[Fanfic] A freeze from Fulham to Putney
Title: A freeze from Fulham to Putney
Characters: England and Portugal, Eng/Port
Rating: PG
Warnings: Gooey, mushy, perma-honeymoon romance? It was a drabble that became a fic, that's all I know.
Summary: Portugal's always introducing new things to England. Now, England wants to introduce something of his to Portugal.
"Oh come now Port, it's not that scary."
"Inglaterra, it is unnatural."
"It's been like this every winter for three hundred years."
"I refuse."
"It's just a little ice." England suppressed a smile, because really, wasn't this usually the other way around? Portugal was usually the one to drag him places, show him new things, introduce to him new wonders and excitements. Now here he was, wanting to show his lover the Thames fair and the Iberian nation had revealed a startling aversion to standing on frozen rivers.
"It will crack." the dark haired man insisted, standing on the stairs that lead down to where the river had frozen at half tide.
"If it hasn't cracked with all those stalls and people on it, I very much doubt it will crack with your weight." England replied, sliding back over to the steps and taking Portugal's hand from where it gripped the wall. "Please. For me."
Tawny yellow eyes searched him. "Promise me you won't let go."
England lifted their clasped hands. "I promise."
There was snow caught in Gabriel's hair and Arthur very much wanted to kiss him, but there were an awful lot of people out today so he repressed it as always. England skidded easily on the flat soles of his boots while dragging his husband behind him, fingers being grasped nearly to the point of pain. Portugal's stance was not confident, and he looked down at the ice like it would leap up and swallow him of it's own sentient accord. England nearly scoffed. Not since he'd made the deal with the river so many years ago had it done any such thing.
"See, you're fine." the blonde assured. Portugal sighed, a rush of steam in the air, rising into nothing. He tried to straighten his posture, but nearly lost his balance. The island Nation caught him. "I've got you. Don't lock your knees, don't lean back." Bright green eyes tracked Portugal's stance. "Slide one foot in front of the other, point your toes out slightly and you'll get more stable. Count each slide to three and you'll get a rhythm."
He nodded gravely, and England nearly rolled his eyes. Ah well, they'd have a distraction soon.
The brightly coloured tents were beginning to be weighed down on top with snow, and their owners often poked the roofs to shift the piles, creating drifts between stalls. Inside each one was a shop, selling wares from roasted nuts to new clothes to pretty jewelery. As soon as they'd passed such a shop, Portugal tugged on his arm, staring at the gold rings glittering in the gray winter light. The shopkeeper smiled.
"Afternoon sir, see anything you like?" His eyes traveled to the man he was clinging to, and widened. "Bless me bones, Sir Kirkland! Didn't expect you at my humble shop."
"Nonsense Henry, I come every year." England replied absently, following his lover's gaze as they traveled over the stock. "Any attempts on your wares yet?"
The shopkeeper, Henry, gave an irritated huff that set the bristles of his mustache quivering. "One little urchin tried it on, but I batted away his wandering hands before long." His keen eye noticed Portugal's own hands hovering over one particularly pretty ring; gold coloured and with a tiny but bright emerald set in the middle. "Seems your friend's pretty interested in that one, though from your, ah, complexion I'd say you're not local. Where're you from, sir?"
"Portugal." the nation replied, not taking his eye off the ring.
Henry laughed. "What on earth are you doing up here, when it's all miserable?"
"I find that there are things worth coming here for." Gabriel replied, looking up with a smile. "How much for the ring?"
"Five pound, three shilling." Henry proclaimed. England straightened.
"That's just silly, Henry."
"I can't let it go for any less, Sir Kirkland."
A large eyebrow raised. "Three pounds, two shillings."
Scoff. "Five pound, and tuppence."
"Three pounds, four shillings and ten pence."
Portugal watched the verbal tennis match go back and forth, neither backing down. He tried to say it was okay, he could pay for it, but England held up a finger, a signal to wait.
"Three pound, eighteen shillings and forty pence and I'll go no lower than that, Sir Kirkland." Henry tilted his head back, jaw set and eyes shining with challenge. England smirked.
"Three pound, ten shillings and this." he brandished a small note, was that a ticket of some kind? "How's that?"
The shopkeeper stared at it, then snatched it from his hand. "You can flog it for profit if you want, though it might be of more use to you to keep it." England said, looking off to the side like this no longer interested him, then held out his hand again. "Or, you could give it back--"
"Oh no, sir, you're too kind sir! It's sold, this is very generous of you." Portugal was beginning to wonder if the poor man might burst into tears. What had Arthur done? "Thank you sir, thank you."
The blonde waved his hand. "It's nothing, don't mention it. We'll just have the ring and be on our way."
"Yes sir, right away sir!" and so the man started bustling about finding the box for the ring. Portugal took this opportunity to turn to England and ask what on earth was that letter about.
"It's a recommendation of his shop and wares to the court, from me." Arthur explained, quietly so the passers by wouldn't hear. "If he puts it in his shop window, people will know his goods are of quality, and it will increase his customers. The least I can do for a man whose son died in battle for me and was nearly left bankrupt. These are his last items."
Portugal glanced back at the necklaces and bracelets and rings on display. "Really? Arthur, meu amor, you can be such a softie sometimes."
A red hue that had little to do with the cold appeared on the British Empire's face. "It's just a little token of appreciation, Port..."
Portugal pecked him on the cheek, and the blush went from his cheeks to cover his whole face. The shopkeeper chose that time to stand up with the box, presenting it and the ring to the couple. "... Sir Kirkland?"
England snapped to attention." Er, yes! Quite! Ah, hold on a moment." He rummaged in his pocket for change, and handed a little more than he had initially intended to the now bewildered man. "Well, uh, turrah for now Henry!" And with that he started sliding off down the makeshift street the tents had made. Portugal grabbed the ring and the box, grinned at the confused shopkeeper, and wobbled unsteadily after his husband.
"Arthur, wait for me!" he called, and the blonde skidded to a stop. As soon as the darker Nation had caught up, however, England spoke.
"We need to go home."
Portugal blinked. "What? Amor, are you alright-"
Before he could grasp what was happening, Portugal was yanked by the arm into the space between the tents and kissed with such fervor that all the chill seemed to vanish from the air instantly. It was nearly bruising. It was wonderful. And when they finally broke apart for air, England's half-lidded eyes burned.
"We need to go home." he repeated. "I don't think you'd much like me ravaging you in the snow."
Butterflies had burst into life inside Portugal's stomach. "Sim, that would be a good idea." He linked arms with him again, grinning. "Home it is."
Notes:
- Old English money is haaaaarrrrrddd D8 20 shillings to a pound and 280 pennies to a shilling? Plus with all those other things like half crowns... gah! But in modern money, 5 pounds would be about 850 pounds or nearly 1000 dollars. It's a pretty ring, but it's good that England talked him down to three pounds and a few shillings.
- The Thames Frost Fair was held every winter when the Thames froze over. Between the 15th century and the 19thr century, winters in Britain were much, much harsher. Historians call it the "mini-ice age".
- This takes place in 1745, a while before the last Frost Fair in 1814. By the 1800s, both factories, dense population and the shifting climate made it impossible to the river to reach freezing temperatures enough to freeze all the way over.
- About the title: You used to be able to walk from one end of the Thames river to the other when it froze, which is a pretty long sodding way. One Bishop and his wife walked from Fulham to Putney (which isn't the whole way, but shush) to prove it, and I was out of ideas for a title so there. :|
- Dedicated to candesceres who came up with this idea with me.
Characters: England and Portugal, Eng/Port
Rating: PG
Warnings: Gooey, mushy, perma-honeymoon romance? It was a drabble that became a fic, that's all I know.
Summary: Portugal's always introducing new things to England. Now, England wants to introduce something of his to Portugal.
"Oh come now Port, it's not that scary."
"Inglaterra, it is unnatural."
"It's been like this every winter for three hundred years."
"I refuse."
"It's just a little ice." England suppressed a smile, because really, wasn't this usually the other way around? Portugal was usually the one to drag him places, show him new things, introduce to him new wonders and excitements. Now here he was, wanting to show his lover the Thames fair and the Iberian nation had revealed a startling aversion to standing on frozen rivers.
"It will crack." the dark haired man insisted, standing on the stairs that lead down to where the river had frozen at half tide.
"If it hasn't cracked with all those stalls and people on it, I very much doubt it will crack with your weight." England replied, sliding back over to the steps and taking Portugal's hand from where it gripped the wall. "Please. For me."
Tawny yellow eyes searched him. "Promise me you won't let go."
England lifted their clasped hands. "I promise."
There was snow caught in Gabriel's hair and Arthur very much wanted to kiss him, but there were an awful lot of people out today so he repressed it as always. England skidded easily on the flat soles of his boots while dragging his husband behind him, fingers being grasped nearly to the point of pain. Portugal's stance was not confident, and he looked down at the ice like it would leap up and swallow him of it's own sentient accord. England nearly scoffed. Not since he'd made the deal with the river so many years ago had it done any such thing.
"See, you're fine." the blonde assured. Portugal sighed, a rush of steam in the air, rising into nothing. He tried to straighten his posture, but nearly lost his balance. The island Nation caught him. "I've got you. Don't lock your knees, don't lean back." Bright green eyes tracked Portugal's stance. "Slide one foot in front of the other, point your toes out slightly and you'll get more stable. Count each slide to three and you'll get a rhythm."
He nodded gravely, and England nearly rolled his eyes. Ah well, they'd have a distraction soon.
The brightly coloured tents were beginning to be weighed down on top with snow, and their owners often poked the roofs to shift the piles, creating drifts between stalls. Inside each one was a shop, selling wares from roasted nuts to new clothes to pretty jewelery. As soon as they'd passed such a shop, Portugal tugged on his arm, staring at the gold rings glittering in the gray winter light. The shopkeeper smiled.
"Afternoon sir, see anything you like?" His eyes traveled to the man he was clinging to, and widened. "Bless me bones, Sir Kirkland! Didn't expect you at my humble shop."
"Nonsense Henry, I come every year." England replied absently, following his lover's gaze as they traveled over the stock. "Any attempts on your wares yet?"
The shopkeeper, Henry, gave an irritated huff that set the bristles of his mustache quivering. "One little urchin tried it on, but I batted away his wandering hands before long." His keen eye noticed Portugal's own hands hovering over one particularly pretty ring; gold coloured and with a tiny but bright emerald set in the middle. "Seems your friend's pretty interested in that one, though from your, ah, complexion I'd say you're not local. Where're you from, sir?"
"Portugal." the nation replied, not taking his eye off the ring.
Henry laughed. "What on earth are you doing up here, when it's all miserable?"
"I find that there are things worth coming here for." Gabriel replied, looking up with a smile. "How much for the ring?"
"Five pound, three shilling." Henry proclaimed. England straightened.
"That's just silly, Henry."
"I can't let it go for any less, Sir Kirkland."
A large eyebrow raised. "Three pounds, two shillings."
Scoff. "Five pound, and tuppence."
"Three pounds, four shillings and ten pence."
Portugal watched the verbal tennis match go back and forth, neither backing down. He tried to say it was okay, he could pay for it, but England held up a finger, a signal to wait.
"Three pound, eighteen shillings and forty pence and I'll go no lower than that, Sir Kirkland." Henry tilted his head back, jaw set and eyes shining with challenge. England smirked.
"Three pound, ten shillings and this." he brandished a small note, was that a ticket of some kind? "How's that?"
The shopkeeper stared at it, then snatched it from his hand. "You can flog it for profit if you want, though it might be of more use to you to keep it." England said, looking off to the side like this no longer interested him, then held out his hand again. "Or, you could give it back--"
"Oh no, sir, you're too kind sir! It's sold, this is very generous of you." Portugal was beginning to wonder if the poor man might burst into tears. What had Arthur done? "Thank you sir, thank you."
The blonde waved his hand. "It's nothing, don't mention it. We'll just have the ring and be on our way."
"Yes sir, right away sir!" and so the man started bustling about finding the box for the ring. Portugal took this opportunity to turn to England and ask what on earth was that letter about.
"It's a recommendation of his shop and wares to the court, from me." Arthur explained, quietly so the passers by wouldn't hear. "If he puts it in his shop window, people will know his goods are of quality, and it will increase his customers. The least I can do for a man whose son died in battle for me and was nearly left bankrupt. These are his last items."
Portugal glanced back at the necklaces and bracelets and rings on display. "Really? Arthur, meu amor, you can be such a softie sometimes."
A red hue that had little to do with the cold appeared on the British Empire's face. "It's just a little token of appreciation, Port..."
Portugal pecked him on the cheek, and the blush went from his cheeks to cover his whole face. The shopkeeper chose that time to stand up with the box, presenting it and the ring to the couple. "... Sir Kirkland?"
England snapped to attention." Er, yes! Quite! Ah, hold on a moment." He rummaged in his pocket for change, and handed a little more than he had initially intended to the now bewildered man. "Well, uh, turrah for now Henry!" And with that he started sliding off down the makeshift street the tents had made. Portugal grabbed the ring and the box, grinned at the confused shopkeeper, and wobbled unsteadily after his husband.
"Arthur, wait for me!" he called, and the blonde skidded to a stop. As soon as the darker Nation had caught up, however, England spoke.
"We need to go home."
Portugal blinked. "What? Amor, are you alright-"
Before he could grasp what was happening, Portugal was yanked by the arm into the space between the tents and kissed with such fervor that all the chill seemed to vanish from the air instantly. It was nearly bruising. It was wonderful. And when they finally broke apart for air, England's half-lidded eyes burned.
"We need to go home." he repeated. "I don't think you'd much like me ravaging you in the snow."
Butterflies had burst into life inside Portugal's stomach. "Sim, that would be a good idea." He linked arms with him again, grinning. "Home it is."
Notes:
- Old English money is haaaaarrrrrddd D8 20 shillings to a pound and 280 pennies to a shilling? Plus with all those other things like half crowns... gah! But in modern money, 5 pounds would be about 850 pounds or nearly 1000 dollars. It's a pretty ring, but it's good that England talked him down to three pounds and a few shillings.
- The Thames Frost Fair was held every winter when the Thames froze over. Between the 15th century and the 19thr century, winters in Britain were much, much harsher. Historians call it the "mini-ice age".
- This takes place in 1745, a while before the last Frost Fair in 1814. By the 1800s, both factories, dense population and the shifting climate made it impossible to the river to reach freezing temperatures enough to freeze all the way over.
- About the title: You used to be able to walk from one end of the Thames river to the other when it froze, which is a pretty long sodding way. One Bishop and his wife walked from Fulham to Putney (which isn't the whole way, but shush) to prove it, and I was out of ideas for a title so there. :|
- Dedicated to candesceres who came up with this idea with me.