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roesslyngTitle: A Date With Edmond Rostand
Characters/Pairing: France -> Norway
Rating: 13+ for mentions of sex.
Length: 2000 words
Summary: While having a talk with France at a cafe, Norway realizes that he never can tell whether France means even half of what he says.
Other: Written for the Nordipalooza Fest (Original post). Finished.
A Date With Edmond Rostand
France is not unattractive, and that makes it worse.
Norway looks across the table at him and doesn't let any expression slide into his face. He has spent all afternoon with him - a meeting about a matter of relations, nothing pressing, but something both of them had to attend nonetheless, simply for the sake of appearances. Throughout the meeting France had been casting eyes at him across the table as if to send whatever indecent thoughts he might be having directly to him, while the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips suggested that he might, perhaps, condescend to show interest in him, if only because he had nothing better to do. As for Norway, he ignored every bit of it and concentrated instead on the discussion.
What bothered him most was that when France did open his mouth to give input, he showed himself competent, at least with regard to the matter at hand. He spoke with flourish, but also with reason and insight, and if he hadn't rested back in his chair afterward with a wave of his hand indicating that he was quite finished, thank you, and that it was time to mutter in agreement and accept his remarks without any further debate, Norway might have been impressed, though not necessarily pleased.
As it was, all Norway wanted to do was wipe that annoying smirk off of France’s face - preferably with a fist.
Now he once again finds himself at a table across from him, this time in the quiet and - unfortunately - intimate atmosphere of a small corner cafe, and he wonders what on earth possessed him to invite France here.
France's approach had caught Norway completely off guard. When the meeting was adjourned, all involved excused themselves from the premises as quickly as possible, and Norway was just as eager as everyone else was to step out into the fresh winter air and clear his head. He simply assumed that France would have departed, sure to be catching a plane, no doubt having arranged to take the soonest flight out of Oslo, but his assumption proved quite incorrect when he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see none but France himself, offering him what was, perhaps, supposed to be a charming smile.
"My dear Norvège, you wouldn't happen to know where one might obtain passable coffee in this frozen wasteland of yours, would you?"
Wanting to give a good impression, Norway offered to show him the way personally. Now, sitting across from him, he wonders if he should have bothered. "Figured you would've rather get yourself home soon as you could," he says as he stirs the whipped cream into his coffee.
France waves a hand, brushing the remark away as if it is nothing, and as if he doesn't see at all what Norway really means by it. "Oh, it was a simple matter of inconvenient scheduling. I will leave tomorrow."
"That so."
"Yes." There is a smile in France's voice. "I thought I might prevail upon you for some hospitality."
Norway doesn't want to look at him, but then movement catches his eye; France carelessly brushing his long hair out of his face. The gesture draws Norway's eyes up and over to him, and he hates himself for falling for what must be a deliberate bid to get his attention, if not his interest. The way France's smile broadens upon realizing that Norway is looking at him only confirms his suspicions. He knows what France is after. "What're you gettin' at?" he asks as he calmly sets his mug on the table, refusing to look away because he knows very well that this is a challenge, and that to show any sign that he is bothered would be to admit defeat.
"There is no need to play coy. I simply meant that you might show me around your little city."
"Oh?"
"Yes," France says, spreading his hands. "I would be grateful for your guidance, as I rarely find myself in a place so... rustic."
The condescension in France's words hangs so thickly in the air that Norway can nearly taste it. He breaks eye contact and looks away, turning his attention out the window instead, to keep himself from giving his guest a piece of his mind. Were it possible for someone to look down one's nose with one's words, Norway is sure France would be a master at it. He pretends not to notice. They are in public, he reminds himself, and this must be handled delicately. "Might be able to find time for it," he says.
"And after that?"
"What d'you mean, 'after that'?" As soon as he says it, he feels a brush of contact against his foot, lingering there before rubbing and trailing up to his ankle. Norway's eyes dart back to France, who simply offers him a pleasant smile.
"I mean," France says, without removing his foot, "that I do not have anything with which to occupy my time this evening."
Though it couldn't be any clearer what France means by it, Norway doesn't refuse him outright, nor does he draw his foot away, even if he can feel heat creeping up his neck and through his ears and knows he must be blushing. The flirtation is yet another challenge. "Don't have much time on my hands of late," he says, keeping his voice as even and steady as possible. "Hard to say if I'll be able to fit you in for it."
In some ways, it isn't a lie. Norway thinks of the evening walk he had wanted to take, of how he had planned to wander through his streets, watching and listening and absorbing the air and the sounds. He thinks of how he had planned to return to his small flat after that and devour the novels he had decided to bring with him to keep himself occupied while away from his regular residence, the old house far from the city. The stack of papers that he had yet to go through were dull reading. At the last minute he had slipped his battered copy of Cyrano de Bergerac into his overnight bag. Though he could call most of the lines to mind at a thought, reading it would be a sure way to ease himself to sleep.
That was what he had intended to do. Now, with France smiling at him from across the small cafe table, their shoes lightly touching in a gesture that almost anyone who chanced to see it would perceive as intimate, Norway finds himself almost reconsidering.
"Oh, but I do hope you will be able to find the time," France says. His tone is nearly warm enough for Norway to believe it.
"Do you, now." Norway realizes, much to his dismay, that he wants to believe it. Though all day France has been wrapping his fingers around the threads of his patience and pulling at them, spacing out his tugs and jerks with puffed-up self-importance and snide remarks, Norway still wants to believe that France's interest in him might contain some genuine attraction. I hope you will be able to find the time for me. The very thought of it sends another wave of annoyed blush spreading across Norway's face.
There is no doubt that France notices Norway's irritation. For a moment his eyes linger on him, and if it is out of amusement or appreciation, Norway can not tell. "But of course," France says, continuing, reaching out to touch Norway's hand and trail his fingertips lightly over his wrist, "I am sure that it has been quite a while since you have last had anything satisfying, what with the company you keep-"
"What?"
"And neither have you much of an interesting flair yourself-"
"Hold on-"
"-though I suppose you are at least pleasant to look at. So I would be perfectly happy to do you the favour of providing you with some, shall we say, education in this area."
Norway stares at him, and France smiles back. The hand on his wrist is far too warm and far too present, but Norway knows that if he pulled away it would only make France more amused. He thinks of the books on his bedside table, and wonders how it is that a nation known so well for romance could be so terrible at seduction.
It's only because that gabbing fop thinks you'll fall at his feet without any effort on his part, Norway tells himself. The reminder is enough for him to decide that he is finished. "Think I'll pass on that one, thanks," he says as he draws away with a frown and stands to gather his coat.
"Oh? How unfortunate. Another time, perhaps?"
Norway glances at France. He sits there, coffee neglected, his hands folded together, that smile never leaving his lips, and not for the first time that day Norway finds himself looking too closely, lingering too long. He can't deny that France is attractive, and that makes the entire business worse than he would admit. "Reckon I've better things to do than waste my night on some scruffy cockerel," Norway says as he looks away and shrugs on his coat and ignores the gasp of faux shock coming from France's direction.
"My God, what manners! It is no wonder that you never-"
He makes his way toward the door and duly tunes out France's squawking. When he steps outside, he looks up at the sky for a second and breathes deeply of the cold air, trying to clear his head. It does not matter that if France's interest were genuine, things might be different. It isn't the case, Norway tells himself, so this is how it will be. The thought isn't any more reassuring, but it will do. He sighs and takes off down the street and resolves to take his walk and let the cool air wash his irritation away. Later, he tells himself, he will re-read Cyrano, and that will take care of the rest.
Behind him, he hears the tinkling of the bell above the cafe door as it opens, and it does not register to him until he hears a familiar voice.
"Norvège! If you please -"
"I don't," Norway mutters, and keeps walking. He doesn't stop until France catches up to him and grips his shoulder, turning him to face him.
"Hands off."
"If you would -"
"I said, hands off," Norway says, biting the words, but being sure to keep his voice down. With the streets as alive as they are, and people stepping past them, it wouldn't do to draw attention.
Much to Norway's surprise, France lets go, spreading his hands in acquiescence. "I only meant to say that perhaps I was mistaken. I'm sure you're quite... charming, on occasion."
It isn't an apology, but Norway doesn't expect one. Coming from France, it's close enough. He nods, hoping that is the end of it, but France clears his throat and continues.
"I was hoping that perhaps you would still be able to find the time to show me your city."
It must be the game again, Norway thinks as he puts his hands in his pocket to keep the cool air from nipping them. Must be France wrapping his fingers around the frayed bits of what is left of his restraint and waiting to pull at them again. But the smile France gives him this time is pleasant, and as Norway looks at him, he decides that even if it is just another attempt to get into his pants, it's fine. If it is, this time he's going about it the right way.
"Come on, then," Norway says, gesturing down the street with a nod. "This way. 'N make sure you keep up. I ain't about to go lollygaggin' around, understand." Even as he speaks, there is a warm note in his voice.
Perhaps his date with Rostand can wait for another night.
Fin.
Characters/Pairing: France -> Norway
Rating: 13+ for mentions of sex.
Length: 2000 words
Summary: While having a talk with France at a cafe, Norway realizes that he never can tell whether France means even half of what he says.
Other: Written for the Nordipalooza Fest (Original post). Finished.
A Date With Edmond Rostand
France is not unattractive, and that makes it worse.
Norway looks across the table at him and doesn't let any expression slide into his face. He has spent all afternoon with him - a meeting about a matter of relations, nothing pressing, but something both of them had to attend nonetheless, simply for the sake of appearances. Throughout the meeting France had been casting eyes at him across the table as if to send whatever indecent thoughts he might be having directly to him, while the smile that tugged at the corner of his lips suggested that he might, perhaps, condescend to show interest in him, if only because he had nothing better to do. As for Norway, he ignored every bit of it and concentrated instead on the discussion.
What bothered him most was that when France did open his mouth to give input, he showed himself competent, at least with regard to the matter at hand. He spoke with flourish, but also with reason and insight, and if he hadn't rested back in his chair afterward with a wave of his hand indicating that he was quite finished, thank you, and that it was time to mutter in agreement and accept his remarks without any further debate, Norway might have been impressed, though not necessarily pleased.
As it was, all Norway wanted to do was wipe that annoying smirk off of France’s face - preferably with a fist.
Now he once again finds himself at a table across from him, this time in the quiet and - unfortunately - intimate atmosphere of a small corner cafe, and he wonders what on earth possessed him to invite France here.
France's approach had caught Norway completely off guard. When the meeting was adjourned, all involved excused themselves from the premises as quickly as possible, and Norway was just as eager as everyone else was to step out into the fresh winter air and clear his head. He simply assumed that France would have departed, sure to be catching a plane, no doubt having arranged to take the soonest flight out of Oslo, but his assumption proved quite incorrect when he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see none but France himself, offering him what was, perhaps, supposed to be a charming smile.
"My dear Norvège, you wouldn't happen to know where one might obtain passable coffee in this frozen wasteland of yours, would you?"
Wanting to give a good impression, Norway offered to show him the way personally. Now, sitting across from him, he wonders if he should have bothered. "Figured you would've rather get yourself home soon as you could," he says as he stirs the whipped cream into his coffee.
France waves a hand, brushing the remark away as if it is nothing, and as if he doesn't see at all what Norway really means by it. "Oh, it was a simple matter of inconvenient scheduling. I will leave tomorrow."
"That so."
"Yes." There is a smile in France's voice. "I thought I might prevail upon you for some hospitality."
Norway doesn't want to look at him, but then movement catches his eye; France carelessly brushing his long hair out of his face. The gesture draws Norway's eyes up and over to him, and he hates himself for falling for what must be a deliberate bid to get his attention, if not his interest. The way France's smile broadens upon realizing that Norway is looking at him only confirms his suspicions. He knows what France is after. "What're you gettin' at?" he asks as he calmly sets his mug on the table, refusing to look away because he knows very well that this is a challenge, and that to show any sign that he is bothered would be to admit defeat.
"There is no need to play coy. I simply meant that you might show me around your little city."
"Oh?"
"Yes," France says, spreading his hands. "I would be grateful for your guidance, as I rarely find myself in a place so... rustic."
The condescension in France's words hangs so thickly in the air that Norway can nearly taste it. He breaks eye contact and looks away, turning his attention out the window instead, to keep himself from giving his guest a piece of his mind. Were it possible for someone to look down one's nose with one's words, Norway is sure France would be a master at it. He pretends not to notice. They are in public, he reminds himself, and this must be handled delicately. "Might be able to find time for it," he says.
"And after that?"
"What d'you mean, 'after that'?" As soon as he says it, he feels a brush of contact against his foot, lingering there before rubbing and trailing up to his ankle. Norway's eyes dart back to France, who simply offers him a pleasant smile.
"I mean," France says, without removing his foot, "that I do not have anything with which to occupy my time this evening."
Though it couldn't be any clearer what France means by it, Norway doesn't refuse him outright, nor does he draw his foot away, even if he can feel heat creeping up his neck and through his ears and knows he must be blushing. The flirtation is yet another challenge. "Don't have much time on my hands of late," he says, keeping his voice as even and steady as possible. "Hard to say if I'll be able to fit you in for it."
In some ways, it isn't a lie. Norway thinks of the evening walk he had wanted to take, of how he had planned to wander through his streets, watching and listening and absorbing the air and the sounds. He thinks of how he had planned to return to his small flat after that and devour the novels he had decided to bring with him to keep himself occupied while away from his regular residence, the old house far from the city. The stack of papers that he had yet to go through were dull reading. At the last minute he had slipped his battered copy of Cyrano de Bergerac into his overnight bag. Though he could call most of the lines to mind at a thought, reading it would be a sure way to ease himself to sleep.
That was what he had intended to do. Now, with France smiling at him from across the small cafe table, their shoes lightly touching in a gesture that almost anyone who chanced to see it would perceive as intimate, Norway finds himself almost reconsidering.
"Oh, but I do hope you will be able to find the time," France says. His tone is nearly warm enough for Norway to believe it.
"Do you, now." Norway realizes, much to his dismay, that he wants to believe it. Though all day France has been wrapping his fingers around the threads of his patience and pulling at them, spacing out his tugs and jerks with puffed-up self-importance and snide remarks, Norway still wants to believe that France's interest in him might contain some genuine attraction. I hope you will be able to find the time for me. The very thought of it sends another wave of annoyed blush spreading across Norway's face.
There is no doubt that France notices Norway's irritation. For a moment his eyes linger on him, and if it is out of amusement or appreciation, Norway can not tell. "But of course," France says, continuing, reaching out to touch Norway's hand and trail his fingertips lightly over his wrist, "I am sure that it has been quite a while since you have last had anything satisfying, what with the company you keep-"
"What?"
"And neither have you much of an interesting flair yourself-"
"Hold on-"
"-though I suppose you are at least pleasant to look at. So I would be perfectly happy to do you the favour of providing you with some, shall we say, education in this area."
Norway stares at him, and France smiles back. The hand on his wrist is far too warm and far too present, but Norway knows that if he pulled away it would only make France more amused. He thinks of the books on his bedside table, and wonders how it is that a nation known so well for romance could be so terrible at seduction.
It's only because that gabbing fop thinks you'll fall at his feet without any effort on his part, Norway tells himself. The reminder is enough for him to decide that he is finished. "Think I'll pass on that one, thanks," he says as he draws away with a frown and stands to gather his coat.
"Oh? How unfortunate. Another time, perhaps?"
Norway glances at France. He sits there, coffee neglected, his hands folded together, that smile never leaving his lips, and not for the first time that day Norway finds himself looking too closely, lingering too long. He can't deny that France is attractive, and that makes the entire business worse than he would admit. "Reckon I've better things to do than waste my night on some scruffy cockerel," Norway says as he looks away and shrugs on his coat and ignores the gasp of faux shock coming from France's direction.
"My God, what manners! It is no wonder that you never-"
He makes his way toward the door and duly tunes out France's squawking. When he steps outside, he looks up at the sky for a second and breathes deeply of the cold air, trying to clear his head. It does not matter that if France's interest were genuine, things might be different. It isn't the case, Norway tells himself, so this is how it will be. The thought isn't any more reassuring, but it will do. He sighs and takes off down the street and resolves to take his walk and let the cool air wash his irritation away. Later, he tells himself, he will re-read Cyrano, and that will take care of the rest.
Behind him, he hears the tinkling of the bell above the cafe door as it opens, and it does not register to him until he hears a familiar voice.
"Norvège! If you please -"
"I don't," Norway mutters, and keeps walking. He doesn't stop until France catches up to him and grips his shoulder, turning him to face him.
"Hands off."
"If you would -"
"I said, hands off," Norway says, biting the words, but being sure to keep his voice down. With the streets as alive as they are, and people stepping past them, it wouldn't do to draw attention.
Much to Norway's surprise, France lets go, spreading his hands in acquiescence. "I only meant to say that perhaps I was mistaken. I'm sure you're quite... charming, on occasion."
It isn't an apology, but Norway doesn't expect one. Coming from France, it's close enough. He nods, hoping that is the end of it, but France clears his throat and continues.
"I was hoping that perhaps you would still be able to find the time to show me your city."
It must be the game again, Norway thinks as he puts his hands in his pocket to keep the cool air from nipping them. Must be France wrapping his fingers around the frayed bits of what is left of his restraint and waiting to pull at them again. But the smile France gives him this time is pleasant, and as Norway looks at him, he decides that even if it is just another attempt to get into his pants, it's fine. If it is, this time he's going about it the right way.
"Come on, then," Norway says, gesturing down the street with a nod. "This way. 'N make sure you keep up. I ain't about to go lollygaggin' around, understand." Even as he speaks, there is a warm note in his voice.
Perhaps his date with Rostand can wait for another night.
Fin.
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