[Fiction] Definition of a Date
Title: Definition of a Date
Author/Artist: conjure_lass
Character(s) or Pairing(s): FrancexAmerica
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Swearing. Insane amounts of the cute.
Summary: A winning poker hand in the 20's leads to romance in the 00's.
Author's Note: This pairing has a very strange romantic dynamic that's very hard to put your finger on. This took a little work by me, but I think it turned out all right.
It began with a Royal Flush in the back of a seedy French bar sometime in the mid 1920’s. Francis had been sipping cognac while peering over the top of his playing cards, not bothering to hide his smug delight as Alfred laid down what had to be the most pathetic poker hand in the history of gaming. A pair of tens? Was that it? Francis beamed and drained his snifter, displaying a perfect hand one card at a time to savor the growing disappointment on the younger nation’s face.
Oh, how he did love to win.
“Damn it.” Alfred winced as the final card, the ace of spades, was laid down on the red-velvet tabletop. “Look, can’t we--”
Francis interrupted with a snap of his glass on the table, lips pursing in irritation. “No, we cannot. You agreed to the price and now you must deliver. One hand, one date, my choosing, at a time to be determined in the future. That was the agreement.”
“Uuugghh…fine. When and where?” Alfred motioned for a passing girl to refill his glass, swishing the liquid around moodily when she did so.
“What, and ruin the surprise? Non, non, I will wait until the timing is most perfect.”
“Most embarrassing, you mean.”
“Naturellement.“
*****************
Eighty years later Francis had finally decided how to proceed, giving a pleased nod as he put the finishing touches on the envelope containing Alfred’s instructions. Inside was a plane ticket to New York City and a pale blue piece of stationary detailing the when, where and how of their meeting. It would do no good, Francis rationalized, to simply tell Alfred where to go; the man dressed like an absolute fashion disaster without proper coaching. He was raised by Angleterre after all, even if he didn’t go around wearing disgusting plaid jumpers at every opportunity.
Francis shuddered at the thought.
Alfred F. Jones. Never had God created a more peculiar or frustrating individual. Don’t get the wrong impression. It didn’t matter how enamored of the man he may have been. Really. It was more that he was something that Francis had once been denied and still wanted to pursue. Oui. Because if there was one thing that Francis Bonnefoy hated more than the English and overcooked crème brûlée, it was being refused, spurned, scorned, and ultimately rejected. Granted, if he’d been a bit more honest with himself he might have admitted that there was a certain gravity around Alfred that he found more than a little irresistible, but this was neither the time nor place.
He had a date to plan.
*********************
“Mon étincelle, you look délicieux,” Francis cooed appreciatively as the door to Alfred’s hotel room was opened, the man in question dragging himself out into the hallway as though being led to the guillotine. Francis sighed long-sufferingly and pinched the bridge of his nose, holding a white rose out for his companion’s inspection.
“I’m not sure what that meant, but if you’re thinking about eating me I want you to know that Canada will avenge me.” He gave the rose an uncertain look, reaching up to run his fingertip along the edge of the petals before casting his gaze away.
Snorting through his nose amusedly, Francis snapped the rose off near the base and situated it into the pocket of Alfred’s royal blue suit jacket. “My delicate palate could never survive you, and besides…Mathieu is the one who gave me the suggestion for the hotel.”
“That traitorous Canuck!! Just wait til the next time I see his ass!” Arms crossed over his chest, Alfred stomped the rest of the way down the hall and into the elevator, mumbling obscenities under his breath the entire time. He was still grumbling when they reached 8th Avenue, not even noticing when Francis reached down to lace their fingers together and lead him to the restaurant.
In fact, it took about three blocks before he finally did notice, china-blue eyes glaring menacingly down at their joined hands as though that would be enough to ensure his release. When it wasn’t he tried to jerk his hand away, lips pressing together as he tugged, eyebrows furrowed. Francis held on with an easygoing smile.
“What are you doing?” Alfred demanded, twisting his arm at an odd angle in an attempt to gain his freedom. He hissed in pain when he pulled his own shoulder. “Let go.”
“I am holding your hand…évidemment. That is what people do on dates, do they not?”
“I agreed to dinner, not holding your hand.”
“Non.” Francis waved a finger and sauntered across the street towards Columbus Circle, wrinkling his nose at a woman carrying a small, yapping dog in her purse. He didn’t care how chic it was…carrying a mongrel in your bag was ridiculous. “You agreed to a date, and being such we will behave as lovers are wont to do. Come, see the pretty place I’ve brought you to?”
“I’m not your lover,” Alfred mumbled, shoulders slumped. He looked disdainfully at the front door to Per Se, one of the nicest restaurants in New York, and sneered appropriately. “And it looks like every other hoity-toity restaurant I’ve ever felt uncomfortable in. You’d better be paying.”
“Of course,” Francis replied, opening the door to usher Alfred inside and appraising his backside as he walked past. Say what you would, but the younger nation did have quite a lovely body.
“God, I know you just checked out my ass,” Alfred muttered, moving his hands to cover up the back of his pants like he had a rip down the center of his trousers. Francis laughed softly, pushing the taller nation toward the maitre d' with a gentle hand around the base of his skull, letting his thumb brush the downy hairs at the nape.
One didn’t need to be a genius to read Alfred’s reaction, the goose bumps rising along his skin or the soft intake of breath.
“S-stop it.” He wrenched his head away from Francis’ grip, casting an embarrassed and frustrated glare over his shoulder. He quietly thanked the man who had pulled out his chair for him. “Why do you do stuff like that?”
“You look very handsome tonight Alfred. Is it so shocking that I might find you attractive?”
“I’m not…you’re just,” Alfred stuttered, cheeks coloring softly before he settled for looking out the window, hands clasped together tightly on the tabletop. Francis followed his gaze out into the night, to the blinking lights around Columbus Square, to the trees of Central Park, to the bright skyscrapers in the distance. He smiled at Alfred’s flustered expression, at the way he nervously brushed the fingers of his right hand over the knuckles of his left, the conflicted set of his lips.
“You’re not what? Handsome? Au contraire. You have been around Angleterre and his haughty criticisms too much. I assure you I do not share the same opinion.”
As the younger gathered himself, Francis took a moment to sip at his wine (it was crisp, a young white) and take in his surroundings. The quiet hum of dinner conversation was all around them, the clinking of flatware on plates, the tinkling of glasses and the pops of champagne bottles. The smell of warm food was in the air, acidic vingerettes teased the nose and mingled with the heavy perfume of vanilla and cremes. Francis would have purred in satisfaction had he not been so absorbed in his companion’s current display of uncharacteristically deep emotion.
“I don’t care what England thinks of me,” Alfred said suddenly, eyes narrowed and defiant, his left hand toying restlessly with the pristine tablecloth. He stared Francis down as though possessed. “I don’t care. What would make you think that?”
Reaching across the table, Francis stilled Alfred’s fidgeting, letting his long fingers splay softly over the back of the other man’s hand. “You can lie to yourself Alfred, but please do not do so to me. I have known you your whole life long. But why talk of such things over a pleasant dinner? Angleterre is hardly good conversation material.” Francis paused, watching a small smile spread across Alfred’s face as he nibbled at a piece of bread. “Come, come…the first course is here. Manger, manger! I am not paying such a price to watch you sulk the entire night.”
“What is this?” Alfred’s face twisted in revulsion, swallowing heavily as he swirled his spoon around the bowl. “I mean, what are these round thingies?”
Spoon halfway to his mouth, Francis held in his laughter with great effort. “It is caviar, Alfred. Try it? This variety is very subtle and nice.”
“I remember this stuff from when I was in Paris in the twenties! It’s fish babies! I’m not eating fish babies!”
Alfred shook his head vehemently and pushed the bowl away with one finger, treating it as though it were filled with the plague. Francis sighed. Strangely, he was finding himself more absorbed than annoyed, tracing the stubborn lines of Alfred’s expression with affection. It was little wonder that Angleterre was still so smitten with him, though he’d never admit it. Francis shook his head at himself.
What had happened to not becoming enamored? Ah well, spontaneity was always best.
Ignoring the stares, Francis scooted his chair around the table until he was pressed flush to Alfred’s side, reaching around his neck to gently to cover his eyes with a palm. When the younger nation stopped squirming Francis pressed their cheeks together, breathing in the light smell of musky citrus that clung to Alfred’s skin. It was a nice scent. Smelled expensive. Like the kind of cologne a man uses for a special occasion. Grinning widely, Francis reached down to take a small spoonful of the caviar and brought it to Alfred’s mouth, rubbing the tip of the spoon along his lower lip.
“Ouvrir. If you cannot see it, you will not know the difference.”
“I’ll still know it’s fish babies...and your stubble is scratching my cheek,” Alfred groused, but opened his mouth anyway, his entire body tense as he began to chew. Seconds trickled by until he spoke again, his voice laced with surprise. “Hmph…salty.”
“Voila…”
Slowly pulling his hand away, Francis paused to brush his mouth against Alfred’s ear, feeling his stomach clench at the fluttering pulse against his lips. It was such a beautiful, unguarded reaction, like all of Alfred’s responses tended to be. It made Francis warm all over, made his own heart speed up in reply. And though he would have liked to stay there longer to drink it all in, he was not surprised when Alfred jerked away, blue eyes wide and confused.
“Stop. It’s not fair to act like this when you don’t even like me.”
“Alfred…”
“You don‘t. So don’t lie, I hate that.” Alfred cut him off more loudly than was necessary, looking around embarrassingly before lowering his voice again. “You don’t like me, so stop fucking with me. Let’s just get this stupid fake date over with so I can go home and get something to eat that doesn’t involve fish babies.”
Francis sniffed and slapped his fingers against Alfred’s mouth, silencing him before he could make any more of a scene than he already had. “Mon coeur…when is the last time anyone took an interest in you romantically?”
“I go out with people all the time…I’m not a virgin or anything!” Alfred defended himself, jutting out his bottom lip stubbornly.
“Non, not one of them.” Francis leaned in, forcing their eyes to meet. “One of us.”
Expression somewhere between embarrassment and sadness, Alfred shook his head, averting his eyes out the window. Francis gaped. How could this be? It seemed ludicrous that Alfred would have spent his entire life without the intimate company of another nation. It simply didn’t seem logical, especially considering how beautiful he was. Normal humans could never understand the pains of their kind, could never give Alfred the kind of attentions that he needed. Even if a relationship didn’t last forever, nations did tend to fall into each other’s arms every now and again just out of the sheer need to be with one of their own.
How had he survived so long without it?
“Have we kept you at arm’s length so long?” Francis whispered, tugging softly on Nantucket and smiling at Alfred’s near purring response. “How have you kept your sanity?”
“I don’t need you guys; I’m fine on my own.” Alfred seemed to catch himself and turned towards the table, picking up a fork as the next course was laid out. Francis pressed a lingering kiss on his soft cheek.
“You do not have to be so stubborn. If you enjoy my affections you need only show it and I will give as much as you like.”
“But you don’t--” Alfred began.
“Stop assuming you know my mind,” Francis interrupted sharply, moving his chair back to the other side of the small table. “I may not always agree with you, but agreement and fondness are not the same thing. Would I have helped you in your révolution if I did not hold some adoration for you?”
“If you got something out of it, than yeah.”
“Touche’.” Francis raised his glass up to Alfred’s display of wit. “Nevertheless…the fact remains that I am fond of you and that I would very much like it if you would stop behaving so much like Angleterre and try to enjoy the evening.”
“Hey!” Alfred’s head shot up, his jaw slack, expression indignant. “That’s hitting below the belt!”
“If the shoe fits…”
Relative comfort descended upon them for the remainder of the five courses, idle chitchat sprinkled in between the bouts of quasi-awkward silence. They talked of Alfred’s latest endeavors in movie-making and Francis’ private vineyard in Loire. They laughed over the picture of Arthur that Francis had in his wallet from the mid-seventies and the smutty story that Matthew had written and accidentally left at Alfred’s house the last time he slept over. Conversation grew a bit more serious over coffee, where talked turned to economic worries and troubles, Francis eventually steering them from that sort of discussion before dessert arrived.
“…so then Angleterre jumped into the Seine with nothing but a pair of tighty whities and a stolen billy club!”
Riotous laughter erupted.
Alfred’s glasses were on the table, his eyes too full of glittering tears to keep them on, bottom lip held between his teeth in an effort to keep himself from disturbing others. The pleasure was infectious, and Francis found himself all too happy to forget his well-rehearsed mannerisms, melting easily into the warm atmosphere that surrounded his young companion. When Alfred moved to put his glasses back on Francis’ hand shot out, stilling him with a brush of fingers and a beseeching smile.
“Leave them off, ma pomme. You look more striking…and you do not need them to see, correct?” Francis raised a challenging eyebrow, smirking playfully.
“No, but they make me look older,” Alfred said, cheeks tinting a rosy pink, unexpected and delightful. A solid minute passed by, both of them staring at the place where their fingers met, neither moving. Francis couldn’t help but feel the silent question hanging in the air, as though they were standing on the edge of a deep precipice, peeking out over the edge. Inwardly rolling his eyes at his own cliché nonsense, Francis watched Alfred’s adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard.
And intertwined their fingers, giving Francis’ hand a tiny squeeze.
“Woo…that was a bigger deal than it should have been,” Alfred laughed nervously, squeezing Francis’ fingers again as if to confirm that it was all right to do so. “Don’t go getting the wrong idea…I’m not sleeping with you tonight or anything. I’m just getting the feeling that this is more of a date-date than I thought it would be.”
“A date-date?” Francis blinked.
“A date-date!” Alfred waved his free hand around as though that would explain things more easily. “You know, there’s a friendship-date and then there’s a date-date. You know, where people do date-date things like hold hands and kiss and stuff.”
“Oh, really?” Pulling Alfred’s unresisting hand towards himself, Francis leaned across the table, rising partially up out of his seat to bring their mouths within a hair’s breadth of touching. “Then we should try to meet all the requirements of the occasion, non?”
The corners of Alfred’s mouth quirked upwards, his eyes half-lidded and hazy, almost sleepy. Stunning. “That wasn’t an invitation.”
“It was not a dissuasion either.”
“Dis…disua…what the hell does that mean?”
For a brief moment, Francis thought Alfred had made a joke. His English was not always the best, and though he fancied himself quite fluent, there were times when he confused the tenses or used words incorrectly. Had this been one of those times? Teeth coming out to nibble at his bottom lip, he went over his inner dictionary a few times. Non…non…he had used the word correctly. Which could only mean one thing.
He, France, the nation who had sworn off learning English for the better part of two millennia, was better at the language than one of its most prolific users…
It would have been absurd if it hadn’t been so charming. It also caused him to dissolve into raucous laughter, completely ruining the moment.
“Oh, Alfred!” He wiped his eyes with the back of his index finger, trying and failing to control the cackles that bubbled up from his lips. Even Alfred’s offended expression did nothing to stop his merriment as he fell back into his dining chair gasping for breath. “How has no one snatched you up yet mon chèr? You positively glow with studious warmth. I must have you!”
Instead of retorting, Alfred began tapping furiously at his Blackberry, eventually growing frustrated and shoving the device back into his pocket with a huff. He glared from beneath his lashes, eyes smoldering, before the annoyance trickled away and his cocky smirk returned. It was a lovely thing, endearing, and Francis was reminded once more of how much he adored Alfred’s ability to laugh at himself. It was a skill that few human beings, to say nothing of nations, possessed. They all (and he included himself) tended to take themselves far, far too seriously.
“Couldn’t figure out how to spell it, hmm?” Francis winked, again reaching across the table to take Alfred’s hand in his own and place a delicate kiss against his pulse. He grinned at the way Alfred’s pupils flared with checked emotion, the desire casting shadows in his gaze. “Fear not! I will personally tutor you in any areas you may be…lacking.”
“Pfft!” Alfred sniffed and raised his chin up; he looked more like England than he probably would have liked. “I’m a hero! You’ll see. You’ll be lucky if I don’t break you.”
Francis eyes lit up as they both began to lean across the table towards one other. “Now, that sounded like an invitation.”
Mouth warm and tasting of white chocolate, Alfred’s lips brushed tantalizingly against his own. Just a taste. Instantly addicting. Uh-oh.
“Yeah, well, you did promise to show me those pictures of England in drag, so I figure I owe you.”
“The sequin pasties alone will astound you, mon chaton."
Hope you guys like my little fluffy offering!
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Cherry!
Author/Artist: conjure_lass
Character(s) or Pairing(s): FrancexAmerica
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Swearing. Insane amounts of the cute.
Summary: A winning poker hand in the 20's leads to romance in the 00's.
Author's Note: This pairing has a very strange romantic dynamic that's very hard to put your finger on. This took a little work by me, but I think it turned out all right.
It began with a Royal Flush in the back of a seedy French bar sometime in the mid 1920’s. Francis had been sipping cognac while peering over the top of his playing cards, not bothering to hide his smug delight as Alfred laid down what had to be the most pathetic poker hand in the history of gaming. A pair of tens? Was that it? Francis beamed and drained his snifter, displaying a perfect hand one card at a time to savor the growing disappointment on the younger nation’s face.
Oh, how he did love to win.
“Damn it.” Alfred winced as the final card, the ace of spades, was laid down on the red-velvet tabletop. “Look, can’t we--”
Francis interrupted with a snap of his glass on the table, lips pursing in irritation. “No, we cannot. You agreed to the price and now you must deliver. One hand, one date, my choosing, at a time to be determined in the future. That was the agreement.”
“Uuugghh…fine. When and where?” Alfred motioned for a passing girl to refill his glass, swishing the liquid around moodily when she did so.
“What, and ruin the surprise? Non, non, I will wait until the timing is most perfect.”
“Most embarrassing, you mean.”
“Naturellement.“
*****************
Eighty years later Francis had finally decided how to proceed, giving a pleased nod as he put the finishing touches on the envelope containing Alfred’s instructions. Inside was a plane ticket to New York City and a pale blue piece of stationary detailing the when, where and how of their meeting. It would do no good, Francis rationalized, to simply tell Alfred where to go; the man dressed like an absolute fashion disaster without proper coaching. He was raised by Angleterre after all, even if he didn’t go around wearing disgusting plaid jumpers at every opportunity.
Francis shuddered at the thought.
Alfred F. Jones. Never had God created a more peculiar or frustrating individual. Don’t get the wrong impression. It didn’t matter how enamored of the man he may have been. Really. It was more that he was something that Francis had once been denied and still wanted to pursue. Oui. Because if there was one thing that Francis Bonnefoy hated more than the English and overcooked crème brûlée, it was being refused, spurned, scorned, and ultimately rejected. Granted, if he’d been a bit more honest with himself he might have admitted that there was a certain gravity around Alfred that he found more than a little irresistible, but this was neither the time nor place.
He had a date to plan.
*********************
“Mon étincelle, you look délicieux,” Francis cooed appreciatively as the door to Alfred’s hotel room was opened, the man in question dragging himself out into the hallway as though being led to the guillotine. Francis sighed long-sufferingly and pinched the bridge of his nose, holding a white rose out for his companion’s inspection.
“I’m not sure what that meant, but if you’re thinking about eating me I want you to know that Canada will avenge me.” He gave the rose an uncertain look, reaching up to run his fingertip along the edge of the petals before casting his gaze away.
Snorting through his nose amusedly, Francis snapped the rose off near the base and situated it into the pocket of Alfred’s royal blue suit jacket. “My delicate palate could never survive you, and besides…Mathieu is the one who gave me the suggestion for the hotel.”
“That traitorous Canuck!! Just wait til the next time I see his ass!” Arms crossed over his chest, Alfred stomped the rest of the way down the hall and into the elevator, mumbling obscenities under his breath the entire time. He was still grumbling when they reached 8th Avenue, not even noticing when Francis reached down to lace their fingers together and lead him to the restaurant.
In fact, it took about three blocks before he finally did notice, china-blue eyes glaring menacingly down at their joined hands as though that would be enough to ensure his release. When it wasn’t he tried to jerk his hand away, lips pressing together as he tugged, eyebrows furrowed. Francis held on with an easygoing smile.
“What are you doing?” Alfred demanded, twisting his arm at an odd angle in an attempt to gain his freedom. He hissed in pain when he pulled his own shoulder. “Let go.”
“I am holding your hand…évidemment. That is what people do on dates, do they not?”
“I agreed to dinner, not holding your hand.”
“Non.” Francis waved a finger and sauntered across the street towards Columbus Circle, wrinkling his nose at a woman carrying a small, yapping dog in her purse. He didn’t care how chic it was…carrying a mongrel in your bag was ridiculous. “You agreed to a date, and being such we will behave as lovers are wont to do. Come, see the pretty place I’ve brought you to?”
“I’m not your lover,” Alfred mumbled, shoulders slumped. He looked disdainfully at the front door to Per Se, one of the nicest restaurants in New York, and sneered appropriately. “And it looks like every other hoity-toity restaurant I’ve ever felt uncomfortable in. You’d better be paying.”
“Of course,” Francis replied, opening the door to usher Alfred inside and appraising his backside as he walked past. Say what you would, but the younger nation did have quite a lovely body.
“God, I know you just checked out my ass,” Alfred muttered, moving his hands to cover up the back of his pants like he had a rip down the center of his trousers. Francis laughed softly, pushing the taller nation toward the maitre d' with a gentle hand around the base of his skull, letting his thumb brush the downy hairs at the nape.
One didn’t need to be a genius to read Alfred’s reaction, the goose bumps rising along his skin or the soft intake of breath.
“S-stop it.” He wrenched his head away from Francis’ grip, casting an embarrassed and frustrated glare over his shoulder. He quietly thanked the man who had pulled out his chair for him. “Why do you do stuff like that?”
“You look very handsome tonight Alfred. Is it so shocking that I might find you attractive?”
“I’m not…you’re just,” Alfred stuttered, cheeks coloring softly before he settled for looking out the window, hands clasped together tightly on the tabletop. Francis followed his gaze out into the night, to the blinking lights around Columbus Square, to the trees of Central Park, to the bright skyscrapers in the distance. He smiled at Alfred’s flustered expression, at the way he nervously brushed the fingers of his right hand over the knuckles of his left, the conflicted set of his lips.
“You’re not what? Handsome? Au contraire. You have been around Angleterre and his haughty criticisms too much. I assure you I do not share the same opinion.”
As the younger gathered himself, Francis took a moment to sip at his wine (it was crisp, a young white) and take in his surroundings. The quiet hum of dinner conversation was all around them, the clinking of flatware on plates, the tinkling of glasses and the pops of champagne bottles. The smell of warm food was in the air, acidic vingerettes teased the nose and mingled with the heavy perfume of vanilla and cremes. Francis would have purred in satisfaction had he not been so absorbed in his companion’s current display of uncharacteristically deep emotion.
“I don’t care what England thinks of me,” Alfred said suddenly, eyes narrowed and defiant, his left hand toying restlessly with the pristine tablecloth. He stared Francis down as though possessed. “I don’t care. What would make you think that?”
Reaching across the table, Francis stilled Alfred’s fidgeting, letting his long fingers splay softly over the back of the other man’s hand. “You can lie to yourself Alfred, but please do not do so to me. I have known you your whole life long. But why talk of such things over a pleasant dinner? Angleterre is hardly good conversation material.” Francis paused, watching a small smile spread across Alfred’s face as he nibbled at a piece of bread. “Come, come…the first course is here. Manger, manger! I am not paying such a price to watch you sulk the entire night.”
“What is this?” Alfred’s face twisted in revulsion, swallowing heavily as he swirled his spoon around the bowl. “I mean, what are these round thingies?”
Spoon halfway to his mouth, Francis held in his laughter with great effort. “It is caviar, Alfred. Try it? This variety is very subtle and nice.”
“I remember this stuff from when I was in Paris in the twenties! It’s fish babies! I’m not eating fish babies!”
Alfred shook his head vehemently and pushed the bowl away with one finger, treating it as though it were filled with the plague. Francis sighed. Strangely, he was finding himself more absorbed than annoyed, tracing the stubborn lines of Alfred’s expression with affection. It was little wonder that Angleterre was still so smitten with him, though he’d never admit it. Francis shook his head at himself.
What had happened to not becoming enamored? Ah well, spontaneity was always best.
Ignoring the stares, Francis scooted his chair around the table until he was pressed flush to Alfred’s side, reaching around his neck to gently to cover his eyes with a palm. When the younger nation stopped squirming Francis pressed their cheeks together, breathing in the light smell of musky citrus that clung to Alfred’s skin. It was a nice scent. Smelled expensive. Like the kind of cologne a man uses for a special occasion. Grinning widely, Francis reached down to take a small spoonful of the caviar and brought it to Alfred’s mouth, rubbing the tip of the spoon along his lower lip.
“Ouvrir. If you cannot see it, you will not know the difference.”
“I’ll still know it’s fish babies...and your stubble is scratching my cheek,” Alfred groused, but opened his mouth anyway, his entire body tense as he began to chew. Seconds trickled by until he spoke again, his voice laced with surprise. “Hmph…salty.”
“Voila…”
Slowly pulling his hand away, Francis paused to brush his mouth against Alfred’s ear, feeling his stomach clench at the fluttering pulse against his lips. It was such a beautiful, unguarded reaction, like all of Alfred’s responses tended to be. It made Francis warm all over, made his own heart speed up in reply. And though he would have liked to stay there longer to drink it all in, he was not surprised when Alfred jerked away, blue eyes wide and confused.
“Stop. It’s not fair to act like this when you don’t even like me.”
“Alfred…”
“You don‘t. So don’t lie, I hate that.” Alfred cut him off more loudly than was necessary, looking around embarrassingly before lowering his voice again. “You don’t like me, so stop fucking with me. Let’s just get this stupid fake date over with so I can go home and get something to eat that doesn’t involve fish babies.”
Francis sniffed and slapped his fingers against Alfred’s mouth, silencing him before he could make any more of a scene than he already had. “Mon coeur…when is the last time anyone took an interest in you romantically?”
“I go out with people all the time…I’m not a virgin or anything!” Alfred defended himself, jutting out his bottom lip stubbornly.
“Non, not one of them.” Francis leaned in, forcing their eyes to meet. “One of us.”
Expression somewhere between embarrassment and sadness, Alfred shook his head, averting his eyes out the window. Francis gaped. How could this be? It seemed ludicrous that Alfred would have spent his entire life without the intimate company of another nation. It simply didn’t seem logical, especially considering how beautiful he was. Normal humans could never understand the pains of their kind, could never give Alfred the kind of attentions that he needed. Even if a relationship didn’t last forever, nations did tend to fall into each other’s arms every now and again just out of the sheer need to be with one of their own.
How had he survived so long without it?
“Have we kept you at arm’s length so long?” Francis whispered, tugging softly on Nantucket and smiling at Alfred’s near purring response. “How have you kept your sanity?”
“I don’t need you guys; I’m fine on my own.” Alfred seemed to catch himself and turned towards the table, picking up a fork as the next course was laid out. Francis pressed a lingering kiss on his soft cheek.
“You do not have to be so stubborn. If you enjoy my affections you need only show it and I will give as much as you like.”
“But you don’t--” Alfred began.
“Stop assuming you know my mind,” Francis interrupted sharply, moving his chair back to the other side of the small table. “I may not always agree with you, but agreement and fondness are not the same thing. Would I have helped you in your révolution if I did not hold some adoration for you?”
“If you got something out of it, than yeah.”
“Touche’.” Francis raised his glass up to Alfred’s display of wit. “Nevertheless…the fact remains that I am fond of you and that I would very much like it if you would stop behaving so much like Angleterre and try to enjoy the evening.”
“Hey!” Alfred’s head shot up, his jaw slack, expression indignant. “That’s hitting below the belt!”
“If the shoe fits…”
Relative comfort descended upon them for the remainder of the five courses, idle chitchat sprinkled in between the bouts of quasi-awkward silence. They talked of Alfred’s latest endeavors in movie-making and Francis’ private vineyard in Loire. They laughed over the picture of Arthur that Francis had in his wallet from the mid-seventies and the smutty story that Matthew had written and accidentally left at Alfred’s house the last time he slept over. Conversation grew a bit more serious over coffee, where talked turned to economic worries and troubles, Francis eventually steering them from that sort of discussion before dessert arrived.
“…so then Angleterre jumped into the Seine with nothing but a pair of tighty whities and a stolen billy club!”
Riotous laughter erupted.
Alfred’s glasses were on the table, his eyes too full of glittering tears to keep them on, bottom lip held between his teeth in an effort to keep himself from disturbing others. The pleasure was infectious, and Francis found himself all too happy to forget his well-rehearsed mannerisms, melting easily into the warm atmosphere that surrounded his young companion. When Alfred moved to put his glasses back on Francis’ hand shot out, stilling him with a brush of fingers and a beseeching smile.
“Leave them off, ma pomme. You look more striking…and you do not need them to see, correct?” Francis raised a challenging eyebrow, smirking playfully.
“No, but they make me look older,” Alfred said, cheeks tinting a rosy pink, unexpected and delightful. A solid minute passed by, both of them staring at the place where their fingers met, neither moving. Francis couldn’t help but feel the silent question hanging in the air, as though they were standing on the edge of a deep precipice, peeking out over the edge. Inwardly rolling his eyes at his own cliché nonsense, Francis watched Alfred’s adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard.
And intertwined their fingers, giving Francis’ hand a tiny squeeze.
“Woo…that was a bigger deal than it should have been,” Alfred laughed nervously, squeezing Francis’ fingers again as if to confirm that it was all right to do so. “Don’t go getting the wrong idea…I’m not sleeping with you tonight or anything. I’m just getting the feeling that this is more of a date-date than I thought it would be.”
“A date-date?” Francis blinked.
“A date-date!” Alfred waved his free hand around as though that would explain things more easily. “You know, there’s a friendship-date and then there’s a date-date. You know, where people do date-date things like hold hands and kiss and stuff.”
“Oh, really?” Pulling Alfred’s unresisting hand towards himself, Francis leaned across the table, rising partially up out of his seat to bring their mouths within a hair’s breadth of touching. “Then we should try to meet all the requirements of the occasion, non?”
The corners of Alfred’s mouth quirked upwards, his eyes half-lidded and hazy, almost sleepy. Stunning. “That wasn’t an invitation.”
“It was not a dissuasion either.”
“Dis…disua…what the hell does that mean?”
For a brief moment, Francis thought Alfred had made a joke. His English was not always the best, and though he fancied himself quite fluent, there were times when he confused the tenses or used words incorrectly. Had this been one of those times? Teeth coming out to nibble at his bottom lip, he went over his inner dictionary a few times. Non…non…he had used the word correctly. Which could only mean one thing.
He, France, the nation who had sworn off learning English for the better part of two millennia, was better at the language than one of its most prolific users…
It would have been absurd if it hadn’t been so charming. It also caused him to dissolve into raucous laughter, completely ruining the moment.
“Oh, Alfred!” He wiped his eyes with the back of his index finger, trying and failing to control the cackles that bubbled up from his lips. Even Alfred’s offended expression did nothing to stop his merriment as he fell back into his dining chair gasping for breath. “How has no one snatched you up yet mon chèr? You positively glow with studious warmth. I must have you!”
Instead of retorting, Alfred began tapping furiously at his Blackberry, eventually growing frustrated and shoving the device back into his pocket with a huff. He glared from beneath his lashes, eyes smoldering, before the annoyance trickled away and his cocky smirk returned. It was a lovely thing, endearing, and Francis was reminded once more of how much he adored Alfred’s ability to laugh at himself. It was a skill that few human beings, to say nothing of nations, possessed. They all (and he included himself) tended to take themselves far, far too seriously.
“Couldn’t figure out how to spell it, hmm?” Francis winked, again reaching across the table to take Alfred’s hand in his own and place a delicate kiss against his pulse. He grinned at the way Alfred’s pupils flared with checked emotion, the desire casting shadows in his gaze. “Fear not! I will personally tutor you in any areas you may be…lacking.”
“Pfft!” Alfred sniffed and raised his chin up; he looked more like England than he probably would have liked. “I’m a hero! You’ll see. You’ll be lucky if I don’t break you.”
Francis eyes lit up as they both began to lean across the table towards one other. “Now, that sounded like an invitation.”
Mouth warm and tasting of white chocolate, Alfred’s lips brushed tantalizingly against his own. Just a taste. Instantly addicting. Uh-oh.
“Yeah, well, you did promise to show me those pictures of England in drag, so I figure I owe you.”
“The sequin pasties alone will astound you, mon chaton."
Hope you guys like my little fluffy offering!
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Cherry!