8th May,1945; Paris, France
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"I might as well be fucking invisible," England grumbles after he's almost sent sprawling yet again by the flailing elbows of an overly enthusiastic reveller, gyrating their way down the boulevard. "Doesn't anyone in this bloody city have the good sense to watch where they're going?"
"Oh, shush," Wales says from beside him. "It's a celebration, England. A certain lack of decorum is only to be expected, especially after what 'this bloody city' has been through. Your people are no doubt behaving in just the same way back in London."
And therein lies the rub.
England wants – he longs – to be home, raising a glass with his people, walking amongst them to share in their sorrow and their relief and their elation. See his flag flying proudly high, and hear his anthem sung loud with joyful voices.
But as his presence had been required in Reims yesterday, to witness the signing of the German instrument of surrender, there just hadn't been time enough to make the journey. His VE day must perforce be spent in Paris, and thus his own sorrow, relief and elation is sullied by a tinge of resentment, one which he is well aware is both unseemly and unfair. That knowledge only serves to darken his mood all the more.
"You could at least try to smile," Wales says, linking one of his arms with England's. "You don't want to risk spoiling this day for anyone else, right?"
England certainly doesn't, so when Wales tugs him forward again, he follows with a fresh determination to be pleased.
And there's much to be pleased by. They wend their way slowly and aimlessly through streets packed tight with happy crowds, their voices lifted in shouts and cheers. La Marseillaise rings out time and again, soaring above the rest of the cacophony, jubilant and defiant.
The Palais Garnier is bathed in light, a brilliant jewel shining sublime and radiant against the darkening sky.
England's smile grows incrementally and naturally the further they walk. He soon doesn't have to force it at all.
"That's the spirit." Wales squeezes his arm tightly, his voice low and warm in England's ear. "I know you'd rather be home – I would, too – but this is good, brawd. This is beautiful."
They eventually meander their way onto the Champs-Élysées, both clutching bottles of wine gifted to them by the kind and generous hands of passing strangers.
England catches scent of France long before he catches sight of him.
The deep wounds that the trenches gouged out of France's flesh during the Great War not only reopened but putrefied during his during his captivity. He stinks like something that should be long dead and looks like a scarecrow, his hair as dull and brittle as straw, his limbs as skinny as twigs.
They seem just as inflexible as wood, too, and his gait is ungainly, stiff-legged and lurching, as he shuffles towards England and Wales.
Scotland follows closely behind him, one hand at France's elbow, the other wrapped in the loose folds of France's shirt and pressed against his waist. France is leaning heavily against both, clearly needing their support to guide his steps and, England suspects, keep him even vaguely upright at all.
"Angleterre," France says as he approaches, his voice cracked and crackling in such a way that it sounds as though it must have hurt his throat to speak. "I'm glad to see you, mon ami."
England is so startled by the sentiment that he doesn't have the presence of mind to dodge the kiss that follows.
France's lips are rough against his, tasting faintly of blood, and their touch is so fleeting that England registers nothing more than that brief snatch of sensation before France moves on to maul Wales in his place.
Scotland, trailing along in France's wake, pauses for a moment next to England. "Enjoying yourself?" he asks.
"Trying to," England replies with as much enthusiasm as he can muster.
Scotland's smile twists slightly askew, his eyes soften, and he loosens his grip on France's waist in order to sling one arm around England's neck.
"Won't be long now," he says, pulling England in close against his side. "We'll be back in London before you know it."
England dare not share his brother's certainty, but he appreciates it. Acting on the almost-lost instinct of a long-dead boy, he tips his head and rests his temple against the curve of Scotland's shoulder. It's rock-solid beneath him, radiating a drowsy warmth that makes England's eyelids begin to sag despite himself. He so often forgets – and Scotland does precious little to remind him – that Scotland's strength can be as comforting as it is terrifying.
"Thought you'd be off hobnobbing with the top brass today," Scotland says.
"I was supposed to be," England says, stifling a yawn. "Didn't really fancy it, though, to be honest."
"Can't say it appealed to us, either."
"Wales suggested—"
England is interrupted by the blare of a horn, the rumble of wheels, and looks up to see a US Army jeep cleaving through the crowd. It's bursting at its seams with GIs, all waving their arms, whooping, and generally making enough noise for at least twice their number.
America is in the driving seat, and he brakes hard when he spots their little group then hops down from the jeep, ignoring the shouted protests of his passengers.
He greets France first with an uncharacteristically careful embrace, and may well turn to Wales next, but England is too distracted by the stir of unease that flutters into life in his chest, pulses like a second heartbeat at the base of his throat, to notice the details of his movements.
He sees only America himself. He had been so solemn yesterday that England had barely recognised him, but today he is himself once more. All smiles, and laughter, and big, strong hands with their square knuckles blanching as he curls his fingers around the back of Scotland's neck and draws him into a hug. His eyes are bright and his hair gleams golden, shining just as brilliantly as the flood-lit waters of the fountains in the Place de La Concorde.
England's breath shortens, and a bolt of adrenaline races, sharp and searingly cold. down his spine, setting his legs to trembling. And his body's reaction shocks him, not because of its violence, but because he thought he'd left this behind on the field. He thought it had been gratitude, and respect, and the simple closeness of a comrade–in–arms, born in battle and raised in blood.
He didn't expect it to be following him into peacetime. He doesn't want it to.
He turns on his heel, meaning to go somewhere, anywhere, that isn't here, but America side-steps suddenly, blocking his path.
"America," England says, and then, because his nerves are strung so taut now that he fears that the slightest touch could cause them to snap, quickly adds, "Please don't hug me."
America rocks back on his heels, canting his head at a quizzical angle. "Okay," he says slowly.
"I just—"
The next word sticks fast in England's mouth, because he doesn't really know what he wants to ask for, save perhaps a little time, and space, and certainly some distance. This close, America seems impossibly large, somehow; weighty in a fashion that the mere physical reality of him cannot possibly account for.
America's face, already flushed – from drink, most likely, as well as excitement – darkens further, and he chuckles. Then, to England's surprise and horror (and something far deeper that bears no resemblance to either), he darts forward and plants a kiss on England's cheek.
And it burns, both his skin and somewhere in the pit of his stomach. A heavy curl of heat unfurling that he's felt and tried his very best to ignore for years around Portugal and India, but never thought...
He never dreamed...
A wave of dizziness washes over him, closely followed by nausea. He closes his eyes and tries to ignore that, too.
"Are you all right?" he distantly hears America ask.
"I'm fine," England lies. "Right as rain."