France leaned forward on his elbows as if about to impart a great secret of the world. The light in his eyes danced like sunlight reflected off the Seine or like gaslight flickering in the New Orleans` dusk.
“The wisest of choices,” France commented, seemingly in complete seriousness. America thought it might have been an act, but he wasn`t sure. For a moment however, he felt enchanted all over again. However brief it might last, he didn`t see what the harm was in letting that feeling sweep him away, since it felt so nice.
When France stood and held out his hand, America smiled and accepted it.
They stayed in after all, holing up against the world. Or rather, they talked of the world at a distance from within the safety of France`s apartments, the walls of their cozy cocoon given a warm fuzz thanks to the very nice assistance of some rum. Conversation lasted until it didn`t, and the lull stretched on to a full out halt.
America discovered the newest prints of expatriate novels, while France flipped leisurely through thumbnail sketches of works he wished to acquire for his precious Louvre. Quiet at first, it wasn`t long before America was commenting aloud as he read. He grew animated as he discovered a turn of phrase or a description he particularly liked, laughing or ooh-ing over the best of them. At times his eyes ran over a sentence once, twice, and he felt the truth of it as a sharp prick into his heart. Those times, he fell absolutely silent.
France crept up behind as one of those moments stretched on, America`s finger lingering on the page as if he feared lifting it would allow the inked letters on it to fly away. Wrapping his arms around the taller nation, France indulged in the fact that their heights aligned just right for him to lean in and nuzzle America`s neck in this position.
America sighed, closing the book. The cover design was a simple sketch having little to do with the story inside other than capturing the melancholic frustration of it all.
“Why does Spain get to be the heroic figure?” he complained. “Or, well, not a hero I guess. Hemingway doesn`t really do heroes the way Hollywood likes. None of them do, which is why I guess they like coming here so much. But still!”
“You know how your dear Ernesto feels about Spain,” France replied easily. “You are just put out that he made you into a woman. But she suits you, doesn`t she? Unwilling to be tied down and yet desperate for affection. How should I feel, when he cut my balls off?” He shuddered. “At the least, I get to punch Angleterre by the conclusion.”
“You think England is Cohn?” America asked, surprised. He opened the book again, flipping through the pages to re-read a few passages, seeking for where France might have noted a resemblance. “I thought – that is, he seemed more like Canada to me.”
France shrugged. “I suppose,” he obliged, his lips brushing the spot just behind America`s ear. “Yes, you must be right. Who would that leave for England then?” America stiffened in his arms and France exhaled a soft sigh of realization. “Ah, of course… The Lord Ashley.”
America snapped the book closed, pulling out of France`s arms. France let him slip free only to move in front of him, cutting off his escape.
(con't) The First Cut (is the Deepest)
“The wisest of choices,” France commented, seemingly in complete seriousness. America thought it might have been an act, but he wasn`t sure. For a moment however, he felt enchanted all over again. However brief it might last, he didn`t see what the harm was in letting that feeling sweep him away, since it felt so nice.
When France stood and held out his hand, America smiled and accepted it.
They stayed in after all, holing up against the world. Or rather, they talked of the world at a distance from within the safety of France`s apartments, the walls of their cozy cocoon given a warm fuzz thanks to the very nice assistance of some rum. Conversation lasted until it didn`t, and the lull stretched on to a full out halt.
America discovered the newest prints of expatriate novels, while France flipped leisurely through thumbnail sketches of works he wished to acquire for his precious Louvre. Quiet at first, it wasn`t long before America was commenting aloud as he read. He grew animated as he discovered a turn of phrase or a description he particularly liked, laughing or ooh-ing over the best of them. At times his eyes ran over a sentence once, twice, and he felt the truth of it as a sharp prick into his heart. Those times, he fell absolutely silent.
France crept up behind as one of those moments stretched on, America`s finger lingering on the page as if he feared lifting it would allow the inked letters on it to fly away. Wrapping his arms around the taller nation, France indulged in the fact that their heights aligned just right for him to lean in and nuzzle America`s neck in this position.
America sighed, closing the book. The cover design was a simple sketch having little to do with the story inside other than capturing the melancholic frustration of it all.
“Why does Spain get to be the heroic figure?” he complained. “Or, well, not a hero I guess. Hemingway doesn`t really do heroes the way Hollywood likes. None of them do, which is why I guess they like coming here so much. But still!”
“You know how your dear Ernesto feels about Spain,” France replied easily. “You are just put out that he made you into a woman. But she suits you, doesn`t she? Unwilling to be tied down and yet desperate for affection. How should I feel, when he cut my balls off?” He shuddered. “At the least, I get to punch Angleterre by the conclusion.”
“You think England is Cohn?” America asked, surprised. He opened the book again, flipping through the pages to re-read a few passages, seeking for where France might have noted a resemblance. “I thought – that is, he seemed more like Canada to me.”
France shrugged. “I suppose,” he obliged, his lips brushing the spot just behind America`s ear. “Yes, you must be right. Who would that leave for England then?” America stiffened in his arms and France exhaled a soft sigh of realization. “Ah, of course… The Lord Ashley.”
America snapped the book closed, pulling out of France`s arms. France let him slip free only to move in front of him, cutting off his escape.