Countryhumans Oneshots :D

France x Britain (Pt. 1)

[A/N: Sorry for disappearing for a bit, here, have some poorly written historical interpretations. See notes at the end for clarification, and translations. I'm feeling kinda out of it right now, so a better A/N will come later. Enjoy!]  

~France's POV~

This party is a gross show of wealth. It was planned, of course, in celebration of our victory on September 3rd, and no expenses were spared. The largest of the King's ballrooms is polished to a shine, with fresh candles flickering in the diamond and crystal chandelier, reflecting brightly off gowns and silver platters. My most famous chefs and pâtissiers were paid lavishly for the masterpieces arranged on delicate tables throughout the rooms. To top it all off, the queen thought it would be wonderful to make this a masked ball, and the guests are layered in swaths of fabric, cloaked in secrecy with masks commissioned from Venice. 

As much as the waste pains me, there's nothing I can do but enjoy the night. The scent of perfume and powder mingles with fruity champagne and petite pastries, wrapping me up in a festive atmosphere. Bright colours swirl around the dance floor, fans fluttering coyly in my peripheral, and I take a few moments to appreciate the craftsmanship of some dresses. I can recognise the touch of Mme Pagelle, and, of course, Mme Bertin, on the most daring and stylish skirts, often worn by members of Marie's court et la crème de la crème.

I'm about to go pay my compliments to a group of ladies when a servant glides by with flutes of golden champagne. They're from the castle's very own stores, and I can't resist. Relieving the man of a glass, I nod in thanks and slip through the crowd, heading towards the balcony. It's a clear night, and champagne is far more enjoyable under the stars, rather than in a busy room.

Besides, my heart isn't in court intrigue right now. I've found Marie's friends to be ... questionable, and not to my liking at all. Perhaps it's the influence of my people. Perhaps it's their personalities. Perhaps it's the constant reminder of Louis XV's quote: "Après moi, le déluge." Either way, court life has become much more dull and stressful these past few years, despite the drastic increase in parties.

A cool autumn breeze clears my thoughts and lifts my spirits as I open the double doors and step out onto the balcony. It's best not to dwell on these topics during celebrations. Swirling the bubbly liquid around in its glass, I lean carefully on the decorative wrought-iron railing. Flowers are holding on to their late summer blooms, filling the crisp night air with a heady scent, which is kept fresh with a light breeze that stirs up my coattails and rustles the leaves of various vines. The sky is gorgeous this evening, lit up with a bright waxing crescent and sprinkled with sparkling stars. Everything is surprisingly peaceful out here, and I lift my glass to my land in salute.

Tipping my head back, I quickly down the golden liquid with eyes closed blissfully. Citrus lights upon my tongue first, quickly followed with a full, crisp pear that floods my tastebuds. It slips down my throat, chased with white flowers and velvet petals. I can feel the Mediterannean sun on my face: days when I stand on the cliff-face by the summer palace and hold out my arms, buffeted by the wind. That is pure freedom, away from the pressures of this ... interesting century, and all it's demands.

The memory of summer days lifts my mouth into a wistful smile, and I take a bracing breath of fresh air, letting it out in a slow sigh. Life will be okay. And besides: there's always the future to look forward to. The thought reassures me, and tension leaves me with my next gentle exhalation. I crack my eyes just enough to gaze at the shimmering stars, head tilted back so the ground doesn't ruin the perfect celestial image. Stars will always flood the night sky, whether I can see them or not. The thought fills me with content and a vague sense of hopelessness. I brush the latter off. I'm too old to be concerned about inevitable events.

My thoughts are abruptly stopped as the music and light spill out onto the balcony floor, casting everything in a warm glow. I stiffen in response to the sudden overstimulation until the doors are shut softly, returning the night to its quiet state of being. Pulling the corners of my lips up into my court smile, I turn elegantly to greet whoever's wandered out here.

"Bonne soirée, comment ça- oh," my smile drops at the sight of Britain, whose face is concealed beneath a wolf mask, "C'est toi."

"Ah ouais, c'est moi," he walks over to the balcony railing, standing close enough that our shoulders brush. I shy away, "Why the flat tone, mon petit? It's your party, after all," his tone is viciously mocking, barely covered with polite phrasing.

I stiffly set my empty glass on a miniature table hidden by curling vines. It gives me an excuse to edge further away from the island country. Britain's lounging on the railing, imposing and tall, clothed in black and silver and grey. His smile is relaxed, satisfied, even, but his eyes are sharp and calculating. I don't want to be here.

"It is my party, and I was enjoying it just fine until a few moments ago." Please leave. There aren't any stronger nonverbal cues I can use than my freezing tone and lack of eye contact.

Britain glances behind us, towards the double doors separating us from the celebration, ignoring my silent pleas, "Ah yes. Very enjoyable. It looks ... luxurious. I'm sure no expenses were spared."

Fine. Let's take matters into our own hands now, shall we? "Quite right," the tone indicates that I'm doing everything but agreeing, "Now, if you'll excuse me ..." I make a move for the doors, and the request is really more of a statement of fact. My daily quota of English tea-time is filled to the brim, and even a silent dance with Russia is preferable to this.

My plans are cut short as Britain smoothly slips in front of me, "I don't think I'll be doing that just yet," he smirks down at me, almost amused.

I place a hand on my hip, annoyed, "Pardonnez-moi?" The french falls out automatically, and I curse the fact that I used 'vous'. "As much as I'd love to chat, I've got plenty of other things to do. So, again, if you'll please excuse me ..."

Twisting to the side, I brush by Britain stiffly and head towards the doors, towards the safety of the crowd. Before my brain can process what's happening, the world tilts sideways and blurs strangely. Then, I realise that there are hands on my hips, and I'm back where I started.

The island grins sharply, "Again: I don't think I will," he seems to fill up the balcony, trying to intimidate me. There's no way I'll let him know it's nearly working.

"I wasn't actually making a request, now let me go!" I snap, losing patience too quickly. My court training always seems to disappear in his presence, and I couldn't care less at the moment.

Instead of replying, Britain nonchalantly plucks a flower from the nearby vines, twirling it between his gloved fingers. After a few seconds of observing it intently and letting me steep furiously, he tosses the blush pink blossom over the edge of the balcony, "You and I both know who holds the power here," I freeze, not only at the words, but at the strange tone creeping into his voice as he continues, "I think it would greatly benefit you to be a little more agreeable, hm?"

I glare at the suggestion, backing away as the Empire slowly advances. All of a sudden, the air feels too cold, and a shiver dances down my spine. The breeze sifts through my hair, lifting strands by the nape of my neck into the air, occasionally releasing them to brush my neck delicately. I stop a shudder, not wanting to give Britain the satisfaction of seeing my discomfort.

"Speechless?" his tone is mocking, but contains a hint of ... possessiveness? Power? I continue backing up until the railing presses into my lower back, cold even through the layers of my costume, "This is so unlike you France, is the fatigue finally showing through?"

I don't answer, focused on getting out of this situation. This war's not over yet, and I intend to win. Britain keeps inching forward, narrowing my windows of escape, and my heart rate picks up as I prepare for conflict. Casting my gaze around frantically, I finally spot it: a route leading straight to the doors. Perfect.

He takes one step towards me, then two, and I make my move. Boots clicking on the polished stone floor, I dart to the left. I clear Britain in one smooth twist, almost an entire pace past him before his arms are around my waist again and I find myself shoved up against a nearby wall.