Chapter Text
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25th September, 2009; London, England
France has the flair for the dramatic, even his misery is extravagant. England approaches the figure, her feet squelching in the damp grass as she crosses to the terrace where France has sequested himself in a fit of drunken antipathy.
It has been raining all day and although with the encroaching darkness the rain has become a drizzle, persistent enough to drive even the hardiest of drinkers back into the pub.
The pub had seen fit to space tiny fairy lights around the garden and in amongst them France lounges creating a tiny shrine, because God forbid Francis not be the centre of attention every minute of the day.
Next to him an outside heater casts a golden glow on the nation, England can see that his shirt has been wet through so the material has turned into a second skin. England is greatful for the darkness as she feels her cheeks colour slightly at the sight of lean muscle.
"You're going to have to move Frog, it's chucking out time," England says. France deigns to look at her, heavy lidded and swollen eyes.
"Non," it is a simple word but France seems to pack in a thousand years of stubbornness whilst sounding like a spoiler child. He may as well have said 'I don't want to and you can't make me'
"One of the bouncers will be along to throw you out if you don't," England informs him without emphasis. Part of her thinks France is being difficult because he knows she can't let him get tossed out on his ear--they have to play nice for diplomacy's sake.
"I don't care," France says in French, there is a nasal quality about his voice that hints at a cold. "Just leave me here"
England has heard this many times over the course of their long history, when he had been greviously wounded on the battlefield, riddled with disease and that one glorious time England had unseated him when jousting.
England can almost hear the melodramatic music in the background. She rolls her eyes. She's tired and she wants to go to bed.
She reaches down for France's arm to wrap around her shoulders but France resists and instead England finds her own hand trapped between France's. His grip is gentle but secure. He is staring at their entwined fingers.
She desperately tries not to notice how warm and supple France's fingers are against hers.
Something akin to panic eases it's way down England's spine. She's not used to this touch. She doesn't dislike it enough.
France turns her hand over and presses a gentle, gentlemanly kiss to the palm of her hand. The whiskers of his beard tickles the sensitive skin. She can feel the imprint of his lips after he moves away.
"What was that in aid of?" England demands, trying to cover her disquiet.
France is looking at her but his gaze feels penetrating, it is not a look two nations with their history give each other.
England feels as if her clothes are being stripped away, but it's not sexual. Or, England thinks, it's not just sexual.
France looks at her, eye to eye and there is no where for her to hide.
"Why has it never been the right time for us, Angleterre"
There is something in his tone she doesn't like. Something that stirs something in her.
England stiffens her spine, "because I dislike you and find your advances repugnant and you have been in love with my brother for more than half our lives" she can say it in her sleep although only two are true. Maybe.
France's mouth twists into a sneer of distaste. "I have never been in love with Scotland."
Three lies then.
England wants to bite back with, "you're doing a bloody good imitation of it then" but doesn't. Her heart feels heavy, with regret, and anger and guilt.
She remembers fleetingly Scotland's haunted face when she had met him after he had left France's bed. Like he had left part of himself in the sheets with France.
"Scotland might feel differently," England says and hopes she's not betraying her brother. But France has to know. Right?
"If he does, he's a fool," France spits. He sounds more angry and malicious then England has heard in a long time. But he's not sure it's all directed at Scotland. "I have never promised him anything. Not one thing. Not ever. I don't know where you and your brother have got that ridiculous idea from. After everything Pays de Galles said yesterday-"
He cuts himself off. The colour rises to his cheeks and he bites the inside of his cheek.
"What?" England demands when France seems determined to remain silent. "What could Wales have said to make you so upset?"
"I'm not upset" the truculent child is back, "I'm just tired. Have you any idea how exhausting it is? Fighting the same battle for centuries, and all the while knowing that you will likely have to give up some vital part of yourself when it finally does end, whether in victory or defeat?"
England doesn't. She's sure. It's one of the advantages of being selfish. Talking to France like this is dangerous. They are both far too exposed and England feels too much right now.
"If you're tired you should go to bed, I'm sure your hotel room is much more comfortable. Tomorrow is another day"
England says coaxingly. The way she had spoken to her colonies when they had been small.
France laughs but there is no humour in it. He claps sarcastically. "Clever Angleterre," he says. He gathers himself up, "I don't see how they could be worse"