I’m fizzyCherryCola and I was born to be nerd trash. You can short form my name to “fizzy” if that’s easier. I started writing fanfics in January 2021, and I’ve found that I love writing. I enjoy building stories and sharing them with people, specifically, Hetalia stories.
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You can also find me on AO3, FFN, and Wattpad ❤
*~*
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I’m over 18. So if you wanna talk about NSFW stuff, I’m ok with that. Just like, gimmie a heads up first so I’m not scrolling through your post at Starbucks, lol.
Be respectful. I know this is the internet, but try to remember there’s a human on the other side of the screen.
I’m aware that Hetalia is problematic and offensive. Like many other pieces of media, it is important to acknowledge and discuss the issues of race, sexuality, gender, and all forms of privilege present within the work. I’m open to listen to anyone who wants to talk about these things.
Please don’t try to convince anyone (including me) that enjoying a certain pairing or kink is morally wrong. At the end of the day, it’s just fanfiction. It isn’t real.
Reblogs, headcanon requests, and fic ideas are awesome! If you wanna share your thoughts with me, I’d love to hear them!
Asks and respectful critiques are always welcome.
I might add to this in the future, but I think that’s all for now.
Welcome to my blog!
I go back and reread Wingman every so often, and the scene where Alfred just startles Matt out of his skin is just so on point for them it's wonderful. That whole fic is gorgeous, funny, brotherly and historical in a lovely way this fandom desperately needs.
Awwwhhhhhh... 😭
You reread it?! That ol' fic?? Gosh. This just made my heart soar. Now, I want to write those two boys again. I miss them.
Reblog if it’s okay for your followers to leave you an ask telling you what the one thing is they remember you for as a writer. Is it a scene or a detail or a specific line? Is it something like style or characterization? Is it that one weird kink they never thought they’d be into, but oh my god wow self-discovery time?
Behold! I've been writing my Spain/France fic. It's something that I've wanted to put to paper for a long time. It's not done yet. But uh... I still wanted to share. Mmm, yes. So, here you go! Have this snippet of things to come.
~~~
Paris, France; 24 February 1848
There is an omen on the horizon.
Spain pushes aside the heavy drapery of France’s flat to peer through the window at it: a plume of devilish smoke that snakes its way upwards into the heavens. It is distant, perhaps fifteen or twenty blocks away, which makes discerning the exact location difficult. Is the Tuileries Palace aflame, where he had spoken with the French king mere days ago? Could it be someplace else that has caught fire, like a guard post or a jailhouse?
A multitude of Parisian rooftops, chimney pots, and elegant blue dormers lie between him and the inferno. Still, it is much too close. In the pale light of a wintery midday, the grey harbinger snarls at him, its smokey teeth rippling with the blazing anger of rebellion and bending in the imperfect glass of France’s Palladian windows.
Spain frowns. He should have left the city long ago. Or, perhaps better yet, he should never have come at all.
On a dark, rainy night, Singapore finds himself in desperate need of a warm meal and a bright smile. Luckily, he has someone who cares for him very much.
Originally intended to be part of a Hetalia fan anthology, however I missed the deadline long ago. You can find it at @hwsrazzledazzle . This is my first time writing Malaysia and Singapore, so I hope I've done them justice. Please enjoy! If anyone notices inconsistencies or cultural mistakes, please let me know and I'll fix them right away.
December Rain
Singapore; 16 December 1921
“Governor, is there really no other way? We are in peacetime, so surely-”
“Unfortunately, this is the way it must be. Perhaps if relations between London and Tokyo improve, then these restrictions may be lifted. But from what I understand, it is unlikely that either of us will witness such a thing happen in the near future.”
“...I see.”
“I know this is all rather irregular, but even so, I trust you will follow these new regulations once they come into effect. Won’t you, Singapore?”
“Yes, Governor Guillemard, of course.”
“Good. Very good! I had the sense when we first met that we would get along well. That you were an honourable, hard-working young man – or colony, I should say – and that you would cause no trouble. I’m delighted to see that is still the case.”
—
A torrent of water falls from the heavens in rippling sheets. People dart about, some on bicycle and some on foot. They splash through the wide puddles of the civic district, anxious to be home before the dark night sets in. The lucky ones squeeze onboard the bustling electric tram with their elbows and umbrellas poking through the open windows. Unfortunately, Singapore was not one of those lucky ones today.
Clasping his cold hands together, Singapore rubs his knuckles. He huddles in the seat of his hired rickshaw, grimacing at his situation. The spats covering his shoes are terribly soggy and the rain has soaked his grey trousers up to the thigh. He leans back in his seat, sheltering beneath the rickshaw’s canopy, hopelessly trying to stay as dry as possible. Normally it wouldn't be an issue, but tonight... Malaya is visiting for dinner. It’s the first date they’ve had in months.
There is a tightness behind his ribs and Singapore takes a steadying breath. He needs to dispel the stress of the business day and the terrible news he was given.
None of that matters at the moment. Even though his disheartening meeting with the Governor went on for much longer than expected, he should still make it home before Malaya arrives, because that silly oyen is often late himself. And to the rickshaw puller’s credit, they are speeding down the muddy streets.
Eventually, Singapore’s abode reveals itself wedged amongst a long row of shophouses. The vehicle’s rickety wheels slow to a halt and the rickshaw man glances back expectantly. Quickly, Singapore tosses a few coins his way. Then, he hops out of his seat, over the gate, and dashes through the five-foot way.
He pushes open the wooden door to his house and pauses, holding his breath. The darkened front hall is quiet and none of the oil lamps appear lit. Thank goodness. Tension floods from his shoulders and he releases a sigh.
He slips off his shoes and carries them inside, hoping to wipe the leather dry and preserve his valuable Oxfords. His bare feet tap terracotta tiles as he pads through the front office, then the smell of firewood hits him, mingled with the aroma of red chili and garlic. Peeking into the hallway, he sees dim light and steam emanating from the kitchen in the back.
His hairs stand on end and a second later he’s bursting into the warm room.
“Why are you here so early?!” Singapore demands.
Malaya flinches and glances up from the stove. “Oh, you’re here!” A bright smile blooms across his face, putting his crooked fang tooth on full display. “Welcome back!”
“You’re never early! How did…?”
“Ah? I thought I was late. You said we would meet in the afternoon.”
“No, we said it would be in the evening.”
“Oh, that makes sense,” Malaya chuckles. “I thought it was strange when I walked in and nobody was home.”
“Wait, what are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m making dinner!”
“But I was going to....” Singapore’s words fail him as he gawks at his kitchen. The mortar is smudged with trace remains of crimson spices and his stove is lit with the smoky haze of burning charcoal. Malaya tosses peppers into the wok and effortlessly works the sizzling heat like he was born for it. Singapore sighs. “Never mind. Let me take over from here.”
Malaya laughs incredulously. “But I’m almost finished!”
“It doesn’t matter. This is your first time in my new home! You’re my guest.”
Malaya quirks an eyebrow and gestures to Singapore with the backend of his chuan. “Singa, you’re dripping wet. You’ll get rainwater in our food.”
Baulking, Singapore looks himself over. His suit is darkened and heavy, leaking droplets onto the floor.
Grimacing, he deflates. “...I’m sorry.”
“Ah? You don’t need to apologise.”
“No, I should have arrived earlier. I had plans for our dinner together; I wanted it to be special.”
Smiling wider, Malaya seems to melt on the spot. “Sayang….”
“I can take over after I’ve changed.”
“No. This is my cooking now.”
“But–”
“It’s fine. You work too hard!” Malaya steps away from the wok and nudges Singapore out of the room. “Quick! Go change out of those clothes before the food is ready.”
Reluctantly, Singapore trudges upstairs to his bedroom, glancing back at the kitchen as he goes.
Once upstairs, he takes a moment to tend to his Oxfords, the higher priority, before his own comfort. When he’s satisfied that the leather is dry enough, he peels off his wet business attire, shivering despite the humidity, and then towels his damp skin. Throwing on something clean, he pauses in front of a small mirror to tame his dark hair before returning downstairs.
The dining area is bathed in warmth and an array of dishes decorate the table. Dinner is set out before him: tomato rice with ayam masak merah, a mix of chicken and dried chilies sambal. The saucy red soup glistens in the lamplight and Singapore’s belly rumbles. Malaya snickers, placing the finishing touches on the table and telling him to dig in.
With a flush rising to his cheeks, Singapore thanks his companion and relents. He takes a bite of the chicken, and a burst of rich, creamy, spice hits his tongue. It’s so delicious that he sighs, the flavour bringing back memories of other rainy Decembers, long past. When it was just the two of them, huddled beneath a small, thatched roof.
“Abang, it’s so good,” Singapore says. “Thank you.”
“Anytime!” A wide grin graces Malaya’s face as he produces a gorgeous bottle of tapai rice wine and pours both of them a healthy glass. Then he sits as well, going for his tomato rice, and talking unabashedly between massive mouthfuls of food. “You know, I think your last house was better.”
Singapore pouts. “Don’t say that, lah. I was hoping you would like it here.”
“Well, ah… it’s not what I was expecting.”
“I was able to get this because my markets have been paying well. Would you prefer it if I returned to a timber attap house? Go back to my old kampong?”
Malaya sheepishly raises his hands in mock surrender. “No! It’s just very… different?”
“It’s closer to the city centre. And it’s modern.”
“Okay, okay! I’m sorry.” Malaya leans in and gives Singapore a quick kiss on the cheek – an apology. He leaves behind a few sticky grains of rice, and Singapore rolls his eyes before brushing them off. “You worked very hard for this, so I’ll admit, for a city house, it is really spacious and fancy.”
Singapore swallows a few more bites of food while considering his companion’s sentiment.
Indeed, the new dwelling takes some getting used to. Bought last July, Singapore’s abode stands three stories tall and has an elaborate, ornamental façade. Decorated with colourful tiles and plasterwork, it is more stylish than his previous place. If only the floors were worn in, and the rooms smelled of the forest, perhaps then this mass-produced building would feel more like a home.
It’s no matter, though. He will adjust. As if reading his mind, Malaya pokes his elbow and gestures to the open courtyard. “Plant a garden in the spring; that will help.”
Singapore glances at the bare space and imagines it filled with kang kong, lemongrass, and chili plants. It warms his heart.
“That would be nice.”
Malaya polishes off his rice and sets the bowl down. “So, you meet with Guillemard today?”
“Ah… that’s right.”
“Mm! I’m meeting with him in a few days, too. What did he say?”
Singapore ducks, suddenly very interested in the wood grain of his table. “I’ll tell you after dinner.”
“Come on, tell me. Is it good news?”
Weight settles on Singapore’s shoulders and bears down on his neck. “No, it’s bad.”
“Now I have to know!”
Singapore sighs. The locks in the back of his mind slowly release, allowing a bitter slurry of unease and gloom to trickle forth. He’s been holding onto this all day and he was never good at hiding things from his dearest.
“You’re not going to like it.”
Malaya downs a swig of rice wine. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
Singapore follows his lead, taking a sip from his own cup and allowing the burn to roll down his throat. He swallows, and means to slam the cup down, but it settles with a skittering series of taps. Is he nervous, or just upset?
“Guillemard said… beginning next week, we cannot have any contact with Taiwan, Korea, or any other kingdoms under Japan’s control.”
The statement falls wet out of his heart to splatter ruin onto his new, tile floor. Malaya blinks, silent for a while, his eyes going wide.
“No, that can’t be right.”
“Personal contact lah,” Singapore clarifies. “We can’t send them letters, telegrams, or schedule any visits.”
“Not even letters?”
“None.”
Malaya gapes. “Why would he say that? Did he have a reason?”
“I couldn’t get all the details.” The morning and afternoon were like a whirlwind. Questions flew around the rooms of the Governor’s estate, from not just himself, but even the groundskeepers who he caught whispering in the halls. “I heard there was a conference,” Singapore continues, “and a treaty was signed. Somehow, this new treaty ended the alliance between England and Japan, but it was more than that. Apparently, there has been tension between them for a long time, maybe years. So, it is possible… perhaps a combination of different things ....”
“Wait, wait!” Malaya cries, jolting Singapore out of his recollection. “Tahun Baru Cina!”
It takes Singapore a moment to understand. “What about it?”
“Taiwan invited us to celebrate with her. You remember; we were meant to visit her in that city... what are we calling it these days?”
“Taihoku?”
“That’s it!”
“I’m guessing that will be cancelled.”
Malaya releases a puff of air. “They can’t just cancel the New Year!” He slumps, staring forlornly at his empty rice bowl. He looks like a cat, longing for more food, as though that would be enough to fix all the problems of the world.
“Someone else might host,” Singapore suggests.
“This is terrible,” Malaya mutters.
Singapore frowns at his wine, cloudy and glistening in the lamplight. He imagines it reflecting a sea of red lanterns as they ripple in the night air, a dream of years past. If he concentrates, he can recall the clamour of jubilant voices, the thrum of drums, and the crackle of firecrackers.
Gathering under one roof to welcome the New Year was a tradition they shared. Who started it and when, Singapore does not know, but every house he visited would be brilliantly decorated in a rainbow of colours, and every table would be packed to the edge with food. Different people would host and attend each year; a variety of familiar faces that came and went. Philippines, Vietnam, Siam, Manchuria, Korea, of course China, and more. Sometimes there were so many of them, there were not enough seats to go around!
Occasionally, the turnout was smaller due to war, famine, or sickness, but it was always a pity when it happened. It’s still a pity now. Singapore sighs, again. “I’m sorry for ruining the evening with depressing news. This date was meant to be special.”
Malaya blinks, returning to life, and shushes him. “You know, if you keep stressing out, your hair will turn white.”
Something in Singapore's face must be betraying his feelings, because Malaya’s smile falls almost as quickly as it appears. He shuffles closer and secures a steady arm around his lover’s shoulders.
“Abang….”
Rain pitter-patters on the courtyard stone. The distant sounds of city life grow quieter as night falls. Is it raining in Taihoku as well? Is there a little girl on the other side of the sea mulling over the same sad news? Poor Taiwan. She’s still just a child; she won’t understand.
A knot has lodged itself in Singapore’s throat. Times like these serve as a potent reminder: it is the spiderwebs of alliances that shape their uncertain destinies. Of course, he is not a revolutionist. Order, harmony, and life are too precious to him. All he must do is keep his head down, work hard, and if he does that, he can get by. But sometimes… sometimes….
Without prompting, Malaya whispers, “I know,” and hugs him, lean muscle cradling Singapore’s thin frame. And Singapore doesn’t realise he is clenching his jaw until Malaya strokes his cheek and it slackens. Heat radiates through his ribs like an antidote. A rattling breath escapes his chest and his eyes fall shut. Their bodies slope together.
They stay that way for long minutes. The weariness of the day begins to levy its toll on Singapore’s consciousness and his head droops. Safe in his companion’s arms, sleep tempts him. He almost doesn’t hear when Malaya whispers: “When do these rules start?”
“Next week,” Singapore murmurs.
Malaya’s lips press gently to his temple. “Then we will send Taiwan and the others some letters. We will wish them an early Happy New Year, before these awful new rules take effect.”
Shifting, Singapore meets his brilliant golden eyes. Dark umber bangs brush the tips of his eyelashes and a firecracker lights in his heart. His oyen is so handsome. They kiss and Malaya’s inviting mouth tastes faintly of chilies.
“Can I stay with you for more than a few days?” Malaya whispers.
“Of course,” Singapore says. “But is that okay? Won’t you get in trouble with the sultans?”
With a wave of his hand, Malaya dismisses the notion. “I’ll just keep begging my bosses until I manage to annoy them into letting me stay. Besides, my sayang is worth it.” A smile dawns on Singapore’s features and they entwine their fingers. Malaya nuzzles his hair. “And after I go, I'll come back in the spring to help you build your garden. We can plant some red hibiscus together.”
“...That would be nice.”
Suddenly, Malaya squeezes him tight and peppers his face with kisses until he’s laughing. And the spark in his heart becomes a booming firework display, so bright and colourful that it threatens to burst from his soul.
Eventually, Singapore has to push him away, before things get heated and they make a mess of both their clothes and the dining table. He suspects there are red chili smears decorating his face. Malaya relents only after leaving a suggestive bite to his neck, practically purring with delight.
They gather up the dishes from the table, and as Singapore follows his companion back to the kitchen, he finds he is able to stand straighter. Malaya has a kind of resilience, a living strength that courses along the lines of his shoulders and blooms in the curve of his toothy smile. And Singapore has always found it captivating. Despite their misfortune and the struggle of navigating life, his oyen thrives and endures. How lucky he is to share delicious dinners and squander time with this special person.
Singapore’s thoughts drift to the feathery bed that beckons them both and suppresses a shiver of excitement. Hurriedly, he plunges a bowl into the water basin and scrubs it clean, eager to indulge in the rest of their evening and the precious days ahead.
As long as he has Malaya, everything will be okay.
End / Fin
~~~
Author’s Notes
Laurence Guillemard was the British-appointed “Governor of the Straits Settlements” and “High Commissioner for the Federated Malay States” from 1920 – 1927.
“Abang” and “sayang” are Malay terms of endearment.
Malaya/Malaysia’s national animal is a tiger, which is why Singapore calls him “oyen,” meaning: orange cat.
The first Singaporean shophouses were built starting in the 1840s, under the original ordinances laid down by Sir Stamford Raffles. Over the years, architecture styles changed but the houses remained popular until the 1960s. They are now considered important heritage pieces and are valued as historic examples of architecture.
An attap house is a traditional dwelling made with attap palms, which provide wattle for the walls and leaves for their thatched roofs. They are often found in kampongs (traditional villages) throughout South East Asia.
The Anglo-Japanese Alliance was a pact between the British and Japanese that was signed in 1902. Both parties benefited in various ways, including defensive strategies, trade, and cultural exchanges. However, over the following decades, the relationship would slowly deteriorate. It was viewed as an obstacle at the Paris Peace Conference following WW1, and then battered further by the 1921 Imperial Conference. It finally dissolved on 13 December 1921, when the Four-Power Treaty was signed in Washington DC.
Lunar New Year! In Malaysia, the holiday’s official name is “Tahun Baru Cina”.
Taihoku was the name given to Taipei while it was under Japanese rule.
“...your hair will turn white.” It’s my personal headcanon that Singapore got his trademark streak of white hair from overworking himself in the 20th century.
On a dark, rainy night, Singapore finds himself in desperate need of a warm meal and a bright smile. Luckily, he has someone who cares for him very much.
Originally intended to be part of a Hetalia fan anthology, however I missed the deadline long ago. You can find it at @hwsrazzledazzle . This is my first time writing Malaysia and Singapore, so I hope I've done them justice. Please enjoy! If anyone notices inconsistencies or cultural mistakes, please let me know and I'll fix them right away.
December Rain
Singapore; 16 December 1921
“Governor, is there really no other way? We are in peacetime, so surely-”
“Unfortunately, this is the way it must be. Perhaps if relations between London and Tokyo improve, then these restrictions may be lifted. But from what I understand, it is unlikely that either of us will witness such a thing happen in the near future.”
“...I see.”
“I know this is all rather irregular, but even so, I trust you will follow these new regulations once they come into effect. Won’t you, Singapore?”
“Yes, Governor Guillemard, of course.”
“Good. Very good! I had the sense when we first met that we would get along well. That you were an honourable, hard-working young man – or colony, I should say – and that you would cause no trouble. I’m delighted to see that is still the case.”
—
A torrent of water falls from the heavens in rippling sheets. People dart about, some on bicycle and some on foot. They splash through the wide puddles of the civic district, anxious to be home before the dark night sets in. The lucky ones squeeze onboard the bustling electric tram with their elbows and umbrellas poking through the open windows. Unfortunately, Singapore was not one of those lucky ones today.
Clasping his cold hands together, Singapore rubs his knuckles. He huddles in the seat of his hired rickshaw, grimacing at his situation. The spats covering his shoes are terribly soggy and the rain has soaked his grey trousers up to the thigh. He leans back in his seat, sheltering beneath the rickshaw’s canopy, hopelessly trying to stay as dry as possible. Normally it wouldn't be an issue, but tonight... Malaya is visiting for dinner. It’s the first date they’ve had in months.
There is a tightness behind his ribs and Singapore takes a steadying breath. He needs to dispel the stress of the business day and the terrible news he was given.
None of that matters at the moment. Even though his disheartening meeting with the Governor went on for much longer than expected, he should still make it home before Malaya arrives, because that silly oyen is often late himself. And to the rickshaw puller’s credit, they are speeding down the muddy streets.
Eventually, Singapore’s abode reveals itself wedged amongst a long row of shophouses. The vehicle’s rickety wheels slow to a halt and the rickshaw man glances back expectantly. Quickly, Singapore tosses a few coins his way. Then, he hops out of his seat, over the gate, and dashes through the five-foot way.
He pushes open the wooden door to his house and pauses, holding his breath. The darkened front hall is quiet and none of the oil lamps appear lit. Thank goodness. Tension floods from his shoulders and he releases a sigh.
He slips off his shoes and carries them inside, hoping to wipe the leather dry and preserve his valuable Oxfords. His bare feet tap terracotta tiles as he pads through the front office, then the smell of firewood hits him, mingled with the aroma of red chili and garlic. Peeking into the hallway, he sees dim light and steam emanating from the kitchen in the back.
His hairs stand on end and a second later he’s bursting into the warm room.
“Why are you here so early?!” Singapore demands.
Malaya flinches and glances up from the stove. “Oh, you’re here!” A bright smile blooms across his face, putting his crooked fang tooth on full display. “Welcome back!”
“You’re never early! How did…?”
“Ah? I thought I was late. You said we would meet in the afternoon.”
“No, we said it would be in the evening.”
“Oh, that makes sense,” Malaya chuckles. “I thought it was strange when I walked in and nobody was home.”
“Wait, what are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m making dinner!”
“But I was going to....” Singapore’s words fail him as he gawks at his kitchen. The mortar is smudged with trace remains of crimson spices and his stove is lit with the smoky haze of burning charcoal. Malaya tosses peppers into the wok and effortlessly works the sizzling heat like he was born for it. Singapore sighs. “Never mind. Let me take over from here.”
Malaya laughs incredulously. “But I’m almost finished!”
“It doesn’t matter. This is your first time in my new home! You’re my guest.”
Malaya quirks an eyebrow and gestures to Singapore with the backend of his chuan. “Singa, you’re dripping wet. You’ll get rainwater in our food.”
Baulking, Singapore looks himself over. His suit is darkened and heavy, leaking droplets onto the floor.
Grimacing, he deflates. “...I’m sorry.”
“Ah? You don’t need to apologise.”
“No, I should have arrived earlier. I had plans for our dinner together; I wanted it to be special.”
Smiling wider, Malaya seems to melt on the spot. “Sayang….”
“I can take over after I’ve changed.”
“No. This is my cooking now.”
“But–”
“It’s fine. You work too hard!” Malaya steps away from the wok and nudges Singapore out of the room. “Quick! Go change out of those clothes before the food is ready.”
Reluctantly, Singapore trudges upstairs to his bedroom, glancing back at the kitchen as he goes.
Once upstairs, he takes a moment to tend to his Oxfords, the higher priority, before his own comfort. When he’s satisfied that the leather is dry enough, he peels off his wet business attire, shivering despite the humidity, and then towels his damp skin. Throwing on something clean, he pauses in front of a small mirror to tame his dark hair before returning downstairs.
The dining area is bathed in warmth and an array of dishes decorate the table. Dinner is set out before him: tomato rice with ayam masak merah, a mix of chicken and dried chilies sambal. The saucy red soup glistens in the lamplight and Singapore’s belly rumbles. Malaya snickers, placing the finishing touches on the table and telling him to dig in.
With a flush rising to his cheeks, Singapore thanks his companion and relents. He takes a bite of the chicken, and a burst of rich, creamy, spice hits his tongue. It’s so delicious that he sighs, the flavour bringing back memories of other rainy Decembers, long past. When it was just the two of them, huddled beneath a small, thatched roof.
“Abang, it’s so good,” Singapore says. “Thank you.”
“Anytime!” A wide grin graces Malaya’s face as he produces a gorgeous bottle of tapai rice wine and pours both of them a healthy glass. Then he sits as well, going for his tomato rice, and talking unabashedly between massive mouthfuls of food. “You know, I think your last house was better.”
Singapore pouts. “Don’t say that, lah. I was hoping you would like it here.”
“Well, ah… it’s not what I was expecting.”
“I was able to get this because my markets have been paying well. Would you prefer it if I returned to a timber attap house? Go back to my old kampong?”
Malaya sheepishly raises his hands in mock surrender. “No! It’s just very… different?”
“It’s closer to the city centre. And it’s modern.”
“Okay, okay! I’m sorry.” Malaya leans in and gives Singapore a quick kiss on the cheek – an apology. He leaves behind a few sticky grains of rice, and Singapore rolls his eyes before brushing them off. “You worked very hard for this, so I’ll admit, for a city house, it is really spacious and fancy.”
Singapore swallows a few more bites of food while considering his companion’s sentiment.
Indeed, the new dwelling takes some getting used to. Bought last July, Singapore’s abode stands three stories tall and has an elaborate, ornamental façade. Decorated with colourful tiles and plasterwork, it is more stylish than his previous place. If only the floors were worn in, and the rooms smelled of the forest, perhaps then this mass-produced building would feel more like a home.
It’s no matter, though. He will adjust. As if reading his mind, Malaya pokes his elbow and gestures to the open courtyard. “Plant a garden in the spring; that will help.”
Singapore glances at the bare space and imagines it filled with kang kong, lemongrass, and chili plants. It warms his heart.
“That would be nice.”
Malaya polishes off his rice and sets the bowl down. “So, you meet with Guillemard today?”
“Ah… that’s right.”
“Mm! I’m meeting with him in a few days, too. What did he say?”
Singapore ducks, suddenly very interested in the wood grain of his table. “I’ll tell you after dinner.”
“Come on, tell me. Is it good news?”
Weight settles on Singapore’s shoulders and bears down on his neck. “No, it’s bad.”
“Now I have to know!”
Singapore sighs. The locks in the back of his mind slowly release, allowing a bitter slurry of unease and gloom to trickle forth. He’s been holding onto this all day and he was never good at hiding things from his dearest.
“You’re not going to like it.”
Malaya downs a swig of rice wine. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
Singapore follows his lead, taking a sip from his own cup and allowing the burn to roll down his throat. He swallows, and means to slam the cup down, but it settles with a skittering series of taps. Is he nervous, or just upset?
“Guillemard said… beginning next week, we cannot have any contact with Taiwan, Korea, or any other kingdoms under Japan’s control.”
The statement falls wet out of his heart to splatter ruin onto his new, tile floor. Malaya blinks, silent for a while, his eyes going wide.
“No, that can’t be right.”
“Personal contact lah,” Singapore clarifies. “We can’t send them letters, telegrams, or schedule any visits.”
“Not even letters?”
“None.”
Malaya gapes. “Why would he say that? Did he have a reason?”
“I couldn’t get all the details.” The morning and afternoon were like a whirlwind. Questions flew around the rooms of the Governor’s estate, from not just himself, but even the groundskeepers who he caught whispering in the halls. “I heard there was a conference,” Singapore continues, “and a treaty was signed. Somehow, this new treaty ended the alliance between England and Japan, but it was more than that. Apparently, there has been tension between them for a long time, maybe years. So, it is possible… perhaps a combination of different things ....”
“Wait, wait!” Malaya cries, jolting Singapore out of his recollection. “Tahun Baru Cina!”
It takes Singapore a moment to understand. “What about it?”
“Taiwan invited us to celebrate with her. You remember; we were meant to visit her in that city... what are we calling it these days?”
“Taihoku?”
“That’s it!”
“I’m guessing that will be cancelled.”
Malaya releases a puff of air. “They can’t just cancel the New Year!” He slumps, staring forlornly at his empty rice bowl. He looks like a cat, longing for more food, as though that would be enough to fix all the problems of the world.
“Someone else might host,” Singapore suggests.
“This is terrible,” Malaya mutters.
Singapore frowns at his wine, cloudy and glistening in the lamplight. He imagines it reflecting a sea of red lanterns as they ripple in the night air, a dream of years past. If he concentrates, he can recall the clamour of jubilant voices, the thrum of drums, and the crackle of firecrackers.
Gathering under one roof to welcome the New Year was a tradition they shared. Who started it and when, Singapore does not know, but every house he visited would be brilliantly decorated in a rainbow of colours, and every table would be packed to the edge with food. Different people would host and attend each year; a variety of familiar faces that came and went. Philippines, Vietnam, Siam, Manchuria, Korea, of course China, and more. Sometimes there were so many of them, there were not enough seats to go around!
Occasionally, the turnout was smaller due to war, famine, or sickness, but it was always a pity when it happened. It’s still a pity now. Singapore sighs, again. “I’m sorry for ruining the evening with depressing news. This date was meant to be special.”
Malaya blinks, returning to life, and shushes him. “You know, if you keep stressing out, your hair will turn white.”
Something in Singapore's face must be betraying his feelings, because Malaya’s smile falls almost as quickly as it appears. He shuffles closer and secures a steady arm around his lover’s shoulders.
“Abang….”
Rain pitter-patters on the courtyard stone. The distant sounds of city life grow quieter as night falls. Is it raining in Taihoku as well? Is there a little girl on the other side of the sea mulling over the same sad news? Poor Taiwan. She’s still just a child; she won’t understand.
A knot has lodged itself in Singapore’s throat. Times like these serve as a potent reminder: it is the spiderwebs of alliances that shape their uncertain destinies. Of course, he is not a revolutionist. Order, harmony, and life are too precious to him. All he must do is keep his head down, work hard, and if he does that, he can get by. But sometimes… sometimes….
Without prompting, Malaya whispers, “I know,” and hugs him, lean muscle cradling Singapore’s thin frame. And Singapore doesn’t realise he is clenching his jaw until Malaya strokes his cheek and it slackens. Heat radiates through his ribs like an antidote. A rattling breath escapes his chest and his eyes fall shut. Their bodies slope together.
They stay that way for long minutes. The weariness of the day begins to levy its toll on Singapore’s consciousness and his head droops. Safe in his companion’s arms, sleep tempts him. He almost doesn’t hear when Malaya whispers: “When do these rules start?”
“Next week,” Singapore murmurs.
Malaya’s lips press gently to his temple. “Then we will send Taiwan and the others some letters. We will wish them an early Happy New Year, before these awful new rules take effect.”
Shifting, Singapore meets his brilliant golden eyes. Dark umber bangs brush the tips of his eyelashes and a firecracker lights in his heart. His oyen is so handsome. They kiss and Malaya’s inviting mouth tastes faintly of chilies.
“Can I stay with you for more than a few days?” Malaya whispers.
“Of course,” Singapore says. “But is that okay? Won’t you get in trouble with the sultans?”
With a wave of his hand, Malaya dismisses the notion. “I’ll just keep begging my bosses until I manage to annoy them into letting me stay. Besides, my sayang is worth it.” A smile dawns on Singapore’s features and they entwine their fingers. Malaya nuzzles his hair. “And after I go, I'll come back in the spring to help you build your garden. We can plant some red hibiscus together.”
“...That would be nice.”
Suddenly, Malaya squeezes him tight and peppers his face with kisses until he’s laughing. And the spark in his heart becomes a booming firework display, so bright and colourful that it threatens to burst from his soul.
Eventually, Singapore has to push him away, before things get heated and they make a mess of both their clothes and the dining table. He suspects there are red chili smears decorating his face. Malaya relents only after leaving a suggestive bite to his neck, practically purring with delight.
They gather up the dishes from the table, and as Singapore follows his companion back to the kitchen, he finds he is able to stand straighter. Malaya has a kind of resilience, a living strength that courses along the lines of his shoulders and blooms in the curve of his toothy smile. And Singapore has always found it captivating. Despite their misfortune and the struggle of navigating life, his oyen thrives and endures. How lucky he is to share delicious dinners and squander time with this special person.
Singapore’s thoughts drift to the feathery bed that beckons them both and suppresses a shiver of excitement. Hurriedly, he plunges a bowl into the water basin and scrubs it clean, eager to indulge in the rest of their evening and the precious days ahead.
As long as he has Malaya, everything will be okay.
End / Fin
~~~
Author’s Notes
Laurence Guillemard was the British-appointed “Governor of the Straits Settlements” and “High Commissioner for the Federated Malay States” from 1920 – 1927.
“Abang” and “sayang” are Malay terms of endearment.
Malaya/Malaysia’s national animal is a tiger, which is why Singapore calls him “oyen,” meaning: orange cat.
The first Singaporean shophouses were built starting in the 1840s, under the original ordinances laid down by Sir Stamford Raffles. Over the years, architecture styles changed but the houses remained popular until the 1960s. They are now considered important heritage pieces and are valued as historic examples of architecture.
An attap house is a traditional dwelling made with attap palms, which provide wattle for the walls and leaves for their thatched roofs. They are often found in kampongs (traditional villages) throughout South East Asia.
The Anglo-Japanese Alliance was a pact between the British and Japanese that was signed in 1902. Both parties benefited in various ways, including defensive strategies, trade, and cultural exchanges. However, over the following decades, the relationship would slowly deteriorate. It was viewed as an obstacle at the Paris Peace Conference following WW1, and then battered further by the 1921 Imperial Conference. It finally dissolved on 13 December 1921, when the Four-Power Treaty was signed in Washington DC.
Lunar New Year! In Malaysia, the holiday’s official name is “Tahun Baru Cina”.
Taihoku was the name given to Taipei while it was under Japanese rule.
“...your hair will turn white.” It’s my personal headcanon that Singapore got his trademark streak of white hair from overworking himself in the 20th century.
Summary: The rediscovery of lost relics has a habit of awakening unwelcomed feelings. The past overlaps with the present far more than France realises.
---------‐----------------
Sunken Nostalgia
‘There you are. Hiding as usual.’
England looked over his shoulder at the sound of France’s voice. He was leant against the railings of the walkway overlooking Portsmouth harbour, wearing a light coat and stood as far as he could get away from the main crowds without missing the view. It was a busy day, unsurprisingly given the circumstances, and even where he was on the waterfront people were thronged out all along the railings and in the nearby buildings to get the best look at the happenings out at sea. It was not every day that a ship this old- a rare find indeed for how intact it was rumoured to be- was raised back to the surface. Some more eager watchers had even gone out onto the water themselves; past England, France saw a small pleasure boat packed with onlookers come in closer to shore to avoid an official navy ship, bearing down imperiously on anything in its way.
Maybe sensing his wish to be alone from just his expression, or from whatever it was that connected their people to them as they so keenly were, the onlookers nearest to England had given him as wide of a berth as they possibly could. He stood there in the crowd out of place and alone, a lone island close pressed by a sea of mortal life that dare not come closer than the five feet he mentally permitted.
‘I wondered when you’d show up.’ Was all England said as France approached.
‘You thought that I would?’
‘No, that I’m still surprised by. But I felt you arrive a few hours ago.’
‘Ah.’
‘Boat? Plane?’
‘Plane, then train. You know as well as I do that those ferries are frightful things.’
‘That’s just your delicate constitution talking.’
France didn’t bother to reply. He joined England at the railing and handed him one of the takeaway cups that he was carrying, waggling it when he hesitated.
England took it gingerly, ‘You should have told me you were coming.’
‘What on earth for.’
‘Common courtesy. It is my land you are invading.’
‘I’m invading, am I? Today’s events affecting your terminology?’
England gave him a dry look and popped open the lid of his cup, ‘You brought me tea?’
‘You like tea.’
‘I do.’ England looked suspicious. ‘You never bring me tea.’
‘Hmm.’ France made sure the lid of his own cup of bitterly dark coffee was secure and leant his arms against the railing’s cool metal, ‘Well, your look of disgust will lose its charm if I see it too much.’
‘As long as you breathe I’ll wear it, so you don’t have to worry about it going anywhere.’ England took a tentative sip and turned back out to the water.
Portsmouth harbour spread out around them, deep docks and industrial ships on the murky grey sea. Beyond the harbour and out to the horizon were large, sturdy boats, supporting a large, odd looking white crane that rose impossibly high up into the sky. It looked something like a praying mantis, all arms and disproportionate length.
France ran a hand through his hair to tame it back, and wished that he’d remembered to bring a hairband with him. ‘Finally happening then, is it?’
‘Apparently so.’
‘It’s been talked about for long enough.’
‘They had to invent a way to raise her without damaging her.’
‘I’m still surprised there’s anything of the Mary Rose (1) left to raise. Or damage.’
England made a non-commital noise.
France gently swirled his coffee, trying to cool it. ‘You weren’t on her when she went down were you?’
England shot him a warning look, eyes going to the humans nearby. ‘No. I was moved to another one the day before. A change in gunners, or perhaps one of the captains was unwell; I can’t remember. But I should have been. He blamed me for her loss, though.’
‘Henry?’(2)
‘Hmm.’
‘I would have blamed you too. Poor thing was so heavy in the water, like a round, fat duck.’
England rolled his eyes, ‘You weren’t even there.’
‘I was on the shore.’
‘Exactly. No where near the actual danger.’
‘I’d had enough of fighting you at sea, thank you.’
‘You knew you’d lose, that’s why.’
‘My love, need I remind you whose sunken ship we are waiting to see dragged out of the mud?’
‘Which was sunk from an oversight-‘
‘Your navy’s oversight.’
‘And not from any effort on your part.’
France leant over and kissed England on the cheek, his cool skin growing warm as France stayed close to whisper in his ear, ‘Your misplaced insistence is scaring the children.'
To their left, a small child had wandered away from their family and now stood close enough to likely hear them. He stared up at them, wide-eyed and baffled until his mother clucked for him to come away.
England stepped rather rudely on France’s shoe, ‘If anyone’s scaring them, it’s you.’
They fell into silence, sinking under the general chatter of the people around them and the sound of the waves breaking against the concrete embankment below.
‘When do you leave for the Falklands?’(3) France asked after a while, risking a taste of his coffee. It was disappointingly English, ‘I assume you’re going, now that things have become serious.’
‘As soon as this is done.’
France nodded and nudged him gently with his shoulder. ‘How far you have fallen. Surely your navy isn’t quite so lacking that now they’re forced to recruit your long-fallen flagships.’
England smiled, safely hidden at the corner of France’s eye, ‘Depends on who you ask.’
‘Well, if you ask me-‘
‘I’m not.’
‘You should, you know. I’d give you the truth.’
England laughed, a sharp bark, ‘Why are you really here, Francis.’
France ignored England’s eyes on him and shrugged, ‘Just to watch.’
‘Just to watch. Why?’
‘Why not?’
England snorted, disappointment shown only in the downturn of his mouth, and turned away.
----------------------------
It didn’t happen.
Deteriorating weather, a problem with the crane, some drama between the Mary Rose Trust and the army personnel that were helping them- it didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. What was one more day to her or to them, after so many centuries waiting.
That night, quiet and contemplative in England’s small hotel room, France closed his eyes to the memory of canon fire and felt for England’s familiar hand in the dark.
----------------------------
If England was still curious as to why France had stayed with him to watch the Mary Rose be raised, or why he was there in the first place, he didn’t let it show. He left for the harbour early the next morning, jangling the hotel room keys before France’s bleary eyes and placing them silently on the bedside table. France found him again later in the same spot as the day before, when the sun was actually up and thus made the goings on visible.
It was just as busy as the day before. Boats of all sizes bloomed like algae on the water and the crowds watching on the harbour grew larger every passing hour.
‘I wonder if they’ll find clothes,’ France mused before the worst of the onlookers had arrived. It was overcast and cool, the temperature made bitter by the morning, and France stood chilled next to England who was annoyingly content with it all.
‘I doubt it. Been down there for too long, most of it will have rotted away.’
‘I hope there’s still something caught up there. I like it when they find everyday items in these sorts of things: combs and clothes and such. Little reminders of what things were once like every day.’
‘They won’t find much. Far too old.’
‘It would be nice if they did. I don’t have anything from that far back. Nothing fabric, anyway.’
England watched a seagull pass overhead, screeching loudly, ‘What on earth would you do with it?’
‘Nothing.’ France shrugged, ‘Have them restored and put in a museum, most likely. Using them isn’t the point. Remembering and admiring them is, looking upon examples of who we were and how we lived.’
‘Is that why you’re really here? To steal any potential treasure they find?’
France scoffed. ‘Hardly. Damp and rotten English fabric has no value for me.’
‘Mock it, then.’
‘Far more likely.’
England shook his head and picked at his coat sleeve.
France leant his head on his elbow and watched England’s fingers, remembering fat gold rings with inlaid expensive stones which had once sat there. Smaller hands, a youth’s hands- skin stained black with gunpowder beneath torn lace. England had never been able to keep himself from ruining his clothes. He walked through delicate things like cobwebs, hardly seeing them at all, a magpie-like need for finery without understanding its function.
‘It’s strange to think about us doing that now, isn’t it?’ France mused.
England stopped and looked up, ‘Wearing those sorts of clothes?’
France nodded to the waves, ‘Us warring on the Channel. The Channel of all places. Odd, isn’t it, how that sort of thing feels like strangely like childhood.’
‘This isn’t the Channel, this is-’
‘Oh, stop it, you know that’s not what I meant.’
‘Either way, say the word,’ England’s face was serious but his eyes betrayed him, ‘It’s been far too long without practice in my opinion. You’re too close for comfort these days- quicker boats and planes and all that.’
‘There are talks of a tunnel, you know.’ (4)
‘God.’
‘One road to connect us.’
‘Abysmal.’
‘I can be here within an hour or two.’
France was surprised when all England did was give a short, quick laugh, ‘I suppose I’ll need to change my locks.’
----------------------------
Despite several signs to the contrary, eventually something notable did happen.
A rippling of the water, the line of the crane rising, and then the old wreckage of the Mary Rose slowly emerged to the modern day in her metal coffin. From the docks and the televisions, sixty million people watched the blackened ribs of her cracked belly emerge to a thunderous cheering and the cannon fire of reawakened city defences. The first breath of air she’d felt in nearly five hundred years, the old Tudor wood greeting a new Elizabethan age.
Watching her return on modern concrete embankments, her last living sailor smiled widely to see her. England’s expression softened to something younger and boyish as the old ship became visible, as if greeting an old friend after years apart.
France tried to see it through his eyes, past the dark remains and the sludge to find something beautiful or special. Something which matched the colours and the vibrancy of the period that he remembered, hopeful nostalgia given physical form.
It was a disappointment. Nothing remained of the old ship but fingers of dark wood, skeletal and misshapen. All else was lost: the once tall, straight mast, the billowing sails, and her black shiny cannons over a beautiful crafted wooden hull. She had been beautiful. What was left behind was nothing at all but a lump of something undefinable, impossible to see as a ship at all without being told so.
Yet England was still smiling, relaxed and loose as he took in the crowds and the scene on the water.
France shook his head and dug his cigarettes out of his pocket. ‘You look as if she has returned whole.’
To his regret, now aware that he was being watched, England’s easy openness vanished, face smoothing back under his usual control, ‘Shut up.’
France offered him a cigarette, ‘There is nothing wrong with that. Though I admit that I had hoped there would be more. From what the news had been saying-‘
‘This is more than they ever thought we’d get. And even fifty years ago, this wouldn’t have been possible. Humanity’s come a long way.’
‘Maybe too far.’ France cupped his hand around his lighter to protect it from the wind and held the cigarette in his lips. The smoke filled his lungs, sweet and safe. ‘I hoped to see something I recognised. All this fanfare and money and all you’ve got for your troubles is a few pieces of old wood.’
‘It’s more than I had before.’
‘But aren’t you unhappy with that? Didn’t you hope to find more; for her to be better preserved, at least?’
England thought for a moment, flicking the end of his cigarette with his thumb to scatter the ash in the breeze. ‘No,’ he said eventually, ‘I think no matter what she could have looked like, she wouldn’t live up to how I remember her.’
He paused. Then added, ‘Those ships were once everything. The fastest travel, the most powerful weapons, the only way to get safely off my land with any distance. I think that if she had come back perfectly whole, I would find her more disappointing; I’d only see how jarringly small she is against everything else.’
France considered this. ‘You are right in that this is an odd world she has come back to. Nothing is the same from when she sank, not the look of the shores nor even the language. Technology, ideas, religion-’
‘I’m still here,’ England said. A hint of his soft smile had returned, eyes back on the strange crane and its messy cargo. ‘It’s the same soil. Same air, same skies. That’s essentially what we are, isn’t it. The passing things no one thinks about which change on the surface but remain the same underneath.’
France didn’t reply and England coloured, seemingly only then aware of what he’d said. ‘Besides. Who else would know exactly what’s missing but us. I’d rather think about what’s still there.’
‘There I was, thinking you’d gone sweet.’ France flicked the end of his cigarette into the water below them and hooked one arm through England’s, ‘The Falklands ignored for this; I would never have guessed you’d favour sentimentality over current politics.’
‘I don’t.’
A lie, a lie. England young, his small hands smoothing mud over his old torc, hoping to keep it hidden and safe from harm. He could have instead given it to please Rome: new, hungry invader eager for twists of Celtic gold. A lie, a lie- England at his Plantagenet court, eyes on the windows to the sea and the unknown beyond whilst behind his back his monarchy and way of life tore itself apart, a dirty boy in fine clothes who’d have been just as happy in rags if they’d kept him warm.
A lie, a lie. Arthur after Alfred left, more heartbroken that he should have been for the loss of one colony among many.
France smiled, ‘Of course you don’t.’
They looked out to the boats and the crane in silence, listening to the crowds and the seagulls overhead. The unchanging sounds of millennia, birds and welcoming crowds watching as ships with their sailors returned to them.
Glancing down the seafront, to the people young and old clapping and shouting with the ancient city at their backs, England seemed to read France’s thoughts. He stepped closer, their arms still linked- a solid weight against France’s side. ‘It’s all the same thing, isn’t it. Just dressed differently.’
France thought of all the things he’d had and lost over the years, from delicate gold trinkets to wooden shoes, handmade woollen tunics to the finest silks. Different versions of his long life kept safe and lost somewhere in the soil. Whether they were whole or not didn’t bring the past any closer.
Maybe, merely closure was enough.
‘Yes. I suppose so.’
----------------------------
AN:
A huge thanks to the always wonderful TheDisappointedIdealist12 for kindly beta reading this more times than needed and being my creative sounding board. Thank you for your help, your friendship, and for everything else
Historical Notes:
The Mary Rose was, as touched on in this fic, an English battle ship which sailed from 1511- 1545 and was a key part of several major battles between England and France. She was sunk in July of 1545, theorised due to the reasons listed here- overfull with men and heavy, she keeled over in the water when she was turned to fire guns. Aside from this, the sinking could also have been due to gunports being left open (let all the water in as she turned), the wind hitting the sails at the wrong time, or age making her too heavy. Potentially, it was a combination of several reasons. She sank not far from the port of Portsmouth, in the Battle of the Solent.
She was raised in 1982, when this fic is set.
Learn more about the Mary Rose here! https://maryrose.org/about-the-mary-rose/
King Henry VIII was King of England from 22 April 1509 until his death in 1547. Henry is best known for running through wives like there was no tomorrow in a violent, unstoppable fashion, and spending lots of England’s gold. Much of this gold was stolen from looted monasteries he had decided weren’t very important any more, after he’d turned the Kingdom Protestant from the traditional Catholic just to marry his mistress (whom he later beheaded- yay!). The Mary Rose was said to be his favourite ship, and he tried to have her raised in his lifetime
Falklands War: The Falklands War, a not officially declared war between the United Kingdom and Argentina which lasted 10 weeks. It was fought over the British territory of The Falklands (Islas Malvinas) which lies off the coast of Argentina in 1982. The war spanned April to June, and the Mary Rose was raised in May with the British Army being heavily involved. As both were happening at once, many soldiers involved in the raising had friends or knew those in other units who were at that moment going off to fight. It made things somewhat tense and frustrating, according to some involved (This is the documentary I watched whilst researching this topic, I recommend giving it a watch! It has interviews with some soldiers who comment about this odd situation https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HAJgKunmGdk)
Channel tunnel: The Channel Tunnel, the underground route between the south of England and the north of France connecting Dover to Callais, was only built in 1994- 12 whole years after this fic is set. Arthur has a few years of peace left
I'm so late on this, but thank you to the wonderful @oumaheroes for tagging me! You'll notice that my music is almost all lofi, because that's what I listen to while I write/work. Songs with lyrics usually distract me. My actual tastes, when I'm not working, probably lean more towards alt rock.
rules: shuffle your 'on repeat' playlist & post the first ten tracks, then tag people 🎶
Summer Wind - just johnny
Goodbye to Love - Murmur
It Was Raining - Natsu
Poppies - Whimsical
Something Magical - Dadi Freyr
Dazed and Confused - softhead
more than ever - saamson
You Were Good To Me - Tashi
Cute Sky - Yowshi
Joe Hill - Shou
I will tag @koolkat9 @starfruit-grafitti @maelerie to do if they wish!
For the ship meme, EngBela! (As in England and Belarus).
I'm so sorry!! But for this pairing I'm going to have to go with N/A, I don't know very much about it... 😭
Most of my favourite pairings skew towards having a bit of historical context. For Belarus, I think she has stronger ties to Lithuania, the Baltics, Poland, and other Eastern European countries. Even if they are complicated ties. Perhaps she and England had some interactions when they fought against Napoleon in the 1800's, but... since she was part of the Russian Empire at the time, I don't see her being offered a seat at the table at the Congress of Vienna. Russia would be the one handling those matters, I think.
Yeah, the more I think about this, the more I realise I need to do piles of research. Apologies for not having a better answer. If there's another pairing you'd like me to do, please send it in!!
I'm going to give both of these a C, because I feel like the right author / artist could convince me they would work.
Germano is interesting. I don't know much about it, but I'm open to it, and I wish I had more to say than that. Of course, there's no way I can look at it without comparing it to Gerita (sorry Romano, haha), but I feel like, with Germano, their dynamic could be... more electric. It'd have more twists and turns. That's the mood I'm feeling.
Now. Ameripan. I have lots to say.
America and Japan have historical connections, of course. Before modern times, (like 1603 to 1868) Japan was pretty chill doing his own thing writing poetry, making art, and fighting internal wars, that he really didn't care about connecting with other nations (except Netherlands, and those two definitely had a thing going on, down in Dejima). For the most part, he was kind of a loner. Until it was America who showed up on Japan's doorstep, ending centuries of isolation with like, "Knock knock! It's the outside world! We've got giant gunboats and we wanna buy all your stuff!" So borders opened up, trade expanded, and Japan went outside to touch grass on foreign soil and re-practice this thing called international diplomacy.
His initial impression of America was... probably not great! America is loud and kind of steamrolls his way into getting what he wants. Whereas Japan, while he does have his own opinions and will, he is very composed and soft-spoken. These opposites can sometimes be hard to reconcile in a relationship, platonic or romantic.
I'm not going to go into WW2, because I made a rule that I won't mix headcanons with any heavy historical events unless they are at least 100+ years old. (Just a personal choice, don't think about it too much.)
In modern times, however, they have ample opportunity to connect. Today they are very close allies and frequently influence each other's pop culture. With time, they've come to understand one another, and can tailor their behaviour/expectations accordingly, so that they both are comfortable. Japan knows that America won't stop being loud and exciteable and that's okay. And America gets that Japan needs his space and time to himself. As I said above, although they're very different, I think the right author could make this pairing work.
So yeah that's how I see it. Thanks for asking!! ✨💜
Belgium is a wonderful, bubbly, fun and intelligent woman. A massively underrated character! The headquarters of the EU is in Brussels and that's no accident; she's been through two World Wars and came out the other side more resilient. She adapted! Other traits: she can drink everyone else in Europe under the table, she has a loving + HEALTHY relationship with her family (even if they had rough patches in the past), and she brightens up every pairing that she's a part of. And by the way, HAVE YOU SEEN her baking skills?? NGL, when I was younger, I often dreamed about dating a lady like her... So for me, automatically any pairing with Belgium gets at least a C or higher!
From a dynamic standpoint: I've written both of these pairings in fanfics, and while they turned out super different, some key takeaways were that SpaBelg leans more open, silly, and cute (for me). Whereas EngBelg feels more reserved, but no less deeply loving. These are just the vibes I got when I wrote them.
There's also a historical basis for these ships, and I adore my history classes.
For SpaBelg, I've read other fic authors who took this pair very seriously and explored the history of the Spanish Netherlands. My knowledge is woefully lacking in this area, so I won't embarrass myself by yammering about things I haven't researched.
HOWEVER. I personally HC England and Belgium's relationship beginning in the 1860's, after "The Luxembourg Crisis". This was a diplomatic dispute over the political status of Luxembourg that almost led to war, but was peacefully resolved by the Treaty of London. The UK was happy to host the talks as they feared that the absorption of Luxembourg by another power would weaken its strategic ally on the continent: Belgium. So these two were already on amicable terms by that point! It's also VERY appealing when a potential romantic partner shows they will defend your family. And from a practical sense, this just showed them both that, hey, it's in our best interests to stick together! Alliance... consummated!
Anyways I wish these pairings were more popular. Thank you for letting me rave about them. 💜
A+: OTP
A: I love it
B: It’s really cute
C: Not a bad ship
D: I’m neutral on it
E: I don’t really like it
F: NOTP
N/A: I don’t know the ship well enough
Bring it.
Edit, four mouths later: If you’re playing this game, send the ships to the person whose blog you see it on. It’s great that this game is so popular, but it’s spread to fandoms where I don’t even know the characters, and I’m not playing any longer. Have fun!
A lover's quarrel at the beach, under the bright summer sun.
Warnings: Alcohol, post-WWI thoughts, and France is 100% naked
Grey Seaside
Bordeaux region, France; 14 July 1920
The soft croon of the Atlantic blankets the senses; rolling out and rolling in, the waves strum upon the beach. Seagulls cry out, breaking the ocean's harmony with their noise. England stares, unfocused, at the cross-hatching of his straw hat and the twinkles of sunlight poking through its gaps. It lies gently over his face, and he shuts his eyes, willing himself to doze off, but it’s useless. Even with a bottle of wine warming his bloodstream, the rest of the world is too distracting.
Sand is scratching him in-between the folds of his union suit, picnic quilts are twisting beneath his back, a lumpy towel is pressing against his neck... and oh, yes. He’s baking. The hot summer sun is beating down relentlessly on his skin, roasting him alive like a Christmas goose. Every inch of his body will sting tomorrow, save for those parts hidden under his skimmer hat and undergarments. Whoever decided that sleeveless, short-leg unions were the way to go ought to be sacked.
Somewhere to his right, a glass clinks, followed by some shuffling and the quiet snap of wicker wood. France is probably going for another drink, the sot. The pop of a cork and bubble of liquid confirm England’s suspicions, and he frowns. Why did he agree to this?
Ah, right, Bastille Day.
For a whole week, France pestered and nagged him about this little beach picnic to have as a private celebration. What resulted instead was an excursion of nothing but wine and sex. However, if the past months should offer any evidence, it was quite idiotic of England to assume otherwise.
England pokes the brim of his hat with his fingertips, lifting it to peek at his nemesis-come-lover. Lying on his belly, France is guzzling the prized alcohol. His Adam’s apple bobs with each swallow and his back arches upwards like a cat. Upon draining the cup, he gasps and leans heavily on his free hand, the languid pose emphasising the reddish-gold tan blooming across his bare shoulders and ass.
“Put your clothes back on, at least,” England says.
France pauses, his lazy dark lashes blinking open slowly.
“How can you already be in such a terrible mood?” he sighs. “We are on a private beach.”
“Only because you insisted.”
France raises one of his perfect brows and hums. “So you say.” He brings the cup back to his lips, halts, then glares at it for being empty. He goes for another. “If you are bored, why not go swimming? The ocean is right there.”
“Not likely.”
“Have you still not learned how to swim?”
“I know how to swim,” England lies. “...I just didn’t bring a bathing suit.”
An impish smirk splits France’s lips. “I do not see how that is a problem, when you can go in the nude.”
England gags. “Absolutely not.”
“But you were naked just moments ago, weren’t you?”
“That's entirely different.”
“Free yourself from the chains of modesty and embrace the au naturel lifestyle.”
“Fucking hell.”
“Then, tell me. Why did you not bring your bathing suit?”
“I didn’t pack one for a trip to Paris, funnily enough. And after we suddenly left for your estate in the countryside, I didn’t have a chance to buy one, did I? I had no idea you’d insist on visiting a beach.”
“Again, I did not insist. You came of your own accord.”
“Bollocks.”
France pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mon Dieu, either you can tell me what is upsetting you, or we can argue in circles for the rest of the day. What would you prefer, hmm?”
England glares and they lock eyes with one another. His French opponent is perfectly unimpressed; deadpan on the edge of a blade. So still and sculpted that he could be mistaken for a Renaissance statue, if not for his wine-flushed cheeks and dramatic chest hair. The gaze is one that was perfected in the court of Versailles, which caused many proud courtiers to buckle and spill their deepest secrets.
To England's credit, he is wholly capable of rebuffing that look for days (and has done so, on several past occasions). But perhaps it's the salty ocean air, the refreshing wind that has calmed to a whistling breeze, or the fruity buzz of alcohol. For whatever reason, he relents, tossing his hat away into the nearby clump of marram grass and scowling at the feathery clouds above.
Admittedly, France did pick a nice spot: a beach that lies on the most Western part of his personal sprawling winery. With an expanse of bright sand and rustling grasses, it’s a gorgeous place to frivolously squander a few short hours, or in their case, a few perilously long months.
“You’re aware,” England states flatly, “that we’re shagging as a way of putting off issues back home.”
The pause in the atmosphere is palpable.
“...And?” France eventually asks.
“And we shouldn’t still be here.”
France laughs incredulously; a trill that rises in pitch to match the gulls around them. “Why not? Speak for yourself, Angleterre, but I believe that I deserve an extensive intermission from my government.”
Setting his glass down, he stretches and enters England’s field of vision. Pockmarked skin spans the landscape of his body; fresh shrapnel divots and bullet craters, not yet a decade old, pepper across it. Somehow, by the grace of God, the Germans missed his precious face. “I am going to stay in this exquisite locale for as long as I wish. Then, when at last I’m satisfied, I will return to Paris, but not a moment sooner. Monsieur Deschanel can reign while I’m absent.”
He crawls forward, his manhood dangling carelessly between his legs, and reaches for the wicker basket. After a moment of shuffling, he produces a chunk of Livarot cheese and a small paring knife. England gapes, his mouth watering almost immediately, and he pushes himself up with a start.
“Hang on! You brought food?” he says.
“Of course. I said this was a picnic, no?”
“We’ve had nothing but wine all day! Why didn’t you take it out sooner? What else have you got?”
France slices off a sliver of the creamy cheese and eats it right off the knife. “Mmm. A bit of pain de campagne and some grapes that my vintner decided are not good for making wine. They are probably too sweet.”
“Well, pass the basket here,” England demands.
“...Typically, everyone who attends a piquenique is required to bring at least one dish.”
“No, it’s called a picnic, and we’re on your estate. You’re the host.”
“I think your favourite ‘Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette and Politeness’ says otherwise. You should have brought food to share.”
“The customs of last century no longer apply.” England juts out his open hand. “Give it here.”
France snorts. “Ask politely and I will consider it.”
England glowers.
His lover plops himself cross-legged right in front of the lunch basket and slices yet another piece of cheese. And this one, France eats slowly. His lips part, revealing a glimpse of teeth and tongue that delicately pull the morsel from the silvery blade. Deep indigo eyes goad England, flickering with a fervid intensity that borders on seductive. England’s stomach rumbles and the thrum of his pulse quickens, wavering on what, exactly, he may be hungry for.
It's the food, of course. Just the food.
His muscles and nerves are alert. The basket is barely beyond his reach. He glances at the paring knife and hesitates. Despite his shared tumultuous history with France, his likelihood of being stabbed should be on the lower end these days, given the Entente and recent wartime cooperation. Not to mention the rekindling of a perpetually unnamed, possibly mutual, bone-deep sentimentality, as of late.
...Should be safe enough, then.
He darts for the basket. The knife hits the picnic quilt. A palm comes up to squash England’s nose, and an arm wraps around his torso. Drunkenly fumbling, he stretches his hand out as far as it will go. Fingertips brush the basket’s rough wicker wood. Then blunt force hits his knee, throws his balance, and France wrenches him back. Sand flies as they grapple. Elbows jab into joints and feet scramble for purchase. Until France manages to lock England in an awkward hold.
“I think,” France grunts, “that I am still more accustomed to wine than you are.”
The world wobbles. Tasting sweat, England grits his teeth and twists. But the move is counterproductive, and he finds his head mashed into France’s inner thigh.
“Get off,” he groans.
France chokes out a laugh. “Aren’t you more comfortable in this position?”
A colourful kaleidoscope of profanities launch out of England. His cheek is flattened against France’s pliant skin and he can practically taste the olive oil from earlier; a staple lubricant that the frog always has on hand. The grassy vegetable scent fills his sinuses, swirling through his nostrils and burrowing into the back of his skull. Beneath it, lingers the salty aroma of sex, pungent and merciless as it settles low in his belly. France coos at him. “Why don’t you tell me what is wrong, hmm? If it is something physical, I can help you make it better.”
England does not shiver. Instead, he clamps down on his treacherous libido and wriggles free with a quick twist, straining his core muscles. Away from that maddening odour, he gasps and glares.
“Just tell me when you’re headed back.”
France blinks, raising both of his brows. “I haven’t decided.”
“You honestly have no plans for when you want to return?”
“No, I do not. Do you wish to leave?”
“Did I say that?”
The basket is close. England snatches a thick slice of pain-de-wotsit, shoves the fluffy bread in his mouth, then flops back onto his side of the blanket. A wisp of grey cloud blocks out the sun and England recalls all the wretched things that await him in London: from paperwork on the national debt, to rising unemployment, to an ongoing rebellion. No, he absolutely does not wish to return any time soon. Who in their right mind would?
“Is that what you were worried about?” France tuts, shaking out his wrists. “That our excursion might be ending soon?”
“Worried?” England mutters around a mouthful of crunchy crust. “Why would I–? No. Any half-responsible nation with a taxpaying public should know what day their pornographic sabbatical ends.”
“Tu cherches la petite bête….”
“Ridiculous. Why would I be worried?”
“Then, why did you not even ask?”
“...Just leave it.”
France exhales through his nose and stands. “Very well!”
“Where are you going?”
“You have drained every last drop of my patience, so I am leaving you here to rot.” Wobbling slightly, France stretches both arms to the sky. “I am going to go swimming!”
England sits up. “You can’t go swimming, you’re still sloshed.”
France stumbles, splaying his arms for balance. “My vacation will not be ruined by a petulant Englishman. I am going to enjoy myself and neither you nor a Cabernet Sauvignon will stop me. And keep the basket; you may have as much of my homemade bread as you wish!” He lurches away, keeping his gaze locked on his feet as though each step he takes requires deliberate concentration.
“Oi!”
“Au revoir, Angleterre! I will find a fish, or a scallop, and it will be better company than you.”
With France meandering, he begins to slowly shrink into the distance. His details fade, starting with the stray glimpses of hazel in his blonde curls, and continuing to the moles on his hip bones, the dips in his backside, and the jagged pale scars splitting his tanned skin. He wanders naked across the shimmering sands, alone, and England’s stomach twists. A mouthful of bread sits on his tongue, thick and buttery.
“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters. His conscience worms its way around his neck, weighing down his shoulders and chest as though they were made of wrought iron. What is he to do, though? How is he meant to act when months, not hours or days, but months are squandered in a bizarre, French caricature of Eden. And all that time has been spent… cohabiting. Cohabiting in secret, like a pair of newlyweds that elope in the scandalous climax of a Jane Austen novel.
It was that damn war — the conflict that upended everything. By the time it ended, France had become forlorn, silent, and despondent. England visited him, frequently finding excuses to travel to Paris. He would nag France about his wretched health, and then tidy up the Baroque flat, all under the pretence of: “If you look miserable in front of our peers, then it’s a hassle for me as well.” But there were no pretences when they kissed at France’s bedside and spent the rest of the afternoon under his duvet, nor when England followed him to Bordeaux.
Even now, the surprise on France’s face at the train station is still crystal clear: his coral flushed cheeks framing wide eyes. There was a handkerchief in his hand and tears were staining his lashes; he’d been crying.
Groaning, England presses his hands to his temples. What is he doing? Why would anyone have a fit in his situation? Sipping wine, lazing on a beach, the blue midsummer sky rising over the horizon…. He must be insane. He must be a twat who cannot enjoy any good thing without a heaping dose of self-sabotage.
He swallows the bread, and forces just a smidge of his pride down with it. “Come back here!” England barks. There’s still a frown anchoring his features, but can’t seem to be rid of it. Muttering a curse under his breath, he tries again. “France!”
France is halfway to the ocean when he stops and whips around. His glare is… not deadly. Though his head is tilted low, like a wild ram before charging, and his lips are pressed wire-thin, he’s still significantly less ferocious than he was after Trafalgar. England’s mind races through twelve different options, before choosing pragmatism. “If you swim right now,” he says, “you’ll just drown. The current will pull you out and you’ll be too drunk to know which way the shore is. It’s the Atlantic, not a lake.”
“Oh, how thoughtful,” France mocks, his distant voice ringing above the ocean surf. “Is my English gentleman concerned for me?” Heat rises to England’s face, but France forges ahead before he can consider a response. “I have been drunk before! I know these waters, and unlike some,” he stabs a finger at England, “I know how to swim.”
“That– That doesn’t matter!” England retorts. “You’ll still get tossed about by the waves, and then I’ll have to find a bloody boat, and drag you back here, if you’re not dead. And if you are, you’ll wash ashore someplace a hundred miles down the coast, and frighten the living Christ out of an entire nunnery when you return to life!”
A pause, filled only by the obnoxious squawking of seagulls.
“Why a nunnery?!” France cries.
“...It was the first thing I thought of.” The warmth in England’s cheeks has spread to his ears. He averts his gaze. “Look, just get back here!”
“Non.”
“Wh–!”
“I told you that I am going to swim!”
Nose in the air, France performs an about-face and continues his graceless march towards the water.
Grumbling, England snatches his skimmer hat and staggers to his feet. “Stubborn wine bastard…. Why even bother trying to be reasonable with the French?” He takes off after his stupid companion, jogging and keeping a tight grip of the hat so it won’t blow away in the wind. His feet mash into the ruthless sand, sapping what little speed and balance his drunken limbs can manage.
France glances over his shoulder, and for a half second, they make eye contact. Then, he breaks into a clumsy sprint. England gapes. “Oh, for the love of–!”
He gives chase, his legs pumping in a disjointed rhythm and flinging sand in their wake. His body is listing this way and that. Closing in on France’s blurry form, both arms reach out. Then, he makes contact, right at the shore and his arms snap shut tightly around France’s torso.
The sound that escapes France is akin to that of a startled rooster being tossed across a circus tent by an acrobat. A flurry of French expletives follows and he kicks out his legs in a naked whirlwind. England braces his feet in the wet sand. They struggle and spin, water swirling at their ankles, dangerously teetering in every direction at once.
An elbow smashes into England’s liver, sending a burst of pain through his side. One more strong jerk and his balance is gone. In a spiral of vertigo, the coastline topples over.
His back hits the sea. Warm salt water floods his nostrils. Immediately, he releases his grip on the frog and pushes himself out, gagging. He is drenched. The muggy sand squishes between his toes in a lovely impression of a mediaeval latrine. Cursing, he spits the Atlantic out of his mouth and crawls backwards out of the surf.
France coughs and groans somewhere nearby. And then he’s in England’s lap, aggressively. Soaking wet and heavy, France straddles him and yanks a string of foamy seaweed from his bangs. “What are you doing, Angleterre?”
England snorts, then chokes when the action drags more water into his lungs.
“I am preventing an international incident,” he wheezes, squinting against the salt stinging his tear ducts. “Or maybe I’m stopping you from committing self-murder by drowning, whichever you’d like.”
France gives him a look, his sapphire irises sharpening into little daggers, still capable of reading minds even behind the sluggishness of alcohol. An intrusive thought pops into England’s head: of splashing him with a wad of salty beach muck, however at this point, that action may trigger an armed conflict and they are both trying to cut back. After a moment, France clicks his tongue and seems to make a decision.
“Let me tell you a story,” he starts, shuffling his hips to sit more comfortably in England’s lap. “And then, if you are still being unreasonable, you may spend tonight in the stables. I do not care.”
“...Sorry, what?”
“Pay attention. I remember.… On my last day in Paris before I decided to come to Bordeaux, I received a letter.”
England feels a dull weight settle into every muscle of his body. “Oh, come on.”
“It was on a Sunday, I think. Or was it Monday…? No, it was Sunday. I thought it was strange, because how often does mail arrive on a Sunday?”
“Is this another of your philosophical sermons?”
France flicks England’s forearm. “No, now listen to me.”
“Fine.” England crosses his arms and does his best to ignore the sogginess of his union suit.
“This envelope was pale with sharp corners, as if it was delivered by hand. Also, it was sealed with the Grand Sceau. So, tell me. Can you guess who sent it?” England knits his brows with the utmost patience. The question hangs in the air before France answers it himself. “The letter came from my president… and he was suggesting that I join the army occupying the Rhineland.”
England blinks. “What?”
France nods. “Mmm. Well, it was not truly a suggestion; those things never are. But as soon as I read that letter, I knew I needed time away.”
“The Rhineland?”
“Oui.”
“...Was that why you wanted to leave Paris in such a hurry?”
He, too, recalls that morning, when he awoke in France's flat to the smell of smoke. Jumping out of bed, he ran downstairs only to find that there was a letter burning in the oven. And a moment later, France was pushing past him, with fury and heartbreak on his face as he tossed clothing into his trunk. It was bewildering at the time, and they’d nearly had a row over it, but now like a puzzle, it all clicks together.
“Our politicians will have us back eventually, but there is no need for us to rush. We owe them absolutely nothing.” France’s eyes are nearly vacant, as they were in 1918, when he was a husk devoid of his familiar pride and wit. “In a handful of years, we gave enough blood to turn my lovely farmland, my pastures, into swamps. So, they may wait patiently, while we enjoy life’s simple pleasures.”
England can’t help the response that flies past his lips. “Well, you’ve certainly been doing that.”
A wide smile cracks France’s frozen features and redraws warmth into his being. “Naturally. And perhaps, by the grace of a god I no longer believe in, there is a chance that I can rediscover some of the happiness I lost.”
No words come to England immediately. He turns over this shard of new information in his mind, scrutinising how it slots into the ever-changing mosaic of his companion’s soul.
France raises his arms to rest them on England’s shoulders. “There you go. That is why I am here, and why I will not be leaving anytime soon. Now, how about you, hm?”
“What?”
“Do you have anything to say?” His dangling hands are tracing circles on England’s spine. “An explanation, or perhaps, an admission you would like to make?”
England squints. “...Nothing comes to mind.”
“Are you sure?” France prods, shifting his hips closer, leaning in, water glistening off his skin, in the curve of his smile. “Then, maybe, I will make a suggestion? Is there anything else you are here for… other than a rendezvous?”
England scoffs. Suddenly, France is much too close and his playful grin is bordering on mischievous.
“I ought to toss you back in the ocean.”
France responds by brushing his nose along England’s cheek. “Indulge me.”
The hairs on the back of England’s neck stand at attention. Retreating to the picnic quilts would be an uncomplicated solution, if not for the very naked man straddling his lap and nuzzling his face, his ear, his throat. So, finding his trusted skimmer hat, England lies back, and plops it over his eyes. It’s riddled with droplets of beach muck.
“You've indulged plenty.”
“...You are not going to sleep.”
“I am.”
France lets out a quick, birdlike chirp. “In the wet sand?”
“I slept in the trenches; I can manage this easily.”
“You– You are absurd. No. You are being sincere. You– How?” France releases a series of half-sentences, like a combustion engine failing to start, before breaking down into a fit of hysteric giggles. Something hard presses into England’s chest, likely France’s forehead, and the laughter goes on for far longer than it has any right to, becoming almost melodic as it peters out. Dragging his hands across England’s front, he draws messy shapes in the cotton union suit. “The most stubborn, unfashionable fool in the world….”
“Come off it.”
“You cannot blame me for being curious,” France sings, “Perhaps one day, you will indulge me. Don’t you think that would be nice?” He punctuates the question with his fingertips, peppering pinpricks of warmth over England’s chest.
Because responding only encourages more teasing, more laughter, and more cumbersome fondling, England bites back the urge to say ‘never’. He is rewarded when silence mercifully falls on their conversation, which is not disappointing. It is, in fact, good. He does not need France’s musical glee nor any further exposure.
Their simple back and forth relations throughout history are sufficient, swinging with time’s pendulum and the whims of their people. After centuries of constant presence, familiarity is expected, but too much openness is risky. Pleasure and leisure can be fine, in controlled doses, and far within whatever standardised, unspoken framework they have concocted along the plunging annals of immortality. But, a line has to be drawn. As it is now, they are playing with fire, tiptoeing around the edges of a wide pit filled with something unmarked and… intimidating.
A shift, and suddenly, sunlight pierces England’s eyes. The hat is snatched away. He opens his mouth to complain, but France captures it, swallowing any protests through a pair of firm, ardent lips.
Old instinct snaps at England to catch those lips between his teeth, so he does, nipping hard enough to signal offence, while a newer instinct holds his strength in check. Damp champagne hair dances across his cheekbones, France’s beard scratches his chin; it is dizzying how quickly his focus converges on those sensations, how his breath steadies beneath them, slowly melting both objections and barricades. Already drunk, and a bottle of gin is gushing down his throat.
Slipping a clever tongue inside, France thoroughly explores England’s mouth as if it is a novel experience, as if they have not done this a hundred thousand times. The tang of red wine mingles with the savoury, earthiness of Livarot. Below all of it though, tucked away under the many aromas and elements of France’s being, lies unmistakably a floral incense – some quiet bouquet found along the river Lys.
Eyelids weakening, one of England’s arms hesitates midair, a last ditch effort made by either reasoning or dignity, before it falls between France’s shoulder blades and drags him down, crushing their chests together. The wind is sucked from England’s lungs, his union sticks to his skin and crumples, bound by their bodies.
A pair of knuckles touch his temple, then curl to thumb his jaw; so gentle, it borders on frightening. Gradually, France’s tongue slows. Unhurried and tender, taking his time, as if to extract every inch of pleasure, every grain of want.
Warm water crashes at their feet, and the kiss finally breaks. England sucks in a gasp of air, heart thrumming behind his ribs.
“There is some oil still left,” France murmurs.
A matchstick strikes in England’s belly. He groans, his toes curling.
“Again?”
France’s teeth graze the shell of his ear. “You don’t want to?”
“We’re soaked to the bone.”
“The towels are just there,” France breathes. “We can dry off.”
He pours a river of kisses along England’s skin, anything bare he can reach, and England turns to him, meeting dark, hungry eyes. They promise carnal ecstasy and pain, should things continue to his liking. Like a creature of greed, he licks a hot, wet trail along England’s clavicle and bites his jugular, pressing his tongue to England’s rising pulse. And a thrill of anticipation shoots down the curve of his spine, arching his back.
This is where it always goes. A knot of irritation tangles itself in the back of England’s sex-drunk head at how pathetically easy this is. How his body (and heart) fucking yearns for it. Since arriving at the winery, they’ve gone at it every single day, wrenching their perverse fantasies into the light of dawn. By now, France has become a drug, in his veins more than the alcohol, or the laudanum he abuses when the shell shock tremors won’t cease.
Those talented hands wander everywhere, leaving behind trails of fire. They run through England’s hair, across his ribs, and then those fingers slip through the first two buttons of his union and England’s self-restraint fizzles out. The world is warm and pleasant. What was it that France said earlier? That they could ‘regain some of the happiness they had lost.’
Wrapping a hand behind his lover’s neck, England pulls that sinful mouth impossibly closer. “You’re insatiable.”
He can feel France smiling on his skin, and cannot bring himself to mind at all.
—
For some reason, the picnic quilt feels softer, like lying on a bed of clouds.
Wind dances across the beach, rustling its tall grasses in the silence left behind by the gulls, long since vanished. England relishes the ache in his bones, deeply satiated as he drinks in the raw afterglow and the weight of France’s head on his chest. His quiet breath comes in steady puffs, tickling England’s sternum, and his body is a cool shield from the sun, still balmy as it hints orange and signals the end of the afternoon.
This place is cathartic, and England tries to allow the seaside to permeate him, while it can. He follows the rolling waves in his ears, the salty ocean spray in his lungs. It’s a pleasant escape, maybe even a beautiful one. Such a shame that it will not last.
As in the paraphrased scribblings of Geoffrey Chaucer, all good things must come to an end. Sun-swept beaches, lush vineyards, and France’s laughter will soon evaporate into the suffocating cough that is London’s grey smog. Normality calls, incessantly, with government paperwork and ink-stained sleeves. The only company it offers are the cold walls of Parliament and fluttering phantasms of a war past.
Before his departure, far too long ago, he left his brothers to manage things and when he returns, they will demand answers. If he’s lucky, he’ll get an earful from Scot. Some nonsense about responsibility from a brother who reaps all the benefits of an empire with less than a quarter of the work. However, if England is unlucky, Scot’s tongue-lashing will be far outmatched by the disappointment and distance in Wales’ eyes. One bitter look, and all the hurled verbal abuse becomes devastatingly correct.
An angelic sigh cuts through the fog. “I cannot rest with you like this.” France stirs, glancing up at England, causing his contemplations to crumble.
“What?”
“Your thoughts are too loud.”
England pauses. “I haven’t said anything.”
“You do not need to.” France shifts to face him. His eyes are calm.
In the space of a few heartbeats, England sighs. Words stick to his throat as he tries to say something, anything, and doesn’t. Then, working his jaw, he tries again.
“Nothing’s the matter,” he manages. “I’m simply not looking forward to the wretched tedium when I return home.” It is an understatement, helped along by the alcohol, but it’s the best he can do.
“Then, do not go there yet.” France cups England’s face in both hands. “Why think about this today? We still have time, no? Then, you should stay. Let yourself rest and be present. Not in the past or future, but here, in this moment.”
Rolling out and rolling in, the waves strum upon the beach. France’s golden hair haloes as it catches the sunlight and England, mesmerised, laces his sunburnt fingers within it. His lover’s skin is full and healthy, filling up the once prominent hollows that lingered after the war. Stray patches of stubble sprout from his cheeks; the aftermath of an uneven shave this morning. England devours the view, burning the image into his retinas before it vanishes in smoke, because no peace between them has ever lasted. What will happen when his tryst ends? Which of them will tear up the Entende first? “Stay,” France repeats, softer.
England’s throat is as dry as kindling. The familiar hands framing his face, their texture echoes a millennia of life, and his chest tightens. As if they are reaching across the Channel and back through time, diving under to grasp his soul. He can feel himself – toes scraping the edge of the pit, pebbles tumbling in – on the precipice of a thousand dangerous feelings, bubbling up from his core in a thick slurry. Too much, and he falters, fingertips trembling. Taking France’s warm palm, he presses his lips to it, and maybe the gesture will say whatever he cannot.
A thumb brushes his cheekbone.
“Stop it,” England whispers. “You’re being too bloody emotional.”
The trace of a smile appears on France’s lovely face and he draws closer, eyelids fluttering. “Oh, I am being emotional?”
England breathes his answer on France’s lips. “Yes.”
They lock together in a kiss, another one of the thousands that came before it. An ocean cascade, surging overhead, drowning him in selfish contentment and bottomless indulgence. All concerns and burdens and regrets wash away, leaving only this. Paradise.
It’s everything he needs.
End / Fin
~~~
Author’s Notes
Union vests were typical undergarments popular in the 1920s. Around then, the new “sleeveless, short leg” style was made to allow men to stay cool in the summer.
Monsieur Deschanel served briefly as the President of France from 18 February – 21 September 1920.
There is absolutely no estate in the Bordeaux wine region that is large enough to reach the Atlantic Ocean. I made that up for the story. Please kindly overlook my poor geography.
The etiquette guide’s full title is: ‘The Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette and Manual of Politeness’. It was printed in 1860. The book is still in circulation, and you can find copies of it online.
Pain de campagne is a type of French sourdough bread.
Trafalgar was a naval battle in the Napoleonic wars, with the British on one side, and France and Spain on the other. It was a decisive British victory, with the allies losing 22 warships and the British losing none.
The Rhineland is a loosely defined area in Western Germany which was occupied by Allied forces following WWI. The purpose of this was for security against a renewed German attack, and to serve as a guarantee for war reparations.
Laudanum was a ten percent solution of opium powder in ethanol, and was historically used to treat a variety of medical issues. Today, it is recognised as an addictive substance and is heavily regulated throughout the world.
Top 3 fics of yours that you wish everyone would read—GO! Then remember to pass this on to at least 5 other people ❤️
So Tumblr did not notify me that I got this message and it's been sitting in my inbox for way too long. I'm so sorry, cake! Thank you for sending this to me 💜
I have to put Wingman at the top! On the surface, it's America messing around in a barn, trying to build his own flying machine, and Canada is there to help him along. But I wanted to like... say more than that? And have it be almost a thesis on the relationship between these two brothers. Their dynamic both emotionally and politically. And also I wanted to show how much they care about each other. It's the fic I'm most proud of, so please give it a read if you haven't.
Grey Havens is a post-WWI songfic featuring FrUK, and it gives me good feelings everytime I go back to it. I don't often reread my stuff after it's posted, but that one I'll go back to just for the melancholy song that's tied to it. Discovering music that I'd never have known about through my writing is such a gift. Please, please read this fic, even if you only do it to listen to the beautiful notes of Trois Beaux Oiseaux. I promise it's worthwhile!
My newest fic is Grey Seaside. It's FrUK again, and a sequel to Grey Havens that I've been working on since July. These two old men are my favourite dirt humans, I just love them so much. I had many doubts coming back to writing after having been away for so long. I worried that maybe my skills wouldn't hold up. But writing this story helped me remember that I write for fun.
I know this tag game is a little old, so it's probably already made the rounds amongst all my mutuals. (Again, my bad.) But regardless, thanks again, cake!! 💜✨
your wip titles are so interesting and evocative… what are the genres you’re writing in, what are the vibes?? that way madness lies especially got me like wow that looks fire icl 🤔
Thanks so much for asking, I love talking about my WIPs!! I'll give you a quick summary of each one 💜
"December Rain" is the most-complete fic on the list. It's Singapore/Malaysia set in the 1920s, originally meant for a Historical Hetalia Zine, but I had to pull out for mental health and work-related issues. Now that I'm done Grey Seaside, this one is my #1 priority. I hope I can do it justice!
"That Way Madness Lies" is different from anything else I've written. It's essentially a FrUK overdose nightmare, where one party is frozen to the bed and their partner is the sleep paralysis demon whispering some fucked up shit in their ear. It's an experimental fic that's part horror, part abstract dream, full of creepy imagery, doubt, fear, and introspection. Kinda inspired by a number of complicated feelings I had in college. Not to get too specific, but I was in a very dark place at that point, struggling through art school and jumping in and out of a number of unhealthy relationships. The fic has been half-finished for a long while, because I have to be in a good headspace to write it, but I do WANT to finish it, even though it's very self-indulgent and rooted more in my own experiences than how I view the pairing. (Who knows? By the time it's done, I might change it from FrUK to a different couple altogether... I'll have to wait and see.)
The last one, "Tremor of the Heart" is just an outline. But it centers around Canada after he gets dumped by Netherlands sometime in the 1980's or 90's, and America shows up on his doorstep in Ottawa to try and cheer him up. The title will probably change because the longer I write, the less sad it becomes, haha.
wip tag game🍎rules: reveal the titles of the documents in your wip folder and tag as many people as there are documents. let others ask questions about the ones that interest them and post snippets or explain the contents as you see fit!
Back from the dead and I'm catching up on all my notes, asks, and tag games. Thanks to @oumaheroes and @needcake for tagging me in this so long ago. It's a fun one, so even though it's been ages, imma do it anyway!
December Rain
That Way Madness Lies
Tremor of the Heart
I'm sure plenty of people have already done this game, so I'll leave it be. However, if you feel like you want to do this, please feel free to jump in!
A lover's quarrel at the beach, under the bright summer sun.
Warnings: Alcohol, post-WWI thoughts, and France is 100% naked
Grey Seaside
Bordeaux region, France; 14 July 1920
The soft croon of the Atlantic blankets the senses; rolling out and rolling in, the waves strum upon the beach. Seagulls cry out, breaking the ocean's harmony with their noise. England stares, unfocused, at the cross-hatching of his straw hat and the twinkles of sunlight poking through its gaps. It lies gently over his face, and he shuts his eyes, willing himself to doze off, but it’s useless. Even with a bottle of wine warming his bloodstream, the rest of the world is too distracting.
Sand is scratching him in-between the folds of his union suit, picnic quilts are twisting beneath his back, a lumpy towel is pressing against his neck... and oh, yes. He’s baking. The hot summer sun is beating down relentlessly on his skin, roasting him alive like a Christmas goose. Every inch of his body will sting tomorrow, save for those parts hidden under his skimmer hat and undergarments. Whoever decided that sleeveless, short-leg unions were the way to go ought to be sacked.
Somewhere to his right, a glass clinks, followed by some shuffling and the quiet snap of wicker wood. France is probably going for another drink, the sot. The pop of a cork and bubble of liquid confirm England’s suspicions, and he frowns. Why did he agree to this?
Ah, right, Bastille Day.
For a whole week, France pestered and nagged him about this little beach picnic to have as a private celebration. What resulted instead was an excursion of nothing but wine and sex. However, if the past months should offer any evidence, it was quite idiotic of England to assume otherwise.
England pokes the brim of his hat with his fingertips, lifting it to peek at his nemesis-come-lover. Lying on his belly, France is guzzling the prized alcohol. His Adam’s apple bobs with each swallow and his back arches upwards like a cat. Upon draining the cup, he gasps and leans heavily on his free hand, the languid pose emphasising the reddish-gold tan blooming across his bare shoulders and ass.
“Put your clothes back on, at least,” England says.
France pauses, his lazy dark lashes blinking open slowly.
“How can you already be in such a terrible mood?” he sighs. “We are on a private beach.”
“Only because you insisted.”
France raises one of his perfect brows and hums. “So you say.” He brings the cup back to his lips, halts, then glares at it for being empty. He goes for another. “If you are bored, why not go swimming? The ocean is right there.”
“Not likely.”
“Have you still not learned how to swim?”
“I know how to swim,” England lies. “...I just didn’t bring a bathing suit.”
An impish smirk splits France’s lips. “I do not see how that is a problem, when you can go in the nude.”
England gags. “Absolutely not.”
“But you were naked just moments ago, weren’t you?”
“That's entirely different.”
“Free yourself from the chains of modesty and embrace the au naturel lifestyle.”
“Fucking hell.”
“Then, tell me. Why did you not bring your bathing suit?”
“I didn’t pack one for a trip to Paris, funnily enough. And after we suddenly left for your estate in the countryside, I didn’t have a chance to buy one, did I? I had no idea you’d insist on visiting a beach.”
“Again, I did not insist. You came of your own accord.”
“Bollocks.”
France pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mon Dieu, either you can tell me what is upsetting you, or we can argue in circles for the rest of the day. What would you prefer, hmm?”
England glares and they lock eyes with one another. His French opponent is perfectly unimpressed; deadpan on the edge of a blade. So still and sculpted that he could be mistaken for a Renaissance statue, if not for his wine-flushed cheeks and dramatic chest hair. The gaze is one that was perfected in the court of Versailles, which caused many proud courtiers to buckle and spill their deepest secrets.
To England's credit, he is wholly capable of rebuffing that look for days (and has done so, on several past occasions). But perhaps it's the salty ocean air, the refreshing wind that has calmed to a whistling breeze, or the fruity buzz of alcohol. For whatever reason, he relents, tossing his hat away into the nearby clump of marram grass and scowling at the feathery clouds above.
Admittedly, France did pick a nice spot: a beach that lies on the most Western part of his personal sprawling winery. With an expanse of bright sand and rustling grasses, it’s a gorgeous place to frivolously squander a few short hours, or in their case, a few perilously long months.
“You’re aware,” England states flatly, “that we’re shagging as a way of putting off issues back home.”
The pause in the atmosphere is palpable.
“...And?” France eventually asks.
“And we shouldn’t still be here.”
France laughs incredulously; a trill that rises in pitch to match the gulls around them. “Why not? Speak for yourself, Angleterre, but I believe that I deserve an extensive intermission from my government.”
Setting his glass down, he stretches and enters England’s field of vision. Pockmarked skin spans the landscape of his body; fresh shrapnel divots and bullet craters, not yet a decade old, pepper across it. Somehow, by the grace of God, the Germans missed his precious face. “I am going to stay in this exquisite locale for as long as I wish. Then, when at last I’m satisfied, I will return to Paris, but not a moment sooner. Monsieur Deschanel can reign while I’m absent.”
He crawls forward, his manhood dangling carelessly between his legs, and reaches for the wicker basket. After a moment of shuffling, he produces a chunk of Livarot cheese and a small paring knife. England gapes, his mouth watering almost immediately, and he pushes himself up with a start.
“Hang on! You brought food?” he says.
“Of course. I said this was a picnic, no?”
“We’ve had nothing but wine all day! Why didn’t you take it out sooner? What else have you got?”
France slices off a sliver of the creamy cheese and eats it right off the knife. “Mmm. A bit of pain de campagne and some grapes that my vintner decided are not good for making wine. They are probably too sweet.”
“Well, pass the basket here,” England demands.
“...Typically, everyone who attends a piquenique is required to bring at least one dish.”
“No, it’s called a picnic, and we’re on your estate. You’re the host.”
“I think your favourite ‘Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette and Politeness’ says otherwise. You should have brought food to share.”
“The customs of last century no longer apply.” England juts out his open hand. “Give it here.”
France snorts. “Ask politely and I will consider it.”
England glowers.
His lover plops himself cross-legged right in front of the lunch basket and slices yet another piece of cheese. And this one, France eats slowly. His lips part, revealing a glimpse of teeth and tongue that delicately pull the morsel from the silvery blade. Deep indigo eyes goad England, flickering with a fervid intensity that borders on seductive. England’s stomach rumbles and the thrum of his pulse quickens, wavering on what, exactly, he may be hungry for.
It's the food, of course. Just the food.
His muscles and nerves are alert. The basket is barely beyond his reach. He glances at the paring knife and hesitates. Despite his shared tumultuous history with France, his likelihood of being stabbed should be on the lower end these days, given the Entente and recent wartime cooperation. Not to mention the rekindling of a perpetually unnamed, possibly mutual, bone-deep sentimentality, as of late.
...Should be safe enough, then.
He darts for the basket. The knife hits the picnic quilt. A palm comes up to squash England’s nose, and an arm wraps around his torso. Drunkenly fumbling, he stretches his hand out as far as it will go. Fingertips brush the basket’s rough wicker wood. Then blunt force hits his knee, throws his balance, and France wrenches him back. Sand flies as they grapple. Elbows jab into joints and feet scramble for purchase. Until France manages to lock England in an awkward hold.
“I think,” France grunts, “that I am still more accustomed to wine than you are.”
The world wobbles. Tasting sweat, England grits his teeth and twists. But the move is counterproductive, and he finds his head mashed into France’s inner thigh.
“Get off,” he groans.
France chokes out a laugh. “Aren’t you more comfortable in this position?”
A colourful kaleidoscope of profanities launch out of England. His cheek is flattened against France’s pliant skin and he can practically taste the olive oil from earlier; a staple lubricant that the frog always has on hand. The grassy vegetable scent fills his sinuses, swirling through his nostrils and burrowing into the back of his skull. Beneath it, lingers the salty aroma of sex, pungent and merciless as it settles low in his belly. France coos at him. “Why don’t you tell me what is wrong, hmm? If it is something physical, I can help you make it better.”
England does not shiver. Instead, he clamps down on his treacherous libido and wriggles free with a quick twist, straining his core muscles. Away from that maddening odour, he gasps and glares.
“Just tell me when you’re headed back.”
France blinks, raising both of his brows. “I haven’t decided.”
“You honestly have no plans for when you want to return?”
“No, I do not. Do you wish to leave?”
“Did I say that?”
The basket is close. England snatches a thick slice of pain-de-wotsit, shoves the fluffy bread in his mouth, then flops back onto his side of the blanket. A wisp of grey cloud blocks out the sun and England recalls all the wretched things that await him in London: from paperwork on the national debt, to rising unemployment, to an ongoing rebellion. No, he absolutely does not wish to return any time soon. Who in their right mind would?
“Is that what you were worried about?” France tuts, shaking out his wrists. “That our excursion might be ending soon?”
“Worried?” England mutters around a mouthful of crunchy crust. “Why would I–? No. Any half-responsible nation with a taxpaying public should know what day their pornographic sabbatical ends.”
“Tu cherches la petite bête….”
“Ridiculous. Why would I be worried?”
“Then, why did you not even ask?”
“...Just leave it.”
France exhales through his nose and stands. “Very well!”
“Where are you going?”
“You have drained every last drop of my patience, so I am leaving you here to rot.” Wobbling slightly, France stretches both arms to the sky. “I am going to go swimming!”
England sits up. “You can’t go swimming, you’re still sloshed.”
France stumbles, splaying his arms for balance. “My vacation will not be ruined by a petulant Englishman. I am going to enjoy myself and neither you nor a Cabernet Sauvignon will stop me. And keep the basket; you may have as much of my homemade bread as you wish!” He lurches away, keeping his gaze locked on his feet as though each step he takes requires deliberate concentration.
“Oi!”
“Au revoir, Angleterre! I will find a fish, or a scallop, and it will be better company than you.”
With France meandering, he begins to slowly shrink into the distance. His details fade, starting with the stray glimpses of hazel in his blonde curls, and continuing to the moles on his hip bones, the dips in his backside, and the jagged pale scars splitting his tanned skin. He wanders naked across the shimmering sands, alone, and England’s stomach twists. A mouthful of bread sits on his tongue, thick and buttery.
“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters. His conscience worms its way around his neck, weighing down his shoulders and chest as though they were made of wrought iron. What is he to do, though? How is he meant to act when months, not hours or days, but months are squandered in a bizarre, French caricature of Eden. And all that time has been spent… cohabiting. Cohabiting in secret, like a pair of newlyweds that elope in the scandalous climax of a Jane Austen novel.
It was that damn war — the conflict that upended everything. By the time it ended, France had become forlorn, silent, and despondent. England visited him, frequently finding excuses to travel to Paris. He would nag France about his wretched health, and then tidy up the Baroque flat, all under the pretence of: “If you look miserable in front of our peers, then it’s a hassle for me as well.” But there were no pretences when they kissed at France’s bedside and spent the rest of the afternoon under his duvet, nor when England followed him to Bordeaux.
Even now, the surprise on France’s face at the train station is still crystal clear: his coral flushed cheeks framing wide eyes. There was a handkerchief in his hand and tears were staining his lashes; he’d been crying.
Groaning, England presses his hands to his temples. What is he doing? Why would anyone have a fit in his situation? Sipping wine, lazing on a beach, the blue midsummer sky rising over the horizon…. He must be insane. He must be a twat who cannot enjoy any good thing without a heaping dose of self-sabotage.
He swallows the bread, and forces just a smidge of his pride down with it. “Come back here!” England barks. There’s still a frown anchoring his features, but can’t seem to be rid of it. Muttering a curse under his breath, he tries again. “France!”
France is halfway to the ocean when he stops and whips around. His glare is… not deadly. Though his head is tilted low, like a wild ram before charging, and his lips are pressed wire-thin, he’s still significantly less ferocious than he was after Trafalgar. England’s mind races through twelve different options, before choosing pragmatism. “If you swim right now,” he says, “you’ll just drown. The current will pull you out and you’ll be too drunk to know which way the shore is. It’s the Atlantic, not a lake.”
“Oh, how thoughtful,” France mocks, his distant voice ringing above the ocean surf. “Is my English gentleman concerned for me?” Heat rises to England’s face, but France forges ahead before he can consider a response. “I have been drunk before! I know these waters, and unlike some,” he stabs a finger at England, “I know how to swim.”
“That– That doesn’t matter!” England retorts. “You’ll still get tossed about by the waves, and then I’ll have to find a bloody boat, and drag you back here, if you’re not dead. And if you are, you’ll wash ashore someplace a hundred miles down the coast, and frighten the living Christ out of an entire nunnery when you return to life!”
A pause, filled only by the obnoxious squawking of seagulls.
“Why a nunnery?!” France cries.
“...It was the first thing I thought of.” The warmth in England’s cheeks has spread to his ears. He averts his gaze. “Look, just get back here!”
“Non.”
“Wh–!”
“I told you that I am going to swim!”
Nose in the air, France performs an about-face and continues his graceless march towards the water.
Grumbling, England snatches his skimmer hat and staggers to his feet. “Stubborn wine bastard…. Why even bother trying to be reasonable with the French?” He takes off after his stupid companion, jogging and keeping a tight grip of the hat so it won’t blow away in the wind. His feet mash into the ruthless sand, sapping what little speed and balance his drunken limbs can manage.
France glances over his shoulder, and for a half second, they make eye contact. Then, he breaks into a clumsy sprint. England gapes. “Oh, for the love of–!”
He gives chase, his legs pumping in a disjointed rhythm and flinging sand in their wake. His body is listing this way and that. Closing in on France’s blurry form, both arms reach out. Then, he makes contact, right at the shore and his arms snap shut tightly around France’s torso.
The sound that escapes France is akin to that of a startled rooster being tossed across a circus tent by an acrobat. A flurry of French expletives follows and he kicks out his legs in a naked whirlwind. England braces his feet in the wet sand. They struggle and spin, water swirling at their ankles, dangerously teetering in every direction at once.
An elbow smashes into England’s liver, sending a burst of pain through his side. One more strong jerk and his balance is gone. In a spiral of vertigo, the coastline topples over.
His back hits the sea. Warm salt water floods his nostrils. Immediately, he releases his grip on the frog and pushes himself out, gagging. He is drenched. The muggy sand squishes between his toes in a lovely impression of a mediaeval latrine. Cursing, he spits the Atlantic out of his mouth and crawls backwards out of the surf.
France coughs and groans somewhere nearby. And then he’s in England’s lap, aggressively. Soaking wet and heavy, France straddles him and yanks a string of foamy seaweed from his bangs. “What are you doing, Angleterre?”
England snorts, then chokes when the action drags more water into his lungs.
“I am preventing an international incident,” he wheezes, squinting against the salt stinging his tear ducts. “Or maybe I’m stopping you from committing self-murder by drowning, whichever you’d like.”
France gives him a look, his sapphire irises sharpening into little daggers, still capable of reading minds even behind the sluggishness of alcohol. An intrusive thought pops into England’s head: of splashing him with a wad of salty beach muck, however at this point, that action may trigger an armed conflict and they are both trying to cut back. After a moment, France clicks his tongue and seems to make a decision.
“Let me tell you a story,” he starts, shuffling his hips to sit more comfortably in England’s lap. “And then, if you are still being unreasonable, you may spend tonight in the stables. I do not care.”
“...Sorry, what?”
“Pay attention. I remember.… On my last day in Paris before I decided to come to Bordeaux, I received a letter.”
England feels a dull weight settle into every muscle of his body. “Oh, come on.”
“It was on a Sunday, I think. Or was it Monday…? No, it was Sunday. I thought it was strange, because how often does mail arrive on a Sunday?”
“Is this another of your philosophical sermons?”
France flicks England’s forearm. “No, now listen to me.”
“Fine.” England crosses his arms and does his best to ignore the sogginess of his union suit.
“This envelope was pale with sharp corners, as if it was delivered by hand. Also, it was sealed with the Grand Sceau. So, tell me. Can you guess who sent it?” England knits his brows with the utmost patience. The question hangs in the air before France answers it himself. “The letter came from my president… and he was suggesting that I join the army occupying the Rhineland.”
England blinks. “What?”
France nods. “Mmm. Well, it was not truly a suggestion; those things never are. But as soon as I read that letter, I knew I needed time away.”
“The Rhineland?”
“Oui.”
“...Was that why you wanted to leave Paris in such a hurry?”
He, too, recalls that morning, when he awoke in France's flat to the smell of smoke. Jumping out of bed, he ran downstairs only to find that there was a letter burning in the oven. And a moment later, France was pushing past him, with fury and heartbreak on his face as he tossed clothing into his trunk. It was bewildering at the time, and they’d nearly had a row over it, but now like a puzzle, it all clicks together.
“Our politicians will have us back eventually, but there is no need for us to rush. We owe them absolutely nothing.” France’s eyes are nearly vacant, as they were in 1918, when he was a husk devoid of his familiar pride and wit. “In a handful of years, we gave enough blood to turn my lovely farmland, my pastures, into swamps. So, they may wait patiently, while we enjoy life’s simple pleasures.”
England can’t help the response that flies past his lips. “Well, you’ve certainly been doing that.”
A wide smile cracks France’s frozen features and redraws warmth into his being. “Naturally. And perhaps, by the grace of a god I no longer believe in, there is a chance that I can rediscover some of the happiness I lost.”
No words come to England immediately. He turns over this shard of new information in his mind, scrutinising how it slots into the ever-changing mosaic of his companion’s soul.
France raises his arms to rest them on England’s shoulders. “There you go. That is why I am here, and why I will not be leaving anytime soon. Now, how about you, hm?”
“What?”
“Do you have anything to say?” His dangling hands are tracing circles on England’s spine. “An explanation, or perhaps, an admission you would like to make?”
England squints. “...Nothing comes to mind.”
“Are you sure?” France prods, shifting his hips closer, leaning in, water glistening off his skin, in the curve of his smile. “Then, maybe, I will make a suggestion? Is there anything else you are here for… other than a rendezvous?”
England scoffs. Suddenly, France is much too close and his playful grin is bordering on mischievous.
“I ought to toss you back in the ocean.”
France responds by brushing his nose along England’s cheek. “Indulge me.”
The hairs on the back of England’s neck stand at attention. Retreating to the picnic quilts would be an uncomplicated solution, if not for the very naked man straddling his lap and nuzzling his face, his ear, his throat. So, finding his trusted skimmer hat, England lies back, and plops it over his eyes. It’s riddled with droplets of beach muck.
“You've indulged plenty.”
“...You are not going to sleep.”
“I am.”
France lets out a quick, birdlike chirp. “In the wet sand?”
“I slept in the trenches; I can manage this easily.”
“You– You are absurd. No. You are being sincere. You– How?” France releases a series of half-sentences, like a combustion engine failing to start, before breaking down into a fit of hysteric giggles. Something hard presses into England’s chest, likely France’s forehead, and the laughter goes on for far longer than it has any right to, becoming almost melodic as it peters out. Dragging his hands across England’s front, he draws messy shapes in the cotton union suit. “The most stubborn, unfashionable fool in the world….”
“Come off it.”
“You cannot blame me for being curious,” France sings, “Perhaps one day, you will indulge me. Don’t you think that would be nice?” He punctuates the question with his fingertips, peppering pinpricks of warmth over England’s chest.
Because responding only encourages more teasing, more laughter, and more cumbersome fondling, England bites back the urge to say ‘never’. He is rewarded when silence mercifully falls on their conversation, which is not disappointing. It is, in fact, good. He does not need France’s musical glee nor any further exposure.
Their simple back and forth relations throughout history are sufficient, swinging with time’s pendulum and the whims of their people. After centuries of constant presence, familiarity is expected, but too much openness is risky. Pleasure and leisure can be fine, in controlled doses, and far within whatever standardised, unspoken framework they have concocted along the plunging annals of immortality. But, a line has to be drawn. As it is now, they are playing with fire, tiptoeing around the edges of a wide pit filled with something unmarked and… intimidating.
A shift, and suddenly, sunlight pierces England’s eyes. The hat is snatched away. He opens his mouth to complain, but France captures it, swallowing any protests through a pair of firm, ardent lips.
Old instinct snaps at England to catch those lips between his teeth, so he does, nipping hard enough to signal offence, while a newer instinct holds his strength in check. Damp champagne hair dances across his cheekbones, France’s beard scratches his chin; it is dizzying how quickly his focus converges on those sensations, how his breath steadies beneath them, slowly melting both objections and barricades. Already drunk, and a bottle of gin is gushing down his throat.
Slipping a clever tongue inside, France thoroughly explores England’s mouth as if it is a novel experience, as if they have not done this a hundred thousand times. The tang of red wine mingles with the savoury, earthiness of Livarot. Below all of it though, tucked away under the many aromas and elements of France’s being, lies unmistakably a floral incense – some quiet bouquet found along the river Lys.
Eyelids weakening, one of England’s arms hesitates midair, a last ditch effort made by either reasoning or dignity, before it falls between France’s shoulder blades and drags him down, crushing their chests together. The wind is sucked from England’s lungs, his union sticks to his skin and crumples, bound by their bodies.
A pair of knuckles touch his temple, then curl to thumb his jaw; so gentle, it borders on frightening. Gradually, France’s tongue slows. Unhurried and tender, taking his time, as if to extract every inch of pleasure, every grain of want.
Warm water crashes at their feet, and the kiss finally breaks. England sucks in a gasp of air, heart thrumming behind his ribs.
“There is some oil still left,” France murmurs.
A matchstick strikes in England’s belly. He groans, his toes curling.
“Again?”
France’s teeth graze the shell of his ear. “You don’t want to?”
“We’re soaked to the bone.”
“The towels are just there,” France breathes. “We can dry off.”
He pours a river of kisses along England’s skin, anything bare he can reach, and England turns to him, meeting dark, hungry eyes. They promise carnal ecstasy and pain, should things continue to his liking. Like a creature of greed, he licks a hot, wet trail along England’s clavicle and bites his jugular, pressing his tongue to England’s rising pulse. And a thrill of anticipation shoots down the curve of his spine, arching his back.
This is where it always goes. A knot of irritation tangles itself in the back of England’s sex-drunk head at how pathetically easy this is. How his body (and heart) fucking yearns for it. Since arriving at the winery, they’ve gone at it every single day, wrenching their perverse fantasies into the light of dawn. By now, France has become a drug, in his veins more than the alcohol, or the laudanum he abuses when the shell shock tremors won’t cease.
Those talented hands wander everywhere, leaving behind trails of fire. They run through England’s hair, across his ribs, and then those fingers slip through the first two buttons of his union and England’s self-restraint fizzles out. The world is warm and pleasant. What was it that France said earlier? That they could ‘regain some of the happiness they had lost.’
Wrapping a hand behind his lover’s neck, England pulls that sinful mouth impossibly closer. “You’re insatiable.”
He can feel France smiling on his skin, and cannot bring himself to mind at all.
—
For some reason, the picnic quilt feels softer, like lying on a bed of clouds.
Wind dances across the beach, rustling its tall grasses in the silence left behind by the gulls, long since vanished. England relishes the ache in his bones, deeply satiated as he drinks in the raw afterglow and the weight of France’s head on his chest. His quiet breath comes in steady puffs, tickling England’s sternum, and his body is a cool shield from the sun, still balmy as it hints orange and signals the end of the afternoon.
This place is cathartic, and England tries to allow the seaside to permeate him, while it can. He follows the rolling waves in his ears, the salty ocean spray in his lungs. It’s a pleasant escape, maybe even a beautiful one. Such a shame that it will not last.
As in the paraphrased scribblings of Geoffrey Chaucer, all good things must come to an end. Sun-swept beaches, lush vineyards, and France’s laughter will soon evaporate into the suffocating cough that is London’s grey smog. Normality calls, incessantly, with government paperwork and ink-stained sleeves. The only company it offers are the cold walls of Parliament and fluttering phantasms of a war past.
Before his departure, far too long ago, he left his brothers to manage things and when he returns, they will demand answers. If he’s lucky, he’ll get an earful from Scot. Some nonsense about responsibility from a brother who reaps all the benefits of an empire with less than a quarter of the work. However, if England is unlucky, Scot’s tongue-lashing will be far outmatched by the disappointment and distance in Wales’ eyes. One bitter look, and all the hurled verbal abuse becomes devastatingly correct.
An angelic sigh cuts through the fog. “I cannot rest with you like this.” France stirs, glancing up at England, causing his contemplations to crumble.
“What?”
“Your thoughts are too loud.”
England pauses. “I haven’t said anything.”
“You do not need to.” France shifts to face him. His eyes are calm.
In the space of a few heartbeats, England sighs. Words stick to his throat as he tries to say something, anything, and doesn’t. Then, working his jaw, he tries again.
“Nothing’s the matter,” he manages. “I’m simply not looking forward to the wretched tedium when I return home.” It is an understatement, helped along by the alcohol, but it’s the best he can do.
“Then, do not go there yet.” France cups England’s face in both hands. “Why think about this today? We still have time, no? Then, you should stay. Let yourself rest and be present. Not in the past or future, but here, in this moment.”
Rolling out and rolling in, the waves strum upon the beach. France’s golden hair haloes as it catches the sunlight and England, mesmerised, laces his sunburnt fingers within it. His lover’s skin is full and healthy, filling up the once prominent hollows that lingered after the war. Stray patches of stubble sprout from his cheeks; the aftermath of an uneven shave this morning. England devours the view, burning the image into his retinas before it vanishes in smoke, because no peace between them has ever lasted. What will happen when his tryst ends? Which of them will tear up the Entende first? “Stay,” France repeats, softer.
England’s throat is as dry as kindling. The familiar hands framing his face, their texture echoes a millennia of life, and his chest tightens. As if they are reaching across the Channel and back through time, diving under to grasp his soul. He can feel himself – toes scraping the edge of the pit, pebbles tumbling in – on the precipice of a thousand dangerous feelings, bubbling up from his core in a thick slurry. Too much, and he falters, fingertips trembling. Taking France’s warm palm, he presses his lips to it, and maybe the gesture will say whatever he cannot.
A thumb brushes his cheekbone.
“Stop it,” England whispers. “You’re being too bloody emotional.”
The trace of a smile appears on France’s lovely face and he draws closer, eyelids fluttering. “Oh, I am being emotional?”
England breathes his answer on France’s lips. “Yes.”
They lock together in a kiss, another one of the thousands that came before it. An ocean cascade, surging overhead, drowning him in selfish contentment and bottomless indulgence. All concerns and burdens and regrets wash away, leaving only this. Paradise.
It’s everything he needs.
End / Fin
~~~
Author’s Notes
Union vests were typical undergarments popular in the 1920s. Around then, the new “sleeveless, short leg” style was made to allow men to stay cool in the summer.
Monsieur Deschanel served briefly as the President of France from 18 February – 21 September 1920.
There is absolutely no estate in the Bordeaux wine region that is large enough to reach the Atlantic Ocean. I made that up for the story. Please kindly overlook my poor geography.
The etiquette guide’s full title is: ‘The Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette and Manual of Politeness’. It was printed in 1860. The book is still in circulation, and you can find copies of it online.
Pain de campagne is a type of French sourdough bread.
Trafalgar was a naval battle in the Napoleonic wars, with the British on one side, and France and Spain on the other. It was a decisive British victory, with the allies losing 22 warships and the British losing none.
The Rhineland is a loosely defined area in Western Germany which was occupied by Allied forces following WWI. The purpose of this was for security against a renewed German attack, and to serve as a guarantee for war reparations.
Laudanum was a ten percent solution of opium powder in ethanol, and was historically used to treat a variety of medical issues. Today, it is recognised as an addictive substance and is heavily regulated throughout the world.
