I love Paris in the springtime.
A nose prods the center of a rose, sucking up its fragrance with one strong whiff. England retreats from the bud, slightly delirious from repetitive sniffing. He arrived at his house to find a bouquet of freshly cut roses lying on his mattress, their scarlet petals brightly contrasting with the navy blue comforter spread across the bed. He stood in the doorway for a good minute or two, the obvious sender already presented before his mind's eye.
England finally came forward and took up the bouquet, examining the buds closely before he began to inhale their aroma. Once each flower had been whiffed, he touches their petals, rubbing them between his thumb and index finger. It seemed inexplicably childish to be so accepting of a hackneyed token of affection. He, in fact, had a fantasy of him offering the gift to a blazing hearth, smirking as the roses were cremated, showing how more than mere flowers were needed to win him over. But it is a ludicrous idea. The rose is a national symbol of his, and to set it to flames would be as disrespectful as if he dangled a Union Jack over a ravenous fire .
He flops onto his bed, continuing to admire the roses, lightly brushing his lips against each bud. At this point, he becomes aware of a cluster of daffodil, Scottish bluebells and shamrocks buried underneath the swarming red. England smirks, knowing well France had snuck his brother's national flowers into the mixture, just to bust his chops. England heaves a sigh, knowing that his adversary (was that even an appropriate word to apply to their relationship?) across the English Channel would always have his prerogative of pushing his buttons…figuratively and literally.
I love Paris in the fall.
Leaves swirl in circuitous patterns as France plods down his walkway to his veranda. He crumples into a more compressed posture as a harsh wind hisses along, spurning his cheek until they are red and raw. It normally isn't cold during the autumnal equinox, but on this particular day, Mother Nature seems off on a tangent, mixing her weather with her seasons.
Sea-blue orbs stare in light surprise at the self-proclaimed gentleman sitting on the veranda, sipping away at a cup of Earl Gray. Said gentleman meets his gaze indifferently, as if such an unannounced visit is as commonplace as the stone porch he sits on.
The two of them maintain their eye contact, silence potent in the air, save for the occasional slurping sound as England consumes his beverage. The lack of conversation irritating the Englishman, he brings his teacup away from his lips and states plaintively, "Something wrong?"
France merely trudges up the step and shuffles inside, acting as if England had not said a word. England gazes over his shoulder, a scraggly eyebrow raised in bewilderment. A few minutes later, France returns to the veranda, a bottle of chardonnay and a wine glass in hand.
He takes a seat beside the Brit, folding his legs as his fingers work at removing the cork plug from the glass's opening. Once said object had been eradicated from the narrow nozzle, France proceeds to pour the alcoholic liquid into the glass. All the while, England tacitly observes, the rim of the teacup wedged between his lips.
France doesn't take a sip of his own drink yet; rather it is his turn to silently watch the other male finish his tea and place the porcelain onto its saucer. Forest green irises gaze back, almost challenging France to say something, as if they are playing some sort of unofficial Silent Game.
"Want any?" France causally offers England the bottle of chardonnay.
England pushes the item slightly away from him. "No thanks. Your wine is too thin. If you have any rum, I'll take a mug of that."
France shakes his head, his shoulder-length golden hair swishing in time with the motions of his head. "I don't keep rum in the house."
"You bloody well should," England grumbles in reply, his voice barely audible over the gale that howled through the stone porch.
Both males involuntarily shudder, but each tries to do so in secrecy, as if such a normal reaction to cold brought a sort of disgrace to their name. England draws his knees to his chest, creating protection against the mistrals whipping the landscape. "And why is it so bloody cold outside?" His eyes glare accusingly at France.
France, once again, retreats into his dwelling, leaving England scowling, grumbling to himself that a host should offer more hospitality.
Soon, the Frenchman appears on the veranda, hands carrying a blanket. He unfolds this item and drapes it elegantly over England's shoulders. The aforementioned person grimaces when he notices the afghan is colored to mimic the tricolore.
Just like France…. He thinks, his thought soon becoming audible. "Would it kill you to bring something more decent?" he complains, his tone wrapped in his displeasure.
France merely plants a tender kiss atop his kinky mass of hair, grabs the country's chin and tilts his face so that his field of vision in consumed with France's visage. "But Arthur, you look so terribly cute when you are scowling."
England wishes he could make an adequate response, but figures jabbing France lightly in the chin would suffice.
France smirks, dodging the punch and maneuvering the Brit so that he inadvertently sits upon France's lap. Here, he snatches the most gossamer of kisses off of his lips.
And England, for once, forgets the cold.
I love Paris in the winter, when it drizzles.
Splash.
Pitter-patter.
A puddle nestled in a subtle depression in the asphalt shatters into drops, a heel disturbing its surface.
Pant.
Grab.
A sucking sound.
Wandering hands exploring skin, masked in sopping wet cloth.
"Mmmmmm…."
A finger prodding somewhere.
A tongue gallivanting somewhere else.
"Yes….There. Right there. Ohhh…"
One of them smiles, cyan eyes indulging in the other's priceless facial expression.
His tongue does more work.
Sliding.
Nipping.
Searching.
Fingertips, ravenous for bare skin, almost rip his shirt open, a button probably rolling away to take refuge beneath a trash can, left to watch this display.
The tongue work continues, leaving the other trembling in ecstasy.
" F-fuck….nnnnnhn….Francis…..a-ahhhhnnnn…."
He came, leaving the first with that lovely taste on his tongue.
Faces close enough to number each drop that lingers on their eyelashes.
The button tacitly observes them depart, the quarreling voices joining the precipitation as ambient sound.
I love Paris in the summer, when it sizzles.
"Damn heat…" France mutters, chest heaving, as his flaccid body sprawls upon the throw rug in his room. A layer of sweat coats every square inch of flushing skin, from the roots of his mane of hair, to the niches in between each of France's ten toes.
He hadn't even bothered to clothe himself in the hopes being in the nude would be more pleasant, but his body feels as if he were wrapped in ten pounds of insulated winter jackets. His jaded eyes stare at the ceiling until the sound of feet brings him out of his stupor.
England, of all people, ambles into his room, looking as if he had been searching for any residents within the dwelling. France isn't all too surprised to spy his fellow country in his abode for he did make his visits ironically often (or was irony the right term?). Even so, France finds himself slightly aghast at how placid England's features appear. No heavy blush, no gaping mouth, no pouting grimace, no scolding demands. The hiatus of such a habitual reaction almost shocks France. His many birthday suit get-up occasions "under British surveillance" (to put it in PG-rated terms) must've dulled the reaction's sharp jab into a light poke.
These thoughts soon become quite irrelevant as France bears witness to a blue moon moment.
England sheds his attire, starting from the buttons on his shirt- even letting his boxers slide to his ankles. Still retaining his aura of composure, he kneels down beside France, green eyes wandering along France's naked body.
The Frenchman tilts his head ever so slightly, lips curving in a lazy smile. He extends his fingers up to the man above, and places his palm against England's cheek.
Both nations let the silence quiver in the soupy humid air as they maintain eye contact in a mix between admiration and passion. It truly is a rare scene for the couple to be in the same confinements and not issue a single comment, insult or not. Amongst such oddity, there is familiarity, for soon hands trace hips, legs rub sensitive inner thighs and two pairs of lips suck at one another, tongues coiled. Both males can feel their bodies complaining inwardly that this sort of scalding heat isn't meant for excessive contact (and England made it certain France didn't invade him, for fear that full-fledged sex would be too uncomfortable), but, after an hour of touching and kissing, they seem to feel the heat ebb away into a subtle throbbing, as if the relentless waves are the steady pulse of a bass drum; present, but in a way that melts into the distance.
Into sub consciousness.
Into the cadence of nature.
So that the burn could become, like their bittersweet relationship, bearable.
I love Paris. Why, oh why do I love Paris?
England is curled up in bed, the warmth of France's body present from scalp to inner slope of his foot. He doesn't know what time it is and he doesn't bother to check. His mind, instead, is mulling over memories of France and him in the same picture. Hundreds of them flash by like a sloppy movie reel, the moments stretching across numerous centuries. He exhales deeply, almost sighing, as he thinks about all those fights-the scars, the bullets, the punches, the screams of anguish.
Then he thinks of all the love- the passion, the ecstasy, the heat, the moans of pleasure.
Now, when memories run through his head, he realizes they have made hatred in the as many places as they have love-in fields, in world conference room, on beaches, on boats, in the back seats of cars and carriages, in hotel rooms, in bath tubs, in bed- the images clutter England's already filled-to-bursting noggin.
He rolls over and presses his nose against France's, observing his sleeping...England can never find the right word-with half-lidded eyes. He always wishes that he could pick his feelings for France: either to always hold the want to slice his throat, stab his heart over and over, watching his blood ooze out of the cuts or to always have to desire to sit next to him, kiss his lips, wrap his arms around him and beam him one of his infrequent smiles.
Whenever he discusses things with other countries, he feels jealousy tug at his stomach- seeing them abhorring on person to death and lusting for another person just as much. England's only true hate and true love are titles claimed by the same country, which in of itself is too much for England to bear.
Then he recalls a famous phrase some famous man once said (he's too fatigued to remember the name) "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer." Such a phrase is without a doubt appropriate, since France truly is his enemy, yet knows him better than any other person on the planet. He can make England's emotions act up at the drop of a hat. Anger, melancholy, happiness, love, confusion, irritation, excitement-France, over the years, has been able to map out the very clockwork that keep England running, could pull a level, push a button, pump a pedal while blindfolded and still produce the result he was aiming for.
Perhaps, England concludes, it isn't wrong for them to be so intimate, whether through argument or compliment, fighting or kissing, war or love. For he knows neither of them could ever change whatever relationship they have. So, before sleep claims him, England decides upon an action that he might kill himself later for performing.
Careful as to not awaken his significant other (at last, a word to fill the lexical gap) England presses his lips gingerly against France's ears, whispering Je vous hais in one and Je t'aime in the other. Pulling away with a smile riding on his features, he snuggles up, entwining his fingers with his abominated, beloved Francis.
Because my love is here.
Author's Note: So, this was supposed to be finished by Christmastime as a little present to you all, but deadlines and I aren't exactly friend (eh heh). But, as they say, better late than never, yes? Anyway, the inspiration for this little oneshot came from listening to Frank Sinatra's "I Love Paris". The lines in italics that separate each setting are a line from the song.
Footnotes:
National flowers: Since the United Kingdom is made up of four different countries, they each have their own symbols: England is the rose, Scotland is the Scottish bluebell, Wales is the daffodil and Northern Ireland is the shamrock.
Tricolore: The common name for the French flag (meaning tri-color)
"Keep youy friends...your enemies closer": This quote was most famously recited by Michael Coreleone in The Godfather: Part II. The actual origin of this phrase was from Machiavelli, an Italian politician who wrote The Prince (Sound familiar? If you've been watching the Hetalia anime, you should remember him as the man Italy had in his war arsenal in episode 6 (I think? I forget the exact number)).
Je vous hais: I hate you
Je t'aime: I love you
As always, thanks for reading!
~AnimeOtakuFreak1029