TITLE: Après la pluie, le beau temps
AUTHOR/ARTIST: roolley
RECIPIENT: fanfaluche
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Belgium, France, mentioned Netherlands and OC!Wallonia, BelgiumxFrance
RATING: K/G
NOTES: not quite how I'd have liked it to turn out, but well...
SUMMARY: France and Belgium hanging out at Belgium's house, chatting, baking and singing.

France parked his car in front of Belgium’s house, half on the pavement and half off it, turned off the contact, and tried to muster up the courage to walk from the safety of the vehicle to the front door. It was pouring outside; the rain was so thick he could only just make out the branches of the oak tree that stood in Belgium’s front lawn, a somber mass of leaves against an even darker sky. Not that the weather in Paris had been much better – the parade on the 14^th had turned out to be a disaster.

Sighing, he briefly leant his forehead against his steering wheel and then reached into the back seat for his coat and umbrella.

A short struggle with buckles and seatbelts ensued, and then he had slammed the car door behind him and was hurrying towards the hazy shape of the pavilion.

--

He was, as usual, late, but Belgium had counted on that; even as a young nation, he had never had the utmost respect for punctuality, and he was only getting worse with age – and as she was not the type to keep fighting a losing battle just for the sake of it, she contented herself with telling him to be there by one when she really meant two.

It was, however, two thirty, as the old clock ticking away in a corner of the kitchen informed her, and she was starting to wonder if he had been kept in Paris by an emergency. Or maybe he had taken one look at the weather, and decided to cancel their afternoon? It would not be unlike him, after all.

She flicked her wrist a bit harder than necessary at that thought and the bowl she was holding skidded a few centimeters to the left, coming to a halt perilously close to the kitchen sink, and she was considering it dispassionately – maybe she shouldn’t have added so much milk? – when the doorbell rang.

Typical. It was as if he’d sensed she was thinking about him. She pulled her hair out of its ponytail, wrenched her apron off, and headed towards the entry hallway.

France swept in as soon as she had opened the front door, closing his umbrella in a cascade of rainwater, and greeted her by ushering her with wild gestures of his hands –

“The door, the door, what are you thinking!” he yelped in quite an undignified manner.

“Yes, yes,” she answered amusedly, and watched him flail on the spot. His fashionable overcoat seemed completely soaked through; his shoes were awash; his hair frizzing wildly at the temples – he cut, in short, a rather pathetic figure, for someone who prided himself on the distinction of his appearance. She wished she could take a picture, for posterity.

“I’m sure this is very funny,” France snapped, correctly interpreting her stare, once she had complied and closed the offending door.

“It is,” she assured him, and he gave a fake, sarcastic laugh which prompted a true one from her in return. “Oh, France, I’d give you a hug, but as you see –“

They contented themselves with kissing each other once on each cheek, Belgium unable to stop giggling as she attempted to avoid any contact other than that of their faces, and she felt sure that France had to stop the corner of his lips from turning up. It was, after all, a rather comical situation.

“Well, that’s not all,” he said once they had drawn apart, “But I’m sure you’ll want to avoid me dripping all over your kitchen floor…”

“And over the cooking bowl.”

“The most important thing,” he agreed. “ -- Except for my shoes, they must be ruined and they were terribly expensive. Real Italian leather, sewed in Florence - they were Veneziano’s gift to me last Christmas.”

There was a pout in his voice, sulky and wobbly, and Belgium had to restrain from rolling her eyes.

“I’m sure you have ten other pairs you never wear anyhow. This’ll give you a chance to do exactly that!”

France had the gall to look offended and opened his mouth to answer, but she cut him off before he could launch into a tirade about the difference between shoes of French and Italian cut. “And I won’t apologize for my weather, so don’t even try. Now come on, take those off!”

He grumbled and complained all the way to the buanderie, where she hung up his coat, jacket, shoes and socks so that they would dry – if not under the sun, at least in the heavy warmth of the radiator – and looked him over critically. He was barefoot and shivering slightly, and she gave a snort – Parisians.

“It’s autumn here!” he defended himself, and added something under his breath about terrible weather which she chose to ignore.

“We’re not having the best of summers, true – but it’s better like this than like Russia, isn’t it?”

She saw something slipping over his face right then – frustration or worry, it was hard to tell – and then it was gone, as quickly as it had appeared.

“Oh, don’t talk to me of Russia!”

“Had a fall out?” she asked, biting her lip to hide her smile.

“He’s being rather stupidly proud -- mine is the first help he’s accepted, do you realize? And I can’t even send that much.” He exhaled sharply, a sure sign of irritation. “Well, anyhow.”

There was a full-stop in the way he pronounced the last two words, and she decided not to press the issue – try to question France against his will, and he would just slip in your grasp, turning the conversation around until it was hard to remember what you wanted to ask him in the first place.

“I’ve think I might have some of Netherland’s old stuff somewhere, if you want,” she offered instead, and although he pulled a face which suggested he had just bitten into a very sour lemon, he accepted.

--

“Now, though I do rather appreciate the comfort your chair offers my posterior, I hate to see you hurrying about the kitchen without doing anything,” France remarked once he had sat down at her table.

“Oh, really?” Belgium retorted with a mischievous smile, giving a little jingle of her behind for emphasis. “It’s a pity; I thought you might enjoy the view.”

This caused him to chuckle, and her smile to widen around the finger she was licking - much too sweet, she instantly decreed; France would pronounce it a murder on his tastebuds. He didn’t like pastry that was too sweet.

As if answering her thoughts, he mock-sighed and said, “Alas, you know me too well. But it would have been inconsiderate of me not to ask.”

Flour, now. She measured the precise quantity under France’s watchful gaze, poured it into the mixing bowl almost religiously. Baking was an art of precision; he knew this as well as her.

Once she had done so, she turned to face him, hand on her hip, fully intent on telling him he had better earn his keep if he wanted to get his slice of the cake, but she was taken aback by his smirk. Before she could open her mouth, he reached up to wipe at her cheek with a handkerchief he had produced out of his pocket, seemingly by magic.

Belgium half-heartedly whacked his arm away.

“You had flour on your face,” he explained, blond eyebrow curved questioningly with an elegance which had probably taken centuries to perfect.

Trying hard not to get distracted by the mental image of sixteenth century France preening himself in front of the first glass mirror, Belgium ploughed on.

“You didn’t actually ask me if you could help. I was going to say yes.”

“Good,” he purred, and wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her to him. “So can we have sex?”

He received another whack for that remark, and laughed.

“You know what I meant, you idiot. Go chop the apples.”

She pushed against him playfully, but he held firm, blue gaze planted into hers; earnest and laughing, imploring and mocking all at once.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“A no, of course!” she laughed, and twisted away from his grasp.

France pouted dejectedly and rose from his chair with all the martyred countenance of a whipped dog. Belgium bit her lips to stop her smile; he went to stand face to the opposite counter, gathering the tools he needed at the approximate speed of a funeral march.

“Well – maybe later,” she amended.

She knew from the set of his shoulders that he was smiling, but he didn’t reply.

For a moment they worked in silence: France working the knife with the practiced ease of one who had spent centuries handling them - its blade gleamed in the light as it came down on the apple, sending flashes of silver streaking across the walls at regular intervals –; she stirring the paste that would soon be thick enough for. It was a soothing pastime, baking, because it was repetitive enough not to demand much thought, and yet had enough of variations on the original theme that it never became boring. Slash, slash, went France’s knife as he began peeling the apples, his gestures regular and assured; and to this rhythm he soon added music, a hum, low in his throat.

Her hand faltered, and she turned and saw that he was France was looking at her over his shoulder, the corners of his lips quirking, and something strummed in response -- that certainty, that knowledge that something belonged to her that came with being a nation. Her mixing bowl was quite forgotten; she leant back against the counter and watched him watch her.

“I have all his CDs, you know.”

He didn’t seem surprised. He wouldn’t – after all, he probably did too, she thought with some fondness.

“In Dutch, naturally?” he asked, teasing.

“Those that he translated.”

His gaze was so intense she felt she could not look away.

“And you gave some to Lars?”

“Yes.” She scratched her left eyebrow thoughtfully. “I kept those he had given me, though.”

“He gave you –“

“He’d seen me in Brussels, one day. I knew who he was, of course, but I never thought he’d be able to – he didn’t – “ she blinked away thoughts of her sister, swallowed – “Well, anyhow, he came to see me before the song came out, offered me a CD. The Dutch version. He’d recorded it in Dutch, he said, he couldn’t think not to.”

“Of course.”

France’s voice was quiet, almost apologetic, as if he had sensed Wallonia’s name in the offing, and she shook her head at him with a surprised laugh.

“Come on –“ she said, with a gesture of her hand. “‘Mijn Vlakke Land’?”

“Ik speek geen Vlaamse!” he answered, lifting his hands in the air as if surrendering, and his accent was so thick she had to giggle, repeating the sentence in proper Flemish.

France followed her to where the Hi-Fi stood, unobtrusive, in a corner of the kitchen and watched her fiddle around with the buttons - hands floating over her hips, of course, it would not be France if he wasn’t so touchy-feely, she thought with a roll of her eyes.

She pressed ‘play’.

Wanneer de Noordzee koppig breekt aan hoge duinen…

Music poured from the speakers, and the feeling was not unlike being struck full-face by a strong gust of wind. It left her stunned and gasping for air, and France laughing at her - not unkindly, because he was feeling it too; not as strong as her, of course, but this was him, too, somewhere.

“Avec des cathédrales comme unique montagnes,” he said, between a song and a whisper – of course, that was the line he had chosen, she thought, the pervert!

She whirled in his arms, catching his left hand in hers - wanneer de lage lucht er grijs als leisteen is – he pulled at her hand and she fell against his chest with a cry and a shout of laughter and they sang together the last few words, tasting them, weighing them on their tongues; it was as if something was blossoming in Belgium’s chest, a bubble of joy pressing right above her heart.

“Oh, France,” she breathed, and he merely nodded, letting his forehead fall on the crook of her shoulders.

“He spoke well of you,” he agreed. “Of us. I always think the part about the cathedrals bears a particular resemblance –“

“Oh, France,” she repeated, this time more in exasperation than anything. “You know how to ruin a mood.”

“You are insensitive to my charms.”

“I’m immune to them; you’ve used them too often on me.” He gave a little jerk of his shoulders to signify his regret, and Belgium leant forwards, startled and horrified – “Don’t do that!”

He repeated the gesture, surprised, and she yelled and guffawed at the same time – “France!”

“Quoi?” he asked, nonplussed at her sudden hilarity.

She stood face to him, imitated his gesture, and understanding slowly spread over his features. With a disbelieving “mon Dieu”, he let his face fall into his cupped hands, and she burst out into peals of laughter.

“It’s not funny,” he snapped from behind his fingers. “I didn’t know I was doing it, I should be considered a victim –“

“Of your boss’s mannerism? Come, France –“ a thought struck her, and she whispered conspiratorially, “Have you tried embracing Germany yet, like he does – now that’s something I’d pay to see!”

“Stop, stop, n’en jette plus!” he cried, and hid his face deeper.

There was an empty moment as she vaguely tried to pat consolingly at his shoulder, only to make him flinch as if he were carrying a terrible burden.

“I know you don’t like him much,” she ventured at last, holding her laughter back with her teeth, before continuing in what she hoped was a bracing tone, “But come on, you’re not going to waste a perfectly good afternoon when you’re on holidays away from Paris.”

“Holidays usually entail sun, in my book,” he sniped, lifting his head to glare at her, looking in all the world like a sulky child.

His criticism seemed to act as a lucky charm, because as that moment two clouds parted to reveal a corner of milky blue sky, and light spilt across their faces as if to taunt them. Belgium glanced through the window, at the neighbour’s trees bent by the wind, then up at the sky again, and sure enough; it was blowing the rainclouds away, slowly but surely.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she beamed back at him. “I predict a lovely afternoon.”

He sniffed, mock-sighed, and she coaxed him with promises of the finished tart, which would, of course, be lovely, being produced by the both of them; to which he retorted that he had taught her to bake anyway, at which point she relented, just to get him to finish peeling the apples.

“You know,” he started as they were arranging the fruit pieces on the tart in concentric circles, “On the subject of bosses –“

“Hmm?”

“Your Prime Minister,” he said with a wide smile, and Belgium cringed.

“I know, I know –“ she began hurriedly, but he cut her off.

“And to think that when my president married his wife, you teased me about it for weeks. Now, I’ve not read the Bible for a long time, you’re probably more learned it than me – but wasn’t there a verse about casting the first stone, and another about seeing the straw in another’s eye but not the – the -“ he flailed with the term, “la poutre in ours?”

“Yes, well… he’s Walloon, not Flemish! And anyway, that was a purely professional situation.”

France hummed in disbelief and seemed ready to retort something, and she filled the silence by shakily readjusting the rows of apples, casting desperately around for another subject.

“It’s bizarre, because I distinctly recalled Wallonia saying that –“

“I think we can go ahead and put the tart in the oven, now,” she said, firmly. “It’s probably at the right temperature by now.”

France fell silent, but there was a smile on his lips that told her he would bring the issue up again, preferably in Netherlands’ hearing, and he would never let her hear the end of it. How hilarious, he would think! His conservative little sister’s Prime Minister being caught – well. She opened the oven door with a vengeance, and glared at France as he handed her the tart.

It was amazing how easily the mere thought of her brother riled her up, really. And by that, she thought with rather more violence than necessary, she meant amazingly annoying. She threw her kitchen gloves down unto the countertop and stalked to the table, where she plunked herself down on one of the chairs.

“You could make the coffee,” she groused at France, and, having probably no wish to designate himself as a victim of what she called her Netherlands-moods, he moved to obey, and had soon filled two cup with the steamy black liquid.

“So,” he announced as he sat down in front of her, and tried to catch her gaze, but she looked away each time, pouting, so he simply leant back in his chair and laughed. “Again, I have to point out that it’s the hospital that makes fun of charity.”

“You don’t say that in English,” she grumbled, but that comment slid off him easily; he had never much cared about the correctness of his idioms.

“Yes, yes – you act like I am unreasonable when I am grumpy when I am, in fact, no worse than you.”

“You don’t have Lars as a brother!” she retorted, but felt the corners of her mouth twitch.

France frowned, obviously surprised. “Well, I’m very thankful for that, but I don’t see why…?”

She sighed, hesitated, feeling, after all, slightly ridiculous, and then decided to summarize her thoughts in a few words, and he restrained himself to commenting that her thoughts moved fast.

“You don’t have him as a brother,” she repeated. He smiled and solemnly swore to her, if it made her mind easier, that he had no intention of telling Netherlands about what had transpired with her Prime Minister, “though I don’t see how I could anyway. I never see him, outside of World Meetings.”

“Lucky you,” she mumbled.

“Though you’d never guess –“ and here he leant forwards above the table – “I met him just last week! I was at the market at Forcalquier, in Provence – a lovely town – and the number of his tourists that were there! It was astounding. And I saw the man himself at a stall, trying to buy tapenade. His accent was simply awful, so I offered to translate for him, but he brushed me off.”

He frowned, obviously offended, and Belgium felt torn between amusement and irritation. It was one of these facts of life that Netherlands and France didn’t like each other much, despite, or maybe because of, their many resemblances and their geographical proximity – or rather, Netherlands found making fun of France very amusing, and France, in turn, found that behavior deeply vexing. Flanders and Wallonia both had given up on them; it was one of the only things they could agree on anymore.

France took a sip of his coffee and shook his head as if trying to express all the wrong in the world. - “Tourists,” he concluded.

“Consider yourself lucky to have any at all!”

He stared at her as if she had suggested England’s eyebrows should set a trend, then stopped, frowned, and relented with nothing but an unintelligible grumble.

“I’d like to have a little more of them sometimes,” she confided almost sheepishly.

“Well – what about Brussels?”

“Oh, excuse me; I’d like a little more tourists for something else than the European Capital.”

There was a pause, France obviously trying to think of something to retort to this. She felt touched that he cared enough about her to try to spare her feelings – but on the other hand, she was also a little disappointed, because France mocking her would have meant he thought her fears unfounded.

At last, he gave a helpless shrug, blowing on his drink.

“Well, I hear I’ve won you a few with my film.”

“Your film,” she repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, you know – Bienvenue chez les Ch’tis.” And, probably taking her silence for incomprehension, which it was, in a way, he added – “You saw it?”

“Well, I did. I could hardly have escaped it – Wallonia dragged me to the cinema with Luxembourg.”

France didn’t even attempt to be subtle about his preening, and Belgium giggled. She had been glad of the film’s success - it brought to light a region that was, in many ways, similar to her own – but as often when it concerned himself, France had gone overboard. A success equal to that of Titanic in the Hexagon! Really.

“I still don’t see what it has to do with me,” she added.

“Well, people started to want to visit the Nord, and then it’s very close to Belgium, or to Flanders, more precisely. The Low Countries.”

Belgium gave a slow nod – she couldn’t help feeling doubtful despite France’s self-assured explanation. Even if he had ‘won her a few tourists’, as he said, it was probably in numbers so low as to be unnoticeable.

They chattered on a little, switching from the European Union and the latest trends in Paris and Brussels and their respective merits, to the forest fires in Russia and the generally autumnal summer they had had so far, and Belgium took advantage of the situation to remark that the sky had cleared up remarkably in the last hours, that the sun was now shining, and the temperatures were – miraculously! – flirting with the 25 degrees Celcius.

The tart was gotten out of the oven, tasted pronounced ‘delicious’ by France – “no doubt thanks to the wonderfully clean cut of the apples,” he added with a smile - and they decided of a common accord to eat on the outdoors table, which of course had to be uncovered first.

Belgium stayed behind to cut the tart into even pieces, and, as she was straightening, looked out of the window. She smiled at the sight of France shaking out the table’s covers, spewing droplets of rainwater unto the already humid grass. His shirt was untucked, sleeves rolled back, and Netherland’s old sandals really were hideous (France had, sniffing, referred to them as ‘tourist outerwear’) but he seemed almost more approachable that way than in his perfectly-tailored suits and shiny Italian shoes – and it warmed her heart to know she was one of the only people he’d ever consent to show himself to in such a state.

“Frankrijk,” she called out fondly as he turned towards the window, and he smiled at her and disappeared from her view in a swish of golden hair.

Her last thought before he took her in his arms and kissed her was that he really did look handsome like that, face tilted in the afternoon light -- whatever his clothes.

--

Whew! Okay, that was longer than I meant it to, and maybe it wasn’t… exactly what you intended with your prompt, but I hope you like it!

NOTES (because I couldn’t resist adding tons of details)

~ Belgium is divided into two (well, in three if you count the German-speaking province, but it’s really a minority): Flanders, to the north-west, and Wallonia, to the south-east. Flanders is mainly Dutch-speaking, Wallonia mostly French-speaking, and Brussels is both, hence the heated debates over whether Brussels would be Flemish or Walloon in the event of a split between the two. Geographically, the two are also very different. Flanders, like the Netherlands and northern France, is very flat (the jokes Hetalia-wise are endless ;D) and consists mostly of open fields, polders, canals, etc. Wallonia is much more hilly and wooded.

~ The situation between Flanders and Wallonia, as you might have surmised, is complicated. Walloon people used to be much more numerous, powerful, and also much richer, than Flemish people (all the important jobs went to Walloon people, etc.) Now the tide has been reversed: Flemish people have the numeric superiority and also most of the industry and trade, Wallonia being a mostly agricultural region, and it’s the turn of the Walloon to be discriminated. If you go to a bar in Flanders and order something in French, you won’t be served; in many workplaces, they’re forced to speak Dutch even though normally the two languages should be used. Also, a majority of people in Flanders is pro-independence, while the overwhelming majority of people in Wallonia want Belgium to stay united.

~ I chose to have Belgium from Hetalia represent Flanders. Headcanon is: Flanders and Wallonia are twin sisters, with Wallonia being a sort of distant cousin to France and Flanders being Netherlands’ sister, as per canon. I imagine the relationship between Flanders and Wallonia to be very strained, and that Flanders and Netherlands wouldn’t get along that well either, being that Netherlands is much more socially liberal than Flanders. Still, it’s a love/hate sort of thing ^^

~ Jacques Brel is a Belgian singer of Flemish origin, although he mainly spoke French (it being at the time the de facto language of Belgium) and all of his songs were written in French (he translated some of them into Dutch, like Le Plat Pays/Mijn Vlakke Land – ‘The Flat Country’ – which is is basically a description of Flanders. The original text in French is simply beautiful, though I can’t judge for the Dutch version!)

~ Forcalquier really exists. Its market does too (I was there on holidays). And the number of Dutch tourists there was simply astounding: the only other nationalities I made out, apart from French, were German and American. Also, Forcalquier is a very beautiful village, like many in Provence, but what makes it out of the common is its rather awesome history, involving – if I remember correctly – refusing to surrender during WWII; I imagine France would have quite an attachment to the place.

~ Bienvenue chez les Ch’tis is a really cool film. Rather overrated, Belgium’s right about that, but it’s still cool, although I image it must be hard to understand and appreciate for non-native Francophones. Which is probably why an American version is in the works.

Follow us:

Applications

COMPANY

PRODUCTS

COMMUNITY

CHOOSE LANGUAGE