elfoflight | OPEN RP POST

"If you want tea, you are welcome to brew us some. I'm certain you know how," playful little tease. "The loose leaf I keep when Arthur comes around is the far left cupboard from the stove."

Because England could be a priss, but he did love him. In some ways more than others.

Maglor brightens at the thought of tea (that habit predates England and goes right back to his time being forcibly adopted by the formidable hobbit goodwife whose husband ran the Bird and Baby Inn in Michael Delving) and promptly gets up to do so.

"For you, as well?"

He hums happily to see that it is English Breakfast.

Have a much put upon sight, seeing the change at just mentioning tea. But not at all real. France didn't know everything that had happened to his nephew.

"Please."

Damn soft spot for stubborn people.

Maglor smiles back, and Arafinwe might recognise the precise way he sets about making tea is at once very English and also very much older than that, right down to the way he sets out the tea things (hobbits are surprisingly quite picky about such things you see)

"Here, uncle. Thank you for the meal."

After a moment, he does. He hadn't spent as much time with the few hobbits that came over as others had. What he did recognize immediately were the English bits. But when the rest hit... France couldn't help the grin as he watched a moment longer before finishing, setting their plates down.

"Thank you, nephew." And more than just for the tea.

Maglor blinks back at him and ducks his head with a pleased smile.

"I think it is I who should be saying that."

His eyes light to recognise the meal as one of the simpler ones from days lit by Trees instead of sun, from simpler times, when family were not yet at each other's throats.

Aaah, he saw that! France chuckled quietly and waited for Maglor to sit before claiming his own.

And seeing that look just made it all the more worthwhile, softening the grin to a pleased smile. Far simpler a time in their lives.

"You already have. Please, enjoy."

Maglor eats neatly, for all that this is quite possibly the first meal he has had in a while, but quietly too, not the chatter of the child of long ago, or the more somber adult, he eats efficiently, wasting nothing, the beggar who is not certain when he will get more.

Just as France ate, though it was clear in how he ate that it was more that it was rare he made this kind of meal. It sometimes hurt too much to have certain reminders. But with company, specifically Maglor, it was a bittersweet pain and worth it.

He also wasted nothing. For all that he enjoyed wine with food, it didn't feel right in this instance. A more innocent memory, and one he'd cherish. Conversation wasn't needed, and the silence was comfortable.

He was thinking about what song he wanted to hear, and an idea started to form. Maybe... Could he?

"You're starting to get a plotty look on your face uncle." Maglor cleans up his plate and crooks an eyebrow at him.

France blinked, looking up. "Hm?" Then quirked a brow as a smile played with his lips. "Is that a technical term, or did you merely make it up?"

Maglor lifts his chin, and for a moment he resembles his father, right down to arrogant tone and set of his shoulders.

"And what if I did?" Then he ducks his head, slightly abashed to be caught playing so and shrugs shyly

"Arthur's boy uses it. Mm, Sealand? I think his name was."

Edited 2015-03-20 08:15 (UTC)

He couldn't help the cough of a laugh at the blazing resemblance, an old pang of memory followed right behind it. Ah, but he did miss his family. Faults and all.

France grinned at the mention of Sealand, and being England's son. "England would curse if he heard you say that. Sealand is hardly a nation, for all he wishes he were." But Maglor had to know that already, right?

"Mm, I know. But Arthur treats him like a little brother and so..." And so Maglor treats him like a fond grandfather might.

He shrugs shyly, pleased that France found some amusement in his mimicry of his father (once, it was just a game, to copy and to mimic, but now it is a survival skill, and he has seldom chances to use it in play like this now)

If he were a crass nation, he'd have balled his napkin up and tossed it at Maglor. But he wasn't, nor was he a child. Instead, he rolled his eyes at his nephew, even if he was grinning.

"An annoying little brother." Even if he was fond of the boy himself, Sealand did go over the top.

France finished the last bite before standing and walking over to Maglor and simply wrapped his arms around him in another hug. The younger elf needed more hugs.

"Are not all little brothers so?" He retorts and goes stiff again when hugged. (Again and again, and he takes less time to unbend each time).

"I do not remember you wanting to hug so much, uncle"

"It's in the job description," he quipped right back with an unrepentant half grin, eyes dancing.

"You never seemed to need it so much before. And I have missed you." And all his family.

Shyly, arms come up to cling in return.

"I missed you as well." All of them, but the ache became a secret treasure to hold close, a reminder of all he had lost, of the price he was required to pay.

France tightened his arms around Maglor just a little at the return of the hug, and the admission of having been missed. He knew it included so many others, but it was still good to hear at times.

And they both were paying that price, one somewhat more willingly than the other. The ache would never fully fade, he knew. But at times it was more bearable. Eventually he would show Maglor his secret room where he kept more private paintings he'd done of their friends and relatives at various stages of life, as best he could remember them.

Eventually he pulled back and away, half turning to quietly start cleaning up.

Maglor clings, now that he has permission, but he, too, pulls back and without needing to be asked he comes over to help tidy. Princes they may have been but Feanor and Nerdanel raised their sons right - all of them know how to do the basic chores, and not to quibble about helping.

"What would you have me do, Uncle, if I am to stay for a few days?"

Nations topped princes. Just saying. It had been quite a while since France had had servants, and he preferred doing basic things on his own anyway. Some things around a nation's house could only be handled by that nation, anyway. So he cooked. He cleaned. He even did his own damn laundry.

Having his nephew work along side him just had him smile, glad Maglor hadn't lost the manners his parents had brought him up with. Nor was he surprised.

"Keep me company when I am not at meetings. Talk to me about your travels. I want to hear everything!" And there might have been a hint of a laugh with the latter, as he didn't expect to get to hear everything in just a couple days. A little more seriously then, "Walk with me in the evenings. It has been a while since I have had a good walking companion."

And... "And there are children in the park during the day who have not heard your voice. I would ask you to sing to them, so they may appreciate it."

"Everything?" Maglor answers that hint of a laugh with a shy smile of his own. "That is a very wide reaching answer, uncle. I do not think we have that much time, not even if we walk again those days together."

He blinks and ducks his head a little. France would trust him with his children

"I... yes, I can do that."

Those hints of laughter were so very worth every inch of effort. His heart ached for the days that were, before the bloodshed, even if they could never again be reality for this family. It was tainted, regardless of how much repentance and sorrow there was.

France chuckled softly, nodding with agreement. "Perhaps. All the more reason for you to visit."

The smile softened at the clearly touched reaction, and reached out to brush fingertips along Maglor's cheek. "Thank you." Yes. He did trust him with his precious children.

A sly slant of a smile.

"Do not be angry if your little ones come home singing songs of Tirion then. Or with a thirst for the stories of England's Professor Tolkien."

France pouted, though it was hardly real.

"Then they will have learned them right and true. And I will feed them tales of England's professor, in French." What other language would France let his children study? Especially those tales, though he'd snuck a peek to make certain the translations were correct.

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/casually leans on fourth wall

/cackles