Home
A warm summer. A château in the south. An evening on a veranda with a chilled glass of chardonnay. A companion simply as content to sit beside him as to deciding to take him right then and there without bothering to return inside.
He had the summer. He had the château. He had the wine. And, surprisingly enough, he had managed the last as well.
"Tu es beau. Tu es fantastique. Tu es le plus merveilleux–"
"Shut it France, you're ruining the moment."
France frowned, but did so. He did not move his hand, letting his thumb rub over England's hip bone. England stretched out on the bench, the fading sun giving France enough light to appraise the unclothed form next to him. France rested his head on England's chest, feeling lips press against his head.
"I... wouldn't be adverse to you saying it... in English."
Ah, ever a romantic. France chuckled, but only for a short while. The words escaped him against his will. "I wish I could come home to this every day."
England laughed. "Me naked on your balcony? Highly unlikely."
"No. To you."
He should not have said it. He knew it was the wrong thing to say. England stayed quiet for too long. "France..."
"I'm sorry."
England laughed again. It sounded watery. "That's not what you were saying in your language, frog."
"I... yes, I suppose."
England left about midnight. France was left staring up at the stars and sipping at his chardonnay. It tasted rather bitter, but he finished it anyway.
It was not fair.
Home this was no longer. Not while he was alone.
"Tu es beau. Tu es fantastique. Tu es le plus merveilleux–" = "You are beautiful. You are fantastic. You are the most wonderful–" Thanks, Lily Winterwood for the correction!