One Day in the Light
Abstract: The world is full of suffering and hunger, and Russia has taken it upon himself to fix that. Unfortunately for him, the world doesn't really want to be one with him, and a sprightly resistance takes root in the home of revolution itself - Paris. Set sometime during the 21st century.
(Important note!): It might be hard to tell where this one is going. Just bear with me. It will be a fun ride! Since I haven't focused on any real pairings yet, outside of humor, I'm open to suggestions! USUK is an obvious one, but I'll take votes between USUK and FrUK. Another possible dividing line is Po/Liet, Bela/Liet, and Rus/Liet. I know I have my OTP but you guys should help me decide! I also kind of want Austria with Switzerland, but that's not going to happen. Cuz Switzerland is more neutral than thou.
NoteII: I made up a bunch of shit for this fic, so be forewarned that the rebels will speak in code, which will not be translated. If you know they're speaking code, it should be easy to figure out the meaning. Also, there's a lot of pop culture references to things that I made up, mostly in future chapters, but there will be author's notes about them.
Unfortunately, I also created the initialism CC a while ago for this fic...but I don't remember what it stands for! Something about the Commonwealth? I'll figure it out.
Genre: Drama/Humor
Pairings: Doesn't focus on a specific one for now. Some are mentioned, including USUK and the Soviet love triangle.
Warnings: Some details may be confusing. Belarus acts as narrator for some chapters, and she swears like a sailor. T+. No sexxes.
-[scene]-
I: Room 18
-[The bar at Folies Bergère]-
Rainwater splattered the mirror behind the bar as the bespectacled man removed his raincoat and shook his head like a recently-bathed dog. He smelled about as good. Despite his apparent unhappy condition, his grin was wide, blinding, and eager as he gazed at the bartender.
"I would be grateful if you would actually not desecrate this iconic place, merci bien," said the bartender, casually flipping his long, tousled blond hair out of his face as he reached out to uncork a bottle of something clear amber and pungent-smelling. Several other shots of things that could be summed by "a bad idea" were added, as well as something that looked like orange juice. "Like some drenched mutt. Hmph!"
"It's just water," the man protested.
"You're just an idiot. Here's your Alabama Slammer."
"Anyway," said the customer, enunciating very clearly. "How goes business?"
"It's shitty,"replied the bartender, equally carefully, glancing surreptitiously over his shoulder. It was an attempt to make sure they were not being watched, but the only thing it succeeded in doing was make the conversation look doubly suspicious.
"Will there be live music tonight?"
"Non, not in the bar anyway. What's more, we're out of tea. Both breakfast and herbal."
"Really?" the customer looked surprised, his eyebrows turning downward in disappointment. He drummed his fingers against the countertop anxiously, looking over his shoulder. "I was waiting for someone, but I guess…"
"Shhhh." The bartender leaned forward, rather presumptuously it might have seemed to those who did not know him, and pressed a finger to the other man's lips. He winked one big blue eye - he was naturally endowed with a sparkle that seemed to enchant ladies and gentlemen alike, but the customer seemed unfazed. "You must be from out-of-town. I hear the hotel next door has an opening. It's unusual, since it's very popular, but people say Room 18 is cursed."
"Ahh. Thanks," said the customer, still looking rather disgruntled.
"Oh, and by the way…while you're staying there, you should try the pollo alla Milanese."
"Dude, seriously?" the customer near-shouted, face collapsing in something like despair. He took off his glasses and wiped them angrily on his "I 3 NY" t-shirt. He was dressed casually, in the t-shirt and cargo pants, compared to the other customers who were ready for a night of extravagance and performance at the music hall. One might have called his simplistic dress almost…military. One might have called the bulge under his left knee suspiciously...knife-shaped. One might have called him...Bond. James Bond. Actually, they probably would not have, sincre that was not his name. "This sucks, man. We've got to have better -"
"Shh-shh-shh," repeated the bartender, once more pressing his hand to the other man's mouth. He leaned in close, glaring meaningfully into the other's eyes, despite the courteous grin still plastered to his own face. "Not here. Room 18, remember."
"Yeah," sighed the customer, turning away and throwing his navy blue raincoat on again with a splatter of water on tile. He trudged to the door, head down like a disappointed hound who's master hasn't come home yet, turning back only briefly with a weak smile. "See you later."
The bartender leaned back against the mirror with an echoing sigh, his obligatory grin fading. He wiped his forehead with a napkin as the manager approached.
"How many times do I have to tell you, François? No flirting with the customers!" The manager growled, but his employee only shrugged his bony shoulders. "You've got to listen to your boss!"
"I think, monsieur," said the bartender, the sparkle returning to his eyes, which were downcast towards the well-polished silver buttons on his form-fitting black jacked, "you'll find that I am your boss, in a broader sense than you can imagine."
-[Room 18]-
"Awww, c'mon, France? That's the best you could do?"
"I tried, America. I really did." The bartender flopped onto the mattress, bouncing slightly next to the other man, long blond hair splaying silkily across the thin blue covers. "To make things worse, nobody knows where Austria is now. Well, I imagine he's in Austria, but I can't search the whole country. You know how Austria is...he's not as young as he used to be, and sometimes he "forgets" he doesn't own half of Europe, and then he spends days wandering around Slovakia and Hungary until she goes after him with the frying pan and kicks his sorry ass back to Salzburg..."
"Italy? He's the long-awaited ally?" America said incredulously, staring blankly up at the ceiling.
"At least he doesn't drink vodka."
"Dude, I've got this room covered. CIA for the win! You don't have to speak in code here."
"Ah, but I always speak in code," replied France, winking a big blue eye. "In fact, I'd like to go down South and eat your hush puppies."
America groaned and slapped one hand to his forehead. "Why do I always end up working with you? It could've been anyone else, but no..."
"Ah, oui, you're upset because England isn't coming."
"Well, duh," America chortled, sitting up suddenly and scooting out of arm's reach. It seemed even the prospect of failure was not enough to keep his youthful optimism (and gravity-defying hair) down. "I'd rather have England's navy on my side than Italy's…Italian-ness. And you can stop it with the France-ese - when I'm in the room, everybody speaks American."
"That is not all, oue? France knows these things, mon ami."
"That's not -" America was cut off by a tentative three-pronged knock on the aged oak door. He leapt to his booted feet and eagerly flung the door wide without regard for the possibility of an uninvited guest on the other side. Thankfully, it was only Italy. Though not particularly welcomed, he had been invited, and thus posessed the metaphysical "card" to get past the "bouncer" of fate that governs all doorways in the universe with justness and reason, G-d bless.
"Sorry I'm late, everybody," he chirped, twirling merrily on the spot. "I had to ask Germany if I could come!"
"Ugh," said France. "You're not sleeping with him, are you? Big Brother France is all for fooling around, but I really can't stand that muscle-brained macho-man Aryan archetype you like so much."
"Hey, America!" said Italy, standing on tiptoe to give America a European greeting. America's president, across the Atlantic, got a sudden craving for pasta, and scowled. He was too busy saving the free world to indulge in delicious carbohydrates! "I have no idea what France said, but I hope we're having dinner at this meeting!"
"Bien sûr." France stood, taking out a little silver phone to make the necessary call. "We're in Paris, after all."
"He's worse than China about food," America complained, rolling his eyes, though he was betrayed by the sound of his stomach growling. "We're here for business, guys."
"Food first," said the other two in unison, "then business."
I know it's short...it's something of a prologue to set the tone before Belarus storms in next chapter. Ready? Steady? Go!