#frukport

Somewhere there is the sound of old pipes working and of old boards settling like old bones, and France lifts herself gracefully into a sitting position without realizing she is awake. She hovers on the threshold of the waking world for just a moment, not quite wanting to dig her way up from her dreams just then, before finally really seeing the room (and oh, what a mess they’ve made). She takes a bit of satisfaction in knowing that because this is England’s house,shewon’t have to clean up the house.

The way the light filters in through the blinds gives the room a sort of muted feel, as though right then they’re cut off from everything else and for some wide yawn of time France simply stays sitting there and watches the gentle rise-fall of England’s chest half-obscured by the sheets draped haphazardly across the bed. Dust motes scatter and disperse when at last she lifts her hand to brush her hair out of her eyes only to let it fall just as it had been, and she slowly begins the process of disentangling herself from Portugal’s leg, England’s arm, the bedsheets. Careful not to make enough noise to wake them, she slips off the bed and into the kitchen, grabbing someone’s t-shirt and throwing it on halfway in.

The kitchen is worse than the bedroom but this is not France’s fault. She rather suspects that England had, one drunk night over the course of the week, tried to cook something and ended up creating a spectacularly messy kitchen. Either that, or his cat had gotten into the…

Ah. The cat.

France sighs, gently nudges the old cranky thing off the counter (she’ll have marks later to show for it). Then, observing the materials with which she is to work, she sets to working her own sort of kitchen sorcery (that is, at least, what England calls it, grumbles as he devours the plates she sets out for him).

Within a few minutes there is a pleasant smell drifting from the kitchen. Something fruit and batter and all loveliness, very French, and France is cutting strawberries (for England), and slicing oranges (Portugal will appreciate it, though he’ll pretend not to), and France thinks that perhaps she might be kind and wake them nicely. (And nicely, for France, isquitenice, all lightest-of-light-kisses and voice sweet like the spring that creeps from the ground and through green grass white with snow. But this is not the sweetness meant for them, thinks France.) But the birdsong has started somewhere on the roof above and in the gentle warmth of the kitchen France finds herself slowly slipping back into some safe sleep-silent place, and she lets the knife settle on the cutting board halfway through an orange.

… Portugal wakes to the smell of something burning. England does not, because England is used to it. With the knowing sigh of one who senses something very wrong and is aware he cannot fix it, Portugal pulls himself out of bed (planting a small kiss on England’s temple) and follows the something-burning-smell into the kitchen only to find a certain poor lost soul passed out on the counter. He sighs, once more, and turns off the stove (it’s a miracle there is no fire, but then France is lucky that way). And then she is awake and smiling sheepishly at him and waving “good morning” (“You took your time, but today I shall like you.” You can say a lot with a wave).

“Did I try to make something in my sleep?” England is in the doorway and Portugal feels a slow, pleasant rush of something fluttery and lovesick at the sight of him (and France thinks, “Pathetic,” but she means it in the most affectionate way or she’d be a hypocrite).

France mumbles, sleepily, “You don’t have to eat it,” and Portugal goes to pick up the pan. England gets to it first, though, and bats Portugal’s hand away.