Draw Me like One of Your French Girls
A seemingly careless flick of a wrist; a quick, all-noticing glance; a concentrated twitch of lips... France knows what he is doing. He manages to keep his model comfortable by either talking to her or remaining silent, whichever appears to be her preference, manages to look both both professional and playful at the same time, and, most infuriatingly, does a damn good job with the pencil and paper. A rounded breast, a full thigh, the curve of stomach and hips, and voilà! He's created a fucking masterpiece.
England does not care. He really doesn't, at all. He isn't jealous of France's drawing skills, not jealous of the ease with which the Frenchman draws a lady after lady, a man after man; England's talent lies in the field of the written word, and he's never particularly cared for drawing.
But what he is jealous of is the way France looks at his models, how he lets his eyes roam their willingly offered bodies with that not-quite-mischievous light in his eyes. With that appreciation. It doesn't matter who his models are, how they look, whether they pose nude or not – France looks at them as if they were the only living person in the world. He never looks at England the same way as he looks at his models, has never shown any interest in drawing him... which is as it should be, because the mere idea of modelling for France is absolutely scandalising and they aren't on exactly cordial terms at the moment, anyway, have never been, would never be.
England has never felt the interest in posing for artists – his too-slim body is far from aesthetic with all those sharp bones and angles and oversized eyebrows – but every time he sees France lay his eyes on a new model, England is startled by the need, the want, to be looked at like that, to be looked at like that by France.
But want is weakness, something that a Nation cannot afford to feel. Therefore all that there's left for England is to indifferently sip his tea while listening to other Nations praising France's artwork, and throw in criticism at appropriate times. France may draw women to his heart's content for all that England cares – England doesn't need paper, anyway. He is immortal as he is.
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