Drinking With Your Family (America, France)
Title: Drinking With Your Family
Characters: America, France
Summary: The problem with drinking with your family is that you never know what's going to come up.
Warnings: Defeatist France, no sex, taking about war
Year: 2008
“So yeah, you guys were kinda dicks about the Iraq thing,” America finished, more resigned than anything. “But I guess... I guess I was kinda a dick too.”
France raised an eyebrow; how did they even look like that, America wondered blearily, he'd never seen eyebrows like that outside of fashion magazines. And never on men. “I see this new president is a positive influence on you,” he observed, filling America's glass. America noticed in amazement that the bottle was empty. Woah.
“No, I don't think it's him, man, I think it's like...” he watched the little red squiggle on the table, where the candlelight (of course, candles) shone through his wine. “What was I saying?”
“You were telling me how you were wrong about Iraq,” France supplied smoothly, with a bit of a smile.
America laughed. “I know that's not what I said.” He took another sip of wine. “Hey man, you know, I don't usually go for wine, but this is pretty good.”
France raised an eyebrow.
“What?” said America, although he was pretty sure he was in for another jibe about his upbringing.
To his surprise, France just shrugged, looking a little resigned. “Well,” he murmured, almost to himself, “I suppose I knew what I was getting into when I invited him.”
America shrugged too, because hey, he was probably right, and downed his glass. France winced. “Sorry man, I don't sip.”
France sighed. “No,” he said, with what America was pretty sure was affection. “You don't do anything in moderation.”
“Hey,” said America, feeling like he should probably be offended.
“That was a compliment, dearest,” said France, and stood-- America grinned when he stumbled a little-- to go to the kitchen for another bottle.
America looked out the window-- not that there was much to see. Just the reflection of the fire-- old school-- and the table. Himself. “Hey, it's not like your slate is clean on the preventive war front.” That was what they'd been talking about, right? France's Fair enough floated in from the kitchen. “Speaking of which... Man, why didn't you go to war in 1938? Or hell, 1935.”
France returned with a second-- third?-- open bottle of something red, America couldn't keep that shit straight past “Merlot” and “Pinot Noir.” Filling America's glass, again, he said, “Unilaterally? With the state of my military? Be serious.” America winced, because yeah, he wouldn't have helped.
“Fair enough, I guess. But England...?”
France smiled, and it was bitter as ash. “England had his own concerns. Plenty of them, and not nearly enough money to see to all of them. Besides...” he trailed off. “None of us wanted war then.”
America sighed, thinking of trenches full of poison. “Except Germany,” he pointed out, then almost wished he hadn't. “Hey France... Why do you think he did all that shit? You know, Germany. He's... he's a tightass, but he's kind of a nice guy, right?”
France stared off into the middle distance. “He was seduced,” he said. “We all have been.”
“Seduced? By Hitler?”
“No,” said France, with a bitter kind of smile. “Seduced by nationalism, optimism, and revenge.”
America was quiet for a long moment. “I guess... I guess I can understand that.”
“I thought you might.”
America stared into the fire. “We've all been pretty horrible to each other, haven't we?” he said, meditatively, thinking of gas chambers and guns, machetes and mass graves. The emotion that would normally have gone along with a statement like that was smothered under a warm blanket of wine, and America found that he didn't feel much of anything at all.
France chuckled, but it was a strange sound, one America didn't think he'd heard before. “America, dearest, you only know the half of it.”
America looked up quickly, trying to read France's expression, but there was nothing there he recognized. He frowned. “So...” he said slowly, trying to voice something he'd often thought, but never tried to put into words. “So why does it... you know... Why does it keep...?”
“Why does it keep happening,” France finished for him, with something like satisfaction. “The wars, the genocides.”
America nodded, slowly.
“None of us know,” France said, and he started to laugh for real. “That's the joke, America, not a single one of us knows.”
America stared, a sick, horrified feeling starting in the pit of his stomach. “I... I have to go, France,” he said, and stood too quickly; he had to grab onto the table, fighting nausea.
“Oh, sit down,” said France, irritably. “That's the only thing that makes this all tolerable, you know-- knowing that when it's over, one day, you will sit down with your family--” France did not pause, although the word made America blush, “--and you will share a bottle of wine, or several, and you will laugh at your own stupidity.”
America stood, tilting his head to the side. “And... is it worth it?” he asked, uncharacteristically quiet.
“Do I look like a therapist to you? Sit down and finish your wine.”
Slowly, America sat. Because in the end, France was right; with a world as fucked up as theirs, what did you have but family?