Work Text:
“You know, Angleterre, sometimes I doubt you ever grew up. You are still just as childish as you were in the 300s,” France said grandly, examining his nails as he perched on the arm of England’s sofa. “No mature nation would behave like this, I can assure you.”
He glanced over his shoulder to where said nation was curled in the corner of the sofa, nose buried in a book, and sighed dramatically. Trying to negotiate with England when he was in one of these moods was like trying to wade through treacle. How he’d put up with it for two thousand years France would never understand.
“Look, I know that you are upset and I can see why, but that is no reason to give me the cold shoulder, is it? You and I both know this will be detrimental to our relations, so why don’t you just give it up and come over here, hm?” France patted the seat beside him, flashing England his most brilliant smile, the one that charmed all the ladies of Paris, yet the other didn’t even raise his eyes to see it. In fact, he gave no signs that he’d even heard France speak, lips parted softly as he followed the words on the page. It was infuriating.
“Mon Dieu, do you even realise I’m here?”
The usual reply would have been along the lines of ‘Of course, how could I possibly miss your overbearing scent and whiny accent when it’s thrust in my face like this?’, yet the only answer he received was silence and the knowledge that his inner voice was taking on a disgustingly English-sounding accent. England reached out for his tea on the coffee table, taking a sip and setting it back down, the sound of the cup on wood the only noise in the room. France watched, exasperated, before he threw his hands up in the air.
“Non, I will not take this anymore!” he growled, rising from his seat and marching over to England, his shadow falling across the pages of the book. “You will listen to me, Angleterre.” He scanned the room, searching for something that would pry England away from his fantasy world, eyes finally landing on the cup of tea resting on the table. Lips curled into a satisfied smirk, he seized the cup, lukewarm liquid sloshing over the rim onto his fingers, and held it aloft triumphantly, out of England’s reach.
“Hah! How do you like that, hmm?”
England turned the page of his book and France’s smirk slipped from his lips.
“T’es incroyable,” he muttered under his breath, and for the briefest moment he thought he saw England smile. Then it was gone, and the other was reaching for his cup on the table, hand patting around blindly when it wasn’t where he was pretending that he expected it to be. France narrowed his eyes. “I have moved it. You see here? The cup in my hand?”
Mumbling to himself, England put a bookmark in place and reluctantly got up, back clicking as he stood and made his way to the kitchen. Within a few moments France could hear the sound of the tap running and the kettle being switched on, England banging cupboards open and closed in search of a clean cup.
“This is not funny,” France groaned, staring straight ahead at a painting hung on the wall. He’d painted it himself some time within the past two centuries, and trying to remember the afternoon brought back the feeling of the sun on his skin, the taste of English strawberries and the fragrant smell of England’s admittedly gorgeous garden. “This is not funny,” he repeated, louder this time, and slammed the cup back down on the table, not caring if it left a dent in the wood.
“Angleterre, you are the stupidest nation I have ever known,” he spat, knowing that England would be able to hear him even over the roaring of the water in the kettle. He stalked into the hallway and pulled his coat off the hook. “Call me once you’ve overcome this pathetic silliness and feel like behaving like an adult again. Fils de pute.”
The door slammed behind him.
***
“You have one new message. To hear your messages, press one. To delete-Message received yesterday at six thirty-eight pm. ‘HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH-‘ Message deleted. You have no new messages.”
***
The one thing France absolutely would not do was say ‘sorry’. Not in any language, nor any tone of voice, not even if England were to get on his knees and beg – although in the unlikely event of that happening there might have been a brief hesitation. Apologising would be treason, turning his back on the brave men of his country who had fought against les rosbifs for generations.
In fact, he thought, stewing over his morning espresso, England should be the one apologising to him considering the beating he’d received. The other man had nothing to complain about, France was sure of it, and the only reason he was making such a fuss was because he was manipulative and emotionally broken. Anybody else would have handled the situation with decorum and decency, virtues England claimed to display, in abundance even, but did he? No, he most certainly did not. All he ever did was pout and whine and grumble, and then grumble some more while complaining about France’s own pouting and whining and grumbling – which, he hastened to add, did not exist and was merely fodder for England to keep pretending he wasn’t desperately attracted to him.
Therefore, France finally concluded that he really was the better nation, as he had been proving for the past two thousand years. Able to relax at last with the weight of this revelation off his shoulders, he lounged in his chair and debated whether this was a suitable occasion to break out that vintage Bordeaux he’d been waiting to try.
And yet, he had planned to share that with England on their anniversary in a few weeks’ time. He hadn’t foreseen such circumstances threatening the stability they’d been building up, and although arguments were to be expected, they were usually resolved fairly swiftly with a round or four of good sex. The frosty silence between them now was disconcerting, dredging up memories of the last time they had believed they could survive without each other, turning their backs on the Channel and glaring over their shoulders.
The thought left a bitter taste in France’s mouth, one he didn’t want to spoil the wine with, and so he reluctantly settled for calling Spain to take his mind off things. He would take the evening off and stop thinking about England, if the other couldn’t be bothered to think about him. Spending time with friends had always helped before.
The phone rang a few times and France imagined his friend hurrying into the house from his garden, could almost hear his sunny, breathless greeting. Yet once it had reached six, seven, eight rings, he began to get somewhat nervous. Eventually, he was put through to answerphone, Spain’s cheerful recorded message interrupted by rich laughter and angry Italian swearing. France hung up and stroked his fingers over the keys, pondering who else he could call instead.
Prussia answered on the second ring.
“Hallo?” It was a tentative phrase, and France was immediately suspicious.
“Bonjour, Prusse! Ça va?”
“Geht’s gut, danke. It’s been a while since we last spoke, huh?”
“Oui, although it doesn’t really seem that way with all the messages you send me.” Prussia barked a laugh.
“I only send you important things, Frankreich.”
“Snapchats of you feeding the birds are not that important.”
“They were cute though, right? Italien said they were cute.”
“Ah, I suppose you’re right there,” he admitted, twirling his hair around a finger nervously. “Anyway, after all this virtual talking, wouldn’t it be nice to actually speak to each other for a bit? I have some time now if you’re up for it.” The line was silent for the briefest moment, and France’s face fell even before the words were spoken.
“Frankreich, es tut mir leid, but I already have plans to go out. I was waiting for West to arrive when you called, so I really can’t stay much longer.”
All he had wanted to do was rant, to moan about how England was so cruel to him, was useless in the EU and thought he was better than everyone else, how he would never respond like any normal person, just anything to get his thoughts off his chest. Instead he replied quietly,
“Oh, really? I won’t keep you then, I hope you have a wonderful evening.”
“Danke. Y’know, if you need someone to chat with I’m sure England would answer pretty quickly. It’s not like that loser actually does anything interesting with his time.”
France grimaced, knowing that he probably should have expected a response like this but still not planning for it. He spent a lot of time with the island nation, it was true, but he had plenty of other friends besides. Why did everybody automatically respond in the same way? The laughter caught in his throat finally forced its way past his lips.
“Ha. You’re right. I’ll see then, merci, Prusse.”
“Tschüss!”
France set the receiver down on the side with a groan and ran a hand through his hair. Breaking out the alcohol was starting to look more attractive by the minute.
***
From: Owain Kirkland ([email protected])
Sent: 26th March 2015 13:46:09
To: Arthur Kirkland ([email protected])
Subject: No, France didn’t rope me into doing this
Just a little email to inform you that you are being an idiot and you should stop. We all agreed that this would be friendly and we wouldn’t let it get in the way of international affairs, which is why I’ve promised myself that I won’t send you a bag of cock-shaped sweets as Scotland advised me to do. You should be grateful for this, and also more considerate to other people, and you can start by stopping this silly feud and getting on with your life.
With all my hate,
Wales
P.S. I hate you
***
“Yo, what’s up with you guys?” America asked as he sidled up to where France was sitting in the canteen during their lunch hour, Canada hovering at his shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you two so quiet.”
“Ah, mes petits, have you come to keep me company? How wonderful, sit down, won’t you?” France smiled sweetly, gesturing towards the chairs across the table. They slid into the seats, America slumping forth so his head rested on the surface.
“Dude, you didn’t answer my question.”
“Désolé, I didn’t hear you.” America watched France’s long fingers picking idly at the chips on his plate with his brow furrowed.
“We know that you and England aren’t speaking,” Canada said softly. “What happened?” France waved his hand around absently.
“Oh, nothing much. He is just busy this week, you see, and we don’t have much time for each other at the moment.”
The two glanced over to the other side of the room, where England was sitting at a table on his own with a cup of tea and a book, face set in a dark frown. America raised a sceptical eyebrow.
“Right, seems legit. Except you always have time to argue with each other during a meeting, even when Germany says you don’t. Why should today be any different?”
“Did something happen that we don’t know about?” Canada added anxiously, reaching for his phone just in case he’d missed something in the news. France shook his head hurriedly.
“Non, non, nothing like that. It’s a personal issue, nothing more. You know how he is. Sometimes these things just happen and there’s no way around it. Angleterre is a silly man and won’t tell anybody what he feels, so what can I do about it?” He shrugged, reclining back in his seat, shoulders sinking in defeat. Canada narrowed his eyes as he scanned France’s face, noticing that his beard had been shaven unevenly that morning, one side thicker than the other. It was the tiniest of details, but when it came to France it was everything.
He was just about to speak again when he was interrupted by a commotion across the room, a chair toppling over and clattering to the floor.
“Oh, mi dispiace, I’ll just pick that u– oh, Inghilterra! Ciao…” All heads swivelled to stare at Italy as he trailed off, standing awkwardly before England with the chair in one hand, nervously scratching his neck with the other.
“Well, what are you just standing there for?” England snapped, glaring at him over the top of his book. Italy gave a strained laugh, setting the chair back.
“Ah, sì, I’ll just be going.” He made to move away but suddenly thought better of it, turning back and adding, “By the way, Germania says you have to get that report in to him by next Friday, whatever that means.” The blood drained from England’s face as he gnawed on his bottom lip, before remembering that he had an audience and waving Italy off with an unusually meek, “Yes, yes, whatever.”
Canada watched a flustered England return to his book, the lines in his forehead deepening, and glanced over to where France was staring out of the window, pointedly not looking in England’s direction like everybody else had been doing.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he said, leaning in to America.
“I don’t know, man, are you trying to calculate how much energy it would take to power a real Iron Man suit too?”
“I…what?”
“Because it would be a lot, I mean, it’s probably not very good for the environment but I was thinking that the Kyoto Protocol doesn’t really matter that much anymore, right?”
“We’re not even part of the Kyoto Protocol, Al.”
“Although I could make it using renewable energy,” America continued over him, scratching at his head. “It’d be more difficult but at least then I’d be better than China at something!”
Rolling his eyes, Canada turned back to France and reached out towards him across the table, clasping one of his hands in both his own.
“France,” he began, “Papa, I think you should keep trying.”
“Why should I?” France scoffed, looking over his head and pretending to be very interested in the gaudy floral wallpaper. “If he is going to be so childish I won’t indulge him by giving him what he wants.”
“I’m not saying that he’s right, but somebody has to be the better man. Don’t you think it could be you?”
“I still think he should apologise first,” he said, picking at the pattern on the table, and Canada could tell he was wavering. He pushed on.
“But how’s he going to apologise if you don’t give him a chance? Both of you haven’t been acting like yourselves-“
“Yeah,” America interrupted, nodding enthusiastically, “England didn’t even make a sarcastic comment about my speech today. And if I’ve noticed that something’s up, I’m sure everybody else knows as well.”
“Exactly,” Canada continued as France peered around the room at the other nations, wondering if they really could tell. How was it fair that he, the great France, could be so visibly affected by a petty argument with his neighbour? “Surely you agree that it’s better for everyone when you get along? It makes me happy to see you guys so close these days rather than fighting like you used to.”
“Well, it’s not as if we don’t still argue even when we’re ‘getting along’. I don’t think it’d be possible to stop fighting, even if we’re not tearing up the world these days.”
“Thank God for that,” America muttered darkly, yelping when Canada elbowed him in the side.
“What I’m trying to say is that you know, and we know, that you’ll both be happier if you can overcome this blip. Tu es le pays de l’amour, non? Tu peux régler ceci.”
France looked up at him finally, eyes shining, and Canada knew that he’d won. He squeezed his hands a little tighter and smiled encouragingly.
“You’re right,” France declared, rising from his chair as an idea came to mind. “I am the country of love! I cannot, will not, let something so stupid get in the way of romance.” Hurriedly downing the last of his lukewarm coffee, he slung his jacket over his arm, rushing to leave the canteen. “Au revoir, petits, I am off to save l’amour!” He waved, and then with a fling of his glossy hair he was gone, hurrying back to the hotel they’d booked for the week. Canada watched on, smiling smugly as America gaped at him.
“Dude, I can never get France to listen to me like that. Gimme your magic skills.”
“No can do, bro. You’ll have to ask England for anything to do with magic.” America balked.
“Yeah…maybe not.”
***
Yo dude, ‘sup? 19:23
Mattie and I noticed you’re not talking to the Frenchie, wanna tell me anything about that? 19:24
Dude? 19:30
Arthur, I know that you’ve seen this message. 19:43
Go away, Alfred. 19:44
You’re not gonna sit back and let him be right, are ya? 19:45
***
When England unlocked the door on the final day of the conference, he was fully prepared to just collapse onto the bed and sleep for the rest of his life. If there was one thing he missed about the days before international meetings, it was not having to put up with the majority of other nations for such a prolonged period of time. Instead he perched on the end of the bed and rubbed his temples, knowing that he would have to be presentable for his meeting with the Prime Minister the following day to report all that they’d discussed.
As he glanced up, shrugging his jacket off to get ready for his shower, he noticed something on the desk that hadn’t been there earlier. There, settled among sheets of notes and discarded plans for his own speech, was placed a plate of macarons, brightly coloured and ever so tempting against the white china. England’s eyes narrowed, knowing exactly how they’d got there, even if he had no idea how France had gained a copy of his room key.
He wouldn’t eat them, though. He was going to leave them there so that France would know that he had rejected his sweets, even one of England’s favourites, because they were Not Talking. He was going to head for his shower and then go straight to sleep, macarons be damned.
Although these ones did look especially delicious.
“Control yourself,” he hissed, clenching his fists. “You are over two thousand years old, you can resist this.”
He turned away, refusing to tempt himself with the sight, but even the thought of them there was making his mouth water with anticipation, and he was beginning to think that he could smell them, sweet and sugary. Surely it wouldn’t be too bad to treat himself after such a long week?
“Well, I suppose one won’t hurt,” he conceded, choosing the raspberry one right from the middle. “And France will never know.”
He bit into it, closing his eyes in pleasure as the delicious flavour hit his tongue, meringue melting in his mouth. For all his faults, France really did make the best desserts. England might even have let a little moan slip from his lips, automatically reaching out for another, and then another.
“It seems you’re not serious enough about this pettiness to avoid eating my food, then.”
England whipped around, mouth full of macaron, and saw France leaning against the bathroom door. His cheeks flushed hotly as he realised he’d been caught red-handed, and he swallowed hurriedly, before shouting,
“What on earth are you doing? How did you get in here?” France shrugged, amused by England’s outrage.
“It wasn’t difficult to persuade room service to give me a key. It’s not as though we don’t usually spend most of our time in each other’s rooms anyway.”
“You bribed them?”
“I charmed them,” he corrected. England rolled his eyes.
“Of course you did.” He tapped his foot impatiently, jabbing a finger towards the door. “Come on, then, get out. We’re not talking, remember?”
“You are talking to me now, Angleterre.”
“I hate it when you use that tone with me.” France smirked.
“Angleterre.”
“Stop it.”
“Angleterre-“
“Stop it.”
“If you would let me finish,” France warned, eyes flashing, and England sensibly stayed quiet. “If you would let me finish, you would know that I’m here for an explanation.” Suddenly wary, England turned away, fiddling with the papers on his desk.
“You know what happened,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I am aware of what happened, oui, but that does not explain your reaction.”
“Of course it doesn’t, you wouldn’t understand. That’s why this happened in the first place.”
France paused. “Quoi?”
“If you had understood how much it meant then you would have allowed me this one thing. You would have just let things be how they were supposed to be without meddling and everything would have been perfect.”
France folded his arms across his chest, fixing England’s back with an unimpressed look as the truth was revealed.
“You mean to tell me that you’ve been ignoring me for all this time because I didn’t let you win the rugby.”
“Well, when you put it like that it sounds stupid.”
“That’s because it is stupid. I’ve never known anything so stupid! What purpose would ignoring me achieve? What would you have liked me to say, ‘I’m sorry that I didn’t lose well enough? That I didn’t lose as you had planned?’”
England whirled back around, voice cracking slightly with the desperation in his voice.
“But it was so close! If you had just lost a little bit more then I would have won and everything would be okay, but you just couldn’t let me have that one thing, could you? I was inches away from victory and then you snatched it from my hands!”
“Angleterre, it wasn’t me! Do I look like a rugby player to you? Did you expect me to somehow enter their changing room and tell my team to stop playing well because the man I’m sleeping with wants his team to win? I was with you the entire time!”
England’s hands came up to his hair, tugging on it in frustration.
“I knew you wouldn’t understand, that’s why I didn’t say anything. You just don’t get it.”
It would have been so easy just to shout back, make a mocking retort and slam the door in England’s face, but France reined himself in, remembering what Canada had said. He inhaled steadily, and then said,
“You’re right, I don’t get it. Will you explain?”
England stuttered for a second, not expecting France to respond so calmly, and floundered.
“Well, it’s…I mean, you know-“
“Well, it’s…you mean, I know?” France teased, receiving a thump on the shoulder in thanks.
“Shut up. It’s just that it’s different between me and my brothers. You and Italy, it’s not so serious for you, but my brothers will be making fun of me for this for the next six months at least. I really thought that this would be my year…” His voice trailed off, shame making his words catch in his throat. His hands found the bed again and he sat down, shoulders slumped. The mattress dipped as France joined him, sighing heavily.
“What am I going to do with you, cher?” he murmured, resting his head on England’s shoulder and feeling England’s responding grumble resound through his chest.
“Let me win next time?”
“What lows we have sunk to, begging the other to let us win! Wouldn’t you prefer to win off your own merit?”
“Whatever. I want a macaron.” England slid off the bed, unbuttoning his shirt, and France knew that was the end of yet another argument between them. A soft sense of relief curled in his chest.
“Don’t I get an apology after all that you’ve put me through? I feel like my heart may never recover.” France clasped a hand to his chest and England snorted, fetching a towel and making for the bathroom.
“Not likely.”
Yet after he’d crawled back into bed, pressing his cold feet against France’s legs and squirming against his back, he may or may not have whispered,
“I’m sorry for being an idiot. If there is a next time – and there won’t be – I’ll take it out on Ireland instead.” France muffled his laugh with his pillow, replying, “I’m not sure how beneficial that will be for your relations,” with a grin.
“If we’re being honest, I thrashed you in that game anyway.”
“Reminder: it wasn’t actually you.”
“How would you know anyway?”
“You are too scrawny to play rugby. Now shut up and go to sleep.”
“Le pays de l’amour.”