France (America) suddenly pushed England away and stood abruptly up, facing the mirror. America stared at him, panicked, angry, upset and guilty. France looked at him, wondered if he ever saw America looking that way, until he realized how stupid that sounded. He groaned, and hid his face in his hands.
What was he doing? What was he fucking doing? France ran a hand through his hair, approached America in the mirror, and looked into those blue, naïve eyes. He had promised not to do anything stupid, not only to Canada, but to himself too.
America was still staring at him, the face mirroring France’s every emotion. France couldn’t take the look anymore and looked down, only to find America looking at him from the photos lined under England’s mirror.
“I can’t do it.” France suddenly said. America was everywhere. “You don’t love me.”
No matter how much he wanted it, no matter how much England wanted it, France couldn’t do it. As long as he was America, as long as England wanted America, he couldn’t do it. It was dishonest for everyone. For America. For England.
For him.
He saw England move behind him in the mirror and stand up.
“What?” England’s voice sounded honestly surprised. France wanted to laugh at the irony of it all, but couldn’t.
“You don’t love me.” France repeated. He glanced at every photo England had of America, until his eyes stopped to the only one England had of France. He decided to concentrate on that instead, and to forget America’s face for a moment. He hadn’t realized how much his hands were shaking, until he picked the photo up.
What was he doing? He told himself again. He had completely forgotten that he was America. He had completely forgotten that England had said those things to America, that he was sure he was talking to America.
(England had wanted America since the Second World War, or maybe even before that, but France couldn’t remember if England had told him it had been a crush or it had been love and, seriously, France didn’t care, because he wasn’t part of the equation anyway… and what was he saying now….)
He felt England stand behind him, and remained silent, probably expecting France to say something more. But France was just staring at the picture in his hands, at that arm around England’s shoulders, and how they were never meant to be like that. Suddenly England grabbed the photograph from France’s hands, in the same fashion he had done some days before. France couldn’t ignore him anymore, and turned to face England.
“France.” England said then, he looked angry, humiliated, “You seriously think I love HIM?”
England put the photo back in its place, then grabbed his shoulders and made him look at him. France stared at England’s angry, confused eyes, and gently pushed the other away.
“Have you understood a word of what I told you?” England said then, punching France hard in the arm.
“I did.” France said, ignoring the pain, and made his way to the door. He had to get out of there. But first he had to make amends somehow, only he didn’t know how. “I’m sorry, England. We weren’t thinking straight.”
“Of course we weren’t!” England suddenly exclaimed, and dropped down on the bed, hiding his face with his hands.
“We are moving too fast.” France said then. How cliché that sounded. France wanted to slap himself.
“Seriously…” England groaned behind his hands, but didn’t add anything else.
“Can we pretend this didn’t happen?” France asked then, and realized how wrong that sounded. How could he make everything better? How could he disappear from England’s life, without hurting either England or America? How could he make England not go up to America and make a fool of himself?
“I should have thought it over better.” France said to himself. He looked at England, who remained still on the bed, and cursed himself, because he still wanted to go back over to England and start kissing him again all over. Hadn’t he done enough damage?
“Yes, okay.” England said then, unexpectedly, taking France totally by surprise.
“See you, then…” France said, trying to look nonchalant and not at all hurt. England was still not looking at him. France took it as a clue to leave. Everything he done from that moment on was mechanical. He opened the door. He went to his bedroom. Packed his things. Put another shirt on. Decided to leave England’s apartment.
When he passed before England’s door again, England was gone, probably in the bathroom, or somewhere France wasn’t invited. He supposed it was better that way, because at least he didn’t have to say something stupid again.
(We weren’t thinking straight. We are moving too fast, and Can we pretend this didn’t happen?, were enough).
He returned back to Paris then. It was dark, and cold, and lonely. France felt like shit. He returned back to his apartment, dropped the bag on the floor, and suddenly felt exhausted. He laid on the couch, and stared at the ceiling.
He wasn’t going to leave his home for a long time, he decided. Canada had been right. France’s whole I-want-to-woo-England-in-America’s-body-plan was pathetic and stupid. He probably managed to ruin a friendship, and no matter how much France could take advantage of that, he felt worse for even giving it a thought. He wondered if he should talk to America.
“In this body?” he asked himself.
Oh, this body. He hated it. If he talked to America in that body, everyone would know and he would be hated by all. Not even his friends would look at him in the eyes from that moment onwards.
Worst of all, he would lose England.
Oh, right. He had already lost him.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Lilly thought of herself as one of the cleverest fairies that worked for England. She knew more spells than any of her colleagues, she was good in history, and, of course, she was one of the few that knew everything about England and, for her, to make him feel better when he was down was a child’s play.
However, this time she felt the stupidest fairy of the whole world. Amanda would be happy. They hated each other with a passion, and Lilly was sure that the other fairy was going to rub it in her face for eons.
This time, though, she didn’t really care. She had done something extremely stupid, and she deserved the teasing. Amanda could take her place in England’s heart.
Lilly was sad.
She had made England miserable. She couldn’t stand seeing him like this: so catatonic, staring at the photos lined under his mirror, as if nothing in this world existed. She tried to cheer him up, but England just shrugged her off.
She didn’t think that her prank would have that kind of effect.
Not only she had made England miserable, but France too wasn’t in an exactly better shape, and even if that had been her initial intention, now she felt bad for the non-believer too.
She hated to admit it, but she had started to like France. She had started to like the way he smiled, so different from America’s usual grin. She had liked the way France tried to make England happy, despite their history full of ups and downs. She had never noticed how much France wanted to stay with England until then.
England didn’t notice Lilly leave. The fairy flied as quickly as her little wings could carry her. She managed to find France, and follow him inside France’s apartment. The non-believer didn’t even notice her, and just dropped down on his couch.
He had England’s same miserable emotion on his face.
She had to do something.
She didn’t know if that was going to work, because the spell she had used wore off by itself and there was no other way to undo it. Lilly thought she could at least make the spell progress a little quicker. She flied over France’s face, stared at those blue eyes and started chanting.
Of course, France didn’t hear anything.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
France was slowly falling asleep.
He thought he saw a little woman with wings flying over his face. He raised an eyebrow and wondered if he was already dreaming.
*sniffle* I love this story, but it's breaking my heart right now! I really need to know whether or not England realizes it's France in America's body. It could honestly go either way from what England says in this chapter and the last. Crossing my fingers for a happy ending!
(frozen comment) Re: Love me the "American" way [9d/10]
This fic is my guilty pleasure because I dislike FrUK so much, but this story is very good. Sometimes it seems that England knows it is France instead of America, but he is supposed to love America and still he speaks about France(?)-- what the hell is going on?! Oh how I would love an angsty ending! It wouldn't be fair if France gets to "gain" England's love and everything is jolly happy... Excellent work, A!A.
(frozen comment) Re: Love me the "American" way [9d/10]
I dunno about 'fair'..if this is a FrUK universe then I'm fine with it.
I would be annoyed if France slept with England and England found out the truth and WAS jolly happy because France's magic penis solved all the issues..
(frozen comment) Re: Love me the "American" way [9d/10]
+1 I wish this fic would stay as USUK<-France, it ending up FrUk would be really disappointing. :( I can't buy England being in love with France rather than America and France is morally the worst of this trio so a hunrded percent happy ending for him would feel off.
(frozen comment) Re: Love me the "American" way [9d/10]
gosh i really hope everything turns out fine <:c my heart broke. poor France. This fic is really great A!A. i have a feeling England knows it is France all along.
*crosses fingers for happy ending*
I'm really enjoying the story, author-anon, and looking forward to the next part! I really like the way you've developed the situation without bashing anyone.
France's actions are skeevy, but you've made them very understandable without trying to make it seem like he's in the right, and I, at least, really appreciate that. I'm aching for all three of them. Because France is right, this is probably going to negatively affect England and America's relationship, and in spite of the skeeviness of his current actions, he's basically a decent person. I'm very glad that he stopped short of actually sleeping with England. A lot is going to hinge on whether or not England knows that it's actually France, and if so, whether or not he can forgive him.
(I know how I'd like things to turn out, but that's up to the author, not the readers, and I'll be satisfied with whatever the author decides to do.)
This is a very good story, A!A and I hope the discussion in the comments don't discourage you. I admit that I though this would be USUK or England > America, because of how the prompt was written (France > England > America) but a FrUK ending is great too, provided there's some acknowledgement of how wrong France's actions are. My USUK and FrUK shipper heart is really happy with this fill.
I'm really hoping for a FrUK ending. But I'll be happy with whatever the author chooses, since this story has been great so far. Looking forward to the final chapter!!
Hi!! How you’re doing?? It’s America, of course! My brother told me you were sick, man! I wish I could come and pay a visit, but he told me I should just let you rest! Of course, I would have ignored him, because heroes ALWAYS visit the sick, but my boss doesn’t let me go anywhere these days either. It sucks big time. Well, then! Take care!
- - - - - - - - -
France closed the front door just in time to hear America’s booming voice wishing him a good recovery. He sighed, made a bee line to the kitchen and put his shopping bags on the counter. He put down his keys, took off his coat, and started putting everything in the fridge. He then returned back to the living room, and deleted the message from the answering machine. He decided then he was going to call America back soon and Canada too deserved to be called. He needed to thank him for keeping America away from Europe.
He glanced at the mirror that hanged on one of the walls, and run a hand through his wavy, blond hair. He stared at his face, at his slightly crooked nose, and at his lips. He really liked the fact that America wasn’t staring back at him anymore. He had missed his own face too much. He wondered what happened, why he had looked like America for so long, but nothing he could think of seemed reasonable enough. The economy had been stable, his people had remained the same, and politics had been annoying as usual. The funny thing was that, as suddenly as it had started, he suddenly woke up looking like himself again. France had been so happy to get rid of that American face staring at him (judging him) all day long.
That had been three days ago.
France had talked to Spain, and told him he was back in town. Immediately after telling Spain the news, Spain and Gilbert visited and took him around the city for a drink or two. Italy had been happy for him too, and even brought him a tiramisu with him when he came for a visit. He had finally returned back to work, and even apologized to Benoit for the treatment one of his friends had given him. He had seen almost everyone by then; Spain and Italy being the first of a long series of visits to his house. He had to see England for a week, though, since that evening they almost had sex, and he really didn’t want to see the other face right then. He was sure that he was going to betray himself. It was too soon.
He sighed once more, and picked up his telephone, ready to call America and thank him for the concern, that, suddenly, the doorbell rang. Curious to see who it was France let go of the phone and went to open the door instead. He didn’t check into the peephole, and abruptly came face to face with England himself.
France was so shocked to see England that, for a long moment, he just remained staring at the other’s face, speechless. England stared back at him, his eyebrows furrowing up, perplexed, and his eyes twinkling with something akin to amusement.
“What? Cat got your tongue?” England said suddenly, pushing France away, and went in without much of an invitation. “Or are you still so sick you forgot all your good manners?”
The statement finally made France regain his self-control. He closed the door, and looked behind him to see England putting some folders down on the coffee table. France tried to forget all that had happened between them, and reminded himself that England still didn’t know that he had spent the last week with France instead of America. He decided then to act as he had always acted before England.
“Is that your way of asking me how am I?” France retorted with a grin. England snorted and turned to look at him.
“Don’t be silly. I already know you are sick in the mind and that you are still going to be for a long, really long time.” England crossed his arms, and stared at him in defiance.
“I’m fine, thank you.” France said instead, and looked down at the folders England had brought him. “But I believe this is not a get-well visit, is it?”
“Of course not.” England said, and made a vague gesture over where the folders were standing, “I brought you the paperwork Germany wanted you to do but were too “sick”” he emphasized the last word with quotation marks, “to.”
“I was sick.” France retorted then. England shrugged, but didn’t comment on it. France sighed and sat down on the couch to check the paperwork Germany had sent him via England. Suddenly he felt England sigh, and walk out of the living room. France still didn’t look up and concentrated on the matter at hand instead. Soon enough, though, he realized he really wasn’t in the mood for paperwork, and just went over the fully written pages in the end.
“Why you never have decent tea in your house?” England suddenly exclaimed from the kitchen, and France furrowed his eyebrow together for a moment, before letting out a sigh.
“I didn’t expect you to come.”
“Idiot.”, was England’s response.
France heard England move around the kitchen. He heard him pour water in a kettle he happened to find. The opening and closing of cupboards. The clicking of cups together. A moment later, England was back in the living room, with two steaming cups of the tea France preferred. England pushed the folders away and put the cups on the coffee table, then looked at France, and grabbed the paper he was supposed to be reading. England took it, gave it a glance, snorted, and put it away.
“Hey.” France said, but it didn’t come out as aggressive as he would have wanted. He looked up at England, and England looked down at him. They were so close; France could practically feel England’s scent inside his nostrils. England looked curious for a moment. France supposed he was thinking of something, and made to ask what, that suddenly England leaned down to get closer to his face. Their noses were inches apart, and France stared into England’s green eyes.
“May I try something?” England said then, and even if he stated as a question, to France it felt much more like an order. He didn’t complain when England put his face in his hands, and slightly pulled him closer. Their noses touched. It made France shiver.
“Try what?” he whispered then, even if he already knew the answer. England shrugged once more, France swore he even blushed, and then, suddenly England kissed him on the lips. France’s eyes flattered close. He didn’t know why he felt so surprised that England tasted exactly the same as when he had kissed him the first time. He liked that nothing felt different, and yet, it was.
(England was kissing France this time.)
It didn’t last long, tough. Almost too soon, England pulled away. They looked at each other for a moment in silence, and then England spoke again.
“You don’t feel sick to me.” England stated then, his lips quivering up in an imperceptible smile.
“Is that how you measure fever in your house?” France was amused.
“You are not complaining.” England smirk turned smug.
“No. Probably not.” England shook his head, and hid his eyes behind his bangs.
England then sat down next to France, took his cup of tea and took a sip. They didn’t talk again for a long time after that. France wondered if he should ask England if the kiss had meant something to him, but then decided against it. He kept checking the paperwork then, as England kept drinking his tea.
Half an hour later of absolute silence, England said:
“You know what annoys me the most?”
“What now?” France raised his eyes to meet England’s ones.
“Your ex-colonies.” England stated. France furrowed his eyebrows. “I hate it when they talk to you in French. I feel left out.”
And with that England stood up and left the living room once more. France stared at where England had been sitting confused and troubled for a moment. He thought about what England had said, wondered why it annoyed England so much that his ex-colonies talked to him in the language France had taught them, when suddenly his mind clicked and he almost bumped against the coffee table in his haste to stand up.
He only had a name in his mind. Canada. (Canada. Of course. Canada.) Canada liked to talk in French with him. Canada, who came to see if he was alright many days before, and met America instead, and then England came and he started shouting something against a closed door, and then… and then…
Had Canada spoke in French with him then?
He couldn’t remember.
No. It was impossible.
Did England know? Has England always known? Since when…?
And the kiss.
No. It was impossible.
(Had he been checking and made sure?)
“England?” France suddenly exclaimed when he saw that England wasn’t coming back in the living room. He shot a glance at the paperwork England had brought him and at the two cups still sitting there on the coffee table. No one answered him. France suddenly realized he was alone.
He suddenly remembered what England had shouted at him that day.
“France. Do you really think I love him?”
(Was it: France, do you really think I love America? Or was it: France. Do you really think I love France?)
“England?” he tried again and left the living room. He noticed that his front door was slightly open, and made to go out, when suddenly he noticed something white standing on the kitchen table. Curiosity took him over and hastily returned to the kitchen, and took the letter in his hands.
You know what your [crossed out] my problem is? I happen to like clueless idiots. I wonder why, really. I wonder why I’m telling you so too. Anyway.
I love America. I suppose you know that at least. I met him when he was still a young nation, I raised him, I fought against him, and fell in love with him. I don’t know when that happened, to tell you the truth, or why, and it’s not really any of your business anyway. But. That’s it. There nothing more to it. I hate him when he does stupid things, or when he interferes with my life, but I care about him. I want to see him happy, even if he is not interested in me in that way.
He is not the only clueless idiot I happened to fall in love with.
How complicated. As if it is not enough to be hopelessly in love with one idiot.
When I was a young nation, as young as America had been when I found him, I met for the first time another, insufferable bloody bastard, who happened to live next door. I don’t know how he managed to do it, but that insufferable git managed to make me need him. It’s embarrassing to say, but without you, my life is empty. I didn’t realize it was until the Second World War. I tried to tell you so that day in the car, but now I understand you understood nothing, because you are stupid, so here I will try to explain again.
In the Second War I had lost any hope that this madness was going to end. Till then I always thought that nations couldn’t just simply die, no matter how many times I have seen something like that happen. Maybe I should rephrase that. I didn’t think we could die. But the war made me change idea. I remembered Rome, Germania, my own mother, and then Prussia… who is now just a ghost of what he used to be, no matter what he claims. Germany was making me lose all hope that wars could end.
And then he took you over, and suddenly I saw you die, disappear in my head, as if you had never existed. I saw Germany whenever I looked over the sea to where your house was. Thousands and thousands of years together, hundreds of years trying to kill each other, and was it like this that everything would end? I honestly panicked. I honestly couldn’t stop thinking about you. Everything centered on that idiotic face of yours. I abruptly realized that I love [crossed out] no, not love. [crossed out] I cared. [crossed out] No, that’s not it either. [crossed out] I loved you. America told me we were going to save you, that I shouldn’t worry. I didn’t believe in him. For the first time in years, I didn’t believe in him, because he couldn’t understand what it feels like to be you and I. (Sometimes I doubt we understand either, but that’s beside the point, isn’t it?).
But that’s the past.
It’s over. That was why I told myself from then on, and I tried to forget that fear whenever I saw you. America stood by my side, clueless as ever. The only one that is never going to leave me. I’m sure of it.
I’m used to America barging into my house now and then. I admit I don’t mind most of the time. But that time, something felt really different. America wasn’t the same as always. It was not only because he had claimed he hadn’t time to visit me, but I felt something wasn’t right, that there was magic implied somehow, and that that was why America was acting so weirdly.
Weird is an understatement.
America forgetting a movie that we already saw? How strange of him. I thought he just wanted to see it again, and left it as that. (Of course then I thought he just needed a dark place so he could put his hands on me. I couldn’t believe America would think to do something like that, thought. Let’s call it clue number 1).
I felt something powerful going on, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it.
When I kissed you [crossed out] you kissed me I finally understand that America wasn’t himself. I wondered if someone had put a spell on him to act that way around me. Either way, I didn’t feel comfortable enough to kiss him, it felt wrong somehow. Maybe that’s clue number 2? Maybe. But there is something more to it.
Germany called told me you were sick. I decided to go and check. Then I saw America. I felt the magic leaking from the house (clue number 3). That guy was also there. He said something in French I didn’t get.
And everything clicked.
You were America. That was what I had been feeling. Something had happened and you took America’s place. Or did you just look like America? I wanted to call America and check. But when you looked at me, smiled, I pushed the thought immediately away.
Anger took curiosity’s place.
I was so angry at you, for playing with my feelings like that, for letting you get so close, for taking advantage of the fact that I liked America, for making me think that this was the real America, that I had fell in love with America. I wanted to confess I had understood, I wanted to hurt you, I wanted to do a lot of things, I wanted… and then, while I was driving, and you remained silent next to me, I started to think.
I realized something.
All this years there was some kind of wall between us. We never managed to be ourselves these past centuries around each other. No matter how much we know each other, there is always something that blocks us from going further than what we are. But now, when you were so sure I didn’t recognize you, you were suddenly yourself. No, to put it better. You were what you wanted to be with me. You just wanted to be with me. You hadn’t thought about it that well, sure, but you didn’t want to hurt anyone either.
You just wanted me to like you. The real you. Why everything is so hard to explain?
Either way, I was finally myself too. There was no history between us, no years and years of hatred and wars. You were America, and, no matter how many wars I fought with America, I always felt I could be myself around him, let myself go. Something I can’t do with you.
We were each other. I fell in love with that.
I wondered then. Was I in love with America or France? With whom did I have fell in love this time?
This guy, this guy I fell in love once more, wasn’t America.
It was you.
I was confused as hell.
I was angry at you.
But, at the same time, I was relieved that you looked like America and not yourself. Because finally that wall between us had disappeared and I could see things clearly.
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Love me the "American" way [9b/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-02-29 12:09 pm (UTC)(link)What was he doing? What was he fucking doing? France ran a hand through his hair, approached America in the mirror, and looked into those blue, naïve eyes. He had promised not to do anything stupid, not only to Canada, but to himself too.
America was still staring at him, the face mirroring France’s every emotion. France couldn’t take the look anymore and looked down, only to find America looking at him from the photos lined under England’s mirror.
“I can’t do it.” France suddenly said. America was everywhere. “You don’t love me.”
No matter how much he wanted it, no matter how much England wanted it, France couldn’t do it. As long as he was America, as long as England wanted America, he couldn’t do it. It was dishonest for everyone. For America. For England.
For him.
He saw England move behind him in the mirror and stand up.
“What?” England’s voice sounded honestly surprised. France wanted to laugh at the irony of it all, but couldn’t.
“You don’t love me.” France repeated. He glanced at every photo England had of America, until his eyes stopped to the only one England had of France. He decided to concentrate on that instead, and to forget America’s face for a moment. He hadn’t realized how much his hands were shaking, until he picked the photo up.
What was he doing? He told himself again. He had completely forgotten that he was America. He had completely forgotten that England had said those things to America, that he was sure he was talking to America.
(England had wanted America since the Second World War, or maybe even before that, but France couldn’t remember if England had told him it had been a crush or it had been love and, seriously, France didn’t care, because he wasn’t part of the equation anyway… and what was he saying now….)
He felt England stand behind him, and remained silent, probably expecting France to say something more. But France was just staring at the picture in his hands, at that arm around England’s shoulders, and how they were never meant to be like that. Suddenly England grabbed the photograph from France’s hands, in the same fashion he had done some days before. France couldn’t ignore him anymore, and turned to face England.
“France.” England said then, he looked angry, humiliated, “You seriously think I love HIM?”
England put the photo back in its place, then grabbed his shoulders and made him look at him. France stared at England’s angry, confused eyes, and gently pushed the other away.
“Have you understood a word of what I told you?” England said then, punching France hard in the arm.
“I did.” France said, ignoring the pain, and made his way to the door. He had to get out of there. But first he had to make amends somehow, only he didn’t know how. “I’m sorry, England. We weren’t thinking straight.”
“Of course we weren’t!” England suddenly exclaimed, and dropped down on the bed, hiding his face with his hands.
“We are moving too fast.” France said then. How cliché that sounded. France wanted to slap himself.
“Seriously…” England groaned behind his hands, but didn’t add anything else.
Love me the "American" way [9c/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-02-29 12:10 pm (UTC)(link)“I should have thought it over better.” France said to himself. He looked at England, who remained still on the bed, and cursed himself, because he still wanted to go back over to England and start kissing him again all over. Hadn’t he done enough damage?
“Yes, okay.” England said then, unexpectedly, taking France totally by surprise.
“See you, then…” France said, trying to look nonchalant and not at all hurt. England was still not looking at him. France took it as a clue to leave. Everything he done from that moment on was mechanical. He opened the door. He went to his bedroom. Packed his things. Put another shirt on. Decided to leave England’s apartment.
When he passed before England’s door again, England was gone, probably in the bathroom, or somewhere France wasn’t invited. He supposed it was better that way, because at least he didn’t have to say something stupid again.
(We weren’t thinking straight. We are moving too fast, and Can we pretend this didn’t happen?, were enough).
He returned back to Paris then. It was dark, and cold, and lonely. France felt like shit. He returned back to his apartment, dropped the bag on the floor, and suddenly felt exhausted. He laid on the couch, and stared at the ceiling.
He wasn’t going to leave his home for a long time, he decided. Canada had been right. France’s whole I-want-to-woo-England-in-America’s-body-plan was pathetic and stupid. He probably managed to ruin a friendship, and no matter how much France could take advantage of that, he felt worse for even giving it a thought. He wondered if he should talk to America.
“In this body?” he asked himself.
Oh, this body. He hated it. If he talked to America in that body, everyone would know and he would be hated by all. Not even his friends would look at him in the eyes from that moment onwards.
Worst of all, he would lose England.
Oh, right. He had already lost him.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Lilly thought of herself as one of the cleverest fairies that worked for England. She knew more spells than any of her colleagues, she was good in history, and, of course, she was one of the few that knew everything about England and, for her, to make him feel better when he was down was a child’s play.
However, this time she felt the stupidest fairy of the whole world. Amanda would be happy. They hated each other with a passion, and Lilly was sure that the other fairy was going to rub it in her face for eons.
This time, though, she didn’t really care. She had done something extremely stupid, and she deserved the teasing. Amanda could take her place in England’s heart.
Lilly was sad.
She had made England miserable. She couldn’t stand seeing him like this: so catatonic, staring at the photos lined under his mirror, as if nothing in this world existed. She tried to cheer him up, but England just shrugged her off.
She didn’t think that her prank would have that kind of effect.
Not only she had made England miserable, but France too wasn’t in an exactly better shape, and even if that had been her initial intention, now she felt bad for the non-believer too.
She hated to admit it, but she had started to like France. She had started to like the way he smiled, so different from America’s usual grin. She had liked the way France tried to make England happy, despite their history full of ups and downs. She had never noticed how much France wanted to stay with England until then.
Love me the "American" way [9d/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-02-29 12:11 pm (UTC)(link)England didn’t notice Lilly leave. The fairy flied as quickly as her little wings could carry her. She managed to find France, and follow him inside France’s apartment. The non-believer didn’t even notice her, and just dropped down on his couch.
He had England’s same miserable emotion on his face.
She had to do something.
She didn’t know if that was going to work, because the spell she had used wore off by itself and there was no other way to undo it. Lilly thought she could at least make the spell progress a little quicker. She flied over France’s face, stared at those blue eyes and started chanting.
Of course, France didn’t hear anything.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
France was slowly falling asleep.
He thought he saw a little woman with wings flying over his face. He raised an eyebrow and wondered if he was already dreaming.
“Oh, so you exist…?” he asked, laughing a little.
Then everything became black.
Re: Love me the "American" way [9d/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-02-29 01:06 pm (UTC)(link)OP
(Anonymous) 2012-02-29 02:26 pm (UTC)(link)Poor France and England.
And now I really don't know who England was talking about in the previous chapter.
Re: Love me the "American" way [9d/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-02-29 04:02 pm (UTC)(link)(frozen comment) Re: Love me the "American" way [9d/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-02-29 08:29 pm (UTC)(link)(frozen comment) Re: Love me the "American" way [9d/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-02-29 09:22 pm (UTC)(link)I would be annoyed if France slept with England and England found out the truth and WAS jolly happy because France's magic penis solved all the issues..
(frozen comment) Re: Love me the "American" way [9d/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-03-01 12:23 pm (UTC)(link)(frozen comment) Re: Love me the "American" way [9d/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-03-02 02:12 am (UTC)(link)I just think this fic would work better with an angsty no-fruk end ;;
(frozen comment) Re: Love me the "American" way [9d/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-03-02 07:28 am (UTC)(link)(frozen comment) Re: Love me the "American" way [9d/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-03-02 08:09 am (UTC)(link)(frozen comment) Re: Love me the "American" way [9d/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-03-02 08:13 am (UTC)(link)(frozen comment) Re: Love me the "American" way [9d/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-03-02 08:36 am (UTC)(link)(frozen comment) Re: Love me the "American" way [9d/10]
(frozen comment) -9000
(Anonymous) 2012-03-01 07:22 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Love me the "American" way [9d/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-03-01 04:38 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Love me the "American" way [9d/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-03-01 09:55 pm (UTC)(link)AND I SHIP UKUSUK
WHAT DO I DO HERE
Ohhhhh, Christ, this is confuddling D: And I'm not sure if I should be cheering anyone on, either.
However you choose to end it will be fine by me. It's up to you, author!anon, not your readers. I'm looking forward to the finale! <3 <3
Re: Love me the "American" way [9d/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-03-02 09:29 am (UTC)(link)France's actions are skeevy, but you've made them very understandable without trying to make it seem like he's in the right, and I, at least, really appreciate that. I'm aching for all three of them. Because France is right, this is probably going to negatively affect England and America's relationship, and in spite of the skeeviness of his current actions, he's basically a decent person. I'm very glad that he stopped short of actually sleeping with England. A lot is going to hinge on whether or not England knows that it's actually France, and if so, whether or not he can forgive him.
(I know how I'd like things to turn out, but that's up to the author, not the readers, and I'll be satisfied with whatever the author decides to do.)
Re: Love me the "American" way [9d/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-03-02 08:18 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Love me the "American" way [9d/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-03-08 07:10 pm (UTC)(link)Love me the "American" way [10a/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-03-09 07:19 pm (UTC)(link)Beep.
Hi!! How you’re doing?? It’s America, of course! My brother told me you were sick, man! I wish I could come and pay a visit, but he told me I should just let you rest! Of course, I would have ignored him, because heroes ALWAYS visit the sick, but my boss doesn’t let me go anywhere these days either. It sucks big time. Well, then! Take care!
- - - - - - - - -
France closed the front door just in time to hear America’s booming voice wishing him a good recovery. He sighed, made a bee line to the kitchen and put his shopping bags on the counter. He put down his keys, took off his coat, and started putting everything in the fridge. He then returned back to the living room, and deleted the message from the answering machine. He decided then he was going to call America back soon and Canada too deserved to be called. He needed to thank him for keeping America away from Europe.
He glanced at the mirror that hanged on one of the walls, and run a hand through his wavy, blond hair. He stared at his face, at his slightly crooked nose, and at his lips. He really liked the fact that America wasn’t staring back at him anymore. He had missed his own face too much. He wondered what happened, why he had looked like America for so long, but nothing he could think of seemed reasonable enough. The economy had been stable, his people had remained the same, and politics had been annoying as usual. The funny thing was that, as suddenly as it had started, he suddenly woke up looking like himself again. France had been so happy to get rid of that American face staring at him (judging him) all day long.
That had been three days ago.
France had talked to Spain, and told him he was back in town. Immediately after telling Spain the news, Spain and Gilbert visited and took him around the city for a drink or two. Italy had been happy for him too, and even brought him a tiramisu with him when he came for a visit. He had finally returned back to work, and even apologized to Benoit for the treatment one of his friends had given him. He had seen almost everyone by then; Spain and Italy being the first of a long series of visits to his house. He had to see England for a week, though, since that evening they almost had sex, and he really didn’t want to see the other face right then. He was sure that he was going to betray himself. It was too soon.
He sighed once more, and picked up his telephone, ready to call America and thank him for the concern, that, suddenly, the doorbell rang. Curious to see who it was France let go of the phone and went to open the door instead. He didn’t check into the peephole, and abruptly came face to face with England himself.
France was so shocked to see England that, for a long moment, he just remained staring at the other’s face, speechless. England stared back at him, his eyebrows furrowing up, perplexed, and his eyes twinkling with something akin to amusement.
“What? Cat got your tongue?” England said suddenly, pushing France away, and went in without much of an invitation. “Or are you still so sick you forgot all your good manners?”
The statement finally made France regain his self-control. He closed the door, and looked behind him to see England putting some folders down on the coffee table. France tried to forget all that had happened between them, and reminded himself that England still didn’t know that he had spent the last week with France instead of America. He decided then to act as he had always acted before England.
“Is that your way of asking me how am I?” France retorted with a grin. England snorted and turned to look at him.
Love me the "American" way [10b/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-03-09 07:20 pm (UTC)(link)“I’m fine, thank you.” France said instead, and looked down at the folders England had brought him. “But I believe this is not a get-well visit, is it?”
“Of course not.” England said, and made a vague gesture over where the folders were standing, “I brought you the paperwork Germany wanted you to do but were too “sick”” he emphasized the last word with quotation marks, “to.”
“I was sick.” France retorted then. England shrugged, but didn’t comment on it. France sighed and sat down on the couch to check the paperwork Germany had sent him via England. Suddenly he felt England sigh, and walk out of the living room. France still didn’t look up and concentrated on the matter at hand instead. Soon enough, though, he realized he really wasn’t in the mood for paperwork, and just went over the fully written pages in the end.
“Why you never have decent tea in your house?” England suddenly exclaimed from the kitchen, and France furrowed his eyebrow together for a moment, before letting out a sigh.
“I didn’t expect you to come.”
“Idiot.”, was England’s response.
France heard England move around the kitchen. He heard him pour water in a kettle he happened to find. The opening and closing of cupboards. The clicking of cups together. A moment later, England was back in the living room, with two steaming cups of the tea France preferred. England pushed the folders away and put the cups on the coffee table, then looked at France, and grabbed the paper he was supposed to be reading. England took it, gave it a glance, snorted, and put it away.
“Hey.” France said, but it didn’t come out as aggressive as he would have wanted. He looked up at England, and England looked down at him. They were so close; France could practically feel England’s scent inside his nostrils. England looked curious for a moment. France supposed he was thinking of something, and made to ask what, that suddenly England leaned down to get closer to his face. Their noses were inches apart, and France stared into England’s green eyes.
“May I try something?” England said then, and even if he stated as a question, to France it felt much more like an order. He didn’t complain when England put his face in his hands, and slightly pulled him closer. Their noses touched. It made France shiver.
“Try what?” he whispered then, even if he already knew the answer. England shrugged once more, France swore he even blushed, and then, suddenly England kissed him on the lips. France’s eyes flattered close. He didn’t know why he felt so surprised that England tasted exactly the same as when he had kissed him the first time. He liked that nothing felt different, and yet, it was.
(England was kissing France this time.)
It didn’t last long, tough. Almost too soon, England pulled away. They looked at each other for a moment in silence, and then England spoke again.
“You don’t feel sick to me.” England stated then, his lips quivering up in an imperceptible smile.
“Is that how you measure fever in your house?” France was amused.
“You are not complaining.” England smirk turned smug.
“Should I?” France was curious.
Re: Love me the "American" way [10c/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-03-09 07:21 pm (UTC)(link)England then sat down next to France, took his cup of tea and took a sip. They didn’t talk again for a long time after that. France wondered if he should ask England if the kiss had meant something to him, but then decided against it. He kept checking the paperwork then, as England kept drinking his tea.
Half an hour later of absolute silence, England said:
“You know what annoys me the most?”
“What now?” France raised his eyes to meet England’s ones.
“Your ex-colonies.” England stated. France furrowed his eyebrows. “I hate it when they talk to you in French. I feel left out.”
And with that England stood up and left the living room once more. France stared at where England had been sitting confused and troubled for a moment. He thought about what England had said, wondered why it annoyed England so much that his ex-colonies talked to him in the language France had taught them, when suddenly his mind clicked and he almost bumped against the coffee table in his haste to stand up.
He only had a name in his mind. Canada. (Canada. Of course. Canada.) Canada liked to talk in French with him. Canada, who came to see if he was alright many days before, and met America instead, and then England came and he started shouting something against a closed door, and then… and then…
Had Canada spoke in French with him then?
He couldn’t remember.
No. It was impossible.
Did England know? Has England always known? Since when…?
And the kiss.
No. It was impossible.
(Had he been checking and made sure?)
“England?” France suddenly exclaimed when he saw that England wasn’t coming back in the living room. He shot a glance at the paperwork England had brought him and at the two cups still sitting there on the coffee table. No one answered him. France suddenly realized he was alone.
He suddenly remembered what England had shouted at him that day.
“France. Do you really think I love him?”
(Was it: France, do you really think I love America? Or was it: France. Do you really think I love France?)
“England?” he tried again and left the living room. He noticed that his front door was slightly open, and made to go out, when suddenly he noticed something white standing on the kitchen table. Curiosity took him over and hastily returned to the kitchen, and took the letter in his hands.
Love me the "American" way [10d/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-03-09 07:27 pm (UTC)(link)You know what your [crossed out] my problem is? I happen to like clueless idiots. I wonder why, really. I wonder why I’m telling you so too. Anyway.
I love America. I suppose you know that at least. I met him when he was still a young nation, I raised him, I fought against him, and fell in love with him. I don’t know when that happened, to tell you the truth, or why, and it’s not really any of your business anyway. But. That’s it. There nothing more to it. I hate him when he does stupid things, or when he interferes with my life, but I care about him. I want to see him happy, even if he is not interested in me in that way.
He is not the only clueless idiot I happened to fall in love with.
How complicated. As if it is not enough to be hopelessly in love with one idiot.
When I was a young nation, as young as America had been when I found him, I met for the first time another, insufferable bloody bastard, who happened to live next door. I don’t know how he managed to do it, but that insufferable git managed to make me need him. It’s embarrassing to say, but without you, my life is empty. I didn’t realize it was until the Second World War. I tried to tell you so that day in the car, but now I understand you understood nothing, because you are stupid, so here I will try to explain again.
In the Second War I had lost any hope that this madness was going to end. Till then I always thought that nations couldn’t just simply die, no matter how many times I have seen something like that happen. Maybe I should rephrase that. I didn’t think we could die. But the war made me change idea. I remembered Rome, Germania, my own mother, and then Prussia… who is now just a ghost of what he used to be, no matter what he claims. Germany was making me lose all hope that wars could end.
And then he took you over, and suddenly I saw you die, disappear in my head, as if you had never existed. I saw Germany whenever I looked over the sea to where your house was. Thousands and thousands of years together, hundreds of years trying to kill each other, and was it like this that everything would end? I honestly panicked. I honestly couldn’t stop thinking about you. Everything centered on that idiotic face of yours. I abruptly realized that I love [crossed out] no, not love. [crossed out] I cared. [crossed out] No, that’s not it either. [crossed out] I loved you. America told me we were going to save you, that I shouldn’t worry. I didn’t believe in him. For the first time in years, I didn’t believe in him, because he couldn’t understand what it feels like to be you and I. (Sometimes I doubt we understand either, but that’s beside the point, isn’t it?).
But that’s the past.
It’s over. That was why I told myself from then on, and I tried to forget that fear whenever I saw you. America stood by my side, clueless as ever. The only one that is never going to leave me. I’m sure of it.
I’m used to America barging into my house now and then. I admit I don’t mind most of the time. But that time, something felt really different. America wasn’t the same as always. It was not only because he had claimed he hadn’t time to visit me, but I felt something wasn’t right, that there was magic implied somehow, and that that was why America was acting so weirdly.
Weird is an understatement.
America forgetting a movie that we already saw? How strange of him. I thought he just wanted to see it again, and left it as that. (Of course then I thought he just needed a dark place so he could put his hands on me. I couldn’t believe America would think to do something like that, thought. Let’s call it clue number 1).
I felt something powerful going on, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it.
Love me the "American" way [10e/10]
(Anonymous) 2012-03-09 07:28 pm (UTC)(link)Germany called told me you were sick. I decided to go and check. Then I saw America. I felt the magic leaking from the house (clue number 3). That guy was also there. He said something in French I didn’t get.
And everything clicked.
You were America. That was what I had been feeling. Something had happened and you took America’s place. Or did you just look like America? I wanted to call America and check. But when you looked at me, smiled, I pushed the thought immediately away.
Anger took curiosity’s place.
I was so angry at you, for playing with my feelings like that, for letting you get so close, for taking advantage of the fact that I liked America, for making me think that this was the real America, that I had fell in love with America. I wanted to confess I had understood, I wanted to hurt you, I wanted to do a lot of things, I wanted… and then, while I was driving, and you remained silent next to me, I started to think.
I realized something.
All this years there was some kind of wall between us. We never managed to be ourselves these past centuries around each other. No matter how much we know each other, there is always something that blocks us from going further than what we are. But now, when you were so sure I didn’t recognize you, you were suddenly yourself. No, to put it better. You were what you wanted to be with me. You just wanted to be with me. You hadn’t thought about it that well, sure, but you didn’t want to hurt anyone either.
You just wanted me to like you. The real you. Why everything is so hard to explain?
Either way, I was finally myself too. There was no history between us, no years and years of hatred and wars. You were America, and, no matter how many wars I fought with America, I always felt I could be myself around him, let myself go. Something I can’t do with you.
We were each other. I fell in love with that.
I wondered then. Was I in love with America or France? With whom did I have fell in love this time?
This guy, this guy I fell in love once more, wasn’t America.
It was you.
I was confused as hell.
I was angry at you.
But, at the same time, I was relieved that you looked like America and not yourself. Because finally that wall between us had disappeared and I could see things clearly.
I hated myself then, but I made up my mind.
Love me the "American" way [10f/10]
(Anonymous) - 2012-03-09 19:36 (UTC) - ExpandOP
(Anonymous) - 2012-03-09 22:58 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Love me the "American" way [10f/10]
(Anonymous) - 2012-03-10 00:33 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Love me the "American" way [10f/10]
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(Anonymous) - 2012-03-13 20:05 (UTC) - ExpandA!A here
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