying his limits, but he only finds the once up and rambling Englishman face down in the couch. He laughs and shrugs, placing the beverages on the coffee table to extract his phone and take a few pictures to add as attachments to tomorrow morning's email. It's only when he goes searching for the telly remote, which is found resting on the floor right next to England's hand, that he spots the phone loosely gripped in the others fingers.
Dead set on winding the Brit up, Alfred decides he is going to rename every single one of his contacts after superheroes and villains and maybe send a few inappropriate texts, or hack Arthur's boring political blog to spice it up a bit. He slips the phone carefully from Arthur's loose fingers, intending on renaming himself Captain America, the touch making him stir a little bit as the Brit mumbles something into the couch before he shifts his head to the side to reveal dry drool down his chin, but when Alfred goes to sabotage the phone, he sees a text in progress flash upon the screen, the cursor flashing rhythmically and patiently at the end of the illiterate message as if waiting for someone to hit send.
'youh dunt mean that dum idiot I lovev youo you know' it says exactly. America frowns at first, but then smiles slightly when he sees who the planned recipient was meant to be. With swift fingers, he fixes up the text and sends it off, soon after deleting any evidence from the Englishman's out-box with a wide grin.
"You don't mean that. I love you, you know? I think I have for quite some time. I totally hate everything about you, but you're still a hot French bastard, I accidentally told America that once when I was plastered, true story bro, that the manly beard really turns me on. You also have a tight ass, so that's cool. Maybe all the fighting between us is just unresolved sexual tension?" Francis read aloud with furrowed brows, wetting his lips as if he required his voice to reply. He reads, and rereads it, concluding that this was definitely not Arthur's doing, the grammar and spelling is far too good for it to be him, and even if it was Arthur, which it definitely wasn't, the confession in the form a text is a long way from physically facing him and admitting anything verbally.
Maybe one day he'd get to taste the Englishman's lips, find out whether they were more appealing than his actual cooking. Mon Dieu, how France desperately hoped so. But he had an American to thank for the flattering comment on his ass first...
I'm horrible at this writing things, I know. I'm even worse with endings and I got super lazy towards the end and bluuuuurghh.
But thanks for reading guys, I really appreciate it. *hugs*
Also, if any of you have got any good tips on learning French, or any references to reliable webpages or certain books, I would love you forever if you could drop me a few. ^o^ I dropped French three years ago in school and since then I've been in the country twice holidaying, and I've fell in love with the language and culture all over again... I just don't know how to go about learning the language again without a tutor. I've tried revising all of my old notes, studying song translations and taking out language books from the library but god damn it, this shizzam is muy dificil.
But anyway, adios mis amigos! I wish you all a lovely day and bid you adieu. x