Take some Germany/France :D ~ I wish you good luck with your exams, OP!
Eins.
It’s weird, working with France and not fighting him.
The distance between them is still there – invisible, slowly shrinking but never forgotten so that they always have trouble relaxing in each other’s presence – nonetheless, they are talking, discussing, even cooking together and that is more than Germany has ever hoped for after the war.
He’s unsure if France sometimes tries to get on his nerves on purpose (constantly bugging him and eyeing him a bit too wary to call it more than acquaintanceship yet) but they manage – somehow.
Touching is a rare occurrence because Germany never stops to feel dirty (all the blood and guilty and more feelings than he can voice) and France probably because his fear lets him keep a safe distance when they meet. Not that Germany doesn’t understand. But still… the hurt is there, small and a constant accompany of Germany just like Prussia should be if he could be there. (But he’s not; Russia seals him away surely knowing that he is ripping a part of Germany’s soul out of its place.)
So he never asks anything of France - never requests a thing and banishes all thoughts off asking him to come over more often. Germany takes what is given to him, thankful to receive anything at all.
France is like a small shimmer of light next to America’s bright and blending sun which dances sometimes right before his eyes and the next time so far away that Germany is anxious Alfred will leave him alone.
Alone, like he had been in his childhood before Prussia, Austria or Italy crashed in his spheres.
The helping hands which are offered to him are the only reason he tries to go on. The only reason why he hasn’t gripped a pistol yet.
Work keeps him alive, watchful eyes prop him back to live, a treaty is his anchor when darkness, screams and the smell of blood are getting too strong in his dreams to forget them when he wakes up bathed in sweat.
The first time France takes his hand is a moment he certainly will always remember. He’s busy all day, being on conferences and meetings since the early morning – like he has been the whole week.
Economy is not as stable as he wants it to be, therefore Ludwig dreams of Fridays and eggs that cost more than a million Deutsche Mark (which has happened before, after the first world war that left him with too many bills and later too less food and work to keep his people alive). There is fear that seeps into his blood and every noise makes him jumpy so that Italy is not helping when he bursts in his bureau with a bag full of pasta to share.
Germany barley manages to not throw him out.
Later at the meeting with the Allies who come to control his growth and progress he is close to jump up and start ranting about all the problems he has. About the destroyed cities and villages, the problem with the refugees and all the missing men he needs for his industry… but he stays silent, knowing that he is stupid for accusing them for any of those since it is his fault, his alone to bear.
Still, that doesn’t make his anger go away. Minutes after they are finished he rushes out of the room, ready to drown his sorrow either in beer or through mindlessly going back to removing ruins from his streets until darkness forces him to sleep because he can not identify a body from a stone anymore.
Anything is better than to have time to think, time to mourn his brother’s loss, all the deaths he has on his hands and the guilty his future children will have to face.
It’s France who follows him, calls him to stop and eyes him worriedly, knowingly. Germany doesn’t know if the other cares because he fears another wave of hatred against his nation or because he truly is concerned – that doesn’t matter anyways, not to him, not now. The soft, warm fingers touching his hand, carefully guiding him away to a restroom is all he can feel, is all he dares himself to acknowledge.
He doesn’t grip back, is just content to have any skin against his at all, although the wish to yank his hand back because he’s dirty - oh so dirty - arises immediately. Limb and empty he lets France pull him along, set him on a soft bed and realizes with shock how those delicate fingers are placed on his fore head.
“You don’t seem to have a fever.” He hears faintly, only able to helplessly watch France’s frown deepen, unsure how to react since it has been such a long time since anybody except for his war companies (who have the same problems themselves now) cared.
France rumours through the small cupboard on the other side and a glass with water and tablets are pushed into Germany’s cold hands seconds after. He doesn’t question what that is or what it will do, he simply gulps all down.
“Can’t have you getting sick, I need your industry as much as you do.”
Says that melodious voice while drowsiness overcomes Germany and he has to lie down to not fall over and greet the floor. So. Only business partners, huh? is his last thought – without regret and only a slightly bitter taste in the back of his mouth. Better than being alone, Ludwig thinks before he drifts off into a dreamless slumber.
Cooking is difficult when having France over, Ludwig learns over the years. He’s either doing it too simple or mixing the wrong ingredients or making too much or cooking only wurst or – well, it’s difficult.
So they agree that Francis is in control of the kitchen when he visits. At first, Germany is afraid that he will never get to eat sausages or potatoes again or that France will only serve those small portions where nobody gets full from. But it turns out to be rather fun, watching France cook is like watching Italy paint – grace, intensity and beauty combined into an exciting mix he can never get enough off.
At the beginning, they are both stiff and a bit reluctant around each other. So Germany starts to ask, to memorize menus, always serious and with a growing interest in the other’s cuisine. And notices that France is more than just a fancy nation who likes to undress and bother other innocent nations. When he cooks he’s serious himself, all professional and fascinating and up to any request Germany has.
Slowly, Ludwig even gets Francis’s approval to cook German desserts or show him traditional meals. His shame that they certainly do not compare to France’s cuisine vanishes as Francis himself demands a second slice of the delicious cake Ludwig has made for him.
Before Germany knows himself he is heed over heals in love with the French Haute cuisine. And perhaps even a bit more with the cook himself.
They are getting closer, Ludwig realizes one morning after waking up and finding instead of a half naked Italy a full naked France in his bed. He could scream and throw the other out but the warmness and the familiarity of having those arms draped over his chest is enough to stay silent.
Ludwig shifts a bit, now able to wrap one arm around Francis’s sleeping form and pulls the blanket over those white shoulders so that they don’t feel chilly anymore.
Lying there, awake and unable to drift of into sleep with such a distraction next to him, Ludwig reconsiders.
It’s still a bit weird between them, both so different in character and way of life but somehow they accomplish each other pretty nicely.
Francis makes him loosen up, makes him smile more often and always seems to know when his presence is needed to not let Ludwig drown in memories of his past and all the guilty he will never be able to compensate.
Where Italy has been more a burden (although a lovely one Ludwig wouldn’t want to miss in his life) France is a surprisingly equal partner – when he isn’t on one of his love trips, that is.
Ludwig has learnt to interpret the smiles he sees which sometimes aren’t smiles but a barrier to protect, to yield off other nations. He knows that Francis cooks late at night when he is angry, that Francis gives roses and hopes to get more than just weird looks and uncertain smiles in return, that Francis loves to design clothes and that he is afraid to be alone, too.
He knows that France still hates that he has lost his colonial status just as much as England does, that France has a sense for sarcasm and is proud, very proud of his history and of what he is today.
Although they disagree on many aspects and couldn’t sometimes be more different than fire and water, Ludwig is glad, more than he can possibly ever tell Francis, to call him a close friend.
Smiling softly, he nuzzles his nose into those nice smelling blond locks without becoming aware of the same smile – wider and cheekier than his – spreading over Francis’s lips.
“Keep your hands to yourself! There’s no sane person in the world who would want to be touched by you!”
England’s shriek is loud and audible, drifting through the whole conference room even better since the other conversations have tuned down to hushed whispers which stop abruptly when France’s and England’s talk gets too noisy to ignore.
Silence follows that sentence in form of a thick suffocating blanket, weighing overwhelmingly on the shoulders of the nations present in the room. Nobody dares to say something, only some shuffling of paper and throats being cleared can be heard.
Until an amusing laugh cuts the quietness and eases the invisible blanket away. France chuckles, smirking at England and stands up from his chair to trace a finger over the other’s cheek which makes England blush.
“I will not take pity in you when you realize what you are missing, my perverted English friend.”
And out he is, leaving the room while still laughing and waving playfully back at England. The conversations turn up again, Italy continues to eat his pasta not so secretly under the table, Greece slumps back onto Japan’s shoulder, Poland and Lithuania reassume their chat and Russia is back to eyeing Latvia, Estonia and all the other nations – who will be his one day – like he has before the fight. England is distracted from gazing angrily at the door through America who yanks suddenly at his arm and asks him something with Canada trailing behind him.
Only Germany cannot concentrate on his papers anymore. How weird since nothing out off the ordinary happened.
But the nagging feeling in his chest simply grows with each passing minute and after a last glance at Italy (who is now drooling on his brother’s papers) and at his brothers (Austria is unconsciously keeping Prussia occupied – with the help of an aggressive looking Hungary at his side) he leaves the meeting room silently.
He doesn’t have to search for long; a half open balcony door is enough to attract his attention as he walks through the corridors. Carefully Ludwig opens the door a bit more to check if he has found the right location.
And yes, there is Francis with his back to him, leaning small and inconspicuously on the balcony railings, shoulders drooped and his hair dancing with a gentle breeze from time to time.
Unsure if he should say anything at all, Ludwig waits a bit – for a sign or a word that either tells him to leave Francis alone or to approach him, he is not sure which he would prefer. But after a felt eternity, he is unwilling to not say anything at all when he is here to see if everything is okay with Francis.
So he steps on the balcony, still not noticed by the other nation. A grey cloud of smoke suddenly hits his face and he can’t stop from coughing loudly since he inhaled too much of the cigarette in his surprise.
Preoccupied with waving the smell away, he doesn’t see Francis turning around but faces him not until after a soft gasp drifts through the air.
“Ludwig! I’ll be back in a second, just let me finish this one.”
Francis lifts the cigarette with grace and sends him a small apologetic smile, nothing compared to his usual so energetic one. Ludwig doesn’t even try to smile back; instead he easily catches the lifted arm at the wrist and has the smelly object in his fingers sooner than Francis can even raise an eyebrow.
“You promised me to quit.” Is all Ludwig says in a low and clear voice, no accusation or anger in his tone, only a worried declaration. Francis sighs, leans back on the railings and laughs softly.
“Yeah, I did. But habits are hard to let go off, especially when they calm you down.”
This time Ludwig raises an eyebrow before he walks to the small trash bin next to the door and throws the cigarette away after he has put it out.
Another sigh greets him as he turns back around. Francis shakes his head good-naturedly, now a slightly painful expression on his face. “I wish it would be that easy.”
Somehow this conversation is about more than just the cigarette, Ludwig becomes aware. Francis looks so lost, so sad and frustrated – something he only does when Arthur is involved in one or the other way – that Ludwig has to bite his lips hard to keep himself from rushing back and shaking some sense into England personally.
It’s not that he dislikes Arthur, not at all, they get along pretty well – even go drinking together from time to time – but when it comes to Francis, nothing seems to make sense anymore to Ludwig. It’s as if he is fighting a war about that he knows nothing at all, not the goal nor the enemies are clear to him.
It’s probably the same he would react when anybody would hurt his brothers’ or Feliciano’s feelings, only different, different in a way he can not explain. So his thoughts are on autopilot like they always are when the confusion is getting too much to sort out.
And when he has too much to think over, he tends to get irrational. That’s the only explanation he can offer as to why the next sentence leaves his mouth.
“I have nothing against you touching me.”
Francis’s eyes are on his in an instance, wide and perhaps shocked and suddenly Ludwig’s throat gets dry and he inwardly curses his inability to deal with feelings. Having a talk with Arthur would have been the better solution he thinks but what is said can not be taken back.
And shouldn’t be, since he knows that it’s the truth speaking out of his heart.
“I – I mea-“
But Francis cuts him of as he is suddenly in Ludwig’s arms, warm and laughing and still smelling a bit after smoke, but the sadness has nearly vanished and that’s enough for Ludwig to know that he most likely did something right here.
Francis can’t stop laughing, whispering French words against Germany’s neck Ludwig doesn’t understand but they sound like sweet music to his ears nonetheless.
The single word he hears and knows the meaning of is a softly muttered Merci, over and over again. Suddenly it is easy, and he doesn’t give it a second thought when he whispers with a hoarse voice and tightening arms back in German.
“Danke.”
And then, because it is what he feels, now for a long time, “Ich liebe dich.” Soft and hushed. Love you for who you are and what you give me, he adds silently in his thoughts.
Ludwig almost believes that Francis didn’t hear it but then he is pulled down and lips connect with his. It’s everything he knows and everything he doesn’t, all new but familiar. The warmth and gentleness and eagerness, fragments of possessiveness on his part, seduction on Francis’s part and altogether something completely wonderful.
When they part – breathlessly and both blushing – Francis intertwines their fingers of both hands and rests his fore head against Ludwig’s. Blue orbs meet blue orbs, only slightly different in their colour.
“Je t’aime.”
Ludwig can’t stop a silly grin from spreading over his face so very unlike him.
“Good.” He simply says after some minutes of not being able to stop smiling so damn idiotically at France. Before he gets to add more, he receives another talented kiss from Francis.
Anyway~ I absolutely loved this; Germany/France is so rare, and skchhs I love how Germany still thinks fondly of Italy, even as he falls in love with France. And I love the France->England, you included so many OTPs in one fic ♥♥ win, author!anon, win.
whaaaa~~ Such a rare pairing! I've been actually wondering why there is no more about them. I mean, they're almost completely opposite, it makes everything so interesting 8D
Anyway, you write really well author!anon <3 I enjoyed much ^^
I liked it. And if you think about it, it's not so strange pairing - After all, it was France and Germany that created EU... they still are the main and biggest countries there...
Oh *anon*. Your imagery is so gorgeous, and the emotions that run through this are poignant and perfect. My heart was in my throat the whole time - especilly 2 and 4. It wasn't overly done or sappy, just the lyrical, beautiful aching truth of the way Ludwig in love *would be*. I love this so much anon. Love this pairing, love the way you portrayed them. Serious business!cooking!France is a major kink of mine. I love the sincere quality of Germany's *appreciation* for France's personality, beyond the nympho caricature. Everything about this was lovely.
I wonder, are you a native english speaker? There were a few quirks that made me think you might not be, or at least using an overzealous spellchecker that replaced words occasionally. Honestly, the writing was so good that it didn't detract from it much; but if you do non-anon writing in this fandom, I'd be delighted to beta for you if you wanted.
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5 times
(Anonymous) 2009-05-14 11:47 am (UTC)(link)Eins.
It’s weird, working with France and not fighting him.
The distance between them is still there – invisible, slowly shrinking but never forgotten so that they always have trouble relaxing in each other’s presence – nonetheless, they are talking, discussing, even cooking together and that is more than Germany has ever hoped for after the war.
He’s unsure if France sometimes tries to get on his nerves on purpose (constantly bugging him and eyeing him a bit too wary to call it more than acquaintanceship yet) but they manage – somehow.
Touching is a rare occurrence because Germany never stops to feel dirty (all the blood and guilty and more feelings than he can voice) and France probably because his fear lets him keep a safe distance when they meet.
Not that Germany doesn’t understand. But still… the hurt is there, small and a constant accompany of Germany just like Prussia should be if he could be there.
(But he’s not; Russia seals him away surely knowing that he is ripping a part of Germany’s soul out of its place.)
So he never asks anything of France - never requests a thing and banishes all thoughts off asking him to come over more often.
Germany takes what is given to him, thankful to receive anything at all.
France is like a small shimmer of light next to America’s bright and blending sun which dances sometimes right before his eyes and the next time so far away that Germany is anxious Alfred will leave him alone.
Alone, like he had been in his childhood before Prussia, Austria or Italy crashed in his spheres.
The helping hands which are offered to him are the only reason he tries to go on.
The only reason why he hasn’t gripped a pistol yet.
Work keeps him alive, watchful eyes prop him back to live, a treaty is his anchor when darkness, screams and the smell of blood are getting too strong in his dreams to forget them when he wakes up bathed in sweat.
And a smiling France is becoming his goal.
Re: 5 times
(Anonymous) 2009-05-14 11:48 am (UTC)(link)Zwei.
The first time France takes his hand is a moment he certainly will always remember.
He’s busy all day, being on conferences and meetings since the early morning – like he has been the whole week.
Economy is not as stable as he wants it to be, therefore Ludwig dreams of Fridays and eggs that cost more than a million Deutsche Mark (which has happened before, after the first world war that left him with too many bills and later too less food and work to keep his people alive).
There is fear that seeps into his blood and every noise makes him jumpy so that Italy is not helping when he bursts in his bureau with a bag full of pasta to share.
Germany barley manages to not throw him out.
Later at the meeting with the Allies who come to control his growth and progress he is close to jump up and start ranting about all the problems he has.
About the destroyed cities and villages, the problem with the refugees and all the missing men he needs for his industry… but he stays silent, knowing that he is stupid for accusing them for any of those since it is his fault, his alone to bear.
Still, that doesn’t make his anger go away.
Minutes after they are finished he rushes out of the room, ready to drown his sorrow either in beer or through mindlessly going back to removing ruins from his streets until darkness forces him to sleep because he can not identify a body from a stone anymore.
Anything is better than to have time to think, time to mourn his brother’s loss, all the deaths he has on his hands and the guilty his future children will have to face.
It’s France who follows him, calls him to stop and eyes him worriedly, knowingly.
Germany doesn’t know if the other cares because he fears another wave of hatred against his nation or because he truly is concerned – that doesn’t matter anyways, not to him, not now.
The soft, warm fingers touching his hand, carefully guiding him away to a restroom is all he can feel, is all he dares himself to acknowledge.
He doesn’t grip back, is just content to have any skin against his at all, although the wish to yank his hand back because he’s dirty - oh so dirty - arises immediately.
Limb and empty he lets France pull him along, set him on a soft bed and realizes with shock how those delicate fingers are placed on his fore head.
“You don’t seem to have a fever.” He hears faintly, only able to helplessly watch France’s frown deepen, unsure how to react since it has been such a long time since anybody except for his war companies (who have the same problems themselves now) cared.
France rumours through the small cupboard on the other side and a glass with water and tablets are pushed into Germany’s cold hands seconds after.
He doesn’t question what that is or what it will do, he simply gulps all down.
“Can’t have you getting sick, I need your industry as much as you do.”
Says that melodious voice while drowsiness overcomes Germany and he has to lie down to not fall over and greet the floor.
So. Only business partners, huh? is his last thought – without regret and only a slightly bitter taste in the back of his mouth. Better than being alone, Ludwig thinks before he drifts off into a dreamless slumber.
Re: 5 times
(Anonymous) 2009-05-14 11:49 am (UTC)(link)Drei.
Cooking is difficult when having France over, Ludwig learns over the years.
He’s either doing it too simple or mixing the wrong ingredients or making too much or cooking only wurst or – well, it’s difficult.
So they agree that Francis is in control of the kitchen when he visits.
At first, Germany is afraid that he will never get to eat sausages or potatoes again or that France will only serve those small portions where nobody gets full from.
But it turns out to be rather fun, watching France cook is like watching Italy paint – grace, intensity and beauty combined into an exciting mix he can never get enough off.
At the beginning, they are both stiff and a bit reluctant around each other.
So Germany starts to ask, to memorize menus, always serious and with a growing interest in the other’s cuisine.
And notices that France is more than just a fancy nation who likes to undress and bother other innocent nations.
When he cooks he’s serious himself, all professional and fascinating and up to any request Germany has.
Slowly, Ludwig even gets Francis’s approval to cook German desserts or show him traditional meals.
His shame that they certainly do not compare to France’s cuisine vanishes as Francis himself demands a second slice of the delicious cake Ludwig has made for him.
Before Germany knows himself he is heed over heals in love with the French Haute cuisine.
And perhaps even a bit more with the cook himself.
Re: 5 times
(Anonymous) 2009-05-14 11:50 am (UTC)(link)Vier.
They are getting closer, Ludwig realizes one morning after waking up and finding instead of a half naked Italy a full naked France in his bed.
He could scream and throw the other out but the warmness and the familiarity of having those arms draped over his chest is enough to stay silent.
Ludwig shifts a bit, now able to wrap one arm around Francis’s sleeping form and pulls the blanket over those white shoulders so that they don’t feel chilly anymore.
Lying there, awake and unable to drift of into sleep with such a distraction next to him, Ludwig reconsiders.
It’s still a bit weird between them, both so different in character and way of life but somehow they accomplish each other pretty nicely.
Francis makes him loosen up, makes him smile more often and always seems to know when his presence is needed to not let Ludwig drown in memories of his past and all the guilty he will never be able to compensate.
Where Italy has been more a burden (although a lovely one Ludwig wouldn’t want to miss in his life) France is a surprisingly equal partner – when he isn’t on one of his love trips, that is.
Ludwig has learnt to interpret the smiles he sees which sometimes aren’t smiles but a barrier to protect, to yield off other nations.
He knows that Francis cooks late at night when he is angry, that Francis gives roses and hopes to get more than just weird looks and uncertain smiles in return, that Francis loves to design clothes and that he is afraid to be alone, too.
He knows that France still hates that he has lost his colonial status just as much as England does, that France has a sense for sarcasm and is proud, very proud of his history and of what he is today.
Although they disagree on many aspects and couldn’t sometimes be more different than fire and water, Ludwig is glad, more than he can possibly ever tell Francis, to call him a close friend.
Smiling softly, he nuzzles his nose into those nice smelling blond locks without becoming aware of the same smile – wider and cheekier than his – spreading over Francis’s lips.
Re: 5 times
(Anonymous) 2009-05-14 11:51 am (UTC)(link)Fünf.
“Keep your hands to yourself! There’s no sane person in the world who would want to be touched by you!”
England’s shriek is loud and audible, drifting through the whole conference room even better since the other conversations have tuned down to hushed whispers which stop abruptly when France’s and England’s talk gets too noisy to ignore.
Silence follows that sentence in form of a thick suffocating blanket, weighing overwhelmingly on the shoulders of the nations present in the room.
Nobody dares to say something, only some shuffling of paper and throats being cleared can be heard.
Until an amusing laugh cuts the quietness and eases the invisible blanket away.
France chuckles, smirking at England and stands up from his chair to trace a finger over the other’s cheek which makes England blush.
“I will not take pity in you when you realize what you are missing, my perverted English friend.”
And out he is, leaving the room while still laughing and waving playfully back at England.
The conversations turn up again, Italy continues to eat his pasta not so secretly under the table, Greece slumps back onto Japan’s shoulder, Poland and Lithuania reassume their chat and Russia is back to eyeing Latvia, Estonia and all the other nations – who will be his one day – like he has before the fight.
England is distracted from gazing angrily at the door through America who yanks suddenly at his arm and asks him something with Canada trailing behind him.
Only Germany cannot concentrate on his papers anymore.
How weird since nothing out off the ordinary happened.
But the nagging feeling in his chest simply grows with each passing minute and after a last glance at Italy (who is now drooling on his brother’s papers) and at his brothers (Austria is unconsciously keeping Prussia occupied – with the help of an aggressive looking Hungary at his side) he leaves the meeting room silently.
He doesn’t have to search for long; a half open balcony door is enough to attract his attention as he walks through the corridors.
Carefully Ludwig opens the door a bit more to check if he has found the right location.
And yes, there is Francis with his back to him, leaning small and inconspicuously on the balcony railings, shoulders drooped and his hair dancing with a gentle breeze from time to time.
Unsure if he should say anything at all, Ludwig waits a bit – for a sign or a word that either tells him to leave Francis alone or to approach him, he is not sure which he would prefer.
But after a felt eternity, he is unwilling to not say anything at all when he is here to see if everything is okay with Francis.
So he steps on the balcony, still not noticed by the other nation.
A grey cloud of smoke suddenly hits his face and he can’t stop from coughing loudly since he inhaled too much of the cigarette in his surprise.
Preoccupied with waving the smell away, he doesn’t see Francis turning around but faces him not until after a soft gasp drifts through the air.
“Ludwig! I’ll be back in a second, just let me finish this one.”
Francis lifts the cigarette with grace and sends him a small apologetic smile, nothing compared to his usual so energetic one.
Ludwig doesn’t even try to smile back; instead he easily catches the lifted arm at the wrist and has the smelly object in his fingers sooner than Francis can even raise an eyebrow.
“You promised me to quit.” Is all Ludwig says in a low and clear voice, no accusation or anger in his tone, only a worried declaration.
Francis sighs, leans back on the railings and laughs softly.
“Yeah, I did. But habits are hard to let go off, especially when they calm you down.”
This time Ludwig raises an eyebrow before he walks to the small trash bin next to the door and throws the cigarette away after he has put it out.
Re: 5 times
(Anonymous) 2009-05-14 11:52 am (UTC)(link)“Others manage without, so can you.”
Another sigh greets him as he turns back around.
Francis shakes his head good-naturedly, now a slightly painful expression on his face.
“I wish it would be that easy.”
Somehow this conversation is about more than just the cigarette, Ludwig becomes aware.
Francis looks so lost, so sad and frustrated – something he only does when Arthur is involved in one or the other way – that Ludwig has to bite his lips hard to keep himself from rushing back and shaking some sense into England personally.
It’s not that he dislikes Arthur, not at all, they get along pretty well – even go drinking together from time to time – but when it comes to Francis, nothing seems to make sense anymore to Ludwig.
It’s as if he is fighting a war about that he knows nothing at all, not the goal nor the enemies are clear to him.
It’s probably the same he would react when anybody would hurt his brothers’ or Feliciano’s feelings, only different, different in a way he can not explain.
So his thoughts are on autopilot like they always are when the confusion is getting too much to sort out.
And when he has too much to think over, he tends to get irrational.
That’s the only explanation he can offer as to why the next sentence leaves his mouth.
“I have nothing against you touching me.”
Francis’s eyes are on his in an instance, wide and perhaps shocked and suddenly Ludwig’s throat gets dry and he inwardly curses his inability to deal with feelings.
Having a talk with Arthur would have been the better solution he thinks but what is said can not be taken back.
And shouldn’t be, since he knows that it’s the truth speaking out of his heart.
“I – I mea-“
But Francis cuts him of as he is suddenly in Ludwig’s arms, warm and laughing and still smelling a bit after smoke, but the sadness has nearly vanished and that’s enough for Ludwig to know that he most likely did something right here.
Francis can’t stop laughing, whispering French words against Germany’s neck Ludwig doesn’t understand but they sound like sweet music to his ears nonetheless.
The single word he hears and knows the meaning of is a softly muttered Merci, over and over again.
Suddenly it is easy, and he doesn’t give it a second thought when he whispers with a hoarse voice and tightening arms back in German.
“Danke.”
And then, because it is what he feels, now for a long time, “Ich liebe dich.”
Soft and hushed.
Love you for who you are and what you give me, he adds silently in his thoughts.
Ludwig almost believes that Francis didn’t hear it but then he is pulled down and lips connect with his. It’s everything he knows and everything he doesn’t, all new but familiar.
The warmth and gentleness and eagerness, fragments of possessiveness on his part, seduction on Francis’s part and altogether something completely wonderful.
When they part – breathlessly and both blushing – Francis intertwines their fingers of both hands and rests his fore head against Ludwig’s.
Blue orbs meet blue orbs, only slightly different in their colour.
“Je t’aime.”
Ludwig can’t stop a silly grin from spreading over his face so very unlike him.
“Good.” He simply says after some minutes of not being able to stop smiling so damn idiotically at France. Before he gets to add more, he receives another talented kiss from Francis.
no subject
(Anonymous) 2009-05-14 04:29 pm (UTC)(link)Anyway~ I absolutely loved this; Germany/France is so rare, and skchhs I love how Germany still thinks fondly of Italy, even as he falls in love with France. And I love the France->England, you included so many OTPs in one fic ♥♥ win, author!anon, win.
Re: 5 times
(Anonymous) 2009-05-14 04:57 pm (UTC)(link)Re: 5 times
(Anonymous) 2009-05-14 05:20 pm (UTC)(link)Such a rare pairing! I've been actually wondering why there is no more about them. I mean, they're almost completely opposite, it makes everything so interesting 8D
Anyway, you write really well author!anon <3 I enjoyed much ^^
Re: 5 times
(Anonymous) 2009-05-14 05:47 pm (UTC)(link)Re: 5 times
(Anonymous) 2009-05-15 12:11 am (UTC)(link)Re: 5 times
(Anonymous) 2009-05-16 06:51 pm (UTC)(link)Re: 5 times
(Anonymous) 2009-05-17 11:13 am (UTC)(link)I wonder, are you a native english speaker? There were a few quirks that made me think you might not be, or at least using an overzealous spellchecker that replaced words occasionally. Honestly, the writing was so good that it didn't detract from it much; but if you do non-anon writing in this fandom, I'd be delighted to beta for you if you wanted.