Title: Frou Frou
Day/Theme: 4 . 5 . hands out in the rain
1. a swishing sound, as made by a long silk dress
2. (Clothing & Fashion) elaborate dress or ornamentation, esp worn by women
[from French, of imitative origin]
It was not surprising that France nitpicked away at his culture. There was always a distaste, both subtle and overt for what a life in England had made of him. It was both said and unsaid that France cannot help but think of what could have been had his influence stayed in more than memories and kept traditions of the remaining Frenchmen.
(France assured that if he had stayed, Poutine would not exist.)
He brought Balzac and Proust, Camus and Voltaire with him. He tolerated Austen, or to say, believed that she should have been born French (and that the stories themselves would have been improved for the loss of their British restraint) but would not hear of Dickens being spoken of in his presence.
Today, he brought Proust. Last it had been Nin, and not of her famous erotica, though he could not put it past France to read those out loud to him and laugh while Canada blushed at the content. It had been her lesser known novellas and her far more well known diaries. They had been read in English, which to France was tolerable as she was essentially his author – the Spanish and Cuban influences could easily be brushed aside as they weren't of L'Angleterre.
"Come. Sit," France said. Canada complied. The couch was a gift, if only to make up for that terrible 'accident' where a cigarette fell on his comfy couch that happened to also have been drenched in gasoline and dragged outside. The couch (may it rest in peace) was not only distinctly English, but also quite beat up from the amount of times America had come to stay and dropped greasy things on it. It was navy in color, and managed to mix elegance with actual comfort, and even Canada had to admit he wasn't that irritated by the intrusion, for it did fit very well in the scheme of things.
France leaned back and lets his head rest in Canada's lap. He began to read and the words flow like water, like silk. Canada let his fingers run through France's hair. It reminded him of the language, for indeed France was the language. He had crafted it lovingly over the years, as he was so fond of saying. Unlike English, whether England's or America's version, his language was not as prone to stealing from other languages and calling it their own. (Of course, Canada did not bring up the points where words were borrowed. When it came to French culture and France it was better not to contradict in any way shape or form.)
He loved the sound of France's voice, especially when it was in his native tongue. It reminded him of times long past, of French lullabies taught when he could barely speak. He looked to the window and noticed droplets gathering there, and the rustle of wet leaves.
It'd been raining often that May, thus turning about the old adage about April showers and May flowers on its head. It was a light rain, pattering soft over the pavement on the roof. Canada knew when he would go outside, all the greenery would be happier. Even now, he could feel the cool touch of the rain over them in his own empathetic way. He was the country, after all. He could feel his people, and his wilds if he closed his eyes and focused.
"En Français," France said.
"E-eh? Uh– P-Pluie? Flotte? Pleuvoir?"
France cringed, and inside, so did Canada. He knew the words, but when put on the spot, even by someone he was comfortable around, he'd forget every time.
"Your French is rusty. You need to practice more," France admonished. He closed the book, set it aside, and moved from where he lay to come on a more even level with Canada. "It's been far too long since you had some French influence."
"Montréal isn't enough for you?"
"No," France murmured. "It's never enough."
Canada felt France's fingers, always quite warm, just like his climate slipping under his hoodie.
"This has been tormenting me all day. Did you wear this loose, shapeless thing just to tease me?"
"I wear it because it's comfortable, eh," Canada said. He flushed as he felt the fabric be pushed up, and France's lips touch his skin. If he closed his eyes, he could almost sense the tactile feeling of slowly becoming more French. Montréal and Qubec city would flourish. Québécois, Métis and Acadian would for that span of time flourish. Maybe even his arts and foods would grow finer, and his hair more silky.
"You know....if you come more often, I won't have time to forget. I'm sure it will piss off England too," Canada said.
France chuckled. "And this is why I love you."
"The only reason?"
"One of many."
And then, he did not say or ask anything more – or at the very least, say anything coherent. He closed his eyes and listened to the rain, and the soft sound of his own sighs, his breath rising as he was willingly conquered.
I assume they were reading Collages or The Child Of The Albatross before. Reading Nin's erotica would probably give poor Canada nightmares. (Especially if it was The Hungarian Adventurer or that one with the Catholic schoolboy gangbang. Yeaaah. Reading Delta of Venus has been an adventure, that's for sure.)
The Proust they're reading now is of course, Remembrance of Things Past.