England stared into her cup reflectively, the steam erupting into the autumn air as she watched the leaves fall. The yellow, oranges and reds all blending together into a beautiful colour. The crunchy leaves beneath her feet reminding her of the changes. The seasons had passed so quickly, summer had been and gone in the blink of an eye. Remembering the beaches in Japan when she visited, eating ice cream with her friends and BBQ's. She had made so many fond memories it reminded her of her bygone youth. Back to days sitting in coffee shops and huddling for warmth against the weather. Wrapping herself in scarves, thick jumpers and preparing for crappy weather. Enjoying some alone time with her wife, away from work, away from their neighbours and just having some romantic space. It wasn't often they were able to go on dates, due to their colliding work schedule, responsibilities as nations and personal relations. The smell of warm milk, roasted coffee beans, loose leaf tea and sweet baked goods.
France had ordered a late, as well as a mille feuille, a French vanilla sliced pastry which was popular in her country. She'd always been a lover of food, finding passion in the many beauties of life. She saw value in everything and showered love into everything that brought her joy. She was staring into oblivion, reflecting on whatever thoughts swirled around in her pretty head. The French were naturally melancholy after all. The fleeting bygone years of her youth as a nation, into the wisened person she had since become. She was enjoying the moment while flipping through the pages of her latest poetry read. Her extensive library was rather impressive, she among many nations had a love of literature. Her long caramel blonde hair styled into a French braid across her shoulder.
England's cappuccino steamed in front of her, a fresh apple tart sprinkled in icing sugar beside it. Though her desserts lacked the essence of glamour that so many other European nations had, she still had pride in many sweets. Her country had struggled through many era's, including war, she knew that wasting food was a disgrace. Such as why she ridiculed America for her greed and waste of many foods. She'd sampled many delights over the centuries, many foods coming and going in the blink of an eye, she did love a good apple dessert and France did it best. She was reading her own book of ghost stories, a love of hers since her adolescence, part of the reason she joined the supernatural club in high school. The gift she was born with that allowed her to see the ghosts of every nation, including ones that others could no longer see. The chill that ran down her spine on every page.
Though her glance kept flicking to Marie, admiring her wife in her element, unaware of how alluring she was. Marie had a fond expression on her face, her violet eyes filled with wonder and love. Her soft rosy cheeks, chilled from the cold, her long black lashes and soft kissable pink lips, the way strands of hair tickled her face. Her eyes roamed lower, taking in her wife with a sense of hunger. Her black jumper straining over her breasts, hugging her slender curves, a rose pink knee length skirt that hugged her curves in all the right places. France had never been ashamed of her body, she took pride in the form she was given to represent her nation. Black tights and brown knee length boots that showed off her legs. This woman was her wife, this was the person she chose to spend the rest of her life with, her wedding ring sat sparkling on her finger.
How was it anything her wife wore made her look elegant, poised and perfect? She was blessed with perfect genes, radiance and knowledge gifted to her through her immortal years. She looked like an angel, a woman written straight from the pages of a Jane Austen novel. It was unfair how perfect her wife effortlessly was, but despite her idyllic appearance that had many swooning. She was prone to weakness, emotional outbursts, a sharp temper and a self consciousness. France had been known to become jealous, especially around anyone who would attempt to steal England away from her. Previously jealous of her intimacy with other nations, past lovers and those whom had swayed England's attention. Knowing there were other nations who could make her happier. But she did well to hide it better than most.
Alice was adorning a black and white striped jumper, nothing fancy but indeed warm. Her long blonde hair released from its usual twin tails, instead opting for a braided bun around the back of her head, her fringe framing her face. A pair of white jeans, which was a risk for stains but matched her outfit. Black ankle boots with a small heel, her glasses perched on her nose and matching black nails. Despite the maid style dress she was known for and the infamous twin tails, she was capable of adorning other styles. She did hate how patronising many nations could be. It was a habit from her punk years in the sixties, something she never grew out of. Though she had mellowed out since, she had still retained that rebellious stubborn side of herself. Her ring placed on her finger, shining in the autumn light. A lot of people were staring at the two of them, she could see from the corner of her eye. Many men tended to become distracted in terms of lesbian couples, projecting their porn history onto them. The way lesbians had been dehumanised under the male gaze was truly astounding. The endlessly intrusive questions they received was ridiculous, she wondered if they ever heard themselves out loud. Her wife was indeed a beauty, but she was often the occasional target herself.
Marie saw her staring, her cheeks flushed pink and a flicker of concern in her eye "Angleterre? Do I have cream on my face?" she asked awkwardly. England could be rather mischievous, often finding ways to tease her wife albeit harmlessly. She had never truly stopped feeding her inner child. Had she been staring at her this whole time?
Alice blinked in surprise before snorting in amusement, she thought she was making fun of her. Marie had always been one who preferred to appear composed and perfect in public, creating an image that flattered her. She rarely if ever let anyone see her look dishevelled. She placed down her book quietly before smiling fondly "Nothing to fret over love, just enjoying the view" she teased. She loved her wife in all her forms, her worst and best moments, but when she was lying naked in their bed, that was her personal favourite.
Marie blinked, before blushing in surprise "Angleterre... you..." she stammered, though known for her temper, England could be oddly poetic sometimes. She would often catch her off guard with her switch in personalities, going from a stubborn nostalgic punk, to a composed, poetic lady. How easily sweet words would spill from her lips and catch her off guard. Was she referring to her?
Alice sipped her coffee delicately "It's the simple things luv, such as you staring into a coffee cup, the smell of baking pastries..." she teased. She would never tire of appreciating her wife, no matter how much time passed. She adored watching her smile, watching her laugh. The way her wife would sit lazily at a table with a glass of wine, smiling to herself as she gazed at the rain outside. That was love for you, the way the smallest thing about them made you happy.
Marie blushed, coughing lightly and cupping her face bashfully, this was a side of England people rarely saw. They never knew this poetic flirt who could easily seduce someone into her bed. Sometimes she would get France hot and bothered, merely by wrapping her arms around her and breathing in her smell, nuzzling against her neck. Though she took the monicker of the nation of love with pride, England was infamous for her silver tongue and charisma, after all she was home to many infamous historical writers. She sipped her drink, avoiding eye contact "You are a hopeless romantic Angleterre" she mumbled.
Alice smiled, pleased to have flustered her wife so easily, knowing that after so many centuries she could still embarrass her. Carrying that sense of girlish shyness within her. Sipping her coffee and enjoying the bittersweet taste, the foam on her lips. She loved to make Marie blush, she loved to praise her with sweet words, to rile her up and fluster her composure.