Liberté, Égalité, Naiveté
Title: Liberté, Égalité, Naiveté
Originally posted: Here.
Length: 1900 words.
Characters/Pairings: France/America.
Premise: It's the closing months of the American Revolution! France is tapping that daily, and nightly, and ever so rightly. Now if only he could stop America from shooting himself in the foot before he's even made a start at statehood.
Time period: 1782
Smuttiness: 5/10
Funnyness: 2/10
Wrist slashiness: 3/10
Warm-and-fuzziness: 5/10
Lolhistoryness: 5/10
Violence: 0/10
Would I like it?: Revolutionary War-era France/America..."fluff?" As fluff as they can get? Idk. America has such a crush, and France is...France. But trying-to-be-a-good-person France. Trying-to-be-a-good-person, but-easily-distracted-by-America's-sweet-ass France.
---
1782
America greeted France as he descended the gangplank with a wild hug and a sharp kiss. France laughed against his mouth. There was bustle everywhere; unloading, a heavy crowd which knocked them together; a surge of children knocked against the back of France's knees, and his hat slipped off and tumbled down upon the quay. America yanked France through the sweating, shouting tide of his people, down along the docks, away from France's trunks and his lace-encrusted cluster of attendants.
Trailing behind that bobbing golden head, that acre-wide smile which America kept throwing him over his shoulder, France couldn't dream of taking exception.
Another kiss struck him at the lower landing to--somewhere, some block of apartments; and another and another, at a door to which America had the key. Inside closed around them in a dark and sudden rush. The key clattered to the floor between their feet. America knotted both hands in France's jacket, pinned him back against the door--France's shoulders banged against the hardwood--and he strained up on his toes for more kisses. France tangled his fingers in the young nation's hair and dragged him up and into them. America scraped open France's cravat, rasped his fingernails down across France's stubble--
France could not recall the last time he had lost the initiative so quickly or so thoroughly. He started laughing. America unpinned his jacket with impatient fingers, and France caught up with him, finally, gripped America by the waist and shoved off the door. He walked them deeper into the dim little apartment, kissing, grabbing, pulling open clothing, America stumbling and making willing noises against him; he just giggled when France knocked him into a doorframe, or an unanticipated section of wall. France decided that it was far more important to rediscover America's hitches and gasps whenever France's teeth closed around his earlobe than it was to watch where they were going.
America tumbled backwards onto a bed at last, his arms still locked around France's neck. Their shoes thumped onto the floor, and buttons clattered as their jackets followed soon afterwards…
---
America struggled up onto his elbows when they were finished, golden, quivering and flushed; freshly plucked was by far his best look. He reached over France's head and flung open the window. Cooling evening air gusted in, spilled down, washed over their bodies. America collapsed across France's chest with his ear pressed against his heartbeat.
"Yeah, so welcome back," he murmured. His fingertips curled against France's ribs.
France laughed soundlessly: a ripple down his frame which scattered America's damp hair across his forehead. "Yes," he agreed; "I have news from Paris; something about an expedition with Spain against England's holdings in the West Indies; but I confess the details have for the moment escaped me."
America giggled again. France skimmed his fingers across the young nation's hair, and America bumped his head up against France's hand.
"I take it you've been well," France murmured. They had not seen each other since Yorktown the previous year.
America nodded, which turned into a nuzzle against the arch of France's ribs. He mumbled, "Is the war over yet?"
"Mm--no." France turned onto his side, displacing America. The boy tumbled onto his back and looked up at France with shivery delight. "You see--and I do appreciate that you are rather new to this 'making war' business, so you are to be excused for not being familiar with the particulars--I am sorry to say that the war cannot be over until England agrees to, as we say, stop fighting."
America grinned back at him. "What's he even got left to fight with? Since Cornwallis surrendered. Grumpy looks? Is he gonna try and ground me?"
"Send you to bed without supper?" France suggested. "Although I suppose that would not have been a punishment, in your household…"
America buried his face against the pillow to muffle his groan. "I don't know…you get used to the taste of burnt treacle."
"If nothing else had convinced me," France smiled, "I would now deeply believe that you have suffered cruelly under England's rule."
America grinned and stretched. France admired the arch of his back as it rose up off the sheets; slid a fingertip down the golden bow of his rib cage. America gave a quiet croon.
"Oh, I wanted to tell you…um."
He paused. France waited. After a few seconds, he prodded, "Yes?"
America squirmed down on his shoulders and shot France an apologetic look. France raised his eyebrows. "Um…if it's not too goofy. You know what--it's dumb, forget I said, uh, anything."
France sighed, and tickled America's neck. America jerked, gave a startled laugh; a twitch went through him from his scalp to the back of his knee. France ducked in close and bit that same spot. It coaxed a gasp out of the boy. "I promise not to laugh at you, mon petit. Just tell me."
America blushed and dropped his eyes. France nursed a covetous tug in his heart. "Well, I was talking to some of the…of the guys; you know, Adams and Jefferson, and, and…uh…"
Another silence. France propped himself up on his elbow and walked his fingertips down America's sternum. "If you do not tell me," he informed him, "I will have no choice but to lose all interest."
A smile jerked at the corner of America's mouth. It dropped away as he got out in a rush: "Well I just thought I could make you an honorary citizen."
France blinked, and his fingers stilled.
"I-I mean…it's just something we thought might be kinda nice, you know…? For anybody who's, um, who's really helped me out during my Revolution; making them honorary citizens. And, well, you know...nobody's helped me out more than you have. And so…" America kept blushing, and blushing, and France could only see a sliver of blue from beneath those lowered lashes. A pleasant quiver went through his stomach: such a submissive look. Oh, England had been fortunate... "Um, I can't really offer a whole lot else, right now. Not until the war is really officially over, and I can hammer out a constitution. But, um…"
France cut him off: as an act of mercy. "A citizen," he mused. He wasn't wholly certain he qualified as a citizen of France. "What does it…ah…mean?"
America twisted his fingers together on his stomach. "Um…I guess it means that you're always welcome in my house. For starters. And…in a more general sense, like…like with any of my citizens…um." His eyelashes trembled, and he met France's eyes. There was something soft in the boy's countenance. "I…I'll try to look out for your interests; and...well, I hope I don't let you down."
France found himself in a rare condition: he had no idea what to say.
"You've been a true friend," America added. "I know you really took a, took a gamble on me; and…and you spent a lot of money supporting me. I just want you to know that I--"
"America, no," France interjected, gentle. He lay his hand across America's folded ones. "It is a very sweet offer, but--"
"But--"
"--But permit me to be a true friend to you now; never offer to safeguard any nation's interests but your own."
America opened his mouth, then closed it.
France exhaled inside himself. He touched a kiss to America's lips. "We are friends," he reassured him. "I care for you, mon petit, you may rely on that. But still--in ten years' time, we may find ourselves at war. You would regret your kind offer then, I think."
America set his jaw and withdrew an inch against the pillow. "Would you really go to war against me? Even after everything you--after all the stuff we've been through together? After--after Yorktown?"
"If it were sufficiently within my interests--? Yes, of course."
America scowled. He pulled out of France's arms and sat up.
France drew himself up as well, sighing. He ran a hand through his hair. "It's no reflection on you," he stressed.
"No; it's a reflection on you!" America pulled his knees in against his chest. "I'm not stupid, okay? I know things change, but--I just thought--since we're allies, I figured I could count on you to--"
"There is no one you can count on," France interrupted. "Sometimes not even yourself. Dear thing--you are my young friend; and you are very agreeable company; and your ideals are nothing but admirable. And your existence promises to be a constant thorn in England's side," he added, "Which would endear you to me were you a verbally incontinent leper. I do not want to see you hobbled at such an early stage by--"
"--Trusting my closest friend?" America finished. His brows drew together in hurt.
"If you like," France agreed. "Trusting anyone at all."
America stared off at the left wall. His fingers cramped around his shins. "If that's really what you think, why even tell me this? Shouldn't you just have said yes, and then screwed me for it later?"
A delicate pause.
America bit his lip. "Um, in a manner of speaking."
"Yes," France admitted.
America glanced at him.
"I am certain that would have been the intelligent thing to do," he went on. "Perhaps you would have even felt honor-bound to relent, at some future date, when we inevitably find ourselves at a conflict of interests..."
America grimaced. Scratched his nose. His toes curled up in the sheet. "Okay…then…so…? Why didn't you?"
France flicked aside an unruly lock of America's hair and cupped the young nation's face. America's back stiffened an inch. "Because none of us are quite beyond the reach of sentiment," he sighed. "Perhaps I like you more than I should. Whatever the case--you may have this one for free."
America held his eyes for a few seconds, processing that: and then he smiled. His fingertips drifted up and draped around France's wrist.
France grazed his thumb down the line of America's jaw. "But thank you, for the lovely thought."
America smiled, with difficulty; but he tipped his head down and nudged a kiss into France's palm. "And, um…thanks for turning me down, I guess." A gust of a laugh; it spilled between France's fingers, warm and wet. "I guess I'm pretty naïve, huh?"
France caressed America's lower lip, and said fondly, "It's all part of your charm, mon petit. I am sure I will try to take advantage of it eventually."
"All the same--" America caught his hand, his eyes. France stilled. "France--I-I hope we never go to war. I mean…you…" That downcast gaze; that little smile. "You really do, um, mean a lot to me. I mean--everything you've done. It means--"
France squeezed America's fingertips. "Yes; I hope for that as well."
Another smiling silence, and then they both leaned in for a kiss. Night came in through the window, cool and dim and promising; America sank down against the pillow, caught the ends of France's hair, and together they draped and folded into bed.
+++
--In 1782, General Lafayette returned to America and was awarded with honorary American citizenship for his extraordinary service during the American Revolutionary War. America fucking loved this guy, I can't even tell you. Franco-American relations hit their all-time high towards the end of the American Revolution, and there were all kinds of passionate declarations about how they would be Revolution BFFs. Maybe it didn't work out like that, but hey--it's still a nice sentiment, right? And unless you count the Quasi-War, which as the name implies, only sorta half counts, America and France never actually have gone to war with each other.
+++
Originally posted: Here.
Length: 1900 words.
Characters/Pairings: France/America.
Premise: It's the closing months of the American Revolution! France is tapping that daily, and nightly, and ever so rightly. Now if only he could stop America from shooting himself in the foot before he's even made a start at statehood.
Time period: 1782
Smuttiness: 5/10
Funnyness: 2/10
Wrist slashiness: 3/10
Warm-and-fuzziness: 5/10
Lolhistoryness: 5/10
Violence: 0/10
Would I like it?: Revolutionary War-era France/America..."fluff?" As fluff as they can get? Idk. America has such a crush, and France is...France. But trying-to-be-a-good-person France. Trying-to-be-a-good-person, but-easily-distracted-by-America's-sweet-ass France.
---
1782
America greeted France as he descended the gangplank with a wild hug and a sharp kiss. France laughed against his mouth. There was bustle everywhere; unloading, a heavy crowd which knocked them together; a surge of children knocked against the back of France's knees, and his hat slipped off and tumbled down upon the quay. America yanked France through the sweating, shouting tide of his people, down along the docks, away from France's trunks and his lace-encrusted cluster of attendants.
Trailing behind that bobbing golden head, that acre-wide smile which America kept throwing him over his shoulder, France couldn't dream of taking exception.
Another kiss struck him at the lower landing to--somewhere, some block of apartments; and another and another, at a door to which America had the key. Inside closed around them in a dark and sudden rush. The key clattered to the floor between their feet. America knotted both hands in France's jacket, pinned him back against the door--France's shoulders banged against the hardwood--and he strained up on his toes for more kisses. France tangled his fingers in the young nation's hair and dragged him up and into them. America scraped open France's cravat, rasped his fingernails down across France's stubble--
France could not recall the last time he had lost the initiative so quickly or so thoroughly. He started laughing. America unpinned his jacket with impatient fingers, and France caught up with him, finally, gripped America by the waist and shoved off the door. He walked them deeper into the dim little apartment, kissing, grabbing, pulling open clothing, America stumbling and making willing noises against him; he just giggled when France knocked him into a doorframe, or an unanticipated section of wall. France decided that it was far more important to rediscover America's hitches and gasps whenever France's teeth closed around his earlobe than it was to watch where they were going.
America tumbled backwards onto a bed at last, his arms still locked around France's neck. Their shoes thumped onto the floor, and buttons clattered as their jackets followed soon afterwards…
---
America struggled up onto his elbows when they were finished, golden, quivering and flushed; freshly plucked was by far his best look. He reached over France's head and flung open the window. Cooling evening air gusted in, spilled down, washed over their bodies. America collapsed across France's chest with his ear pressed against his heartbeat.
"Yeah, so welcome back," he murmured. His fingertips curled against France's ribs.
France laughed soundlessly: a ripple down his frame which scattered America's damp hair across his forehead. "Yes," he agreed; "I have news from Paris; something about an expedition with Spain against England's holdings in the West Indies; but I confess the details have for the moment escaped me."
America giggled again. France skimmed his fingers across the young nation's hair, and America bumped his head up against France's hand.
"I take it you've been well," France murmured. They had not seen each other since Yorktown the previous year.
America nodded, which turned into a nuzzle against the arch of France's ribs. He mumbled, "Is the war over yet?"
"Mm--no." France turned onto his side, displacing America. The boy tumbled onto his back and looked up at France with shivery delight. "You see--and I do appreciate that you are rather new to this 'making war' business, so you are to be excused for not being familiar with the particulars--I am sorry to say that the war cannot be over until England agrees to, as we say, stop fighting."
America grinned back at him. "What's he even got left to fight with? Since Cornwallis surrendered. Grumpy looks? Is he gonna try and ground me?"
"Send you to bed without supper?" France suggested. "Although I suppose that would not have been a punishment, in your household…"
America buried his face against the pillow to muffle his groan. "I don't know…you get used to the taste of burnt treacle."
"If nothing else had convinced me," France smiled, "I would now deeply believe that you have suffered cruelly under England's rule."
America grinned and stretched. France admired the arch of his back as it rose up off the sheets; slid a fingertip down the golden bow of his rib cage. America gave a quiet croon.
"Oh, I wanted to tell you…um."
He paused. France waited. After a few seconds, he prodded, "Yes?"
America squirmed down on his shoulders and shot France an apologetic look. France raised his eyebrows. "Um…if it's not too goofy. You know what--it's dumb, forget I said, uh, anything."
France sighed, and tickled America's neck. America jerked, gave a startled laugh; a twitch went through him from his scalp to the back of his knee. France ducked in close and bit that same spot. It coaxed a gasp out of the boy. "I promise not to laugh at you, mon petit. Just tell me."
America blushed and dropped his eyes. France nursed a covetous tug in his heart. "Well, I was talking to some of the…of the guys; you know, Adams and Jefferson, and, and…uh…"
Another silence. France propped himself up on his elbow and walked his fingertips down America's sternum. "If you do not tell me," he informed him, "I will have no choice but to lose all interest."
A smile jerked at the corner of America's mouth. It dropped away as he got out in a rush: "Well I just thought I could make you an honorary citizen."
France blinked, and his fingers stilled.
"I-I mean…it's just something we thought might be kinda nice, you know…? For anybody who's, um, who's really helped me out during my Revolution; making them honorary citizens. And, well, you know...nobody's helped me out more than you have. And so…" America kept blushing, and blushing, and France could only see a sliver of blue from beneath those lowered lashes. A pleasant quiver went through his stomach: such a submissive look. Oh, England had been fortunate... "Um, I can't really offer a whole lot else, right now. Not until the war is really officially over, and I can hammer out a constitution. But, um…"
France cut him off: as an act of mercy. "A citizen," he mused. He wasn't wholly certain he qualified as a citizen of France. "What does it…ah…mean?"
America twisted his fingers together on his stomach. "Um…I guess it means that you're always welcome in my house. For starters. And…in a more general sense, like…like with any of my citizens…um." His eyelashes trembled, and he met France's eyes. There was something soft in the boy's countenance. "I…I'll try to look out for your interests; and...well, I hope I don't let you down."
France found himself in a rare condition: he had no idea what to say.
"You've been a true friend," America added. "I know you really took a, took a gamble on me; and…and you spent a lot of money supporting me. I just want you to know that I--"
"America, no," France interjected, gentle. He lay his hand across America's folded ones. "It is a very sweet offer, but--"
"But--"
"--But permit me to be a true friend to you now; never offer to safeguard any nation's interests but your own."
America opened his mouth, then closed it.
France exhaled inside himself. He touched a kiss to America's lips. "We are friends," he reassured him. "I care for you, mon petit, you may rely on that. But still--in ten years' time, we may find ourselves at war. You would regret your kind offer then, I think."
America set his jaw and withdrew an inch against the pillow. "Would you really go to war against me? Even after everything you--after all the stuff we've been through together? After--after Yorktown?"
"If it were sufficiently within my interests--? Yes, of course."
America scowled. He pulled out of France's arms and sat up.
France drew himself up as well, sighing. He ran a hand through his hair. "It's no reflection on you," he stressed.
"No; it's a reflection on you!" America pulled his knees in against his chest. "I'm not stupid, okay? I know things change, but--I just thought--since we're allies, I figured I could count on you to--"
"There is no one you can count on," France interrupted. "Sometimes not even yourself. Dear thing--you are my young friend; and you are very agreeable company; and your ideals are nothing but admirable. And your existence promises to be a constant thorn in England's side," he added, "Which would endear you to me were you a verbally incontinent leper. I do not want to see you hobbled at such an early stage by--"
"--Trusting my closest friend?" America finished. His brows drew together in hurt.
"If you like," France agreed. "Trusting anyone at all."
America stared off at the left wall. His fingers cramped around his shins. "If that's really what you think, why even tell me this? Shouldn't you just have said yes, and then screwed me for it later?"
A delicate pause.
America bit his lip. "Um, in a manner of speaking."
"Yes," France admitted.
America glanced at him.
"I am certain that would have been the intelligent thing to do," he went on. "Perhaps you would have even felt honor-bound to relent, at some future date, when we inevitably find ourselves at a conflict of interests..."
America grimaced. Scratched his nose. His toes curled up in the sheet. "Okay…then…so…? Why didn't you?"
France flicked aside an unruly lock of America's hair and cupped the young nation's face. America's back stiffened an inch. "Because none of us are quite beyond the reach of sentiment," he sighed. "Perhaps I like you more than I should. Whatever the case--you may have this one for free."
America held his eyes for a few seconds, processing that: and then he smiled. His fingertips drifted up and draped around France's wrist.
France grazed his thumb down the line of America's jaw. "But thank you, for the lovely thought."
America smiled, with difficulty; but he tipped his head down and nudged a kiss into France's palm. "And, um…thanks for turning me down, I guess." A gust of a laugh; it spilled between France's fingers, warm and wet. "I guess I'm pretty naïve, huh?"
France caressed America's lower lip, and said fondly, "It's all part of your charm, mon petit. I am sure I will try to take advantage of it eventually."
"All the same--" America caught his hand, his eyes. France stilled. "France--I-I hope we never go to war. I mean…you…" That downcast gaze; that little smile. "You really do, um, mean a lot to me. I mean--everything you've done. It means--"
France squeezed America's fingertips. "Yes; I hope for that as well."
Another smiling silence, and then they both leaned in for a kiss. Night came in through the window, cool and dim and promising; America sank down against the pillow, caught the ends of France's hair, and together they draped and folded into bed.
+++
--In 1782, General Lafayette returned to America and was awarded with honorary American citizenship for his extraordinary service during the American Revolutionary War. America fucking loved this guy, I can't even tell you. Franco-American relations hit their all-time high towards the end of the American Revolution, and there were all kinds of passionate declarations about how they would be Revolution BFFs. Maybe it didn't work out like that, but hey--it's still a nice sentiment, right? And unless you count the Quasi-War, which as the name implies, only sorta half counts, America and France never actually have gone to war with each other.
+++