All your comments made me happy. *blushes* Thank you! And I'm glad to see you're all enjoying this.
“Hey France!”
France turns and braces himself for whatever’s coming next. (Because that voice was unmistakably American and well, that could mean anything, really.) “Yes?” he asks, with a smile, secretly glancing around for means of a quick exit if it proves necessary.
America hurries towards him - a blur of brown and blond coming at high speeds; France braces himself for inpact but America manages to stop himself just feet away from the other nation. He closes the distance between them with a few large steps and then, when he’s as close to France as he can be, he leans in close, as if they’re sharing secrets. France humors him and leans in as well, waiting curiously for whatever America is going to say. “Do you know what’s wrong with England?” America asks, and there is obvious concern in his voice no matter how hard he tries to cover it with indifference.
France raises an eyebrow and leans back away from the other blond. “Why would you assume I know anything?”
America rolls his eyes. “Duh,” he says, as if it is obvious, “you two always know what’s wrong with each other.”
France has to wonder if this is true and realizes well, it probably is; know your enemy, the saying goes, and France knows England well. Usually at least, because this time around, he really doesn't have a clue.
(If France were to be completely honest with himself, he may admit that the sight of England’s chair sitting empty had worried him far more than he would ever care to admit; he may say that it stirred up the contents of his stomach, made him nearly sick with concern, and forced little tempting thoughts of rushing out of the room and to that red-brick house on the outskirts of London as fast as his legs - and the Eurostar - would carry him.
Ah, but - he’s hardly ever that honest with himself.)
“I have no more idea why he was not here today than you do, Amérique. Have you thought of calling him and asking him yourself?”
“Of course I did," America insists. "I already did that, but he just said he forgot. But dude, I mean, come on - this is England. He never forgets about meetings.”
This is true, France thinks; how odd it is for America to have made a rational point.
“So you have no clue why he's not here? None at all?” America asks. The ever-constant Hollywood smile is gone; he‘s nibbling on his bottom lip and fiddling with the zipper on his jacket. “He sounded weird on the phone," America admits after a moment of silence.
"Weird how exactly?"
America signs heavily, his shoulders dropping with it, and rubs his hand over the back of his neck - a nervous habit he's had since the 20s. "I don't know; just...weird. Different. Kinda like he was bothered by something or..." he cuts off, unable to finish his sentence, unsure of what he's even trying to say. For a moment, he fiddles with his glasses, before asking, "You don’t know of anything that could be bothering him?”
“America,” France sighs as he runs a hand through his hair, “Despite what you seem to think, I don’t keep tabs on everything Angleterre does. I promise you that I have no clue what could be wrong with him.”
(Except. Well. Maybe he has a guess.
Because maybe he thinks of two weeks ago in Paris - hands and skin and teeth and tongues.
And perhaps of weeks before that, even - flowers and dinners and fine wine, whispered sweet nothings that might not have been nothings at all, might actually have been whispered sweet somethings.
But mostly he thinks of England storming out of his house in a rush, not a word said, ignoring all of his calls and e-mails and texts until France finally gave up and stopped sending them.
But that couldn’t possibly be it, could it?)
“Oh,” America breathes; his whole figure slumps in defeat. “Thanks anyway.”
Monochrome (5/?)
“Hey France!”
France turns and braces himself for whatever’s coming next. (Because that voice was unmistakably American and well, that could mean anything, really.) “Yes?” he asks, with a smile, secretly glancing around for means of a quick exit if it proves necessary.
America hurries towards him - a blur of brown and blond coming at high speeds; France braces himself for inpact but America manages to stop himself just feet away from the other nation. He closes the distance between them with a few large steps and then, when he’s as close to France as he can be, he leans in close, as if they’re sharing secrets. France humors him and leans in as well, waiting curiously for whatever America is going to say. “Do you know what’s wrong with England?” America asks, and there is obvious concern in his voice no matter how hard he tries to cover it with indifference.
France raises an eyebrow and leans back away from the other blond. “Why would you assume I know anything?”
America rolls his eyes. “Duh,” he says, as if it is obvious, “you two always know what’s wrong with each other.”
France has to wonder if this is true and realizes well, it probably is; know your enemy, the saying goes, and France knows England well. Usually at least, because this time around, he really doesn't have a clue.
(If France were to be completely honest with himself, he may admit that the sight of England’s chair sitting empty had worried him far more than he would ever care to admit; he may say that it stirred up the contents of his stomach, made him nearly sick with concern, and forced little tempting thoughts of rushing out of the room and to that red-brick house on the outskirts of London as fast as his legs - and the Eurostar - would carry him.
Ah, but - he’s hardly ever that honest with himself.)
“I have no more idea why he was not here today than you do, Amérique. Have you thought of calling him and asking him yourself?”
“Of course I did," America insists. "I already did that, but he just said he forgot. But dude, I mean, come on - this is England. He never forgets about meetings.”
This is true, France thinks; how odd it is for America to have made a rational point.
“So you have no clue why he's not here? None at all?” America asks. The ever-constant Hollywood smile is gone; he‘s nibbling on his bottom lip and fiddling with the zipper on his jacket. “He sounded weird on the phone," America admits after a moment of silence.
"Weird how exactly?"
America signs heavily, his shoulders dropping with it, and rubs his hand over the back of his neck - a nervous habit he's had since the 20s. "I don't know; just...weird. Different. Kinda like he was bothered by something or..." he cuts off, unable to finish his sentence, unsure of what he's even trying to say. For a moment, he fiddles with his glasses, before asking, "You don’t know of anything that could be bothering him?”
“America,” France sighs as he runs a hand through his hair, “Despite what you seem to think, I don’t keep tabs on everything Angleterre does. I promise you that I have no clue what could be wrong with him.”
(Except. Well. Maybe he has a guess.
Because maybe he thinks of two weeks ago in Paris - hands and skin and teeth and tongues.
And perhaps of weeks before that, even - flowers and dinners and fine wine, whispered sweet nothings that might not have been nothings at all, might actually have been whispered sweet somethings.
But mostly he thinks of England storming out of his house in a rush, not a word said, ignoring all of his calls and e-mails and texts until France finally gave up and stopped sending them.
But that couldn’t possibly be it, could it?)
“Oh,” America breathes; his whole figure slumps in defeat. “Thanks anyway.”