Work Text:
One clumsy movement in the bathtub and England caused a domino effect with his elbow – shampoos, conditioners, body soaps and other unspecified products in fancy flowery bottles came tumbling down from the edge.
He muttered a “Damn, frog, stop trying to be a princess!” and bent down to retrieve the items, putting them haphazardly back, then turned off the shower.
It was a casual meeting that brought him to Paris that day, a formal affair that should have ended with him going back to London in the afternoon. It was a result of a spontaneous shift of his mood, or maybe something in the air that made him take the invitation to the frog’s apartment and, in a few minutes, to his bed. A completely unexpected and insignificant matter.
(although the spare underwear and toothbrush that could be found in his suitcase, thoroughly packed before he left his London flat, begged to differ.)
He dried himself off, fussing over the towel on the drying rack (“England, dear, is it really too much to demand being a bit civil to my bathroom?”) and left the steamy room in one of France’s bathrobes, an obscenely short but pleasantly soft affair in black satin.
France’s flat overlooking the Seine was needlessly expensive, but he was always saying the view from the roof terrace alone was worth it. England would never admit out loud that he agreed; at least now, on an evening in late May, with the sky turning black and the thousands of little lights, like flickering souls of all Parisians. That was where he found his host, standing in his shameless nudity (thank God for the high wooden railing), smoking what according to England’s nose were Gitanes.
He leaned on the railing next to him and stole the cigarette from France’s loosened hand, taking a drag himself.
“Narcissism in it’s purest form, huh?”
“Oh please.” France turned to him and snatched the cigarette back. “As if you wouldn’t buy a ticket for London eye at least once a month. Besides,” he turned back to stare with a proud smile at the scenery, “you can’t deny it’s beautiful.”
“Hm.” England wasn’t that much of a hypocrite to openly contradict such a statement. “Too many tourist traps, at least I wasn’t forced to visit them all.” He too looked back at the shining city below.
“Like that white cathedral you built after the Commune.” he waved his hand in the direction of Montmartre.
The cigarette fell out of France’s hand, luckily at the concrete ground of the terrace. “You mean to say you never saw my Sacré Cœur?” he said, tone as if England just confessed to triple murder.
“No.” England bent down to retrieve the cigarette, but before he reached it, France’s hand snatched his wrist and he was quite forcefully dragged back into the bedroom.
“Get dressed.” France pointed to the heap of clothes left on the plush carpet. “We can still catch the metro if we hurry up.”
-
It was after midnight as they reached the square in front of the basilica. Both were out of breath from the steep steps leading to the top of the hill, irritated England and beaming France, standing side by side and facing the large white building with it’s onion-shaped dome. The square was almost empty, shops and restaurants closed and only a few forgotten tourists still wandered through the cobble-stoned grounds.
Both stayed silent, willing their haggard bodies to calm down after the unexpected exercise, and England realized France was waiting. Clearing his throat, he said: “It’s…better than I expected.”
France’s smile shone brighter than the illuminated travertine. “Isn’t it! I remember exactly the hot summer day in 1875…”
“Who’s that?” England pointed to the two statues guarding the entrance.
“Louis IX.” France’s smile lost something from it’s excitement.
“Uhm….” England’s mind hastily categorized the historical figure somewhere to the Crusades. He walked a bit closer to the second statue. “And the other one?”
But before France could answer, the realization hit him; he knew the person, her strong determined look and her small frame sitting straight in the saddle in spite of the heavy armour.
Her face that haunted him in his dreams when he once again tried to outdrink his brother with his own whiskey.
And as he looked into the bronze face, he realized with a slight shudder that no man of twenty-first century could make it that perfect, that some not-quite human being, someone who still could remember, must have helped with her creation.
He turned around. France was looking at the uneven stones at his feet, a sad smile hidden behind the strands of his hair. “Patron saints of my country.” he said.
England walked closer, fidgeting and uneasy. This was a no-go subject, something that was excluded even from their harshest arguments. But before he could say any awkward words of comfort, France snatched his wrist for the second time that evening – it was significantly colder this time, but the grip was tighter – and pulled him to the side. “I insist you must see…”
England smiled and followed, careful not to stumble in the hasty walk.
-
An hour and half later, England was sure that every single remotely famous person in the whole republic had slept or eaten or took a bath in one of the houses on the small hill. Determined to take revenge and make France stop at all the gravestones in Westminster Abbey the next time they would visit London, he pulled them into a dark narrow alley and refused to continue.
“This is also a quite interesting place, I remember the time when…” France started, but England covered his mouth with his palm, effectively silencing him.
At that moment, a young couple ran into their field of vision, a woman in a pleated skirt and a man with a blond beard. They were kissing while walking and failing to do so, and then giggling like mad as the boy tickled the girl’s sides while she repeated her “Mon cœur“s in her love-struck haze.
England felt France smile behind his palm and he let go of his face, but the couple already noticed them – two creepy men, one scowling, one grinning, watching them in the middle of the night – and made a hasty retreat to one of the side-streets.
“Your citizens are just as shameless as their country.” England commented the scene.
“No you are wrong, my dear. It’s the charm of the place, the genius loci that makes couples drunk with love here.”
They stood for a few moments, unmoving, waiting. Then France crept his hand around England’s waist, and England took one final deep breath, the air of Montmartre in May, and turned around.
To hell with that, he thought as he fell into the offered embrace.